Thursday, May 27, 2010
Long Week
This cold lingered nearly a week. That plus morning fog squashed my plans for commuting flights this week. The weather should improve this weekend so I should get some time aloft.
Friday, May 21, 2010
One Hour
I planned on flying to Greenville, PA and back today (annual check-up) but I felt a cold coming on last night.
I felt better this morning so I drove to the airport, pulled out the airplane, preflighted, started (one throw after 4 shots of prime and 6 cycles of the prop), and took off. Air was smooth, winds were calm at the surface but strong out of the Southeast 1000' AGL.
After 30 minutes of flying I was over Rostraver Airport (KFWQ) and decided to turn around -- I just didn't feel like flying much today.
I descended a bit and followed to Monongahela River a bit, then shot cross country towards Waynesburg. The airport was desolate so I overflew the field over 27 to check winds. Winds at 500' were now directly east so I did a 180 and landed gently on the grass along Runway 9.
The engine sounded fine and ran well with the normal tiny bit of oil dribbling beneath the cowling.
I put the airplane away and headed home where I'll rest a bit.
I must be pretty sick to cut a flight short.
At least I re-established confidence in the airplane's powerplant, though.
I felt better this morning so I drove to the airport, pulled out the airplane, preflighted, started (one throw after 4 shots of prime and 6 cycles of the prop), and took off. Air was smooth, winds were calm at the surface but strong out of the Southeast 1000' AGL.
After 30 minutes of flying I was over Rostraver Airport (KFWQ) and decided to turn around -- I just didn't feel like flying much today.
I descended a bit and followed to Monongahela River a bit, then shot cross country towards Waynesburg. The airport was desolate so I overflew the field over 27 to check winds. Winds at 500' were now directly east so I did a 180 and landed gently on the grass along Runway 9.
The engine sounded fine and ran well with the normal tiny bit of oil dribbling beneath the cowling.
I put the airplane away and headed home where I'll rest a bit.
I must be pretty sick to cut a flight short.
At least I re-established confidence in the airplane's powerplant, though.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Recovery
Flew the Chief home from Fairmont this afternoon after work. Installed the cowling after giving everything a thorough close inspection. Had to wait for an old straight tail 182 to get pulled out and fueld up.
It was a bit warm and winds were light and variable from everywhere. I put 3.5 gallons of 100LL in, set up the airplane for start, and Chris the local A&P gave me a prop. She started on first throw.
I taxied to the end of 23 to give the engine a little more idle time before I applied full power. Runup seemed fine, though RPM bounced a bit -- too much lead.
Takeoff was good -- though climb was a bit anemic on this warm day. I turned right and followed the river as I climbed at 60. So far so good.
I leveled off at 2500' and set power to 2400 RPM. I listened very carefully for any telltale sign of problems. I'll admit to being a bit paranoid now. I wasn't feeling so hot (allergies?) either, so set a direct heading of 10 degrees for KWAY.
The airplane performed fine -- 75-80 MPH at 2450 RPM at 2500' MSL.
I landed very gracefully in the grass on 27, placing the airplane within 10' of where I aimed while on downwind. I shoved the carb heat back in and taxied to the hangar.
It will take a couple more flights before my confidence in this powerplant is fully restored. I'm looking forward to the top overahul this winter, though, just to have confidence that everything's been checked and re-sealed.
It was a bit warm and winds were light and variable from everywhere. I put 3.5 gallons of 100LL in, set up the airplane for start, and Chris the local A&P gave me a prop. She started on first throw.
I taxied to the end of 23 to give the engine a little more idle time before I applied full power. Runup seemed fine, though RPM bounced a bit -- too much lead.
Takeoff was good -- though climb was a bit anemic on this warm day. I turned right and followed the river as I climbed at 60. So far so good.
I leveled off at 2500' and set power to 2400 RPM. I listened very carefully for any telltale sign of problems. I'll admit to being a bit paranoid now. I wasn't feeling so hot (allergies?) either, so set a direct heading of 10 degrees for KWAY.
The airplane performed fine -- 75-80 MPH at 2450 RPM at 2500' MSL.
I landed very gracefully in the grass on 27, placing the airplane within 10' of where I aimed while on downwind. I shoved the carb heat back in and taxied to the hangar.
It will take a couple more flights before my confidence in this powerplant is fully restored. I'm looking forward to the top overahul this winter, though, just to have confidence that everything's been checked and re-sealed.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Friday, May 14, 2010
Average Speed: 3 Knots
This weekend we'll do some low-tech travel. We're planning on paddling from Keating to Lock Haven on the West Branch of the Susquehanna in our Wenonah canoe.
Weather forecast looks ideal, water level is a bit over 4' at the Karthaus gauge, and I've checked and re-checked our packing list.
Trip report here
Weather forecast looks ideal, water level is a bit over 4' at the Karthaus gauge, and I've checked and re-checked our packing list.
Trip report here
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Lessons from an Antique
I finally reached 50 hours in the Chief and had some time to think about what I’ve learned so far. Here, in no particular order, is an incomplete list:
- Oil changes are easy and non-messy, now that I’ve figured out exactly where to put the catch bucket, and to cover the bucket with a paper towel just in case the oil-covered drain plug slips out of my fingers (don’t ask me how I learned that). I’ve also revived my long-dormant safety-wiring skills.
- Preflight in a seventy year-old, fabric covered airplane takes on a whole new meaning. First of all, no one else flies it – so if I don’t spot a problem, no one else will. Also, the mix of dissimilar materials means feeling and listening take on a whole new meaning – it’s important to thump the fabric and feel the underside and smell the engine compartment – you can’t always see trouble, but you might hear it or smell it or feel it.
- There’s a distinct odor of fabric, gas, oil, dirt, and old grass that will signal trouble if it changes.
- You learn to judge flying wire tension by sound – they’ll make a certain pitch twang when struck with an index finger. Any change in that tone spells trouble. Reach and try to move each tail wire mounting bracket – if it moves, also trouble – lose a wire brace, lose the elevator.
- Safety is enhanced by a regular sequence of actions. For example, when hand propping, I follow the exact same routine: Check fuel on, mags off, put gloves on, place chocks in front of both mains, secure tailwheel with stake and rope, check mags off, prime 4 times, walk to front, check airplane can’t move forward, cycle prop through 6 times, walk around strut, check fuel on mags on primer in throttle in ½”, walk to front, throw prop – if starts, walk around strut, sit inside while engine warms at 800-1000RPM, watch oil pressure and temp, once warm, reduce to idle (5-600 RPM), walk to back, loosen tail wheel restraint, walk front, hold onto strut while pulling long rope on chocks to remove from mains, climb aboard, RPM back to 900 or so…
- A regular pattern helps me stay on task, and when I notice that things are out of order, I stop and think – always a good thing when dealing with a swinging meat cleaver.
- A lightweight tailwheel airplane is really easy to maneuver back into the hangar once you figure out that a rope around the tailspring will let you pull the airplane exactly where you want it to go.
- GE Double Life 100w light bulbs and mechanics trouble lamp is the cheapest engine pre-heater going. Stack up U-Haul moving blankets on the engine cowling, stuff cut up foam mat in the openings, and the engine will be toasty but not hot the next morning when it’s time to fly.
- I’ve seen the red bottles and cans of Marvel Mystery Oil in auto sections for years, and always laughed at the idea that a product could have “mystery” in its name and still sell. But I’ve learned that MMO is just about the handiest product made on the planet – I’ve yet to be mauled by a single tiger or crushed by an elephant.
- A low-powered airplane will force you to understand the effects of density altitude on aerodynamic performance. In more modern trainers, you may see a slight difference in climb gradient and runway length, but hardly enough to really impress upon you the need to account for temperature, humidity, elevation, and winds. I’ve learned it’s no problem to takeoff in the morning with a full 12 gallon fuel tank, but may not work as well on a hot, still afternoon.
- You don’t need a checklist – just eyeballs. Start at the left and work right: That aileron flaps as expected, and elevator does the uppy-downy thing, door closed, seatbelt on, primer in, carb heat off, mags both, fuel on, oil press/temp green, trim takeoff, door closed, that aileron aileroning.
- Runup: Hold brakes but make sure there’s room to drift, RPM 1700, mags left, both, right, both, carb heat, oil good, idle – still running? Go.
- Old taildraggers were not designed for paved runways. The prop is out of the dirt as you taxi around, the grass helps bump the bird upward as it gains flying speed, the grass allows the tires to slide just enough to rescue a landing with drift, and a grass landing – properly done – can make a landing very “cushiony” according to my daughter. Landing on pavement is like root canal –necessary, but not sought-after.
- Flying 500-1000 feet above the ground, you see the ground in a whole new way, still a part of it, yet with a different perspective. Typical GA VFR flight happens several thousand feet above the ground (and should, in very congested areas). But out here where the living is “rural,” I see more gas wells, cows, and trees than houses, so I keep it low and slow, following a river here, a mountain valley there, or some ancient Indian path converted to a lightly travelled road.
- A good habit on final is to wiggle your feet and feel the rudder move. This ensures you have a foot on each rudder pedal.
- If you’re heels are on the floor, you can’t actuate the heel brakes. This is generally good.
- With this old bird, the instruments are more advice and commentary than rules. The altimeter says 2000, and “looks about right from here” is close enough – We’re not flying IFR, so don’t need a “sensitive” altimeter. The airspeed indicator simply what I can hear and feel – getting slow? Noise is reduced, controls get sloppy. Going faster? More noise, responsive controls. Really quiet but responsive controls? Time to land. Probably the only panel gauge that gets a regular look-see is the oil pressure gauge.
- In a Chief, you lead turns with your feet – contrary to all training. That’s the way it is, so get used to it – just use less when turning left – it already wants to go that way.
- You don’t need a plan, and you don’t need objectives. Most pilots and aircraft owners are mission-focused. This trait is usually linked to the income required to own and fly airplanes. That’s fine, but you don’t need a mission when it’s costing twenty bucks an hour to fly (“fixed costs” like hangar rent and taxes and the rest are annual dues to the club – they don’t count towards flying time). So go to the airport, open the hangar doors, do a leisurely preflight, pull the bird out, prop it, taxi, takeoff and then fly around. Resist the urge to lay out a training schedule – unless, of course, you really want to. But likely you’ll practice turns about a point, coordinated turns, chandelles, wingovers --maybe even a Lazy 8 or two all while you’re "just out flying."
- Mornings are the best times to fly – it’s usually still, cooler, and the sky isn’t too busy or bumpy. Even on days when the forecast warns of winds and rain, you can usually sneak out of a alf hour or so before the weather wakes up.
- Late evenings, just before sunset is second-best, though you usually have to share the air with other airplanes in the pattern. Out of the pattern, they’re no longer a factor, since they fly above you.
- Shut the fuel off after making the last taxi turn and you can see no one’s blocking your way to your hangar. Shut it off sooner, and you may have to do a hot restart within 100 feet of where you’d be shutting down.
- Never take a prop from a guy named Lefty.
- The smaller the field, the more welcome you’ll be.
- There is a time and place for a ground loop – during an emergency landing in a back yard. Keep this in mind.
- Most people simply don’t get your affinity for this old, lightweight, underpowered antique. It’s ok – if they did, prices would go up.
- As soon as you think you’ve figured out wheel landings, you’ll be proven wrong.
- As soon as you think you’ve figured out three point landings, you’ll be proven wrong.
- As soon as you think you’ve figured out landings, you’ll be proven wrong.
- Only one thing matters on landing – keep it straight. Well that, and don’t stall it in. And don’t hit the taxiway lights on the crossing taxiway. And don’t ground loop. And avoid the storm drain. Otherwise, it’s very simple.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Real Emergency (!)
I flew to work this morning. It was gorgeous clear, and cool. The weather was forecast to be nice all day. The winds picked up and varied, but that would be fine, as I planned to land on the grass back home at Waynesburg. Crosswind landings on pavement are not fun, as the slightest drift can quickly turn into a ground loop. While I've done plenty, I never look forward to a gusty crosswind landing on pavement.
The sun was shining bright and the preflight revealed the airplane was ready to fly. I tied the tail down, threw the prop, and listened to the Lycoming O-145 chug to life. I waited a few minutes as the engine warmed, untied and un-chocked and climbed aboard. Winds were favoring 23 so I taxied all the way back to the end and performed a quick runup. Everything fine and as expected.
I gradually added power, maintained a bit offfset from centerline, and was quickly airborne. Takeoffs on 23 at Fairmont can be a bit disconcerting as there's a nice tall road berm at the departure end. While there's plenty of room to get airborne and over the berm, a power loss anytime along the takeoff run would be interesting. I kept the speed up, popped up over the berm, and made a climbing a right turn over the river to head north back home. I kept the climb at 60 MPH to 2500' since it was a bit bumpy down low and the landing options are limited over downtown Fairmont.
Now that I was past the river I looked for options -- there was a nice emergency field off the left side. Good -- those are rare in West Virginia; land of hills and valleys and trees. I reached for the throttle as I started to level off --I hadn't touched it yet when suddenly power went from 2500 RPM to 2000, and the engine sounded sick -- very sick -- as if it were running on bad gas.
In the retelling I can state that many thoughts raced through my mind, but only one dominated -- get back to the airport NOW!
I glanced at the oil pressure, looked at the field to the left, then decided to do a 180 to see how far it was back to the airport. The engine was still putting out power -- barely. The RPM needle was bouncing now between 1500-1800 RPM.
I had the handheld radio set to 122.800 and announced: "Chief Returning to Fairmont, Loss of power, clear the runway" (there was a C172 at the fuel pump that just started after I taxied out -- I never heard him make any calls so didn't know where he was).
I looked ahead -- I had plenty of altitude with the power available to make it back to the airport. If it died between here and there I'd make the river.
I didn't touch the throttle until I was 2 miles out. I was over 1200' AGL.
I reduced the throttle slightly and it dropped immediately to 800 RPM. I slipped aggressively (very aggressively -- this airplane will fly sideways with enough aileron and counter-rudder) and was still pretty high. I kept the slip in until I was about 5 feet above the pavement, 1/3rd the way down the runway, then wheeled it on the upwind side (When I departed there was a direct crosswind varying from 6-10 knots. I couldn't see the sock before I landed, but really didn't care).
I rolled on one wheel for about 400' (I was doing about 70 when I touched down), and kept the weight on the upwind wheel. When the lift decayed I kept the tail up. Eventually both mains were down and I held some brake. I wheelied a long way, but actually only used about 1000' of runway. the combination brake and wheel landing allowed me to brake fairly heavily. I pulled the throttle completely to idle -- the engine continued to run, but unevenly.
I'd like to claim I planned to wheel land and do all this great aviating. I didn't. I planted it on and reverted to habit, which fortunately was based on good training.
There was no possibility of go around and the end of runway 23 at Fairmont has a nice tall road berm about 50' above the runway. I had plenty of runway left once I touched down.
I taxied in, parked in front of the hangar, and ran it up -- lots of unburned fuel smell. I'll bet it threw a plug.
The FBO owner and a mechanic came out -- they'd heard me on the radio and said they'd called 911. Oh great. They called back -- everything's fine.
We pulled the cowling off. Sure enough, plug #1 on the left front cylinder was hanging out in space.
They'll repair it there and I'll bring it back home later this week.
Bottom line: Training took over. As soon as I heard the power change I had my field in sight, did a turn to lose altitude. When I knew I had residual power, made for the airport, kept it high, had an out if the airport wasn't made, and slipped aggressively and wheelied when it was the only option.
The sun was shining bright and the preflight revealed the airplane was ready to fly. I tied the tail down, threw the prop, and listened to the Lycoming O-145 chug to life. I waited a few minutes as the engine warmed, untied and un-chocked and climbed aboard. Winds were favoring 23 so I taxied all the way back to the end and performed a quick runup. Everything fine and as expected.
I gradually added power, maintained a bit offfset from centerline, and was quickly airborne. Takeoffs on 23 at Fairmont can be a bit disconcerting as there's a nice tall road berm at the departure end. While there's plenty of room to get airborne and over the berm, a power loss anytime along the takeoff run would be interesting. I kept the speed up, popped up over the berm, and made a climbing a right turn over the river to head north back home. I kept the climb at 60 MPH to 2500' since it was a bit bumpy down low and the landing options are limited over downtown Fairmont.
Now that I was past the river I looked for options -- there was a nice emergency field off the left side. Good -- those are rare in West Virginia; land of hills and valleys and trees. I reached for the throttle as I started to level off --I hadn't touched it yet when suddenly power went from 2500 RPM to 2000, and the engine sounded sick -- very sick -- as if it were running on bad gas.
In the retelling I can state that many thoughts raced through my mind, but only one dominated -- get back to the airport NOW!
I glanced at the oil pressure, looked at the field to the left, then decided to do a 180 to see how far it was back to the airport. The engine was still putting out power -- barely. The RPM needle was bouncing now between 1500-1800 RPM.
I had the handheld radio set to 122.800 and announced: "Chief Returning to Fairmont, Loss of power, clear the runway" (there was a C172 at the fuel pump that just started after I taxied out -- I never heard him make any calls so didn't know where he was).
I looked ahead -- I had plenty of altitude with the power available to make it back to the airport. If it died between here and there I'd make the river.
I didn't touch the throttle until I was 2 miles out. I was over 1200' AGL.
I reduced the throttle slightly and it dropped immediately to 800 RPM. I slipped aggressively (very aggressively -- this airplane will fly sideways with enough aileron and counter-rudder) and was still pretty high. I kept the slip in until I was about 5 feet above the pavement, 1/3rd the way down the runway, then wheeled it on the upwind side (When I departed there was a direct crosswind varying from 6-10 knots. I couldn't see the sock before I landed, but really didn't care).
I rolled on one wheel for about 400' (I was doing about 70 when I touched down), and kept the weight on the upwind wheel. When the lift decayed I kept the tail up. Eventually both mains were down and I held some brake. I wheelied a long way, but actually only used about 1000' of runway. the combination brake and wheel landing allowed me to brake fairly heavily. I pulled the throttle completely to idle -- the engine continued to run, but unevenly.
I'd like to claim I planned to wheel land and do all this great aviating. I didn't. I planted it on and reverted to habit, which fortunately was based on good training.
There was no possibility of go around and the end of runway 23 at Fairmont has a nice tall road berm about 50' above the runway. I had plenty of runway left once I touched down.
I taxied in, parked in front of the hangar, and ran it up -- lots of unburned fuel smell. I'll bet it threw a plug.
The FBO owner and a mechanic came out -- they'd heard me on the radio and said they'd called 911. Oh great. They called back -- everything's fine.
We pulled the cowling off. Sure enough, plug #1 on the left front cylinder was hanging out in space.
They'll repair it there and I'll bring it back home later this week.
