The last time I flew my flying club’s 1940 J-3 Cub, it really should have been with the door open and warm breezes wafting through the cabin, passing low over rolling pastures and smelling the verdant earthiness of a rural Minnesota summer. This is the way every pilot should experience flying at least once in his or her life, and I am fortunate to have enjoyed it many times over my past five years in the club, based at Airlake Airport, south of Minneapolis. But alas, my penultimate day as a Cub owner was cold and brisk and steely gray, with little autumnal sunshine to illuminate the few golden leaves still clinging to their branches. My brother Steve and I were bundled up, and we kept the door tightly shut, the muffler-shroud heater cranking out what little warmth could be harvested from the faithful Continental four-banger clattering away out front.
Taking Wing: Last Dance
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