The Travel Bug

I started writing this entry on September 16, having just begun a five week trip with my wife to Portugal and Germany. This account has been sitting, incomplete, until now. It may be equally interesting to consider why I’m posting it now, as why I didn’t do so months ago.

Also, why nothing else since the August “Hiking with family” account?  Where is it best to begin . . . 

The daily events of life take over, even in retirement — especially in retirement! — and I’ve been neglecting the self-care and reflection that is this blog / journal. Obviously the trip was a significant distraction and I’m consciously not using this blog as a platform to share “excellent things that have happened to me and what a wonderful (curated version) life I have”!

Rather, I have attempted to keep based on reality and what I have learned through some of the experiences since stopping full time work, and how this part of life may go. So: no accounts with social media worthy photos of famous tourist sites in Portugal  that would be the basis for a different sort of blog.  

But now, as motorcycle and other active adventures fade, I’ve initiated writing again after a break. 

My last published note was written in August but I didn't published it for a few weeks which explains why, when I was looking at my numbers in September, I had zero readers. Although I’m mostly writing this for my own reflection, the apparent lack of interest diminished my sense of duty to keep this up. I did notice that once on-line there is some attention so that’s sufficient motivation, I’ll see what I can do. 

To recap: August and September of 2023 included a lot of daily life activities, such as:

- Went blueberry picking

- Sailed Fire & Water to the marina to over-winter on dry land.. 

-Welded the truck back bumper pieces together. (Maybe that adventure deserves it’s own entry.)

- Brought the motor boat and dock and boat lift in. Packed up the garage for winter storage.

- Finalized plans for a trip that involved visiting parts of Portugal, Spain, and Germany. We had booked Marrakesh as part of that trip but then we made some changes, leaving Morocco off due to the earthquake that caused massive destruction and loss of life. 

- Packed sufficient supplies for the five weeks of adventures that covered several different seasons and activities: sightseeing, hiking, bycicle touring, beaches, museums, cities and mountains. 

- Flew from Thunder Bay to Lisbon, via Toronto. 

Again I began writing this on September 16th, 2023, while in Lisbon, after we had seen some great sights, eaten great food, heard great music, walked great distances up and down many hills. We were in a little apartment in the middle of the Alfama, where every street and alley goes in circles and up and down stairs and slopes; there are tiny restaurants everywhere and small shops, mostly no vehicles because they’re not able to get up and down stairs and through narrow alleyways, public squares surprisingly appear out of nowhere and sudden vistas over the rooftops and towards the water. 

Lisbon is a wonderful city, and I could have continued my written accounts (quite probably should have) as we travelled to Madrid by train, then Seville, Faro, Evora, across Southern Portugal to the coast, down along the coast to the southwestern tip of Europe, back north through Portugal and to Porto, a week-long bicycle trip with friends along the Douro Valley (some were on regular bikes, I chose the e-bike), then to Munich with a few beer gardens in October and the Bavarian Alps and hiking but such travelogues ultimately bore me to read, I want to experience things directly, and so I didn’t write much although as noted I probably should have even if just to get my own pleasure in the recalling.  Well maybe some other time.

Another reason for my hesitation: I’m conflicted regarding tourism, and am particularly disturbed by the concept of over tourism, or “loving a place to death.”

Thousands and millions of people, tramping over the same place, crush anything worthwile out of that place.

Why can’t we just stay home?

I really have always loved to travel. I like the minor inconveniences, the unexpected discoveries, the opportunity to eat wonderful food, explore a world unlike my own daily surroundings. But I’m not writing more about it right now  I will, however, publish this in my blog for the sake of posterity.

 

Writing Leads to Thinking

The expression “writing leads to thinking” probably strikes you as completely backwards. It ought to be obvious, you need to think before you can write, right? 

Possibly the same could be said for talking and thinking, and I’m sure most people reading this have had at least one experience where they wished that they had spent an extra second thinking before they started talking. By talking, they realized, unexpectedly, what they were thinking before they had thought it through. Some of us only gain insights into our thoughts, or for that matter, what we should do, by talking about it first. I, for one, often need to talk about something before I know what I’m thinking. Yes, I am one of those. . .

As I think about the title of today’s entry, “Writing Leads to Thinking”, one counter could be “It’s reading that leads to thinking”. And I agree of course, reading does also, or at least can lead to thinking. But for my purposes here, I am starting with the premise that I don’t know what I’m thinking, or what to do, unless I see it.

