It was a cool September evening when Tim Knutson caught up with me at Signature Aviation in Minneapolis. He had arrived in uniform, the black visor to his cap angled upward in a casual flair. Tim is a 737 copilot for my airline.
We exchanged pleasantries and walked out the door, rolling our bags toward Tim's 172 parked on the far perimeter of the ramp. He had told me that it was the "rattiest" 172 out there. That wasn't far from the truth. Even in the dim yellow glow of the distant floodlights, I could tell that the paint and the interior had seen better days. This was Tim's airport car. He had been using it for four years to commute to work just as his Dad had done.
Although Tim's chatter with ATC was professional, it was easy to tell that both sides of the radio knew each other's routine.
We were soon across the state border into Wisconsin. Tim had an intimate knowledge of nearly every town, if not every bright light. I followed his finger as he pointed in various directions. As we came within a couple of miles of Tim's farm, I strained my eyes to find the four runway lights that Tim had promised were there. Tim pointed to four glowing amber pinpoints at the far end of the blackness below. He was confident. I had my doubts. With a faith similar to Moses parting the Red Sea, I put my trust in Tim as he turned onto the base leg. When we descended low enough for the strobe lights to scatter off the approaching blur of dark grass, I held my breath. Tim was already flaring the airplane. I braced for the impending impact that never came. We touched down with a graceful thud.
We taxied by the front door to Tim's home, rolling through an open hangar door adjacent to the house. The cedar siding of the cavernous hangar glowed yellow in the bright fluorescent overhead lights. I found out later that the siding had been cut from trees on the 320-acre farm. The walls were spattered with airline paraphernalia that Tim and his father had collected over the years. A couple of snowmobiles were parked against the far wall. An old and well-used 150 sat in a corner. I was immediately envious of Tim's "garage."
We walked a few steps toward the side of the house. Upon entering the kitchen, I was greeted by two beaming toddlers and Tim's wife, Dawn. I had been warned that Owen, the three-and-a-half year-old, required his guests to view the first 12 minutes of The Great Waldo Pepper. I fulfilled my obligation later the following evening. There was no need for sound. Owen knew the entire dialog.
After dinner, we trotted out the door toward the other hangar, where the introduction to the adventure would begin.
With the lights turned on, I was greeted by the sight of a bright yellow N3N, sitting high on its haunches. The radial engine made the airplane appear larger than I had imagined. Although N3N owners cringe at the comparison, the open-cockpit biplane is often mistaken for a Stearman. It was built from 1936 through 1942 by the government-owned Naval Aircraft Factory in Philadelphia. Except for the wing covering, it has all rigid metal construction. Avid N3N owners will tell you that the spars and stringers were made from dirigible framing. One look through a fuselage inspection cover had me convinced.
Tim's airplane was powered by a 300-horsepower Lycoming engine. Brian Anderson, a local A&P who would join us in the morning, owned an N3N with a 450-horsepower Pratt & Whitney engine. Despite the performance differences of the two airplanes, Tim assured me that bigger wasn't necessarily better. His grin betrayed him.
We awoke the following morning to a cool, gray overcast. The dark, green grass was beaded with drops from a pre-dawn rainshower. Soon the Knutson farm came alive with activity. Bruce, a Northwest A320 captain, rolled down the driveway after turning off the grass runway in his 172. The throaty sound of a radial engine announced the arrival of Brian Anderson in his glowing red-and-white N3N. In between the introductions and the good-natured ribbing, we helped Tim roll the N3N out of the hangar. Since the 172 was also to be part of the day's activities, we rolled it out of the other hangar. Bruce would take command of that airplane, flying Tim's sister Heidi and Tim's son, Owen.
