Pound-for-pound, nothing beats flying to Oshkosh. It’s the Olympics, the World Cup, and Mt. Everest all rolled into one. For the average G.A. pilot it is one of the great personal aeronautical accomplishments. But flying the famed “FISK Arrival” is neither for the faint-of-heart nor the unprepared. The trip started on a sour note. My loyal and trusted wingman of prior years had the utter temerity, the gall, the brazen impudence, to have found a job. Unwilling to fly the Fisk arrival with only one set of eyeballs, I needed a replacement co-pilot. And not just anyone would do; my standards are high. I started with an emphasis on travelling light, leaving more room for my junk in the airplane. Aeronautical skills were superfluous because that’s Mr. Garmin’s job. But conviviality was a “must.” Snoring was a deal-breaker — sound travels a long way through the thin walls of a tent. I found the perfect choice in Nick Phan.