Bottom line: Training took over. As soon as I heard the power change I had my field in sight, did a turn to lose altitude. When I knew I had residual power, made for the airport, kept it high, had an out if the airport wasn't made, and slipped aggressively and wheelied when it was the only option.
May Morning
Flew KWAY to Fairmont, WV (4G7) this morning. We had widespread frost but by the time I reached the airport the sun had warmed the hangar a bit. Ambient temperture was right around 40 so I didn't pre-heat the engine.
I topped off with 3 gallons of 100LL I had stored in a gas can, preflight, then pulled out into the brilliant sunshine.
Startup was normal, and soon temperatures and pressures were as expected.
7 minutes later I was pointing down the runway. The airplane climbed quite nicely in the cold, dense air. I pointed south and levelled off at 2500 feet.
It was surprisingly bumpy this cold, clear morning. From the way the steam wafted from the powerplants I could tell I had a steady headwind, with winds out of the southwest at 10-15 1000 feet above the surface.
It took 30 minutes from startup to shutdown. I had a nice, straight-in approach the runway 23 in Fairmont (first time I've landed in that direction in a couple of years) with a gentle touchdown.
I topped off with 3 gallons of 100LL I had stored in a gas can, preflight, then pulled out into the brilliant sunshine.
Startup was normal, and soon temperatures and pressures were as expected.
7 minutes later I was pointing down the runway. The airplane climbed quite nicely in the cold, dense air. I pointed south and levelled off at 2500 feet.
It was surprisingly bumpy this cold, clear morning. From the way the steam wafted from the powerplants I could tell I had a steady headwind, with winds out of the southwest at 10-15 1000 feet above the surface.
It took 30 minutes from startup to shutdown. I had a nice, straight-in approach the runway 23 in Fairmont (first time I've landed in that direction in a couple of years) with a gentle touchdown.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Morning Flight
I considered flying to work and back today, but forecast winds 15G25 gave me pause.
But at 6 AM, the air was clear, crisp, and still.
I drove straight to the airport before work, did a quick preflight, pulled the airplane out into the sun, tied the tail down, primed, spun, checked and tossed and soon the mighty Lycoming was puttering like my beagle when she's ready for a walk.
Untie, unchock, climb in, check oil once more, turn on radio -- ugh.
Oh well. It's early, no one else is out, and I have a spare AA battery carrier on board.
There’s the slightest breeze wafting in from the west. Runup good, check the sky, point west.
The tail comes up and soon the earth falls away.
The air is smooth and very clear – unusually so, even for a spring day. As I climb to 2500’ or so, I notice steam plumes from the powerplants bent to the northwest.
Level and cruising at 80 MPH, the ground creeps by at a snail’s pace. I check ground speed using the ultra-sophisticated “Look at the cars on the highway” method: ok, 55, maybe 60.
Even though the wind is from the southeast, the ride is smooth. That’s also unusual here, since southeast and easterly flows bounce across the washboard Alleghenies, making for unpleasant aviating. I continue east, dive a bit once over the fog shrouded Monongahela, and head towards the house.
Over the past few weeks the landscape has transitioned from nascent to full-on, riotous green. Trees shoulder one another with broad, leafy arms, fields bloom, and ponds and lakes wake to dustings of seeds and pollen.
From my vantage point above it all, the all-pervading sense is peace and stillness. Even cars look unoccupied and somehow natural, like beetles scurrying from one log to another on the forest floor. The birds haven’t yet climbed up, the dust and clouds and winds of the more mature day are yet to come. In my tiny fabric covered airplane, I am in control, and can go where I will, with simple nudges that would barely rouse a cat.
But the sensation is illusory – I slide open the side window some more and feel the wind blast, hear the engine putting. All that keeps me here is force and power – the burning of fuel and the mastery of aerodynamic forces that compel this heavy object into the sky work in concert, but only temporarily.
The familiar hills, water tower, and houses. I see Janet on the deck. How can all that I love in this world be contained in such a small space? This weekend our house will be filled with our children and our granddaughter. It looks too small, too frail, too miniscule for the weight of meaning placed within those old walls.
I wave, do a few low altitude turns about a point and then a zoom climb back to 2500’ on an easterly heading, towards the Summit (a 1930’s era landmark restaurant/hotel at the summit of Chestnut Ridge along Route 40, the first National Highway).
Bumps begin. The wind was still right on the nose and I slowed even more as I approached the west side of the ridge. I imagine all that air cascading down the face of the ridge like Niagara Falls, tumbling, and rolling. Still, the bumps are light and the cascade is more like a gentle stream flow than a torrent.
I look at my watch – I hate weekdays – and turn west. I push the nose forward and enjoy the speed – maybe 100 MPH groundspeed? – cars fade in my wake.
I turn on the radio and listen. One of my students is flying this morning.
I announce five miles east of the field. An inbound Cherokee announces 10 miles out. I let him know my intentions, push the nose down a bit more.
“Greene County traffic, Chief 24286, straight in 27 for the grass, Green County.”
I skim over the tree tops, pull power to idle, crank in trim, give a few slips just for grins, and touch down gently on the grass, decimating dandelions and spraying dew on struts and wings.
The restaurant is busy. I’m sure at least a few observers critique my landing. No mind. Taxi to the hangar, cut off the fuel, let it idle at 1000, putt-putt….
Click, click as the engine cools and I push the airplane back into its den. The breeze is freshening. By nightfall this beautiful, clear sky will be filled with rumbling, dark, malevolent energy roaring in from the west.
But not yet.
But at 6 AM, the air was clear, crisp, and still.
I drove straight to the airport before work, did a quick preflight, pulled the airplane out into the sun, tied the tail down, primed, spun, checked and tossed and soon the mighty Lycoming was puttering like my beagle when she's ready for a walk.
Untie, unchock, climb in, check oil once more, turn on radio -- ugh.
Oh well. It's early, no one else is out, and I have a spare AA battery carrier on board.
There’s the slightest breeze wafting in from the west. Runup good, check the sky, point west.
The tail comes up and soon the earth falls away.
The air is smooth and very clear – unusually so, even for a spring day. As I climb to 2500’ or so, I notice steam plumes from the powerplants bent to the northwest.
Level and cruising at 80 MPH, the ground creeps by at a snail’s pace. I check ground speed using the ultra-sophisticated “Look at the cars on the highway” method: ok, 55, maybe 60.
Even though the wind is from the southeast, the ride is smooth. That’s also unusual here, since southeast and easterly flows bounce across the washboard Alleghenies, making for unpleasant aviating. I continue east, dive a bit once over the fog shrouded Monongahela, and head towards the house.
Over the past few weeks the landscape has transitioned from nascent to full-on, riotous green. Trees shoulder one another with broad, leafy arms, fields bloom, and ponds and lakes wake to dustings of seeds and pollen.
From my vantage point above it all, the all-pervading sense is peace and stillness. Even cars look unoccupied and somehow natural, like beetles scurrying from one log to another on the forest floor. The birds haven’t yet climbed up, the dust and clouds and winds of the more mature day are yet to come. In my tiny fabric covered airplane, I am in control, and can go where I will, with simple nudges that would barely rouse a cat.
But the sensation is illusory – I slide open the side window some more and feel the wind blast, hear the engine putting. All that keeps me here is force and power – the burning of fuel and the mastery of aerodynamic forces that compel this heavy object into the sky work in concert, but only temporarily.
The familiar hills, water tower, and houses. I see Janet on the deck. How can all that I love in this world be contained in such a small space? This weekend our house will be filled with our children and our granddaughter. It looks too small, too frail, too miniscule for the weight of meaning placed within those old walls.
I wave, do a few low altitude turns about a point and then a zoom climb back to 2500’ on an easterly heading, towards the Summit (a 1930’s era landmark restaurant/hotel at the summit of Chestnut Ridge along Route 40, the first National Highway).
Bumps begin. The wind was still right on the nose and I slowed even more as I approached the west side of the ridge. I imagine all that air cascading down the face of the ridge like Niagara Falls, tumbling, and rolling. Still, the bumps are light and the cascade is more like a gentle stream flow than a torrent.
I look at my watch – I hate weekdays – and turn west. I push the nose forward and enjoy the speed – maybe 100 MPH groundspeed? – cars fade in my wake.
I turn on the radio and listen. One of my students is flying this morning.
I announce five miles east of the field. An inbound Cherokee announces 10 miles out. I let him know my intentions, push the nose down a bit more.
“Greene County traffic, Chief 24286, straight in 27 for the grass, Green County.”
I skim over the tree tops, pull power to idle, crank in trim, give a few slips just for grins, and touch down gently on the grass, decimating dandelions and spraying dew on struts and wings.
The restaurant is busy. I’m sure at least a few observers critique my landing. No mind. Taxi to the hangar, cut off the fuel, let it idle at 1000, putt-putt….
Click, click as the engine cools and I push the airplane back into its den. The breeze is freshening. By nightfall this beautiful, clear sky will be filled with rumbling, dark, malevolent energy roaring in from the west.
But not yet.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Night Flight
I broke one of my personal rules yesterday -- "Don't fly over the Alleghenies at night."
Of course this rule has been broken by countless check and charter pilots for decades, but for me it's about leaving as many options open as possible, and at night there just aren't that many options between THS and IHD.
Sure, this stretch of mountains (really a series of ridges) seems almost laughable compared to real mountains (Rockies, Sierra, Andes, etc). But this chain still separates the widely divergent cultures of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, still causes its own local weather, was the bane of many an airmail, airline, and charter pilot, and still claims the occasional unwary or bit-too-cavalier type.
I had all that in mind (and more) when I launched from Connellsville, at the very foot of the westernmost ridge, on the eastbound leg in the waning hours of a long, hot June day.
Winds were steady from the southwest at 10, skies were generally clear, and I had the promise of some good tailwinds for the planned hour-long flight to Lancaster.
I filed anyway, preferring the added interest that filing gives to a XC flight. I circled once above the airport, climbed to 5000, then 9000, and then settled in for the direct flight. To the north we could see a series of CB marching eastward. The XM on the GPS indicated this line was just south of the PA-NY border, which meant they were at least 120 miles from our route of flight. The HIWAS announcement and later Center Weather Advisory confirmed this. But clouds with tops in the 40s sure looked big -- and close.
The flight passed quickly with the pleasant company of my all too grownup daughter in whose eyes I still see a mischievous 5 year old. Soon, we were on the ramp at LNS and I was unloading her bags and saying a hasty goodbye. The sun was turning orange and daylight would soon be a memory. I filed direct for the return flight, but the clearance sent me to DELRO, then NESTO, adding at least 15 minutes to the expected 1:15 trip.
I took off into the sunset and climbed towards DELRO, trying to avoid looking at the GS panel on the G430. I dutifully followed the routing and switched to NY Center once cleared to 9000. After about 10 minutes Center asked if I was able to proceed Direct to destination.
Me: "I am able and would be very happy to proceed direct!"
NYC: "Then here's a present -- proceed direct..."
I set course and watched the sky turn from orange to light violet. Ahead and to the right was a shelf of clouds. Those directly ahead were below my altitude, those to the right built steadily. Soon, it was dark enough to see them lit up from inside with lightning. I checked HIWAS and the XM and heard another CWA -- that line was still 100 miles and more to the north of my route.
But they sure looked closer.
The violet turned to varying shades of purple. The chatter on Center freq was all airliners now -- I only heard a single Cherokee as he haltingly asked for flight following for a 20 mile hop. NY Center helped him out anyway. I even heard Center say, "Air Force One, Standby."
The clouds starting reaching up, and by now I had 30 degrees correction to maintain heading (257 hdg for 287 track). The headwind computed to 46 knots. I thought about going lower but the winds aloft from 3000-9000 gave no hope of faster groundspeed lower.
Besides, by now the lights of the towns and cities of southeast Pennsylvania were behind me -- those gentle rolling hills, wide fields and pastures, and scattered airports were behind me as well.
I hit Nrst on the handheld and only P and R airports appeared -- small grass fields -- unlit, unfamiliar, and short.
I spent as much time glancing at the EGT, Oil Pressure and temp gauges as the Nav gauges. All remained steady, even though every so often the slightest change in sound would reveal impending doom.
An active imagination is no friend to SEL, Single Pilot IFR at night.
I reminded myself I was a bit too old and experienced to be worrying about scary sounds in the night and to fly the airplane. The monsters retreated to the closet for a while.
The cloud layer beneath soon obscured the few lights below, and so I set the A/P on track and altitude hold, and leaned forward to watch the show on the right.
The line of thunderstorms ran continuous -- on the XM it indicated from Erie, PA to northern NJ. It was spectacular and frightening at the same time. I heard Center advising the heavy iron about intense precip, and the expected requests for diversions.
A small line of cells broke off from the main pack and was marching from Akron, OH towards the Ellwood City VOR -- too close for comfort to my destination. I checked the GS -- 101 Knots, while IAS was 130. A quick check on the E6B showed what sort of headwind I was fighting. 49 knots on the nose. It would be a race, and the opponent had a 49 knot tail wind.
Ugh.
60 miles out Cleveland Center said, "Descend and Maintain 7000."
At 8000 I was skimming the tops of some build-ups that extended southward from the line of cells -- like a train of pretenders wanting to be near the Great Ones. I asked if I could remain at 8 for a bit and was given "pilot's discretion."
I like that phrase....
Near Johnstown -- as expected -- the uplift was done and the clouds dissipated. By now it was fully dark -- only the faintest purple glow on the western horizon. Scattered lights twinkled far, far below -- appearing more distant due to the haze.
Cleveland Center kept working the diversions, and I announced my intention to descend. Down, down, into the enveloping haze and cloud layer, the airplane bouncing a bit, the engine running fine, the gauges doing what I expect them to, the cabin air warming and getting damper, the lights below momentarily disappearing and re-appearing, the flashes of light off to the right continuing...
I switched to map view on the GPS. 20nm zoom doesn't reveal any airports -- 50 nm does. I leave it set there.
I initially request the GPS approach, then amend that -- I'll take the visual and avoid the 10 nm diversion to the IAF.
I start to see familiarity to the pattern of lights. I've flown here often enough at night -- tethered within stumbling engine distance of familiar airports and routes and visual references. Of course I've returned from long cross countries at night before -- but always at the end of flights that start in daylight and end at night. This entire flight was officially "night" -- even though the sky remained luminescent with vestigial light for a while after the sun was far to the west.
I tell myself that familiarity is false comfort -- an unseen tree or power line or crane will wreak as much havoc here as over Sideling Hill or Laurel Ridge.
I set myself to the task at hand and look for the airport. I use the #2 comm to switch on the lights -- a nearly useless gesture this distance from the airport embedded in a sea of lights. Nevertheless, my familiarity helps.
That row of lights there is next to that, so the airport must be -- there!
There's the airport -- green-white beacon, string of blue taxiway lights like glowing sapphires -- is there anything so beautiful as taxi lights at night? REILS, PAPI, runway lights -- all blend in to the surrounding light noise -- but taxiway lights -- they fairly shout OVER HERE! HERE'S THE AIRPORT! COME THIS WAY!
Cleveland switches me to Pitt and I'm only with the friendly Pitt controller long enough for the cancellation and the switch to local.
I line up for the straight in visual. No one else is in the pattern -- this is a mostly VFR field with only the hard-cores or twin drivers up at night or in weather.
There's a stiff crosswind 50 degrees from the left. I haven't down a night x-wind landing in a while so it will be a good refresher. I have about a 10 degree crab on descent and keep it just a little high. This wind will cause the expected downdraft 150 feet from the threshold. Sure enough, there it is -- some power, keep it level, OK, now reduce power, there are the numbers, transition to wing low -- too much, that's better -- see the tire marks? good -- now transition to level 2 feet above the pavement -- hold it off, hold it off, hold it -- adjust for that gust -- straighten it, hold it -- squeak -- slight swerve, maintain crosswind correction -- good -- roll out -- no brakes, roll off the taxiway.
"Traffic, me, Clear of the active, traffic"
I clean up the flaps, cowl flaps, turn off the transponder, #2 comm, the radios, take off the headset. Wow. That feels good. Open the window, take in the warm night air, smell the 100ll, taxi back to the hangar.
As the gyros wind down, and the engine ticks cool, and the hangar light shines on the newly cleaned surface, I look over the airplane once more before closing the hangar door and turning off the light. It's only a machine, and has as much loyalty and concern for me as a Persian cat -- but somehow I have this fleeting sense that we are both happy to be back, and that we took care of each other, and that shared respect ensured our arrival.
But I won't do that again.
Until the next time.
Of course this rule has been broken by countless check and charter pilots for decades, but for me it's about leaving as many options open as possible, and at night there just aren't that many options between THS and IHD.
Sure, this stretch of mountains (really a series of ridges) seems almost laughable compared to real mountains (Rockies, Sierra, Andes, etc). But this chain still separates the widely divergent cultures of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, still causes its own local weather, was the bane of many an airmail, airline, and charter pilot, and still claims the occasional unwary or bit-too-cavalier type.
I had all that in mind (and more) when I launched from Connellsville, at the very foot of the westernmost ridge, on the eastbound leg in the waning hours of a long, hot June day.
Winds were steady from the southwest at 10, skies were generally clear, and I had the promise of some good tailwinds for the planned hour-long flight to Lancaster.
I filed anyway, preferring the added interest that filing gives to a XC flight. I circled once above the airport, climbed to 5000, then 9000, and then settled in for the direct flight. To the north we could see a series of CB marching eastward. The XM on the GPS indicated this line was just south of the PA-NY border, which meant they were at least 120 miles from our route of flight. The HIWAS announcement and later Center Weather Advisory confirmed this. But clouds with tops in the 40s sure looked big -- and close.
The flight passed quickly with the pleasant company of my all too grownup daughter in whose eyes I still see a mischievous 5 year old. Soon, we were on the ramp at LNS and I was unloading her bags and saying a hasty goodbye. The sun was turning orange and daylight would soon be a memory. I filed direct for the return flight, but the clearance sent me to DELRO, then NESTO, adding at least 15 minutes to the expected 1:15 trip.
I took off into the sunset and climbed towards DELRO, trying to avoid looking at the GS panel on the G430. I dutifully followed the routing and switched to NY Center once cleared to 9000. After about 10 minutes Center asked if I was able to proceed Direct to destination.
Me: "I am able and would be very happy to proceed direct!"
NYC: "Then here's a present -- proceed direct..."
I set course and watched the sky turn from orange to light violet. Ahead and to the right was a shelf of clouds. Those directly ahead were below my altitude, those to the right built steadily. Soon, it was dark enough to see them lit up from inside with lightning. I checked HIWAS and the XM and heard another CWA -- that line was still 100 miles and more to the north of my route.
But they sure looked closer.
The violet turned to varying shades of purple. The chatter on Center freq was all airliners now -- I only heard a single Cherokee as he haltingly asked for flight following for a 20 mile hop. NY Center helped him out anyway. I even heard Center say, "Air Force One, Standby."
