From Texas to New Hampshire in a 1940 J-3 Cub pt2
The flight to Hope was short only 88 miles and uneventful, but once again, landing as the sun slipped below the horizon. The scenery was all-new to me; spanning wide-open, unpopulated terrain, past Wright Patman Lake, into Arkansas by Texarkana and Texas A&M and on to Hope. Once again, Interstate 30 worked well. It was a beautiful flight, somewhat hazy though with warm humid air and a low sun. I’d enjoyed the flight even more, as it was my first opportunity to fly the Cub with the doors open. At the end of day two, I’d only covered 223 statute miles, but what I didn’t know, was by the end of day three, with high humidity, rain and thunderstorms lurking, I’d still only be 223 miles out.
The hospitality that I’d enjoyed in Mt. Pleasant was matched in Hope. The people at the FBO, jockeyed aircraft in a large, brick WWII hangar and squeezed the Cub into place. I spent the next two nights in a Best Western, listening to large trucks earning a living and eating too much at a “Sizzilin Sirloin.” But the people I met here were wonderful company and interested in my flight, as I watched the sky and patiently waited for improving conditions. I’m sure I drove the fellows in Flight Service nuts, imploring them for better weather, but they did a great job, advising me of windows of opportunity, allowing me to inch my way towards New England.
The morning of the fourth day, I was airborne at 0600 into a hazy, sultry sky, intent on a full days effort and many miles, before sheltering the Cub for another night. The density altitude was high and the cockpit moist with condensation, as the Cub struggled to lift my heavy duffle bag, filled with cold weather clothing and me, into the air. My mistake was drinking too much coffee at breakfast resulting in a landing that otherwise wasn’t needed and took time. From Hope we flew northeastward, past Lowe, Arkadelphia, south of Little Rock, to Brinkley, and west of Memphis where I could see large, ominous thunderstorms massing for an afternoon assault. We were heading northeast and they were blowing directly east, so I figured the Cub and I were safe. I was familiar with Memphis and its weather, but from the comfort of a color radar equipped B-757 with the help of a copilot and a battery of dispatchers, meteorologists and local controllers. Today though, it was just the Cub and me, as we skirted this weather and slowly flew on.
I’ve forgotten exactly where in Arkansas, but a planned fueling stop didn’t pan out, as the airport was pretty much deserted. Low on fuel, a local pilot told me of a private crop dusting field only 15 miles away that might be able to help. Upon landing, I was greeted by two large, snarling, German Shepard’s, just as the engine rumbled to a stop. They successfully kept me strapped into the Cub, doors and windows closed as I contemplated just how I’d get my engine started and escape. I was rescued though and inquired about fuel as my savior directed me to a makeshift tank and said, “Take what you need, pay no attention to those dogs.” Gulp, OK. Then, he and his friends invited me to sit down to lunch and supplied me with sandwiches and coffee before sending me on my way.
“How much do I owe you fella’s?”
“Nothing. We enjoyed talking with a new face and up there in New Hampshire, you’d probably do the same for us as we passed through.” I had to think about that for a while. Well, I certainly would now I realized, as I departed, rocking my wings with a new sense of camaraderie. I’d stayed on the ground longer than I anticipated, burning up valuable daylight, but the acquaintances that I’d made had been worth every minute of it. Finally, after hours of flying, I arrived in a new state, Missouri, and landed at Kennett Memorial for fuel and a kidney break, before pressing on to Sikeston Memorial just south of Cape Girardeau. Again, the sun was setting; I was somewhat tired, but had enjoyed nearly 500 miles of flying today. Sikeston had been a Primary training field during WWII, utilizing Stearmans at the Park School of Aeronautics. Many of the same hangars still existed that were in old framed pictures in the lobby, showing young men standing by new Stearmans. The next morning dawned windy and cool as a newly hired line-boy and I dragged the Cub from her hangar. Now I knew why I had packed warm weather gear for this November flight. He stood amazed as he watched me prop the Cub, while standing near the tail of the airplane to help hold it in place. “I’ve never seen this” he said, “why didn’t you use the starter?” I explained the intricacies of the “armstrong” starting system, just before I taxied out into a blustery wind.
The early morning takeoff was uneventful, climbing out over town with much improved performance from the previous days hot temperatures. The airplane felt light and the stick responsive. We leveled at 2,000 feet, about 1,000 feet below the overcast and enjoyed nearly 10 miles of visibility in light turbulence. Within 15 minutes, with my camera ready, we approached the mighty Mississippi River, her wide flood plains and the state of Illinois. The topography here is fascinating, presenting natural features that I’m unaccustomed to. We were cruising just north of Cairo, near the confluence of the Mississippi and Ohio Rivers where the states of Illinois, Kentucky and Missouri converge. And just to our north, up the Mississippi River lay the Shawnee National Forest. The sky was clearing and the visibility improving with much commercial activity on the water below. It was a beautiful sight.
By Rand Peck