The pilot asking was experienced enough to plan a trip thoroughly but was still learning with every new encounter. Because he wasn’t sure of the significance of “WS020/32020KT” in the Terminal Aerodrome Forecast, he wanted me to give him an up-or-down judgment about going.

Ordinarily, I avoid playing dispatcher when I haven’t been “plugged in” to the weather situation. But I did know a front was moving in, and the time of day was conducive to temperature inversion. Those two factors logically gave rise to the likelihood of low-level wind shear, so I spoke to that effect on his trip. He opted not to go out of an abundance of caution.

For light aircraft, a wind shear note in a TAF is not necessarily a hazardous warning, but a flag that means something is out there, requiring us to be ready to deal with it. It shouldn’t be confused with wind shear alerts generated by LLWAS systems at major airports, which indicate serious, real-time threats. Airliners are maxed out on spare performance capability when taking off and landing, so a loss of airspeed due to a wind shear encounter can be life-threatening.

Piston-engine airplanes flying through changing wind conditions can cope with turbulence and airspeed fluctuations using throttle jockeying and pitch-attitude adjustments. That’s why we fly our approaches at 1.3 VS0 as a speed reference, with half the reported gust spread tacked on for safety, and we’ll lift off and climb out faster in rough air.

So, what’s the issue with those “WS” forecasts? They are telling us there’s a possibility of a change into the noted wind direction and speed at or below the height shown–2000 feet AGL in the opening paragraph. It can be from a frontal passage when the surface wind shifts and the low-level atmosphere gets stirred up by the change. You may take off to the south, then suddenly find yourself battling a northerly wind as you climb out on course. Hopefully, you’ve considered this wind change in your fuel planning.

Any turbulence encountered in the wind shear will generally be short-lived unless your flight profile calls for staying low or there’s perpendicular-oriented terrain upstream. As you climb out, your GPS track will notably shift, requiring a heading change, but the ride will smooth up. In the absence of hills, the rough air comes from the point at which two layers of air are moving in different directions, giving us some piloting to do as we climb or descend through the friction level. 

We used to hear of “low-level jet streams” encountered on clear, cool nights with calm air at the surface. We would find them during climbout, the airplane suddenly bucking and bouncing and then calming down as altitude increased, but with the ground lights moving sideways. I’ve seen 40 knots of wind at 3000 feet AGL, as the cold surface air layer provided a slick cushion for the flow of warm air aloft moving across it. Once up into the inversion, there would be no turbulence, just a massive heading correction.

Therefore, we need to pay attention to the TAF wind-shear notation because it means changes are afoot, but in the absence of other indications, it’s not a reason to scrub a trip. Just be prepared.

The post Is There Shear Up There? appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

The headlines on October 23, 2009, read, “Airline Pilots Miss Airport by 150 Miles.” As it turned out, the pilots of an Airbus A 320 heading to Minneapolis accidentally flew right past its scheduled destination. When it was finally contacted by ATC, it sheepishly turned around and landed. As you might expect, this garnered the attention of the TSA, the federal and local authorities, and the international news media. By all counts, it was not the pilots’ best day. 

The investigation revealed that they had their laptops out and the wifi on, and were having a heated discussion about the opportunities and pitfalls of bidding their airline work schedule during an impending airline merger. But, you say, isn’t the Airbus heavily automated, and shouldn’t that have saved these two aviators? Well, yes and no. The automation is only as helpful as how well the pilot understands and programs it. So, how does all this apply to me, the private pilot? Let’s take a look.

Aviation legend Antoine de Saint-Exupery, author of “Wind, Sand and Stars,” puts it this way: “I fly because it releases my mind from the tyranny of petty things.” Put another way, pilots need to put aside the daily distractions and focus on making good decisions before and during the flight. However, in general aviation, the distinction between the personal and professional may be less clear. 

We may be flying home after a long business day or flying family and friends who are in a hurry, and, of course, we are the lone decision-maker. We shake our heads when we hear of a VFR pilot pressing on into IFR conditions, violating a TFR or running out of fuel. Yet, in each of these cases, a little time spent thoughtfully analyzing the flight parameters might have produced a better outcome. So how do we put aside these “petty things” and focus on our flying? 

Evaluate the Risks

One approach is to make sure that before every flight, pilots take a moment to consider the flight risks involved and make a well-thought-out go/no-go decision. You might use one of the readily available internet-based risk assessment tools or simply take the time to review the risks and alternatives objectively. If you are rushing to the airport from work an hour later than planned into a moonless night in the mountains, is this still the best decision? If your passengers’ get-there-itis exceeds your capabilities, take a step back, survey all the data and make a sound decision based on the forecast conditions and your capabilities. A few minutes of quiet risk analysis may bring things into sharper focus, help you make a better decision, and keep you ahead of the airplane! 

Have a Set Preflight Routine and Stick to It

Step two is simple. Set a thorough and complete preflight routine and stick to it, especially if you are in a hurry. Make sure it checks all the common sense and legality boxes, and includes time for flight planning, proper aircraft servicing and the myriad of little details that make up a safe flight. Then be aware when others break your chain of preflight events or when you begin to take shortcuts. Since you are the de-facto gate agent for the flight, consider how your passengers fit into your routine but make sure they do not interrupt it. Your aircraft walk-around, preflight checklists, and review of the taxi and takeoff are often your last opportunity to avoid serious problems and stay ahead of the airplane. 

There is No Such Thing as an Emergency Takeoff

Go/no-go decisions are a part of every commercial, military or private pilot’s life, and in most cases, they are “go.” However, down here in general aviation land, the phrase “when you have time to spare, go by air” was written specifically for us single-engine jockeys. Our little birds, even with the amazing electronic gadgets we have today, are limited in the type and severity of weather in which we can fly. Each pilot should have a set of personal weather minimums and stick to them. Just because we have that crisp new instrument ticket in our pocket does not mean it is time to launch into a dreadfully low ceiling or shoot an approach to a 200-foot ceiling and a half-mile visibility.

And while we are talking about minimum standards, this is a good time to put a plug in for the IMSAFE checklist. In addition to our weather decisions, our physical and mental readiness for the flight is a go/no-go item. Oh, and how about those pesky passengers. If we want to put their minds at ease, we might let them know that we have a backup plan. It might include a rental car on standby, backup airline tickets or a multi-day travel window. All are good methods of managing risk, avoiding the last-minute rush, and staying ahead of the airplane. 

 “We shake our heads when we hear of a VFR pilot pressing on into IFR conditions, violating a TFR or running out of fuel. Yet, in each of these cases, a little time spent thoughtfully analyzing the flight parameters might have produced a better outcome.”

Compartmentalized Attention

A few years ago, airshow legend Patty Wagstaff wrote an excellent article in this magazine about compartmentalization of attention. Simply put, good pilots learn to separate their flying from the ups and downs and distractions of everyday life. In the movie “For the Love of the Game,” Kevin Costner plays an aging baseball player who finds that he is no longer able to shut out the crowd noise, the catcalls and his personal life. Pilots, just like professional athletes, need to be able to leave these kinds of stressors behind and focus on the task at hand. One way the professionals mandate compartmentalization is the sterile cockpit rule. Airlines require only flight-related conversations below 10,000 feet. So, setting some ground rules on what everyone’s role is during the takeoff, departure, arrival and landing is a good start. 

Don’t Let the Automation Catch You Napping

So, let’s circle back to that unfortunate airline crew who managed to miss the Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport. Why didn’t the automation save them? As it turns out, these pilots had not programmed the published arrival and instrument approach into their flight management system. So, when the Airbus arrived at the end of the magenta line, it simply held the last known heading. No blaring horns or flashing lights, just a small change in indication and the computer doing exactly what it had been told to do. 

