The Johnson Creek Gang
My brothers and I all know how to fly airplanes, to one degree or another. Brother #1 learned to fly when he was in college in the late 1950’s; brother #2 learned to fly in college in the early 1960’s, then went on to become a Navy carrier-qualified jet jockey; and I was the late-bloomer, learning to fly in 1984. Our parents think we are all crazy. We just love to be in the air.
Ten years ago we decided it was time for a brother/sister reunion, as we hadn’t all been together since forever. The gathering place of choice was a grass airstrip located near Johnson Creek on the edge of the Frank Church River of No Return wilderness area in Idaho. This destination is the showcase of Idaho backcountry strips, with a beautifully manicured grass runway, campsites, hot showers, and gorgeous mountain scenery. Labor Day weekend would give us all three days together.
Brother #2 would fly his Cessna 182, a 4-person general-purpose airplane, and I planned to fly my trusty old Sedan, a 4-person taildragger that could carry a big load. My daughter and her current boyfriend would fly with me from Montana, and Brother #2, with wife, would pick up Brother #1, also with wife, in Boise on his way from California. The loads were beginning to add up, and Brothers #1 and #2 had never flown into the mountains to land on an airstrip located in the bottom of a narrow canyon. We agreed to meet at a larger airport in McCall, Idaho to divvy up the supplies and people for the final leg of the journey.
By the time we rendezvoused, the sun was high in the sky, and the temperature rising. Mountain flying is best accomplished when the air is cool and stable, but we were anxious to begin our camping adventure. Brother #2 suggested that I fly my load in first, then return to McCall to pick up Brother #1 and wife to lighten his airplane. I agreed, fired up the Sedan, and started to taxi to the runway. The Sedan lurched, and a horrible scraping noise grated in my ears. I stopped the engine, and we climbed out to see what had happened. The tail of the Sedan was resting firmly on the pavement, the small wheel upon which it was supposed to rest lying on its side. The tailwheel connector bolt had broken.
A local mechanic came to our rescue, helping us drag the broken bird back to the tiedown area. Another pilot saw our predicament, and offered us the extra tailwheel bolt he always carries with him in his airplane. We gratefully accepted (I later mailed him a new extra bolt), put everything back together, and finally took off for Johnson Creek. It was almost noon.
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