I was spurred on to start this evening’s adventurous writing by an anonymous response to one of the earlier posts from last summer: posted into the ether, with no clear knowledge if anyone would read or really care. Someone wrote “Thank you”. Which got me thinking.

It’s December 2023, a month filled with inside warmth both literally and figuratively, at least for me. Inside warmth, outside cold. Note: over month has elapsed since I started this entry, I’ve been coming at it a few different directions, and for those attentive enough I had a post that I subsequently removed that took some time. That one I wrote to help process my ongoing professional activities: I posted to provide myself and others insights, and I withdrew it in order to lessen the risk of causing harm to others who are also impacted by my work!  OK, after that parenthetical comment, here goes on the initial topic. 

I am no a churchgoer and definitely not religiously observant; I’m a product of the modern age and the Judeo-Christian culture and mass consumerism no doubt. I still like the sentiments of hope and love and companionship and yearning for a better future that Christmas provides. Possibly I’ve completely misinterpreted the message. A good friend tells me that “Cheese is the Reason for the Season”. (Say it aloud if you don’t get it immediately). But no matter. At this part of December, we more often make fires to add to the warmth of our living room:

Yesterday morning's fire was particularly necessary due to us waking up to a cold house. The boiler had stopped providing heat, as it does every year or two. It’s old. It’s not that reliable. But I understand its quirks and have fixed it many times already. Anyway, I don’t want to get distracted and write about the repair of the boiler (to keep it brief, it needed a replacement igniter, of which I fortunately had one on hand). I want to contemplate the role of writing and thinking in the context of how does it work, this causal relationship? Initially, I think that it’s the need to formulate thoughts in order to structure coherent sentences, and string those sentences together into a useful narrative that expresses some essential truth, that can help a person to clarify their thinking.

When I’ve had to issue rulings on a matter of law in an inquest, I’ve expressed the benefits of written rulings. Sure, some straightforward issues having to do with the purposes of an inquest, or having counsel deviating from the scope, or having witnesses asked questions that they should not answer, are often dealt with simply with an oral ruling. But more complicated legal issues benefit from careful articulation, not least because it may be helpful in future proceedings. But these rulings express an interpretation of the law as it applies to these hearings, and don’t necessarily lead to thinking, at least for me as the writer. A lot of thinking goes into them, and conferring with my own legal counsel, and re-reading previous decisions made in similar circumstances. But then I can put it behind me and move on. The other regular professional writing that I engaged in for the past 13 years was reports for families relating to the investigation into the death of their loved ones. For these letters, an approach of tactful honesty was needed. We need to tell the truth in a way that respects the underlying humanity of the person who is no longer with us, a person with the frailties and complexities in life that may have contributed to their fate, and who was loved. But I don’t think that that kind of writing led to thinking for me, it became routine, like some novels from authors with the same plot recycled over and over, just a few tweaks here and there. Possibly that was one of my clues that it was time to move on from that work. (Again a note, from later editing and thinking about this: I have come to a different conclusion now and think that that writing, as well, led to thinking. Considering the impact of the report or letter regarding the death of a loved one, how it may be interpreted by the recipient, has the salutary effect on the writer of a gain in empathy and the ability to step outside oneself. But again, ike all good things, sometimes there can be too much of a good thing.)

When I’m reflecting on recent experiences, I have to be both participant and observer. Writing about the motorcycle adventures, brief as they were, put me on the seat with my hands on the handlebars, my feet on the footpegs, and later, on my easy chair at home, with my critical eye on the narrative. Why was I driven to attempt the trip to the Arctic? I knew that it entailed risks, all motorcycling has some degree of risk. Travelling long distances leads to fatigue, and inattention, and complacency; not knowing the roads can lead to unexpected hazards popping up and grabbing your tires, throwing you to the ground. 

Euphemistically expressed, of course.

I don’t know if I’ve written in this blog before one of my favourite aphorisms “The unexamined life is not worth living”. Of course, it was Socrates who was expressing his sentiment that exile from Athens would not allow him to pursue his philosophic interests, ask questions, and examine his existence; he preferred to drink the Hemlock. I don’t advocate that one has no other choic but ending one’s life if deprived of the opportunity to consider the basis of our existence but I do agree wholeheartedly that a key value of life is the capacity to contemplate the essential basis of it.

