CHAPTER 24 / Short Takeoff Procedure That Doesn’t Get You Banned From 4 States

Let’s get one thing straight before you develop PTSD from Instagram reels and start sobbing into your therapist’s sketch book. A STOL competition is not the bush. It’s not even a fever dream of the bush. It’s cosplay—high-skill, high-adrenaline cosplay with better camera angles and fewer mosquitoes. Yes, the Valdez gods can launch a carbon-fibre featherweight off a sneeze and some witchcraft. Yes, they’re legit. But unless you're the kind of STOL-comp veteran who can land uphill on a glacier during an earthquake with a 30-knot crosswind—while brewing coffee—you’re not them.

So maybe don’t try to Tokyo Drift out of the cornfield just yet, champ.

Your situation is different. Your “bush” is your uncle’s overgrown pig field, your Cub is 350 pounds overweight on a good day, and the only thing you’ve practiced is denial.

You will not take off in under 100 feet.
Because:

– You’re carrying more than 2 gallons in the tank.
– You’ve got your dog, your girlfriend, and a full cooler.
– Your prop is original equipment—cold-forged in post-war optimism.
– And you are neither caffeinated enough nor suicidal enough to try what the Valdez boys do with no wind, full flaps, and a waiver signed by God himself.

Let that sink in.

And here’s the best part: you don’t need to.

Real World ≠ Demo Reel

Flying a short-field takeoff in the actual bush means grass, gravel, termite mounds, a goat with unresolved trauma mid-runway, and 20 degrees of pitch change over 200 feet. It’s not flat. It’s not prepped. And no one’s going to clap when you lift off—except maybe the cows who survive.

Just like comparing Mike Tyson to a Navy SEAL:
Both can destroy you, but one does it under rules, gloves, and HBO cameras.
The other does it silently, from the shadows, in a country he won’t even admit he visited.

That’s what bush flying is.
Quiet. Unforgiving. Unrepeatable.

And you?
You need space. Margin. A runway that’s at least twice as long as your ego. Because out here, failure doesn’t mean a GoPro blooper—it means you, upside down in a thorn bush, praying that your ELT didn’t bounce loose in the last cow fart thermal.

So take a breath.
Use the whole strip.
Get your tail up early.
And leave the Valdez fantasy to the dudes who actually win.

You’re not trying to impress YouTube.
You’re trying to live.

With the Instagram hallucinations out of your system and your ego safely duct-taped to the cargo net, it’s time to tango with the dirt.

Taxi All the Way Back.

You are not special. Which is why you will taxi to the very end of your uncle’s cabbage-infested grass patch.
If there’s a tree stump you can legally park next to without invoking aviation necromancy—use it. Every single yard counts. And I mean counts as in: the difference between “Local Field Legend” and “Eyewitnesses say the aircraft just nose-dived into the goat pen before exploding”—followed by your name misspelled on the evening news chyron under ‘Light Aircraft Tragedy: Authorities Investigating Reckless Takeoff Attempt’.

Kalli watches the footage. He doesn’t even blink. Just mutters: 

“Told him not to try that Clarkson stunt.”

And no, you don’t get to haunt that runway. Not after what you did to that goat.

Pre-Launch Procedures (A.K.A. your last chance not to die)

Do your run-up BEFORE you wiggle into your sniper start position.
This is not NASCAR. You don’t need to warm up your engine by slamming it forward next to your dog and yelling “LET’S GOOOO.”

Find a flat-ish spot.

Run the ritual:

• Mags: click-click.
• Carb Heat: hot/cold like your last relationship.
• Flaps: neutral for now.
• Brakes: stomp like you're angry at yourself. You should be.
• Ailerons: wiggle like your life depends on it—because, surprise, it does.

Check for debris.

Livestock.

Forgotten relatives. Granny’s feral cat sunbathing mid-runway? Relocate or pray.

Cold War Toyota still rusting in the midfield? Factor it in.

Random goat with an attitude problem? Standard hazard.

Flaps, Focus, and Failure Points

Deploy one notch of flap. That’s your sweet spot.
Two notches? Drag city.
No flaps? Welcome to the jackrabbit bounce of death.

Remember the 50/70 Rule:
If you’re not at 70% of takeoff speed by 50% of the usable runway, abort. But since this is your uncle’s field and you have no brakes, aborting means plowing into daisies while screaming something your therapist will never fully understand.

So—VISUALISE the halfway point. Burn it into your retinas like a GoPro clip of your own funeral—shot from the tailwheel.

Full Throttle & The Dance of Denial

Stick fully aft.
Throttle forward—not slammed, but like you just found out she’s dating a Cirrus pilot.

Hopefully, you move. If not, check your ego or your parking brake.

As speed builds and the tail gets giddy:
– Push stick forward slightly to ease pressure off the tailwheel
– This isn’t for flair. It’s to reduce friction. That tailwheel drags like a drunk sloth in mud.

Once the tail’s up: eyes forward.
Focus. Ignore the existential dread.

Your Cub will beg to fly around 35–45 knots.
Let her float. Just a few feet. No more than 6.
You are not escaping the Taliban. You’re escaping physics.

Then—push the nose gently down.
Hold attitude. Accelerate.
Use ground effect like a low-flying parasite.

Your goal: 50 knots and a clean climb-out before you punch a hole in the barn or a cow.

Pull up to best angle, not best Instagram pose.
You’re not here for likes. You’re here to not die.

If you did everything right—and that’s a flaming if—you should now be above your uncle’s barn. Not buried inside it like a corn-fed cruise missile. The cows? Miraculously alive, chewing cud and trauma.
Kalli? He’ll make the sign of the cross and—mercifully—put the spare parts catalog back on the shelf.

Congratulations. You survived your own genius.
Enjoy the view. 
Easy on the stick.
And for the love of Newton’s ghost: watch your damn airspeed.
Always.

Because gravity doesn’t give second chances.