The sun finally shines in Lansing, and as we taxi away from the Waco factory, the management and mechanics wave good-bye, and I can detect a great sadness in them as we go. This is because we will not be spending any more money there for at least another year.
We fly straight north to Traverse City Michigan to visit some friends in the book publishing business. About 40 minutes out of Lansing, Art's plane develops a dangerous overtemp condition in the oil, so we climb to cooler altitudes, reduce RPM, and enrich the mixture. It doesn't help much, so he elects to divert to the closest airport at Mt. Pleasant, where he makes a quick fix by removing the duct tape over the oil cooler air inlet. One of the few times in aviation history where a biplane was fixed by removing duct tape.
Back in the air, but we elect to go straight to Mackinac Island, and skip Traverse City because it's getting late in the day and the air is turbulent and hazy. In the distance it seems like there are two huge radio towers, but as we get closer it comes more into focus. It's the famed Mackinac Straits bridge. A mini Golden Gate spanning the strait between Lake Michigan on the west and Lake Huron on the east, and connecting the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with the rest of the state.
At the north end of the bridge there's a little airport called St. Ignace, and since it has fuel and the airport at Mackinac Island doesn't, we land to fill up before hopping across the water to find a room for the night on the island.
This territory is just too beautiful, and reminds me a lot of the San Juan islands in the Seattle area. We fly low around Mackinac Island, inspecting the Grand Hotel from a perspective seldom seen by anyone. This extraordinary hotel is a major historical landmark. It has the world's largest porch, facing the strait, and it is easy to see the guests sunning themselves and chatting in small groups, and stopping to look up at us, planes from this great hotel's heyday.
We intended to stay at the Grand Hotel, but we learned that they have a dress code, requiring jackets and ties after 5pm. Well now, you know that biplane pilots don't have no stinking ties and jackets. Hey, it's highly doubtful if we even have a pair of jeans without oil stains after 17 days of flying. So we figure we'll stay at some less discriminating hotel for the night and then go check out the Grand tomorrow afternoon, before the fashion police lock us up for bad taste.
By the way, this place is pronounced "Mackinaw", with a "W" at the end, even though it is spelled such that you would pronounce it "Mack-in-ack". This is very confusing, and it seems that it was an Indian trick to confuse the white man, or else it was a speech impediment resulting from Indians breeding with the French.
There are no automobiles on the island whatsoever. A horse drawn carriage is the local taxi, and this is how we got from the airport to the hotel. Even now, I can hear the clopping of hooves down the street below my window. The island is known for its fudge. Main street sports at least 20 different fudge shops. There are 400 year-round residents. Most people get to Mackinac Island by ferryboat leaving from St. Ignace. These are no ordinary ferryboats, but huge jetboats with catamaran hulls that shoot up great rooster tails of spray as they blast across the strait. Very impressive.
We stuffed ourselves on a great dinner, as it had been ten hours since our last meal, and then we toured the town's only street on foot. At one antique store I lucked-out and found a rare book entitled "The Aeorplane Boys, or The Young Sky Pilot's First Air Voyage", which just seemed to be sitting there waiting for me to discover it, and for only $20, it was a steal, considering that it was printed in 1912 and was still in good shape. It is filled with the stilted writing of the turn of the (last) century, a fitting reminder of the Victorian architecture on this island, and best of all, contains the word "biplane" throughout. I wonder if the author (John Luther Langworthy) could have imagined that 84 years after he published his book that some biplane pilot would pay what was then a month's wages for his writings.
In the hotel elevator I meet a lady whose uncle used to own the restaurant at the Borrego Springs CA airport, just 4 miles from Mikie's Fun House. It's a small world, eh?
Today was the kind of day that makes the last 8 days worthwhile. It's good to be alive. It's even better to fly a biplane low over the earth, land in strange places, meet weird people, pig out on great grub, sleep late, and do it again the next day.
More later....