Okay, so down here well below the flight levels, that amazing new flat panel cockpit display and shiny new multi-function autopilot we just wedged into the panel most likely will do exactly what you tell it to, and nothing more. And worse, since we usually have touchscreens rather than tactile keyboards, these little electronic rascals can soak up all of our attention during programming, especially in turbulence. Overreliance on the automation to save the day can be a significant impediment to staying ahead of the airplane. 

Clear Your Mind and Stay Ahead of the Airplane

As pilots, we are at our best when we focus on the simple act of flight, master the basic tasks at hand, and spend our time thinking a hundred miles or more in front of the airplane. We need to build a firewall between the hustle and bustle of the day’s events, turn off the email and text messages, and focus on the decisions needed to ensure a safe flight. Good preflight planning requires reliable habit patterns, discipline and sound decisions made with flight safety in mind. And while we are at it, let’s not get too comfortable with the automation. It is a great thing, but we are still the pilot in command! Staying ahead of the airplane in this modern age requires us to shut out the “tyranny of petty things” and focus on flying the aircraft. Fly safe! 

Do you want to read more Pro Tips For Private Pilots columns? Check out “How to Fly in Formation Safely” here.

The post Staying Ahead of the Airplane in the Modern Age appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

But, apparently, once we demonstrated reasonable mastery of these maneuvers and the touch-and-goes lesson finally arrived, the excitement and concentration of takeoff and landing practice brought many of us to almost neglect what goes on between each one of them—the traffic pattern. This is the maneuver (or series of maneuvers) that encompasses most of our previous training but is often flown sloppily by students and seasoned pilots alike. 

But shouldn’t we grant to the traffic pattern the same care and training value we assign to attaining those grease job touchdowns? 

Think of how many times you have seen someone fly their 1,600-pound trainer around the pattern as if it possessed all the maneuvering limitations of a heavy jet. Been there yourself?

The frequently resultant wide traffic pattern is not harmless by any means; its consequences can range from wasted time, fuel and money to a power-off glide that could fall short of the airport. Fortunately, the wide traffic pattern just causes confusion and additional workload most times. Consider the potential danger of a midair collision as aircraft following you in sequence cut you off because your turns are so wide, they lose sight of you.

If you are regularly a member of a wide traffic pattern, start considering more seriously the consequences of a power failure. You might very well find yourself wishing you had stayed home as you glance at the airport but unavoidably continue to sink into populated areas, trees, buildings or powerline-infested roads. Simply summarized: Whether you land on a runway, a taxiway, the grass, the ramp or across them all, there is no better place than an airport for making a forced landing!

Start improving your pattern by drawing some “out of bounds” lines from runway ends. Approximately a half-mile for upwind and three-quarters of a mile for downwind and final. Make coordinated turns of constant bank (30 degrees) and hold a wind correction as necessary to describe a rectangular ground track. This pattern shape evolved after the realization of its definite advantages over the square, circular and oval styles. Basically, the rectangular method of going around a runway compels pilots to stay closer, and the distinct legs of this geometric figure permit labeling them to help us locate traffic the tower points out.

How to Fly Good Traffic Patterns

For starters, you should use all available power during your takeoff roll and keep it there until you reach traffic pattern altitude. Complex airplanes that call for a power reduction on climbs can be left at takeoff power on traffic pattern climbs; these are brief and should cause no abnormal wear and tear. Consult your Pilot Operating Handbook for power settings if you are flying a complex airplane. Use full steam ahead on upwind, looking for abundant altitude and placing that comfortable cushion underneath before you go much beyond the field boundary. Ideally, best angle of climb speed (Vx) should be used for the initial half of the climb, accelerating to best rate of climb speed (Vy) for the second half. 

Traffic pattern work involves low-altitude operations with maximum variations in engine power settings and cooling requirements, which bring out the worst in tired engines. 

Much will or has been talked about during your training about power failures shortly after takeoff and the possibility of turning back toward the takeoff runway. A power failure shortly after takeoff will require an immediate lowering of the nose to transition from a power-on-climb to a power-off-glide attitude in order to avoid a stall. Combining this with an attempt to make a 180-degree turn at a very low altitude increases the danger of stalling and impacting the ground out of control. It is a complex decision you must give thought to according to your particular airplane and airport layout. Maintaining controlled flight and landing within a few degrees of straight ahead is most frequently the best route to take.

Speed control possibly holds the key to your successful takeoff and landing practice experience. Once you level off at pattern altitude, reduce power to yield an airspeed no higher than 20 mph above normal approach speed. This is crucial, and getting behind the airplane at this point by not timely reducing power may have you at cruising speed rather quickly on downwind. So, pull it back as you level off. Relax; check traffic, wind and gauges. While on downwind or early base, complete your landing checklist. SEL-fixed gear, fixed-pitch airplanes have simple landing checklists. Airplanes with L/R fuel tank selector positions only and not BOTH require increased awareness. Running a tank dry at low altitudes can make for some interminable seconds of engine cough. 

You may be alone in the airplane but can have some fun preparing yourself to be a pilot-crewmember and, besides, talking to yourself is not always a sign of insanity in single-pilot operations. The “two communications rule” is used by crews to detect pilot incapacitation during critical phases of flight. 

For example: On short final approach, a “1,000 feet” callout by the pilot not flying (PNF) requires a “cleared to land (or not)” response from the pilot flying (PF). If no response after a repeat callout, the PNF may suspect pilot incapacitation and prepare to take over the controls. 

Practice command/challenge and response communications in the traffic pattern and consider incorporating these into your flying technique. For example, on takeoff, command, “takeoff thrust;” respond, “thrust set.” Reaching pattern altitude, call out, “1,000 feet;” respond, “leveling-off.” On downwind, “landing checklist,” and run the checklist. Turning final, “final;” respond “cleared to land (or not).” Later, you can train your frequent passengers on callouts/responses and enjoy a fun, safer experience together. 

Just before arriving at the point to make your close-in base, reduce power and slow down to approach speed plus 10 mph. If your speed is high, you are
in for some steep turns and a possible overshoot of the final approach course. Make a precise turn to base and roll out, checking the runway and looking for other traffic. Midairs occur on base and final approach all too frequently. Be alert! Plan your next turn to arrive on final approach on the extended centerline of the runway and at approach speed.

You may be alone in the airplane but can have some fun preparing yourself to be a pilot-crewmember and, besides, talking to yourself is not always a sign of insanity in single-pilot operations. 

A common misconception is that of following traffic in the pattern. If your traffic is wide, you are wide. Why? You only have to follow in sequence. No need to track over every barn, lake or cow your traffic flies over. Stay on your speed profile and within your pattern boundaries, but if you need to reduce airspeed further, here is a great opportunity to practice your slow flight at approach speed, but don’t lose any altitude. Occasionally, in spite of your slow flight, you will be forced to extend your downwind leg. If this happens, continue to maintain your altitude and wait to be closer to the runway to start your final descent.

A meticulously flown, tight traffic pattern provides ample safe and economical training. Try it, and the next time you see those “heavy bomber” pilots flying all over the sky, ruining it all!subtly let them know.

Visit our Proficiency Arvhices for more tips and advice for pilots.

The post The Wisdom of Flying Tight Traffic Patterns appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

I learned to fly at a prominent flying school devoted to the making of airline pilots. Most of the instructors were young, in their early to mid 20s, wearing cheap ties and mismatched shirts while accepting abysmal pay in exchange for building flying time. After 10 hours of stalls, turns and the occasional slammed landing, I hoped I was ready. 

That night, I’d be flying with an instructor whose attitude had, on occasion, annoyed me. Flight instruction consists of long periods of boredom interrupted by brief moments of sheer terror, and tonight, my companion in the right seat languished in surly boredom. We flew three times around the traffic pattern as he watched in disinterested silence. I was in a different state of mind as the growing realization dawned on me that the three landings I had made were acceptable and that I was about to fly with the least-experienced pilot I would ever fly with. Me.

The instructor broke the silence.

“Okay. Turn off here.”

