Renegade story

[Mike Kimball]

Hi all,

I don't know if y'all like flying stories, but I just posted the following
story to the Renegade Builder's list and thought maybe the Rebel folks would
enjoy it. It tells of my flight across the Australian outback in my newly
acquired Murphy Renegade Spirit. I purposefully just added it to the email
instead of attaching a Word document to keep the download time reasonable.
Enjoy:

Ballina to Woomera in a Murphy Renegade Spirit

September 01, 1993

September 01 in Ballina, NSW, Australia was a hot, humid day, and I had
finally arrived to retrieve my recently purchased Murphy Renegade Spirit.
Ballina is a small town on the Gold Coast of eastern Australia, about 120
miles south of Brisbane, Queensland. The area is renowned for its beauty,
and I could hardly wait to view it from the open air vantage point of my new
biplane.
A short walk from the small terminal building at the airport brought me to
the place of business of the famous Howard Hughes. No, not the Howard
Hughes of "Spruce Goose" fame, but rather the very successful designer of
the Hughes Lightwing; a Rotax powered, tube and fabric, high wing
taildragger. If the Lightwing ever makes it to the United States, the
Kitfox and Avid Flyer will have some very stiff competition.
Flight testing and minor modifications of the Renegade, required by the
Civil Aviation Authority (CAA), were being conducted at the Lightwing
Factory by Wayne King, an experienced ultralight pilot/mechanic. Upon my
arrival, Wayne and another Lightwing mechanic, Terry Donaldson were making
some necessary final adjustments that included replacing a malfunctioning
oil pump. It was a prime opportunity for me to give the engine area a good
looking over. After familiarizing myself with the Renegade, I decided to
give it a close inspection with one of the best methods I know of; a
"head-to-toe" washing. Satisfied that the Renegade was in "good nick", as
they say in Australia, I looked forward to a checkout the next day with
Wayne.

02 September, 1993

The day of my first flight had arrived. It was nice and sunny, with a light
wind blowing across the runway. After nearly a thousand hours of
Cessna/Piper/Mooney experience, and a whopping 10 hours of ultralight
experience in Hughes Lightwings and another Australian design called a
Jabiru (looks like a 3/4 size Cessna 150) I figured I was ready for my first
biplane. I had gained a healthy respect for light taildraggers after the
first time the wind lifted a wing on one of my Lightwing flights and caused
me to run off the runway into the grass. "Didn't hold your aileron into the
wind after touchdown," the instructor reminded me. Well, I wouldn't forget
that again! However, my respect for this kind of plane wasn't as great as
Wayne's as he looked at the 6 - 8 knots of direct crosswind and commented
that maybe we should wait for better conditions. How was I ever going to
fly halfway across Australia in this plane to my home in Woomera, South
Australia (nearly 1000 Nautical Miles) if a very experienced ultralight
instructor didn't want to fly in a light breeze!
Wayne finally decided we could fly if we did our training at a nearby
airport with a runway more suitably aligned with the wind. For the first
bit, I squeezed into the front seat. No problem, I would have my back fixed
later. Once in the front seat, I was comfortable enough, even though I had
to look cross-eyed to see the instruments that were only a few inches away.
Surprisingly, my first landing attempts were quite successful. Visibility,
known to be terrible with biplanes, wasn't as bad as I thought; until I
moved to the back seat. Despite the fact that I couldn't see around Wayne
or the big round, "bump" cowl (fake, of course, since the Rotax 912 is not a
radial engine), I managed to land safely. It was time to think about
starting my trip home.