So I will continue on a course of at least haphazard missives from the depths of my consciousness and you, my friend, are welcome to read (and comment, either anonymously or not, either on this blog or directly to me).

 

The Shortest Day of the Year

 I wrote about June 21, the longest day of the year; now at the other end of the year it’s December 21, the shortest day. After today, each day gets a bit longer, a we see bit more light, and eventually the snow and ice will melt, the summer birds will return, and fresh food will once again grace our table.

We had a bonfire to help chase the darkness away:

The rocks by the water’s edge provide a safe place to have a big blaze!

Family and neighbours came by and we had a nice meal and played games and enjoyed the Christmas Tree that we had just set up:

We always cut one down as we are surrounded by Balsam and Spruce too numerous to mention, and set it up in our living room. We were very happy to have our daughter home from Toronto for the occasion. Our son came as well and various in-laws who we see a lot of, over this season.

This is one of several entries delayed in publication: I’m struggling with transferring some ideas to print, but sometimes it’s OK to just write and be done with it.  So here it is.

It’s been a strange and snow-less winter so far but have ski trip planned that would benefit greatly from some natural snow. Well, we will see!

What they don’t tell you about retiring early

I am going to revisit a few themes I’ve touched upon earlier. In response to the question: “What do they not tell you about retiring early?”

I was burned out and had stopped loving my work.

So I pulled the plug with early (reduced) retirement at age 57; I could look forward to a minimal pension starting at age 60 and had all bills paid and no mortgage to worry about. I have reasonable other investments outside my pension that, with the pension, should last me the rest of my days.

My wife previously retired a year earlier, so we both have someone to adventure with. I’ve got a lot of interests, many of which are not very expensive, which helps. Anyway, it was time.  They DO tell you that you’ll know when it’s time, and they’re right (or were for me anyway).

When considering retirement, I think it is important to ask “What does work provide?” I spent some time thinking about this before I left my job.

1: Identity. For many of us “you are your work”. When retiring, this identity is no longer there to support you. So you will need to create a new identity.

What’s my new identity?

Ex-whatever.

Adventurer.

Handy-worker.

Writer?

2: Purpose. Similar to identity, but this is more “what you do” than “who you are”. I continuously work to find various purposes or meaningful activities that I think deserve my interest and attention. Hopefully, not at too great expense. Maybe even cashflow positive!

3: Money. After a lifetime of saving and investing, it is very hard to reverse course and be okay withdrawing the funds from various investments. I always was better at timing my buys than my sells. So usually if I bought something I would just hold it. Some investments did very well (Apple, BTC, Lilly, some others). Others did not do as well (cannabis stocks, shrimp stocks, BTC for a while anyway). Overall pretty good results though. But now need to sell? Not earning but spending is psychologically challenging!

So after six months of “retire-vacation” I agreed to go back, but very much on the basis of part time / contract. I’m working about one-quarter time, or less. And I can choose when. For now, the current work pattern addresses all three of the above issues and gives me lots of flexibility and free time to figure out my new identity, purpose, and finances! 

And find new interests. 

*For anyone who has been perhaps waiting for updated Blog entries, I’ve got a few that I’ve been working on but aren’t yet ready for publishing. But check back — you’ll never know what comes up to the surface.*

Hiking (with family)

We are surrounded by beautiful nature and I am so grateful for the opportunities to explore and enjoy it. 

One way to immerse myself is through day-hikes and in the past week (this was written on Aug 16, but I forgot to post it) I’ve gone on a few different hikes. The James Duncan Trail is south of a Thunder Bay, about an hour by car to the trailhead and since I needed to go to the border anyway for the bumper parts for my truck, it seemed the perfect day to hike the trail. My wife and son and our daughter who is visiting us from Toronto all came: we left a vehicle at one end of the trail and my truck at the other end and hiked the steep, rugged, rocky trail replete with blueberry, raspberry, and Saskatoon berry bushes along the route. 

The hike was a bit marred by somebody stepping into a ground hornet nest which resulted in several of us getting stung, me six times in the legs.  Ouch!

A few days later we visited the Sleeping Giant Provincial Park. It is directly across the bay from our home so is easy to get to; by boat in the summer or we can ski across the ice in the winter. Or drive around the end of the bay to access the many trails there.  

This time we took the motorboat to a small bay at the base of the “head” of the giant. Sawyer Bay is about 20 Km away across the water from me. There is a dock where you can tie up, and the trail is easy to access. On this map, the trail is just a bit wast of south of our home, the blue flag indicates bay. I’m the blue arrow at the top of the map.