In fading daylight, I taxied to a spot in front of the control tower. My instructor had decided to turn me loose over the dusk skies of Long Island. 

“All right! Are you ready?” Despite Herculean efforts, my “you bet!” miserably failed to convey the hoped-for courage. “Okay, keep it in the pattern and watch your airspeed. If you have any trouble, I’ll be in the tower, and you can get me on their frequency. Okay?” “Uh. Sure?!”

He slammed the door, and I was alone with the engine’s muttering and the whopping of the propeller. A beautiful red sunset stared at me as I focused on the upcoming flight. It was getting late. The tower instructed me to taxi to the runup area. Only a fool or a liar will say they weren’t nervous on their first solo, and I am neither. Electrified with nerves, I felt little rivulets of perspiration run down my face onto my shirt and, with my hands developing cramps, I pressed them against the instrument panel for relief. 

I told myself, “Just relax, just relax. But hold on.” I realized at that moment I didn’t know where the light switches were! How would I see the instruments if it got dark?

Before I could answer the question, a voice erupted in the cockpit: “Four-Niner Juliet, cleared for take-off.” With my voice cracking, I announced, “Four-Niner Juliet is rolling.” I taxied the Cessna onto the massive runway. 

I advanced the throttle, and the airspeed indicator came to life, rising toward the magic 65 mark. I gently eased back on the control wheel, and the nose of the plane lifted in front of me, and then the vibration of the wheels stopped. The lights of Long Island twinkled like stars as the sun gave a final view of the day. 

“Okay,” I reassured myself, “everything looks good.” But my nerves were stretched tight as piano wire. After two right turns, I announced to the tower that I was on the downwind leg for Runway 24. An experienced, trained voice blandly told me I was cleared to do a touch-and-go as soon as I was ready. 

“You’ve got to be kidding!” I thought. A touch-and-go is a landing without stopping and taking off again while still in motion. 

By then, dusk had taken its toll on daylight and wasn’t about to wait for some neophyte pilot who had no idea where the lights of his aircraft were. 

It might be obvious to the trial lawyer I am now, one who has seen too many horrors of bad judgment, that it was time to call the tower to ask the instructor what he wanted me to do. I radioed the tower. The verdict came in.

“Four-Niner Juliet, do a touch-and-go.”

Still able to see the all-important airspeed indicator, I obeyed. As I throttled back, my thoughts turned to getting my hide on the ground in one piece. Descending toward darkening Long Island, I carefully executed the required right turns, the runway in front of me growing larger and wider. I talked to myself. “Airspeed 65, good. Keep it there.” I pushed down the flap switch, and with an electric whine, the flaps extended, forcing me to push forward on the yoke to maintain that airspeed. 

The runway showed its full width in front of me, and I eased back on the yoke. The plane decelerated as the nose of the aircraft rose. I gritted my teeth as I waited for the touchdown that seemed an eternity away. A thump, a small bounce, the wheels squealed, and I had made my first landing. But I didn’t have time to congratulate myself.

The plane was still rolling down the runway, and there were chores to do. Get going. Raise the flaps. Close the carb heat, retrim—let’s go. I advanced the throttle and took off into a nearly dark sky. A red slash of light in the west allowed me only a dim view of the instruments as I began the debate over how long I would follow the instructor’s directions before I mutinied. I called the second downwind leg, and the tower’s dull response informed me that the instructor, oblivious to my plight, wanted another touch-and-go. Although the instruments were barely visible in the gathering gloom, I didn’t protest. 

Somehow, that second landing was a grease job; the wheels squeaked and just kept rolling. But I didn’t savor it. I busied myself raising the flaps and advancing the throttle for the third and absolutely final landing of the evening. The barely perceptible instruments were trying to hide in the darkness. Flying the plane by feel, I negotiated the pattern and turned onto final approach with a hand on the mike, ready to tell the tower I’d had enough. As I raised the mike to my lips, I was cut off.

“Four-Niner Juliet!” The voice, suddenly awakening, urgently spits, “Four-Niner Juliet, do an immediate go around! Runway 24 no longer clear to land, there is an aircraft on 24!” It was plainly and painfully true. The lights of an unauthorized airplane on the runway stared at me through the windshield. I opened the throttle to full power as I buzzed the field and bid goodbye to the final chance of landing with any remaining daylight. 

At that moment, I could only peer at the instrument panel, but nothing was there. I leaned as far forward over the control wheel as I could, inching toward the instruments. Still nothing. “All right,” I asked myself, “now what are you going to do?” 

The argument ended before it started—on the one hand, there was embarrassment; on the other, there was death. I opted for embarrassment. “Islip tower, uh, this is Four-Niner Juliet, uh. Could you ask my instructor where the interior light and landing light switches are?” A roar of laughter came over my headset. I failed to see the humor. The controller, doing a poor job of hiding his amusement, told me the infernal and blessed switches sat somewhere in the middle of the bottom of the instrument panel. 

In complete darkness, I began my search. My hands fumbled about the cockpit’s murk. Nothing. I looked up and searched again, more aggressively but not enough to trip anything that would get me in deeper trouble. Again, the switches’ location remained a mystery, and I looked outside at Long Island’s galaxy of lights that revealed the awful truth. 

I’d lost sight of the airport. Below me passed an aurora borealis of streetlights, automobiles and neon, but no runways. All my instincts said the field was to the right, so I took a deep breath, risked a right turn and, after three slams of my heart, they appeared, a series of blue taxiway lights—I was halfway there. 

The controller, stifling his amusement as best he could, announced that the next landing would be the final one for Four-Niner Juliet for the evening. He informed me that I was cleared to try my third landing ever, in the dark without instruments or landing lights. My heart pounding, I turned toward the runway. 

The white lights marked the runway’s location and allowed me to line up. Everything else was hidden in darkness. Watch the airspeed! How could I? I couldn’t tell if I was 50 feet or 10 feet in the air as I began to ease back on the wheel. I learned quickly. The plane and I were a little too slow and a little too high. Gravity greeted me with a slam and a screeched of rubber. Transforming me from a newborn pilot to a rodeo cowboy, the airplane leaped forward, making my head snap, followed by another tire-screeching bound and another and another. Then, rolling down the runway, I listened to some distant heavy breathing that I couldn’t place until I realized it was my own. A chagrined instructor offered his congratulations. 

Later, in a quiet place where I could reflect upon events amid the August humidity with the coolness of a bottle of beer, I came to some conclusions that would last me the rest of my flying career. I realized that to stay alive, I had to know every system in the ship and be familiar with their operation. And there would be one, and only one, final arbiter of my actions in the air while I was alone in it: me. 

Do you want to read more Lessons Learned columns? Check out “Least-Routine Float Landing !Ever” here.

The post First Solo Flight in the Dark appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

But make no mistake, you need to get qualified, professional training before you fly formation. 

General aviation pilots often fly in formation to take air-to-air photography, travel cross-country in groups of two or more aircraft, or ferry multiple aircraft across desolate continents and vast oceans. However, no matter which type of formation is involved, a professional approach is required to reduce the risks. 

So, let’s suppose that three friends decide to fly in formation from their home airport to AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. What things should they consider before they take off, while traveling en route, and upon arrival at the world’s greatest airshow? 

Gaggle or Formation Flying?

In general aviation speak, a gaggle is more often a group of aircraft generally heading in the same direction at the same time! The pilots in the gaggle may exercise varying degrees of radio discipline, occasionally get too close to one another, and generally give proper formation flying a bad name. The difference between a formation and a gaggle is the application of training, discipline and communication. 

The FAA rules for formation flight are deceptively simple and are contained in part 91.111: “(a) No person may operate an aircraft so close to another aircraft as to create a collision hazard. (b) No person may operate an aircraft in formation flight except by arrangement with the pilot in command of each aircraft in the formation. (c) No person may operate an aircraft, carrying passengers for hire, in formation flight.” So, let’s think about how we can avoid a gaggle and create a professional formation flight. 