The clouds starting reaching up, and by now I had 30 degrees correction to maintain heading (257 hdg for 287 track). The headwind computed to 46 knots. I thought about going lower but the winds aloft from 3000-9000 gave no hope of faster groundspeed lower.
Besides, by now the lights of the towns and cities of southeast Pennsylvania were behind me -- those gentle rolling hills, wide fields and pastures, and scattered airports were behind me as well.
I hit Nrst on the handheld and only P and R airports appeared -- small grass fields -- unlit, unfamiliar, and short.
I spent as much time glancing at the EGT, Oil Pressure and temp gauges as the Nav gauges. All remained steady, even though every so often the slightest change in sound would reveal impending doom.
An active imagination is no friend to SEL, Single Pilot IFR at night.
I reminded myself I was a bit too old and experienced to be worrying about scary sounds in the night and to fly the airplane. The monsters retreated to the closet for a while.
The cloud layer beneath soon obscured the few lights below, and so I set the A/P on track and altitude hold, and leaned forward to watch the show on the right.
The line of thunderstorms ran continuous -- on the XM it indicated from Erie, PA to northern NJ. It was spectacular and frightening at the same time. I heard Center advising the heavy iron about intense precip, and the expected requests for diversions.
A small line of cells broke off from the main pack and was marching from Akron, OH towards the Ellwood City VOR -- too close for comfort to my destination. I checked the GS -- 101 Knots, while IAS was 130. A quick check on the E6B showed what sort of headwind I was fighting. 49 knots on the nose. It would be a race, and the opponent had a 49 knot tail wind.
Ugh.
60 miles out Cleveland Center said, "Descend and Maintain 7000."
At 8000 I was skimming the tops of some build-ups that extended southward from the line of cells -- like a train of pretenders wanting to be near the Great Ones. I asked if I could remain at 8 for a bit and was given "pilot's discretion."
I like that phrase....
Near Johnstown -- as expected -- the uplift was done and the clouds dissipated. By now it was fully dark -- only the faintest purple glow on the western horizon. Scattered lights twinkled far, far below -- appearing more distant due to the haze.
Cleveland Center kept working the diversions, and I announced my intention to descend. Down, down, into the enveloping haze and cloud layer, the airplane bouncing a bit, the engine running fine, the gauges doing what I expect them to, the cabin air warming and getting damper, the lights below momentarily disappearing and re-appearing, the flashes of light off to the right continuing...
I switched to map view on the GPS. 20nm zoom doesn't reveal any airports -- 50 nm does. I leave it set there.
I initially request the GPS approach, then amend that -- I'll take the visual and avoid the 10 nm diversion to the IAF.
I start to see familiarity to the pattern of lights. I've flown here often enough at night -- tethered within stumbling engine distance of familiar airports and routes and visual references. Of course I've returned from long cross countries at night before -- but always at the end of flights that start in daylight and end at night. This entire flight was officially "night" -- even though the sky remained luminescent with vestigial light for a while after the sun was far to the west.
I tell myself that familiarity is false comfort -- an unseen tree or power line or crane will wreak as much havoc here as over Sideling Hill or Laurel Ridge.
I set myself to the task at hand and look for the airport. I use the #2 comm to switch on the lights -- a nearly useless gesture this distance from the airport embedded in a sea of lights. Nevertheless, my familiarity helps.
That row of lights there is next to that, so the airport must be -- there!
There's the airport -- green-white beacon, string of blue taxiway lights like glowing sapphires -- is there anything so beautiful as taxi lights at night? REILS, PAPI, runway lights -- all blend in to the surrounding light noise -- but taxiway lights -- they fairly shout OVER HERE! HERE'S THE AIRPORT! COME THIS WAY!
Cleveland switches me to Pitt and I'm only with the friendly Pitt controller long enough for the cancellation and the switch to local.
I line up for the straight in visual. No one else is in the pattern -- this is a mostly VFR field with only the hard-cores or twin drivers up at night or in weather.
There's a stiff crosswind 50 degrees from the left. I haven't down a night x-wind landing in a while so it will be a good refresher. I have about a 10 degree crab on descent and keep it just a little high. This wind will cause the expected downdraft 150 feet from the threshold. Sure enough, there it is -- some power, keep it level, OK, now reduce power, there are the numbers, transition to wing low -- too much, that's better -- see the tire marks? good -- now transition to level 2 feet above the pavement -- hold it off, hold it off, hold it -- adjust for that gust -- straighten it, hold it -- squeak -- slight swerve, maintain crosswind correction -- good -- roll out -- no brakes, roll off the taxiway.
"Traffic, me, Clear of the active, traffic"
I clean up the flaps, cowl flaps, turn off the transponder, #2 comm, the radios, take off the headset. Wow. That feels good. Open the window, take in the warm night air, smell the 100ll, taxi back to the hangar.
As the gyros wind down, and the engine ticks cool, and the hangar light shines on the newly cleaned surface, I look over the airplane once more before closing the hangar door and turning off the light. It's only a machine, and has as much loyalty and concern for me as a Persian cat -- but somehow I have this fleeting sense that we are both happy to be back, and that we took care of each other, and that shared respect ensured our arrival.
But I won't do that again.
Until the next time.
How I Started Flying (Part 2)
We didn't fly again for a while, but Al came over more often. He was loud and liked to laugh and was as strong as an ox. Whenever we had to move something he would say, “Hang on --” pick whatever it was up, and move it.
Someone gave us a refrigerator. We were trying to get it up our narrow stairs – me and his nephew Franky on the top end, him on the bottom. Finally he said, “Hang on ---” slid it down where he could get underneath it, then carried it all the way up to the second floor on his back.
I would tell my father about these various feats on our Sunday afternoon visits. My sister loved Sunday afternoons because she was treated like a princess and said and did and got whatever she wanted. I usually sulked, not liking her highness very much while I was missing out on another chance to fly, or at least talk about flying.
I told my father about the flying and he sternly reminded me that he had introduced me to Bob Alsop – a real pilot, and had taken me along on a flight in a DC-3, piloted by a former Captain in the Indonesian Air Force.
I remembered that flight vividly because the airplane was so cool – not like a commercial plane with rows of seats, but benches and tables and carpet and cabinets and glasses! The Indonesian Air Force Captain didn't say much – he smiled a lot – likely because he was flying from Newark to Pittsburgh, and not over some steamy Indonesian jungle, I figured.
We landed in Pittsburgh for some reason, then turned around and flew back. I was eight and didn't understand that the cabinets were there for a reason. By the time we landed in Newark, my father and his friends were all staggering off the airplane.
I resented that for a long time – even at eight I knew an airplane flight was something special, not to be sullied with drinking. My young mind had no words to express my feelings, which feelings now would be expressed in words, thusly: “How can you not just sit here and look down upon the world below? How can you not be mesmerized by the sound of those big engines? How can you not be overwhelmed that you are flying?”
My father was a bartender at an airport bar called “The Ramp,” built at the end of a ramp off Route 22 near Newark Airport. It was always dark inside, and I remembered my father telling stories about different people that came in – the good ones were all “regulars.”
He said Buzz Aldrin was a regular, and he brought home some Apollo memorabilia which gave weight to his claims (my mother later trashed a lot of those items after he left, saying I didn't need them. They included a signed letter from the Apollo crew saying “wish you were here” and a tie clip Richard Nixon had given Buzz Aldrin).
He also has several regulars who were “MIT Graduates,” “Business Owners”, “Cops,” and “Pilots.” These titles offered in tones that implied respect was due.
He took me to work with him once in a great while. I found it mostly boring, except for the shuffleboard game that needed liberal doses of rosin from a bag to make the pucks slide. As far as I could tell Business Owners and Cops and MIT Graduates and Pilots mostly sat on tall stools and talked so quiet I couldn't hear what they were saying when I pretended not to listen and then every so often would erupt with a roar of laughter, with one of the group repeating only half the punch line, which usually included a reference to a Priest.
Back home it was the regular routine of school, after school fights, walking home with a big, over sized briefcase filled with books I never read, pretended to do homework, while reading about astronauts or airplanes or British Sea Captains in the Napoleonic Wars. Our second floor apartment was always hot, so I slept with the windows wide open, listening to the various sounds of Hillside, New Jersey – car horns, the big fans at the church next door, the people next door yelling, the kid across the street listening to really loud music, the rustling of leaves in the wind – all the sounds that provided a dull continuo accompaniment to the booming bass line of New York City.
Al was over all the time now, and we would talk about flying. I knew all there was to know – I had a subscription – the cover had my name and address right there -- to Flying, and had read all there was to read – in the Hillside Library, at least. He would laugh and say, “Flying's not all in books – you gotta experience it!”
Yeah, right, how am I supposed to experience flying when you won't take me up?
As I got older I realized what was keeping us from going up – Al had three daughters and was paying child support an alimony to that, that (I learned all sorts of new words). He was working as a laborer and even $25 a month dues plus $25 per hour for the airplane was too much.
He and my mother eventually married in a simple ceremony at the Hillside Town Hall. We celebrated with a cake and a few friends.
I ran track in High School and slipped Aviation magazines in my textbooks so I could have something interesting to read during class. My reasoning in math class was if these “problems” have already been solved (see the back of the book), why are we wasting time on them?
I enjoyed meteorology because it had direct application to aviation. Physics did, for a while.
But history continued to grip me. All those walks on the Plains of Abraham, imagining the French line facing Wolfe and his Redcoats, the terrible defeat, the mortal wounds to both generals, the end of the French regime, and the descent into darkness that was British rule – those poor, poor people – all of it captured me every summer, as if the city of Quebec was one giant treasure trove of dramatic lore. Here was life and death lived to great ends, victory and defeat, French language and culture against the infidels.
So I usually listened in History, and read the assignments.
English was ridiculous noise to me – why am I regurgitating this sentence in ways no one speaks or writes? Why must I place the words on crooked lines?
French was an absolute farce. My poor teacher – a multilingual Scot with balding head, funny glasses, and strange mannerisms -- spoke French and German fluently. I spoke French as well – wasn't that enough? But he insisted we know verb forms and tenses – who the heck cares? I just say it in French. I can understand what your saying. It works. Give me an A.
My semesterly trip to the Guidance counselor should have been recorded and replayed to save everyone time – The counselor would read the teacher's comments “Has ability, but does no homework. Working way below ability. Does not pay attention. Daydreams.” Then she would say there would be no way I could be a commercial pilot with these grades. I'd dutifully haul the paper home, my mother would feign anger, I would lose television privileges, the track coach would tell me I'd be off the team if I couldn't maintain a C, and – after a week – it would all blow over and life would return to normal.
Al – now my stepfather – didn't fly anymore and he rarely talked about flying. Money was tight and that, that --- well, she was squeezing him for everything he had. He and my mother had two sons. I now had brothers. The oldest slept in my room. I was 17 and very proficient with diapers and bottles and midnight crying fits.
After High School I joined the Air Force – my father had been in the Navy in World War Two and he said, “Don't join the Navy.” I figured he knew what he was talking about. Al had been in the Air Force. I figured the Air Force had lots of airplanes, so why not?
After four years of working inside a Nuclear Weapons Maintenance facility, on the far side of the base from the B-52s – despite making rank very fast --I decided the Air Force was not for me.
Years passed – three children, several careers, a return to Reserve and even Active Duty service, transfer to the Army, my own business – and the closest I got to airplanes was seeing them overhead. I couldn't not look when I heard an airplane overhead.
Then September 11th -- I met my youngest brother in Palisades, NJ, and we drove over the GW bridge on September 15th and stayed through the 16th working on the pile.
When I started flying business travel commercially again I was disgusted and appalled at how people were being treated. Sorry, TSA folks, but I'm one of the good guys, and still have the dust of WTC 1 and 2 on my boots to prove it.
As much as I was traveling I thought about personal flying – maybe this would work?
I sued all the proceeds of an unexpected Tax refund to start ground and then flight training. Three months later I was holding a Temporary Airmen Certificate. I was a pilot!
I flew to several appointments in rented Piper Cherokees. I even took a C152 a couple of times. I would leave early in the morning and be home for dinner. This is great! I thought.
But the company decided the liability was too great -- “What if you crash into a school?” -- and therefore forbid all personal business flight.
My reason and my money supply were dried up. I quit flying and didn't fly again for five years.
I thought about flying frequently, but the reason and the money just weren't there – I had no good reasons to fly.
Then I remembered what my stepfather said, the first time I met him – he flew just for fun.
Maybe I could fly just for fun also? Did it really have to have a reason? A Mission?
I called a local flight school and asked about biennials. A week later I was flying a 152 trying to figure out how to land all over again. After another session, it all came back and soon I was flying – I rented the airplane and flew to Wheeling and back with my son – just for fun.
But I also wanted to go places – and going places meant a schedule and meant weather. If I wanted to be a pilot why not be a real pilot and get all the training I could?
I would call my stepfather once a week or so and we would talk flying. I called him when I passed my IR, my commercial, and then my CFI. I flew my family to upstate NY where they now live (an 11 hour trip by car was 3 hours in a Piper Archer) and finally got to take my Dad for a ride. There were thunderstorms nearby but I had them in sight so I took him up and we flew over his house and over the St Lawrence. The storms were approaching so we landed all too quickly. We went back to their house to visit some and one of my Dad's friends stopped by. He was a new pilot and had a Piper Cherokee 180 but had scared himself a few times -- “Are you an instructor?”
“Not yet, but I'll be back after earning the rating and we'll go flying.”
Now we're scheduled to go fly up this July.
Now my dad talks about getting a Challenger – a small ultralight that stalls at 25 knots or some such. He wants it just to fly around just for fun.
Isn't that what it's all about?
Someone gave us a refrigerator. We were trying to get it up our narrow stairs – me and his nephew Franky on the top end, him on the bottom. Finally he said, “Hang on ---” slid it down where he could get underneath it, then carried it all the way up to the second floor on his back.
I would tell my father about these various feats on our Sunday afternoon visits. My sister loved Sunday afternoons because she was treated like a princess and said and did and got whatever she wanted. I usually sulked, not liking her highness very much while I was missing out on another chance to fly, or at least talk about flying.
I told my father about the flying and he sternly reminded me that he had introduced me to Bob Alsop – a real pilot, and had taken me along on a flight in a DC-3, piloted by a former Captain in the Indonesian Air Force.
I remembered that flight vividly because the airplane was so cool – not like a commercial plane with rows of seats, but benches and tables and carpet and cabinets and glasses! The Indonesian Air Force Captain didn't say much – he smiled a lot – likely because he was flying from Newark to Pittsburgh, and not over some steamy Indonesian jungle, I figured.
We landed in Pittsburgh for some reason, then turned around and flew back. I was eight and didn't understand that the cabinets were there for a reason. By the time we landed in Newark, my father and his friends were all staggering off the airplane.
I resented that for a long time – even at eight I knew an airplane flight was something special, not to be sullied with drinking. My young mind had no words to express my feelings, which feelings now would be expressed in words, thusly: “How can you not just sit here and look down upon the world below? How can you not be mesmerized by the sound of those big engines? How can you not be overwhelmed that you are flying?”
My father was a bartender at an airport bar called “The Ramp,” built at the end of a ramp off Route 22 near Newark Airport. It was always dark inside, and I remembered my father telling stories about different people that came in – the good ones were all “regulars.”
He said Buzz Aldrin was a regular, and he brought home some Apollo memorabilia which gave weight to his claims (my mother later trashed a lot of those items after he left, saying I didn't need them. They included a signed letter from the Apollo crew saying “wish you were here” and a tie clip Richard Nixon had given Buzz Aldrin).
He also has several regulars who were “MIT Graduates,” “Business Owners”, “Cops,” and “Pilots.” These titles offered in tones that implied respect was due.
He took me to work with him once in a great while. I found it mostly boring, except for the shuffleboard game that needed liberal doses of rosin from a bag to make the pucks slide. As far as I could tell Business Owners and Cops and MIT Graduates and Pilots mostly sat on tall stools and talked so quiet I couldn't hear what they were saying when I pretended not to listen and then every so often would erupt with a roar of laughter, with one of the group repeating only half the punch line, which usually included a reference to a Priest.
Back home it was the regular routine of school, after school fights, walking home with a big, over sized briefcase filled with books I never read, pretended to do homework, while reading about astronauts or airplanes or British Sea Captains in the Napoleonic Wars. Our second floor apartment was always hot, so I slept with the windows wide open, listening to the various sounds of Hillside, New Jersey – car horns, the big fans at the church next door, the people next door yelling, the kid across the street listening to really loud music, the rustling of leaves in the wind – all the sounds that provided a dull continuo accompaniment to the booming bass line of New York City.
Al was over all the time now, and we would talk about flying. I knew all there was to know – I had a subscription – the cover had my name and address right there -- to Flying, and had read all there was to read – in the Hillside Library, at least. He would laugh and say, “Flying's not all in books – you gotta experience it!”
Yeah, right, how am I supposed to experience flying when you won't take me up?
As I got older I realized what was keeping us from going up – Al had three daughters and was paying child support an alimony to that, that (I learned all sorts of new words). He was working as a laborer and even $25 a month dues plus $25 per hour for the airplane was too much.
He and my mother eventually married in a simple ceremony at the Hillside Town Hall. We celebrated with a cake and a few friends.
I ran track in High School and slipped Aviation magazines in my textbooks so I could have something interesting to read during class. My reasoning in math class was if these “problems” have already been solved (see the back of the book), why are we wasting time on them?
I enjoyed meteorology because it had direct application to aviation. Physics did, for a while.
But history continued to grip me. All those walks on the Plains of Abraham, imagining the French line facing Wolfe and his Redcoats, the terrible defeat, the mortal wounds to both generals, the end of the French regime, and the descent into darkness that was British rule – those poor, poor people – all of it captured me every summer, as if the city of Quebec was one giant treasure trove of dramatic lore. Here was life and death lived to great ends, victory and defeat, French language and culture against the infidels.
So I usually listened in History, and read the assignments.
English was ridiculous noise to me – why am I regurgitating this sentence in ways no one speaks or writes? Why must I place the words on crooked lines?
French was an absolute farce. My poor teacher – a multilingual Scot with balding head, funny glasses, and strange mannerisms -- spoke French and German fluently. I spoke French as well – wasn't that enough? But he insisted we know verb forms and tenses – who the heck cares? I just say it in French. I can understand what your saying. It works. Give me an A.
My semesterly trip to the Guidance counselor should have been recorded and replayed to save everyone time – The counselor would read the teacher's comments “Has ability, but does no homework. Working way below ability. Does not pay attention. Daydreams.” Then she would say there would be no way I could be a commercial pilot with these grades. I'd dutifully haul the paper home, my mother would feign anger, I would lose television privileges, the track coach would tell me I'd be off the team if I couldn't maintain a C, and – after a week – it would all blow over and life would return to normal.
