Most of us would probably admit that we have done this. I had this inner dialogue recently and found myself in some rough weather, and thought it was worth sharing some of the lessons that I learned through that experience.

I was living at the time in western Kansas, where (put generously) there is not exactly a “thriving” flight training market. As a student trying to work through my ratings toward a CFI certificate, this was a major inconvenience. As a result, I drove 2½ hours almost every weekend to Wichita to take flight lessons. I had been doing this for some time, and the driving was getting old. So, like any self-respecting pilot who would rather be flying, I elected on the weekend in question to rent a Cessna 172 locally and fly to my flight training, with a stop on the Kansas-Missouri border before I turned back around and landed in Wichita, so that I could count it as my long commercial cross-country.

That scenario in itself was not daunting. I’m comfortable flying through controlled airspace (Wichita is Class C with several Class D airports in the vicinity), and I have flown that particular route a handful of times. As was my habit at the time, I glanced at ForeFlight and looked at the METARs and TAFs, saw that there was a convective outlook just east of Wichita but decided that it would probably be fine because radar didn’t show much popping up, and it looked to me (with all my meteorological expertise) that any weather that did develop would stay east. To top this all off, I reasoned with myself that, if it got gnarly, I had a fresh new instrument rating, and I was flying an airplane with an excellent IFR panel (although no autopilot) and ADS-B In weather data.

Hopefully, you are seeing some of the red flags that I did not identify at the time. For starters, I didn’t get a briefing or look into the weather products with any depth. Additionally, I allowed my desire to fly and get to where I wanted to go influence my decision-making, as I rationalized that I had a capable airplane and an instrument rating. I was flying on a spring afternoon with warm weather, a good amount of humidity, and convective activity predicted. Not a good combination.

I drove out to my local airport, preflighted the airplane, saw that there wasn’t any significant weather between me and my destinations, called for a clearance for practice, and departed into VFR conditions. The first portion of the flight was relatively normal, and all I saw was some cloud buildup in the distance. This did not immediately concern me, as any weather was predicted to remain to the east of my path. As I flew over Wichita, the cloud bases started looking closer to my altitude. In addition, clouds were developing and growing in height all around. Wichita Approach started becoming very busy with flights asking for deviations around the building weather. I found myself in the same predicament and used the FIS-B weather in the panel to look at METARs in the area, knowing this was not the time to have my first real experience with actual IMC conditions.

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When I could get a word in edgewise, I requested to amend my flight plan and divert to my final destination. After some questioning from ATC, the deviation was approved, and I was given vectors to that airport. As I approached, I encountered heavy rain and had to dodge several cloud banks. Approach offered a visual or an instrument approach, and I elected to take the visual because the airport I was landing at has just two instrument approaches. The only one I was even close to was a VOR-A approach that would require a high descent rate, not to mention a final approach course that was very close to some of the aforementioned clouds. Thankfully, the visual approach and landing ended up being uneventful, and I got the airplane parked and tied down moments before more heavy rain began.

So what about the lessons learned? I have a few takeaways that have changed the way I plan my flights and make go/no-go decisions:

1. Don’t fall for “get-there-itis.” I could have easily driven to my training that afternoon. This was half get-there-itis and half “I haven’t flown in too long.” I put myself in a situation that could have ended up being much worse than it was because I didn’t consider all the factors that could have influenced me to make a safer decision.

2. Always get the briefing. This could be one from any of the following sources: ForeFlight or another EFB, Flight Service’s website, 1800wxbrief.com, or actually picking up the phone and speaking to a briefer.

3. Get better at interpreting weather products. Weather has always been a weak point for me, but I have never taken the time to really study up on those deficits in my knowledge.

All things considered, this situation never escalated to a serious risk, but it was still a thought-provoking experience and one that I will think of every time I plan a flight.

My future students will get the importance of understanding weather hammered into their minds from day one of flight training. As they say, a good pilot is always learning. 

Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the JAN/FEB 2024 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

The post Lessons Learned: Do I Really Need a Briefing? appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

After my half-hour flight lesson of three takeoffs and landings, with my childhood friends Larry Leonard and Michael Rafferty watching from alongside the grassy airstrip, I was surprised by his question. I had no idea this might be “the day” I would solo at Weiser Airpark (formerly KEYQ) outside of Houston. I don’t remember what I answered, but I think I just smiled and nodded. Up to this point, I had seven hours of flight instruction and performed a total of 42 takeoffs and landings. 

