The Piper J-3 Cub defines grassroots simplicity. With a bare minimum of creature comforts, a sparse instrument panel consisting of only six gauges, and no electrical system, this example is perfectly representative of the type. Fortunately, it has been carefully updated and refreshed without affecting this simplicity. 

Already decades newer than many Cessnas and Pipers flying today, this 1974 example has flown regularly over the years, logging a total of 4,157 hours on the airframe and 668 hours on the 65-horsepower engine since major overhaul. Critically, the airplane has always been hangared, and the fabric was replaced in 1994, most likely putting the next fabric replacement many years into the future.

• READ MORE: What Color is Your Cub?

This particular Cub includes some pedigree. Once owned by famous airshow pilot Mad Dog Watson and the subject of a similarly famous painting, it blends classic style with a bit of history. Jump on the opportunity to add your own chapter at AircraftForSale.

You can arrange financing of the aircraft through FLYING Finance and quickly calculate your monthly payment using the airplane finance calculator. For more information, email info@flyingfinance.com.

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After a lifetime of flying for a living, it is finally time for one last logbook entry. Faded blue eyes that match my chambray long-sleeve shirt see an old man’s face reflected in the windscreen reminding me that time is a slippery SOB stealing opportunity and capability without warning, and that I had probably waited longer than I should have to launch this journey.

The airplane is much the same, having spent a lot of years working as a duster and bushplane from Texas to Alaska. It smells of hot oil and avgas and the leather seat is cracked and worn. The varnish is fractured and faded on the birch floorboards, and the scuff plates are polished silver from souls and soles dancing on the rudder pedals. Oil stains the patched yellow fabric, and the airplane feels heavy with all the gear I thought might be needed in the backcountry. It responds sluggishly to the control stick. But, like an old draft horse, it dutifully plows along the isobars carrying both of us toward an uncertain future.

I have decided there is much to be gained traveling this way, alone with no reservations, reminding me of the old sailors who set out in whaling ships leaving Gloucester and Boston for the back side of the world, not knowing if or when they might return. The country below has witnessed other adventurers, including Spanish explorers who walked in the tracks of the ancients seeking their gods through vision quests into the arroyos and washes that would later shelter the Apache and Comanche as the colonists and soldiers fought for a foothold here. All of them felt the pull of unseen shores. That same feeling still resonates with some of us who seem to lack impulse control.

• Read More: Lost In The Wilderness

The old yellow lab sleeping in the back wakes up when we stop in Pecos for gas. White around the muzzle, he needs a little help getting out so he can let everyone know he has been here by raising his leg on several appropriate spots. An attractive lady working the counter in the FBO runs my credit card while inspecting the dog who gives her his best “I-really-need-an- ear-scratch” look. Works every time. “What’s his name?” she asks as he nuzzles her hand for another round. “That’s Banjo,” I reply.

I nod to the old guys around the table in the lobby. “How are you today?” one asks as we pass by. “Older, fatter, and slower,” I answer, which stumps him for a moment before he chuckles at the unexpected reply.

“Where you headed?”

I answer, “Mostly west,” although my requirements for tonight’s destination include a warm bed, cold beer, and cheap fuel. I have learned not to plan too far ahead.

As I finish paying my bill, a couple of brash, young corporate pilots sporting the requisite epaulets, white shirts, and Ray-Bans are making small talk with the woman behind the counter. I catch their dismissive glances at my grimy ball cap, Wranglers, and faded shirt before they return to their conversation about duty hours, layoffs, and crap wages. Briefly, the woman and I lock eyes. I can tell she shares my silent opinion of this pair, so I wink, and she gives me a little eye roll. Silently, I wish them well, but mostly I am thankful I never had to go down that path.

As I return to the aircraft, an old fellow is standing nearby, studying the machine with a knowing eye. He has registered the big tires and Alaska mods, sized me up, and determined I was fit for conversation. Gray hair and stubble, eyes alert as a mink, he reminded me of a marooned pirate. “I had one like it many years ago. It ended up wrecked on a gravel bar on the Susitna [River in Alaska]. Still there, I suppose. Mind if I look inside?” I nodded and he stuck his head into the cabin, running his hands over the controls, breathing deeply, eyes far away. After a moment, he turns back and says, “Enjoy the ride son. It will be over before you know it.”