Al – now my stepfather – didn't fly anymore and he rarely talked about flying. Money was tight and that, that --- well, she was squeezing him for everything he had. He and my mother had two sons. I now had brothers. The oldest slept in my room. I was 17 and very proficient with diapers and bottles and midnight crying fits.
After High School I joined the Air Force – my father had been in the Navy in World War Two and he said, “Don't join the Navy.” I figured he knew what he was talking about. Al had been in the Air Force. I figured the Air Force had lots of airplanes, so why not?
After four years of working inside a Nuclear Weapons Maintenance facility, on the far side of the base from the B-52s – despite making rank very fast --I decided the Air Force was not for me.
Years passed – three children, several careers, a return to Reserve and even Active Duty service, transfer to the Army, my own business – and the closest I got to airplanes was seeing them overhead. I couldn't not look when I heard an airplane overhead.
Then September 11th -- I met my youngest brother in Palisades, NJ, and we drove over the GW bridge on September 15th and stayed through the 16th working on the pile.
When I started flying business travel commercially again I was disgusted and appalled at how people were being treated. Sorry, TSA folks, but I'm one of the good guys, and still have the dust of WTC 1 and 2 on my boots to prove it.
As much as I was traveling I thought about personal flying – maybe this would work?
I sued all the proceeds of an unexpected Tax refund to start ground and then flight training. Three months later I was holding a Temporary Airmen Certificate. I was a pilot!
I flew to several appointments in rented Piper Cherokees. I even took a C152 a couple of times. I would leave early in the morning and be home for dinner. This is great! I thought.
But the company decided the liability was too great -- “What if you crash into a school?” -- and therefore forbid all personal business flight.
My reason and my money supply were dried up. I quit flying and didn't fly again for five years.
I thought about flying frequently, but the reason and the money just weren't there – I had no good reasons to fly.
Then I remembered what my stepfather said, the first time I met him – he flew just for fun.
Maybe I could fly just for fun also? Did it really have to have a reason? A Mission?
I called a local flight school and asked about biennials. A week later I was flying a 152 trying to figure out how to land all over again. After another session, it all came back and soon I was flying – I rented the airplane and flew to Wheeling and back with my son – just for fun.
But I also wanted to go places – and going places meant a schedule and meant weather. If I wanted to be a pilot why not be a real pilot and get all the training I could?
I would call my stepfather once a week or so and we would talk flying. I called him when I passed my IR, my commercial, and then my CFI. I flew my family to upstate NY where they now live (an 11 hour trip by car was 3 hours in a Piper Archer) and finally got to take my Dad for a ride. There were thunderstorms nearby but I had them in sight so I took him up and we flew over his house and over the St Lawrence. The storms were approaching so we landed all too quickly. We went back to their house to visit some and one of my Dad's friends stopped by. He was a new pilot and had a Piper Cherokee 180 but had scared himself a few times -- “Are you an instructor?”
“Not yet, but I'll be back after earning the rating and we'll go flying.”
Now we're scheduled to go fly up this July.
Now my dad talks about getting a Challenger – a small ultralight that stalls at 25 knots or some such. He wants it just to fly around just for fun.
Isn't that what it's all about?
How I Started Flying (Part 1)
I was eleven when my parents split up. It was the mid-70's, and divorce had not yet become a badge of enlightenment. Some of my friends disappeared after that – their parents unwilling to have their own tainted by D I V O R C E.
I spent summers in Ontario and Quebec with aunts and uncles while my mother worked as a waitress. After returning late August I learned that my mother was “dating.” I was old enough to have an idea what “dating” was, but I also knew I wasn't pleased with any of the suitors that pretended to be nice to me.
One night my mom was telling me about a “friend” she'd met and wanted me to meet. I said, “Why do I want to meet him?” She hadn't included me in the vetting process before...
“He's a Pie-lot...” she said, in her French Canadian accent that made the word “Pilot” carry two very distinct syllables.
She knew what effect that would have on me – instantly suspicion turned to curiosity.
“What kind of pilot – commercial pilot?” I asked. I knew Commercial Pilots were the cream of the crop – just a step below Astronauts.
“I don't know – you'll have to ask him when he comes over.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Will he give me a ride?”
“He has a hairplane – I'm sure he will give you a ride...” she replied (her French Canadian accent refused to leave the H off any word that began with A), with that smile I knew meant “I'll try this and see if it works...”
I picked though my collection of flying books – Jane's Aircraft Identification Guide, World Book AVIATION, and my pile of Flying magazines. I'd quiz this guy and see what sort of pilot he was – did he know a Constellation from a Tupolev? Probably not.
A week, then two went by. Still no pie-lot, still no hairplane ride.
I walked home from school, climbed up the stairs to the apartment, and a man was sitting in my living room. He had dark, sorta slicked back hair, and he was shorter than a man was supposed to be – Six foot, one inch, like my dad.
“Hello.” he said, New Jersey accent thick – I hated that accent (even though I probably had one myself) – it reminded me of the little Italian kids at the Catholic school that wanted to fight me every single day because I was “big.”
“Hi.” I replied, trying to be In Charge.
My mom walked in and broke up the tension. I had this guy in my sights and he was feeling the pressure.
She sat down, “Daniel, this is Hal.”
I offered my hand and we shook hands.
“Hal is a pie-lot.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You like airplanes?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I'll have to take you up.”
(“Take me up?” Was this pilot lingo?)
“Umm, ok...”
My mom smiled, leaning a bit too close to “Hal.”
I didn't like him. He wasn't wearing a uniform, or a pilot hat. I expected the Captain of a Pan Am flight from London -- What I saw was a guy wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a big belt and a too tight shirt. Yeah, he looked like he had lots of muscles, but none of the pilots in Flying had lots of muscles. They were tall and thin and some wore glasses, were from Ohio and other nice places and all had neat, short hair, not slicked back poofy hair...
I went to my room and grabbed the Aircraft Identification Guide, returned and laid it on the coffee table. “What kind of plane do you fly?”
“Oh, I've flown a Jay- three, a Tee thirty six, but lately I fly a Cherokee...”
My mind flipped through the pages inJane's – a Tee thirty six? A Jay three? What were those???
“Are you a Commercial Pilot?” I asked, feeling superior.
“Nah.” he let it hang.
NOT a commercial pilot? Why kind of pilot is this guy? You either are or you aren't!
“I fly for fun.” he added.
What? FUN? Who flies for fun?!?
There was a long pause while I tried to get my twelve-year old mind around this new concept. I knew there were airplanes for fighting, some for carrying, some for spraying – but some used just for fun? It seemed incredible.
A few weeks went by and “Hal” didn't come. I would hint to my mom, “So when is he coming over?” which was my cover for “When do I get to go up?” (I could use pilot lingo, too).
“I don't know...”
Don't tell me you dropped a pilot? After all the other losers that traipsed through here?
It was June and it was time to head back to Ontario. I flew commercial from Newark to Toronto – I had a window seat but we were over clouds most of the time and so I didn't get to see much. Flying was no fun in clouds! I saved the Air Canada drink stirrer that came in the Ginger Ale.
My aunt and cousin Pierre were waiting for me and we drove to Burlington. I felt as though there should have been more after landing – some sort of parade and airlock like the astronauts -- hadn't I just been up in the air? Above the clouds? And yet now I was in their Volkswagen, driving in the rain, back on the ground where everything looked so gray and ordinary. We passed the massive base of what Pierre said would be the “CN Tower.”
It looked really big. Much too big for Toronto, which seemed like a pretend city compared to New York.
We spent the summer taking canoe and lifeguard lessons, floating a small wooden sailboat from the dock into Lake Ontario, pushing the boundaries of explored regions beyond the apartment building, and generally raising hell with the elevators.
Each night I went to bed re-reading one of the few Flying magazines I'd packed, or the Aircraft Identification Guide. I knew any good pilot would be able to identify every other airplane – and every one was in this palm-sized book – even the secret Russian ones.
One of the kids we played tennis with kept insisting that Russian (he called them “Soviets”) airplanes were much better than American airplanes. He said the Soviets were peaceful, and that the Americans were always pushing for war.
I told him if he kept it up I'd beat him up
He persisted, so I chased him up ten flights of stairs, him screaming the whole way, me driven ever upward by the desire to defend American honor.
When my Aunt said we were going to Harold's for dinner tonight, I looked at my cousin and nearly crumpled to the floor. If my aunt found out I was fighting she'd send me home – she was above all a French Canadian, and she knew how those Americans were...
We went up to dinner which Harold's dad made – a Russian meal, with awful Russian beet soup and other Russian inedibles – no wonder they wanted to dominate the world – they needed Pizza and Raviolis. Harold and I observed Detente across the wide dining room table, but I felt superior in my firepower. Never again would American Technology be sullied. I had vanquished the foe.
I missed my mom, and wrote from time to time, and called once a week for a very short time in which we exchanged the most banal of pleasantries. I never asked and she never offered – Are you still dating the pilot?
At the end of August we drove to Quebec City, where my mother would meet us. We camped along the way which was neat, because unlike Boy Scout camping we had tables and chairs and ate out in restaurants each night for dinner.
We arrived at my Grandmother's house in Ste Foy, just outside the walls of Quebec. Pierre and I spoke more French and less English, and played a lot of “Amazing catches,” where we would throw the baseball just out of reach, forcing the catcher to make incredible dives.
My mother drove up in our 1969 green Ford Galaxie fastback and I was overjoyed to see her. We hugged and she kissed me and told me she missed me. I looked in the car and she was alone. I couldn't stand it -- “Where is Al?'
“He couldn't take vacation, but you'll see him when we get home. He wants to take you on a hairplane ride...”
The trip back to New Jersey was interminable for many reasons – I was back with my mom who I'd missed all summer, but now I was leaving my family in Canada – who seemed to live better, and have more stuff, and fight less...
As expected the traffic became more congested, and the heat more steamy, and the overall atmosphere more tense as we left the blessed “Northway” and entered the NY Thruway. New Jersey was a nightmare of smoke and people and noise after the clear blue skies of Ontario and Quebec.
We arrived home and I ran all my things up the flight of stairs to our apartment. Al wasn't there, but a few more Flying magazines had arrived over the summer.
School started in a few days, and once again I was in the midst of little Italians and Bigger Poles who all wanted a shot at me. I missed Canada where fighting was a rare event, and where I could beat up most of them anyway, since they didn't have as much practice.
As the weather cooled Al came over more frequently Finally, he said we'd be going to the airport on Saturday to “go up.”
Several Ice Ages passed by on Friday night. Saturday morning I was ready – camera, Aircraft Identification Handbook (in case we spotted other airplanes in flight), and a light blue windbreaker jacket which looked something like what Real Pilots wore.
We drove out to Caldwell Airport in Al's big loud car – he told me it had “a lot of power.” I figured it had to being so loud. We couldn't talk much because the windows were rolled down letting in all the power.
We rolled into the parking lot and just beyond the chain link fence I saw – airplanes. Not one, not a couple such as I could spy from the gate at Newark, but dozens of airplanes, all sitting there looking like they were ready to leap into the sky. I didn't have to open my Aircraft Identification Guide – I knew most of these airplanes by heart – a Cessna, a Piper, and a few two engine ones that looked kinda like a Beech something.
A guy in a leather jacket and sunglasses and short hair walked over to us – he had to be a pilot.
“Hi Joe, this is Daniel – is it alright if he sits in back for this one?” said Al. He shook Joe's hand and acted like he was a long-lost brother.
“Sure.” said Joe, the Pilot.
We walked over to a Piper Cherokee. Joe and Al walked around the airplane and opened the engine and stuff and talked about spotting that frayed wire the last time. I wanted to get in and get going! But it took a while while they undid ropes and moved the ailerons – I knew what those were!
Soon I was sitting in the back, seat belt across my hips, camera in hand, listening as Joe talked into the hand-held microphone. Al was sitting in the Pilot's seat, but Joe was doing all the talking in the co-pilot seat. I though the co-pilot just helped the real pilot?
Soon we were out in the middle of nowhere – I couldn't see any other airplanes of buildings nearby – it was a big wide open space – just like McGuire Air Force Base, where we had gone for an air show a long time ago. I was little then and didn't know all about airplanes like I do now...
Joe said something into the microphone and suddenly the noise got really loud – this thing must have a lot of power – and we were rolling like in a car... then I could see the control tower was below us.. and the parking lot with all the airplanes was smaller... and everything was going down – just like in a real Commercial Airplane.
We flew around for a while and I took pictures of every building, every field, every road – and there were plenty of each in North-central New Jersey at that time. Joe was telling Al to do this then do that. I couldn't hear what they were saying but it was awfully loud -- and then – oh no --
My stomach started to feel weird. My face got hot. I wasn't feeling so good. But how would I ever be a pilot if I got sick!?
I didn't say anything.
Then everything got very light and I felt like I was falling!
The sky in the windshield was replaced with the ground – I don't like this!
I was really not feeling good – I tugged on Al's jacket -- “Al – I don't feel good...”
I heard Joe say “I got it!” and then next thing I knew we were rolling on the ground, we stopped, and the door opened. Joe helped me down off the wing.
Al said, “You want to watch us from the ground for a while?”
“OK...”
They took off and I walked around all the parked airplanes. I was still fascinated, but now I was very disappointed in myself. How would I ever become a pilot if I got sick in an airplane, my favorite thing of all?
We drove home and didn't say much because of all the power. When I got home I told my Mom all about the airplane ride and how I took pictures. I didn't tell her about getting sick.
(to be continued ...)
I spent summers in Ontario and Quebec with aunts and uncles while my mother worked as a waitress. After returning late August I learned that my mother was “dating.” I was old enough to have an idea what “dating” was, but I also knew I wasn't pleased with any of the suitors that pretended to be nice to me.
One night my mom was telling me about a “friend” she'd met and wanted me to meet. I said, “Why do I want to meet him?” She hadn't included me in the vetting process before...
“He's a Pie-lot...” she said, in her French Canadian accent that made the word “Pilot” carry two very distinct syllables.
She knew what effect that would have on me – instantly suspicion turned to curiosity.
“What kind of pilot – commercial pilot?” I asked. I knew Commercial Pilots were the cream of the crop – just a step below Astronauts.
“I don't know – you'll have to ask him when he comes over.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Will he give me a ride?”
“He has a hairplane – I'm sure he will give you a ride...” she replied (her French Canadian accent refused to leave the H off any word that began with A), with that smile I knew meant “I'll try this and see if it works...”
I picked though my collection of flying books – Jane's Aircraft Identification Guide, World Book AVIATION, and my pile of Flying magazines. I'd quiz this guy and see what sort of pilot he was – did he know a Constellation from a Tupolev? Probably not.
A week, then two went by. Still no pie-lot, still no hairplane ride.
I walked home from school, climbed up the stairs to the apartment, and a man was sitting in my living room. He had dark, sorta slicked back hair, and he was shorter than a man was supposed to be – Six foot, one inch, like my dad.
“Hello.” he said, New Jersey accent thick – I hated that accent (even though I probably had one myself) – it reminded me of the little Italian kids at the Catholic school that wanted to fight me every single day because I was “big.”
“Hi.” I replied, trying to be In Charge.
My mom walked in and broke up the tension. I had this guy in my sights and he was feeling the pressure.
She sat down, “Daniel, this is Hal.”
I offered my hand and we shook hands.
“Hal is a pie-lot.”
“Oh yeah?”
“You like airplanes?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I'll have to take you up.”
(“Take me up?” Was this pilot lingo?)
“Umm, ok...”
My mom smiled, leaning a bit too close to “Hal.”
I didn't like him. He wasn't wearing a uniform, or a pilot hat. I expected the Captain of a Pan Am flight from London -- What I saw was a guy wearing jeans and cowboy boots and a big belt and a too tight shirt. Yeah, he looked like he had lots of muscles, but none of the pilots in Flying had lots of muscles. They were tall and thin and some wore glasses, were from Ohio and other nice places and all had neat, short hair, not slicked back poofy hair...
I went to my room and grabbed the Aircraft Identification Guide, returned and laid it on the coffee table. “What kind of plane do you fly?”
“Oh, I've flown a Jay- three, a Tee thirty six, but lately I fly a Cherokee...”
My mind flipped through the pages inJane's – a Tee thirty six? A Jay three? What were those???
“Are you a Commercial Pilot?” I asked, feeling superior.
“Nah.” he let it hang.
NOT a commercial pilot? Why kind of pilot is this guy? You either are or you aren't!
“I fly for fun.” he added.
What? FUN? Who flies for fun?!?
There was a long pause while I tried to get my twelve-year old mind around this new concept. I knew there were airplanes for fighting, some for carrying, some for spraying – but some used just for fun? It seemed incredible.
A few weeks went by and “Hal” didn't come. I would hint to my mom, “So when is he coming over?” which was my cover for “When do I get to go up?” (I could use pilot lingo, too).
“I don't know...”
Don't tell me you dropped a pilot? After all the other losers that traipsed through here?
It was June and it was time to head back to Ontario. I flew commercial from Newark to Toronto – I had a window seat but we were over clouds most of the time and so I didn't get to see much. Flying was no fun in clouds! I saved the Air Canada drink stirrer that came in the Ginger Ale.
My aunt and cousin Pierre were waiting for me and we drove to Burlington. I felt as though there should have been more after landing – some sort of parade and airlock like the astronauts -- hadn't I just been up in the air? Above the clouds? And yet now I was in their Volkswagen, driving in the rain, back on the ground where everything looked so gray and ordinary. We passed the massive base of what Pierre said would be the “CN Tower.”
It looked really big. Much too big for Toronto, which seemed like a pretend city compared to New York.
We spent the summer taking canoe and lifeguard lessons, floating a small wooden sailboat from the dock into Lake Ontario, pushing the boundaries of explored regions beyond the apartment building, and generally raising hell with the elevators.
Each night I went to bed re-reading one of the few Flying magazines I'd packed, or the Aircraft Identification Guide. I knew any good pilot would be able to identify every other airplane – and every one was in this palm-sized book – even the secret Russian ones.
One of the kids we played tennis with kept insisting that Russian (he called them “Soviets”) airplanes were much better than American airplanes. He said the Soviets were peaceful, and that the Americans were always pushing for war.
I told him if he kept it up I'd beat him up
He persisted, so I chased him up ten flights of stairs, him screaming the whole way, me driven ever upward by the desire to defend American honor.
When my Aunt said we were going to Harold's for dinner tonight, I looked at my cousin and nearly crumpled to the floor. If my aunt found out I was fighting she'd send me home – she was above all a French Canadian, and she knew how those Americans were...
We went up to dinner which Harold's dad made – a Russian meal, with awful Russian beet soup and other Russian inedibles – no wonder they wanted to dominate the world – they needed Pizza and Raviolis. Harold and I observed Detente across the wide dining room table, but I felt superior in my firepower. Never again would American Technology be sullied. I had vanquished the foe.