Andrews climbed out of the right seat of the Piper Cherokee, and I taxied to the end of the runway for what would be my 15-minute solo flight, performing three touch-and-go landings with Michael and Larry snapping away with a yellow Kodak disposable camera.

My main memory of the flight is that when I looked left and then right, ensuring the path was clear before making a turn, there was nobody sitting to my right in the cockpit. I was alone. Even as nervous as I was, I was also very excited.

Like a lot of teenagers growing up, I enjoyed going to airshows. At one point in the 1970s, both the Air Force Thunderbirds and the Navy Blue Angels flew the F-4 Phantom as they put on airshows throughout the country. As they performed beautiful diamond formation rolls and loops, trailing the ever-present tail of white smoke, or crossed show center cockpit-to-cockpit, I thought, “That is one bad-ass airplane.”  

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Air Force flying was in my family. My uncle, Jack Sanders, was an Air Force fighter pilot, flying the F-100 Super Sabre during the Vietnam War. He then flew the A-7 Corsair II and finally transitioned to the new A-10 Thunderbolt II tank killer. He was an A-10 squadron commander, the pinnacle of a fighter pilot’s career, before helping to set up a new squadron of A-10s at Eielson Air Force Base, Alaska, during the Cold War (no pun intended). He closed out his 30-year career as a colonel and vice commander of First Air Force in Tactical Air Command at Langley AFB, Virginia, during Operation Desert Storm in the 1990s.  

In 1979, Uncle Jack was a lieutenant colonel and A-10 squadron commander at Davis-Monthan AFB, outside of Tucson, Arizona. That spring, I was 17 years old and went to visit my Uncle Jack, Aunt Elaine, and two cousins, Christy and Tina. During that trip, I got to tour the base control tower and from a bird’s-eye view watched the fighters take off and land. One of the highlights of my visit was when Uncle Jack arranged for me to fly the A-7 simulator. I pretended to be a fighter pilot as I simulated low-altitude strafing attacks.   

I came home from that trip determined to be a fighter pilot. I started flying lessons a year earlier in June 1978 at the grass runway of Weiser Airpark (which would eventually close in 2019). I signed up for the Piper Flight School and gave the instructor $700, which he would draw from after each lesson. In hindsight, it worked to Andrews’ advantage for me to solo quickly because the quicker I soloed, the more money he kept.  

Weiser Airpark had two World War II-era AT-6 Texan trainers on the grass field. Larry and Michael enjoyed airplanes as much as I did, so I invited them along for my seventh lesson—and that’s when I soloed. After landing for the third and final time, I climbed out of the Piper Archer and took part in the ritual of having my shirttail (tail feathers) cut off. The only problem was that I was wearing my sister’s favorite surfer T-shirt, a cool red one with an ocean wave on the front. Oops.   

My name, the time, and date of the flight, July 24, 1978, were written in black Marks-A-Lot on the cutoff portion of the shirt and tacked to the wall of the flight school. I have no memory of what happened next. I guess my brain was so focused on the momentous solo flight. Larry and Michael tell me that Andrews then offered for them to join us on one more flight. The four of us, Andrews included, took off once again around the pattern with me at the controls.  

The rest of my flight lessons took place at La Porte Municipal Airport (T41) in Pasadena, Texas, located near the oil refineries along the ship channel east of Houston. We called this area “Stinkadena,” because of the foul oil aroma, referred to in the Lone Star State as the smell of money. I worked as a busboy and cook at The Mason Jar Restaurant near my house on the west side of Houston to pay for my flying lessons. In addition, I joined the Aviation Explorers Post, a coed branch of Boy Scouts that focused on aviation.

My flight instructor for Aviation Explorers was Richard Lovell. He was the owner of a beautiful 180 hp 1973 Piper Challenger, a white four-seater with a black-and-gray stripe down the side. Lovell served in the Navy during the Korean War but not as a pilot, and he didn’t deploy overseas. He laughed about earning the National Defense Service Medal for never going anywhere. He was a short, tough old man—a Navy boxing champ with a permanently crooked nose to prove it. Day in and day out, he dipped Copenhagen and swallowed it. During flying lessons over the Texas Gulf Coast, as he gave me instructions, he’d suddenly let out a burp, filling the cockpit with the smell of the snuff. To this day, my Pavlovian response is to equate the smell of dipping tobacco with a Piper four-seater.  