A close up shows our location once we’ve made it to the top of the mountain.

Here’s a map of the trails:

The boat ride was fun, the climb was beautiful and the views were spectacular. Eight of us went (in two boats) and as we were climbing we met at least ten others on the trail, some had hiked in and camped at by the shore of the bay at the base of the trail after hiking in and others had come from Thunder Bay by sailboat and had moored in the bay over night. 

 

This has sections that were quite steep. First, a walk around the bay to the base of the climb. Then 338 meters of ascent to see the view.

We had lunch on top of the mountain and headed back home. Immersing myself in my natural surroundings, together with family, is a great way to experience life!

3 Months

 It is now (just over) three months ago that I went into my office for the last time in my previous role as a Productive Member of Society.

I’m trying to wrap my mind around the change this retirement has brought and I don’t know if that is even possible to capture. Contemplating change, making the change, and living the change are three very distinct experiences. I must consider that perhaps writing this blog is productive in a weird way? At least in giving me a way to process this change: to make my new life my own.

Possibly I wasn’t as productive as I liked to imagine I was? I wonder what personal growth feels like when it is unattached to the desire to contribute to some greater good. I’ve been describing in these posts some of the adventures I’ve had in this first segment of the next chapter of my life. Of course, I leave a lot out. Some, because it’s too personal, or because it feels too mundane, or because it’s not yet formed into a state that I can describe. I’m not writing about a particularly satisfying shit I may have had. You can thank me. 

I recently bought a welder. Learning how to weld has been an interest I’ve kept in the background for years so now is the time. Partly out of necessity, now. Rather than buy a new truck, I’m doing some repairs on my old one, including replacing the bumpers which requires some welding and I’ll write about that (with pictures) when I get to it. 

It occurs to me that I’m no longer able to spend money without worry as I did before and frugality brings its own adventure. I’ve found less costly ways to entertain myself: hikes with family which I will likely write about at some point, a canoe trip virtually in my own back yard coming up, repairing things around this place. Going for a sail in the bay. Cooking at home rather than go out as often as previously.

I have a watch that is useful as a navigation aid, running coach, it’s an activity tracker that prompts me to “move!” as it keeps an eye on my heart rate. It also assesses the quality of my sleep.  It can detect if I’ve had a couple of beers or cocktails or wine, and informs me through a detailed assessment of my sleep.  If I have a sleep score of 50, I must have been drinking booze.  If it’s 85? I’ve been better, avoiding the stuff. 

Interestingly, this feedback has brought me to drinking less. This has has the salutary effect of having me spend less money at the liquor store. Not completely to quit, however. Thank you Garmin Fenix, for scolding my behaviour and shaming me into better habits. I’m more responsive to the watch than I am to my wife, I suspect she thinks. My wife, that is..

I’m still a couple years short of 60. That’s awfully young to retire, isn’t it? I’ve wondered. I was recently briefly struck with the idea that I need to go to work. Where on Earth did that come from? I remain committed to my six month complete break from the world of work. Let’s talk about this in November, when I’ve got an inquest to preside over (about which you may safely anticipate I will write here absolutely nothing. If you want to know my thoughts on that, then you’ll have to request a copy of my verdict explanation).

I know that my days are numbered at least in a realistic way, quite likely smaller numbers than many people my age. I don’t know what that number is. But each day can count as much as I make it, no?

Another upcoming adventure is a long-planned trip to Portugal and Morocco with my wife. We will be joined by some friends in Porto for a week long bicycle trip. And then travel to Munich and hope to see some cousins. That will be the subject of some writing I believe.

I’m not sure how much of this travel, adventure, and reflecting and writing about it resembles being productive but I’ve been enjoying life just the same. I’ve got more to write about if you want to keep reading. But for now, good night.

Schrödinger's Gloves

I was on my way home yesterday on Brünnhild (my preferred spelling) after a necessary shopping trip to town, when I experienced a sudden breakdown. (As an aside, I’m referring to the off road bike, the F650).

It was here, just with WWAAAYYY more trucks behind me!

I was in the left turn lane, with approximately ten tractor trailer units behind me, and the reason I am confident of that number is because I had just passed them all in order not to be stuck at the left turn light behind them for an indeterminate length of time. So like a jerk, there I am, I passed them all and pulled in just behind the first truck, looking toward a quick turn and on the road home. 