03 September, 1993

I peered ahead, trying to find Lismore, the first airport I would pass on
the first leg of my trip westward. It was quite chilly, despite the fact
that I was bundled up in a "freezer suit" used by people required to work in
meat freezers. I made the mistake of not bringing gloves, and my hands were
frozen! I looked up at the clear, flexible tubing that served as a fuel
quantity gage and knew that I would get very little useful information from
it as the level fluctuated from about 10 liters to 35 liters as I bounced
around in the varying air currents. I had learned long ago not to trust
airplane fuel gauges, and had set my stopwatch to monitor how long I'd been
up. My 45 liter fuel capacity, at the book 16 liters per hour at 5200 RPM,
should give me about 2.8 hours of endurance.
As I passed Casino Airport, about 27 miles west of Ballina, I began to enter
the mountains of the Great Dividing Range that extends from a point about a
100 miles north of Sydney to about 50 miles north of Brisbane. This would
be the only significant terrain that I would encounter on the entire trip.
Most of Australia is very flat. With peaks no greater than about 5000 feet,
these mountains seemed minuscule compared to the Sierra Nevada and Rocky
Mountains that I was used to in the United States, but, for my little
biplane, and it's anemic climb rate, they seemed enormous. Somehow, I
managed to struggle up to 6500 feet and was following the main road up into
the mountains. Everything was running well, and despite the cold, I was
having a great time. Then, to my dismay, I noted a low fuel indication in
my site tube. I decided to turn back to Casino, which I knew was only a few
miles back down the road. After a few tense moments of looking for suitable
landing spots and watching the fuel level (still fluctuating up and down in
the turbulence), it became apparent that I would not make it back to Casino.
I was faced with the harsh reality of having to make an "off-airport"
landing.
I spotted a nice, straight dirt road branching off the main highway and
decided it was my best option. I reduced power to slow the rate of fuel
consumption and began a descent for landing. As I lined up for final
approach, a car appeared in the section of road I had chosen! I could only
hope that the car would move beyond the area I intended for landing. A
quick glance at the now completely empty site tube confirmed that I could
not go around for another try. Then, a glance at my airspeed showed that I
had let too much speed bleed off, and I nosed over a little to get it back.
Touchdown was OK, however, I had difficulty maintaining directional control
on the narrow, rough road. It wasn't long before my left main wheel slipped
into a ditch that ran alongside the road and pulled me inexorably to the
left. The next thing I knew, the airplane came to rest on its belly, and
the engine had stopped abruptly as the idling prop struck the ground. A bit
shaken, and a little angry at bending my beautiful new plane, I shut off the
ignition and the fuel and climbed out. The car I had seen was not in sight.
They probably never saw me land behind them.
Soon, people starting showing up, either just passing by, or having heard
and seen me fly overhead. A local farmer offered to take me in, and I was
soon warmed by a cup of hot tea as I prepared to phone the Lightwing people
and the local police. Howard offered to call the CAA for me, and wondered
if I would like him to retrieve the plane. I made arrangements with Howard
to bring the plane back to Ballina. After some gracious hospitality, the
man that had taken me in offered to drive me all the way back to Ballina. I
convinced him to keep my jerry cans, full of auxiliary fuel, in payment. I
was soon on my way back to Woomera, with a heavy heart, and a much depleted
pocketbook with nothing to show for it.

22 January, 1994

Here I was again, standing outside the Lightwing factory, staring at the
miraculous resurrection of my Renegade Spirit. Terry Donaldson, in charge
of the repair, had done a wonderful job of returning the Renegade to the
same beautiful condition it was in before my unfortunate accident. My
unscheduled landing turned out to be caused by an ill-advised modification
to the gascolator (a fuel filter/drain assembly in the engine compartment)
installed by the original builder. Fuel apparently leaked out at a steady
rate through the gascolator valve. Combined with my normal fuel burn, this
caused my fuel usage calculations to be somewhat optimistic. After going
over the plane thoroughly, I was ready to try my hand at piloting the craft
once again.

