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Fox Valley Flying ClubNewsletter, September 2002 |
Where in the Hell is Lake Sangchris?
Story submitted by Brian GillomenBarely 1/2 hour after my initial missive, I opined that very preliminary weather reports indicated a nice day on Saturday, when we would be leaving. Seizing upon this, Kevin Bertorelli proposed a 7:00 am departure from Clow. Unknowingly opening myself up to derisive commentary from the likes of Bill Mills about Flying Club Solidarity, I countered that a civilized 8:00 am lift-off was what I was looking for, affording me much-needed beauty sleep prior to my hour-long dive to the field. Whining even more loudly, Vance Lorenzana called for 9:00 am, complaining that he couldn't be expected to fly such a distance on an empty stomach. And, the slowpokes from Cushing insisted on 7:30, providing more time to warm up their gerbil cages. It was getting ugly!
Why did we bother? Why did I post daily weather reports? As usual, the skies did whatever they wanted, regardless of what FSS, the National Weather Service or Tom Skilling predicted. Contrary to expectations, when I got to Clow at 8:15 am I was greeted by fog and low ceilings well below VFR minimums. More than two hours later, with no real improvement, Kevin was getting decidedly nervous. Vance and I simply decided to go out for breakfast. Ultimately bored with us old ladies, Jim Wolak pushed his Ercoupe out of his hangar to personally investigate. We were excited that we could actually keep him in sight when he flew the pattern, and I listened to him on the radio as he verified ceilings above 1500 MSL and more than 3 miles visibility. It was time to depart! Kevin, Vance and I were finally wheels-up sometime after 11:00 am. I think the Cushing crowd (Bill Mills, Larry Gehrig, John O'Neill and Mike Benevelli, plus Joe Simoski who joined them from his private Aero Estates home) managed to beat us into the air by about 1/2 hour.
Once in the air, it wasn't as bad as we'd feared. The fringes looked a little ominous, but we had a slight tailwind and we made it to Pontiac with no drama. The Cushing Cadets had landed and left by the time we arrived, proving that you should never underestimate a mess of MXs with a Part 103-Legal Kitfox Light in the mix. Pushing on to Lincoln/Logan, we picked up our advance scouts in the air on 122.875. Bill reported that it was raining over Bloomington, and that we should bear to the East to avoid it. Kevin, Vance and I were dubious; we couldn't see any rain ahead, and Bill's suggested vector would require a significant course correction on our part in order to steer clear of BMI. Our decision to continue on to the West of Bloomington probably resulted in our avoiding both the rain shower and the chat with the BMI Tower that Bill apparently enjoyed.
Nearing Lincoln/Logan, all was not well. Bill, experiencing his longest ever flight at perhaps 65 miles or so, was getting decidedly nervous about the fuel situation. Add to that the fact that he couldn't see the field at first, didn't see the grass strip even when he finally did see the field, and had a single hard-surface landing under his belt (at Pontiac, only 1-1/2 hours before), and you could just sense the pucker-factor building. But we all heard Larry and John calmly talk Bill down, and he landed with .75 gallons to spare. A round of applause was briefly noted on the CTAF frequency. If figures; all I got for my efforts on approach were catcalls from Kevin, chiding me for flying the pattern like a Cessna. What an insult!
Now on our final leg, we began to worry about "The Towers." For those who haven't experienced this man-made phenomenon, understand that two incredibly tall radio towers sit between Lincoln/Logan and Tommy George's, rising to a height well above that which any self-respecting ultralight/microlight pilot would find himself flying at at this point of the journey. Although the air was still \ a little hazy, and the ceilings somewhat low, I spotted the first tower with no trouble and radioed this fact to Vance, who was ahead of me and even closer. "What tower?" he radioed back. "I don't see no steenkin' tower" he insisted. This went on for quite a while until he finally admitted to spotting the obstacle. I propose that we take up a collection in support of Vance's next eye exam.
