from “Aeromancy” © 2005, Paul Berge
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In open-cockpit flying you learn to navigate using senses suppressed by a closed-cabin, and approaching Borger airport (BGD) in the Texas Panhandle, I leaned my face into the slipstream to sniff my way toward the refineries in the surrounding hills. It reminded me of being a kid in New Jersey on hot summer days when chemical plant exhaust tinged the sky Dr. Seuss yellow from the stuff that makes modern life possible if occasionally unhealthy.
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In open-cockpit flying you learn to navigate using senses suppressed by a closed-cabin, and approaching Borger airport (BGD) in the Texas Panhandle, I leaned my face into the slipstream to sniff my way toward the refineries in the surrounding hills. It reminded me of being a kid in New Jersey on hot summer days when chemical plant exhaust tinged the sky Dr. Seuss yellow from the stuff that makes modern life possible if occasionally unhealthy.
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Borger wasn’t my planned destination. I wondered whose destination it could be outside anyone associated with the petro business. But I didn’t ponder too long as I banked onto downwind leg and pulled the power abeam the numbers to drop the way biplanes do in a slipping descent on base leg to the flare and a burnt-rubber touchdown. It’s a fluid, twisting dive and with all that drag from wings, wires, and the pilot’s wide grin there’s rarely any float. Lacking straight-ahead visibility past the long nose, the pilot feels for the ground and senses drift through peripheral vision. Landings aren’t always pretty, especially on pavement when a crosswind demands stick into the wind and opposite rudder with a nose-high blind path ahead. Tail draggers are made for grass fields and old tail dragger pilots do our best when forced onto the hard stuff. Here, in Borger, the runways were perfect for jets full of oil execs.
Borger wasn’t my planned destination. I wondered whose destination it could be outside anyone associated with the petro business. But I didn’t ponder too long as I banked onto downwind leg and pulled the power abeam the numbers to drop the way biplanes do in a slipping descent on base leg to the flare and a burnt-rubber touchdown. It’s a fluid, twisting dive and with all that drag from wings, wires, and the pilot’s wide grin there’s rarely any float. Lacking straight-ahead visibility past the long nose, the pilot feels for the ground and senses drift through peripheral vision. Landings aren’t always pretty, especially on pavement when a crosswind demands stick into the wind and opposite rudder with a nose-high blind path ahead. Tail draggers are made for grass fields and old tail dragger pilots do our best when forced onto the hard stuff. Here, in Borger, the runways were perfect for jets full of oil execs.
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The Marquart Charger holds 27 gallons to feed its 180 horses giving two hours range with a puckered-up reserve. At 120 mph that’s about 250 miles, but I plan 150 or so between stops, longer when the winds allow. On this day nothing allowed.
The Marquart Charger holds 27 gallons to feed its 180 horses giving two hours range with a puckered-up reserve. At 120 mph that’s about 250 miles, but I plan 150 or so between stops, longer when the winds allow. On this day nothing allowed.
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I’d been in the air since somewhere in New Mexico with stops throughout the high plains including West Texas (T27) on the east side of El Paso. It has a long skinny runway that leads to an FBO with a shaded porch where you could sit, drink a Dr. Pepper, and watch ultra lights drag around the pattern in the heat. Free cookies came with the avgas, and after an hour’s stay I slogged off northeast only to be stopped by the rear guard of thunderstorms ransacking Oklahoma. Borger, just above Amarillo, was in the clear, but as my wheels rolled through steaming puddles on the runway I knew it hadn’t been clear for long.
I’d been in the air since somewhere in New Mexico with stops throughout the high plains including West Texas (T27) on the east side of El Paso. It has a long skinny runway that leads to an FBO with a shaded porch where you could sit, drink a Dr. Pepper, and watch ultra lights drag around the pattern in the heat. Free cookies came with the avgas, and after an hour’s stay I slogged off northeast only to be stopped by the rear guard of thunderstorms ransacking Oklahoma. Borger, just above Amarillo, was in the clear, but as my wheels rolled through steaming puddles on the runway I knew it hadn’t been clear for long.
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A tall gray man with a leathery face and a silver belt buckle the size of a Volkswagen hubcap waved me into a tie down spot while a second man, younger with a smaller buckle, stood by holding chocks. They treated my dusty two-seater biplane as they might a corporate jet. At the crossed-arm signal to stop, I applied brakes, killed the engine with mixture, and before I could push the goggles off my eyes, Big Buckle called, “Need to use the car? We can bring that ‘round for ya. Getchya hotel room in town should you need it, good restaurants, too.”
“I’m just topping off and heading out,” I answered and unhooked my harness to stand in the cockpit. The buckles clunked on the floorboards. But before I could grab the upper wing handles and drop a leg over the side, Little Buckle had run for the fuel truck, and the other man said, “We’ll getchya turned right around. You can use the weather radar inside and help yourself to coffee, should be a doughnut left, too.” I imagine if I’d asked them to wash the biplane they would’ve dragged out a hose; it was that kind of friendly. Mostly, though, I nodded and waited for the fuel truck.
