In November, 1978, John Ryan and I decided to buy a Stearman biplane and get into flying in the old fashioned way. Neither had flown for 25 years, but we were not going to let that deter us. We started a search for a good, sound, well restored and maintained plane. In early November, John made contact with E. J. Noble-Smith of Chittenden, Vermont. He had a plane, N50072, an N2S-1 built in 1940, which had been restored in 1974, and had a total of 168 hours since major overhaul. Within three weeks we had agreed on a price, contingent upon inspection, and we had bought our plane.

All arrangements were made to ferry the plane to Louisville on Dec. 1, and I flew to Burlington, Vermont, on Now. 29 to get things ready. The first sight of the old bird standing on her nose in Al Quisnel's hanger at Middlebury State Airport, East Middlebury, Vermont, was enough to convince me we were doing the right thing, and that this was the plane were looking for. She was decked out in the blue and yellow color scheme of an Army Air Corps PT-17 of 1940, instead of the all yellow of the Navy N2S-1 "Yellow Peril" which she actually was, but she looked mighty fine. The deal was made, and I was looking forward to the return trip in this splendid old plane. The weather decided the time was not yet right, however, as snow started the night of the 30th, and the trip had to be cancelled.

The next four months were very long, as we couldn't move her till the weather broke in the spring. Finally, in mid-April, we were ready to try again. Noble and his wife met me and took me to their home for the night. On Monday we went to the field to get the plane ready for the trip. Al had done the required spring service, but I asked him to give me a test ride before Payton Hoge, the ferry pilot I had hired, and I started on the 10 hour trip home. When Al gives you a test ride, he gives you a TEST RIDE! Climb to 1500 feet straight out, wingover, dive at 140 mph to 500 feet (200 feet?) straight down the runway, and slow-roll it as smooth as silk! That was such a fantastic feeling, after all those years, I couldn't hold back a loud whoop, and Noble told me later that he heard it on the ground. Hammer-head stall, back down the runway, and snap-roll with a beautiful straight recovery. After about six different maneuvers he gave me the plane, and signaled me to try my hand. With some trepidation, I climbed to 2000 feet and gave it a whirl. That old plane was such a joy to feel! After 23 years, I was pleasantly surprised to find I still remembered a few things. Compared to the steering wheel of the Cessna 152 I had used for the first two hours of my retraining which I had so far logged, that stick made all the difference, and I was able to do barrel-rolls, stalls, 720 turns, slips, etc., with more ease than I expected. Back to the ground for taxi practice, then a couple of sloppy take-offs and landings, and we parked her. What a thrill! I didn't miss the opportunity to have Al sign my log. He flew Stearman crop dusters for 18 years, and there is very little he doesn't know about flying them.

Payton arrived at 1730, and the Smiths and I, Payton, and Noble's sister had a delightful dinner in Burlington. Payton and I were then delivered to the Middlebury Inn for the night. The weather looked good for the morning, so we set all systems on "go".

The morning dawned cold and cloudy, ceiling 1500-2000 feet, very humid, wind from 310 degrees at 12-15 mph, temperature 38 degrees. A guard at the inn gave us a ride to the field, and we made preparations to depart. The old plane looked very good to me that morning, all covered with heavy dew and strongly back-lighted by the yellow early morning sunlight. I had the feeling we were embarking on an adventure from the past, stepping thru time to a day when flight was real, in touch with nature, an emotional involvement between a man and himself, his machine and the air.

Lift off was at 0750, and we struck a course south-southwest toward Glen Falls, N. Y., our first stop. Navigation was pilotage, dead reckoning, and finger pointing. First impressions are lasting ones, and I'll never forget that first leg. It lasted only 35 minuets, but I stored up a year's worth of fun. Payton, it turned out, had a feel for flying the old way, too, and so we flew at 1000 feet, indicated, the whole way, low and slow, able to see the breathtaking scenery below us in intimate detail. Dodging low scud, zig-zagging to keep a clear field within gliding distance, occasionally climbing slightly to clear a ridge by 200-300 feet, we made our slow, cold and windy way down the splendid valley lying between the White Mountains on the west and the Green Mountains on the east. The old Continental W670 radial engine made a sound that fit exactly with the mood I was in; a low throaty roar, slower by 700 rpm than the planes I had recently become accustomed to. That sound was as much a part of the old plane as the two wings and the open cockpit---the heartbeat of a time machine.

I have on occasion experienced a sudden, overwhelming feeling when finding myself in certain situations. It is as if I have come home. A surge of contentment, security, and happiness overtakes me, and I vow never to deny myself that experience again. The mountains, the seashore on a rocky coast, and sailboats in blue water have all affected me in that very special and pleasant way, and so do old Stearman biplanes in the early morning, low and slow.

Glen Falls airport is a very nice landing spot, and we found the tower and other personnel to be friendly and helpful in a way we were not accustomed to. There were many comments during our approach about the beautiful old plane, and a knot of people soon gathered when we parked. We fueled, gratefully accepted a hot cup of coffee, checked the weather at flight service, and took off once again, with a friendly admonition from the tower to "Watch out for the Red Baron!" ringing in our ears. Turning west to a course of 240, we headed through the gap in the mountains at Albany, N. Y., toward our second objective, Rochester.

That second leg turned out to be the longest and coldest of the trip. We flew pilotage until the turnpike came into view, and then generally followed it. I had the dickens of a time trying to keep the map from being carried away by the absolute gale blowing up from the floor, and as a result, my navigation left something to be desired. We now had a wind of 15 mph from 310 degrees, and were flying 248 degrees to make good our ground track of 240. The calculator now showed a ground speed of 84 mph! The weather was holding, the view was really spectacular, and we were both ready for a full day of this. Payton only now and then raised his head from the book he was reading in the rear cockpit, and the plane was mine to do with as I pleased.

As the leg wore on, the cold began to slowly soak through us as that steady breeze leached away our body heat. By the end of the 2 hour and 45 minutes of the trip to Rochester, we were both glad to get on the ground. After a momentary delay because the interphone switch was in the "on" position, we landed at Rochester. I was stiff with the cold, so that I staggered as I stepped onto the wing, and, in spite of the fact I had seen the propeller stop it's spinning, I still heard the slow seven-cylinder beat of that old engine in my ears. Once again people came from all directions to look at the plane, and to ask what it was like flying in an open cockpit on such a brisk day.

Our calculations showed we were using 12 gallons of gasoline and 1 quart of oil per hour. Not as good as we had hoped, but not really bad. Lunch of cheeseburgers and cokes, half-an-hour in a warm restaurant, and we were ready to tackle anything again. As we climbed out from the field, with Lake Erie filling our northern horizon and the sky a matching blue, filled with flat-bottomed cumulous clouds as far as we could see, I had the feeling the best was yet to come.

How true that feeling was! The trip from Rochester to Jamestown was a jewel. Flying once more at 1000 feet, we found spread below and before us a panorama of doll farms. The fields seemed to be covered with emerald green moss, soft to the touch, and the barns and houses seemed perfect in every detail. The world appeared to be covered as far as we could see with nothing but clean, perfectly tended land, lying in ridge after ridge which reeled slowly under us as we flew along. Lilliputian woods lots were scattered at random, tiny roads twisted and curled throughout in a scene of impressive beauty. Occasionally, in a field, a farmer busy with spring chores would stop and wave as we flew slowly by, apparently fascinated by the sight of this apparition from another world, another time, so suddenly close above him. What a strange and pleasant feeling to be able to wave back, and know that he can see me!

By now I had given up trying to fly pilotage, because it interfered with my looking at the magnificent scenery. I just flew a magnetic course, and found to my delight, that because of our low altitude, I could see quite clearly how much we were sliding sideways over the ground. Ridge after ridge disappeared slowly beneath the nose, and I began to play a game with them. The ridges were gradually getting higher as we pressed westward, but I held our altitude constant. We cleared each ridge by less and less, until, as we passed a certain one, I wasn't sure we would make it. I held her steady, and as we reached the crest, had to turn slightly right to avoid a 30-foot pole. Fantastic! The back side of that ridge, unlike the gently sloping front, fell away in a vertical cliff, giving me the very strong sensation of falling as we swept over it, and the altitude went suddenly from 20 feet to 1000 feet. What we miss, in our modern planes and their closed cabins, at high altitude!

