Into Oshkosh
Posted Monday July 22, 2019
I have finally made it to Oshkosh. Just not quite like I thought I would.
I woke with the alarm this morning, at 5:15. I was bound and determined to be in line at Ripon (the fix where one enters the traffic pattern in to Oshkosh) right at 7 am when the tower opens arrivals.
Then I woke up a bit more, and checked the parking information -- the reason I hadn't been able to get into Oshkosh yesterday was that the Vintage parking was still flooded after the 5 inch rainfall from the storm which preceded me from North Dakota. Sure enough, Vintage still closed, with no predictions it would open any time soon. A lot of the fire to be there right at 7 left me.
I began to ponder alternate plans. Wautoma, where I started the day, was not a bad place to be, but was far enough from Oshkosh that trying to find ground transportation sounded like a marginal idea. I thought of Fond du Lac, an airport about 20 miles south of Oshkosh, and the largest of the designated alternate airports for when things aren't 100% at Oshkosh itself. I knew they had a shuttle that ran back and forth between the two airports, and figured it would be a reasonable base for Norbert.
I hadn't planned on flying the plane at all once I got to Oshkosh. The departure and arrival situations are sufficienly crowded and dangerous that, although it was fascinating to imagine doing it, the reality of the situation was not very appealing. There's even a reasonable chance that should I go up, I wouldn't be able to get back down. So flying from Oshkosh was almost certainly out.
Given this, why not park the plane at Fond du Lac? I decided it was the best way to go, so I quickly set up a new route in Avare, my flight software (free for Android if you want to try it out yourself): Y50 to a GPS coordinate about 3 miles southwest of Ripon to FLD. Roughly an hour's flight.
Norbert looks, wide-eyed, at ALL THE PLANES lining up to get into Oshkosh over there
Decision made, feeling a little bit down that I'd come all this way and would be skipping out on one of the canonical (if stressful and vaguely horrifying) experiences, I got the plane ready and launched into the morning sky at about 6:45. I passed Ripon about ten past 7, where there were scads of airplanes already in the holding pattern over Green Lake. So much for the "slow planes please show up at 7 am" idea. Most of the pilots I heard calling were in planes that greatly outstrip Norbert in the matter of cruise speed. At 6:59 by my clock, the controller opened arrivals with a voice that suggested he'd just heaved a bit of a sigh at the floodgates he was opening.
I flew past more than a thousand feet above the melee, and 3 miles away, feeling a gladness that more than made up for the disappointment of not getting to take part. It was interesting to see the packed cloud of airplanes on the traffic display, which translated into an empty-looking sky around me. I was amazed that I couldn't see a single plane. I knew there were at least a couple dozen off my left wing, but I had nothing in sight. I let the plane climb a little higher.
The arrival to Fond du Lac was painless, and I was quickly down on the ground. Finding parking was a little comical: the ground controller told me to park "wherever" on the grass, so I did. A pair of folks on a golf cart immediately showed up and asked me to move, following them, apologizing that I'd planted myself right where they were reserving for some other kind of plane. Score one for closely coordinated organization. I taxied over to my new parking spot.
Norbert parked at Fond du Lac
$20 later, I was official, and started gathering up my stuff. It was odd to think of leaving the plane for that length of time, so far from home, so I carefully packed young Norbert the stuffed dragon into my backpack. If I couldn't bring the plane to Oshkosh, I could at least bring its mascot.
There was a school bus which provided me a very brief ride to the terminal, where I bought a return shuttle ticket. Then it was a surprising amount of waiting: the bus was supposed to pick us up at 9 am, but both the first and then the second bus apparently were so late that they had to press a smaller 16 passenger van and one of those 20 person mini-buses into service to carry the increasingly impatient crowd. I ended up next to a father and son from Stuttgart who fly Bücker Jungmann biplanes. We had a sparse but extended conversation on a variety of topics until the bus driver started spouting right wing talking points. I couldn't stop myself, and asked him where he learned some particular fact; I think it was that every immigrant in California is immediately given free healthcare, where regular citizens are not. He seemed taken aback that anyone would question him, and stuttered something about the local news, never really answering the question (which answer I knew very well was "Fox News"). Then we found more neutral topics of conversation.
Our van was following the mini-bus, and apparently the mini-bus driver knew the sneaky back route. We bypassed the enormously crowded front entrance and circled slowly around the field, turning left then left then left as we tried to find his sneaky back way. Eventually we did get dropped off on the field, but at an entrance that we were not allowed to enter (the people were, just not the buses). It was all very janky and I was underwhelmed by this shuttle service. But it got us to the field, so I couldn't complain too much.
