I hadn’t been up to the Stanley fly-in for several years, due to bad weather and the usual run-around by Homeland Security in obtaining a no-transponder waiver. This year I applied a month early, and got approval on the third try. On Friday, September 2, I called Canadian Canpass in the morning and set out at 9:45.

My route took me south of Bangor controlled airspace. I passed directly over the Winterport abandoned airfield/dragstrip. After crossing the Penobscot River, I went over the north end of Graham Lake. The Deblois airstrip on my right, the Princeton Airport on my left, and the Woodland paper mill directly under me, were check points on my way into St. Stephen at 11:30. I used the phone in the flying club building to call Canpass and get my reporting number; no inspection required. Then I used their kitchen to brew up a cup of tea to go with the fluffernutter and cookies that I brought.

Suitably refreshed, I was off again at 12:30 EDT. Since I was going to need altitude anyway to cross the bay, I climbed up to 5500 feet to fly hands off in the smooth air just above the broken cloud tops. I passed just west of St. John.

After heading directly to the vicinity of Fundy Provencial Park, I went across Cignecto Bay to the next peninsula, and passed just south of the Apple Valley grass airstrip. I continued across the peninsula and across the Minas Channel to Scots Bay on the next peninsula, where the tide rips past the rocky outcrop at the tip.

Next came the Minas Basin, after which I started letting down under the clouds. My compass took me inland, directly to the Stanley Airport, where I circled once and landed. The time was 2:40 EDT. I had been four hours in the air at a leasurely 2100 engine rpm.

That night there was the usual bonfire between a pair of hangers, and heaps of boiled corn on the cob. Some fireworks went up from outer reaches of the airport. The next day, Saturday, there were a lot of arrivals, including a Canadian Forces Sikorsky S-61. On Saturday night was the annual fun and fund raising auction in one of the hangers, followed by a more comprehensive fireworks display. Next came a tram ride around the limits of the runways. We stopped far out in the dark and watched the International Space Station go over.

Sunday dawned with fog, which evolved into haze and broken clouds. Late in morning I took off to take a look to the east. I went up above the broken clouds, but still couldn’t see across the Minas Basin. I landed and pulled up to the gas pump, filled my tanks, and parked back on flight line. There was a Cessna Bird Dog doing glider tows for an air academy. Early in the afternoon I walked over while he was stopped between tows and asked him to check the visibility for me. When he got back from the next tow, he reported that he could see over to Scots Bay. That was good enough for me, so I packed up, filed a flight plan and left at 2:15. The plan was to beat the storm that was drifting down the Saint Lawrence River before Houlton got socked in.

I went up to 4500 feet. It was very hazy, but I could at least see one land fall ahead as I hopped across the water. I settled into a compass heading of almost due west, which took me right over Wolf Creek campground at Fundy Provencial Park. I held the same compass course as the clouds thickened below me, as I headed across New Brunswick. The only worthwhile check point along my course was the town of Sussex with its highway interchange. When I figured I’d gone far enough, I dropped down through the clouds, and there was Sussex, right underneath me.

I stayed below the clouds now, and eventually intersected the St. John River, and passed by Fredericton. I left the river in the vicinity of Woodstock, NB, and started hunting for Houlton. Houlton is impossible to see, coming from this direction, until I came over a low hill, and wham, there I was on left base for runway 23. I cut power right over the custom station and banked left onto final.

As I rolled to a stop next to the main gate at 4:55, a Customs SUV wheeled up on the other side. Out jumped the chubby agent who proceeded punch buttons on the gate control key pad. But he couldn’t get in. This was so sweet: Here one arm of the federal gummit decreed that the airport would have a chain link fence all around it for security, and now Customs couldn’t even get in. I had to keep from busting a gut as he started cussing into his cellphone, “What’s the goddamn key code? I can’t open the gate.” Well, he never did get it open. When his younger and wiser buddy showed up, they walked down four sections of fence and ducked under the barrier at the next gate.

Now the fun began. While chubby read me the riot act (We had no idea you were coming, You’re supposed to call ahead, You’re subject to a $5000 fine.), his buddy went all over me and the plane with a geiger counter. I wanted to tell him that I’d left all my fissionable material at home under the kitchen sink with all the rest of the toxic cleaning materials, but I kept still. Then buddy rifled through all my belongings in the baggage bin. failing to make an open-and-shut federal case there on the ramp, they hauled me back to the Customs station, where I sat on the bench with the rest of the riff raff while they decided what to do with me. They had my pilot’s license and passport. Now they wanted my driver’s license (huh, I’m not driving anywhere). They wanted my medical, but when I said I didn’t know where it was, they let it go. They had me fill out an application for a customs sticker. While all this was going on, a helicopter pilot called from the airport with news that line of thunderstorms was approaching, and asked if I like him to put my plane in the big hanger. Yes!

It must have been around 6:00 when they decided they’d let higher ups in Bostom make a decision on fining me, and took me back to the airport. The hanger was just being locked up for the night, and I had only enough time to grab my guitar and a bundle of clothes and get out. The line boy took me into Houlton and dropped me at the first motel he came to. I walked to a nearby truck stop for supper.

The motel had lots local and shopping channels, but no weather channel. The next morning I was able to catch a snipit of channel 2 weather, and the forecast for the next four days didn’t look good. It was a long hike back to the airport, which didn’t appeal to me, in the rain. The motel room was ninety dollars a night. I called my wife, Cheryl, to come and get me out of here. In the meantime I made a couple of passes through the motel’s continental breakfast. I was just setting down with tea from the last of their hot water, when she showed up.

By the following Thursday the weather was perfect. I hung out at the Norridgewock airport, trying to bum a ride. Jeff Paine rose to the challange. He needed to circulate the oil in his Cessna 180, as he hadn’t flown much lately. So right after lunch we headed up. The trip didn’t take any time at all, at over 140mph. When we got there, my plane had just been pulled out of the big hanger to let someone else out, so all I had to do was pay my hanger rent and take off.

It was a pleasant flight on the way back, at 4000 feet over the broken cloud tops. It was just before the weekend of the Greenville Fly-in, and there was a lot of radio chatter from planes heading up there. The Greenville airport passed by in the distance as I headed west. I was back at Norridgewock by late afternoon.