Great Day For A Cub Flight

The recent high pressure has given us some fantastic autumn-winter (whatever it is) weather, which is just great for a spot of Cubbing.

The little J-3 sits out on the airfield, sniffing the cold still air. She starts easily , but takes a while for the oil temp to rise to off the stop. Once she is moving, she rolls easily over the hard frosty ground. The pre-flight checks allow ample time to adjust gloves and scarf, essential when we fly with the upper window section folded up against the wing.

We wait for a Yak, a Pitts and a couple of Warriors to slide down the approach, before a final check, and taxi forward to line up. Go – a gentle shove instantly raises the tail, and she is flying in 150 yards. Even though the fuselage feels in a level attitude, she climbs quickly, and soon passes 500 feet, the tyres still spinning.

In the cockpit, the icy 70 mph blast reaches the furthest reccesses, licking round your ankles, and nipping at your sleeves, but the aeroplane is rock steady, sliding through the thick still air. If you are feeling lazy, or cold, you can fly the Cub with your arms folded, lifting the wings with gentle prods of the rudder. The brittle winter sun is still bright in the late afternoon, and throws vivid shadows over the rolling countryside.

The sea is clearly visible perhaps five miles away. This is interesting, since where we are, just to the west of Henley on Thames is usually about 80 miles from the nearest coast, at Brighton.

FOG- A vast even, ocean of fog fills the Aylesbury Vale for as far as the eye can see, with just the tall cooling towers of Didcot power station visible 20 miles to the west. The fog laps up to the base of the Chiltern Hills and forms little inlets and harbours where it meets the rising ground. RAF Benson, just a few miles away must be completely socked in.

A more level-headed pilot, comfortably reclined in his IFR turbo-prop, might view this sight as a mild curiosity, as he murmers to some unseen controller and re-tunes his VOR. But a Cub can no more turn away, than a dog can walk past a lamp-post without investigation. So, carb heat out, throttle back in a hushed descent, as we drop down, and tip-toe out, lower and lower, over the sea of whiteness. To the right, the sharply etched hills and woods on the Chiltern ridge, to the left, and un-ending flat ocean, which beckons you closer, closer, inviting you to sweep your wheels through its swirling softness, where, blank and opaque, it obscures pylons and trees just below the shimmering surface.

So, climb away from this temptation back to 1,000 feet, but even at this height, we can not venture over the sea of fog, as an engine failure would present some obvious practical challenges. As the sun fades, mist begins to form in the valleys, rising off the Thames, and it is time to beat a hasty retreat back home. Nose down, in a cruise descent, we see a Tiger Moth two miles out to the right, on a converging course, another chicken coming home to roost.

Stiff finger fumble through the checks, set trim, tighten strap, pull carb heat, and we rock the wings for a good look around as we enter the circuit. The sky is clear, so we fly a tight circuit almost within the airfield boundary. In the hangars below, most of the inhabitants are already put away, as we curve overhead in a glide approach, arcing down to the runway, squinting into the setting sun to settle with a stiff-legged little bounce.

Thirty minutes of aimless, freezing, exhilerating aviation.