CHAPTER 25 / Soft Field Takeoff: The Mud, The Myth, The Misjudgment

As much as I’d love to pontificate about soft field takeoffs like a CFI with a Montblanc pen, a PowerPoint addiction, and a thousand-yard stare, let me save you—and myself—the time. And the brain cells. I keep it simple. Why? Because when you’re barreling toward a termite mound in a Super Cub loaded with full fuel, bacon reserves, and optimism duct-taped to delusion, you don’t want your brain buffering like a 1989 modem on dial-up. You want muscle memory. Rage-click muscle memory.

Which is why—brace yourself—I don’t do soft field takeoffs any differently than short field ones.
Just because the runway’s longer than the line at a nude bar during happy hour doesn’t mean I plan to roll down it like I’m on a guided museum tour.

This isn’t tourism. It’s takeoff.

Long field. Short field. Soft field. Who cares?
The mission is always the same:
Fly the plane. Clear the mess. Don’t die doing it.

So why change your technique like you’re auditioning for an FAA dance troupe?

Pick one that works. Stick with it. Repeat until you’re boring.

—Or alive.

So, essentially—in a Super Cub at least—I treat every takeoff like a short field and soft field launch.
Because every takeoff might be your last... or your first YouTube debut as "That One Guy Who Nosed Over Near a Cow."

I lift the tail the moment physics allows:
• Less drag (angle of attack = math magic)
• Less tailwheel torture
• More style points, assuming anyone’s filming

Then I blast off the dirt like a champagne cork at a funeral, skim into ground effect like a low-flying demon, and hold it until I reach Vx, Vy—or just enough speed to not die clearing the acacia tree nobody’s trimmed since the Mau Mau uprising.

Does that sound wrong?
Perhaps..
Does it work?
Every single time I don’t get swallowed whole by a swamp that smells like amphibian divorce, hydraulic fluid, and the last breath of a missionary pilot who “believed in making a difference.”

Because here’s the filthy, gear-grinding truth:
When your so-called “runway” looks like Mumbai’s landfill after a monsoon riot, there’s only one thing standing between you and a mud baptism with full prop-strike trauma:

Tires.
Big ones.
Fat enough to make a Humvee blush and a hippo develop body dysmorphia.

Not a checklist.
Not a prayer.
Not your instructor’s ten-step short field therapy.
Not that Zen-glide nonsense posted by “SlickWing89” who aborts at the sight of a wet grass blade.

This is Soft Field Darwinism.
Survive—or get immortalised in the next FAA meme compilation, starring as “Local Pilot Regrets Everything.”

That’s why I sold my dignity (and probably a kidney) for a set of 31” Alaska Bushwheels and a tailwheel so comically oversized it looks like I’m smuggling a tractor tire for emotional support.

And yes—it made the difference.
Especially during rainy season, when the “runway” turns into a biblical mud orgy complete with thunder, judgment, and the faint sound of ATC laughing in Swahili.

You know it’s bad when even the local hippos take one look and say,
“Nah, that’s a bit much.”

If hippos tap out, I’m not rolling in on trainer tires and a dream.
I’m arriving like a floatplane with boundary issues and rubber so fat it needs its own ZIP code.

So that’s all I’ve got on sacred soft field techniques:
Keep it simple.
Repeatable.
Boring, even.

Unless, of course, you’re dealing with a crosswind that had a bad childhood and now wants revenge.
But we’ll let that demon out tomorrow.