This is My Own Personal Journal that I wrote while Chasing the Phillipine Mars From Sells Arizona to The Pima Air and Space Museum In Tucson, Arizona

Chasing Giants: The Last Journey of the Philippine Mars

There’s something quietly heartbreaking about watching a legend retire. For years, the Philippine Mars flying boat sat like a gentle colossus on British Columbia’s Sproat Lake—her crimson hull and hulking wings a familiar part of the shoreline. She looked as if she might always be there, a fixture of summer afternoons and a sentinel against wildfires. But nothing big stays forever. When news broke that she’d been sold and was heading south to a new home at the Pima Air and Space Museum in Arizona, I knew I had to see her off—one last chase, one last memory.

Saying Goodbye to Sproat Lake

The Philippine Mars was more than just a plane. In Port Alberni, she was a local celebrity. Kids grew up swimming in her shadow, old-timers told stories of her thunderous water drops, and every summer, tourists craned their necks for a glimpse. When the crew started prepping her for her final flight, it felt like the whole town paused to watch. There were handshakes and hugs, a few tears, and more than one wistful glance at the sky.

The day she left, the lake was glassy and gray, as if it understood what was happening. Her four radial engines coughed to life—louder than anything, even after all these years. She lumbered down the water, throwing up a rooster tail, and then, with agonizing slowness, she lifted off and vanished into the clouds. Sproat Lake suddenly felt a little emptier.

A Long Flight South

The journey to Arizona was a marathon, not a sprint. The Mars couldn’t fly high or fast, and she needed plenty of refueling stops. Her course took her down the Pacific coast, over the forests and farmland, and across the border. Every airport she landed at drew crowds—retired pilots, aviation nerds, families clutching old fire-fighting photos. People just wanted to see her, maybe touch her faded paint, and say thank you.

Finally, after days of careful flying, she touched down at Lake Pleasant, just outside Phoenix. The contrast was jarring: from the cool, misty forests of British Columbia to the blazing, sunbaked Arizona desert. The Mars looked out of place, but she was still magnificent, her red hull glowing against the blue water.

Disassembly in the Desert

Moving a flying boat the size of a small ship is no simple feat. At Lake Pleasant, teams began the painstaking process of disassembly. The wings came off first—unbolted, winched, and gingerly lowered onto flatbeds. The tail was next, then the engines. Each piece was cataloged and wrapped, like packing up a piece of history.

Walking around her during those days was surreal. Up close, you noticed the scars from decades of firefighting: dents in the hull, sun-bleached paint, the faint smell of old fuel. The crew worked quietly and carefully, as if they were handling a relic. Every time another section came off, it felt like a chapter closing. There was pride in giving her a proper send-off, but also a kind of mourning. You don’t see giants like this every day, and you know you probably never will again.

Chasing the Convoy

I couldn’t let her go alone. So, like a kid tailing a parade, I chased the convoy from Sells, Arizona all the way to the Pima Air and Space Museum in Tucson. The drive was long and Chilly at Night, the desert black in the spring Nighttime. 

The roads were lined with people who’d heard about the move. Some waved, some just stared, a few even cheered. It was like the whole state had turned out to shepherd her home. I rolled down my window, feeling the grit andchill, and tried to memorize every moment. There’s a kind of magic in a journey like this—when you’re saying goodbye, but you’re also welcoming something new.

Arrival at Pima: A Final Resting Place

When the convoy finally rolled into the Pima Air and Space Museum, there was a hush. The Mars, now in pieces but still unmistakable, had found her last home. Volunteers and staff gathered to watch as she pulled in, everyone snapping photos, trading stories, and shaking hands. There was relief, yes, but also a bittersweet ache—like dropping off an old friend at the station, knowing you might never see her fly again.

Standing there in the shadow of her move, I felt a swirl of things: sadness at the end of an era, gratitude for all she’d done, and hope that she’d inspire a new generation. The Philippine Mars will never soar again, but at Pima she’ll keep telling her story—of war and peace, water and fire, and the people who loved her.

Reflections

It’s easy to think of airplanes as just machines, but the Mars was never just a machine. She was a link to our past, a workhorse and a hero. Watching her journey from British Columbia to Arizona, I realized that what we really mourn isn’t just the end of a plane’s career—it’s the passing of a whole way of life. We chase these giants because, in some small way, they carry pieces of us with them. And if you’re lucky enough to stand beneath her wing at Pima, maybe you’ll feel it too: the weight of history, and the lightness of dreams.