When Dawn and I bought our previous airplane, a 1953 Piper Pacer, we vowed to fly it at least ten hours a month, and indeed we clocked some 220 hours over 18 months of ownership. This time around, I’ve only flown our Stinson 40 hours since buying it in August. This is partly because Pacific Northwest winters, while much milder than in Minnesota, offer far fewer days that are flyable in a strictly VFR airplane. Secondly, I’ve been quite busy finishing our hangar apartment and that’s taken up the vast majority of my time when I’m not flying for work.

Still, I know there is nothing worse for an airplane—or a pilot!—than sitting on the ground, and so I’ve tried to take the Stinson for at least a short flight once every week or two to get the oil up to temp. Unfortunately for the last month it has been imprisoned in its hangar by an impressively solid 44-by-15-foot Higher Power hydraulic door frame, which we assembled and hoisted into place before we had power in the hangar to actually open it. The electrician finally showed up only yesterday after several weeks’ delay. In the interim, we have had some beautiful VFR days that hint at the coming of spring, and I’ve been rather frustrated at my inability to take my flightless bird aloft.

Yes, I have been flying the Boeing 737 plenty—a bit more than I’d like, actually. And I’ll admit, there have been periods of my life where airline flying scratched that itch I’ve had since childhood. It just doesn’t quite do the trick right now. This probably seems absurd to the multitude of young pilots just beginning their careers, casting about for any bit of flight time they can snag and dreaming of the prospect of getting their hands on anything that burns jet-A. I know this; I was that kid once. To me, it doesn’t seem so long ago.

When I started flying in 1994, I had just turned thirteen. Age and finances dictated that flight lessons were a once-a-month event, and I remember the intense yearning that accompanied each ground-bound interval. I thought about flying, talked about flying, literally dreamed about flying as I mowed lawns, shoveled driveways, and did odd jobs to scratch together the $58 that would buy an hour of dual in the Cessna 150. Every once in a while I came up short, and then there was an excruciating two-month flightless gap—and one of eleven weeks in which I tearfully contemplated quitting. As I got older and found steady work, though, the lessons became more frequent, especially in the run-up to my 16th and 17th birthdays. Nothing made me happier than being able to fly most every week. It was in this frame of mind that I chose to pursue a flying career.

At eighteen, I headed to the University of North Dakota and, unleashed by my sudden freedom to amass eye-watering student loans, seldom went three days without flying. I was in hog heaven for the first year or so. But I still remember the first time I woke up and realized, with a groan, that I had a flight scheduled for that morning. A lightbulb went off: So this is what it means to be a professional pilot. You don’t always want to fly, and you do it anyway. That realization was punctuated during my first summer of flight instructing in Southern California when I flew 400 hours in three months and had only a few days off.

Continuing to instruct during my senior year at UND, my logbook records a ten-day flightless gap from September 7 to 17, 2001. It seemed much longer, and flying felt very different thereafter. I knew that my career had just taken a drastic turn, and I steeled myself for an extended grind. In the two years after graduation, while instructing and flying Part 135 cargo, the only time I went more than two days without flying was a nine-day pause for my wedding and honeymoon. Freight dogging, in particular, was incredibly tough—in retrospect, the hardest and most dangerous flying I ever did. And yet my overarching memory of that period was how flying became completely commonplace: It was just what I did. Fascination was replaced by familiarity. I didn’t lose my love of flight, but its nature changed markedly. If taking wing no longer made my heart flutter, I found joy and comfort in looking down upon the unsuspecting world from my daily perch, and being truly and utterly at home.

Now being ground-bound held no measure of yearn- ing for me, for I always knew that I’d return to my home in the air soon enough. At the regional airlines, I bid schedules that created flightless gaps of weeks or even a month, the better to accommodate terrestrial pursuits like backcountry camping, motorcycling, and international travel. I got back into general aviation, started flying old taildraggers, and rediscovered the sort of flight that still makes my heart go pitter-patter (sea- planes, gliders, and skydiving do the trick, too). When I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease and was grounded from flying airliners while awaiting a special issuance medical, sport pilot rules still allowed me to fly a Piper J-3 Cub, which was a great comfort as I pondered the possibility of a life in which the sky was no longer home. My return to the flight deck after four months’ absence was a joyful affair, and I vowed never to take my privileged position for granted again.

And then, after I’d been hired at my current airline, Dawn and I decided to sell our home and the Pacer, buy a 42-foot sailboat, and run away to sea. I transferred to a highly seasonal fleet and base that allowed me to take lots of time off during the cruising season, and for the first time since I was 13, I voluntarily ventured no higher than sea level for months at a time. Bearded and shirtless, I’d look up from tropical anchorages to spy an airliner flying far overhead, and it’d seem like a relic from another lifetime. Every eight weeks or so I’d endure a brutal shave and dig my mildew-spotted uniform out of the hanging locker, and then I’d commute up to Atlanta to reacquaint myself with the pleasures of flying the Boeing 757. It was always slightly unsettling at first, but by leg two it would be like I’d never left.

That’s what it feels like right now, as our roaring Stinson lifts from the grass and claws its way above the towering firs, revealing a striking panorama: the tree- lined, deep-blue ribbon of Hood Canal, backed by the snow-blanketed breadth of the jagged Olympics. It’s been eight weeks, but Dawn and I and our faithful old Stinson are comfortably back in our home element. The Franklin growls steadily as we gain altitude, and the full glory of our adopted corner of the world—snow-capped volca- noes, rolling hills, an intricate maze of saltwater coves and passages, sleepy fishing villages, gleaming steel cities, and—over it all—a dark-green carpet of giant firs and cedars—unveils itself before our eyes. This, too, is home. Here I am content. Here, with my adventurous wife by my side and with a good old airplane in which to explore our fascinating world, my wandering heart is full.

