I'll never forget the night a flying buddy and me were camped NEXT to the wing of my old Piper Cherokee. There was a huge storm that blew down our tent and we wound up shivering under the wing of a Murphy Moose, afraid to trust the Cherokee's tie-downs in that wind. That Moose was so big, the owner and his wife slept through the whole thing in the back of their plane! We got to know them real well and spent the next several evenings under that wing, drinking beer and swapping airplane stories.
A few weeks later, I read in GA News that they'd crashed while landing at his home field, on the way home. Hit a high wire on final that they must have dodged a million times at their little airpark in Arkansas. Why does stuff like that happen? I think the dark side of GA probably had as much as $7 avgas did with running me out of the hobby.
But it's sure hard to get it out of your system. Man, I miss my RV6! (Not to mention the annual pilgrimage to Oshkosh!)
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