By Eric Anderson, IAC 436341
Years before I began my thus far unremarkable foray into competitive aerobatics, I made a similar go at mountaineering. Struggling on some snow-covered hill I quickly realized that Mother Nature saw me as a force to be...ignored. All living things learn that Nature’s utter unconcern is a feature of existence in the absence of shelter. The earth will throw rocks at you, bury you in snow or leave you gasping for air while she freezes your toes off--sometimes all four at once. So, regrettably, I found that my love of shelter far exceeded my love for the hills. My sheltered life has earned me few calluses and, so far, no broken bones. You could say that I don’t suffer well. But mountains did teach me a love for camping and traveling light. Conversely, for professional reasons, I hate hotels. Even the swank ones that my company puts me up in for free. In fact, I am lavishing in company paid swankiness as I write from the 26th floor of the Chicago Swissotel. It’s a perk of the job. But on my days off I can think of a thousand things that I would rather do than pass the hours in a hotel room. Slapping down $100 to stay in a bed that some stranger(s) slept in the night before is, in addition to being somewhat gross, just fiscally irresponsible, I say.
Legend has it that back in the earlier days of our sport at least a few competitors were saying the same thing. Back then, camping at some contests was an Oshkosh-like experience on a much smaller scale. The few who spent the weekend inside the airport fence saved a little cash while also sharing a camaraderie that rivaled the competition itself. For good or ill, we now live in a different time. Camping at contests is considered not only weird, but totally unnecessary. Nonetheless I camped at all five competitions I attended in 2016. I did so in relative comfort but not entirely without some of the very suffering I claim to avoid. I was caught naked “showering” under a garden hose in Vermont, harassed mercilessly by cows in Virginia and very nearly arrested at 1 a.m. in New Jersey. It's a long story. But if you get through it still interested in giving contest camping a try, I can tell you that everything you’ll need for the weekend packs nicely in a single-hole Pitts.
The “Carolina Boogie” in Wilson, North Carolina was the first of the season for most of us in my region. And it was to be my beta-test for skipping the car and hotel. Even attending contests the “normal” way has required all of the meager storage the little biplane “bipe” offers. Adding the camping gear plus the extra clothing to account for a potentially chilly April weekend was doubtful after seeing it all spread about on the floor. I usually camp light so most of my gear was fine. The one piece that was not was my 2-man tent. In its place I bought a bivy sack from REI. A bivy rolls up into a tight package about half the size and weight of a real tent. The flip side is that it is little more than a nylon body-bag with a single metal loop to keep the shell off of the occupant’s face. In even the smallest tent one can sit up, eat, read, play solitaire, etc. Reading is possible in a bivy, but little else is beyond sleep and star-gazing. A few days before contest weekend I took all of the gear over to the hangar for a test run. I have seen a lot of variation in the amount of turtledeck storage in the non-factory S-1s I’ve had the pleasure of meeting. I believe mine to be fairly standard at about two feet deep. The tent, stove and food took up almost all of it. It was impossible to fit everything without some items traveling in the cockpit. I got rid of one seat cushion and replaced it with my sleeping pad. The empty gas bottle was zip-tied to some tubing on the floor next to (but clear of) the stick. I even unscrewed the metal foot guides below the pedals and placed a spare quart of oil under each--smuggler style! With a little trial and error, it all fit. I put on quite a show unpacking on the ramp in Wilson. One theme that was consistent throughout the year was the unsolicited sympathy I got from both competitors and airport staff:
“Stay in our hangar! Here are the keys.”
“Sleep in the FBO, please!”
“Stay with me. I’ve got a spare bed. And I don’t snore...much.”
“Dude, you sure you don't want my gun!”
Few seemed convinced by my claim that sleeping outside was part of the fun. But it really was. And in the morning, after a cup of Folgers and a pot of ramen and lentils, I felt ready to empty the hangars myself. The first arrivals would look at my frumpy, unshaven form and ask a heartfelt “how did you do?” as if I had just come back from my turn on the line at Verdun. And the honest answer for every night but two was, “great!” It isn't a continuous sleep. Even little airports can be noisy at night. Wilson is next to a non-stop industrial park (the airport is called with no irony, “Wilson Industrial”) and the airport itself is lit up like the Meadowlands. But when you crawl into a sleeping bag at 19:30 and crawl out at 6:00 chances are high that you have managed at least six hours of accumulated sleep. All airports have garden hoses. And all contests have “port o’ johns”. What else do you need? I should mention, totally unnecessarily I am sure, that for a female competitor on her own, this would be a far riskier proposition. People, for whatever non-aviation reasons, do sometimes find small airports to be convenient places to meet and exchange pleasantries or gifts late at night. (It’s easier to sleep when you put everything in its best possible light.) Cops therefore sometimes make the airport part of their beat, which is a good thing. Until it's not.
More importantly for camping, nighttime was hardly better. It never got below a breezeless 90. The airport manager requested that I make camp next to a little pond behind the main hangar. During the day that was a lovely spot. It was flat, free of artificial light and totally private. At dusk the world belongs to the mosquito. I made the mistake of dozing off with one hand against the bug mesh of my bivy. When I woke half an hour later that hand was on fire. The little bastards couldn't fly past the mesh but they learned quickly that they could dine through it. I had never felt pain from mosquito bites before. I took my second hose shower of the evening and considered my options. Flying aerobatics requires rest and rest was not in the cards in those conditions. I remembered reading that mosquitoes are very short range insects. The night was clear so I ditched the bivy and dragged my sleeping bag and “thermarest” as far out into the ramp as I thought would be safe. I took a third cold soaking and crawled naked into my sleeping bag waiting for the attack that never came. Without the bivy, the heat was manageable. And without being a meal-ticket sleep was now possible. I felt I had broken the code. The next night, I picked a spot on the ramp adjacent the the fence and set up my bed next to the bivy in case of a storm. After coffee and a stomach full of carbs, I was out by eight. Fortunately this time I put on a pair of shorts. At around one I was awakened by a very bright light. This is how alien abductions start, right? I sat up totally blind, completely panicked and stupefied.