23 January, 1994

I peered through the trees at the windsock, wondering if I could handle the
crosswind. I decided that if I was to have any chance of flying the
Renegade all the way to Woomera, I'd better learn to fly in crosswinds.
Taxi and takeoff were uneventful. After about 30 minutes of refamiliarizing
myself with the flying characteristics of the Renegade, it was time for the
hard part.
Approach and flare were picture perfect. The mains kissed the runway, and I
began to wonder what I was so worried about. Then, up came the windward
wing. I cringed as the leeward wingtip grazed the runway while I fought to
bring all three wheels back to the asphalt where they belonged. My feet
danced on the rudder pedals as I tried to align the airplane with its
direction of travel. I was sure I had kept aileron into the wind after
touchdown! Well, I wasn't going to let the airplane get the better of me.
Full stop, check control surfaces, taxi back, up we go again for another
try. This time, it was a nice wing low approach all the way to touchdown.
Masterfully done! I held that wing into the wind all the way up to the
point where I ground off a little of that wing tip. Time to go talk to some
experts. Wayne wasn't around, so I spoke to Jim Dobbins, another Lightwing
employee and experienced ultralight instructor.
"Didja try wheel landing 'er? Try a crab instead of a slip. Touchdown at
one edge of the runway, and angle yer roll towards the other edge, into the
wind."
"You must be joking!", I thought. Well, OK, if that's what it takes. I was
soon blazing around the pattern for another try, determined to succeed. I
decided to try a combination of crab and the edge-to-edge of the runway
technique. Touchdown, roll-out, aileron into the wind right away, dance on
those rudder pedals! It worked! After three more landings with no
problems, I knew I had it licked. I taxied back to the hanger, unable to
wipe the silly grin off my face. Jim didn't have to ask me how it went.
But he did anyway. I switched to my best pilot poker face and said, "No
worries," in proper Australian vernacular. Two hours later, after a bit of
rest, some lunch, and the hundredth look at my maps, I decided to pop over
to Casino and finally be able to say that I was well and truly on my way
home.
Jerry can and small overnight bag in the front seat, me in the back; I guess
that's it. I was soon heading toward familiar territory; an area I knew
well already, both from the air and, unfortunately from the ground, as well.
I was confident that I wouldn't need a dirt road this time! The 27 Nm trip
to Casino seemed to take forever. This is going to be one long trip.
As I passed Lismore, I took note of the orientation of the runway with
respect to the 10 - 15 knot wind. Only a few degrees off; I could go back
to Lismore if the crosswind at Casino was too bad. On approach to Casino, I
paid close attention to my drift with respect to the runway and decided that
I could make it. I was rewarded with my best landing yet. It was a
wonderful beginning to my odyssey.
As I was tying down the airplane and putting my things together, the first
of what would be many friendly encounters occurred. Ian Waring had seen me
fly overhead, and being the aviation enthusiast that he was, could not
resist coming out to see my Renegade. It turned out to be a very fortunate
meeting, indeed. He took me in to town, settled me in a nice motel, and
bought me a beer! Little did I know that I would be seeing him again so
soon.

24 January, 1994

After finding some dinner the night before, I made a few inquiries about
obtaining fuel. To my dismay, I discovered that the only fuel available at
this airport was Jet-A. This would not do! I decided to head back to
Lismore for fuel.
Fuel ON. Ignition ON. Choke ON. Throttle cracked. Starter engage. Round
and round she goes, when she'll start, nobody knows. Well, I tried
everything I could think of. All the old tricks I had learned with Pipers
and Cessnas just didn't seem to be working. Of course, none of them had a
choke and no mixture control. So I tried all the tricks I remembered with
many old cars I had driven. Nothing. Soon the battery would not turn the
prop and I knew I was finished until I could get a charge or a jump. Good
ole' Ian Waring. In less that two hours, we had the battery recharged, back
in the plane, and ready for another try. A phone call to Wayne at Lightwing
confirmed what I suspected: wrong starting technique. Throttle at the idle
stop, full choke, fuel ON, Ignition ON; started right up. This plane had
the opposite of a flooding problem. It had a "too much air" problem. The
only mistake I made on my initial starting attempt was cracking the
throttle! Live and learn. They're all different.
I decided to go back to Ballina for fuel. After topping off, I was, once
again, headed west. This time my target was Glen Innes. This would be a
long leg. My route to Glen Innes was actually a dogleg via Tenterfield to
the west, then south to Glen Innes; a total of about 130 Nm. Once west of
Casino, I would be in the mountains. Glen Innes would be my highest stop,
at 3433 feet.
Navigation was difficult since I had no navigation equipment. I would be
relying on dead-reckoning and pilotage on this trip. Map folding in an open
cockpit biplane can be a real adventure. I made sure that I had a good grip
on the map at all times! Somehow, I managed to hope, pray, and guess my way
successfully to Glen Innes. I never knew how much I'd miss a Directional
Gyro until I had to rely on a compass. It seemed to wander around with a
mind of it's own most of the time. I could usually figure out whether I was
headed in the right general direction, but that was about it. Of course,
the huge wind correction angles I needed in my slow, light airplane didn't
help much. Well, on to Moree.
There were a few more tense moments on this leg as I tried to convince
myself that I was, in fact, following the right road. Luckily, the Gydir
River provided me with the rare landmark that I needed to confirm that I was
still on track. Now, how am I going to get down with all that wind blowing?
Must be about 15 knots. Well, I need fuel, and it's a big runway. I'll use
the old "edge-to-edge" technique. Whattayaknow. I did it! I S-turned my
way up to the fuel pumps like a true biplane veteran.
I had gotten pretty good at standing on the back seat where I could reach
the fuel caps, retrieving the nozzle from the fueler over the leading edge
of the top wing, and pumping the fuel in myself. Luckily, the holes were
big enough to accept standard fuel nozzles. I passed the time with the
young lad and his father running the fueling operation, and did the usual
amount of explaining what that thing was I arrived in, where did I come
from, and where was I going. After a coke, a visit to the "little boys
room", and a rest, it was time to press on.
As I came to a stop at the internationally recognizable double yellow line
short of the runway, I started to go through my run-up procedure. Uh-oh.
As soon as the revs got above about 3500 RPM, she started surging something
terrible! Better go back and check it out. I taxied over by the fueling
area, shut down, hopped out, and asked the fueler if there was a mechanic in
the house.
"Yeah, my dad's a mechanic," he said.
"Surges at high RPM," I explained to the man.
"Sounds like vapor lock," he said. "Guy that owns that Maule over there has
the same problem when it's hot like this."
"It is kinda hot," I agreed. "Well, I'm kinda tired. Might as well let 'er
sit for today and head out early tomorrow morning."
"Probably a good idea," he replied.