I missed my mom, and wrote from time to time, and called once a week for a very short time in which we exchanged the most banal of pleasantries. I never asked and she never offered – Are you still dating the pilot?
At the end of August we drove to Quebec City, where my mother would meet us. We camped along the way which was neat, because unlike Boy Scout camping we had tables and chairs and ate out in restaurants each night for dinner.
We arrived at my Grandmother's house in Ste Foy, just outside the walls of Quebec. Pierre and I spoke more French and less English, and played a lot of “Amazing catches,” where we would throw the baseball just out of reach, forcing the catcher to make incredible dives.
My mother drove up in our 1969 green Ford Galaxie fastback and I was overjoyed to see her. We hugged and she kissed me and told me she missed me. I looked in the car and she was alone. I couldn't stand it -- “Where is Al?'
“He couldn't take vacation, but you'll see him when we get home. He wants to take you on a hairplane ride...”
The trip back to New Jersey was interminable for many reasons – I was back with my mom who I'd missed all summer, but now I was leaving my family in Canada – who seemed to live better, and have more stuff, and fight less...
As expected the traffic became more congested, and the heat more steamy, and the overall atmosphere more tense as we left the blessed “Northway” and entered the NY Thruway. New Jersey was a nightmare of smoke and people and noise after the clear blue skies of Ontario and Quebec.
We arrived home and I ran all my things up the flight of stairs to our apartment. Al wasn't there, but a few more Flying magazines had arrived over the summer.
School started in a few days, and once again I was in the midst of little Italians and Bigger Poles who all wanted a shot at me. I missed Canada where fighting was a rare event, and where I could beat up most of them anyway, since they didn't have as much practice.
As the weather cooled Al came over more frequently Finally, he said we'd be going to the airport on Saturday to “go up.”
Several Ice Ages passed by on Friday night. Saturday morning I was ready – camera, Aircraft Identification Handbook (in case we spotted other airplanes in flight), and a light blue windbreaker jacket which looked something like what Real Pilots wore.
We drove out to Caldwell Airport in Al's big loud car – he told me it had “a lot of power.” I figured it had to being so loud. We couldn't talk much because the windows were rolled down letting in all the power.
We rolled into the parking lot and just beyond the chain link fence I saw – airplanes. Not one, not a couple such as I could spy from the gate at Newark, but dozens of airplanes, all sitting there looking like they were ready to leap into the sky. I didn't have to open my Aircraft Identification Guide – I knew most of these airplanes by heart – a Cessna, a Piper, and a few two engine ones that looked kinda like a Beech something.
A guy in a leather jacket and sunglasses and short hair walked over to us – he had to be a pilot.
“Hi Joe, this is Daniel – is it alright if he sits in back for this one?” said Al. He shook Joe's hand and acted like he was a long-lost brother.
“Sure.” said Joe, the Pilot.
We walked over to a Piper Cherokee. Joe and Al walked around the airplane and opened the engine and stuff and talked about spotting that frayed wire the last time. I wanted to get in and get going! But it took a while while they undid ropes and moved the ailerons – I knew what those were!
Soon I was sitting in the back, seat belt across my hips, camera in hand, listening as Joe talked into the hand-held microphone. Al was sitting in the Pilot's seat, but Joe was doing all the talking in the co-pilot seat. I though the co-pilot just helped the real pilot?
Soon we were out in the middle of nowhere – I couldn't see any other airplanes of buildings nearby – it was a big wide open space – just like McGuire Air Force Base, where we had gone for an air show a long time ago. I was little then and didn't know all about airplanes like I do now...
Joe said something into the microphone and suddenly the noise got really loud – this thing must have a lot of power – and we were rolling like in a car... then I could see the control tower was below us.. and the parking lot with all the airplanes was smaller... and everything was going down – just like in a real Commercial Airplane.
We flew around for a while and I took pictures of every building, every field, every road – and there were plenty of each in North-central New Jersey at that time. Joe was telling Al to do this then do that. I couldn't hear what they were saying but it was awfully loud -- and then – oh no --
My stomach started to feel weird. My face got hot. I wasn't feeling so good. But how would I ever be a pilot if I got sick!?
I didn't say anything.
Then everything got very light and I felt like I was falling!
The sky in the windshield was replaced with the ground – I don't like this!
I was really not feeling good – I tugged on Al's jacket -- “Al – I don't feel good...”
I heard Joe say “I got it!” and then next thing I knew we were rolling on the ground, we stopped, and the door opened. Joe helped me down off the wing.
Al said, “You want to watch us from the ground for a while?”
“OK...”
They took off and I walked around all the parked airplanes. I was still fascinated, but now I was very disappointed in myself. How would I ever become a pilot if I got sick in an airplane, my favorite thing of all?
We drove home and didn't say much because of all the power. When I got home I told my Mom all about the airplane ride and how I took pictures. I didn't tell her about getting sick.
(to be continued ...)
Beech Skipper
Yesterday I gave my first lessons (Discovery Flights) in the BE77 Beechcraft Skipper.
I'd flown the airplane a few times before and was less than impressed with its anemic climb rate, lackluster takeoff roll, and penchant for tail wagging (scary similar to the V tail Bonanza!).
So yesterday we had another absolutely stunning day here in Western Pennsylvania. After giving the Skipper a nice bath and polishing up the windscreen I strapped in and decided to give this bird a fresh look.
Solo, the climb and performance is a bit more tolerable (though it took forever to climb to pattern altitude on this high DA day -- especially compared to the lightly loaded C205 I flew earlier in the day). Once above the low level ground turbulence in smoother air, I found the controls were responsive, yet the airplane was still docile and stable.
Stalls were a non-event, with enough break to show the difference between flying and not (unlike a fwd loaded C172 which can often just mush).
The T tail is a factor on both takeoff and landing. As the speed slows and the low wing floats in ground effect, it's easy to over-control the elevator. So the Skipper Pilot needs to spend some time in slow flight feeling the significant change in aerodynamic forces and the sensitive elevator and not over-apply (especially if the pilot has spent a lot of hours in heavy-tailed C182s, C205/206/210, and Bonanzas).
In takeoff over-rotation will stall the Elevator, increasing the ground roll. Book rotation speed is 58 -- nail that with a gentle tug on the yoke, hold it there, maintain centerline with right rudder, and the airplane flies itself off the ground.
Too much yank and the airplane gets airborne, the tail stalls, the nose pitches down slightly, and the Skipper flies along in ground effect until speed builds up.
Cruise speed is around 90 KIAS -- maybe. 80 KIAS is more likely.
I flew to VVS where the Discovery flights were scheduled. Mom, Dad, and young son all showed up and we sat down and talked through flight training, questions, expectations -- the works.
Only the son was interested -- until we went out to the airplane and did the walk around. I took the son over his house, he handled the yoke and pedals, and we talked about the airplane, flying, and what to expect, etc.
When I returned Dad said, "I'd like to try that!"
Over the house and around the town we went (the weather was spectacular, the air clear and smooth).
I let him fly us to the pattern then took over on base and final.
Both were beaming and said they wanted to schedule another lesson soon.
I took off and flew the Skipper back to FWQ (where the MetLife blimp is now parked -- kinda neat to hear "Airship" announcing position in the pattern) and it seemed to fly better -- I realized I had become a bit of a speed and performance snob, and the brush with the thrill of flight gave me renewed appreciation for this airplane's mission.
I'd flown the airplane a few times before and was less than impressed with its anemic climb rate, lackluster takeoff roll, and penchant for tail wagging (scary similar to the V tail Bonanza!).
So yesterday we had another absolutely stunning day here in Western Pennsylvania. After giving the Skipper a nice bath and polishing up the windscreen I strapped in and decided to give this bird a fresh look.
Solo, the climb and performance is a bit more tolerable (though it took forever to climb to pattern altitude on this high DA day -- especially compared to the lightly loaded C205 I flew earlier in the day). Once above the low level ground turbulence in smoother air, I found the controls were responsive, yet the airplane was still docile and stable.
Stalls were a non-event, with enough break to show the difference between flying and not (unlike a fwd loaded C172 which can often just mush).
The T tail is a factor on both takeoff and landing. As the speed slows and the low wing floats in ground effect, it's easy to over-control the elevator. So the Skipper Pilot needs to spend some time in slow flight feeling the significant change in aerodynamic forces and the sensitive elevator and not over-apply (especially if the pilot has spent a lot of hours in heavy-tailed C182s, C205/206/210, and Bonanzas).
In takeoff over-rotation will stall the Elevator, increasing the ground roll. Book rotation speed is 58 -- nail that with a gentle tug on the yoke, hold it there, maintain centerline with right rudder, and the airplane flies itself off the ground.
Too much yank and the airplane gets airborne, the tail stalls, the nose pitches down slightly, and the Skipper flies along in ground effect until speed builds up.
Cruise speed is around 90 KIAS -- maybe. 80 KIAS is more likely.
I flew to VVS where the Discovery flights were scheduled. Mom, Dad, and young son all showed up and we sat down and talked through flight training, questions, expectations -- the works.
Only the son was interested -- until we went out to the airplane and did the walk around. I took the son over his house, he handled the yoke and pedals, and we talked about the airplane, flying, and what to expect, etc.
When I returned Dad said, "I'd like to try that!"
Over the house and around the town we went (the weather was spectacular, the air clear and smooth).
I let him fly us to the pattern then took over on base and final.
Both were beaming and said they wanted to schedule another lesson soon.
I took off and flew the Skipper back to FWQ (where the MetLife blimp is now parked -- kinda neat to hear "Airship" announcing position in the pattern) and it seemed to fly better -- I realized I had become a bit of a speed and performance snob, and the brush with the thrill of flight gave me renewed appreciation for this airplane's mission.
Nearly Grounded
We were almost stuck this weekend.
I flew south Saturday morning to pick up my wife who spent the week with her family in SC. She's an anxious flier and I try to keep the bumps minimal to help re-build her confidence.
I had no illusions of returning Staurday, as winds picked up considerably (18G25 along the coast) and the route (60J to FWQ) would become a convective brew as the day wore on.
The Golf tournament in nearby Charlotte was delayed for the T-storms that rolled across. We saw one nearby that created a double rainbow. My phone camera unfortunately was not up to the task of capturing such an impressively beautiful sight.
We spent Saturday night at her parent's house then departed the house at 0400 for the 35 minute ride to the airport (We would fly CDN to 60J to pick up the airplane's owner, who has a house out there, and then head up to FWQ).
With no internet access and limited phone data, I relied on AFSS (It's amazing how different a picture one briefer can present compared to another) But I missed being able to see the big picture for myself. Nevertheless, the best plan was to fly early, before the rough stuff moved across the route and the southwesterly flow caused surface winds to gust to 25.
We departed at 0500 in light winds and mostly clear skies. I switched on the G496 and tabbed through the radar, winds aloft, and METAR/TAF screens. The picture squared with the latest brief, but more important to me was the potential for turbulence. Clouds, low ceilings, rain were acceptable -- high winds and moderate turbulence would be cause for landing prior to the destination.
We landed at 60J 50 minutes later. The last 300' AGL were a bit challenging as the 11-15 knot wind washed over the tree line. I think Janet was OK with those bumps because the ground was comfortably near (we made the right choice leaving early. An hour later Grand Strand was reporting 23015G21KT)
I checked ADDS in the brand-new pilot's lounge and it looked like we had our three hour window. If we waited much longer the heavier rain would be moving across our route. My out option was a deviation east, ahead of the yellow and red returns to KLNS where our daughter lives.
The first hour was smooth at 7k under a high BKN layer and over ground fog. As we approached ROA we slid into the clouds. We remained in solid IMC for the next 1.5 hours.
The Stormscope showed returns at 200nm. We were clear of the embedded t-storms which were southwest over TN. XM was painting dark green and yellow with a few splashes of red across most of eastern WV (which is normal as west or sw winds encounter the high terraan there).
I'd filed direct to ESL VOR, and from there direct FWQ to do a hook around the heavy stuff. Potomac wasn't crazy busy (0830 Sunday morning) so the controller let me know there was moderate immediately west and northeast, which was the same picture I was seeing on the XM. Rain was streaming on the windscreen, but the bumps were minimal (especially considering we were flying through a frontal boundary that was riding along the Alleghenies with changing wind direction and dropping temps)
As we flew over the higher ridges (still at 7k), we felt a few bumps -- nothing major and not even reportable. My favorite passenger was reading her book with headset off. So far so good.
There was an AIRMET for ice at 10k, but so far temps remained in the 40s.
Ground speed was still good at 145 knots or so.
The owner is a recent PPL who will be working his IR next -- so we did some airborne learning to keep things interesting (I was left seat for this flight -- my wife was aboard -- there's no way she'd feel comfortable otherwise).
When approaching FWQ from the south you stay with CLE CTR forever -- and then there is a very quick handoff to PIT APP. Before we crossed Laurel Ridge (the westernmost) I'd listen to a few local AWOS -- we'd be out of the clouds at 3000 or less, but CLE can only take you down to 4500.
As expected we were at 4500 with CLE until we were 14 miles out (airport elevation is 1250') I told PIT we wanted the GPS 8 -- he seemed surprised. But PIT (30 miles NW) was reporting 5000/ 5 mile vis. We weren't that clear due to fairly heavy rain and mist. Vectors went from HDG 310 to 050 to intercept.
I knew the approach and by the time we were established the ground was visible below. The wind correction angle was more than expected, but after getting it worked out we slid down the rail and touched down.
2:55 from takeoff at 60J to KFWQ.
We pushed the airplane in -- no need to wipe down bugs on this flight! -- and unloaded in heavy rain.
On the trip home my wife commented that there were "a few bumps" but that after flying those trips a trip to KLNS will "feel like nothing!"
Progress! Progress!
I flew south Saturday morning to pick up my wife who spent the week with her family in SC. She's an anxious flier and I try to keep the bumps minimal to help re-build her confidence.
I had no illusions of returning Staurday, as winds picked up considerably (18G25 along the coast) and the route (60J to FWQ) would become a convective brew as the day wore on.
The Golf tournament in nearby Charlotte was delayed for the T-storms that rolled across. We saw one nearby that created a double rainbow. My phone camera unfortunately was not up to the task of capturing such an impressively beautiful sight.
We spent Saturday night at her parent's house then departed the house at 0400 for the 35 minute ride to the airport (We would fly CDN to 60J to pick up the airplane's owner, who has a house out there, and then head up to FWQ).
With no internet access and limited phone data, I relied on AFSS (It's amazing how different a picture one briefer can present compared to another) But I missed being able to see the big picture for myself. Nevertheless, the best plan was to fly early, before the rough stuff moved across the route and the southwesterly flow caused surface winds to gust to 25.
We departed at 0500 in light winds and mostly clear skies. I switched on the G496 and tabbed through the radar, winds aloft, and METAR/TAF screens. The picture squared with the latest brief, but more important to me was the potential for turbulence. Clouds, low ceilings, rain were acceptable -- high winds and moderate turbulence would be cause for landing prior to the destination.
We landed at 60J 50 minutes later. The last 300' AGL were a bit challenging as the 11-15 knot wind washed over the tree line. I think Janet was OK with those bumps because the ground was comfortably near (we made the right choice leaving early. An hour later Grand Strand was reporting 23015G21KT)
I checked ADDS in the brand-new pilot's lounge and it looked like we had our three hour window. If we waited much longer the heavier rain would be moving across our route. My out option was a deviation east, ahead of the yellow and red returns to KLNS where our daughter lives.
The first hour was smooth at 7k under a high BKN layer and over ground fog. As we approached ROA we slid into the clouds. We remained in solid IMC for the next 1.5 hours.
The Stormscope showed returns at 200nm. We were clear of the embedded t-storms which were southwest over TN. XM was painting dark green and yellow with a few splashes of red across most of eastern WV (which is normal as west or sw winds encounter the high terraan there).
I'd filed direct to ESL VOR, and from there direct FWQ to do a hook around the heavy stuff. Potomac wasn't crazy busy (0830 Sunday morning) so the controller let me know there was moderate immediately west and northeast, which was the same picture I was seeing on the XM. Rain was streaming on the windscreen, but the bumps were minimal (especially considering we were flying through a frontal boundary that was riding along the Alleghenies with changing wind direction and dropping temps)
As we flew over the higher ridges (still at 7k), we felt a few bumps -- nothing major and not even reportable. My favorite passenger was reading her book with headset off. So far so good.
There was an AIRMET for ice at 10k, but so far temps remained in the 40s.
Ground speed was still good at 145 knots or so.
The owner is a recent PPL who will be working his IR next -- so we did some airborne learning to keep things interesting (I was left seat for this flight -- my wife was aboard -- there's no way she'd feel comfortable otherwise).
When approaching FWQ from the south you stay with CLE CTR forever -- and then there is a very quick handoff to PIT APP. Before we crossed Laurel Ridge (the westernmost) I'd listen to a few local AWOS -- we'd be out of the clouds at 3000 or less, but CLE can only take you down to 4500.
As expected we were at 4500 with CLE until we were 14 miles out (airport elevation is 1250') I told PIT we wanted the GPS 8 -- he seemed surprised. But PIT (30 miles NW) was reporting 5000/ 5 mile vis. We weren't that clear due to fairly heavy rain and mist. Vectors went from HDG 310 to 050 to intercept.
I knew the approach and by the time we were established the ground was visible below. The wind correction angle was more than expected, but after getting it worked out we slid down the rail and touched down.
2:55 from takeoff at 60J to KFWQ.
We pushed the airplane in -- no need to wipe down bugs on this flight! -- and unloaded in heavy rain.
On the trip home my wife commented that there were "a few bumps" but that after flying those trips a trip to KLNS will "feel like nothing!"
Progress! Progress!
West Branch of the Susquehanna Canoe Trip
Last Wednesday my son (will be 19 June 10th) and I put in at Karthaus, Pennsylvania for a four day trip down the West Branch of the Susquehanna River in North-Central PA.
We've done this trip before -- back when he and I each had more time (we paddled 218 miles from Shawville to Harrisburg, PA in 7 1/2 days).
This time we planned to do a subsection and end up close enough to friends in Lancaster to allow an easy pickup and truck retrieval. We planned to arrive at Rivers Edge campground near Northumberland and await pickup there Sunday morning.
The weather was perfect Wednesday morning as we drove the 3 ½ hours from home to Karthaus. The area around Karthaus is very remote – there are a few small, widely-scattered towns (collections of houses, really), a few defunct farms, and lots of trees and state game lands.
The Pennsylvania Fish and game commission has an access point on the south side of the river near Karthaus. We parked (the only vehicle there), unloaded our gear, loaded up the Wenonah Royalex Spirit II canoe, and shoved off at 1030 AM.
The first day we planned to travel 43 miles. The current is steady, with a few stretches of riffles here and there. At 3 foot on the Karthaus gage there was no whitewater to expect, but we had enough flow to avoid scraping through Buttermilk Falls.
