We had plans to visit Pittsburgh and watch the cuties this weekend, so I decided to take advantage of the cold, clear, calm morning and fly a bit before heading in to work.
I woke at 0530 and looked out the window. The sky was clear and showed hints of the pending dawn.I stepped outside and it was still. A check of aviationweather.gov confirmed the morning would be fine for flying, with winds eventually increasing later in the day.
Janet wished me a safe flight and I drove to Smoketown in the remnants of darkness. By the time I pulled up to the hangar the sky was lighter.
When I was young I hated getting up in the morning. One benefit of years in the Army is first a grudging acceptance, and eventually an eager expectation of the beauties and advantages of morning. Many cold nights looking out over mist-filled valleys increases he appreciation of the sun's warmth and light.
My days start early out of habit, but the promise of flight makes it easier to throw off the comforts of a warm bed and embrace the day. As I drove east I thought about the motivation required to get out of bed and drive to a cold hangar just for the privilege of hand starting a 71 year old engine and launching the attached airplane into the cold space above Lancaster County... is this worth it?
I open the hangar doors and pre-dawn twilight spills in. I scramble through the mazeof struts and tool chest and turn on the lights. The airplane sits ready as I left her after our last flight. I quickly hang the engine heater and let it work as I preflight, set up the tiedown and chocks.
I stand outside. The winds are calm, the air cold and clear. Many pilots don't fly during winter. It's work pre-heating and pulling cold tires and sometimes shoveling just to climb in and find the battery dead. Even if it starts tiny airplane engine heaters are rarely up to the task of warming a cabin hurtling through the super-cold air thousands of fight above frozen ground.
But I enjoy winter flying. I suppose a genetic predisposition to being perpetually hot helps. So does several years on flight lines in Upstate New York. But mostly I like the smooth, cold air that adds power to little airplane engines.
I feel the top of the cowl -- the heater had taken the edge off the cold soaked engine. I pull the airplane out, push it back to the tie down, drop the chocks, close the hangar doors, and get ready to start.
Five shots of prime on this cold morning should do it. Six full rotations of the prop, double check the chocks are holding the airplane in place. Check footing. Mags to hot, throw prop -- chugga, chugga, pffftt...
The engine dies. I need to get to the throttle sooner. Back through the process, throw the prop, this time she starts. I run to the cabin and slowly add throttle. Very soon the RPM climbs from 850 to 1000 and runs more evenly. I stand torso in the cockpit, legs in the prop blast and wait until it's running smooth, then pull it back to 650 RPM. I toss off the tail tie down, pull out the chocks and climb in, belt in, add throttle.
Down the taxiway -- time to decide which way to go. Winds are clam and I can take off either direction. The preferred no-wind runway is 28, but I'm alone this hour. I decide to taxi to the end of 28 to give the oil time to reach operating temperature.
I decide to try a different takeoff technique. The trim wheel is mounted in the headliner. It is marked Takeoff on the nose down side and Landing on the nose up, but neither is marked with a definite line as seen on most later models.
After a runup with the normal 25 RPM drop each side, 50 RPM drop with carb heat, free and correct, I trim one crank shy of full nose down then slowly added power. I maintain centerline with rudder and keep hands off the yoke (don't try this at home, kids).
After about 100' the tail pops up on its own. In another 150' the mains start to get light. It lifts off and flies along in ground effect. Speed increases and we start to climb at 70 MPH. I uncrank trim and establish a 60 MPH climb. The airplane climbs well in this cold, still air.
There's always a unique moment in every flight when I realize "I'm flying," and it's rarely until this point, when the world spreads out below in a flattened, concave bowl. During the takeoff run I'm too busy maintaining runway heading and climbing, watching for birds and other airplanes, and making sure the engine's running as expected. Now that I've reached a comfortable altitude I push the nose forward and enjoy the view.
I turn south towards West Lampeter. I'm short on time so can't fly over Mount Joy. I'm not sure what I want to do but finally decide to climb and do some air work at 1500' (1100' above the ground here). I level off and pull the power back to 1700 RPM. I'm flying at 60, now 50 MPH. I pull the nose up and add a bit of power -- I'm flying at 40 MPH. Power to idle and hold the nose up and a slight shudder and the nose drops gently. More power and back to 70 MPH. A couple of steep turns and thena steep spiral back down to a 500' AGL cruising altitude.
I see Strasburg under the nose so head south of town over farmland about 500' above the rolling terrain at 70 MPH. It's the perfect day for low and slow. I look down on farms and horses and cattle. None notice me putting overhead.
Too soon the clock shows it's time to head back. I climb a bit to pattern altitude and land on the pavement with a bounce. I taxi around for another pattern, and this one's not much better. Oh well, I'll practice another time.
Back to the hangar, run up to 1000 RPM as the fuel remaining in the carb burns off, then the sudden quiet as the engine dies. Mags to Off, double check fuel off, uncurl myself and climb out into the morning sunlight.
