By Mark Solper with Lee Fischer
This piece originally ran in the October 2025 issue of EAA Sport Aviation magazine.
Paul Poberezny once said, “Airplanes bring us together, but friendships keep us together.”
Little did I know that a short call to EAA and a subsequent visit with Timm Bogenhagen, EAA’s ultralight and lightplane community manager, would set the course for a life-changing adventure.
Those two seemingly minor events would open an entirely new world of possibilities, friendships, and a reminder of the childhood dreams of flight that had long been buried deep within me.
At the time, I found myself in a place of uncertainty. My career as a major airline captain and flight safety professional had ended abruptly. I was struggling to find meaning in the absence of what had been my life’s work. My world felt like it had collapsed in an instant.
Aviation had been my identity, my heartbeat, my very soul. Command and the roar of engines had once filled my spirit. Now my days were filled with silence. Who was I? Where does one go from here?
It was in that moment of despair, adrift in the sea of uncertainty, I met a kindred soul. He offered a glimmer of hope by sharing the magic of rudimentary flight. Lee Fischer, EAA Lifetime 1066368, a man whose passions and pursuits aligned perfectly with my own, was confident that we shared a common bond. A mutual love for the pioneering days of aviation.
Undoubtedly, we were two different personalities. While I was shaped by the rigid structure of commercial aviation, he was a true ultralighter. He was self-made, passionate, and resourceful — a machinist, millwright, and engineer who could build a flying machine out of nothing more than ingenuity and a pile of tube and Dacron.
He was in the process of building the 23bis, a Santos-Dumont-inspired flying machine that was as simple as it was beautiful. The craft stood as a testament to the spirit of the early aviators, and it captivated me. It stirred something deep within me, a feeling I hadn’t experienced in years. Watching him work, I couldn’t help but feel I had stumbled upon a real-life version of my favorite movie, Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines. I was hooked. I wanted one. But Lee eyed me with a mix of curiosity and doubt. Ever the skeptic, he likely wondered, “Does this guy really know anything about ultralights?”
It wasn’t long before I was sitting in Lee’s Skonkwerks, a nonprofit ultralight research, development, and flight facility in Larsen, Wisconsin, where the heart of rudimentary aviation and innovation beat in every corner.
With a wry smile, he asked, “Are you going to pull the trigger or not?” His words cut to the bone. A challenge. A challenge I knew I had to accept, even though I was far from being a skilled craftsman. “But you have no idea how little I know about tools or building,” I stammered.
Despite my self-doubt, Lee’s challenge ignited progress. It launched a new journey that propelled me far beyond the confines of my old life. There are countless stories from the building of the follow-on model 24 and its subsequent variants — models K, L, and M — each one a discovery of new lessons learned. But rather than recount every technical detail and mishap, I’ll focus on the key lessons learned during that time.
A couple weeks into the first build, and I botched a simple task. Lee’s voice still echoes through my mind: “I can think of a million ways to drill a hole in that 2-inch round tube, and that isn’t one of them.”
In that moment, I realized that building wasn’t just about following instructions. It was about thinking critically, embracing the process, and overcoming mistakes. It was about the space of trial and error. It was about understanding the depth of aviation. The place where simplicity and efficiency meet innovation and passion.
This journey wasn’t just about learning how to build an aircraft. It was about reconnecting with the essence of flight. The magic! Something that, despite my years in the industry, I had nearly forgotten.
Much like the ethos espoused by Paul Poberezny, it was the people and the friendships that kept me going, long after the wings no longer supported the weight and the engines had shut down.
As my skills grew, I began to understand something fundamental about rudimentary flight. Every gram of weight, every inch of selected material, becomes a decision. It was a balance between form and function. Ultralight aviation is a study in efficiency. Every element of design is scrutinized for its weight and its role in the overall structure. But there’s something more. It’s a lifestyle, a passion, and a deep commitment to a dream that burns brightly in the souls of those willing to confront the challenge, unravel the mysteries, and decode the puzzles.
At the heart of this philosophy lies a paradox — the pursuit of radical minimalism. In the world of ultralight design and construction, you are bound by strict regulations, including the FAA’s FAR 103, which limits weight, speed, and operational constraints. Yet, within those constraints lies a world of possibility.
At his Skonkwerks hangar, Lee thrives on this paradox. He focuses on designing aircraft that combine featherlight agility with uncompromising structural integrity. Each component is carefully considered, weighed, and reassessed. Innovation didn’t arise from convention. It was born out of defiance, pushing boundaries and testing limits.
Ultralight design and construction are about more than engineering. It’s an art form. Every detail, from the large 24-inch main gear with 6-inch independent suspension to the 7-inch steerable tail wheel that boasts 2-inch travel, was crafted for functionality and elegance. It was a delicate dance between minimalism and practicality, harmonizing an aircraft that could fly with grace while maintaining strength and stability. Every decision was meticulously calculated. What can be removed without compromising safety? What must remain to ensure that the machine will fly?
Achieving this depth of simplicity was not without its challenges. To reduce weight and enhance performance, advanced materials, like carbon fiber-reinforced polymers and aerospace alloys, were strategically integrated into the design. These materials, combined with innovative construction techniques, allowed us to craft machines that were lightweight and exceptionally structurally sound. The result was a new generation of ultralight machines that defied conventional expectations, bending the laws of physics without breaking them.
However, the true magic of ultralight aviation lies in the art of construction. Fabric wings, unfolded like 3D origami, meticulously shaped into airfoils and sewn together with surgical precision. Each piece, from the Dacron fabric to the carbon batten, came together in a harmonious dance of tension and release, transforming simple cloth into a rigid, aerodynamic structure.
But it wasn’t just about the material. It was about the spirit of the craft, and the art of finding the delicate balance between weight and resilience, cost and performance, simplicity and sophistication. It is a pursuit of the impossible, where imagination and engineering collide to create something that seems to defy the laws of nature. This is where true freedom lies — within the constraints, within the struggle, and in the elegance of simplicity.
For me, the journey with Lee and the building of my 24bis Model M was more than constructing a flying machine. It was about rediscovering the joy of flight, the thrill of innovation, and the camaraderie that binds aviators together. It was about understanding that in the world of ultralights, every decision carries weight. Even the smallest choices will ripple through to extraordinary outcomes, good or bad.
Ultimately, this spirit of adventure and shared love of flight transformed my life. And it was within the small Skonkwerks hangar, beneath a vast sky where vultures and ultralights soared on thermals, that friendships forged reconnected me with my purpose. I was more than a pilot. I was a pilot who understands the true essence of flight. It was a transformation that will stay with me for life.
As Paul Poberezny said, “One must have vision, not only to the future of aviation, but vision to see what our fellow humans can and will do to overcome present-day problems.”
Mark Solper is enjoying the visions and freedoms that our founder Paul Poberenzy created so many years ago. He flies a Skonkwerks 24L, enjoying the “lighter side” of sport aviation with family and friends of our wonderful EAA community.
Lee Fischer, EAA Lifetime 1066368, is the driving force behind the not-for-profit Skonkwerks.org, an ultralight research, development, and design flight facility. He is the engineer and designer of Project First Flight, a 501(c)(3) located in Larsen, Wisconsin, and the author of several books, including Aeronauts: The Struggle to Fly.