It was a brisk November morning. The weather was giving off all the inklings of a good day to fly. No snow on the ground yet, light winds, slightly overcast skies, and temperatures still hanging in the high 50s and low 60s.
My buddy Brad had flown into my strip—a 1,500-foot cow pasture with a dogleg turn and the occasional mound of manure, courtesy of my cows. Every time I cleaned my airplane, it seemed like the next takeoff or landing splattered fresh cow pie across the wings.