25 January, 1994

I arrived at the airport about 30 minutes after dawn. It was nice and cool,
I was well rested, and this day should leave many a mile behind me.
Startup, using the proper technique, was uneventful. But before I left the
tiedown area, I decided to check out the surging problem. Before going for
high revs, I decided to let it warm up a little. OK, it should be ready
now. Still doing it! It's not vapor lock. I soon got to know Niel Franks,
the man at the fuel area, very well. We spent the entire day working
through the problem. A few phone calls to the Bert Flood Rotax people in
Victoria soon gave us the answer. It turned out to be a very simple
carburetor adjustment. Of course, about the time the carburetor problem was
solved, she sprung an oil leak! You muck around in the engine area enough,
you're bound to knock something loose. The cause of the oil leak turned out
to be a small brass tube that allows venting of the oil cooler through a
valve. A new set of phone calls to Bert Flood Imports confirmed that the
tube was not standard, and not necessary. We removed it, replaced the oil
cooler fitting, and seemed to have everything running smoothly again. It
was already passed "knock off time" for Niel, and we were both beat. Niel
drove me back to the motel and insisted that I call him from my next stop to
make sure I arrived OK. He made it clear that he'd start a phone search for
me if I didn't call on time.

26 January, 1994

The flight from Moree to Walgett went off without a hitch. Winds were
stronger than I'd like, but I was definitely getting more confident at my
ability to put the Renegade on the ground safely. I had been using 60 knots
as my ground speed for planning, and it had been remarkably accurate, so
far. Navigation was getting easier simply because the number of roads I had
to chose from was diminishing rapidly. The interior of Australia is a very
harsh, sparsely populated land. I often thought about the liter of water, a
few chips, a piece of cheese, and the apple I had in my baggage. I'd sure
hate to be stranded out here somewhere. I left Moree about a half hour
later than I had planned, and I remembered that Niel was waiting for a phone
call. I dashed off to the nearest pay phone and soon had Niel convinced
that the plane was fine and so was I.
I learned a long time ago to query the locals about what lies ahead, and the
few people hanging around the airport were more than happy to help me out.
The renegade is definitely an aircraft that turns heads, and I had no
trouble finding people to talk to.
Bourke appeared on the horizon, and was right on target and right on time.
It sure is easy to do time and distance calculations when you're using 60
knots as your groundspeed. A mile a minute. There are some advantages to
slow airplanes. The route beyond Bourke was one that had bothered me since
the day I first contemplated doing this trip myself. I wasn't going any
farther today until I had a good rest, did some more planning, and made some
more phone calls. Thank goodness for the AOPA (Australia) Airfield
Directory that my good friend John Gardon (a Wing Commander in the Royal
Australian Air Force) had lent me. It had phone numbers for fuel, lodging,
taxis, everything you'd need on a trip like mine. Even sheep station strips
were listed! I'd soon need those.

27 January, 1994

Why had the route beyond Bourke bothered me? My next stop was a place
called Wilcannia, about 160 Nm away from Bourke. At 60 knots, I had a good
2 hours and 40 minutes of flying time to look forward to. Alternates?
None. And today the winds appeared to be turning against me. Looks like a
bit of a headwind today. Even a rear quartering crosswind is like a
headwind if you have to crab into it. Yes, it looked like my original
endurance estimate of 2 hours and 48 minutes based on book fuel burn figures
and my 45 liter capacity was actually better than that. But how much
better? I hadn't gathered enough information yet. I was still unsure about
the actual endurance of my Renegade. Except for my unfortunate accident, I
hadn't run my tanks dry to see how long it could really fly. 16 liters per
hour seemed to be true, according to my most recent fuelings. But did the
Renegade hold more than 45 liters? I was sure it did, but how much more?
Fuel to the very brim of the tanks and I was sure that there was another 5
liters available. What would I do if I couldn't make Wilcannia? I did have
a 20 liter jerry can in the front seat. All I needed was a place to land.
The maps and books I had told me there were no sheep stations or airports
available. But I had been told that Tilpa was not unused to seeing
ultralights stop in for fuel. All I had to do was land on the main highway
and taxi up to the pub, and I could get fuel! Land on the highway?! Right.
As it turned out, I never could identify Tilpa from the air, although I kept
a sharp eye out, and the Renegade made it all the way to Wilcannia without
making me too nervous. The crosswind made me quite certain that I could not
use the main highway for an emergency landing, but the nice flat terrain at
least made me feel that I would survive an emergency landing anywhere
without too much trouble. I ended up using a taxi-way for a landing strip
(because of the wind) at the deserted field, which was quite adequate with
my 300 foot roll-out. A nice man arrived after a phone call and a short
wait with a 55 gallon fuel drum of AVGAS in the back of his ute (pick-up
truck) and a liter of motor oil that I had asked for. We pumped 42 turns of
the hand pump (supposedly 42 liters of fuel) into the Renegade, at a
ridiculous price that I was more than happy to pay. I drank the rest of my
water, then modified the bottle to work as a funnel for my oil, before
dumping the liter of oil into the sump. I decided to use the runway for my
departure to Broken Hill.
All the way to Broken Hill, I was crabbed into the wind more than I could
ever remember in my 12 years of flying. It was only about 101 Nm to Broken
Hill. With full tanks, this should be no problem. Of course, I had learned
to ignore the incredible saddle-soreness that had become a part of life over
the last few days. When I arrived, the old crosswind nervousness was back.
I shifted around in my seat trying to relieve the soreness in my right foot.
The Renegade was badly in need of a fixed trim tab on the rudder. Right
rudder was constantly necessary to keep the ball centered in cruise.
It became clear to me that the main runway at Broken Hill was not suitable
for me because of the wind. Thank goodness for the old dirt runway, only a
few degrees off of the wind. Touchdown required a lot of rudder dancing,
but I managed to keep my wingtips off the ground. I employed my best
control-surface-positioning-while-taxiing techniques all the way to the Aero
Club. The wind was really blowing! A local aero club member pointed the
way to a spot to tie down, and I hammered my tiedowns in as far as they
would go. It was hard to keep the Renegade from moving while I tried to tie
it down. I stayed at the airport for another two hours to see if the wind
would die down, and to check the security of my plane. I finally decided to
stay the night.

