My grandfather flew and was involved in aviation for 65 years of his life. He died at 72. 

He had many great stories and tales, being a bush pilot. Frozen corpses, wheels up landings, search and rescues.. 

His favorite to tell, and mine to listen to went something like this:

I was flying for Steep Rock at the time, hadn’t been for long. They used to charter the mounties out to the Native Reserves so the mounties could deliver the monthly allowances for them.. 

Anyway, I was up at [a lake] with this young mountie I’d flown in. He had his boots shined up, nice pressed uniform. Ready to hand out their allowances. So I tied up the Beaver to some rocks or a tree or something and the mountie got out, looking dapper and proud, walked down the end of the float and stepped down into two feet of duck shit. 

[manical laughter]

Story never got further than that, so I assumed it never carried on. He was always laughing so hard that it was never really finished.