The main problem at this point is that I was laboring under about 50 lbs of baggage strapped variously across my shoulders and carried in one hand. Someone on the next shuttle bus said I looked like a pack-horse, and I had to agree with him that I probably did.
Because of this and the sun that was already beating down, I started my experience at Oshkosh pretty nonplussed. The school bus toured slowly around the west end of what I eventually learned was the North 40 area, north of runway 09-27, where General Aviation planes were parked.
I was texting with Fidot (pronounced FEE-dot; "Russians mispronounce everything," he explained somewhat cryptically when I asked a few weeks ago), a person I was familar with from the Biplane Forum. I asked him if I could temporarily store my voluminous baggage at his camp, which I knew to be somewhere nearby, in a place called Camp Scholler, one of the many camping areas on the airport. He agreed, and sent me the best directions he could in the circumstances. He'd posted a map on the forum earlier, and I had glanced at it, but not really studied it. I tried to load it again, but my cell coverage was pretty abysmal and the forum app never got beyond the splash page.
I exited the school bus, and entered trial #2 of the day, depending on how you count. I had tried to print out my entrance ticket (bought in December or so), but the ticketing site, based on the evidence of my email address and last-4 of my credit card number, refused to acknowledge that I'd bought anything at all. So I figured I had my "transaction ID" and a PIN written down from when I'd bought the ticket, and those must be useful. I lined up in the line for people who'd already bought tickets online, but it quickly became apparent this was only for people who'd been able to print out their tickets. They passed me off to yet a third line, which appeared to be for people who needed camping refunds. Sure, why not.
Eventually a woman in official vestements heard my tale of woe, and took my numbers and went off to see what she could see in the computer. Five minutes later, she returned, saying the goggles, they did nothing, and asked for my driver's license. Ten more minutes passed. Eventually she returned, happily bearing my wristband. It turns out they're using a new ticketing vendor this year, and Things Are Not Going Well. We commisserated for a few minutes over the frustration inherent in this kind of situation, and parted on good terms, she pointing out the next tram I could board to take me toward Camp Schoeller.
I passed through the entrance gate, where my newly acquired wristband was examined, and a patient bag checker checked each of my bags: backpack, flight bag, clothes bag, food bag, tiny cooler, and overflow clothes bag. He was very nice about it. I caught the next tram. A transfer later, I was standing at the Bus Stop, looking for the Camp Schoelle shuttle. Finding the sign after having it pointed out to me by the information booth, I waited a few minutes, then decided to walk it.
Getting to another entrance gate, I realized with rising frustration that I had somehow been punted out of the paid section, and apparently needed to enter again. I once again subjected my mass of bags to official scrutiny and was granted entrance, only to realize after about 20 steps that I was going the right direction, but on the wrong side of the fence to actually get to Camp Schoeller. So I went back out the gate I'd just come through, frustration level notching upward further, and walked until I got to what was probably my destination.
Fidot had given me two cross-streets, one of which was marked on my official map, but the other was absent. I got to the one that was marked and looked up and down. He'd given me a name, Diescher, but I could only see the un-mapped cross streets being labeled with numbers. Notch. I walked what I guessed was probably the right direction, and fortunately discovered in only a couple blocks that I'd chosen correctly, finding my cross-streets. I found his camp based on his description and gratefully dropped my bags, sitting down in the shade of the trees.
By this point, it was about noon. I pulled out the vestiges of my food and prepared an underwhelming lunch, as much needing to sit still in the shade for a minute as to eat anything.
Fortified by my moment of stillness, I walked off to find Fidot in person. I knew he was at the Gas Welding Workshop, volunteering. I figured I could find that fairly easily. It was much easier going, now that I only had my lightened backpack. I was on track, but my eye was caught by one of the vendors at the fly market (like flea market, but for airplanes, get it!?), and veered off my track like a dog that's spotted a squirrel.
I'm glad I showed up in Norbert, and not by ground. I would have found myself with a much heavier shopping bag. I only came away with a small handful of tools and $11 spent. They're all disposable, but useful for as long as they work. There are a handful of fascinating vendors in the fly market, but there's also a bunch of the random crap that always seems to gravitate to events like this. I didn't for sure spot a magnetic jewelry vendor, but I definitely saw an elemental alignment jewelry place, which is the moral equivalent.
Eventually I tore myself away from the cheap Chinese tools, and walked around until I found the Gas Welding Building. It took a few wrong turns, and one moment of asking about a water fountain only to have it pointed out to me, 20 feet to the left of the path that had taken me to the info booth, and in plain sight. In my defense, it was bright blue and looked a bit sculptural. Who expects a modern brutalist water fountain in bright blue?