We paddled until one, pulled over on a small rocky peninsula and made a quick lunch of canned beef stew, wheat thins, and animal crackers and apple sauce. 40 minutes later we were back on the river. Except for a few very brief stops for bio-breaks, we were on the river until 8:45 that night. We cut it very close, but riverside camping options are few along this stretch (road on one side, railroad on the other).
The river here is fairly remote as it is hemmed in tight between four to five hundred foot high ridges on either side. Much of the land is state owned – game commission or state forests. This is wild Elk country, but we didn’t hear or see any Elk. We did pass a black bear carcass on the side of the river. Was he a victim of a flash flood? On our last trip we spotted a bear swimming across the river. Perhaps this one tried on a day when the current was a bit too strong.
The first town we passed is Keating – a small collection of houses across from a steep ridge on the opposite shore. A few miles east we passed Renovo, a former railroad maintenance facility town that has seen better days. We didn’t stop as we were racing the sun, so we each consumed an MRE as we floated along in the 2-3 MPH current.
After Renovo, we looked for Hyner View – a small state park with a scenic overlook at the top of the ridge on the north side of the river. By now the sun was fading in the west, and we still had about 5 miles to go (a steady hour’s paddling).
We paddled steadily, until we reached McClosky Island – a gorgeous, 1.5 mile long island that splits the river a few miles south of Hyner View. As we approached the campsite -- an elevated patch at the very eastern tip – the sun was gone and by now we were paddling in slowly fading twilight.
Finally, after 10 hours on the river, we arrived at the campsite. I ran the tent and chow bag up to the site while Nathaniel secured the canoe and other gear. In 15 minutes we had camp set up and dinner cooking. It was completely dark by the time we had the canoe secured.
The site is flat, cleared, and clean -- obviously conscientious paddlers that use this small patch of private property are caring for it so it can be used again. We did not break with the pattern and left no trace.
Morning came quickly, but I kept hearing the sound of a turbine-powered prop plane doing turns about a point. It was slightly foggy, but VFR conditions. I finally crawled out of my sleeping bag and caught a glimpse of a yellow Ag-Cat doing low passes over the forest on the north shore (We saw him later downstream and figured he was probably spraying for gypsy moths).
The second day we were on the river by 8 and enjoyed decent current and spectacular views. While the river is less wild here -- a road runs up along the hillside on the right shore and a railroad is on the left (though we saw now moving trains and heard very few cars) –- the river flows through an ever-widening valley.
We enjoyed the dry air and brilliant sunshine as the day warmed. Before lunchtime we were paddling the four mile pool formed by the dam at Lock Haven. Soon we saw the enormous flood wall on river left that is meant to protect Lock Haven from the next Agnes flood. Instead it blocks the entire town from river views, and gives the river a Soviet ambience.
We secured the canoe and headed into town where the local Subway provided lunch. We refilled our water container at a local outfitter and headed back to the hard work or portaging.
The Lock Haven portage is the easiest on the Susquehanna system. There is a rip-rap ramp about 100’ upstream from the dam, and another 100’ below. We canoed to the ramp, unloaded everything, and moved the gear – I carried everything halfway, Nathaniel picked it up and moved it to the end. It was a good system and we had it all moved in no time.
We put in to the welcome fast current and headed downstream at 3. The heat of the day was past and we enjoyed the swift current and the changing scenery.
Bald Eagle creek empties into the Susquehanna just below Lock haven, and the change to the river is dramatic. Instead of sterile, clear acid-mine-drainage water, the river now became dark green and filled with life. We spotted more and more birds, fish, and plants. We even saw several stonefly and mayflies emerging (too bad this river is dammed and too warm for trout!)
We put in below the Route 220 Bridge and walked to Avis, where we visited a small convenience store. Three years ago we were here and the place was like an oven. Sure enough: “The AC is broke…” (I think the owners don’t want to turn on air conditioning before Memorial Day). We bought some Iced tea, Ice Cream, water, and pretzels.
We walked the mile and a half back, and started paddling again. We wanted to find a campsite further downstream so we could get most of the next day’s lake paddling done before lunch. We found a nice level site on river left about a mile before Pine creek. The site was on a small bench below an enormous flat field east of Avis. We kept a low profile (no fires, etc) and used the Sun Shower. Our dinner of canned chili and instant mashed potatoes was surprisingly good.
The wind picked up as night fell, and soon I was concerned about the limbs directly over our tent. They held, and the next morning dawned bright and clear. We were on the river by 7 AM, and quickly made progress towards Williamsport. We stopped in Jersey Shore for a quick bio-break, and then continued a steady paddle downstream.
By now the river is agricultural at the bottom of a very wide valley. Far in the distance on the right Bald Eagle ridge marked the south side of the valley. The northern side was not visible from river level. There are more houses, and more noise from traffic on the busy roads along the north shore. After a quick ride through some welcome riffles twelve miles of dead water paddling and a difficult portage lay ahead. But a short walk from the base of the dam lay the local Wegmans grocery store – with delicious Sub sandwiches, cannolis, fruit, and other edibles waiting for us.
We kept up a steady 4 miles per hour on the flatwater section, and by 1230 we were tied up to the rip-rap on the upstream side of the dam. We secured our gear and headed to Wegmans!
Lunch was as good as we expected despite the store being unbearably crowded. We picked up some bagels, muffins, water, and fruit and head back to the canoe and the portage.
The guide describes a portage, but I have no idea what they are talking about. So we carefully paddled up the northern shore after scouting the route. We hopped out and pulled the canoe as close to the dam as possible, then tied it up.
The portage wasn’t as hard as last time (it had been 93 degrees that day – today, it was 84 and some high clouds were helping reduce the intensity of the sun). We had packed less and consumed all our heavy food before reaching this spot. Plus we had a better system – one of us dragged gear up, the other down. Soon all the gear was moved to the downstream side of the dam. We lifted the canoe and moved it as well.
A half hour after starting the portage we were back in the water enjoying the revived current and some fresh oranges and bagels.
The river below Williamsport changes character yet again as the ridge closes in on the right and civilization fades northward. The houses and cottages are fewer and fewer, and soon the river seems wild again, with a welcome current steadily flowing south and east. We hit the best riffles of the trip on this stretch, with a complete wave lapping over the gunwales and dumping a couple of gallons of river into the bottom. A large, dark cloud appeared over the ridge to our right. I kept an eye on it – it looked like a precursor to a thunderstorm. We decided to push on to a campground in Montgomery where there would be showers and shelter.
We made our way past Muncy and the long impressive brick wall of the Wallis Mansion dating to colonial times along river left. We passed the railroad bridge that cost the lives of seven passengers on The Last Raft, a 1938 living history project which struck a bridge pier and upset the raft, towing all but one of the 47 people aboard into the chilly March water.
After Muncy the river slows again and forms a long pool, with vacation homes and trailers perched up on the right bank, and steep but short ridge enclosing the left. At the end of the pool a few islands mark the next stretch of riffles as the river plunges a couple of feet to the next pool. We ran these riffles in center stream, enjoyed the bit of action, and then paddled for Montgomery on the right bank.
Montgomery has tremendous playground facilities for such a small town – a skate park, a gorgeous Little League baseball park, slides, swings – the works. We planned on staying at a campground which was right on the edge of the river and had hot showers and shelter in case the dark clouds were in fact thunderstorms.
I failed to consider that the Friday night of Memorial Day weekend is most likely the busiest day of the year for campgrounds. I asked for a site close to the river to minimize the portaging. We ended up about 300 yards from the river. We had the showers to ourselves (25 cents for 10 minutes of water through a coin operated device) and a passel of noisy, obnoxious teenage boys in a tent right behind us. The folks across from us were pleasant and invited us to dinner.
At 930 the kids behind us were bothersome. At 1030 they were insufferable – especially after little brother joined them. The kid was hopped up on Mountain Dew and Yoo-Hoo, and would let out a blood-curdling scream every 3 minutes or so. The mother would poke her head in the tent every ten minutes or so and threaten all sorts of damage. Two minutes later the kids were back at it. A trip to the office resulted in a complaint lodged – apparently this camp means it when they threaten to evict campers that break curfew. They got quiet in a hurry – of course by now it was 1130 and our day had started at 5.
We wanted to be on the river early the next day to dodge the predicted thunderstorms. We resolved to be on the water by 7, which meant a 530 AM wakeup. I had time as I waited for sleep to concoct a plan for the morning.
We were up and packed by 645 or so. I found a nice large split log, warned the nice people that there might be a loud noise. The site picnic table was about a yard away from the tent. The sound of the log smacking that table reverberated throughout the entire campsite – it sounded like an M-16 on 3 round burst.
Then, I leaned into the tent and reverted to OCS TAC Officer / Drill Sergeant/ Command voice and yelled (very loudly): “GOOD MORNING, CUPCAKE! TIME TO RISE AND SHINE!!”
Needless to say, this was a rather surprising morning greeting for the tent filled with delinquents- in-training.
We hopped in our canoe and let out a few more wake up yells for the benefit of all, and headed downstream munching on bagels and muffins.
We paddled the last 11 miles to Milton State Park, where I contacted Enterprise, reserved a car, and we began the tasks of shuttling gear and cars to get everything where it needed to be. Rain was falling and thunderstorms were threatening. Since I already have plenty of punches in my man-card, and practicing being miserable is not on my to-do list, we called it a trip and headed for Lancaster.
We've done this trip before -- back when he and I each had more time (we paddled 218 miles from Shawville to Harrisburg, PA in 7 1/2 days).
This time we planned to do a subsection and end up close enough to friends in Lancaster to allow an easy pickup and truck retrieval. We planned to arrive at Rivers Edge campground near Northumberland and await pickup there Sunday morning.
The weather was perfect Wednesday morning as we drove the 3 ½ hours from home to Karthaus. The area around Karthaus is very remote – there are a few small, widely-scattered towns (collections of houses, really), a few defunct farms, and lots of trees and state game lands.
The Pennsylvania Fish and game commission has an access point on the south side of the river near Karthaus. We parked (the only vehicle there), unloaded our gear, loaded up the Wenonah Royalex Spirit II canoe, and shoved off at 1030 AM.
The first day we planned to travel 43 miles. The current is steady, with a few stretches of riffles here and there. At 3 foot on the Karthaus gage there was no whitewater to expect, but we had enough flow to avoid scraping through Buttermilk Falls.
We paddled until one, pulled over on a small rocky peninsula and made a quick lunch of canned beef stew, wheat thins, and animal crackers and apple sauce. 40 minutes later we were back on the river. Except for a few very brief stops for bio-breaks, we were on the river until 8:45 that night. We cut it very close, but riverside camping options are few along this stretch (road on one side, railroad on the other).
The river here is fairly remote as it is hemmed in tight between four to five hundred foot high ridges on either side. Much of the land is state owned – game commission or state forests. This is wild Elk country, but we didn’t hear or see any Elk. We did pass a black bear carcass on the side of the river. Was he a victim of a flash flood? On our last trip we spotted a bear swimming across the river. Perhaps this one tried on a day when the current was a bit too strong.
The first town we passed is Keating – a small collection of houses across from a steep ridge on the opposite shore. A few miles east we passed Renovo, a former railroad maintenance facility town that has seen better days. We didn’t stop as we were racing the sun, so we each consumed an MRE as we floated along in the 2-3 MPH current.
After Renovo, we looked for Hyner View – a small state park with a scenic overlook at the top of the ridge on the north side of the river. By now the sun was fading in the west, and we still had about 5 miles to go (a steady hour’s paddling).
We paddled steadily, until we reached McClosky Island – a gorgeous, 1.5 mile long island that splits the river a few miles south of Hyner View. As we approached the campsite -- an elevated patch at the very eastern tip – the sun was gone and by now we were paddling in slowly fading twilight.
Finally, after 10 hours on the river, we arrived at the campsite. I ran the tent and chow bag up to the site while Nathaniel secured the canoe and other gear. In 15 minutes we had camp set up and dinner cooking. It was completely dark by the time we had the canoe secured.
The site is flat, cleared, and clean -- obviously conscientious paddlers that use this small patch of private property are caring for it so it can be used again. We did not break with the pattern and left no trace.
Morning came quickly, but I kept hearing the sound of a turbine-powered prop plane doing turns about a point. It was slightly foggy, but VFR conditions. I finally crawled out of my sleeping bag and caught a glimpse of a yellow Ag-Cat doing low passes over the forest on the north shore (We saw him later downstream and figured he was probably spraying for gypsy moths).
The second day we were on the river by 8 and enjoyed decent current and spectacular views. While the river is less wild here -- a road runs up along the hillside on the right shore and a railroad is on the left (though we saw now moving trains and heard very few cars) –- the river flows through an ever-widening valley.
We enjoyed the dry air and brilliant sunshine as the day warmed. Before lunchtime we were paddling the four mile pool formed by the dam at Lock Haven. Soon we saw the enormous flood wall on river left that is meant to protect Lock Haven from the next Agnes flood. Instead it blocks the entire town from river views, and gives the river a Soviet ambience.
We secured the canoe and headed into town where the local Subway provided lunch. We refilled our water container at a local outfitter and headed back to the hard work or portaging.
The Lock Haven portage is the easiest on the Susquehanna system. There is a rip-rap ramp about 100’ upstream from the dam, and another 100’ below. We canoed to the ramp, unloaded everything, and moved the gear – I carried everything halfway, Nathaniel picked it up and moved it to the end. It was a good system and we had it all moved in no time.
We put in to the welcome fast current and headed downstream at 3. The heat of the day was past and we enjoyed the swift current and the changing scenery.
Bald Eagle creek empties into the Susquehanna just below Lock haven, and the change to the river is dramatic. Instead of sterile, clear acid-mine-drainage water, the river now became dark green and filled with life. We spotted more and more birds, fish, and plants. We even saw several stonefly and mayflies emerging (too bad this river is dammed and too warm for trout!)
We put in below the Route 220 Bridge and walked to Avis, where we visited a small convenience store. Three years ago we were here and the place was like an oven. Sure enough: “The AC is broke…” (I think the owners don’t want to turn on air conditioning before Memorial Day). We bought some Iced tea, Ice Cream, water, and pretzels.
We walked the mile and a half back, and started paddling again. We wanted to find a campsite further downstream so we could get most of the next day’s lake paddling done before lunch. We found a nice level site on river left about a mile before Pine creek. The site was on a small bench below an enormous flat field east of Avis. We kept a low profile (no fires, etc) and used the Sun Shower. Our dinner of canned chili and instant mashed potatoes was surprisingly good.
The wind picked up as night fell, and soon I was concerned about the limbs directly over our tent. They held, and the next morning dawned bright and clear. We were on the river by 7 AM, and quickly made progress towards Williamsport. We stopped in Jersey Shore for a quick bio-break, and then continued a steady paddle downstream.
By now the river is agricultural at the bottom of a very wide valley. Far in the distance on the right Bald Eagle ridge marked the south side of the valley. The northern side was not visible from river level. There are more houses, and more noise from traffic on the busy roads along the north shore. After a quick ride through some welcome riffles twelve miles of dead water paddling and a difficult portage lay ahead. But a short walk from the base of the dam lay the local Wegmans grocery store – with delicious Sub sandwiches, cannolis, fruit, and other edibles waiting for us.
We kept up a steady 4 miles per hour on the flatwater section, and by 1230 we were tied up to the rip-rap on the upstream side of the dam. We secured our gear and headed to Wegmans!
Lunch was as good as we expected despite the store being unbearably crowded. We picked up some bagels, muffins, water, and fruit and head back to the canoe and the portage.
The guide describes a portage, but I have no idea what they are talking about. So we carefully paddled up the northern shore after scouting the route. We hopped out and pulled the canoe as close to the dam as possible, then tied it up.
The portage wasn’t as hard as last time (it had been 93 degrees that day – today, it was 84 and some high clouds were helping reduce the intensity of the sun). We had packed less and consumed all our heavy food before reaching this spot. Plus we had a better system – one of us dragged gear up, the other down. Soon all the gear was moved to the downstream side of the dam. We lifted the canoe and moved it as well.
A half hour after starting the portage we were back in the water enjoying the revived current and some fresh oranges and bagels.
The river below Williamsport changes character yet again as the ridge closes in on the right and civilization fades northward. The houses and cottages are fewer and fewer, and soon the river seems wild again, with a welcome current steadily flowing south and east. We hit the best riffles of the trip on this stretch, with a complete wave lapping over the gunwales and dumping a couple of gallons of river into the bottom. A large, dark cloud appeared over the ridge to our right. I kept an eye on it – it looked like a precursor to a thunderstorm. We decided to push on to a campground in Montgomery where there would be showers and shelter.
We made our way past Muncy and the long impressive brick wall of the Wallis Mansion dating to colonial times along river left. We passed the railroad bridge that cost the lives of seven passengers on The Last Raft, a 1938 living history project which struck a bridge pier and upset the raft, towing all but one of the 47 people aboard into the chilly March water.
After Muncy the river slows again and forms a long pool, with vacation homes and trailers perched up on the right bank, and steep but short ridge enclosing the left. At the end of the pool a few islands mark the next stretch of riffles as the river plunges a couple of feet to the next pool. We ran these riffles in center stream, enjoyed the bit of action, and then paddled for Montgomery on the right bank.
Montgomery has tremendous playground facilities for such a small town – a skate park, a gorgeous Little League baseball park, slides, swings – the works. We planned on staying at a campground which was right on the edge of the river and had hot showers and shelter in case the dark clouds were in fact thunderstorms.
I failed to consider that the Friday night of Memorial Day weekend is most likely the busiest day of the year for campgrounds. I asked for a site close to the river to minimize the portaging. We ended up about 300 yards from the river. We had the showers to ourselves (25 cents for 10 minutes of water through a coin operated device) and a passel of noisy, obnoxious teenage boys in a tent right behind us. The folks across from us were pleasant and invited us to dinner.
At 930 the kids behind us were bothersome. At 1030 they were insufferable – especially after little brother joined them. The kid was hopped up on Mountain Dew and Yoo-Hoo, and would let out a blood-curdling scream every 3 minutes or so. The mother would poke her head in the tent every ten minutes or so and threaten all sorts of damage. Two minutes later the kids were back at it. A trip to the office resulted in a complaint lodged – apparently this camp means it when they threaten to evict campers that break curfew. They got quiet in a hurry – of course by now it was 1130 and our day had started at 5.
We wanted to be on the river early the next day to dodge the predicted thunderstorms. We resolved to be on the water by 7, which meant a 530 AM wakeup. I had time as I waited for sleep to concoct a plan for the morning.
We were up and packed by 645 or so. I found a nice large split log, warned the nice people that there might be a loud noise. The site picnic table was about a yard away from the tent. The sound of the log smacking that table reverberated throughout the entire campsite – it sounded like an M-16 on 3 round burst.
Then, I leaned into the tent and reverted to OCS TAC Officer / Drill Sergeant/ Command voice and yelled (very loudly): “GOOD MORNING, CUPCAKE! TIME TO RISE AND SHINE!!”
Needless to say, this was a rather surprising morning greeting for the tent filled with delinquents- in-training.
We hopped in our canoe and let out a few more wake up yells for the benefit of all, and headed downstream munching on bagels and muffins.
We paddled the last 11 miles to Milton State Park, where I contacted Enterprise, reserved a car, and we began the tasks of shuttling gear and cars to get everything where it needed to be. Rain was falling and thunderstorms were threatening. Since I already have plenty of punches in my man-card, and practicing being miserable is not on my to-do list, we called it a trip and headed for Lancaster.
Fun in the Grass
Yesterday afternoon flew out to a private, grass field in Central PA for the first time. (first time to this field -- not first time landing on turf!)
If you've ever flown over Central PA -- in June, it's all green.
I coordinated with the field owner, and I asked for a location. He said it was "14 miles on 270 radial of Ravine VOR." I asked him for nearby road names and did a fly-by on Google Earth in the morning.
I decided to file since there were some scattered clouds and buildup along a few ridges, and above would be smoother and cooler than below. Besides, it never hurts to keep up with IFR procedures and language, I like having additional eyes looking for traffic, and it forces me to keep up the discipline of flight plan and briefing, etc.
I took off 10 minutes late at 1440 into the bouncy sky and through bumpy CU over the ridges near Johnstown and Altoona. As I climbed I left the heat behind and enjoyed the cooler air streaming in through the wing root cans.
Harrisburg Approach -- as usual -- gave me a "Fly direct HAR VOR" -- about 50 degrees right of my planned, filed, cleared, and desired course. Ugh -- I can never fly through that airspace without some inexplicable change of routing.
Anyway, the new course meant I was approaching from the southwest, as opposed to the west, so things looked different that what I'd rehearsed.
I cancelled IFR once below the scattered CU to get out of HAR APP clutches, flew towards the Susquehanna River, and was looking at two identical valleys -- same town position along the river, same ridge height and direction -- same everything.
I looked at the secondary VOR and I was a bit left of the 270 radial. I turned 15 degrees right, and flew towards the more southern valley.
In the distance I saw the small, one acre pond that had been visible on Google Earth. I switched to 122.75 and Dane answered on his handheld. I flew along until I spotted two red barns -- he said he saw me overhead, so I must be close!
And then… those two lovely white barrels that marked the runway end. As soon as I saw those the “runway” popped out from the landscape and I didn’t have any more problems visualizing it or my position relative to it.
I flew a normal pattern and landed a tiny bit long (the runway slopes up, but I didn't adequately adapt for the upslope illusion).
I floated a bit while feeling for the surface. I felt the mains touch and kept the nosewheel up (whew) and I bumped along on the rollout of my first turf landing in a while.
I had dinner with our friends, did a talk for their church youth group, and then hustled back to the airport for the return flight home.
I wanted to be off NLT 2015, but we didn’t get to the airport until 2020. Everything checked out, a hurried goodbye, and then I was bouncing down the turf and airborne 10 minutes later, watching trees and then the muddy Susquehanna pass beneath me.
The flight back was smooth. There were a few stretches of flying in and out of the cloud tops (it’s rare that happens – I’m either in the middle of the soup or above or below).
8k put me in and out of the tops, and I enjoyed the wonderful sensation of speed as I approached and broke through wisps of disintegrating cumulus.
The sunset was beautiful; the airplane was flying as expected, and so I pressed on the 20 minutes after darkness finally fell from JST to KFWQ.
I cancelled over KLBE, descended gradually, and clicked on the lights 20 miles out. The taxiway lights shone blue and bright, and the straight-in approach at 90 MPH (old airplane) seemed to take forever – everything was in a state of suspended animation until the last hundred feet – then the runway leapt up, the airplane settled down, and the transition from flying to rolling was barely perceived.
I announced clear of the active to no one, pushed the airplane in the hangar, and listened to the engine clicking as it cooled while wiping off the summer bugs.
A motorcycle ride home in the dark put the icing on this wonderful afternoon and evening.
If you've ever flown over Central PA -- in June, it's all green.
I coordinated with the field owner, and I asked for a location. He said it was "14 miles on 270 radial of Ravine VOR." I asked him for nearby road names and did a fly-by on Google Earth in the morning.
I decided to file since there were some scattered clouds and buildup along a few ridges, and above would be smoother and cooler than below. Besides, it never hurts to keep up with IFR procedures and language, I like having additional eyes looking for traffic, and it forces me to keep up the discipline of flight plan and briefing, etc.
I took off 10 minutes late at 1440 into the bouncy sky and through bumpy CU over the ridges near Johnstown and Altoona. As I climbed I left the heat behind and enjoyed the cooler air streaming in through the wing root cans.
Harrisburg Approach -- as usual -- gave me a "Fly direct HAR VOR" -- about 50 degrees right of my planned, filed, cleared, and desired course. Ugh -- I can never fly through that airspace without some inexplicable change of routing.
Anyway, the new course meant I was approaching from the southwest, as opposed to the west, so things looked different that what I'd rehearsed.
I cancelled IFR once below the scattered CU to get out of HAR APP clutches, flew towards the Susquehanna River, and was looking at two identical valleys -- same town position along the river, same ridge height and direction -- same everything.
I looked at the secondary VOR and I was a bit left of the 270 radial. I turned 15 degrees right, and flew towards the more southern valley.
In the distance I saw the small, one acre pond that had been visible on Google Earth. I switched to 122.75 and Dane answered on his handheld. I flew along until I spotted two red barns -- he said he saw me overhead, so I must be close!
And then… those two lovely white barrels that marked the runway end. As soon as I saw those the “runway” popped out from the landscape and I didn’t have any more problems visualizing it or my position relative to it.
I flew a normal pattern and landed a tiny bit long (the runway slopes up, but I didn't adequately adapt for the upslope illusion).
I floated a bit while feeling for the surface. I felt the mains touch and kept the nosewheel up (whew) and I bumped along on the rollout of my first turf landing in a while.
I had dinner with our friends, did a talk for their church youth group, and then hustled back to the airport for the return flight home.
I wanted to be off NLT 2015, but we didn’t get to the airport until 2020. Everything checked out, a hurried goodbye, and then I was bouncing down the turf and airborne 10 minutes later, watching trees and then the muddy Susquehanna pass beneath me.
The flight back was smooth. There were a few stretches of flying in and out of the cloud tops (it’s rare that happens – I’m either in the middle of the soup or above or below).
8k put me in and out of the tops, and I enjoyed the wonderful sensation of speed as I approached and broke through wisps of disintegrating cumulus.
The sunset was beautiful; the airplane was flying as expected, and so I pressed on the 20 minutes after darkness finally fell from JST to KFWQ.
I cancelled over KLBE, descended gradually, and clicked on the lights 20 miles out. The taxiway lights shone blue and bright, and the straight-in approach at 90 MPH (old airplane) seemed to take forever – everything was in a state of suspended animation until the last hundred feet – then the runway leapt up, the airplane settled down, and the transition from flying to rolling was barely perceived.
I announced clear of the active to no one, pushed the airplane in the hangar, and listened to the engine clicking as it cooled while wiping off the summer bugs.
A motorcycle ride home in the dark put the icing on this wonderful afternoon and evening.
Goodbye Horses
This isn’t about airplanes, but people who share an irrational passion for something as costly and inefficient as General Aviation might appreciate a story about horses.
Today our two horses – Taboo and Paige – were hauled away on a trailer to their new homes in northwest Pennsylvania. Paige will go to a woman who has a farm and has been taking lessons and has always wanted her own horse. Taboo will be going back home to Carol from whom we bought her ten years ago.
I wasn’t there to help load them – which is just as well. It hasn’t hit me yet that they’re gone, but it probably will in the morning when I go out to the barn to feed them and let them out as I have every day for the last six years. The barn will be empty, the pasture will get overgrown, and the smell of horse manure will slowly dissipate.
I haven’t been able to ride much the last couple of years. Taboo developed arthritis in her hip, and was no longer up for the long trail rides in the woods and fields on the hills behind the house. I tried a few times, but she was in pain with each step. So she and my son’s horse Paige became lawn ornaments, happily munching grass and getting fat and living the perfect horse life – no work, plenty of food, and no pesky people making demands.
Horses are not like dogs – they don’t run up to you and wag their tails and seem happy to see you. In fact, most horses would rather be left alone, and accept a bit and bridle somewhat reluctantly. They pretend to not notice you when you’re in their space, and are devoid of any overt affection (contrary to the movies). And unlike dogs, every horse has the capacity to do serious harm to frail tiny humans – even unintentional acts can cause injury or even death.
Horses communicate in subtle ways that are nearly imperceptible, and yet can read human body language better than people. The same relatively tiny brain that shrieks “RUN!” at the sight of a plastic bag blowing in the wind will sense your mood and react accordingly. I learned early not to expect a good ride when I was all amped up after a hard day.
Horses require an amazing amount of human labor – daily mucking of stalls, filling and carrying water, loading and moving bales of hay, shavings, fifty pound bags of feed, putting up and maintain fence, filling in groundhog holes, removing noxious plants – which does not include the actual labor on the horse – brushing, trimming, picking, cleaning, bandaging. Couple the labor with the costs for all the support materials and the investment is significant.
Of course they provided free lawn mowing across three acres, but were selective in which grass was mowed close and which was left to grow to shaggy heights (horses are perpetual 2-year olds – always eat candy first). Many times I wish I could have hitched up both horses to help me drag trees I cut down, or piles of cut firewood across the snow. But driving a team is another skill that horses need to be trained to do. Add to the training the cost of the hitch and pretty soon you just end up letting them watch as you haul the firewood up the hill one load at a time.
I learned to ride when I was in my forties, and unlike the loose-limbed 12-year-old neophytes at the training barn, I needed extra help in getting my heels down. I never planned on competing, and was perfectly happy when I had enough proficiency to saddle up and head out onto the trails. I learned to control the horse by thought, and Taboo was more than happy not to have her sides kicked or her mouth pulled. The snaffle bit became an extension of sight – where I looked, we went. When I thought, “Let’s pick up the pace...” she’d trot. And when I leaned forward a bit and gave her some rein, she knew it was time to let it rip.
Taboo is a well-built American Quarter Horse – compact and strong and fast. I’ve ridden motorcycles practically my entire life and currently ride a FZ1 (140+ hp liter bike) and I am not exaggerating when I say that this horse accelerated faster than any machine. We would go from a stand to gone in two strides. The wind, the silence, the movement, and the feeling of a thousand pounds of animal straining to get there as fast as possible was truly intoxicating.
Paige is an older horse – we bought her so my son could learn to ride and to give Taboo company after we let Mickey go (a strong-willed, badly trained gelding that was more work than fun). Nathaniel took lessons and enjoyed riding, but it never got to him as it did to me. After a couple of seasons Paige wasn’t doing much either.
I’m old enough to know about life’s seasons and change and all that stuff. And both horses are going to better homes – our barn was a converted garage, our pasture only three acres, and no one had time anymore to work with or ride the horses.
But after you’ve had a connection with such a beautiful, powerful, sensitive animal, it’s hard to think life will ever be as full and complete, no matter how many machines you try to replace it with.
Today our two horses – Taboo and Paige – were hauled away on a trailer to their new homes in northwest Pennsylvania. Paige will go to a woman who has a farm and has been taking lessons and has always wanted her own horse. Taboo will be going back home to Carol from whom we bought her ten years ago.
I wasn’t there to help load them – which is just as well. It hasn’t hit me yet that they’re gone, but it probably will in the morning when I go out to the barn to feed them and let them out as I have every day for the last six years. The barn will be empty, the pasture will get overgrown, and the smell of horse manure will slowly dissipate.
I haven’t been able to ride much the last couple of years. Taboo developed arthritis in her hip, and was no longer up for the long trail rides in the woods and fields on the hills behind the house. I tried a few times, but she was in pain with each step. So she and my son’s horse Paige became lawn ornaments, happily munching grass and getting fat and living the perfect horse life – no work, plenty of food, and no pesky people making demands.
Horses are not like dogs – they don’t run up to you and wag their tails and seem happy to see you. In fact, most horses would rather be left alone, and accept a bit and bridle somewhat reluctantly. They pretend to not notice you when you’re in their space, and are devoid of any overt affection (contrary to the movies). And unlike dogs, every horse has the capacity to do serious harm to frail tiny humans – even unintentional acts can cause injury or even death.
Horses communicate in subtle ways that are nearly imperceptible, and yet can read human body language better than people. The same relatively tiny brain that shrieks “RUN!” at the sight of a plastic bag blowing in the wind will sense your mood and react accordingly. I learned early not to expect a good ride when I was all amped up after a hard day.
Horses require an amazing amount of human labor – daily mucking of stalls, filling and carrying water, loading and moving bales of hay, shavings, fifty pound bags of feed, putting up and maintain fence, filling in groundhog holes, removing noxious plants – which does not include the actual labor on the horse – brushing, trimming, picking, cleaning, bandaging. Couple the labor with the costs for all the support materials and the investment is significant.
Of course they provided free lawn mowing across three acres, but were selective in which grass was mowed close and which was left to grow to shaggy heights (horses are perpetual 2-year olds – always eat candy first). Many times I wish I could have hitched up both horses to help me drag trees I cut down, or piles of cut firewood across the snow. But driving a team is another skill that horses need to be trained to do. Add to the training the cost of the hitch and pretty soon you just end up letting them watch as you haul the firewood up the hill one load at a time.
I learned to ride when I was in my forties, and unlike the loose-limbed 12-year-old neophytes at the training barn, I needed extra help in getting my heels down. I never planned on competing, and was perfectly happy when I had enough proficiency to saddle up and head out onto the trails. I learned to control the horse by thought, and Taboo was more than happy not to have her sides kicked or her mouth pulled. The snaffle bit became an extension of sight – where I looked, we went. When I thought, “Let’s pick up the pace...” she’d trot. And when I leaned forward a bit and gave her some rein, she knew it was time to let it rip.
Taboo is a well-built American Quarter Horse – compact and strong and fast. I’ve ridden motorcycles practically my entire life and currently ride a FZ1 (140+ hp liter bike) and I am not exaggerating when I say that this horse accelerated faster than any machine. We would go from a stand to gone in two strides. The wind, the silence, the movement, and the feeling of a thousand pounds of animal straining to get there as fast as possible was truly intoxicating.
Paige is an older horse – we bought her so my son could learn to ride and to give Taboo company after we let Mickey go (a strong-willed, badly trained gelding that was more work than fun). Nathaniel took lessons and enjoyed riding, but it never got to him as it did to me. After a couple of seasons Paige wasn’t doing much either.
I’m old enough to know about life’s seasons and change and all that stuff. And both horses are going to better homes – our barn was a converted garage, our pasture only three acres, and no one had time anymore to work with or ride the horses.
But after you’ve had a connection with such a beautiful, powerful, sensitive animal, it’s hard to think life will ever be as full and complete, no matter how many machines you try to replace it with.
Lad: 1996-2009
Lad, our Yellow Labrador retriever, died today at 4:30 in the vet's office.
He started acting sick yesterday. He wouldn't eat, and today couldn't even keep down water. Our regular vet doesn't keep Saturday hours, so we took Lad at 1030 to another nearby vet we've used for our cats.
He wouldn't even walk, so we made a stretcher with an old sheet. He didn't even struggle or complain. He was really sick.
We put him in the bed of the truck, and slowly drove the 5 miles to the office. We waited outside -- he was comfortable outside in the bed, and I parked under a shady tree.
At 1230 the vet tech came out and took all Lad's info. By then his breathing was shallow and he was panting.
We rigged another stretcher from a blanket. They asked if it would be ok to put a muzzle on him. He didn't mind, but it really wasn't needed.
We took him inside and after a short wait the Dr. came in and checked him out. He said he had a heart arythmia, and his short breaths and overall demeanor didn't look good. We asked what he thought we should do. He said his job was to make the animals better, and it was up to us.
I asked him to do some tests to help determine what was wrong. He agreed and said they'd call in a couple of hours.
He called us at 4 and said Lad had near total kidney failure, which was causing all the secondary problems. He said he could euthanize Lad.. we would have to let him know.
I said we'd come in. We left the house at 4:10, and arrived at the office at 4:20.
When we walked in Lad was on the floor on a blanket. The Dr said he was going fast, and he didn't need to euthanize him.
We walked over and knelt down next to our faithful, ever friendly, always patient Lad. He was fading fast. His breathing was labored and he didn't seem to recognize us -- the first time in over 12 years.
The Dr and vet techs knelt down and pet Lad as well. Soon, his breaths came less frequently. At about 4:30, he breathed his last.
Lad lived a very good life, was still walking a 3 mile hilly loop 3-4 times a week until last Spring, and still look forward to every single meal until Thursday, and always greeted every person that came to the house.
He knew when to bark when a stranger came up the driveway, but would remain quiet when one of us came home late.
He was easy to train, loved to be outside, probably had ten thousand mile son his paws, and was a great companion on backpacking and camping trips.
One time we were backpacking and in the middle of the night I woke up -- Lad was standing, hair on the back of his neck straight up, silently staring at the tent flap. I moved it aside to see a huge black bear about 20 feet away. I shone a light and it took off. Lad never barked or even moved -- he just let me know the bear was there (we get bears over 500 lbs regularly around here).
Lad would break through ice to swim, followed me on countless runs on trails, and even followed me as I rode a Mountain bike through county park.
His energy was boundless and his love for people never failed.
In the last year his energy slowly wound down and he became less vigorous. Yet he still loved to go for walks -- even if it took a while to get up the steeper hills.
We will miss our Lad.
He started acting sick yesterday. He wouldn't eat, and today couldn't even keep down water. Our regular vet doesn't keep Saturday hours, so we took Lad at 1030 to another nearby vet we've used for our cats.
He wouldn't even walk, so we made a stretcher with an old sheet. He didn't even struggle or complain. He was really sick.
We put him in the bed of the truck, and slowly drove the 5 miles to the office. We waited outside -- he was comfortable outside in the bed, and I parked under a shady tree.
At 1230 the vet tech came out and took all Lad's info. By then his breathing was shallow and he was panting.
We rigged another stretcher from a blanket. They asked if it would be ok to put a muzzle on him. He didn't mind, but it really wasn't needed.
We took him inside and after a short wait the Dr. came in and checked him out. He said he had a heart arythmia, and his short breaths and overall demeanor didn't look good. We asked what he thought we should do. He said his job was to make the animals better, and it was up to us.
I asked him to do some tests to help determine what was wrong. He agreed and said they'd call in a couple of hours.