A tall gray man with a leathery face and a silver belt buckle the size of a Volkswagen hubcap waved me into a tie down spot while a second man, younger with a smaller buckle, stood by holding chocks. They treated my dusty two-seater biplane as they might a corporate jet. At the crossed-arm signal to stop, I applied brakes, killed the engine with mixture, and before I could push the goggles off my eyes, Big Buckle called, “Need to use the car? We can bring that ‘round for ya. Getchya hotel room in town should you need it, good restaurants, too.”
“I’m just topping off and heading out,” I answered and unhooked my harness to stand in the cockpit. The buckles clunked on the floorboards. But before I could grab the upper wing handles and drop a leg over the side, Little Buckle had run for the fuel truck, and the other man said, “We’ll getchya turned right around. You can use the weather radar inside and help yourself to coffee, should be a doughnut left, too.” I imagine if I’d asked them to wash the biplane they would’ve dragged out a hose; it was that kind of friendly. Mostly, though, I nodded and waited for the fuel truck.
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I never let anyone fuel the biplane because it’s, frankly, a nuisance. The 27 gallons are dispersed among two wing tanks, each smaller than a shoe box, and the larger fuselage tank beneath the upper wing and just aft of the hot engine compartment. All three filler necks were designed for fuel nozzles no bigger than soda straws, so spilling is common. I’d rather swear at myself than pretend to not notice when a helpful line guy shoots a fountain of 100LL into his face.
“Where ya say you’re headed?”
“Iowa, eventually, but next stop Liberal, maybe Dodge City,” I said and receiving no response, I pointed in the wrong direction and added, “Kansas.”
“I know where it is, but weather’s not so good up that way.” He pointed in the correct direction. Texans are masters of understatement. "Not so good" meant that anything smaller than a four-bedroom brick ranch house was probably getting tossed at the moment. “Might want to check weather,” he muttered as the fuel truck approached.
I never let anyone fuel the biplane because it’s, frankly, a nuisance. The 27 gallons are dispersed among two wing tanks, each smaller than a shoe box, and the larger fuselage tank beneath the upper wing and just aft of the hot engine compartment. All three filler necks were designed for fuel nozzles no bigger than soda straws, so spilling is common. I’d rather swear at myself than pretend to not notice when a helpful line guy shoots a fountain of 100LL into his face.
“Where ya say you’re headed?”
“Iowa, eventually, but next stop Liberal, maybe Dodge City,” I said and receiving no response, I pointed in the wrong direction and added, “Kansas.”
“I know where it is, but weather’s not so good up that way.” He pointed in the correct direction. Texans are masters of understatement. "Not so good" meant that anything smaller than a four-bedroom brick ranch house was probably getting tossed at the moment. “Might want to check weather,” he muttered as the fuel truck approached.
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After washing the upper wings with avgas and pumping a quart across the cowling around the main tank so it ran into the front cockpit, I handed the hose down and mopped up. All that fuss for fifteen gallons made me feel almost guilty, but when I noticed that the price was lower than anything else I’d found over two weeks, I wished I could’ve held more.
After washing the upper wings with avgas and pumping a quart across the cowling around the main tank so it ran into the front cockpit, I handed the hose down and mopped up. All that fuss for fifteen gallons made me feel almost guilty, but when I noticed that the price was lower than anything else I’d found over two weeks, I wished I could’ve held more.
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Later, after I’d finished their last doughnut and spilled coffee in the pilots lounge, I strapped back into the biplane and fired up. Warm, sulfurous air from the refineries washed over me like a monstrous baby fart as I taxied past jackrabbits with no sense of adventure.
Later, after I’d finished their last doughnut and spilled coffee in the pilots lounge, I strapped back into the biplane and fired up. Warm, sulfurous air from the refineries washed over me like a monstrous baby fart as I taxied past jackrabbits with no sense of adventure.
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Opening the throttle the biplane’s nose pulled left, and the prop breeze turned to hurricane force. Tail up and with gentle back pressure the collection of wings, struts and wires popped off the earth, and we banked north toward what I’d planned as my next destination. But, even though the thunderstorms were now well into trashing Nebraska and moving away from me, I knew that when it comes to biplaning cross-country, what I planned was of little value. I’d just have to see what awaited a hundred or so miles away. And, at 500 feet above Texas, as the last whiff of oil refinery was replaced by endless flat green of the western Oklahoma, I was gently reminded of the whole point of open cockpit navigation. It ain't the destination that matters but the almost getting there that counts.
Opening the throttle the biplane’s nose pulled left, and the prop breeze turned to hurricane force. Tail up and with gentle back pressure the collection of wings, struts and wires popped off the earth, and we banked north toward what I’d planned as my next destination. But, even though the thunderstorms were now well into trashing Nebraska and moving away from me, I knew that when it comes to biplaning cross-country, what I planned was of little value. I’d just have to see what awaited a hundred or so miles away. And, at 500 feet above Texas, as the last whiff of oil refinery was replaced by endless flat green of the western Oklahoma, I was gently reminded of the whole point of open cockpit navigation. It ain't the destination that matters but the almost getting there that counts.
