Sunday June 5th, tropical storm Colin suddenly popped up in the Gulf of Mexico. Hoping it would die out or veer away from Florida, I got up at 4 a.m. Monday morning to get a weather briefing for our proposed 6 a.m. departure. The briefing confirmed Colin was headed for the mid-section of Florida so I let Stan know that today was a no-go but hoped we could try again tomorrow.
At Ripon, I put the 182 over the railroad tracks and motored on at 1,800 ft. MSL and 90 knots toward Fisk, now listening to the Fisk Approach controller giving directions to aircraft ahead of us. Then it was my turn. “High wing aircraft with the landing light on the left wing, rock your wings.” I did. “Welcome to Oshkosh!”
Dawn lit the eastern sky as the Skyhawk’s engine came to life. I was about to begin a journey that would be as epic for me as the flight across the Atlantic had been for Lindbergh. At age 61, I was flying from Galion, Ohio (GQQ) to Winter Haven, Florida (GIF).
December 4, 1995, a little over a year since earning our instrument ratings, my dad and I found ourselves flying in dark clouds in our club’s Grumman Tiger. We had departed Cleveland Cuyahoga County airport in Ohio and were now en route to Dunkirk in upstate New York where we would make a brief stop then fly on to Jamestown, New York for lunch.