The Formation Briefing

An old formation joke among jet pilots goes: “Kick the tires, light the fires, and brief on guard frequency.” However, it is just that, a joke. In fact, the military formation briefing and the debriefing are critical to the success of any formation flight. 

During the briefing, the formation leader determines the prior training, capabilities and personal safety limits of each participant. Communication frequencies, airspace, weather and en route decision-making should all be discussed. For example, how will the flight handle the Fisk arrival at AirVenture? Or what does the flight do if they become separated during the trip? Who squawks, and what about the ADS-B traffic warnings? All good things to consider. 

Once the details have been resolved, the flight should be planned and briefed in detail until every question is answered and every what-if is run to ground. This is where the FAA’s “arrangement” comes in. If, after the brief, any member of the formation does not feel like they are comfortable enough to proceed, then they should politely opt out of the flight. 

In the end, everyone must be confident in the safe conduct of the flight. By the way, the internet is a good place to start as it has several good formation briefing guides that pilots can download to remind them of what should be covered. 

Lead or Wing!

Contrary to popular opinion, the hardest position to fly in any of the jet aerobatic teams is not the wing-position pilot flying inches from their leader. Rather, it is the leader responsible for planning, briefing and making decisions for the entire flight. The leader of our trip to AirVenture should first and foremost understand that the formation will be limited to the skills of the least-experienced member of the group. Taking this into account, the leader can make the kind of conservative in-flight decisions and maneuvers that will not exceed the capabilities of the formation. Pilots flying the wing have a whole different set of responsibilities. 

The first rule of flying the wing is don’t lose sight of the leader or the rest of the formation! No exceptions. This is especially challenging in many modern glass cockpit aircraft that encourage significant head-down time and require multiple button pushes to do the simplest thing. If any inside-the-cockpit attention is required, widen out the formation. Fly only as close as necessary, and if you lose sight of any member of the formation, have a “lost visual” strategy at the ready. This is usually an agreed-upon turn away from the last known position of the other aircraft until visual contact can be reestablished. And an important safety tip: It is a good idea to leave close wingtip formation to the professionals. 

Remember, as you watch the Thunderbird pilots, they are each flying aircraft with clear canopies, wearing parachutes and sitting in ejection seats. If that does not describe the aircraft you are flying, then plan to fly a much looser formation. And while we are on that point, note that several high-wing aircraft are unsuitable for close formation flying due to the large visual area blocked by the wing. 

Anticipate, Communicate and be Predictable!

The pilots in our intrepid band of Oshkosh-bound aviators have decided to fly a loose V formation approximately 200-500 feet apart as they head north to Wisconsin. Our fearless leader should select airspeeds, routes and altitudes that allow the rest of the flight to cruise comfortably out of the weather and free from restricted airspace. They should anticipate these requirements, communicate them clearly to the rest of the formation, and fly in a very smooth and predictable manner. 

And, of course, wing pilots should do the same. Numbers two and three should anticipate what the leader is going to do next, just as if they were flying solo, and communicate their desires or traffic observations to the formation in a clear and concise manner. And, just like the leader, fly in a smooth and predictable manner. These three characteristics—anticipation, communication and predictability—will make for a great trip with very manageable risks. So, you ask, how can I learn to do this from the professionals? 

Quality Training is the Key!

It is no secret that the large formation flights into AirVenture such as “Cessnas to Oshkosh” and “Bonanzas to Oshkosh” (B2OSH) require each participant to attend and complete regional formation training clinics before flying to the show. No certificate, no participation. This focus on training ensures the safety of all participants. A good guide to all things formation is the “Formation Pilots Knowledge Guide” developed by the Formation and Safety Team (FAST). The FAST concept was developed in the mid 1990s to give the warbird community a single set of formation standards. It contains a wealth of knowledge about the fundamentals of formation flying. 

Risk Management of Formation Flying

Our three trusty aviators have made several good decisions to manage the risks. First, everyone agreed to get training from a reputable source on the basic rules for formation flying. Second, they spent the time required to plan and brief the flight, so that everyone can fly the plan smoothly, predictably and professionally. Third, they have considered the responsibilities of both the lead and wing and are prepared for their assigned role. And just maybe, as they fly over the Wisconsin pastures headed to Oshkosh, someone will look up and say, “Those pilots are real professionals. How do they do that?” 

Do you want to read more Pro Tips For Private Pilots columns? Check out “Making the Most of Your Flight Review” here.

The post How to Fly in Formation Safely appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Such engine-out drills are okay, as far as they go, but they don’t build the same level of confidence as bringing the airplane to a successful stop on the ground, intact and unscathed. I’ve long been a great believer in practicing some engine-failure scenarios at an airport, where we can continue the approach to touchdown. In his Mastery Flight Training blog, my friend and CFI of the Year Tom Turner addressed this subject in a recent weekly column (I highly recommend subscribing to and supporting his work), directly applying it to high-performance singles like Beech Bonanzas.

I think I began inflicting this sort of pain on my students after I started flying gliders. We knew each time we took off that we were going to lose our engine a few minutes into the flight, when the towplane at the other end of the rope left us, usually around 2,000 feet AGL. Our only option would be to silently work our way back to the gliderport, perhaps dallying with some thermals along the way.

In my powered-flight career, I’ve had four single-engine power failures, all but one of which ended up on an airport, none incurring damage other than to the offending powerplant. I admit to being one lucky stiff, in that I was in a good position each time, able to reach a suitable landing spot. However, even when you’re within shouting distance of an airfield, a successful outcome still takes knowledge, familiarity and practice, requiring steps to avoid wasting the opportunity you’ve been given.

Ell-Over-Dee

If your airplane, god forbid, ever turns into a glider, you need to immediately establish flight at a speed that relinquishes altitude as stingily as possible. Glider pilots term this target number “best L/D,” the speed at which the maximum lift is extracted from the wing and the minimum amount of total drag is being generated. Two related speeds can be considered; one is minimum-sink speed, usually just above stall, that keeps the aircraft in the air for as long as possible, and the other is maximum-glide performance speed, which generates the most forward distance for altitude expended. For airplanes, these closely correspond to Vx (best angle of climb speed) and Vy (best rate of climb speed).

Go to your airplane’s operating handbook and look at “emergency procedures” to find the recommended best-glide speed; it may be slower than what you’re used to flying in the traffic pattern with your engine running. Practice establishing the correct nose attitude and amount of trim needed to hold this speed, which will become your base number for any engine-out situation. The Piper Archer handbook shows 76 knots as the best-glide speed, the Cessna 172N book quotes 65 knots, and a Beech Bonanza A36 manual gives 110 knots. Bear in mind that these are normally determined at full gross weight; if you are significantly under max-gross, optimum glide performance will be achieved a few knots slower. Reduce your speed before relinquishing any precious altitude: “Slow down before you go down.”

While establishing the proper glide speed, see if there is an airport within range, given your altitude. If you’ve been doing a proper job of flight management, you already know which airports are nearby. If you have the software readily at hand, bring up the “nearest” feature or employ the glide-ring overlay. As a nicely productive rule-of-thumb, begin with the presumption that you’re able to glide 1 mile for each 1,000 feet of altitude above ground level. For most G/A singles, this is well achievable, but in every no-engine landing scenario, we want to stack the deck in our favor, so we’ll start with minimal-expected capability.

“Even when you’re within shouting distance of an airfield, a successful outcome still takes knowledge, familiarity and practice, requiring steps to avoid wasting the opportunity you’ve been given.”

Making the Field

Let’s say you’re fortunate, and you find yourself at 10,000 feet AGL and there’s a nice paved runway 10 miles away. Without hesitation, turn toward it; seconds count as wasted altitude while you’re heading away from your objective. You may be aware that the wind will affect your glide ratio, in that a headwind steepens your descent angle, and a tailwind boosts it favorably. Thus, your gliding range is not circular but elliptical; glider pilots may speed up slightly to maximize their diminished glide in a headwind and slow down to ride a tailwind, starting from their base L/D speed. Given the lead-sled glide performance of typical-powered airplanes, you needn’t obsess over this detail; concentrate, instead, on holding that best-glide speed. Most beginners allow the nose to dip and build up extra airspeed, which wastes the stash of altitude from which they’re withdrawing.

Unless you’re right on top of an airport, consider the alternatives if you come up short. Are there open fields between you and the airport you’re trying to reach or some other survivable landing spot? It’s better to put down in a wide-open off-airport site than to wind up on a city street a mile short of the runway. Perhaps you can land downwind if there’s not enough altitude to permit circling into the wind or use an open-grass area on the airport. Be constantly evaluating your progress during your descent; winds often change with altitude, for good or ill. 

Our objective is not to arrive in a straight-line descent to the runway threshold but to wind up above the airport, well higher than traffic pattern altitude, so as to allow maneuvering options. My preference is always to be upwind, over the departure end of the desired runway, so any uncorrected drift will carry us toward the landing target. How much altitude is enough? This is where knowledge of your aircraft becomes critical, determined by experimentation and practice long before it has to be put into action.

Finding Out What You Need

Your first task is to determine the airplane’s power-off sink rate; trim for the best-glide speed and watch the VSI settle on a stable descent rate. Light singles may come down at 600 to 700 feet per minute; heavier airplanes will descend at 1,000 to 1,200 fpm or more. More importantly, you need to find out how much altitude will be lost in a full circle, as you hopefully use up the excess altitude remaining when you arrive over the field. Can you do a 360-degree turn, or do you need to head into a downwind leg right away? How much altitude are you going to need to make the 180-degree power-off approach?

Note the altitude as you begin your circle, hold the best-glide speed precisely, and read the altimeter when you finish the 360 to determine how many hundred feet you dropped. Round off to the next more pessimistic number. I can make a full circle in a training airplane while losing 700 feet. However, the final 180 degrees of a landing approach will require much more than 350 feet to execute in the same aircraft because we’ll be deploying flaps and rolling in and out of base leg and final approach turns, both of which increase drag.

Invariably, beginners will want to make wide, lazy circles in their descents, burning up a lot of altitude per turn. Optimum gliding spiral performance will require at least a 30-degree bank angle, keeping the turn tight, so the circle is completed more quickly, resulting in less altitude lost even though the descent rate increases because the turn is completed more quickly. Bear in mind that the vacuum-driven attitude indicator may not show your actual bank angle; if your vacuum pump stopped turning with the engine, the gyro will be spinning down. If you want to correct for wind drift in order to maintain position over the airport, you might need to reduce bank to 20 degrees when heading into the upwind side of the circle and crank over to 40 degrees briefly on the downwind side. The risk of increased stalling speed from a 30-degree bank angle is negligible, as long the stall is not accelerated by sudden maneuvering or gust loads.

Planning the approach to the runway is crucial. Have your mind well ahead of the aircraft’s present position at all times to keep the airplane in a position to have enough kinetic and potential energy (airspeed and altitude) to bring it safely to the runway. Through practice, you will learn how much altitude is required to fly from a point on the downwind leg abeam of the runway threshold, through a close-in base leg, and into a comfortably high short final. Don’t be surprised if your heavy single needs to be at 1,200 to 1,500 feet AGL at the abeam point to make this happen. Learn to fly a tight traffic pattern rather than the leisurely airliner approach you’re used to.

“How much altitude is enough? This is where knowledge of your aircraft becomes critical, determined by experimentation and practice long before it has to be put into action.”

Pad Your Margins

Stay on the high side of your altitude margins throughout the approach; it’s better to run off the far end of the runway at 20 mph than to impact terrain short of the threshold at 80 mph. Keep the airplane in clean configuration—gear up, flaps up, cowl flaps closed—until you’ve got the field definitely made. Tribal wisdom is to pull the constant-speed prop control back to high-pitch in an emergency landing to lessen windmilling drag, but that may not work if you’ve already lost oil pressure. Definitely do not do this when practicing an idle-power approach in case a go-around becomes necessary. When you extend retractable gear, the sink rate increases dramatically, so I generally leave the wheels up until I’m on a high base-leg position and limit flaps to a takeoff setting until turning final.

As you reach your abeam position on downwind, it’s a good idea to increase the airspeed by 5 knots and deploy a small amount of flaps; along with maintaining extra altitude, these are “fudge factors” that can be drawn upon if you run into wind-shear during your approach. 

If you see you’ve extended flaps too early and need to retract them to regain a clean glide angle, get it done right away because there will be an initial sag while the airplane restabilizes. Having a few extra knots of speed is good insurance.

When rolling out of the base-leg turn, if you sense that you’ve erred and are at risk of not making the runway, immediately turn straight toward the runway threshold, thereby reducing the distance to be flown over a nicely squared pattern. A last-second turn to line up with the centerline is more desirable than landing short. Fly exactly on best-glide speed, well above stall, and keep the gear and flaps up until they are absolutely needed. 

As part of your emergency skillset, you should definitely practice engine-out arrivals to a quiet runway until you know how much altitude is required to fly a close-in traffic pattern with no help from the engine. If you maintain a healthy cushion over stall speed, there’s no reason you can’t put the airplane on the runway. If the Space Shuttle pilots could do it from FL2500, we can certainly do it in our airplanes. 

Off Airport Landings Are Risky Business

The post How to Manage Deadstick Approaches appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

My old friend Trooper Dave Aspelund met me on a muddy shore in front of Saint Mary’s. Having won the wrestling match with the Johnson to get it out of the plane and onto the beach, Dave and I began catching up on family and local events when his portable radio squawked. Saint Mary’s second Trooper was requesting a one-way “ticket” to haul a prisoner back to Bethel. “No problem,” I answered, as it was part of the job. A few minutes later, the Trooper led a rather large Alaska Native man down the river bank. Turns out, the prisoner had shot up the village the night before but was now sober enough to be transported to the Yukon Kuskokwim Correctional Center in Bethel.

Introducing myself, I asked my new traveling companion his name. “Henry,” he grunted. That’d be the only word I’d hear from my passenger for the rest of the trip. From what I’ve observed, some villagers are just reserved—except when speaking to another villager in their native tongue—and others have a deep dislike of law enforcement. Village residents were used to traveling by small plane, as it was the easiest way to get to the Bethel—the hub for 54 villages in the area—and there were no roads across the tundra. Henry didn’t hesitate to climb into the right rear seat of the Cessna, and he didn’t seem to mind being shackled with his handcuffs to a cable in the floor. He was certainly much more polite than he must have been the night before, with a bloodstream full of home-brew and a semi-automatic rifle in his arms. This should be easy, I thought.

The takeoff run seemed a little longer than usual, but all else appeared normal as the 185 clawed into the sky from the turbid Yukon River with the big EDO 3430 floats. It was when making the usual flyover to wing-wag goodbye to my fellow Troopers the first notice of a problem came to light. “Hey, Mike, is water supposed to be gushing out of the float?” Dave’s pointed question on the police radio was cause for another pass, this time much lower.

“It appears there’s a rip, about a foot long, on the bottom of the right float. Must be from the bulldozer.” Bulldozer? I think I would have noticed one, but before I could ask, Trooper Dave added: “After the military built the airport, they dumped some equipment in the river, including a bulldozer. Maybe you hit some scrap.” 

Here was the dilemma: We were loaded with fuel, a large passenger, and there was a sizable, jagged tear in the bottom of a float. The primary concern was the protruding aluminum could dig into the water surface on landing, resulting in a plight similar to an amphibious landing with the wheels down. If the plane flipped, not only would I have to get myself out quickly, but also there was a shackled prisoner in the back to worry about. 

The two most important things to ponder were where to land and how to land. The landing spot needed to be where I could get help, and the method needed to result in not catapulting across the water.

If this incident had happened later in my flying career with more hours in my logbook, I might have considered landing on the grass next to the Bethel Airport’s short runway. Even on a hard surface, the 185 would have most likely kept upright, and emergency crews could easily respond, but back then, I was thinking only of liquid runways. 

Options for water landings included the lake I’d taken off from that morning, but the shoreline was swampy, and it was a long drive down a bumpy road—not good for rescuers. The river landing area in front of town was rough with a fast current, maybe even a worse choice. The focus narrowed to a little pond on the approach end of the main runway at the Bethel airport, which featured a gravel ramp. Named H-Marker Lake, its diminutive size makes it best suited for Cub-type seaplanes. I did the math in my head, and it could work, but only if the approach and landing were spot-on. Since it was good VFR, I had plenty of time to circle for both planning and to burn fuel out of the right tank. 

Fortunately, the 185 had a high-tech feature for those days—an in-panel “telephone” that used the federal government’s system of HF repeaters strategically placed on mountaintops across much of Alaska. Even though it was a Saturday, and the only maintenance shop on the airfield was closed, I called. Luckily, the owner, Rob, answered. My question was simple: “Do you have flatbed trailer?” Turns out, Rob had an empty, extra-wide snow machine trailer in his hangar, and he offered to tow it to the lake. Since this was before cellphones, we agreed to communicate on an aircraft frequency for the rest of this adventure.

Flying in a big pattern for over an hour at full power, and full rich, burned fuel to lighten the right side of the plane as much as possible. Henry remained silent, gazing over the tundra as a scent of alcohol, fish, woodsmoke and sweat drifted from the back to the front of the cabin. The Bethel tower operator offered plenty of space to maneuver over the approach zone to set up for landing on the pond, so several turns were made over the little dot of water. The slick line on the shore gave me a good indication of the wind, which was confirmed by the airport automatic weather report to be about 10 knots from the north—the most favorable direction one could hope for, as it lined me up for the ramp.

Quickly answering my radio call, Rob had parked his truck with the trailer by the ramp. Our aerial circuits had provided plenty of time for devising a wild scheme, and now I needed to drag the mechanic into it. Since the ramp was steep and the rip was in the center of the float, there’d be an issue if I simply did a normal water landing and hoped to step taxi onto it. If it didn’t flip, the plane would probably sink to the right side once power was pulled. “Rob, could you back the trailer into the water, so I can drive onto it?”

Lowering the wide trailer into the murky water such that just the truck end of the deck was showing, Rob didn’t question my transmission or the concept, as he must have known what I was planning. Smartly, he then abandoned the truck for safer ground above the lake to join the crowd who had now assembled and was most likely placing bets on the outcome of this little airshow. Enough time-killing and planning; it was time to land. 

“Buckle in, brace for impact, and be ready to get out of the right door,” I yelled to my passenger as I unlocked his handcuffs, freeing him from crouching over the seat. Next, I directed him to the seat behind me to further lighten the right side. With a poker face, Henry nodded and slid behind me as the prelanding checklist was completed.

Like any short lake landing, the goal is to touch down as close to the shore as possible, but this one had to be a little different—instead of immediately cutting power and dropping the flaps and stopping quickly, I’d need to keep on the step. The trick was the step could only be on the left float, as the right float would need to be held out of the water. Landing on the short and narrow tundra village strips had provided some extra experience in crosswind landings, so I had a pretty good feel for keeping a wing low on landing, but this would take it to another level, especially since there was no crosswind.

With permission from the Bethel tower, I made a low approach next to the main runway line up for the lake, and, after a final prelanding check, I set up for what was similar to a glassy water approach. As I dragged the Skywagon over the tundra, the pond looked small, really, really small. I set the nose a little above the horizon, dipped the left wing, gently adding power as needed for a smooth touchdown. It seemed I was traveling in slow motion as the last hump in the brown tundra disappeared under my float. I reduced power. As the left float made contact, a little throttle was added back to not only keep on the left float’s step but to keep the right float from touching the water. All of my focus was on the trailer — the timing would have to be just right. If I cut the power too soon, the right float would drop and grab the water surface. If the power was not pulled back soon enough, we might end up overrunning the trailer and smashing into the parking area. 

I’m not God’s gift to seaplane pilots, not even close, but that was my lucky day. My water-run must have looked weird from the shore, with the right float doing a “wheelie” and the engine rumbling. 

Luckily, I chopped power at exactly the right time, allowing the floats to slide onto the trailer just as the right float dropped, resulting in a sudden stop like from the arresting gear on an aircraft carrier. After all systems were off, mechanic Rob, accompanied by a Bethel Trooper, jumped on the trailer and tied the floats down. 

“That worked out well,” Rob offered.

“Why didn’t you use the big lake?” The nonpilot, uninformed Trooper wasn’t impressed with my landing.

Shrugging off both comments, I led my prisoner to the waiting Trooper truck for his short road trip to the jail facility. After helping him into his seat, Henry finally spoke: “Trooper, when I get out of jail, I no want to ride back to the village with you!” 

Henry must have assumed that was standard water landing procedure for me, unaware of our little emergency. I didn’t correct him, as now he had something to talk about with other villagers during his extended stay in the correctional facility.

A takeaway from this tale is seaplane pilots can reduce their risk for a similar incident by thoroughly checking out the operational area they will be using. In this case, a flyover to preview the beaching area wouldn’t have helped, as the Yukon is full of milky silt, which does a fine job of hiding what lurks below the surface. However, asking the right questions of the locals—in this case, Trooper Dave—would have made me choose a better beaching area to save damage to floats and a possible disaster. Or course, then Henry would have had a less exciting day in the bush and a more boring stay in jail. 

Read more about seaplanes with “Plane Facts: Seaplanes” and “Learning To Fly Seaplanes.”

Want more Lessons Learned columns? Check out “Flying With A Recluse Spider Onboard.”

The post Least-Routine Float Landing Ever appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

All ATC Delays Are Reserved for the Leg Home

Day one of a four-day trip never fails to go flawlessly. The ATIS reports weather that’s clear and a million, ground on point-niner taxis you to the nearest runway, and you get an unrestricted climb, “direct destination.” The next few days go about the same. It’s all good times and discretionary speeds. 

Then it’s time to wrap it all up and go home. You call clearance with a bright and sunny disposition. “Clearance, good morning, Falcon 7EC requesting IFR clearance to home base.” 

“Falcon 7EC, clearaaaaaance. [Sigh of discontent.] Standby.”

Hmm, that’s weird. I’m sure they’re just putting some notes on our strip so we won’t have to slow down on the arrival. I’ve already put my pen back in my pocket at this point because I’m sure we’re going to be cleared as filed, climb and maintain our highest certified altitude, squawk 0001.

“Falcon 7EC, full re-route, call 30 minutes before engine start, delays going back home due to traffic, construction and wild horses giving birth on all runways.” [!!!!!!]

Okay, maybe that’s a bit extreme, but that’s how it feels when it’s time to go home after a few days of living in hotels, growing mold sitting around FBOs, and navigating the intricacies of obtaining “hold for release” clearances in various parts of the country from non-towered airports. 

The best course of action is to take a deep breath, accept your fate, and embrace the suck. As far as I’m aware, there isn’t a section in the 7110.65 that allows ATC folks to create delays just to inconvenience pilots. Given the opportunity, I bet most of them would point us directly toward home base and let us go. I say most because, you know, there’s that one—and you know who you are—who would definitely hold us up if they could.

The Fastest Way To Get the Weather to Clear up Is to Cancel the Trip

When you’re a student or private pilot, canceling a trip or a lesson is a no-brainer when the weather is overcast at 1,000 feet. If you’re an instrument student, overcast 1,000 is nothing short of a beautiful gift. What if you’re an instrument-rated commercial pilot tasked with getting passengers a few hundred miles down the coast in a single-engine piston airplane to an airport that’s reporting clear skies? Piece of cake. But what if 250 of those miles are covered by a solid layer of 100-foot overcast with no chance of lifting? 

So long as the engine keeps purring along in your trusty Arrow, that low overcast will be nothing more than a pretty, pillowy carpet that you’ll magically punch up through and fly over. But what if it doesn’t? Remember that time in the 150 that the engine started eating itself and turned the prop into a speed brake? Or the time that the 172 had just enough power to get you airborne but not quite enough power to keep you there? 

Yeah, it’s always fine…right up to the point when it isn’t.

The example above isn’t completely made up, but it’s not entirely true, either. I was going to fly a cross-country with a friend in my school’s Piper Arrow one day. Our airport and the destination airport were both reporting clear skies. The ENTIRE route between us was overcast between 100 and 200 feet. I agonized over the decision for an hour or two but decided to scrub the trip on the grounds that, as long as the engine kept running, it’d be an easy flight. But if the engine decided to quit, shooting an engine-out approach to minimums, if I was lucky, in an airplane that has the glide characteristics of a magnetic brick over an iron quarry didn’t sound like a good time to me. 

Shortly after I gave the airplane up, the weather magically cleared up against all odds!and forecasts. I went to lunch locally with a couple of flying friends, and after kicking myself for canceling a trip I could’ve made, everyone agreed that it could have easily gone the other way. I certainly couldn’t argue with that logic, as I tried not to read into the fact that we all ordered chicken wings. I’m not sure if it was the “chicken” part or the fact that these wings didn’t get to fly, either. 

“It’s not turning big rocks into little rocks with a claw hammer in August in Mississippi. Lighten up, and maybe dust off your sense of wonder now and again.”

You’re Going to Run Into People Who Are All Over It

We use amazing, gravity-defying machines to punch through gloomy overcast layers into brilliant sunshine-soaked air over pillowy blankets of clouds, but it’s still a job, and some days are just worse than others. Flying is an undeniably cool job, but, as with every profession, some people are utterly and completely over it. 

I was standing beside a corporate pilot with several decades of experience one evening. An airplane took off in front of us, and as the airplane went by, he said, “That looks like so much more fun than it actually is.” That was before learning to fly was even on the horizon as a possibility for me, and I had a hard time processing that statement. I’ve been flying for almost five years now, and I must admit…I still can’t process that statement. Sure, it may be different if I had started my aviation life as a pilot instead of a maintenance tech, and I completely get that there are times of burnout and various other low points in the job. But come on, man. 

It’s not turning big rocks into little rocks with a claw hammer in August in Mississippi. Lighten up, and maybe dust off your sense of wonder now and again. Look out the window and enjoy watching a build-up form right in front of your eyes instead of thinking, aww man, I guess we’re going to have to deviate around this thing. I know, I know. I’m just the preachy newbie who’ll be singing a different tune in another 20 years. That’s possible, of course, but I really doubt it. I know many pilots with tens of thousands of hours, and I’ve seen the look on their faces when we pop up through the overcast. It’s almost always followed by the words, “Man, that never gets old.” At least one of those pilots will pull back on the yoke a little more than usual to get a higher-than-normal pitch attitude so that when we blast out of the clouds, it looks like we’re a dolphin leaping from the ocean.

I suspect that there are people like that in every profession, no matter how great it is. Count yourself as fortunate for not being one of them, which leads me to my last lesson learned.

You’re Just a Pilot; You’re Not As Cool As You Think You Are

I’m pretty sure this isn’t a thing. Have fun, find wonder in the day-to-day, and keep the dirty side down.

And never forget that you used to be that kid looking through the fence at all the cool airplanes and saying to yourself, “One day!” Now that you’re on the fun side of the fence, remember to look back and give that kid a wave and a smile to let them know you’re still having a good time. 

Read part one of Hard Truths About Flying here

The post Four Big Aviation Truths” — Staying up While Getting Down appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Rather than solely focusing pilot training on a series of normal and emergency maneuvers, the LOFT scenarios, flown with the full crew, are based on actual en route legs. In a LOFT scenario, crews are faced with in-flight situations that they might encounter in the real world. These situations are not pre-briefed, and the evaluation of the crewmembers looks not only at performance but also at leadership, communication and crew management. 

During the same decade, the FAA established the biennial flight review. The BFR, as it was known, was designed to help general aviation pilots remain proficient and up to date with the latest changes. Today, the flight review (the term “biennial” was dropped several years ago, though it is often called that still) remains a non-jeopardy review of a pilot’s knowledge and proficiency. However, it is too easy for a flight review to end up being a collection of basic maneuvers and simple questions. Since both LOFT and the flight review have value, non-commercial flyers might want to consider combining the two during their next flight review to create a more realistic and worthwhile experience. 

For starters, the requirements for the flight review are deceptively simple. 14 CFR 61.56 lays it out in a couple of sentences: “A flight review consists of a minimum of one hour of flight training and one hour of ground training. The review must include a review of current general operating procedures and flight rules contained in Part 91, and a review of those maneuvers and procedures that, at the discretion of the reviewer, are necessary for the pilot to demonstrate the safe exercise of the privileges of the pilot certificate.” 

As is its habit, the FAA augments this regulatory guidance with an Advisory Circular, AC 61-98D, and an additional publication for CFIs, titled appropriately “Conducting an Effective Flight Review.” These turn out to be excellent guides for a successful review. However, these publications may not completely capture the nature of modern GPS-driven point-to-point navigation in the busy traffic and complex airspace environment we often find ourselves in. Observing a pilot at work in the environment in which they most often operate may provide a truer window into their strengths and weaknesses. 

One Size Does Not Fit All!

Now, lest anyone get too excited, this whole darn LOFT idea is simply to train the way you fly. So, if you are a backcountry pilot, then by all means, plan your flight review in your fat tire taildragger and make your landings on that favorite sand bar. If you simply enjoy flying close to the home on warm summer evenings or on those $100 hamburger (maybe $200 by now?) missions, then plan an hour or so of airwork and landings that most replicate your style of flying. You have earned it, and it fits your profile to a tee. 

However, if you are a frequent traveler in the National Airspace System, you might consider planning your own LOFT-based flight review. Warning, this will likely take more than two hours, but it will be well worth both the time and expense. 

First, consider the types of trips you are taking and decide which abbreviated version of this is your best candidate. Second, find the right CFI for the job, one whom you enjoy flying with, is experienced in your type of flying, and will tell you the truth. After all, what you want is an honest assessment of your daily flying knowledge, skills and talents. Oh, and an important safety tip, don’t put off the flight review until the day before you become non-current. Remember, while you cannot technically “fail” a flight review, the CFI is under no obligation to sign it off as complete.

One Hour of Ground Training

Ask your CFI to review your preflight planning, briefing and your postflight assessment of your own performance. Review the required hour of Part 91 procedures, rules and regulations that pertain to your mission profiles, especially those latest changes that creep up on all of us. Your pre-flight conversation should cover expected airspace, specific NOTAMS, weather and possible inflight decisions. Make the most of this valuable think time!

One Hour of Flight Training

Once planned and briefed, a LOFT-centered flight review might include an abbreviated out-and-back to a busy class C or D airport through class B airspace. If you normally fly IFR, then file instruments and practice your procedures under the watchful eye of your CFI mentor. This is not an Instrument Proficiency Check, so no need to fly under the hood, but procedurally fly the way you normally do. Similarly, if VFR is your normal travel mode, the same basic LOFT rules apply. Fly to a local destination as complex as your usual travels and work your way through the airspace, frequencies and traffic patterns. And while you are at it, you might ask your CFI to surprise you with a simulated emergency or malfunction for your consideration. This kind of LOFT-based review is a great opportunity to find out if you have developed any shortcuts, blind spots or bad habits. 

Hey, How About that Airwork?