This column first appeared in the June 2023/Issue 938 print edition of FLYING.

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Weigel also answers a burning question from a member of the FLYING V1 Rotate audience: Will my tattoos keep me from getting a job with one of the majors? 

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For much of the time since, Stateler has been a part-time fly-in community resident alongside his wife, Chan, son, Logan, and their dog, Joey. At present, the family splits their time between a typical subdivision residence in Fort Worth, Texas, and a runway-adjacent home at Lost Mine Airpark (MO56) in Theodosia, Missouri.

Their choosing of this airpark over others in the country was the byproduct of a simple flight planning calculation, as well as an initial bout of hangar home heartbreak. 

“It’s a good story. I grew up in Pennsylvania on a windy lake in a mountain environment and kind of wanted to reproduce that with our child, who at the time was 1 [year old]. So, I took a sectional chart and made a two-hour circle around it,” Stateler recalled. 

“Then I said to myself, ‘Where in two hours can I find mountains, as well as a clear water lake that had airpark abilities.’” 

Out toward the upper portion of this range circle, the Missouri Ozarks were an option that Stateler thought could satisfy his wishes. After some searching, the couple found a property that they felt would be perfect. 

“We had originally bought a lot at an airpark that was in development on western Bull Shoals Lake. When we bought into that in 2007, they had dirt movers out, [and] had plowed a 5,000-foot area to build a runway and a fully plotted-out airpark.”

Stateler noted that the runway was never finished, and the airpark’s marketed vision never came to fruition. As a result, the family was flying their airplane into Branson and then driving an hour to get to their on-property cabin. “This was not the plan,” he added, recalling that they did the flight and driving combination for several years. 

Despite his initial airpark choice being a flop, Stateler wasn’t deterred from living alongside his aircraft. Fortunately, he was already familiar with a more than suitable backup option in the area. 

“You know, in 2007, I had also met with the president of the Lost Mine Airpark HOA and flew out there. It seemed good but we were being told a whole bunch of stuff about this new airpark, how much better it was going to be and we kind of bought off on it. And we regret that. During our seven years at the other place, Lost Mine was always in the back of my mind.” 

Since deciding to make the move to Lost Mine Airpark, Stateler has invested a lot of effort in the community’s continued success. He is now president of the HOA and owns several lots that he purchased from “the airpark matriarch,” Mary Newton, when she decided to move on from the community. Newton’s late husband, Grant Finley, was an initial driving force behind the community, which at the time was called the Ozark Country Estates. 

An original brochure (circa 1970s) from the development touted the ability for pilots and others to “get away from it all.” The ability to relax and take life a little slower has been attractive for Stateler and something that initially caught his attention about the community. 

The aforementioned four-page pamphlet for the residential airpark began by noting, “The day is bathed in sunlight filtered through a leafy screen that seems to always be kept in motion by delightful refreshing breezes. The lake is so clear and blue that you doubt at first that it can be real. Thousands of delightful caves await your exploration. The air is so free of pollution that the night sky sparkles with the light from a thousand stars that appear but an arm’s reach away. A home nestled in the quiet woods of these gently rolling Ozark hills can bring to you and your family a remarkable new ‘way of life’ whether for vacations or retirement.”

The name Lost Mine reportedly comes from a mining lease in the area that operated the majority of the 20th century. But there was no record of its owner on file. 

That said, “lost” isn’t such an uncommon phrase in the area, with little known residential treasures nestled along the lake’s hundreds of miles of shoreline and in its wooded areas.

“It’s a great place to be, but you got to want to be there. You’re not going to luck across it or come across it by accident. I kind of did, but through the sectional chart. But you’re not going to drive by it on accident or anything like that. You kind of have to know that it’s there and want to be remote,” Stateler said. 

With Lost Mine Airpark being on Bull Shoals Lake, ease of access to water sports of several kinds is a draw for many residents of the area. 

“I’m not sure where the term Caribbean of the Midwest started, but it has to do with the water here that is so clear. The lake that Lost Mine is on is the last in a chain of four lakes, so water starts in the White River and then goes into Beaver Lake. Then it goes into Table Rock, Taneycomo, and then it goes into Bull Shoals. It gets filtered so much through all of these lakes that Bull Shoals is a super clear water lake. There is a lot of diving there and some places to get certified,” Stateler explained. 

While the corporate pilot’s airpark experience changed course from his initial heading, Lost Mine has become more than a second place of residence. 

“We really fell in love with the area and the locals there. It’s different from one side of the lake to the other. It’s just a completely different class of people who are really friendly and everyone in the neighborhood has always been willing to help out with our transition. I have another ten years flying [for work] yet, but we are planning retirement at Lost Mine. There is a great group of folks, and we love it there.”

Stateler continued, noting that with his job’s schedule and an aircraft ownership transition it may not be until this fall that he flies back to the community, “We’ve been there for five years now and until a few weeks ago, until I sold it, the Twin Comanche has been our primary transport to the airpark. The market is hot right now and I had bought a Seneca last year to redo completely with a new interior and new avionics. I’m currently working on that now with my IA, but it’s a way bigger project than I had envisioned. But I wanted to get out of the Comanche in a high market.”

With an initial hangar home heartbreak, Stateler’s perseverance enabled him to experience the fruits of airpark living, albeit on a part-time basis. As a byproduct, he and his family may experience what original marketing materials for Old Country Estates touted, “When people come to Lost Mine, they come to stay.” 

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