Fidot and I finally met face to face, and I had to radically readjust my expectations. From his posts on the forum, I had somehow guessed that he would be a reserved slender guy. Instead he's a big bombastic Russian guy with strong opinions he's happy to share and argue over. We immediately got into it over Windows vs. Mac/Linux. Not who I expected at all, which mostly goes to show that an online forum is not a great way to get to know people.
We agreed to meet later, and I wandered off again, feeling somewhat aimless. Oshkosh is huge, with big crowds (sure to be bigger this coming weekend), far too little shade, and a mindnumbing array of things one might do. I felt the onset of despair that I'd set myself a task that was too far out of my line. I don't much like crowds, and there's nothing but. I don't much like baking in the sun, yet there I was broiling like a roast. I like to have a purpose, something to do, and yet I was wandering like a jellyfish on the currents.
I wandered around the homebuilders area for a while, checking out some of the displays, lingering over a radial engine like what I'd like to put on my biplane once it's built. I found a cafe tent where I bought an ice cream bar, having had too little for lunch.
This morning, while I was waiting for the shuttle bus to arrive at Fond du Lac, I went through the schedule for the day, and picked out a few forums and workshops that sounded interesting. My arrival shenanigans negated most of the things I'd picked, but there was one left, at 2:30, that I could still attend: gas welding aluminum. Snoresville, I know, dear reader, but something I want to know more about. Fortunately, while I was waiting for the workshop to start, I got myself hooked up to the wifi -- my cell service on the airport is terrible, so I was glad to have slightly faster access to data.
The aluminum workshop itself was full of good little tidbits, but as a presentation was disappointing. The presenter gave an introductory speech over the PA system, which was good. However, when he switched into welding mode and actually pulled out a torch he discarded the microphone. At roughly the same time, the airshow started outside, which meant there were suddenly a squadron of aerobatic airplanes just outside the wide open workshop garage door, all running at full throttle. It became nearly impossible to hear what he was saying about 25% of the time.
Even with the audio scrambling of the show, I was able to pick up good info about welding aluminum, and it was encouraging to see it actually done in front of me. Reading about this kind of thing is fine, but it doesn't compare to seeing a live demonstration. I may go back tomorrow and try my hand, though I left it today knowing that I already have almost everything I need to test the technique myself. Figured other folks should get the chance if they needed it.
Then it was back to Fidot's camp by way of the fly market. I think I saw the whole thing, including more leatherwork, a number of vendors with Trump merch, and one aviation light manufacturer I talked to about getting blinkenlights for Norbert.
Fidot, having driven up from Texas, had a truck he could take out to town. He exercised this rare capability to retrieve a stack of pizzas for dinner. I probabaly ate more than was strictly good for me, but finding solid meals on this trip has proven surprisingly hard to do.
Joining us were two folks in addition to Fidot and his son Max: Justin (I think, see earlier entries as to the quality of my memory for names) and his daughter Amelia, and another gent with a strong Russian accent whose name I don't recall. The Russian guy had ridden up from North Carolina perhaps, on his BMW R1200GS motorcycle. Justin is a friend of Fidot's from Texas, and apparently Amelia and Max (7 and 4 respectively) each spent most of the last year talking about when they'd get to see their friend at Oshkosh again.
Fidot and I talked about Marquart Chargers, since I'm building one, and he just bought one that has turned out to be rather more of a project than he was expecting. He bought Glenn's Charger, which I flew in a couple years ago in California. While trying to track down one problem he discovered another, and between one thing and another has completely condemned the electrical system and mostly condemned the engine, having thought he was buying a functional and turn-key plane. I can easily sympathize with his frustration.
Around 8, I decided that it was time to go find my dorm room before they stopped checking people in. Fidot kindly gave me a ride after retrieving his wife from a nearby Starbucks. Air conditioning and reliable wifi are strong motivators, and escaping the constant airplane noise was probably attractive as well.
After a reasonably seamless checkin process, I walked to my dorm room. And it is very dorm-y. Two long skinny beds on heavily built steel frames, two indestructable-chic desks, an overgrown dorm fridge, and a tiny microwave oven. Bathroom with slightly private showers down the hall. But it's got AC, and there are no mosquitoes, so this is a definite win for me. Plus there's a nice desk to write my trip report at, instead of balancing precariously on inappropriate furniture, or no furniture at all.
And now, dear reader, it is so very time to go check out that shower, and rinse off three days of grime and sweat and sunscreen, then go to bed confident that there's no reason I have to wake up early tomorrow at all.
Copyright © 2019 by Ian Johnston.