“Sir!”, the alien said, “What are you doing here?”
“Are you a cop?”, I asked. (The “Sir!” gave it away). “Yes. What are you doing here?” I came to a sudden appreciation of why innocent people run. Fight or flight is our most primitive imperative and I truly considered doing the latter. I never saw either cop--a second drove up seconds later. They were just interrogative voices behind spotlights and I was too scared to answer them coherently. I tried to explain our contest to the first set of lights but he seemed unconvinced. I dropped the name of the airport manager and explained that she had given me permission to camp here. (Well not exactly that particular spot but the cop probably didn’t need such details). He asked for an ID and finding it took me more time than was comfortable. The second set of lights took a few minutes to run me through his computer. I then remembered the large banner that was erected along the fence and pointed in its general direction. That banner saved me! My stupor under stress was not putting either cop at ease. But having my dubious airplane contest story confirmed changed the mood completely. They suddenly turned super-polite, wished me good luck, good night and returned my ID. The adrenaline crash hit a few minutes later and I slept like my daughter’s new kitten until sunrise.
The weakest link in the chain is camping in a public-use space is the potential of getting caught wearing, well, less than that which might be ideal to most honest people. I was lucky with those cops (if that’s what they were). I wasn’t so lucky in beautiful Springfield, VT. The hose shower is probably something best done attired in a pair of swimming shorts. I am sure we have all showered with a hose so I won’t get into the mechanics here--only to say that for me, it is easier when wearing nothing. Small airports are very lonely places at sunset. Interestingly, some pilots like to fly at night. On this particular evening I hadn’t yet learned this bit of wisdom and so I thought I was being smart by waiting until around eight thirty to wash the grime off. Just as I was rinsing away the ice-cold suds, a middle-aged couple drove by and waved, as if they were seeing nothing the least bit unusual. (Vermont, maybe?) They parked at the next T-hangar while I quickly put on my shorts and t-shirt. Just as I was about to walk over to explain myself, the woman howled. For a humiliating split second I thought that she was about to howl in laughter at what she had just seen, or failed to see. My self-confidence remained intact when this howl turned out to be the genuine “we’re all gonna die!” sort of howl. I ran over to find her doing that little cartoon two-step like she had just seen Jerry the mouse after Tom had chased him into the kitchen. What actually happened was that a juvenile black snake had fallen at her feet as she was helping with the hangar door. Meanwhile the man was enjoying himself immensely at her expense. That in itself could have turned out badly but she was a good sort and joined in laughing at herself. I’m no snake guy so once it looked like they had things under control with a broom handle, I returned to the relative safety of my bivy.
After a couple of contests I posted on a forum some of my experiences. This was before the cops, so my comments were all positive. I admit that I was probably being a bit tedious, carrying on as if I had invented camping from an airplane. Hitting remote beaches with tundra tires and fishing poles is camping. Enjoying the luxury of airport hoses and port o’ johns probably doesn’t qualify. But the new (old) idea seemed to capture the imagination of some. One guy in particular carried through on his promise to try it and packed his gear to Farmville, VA for the “Mason Dixon Clash”. Thus far, any company that I had enjoyed after sunset was either four-legged or very unwelcome. This was a chance to finally enjoy some of the post-flying camaraderie the I had heard about in those old legends. I set up camp several hundred yards from the FBO at a grassy spot that seemed flat and dry. The fellow camper arrived later and, as I was busy at the FBO, I pointed out the general direction where I had set up my stuff. Later that day, I was able to show my mother and sisters (none of whom had seen me fly before) how to dominate the box in the WRONG direction from figures 4 through 11. (“Oh, honey, that was SO exciting!”) So not my best day but now the sun was low and I was looking forward to sharing a cherished routine with another human. Thanks to my sister I even had beer on ice in a shopping bag! We got to the campsite and I was a little shocked to see that he had tied up right next to me. I wasn’t expecting him to be out of sight but we were practically sharing tent-stakes. I said nothing and started cooking. He retired into his tent with a bag of grapes coming out only once to see if I would care for any of the fruit he had left over. I declined and offered some of my delicious ramen and lentils. Surprisingly, he failed to see the appeal. The camaraderie thing seems to be quite possibly overhyped. I crawled into my body-bag looking forward to some redemption on the morrow.
21:00 “Ring, Ring”. “Hey baby!..” That was the first of three long cell phone calls he either made or took while I was there. And each time I thought, “Certainly he is almost done!” But no. By ten-thirty he was just getting started (silly millennial!). The great thing about camping small? Easy relocation. Twenty minutes later I was hundreds of yards away and fast asleep.
Should I tell you about the cows in Warrenton, VA? You’ve had enough, I think. The point has become this: every sort of shelter comes with a price. A Hampton Inn will cost you cash and a bivy will invite mosquitoes, unwanted conversation and possible alien abduction. But if those things do not deter you, here is my list of everything I bring to a contest. As a necessary courtesy, ask permission of both the contest director and the airport manager prior to showing up with a tent and expectations of a nice, cold hose shower:
