Life with a Luscombe: Tears and Tailwheels

After returning from my two-day training adventure with Dan in Clemson, I used any excuse to go back and fly the Luscombe. I talked about Dan and his Luscombe to no end. Several of my private students were just moving into cross-country training and I immediately convinced several of them to fly to Clemson for a ride in the Luscombe. Every student would come back beaming from their first tailwheel experience. I was always excited too, since after their lesson with Dan, it would then be my turn to go for a short refresher flight. My tailwheel skills came back right away each time and I was convinced I had achieved a safe level of proficiency in the airplane. I managed to make three of these trips out to Clemson in a two-month period.

I had been talking tailwheel so much around the flying club that I now had scores of people interested. When I found out about the 2017 solar eclipse, I noted that the path of totality went right over Clemson—another opportunity! I gathered seven others from my flying club and we flew two club 172s out there. Dan happily obliged to give rides to all of my friends and we kept him busy in the front office of the Stearman for most of the morning. Not only did my friends enjoy the Stearman but I had also managed to make a few more tailwheel fanatics out of them!

About twenty minutes before totality, herds of thick, towering clouds slowly passed over the field, obscuring our view. We knew our 180 hp equipped 172 was up to the task of getting us up to clear air and so we ran for the plane. My friend Lars, the esteemed editor if this blog, and I took turns swapping controls to sneak a view as the airplane clawed its way up to 10,000 ft. We ended up watching the solar eclipse far above the thick of the clouds at 10,600 ft. It was a spectacle to which no image could do proper justice. We dove the airplane back down as quickly as safety would allow, picked up our other friends on the ground, and joined the frantic departures to head for home. It turned out that those on the ground at the Clemson Airport did get a narrow sliver of open sky during totality, but unfortunately, many others in the general area did not.

Enjoying the view from 10,600

A photo our friend on the ground took

I had more flying and instructing opportunities than I knew what to do with. My college flying buddies were back from summer break and I was making plans to get my glider and seaplane certificates completed. In and around this time, life was going great. However, the Air Force saw otherwise—I was called up on a month’s notice almost a year earlier than my projected start date. I was devastated. I had to find instructors for all of my students and cancel all of my fun flying plans. I scheduled one more lesson in the Luscombe for just two days before I had to depart. I borrowed a friend's Cessna 150 and made a rare solo cross-country flight back out to Clemson. By this time, Dan knew I didn't need to keep beating up the pattern and I was ready for some kind of tailwheel adventure.

Clemson is located in the perfect place for an outdoor trip—just about any kind of outdoor adventure is no more than a short drive away. It is a college town located just a few miles south of the Appalachians and the local area is interwoven with Lake Hartwell. Dan planned for us to fly a short cross-country up into the mountains. Departing Clemson, we turned north and headed for a friend's grass strip. Seeing as how we were weighing in at max gross weight and the strip was only 1,800 ft long, we elected to do a bounce-and-go. The strip was very tight and I finessed the plane between the trees and onto the steeply upsloping easterly end of the runway. Even though the wheels were only on the ground for a few seconds, full power and a proper climb out gave us only a narrow margin to make our escape. We pointed the Luscombe north again toward the mountains and began a steady climb. I was genuinely surprised by how well the little aircraft climbed all the way to our final altitude of 5,000 ft. Most Luscombes came from the factory with Stromberg carburetors and Dan's is no exception. Strombergs are novel devices with no manual mixture control, unlike almost all other piston-engine airplanes. Instead, a Stromberg self-meters its own fuel supply automatically adjusting for changes in density. Our Stromberg showed us its stuff and helped us maintain a 500 fpm climb all the way up.

Our view from Top of Climb

As we continued north, the terrain began to rise beneath us. I was nervous about whether we were going to make it, but Dan was absolutely confident in his little airplane. Off in the distance, I spotted a breathtaking high white cliff: Whiteside Mountain. It was the tallest obstacle in our path and we passed just east of it on our way to Jackson County Airport (24A) in North Carolina. The mountains on our way did not disappoint—I had never before seen such desolate yet featured terrain in person. 

Whiteside Mountain

24A soon came into sight and we made our approach to runway 33, which has a 1.3% uphill grade. While we taxied back down the runway to the fuel pumps, we noticed some spotters on the side of the runway taking our picture. Shortly after we shut down, a pretty white and purple Piper Cherokee performed low passes for the photographers before landing. As we finishing fueling, the Cherokee taxied in followed by the camera crew. It turns out that a North Carolina magazine was writing an aviation edition and a picture of Dan and me starting up at the fuel pumps made it onto the third page! We talked with the airport manager, who was also the owner of the Piper, as well as the photographer—all extremely kind and welcoming people.

We bid farewell to our newfound friends and taxied back up the runway to depart downhill. We turned west and headed for Macon County Airport just a few miles away. We followed the highway through a valley which connects the two areas. The scenery was just incredible and none of the pictures I took managed to capture its true beauty. 

The valley in which Macon County Airport rests

We did a touch-and-go on runway 25 at Macon County. The terrain off of the west end of the field quickly rose to meet us and Dan reminded me to keep us at best climb speed. We weaved our way through a small curving valley which wrapped back around to the main road northwest of town. We passed over the town of Franklin just south of the airport and followed another highway south back towards Clemson. The terrain slowly retreated into relative flatness.

Heading back to flat land

We made it back to Clemson without issue and put the Luscombe to bed. Having to report for duty in only four days in Biloxi, Mississippi, I wondered when I would next see the Luscombe, Dan, and the mountains again. I shook Dan's hand and waved farewell almost with a tear in my eye. I cranked up the little 150 and departed back to Atlanta. I put the 150 back into its dark tin cocoon of a hangar and wondered when I would fly it again. Locking the hangar doors that day was the symbolic end to my three years of almost continuous flying in the Atlanta area. It was a sad drive home.

In the 150 solo, headed home