I pull the airplane back in with a length of army GP Medium tent rope hooked through the tail. It's hard work but so what?
Once in I wipe down a few drops of oil from the cowling, chock the mains, slide closed the hangar doors, and head home to face another day. On the ride home I wonder how many other morning commuters have just looked down on all this from above? Do they share my love of cold, still mornings?
I woke at 0530 and looked out the window. The sky was clear and showed hints of the pending dawn.I stepped outside and it was still. A check of aviationweather.gov confirmed the morning would be fine for flying, with winds eventually increasing later in the day.
Janet wished me a safe flight and I drove to Smoketown in the remnants of darkness. By the time I pulled up to the hangar the sky was lighter.
When I was young I hated getting up in the morning. One benefit of years in the Army is first a grudging acceptance, and eventually an eager expectation of the beauties and advantages of morning. Many cold nights looking out over mist-filled valleys increases he appreciation of the sun's warmth and light.
My days start early out of habit, but the promise of flight makes it easier to throw off the comforts of a warm bed and embrace the day. As I drove east I thought about the motivation required to get out of bed and drive to a cold hangar just for the privilege of hand starting a 71 year old engine and launching the attached airplane into the cold space above Lancaster County... is this worth it?
I open the hangar doors and pre-dawn twilight spills in. I scramble through the mazeof struts and tool chest and turn on the lights. The airplane sits ready as I left her after our last flight. I quickly hang the engine heater and let it work as I preflight, set up the tiedown and chocks.
I stand outside. The winds are calm, the air cold and clear. Many pilots don't fly during winter. It's work pre-heating and pulling cold tires and sometimes shoveling just to climb in and find the battery dead. Even if it starts tiny airplane engine heaters are rarely up to the task of warming a cabin hurtling through the super-cold air thousands of fight above frozen ground.
But I enjoy winter flying. I suppose a genetic predisposition to being perpetually hot helps. So does several years on flight lines in Upstate New York. But mostly I like the smooth, cold air that adds power to little airplane engines.
I feel the top of the cowl -- the heater had taken the edge off the cold soaked engine. I pull the airplane out, push it back to the tie down, drop the chocks, close the hangar doors, and get ready to start.
Five shots of prime on this cold morning should do it. Six full rotations of the prop, double check the chocks are holding the airplane in place. Check footing. Mags to hot, throw prop -- chugga, chugga, pffftt...
The engine dies. I need to get to the throttle sooner. Back through the process, throw the prop, this time she starts. I run to the cabin and slowly add throttle. Very soon the RPM climbs from 850 to 1000 and runs more evenly. I stand torso in the cockpit, legs in the prop blast and wait until it's running smooth, then pull it back to 650 RPM. I toss off the tail tie down, pull out the chocks and climb in, belt in, add throttle.
Down the taxiway -- time to decide which way to go. Winds are clam and I can take off either direction. The preferred no-wind runway is 28, but I'm alone this hour. I decide to taxi to the end of 28 to give the oil time to reach operating temperature.
I decide to try a different takeoff technique. The trim wheel is mounted in the headliner. It is marked Takeoff on the nose down side and Landing on the nose up, but neither is marked with a definite line as seen on most later models.
After a runup with the normal 25 RPM drop each side, 50 RPM drop with carb heat, free and correct, I trim one crank shy of full nose down then slowly added power. I maintain centerline with rudder and keep hands off the yoke (don't try this at home, kids).
After about 100' the tail pops up on its own. In another 150' the mains start to get light. It lifts off and flies along in ground effect. Speed increases and we start to climb at 70 MPH. I uncrank trim and establish a 60 MPH climb. The airplane climbs well in this cold, still air.
There's always a unique moment in every flight when I realize "I'm flying," and it's rarely until this point, when the world spreads out below in a flattened, concave bowl. During the takeoff run I'm too busy maintaining runway heading and climbing, watching for birds and other airplanes, and making sure the engine's running as expected. Now that I've reached a comfortable altitude I push the nose forward and enjoy the view.
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| Climbing out over Lancaster County at 0720 AM |
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| Farmland east of Strasburg, PA |
Too soon the clock shows it's time to head back. I climb a bit to pattern altitude and land on the pavement with a bounce. I taxi around for another pattern, and this one's not much better. Oh well, I'll practice another time.
Back to the hangar, run up to 1000 RPM as the fuel remaining in the carb burns off, then the sudden quiet as the engine dies. Mags to Off, double check fuel off, uncurl myself and climb out into the morning sunlight.
I pull the airplane back in with a length of army GP Medium tent rope hooked through the tail. It's hard work but so what?
Once in I wipe down a few drops of oil from the cowling, chock the mains, slide closed the hangar doors, and head home to face another day. On the ride home I wonder how many other morning commuters have just looked down on all this from above? Do they share my love of cold, still mornings?
Nice post. Beautiful Pennsylvania countryside. Hopefully we can go again this weekend..if the winds will let us.
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