Just because you decide to fly a LOFT-based flight review, there is no need to ignore the basic airwork and landing skills that are the staples of flight reviews. The short out-and-back format allows you to practice the full complement of takeoffs and landings at two different airports. Stalls, steep turns or other emergency/airwork can be accomplished by simply canceling IFR and zipping into your local practice area on the way home. Classic airline LOFT training validates maneuvers and procedures before the actual LOFT scenario. But practically speaking, including a few stalls and steep turns in our flight review mix is no problem. 

OK, What About Lunch?

So, let’s face it, general aviation flying, breakfast and lunch go together! The biggest problem with airline LOFT training is that it is usually conducted in sterile flight simulators where the airport café is simulated. Well, down here in general aviation land, our world is full of great little airport restaurants. If you decide to make a morning out of your LOFT-based flight review, spending an hour over lunch at the halfway point has a significant benefit. Over the usual bacon cheeseburger, fries and an iced tea,  you and your CFI can discuss the first leg and consider any new techniques or adjustments on the second leg home. It also makes the day more enjoyable, and that is the point. A LOFT-based flight review is designed to help you become better at something you love to do. Oh, and you might consider picking up the check!

A homebrewed LOFT-based flight review is simply an extension of the time-tested concept “train the way you fly.” Bring together the right day, the right profile and the right CFI, and you might just improve your piloting skills and have a good time while you are at it. You’ll be glad you did. Fly safe! 

Do you want more pro tips? Check out “Flying in High Terrain” here.

For more tips and advice for flight reviews, check out “Maximizing the Flight Review.”

The post Making the Most of Your Flight Review appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

It was a cold, rainy day sometime in August many moons ago when my schedule called for me flying multiple legs within our network, shuttling people around all day long. This is my kind of flying—more time in the air and less on the ground in comfortable weather. It might not have been sunny, but with a 10,000-foot overcast in light, drizzly rain with absolutely no wind and turbulence and visibility for more than 50 miles, it was an absolute delight. I started my day at 0700 and was expecting to be done by 1300. I could feel my steed was satisfied as well as she hummed in the air with the ever-present Cessna “singing struts” as what rain hitting the leading edge of the wing struts does—couldn’t be more pleased with the best job in the world for me.

As more and more of my legs got completed that day, I was given word during my last trip before returning to base that 12 boxes filled with bananas would accompany me back, as there were no passengers to fly with me anymore. I work for a banana export company, and we have several farms scattered about, so the plane is, indeed, a necessary asset.

As a bonus for that haul, the farm manager said that one of those boxes was for me to take home. I tell you, I’ve never been worried about having too many bananas until I saw how many are in one box and the added challenge of consuming them before they all get overripe! Going bananas over bananas is perhaps a proper way of putting it. Nevertheless, it was free, and I shared the blessing with friends and neighbors, who all were pleased at getting export-quality fruit that would have not otherwise been available locally.

So, after the last human cargo deplaned, I loaded up on the more delicate produce that can sometimes get more attention and nurturing than a human baby! After all, this is also the reason for our company’s existence, for my job and for the airplane, so it is indeed precious cargo. 

With rain still lazily coming down in a steady drizzle, I pushed the throttle on my trusty 1982 U206G, and all the might of the IO-550 engine and the McCauley prop clawed on every available molecule of air from our high-elevation airstrip, and off I went. I was looking forward to a fruitful (works both ways, right?) end to my long day and a long weekend with no schedules for the next few days.

As I was steadily and confidently climbing to my cruising altitude of 7,500 feet, I could feel the sure-footedness of the IO-550 and the poise of the airplane as I headed toward the first valley crossing out of the farm. This was going to be a 35-minute, 62-nautical-mile flight through lush green forests and sprawling fields. This is a sight I will never get bored of, and I hope global progress will not change the way these last vestiges of Mother Nature look.

Settling in at cruise and taking a deep breath for a job well done (and thankful for the chance to experience all of this), I noticed out of the corner of my eye some movement off of one box strapped on the co-pilot’s seat. It sure looked quite large for our company logo and was not as colorful. A momentary distraction from a radio call diverted my attention but as I clicked on the mic, that “logo” definitely moved! 

I didn’t want to believe it, especially since I was alone in the plane and bananas are not known to have any means of mobility, so I was hesitantly beginning to admit that it was some live creature that somehow hitched a ride!

After all day flying multiple legs, what a better way to end it than having someone with eight legs cap it off. I was staring, about 2 feet or so from my face, at what looked like an adult Brown Recluse spider! Locally, they are called tapayan, and no one, to my knowledge, has made any official association to its North American cousin. But they sure look very much alike in appearance and size (it pretty much was as wide as my hand with all its legs splayed out). Perhaps this is its sunburned, beachgoing cousin. Whatever it is, I don’t care, and as a certified arachnophobe, it was definitely an unpleasant sight! Any spider bigger than a thumbnail is cause of concern to me.

So here I was, 42 nm from home in great flying conditions, having a faceoff with a spider. It was the longest 42 nm in my life. I remembered one passenger left a roll of newspaper in the backseat, so as I slowly reached for it and shifted my gaze to my chosen “weapon” to whack it (while shaking in fear), the stowaway vanished! 

These spiders, while large, are known to move at the blink of an eye, and God knows where it could have gone this time. Would the airplane and the cargo and I all be lost because there was a spider in the cockpit? I couldn’t lean back on my seat since it might be there; I kept looking around since it could be anywhere, and I just prayed that the saying that spiders are just as afraid of you as you are of them was true because I think I was more scared of him than he was of me.

Being in a major city with a lot of airline traffic, I heard more and more radio chatter clog the frequency as I neared our home airport, and due to the dilemma I was in, I was at one point wondering if I should request priority for landing. But how absurd a reason is it to have a spider in the cockpit as a cause? I don’t talk spider, so I was just thinking to myself that wherever he might be, he better stay there until I jumped off the plane (when already parked, of course).

To add insult to injury, as I joined downwind for Runway 05, I was told to make two circuits in the hold for one departing and one landing traffic. The gods must be crazy! Why me? Nevertheless, when it became my turn, I asked for a short approach, got it and taxied as fast I could to our hangar. As I shut down, I did not forget my end of the bargain with my spider companion—I jumped off the plane, and the ground crew, knowing of my fear, almost immediately knew what it was about and started laughing.

Something good came out of this encounter, though—it somehow made me braver and bolder when confronted with large arachnids or otherwise distracting turn of events. There were many choices available to me in dealing with it, and losing my wits and professionalism was certainly not among them. Fly the airplane, fly the airplane, fly the airplane! So, this time around, it’s mind over matter, and my subsequent encounters with these creatures emboldened me to “solve” them quickly, either for the spider or me. If he stays long enough within reach of whatever implement is available to me, I will use such object as a weapon; getting rid of one of them will not make them to the endangered species list anyway. If he is out of sight, at least for the time being, he is out of mind, and I can press on with the task at hand. 

Thankfully, I made it back in one piece and all bananas intact with nary a sight of my passenger or its relatives/accomplices (I think he acted alone). I had the ground crew comb the aircraft and my banana box for any sign of Mr. Skinny Legs, and they never found him!maybe he just wanted a ride in an airplane. And, oh, people at the farm now know that whenever they send cargo with me, they better make sure there is no live creature with it!

P.S. After relating the incident to the farm manager, I found out that the boxes were already at the hangar in the early morning since they do not know my exact ETA. It was during that time that Mr. Skinny Legs must have found his way into the box through the breather holes. He must have come from the surrounding foliage.

I hope he lives a good long spider life, far away from me and my plane! 

Read more about animals on planes with “Managing The Risk Of Unauthorized Animals On Board” and “Deadly Snakes Love The World’s Biggest Plane. Enter The Whacking Stick!”

Want more Lessons Learned columns? Check out “My Cross Country Flight With A Quesy Co-Pilot.”

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