Banjo settles in as I crank the Lycoming, which catches on the third blade and rumbles into a smooth idle. Leaning the engine for taxi in the heat-thinned air of this West Texas airport, we make our way along the cracked asphalt taxiway to the active. The wind is kicking up across the runway, so I sit up straight and focus on the takeoff. The old taildragger, like a fractious stud horse, has a way of punishing any woolgathering on my part.

Just northwest of the Caprock, I see the first buildups forming ahead. “These will bear watching,” I think, wondering if this leg to Las Cruces, New Mexico, will be possible as the afternoon thermals carry the moisture upward to form the typical air mass thunderstorms. Scrunching down in the seat, I try to get comfortable for the three hours to come.

Vast expanses of farmland flow beneath as I watch a lonely tractor pull a gang plow across a dryland farm, trailing dust plumes that swirl like wingtip vortices. The farmer is turning ground once marked by the hoofprints of Longhorn cattle on the Santa Fe Trail. Some of the water crossings still bear the scars of wagon wheels and hold the bones of settlers who perished under the Comanche moon.

In the wavering distance, the indigo outline of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains appear ghost-like on the horizon. These ancient peaks, still snowcapped, emerge slowly from the salt pans and sagebrush, climbing above the horizon like clipper ships rising from the sea.

Flying these long legs provides ample time for reflection, and my mind drifts back to other journeys, most of them solo, others shared with companions, many of whom are gone now but whose memories often fly with me. But today, at the end of the run, there is a buyer who will soon sit in this seat—for the time has come to close out this chapter. Fifty years of memories reduced to lines in an old logbook. One last entry still to come.

• Read More: Reconnecting With An Old Friend In A Super Cub

So many adventures, from Mulegé to Medford, Skagway to Terlingua. A few bumps and scrapes along the way, but through it all, the feel of freedom, life lived close to the margins where the stories are richer.

Ahead, there is a smoke plume rising, and over the radio I hear the aeronautical cowboys, down in the canyons driving their Neptunes and Martins, red scars marking the retardant runs. What I would give to sit with them at their firebase and listen for a while, but there is no time, for I am due in Tucson, Arizona, this evening.

Off to the north, cauliflower buildups trail a curtain of rain, drifting slowly with the wind. On the surface, the downburst washes the mesa like a sailor up early cleaning the decks. Brilliant white cumulus clouds drop wisps of virga adding blue-gray colors to the afternoon palate of red rocks and dusty tans of the desert below. An adobe ranch house with a weathered barn and a set of catch pens sits alongside a gravel county road. In the yard, a rusted pickup and Farmall tractor suggest a common tragedy of abandoned dreams. Beyond, the country climbs into canyons and mesas marked by jeep trails that seem to lead nowhere. A land gone lonesome.

Ahead, the interstate marks the route to my destination. Long-haul truckers, pickups pulling cattle trailers, and tourists in fancy RVs crawl along the concrete ribbons while I drift westward above. Traffic above and below is picking up, and I get back to the formal dance of vectors and clearances until finally I taxi into the modern FBO, pull the mixture, and watch as the blades coast to a stop. I sit for a moment before unbuckling the harness, unplugging my headset, and climbing down where I am met by a line attendant who welcomes me with a cold bottle of water and a smile. Just beyond, the buyer is waiting, eager it seems. “Good trip?” he asks. I pause a moment to consider: “Just right.” Grabbing my backpack, Banjo and I head for the exit. 

The post Old Aviator Tales appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

The reason for this brand-blind shorthand is easy. The planes that take on the weight of identity for an entire segment are icons—famous and widely produced models that for one reason or another have captured a place in the popular imagination reserved for the most special people, places and things. So, the images of speedy and luxurious Learjets in James Bond movies or olive-drab J-3 Cubs defending freedom in WW II Europe didn’t hurt their cases, nor did the 172’s mantle of most-produced plane ever. 

When it comes to household names, it’s the largely aviation-unaware households that name the tune. Interestingly enough, though, aviation enthusiasts would almost always put the same planes on their most iconic playlists, and for good reason. The planes that have reached such status are ones that have achieved remarkable feats, extraordinary fame or some other kind of cultural significance, most of which were hard-earned and well deserved. As you’ll see. 