He called us at 4 and said Lad had near total kidney failure, which was causing all the secondary problems. He said he could euthanize Lad.. we would have to let him know.
I said we'd come in. We left the house at 4:10, and arrived at the office at 4:20.
When we walked in Lad was on the floor on a blanket. The Dr said he was going fast, and he didn't need to euthanize him.
We walked over and knelt down next to our faithful, ever friendly, always patient Lad. He was fading fast. His breathing was labored and he didn't seem to recognize us -- the first time in over 12 years.
The Dr and vet techs knelt down and pet Lad as well. Soon, his breaths came less frequently. At about 4:30, he breathed his last.
Lad lived a very good life, was still walking a 3 mile hilly loop 3-4 times a week until last Spring, and still look forward to every single meal until Thursday, and always greeted every person that came to the house.
He knew when to bark when a stranger came up the driveway, but would remain quiet when one of us came home late.
He was easy to train, loved to be outside, probably had ten thousand mile son his paws, and was a great companion on backpacking and camping trips.
One time we were backpacking and in the middle of the night I woke up -- Lad was standing, hair on the back of his neck straight up, silently staring at the tent flap. I moved it aside to see a huge black bear about 20 feet away. I shone a light and it took off. Lad never barked or even moved -- he just let me know the bear was there (we get bears over 500 lbs regularly around here).
Lad would break through ice to swim, followed me on countless runs on trails, and even followed me as I rode a Mountain bike through county park.
His energy was boundless and his love for people never failed.
In the last year his energy slowly wound down and he became less vigorous. Yet he still loved to go for walks -- even if it took a while to get up the steeper hills.
We will miss our Lad.
Long Weekend
My wife Janet, our daughter Melissa, and I flew to visit my parents this Saturday morning (KFWQ-KPTD) and had a great flight up -- smooth, clear, and VMC until Watertown, NY (Clouds over the lake and rain coming in from Canada).
I had filed along airways in order to avoid MOAs and Restricted areas along the route, but Fort Drum was not very active and so about halfway there got “Proceed direct Potsdam…”
That route put us out over the Eastern End of Lake Ontario. The airplane was running fine and I had enough altitude to glide to shore, but it would have been close. We made it fine and then went IMC for a while in and out of thin layers and rain.
The rain wasn't reaching the surface and despite the low layer of clouds below, PTD was reporting "Clear below 12,000..."
About 7 miles out the layer ended and I cancelled IFR. PTD was quiet and so I spared my Janet and Melissa 3 more minutes of flying (3 hour non-stop) and flew straight in to Runway 6. The landing was a full stall, can-barely-tell-you're-rolling deal that warned me there’s a bad one coming soon.
We spent Saturday visiting and enjoying one another’s company. Sunday, I flew some dual with one of my Dad’s friends who owns a Cherokee 180 but lacks some confidence doing long XC. We flew KPTD-KSYR and back, and enjoyed the great VFR weather. I forced him to land with flaps and he found out how much slower and more stable a landing can be with flaps (I know, I know…)
We returned to PTD and my dad and brother met us there. The four of us climbed into the C205 and flew to Saranac Lake, landed there, looked at all the nice private Jet hardware on the ramp, and then took off using short field technique.
Bill suggested we fly to Burlington, VT.
Bill had complained about the curtness of the Burlington ATC folks – I shrugged it off as new pilot jitters. But he’s right. I requested a practice ILS approach in order to demonstrate to my PP co-pilot what an ILS was and how it worked. ATC said, “Squawk 1234 and fly heading 060.”
A few minutes later ATC queried: “You gonna descend soon?”
“I was waiting for ‘Descend and maintain’…”
“You do what you want – you’re VFR…”
Ok, ok… technically he’s right. But this is a practice ILS – anytime I’ve done a practice ILS anywhere else VFR I get altitude. Oh well…
We landed and heard the rapid-fire taxi instructions. I made it to the FBO where we filled up with fuel. Loaded back up and requested taxi to active from Ground, but we needed a clearance before contacting ground – oops, Class C (we have a grand total of one Class C in PA and my class C ops are rusty).
Clearance, back to ground, taxi to active. “Hold at 15.”
We held. We looked around. We listened. We held.
“Cleared for takeoff runway 19.”
OK, so where is 19? No signs, no nuttin.
Bill, the new PP who had been there before said, “Taxi towards those doors.”
“Hunh?”
"The runway is there…”
I hesitated, as I looked for runway signs and was about to ask the tower, “Where’s the runway?” when I saw lots of white paint on the concrete in front of me. Duh (yeah, a quick glance at the airport diagram in the approach book would have helped, but we were flying VFR and we don’t need no steekin’ approach books VFR!)
I taxied across 15 to 19 and took off. A bit south of us there was a balloon festival of some kind – were about 25 hot air balloons floating in the smooth late afternoon air. We crossed Lake Champlain and headed for PTD across the northern Adirondacks at 4500, climbing a bit to cross some of the steeper peaks
The day was bright and clear and nearly calm, and we enjoyed a beautiful late afternoon flight over the more remote northern reaches of the Adirondacks. I found PTD and entered a left downwind and demonstrated a power-off 180 accuracy landing, keeping it tight and throwing in an aggressive slip just for fun. We touched down as smooth as baby oil about 20’ past the tops of the numbers and I was feeling pretty good, but looming dread filled my heart as I realized two ridiculously smooth landings in a row meant there was payback due.
I buttoned up the airplane and made sure it was ready for an early Monday morning departure. I checked weather a few times late, and once in the middle of the night. I wasn’t worried about the weather as much as the potential for bumpy clouds.
So far Janet has been good about flying with me – but she can’t stand being in the clouds and unable to see. She really can’t stand turbulence anytime, but in the clouds it scares her to death. I do everything I can to avoid clouds, and the few I enter when she’s on board I try to make sure are smooth. So I tried to figure out where the smooth was in the low creeping in from Kentucky.
I called FSS on the drive to the airport at 0630. It sounded as if there was light to moderate precip in the destination area, but a nice break between the current weather and the moderate to heavy that would come later. There was a thin layer above the airport and overcast higher up. A VFR departure was out.
I loaded and preflighted the airplane, and called for clearance, said our goodbyes, and took off.
The clearance was only to the PTD NDB – Boston Center wouldn’t have us on radar until we reached 6000. We climbed in the hold over the NDB and when I reached 5000 called Boston and told them we were in VMC and had terrain clearance. Boston gave us As Filed and we headed to the Watertown VOR.
There was a high overcast layer somewhere in the teens, and a few clouds below us. The air was smooth and a bit hazy. We were cleared direct to the Bradford VOR, and as we flew over the eastern end of Lake Ontario, I could see cumuliform clouds ahead. Uh oh.
I looked at the sectional for options along the route and started dialing in AWOS freqs. Nearly every alternate was reporting “1/2 mile in mist” or “scattered at 200’). We had plenty of fuel (7 hours), but a U-turn didn’t make sense yet.
I climbed to 10k, then to 12k to stay above the layer. Other airplanes were asking for deviations and trying different altitudes to avoid turbulence. The OAT gauge was at 35 F at 12k. Ice and no O2 meant we were as high as we could go.
We crossed the Bradford VOR and snuck in between two moderate cells on either side. We were in and out of cloud but one was particularly energetic and we got shaken a bit – nothing, really, but to already-scared passengers, enough to make me worried about her.
I looked at the XM returns and queried Cleveland center and decided we would be better off waiting out the moderate precip near our destination. I flipped though the approach book, found Clarion (AXQ) and requested diversion. The RNAV 24 had the closer IAF and the winds were calm to 3 knots, so I asked for vectors.
We were in solid cloud as we descended. I had over 9,000 feet to lose and the IAF was coming up quick. I slowed the airplane down and deployed 20 degrees of flaps. As I reviewed the approach Cleveland asked if I had the AXQ NOTAMS.
“No, I do not.”
The helpful controller read the RNAV 24 NOTAM – MDA is now 2100, not 1760 as published – good to know!
I was established and still descending. After the FAF I descended to 2100 and no more. We were still in solid cloud. From time to time I caught a glimpse of the ground straight down. I clicked on the lights and asked Melissa to look for a runway or lights ahead. I maintained power and we floated along at 2100’, intently looking for a break. The GPS showed the runway at 3 miles – now 2. Nothing. Suddenly there was a break – I saw a warehouse, then a road. I looked to right of course (I let it drift a bit left) and there was a REIL.
I headed for the runway and touched down gently on the rain-slicked surface. The blessed FBO with the blessed bathrooms were beckoning. The FBO guys and some helicopter jocks in flight suits watched us taxi in with expressions that ranged from wonder to curiosity.
I raced past them to the blessed porcelain, then called ATC to cancel IFR.
Relieved, I checked weather on AWC. Ugh – the moderate precip was moving very slowly to the northeast – towards us.
I asked for a crew car – there was none, but the field A&P lent us his pickup. We drove to Clarion and ate brunch at Perkins. I filled his truck with gas and headed back to the airport an hour later.
The situation was a bit better – the moderate precip had changed to light, but hadn’t moved much. Vis and clgs were still tight (600’, 1 mile vis), but flyable. I called Flight service, filed, called for clearance, and took off into 1000’ overcast.
The flight was smooth and we were in and out of multiple layers at 4,000. There was plenty of commercial chatter and a few GA planes out flying approaches. Pit Approach was busy, and scolded a waterski that took too long to answer.
I was about 15 miles from the airport when we hit some more in-cloud turbulence. I’d promised a fairly smooth flight but now this. Ugh.
I asked for vectors for the RNAV 26 and got established. The winds were a bit tricky as the correction required changed as we descended. Once again my “co-pilot” was tasked with looking for a runway. We were in and out of clouds, flying at MDA, looking for REILs or PAPI. GPS showed 3 miles to go, I spotted a familiar farm, looked up, and there was FWQ.
Another flawless landing in an 8 knot direct crosswind on a rain-soaked runway made me dread what was coming on some flight someday soon. We taxied to the hangar, called to cancel, and unloaded the airplane.
After every flight I replay what went right, what went wrong, and what I will do differently next time. The list was long and I have some stuff to practice, but overall it was great weekend of flying and great time with family and friends.
But the biggest benefit is that when Janet and I talked afterward she said she’s ok with flying, she just doesn’t like flying in the clouds.
So I said, “What about low and slow on a clear morning or afternoon?”
“That could be fun…”
So I’m calling that guy who’s selling his Aeronca…
I had filed along airways in order to avoid MOAs and Restricted areas along the route, but Fort Drum was not very active and so about halfway there got “Proceed direct Potsdam…”
That route put us out over the Eastern End of Lake Ontario. The airplane was running fine and I had enough altitude to glide to shore, but it would have been close. We made it fine and then went IMC for a while in and out of thin layers and rain.
The rain wasn't reaching the surface and despite the low layer of clouds below, PTD was reporting "Clear below 12,000..."
About 7 miles out the layer ended and I cancelled IFR. PTD was quiet and so I spared my Janet and Melissa 3 more minutes of flying (3 hour non-stop) and flew straight in to Runway 6. The landing was a full stall, can-barely-tell-you're-rolling deal that warned me there’s a bad one coming soon.
We spent Saturday visiting and enjoying one another’s company. Sunday, I flew some dual with one of my Dad’s friends who owns a Cherokee 180 but lacks some confidence doing long XC. We flew KPTD-KSYR and back, and enjoyed the great VFR weather. I forced him to land with flaps and he found out how much slower and more stable a landing can be with flaps (I know, I know…)
We returned to PTD and my dad and brother met us there. The four of us climbed into the C205 and flew to Saranac Lake, landed there, looked at all the nice private Jet hardware on the ramp, and then took off using short field technique.
Bill suggested we fly to Burlington, VT.
Bill had complained about the curtness of the Burlington ATC folks – I shrugged it off as new pilot jitters. But he’s right. I requested a practice ILS approach in order to demonstrate to my PP co-pilot what an ILS was and how it worked. ATC said, “Squawk 1234 and fly heading 060.”
A few minutes later ATC queried: “You gonna descend soon?”
“I was waiting for ‘Descend and maintain’…”
“You do what you want – you’re VFR…”
Ok, ok… technically he’s right. But this is a practice ILS – anytime I’ve done a practice ILS anywhere else VFR I get altitude. Oh well…
We landed and heard the rapid-fire taxi instructions. I made it to the FBO where we filled up with fuel. Loaded back up and requested taxi to active from Ground, but we needed a clearance before contacting ground – oops, Class C (we have a grand total of one Class C in PA and my class C ops are rusty).
Clearance, back to ground, taxi to active. “Hold at 15.”
We held. We looked around. We listened. We held.
“Cleared for takeoff runway 19.”
OK, so where is 19? No signs, no nuttin.
Bill, the new PP who had been there before said, “Taxi towards those doors.”
“Hunh?”
"The runway is there…”
I hesitated, as I looked for runway signs and was about to ask the tower, “Where’s the runway?” when I saw lots of white paint on the concrete in front of me. Duh (yeah, a quick glance at the airport diagram in the approach book would have helped, but we were flying VFR and we don’t need no steekin’ approach books VFR!)
I taxied across 15 to 19 and took off. A bit south of us there was a balloon festival of some kind – were about 25 hot air balloons floating in the smooth late afternoon air. We crossed Lake Champlain and headed for PTD across the northern Adirondacks at 4500, climbing a bit to cross some of the steeper peaks
The day was bright and clear and nearly calm, and we enjoyed a beautiful late afternoon flight over the more remote northern reaches of the Adirondacks. I found PTD and entered a left downwind and demonstrated a power-off 180 accuracy landing, keeping it tight and throwing in an aggressive slip just for fun. We touched down as smooth as baby oil about 20’ past the tops of the numbers and I was feeling pretty good, but looming dread filled my heart as I realized two ridiculously smooth landings in a row meant there was payback due.
I buttoned up the airplane and made sure it was ready for an early Monday morning departure. I checked weather a few times late, and once in the middle of the night. I wasn’t worried about the weather as much as the potential for bumpy clouds.
So far Janet has been good about flying with me – but she can’t stand being in the clouds and unable to see. She really can’t stand turbulence anytime, but in the clouds it scares her to death. I do everything I can to avoid clouds, and the few I enter when she’s on board I try to make sure are smooth. So I tried to figure out where the smooth was in the low creeping in from Kentucky.
I called FSS on the drive to the airport at 0630. It sounded as if there was light to moderate precip in the destination area, but a nice break between the current weather and the moderate to heavy that would come later. There was a thin layer above the airport and overcast higher up. A VFR departure was out.
I loaded and preflighted the airplane, and called for clearance, said our goodbyes, and took off.
The clearance was only to the PTD NDB – Boston Center wouldn’t have us on radar until we reached 6000. We climbed in the hold over the NDB and when I reached 5000 called Boston and told them we were in VMC and had terrain clearance. Boston gave us As Filed and we headed to the Watertown VOR.
There was a high overcast layer somewhere in the teens, and a few clouds below us. The air was smooth and a bit hazy. We were cleared direct to the Bradford VOR, and as we flew over the eastern end of Lake Ontario, I could see cumuliform clouds ahead. Uh oh.
I looked at the sectional for options along the route and started dialing in AWOS freqs. Nearly every alternate was reporting “1/2 mile in mist” or “scattered at 200’). We had plenty of fuel (7 hours), but a U-turn didn’t make sense yet.
I climbed to 10k, then to 12k to stay above the layer. Other airplanes were asking for deviations and trying different altitudes to avoid turbulence. The OAT gauge was at 35 F at 12k. Ice and no O2 meant we were as high as we could go.
We crossed the Bradford VOR and snuck in between two moderate cells on either side. We were in and out of cloud but one was particularly energetic and we got shaken a bit – nothing, really, but to already-scared passengers, enough to make me worried about her.
I looked at the XM returns and queried Cleveland center and decided we would be better off waiting out the moderate precip near our destination. I flipped though the approach book, found Clarion (AXQ) and requested diversion. The RNAV 24 had the closer IAF and the winds were calm to 3 knots, so I asked for vectors.
We were in solid cloud as we descended. I had over 9,000 feet to lose and the IAF was coming up quick. I slowed the airplane down and deployed 20 degrees of flaps. As I reviewed the approach Cleveland asked if I had the AXQ NOTAMS.
“No, I do not.”
The helpful controller read the RNAV 24 NOTAM – MDA is now 2100, not 1760 as published – good to know!
I was established and still descending. After the FAF I descended to 2100 and no more. We were still in solid cloud. From time to time I caught a glimpse of the ground straight down. I clicked on the lights and asked Melissa to look for a runway or lights ahead. I maintained power and we floated along at 2100’, intently looking for a break. The GPS showed the runway at 3 miles – now 2. Nothing. Suddenly there was a break – I saw a warehouse, then a road. I looked to right of course (I let it drift a bit left) and there was a REIL.
I headed for the runway and touched down gently on the rain-slicked surface. The blessed FBO with the blessed bathrooms were beckoning. The FBO guys and some helicopter jocks in flight suits watched us taxi in with expressions that ranged from wonder to curiosity.
I raced past them to the blessed porcelain, then called ATC to cancel IFR.
Relieved, I checked weather on AWC. Ugh – the moderate precip was moving very slowly to the northeast – towards us.
I asked for a crew car – there was none, but the field A&P lent us his pickup. We drove to Clarion and ate brunch at Perkins. I filled his truck with gas and headed back to the airport an hour later.
The situation was a bit better – the moderate precip had changed to light, but hadn’t moved much. Vis and clgs were still tight (600’, 1 mile vis), but flyable. I called Flight service, filed, called for clearance, and took off into 1000’ overcast.
The flight was smooth and we were in and out of multiple layers at 4,000. There was plenty of commercial chatter and a few GA planes out flying approaches. Pit Approach was busy, and scolded a waterski that took too long to answer.
I was about 15 miles from the airport when we hit some more in-cloud turbulence. I’d promised a fairly smooth flight but now this. Ugh.
I asked for vectors for the RNAV 26 and got established. The winds were a bit tricky as the correction required changed as we descended. Once again my “co-pilot” was tasked with looking for a runway. We were in and out of clouds, flying at MDA, looking for REILs or PAPI. GPS showed 3 miles to go, I spotted a familiar farm, looked up, and there was FWQ.
Another flawless landing in an 8 knot direct crosswind on a rain-soaked runway made me dread what was coming on some flight someday soon. We taxied to the hangar, called to cancel, and unloaded the airplane.
After every flight I replay what went right, what went wrong, and what I will do differently next time. The list was long and I have some stuff to practice, but overall it was great weekend of flying and great time with family and friends.
But the biggest benefit is that when Janet and I talked afterward she said she’s ok with flying, she just doesn’t like flying in the clouds.
So I said, “What about low and slow on a clear morning or afternoon?”
“That could be fun…”
So I’m calling that guy who’s selling his Aeronca…
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