I pulled the Pilot into the Red Wing Airport parking lot at the specified time. I didn’t see Bull’s Cherokee, so I decided to reconnoiter. I used to do a lot of that back in the day.
On the way into the airport, I had seen no security checkpoint, no cameras, no fences, not even Barney Fife snoozing in a chair leaned against a wall.
I knew from previous visits that there were no large planes resident at this airport. The locals were recreational users only.
I entered the main terminal. No one was there. The airport had only one employee and he had duties that often took him outside the terminal. So basically, the airport was ‘self-serve.’
The main terminal at the Red Wing Airport is a brick building about fifty feet square. It has a main level and a lower level, also known as a basement. On the main level are — a pair of rest rooms; a general public area with comfy chairs and a television set, used mostly by pilots to hang out or sleep while their business passengers are in meetings; a formica counter with airport communication equipment behind it ‘for airport personnel only’; a medium-sized conference room, in case you had just flown in for a business meeting and you needed a convenient place to meet with the locals — which, believe it or not, happened quite often; a flight center with maps, charts, up-to-date computerized weather information, and flight plan forms; and a couple small office areas which were not accessible to the public.
I gave the basement a quick check. It was basically an overnight pilots’ dorm, complete with showers and single beds. Here, too, there was a lounge area with a television set.
As I walked the interior perimeter of the first floor public area, I observed that it held a very nice view of the sole runway at the airport. One could watch all the take-offs and landings one wanted, as long as there were planes flying. There weren’t any at present. I did notice one security camera near the runway-side window, pointed out at the runway. I couldn’t see a monitor.
Still, no ‘airport personnel’ were in evidence.
Bull stuck his head halfway into the terminal doorway and called to me. "Let’s go."
Besides the brick terminal, the other structures at the airport consisted of either private hangars, or airplane maintenance facilities. Nearly all were constructed from corrugated sheet metal hung on wooden framing. The entire group of buildings formed a sort of village around the three sides of the terminal away from the runway.
Taxiways ran up and down between the rows of hangars and up to the fueling pumps — one with AvFuel, for the jets, and one with 100 octane low lead, for everything else. In the end, all the small taxiways led to the main taxiway, and then to the runway.
We walked past Bull’s bright red Cherokee on the way to his hangar.
"What’s with the Cherokee anyway?" I prodded. "I thought you were Sioux."
"And you’re Japanese?" he said, referring to my Honda.
He had a point.
"Besides, I’m not Sioux. Sioux is what others call us. I’m Dakota."
"But a Cherokee?"
"Hey. It’s got the sun roof. I get close to nature… shoot stuff through the top." He paused, then added, "It’s my culture."
It was hard to argue with Bull.
Bull’s hangar was just a few buildings away from the terminal, and five hangars distant from the runway. Bull unlocked the hangar access door and flipped the switch to raise the overhead. We stepped inside.
"Hey, you got a new plane!" It was white and sleek.
"Yeah. You like?"
"Love it. Give me the specs?"
"It’s a Diamond DA40. 180 horses. Four seats. Composite frame with a 39 foot wingspan. She’ll do 140 knots pretty easy, and cruises nicely at 120."
"You’re clearly moving up in the world," I said.
Bull smiled slightly — at least, I think it was a smile.
I watched as Bull went through his pre-flight checklist, circling the plane, jerking on the propeller to make sure it was soundly attached, testing fuel purity for possible water in the gas, kicking the tires, etc.
Then he attached a metal tow handle to the front wheel. Leaning back to use his mass as leverage, he began pulling the plane from the hangar. The front wheel was attached to the plane by a freely rotating caster, so steering was not a problem. The plane rolled easily onto the taxiway.
When the plane’s tail was clear of the hangar, Bull detached the metal wheel handle, tossing it back through the open hangar doorway. He and I climbed into the small plane through the clamshell cockpit canopy. It was comfortable; but there was no wasted space in either front seat.
We put on our headsets for the dual purposes of communication and sound control.
Then Bull yelled out the window, "Clear!" and started the engine. The propeller spun smoothly. At least there was less vibration than I expected.
Before moving, Bull continued with his pre-flight routine — oil pressure, altimeter, radio, GPS, fuel. I’m not sure what else. Bull was very thorough when it came to airplane safety — paranoid even. I felt good about that.
Having completed the items on his list, Bull increased the throttle speed and we began to roll forward. Outside the plane, the weather was perfect. Sunny skies and a light wind out of the west — straight down the runway.
Red Wing is a Class E airport. There is no tower or air traffic control. There may or may not be someone to answer on the airport radio if you tried the Unicom frequency. But whether airport personnel were present or not, you needed to announce your take-offs and landings, just in case some other plane had conflicting plans for the only runway.
Bull spoke nonchalantly into his headset microphone.
"Red Wing traffic. This is November 3-6-3 Delta Sierra taxiing for departure on Runway 27."
We headed slowly down the taxiway toward the east end of the runway. Although there is only one runway at the airport, it has two numbers, 9 and 27, depending on whether you will be moving on the runway toward the east (90 degrees) or toward the west (270 degrees). We were taxiing to the east end of the runway — Runway 27 — to take off into the light westerly wind.
When we reached the point where the taxiway last intersects the runway, we made a turn into the wind and stopped. There were some final engine checks. With his feet on both brake pedals, Bull revved the engine up to operating rpms. Everything looked good.
"Red Wing traffic. This is 3 Delta Sierra entering Runway 27 for departure."
Hearing no objections from the radio, we proceeded onto the runway and made another right angle turn, taxiing down the runway toward the east. Near the end of the concrete, we rotated 180 degrees. We were now pointed straight down the runway to the west.
"Red Wing traffic. This is 3 Delta Sierra departing Runway 27."
Bull released the brakes and eased the throttle forward. Steering at low speed was accomplished with Bull’s light touches to the brake pedals. Once we got going, the rudder and ailerons took over directional control through the pilot’s control stick. We accelerated quite quickly. Within about eight hundred feet, we were in the air and climbing fast.
"This baby sure is smooth," I commented into my headset microphone.
"Um hmm. Burns less than ten gallons an hour, too."
Was there a touch of pride in Bull’s voice?
"As long as we’re headed west anyway," I suggested, "why don’t we head up toward the nuke plant. I want the eye-in-the-sky view."
"Roger that."
I glanced over at the instrument panel in front of Bull. We had already climbed to an altimeter reading of about 2800 feet. We were actually only about 1900 feet above the ground, since the land below us was approximately 900 feet above sea level.