. . he sun was just setting as I tied down my plane on the ramp. A couple of people were camping under their wing a few spaces away. At first I thought they were headed to the fly-in. Lots of people camp at fly-ins. But they said no, they were just flying from place to place. One wing of their Cessna 182 was draped with a tarp and had a tent beneath. Dinner was simmering on a gas cook-stove set up on the tail. They were very friendly and as they were telling me that there was nobody about, a pair of headlights came toward us, bobbing up and down as the car traversed the uneven pavement beyond. The low-slung, old Cadillac came to a halt and a man got out. He said that he had seen my lights as I was coming in on final. He had come to see if anybody needed a ride into town. How lucky can I be? I thought.

The next morning, I was thrilled to find that the taxicab I had called was actually waiting for me at six a.m. The ride back to the airfield was short. I refueled, then pre-flighted the plane and was in the air by six forty-five. My GPS was reporting thirty minutes to Casa Grande with a ground speed of 110 mph. I was excited.

The FAA had set up a temporary tower for the event. I tuned my radio to 118.6. That was the frequency that my buddy, who was already at the fly-in, had given me. Wow, was it busy! What are all of these guys doing up so early? I couldn’t have gotten a word in edgewise. As I listened, I realized that my buddy hadn’t given me the whole story. The tower controller was doing ninety-five percent of the talking. He was recognizing and calling out aircraft by color, high-wing, low-wing or type. A specific instruction to insure separation would follow each call. Rather than asking for a reply, he would occasionally direct a pilot to “Rock your wings.” He was expertly spacing the steady stream of arriving aircraft. But who was organizing the incoming swarm into that steady stream? There must be more to this arrival procedure than just calling the tower. It occurred to me that my preparation for this final phase of the trip was seriously lacking. I waited for about five minutes for the radio traffic to let up, and when it did, I seized the moment and called in, “Experimental 533Zulu inbound please clarify arrival procedure.” Without breaking cadence, the controller simply inserted “Aircraft inbound to Copperstate first contact Approach on 118.9” then he seamlessly continued his rhythmic monolog, first recognizing, then separating, sequencing, and finally giving clearances to land.

The man talked with the campers while I finished securing my plane. When I approached his car he gestured for me to climb in. “My name is Freak,” he said in a loud voice with a big smile. “F-R-E-E-K” he spelled it for me. “Going into town for some more beer anyway,” he added. “I’m the instructor at the Jump Club.” In addition to being a nice guy, Freek was quite a colorful character. He wouldn’t take any money for gas. I thanked him and bid him well as I closed the door of the Caddie. He drove off in search of beer.

Inside the lobby, luck was with me again: I got the second to last room at the motel. After stowing my bag in the room, I walked across the expanse of well-lit pavement to the adjacent truck-stop. Big-rigs were everywhere. There must have been forty to fifty. Many were refueling. Many were parked, one right next to the other with running lights on and engines idling. Inside, I waited in line with the truckers to purchase my dinner. Rather than eat at the truck-stop, I took my submarine sandwich back to the room. I let my friends at Copperstate know that I would be continuing at first light. I called home and reported the events of the day, and then turned in for the night. As I was falling asleep, I remember thinking that if my departure hadn’t been delayed I would have made the whole trip in one day. Amazing . . .

That was exactly the piece of information I needed. I switched frequencies and just listened. You can learn a lot by listening. It is always a good habit, but it’s especially important when lost or a bit confused like I was. All of the arriving traffic was being told to “Report over the Pit”. All of the planes that were reporting “Over the Pit” were then being told to “Continue inbound on the forty-five, enter a right downwind for runway 23 and monitor the tower on 118.6.” Great! Now, if only I knew what “the Pit” was and how to find it. Again I waited for a break. When I finally keyed my mic I said, “Experimental 533Zulu inbound, not familiar with the Pit.” The controller answered, “33Zulu Rodger, the Pit is a big, deep hole in the ground about 5 miles northwest of the field. Stay clear of the airport and report finding the Pit.” I acknowledged, and, keeping my eyes peeled for other inbound airplanes, I set out to find the big hole in the ground.

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T