This procession of absolutely delightful sensual experiences continued uninterrupted, until, suddenly, there was Jamestown, just to the right of the nose and a half-mile away. Payton took the plane and set us down, and this time I was sorry we had to stop. The usual crowd began to gather at once, and the questions flew the entire time we were there. A short stop this time, and soon we were ridge-hopping again, on our way to Youngstown, Ohio.

As the day wore on, the temperature climbed slowly, and the sky continued to clear. We still felt the chill, but it was much more comfortable now. Payton was well into his book by now, and I continued to soak up all the new sights and sounds around me. A Stearman is a noisy, cramped, and breezy place in flight, but I was beginning to feel at home in this one, already. The plane is the most responsive I've had the pleasure of flying, and there is very little work involved in flying her straight and level. That leaves a lot of time for looking, and look I did.

Among its other good attributes, the Stearman is extremely stable. At some point on the leg to Youngstown, Payton accidentally jiggled the stick, the signal that he wanted to fly the plane, so I took hands and feet off the controls. We were over a small town, and I assumed he wanted to look at something. He almost completed two slow, perfectly level circles around the town before it dawned on me that Payton was still reading his book. No one was flying the plane, she was on a sightseeing tour of her own, but neither of us was aware of it.

Except for the fact the sun was slowly winning our race to the west, this leg was a repeat of the last. Payton put us down at the Executive Air Park, Youngstown, Ohio, and the questioning crowd gathered once more. The lady who manages the field traded hot coffee and cookies for our promise to send her a picture of the plane, we fueled and oiled, and were on our way.

Evening was approaching now, and the long, warm, yellow light added another facet to the beauty beneath us. This was turning into a fantasy trip, an unforgettable experience. I feel sorry for anyone who lacks the capacity to appreciate these rare and precious events that come so infrequently into our lives. What greater legacy could a person leave his children than an appreciation of such possibilities?

We continued on to Columbus, Ohio, where Payton took us into that large and intricate field with practiced ease, right along with the huge jets bringing hundreds of people who were also "flying" as we were that day. Dark was falling as we landed and taxied to Lane Aviation for fuel and coffee. We discussed getting a room for the night and continuing in the morning, but we neither wanted to, so we decided to go on home that evening, even though it meant we would have to fly about three hours after dark. With an absolute madhouse of huge cargo and passenger jets and other planes trading about us, we lifted off at 1830 and headed for Cincinnati. A whole new world had blossomed while we were on the ground, for now the city of Columbus was fully lighted, and it spread before us like a carpet of bright jewels, as far as we could see in any direction. Payton climbed to 2000 feet until we cleared the city and picked up I-71, then dropped back to 1000 feet and gave me the plane once again.

Still another new experience awaited me, because there were no lights of any kind in the front cockpit to read the instruments by, and I had to fly purely by attitude, judging that by the silhouette of the wings and rocker boxes against the lights of the city. The sky was clear now, and forward between the wings hung Orion, sharp and clear. The quivering blue exhaust flame blasting down the right side of the plane brought back a sudden flood of memories of Pensacola, Florida, SNJs, and my first solo night flight. The memory didn't include all those reflections on flying wires and struts, though.

Keeping within easy gliding distance of I-71, our landing field in case of trouble, winding slowly southward through the beautiful clear night, we made our uneventful way to Cincinnati, and Lunkin Field. There, with old Zero-Seven-Two parked right outside the restaurant where we could see her, we had our first real meal of the day. We ate and answered the usual round of questions, but this time from a dozen people who were also sitting and looking out the huge front window at our plane, spot-lighted in front.

After take off from Lunkin, Payton got clearance and radar vectoring directly over the busy commercial field to the west, picked up I-71 again, and turned her over to me once more. By now I had fallen completely in love with that old bundle of metal, wood, canvas, and wire, and we were getting along famously. I have never felt more at home in any plane, and was sad when we slowly brought Louisville, and then Bowman Field into sight, and I had to turn her over to Payton for the final landing.

The statistics of the trip are simple, but dry. Ten hours flying time, 7.8 day and 2.2 night. Distance covered, 980 statute miles. Total time for the trip, 15 hours exactly, etc., etc., ad nauseum. Who can measure the important things about such an experience? How far can one go, in the mind, back in time, back in memory, back in age?

I know one thing for certain about the trip and the effect it had on me----my Kid and I had a hell-of-a-time, and we will neither ever be quite the same for having been there.

Copyright © B. E. Spencer 2000 All rights reserved.