Wright Flyer

I remember learning as a kid about the first plane ever, and I was, to be honest, disappointed. It wasn’t that I missed the significance. Its first flight was clearly a monumental achievement, not only in aviation but in world history. The disappointment was because, well, it was just so funky looking, more like a homemade parade float or Rube Goldberg paddle wheel than an airplane. Back then, I was sketching Corsairs and Comets. The Wright Flyer was nothing like them. What could Orville and Wilbur have been thinking! As it turns out, they hadn’t been privy to the 60-plus years of breakneck progress in all things aviation that 7-year-old me was. They were doing the best they could to figure out how they could possibly fly at all while overcoming the technological and materials challenges the creators of Spitfires and Electras had learned as teenagers. 

But the remarkable part of fame is that it sometimes goes hand in hand with an odd appearance. The Wright Flyer, with its solo pilot prone, face-first at the wind on a craft, wings and tails and power sources seemingly placed at random around him, cast an appearance unlike any machine people had laid eyes on before. Indeed, its odd appearance spoke loudly about the achievement of the brothers from Dayton, who against all odds coaxed a heavier-than-air contraption into the shallow sky above them. The very shape of the Flyer made it clear just how hard that was. 

Mysteries Of Flight: Who Was Really First To Fly?

Piper J-3 Cub

Probably the most iconic light plane ever, the Piper J-3 Cub might seem an unlikely candidate for the attention. After all, it wasn’t the first Piper, it’s got a number of really quirky features, and it’s not the most-produced Piper by a long shot. Yet it is the most recognizable Piper, by a lot. 

As I wrote in the introduction, for many years, “Piper Cub” was synonymous with small plane. But how did that happen? As much as I love the Cub, and I do, the model was always kind of an oddball. A pilot getting transition training in it is taught all the ways it’s so unusual. The solo pilot sits in the backseat. There’s very little forward visibility when taxiing the thing, especially if there’s a passenger up front. 

And the name of the plane, Cub, and the Bear logo belie the fact that the series—it was not the first Piper Cub—was named after an engine, the Tiger Kitten. That might seem odd to you—it did to me for years—but Tiger young are really called cubs, not kittens. So Piper got that right, and the engine maker, Brownback, got it wrong. The use of the bear logo does mix things up. 

The other big thing for the Cub is that it was successful, this at a time when the country was mired in the Great Depression. And this might be the biggest factor, though one will never know for sure: That color was a stroke of genius. A shade of yellow that would look awful on just about any other plane somehow is perfect for the Piper J-3 Cub. 

The 9 Most Beautiful GA Airplanes

Cessna 172

The most-produced airplane of all time, the Cessna 172 Skyhawk, has been such a phenomenal sales success because it was pretty good at everything and not particularly bad at anything. In other walks of life, that might have made it mediocre, but the 172 is anything but. It’s a star, albeit one that’s fine shining less brightly than some other heavenly objects. 

Still, it helped create a presence in the world of aviation for Cessna that was so great, the company’s name took over from the Piper Cub as a generic moniker for “airplane.” And let me go on record as saying the 172 isn’t solely responsible. There are a lot of other Cessnas that flew countless hours at countless large- and small-town airports over the years, cementing in the public’s consciousness the image of a Cessna as being what a small plane, any small plane, looked like. 

Cessna 172: Secrets Of The Skyhawk

Learjet

As was the case with the Piper Cub becoming a generic for “small plane,” so too did the Learjet gain fame as the universal brand name for any private jet, especially one carrying the rich and/or famous. It’s even mentioned in a song, You’re So Vain, by Carly Simon, which is one of the most popular pop songs ever. One of the lines describes how the unnamed subject, “!flew your Learjet up to Nova Scotia, to see the total eclipse of the sun,” the idea being that the person she’s singing the song to—Warren Beatty, Mick Jagger, David Bowie and David Cassidy have all been mentioned as possible subjects, though Simon refuses to say—is too rich. The year the song was written and recorded, 1971, is also the year that Learjet introduced its Model 25, later known as the Model 35. But the plane that spawned the legend was the original Lear 23, which we see as the first true personal jet. Fast and sleek—it was, after all, modeled after a Swiss fighter jet—the Lear exuded wealth and privilege. Frank Sinatra was a big supporter of the brand, though sadly, his mother was killed in the crash of a Lear 24 into the side of a mountain near Palm Springs, California, in snowy and icy weather. The safety record of early Learjets was terrible, but it’s likely that that the crashes, and the headlines they generated, were part of the allure. 

