By Dave Matheny, EAA 184186
This story appeared in the February 2019 issue of EAA Sport Aviation.
“A map is not the territory it represents,” Alfred Korzybski wrote in a scholarly paper in 1931. He has been quoted ever since by philosophers and generals because it makes a lot of sense and reminds us about the value of — or serves as a cautionary word about — the importance of reality over theory.
What we might call Korzybski’s law would apply even more when the map is not so much an accurate representation of geographic reality, but of a place in the heart. This map is a representation of both the field that I flew out of for more than 30 years and of all of the small, grass-strip fields that so many of us fly from — a representation of most of the innumerable small airports to be found all over North America. They are home to ultralights, “fat” ultralights, light-sport aircraft, light aircraft of all sorts, and even some stock Cessnas and Pipers. “Home” is the important word because that’s where our treasure lies.
I could go to Google Earth and get an exact representation of my old field and try to draw it by locating the features depicted here precisely, but that would get us into the thing that Korzybski was driving at. What we really care about is the place, in general, and the things that have happened there throughout the years. It’s a collection of memories, not a collection of physical features.
Mysterious Disappearance
There’s the place where my flying buddy Phil was giving a ride to a young woman he was trying to impress. Just after takeoff, his left main wheel fell clear of the airplane, a two-seat Quicksilver Sprint. As several of us watched, it bounced a couple of times and came to rest in the weeds. Somehow, as he passed over us, the several of us on the ground communicated to Phil, with much waving and pointing, that his left main was missing. When he finally caught what we were signaling, he swung around and looked, and you could see his double-take from the ground. He flew around a bit and then made a masterful landing, keeping the left side up until it finally dug in, causing a very minor, gentle ground loop. The wheel has never been found, even though we conducted several searches — so it amounts to buried treasure. (And yes, the young lady was very impressed.)
There’s also a patch of ground scattered with tall trees off to the east where we would go at a low level, twining among the trees just at sunset, each trying to get on the others’ tail so we could bring our imaginary .50-caliber and 20 mm guns into play. This was not a safe way to fly, and I only mention it because I miss it. The grove of trees has since become a parking lot.
The “junked cars and hovercraft training area” long ago reverted to plain old abandoned cars. We only had one hovercraft that somebody dropped off, kind of like a baby being left at the front stoop of a rich family’s home. They must have thought we were the only collection of oddballs in the region who could use it. And we could! Or, a few of us could at least, until it developed engine problems. After a while, it too mysteriously disappeared. But in the meantime, I discovered how easy it was to — whatever the verb is — to fly, drive, hover, or skim. Fun, in any case. No brakes, so you really have to anticipate what’s coming — but then, the same applies to boats and aircraft.
Common Ground
A lot of features apply to most fields. Most have a north-south runway, typically with long, narrow mud puddles after a rain. Many also have a sketchy attempt at a cross runway, not well defined and so short you couldn’t get anything in there but one of those Valdez STOL taildraggers with gigantic tires that put on such an amazing show at the Fun Fly Zone at EAA AirVenture Oshkosh every year.
Like most fields that have been around for a number of years, there will be a tree that somebody tangled with. I call the person an “idiot” because, in this case, he was one. He hadn’t flown anything before — circled once or twice, riding it wherever it wanted to go, which was into that tree. He climbed down laughing. The owner of the ultralight, an American Aerolights Eagle, also thought the whole thing was hilarious. Fortunately, they went away and never came back.
Of course, there’s a fire pit. Pretty much any field will have a big hangar and one or more little ones.
And, my favorite, there’s often an ancient tractor that once upon a time could cut grass but is now spending its twilight years brooding over a thicket of weeds. Every summer the weeds threaten to hide it completely.
Buried Treasure
The field was created in 1982 by Boris Popov, the founder of BRS. Ultralights were roaring at the time, and all these new pilots needed a more reliable place to fly from than some guy’s field. The big hangar went up right away. I moved in immediately, bringing with me the first of what would turn out to be eight or nine aircraft that I would own over the next 30 years.
For reasons not relevant to this story, the landowners were unable to sell the property for most of 30 years, so we pilots enjoyed the field for far, far longer than I ever expected. But, it did not require psychic powers to see the future for the field, or so I thought. The surrounding farm fields were gradually sprouting big houses everywhere. Our tendency to do most of our flying in the neighborhood, constantly inflicting the whine of two-cycle engines on the ever-growing number of residents, would inevitably cause strife. In time, I was sure, they would realize they had the political clout to get us shut down. I was wrong. The neighbors rarely complained, although there was an ugly incident in the early days with a neighbor who actually had his hands around the throat of the head of our flying club. What killed us was just that the landlord was slowly selling off the land piecemeal. You can put up with being crowded, but there’s nothing you can do when half of a runway disappears because a new road is going through or a house is being built on it. Those are mortal wounds. I moved out about three years ago and went to Red Wing Regional Airport (RGK).
The Prodigal
So, it was goodbye to an old friend, a place that was home to my flying for all of those years — minus a couple of absences when I got into GA and expanded my dreams at various local established airports. But I came back, like the prodigal son. Although, strictly speaking, he only came back once; he didn’t keep coming and going, which might have worn out his welcome. Mine never wore out. I loved that place.
The land and the runways never changed. The buildings never did, either. Far from taking the place for granted, I expected every year to hear that we were losing the field. Now that it’s gone, it doesn’t seem to hurt as much as I thought it would. The keenest stab of regret came when poking around various views of the place on Google Earth and I saw what I used to see just as I took off to the south from the big runway, a last glimpse of the hangar and then blue sky as I pulled the nose up and banked away in a familiar long, climbing turn, away and away.
Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.
Dave Matheny, EAA 184186, is a private pilot and an FAA ground instructor. He has been flying light aircraft, including ultralights, for 34 years. He can be reached at DaveMatheny3000@yahoo.com. For more from Dave, check out Light Flight every month in EAA Sport Aviation.