VFR operation dominates much of general aviation, not because we’re not smart enough to fly IFR, but because flying surrounded by clouds is like operating inside a milk bottle.

Most of us who write about airplanes for a living are forced to fly IFR frequently in order to stay on schedule and realize maximum utility from our airplane. Those who operate in IMC long enough are bound to learn a little about it, and since I’ve probably learned as little as anyone, here’s Plane & Pilot‘s list of 20 tips for IFR flying. Some of these aren’t exactly revelationary, others are more all-encompassing. We hope you’ll find at least one that helps simplify the sometimes complicated IFR process.

1 If you’re trained, qualified and current for IFR, file it and fly it. I have many friends who work hard to earn their instrument tickets, then refuse to file because they’re afraid of the added complexity of the IFR system. Here in Southern California, we have several months in the spring and early summer when we have early morning low clouds and fog, and that’s often the limit of IFR exposure for many pilots, a quick punch through the low clouds to on top. Certainly, you shouldn’t wade into situations you can’t handle, but the IFR rating becomes little more than an expensive bragging right if you don’t use it to maximum advantage.

2 Most general aviation pilots simply don’t fly when the weather is truly adverse. Others indulge in a considerably more thorough weather briefing to determine what they’ll do if the atmospherics go downhill faster than expected. Obviously, you should inquire about your destination and your alternate, but I always like to ask, “Where is it good?” and see if I have sufficient fuel to divert to that destination as a last resort. I’ll do the same thing for my proposed route structure, sometimes planning my flight through the least inhospitable weather.

3 A clearance isn’t sacrosanct. If you file an IFR flight plan and receive a clearance you don’t like, you have two choices. Accept the clearance, depart and try to negotiate a better plan with ATC, or shut down, call flight service and find out the nature of the problem. Don’t fight it out with the guy on the other end of the radio. Remember that ground control and/or clearance delivery are merely messengers that can only communicate your displeasure to higher authority. If you insist on arguing with them, you’ll only succeed in tying up the frequency and irritating everyone else trying to use their services. Better to accept the flawed clearance, depart and work it out with someone who can actually do something about it.

4 Similarly, if you receive a directive in flight that you disagree with for safety reasons, you’re not obligated to comply. Once, many years ago, I was delivering an Aerostar from Toussus-le-Noble, France to Boston and was assigned a very low 8,000 feet over the North Sea for the first leg up to Wick, Scotland. I had filed for 20,000 feet, it was early spring and there was ice at lower levels, pretty common in the U.K. during the cold months. I suggested to the always courteous British controller that I was picking up ice and needed higher, and he gave me a series of “Standbys.” Finally, after about 15 minutes of this, I said, “London, Aerostar 3274B is requesting higher for the seventh time. We’re icing up at this altitude. If you can’t approve higher, I’ll declare an emergency and initiate climb to my original flight plan altitude of FL200.” There was a short pause followed by, “Aerostar 74B, cleared to climb and maintain FL200. Report reaching.” You may have to explain your actions later, but better that than to compromise the safety of your flight.

5 If thinking ahead of the airplane is important in VFR flight, it’s absolutely critical in IFR. For that reason, budget your time carefully, and don’t give the airplane a chance to get ahead of you. On most IFR flights, there’s just too much to do to allow daydreaming about the new Garmin 750 you’re planning to have installed next week. Have the charts laid out prior to departure, and make certain you have appropriate approach plates for your destination, alternate, and any other possible airport ready and available. If you’re flying at night, carry at least one camp light that you can strap to your forehead, so you won’t have to scramble if an instrument or an entire panel goes dark.

6 Loss of communications in IFR conditions has some rules that most pilots are familiar with. If all com is lost, ATC will expect you to do exactly what you had originally planned: fly your flight plan route, shoot the normally assigned approach and land. If you’ve lost transmit only, one trick you may not have heard is to tune in the audio of the last or the next VOR and listen for your call sign. Even if you’re flying with GPS, tune the nearest VOR to see if anyone is calling. If you hear your call sign, you may be able to respond to ATC using squawk/idents with discrete transponder codes.

7 Airline and military pilots can’t even initiate an approach unless both ceiling and visibility are at or above minimums, but general aviation pilots can “take a look.” Ceiling is always critical on every approach, as there’s obviously nothing to hit if you’re over the threshold at minimums and there’s no runway in sight, but visibility is often a judgment call. If you fly an approach to minimums, especially down to a typical DH of 250 feet on an ILS and you have the lights in sight, you have the prerogative of landing. Even if the tower is reporting less than the required visibility, the controller is usually nowhere near the runway threshold. True, he may be reporting RVR, but he’s still not in your cockpit. If you can see the lights, you’re legal to complete the approach and land. Just remember, what’s legal and what’s smart may be two very different things.

8 Fly higher on practically every IFR flight than you would on a VFR trip. It’s an intelligent hedge when you consider that everything becomes more critical in IFR conditions. No matter how low the MEA, file for 9,000 to 12,000 rather than settle for lower levels. Except in mountainous terrain, even most winter weather tops at that height or less, and IFR on top is a lot more comfortable than flying in the clouds. Also, if an engine quits, the taller altitude provides a little more time to troubleshoot and get ready for the emergency landing.

9 Consider using a “cruise clearance” if conditions allow it. It’s one of the least known and most poorly understood clearances. A cruise clearance can expedite your flight and help streamline the process of cruise, descent and approach. Most cruise clearances clear you direct to the next navaid or destination, operating at any altitude from the specified height down to the MEA. You need not report leaving your altitude for descent, and you can be confident you’re the only traffic in the area. You’re automatically cleared for the approach at your destination, and your only obligation is to report “landing assured” or that you’re executing the miss and going to plan B. This is a common procedure flying into non-tower airports on many of the mid-Pacific Islands, such as Majuro in the Marshalls and Tarawa in the Kiribatis, but it can work just as well in light traffic anywhere.

10 No question about it—IFR clearances are more serious business than VFR flight. But don’t allow yourself to be cowed by the fact that you’re flying IFR. While tolerances are tighter under IFR conditions, your rights as an IFR pilot don’t change when you’re wrapped in cloud. You’re expected to operate within 200 feet of your assigned altitude and to maintain the assigned heading or course, but don’t be paranoid about the consequence of not doing so. If the air is bumpy or you’re having instrument or radio problems, tell the controller. Unless he or she believes you’re a complete idiot, you’ll almost never sustain a violation.

11 In fact, controllers can be your best friends. Flying a Cessna 340 from Pennsylvania on the last leg into Long Beach, I began to lose the HSI as I descended for the IFR approach. Uncharacteristically, the turbulence was fierce. Long Beach was reporting 300 and 1, barely above minimums, and there was a NOTAM for moderate to severe below 12,000 feet. Several pilots had already complained of the chop. I confirmed it. As I was being vectored for the ILS, the HSI finally quit completely, and things got very busy. Trying to hold a heading with the whiskey compass was almost impossible, as it was swinging 90 degrees left and right. My scan quickly deteriorated to merely trying to keep the airplane under control. I was encountering strong up- and downdrafts, trying to hold a semblance of a heading and stay within 500 feet of my assigned altitude. Several preceding pilots (who presumably had working DGs) had opted to go to their alternates. With no working DG/HSI available, I had to make do. Finally, after three tries to get on the localizer at somewhere near the proper altitude, a new controller came on the freq and asked if I’d like a no-gyro approach. I said yes, I had been there before, and he told me to concentrate on airspeed and altitude and he’d take care of heading. After a series of “start turn” and “stop turn” commands, he got me to the localizer where I could navigate with the localizer needle, and I was able to zigzag down the ILS, break out at minimums and land. To my surprise, no one gave me a phone number to call, and there was no inspector waiting to check my HSI. Three cheers for that talented controller, whoever he may be.

12 Every pilot is taught in training to familiarize himself with the missed approach procedure in case he can’t land out of the first approach. A better mind-set, however, is to assume you definitely won’t land on that first attempt. Even if the weather is well above minimums, the airplane is running perfectly and you’re feeling great, don’t fall into the trap of assuming the landing is guaranteed. Memorize as much of the missed approach procedure as you can, at least the initial heading and altitude, so you’ll actually be prepared for a miss rather than surprised by it.

If you’re flying in clouds, it’s imperative that you know exactly where you are at all times without relying on
radar assistance.

13 Since we’re addressing the missed approach, consider for a moment the number of pilots who have come to grief, because they weren’t prepared for an abort. That’s not hard to understand, since real-world aborts are extremely rare. I’ve had a total of three in nearly 40 years and 3,000 hours of IFR flying. The steps are numerous and critical, and if you don’t accomplish them successfully and in the proper order, you may be in deep trouble. The first step (after you level the wings, in case you’re still maneuvering) is to power up to arrest the descent and bring the nose up to at least a level flight attitude. Then, you’ll want to reduce drag by retracting the gear. Next, most pilots will reposition the flaps to the takeoff setting to maximize lift. While you’re doing all of this, you’ll be trimming the nose up for climb to reduce the yoke/stick pressure, opening the cowl flaps, etc. If this all sounds like a three-handed process, that about sums it up. Do the best you can with only two hands.

14 Don’t automatically file for what appears to be the most direct route, especially when operating overseas. On the 650 nm leg from Reykjavik, Iceland, to Wick, U.K., there are two typical routes. The most direct and the one most pilots are encouraged to file takes the aircraft through three FIRs (Flight Information Regions): Iceland, Shanwick and Scottish. If you file that trip, you’ll save about five to seven minutes in Shanwick airspace, but you’ll spend an extra $170 in airways fees for the privilege. If you file for Reykjavik direct to 60N 10W and then direct to Wick, you’ll extend your trip by about 20 miles, but you’ll only operate in two FIRs, Iceland and Scottish, and you’ll save that $170.

15 In this age when GPS simplifies every aspect of navigation, it’s fairly easy to cross waypoints exactly on time and hit ETAs within a few minutes. Even so, consider using only two operational airspeeds during IFR, one for climb and approach and the second for cruise. When it’s time to descend, throttle back just enough to allow the airplane to maintain the same cruise speed. Most often, you can use the same number for climb and approach—V_y and normal approach speed are often the same, anyway—but consider using only one number for descent and cruise speed to keep the calculations easy. In VFR, it’s okay to come down in a penetration descent, but you can simplify the math by using the KISS principle in IFR. (This obviously won’t work when you’re operating with an approach speed based on weight.)

16 An old, bold pilot once advised me to, “Keep your brain on a swivel and be ready to ad lib at a moment’s notice.” While that sounds a little nonsensical, the concept is valid. If you’re flying in a non-radar environment, scudding in and out of cloud, keep your third eye on the windshield. Even if you’re flying at a legal IFR altitude in the clag, there may be an idiot coming the other way who’s cheating the system. It’s a big sky, but that doesn’t preclude the possibility of conflict with someone without a rating or the brains to use it properly.

17 Most pilots flying VFR give the vacuum system short shrift, and pay most of their attention to fuel and electrical systems. Vacuum instruments obviously take on major importance in IFR conditions. Once, on a ferry flight in a Beech Duke from Amman, Jordan, to Fargo, North Dakota (ferry pilots fly to some truly exotic places), I was crossing the Italian Alps on my way into Geneva, Switzerland, and ice began to form on the wings. I watched for a while to make certain I had built up enough of a layer to justify cycling the boots. When I did, the boots inflated perfectly—and stayed inflated. I tried cycling the switch several times, but the boots continued to drain what little pneumatic pressure I had. Deice boots demand air pressure, and I quickly began to lose the gyros. Just as I was about to ask Center for a vector to the nearest airport, I popped out into the scattered puffies with magnificent Lake Geneva just ahead. Safely on the ground at Geneva-Cointrin Airport, a mechanic determined that a valve had stuck open.

18 The FAA has long contemplated a separate rating for night flying under VFR conditions. Night IFR is even more demanding, and it introduces a whole new set of variables for an instrument pilot. If flying day VFR is perhaps the easiest and simplest form of aviating, night IFR may be one of the toughest. Organization becomes far more critical in the dark. Everything is more difficult when you reduce the light level both inside and outside the cockpit. For that reason, you may want to consider flying higher to remain above the clouds in VMC, especially on a moonless night when the airspace can resemble a black hole. You might even choose a different route to avoid weather that you’d accept as normal in daylight. Some pilots who fly regular night IFR also modify their flight plan to stay closer to airports and emergency landing sites.

19 Positional awareness becomes far more critical when you’re being vectored for an approach. Too often, the tendency is to breathe a sigh of relief when the controllers says “radar contact” and begins to issue vectors. Perhaps ironically, that’s exactly the time to become more vigilant. As a rule, controllers are great folks who do an excellent job of keeping pilots out of trouble, but it’s important to remember that you’re the captain of your airplane, whether it’s a J-3, a Seneca or a King Air. Don’t abrogate responsibility for the safety of your flight just because a controller has you in radar contact. If you’re flying in clouds, it’s imperative that you know exactly where you are at all times without relying on radar assistance. Think before you accept any radar vector.

20 Circling approaches are unusual, but try to be ready for them BEFORE you leave the ground. Any approach that’s more than 30 degrees off the approach runway centerline is regarded as a circling procedure. Thirty degrees isn’t much of a challenge, but sometimes the offset can be 60 or 70 degrees, and that’s a little tougher. Remember that what you see when you begin the circling procedure may not be what you’ll see once you turn final out of circling. In the worst case, you may have low-hanging scud on short final to the runway, but not at the initial turn point. Maintain the MDA religiously throughout the procedure. Some pilots even add a slight pad, perhaps 100 or 200 feet, to give them more time to establish the descent on short final. I once witnessed a fully dirtied-up DC-10 execute a circle-to-land at Long Beach after a straight in to runway 30 and a half-circle at 500 feet to the opposite runway 12. Watching a “heavy” execute that maneuver so perfectly at such a low altitude proved to me I still had a lot to learn.

The post 20 Tips For IFR Flying appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

NIGHT FLIGHTING CAN BE PROFITABLE.

Back in the day when I was young and stupid (I’m now much older and still!), long before I discovered I could make even less money in aviation, I was determined to become one of the world’s great trumpet players. To that end, I studied with one of Hollywood’s hardest-working studio lead trumpet players, Bud Brisbois. After a stint with Stan Kenton, Bud was working regularly with Henry Mancini, playing gigs all over the U.S.

Mancini was in great demand at cities with symphony orchestras to conduct a program of his music. Like many musicians, Mancini didn’t enjoy being on the road, and he accepted the dates on the condition that he be flown in by corporate jet with four of his favorite soloists; typically, Bud on trumpet, Bud Shank on sax, Shelley Mann on drums and (I think) Milt Bernhart on trombone.

The musicians would typically depart in one of Clay Lacy’s Learjet 35s early on a Saturday morning, arrive in Kansas City or Dallas or New Orleans in time for a rehearsal, play the job and fly home immediately after the concert. Bud said they were always treated like royalty, made great money, and he was usually back at his home in Encino by 2 a.m., Sunday morning. Bud wasn’t a pilot and didn’t know much about airplanes, but he always felt that was one of the great fringe benefits of working with Mancini, even if he did have to fly in the middle of the night.

Under some circumstances, night can be an enjoyable time to fly. We may not all fly Learjets halfway across the country in the dark, but night can still be a seductress. The weather is usually better, the temperature improves aircraft performance, the air can be almost glycerin smooth and, as the haze of the day settles out, the visibility becomes so good, you could see Hawaii if the Earth were flat.

Less than a dozen years after earning my license, I began ferrying airplanes internationally, and nearly all of my first 40 trips across the North Atlantic from Canada nonstop to Ireland were at night. The time change between Gander, Newfoundland, and Shannon, Ireland, is three hours, so if we departed at, say, 6 p.m. (9 p.m. in Ireland), we’d be landing sometime in early morning in Shannon after a nine- to 11-hour flight.

In those days, I was taught that night was the best time to fly the ocean. Weather was usually better, HF signals carried further, the airplane was happier, and we pilots got to take 36 hours off rather than 24 in Ireland. If the worst did happen and we had to ditch, an emergency strobe could be visible for 30 to 40 miles (provided you survived the landing, got your raft deployed, succeeded in climbing aboard, didn’t suffer hypothermia or get eaten by sharks).

Some advantages to flying at night include airports that are easier to find with lighted runways, and instruments that are easier to scan with well-illuminated dials. One tip when in the pattern is to use square patterns with a relatively wide base. This will give you time to judge the final turn and landing approach.

I’ve since learned better, but there’s no question night has its attractions—and its detractions. There’s less traffic and more visibility, no glare from the sun, instrument scanning is easier with well-illuminated dials, cities stand out from surrounding terrain, and airports and traffic are easier to locate with their telltale beacons.

After way too many trips, I don’t do too many Atlantic crossings—my West Coast domicile favors Pacific trips—but I still do my share of night flying, primarily because it’s often difficult to get everything done in daylight. Why sleep when you could be flying?

Yes, I know. That attitude can get some pilots into trouble, and it does exactly that every year. Accident statistics suggest that flying by night accounts for about 10% of the general aviation accidents, but 30% of the fatalities. That suggests night flying must be inherently more dangerous than aviating when the sun is up.

The rules for night flying are more stringent in many countries than they are in the U.S., apparently in recognition of an increased level of risk. In Mexico, all night flights must be conducted IFR. Several African countries forbid ANY general aviation flights at night. (Airlines aren’t so constrained.)

Of course, just as with flying over water, the airplane doesn’t know it’s dark, so the problems of night flying are more related to pilots than airplanes. Here’s a short list of considerations for flying at night.

FLIGHT PLANNING AND PREFLIGHT

1 Smart aviators may plan a slightly different route at night, one that takes advantage of available airports en route. There’s no logical reason for more mechanical malfunctions at night, but any problem may be compounded by the difficulty of executing emergency checklists and spotting reasonable landing sites. Accordingly, many pilots will plot a course that zig-zags between airports rather than simply punching “Go To” on the Garmin and flying GPS-direct. The distance will be slightly greater, but not as much as you might imagine. For fans of pilotage, the old trick of picking a prominent point on the far horizon, flying to it, and picking another and then another, may be a challenge when you can’t see a horizon.

2 Many pilots plan for a higher cruising altitude at night, simply because suitable emergency landing sites may be fewer and farther between. The difference between cruise at 8,500 and 10,500 feet may not seem like much until you have to glide back to Earth at 800-900 fpm without power. That extra 2,000 feet represents an additional two-plus minutes of time to make important decisions.

3 Just as you’ll want to consider flight planning for alternate airports and climbing higher to prolong glide, you should allow more generous fuel reserves at night. It’s easier to become disoriented in the dark, so there’s a slightly higher risk of “temporary disorientation,” as the military calls it. We call it lost. Also, pilots flying at night have a greater sense of get-there-itis, and that may mean decisions they wouldn’t make in daylight when things are actually visible. Even if the problem is only one of being a little short on fuel and needing to stop for a few gallons, not every airport offers fuel sales in the wee small hours. That can encourage dumb decisions.

4 If you haven’t looked at a chart in years (raise your hands), a night flight might be a good time to actually mark a course line on a WAC or Sectional. Consider using a wide-point pencil or pen, perhaps even a Sharpie, for your flight track line and flight log. Don’t use a highlighter, as the color may appear as a solid-black line under red light.

5 You’ll obviously need a flashlight or two for the preflight. I use a hands-free miner’s or camp light that straps to my forehead and shines wherever I’m looking, plus two or three Maglites of various sizes for other tasks. To keep flashlights and other important stuff where I can find it, I use industrial-strength Velcro.

6 Checking for fuel contamination can be a challenge at night, so I hold the sample against a white surface and shine a light through the cup from the side. That allows me to see any crud at the bottom of the cup.

There’s no question night has its attractions. There’s less traffic and more visibility, no glare from the sun, and instrument scanning is easier with well-illuminated dials.

7 Keep in mind that your eyes demand more oxygen than the rest of your body as you climb away from Earth into thinner air. For that reason, you might consider using supplemental O2 on any flight above 5,000 feet. If you live in Denver or Albuquerque, your body has probably adapted to the reduced atmospheric pressure, and you have a natural advantage over the rest of us. Also, remember the story of the two families that live in your eyes, the Rods and the Cones. The Rods live in the center of your eyes and need plenty of light to see. The Cones are more sensitive souls who live in the suburbs, so they can see things the insensitive Rods can’t. In other words, if you’re looking for a beacon at night, use your peripheral vision.

TAKEOFF AND CLIMB

8 When it comes time to actually commit aviation, use aircraft lighting to warn others that you’re coming—up to a point. Years ago, a not-so-grizzled but well-experienced instructor suggested leaving the rotating beacon switch on all the time, so it would come on with the master. Prior to start, this suggests to any and all that you’re about to do something serious, or just did. Be a little more judicious with the landing/taxi light and strobe. If you’re using position lights and rotating beacon, that may be plenty on the ground. It might be best to save the landing light for the lights/camera/action check as you take the runway.

9 Unless you have excellent visibility and there’s a bright moon overhead, it’s probably best to make a semi-instrument departure, regardless of how you’ve filed, especially if the departure path crosses unlighted territory (the dreaded black-hole departure). Double-check that your altimeter is set for field elevation before takeoff and note any error. Keep a close eye on the altitude, airspeed and ADI during the initial ascent.

10 After the liftoff and 500 feet of climb at Vy, it’s probably best to lower the nose for a cruise climb to improve forward visibility and let you see the strobes of all traffic ahead. If you have any form of traffic alert (TIS or TCAS), have it displayed before takeoff in case someone forgot to turn on his strobes.

EN ROUTE

11 In some respects, night flight flies in the face of human habits. Our circadian rhythm clues our bodies that night is the time to sleep, and unless the trip is a short one, the (hopefully) monotonous drone of the engine, comfortable warmth of the heater and gentle vibration of the airframe may make us drowsy. For that reason, pilot currency is all the more critical. Pilots familiar with the syndrome are more likely to make a wise decision, but others may need to recognize their own incapacity, land short, get some rest and continue the trip in daylight.

12 Trouble is, everything about night flying inclines us to do the opposite. Fuel exhaustion may be more common at night, because the consequences of an extra stop—lack of available fuel, landing at an unfamiliar airport in the dark, the expense and inconvenience of an extra night on the road—may incline us to go for it rather than take the conservative approach. In daylight, we can see the mountains, highways, rivers and lakes sliding by below in predictable patterns. At night, especially when operating over patches of black earth, there may be almost no perception of speed, and any night cross-countries may seem to take forever. There’s a certain get-home-itis that sometimes afflicts pilots at night. If the speed of light is very fast, the speed of dark can seem very slow.

13 Though cities, airports, antennas and other traffic stand out at night, clouds don’t. They usually dissolve to invisibility. That’s another reason to fly higher. Though the haze of the day tends to settle out at night, clouds may linger stubbornly along your route. Even Xenon landing lights suitable for a Baja 1000 truck won’t help you spot clouds ahead.

14 It’s a good idea at night to ask for flight following, both to keep you awake and to provide an assist in “seeing” other traffic. A controller may also advise about weather and restricted areas, and direct you toward an airport if things go wrong.

15 An engine failure at night isn’t any more likely than in daytime, but there are few hard-and-fast rules for handling one. Forced landings take on a whole new level of difficulty when you can’t see where you’re landing. The old joke used to be: If the engine quits and you’re forced to land into a black hole, turn on the landing light for the flare. If you don’t like what you see, turn it off. These days, GPS’s nearest-airport function has relegated the problem of finding the ground academic, since you can interrogate the system to learn the exact elevation at any point. If you did your preflight preparation correctly, you should know what local ground elevation is below. Most experienced night pilots agree the smartest idea is to fly toward something as bright as possible, so you can at least see what you’re about to hit.

16 If well-lit areas such as cities appear to blink, or suddenly disappear completely, beware. There may be something in between you and the lights that you can’t see, clouds, an antenna or, worst of all, big rocks.

APPROACH AND LANDING

17 Altimeter settings become more critical when the ground may be invisible, and you should take every opportunity to update yours, factoring in any necessary corrections. Every pilot knows it’s especially important to update the altimeter as you approach the destination, but it’s critical over a boondock airport with minimum lights.

18 Consider using square patterns at night with a relatively wide base to give you plenty of time to judge the final turn and the landing approach. Leave the constant-turn, carrier-style approaches to the Marines. Square turns and a longer, higher final provide a hedge for judging your approach path. If there’s no ILS but there are VASI or PAPI lights, use them. They’re a good visual representation of a three-degree glide. Remember that a standard glideslope is 300 feet/nm, so if you have GPS or DME on board, you can construct your own manual glideslope—1,500 feet at five miles, 900 feet at three miles and 300 feet at one mile.

19 If there’s haze in the air and the airport lights are in sight but barely, you can ask the controller to go to high intensity or click the mic five, seven or nine times (after hours or at some uncontrolled airports) to boost the brightness.

20 Finally, if conditions are IFR and near minimums, avoid the temptation to duck under. You may start seeing lights through the bottom of the overcast as you descend, something you might not see in daytime, but you need to have a clear view of the runway lights at minimums to complete the approach. Duck under even once, and you may discover the real meaning of the phrase, “What a difference a day makes.”

The post 20 Things You May Not Know About Night Flying appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Multi-engine, piston aircraft were very much in style back in the 1970s and 1980s. Those were the days of $1.50/gallon avgas. At the time Piper, Cessna and Beech collectively had thirteen twin-engine models in production in the late ’70s. Today, Piper builds two, Beech offers one and Cessna has abandoned all twin engine, piston construction.

There are several reasons for the cutbacks, but the primary one is simply economics. Twins no longer make sense when avgas can cost $6/gallon and maintenance at any good shop will set you back $100/hr. Never mind how much is too much.

Additionally, even pilots with the means to buy and operate a twin are beginning to challenge the safety records of multi-engine piston airplanes over singles. The sad clichŽ in the industry is that the only real use for the second engine if the other one quits is to transport you directly to the site of your accident.

This isn’t a knock against twins, . There’s no question that pilots who operate over water or above mountains can benefit from the second engine. There’s also no question that a multi-engine aircraft, properly flown following an engine failure, can save your life.

Here’s a look at the remaining half-dozen piston twin on the 2015/2016 market. All prices are for 2015 models.

Piper Seminole—PA-44: The Seminole was born at a time when several companies were offering new, four-seat, twin trainers. In the late 70s, Beech introduced the Duchess, Grumman American premiered the Cougar and Piper unveiled the Seminole.

At the time, there was talk of a pilot shortage, and the three twin trainers were designed specifically to meet that need and provide an economical flying classroom to teach the next generation of airline pilots.

Only the Seminole survived. With its tall, T-tail and seemingly indestructible Lycoming O-360 engines, the PA-44 has remained in production, admittedly intermittently, for 36 years. The airplane has become a favorite with institutional flight schools but also occasionally sells to individuals and business flyers who enjoy the redundancy of two engines and can live with a 150-160 knot cruise.

For a twin, the Seminole is a relative lightweight at 3,800 pounds gross weight, and its counter-rotating propellers help tame the dreaded Vmc problem. Single-engine climb at gross is an relatively anemic 212 fpm, but in fairness, that’s not much worse than the other twins in the class Still, this trainer is marginal in Albuquerque during summer.

Barring such eventualities, the 110 gallon fuel supply allows a range of 700 nm for those looking to travel, and the airplane is as comfortable in traveling mode as it is for flight training.

Base price: $697,100.

Piper Seneca V—PA-34-220T: The Seneca is a very different type airplane than the Seminole. Though it can be used for multi-engine instruction, the Seneca V’s turbochargers are understandably intolerant of inflight shutdowns and restarts.

Today’s Seneca V is more of a luxurious traveling machine. I spent three years and 700 hours with a Seneca II company airplane, and it performed every mission I could think of better than I had any right to expect. Most of the time, my flights were medium to long distance business travel, in one case an editorial, round robin from Los Angeles to Key West to Calgary, Canada, and back to Los Angeles.

The pair of 200 hp, Continental TSIO-360 engines were turbocharged, so I never feared high-altitude airports (the airplane accepted several operations at Leadville, Colorado, elevation 9,927 feet MSL, without complaint), and the 123-gallon fuel capacity allowed easy four-hour hops plus reserve, worth 700 nm between pit stops. Long range power settings could stretch that to well over 800 nm.

As you might expect, the modern Seneca V does everything better. Horsepower is up to 220, the avionics suite is the Garmin 1000 and the level of refinement is excellent. Cruise in the flight levels is better than 180 knots, and interior room is better than a Baron, more reminiscent of a Navajo’s cabin than a light twin’s. At 48 inches across, the Seneca V’s elbow room is equal or superior to that of any other piston twin.

Base Price: $1,031,550.

Diamond DA-42-VI Twin Star: Of the remaining international twins, Diamond’s entry couldn’t be any more individual. The Diamond Twin Star looks like something Luke Skywalker might pilot, it flies behind a pair of FADEC-controlled Austro diesel engines, sports dramatically upturned winglets on the tips and generally manifests a modern-as-tomorrow demeanor.

The current airplane is the beneficiary of years of R&D and multiple millions of Euros, much of it a result of Thielert’s 2007 bankruptcy. This forced Diamond to initiate development of its own line
of engines.

Today, the company’s Austro AE-300 turbo-diesels power the DA-42 with 168 hp per side and a 1500 hour TBO. In combination with a 44 foot span, high aspect ratio wing, this provides the standard DA-42-VI with a sea level climb of 1800 fpm and a max cruise of 197 knots. Fuel burn is only 10.4 gph total, so the 74 gallon long range tanks allow the Twin Star to cover 795 nm between fuel stops.

Base price: $898,000.

Beech G58 Baron: Teledyne Beechcraft’s lordly Baron is quite literally the top of the multi-engine class. It’s not only the most expensive production, piston twin on the market; it’s also the best performing and, arguably, the most agile handling of the group. Over the years, I’ve had the pleasure of delivering a half-dozen of the type across one or another ocean, and the trips have always been a pleasure.

There were once three Barons, but today, the 2015 G58 represents the most polished and sophisticated Baron ever offered. Beech products have always been blessed with a build-quality and control harmony that few other models can match, and the newest Baron exemplifies the best.

With an inevitable pair of 300 hp, Continental IO-550s on the wings, the Baron climbs at a maximum 1,730 fpm. Go to the whip at 7500-8500 feet and the G58 will manage 200 knots on about 36 gph. That provides 4.5 hours endurance for a range approaching 1,000 nm.

One slight problem is that the G58 has a fairly heavy empty weight. The result is a full fuel payload of only 330 pounds. That’s roughly two folks in the six, ultra-comfortable seats. If you need to fly two hours at max cruise, you can leave 65 gallons in the truck and still have payload for four folks plus baggage and a range of a least 600 nm.

Barons invariably endear themselves to all who fly them. There may be better airplanes available in some respects (there are certainly less expensive ones), but don’t ask a Baron owner to name one.

Base price: $1,394,000.

Tecnam P2006T:  About eight years ago, Tecnam, the well-established, Italian LSA manufacturer, hit upon the novel idea of mounting a pair of 100hp Rotax engines on the wings of a miniature Aero Commander look-alike, and offering what has to be the world’s least expensive, multi-engine trainer.

I flew the first, P2006T delivered to the U.S. at Oshkosh in 2009, and any tendency to laugh at the concept was immediately dispelled. Designer Luigi Pascale (designer of the P68 series Partenavia twins) elected to fold the wheels into pylons on the bottom center of the fuselage, mounted fully featherable props on the Rotax 912S, geared, liquid-cooled engines and wound up with a viable, four-seat twin with remarkably inexpensive operating costs.

With both engines turning, the Tecnam P2006T delivers 1,140 fpm climb. Shutting down power on one side reduces that to 212 fpm, and single engine service ceiling is 7000 feet. Cruise on both Rotax 912Ss is 140 knots, so the airplane’s 54 gallons are good for about 4.5 hours plus reserve.

…All of which may be academic if your mission is primarily training.

Base price: $440,000.

Vulcanair P68Vr: Another entry from Italy, the Vulcanair, is a follow-on to the Partenavia P-68 series of light twins from the 1980s. In those days, the Naples, Italy, company offered three basic models, all six-seat twins, a normally-aspirated and turbocharged version in standard configuration and a clear-nose airplane (named the Observer) intended for law enforcement, pipeline patrol, wildlife management and other tasks demanding a good view of the ground. (The American distributor was Mira Slovak in Santa Paula, Calif., my neck of the sky, so guess who ferried four of the type from Naples, Italy, to Santa Paula.)

Today, the Partenavia has been revived as the Vulcanair. Again, there are a myriad of models available, all based on the original Partenavias. Vulcanair has added an unpressurized turboprop model and a retractable to the mix, the P68Vr. Like the Tecnam P2006T, the Vulcanair retracts its wheels into a short pylon beneath the cabin.

As in the 1980s, the Vulcanair P68 flies with perhaps Lycoming’s most durable engines on the wings, the ubiquitous, 200 hp IO-360-A1B6, rated for 2000 hours TBO. The retractable version is quite a bit quicker than the original fixed-gear model, 168 knots at 8000 feet. Service ceiling on both engines is listed at 20,000 feet; shut down one engine, and that’s reduced to 5000 feet.

Base price: $869,000.

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The search for the perfect plane is as old as personal flying itself. The difference between today and 1930, to use a random year as an example, is that instead of being limited to a handful of models, there are choices galore for pilots looking to get into a good pair of wings.

A surge in flying and airplane building throughout most of the 1960s and 1970s is largely to thank for the tremendous supply of good used airplanes, as is the fact that airplanes, unlike many hard goods, can be fixed and updated much the same as houses can. Examples of perfectly restored planes from 1903 to present around the world are proof that good airplanes don’t fade away if there’s someone willing to put the effort and investment into fixing them up.

That one word, “investment,” is key here. We know that pilots have different budgets and different needs, and since it’s impossible to catalog every model, we decided to offer a greatest hits of used planes running the gamut from an entry-level choice at $20,000 to a million-dollar dream ride. 

For those pilots looking to get into their first plane, this is a great place to start. Just be aware that when sticker shock strikes, a bargain is a relative thing.

—Isabel Goyer

1. Cessna 152

As the most successful civilian trainer ever built, the Cessna 150/152 is dear to the hearts of tens of thousands of pilots. Born in 1978 as a Lycoming-powered upgrade of the earlier Continental-driven Cessna 150, the 152 solved most of the carb ice problems of the earlier model and added 10 hp in the process, though the performance and operating differences were relatively negligible.

The 152 offered an empty weight of 1,107 pounds against a gross weight of 1,670 pounds, leaving 563 pounds for fuel, people, and stuff. That turned out to be plenty, as most 152s rarely flew with a full 27 gallons of avgas aboard. Full fuel payload was 401 pounds, but if you left 10 gallons in the truck, you still had 460 paying pounds available. Optional long-range tanks boosted capacity to 37.5 gallons, but few 152s were so equipped.

CG was never much of a concern in 152s, since both occupants were seated directly on the balance point. Both pilots needed to be good friends, however, as the cabin was a snug 39 inches across.

Structural integrity and economy were especially important in the 152, no matter that the model’s mission has changed since it went out of production in 1986. It’s a tribute to the 152’s ability to bounce back (literally) that so many were flogged for 30 years as trainers before being retired to serve as short-range fun machines.

With a 95- to 100-knot cruise on 5.5 gph, Cessna’s ubiquitous 152 remains one of the easiest ways to break into aircraft ownership at minimum expense. Maintenance is generally simple, in perfect keeping with the aircraft’s design concept.

It’s hard to imagine another airplane as simple and talented in the flight-training role. If you’re eager to own a trainer or just fly for fun, the Cessna 152 is an excellent choice.

Prices have increased on this and all good used planes, but relative bargains can still be had on a great plane. 

The price range of the Cessna 152 might seem bonkers to some, with decent planes starting at $30,000 and quickly progressing up to …. well, we’ve seen some asking prices north of $50,000. The increase doesn’t surprise us too much, as the 152 is a solid, economical trainer, time builder and runabout for those on a budget. It’s a winning combination in a highly competitive market. 

2. Piper Super Cub PA-18-150

Super Cubs are special to me, as my first flight in an airplane back in the last century was in a Super Cub on skis, though it would hardly qualify as “super” by today’s standards. The one-hour search-and-rescue mission was in a basic J-3 Cub in Alaska when I was 13, and the engine recently had been upgraded from the stock 65 hp Continental to an 85 hp mill.

The Cub began life as a do-everything utility aircraft—bush flying, flight training, crop-dusting, pipeline patrol, animal control and a variety of other tasks fit the Super Cub perfectly.

Those early Cubs employed the USA35B airfoil, and today’s pseudo-PA-18s continue with the same wing. The tube-and-fabric Cub may seem an anachronism, but if it’s a dated design, it hardly needs any updating.

Piper Super Cubs made the switch to 150 hp in the late 1950s, and as you might imagine, the transformation in performance was dramatic. Abbreviated takeoffs were outstanding. The extra power was just what the Piper PA-18 needed for bush operation, allowing a Cub to levitate off virtually any hard surface in less than 200 feet, and the 37-knot stall speed allowed PA-18s to land in half that. The bigger engine was especially useful for leaping out of high mountain strips or for float flying out of short stretches of river or small lakes.

Cubs offered transport for two humans, one pilot and a pair of Huskies or a pilot and as many supplies as could be crammed into the back portal.

Despite the airplane’s obvious utility value, Piper had long since stopped producing any other wood-and-tube-and-fabric airplane by 1994, and the company finally discontinued production of the Cub. Shortly thereafter, CubCrafters of Yakima, Washington, long a provider of spare parts for the PA-18, assumed responsibility for construction of new Cubs under license from Piper. CubCrafters was awarded its own type certificate in 2004 and continues building the popular bush bird.

Those who claim nostalgia isn’t what it used to be need look no further than the continuing popularity of the basic Cub design for proof to the contrary.

With how hot backcountry flying has become in recent years, it’s no surprise that good quality Super Cubs are in demand, but in part because there’s competition from new planes and kit planes in this end of the market, you can stil a nice PA-18 for just over $100,000, though more commonly about a third again more.

3. Grumman Tiger AA5B

It seems anything Roy LoPresti touched was automatically a work of art. LoPresti transformed the stodgy GA Traveller into the Tiger with a series of much needed aerodynamic modifications, mostly by hanging a carbureted, 180 hp Lycoming O-360 on the nose.

LoPresti also boosted fuel from 38 to 52 gallons, made a few cosmetic changes and wound up with a carefree, fixed-gear/fixed-prop flying machine capable of 135 knots cruise on only 180 hp.

LoPresti redefined “sporty” with the sliding-hatch Tiger. The nosewheel was full-castoring, so all directional control on the ground was with asymmetric braking, allowing 180-degree reversals in the airplane’s wingspan.

If it wasn’t raining, you could taxi with the hatch all the way back for maximum cooling. You could even leave it open a few inches in flight or more.

Back in the ’70s, I flew at least 50 air-to-air sessions, flying echelon on a Tiger photo ship with the hatch full back. The hatch remained solid as a rock throughout. The AA5B made a great photo ship as long as you held position slightly above the leader’s wing.

Tigers were tough birds in other respects, as well. The main wing spar was a steel tube that ran from wingtip to wingtip. Wing skins were bonded rather than riveted in place, one reason why the AA5B is so aerodynamically efficient. A downside was that field repair was a challenge if the aircraft was damaged.

The little Grumman featured the quickest ailerons of any non-aerobatic, certified single on the market. Its sporty handling makes it great fun to fly. In instrument conditions, hand-flying keeps you on your toes. 

Your first flight in a Tiger will convince you of its true nature. It’s as playful as a Malamute pup, though it won’t lick your face. For pilots whose tastes run more toward fun than utility, it’s tough to beat a Tiger.

If you’ve been hunting a Tiger, you’re aware that they are highly sought after, and their selling prices are up by two or three times over a few years back. Expect to pay at least $85,000 for a nice example and $150,000 and north for a really nice bird. 

4. Mooney Executive M20F

It seems Mooneys are forever. The first semi-four-seat Mooneys date back to the ’50s, and the little speed freaks could step along at 145 knots on about 9.5 gph. Those first, short-cabin airplanes were constructed with wood wings and empennage, but Mooney modernized the airplane to all-metal construction in 1961. The company soldiered on to become builders of the world’s most popular four-seat retractables until the advent of the Arrow in 1967.

To minimize system complexity, Al Mooney subscribed to the KISS principle (Keep It Simple, Stupid). The vertical stabilizer was a stubborn, perfectly erect design, a feature that was to become a Mooney signature to the present day.

Rather than use draggy trim tabs, Mr. Mooney mounted the tail on a giant jackscrew that swivels the entire empennage up and down to trim pitch. The baggage compartment door behind the cabin was mounted tall, with the bottom lip about waist high, probably to avoid cutting through a structural longeron that runs horizontally below the door.

Mooney also designed an unusual, manual gear system for the original airplanes. The bicep-powered, Johnson-bar gear retraction system is unique, as it’s the only extension device ever certified by the FAA without a backup system. It’s also probably the world’s fastest mechanism for putting the wheels to bed. In the hands of an experienced Mooniac, the landing gear can be retracted so quickly, it seems to practically disappear.

Mooney fitted his four-seat models with a Britain Industries, full-time, wing leveler called Positive Control. PC was on anytime the engine was running, automatically leveling the wings unless the pilot depressed a button on the yoke. PC was almost universally regarded as a nuisance, and many pilots chose to override the system by wrapping duct tape around the button on the left ram’s horn, locking out the wing leveler completely.

Our best buy Mooney was the 200 hp Executive M20F that came along in the mid-1960s. Unlike the earlier 180 hp M20C Ranger, the M20F was closer to a true four-seater, stretched 10 inches (five inches forward and five inches aft of the wing), specifically to benefit those relegated to the rear compartment.

In keeping with its image as the world’s most efficient, true, four-seat production retractable, the Executive offers an impressive 155 knots on 10.8 gph. That’s meaningful economy in this day of $6 to $8 per gallon avgas.

Most of the Executives featured electric gear, and Mooney adopted a system that was nearly as fast as the manual mechanism—three seconds up, two seconds down. The airplane also manifested a control harmony facilitated by rods rather than cables. This imparted a direct coupling to ailerons, elevator and rudder. The result was an unusual synchronicity that created the illusion of quick control response. In fact, the Mooney’s ailerons weren’t that fast, about 60 degrees a second, but roll and pitch seemed quicker.

The airplane wasn’t universally loved by mechanics. Interior dimensions weren’t that bad, but systems were crammed into tight spaces, and seemingly everything in the wings was protected by an inspection plate.

The later LoPresti-improved model 201 had 17 major drag-reducing improvements that boosted cruise by 14 knots without a power increase. For that very reason, the first 201 sells for about 17 percent more than the last of the Executives, making the M20F a definite best buy.

The Executive won its place on our best buy list because of its overall economy, reputation for reasonable system integrity and good comfort for two plus two, all at the price of a good, used XKE roadster or older Ferrari.

The allure of the M20 Mooney is strong. An economic, reliable ride, older M20s are going still reasonably priced for what you get, if not the compelling bargain they were a few years ago. Whereas you could find nice mid-60’s Mooneys for $35,000 or $40,000 five years back, today those planes are displaying asking prices sometimes twice that amount. And remember, once you invest that money, there’s a good chance you’ll need to drop some more coin to get it just where you want it to be. 

5. Piper Dakota PA-28-236

Piper’s Dakota, follow-on model to the Cherokee 235, Pathfinder, and Charger, was intended as a head-to-head competitor with the Cessna Skylane. It featured the same horsepower, roughly the same interior dimensions, comparable performance in every parameter and the benefits of a low wing.

Piper knew that recently licensed pilots tended to buy the type of aircraft they learned in, high wing or low wing, and the Dakota was specifically designed to fill the need for a true, family four-seater with the wing on the bottom.

The Piper PA-28-236 Dakota featured a slightly thinner, semi-tapered airfoil, known generically at Piper as the “Warrior wing” and fitted to all the other four-seat PA-28s. This airfoil imparted slightly quicker roll response than the earlier Cherokees and an allegedly gentler stall, though it’s hard to imagine anything more benign than a Cherokee’s slow, hobby-horse pitching in deep stall mode.

One area where the Dakota stood slightly taller than the Skylane was useful load. Using 1981 models for examples, the Dakota sported a useful load of almost 1,400 pounds, while the 182 managed only 1,354 pounds. Load 72 gallons aboard both airplanes, and the Dakota would have a payload of 968 pounds, while the Skylane would offer 922 pounds.

The Dakota 236 is a highly sought after climbs better, offers a little more payload, and has a higher service ceiling and better visibility in the pattern. It’s also a true four-place airplane with payload to spare.

The prices for Dakota 236s are consequently relatively high, when you can find them! Many brokers are looking to buy good quality examples, so expect to spend more than $150,00 for one in good condition with a mid-time or newer engine. 

6. Beech Bonanza

The straight-tailed Bonanza is one of every aviator’s favorite airplanes. Bonanzas offer a certain smoothness of response, an almost indefinable coherence between pilot and airframe rather than simply tactile communication with stick and rudder.

The first Beech model 33s premiered in 1960 with a standard, three-member tail, a 225 hp Continental under the cowl and the model designation of Debonair. Initially billed as an economy version of the V-tail, model 33 was virtually identical to Beechcraft’s model 35 V-tail Bonanza from the firewall aft and the tail forward. In fact, Beech offered the Debonair as an alternative to the controversial V-tail model.

Pilots eager to own a Bonanza now had a substitute for the model 35 that had suffered 250 inflight breakups at a rate that turned out to be 24 times higher than that of the straight-tail model.

In fairness, the butterfly-tailed Bonanza’s tail separation problems were finally addressed with an emergency AD note in 1987, and I know of only-two tail failures since then (see the NASA/University of Texas study of V-tail Bonanzas).

Beech upgraded the Debonair to the same 285 hp engine as the model 35 in 1966 and eventually granted the straight-tail airplane the status of Bonanza. The company also grudgingly acknowledged that there were no real performance differences between the V-tail and straight-tail models.

The E/F33A were introduced in the mid-1960s, and like the V-tail, cruised at 172  knots following a climb at nearly 1,200 fpm. Beech’s E/F33A cruised most efficiently at 6,000 to 9,000 feet, though they did suffer from short range because of their 74-gallon fuel capacity. Four hours was the airplane’s typical endurance at max cruise, worth 700 nm between fuel stops.

The last V35B was discontinued in 1982, and the F33A, last of the four-seat Bonanzas, was dropped from the line in 1994, leaving only the six-place A36 Bonanza in production. The A36 is a great machine, but you do pay for every bucket that’s installed, no matter how many are occupied.

Owners of F33As complain about high-maintenance costs and parts prices, but Beech still supports the airplane and parts are usually available. The F33A nevertheless represents an excellent buy for the pilot with some dough to spend.

The prices of high-performance singles, unlike any other segment, has been influenced by stratospheric sticker prices of new singles, most notably from Cirrus Aircraft. So Bonanzas, which are, at least performance wise, strong rivals to the Cirrus magic, have increased substantially. The low end of the market for these planes still sounds reasonable, with early model V-tails going for less than $100,000 in many instances, though remember that you’re getting a 70-year-old airplane at that price, and one that lacks much of the performance capability and sophistication of later Bonanzas. Later model straight tail Bonanzas are far from cheap, but we think they represent an excellent value when weighed against late model composite singles. Spending $250,000 for an F-33 with a good motor and upgraded flat-panel avionics might sound like a lot, but for what you’re getting, it’s a bargain. 

7. Beech Baron 58

For many pilots, the regal Beech Baron 58 has always represented an ultimate in general aviation. Just as the straight-tail Bonanza was an icon to pilots of single-engine airplanes, the model 58 was often regarded as the peak of the twin-engine pyramid. New, well-equipped 58 Barons cost around $1.6 million today, and even a four-year-old example can sell well over a million. 

Barons were built in three flavors: normally aspirated, turbocharged, and pressurized, and like most Beech products, all reflected a build quality and control harmony not seen in many other brands. Standard power on the normal breather was 285/300 hp, per side, stepped up to 310 hp on the turbocharged model and 325 hp on the inflatable version. Like the 36 Bonanza, the 58 Baron mounted a pair of aft right-side doors for access to the rear cabin.

The standard model 58 sported a sea level climb of nearly 1,500 fpm and a max cruise of 200 knots, while the turbo and pressurized models offered the same climb and over 220 knots at 20,000 feet. Fuel capacity was 190 gallons, enough for five hours cruise plus reserve, 4.5 hours on the thirstier P-Baron.

The 58 Baron wasn’t exactly perfect, however. The fuselage was basically that of the 36 Bonanza, and that meant the Baron had the narrowest cross section of any six-place twin, a mere 42 inches at the elbows. (In contrast, Jane’s All the World’s Aircraft reports the allegedly cramped Mooney offers a 43.5-inch-wide cabin.)

Similarly, model 58 Barons built before 1984 featured nonstandard placement of controls for propellers, throttles, gear, and flaps. Beech suggested it was the rest of the industry that was out of step and positioned propeller controls to the far left and throttles at center, an apparent throwback to the days of the old Beech 18, most often flown by two pilots.

Beech had also traditionally mounted the landing gear switch on the right below the power quadrant and the flap switch on the left, exactly the opposite of virtually every other retractable-gear airplane in the industry.

The result for pilots who flew several types of aircraft was inevitable, an inordinately high rate of feathered props during the landing flare and gear-up landings from misidentifying the gear and flap switches.

Beech corrected the problem in 1984 when they certified the P-Baron. It obviously would have been illogical to produce two airplanes of the same model with different positions for the same operating controls.

In 2006, Beech began equipping all Barons with Garmin’s wonder-window, glass-panel G1000 avionics suite and re-designated the airplane the G58. Pneumatic deice was a popular option, making the airplane a reasonable, all-weather machine.

As is the case with many twins, prices for 58 Barons underperform those of high performance single-engine planes due to the greatly increased cost of maintenance. So bargains can be had for older Barons, with earlier models going for well less than a half million, though later, low-time G58 models are fetching selling for as much as $1.7 million. Those earlier birds carry a far higher risk of surprise (and sometimes not so surprising) maintenance bills.  

8. SOCATA TBM-700

The world’s first true, corporate, turbine single is also the fastest airplane in our analysis, no big surprise since it flies behind a 700 shp Pratt & Whitney PT6A-64 turboprop. (The Cessna Caravan was actually the first single-engine turbine, but the non-pressurized Caravan is more of a utility cargo van, whereas the TBM-700 is a corporate Ferrari.)

The TBM-700 began life as the six-seat Mooney 301, the brainchild of Roy LoPresti’s design team in Kerrville, Texas. When Mooney was purchased by the French SOCATA Division of Aerospatiale in 1985, it was decided to upgrade the 301 to a turboprop and produce the resulting airplane in both Texas and Tarbes, France. Mooney subsequently ran into financial problems, and the 301 became the TBM-700, produced exclusively in France by SOCATA.

The TBM-700 premiered in 1991 at a price of $1.3 million, and initial deliveries were to the French military that needed a fast reconnaissance aircraft that could use short runways.

Today, that same 1991 model airplane sells on the used market for $800,000. That’s pretty impressive financial staying power for a 25-year-old aircraft.

In fact, the TBM-700 has endured well in virtually every area. At only 6,595 pounds gross and an empty weight of 4,025 pounds, the model 700 boasts a 2,500-pound useful load, and even a full 1,910-pound fuel load leaves a payload sufficient for a pilot and two passengers. Unlike pilots of piston aircraft, flight crews flying behind turbines rarely top all the tanks, so range would be little affected on the 700 by leaving a mere 30 gallons behind, making allowance for a fourth soul onboard.

The TBM’s cabin is a comfortable place to travel, 48 inches across by 49 inches tall, roughly the same dimension as the Piper Malibu/Mirage/Meridian. Pressurization differential is a stout 6.2 psi. If you cruise at the sweet spot, about 26,000 feet, you’ll typically enjoy a cabin altitude of 6,500 feet.

In cruise mode, the TBM-700 can turn in numbers more reminiscent of light jets than turboprops. Climb is nearly 2,400 fpm from sea level, and top cruise is 290 knots. When RVSM-equipped, which every one of these planes should be by now, the airplane has a maximum operating altitude of 30,000 feet. At 270 knots, the 700 can reach out and touch destinations 1,500 nm distant, making eastbound, one-stop, transcontinental flights well within reason.

The TBM-700 earned its place at the top of our best buy survey because it flies behind one of the most reliable engines in general aviation and represents the most performance you can buy for $1 million or less. On top of that, it’s faster than most of the twin turbines at less than half the fuel burn.

Despite them being older all the time, prices for TBM 700s have done nothing but rise in the past few years, not surprising given the lack of good used turbine aircraft. Today, TBM 700s are going for anywhere between $1 million and $2 million depending on condition and largely on engine time. Compare that with the prices for the later model TBM 850s and the 700 looks like a steal. 

Used Light Twins Roundup

Choosing An Old Light Twin

The post 8 Still-Great Used Planes appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

With only 125 hp out front, however, the Swift was far from the fastest conventional gear machine above the planet, but the GC-1B at least looked the part of a scaled-down military aircraft.

As I got to know the Swift, I discovered the standard airplane was indeed underpowered, so much so that power upgrades to 145, 160, 180 and even 210 hp were common. Mine was a pure stock machine, and even if it was a cherry example, the family budget dictated that it would stay that way for the eight years I owned it.

On the plus side, it was perhaps the quickest-handling civilian two-seater in the sky, short of a dedicated aerobatic trainer. In fact, since my Swift was a 1946 model, it was certified under the old CAR3 limits that allowed most simple aerobatic maneuvers, assuming you were brave enough to try them.

The Swift was a short-coupled little beast and had a deserved reputation as a squirrel in crosswinds, especially from the left. Again, my confidence level was high. With a combination of a whopping 150 hours in my logbook and more luck than skill, I was unjustifiably fearless, and I flew the airplane everywhere, regardless of the wind.

On one Sunday breakfast flight, I flew out to the Apple Valley Inn in California’s High Desert. At the time, Apple Valley had a relatively short, narrow, unmanned, semi-paved runway, with an elevation of about 3,000 feet. The airport was directly across State Highway 18 from the Inn’s luxurious restaurant and golf course. It was a short walk from the airport to the restaurant, and, accordingly, the Inn made an excellent Sunday-morning breakfast destination. (The new airport, KAPV, is about 5 miles away, but it’s much larger, with a Unicom and a crosswind runway, which would have come in handy this day.)

The Roy Rogers Museum was right across the street, and Roy and Dale Evans, his wife and lifelong roping, riding and business partner, lived just a block away. If you were a fan of Roy and Dale’s movies, or even if you weren’t, you could wander in and marvel at memorabilia from hundreds of TV shows and movies, plus examine Roy’s horse Trigger, rendered heroically in brilliant Palomino taxidermy.

On this day, my wife and I enjoyed a late breakfast, then re-crossed the highway and returned to the Swift. The desert wind had picked up while we were at the Inn, and we now had an estimated 15-knot left-quartering crosswind. The temperature was up to 80 degrees F, not obscenely hot for the High Desert but a definite challenge for a new pilot flying an underpowered airplane.

My tailwind instructor had counseled me on the proper technique for a strong crosswind, but that was in a Citabria, a relatively docile taildragger. At the time, instructor Gary was chief pilot for United Airlines and had flown a little of everything, including a variety of Swifts. He suggested I stay away from any significant left crosswinds. He hypothesized that the Swift’s tail and rudder simply weren’t up to handling a significant left crosswind component, torque and P-factor all at the same time.

As I taxied out at Apple Valley, I had some concerns about the wind, but I was unjustifiably confident that I could handle anything the Swift could throw at me.

I pushed up the power, leaned the mixture for max power, and headed down the runway toward the perimeter fence bordering the highway. The Swift came out of the hole like a South American tree sloth. I’d been taught to lift the tail as soon as possible to reduce drag and takeoff run, but that turned out to be the wrong thing to do in this situation.

The takeoff started going wrong the second I pushed the yoke forward to put the airplane into a level “wheel” attitude. As the small tailwheel came off the ground, the Swift turned hard into the wind. It went charging off the left side of the runway so fast I couldn’t believe it. My feet were on the rudder pedals, but my brain was caught flat-footed.

The prop sliced into the desert scrub brush, scattering segmented sage high into the air. The ground was well rutted from a wet winter, and I knew if I chopped power and tried to stop, I’d probably drop a wheel into one of those ruts, nose over and wind up on my back, not a good plan considering the Swift’s cabin entry/exit hatch opened up rather than to the side.

I stabbed on the right brake repeatedly, and the airplane finally slewed hard to starboard, too hard, as it turned out. The Swift charged back toward the broken asphalt runway, bounced up onto it for a second and continued straight across to the opposite side before I could stop the turn.

More tumbleweeds flying. Now the perimeter fence intended to help protect Fords and Chevys from idiot Swift pilots was coming up fast. Airspeed was slowly hovering just below V_R as the airplane bounced through the underbrush, but the combination of rugged desert and high density altitude was constraining acceleration.

I was out of options. I hauled back on the yoke, and the Swift reluctantly struggled into the air, fighting for a few feet of altitude.

That’s about all I got, a few feet. Amazingly, I cleared the fence and thanked God there were no tractor/trailer semis coming along the highway. Straight ahead was another, taller fence on the opposite side of the road, this one enclosing the edge of the golf course and probably intended to keep golf balls from bouncing off cars. It didn’t look nearly strong enough to repel airplanes coming the other way.

I had a brief screenshot image of a golfer lining up his putt on a green, then looking up at my menacing airplane and diving for cover as I tried to keep the Swift from hitting the second fence, landing on the golf course or taking out a nearby stand of palm trees.

I flipped the gear selector to the “up” position and tried to thread the needle between mushing through the hot desert air above the golfers and making a hole-in-one on the fifth hole.

The Swift was barely holding its own in the heated sky. I noticed the gear had not come up, so I pulled the circuit breaker to avoid burning up the motor, then somehow managed to climb and claw my way up to 6,500 feet.

Forty-five minutes later, when we were ready to enter the pattern at Long Beach, I held my breath, put the gear switch to the “down” position and pushed the breaker back in.

The gear light went green, and I started breathing again. I had no idea what damage I might have done to the gear and prop, or if I might have even caved in some portion of the wing leading edge against the hard brush.

The airplane seemed to be running normally, the flaps worked as usual, and the landing was normal. Back on the ramp, I checked the gear, prop and wings, and there appeared to be nothing worse than some minor paint damage. Whatever had jammed the gear and prevented retraction had apparently fallen away when I lowered the wheels.

In retrospect, the crosswind component at Apple Valley probably hadn’t been that strong, but my mistake had been in lifting the tailwheel too soon and not anticipating the strong weathercock reaction of the Swift.

I loved the airplane, despite its foibles, but just as I’d been warned, the vertical tail and rudder are fairly small and have limited aerodynamic effect. That means leaving the third wheel on the ground longer to improve rudder authority and give the vertical empennage more “bite.”

These days, with the benefit of quite a few more hours in a number of tailwheel machines, some of the lessons I’ve learned about flying I now realize I should have known before taking on the old Apple Valley Airport on an 80-degree day with a strong left crosswind.

There was nothing wrong with the airplane that day in the desert—just something wrong with the pilot.

Have you had a close call or a cool aviation experience that left a lasting impression? Share your story in our Lessons Learned About Flying Essay Contest today.

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The post Lessons Learned: Fencing With Crosswinds appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Okay, right up front, in an attempt to stop short any angry letters from Swift owners, I loved my little Swift. It was, in many respects, the best airplane I’ve owned, cheapest to buy, cheapest to operate, and all in all, a fairly simple machine to fly.

I knew I wanted a Swift early on. I saw my first Swift in Alaska at age 13 and instantly fell in love with the airplane’s simple lines and sporty demeanor. The type was a low-wing, retractable taildragger, reminiscent in configuration of the WWII surplus fighters that seemed to be everywhere in the ’50s and ’60s. I tried to be logical about my airplane search and consider the pros and cons of a number of types, but somehow, the Swift always won out.

Finally, at the age of 26, after renting for far too long, the Swift seemed like a good first airplane in my quest to someday own a P51 Mustang or an F8F Bearcat. I had saved about $5,000 toward my first airplane, and I paid $3,750 for the N3309K, a fortune to me in 1966, but the airplane seemed a pristine example of its type.

I had the typical arrogance of youth. I was convinced I knew everything, and that nothing could hurt me. I was obviously invincible, and when I signed up for the U.S. Army a year later, I volunteered for the Warrant Officers Flight Training Program, hoping to fly Cobra gun ships. I knew that probably would involve a trip to Vietnam, but I was positive nothing could bring me down.

In a similar sense, I was aware of the Globe Swift’s reputation as a squirrelly little taildragger, but I was, after all, a federally licensed private pilot, a rank only slightly below that of Superman. My catch-as-catch-can flight training with a half-dozen instructors had exposed me to a variety of trainers, a Champion Tri-Traveler, a Cherokee 140, a Cessna 150 and a Piper Colt—all nosewheel airplanes, all gentle, forgiving machines without an evil bone in their steel-tube, aluminum and fabric bodies.

I had about 75 hours in my logbook when I bought my Swift from an A&P mechanic who had treated it like his favorite Siberian husky. The airplane had its own house at the airport, and the owner gave it regular baths, petted it and took it for walks on weekends. The GC-1B was pampered in every possible way, never flown IFR, never outside California, serviced meticulously; and every instrument and system in the airplane had been overhauled at least once.

It was still a handful for me. In those days, there weren’t many instructors current in Swifts, and I had to wait two weeks after delivery before getting checked out in the short-coupled little taildragger. I snuck in several hours of taxiing all over Long Beach Airport, much to the chagrin of the KLGB controllers. In one instance, during a too-enthusiastic high-speed taxi test, I lifted off and clumsily put the airplane back on the ground without the benefit of experience or ability. Fortunately, I didn’t break anything.

When the instructor finally showed up for my semi-official checkout, he quizzed me on systems and flew around the pattern with me three times. When I expressed concern that I didn’t really feel comfortable in the airplane, he smiled, signed my logbook and wished me luck.

I needed it. Within a month, I had a dog run in front of me while taxiing, stomped the brakes and put the Swift on its nose, digging the fixed-pitch McCauley’s prop tips into the dirt. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice or care. I climbed down, tailed the airplane back to its tiedown spot, had the prop straightened and tried again.

I made every other mistake possible in the Swift. I flew it into a high-density-altitude situation at Big Bear and had to stay overnight for the cool temperatures of morning, lost control in a nasty crosswind at Apple Valley and left the runway. (Fortunately, I recovered and lifted off before I hit anything but sagebrush.)

Gradually, I overcame. In the next five years, the Swift and I became good friends, though the airplane certainly taught me the meaning of humility. The Swift’s systems were a combination of the good, the bad and the ugly. Control harmony was wonderful, and the GC-1B was the quickest handling of the half-dozen airplanes I’ve owned. A 60-degree bank was only a flick of the wrist away, and a full roll was a simple matter of holding full aileron for three or four seconds. Loops and Immelmans were equally unchallenging, especially if you didn’t know what you were doing. Aerobatics were questionably legal under the old CAR regulations, and the surplus parachute I bought was never repacked for the five years I owned it, so I’m happy I never had to pull the D-ring.

Flaps were either full up or full down in about one second either way. The landing gear used the world’s smallest lightweight power pack, and the result on a hot day was retraction times as long as a minute—or never. Sometimes, the wheels would simply stop halfway up and refuse to retract any farther. Fortunately, the gear always came down with either the electro-hydraulic system or the cable emergency crank.

Fuel went aboard through a single filler on the left wing, and you waited for the petrol to cross-feed to the opposite side. Total capacity was 14 gallons per wing tank, if you waited long enough. (Some Swifts feature a nine-gallon aux tank in the cabin—mine wasn’t so blessed.)

The C125 Continental engine proved durable and reliable, but it wasn’t quite up to the job of lifting two folks and fuel to anything above about 10,000 feet. No matter. With careful route selection, the Swift transported my lady and me pretty much anywhere we wanted to go.

I flew that little airplane all over the country for five years and 600 hours, mostly by dead-reckoning and pilotage. My only radio was a crystal-controlled Narco VHT-3 com with eight frequencies that worked. There also was a tired Bendix T12D ADF that worked on alternate Saturdays in April and September. The Bendix was the limit of my radio navaids. Still, the Swift and I visited Canada, Mexico and the Bahamas, and I don’t recall being lost more than two- or three-dozen times.

As I look back on the succession of airplanes since then, a couple of Bellancas, a pair of Mooneys and a Seneca II, I can’t help reflecting that the Swift was easily the most fun machine of them all. It definitely wasn’t as fast as it looked—maybe 110 knots on a good day—but all my friends wanted to fly in it, and it contributed to my continuing education, helping to make me, today, one of the world’s oldest student pilots.

Bill Cox is in his third decade as a senior contributor to Plane & Pilot. He provides consulting for media, entertainment and aviation concerns worldwide. E-mail him at flybillcox@aol.com.

The post Memories Of The Swift appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Ask anyone who’s tried to wring more speed from an existing aircraft design, and you’ll learn that the task is very difficult. Hot-rodders have long been adding speed on cars and motorcycles by installing progressively more powerful engines, and that works great for machines that roll on wheels. Unfortunately, it’s not nearly as effective on airplanes.

Weight and aerodynamics aren’t terribly important on mere earth-bound conveyances, but they can make all the difference on flying machines. For airplanes, the trade-offs of a larger, more powerful engine may not be worth the effort. More horsepower usually means more weight and higher fuel burn, which can demand bigger tanks and reduce payload, unless you raise the gross, which reduces speed and demands more horsepower, which requires more fuel and higher weight! You get the idea.

The late Roy LoPresti, grand guru of all things aerodynamic, generally disdained power increases for more speed. Roy was my Yoda on anything aeronautical, and he used to tell me that if cooling drag didn’t increase, the standard formula for calculating speed increase with extra power was to expect the cube root of the percentage of horsepower increase in knots. Translation: If you had a 160-knot airplane, added 30 hp to a 300 hp engine (10%) and didn’t increase the cooling drag, you could reasonably expect to see a speed increase of about 2.16% (2.16 x 2.16 x 2.16=10). That’s an unimpressive 3.5 additional knots (160 x 0.0216=3.5).

The smartest possible course would be to combine aerodynamic improvements with more horsepower, and that’s exactly what Diamond Aircraft (www.diamondaircraft.com) has done on the new Diamond Star DA40 XL. Diamond recently introduced the result of its improvement campaign on what was already one of the best airplanes in its class.

The horsepower improvement is subtle but effective. Rather than recertify the airplane with a more powerful engine, Diamond contracted with Power Flow Systems (www.powerflowsystems.com) of Daytona Beach, Fla., to have a tuned exhaust designed specifically for the Star’s injected Lycoming IO-360-M1A.

Tuned exhausts can work wonders at recovering the horsepower that’s normally lost to an inefficient exhaust system. Power Flow has been building model-specific tuned exhausts for several years, concentrating first on airplanes powered by the 150/160 hp Lycoming O-320s and later on those fitted with 180/200 hp O-360s and IO-360s. The company has made a name for itself with exhaust mods designed for a variety of airplanes, primarily the Piper Warrior, Cessna Skyhawk, Grumman Tiger, Cessna Cardinal, Piper Archer and a number of 180 and 200 hp Mooneys.

There’s often a general skepticism about the effectiveness of STCs, but I have personal knowledge that Power Flow’s products work as advertised. Three years ago, I had my Mooney fitted with a Power Flow exhaust, and the aircraft experienced a dramatic difference in performance. I picked up 50 to 75 fpm in climb, saw CHTs and oil temps drop by as much as 15 degrees, and witnessed an impressive five-knot speed increase at 11,000 feet.

In the case of the Diamond Star, Power Flow’s general manager, Darren Tillman, told me his company tweaked the exhaust to reduce back pressure, and the final system wound up delivering about an extra 23 additional horsepower. Incidentally, that doesn’t mean the certified, 180 hp Star now delivers 203 hp. The airplane is still certified for a maximum 180 hp. The tuned exhaust merely recovers the horsepower normally lost to power-grabbing accessories such as starter, alternator/generator, etc.

The extra ponies provide an additional five knots cruise at 6,500 feet, and as much as seven knots at 10,000 feet. Power Flow will supply the more efficient exhaust to Diamond Aircraft for all future DA40 XLs, and the company will also market the system as an STC’d conversion for stock DA40s equipped with the composite MT-Prop. (Pilots flying behind the Hartzell-driven Star must stick with the stock exhaust for now; Hartzell is working on an STC for the Power Flow exhaust, but it will likely also require a new Hartzell prop.) Price for the aftermarket DA40 Power Flow exhaust (with ceramic pipe) is $5,190, plus labor.

The new Star also has an improved MT composite, scimitar, three-blade prop to help convert the additional Power Flow horsepower to thrust. The new prop is pounds lighter than the old one, and you can feel that during power-up. The new prop comes up to speed notably quicker.

There are another half-dozen less-perceptible improvements to the Star that make the XL a fully equipped, ready-to-fly, IFR aircraft. Diamond analyzed how pilots typically order the Star, and configured the airplane with most of what was formerly optional as standard, offering the DA40 XL at an all-up tab of $339,695. (One of Diamond’s newest offerings, the DA40 XLS, comes at a $334,950 price tag. Learn more in the Sidebar.)

To offset the weight of the improvements, Diamond has recertified the DA40 to a gross weight of 2,646 pounds, 111 more than the previous Star. As a result, useful load increases by about 70 pounds. Maximum landing weight remains at the old 2,535 pounds, so if you depart at gross, you’ll need to burn off about 19 gallons of fuel before you can return for landing.

Inside the cabin, Diamond added electrically adjustable rudder pedals on both sides as standard, AmSafe inflatable seat-belt restraints and an electric CO₂ detector. The company also incorporated a Power Flow heater to deliver air 25 degrees hotter than before. Outside the airplane, Diamond fitted high-intensity discharge (HID) taxi and landing lights.

Standard avionics on the XL include the Garmin G1000 and GFC 700 autopilot. They include traffic, XM weather and GPS-based terrain warnings.

Diamond emphasizes that many of the features above could become available as retrofittable options. As mentioned earlier, the Power Flow Systems exhaust is already available on the STC aftermarket.

The big question is, what are the results of all this innovation? The Diamond dealer in my neck of the woods is USAero (www.usaero.aero) in Long Beach, Calif. Robert Stewart, USAero’s Diamond expert (he also dabbles in emeralds and turquoise), agreed to fly with me to demonstrate the new airplane’s talents.

Since the first Diamond Star hit the market in 2000, the little four-seater has been almost universally regarded as one of the most innovative singles in its class. With a composite design that has little hanging out to grab the wind, even the original Star offered excellent performance on minimal horsepower.

Standing on the XL’s wing provides perhaps the optimum view of the airplane’s slick aerodynamics. There’s nary a rivet or section line in sight, the overhead hatch fits so tight, you have to practically open a window to get it closed, and, oh yes, there’s even a back door on the left, something rarely (if ever) seen on a four-seat airplane. (The old Beech Sierra offered an aft right rear door, but at the time, Beech was laboring under the delusion that the airplane was a six-seater.)

Settle into the airplane’s plush leather interior and you can’t help but be impressed with the nearly automotive comfort. Diamond didn’t design the interior around the BMW 5-series or Audi A8, but the cabin still winds up being eminently comfortable, measuring 47 inches across in front, 45 inches in back.

That’s not to suggest you can top the tanks and fill the four seats with 680 pounds of people. Even with the gross weight increase, the test airplane sported a payload of only 850 pounds. Subtract 50 gallons of petrol, and you’re down to more like 562 pounds for people and their stuff.

I know it’s a song you’ve heard before, but that’s not really such an evil limitation, because most pilots buy at least two seats more than they need. Besides, if you really need to fly with a 680-pound string quartet (minus their instruments), you could leave 20 gallons in the truck and still have enough fuel for a 250 nm trip plus reserve.

Level at 6,500 to 7,500 feet with a full load, and you’ll see something between 148 and 150 knots, again not too shabby with only 180 hp under the bonnet. I actually saw 151 knots true on the day of my flight, though we were operating perhaps 200 pounds below gross.

Remember, however, that specific fuel consumption is immutable. The more horses you employ, the faster your airplane will go, but you’ll also burn more fuel. Diamond claims the Power Flow system makes that about 10 gph at 75%. That suggests an SFC of 0.444 pounds/hp/hr. With 50 gallons aboard, you should be able to range out an easy four hours plus reserve—about as long as most pilots are willing to sit in one place anyway.

“Realistically, the Power Flow exhaust is probably the major contributor to the improved performance,” says Stewart. “All by itself, it accounted for at least five knots of the higher cruise.”

Diamond’s max-cruise spec is 150 knots, and we were right on the numbers. That’s excellent performance for a 180 hp single with wheels in the wind. Granted that speed, you’ll run away from an Archer or Skyhawk, though you’ll still be at least five knots slower than a Cirrus SR20. Pull back to 55%, and you can see 130 knots on eight gph.

Personally, I’ve always felt the Star was the most aerodynamically innovative airplane in the class. That class, incidentally, consists of the Star, Cirrus SR20, Piper Archer and Skyhawk SP. (Arguably, you might include the Skylane, though it employs 50 more horsepower to cruise at roughly the same speed.) The Archer and Skyhawk have been around for at least four decades, whereas the Star and SR20 premiered less than 10 years ago.

Using Jane’s All-The-World’s Aircraft 2006/2007 or Diamond Aircraft’s Website, you can see how the numbers compare for the four contenders. It’s just about impossible to keep these comparisons from matching apples to grapefruit, but these are the best numbers we could assemble.

The new Diamond Star represents a definite improvement over the previous version, not just a rehash of the original airplane with new paint and a fancier interior. Now that Diamond has introduced the DA50 Super Star to compete head-to-head with the Cirrus SR22, Columbia and Mooney Ovation, the DA40 XL raises the bar in the midpriced, four-seat, fixed-gear class.

NEW From Diamond
Diamond Aircraft has introduced two new versions of its successful DA40 Diamond Star: The DA40 XLS, the top-of-the-line, loaded model with a new Platinum Interior, and the DA40 CS, a four-place, constant speed version, which can be custom tailored to best meet a customer’s personal requirements and budget.

The DA40 XLS retains all the advantages of the DA40 XL—great visibility, fuel efficiency and pilot-friendly handling characteristics—and now offers more room under a wider, higher canopy. Its Platinum leather interior features a long list of XLS exclusives, including a choice of leather colors, aluminum-framed genuine wood inlay accents, engraved and brushed aluminum trim, carbon-fiber sill plates and a distinctive metallic striping package. The WAAS-enabled Garmin G1000 glass cockpit features Garmin FlightCharts and SafeTaxi and other enhanced software functionality, including an ability to fly autopilot coupled procedure turns and hold entries, and to program Victor Airways into flight plans.

Additional Garmin functionality includes a full-screen engine monitoring page and wind vectors on the PFD. The DA40 XLS also comes standard with such safety-enhancing features as traffic (TIS), satellite weather (U.S. only), TAWS-B and a 406 MHz ELT. Additionally, you can upgrade the DA40 XLS with optional active traffic, ChartView, geosynchronized approach plates by Jeppesen and Diamond’s Premium Care program.

The DA40 CS shares all the strengths of the DA40 XLS, including standard Garmin G1000 glass cockpit, and it also enables customers to configure the airplane to their needs, starting at a competitive base price of $259,950. Customers can choose the attractive, durable fabric interior or upgrade to luxurious leather. Those looking for comfortable cross-country cruising can add the Garmin GFC 700 digital autopilot, extended luggage compartment, performance landing gear and extended range tanks. All these options make the DA40 CS a great choice for individual owners, particularly first-time owners, as well as for flight schools looking to add modern appeal and technology to their flight line. For more on Diamond’s newest offerings, visit www.diamondaircraft.com.

SPECS: 2007 Diamond Star DA40 XL

The post Diamond DA40 XL: Polishing The Diamond Star appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

As a freshman at the University of Alaska in Fairbanks back in the last century, I was allowed a singular elective course. On the first day of class, a distinguished, 60-ish-year-old gentleman stepped up to the lectern and said, “Good morning, students. Welcome to Writing Magazine Articles. I’m Charles Keim. This is always a popular course, and I’m sure many of you have heard it’s an easy A. That’s probably true, and its popularity may also be related to the fact that it’s one of the very few courses here at U of A that can actually generate a little income. To that end, anyone who can sell an article during the term of the course will receive an automatic A.”

With that as my incentive, I hurried back to my dorm, unpacked my trusty Smith Corona (this was long before the advent of personal computers) and hammered out a 1,000-word story on the university rifle team, then sent it off to Alaska Sportsman Magazine. A week later, I received an acceptance letter and a check for $60. It seems our little 1,000-student school in the far north of Alaska consistently placed in the top 10 against 10,000- to 20,000-student universities such as Washington, Oregon and Colorado.

I showed that check to Professor Keim just before the second class, and he roared with laughter, told me I had my automatic A, congratulated me, and asked me to tell my story to the class.

I went on to take Professor Keim’s second-semester class, Creative Writing 102, and sold two more articles in the process. 

That was the beginning of a 50-year career in aviation writing that has resulted in 2,100 articles and 4 million words in several dozen magazines around the world, primarily Plane & Pilot, but also everyone else whose checks were good.

Inevitably, there are always times of financial drought in any freelance business that doesn’t provide a regular paycheck, and I faced this on several occasions. One way I discovered to get around this was by delivering airplanes overseas. 

I was scheduled to do a story on how Piper Aircraft delivered its products internationally and had an opportunity to fly a new Piper Seneca across the Atlantic to the 1977 Paris Air show for display at Le Bourget. The trip went well, and somehow, one way or another, I found the airport in Paris and was offered the opportunity to make other ferry flights for Globe Aero in Lakeland, Florida. I became a semi-regular ferry pilot for Globe during the extremely busy general aviation boom of the late ’70s.

I worked for Globe off and on for 20 years, then formed my own company, Bear Air International, out of my home in California. In total, I made 235 international trips between the U.S and points overseas. Globe delivered all over the world, and I got a good introduction to flying single and twin-engine piston turboprops (and even a few jet aircraft) to destinations in Europe, Africa, Australia, the Far East, the Middle East, South America and other locations.

My friends sometimes asked if there were ever any hiccups on these trips. Yes, there were, but fortunately, none over water. There have been about a half dozen, and I won’t bore you or me by explaining them all.

One of the most notable was a Cessna Crusader twin over the west coast of Africa in Gabon, headed for Johannesburg.

Both engines failed almost simultaneously, something that’s never supposed to happen (why else would you have two engines?).  I was just coming up on the Congo River at the time, and at first glance, it looked like the river itself was my only flat landing site.

Fortunately, I had another airplane flying with me toward a mutual destination, and the pilot, Tom Willet, was very familiar with that area. Tom knew there was a missionary emergency medical strip very close to our position. Tom pointed it out to me over the radio. I was skeptical because the grass was high and the runway was short, but I didn’t have any other choice. I knew the Congo River was full of crocodiles, so even if I made a perfect ditching, the swim to shore could have been hazardous to my health.

The name of the missionary runway was Tchibanga. The little runway was never designed to accommodate a Cessna twin. Fortunately, the grass, heavy mud and the airplane’s rugged trailing link gear system helped cushion the landing and shorten the rollout. There was no damage to the Crusader. Cessna Gabon sent down another airplane with a mechanic and determined the problem was fuel contamination in the ferry tanks. 

The mechanic cleaned everything he could—fuel lines, filters—and put everything back together but warned me that the problem was still there. It was up to me if I wanted to fly back to Libreville, Gabon, because there was probably still plenty of contaminated fuel in the tanks. I flew the Crusader back to Libreville, the shop drained all tanks, and I completed the delivery to Joburg the next day.

Another difficult situation arose in the Pacific island of Majuro, specifically in a 421 that I was delivering back to the U.S. from Subic Bay, Philippines. I was in Majuro, Marshall Islands, launching on the 2,000-mile leg to Honolulu. The runway at Majuro is only slightly narrower than the island itself, a coral atoll. I was departing with a full load of fuel, and the airplane checked out very well. I brought the power up, rotated and, just as I reached for the gear switch, the right engine quit.

Fortunately, I was only about 20 feet above the runway. I chopped the other throttle, slammed the airplane back onto the runway and rolled out pretty much to the end. It turned out that the throttle linkage on the right engine had failed because of corrosion in Subic Bay, and there was nothing wrong with the engine itself. I needed someone who could work on a 421, and I wasn’t qualified for that, so I called a good friend whose real job was flying as a captain for Southwest Airlines on 737s, but he moonlighted ferrying airplanes all over the world. Fred was also an A&P mechanic and was very familiar with 421s. He agreed to fly out to Majuro, repair the throttle linkage and take over the trip.

There have been another half dozen or more of various failures that have been resolved without damage. If you’re a regular reader of Plane and Pilot or some of the other aviation magazines, you may already have read accounts of those incidents.

“That was the beginning of a 50-year career in aviation writing that has resulted in 2,100 articles and 4 million words in several dozen magazines around the world, primarily Plane & Pilot, but also everyone else whose checks were good.“

I’ve also made perhaps two-dozen trips across the Atlantic and Pacific with the owner in the left or right seat. These are pilots who may have the ability to make the trip themselves but not the confidence. They correctly decide to hire someone who has made many crossings and knows when not to go or when to divert. Some people are willing to pay for the co-pilot with experience on the ocean.

I also did some brokering, finding suitable aircraft for overseas clients who lived in Africa, Europe, Australia and other places where there’s not much selection of some models. Frequently, I would determine the best used aircraft for a particular client, refurbish it to their specifications, then deliver it to them in their home country.

Another aspect of aviation journalism I became involved with was the ABC series ABC’s Wide World of Flying. This series ran for approximately seven years in the early ’80s through the early ’90s, and it was great fun and an opportunity to do something different—writing scripts for television, flying formation and learning the tricks of TV production. That series ended in 1991.

In roughly 60 years of flying and making a semblance of a living at it, I never regarded the occupation as any more hazardous than the stereotypical drive to the airport.

It’s now time to pull back, if not totally retire, and spend time on other things. I owe so much to so many people over such a long period of time that I hope they know intuitively how much I appreciate their encouragement.

If anyone wishes to contact me, they can do so by writing to me at plherrera@earthlink.net. 

The post The Final Cross-Country Log appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Cinematographer Dan Wilson gave me a long, steady stare, then climbed into the back of the Piper Malibu, hoisted the Sony Betacam to his shoulder, and began shooting video.

It was March 1987, and Dan and I were on our way to Europe on a special mission for the ABC Television series Wide World of Flying. ABC Executive Vice President Phil Boyer, an active pilot with a Cessna 340, had okayed the trip to show pilots how easy it was to fly the Atlantic. We all hoped the documentary episode would convince the flying population that the ocean is not necessarily just for high-time ferry pilots.

Wilson and I had picked up the new Malibu at Piper’s Vero Beach, Florida, plant and were on our way to Saarbrucken, Germany, to document an Atlantic crossing by Malibu.

We wanted to fly into Greenland by sunrise, hoping to make it to Narsarsuaq in decent VFR.

The airport is small but adequate for everything up through 737s. It sits at the bottom of the island continent, and, with luck, we’d refuel and press on to Reykjavik, Iceland, for the overnight.

When ABC announced the project to chronicle an Atlantic crossing in a single-engine piston airplane to its cinematographers in New York, the response was less than overwhelming.

That was no big surprise, considering that few of ABC’s cameramen were pilots. Many “shooters” who saw the notice probably regarded the trip as too dangerous.

For me, it was just another ferry job in an airplane I had learned to love. The Malibu was/is a wonderful example of aviation technology at its best. I had made three deliveries of Piper’s ultimate pressurized piston single and had come to regard it as the ultimate alternative to a piston twin.

Since I had signed on with ABC several years before, this was an opportunity to fly another European trip in Piper’s top-of-the-line piston product.

The whole idea for a video had been mine, and I had already written the script by the time the project received a green light. As a regular contributor to Wide World of Flying, I was convinced a video account of an Atlantic crossing in the world’s premier single-engine piston airplane would be a surefire winner for viewers.

The Malibu was a near-perfect choice for this type of mission. Back at the new model introduction in 1984, I interviewed Jim Griswold, leader of the Piper design team that produced the Malibu. He summarized the project as follows: “We didn’t need to reinvent the wing on the Malibu project,” said Griswold, “but it’s true this airplane is unlike any other Piper. The only similarity between this and other Pipers is the company logo on the yokes,” he said. “There’s really nothing that innovative about the Malibu.”

Flying a Malibu across the Atlantic to Germany was an easy trip, following the milk run route from Vero Beach to Bangor, Maine; then, on to Goose Bay, Labrador, Canada; across the Labrador Sea to Narsarsuaq, Greenland, near the bottom of the ice cap; over the cap and the Greenland Sea to Reykjavik, Iceland; southeast over the North Sea to Scotland; and, finally, across the English Channel into Saarbrucken, Germany, about 4,500 miles in total.

Wilson would try to capture interesting shots of the trip en route, from airports and other points of interest to pilots, and I would later provide voiceover or on-camera narration.

Dan and I were both hoping the weather would be agreeable on the trip, though I suspected that was a little optimistic at this time of year. Spring on the Atlantic is when the Gods of Icing hold their parties.

At least, the forecast was for decent tailwinds as far as Iceland. The Malibu could deliver an easy 200 knots on its own, and in winter and early spring, you can usually count on another 20-40 knots of jet stream push from tailwinds at or above 20,000 feet.

At 220 knots across the ocean, our longest leg would be only about three hours, and we had an easy six hours’ fuel plus reserve.

Icing is always a concern on that route, but I was hoping we’d be well above the clouds to give us a good view of northeastern Canada and the Greenland ice cap.

My cameraman shot some great video as we flew up the East Coast toward Bangor, with the pressurization dialed in for an 8,000-foot cabin altitude at 20,000 feet.

Two days later, as we departed Goose Bay and left North America behind, clouds over the Labrador Sea suggested Greenland might be a challenge. Fortunately, that didn’t turn out to be the case.

“Icing is always a concern on that route, but I was hoping we’d be well above the clouds to give us a good view of northeastern Canada and the Greenland ice cap.“

Narsarsuaq Airport (ICAO code BGBW—G for Greenland and BW for Blue West 1—the military name from World War II) was reporting scattered to broken clouds at FL200.

BGBW airport was built at the end of the Tunulliarfik Fjord, 42 miles inland from the Labrador coast. When the weather is marginal, some pilots choose to cancel IFR and drop below the clouds over the ocean (where there’s nothing to hit) and track inbound visually.

The fjord is a narrow body of water that winds inland with mountains on both sides. It’s no more than a half-mile wide and often narrows to 300 yards across. I’ve only had to pull that trick once in cloudy conditions, and it was not fun.

The good news is that the ceiling inside the fjord is usually at least 500 to 700 feet, and visibility is rarely less than 2 miles. If you have a good GPS, a backup portable (I carry two) and are able to slow to approach speed for the last few miles, you can usually get into Nasarsuaq.

The runway is right on the water, totally surrounded by mountains, some reaching above 5,000 feet. There’s an IFR approach to BGBW with minimums of 1,700 feet and 3 miles. The approach plate is covered with warnings that anyone unfamiliar with the approach should not attempt it. Godthab, Greenland, is your only alternate, 250 miles north, but they have a localizer if things go downhill at Narsarsuaq.

As a result, many pilots avoid the NDB/DME (the only one of those I’ve ever seen) and fly up the fjord.

Our approach wasn’t that difficult, with broken clouds barely hiding the airport. We refueled (at $18/gallon) and launched for Reykjavik, Iceland.

We climbed up to 23,000 for the trip across the ice cap and the spectacular display of icebergs on Greenland’s east coast. During the climb, we crossed directly above Sea Bass, the farthest south abandoned radar installation of the 1950s-era DEW line (Distant Early Warning) from the Cold War days. Sob Story and Big Gun, the other two stations, are farther north, intended to warn of Russian bombers approaching the U.S. over the North Pole.

Reykjavik has always been one of the best-kept secrets on the Atlantic. The comparatively warm Gulf Stream runs roughly south/north along the west side of Iceland, and the result is a mild climate, despite the fact that the entire country is just south of the Arctic Circle. If you have to be stuck somewhere on the Atlantic, choose Iceland.

In 70 trips through the country traveling to or from Europe, I’ve enjoyed at least 40 days of weather delays, not because of bad weather in Iceland but predominately as a result of weather in the British Isles or Scandinavia.

The Icelandic people couldn’t be friendlier, and Reykjavik is a great town to see and enjoy while the weather ahead clears out.

Dan and I would have enjoyed a day off, but we knew the Malibu’s owner in Saarbrucken was eager to see his new airplane, so we pushed on toward the U.K. the following day. Wick, Scotland, was our next destination. If you’re traveling around the North Atlantic out of Europe, stop by Far North Aviation in Wick.

Our final leg was on to Saarbrucken, solid IFR for the end of our trip, perhaps retribution for the decent VFR on the other five legs.

The owner was beaming with joy when I handed him the keys and logbooks just before we pulled away in the taxi for the airline trip home. I would be, too, if I had just taken delivery of a six-seat, 200-knot airplane that redefines the top piston single in general aviation. 

Ice Flying The Atlantic

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Practically everyone who has flown a Tiger has something good to say about it, regardless of its vintage. Today’s Tiger, though a dramatically improved airplane in terms of avionics and construction technology, flies as well as the original from 30 years ago, and that’s a ringing endorsement rather than a criticism of an outdated design model.

The Tiger flies extremely well by both ’70s and contemporary standards. Back in the old days when the originals were still rolling out the doors of the Savannah, Ga., factory, I ferried a dozen or more Tigers to the company’s number one dealer, Performance Aircraft located in Long Beach, Calif. Though many other ferry trips have long since faded from my memory, I still recall those Tiger ferries with reverence.

Today’s Tiger has seen some changes as the airplane has evolved, primarily in terms of avionics. The latest models feature the most exciting avionics suite in the industry: The Garmin G1000, an all-inclusive glass panel that makes virtually everything that’s come before look archaic. Learning to use an integrated avionics system with electronic rolling tapes rather than round, analog instruments with moving needles may take some time, but when you’ve finally made the adjustment, you’ll be amazed at how much easier everything becomes.

Mooney, Cessna, Diamond and Beech have all adopted the G1000 system in their top-of-the-line models, and Tiger Aircraft of Martinsburg, W.Va., has also embraced the new technology wholeheartedly, utilizing the two-screen Garmin G1000 system in its updated model. (Cessna will use a three-screen version of the G1000 in its upcoming Mustang VLJ.)

For those pilots who have perhaps been living on the dark side of the moon for the last several years, the Garmin G1000 incorporates virtually all flight and engine instruments plus all avionics systems and readouts into two flat-screen displays—a 10-inch primary flight display (PFD) directly in front of the pilot and another 10-inch display immediately to the right.

The G1000 is a completely integrated avionics suite, cleverly designed to fit a wide range of aircraft. In addition to all the standard VHF items—nav and com, including VOR/LOC/ILS and 8.33 kHz com frequency spacing—the G1000 integrates a mode-S transponder with Traffic Information Service (TIS) uplink, an attitude and heading reference system (AHRS) and digital air data computers. In the G1000’s full-blown version, Garmin also installs color weather radar and class B Terrain Awareness and Warning System (TAWS).

Though the Garmin G1000 is the Tiger’s centerpiece, the airplane that surrounds it is one of the aviation industry’s most delightful machines. Like the original from 30 years ago, the updated model from Tiger Aircraft incorporates all the good things that came before without sacrificing the elements that made the Tiger such a popular flying machine way back in the day.

From the moment you approach a Tiger, you may begin to perceive how much it differs from anything that you’ve ever flown before. First of all, the design doesn’t fit the mold for standard swept aircraft. The vertical tail stands vertically for a change, à la Mooney, and the fuselage begs for a stretch. Even less conventional for a production airplane, all of its surfaces are completely smooth and rivetless, a function of aluminum bonding, a technique that’s borrowed from Grumman’s experience building military fighters. The wing, fuselage and all control surfaces utilize bonding.

In combination with aluminum honeycomb construction, the bonding results in an inherently stronger airplane without rivet holes to weaken the structure. Position lights are flushed to the wingtips and to the top of the vertical stabilizer—the twin landing lights are similarly recessed and flushed. All metal surfaces are either chem-filled aluminum or cadmium-plated steel for maximum corrosion resistance—another technique borrowed from the military.

Climb up onto either wing-walk, slide the overhead entry hatch aft, and the Tiger beckons you with its potential for recreational fun. The only other airplanes I can think of that employ such sliding hatches are military fighters or serious aerobatic models such as the Extra 300. No one will ever mistake a Tiger for one of those airplanes, but it’s a similarly light-hearted machine, dedicated more to the sheer joy of flying than to flight speed. The original hatch was a source of problems on the early aircraft, susceptible to side loading and jamming. The machining and materials on the current version are much improved, and whether you’re a Minnesota Vikings lineman or a 110-pound supermodel, the hatch slides forward and aft with minimum effort.

Step over the cabin wall, flip up the bottom seat cushion with your toe and settle into the snug cabin—you’re ready for the Tiger experience. If you’re flying with a G1000, the panel almost looks too sophisticated and serious to be mounted on such a dedicated sport machine. The cabin cross section measures about 40 inches, which provides reasonable room for most people. With the hatch shut, the cabin is 46 inches, again plenty for most folks. Baggage goes aboard through its own door at aft cabin, 120 pounds max, or you can pull out the rear-seat cushions and fold down the seat backs to double the cargo area.

Fire up the little carbureted Lycoming, and the airplane comes to life around you. The Garmin G1000 has its own battery separate from the aircraft battery, designed to provide a full half hour of backup avionics power in the event of a total electrical failure. Like most companies, Tiger Aircraft currently provides a backup analog artificial horizon, altimeter and airspeed indicator, just in case.

Taxiing the Tiger is a combination of sheer joy and total frustration if your only previous experience has been with a steerable nosewheel. It takes a while to get used to the semifree castering third wheel, but once you’ve made the adjustment, you’re almost guaranteed to love the airplane’s remarkable ground maneuverability. Hold one brake just at the edge of lock (locked-wheel turns aren’t advised because of the possibility of flat-spotting tires), and you can spin the airplane through a 180 in its own wingspan. The Tiger’s free-spirited nosegear fits the airplane’s personality perfectly and is the next best thing to a tailwheel.

With the hatch full back, the Tiger is the ultimate flying convertible on the ground. From engine start to just before taking the runway, you can taxi with the hatch full aft or leave it cracked an inch or two for better airflow with less wind. It’s not as good as air conditioning, but definitely more fun. (It’s also not that much fun climbing in and out through the sliding hatch in the rain.)

As any Tiger owner or pilot will tell you, the best thing about the plane is the way it flies. Numbers don’t even begin to tell the full story, but the airplane jumps off in less than 1,000 feet of runway and starts uphill at an easy 800 fpm from sea level. That’s all the more impressive considering that the Tiger employs a fairly small wing in contrast to airplanes such as the Skyhawk S or Piper Archer. Visibility is excellent for a low wing, with a windshield that folds back practically to the pilot’s line of sight and side windows cut well up into the roof.

Level off at 8,500 feet less than 15 minutes after liftoff, and you’re liable to see cruise speeds on the order of 140 knots or more. That’s easily equivalent to a whole raft of 200 hp retractables from the ’70s and ’80s. Tiger Aircraft lists the AG-5B’s max cruise at 143 knots at midcruise weight and 8,500 feet. In other words, if you depart with a max gross weight of 2,400 pounds, you might reasonably expect to see speeds near 140 knots after two to three hours of cruising. Max fuel is 51 gallons, and at a burn of around 10.5 gph, you could plan for four hours plus reserve, worth more than 500 nm between fuel stops.

While that’s better than anything in its class (except perhaps the Cirrus SR-20), the Tiger’s greatest delight isn’t how fast or how far it travels but simply how it travels. Among normal category airplanes, it’s hard to imagine anything that’s as much fun to drive through the sky as a Tiger. Well, perhaps a Bellanca Viking if you could talk the folks in Minnesota into building you one. Roll rate is quicker than anything in the class, and pitch response is well harmonized. The airplane goes where you point it with a little rudder coordination, suggesting that adverse yaw is at a minimum. You can even do your tricks with the sliding canopy back a few inches if you can stand the noise.

If you wonder whether anyone ever considered certifying the airplane for limited acro, the answer is yes. The late Roy Lopresti was almost single-handedly responsible for the Tiger design, and Roy once told me that Grumman flew an aerobatic version but elected not to pursue the project when they decided to shut down the piston line in 1979 to concentrate on business jets.

Stalls aren’t totally benign in the Tiger, but there’s nothing nasty hidden in the closet. If the ball is anywhere near centered, the airplane will break straight ahead, and a slight release of back pressure will restore lift to the wing.

For that reason, landings are hardly a challenge with the flexible gear legs, provided you don’t touch down nosewheel first. Pilots new to the older Tigers sometimes land too flat, and that can start a porpoise that could eventually take out the nosewheel and prop. Full-flap slips are perfectly acceptable without risk of blanking the tail, though the small, electric flaps themselves aren’t that effective, reducing stall by only three knots.

The Garmin G1000 adds a new dimension to Tiger flying, though it costs an extra $35,000. The good news is that now, you can enjoy the best of both worlds—performance and handling that have always been better than anything else in the class, plus a level of avionics sophistication appropriate to the 21st century.

SPECS: Tiger Aircraft AG-5B Tiger

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