It's about the journey

Backcountry flying has gained popularity in recent years. For the uninitiated, backcountry flying involves taking an airplane off into the wilderness, landing at some super-secret outpost, maybe camping, but definitely taking a bunch of photos to show off to your friends and on Instagram. It’s all about the pull of the mountains, beautiful valleys with impossibly short runways, and being closer to nature.

Like all good marketing, sellers of backcountry flying evoke a feeling, and when we buy into it, we’re buying into that feeling. Tailwheel flying and the incredibly popular range of modern tailwheel airplanes are central to backcountry flying. Adventure and exploration may be what draw pilots in, but I think the challenge is what keeps them coming back. Backcountry pilots embrace the suck.

Tailwheel flying, especially tailwheel flying on short strips with no go-around options and blind approaches, is hard. It takes training, practice, and some good guidance when flying to new areas. These pilots know there will be bad approaches and terrible landings, and they relish the challenge.

We often talk about the skills required to become a great pilot, but skills are simply a byproduct. Great pilots aren’t great because they can fly the perfect steep turn or nail a stall recovery within 50 feet. They are great because they are constantly trying to get better, they take on new opportunities, and they have a growth mindset. In other words, they are humble.

Even if you’re new to the aviation game, you’ve likely heard flying stories around the flight school. These hangar chats help us bond and learn from each other, but they are also illuminating. Most pilots have a series of stories they cycle through in these settings, and how they tell them says more about who they are as a pilot than the specifics of the story. I’ll never forget the old timer who told me he had experienced seven engine failures. He was proud to have come through unscathed, and not shy at all about his apparent terrible luck. Yet luck probably had nothing to do with it. He wasn’t a test pilot and didn’t fly unusual airplanes or engines. He was clearly doing something wrong, but his hubris was overflowing.

Now take the late Richard McSpadden, our colleague at AOPA, who was a commander of the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds and an internationally recognized safety expert. He often wrote columns about mistakes he had made, what he learned from them, and how it changed him. McSpadden, like so many great pilots, embraced the suck. In this case, quite literally, as well. He didn’t hide from mistakes. He knew they were essential for learning, growth, and to become a better pilot. He also embraced it through continually challenging himself and taking on new learning opportunities.

This humility—a recognition that we don’t know everything, aren’t the best at what we do, and that we are fallible—is the common denominator among the great pilots.

Which brings us back to the backcountry, and specifically, to tailwheel airplanes. I recently realized a lifelong dream and bought a Piper J–3 Cub, and it is beating me. My Cub, a trainer designed to be easy to fly, has made a fool of me. Roughly 100 hours of Cub time from 20 years ago has proven useless at improving my three-point landings, the first-learned and often easier of the two primary tailwheel landing techniques. I have no trouble with wheel landings in the airplane, but three-points have flummoxed me.

I think the constant challenge is why pilots love flying tailwheel airplanes. The airplane doesn’t care if you are an experienced pilot, even an experienced tailwheel pilot. It will take you by surprise and bruise your ego.

I’m trying to remember that it’s about the journey. The goal isn’t consistently perfect landings, although that would be welcome. The goal is to improve, to push myself, and grow as a pilot and aircraft owner. I’m trying to embrace the suck. 

Ian J. Twombly is embracing the name of his father’s column in AOPA Pilot magazine; Mark R. Twombly wrote “Pilotage” for 15 years. 
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