28 January, 1994

Despite the winds, the Renegade had survived the night. Today's winds were
strong, but I was determined to continue on. I had made a couple of phone
calls the night before and had found a sheep station between Broken Hill and
Port Pirie where I could get some fuel. It was called Wiawera, and had two
runways, according to the AOPA book. At this point, I was flight planning
for airports with at least two runways at all times. I knew that the
Renegade was not too happy with crosswinds. After takeoff, it was apparent
that my groundspeed would not be optimum. I was, once again, crabbed at an
incredible angle, into the wind to maintain my course. Following my
progress on the map, I knew, after 40 minutes of flying, that I had to be
close.
"Hey, there it is," I thought, as I peered ahead at the sun glinting off of
some kind of structure in the distance. "If there are two distinguishable
runways by that station then that has to be it," I thought.
Yep. Two runways. One nice, one not so nice. This must be the place.
After I set down on the rough, red clay main strip, and taxied up to the end
where a car had driven out to meet me, I thought, "What a good bit of
navigation, and not a bad landing, either!"
The man in the car turned out to be related to the man that I was looking
for, and the airport turned out to be about 15 Nm short of where I wanted to
be.
"Oh, well. Nice meetin' you. Guess I'll hop over to Wiawera for some fuel.
Where'd you say it was again?"
Ten minutes later, I was flying over another promising looking runway. But
where was the other runway? There is supposed to be two. And why is that
guy driving up and down that grassy area perpendicular to the runway? Well,
I see a windsock, and it's hard to read, and not very promising. Let's make
an approach and see what happens.
I continued the approach to about 50 feet before I applied full power to go
around. I was drifting way too much for the Renegade. There's that guy,
still in the grassy area with his car. Hey, wait a minute. That grassy
area might have been a runway at one time. You know, I think that is a
runway. I'll give it a try.
Although the grass grazed my bottom wing in a couple of places, the
touchdown and roll-out were quite normal. The man in the car led me all the
way to the "hanger" where an old 172 was comfortably chocked. I had to
dodge a few bushes on the way down the narrow "road". My ego took a beating
when the young man shaking my hand acknowledged the Renegade with a quick
glance then could hardly wait to show me his beautifully restored 1950
Triumph 650 that his dad used to use for mustering sheep. It wasn't long
before I was fueled, full of coffee, listened to and told a few airplane
war-stories, and was ready to press on.
Although it was a long leg, the trip from Wiawera to Port Pirie was
uneventful. The crosswind continued to amaze me, as did the fairly good
groundspeed I seemed to be achieving, despite the crosswind. As I was
fueling up in Port Pirie, I looked up at the windsock and noted how it
seemed to be pointing directly to Woomera, at more than 15 knots. I
thought, "I know its kinda windy, but whatta nice tailwind that would be!"
Knowing that Woomera had one very large bitumen (asphalt) runway, one good
dirt runway, and an old, abandoned, but still usable runway, all pointing
different directions, I decided to take advantage of the strong winds. I
called my wife, Kim, and told her I was coming home today.
When I arrived at Woomera, I discovered more than just my imagination on the
air, using the Mandatory Traffic Advisory Frequency (MTAF). The daily
(Monday through Friday) Kendall airlines flight was arriving at the same
time as me. Knowing a little about how much it cost to operate a twin
engine prop-jet, I called the Kendall flight and told them I'd follow them
in to land, despite the fact that I was positioned to land ahead of them.
After they landed, I set up for my approach and received yet another
surprise. John Gardon and local ultralight owner Phil Underwood were
preparing to take off in Phil's Maxair Drifter. They asked if I would like
to take a "victory tour" around the village of Woomera in formation with
them. I thought about my extremely sore posterior, my fairly low fuel
state, and said, "Sure. I'll watch you take off and form up behind you.
You've got the lead." After takeoff and climb-out, we formed up as best we
could, managed some air-to-air photography, and did one pass over the
village. Then, I could take no more. "I'm headin' back to the barn," I
called.
"OK, we'll stay east of the airport while you land," they responded.
Normal touchdown and roll-out, (OK, a little floating in the desert
thermals) and I was taxiing to the hangar, at the end of my incredible trek
across Australia.
"Move to the right of the runway, and we'll land behind you on the left
while you taxi," called John as I trundled down the runway.
"No problem," I responded. A few moments later, a glance over my shoulder
confirmed that John and Phil were on the ground and taxiing behind me back
to the hanger. Ultralights and big runways obviously operate different than
normal General Aviation operations.

I was soon shaking hands, and rustling my feathers around my beautiful
Renegade, very proud of the abilities I obtained on my trip, as well as the
abilities the Renegade always had that I had learned about, slow but sure,
in our journey together.



Mike Kimball
SR #044




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