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Confessions of a Type Hunter
What, you may logically ask, is a type hunter? Well, they come in degrees, but a dedicated type hunter is a severely addicted person with a clear goal to fly as many different types of airplanes as possible. He or she can’t explain why. It just is.
Part of the explanation might be rooted in the fact that flying a new airplane type is like meeting a new person. Each has its own personality and can challenge the pilot in learning its individual characteristics so as to make friends with it. It’s unknown how many different types of airplanes there are out there, but, given that aviation is now well over 100 years old, the types to be flown are endless.
I know it’s an addiction because for most of my life I’ve been at its mercy. So many airplanes, so little time. The net result is that I’ve acted as PIC (pilot in command), doing both the takeoffs and the landings, unassisted, of around 320 totally different types. And I mean totally different types. Subvariants of a type don’t count. A Cherokee, for instance, is a Cherokee whether it’s a 140, 180, or 235.
Since I’ve seldom met an airplane I didn’t want to fly (not entirely true, but close), I’ve found myself well over my head a number of times. Case in point: Getting a type rating (a special license for airplanes weighing over 12,500 pounds, empty) in a P-38. As I sat there at the end of the runway with an Allison on each side, clearly dictating that I not screw up, I had exactly eight hours of multi-engine time; four in a Piper Apache and four in a B-25 while working on that type rating. Was I scared? Let’s just say that the muscles twitching in my legs were reacting to an adrenaline overload. Hell yes, I was scared! But, then I thought back to all of those WW II youngsters who transitioned into P-38s in theater with zero multi-engine time. The Lightning flights went well, and I’m proud it is prominently displayed on my license.
And then there was the Curtiss Jenny. At the other end of the performance scale from the Lightning, the owner’s words to me before I took off were, “Pick out the tallest obstacle in front of you and add 20 feet. Don’t try to get any higher than that because it won’t do it.” He was right. Jenny’s will fly, but that’s about it. I instantly developed much more respect for the barnstormers I’d seen in old films, flying with a wing walker on the top wing. That seems impossible!
Sometimes, when I need a pleasant pick-me-up, I mentally project my first takeoff in an F8F Bearcat onto the monitor screen in my head. It was hands down the most thrilling takeoff in my entire life.
It’s the easiest, best-handling, bestperforming, best-fitting airplane on the planet, and I’ve never met anyone who flew one who didn’t feel the same. An incredible rush. Who needs drugs when high-performance airplanes exist? I have a hard time believing I was lucky enough to actually live those adventures.
Every time I walk past a Mustang or Spitfire, I am transported back to the time I spent at their controls. Staggerwing Beeches reach out and remind me what bi-winged luxury is all about. J-3 Cubs whistle at me as I walk past, reminding me how much raw fun can be had with so little horsepower. 195 Cessnas still drag me back to the days in graduate school where my study time was wedged between the hours spent at the hangar, helping my own DIY
195 recover from an accident at the hands a previous owner. I’d have another one in a heartbeat. Love those 195s.
These days, I spend most of my aerial time (300-400 hours/year) teaching folks how to land Pitts Specials. It’s a less-than-logical pursuit that I’ve been doing for 48 years, and right at 7,000 hours. It, too, is an addiction that can’t be explained.
Most addictions are to be avoided, but not this one. Give into it. You’ll never be sorry.
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