The light turned green.

The truck ahead of me pulled into the intersection, I dropped the bike into first gear, let out the clutch and . . . . . . .

Nothing!

The bike wouldn’t move.

Instant karma.

To his credit, the trucker who was now stuck behind me did not simply run me over, or shoot me on the spot, or at least express his frustration with the assistance of his air horn. 

If it had been me in the truck, I’m not sure I would have been able to avoid any or all of those temptations. 

And it was hot, and I was sweating and frustrated and I thought initially that I must be in a false neutral but couldn’t get the bike to drive, even cycling through all the gears.  The engine revved happily but would not propel the damn machine forward even an inch. Single-handedly, I’m stopping millions of dollars of commerce from crossing the only road that goes all the way across Canada  

I squeezed and released the clutch lever, shifted into and out of all the gears, looked at the gear shift lever: was it engaging with the shaft? Was the clutch stuck closed? Had the chain come off the sprocket? 

No, no, no.

The truck idled behind me, and behind him; now 15 trucks. The trucker didn’t get out of his truck, either, to help me get the bike out of the road. It would have been nice, maybe. But I can’t find fault with him. At least he didn’t squish me like a bug.

The light eventually turned yellow, and then red.  I then pushed the bike over to the right side of the road (at this point,  the triangle between the right turn lane and the main lanes). People in cars looked at me as I did this and I imagined their what their response might be if I had dropped the bike in the middle of the road.

I got to a place of safety. Immediately upon my putting the side stand down, the engine stopped.  Of course: it’s still in gear despite not moving forward with the engine on.

I took off my helmet, and my jacket, and my gloves, sweating like a pig. I’m not sure if pigs actually sweat. I can already imagine the phone call to my wife: “could you please hook up a trailer to my truck, come and get me at the intersection of Hwy 11/17 and Red River Road”.  Great. . .

I got the bike up on the centre stand and rolled the rear wheel. I could shift what into and out of what seemed to be all the gears, but the wheel rolled freely, which it shouldn’t if the clutch is not squeezed and the drive train is connected. Maybe I wrecked the transmission, somehow? I looked at the other side of the engine, where the chain and front sprocket are. The chain and front sprocket rolled fine but if I looked closely, I could see that the output shaft from the transmission did not. Weird. 

Hmm, how is the sprocket supposed to stay on?

Nutless sprocket

As you can see, I’ve now slid the sprocket back on. . . So you tell that something is clearly amiss.

Ok, so if I can slide the sprocket on, but it won’t stay, I’ve got an ongoing problem. There’s a big nut that is supposed to hold this all together. Wonder what happened to that nut? I look at the road where forward progress had ended.  Is it there? Nope.  In the parking lot of where I’d just been?  I wonder if I got extremely lucky, and it’s somewhere on the “bash plate”, that protects the engine from damage from below?

I got lucky.

To my good fortune, it was immediately below the sprocket, lying on the engine protection plate. I put it on as tightly as I could with my by now thoroughly greasy and blackened fingers.  I wonder if this will hold on until I get home? What if it comes off again at highway speed? That would not be a pretty picture: rear-wheel lockup at speed equals immediate loss of control. I stopped to check it for tightness multiple times on my way home.

(Other questions, such as: how did this come off? How do I make sure it stays on from here on in? would come later.)

I dropped Brünnhild off the center stand, rolled into the intersection across the crosswalk, and when the light turned, roared off down the road.

Blessed cool breeze, finally!

But now I’m driving down the road, with no gloves on.  I wonder, did I leave my gloves on the ground at the intersection where I was working on my bike, or was I smart enough to put them into the pannier?  As I’m on the highway, no easy turn around to check although I could have looked, I guess, to see if they were in the pannier. 

But until I checked, the gloves were in a quantum state of simultaneous existence and non-existence, a superposition of universes, both lying on the sidewalk where I had fixed my bike, and in my panniers like Schrödinger's cat: a creature both alive and dead at the same time, in its box with the radioactive particle and the poison, whose quantum fate would only be brought about upon observation by a conscious mind. The act of looking makes the event occur, retroactively! Schrödinger's gloves, indeed.

But also, why did the nut come off? Had I under-torqued it? Was I supposed to use anti-seize? Is there a cotter pin or safety wire that I had neglected to use? Had I only been lucky, this far?

I later spent some time on the internet.  There is supposed to be a washer between the nut and the sprocket. The washer has little grooves where it engages the splines on the shaft; once tight, the edge of the washer is supposed to be bent against the side of the nut, so that the nut cannot turn.  Like so:

I ordered one today.  Cost for the washer; $5.99.  Cost for shipping and handling: $17.00.

Hopefully it will arrive some time next week.

 And the gloves?

The gloves survived.

I also made it home with chain on bike and sprocket in place. 

Flying Lawn Chairs and $350 Million Stealth Fighter Jets

If I look up to the buzzing sound of a couple flying lawn chairs, and I look around at uncountable campers, and it’s hot as Hades, and theres a background drone of generators as a precise formation of airplanes cruises through the sky overhead, and then a fighter jet (perhaps the F22 Raptor) cracks the sky with its roar and at a cost of $85,000 an hour to fly (and whose purchase price is $350 million!!), then I’m probably with my son and father-in-law at Oshkosh, Wisconsin in the last week of July at “The worlds greatest aviation celebration”.

That’s an unbelievable amount of money right there!

There's a guy sitting in a little chair with wheels under a canopy and a propeller is pushing him through the sky. 

10,000 aircraft are parked on the grass around the runways at Wittman Field and the latest I heard, over 200,000 people converge here for the week to express their love of everything related to flight. Maybe it’s 700,000.

This is the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA) annual fly-in “Airventure”, a week dedicated to the crazy concept of lifting ourselves off the earth, which is celebrating its 70th anniversary this year.

For about the last 20 years, it’s been an annual pilgrimage for the three generations of us: we drive south from our home north of Lake Superior, to the extravaganza, to look at airplanes. It’s a long drive. But it’s worth it. You have to experience it to appreciate it. The place can feel overwhelming. I recall my first visit there in 1989 with my stepdad: we took motorbikes to the show and my interest in flight was fuelled.

I took a helicopter ride with my stepfather who came and met us there in 2017.

One small corner of the campground, as seen from the air:

I think I can see our teeny camper among the behemoths; this field contains thousands of camping units.

It’s a home that we bring with us:

It’s actually a bit ridiculous, this house I tow! But then, when it’s pouring rain and there’s a thunderstorm and you can sleep in comfort, the ridiculous quotient seems less somewhat.  And when the temperatures are pushing 35 degrees C, (or the mid 90’s, F), with humidity of 90%, the appeal of sleeping in a tent is harder to appreciate and the benefits of a generator and air conditioning become apparent. Of course, many people fly to KOSH and sleep in a tent under the wing of their airplane, which clearly has its own appeal.

But we bring the fifth wheel. Technically, “sleeps ten” actually means that six can occupy the trailer comfortably.

“Gramps”, and my son, and I, have seen many, many air shows, looked at countless airplanes, and have hosted more than a few guests along for the Oshkosh ride, and fed the imagination of flight. My daughter has accompanied us and enjoyed the show if not the heat so much. My wife, and at other times both of her sisters have come along, we’ve been joined by friends and other family there, my brother, my mom, my stepfather all who live (or lived) in Wisconsin, also in some instances to sleep over; the company adds to the fun. 

Gramps is a pilot, having owned and flown about a dozen different aircraft, mostly on floats, and has had his share of flying adventures, as some of his stories reflect. Many of gramps’ stories we have heard countless times, and we don’t tire of them! 

He’s also full of colourful expressions that can help describe what he’s seeing or how he’s feeling. He tells me when he sees some of these planes that “he really missed the bus”, but I don’t think so!

He is a wealth of knowledge about flying and airplanes, and now finally getting on in years, in his mid-80s, he has only recently relinquished his pilot’s license, to his chagrin. He still likes to fly with others when he gets a chance and likes to go and see airplanes and talk airplanes and surround himself with “airplane people”.

Oshkosh is a place where you meet many different people with many different interests but one thing in common: love of flight. Fellow campers come from all over the USA, with all kinds of backgrounds. People chat in the lines or along the flight line while watching the show and while many are pilots, there are others, like me, who are not. I’d like to fly but that’s not how life worked out for me. I tell gramps that I didn’t miss the bus, I got run over by it.

Historic aircraft of every stripe can be found there: a favourite area of ours is “warbird alley” where the P51 Mustangs, and large WWII era bombers, P38 Lightnings, Corsairs and Hellcats, occasionally a Messerschmitt, and even a rare Spitfire can be seen. There are hundreds of aircraft from the 1940s that have been flown to KOSH from across the continent and around the world, and they’re parked together, often with the pilot or flight crew nearby and happy to talk about their machine.

These flying machines have been lovingly restored, often at great cost, to as close to original (or better) condition as possible.

Seven P51 Mustangs lined in a row. 

There are demonstrations of formation flying of aircraft from very different eras, sometimes against a lead-gray sky.

Everything that could fly shows up at the EAA fly-in and sometimes things that shouldn’t.  I’ve seen flying cars and flying motorcycles and flying boats and cobbled-together contraptions and jet packs and drones and airplanes made entirely from wood and historical artifacts and Soviet era MIGs and Auto Gyros and guys in squirrel suits jumping out of helicopters, 747s and Airbus 380s and the Concord and the worlds biggest cargo airplane and the worlds smallest jet and everything in between. 

Daily air shows are a highlight even if I know that one of my favourite performers, Jim Leroy, died in a crash a few weeks after I last saw him perform. 

The precision and artistry of the aerobatic pilots, displaying their prowess each afternoon, is amazing.

My son wasn’t able to attend with us this year so it was my wife and her dad and I who made the trip, but until recently, it was always three generations on a bonding trip and a chance for my son to spend time with his grandfather. Our mission since about 2003 has been to make the most of our time together, develop patterns and rituals, and although the airplanes are the “excuse” to go there, they aren’t really the “reason”.

The trip starts with some planning: when can I get off work? (No longer an issue - ha!). Are there any conflicts in schedule? OK, timing: air show proper starts on Monday. We all want to get there well ahead of that. How’s Saturday?  Good!  Then I need to get the camping trailer ready: make sure the brakes, suspension, axles, bearings, lights all are good.  Does the tow vehicle (my truck) need anything? Oil change?  Tires ok? It’s a big load and a long trip. Pack up our gear, don’t forget passport, raincoat, pair of flip-flops for the showers (we usually shower at the communal campground shower to avoid having to get water refills for the trailer). 

On Friday, usually around noon or so, we would hit the road.  Our lunch is egg salad sandwiches, maybe an apple as we approach the border (don’t try to smuggle any fruit into the US - they will even confiscate Florida oranges in case we might have done something to them).  

Our course continues through northern Minnesota from Grand Marais to Duluth, with Lake Superior on our left the whole time, and we arrive in Superior, Wisconsin just as “our big ones are eating our little ones” as gramps refers to his hunger. Like magic, there’s Eddie’s World Famous Ribs!  We have dinner at our first stop 365 km (225 miles) from home; this signals the first third of the trip south.  It’s a welcome break. Don’t order the full rack of ribs!  Even a half rack will leave you with leftovers.

The road is four-lane the rest of the way. We continue south and now east past Chippewa Falls, 300 km to bring us to Abbyland in Curtis WI, a truck stop that it seems has an area set aside for our rest.  The last bit of driving isn’t as much fun when “it’s darker than the inside of a cow” and “the deer are as thick as fleas on a dogs back”. We gas up and then crawl into our beds in the trailer, running the generator to keep the AC on. Sometimes we awaken to the sounds of horses and buggies that the Amish who live nearby drive in. There’s a hitching post for the horses.

If you really squint, you might see a horse and buggy on the road to our west. Or you might not.

That buggy isn't hauling itself!

Then it’s breakfast for us, a mound of bacon and hash browns and eggs, what a trucker might eat, and then let’s head out for the final 240 km to the air show.  Driving 500 or 800 Km in a car in one stretch is no big deal, but as I noted earlier, and similar to motorcycling, hauling a 10,000 lb trailer behind a pickup truck requires additional focus and concentration and the driving is considerably more fatiguing than a passenger car. This isn't a tractor-trailer and I'm not a professional driver. 

You feel the bumps and expansion joints on the highway much more than in a car. Cars around you do unexpected things and so anticipating trouble is part of the game. There are times with heavy traffic and narrow lanes and bumpy roads and the whole thing, according to gramps can be “like trying to stuff a worm up an elephant’s ass at a dead run”. I’ve done the nearly 1,000 Km whole trip in one go, but it’s not pleasant for me or probably my passengers. We drive through the fertile farm country of America's Dairyland with the neat farms and huge tractors and many silos, rolling hills and small towns with small industry and manufacturing that is still part of the US, following a familiar list of highways: it was Hwy 11/17 to Thunder Bay,  61 to Duluth, 2 and then 53 to Chippewa Falls, 29 to Wausau, 51 to Stephens Point, 10 and then 45 towards Oshkosh, and 41 (South: towards Milwaukee, NOT North toward Oshkosh,) and finally to the airfield.