Clear of the towers and bearing down on Tommy's, the skies were suddenly full of light aircraft. I entered my downwind behind Vance, but was surprised when an MX slid in ahead of me between us. No problem; there was plenty of room. But now I was a little distracted by the approach. Never having been to Tommy George's, I was unaware that a left base and final would take one out over water and the occasional high-voltage, high-altitude electric transmission tower strategically placed on the occasional islet. Trees and low level electrical and telephone lines were the icing on the cake when lining up for Runway 36. Not the best landing that I have ever shot. Time in: a little before 3:00 pm, proving that Kevin was right all along. He has this theory that, no matter what, you always land at Tommy's at about 3.
Although I may have been the last of our intrepid crew to arrive, I was surprised to find out that it was Mike Benevelli who had sneaked in ahead of me. I thought the Cushing crowd had landed well before I got there. As it turns out, some or all of that group enjoyed a detour to a nearby field to retrieve the sectional map that Larry let slip through his fingers, passing neatly through his prop. It didn't get minced as badly as you might have expected.
Tommy's ground crew directed us to parking slots. I squeezed in next to Vance's Tiger Moth, which, as will be discussed later, may not have been the choicest location. Now that we were on the ground, the day started to get significantly more sunny and warm (of course), and Vance declared that it was time to strike out in the direction of sustenance. Why do people give John O'Neil such a hard time? I've never heard anyone whine about food as much as Vance...
Tommy's was bustling! Almost 60 planes showed up, rivaling the flight line in the ultralight area "down on the farm" at Oshkosh. You had your Mini-Maxes, Challengers, Quicksilvers, Kolbs, Kitfoxes, Kittens, helicopters, gyrocopters, trikes, powered parachutes and several one-of-a-kinds. The "Voice of Oshkosh," Frank Beagle, offered color commentary over the P.A. system regarding the assembled aircraft. The FVFC received special recognition as a group of dedicated pilots willing to fly anywhere for a cheap spaghetti dinner. Matt Masterson and Bob Riddle had driven to the fly-in, increasing our number to ten; by far the best showing of any group.
The spaghetti dinner was good, but it wasn't as good as the appetizer and the dessert! Just before dinner, I took off into one of those rare marvelously temperate and windless early evening skies. I flew the pattern a couple of times, and then headed out over the lakes to the South. It was delightful up there, and I returned altogether too soon, making an absolutely effortless, gentle landing. Brother O'Neil also enjoyed this time of day with me, treating a couple of folks to rides. The dessert was a sweet treat: a series of VERY low, VERY fast passes right over the field by a North American P-51 Mustang - the real thing. Who knows how fast it was really going, but it seemed to be every bit of its 400 plus mph top end. We were on the flight line, only a few feet away, as it made pass after pass. Kevin just whooped with glee, his hair standing on end as if he had just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
The rest of the evening was spent chatting with fellow fliers over the occasional beer and cigar. John, Vance and I turned in early. We left Bill, Kevin and Joe behind to represent us, and they have some pretty interesting stories to tell about the "good ole boys" that were leaning rather heavily on the beer tapper. Mike and Larry, wusses both, conned Bob Riddle into driving them to a motel in Springfield, 15 miles away. At least they didn't have to put up with the sound of poorly muffled RV generators late into the night, or the constant "drip, drip, drip" of dew condensing underneath the top wing of Vance's Tiger Moth and drumming on the bottom wing.
6:00 am the next morning was greeted by the sound of three trikes warming up for imminent departure. Oh well; you can't sleep forever when you are on holiday. I pulled myself together and headed for the porta-johns, and then found a sink with hot water to dip my washcloth into. The coffee was on so I grabbed a cup before heading back to my tent to return my toiletries. I passed a sleepy Joe on the way, and then saw Bill looking for all the world like a demented box turtle, with just his head sticking out of his rather misshapen tent. It seems that Bill bore the full brunt of the noise of Vance's dripping plane all night long, and between that and a late night supervising the keg, he was a little worse for wear.
The gang assembled to head off for breakfast. All, that is, except for Kevin, who stayed behind to break down and stow his tent. I' m surprised that Bill didn't make some crack to him about Flying Club Solidarity. Breakfast was eggs your way, sausage, toast and more coffee. We had all just finished as Kevin rounded the corner. Unfortunately, because we now had to go break down our tents, we just couldn't stay to chat. And when we approached the tie down area, it was clear that Kevin had neglected to carefully read the box when he bought his tent. It seems that he must have purchased some kind of trick self deploying model, one that, if incorrectly secured, could pop out of storage fully assembled. A much more advanced model than the kind that Jim Wolak and Rickey Anderson had bought. Kevin was positively puzzled, and most annoyed, when he returned to his plane to see his tent right where it had been the night before...
