What our wings are made of

It was love at first sight.

I first saw the plane while on assignment for another article.

The Aeronca Champ is considered a “warbird” with variations having flown as reconnaissance, observation and training aircraft during the Korean War.

Not what some people would normally call a “beauty,” its simple, yet elegant, fuselage is painted in a flat battleship gray with United States Navy markings.

Given its history and classic military tandem seated cockpit, I was itching to experience a flight from a fighter pilot’s perspective.

Thanks to an invite from the owner of Out of the Blue Aviation Cathy Mighell, I was about to get my chance.

I was paired up with Ron Bellamy, a certified flight instructor who has been flying since 1969.

Mighell hand towed the tail-dragger from its hanger and rolled it onto a ramp near the taxiway.

Bellamy and I did a preflight inspection of the bird.

Treating me as a first-time student, he pointed out what needed to be checked on the aircraft before it would be safe to start up.

Things like ailerons, rudder and flaps were manipulated and turned to check for ease of movement.

Next, the propeller was visually inspected for any damage or abnormality.

“The leading edge of the prop is like another wing,” explained Bellamy. “It will become another source of lift that help the aircraft fly.”

Finding nothing amiss with the prop, we checked the fuel level which left me somewhat disconcerted.

The overall simplicity of Champ is demonstrated by its fuel gauge.

The “gauge”, if it can be called that, is actually an L-shaped wire rod atop the engine that pokes out of a hole leading to the fuel tank. The bottom of the wire is attached to a cork float.

If the wire sticks up over four inches, you have plenty of fuel.

“Fuel… check,” grinned Bellamy.

It was time to check radios and gauges.

I squeezed my not-so-lithe, six-foot tall frame into the tight forward seat of the cockpit. My contortion into the cramped space culminated in having to pull my right leg into the aircraft by hand.

Once tucked inside the plane, my heart began to thump loudly in my chest.

It was the type of nervous thrill I hadn’t felt since I began taking flight lessons in 1987.

I had trained for my pilot’s license when I was in my late teens.

Back then I had completed ground school and logged several flight hours as a cadet in the Civil Air Patrol.

Most of the experience amounted to taking control of a Cessna 172 above the meandering St. John’s River in central Florida.

That’s not to say that I currently remembered much about being a pilot, nor was I any longer a spry 16-year-old.

The bulk of my instruction had taken place while Ronald Reagan was still president and back then, I was in good physical shape.

Bellamy asked me to plug our headsets into the radio ports as he climbed into the rear seat.

He asked me to adjust the squelch on the radio while strapping into his safety harness.

It takes two people to start the 61-year-old airplane.

Using a manual pump, I primed fuel into the engine while Mighell turned the propeller. “Contact!” yelled Mighell, as the prop began to sputter and turn.

Engine on, we waved to Mighell and turned toward the runway.

After a short taxi, we were cleared for take off and slowly began a graceful climb above the Arlington airport.

The warbird was airborne.

Part of any first lesson is breaking the seal of actually flying an airplane.

The instructor will allow a student to fly for the first time to instill confidence and leap the mental hurdle that separates pilots from aviation enthusiasts.

Bellamy lined the plane up level and oriented toward a tall hill on Fildalgo Island as a fixed landmark.

“You have control,” he said, and suddenly the Champ dipped down and slightly to the right.

I grunted slightly as I pulled back on the stick and applied the left rudder pedal.

Now, the plane climbed and listed decidedly to the left.

Trying to correct, I pulled the stick in the opposite direction meanwhile getting encouragement from Bellamy behind me.

After a series of bobbing s-shaped maneuvers, Bellamy took control.

“Not bad,” he said cheerfully.

He asked me to remain with my feet on the rudder pedals and hands on the control stick and feel the movements of his flying.

“Make easy, slight adjustments,” he said.

Feeling slightly dejected, I listened as Bellamy explained the subtleties of controlling the warbird.

I felt I should have been a natural at this since I wasn’t a first-timer.

I had hours of stick time in Cessnas and here I was bobbing around like a kite on a string.

Momentary degradation aside, a quick glance around reminded me of an obvious truth: it’s not a Cessna… it is a 1946 Aeronca Champ, a warbird and I was glad to just to be there.

We were flying effortlessly straight over the Stillaguamish River near Sylvana and the sun even began to poke through the thick blanket of clouds above us.

It was spiritual.

With my spirit running at full bore again, I asked to take control of the plane again.

There was a momentary pause from behind me.

“Rick, you’ve been the only one flying for the past couple of minutes,” Bellamy said.

All I could do was smile, lesson learned.