Last Learjet Ever

North American P-51D Mustang

While there were other iconic American-made aircraft that saw service during World War II—the Boeings B-29 and B-17, the North American B-25 and the Chance Vought Corsair spring to mind—the undeniable icon of the conflict was the North American P-51D Mustang. Not only is it widely regarded as being one of the most beautiful aircraft of all time, but it also has great historical significance as well, entering the war late in the game. But because of its great speed and range compared to the other fighters of the day, Republic P-47s and P-38s, both of which were largely supplanted by the P-51D, its powers were superior. The subject of range was critical. Because the P-51 could fly all the way to targets in Germany and back to base in England, it was the first fighter capable of providing nonstop protection for the bombers it was escorting. That point would have been moot had the Mustang not been a great air combat fighter, but it was, accounting for an overwhelming percentage of the shootdowns of German attack fighters. Because of its contributions to bringing the fight to Germany, the P-51D took on an elevated, almost mythic status even as it fought in combat, a sure sign of an icon in the making.

North American P-51 Mustang Gallery

Boeing 747

Upon its introduction in 1970, the Boeing 747, the original jumbo jet, was a sensation. In an era where bigger was better, it was the biggest airliner by far. Capable of carrying more than 350 passengers on two decks, the 747, with its distinctive hump, sold well, though the routes it most typically flew were longer, overwater routes. A good part of the credit for the 747’s iconic status was courtesy of Boeing and its customer airlines, which effectively positioned the jumbo jet as a luxury experience and even equipped some with piano bars to drive home the point, in essence turning the type’s brand vulnerabilities into strengths. For operators, the sheer size of the plane might not have been enough on its own, but the 747 was also fast, around Mach .85, substantially faster than its competitors. The result was, the 747 could cut a substantial amount of time from long routes.

Boeing 747: 50 Years, 50 Amazing Facts

Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird

If there was an award given for sexiest airplane alive, it pretty much could go to the Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird every single year. What does it have going for it? What doesn’t it have? The Blackbird is the fastest air-breathing airplane ever, its sleek and space-age profile exudes the exotic, and its secret development and operations gave it the whole package. And speaking of exotic, Lockheed had to get fancy to make the SR-71 even possible. The innovations included the extensive use of titanium, a stealth-like small radar cross section, and loosely fitted joints between panels to accommodate the expansion of the components as the aircraft heated up while flying very fast. The big jet famously leaked jet fuel on the ramp because of this odd design feature. Although other roles were envisioned for the jet, it quickly became a reconnaissance aircraft, the best in the world. No Blackbird was ever shot down because of the plane’s combination of speed, up to Mach 3.5, and altitude (up to 85,000 feet), allowing it to simply outrun the surface-to-air missiles the Soviets launched at it. The Air Force retired the SR-71 in 1998, but during the intervening quarter of a century, its fame has only grown, and its legendary shape says it all. Icon.

SR-71 Blackbird: An Appreciation

Top 25 Planes Of All Time

Gulfstream G-V

If Simon were to write her mega-hit You’re So Vain today, or really any time in the last 25 years, the plane mentioned would be a Gulfstream, not a Learjet. The large-cabin, purpose-built Gulfstream twinjets are the epitome of luxury, even though they have formidable competitors from Bombardier and Dassault Falcon Jet. So, it doesn’t really matter that the plane country music superstar Dierks Bentley refers to in a big hit song, the Gulfstream “G6,” is a model that doesn’t exist. The name Gulfstream says it all. The company makes sure of that. With its cutting-edge R&D, the next-gen Gulfstreams just keep getting better and faster and rangier. The G700, which features four separate living areas, can cruise up to Mach .90, and at its long-range cruise speed of Mach .85, it can fly 7,500 nm. And make no mistake about it: Gulfstream understands that its customers sit in the back of this plane, and it has spared no expense at finding ways to make the cabin experience as luxurious as the nearly $80 million price tag of the plane implies it would be. With its quiet, comfortable ride, the G700, which features the biggest windows in its class, is everything the richest of the rich could desire!and then some. 

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