Our arrival at KOSH is usually about 11 am on Saturday if we’ve done well and had no complications, with no flat tire or major road construction to deal with; an early arrival has us “as busy as a cat on a hot tin roof”, getting us a decent place to set up and position and level and stabilize and unhitch the trailer and fill the water tanks and position the awning and roll out the carpet and put up the Picnic table and take off the bicycles and unload the generator, and then we can go shop for our food for the week.  And beer (of course). Gramps generally gets back to the campsite “as dry as a popcorn fart” and “thirsty as a camel”.  Later, he might need to piss like a racehorse. 

We cook almost all our meals at the trailer, and of course have a routine for that, too: mostly BBQ: steaks, chicken, sausages, pork chops, sometimes shrimp or scallops in the middle of the Midwest, even lamb, once . . . Often we get back to the camp after a long day of walking and looking at airplanes and gramps is hungry enough to eat the asshole out of a dead skunk.

Camp is set up, food in the refrigerator, beer in the cooler with ice, we are ready for the big show.  If we haven’t gone and taken a first look we do so now: the displays being set up, the airplanes arriving in a long stream to the south all to be parked all along the nearly two mile long N-S runway or the E-W runway that is slightly shorter. We usually walk the whole flight line although gramps notes that his legs are getting worn down to stumps from all the walking. 

Sunday things are ramping up, the campers are arriving in earnest, over 40,000 of them in previous years although this year the campgrounds needed to be considerably expanded so who know the numbers for 2023? The sky is filled with arriving aircraft and the campground is filled to capacity so they open another farmers field for overflow camping.

Monday is the official air show opening. If we are organized, and we usually are, we go through the gates and make our first stop along the runway on the flight line to deposit our chairs at a strategic spot that we can come back and reclaim in time for the air show proper.  That is every afternoon from about 2-6 pm, with demonstration flights, aerobatics with loops and inverted flights, barrel rolls and Cuban Eights, stalls and spins and everything you can imagine an airplane doing and lots that you can’t. There is formation flying, and skydivers, wing walkers, crazy stunts, airplanes landing on trucks as they drive down the runway, helicopters that can fly upside-down: it is unimaginable until you see it. Occasionally, people crash.

Monday is also concert night: over the years we have seen The Beach Boys, The Doobie Brothers, Foreigner, Chicago, The Barenaked Ladies, Steve Miller Band, REO Speedwagon, Kenny Logins, Randy Travis (at least that’s who I think it was but as a non country-music fan I can’t be sure, maybe it was Dierks Bentley) and probably one or two others I can’t recall. 

Near Warbird alley is a historical recreation of a WWII encampment with tents and jeeps and a mess-tent and briefing tent and A-A guns and people in period attire, it feels like stepping into a movie. The strongest impression I get from that beyond the visuals is the evocative smell of canvas which I recall from my time camping as a young boy before all these modern tent materials and designs. 

There’s a night air show on Wednesday and Saturday.

With fireworks, of course.

Mandatory visits for us include the experimental aircraft museum (aren’t all aircraft experimental?), and the four huge hangars filled with presenters and vendors and the tents and buildings and other displays of everything imaginable airplane related, (and lots that isn’t) and the “fly market” and the mini-donuts, and of course each of the areas set aside for a particular type of aircraft: the warbirds, the home-builds, the ultralights, the vintage and classic aircraft, rotorcraft, and the floatplane base on nearby Lake Winnebago. One year there, the wind was quite strong and the airplanes on floats were struggling to land in the waves, another year the lake was like glass, or as gramps likes to state “flatter than piss on a platter” and glass water landings are difficult too because it’s hard to estimate how far you’re above it.  

Thursday or Friday we pack up for the trip home.  A week isn’t nearly enough time to experience all that there is to see. Although my son couldn’t make the trip this year, I know he’s keen to go again, not necessarily for the airplanes but for everything else. It’s the family time, traditions and camping, the effort of getting there and the (relative) hardships all make this an annual experience I hope to enjoy at least one more time. Gramps, too, although as he likes to remind us, “his envelope is getting smaller”.

Arrived safely home again, wondering if it will happen again next year?