The day was shaping up to be a fine one for flying. The sky overhead was clear and the winds were calm. We all departed at about 9:00, 9:30 am or so, retracing our route to Lincoln/Logan (where some nice bystander helped Kevin tighten up one of his wheels) and from there on to Pontiac. For me it was hands-of flying: no thermals or turbulence from zero to the bottoms of the lowest puffs at about 2300 MSL. Vance and I took turns popping through small clouds, and I watched others from our group scoot over the fields, pulling up briefly to clear the occasional telephone wire or tree line. Gassing up at Pontiac we used up the last of their Mogas. And while quite good-natured, I think the owner of the Pontiac FBO , who was the one manning the gas truck , hoped that he wouldn't have to move his rig around too many more times that day to dispense just 3 to 5 gallons per plane.
After departing Pontiac, John ("Will Fly for Food") O'Neill suggested a lunch stop at the Springbrook Marina. Kevin, Joe and I readily agreed, and we thought that everyone else did too. Everyone except Vance, who whimped out to return to Clow and his long-suffering family. We passed over the vast expanse of that sphincter-tightening cooling pond just South of the Springbrook runway, and Kevin and I lined up and came in. It's a narrow strip, and while on final I radioed Kevin to pull over during his back taxi. More excitement: he wasn't able to do so because of the brush line to the West of the strip, so we headed at each other with his wingtip in what I considered to be MY airspace. He was just playing chicken with me, and was able to pull over before I got within 100 feet, I'm sure. Joe and John dropped in moments later.
As we were headed to the marina restaurant, we saw Bill, Larry and Mike pass overhead a bit to the East. We thought they were going to join us, but they apparently just couldn't spot what was the only 2800-foot concrete landing strip within 15 miles. I think we should take up a collection for eye exams for them as well. Maybe we can get a group rate for them and Vance. Oh well; more food for the four of us who landed.
Lunch was tasty, and the portions were substantial! Kevin had a whitefish sandwich that looked more like a dinner entree on a French roll. Joe saw what the full slab of ribs looked like and settled on the 1/2 slab. John had a Reuben piled high. Me, I had the salad bar. I was afraid of going over gross on the next leg of our journey.
Dodging bikini clad women and stumbling over show quality Corvettes, we returned to our planes. Kevin and I decided that we should escort John and Joe the 15 miles back to Cushing ; any excuse to extend a fantastic day of flying. On a long final nearing the field we chatted with a Cessna pilot who was totally wigged out and had aborted a landing because Larry was back taxiing reasonably enough on the East side of the strip. Just one example of how our comfort levels differ from those of SPAM can drivers.
After landing, sharing more gossip and filling Kevin's tires with air and his tank with fuel, we were in the air once more, on our final leg to Clow. Even mid afternoon the conditions were perfect, with few thermals. It was wonderful flying on such a bright, warm day, sitting in the shade of my own wing at 1500 MSL with the sun high and behind me spotlighting everything all the way to Lake Michigan. I amused Kevin by having a brief period of radio trouble. Possibly, when I let my headset dangle and spin at the end of its line while at Cushing so as to get the tangles out of the line, I had simply loosened one of the plugs. Or, Kevin was just enjoying a practical joke and getting even for some of the events of the weekend. He claims that he answered every time I said, "can you hear me?" But who knows? The two of us fetched up at a nearly empty Clow at around 4:00 pm.
What with all the meandering, I covered a hair over 350 miles in two fantastic days of flying, spending about 5.4 hours in the air, averaging a little more than 65 mph and burning a little less than 18 gallons of fuel. THIS is what it is all about!
Oh, and by the way: Lake Sangchris is near Edinberg Illinois, about 15 miles Southeast of Springfield. Tommy George's is officially called "Tommy's Lake Sangchris Airpark," and is located at Lat. 39.39.40, Lon. 89.27.31. See you there next year!
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