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I owe Lovell a lot. He was demanding, telling me to “fight for centerline” when landing in a crosswind. As tough as he was, he was also very kind. Lovell donated his instructor time for free, as a way of giving back to the Scouts program. My flight lessons from 1978 to 1980 started at $22 an hour and eventually rose to $25. This came at a time of high inflation, when certificates of deposits earned 13 percent, and I was making around $3 an hour at the restaurant.

The hour-long lessons, flown near the Houston Ship Channel, consisted of air work, flying 360-degree turns, keeping my wingtip pointed at a blue, lollipop-shaped water tower below while adjusting for the wind changes, or making a series of S-turns over a railroad track. These exercises taught me to take the varying winds into account.

Stalling an airplane can be a pilot’s nightmare—even in practice. To build my confidence,  Lovell demonstrated his Piper’s ability to handle a stall. Reducing the throttle to idle, pulling the yoke back to his chest, this Copenhagen-dipping instructor proceeded to illustrate the magical gift of his aircraft. As I watched the airspeed bleed off, the stall warning light and buzzer distracting my attention, I noticed his hands suddenly release the straining yoke of the shuddering airplane. My heart and stomach raced each other for my throat as the airplane transferred from 30 degrees nose high into a steep dive.

“Crap!” I exclaimed as I looked down on the offshore drilling rig growing larger in front of the propeller. Without touching the controls, the airspeed increased and the trusty Cherokee slowly pitched up and down, finally settling at the original level-flight attitude. This breathtaking demonstration of aerodynamic stability allowed me to confidently rehearse stall recoveries on my own.

Thanks to Lovell’s instruction, encouragement, and generosity, I was ready for my private check ride on August 20, 1980. I spent that afternoon with a renowned FAA-designated evaluator, Maybelle Fletcher, who was a fixture in the Houston aviation community. At the time, she and her husband operated Fletcher Aviation at Hobby Airport (KHOU) south of downtown Houston. This nerve-wracking day began when I flew solo from quiet, tiny La Porte airport into busy Hobby. An 18-year-old kid in a small, single-engine propeller plane had to fly into a big-city airport, sequenced between Learjets and brightly colored Braniff Airways 727s.

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With that behind me, I then underwent Fletcher’s oral ground evaluation. Finally, we flew a one-hour flight to an outlying airport for three touch-and-go landings. With my check ride complete, I was now a certificated private pilot just one week from starting college at the University of Texas at Austin.

It had been an exciting day, but I still needed to fly back to La Porte. It was 4 p.m. by the time I was debriefed and congratulated by Fletcher. I sat in my small plane near the end of the Hobby runway, waiting for my turn to take off. But this was “rush hour,” and streams of Learjets and airliners continued to land.   

Just before being cleared for takeoff, the Piper’s engine began to sputter. It had a left and right fuel tank, one in each wing, with a fuel selector by my left knee. Since most of my flying lessons lasted just one hour, switching fuel tanks was rarely required. On this day, however, the engine had already been running for nearly three hours, and the left fuel tank was almost dry.

Distracted by the excitement of passing my check ride and impatiently watching the landing jets, I forgot to switch fuel tanks. I quickly threw the selector to the right wing tank, and the engine continued running. Fortunately, I had not been cleared for takeoff a minute sooner or the engine would have quit during takeoff. That would have been a very short aviation career. 

—From the aviation memoir ‘Ready For Takeoff: Stories from an Air Force Pilot’

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the November/December 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

The post Lessons Learned: Achieving Aspirations appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

A check of the manifold pressure confirmed the turbocharger was no longer providing the usual 30 inches of power. Instead, the gauge showed around 19 inches, which was what a normally aspirated engine should produce at that altitude. Suspecting a problem with the turbo system, pilot Josh Harnagel theorized an intake hose had come loose and feared an unplanned maintenance stop would interrupt the trip.

“I was somewhat frustrated and annoyed by the situation, but not overly concerned,” Harnagel said in a July interview.

Harnagel decided to head for Meridian, Mississippi (KMEI), anticipating a quick repair and a short delay in the business trip. At the time, he had just more than 2,500 hours of flight experience. He is a commercial pilot and a CFI. He learned to fly from his father, who owned a World War II trainer and taught him aerobatics, tailwheel, and lots of basic “stick-and-rudder” skills. Harnagel also knew the airplane well, having completed Bonanza type-specific training, including engine failure simulations. He also knew the maintenance history and was sure the airplane was well maintained.

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“Although I knew there was a possibility that the problem could be serious, I was confident this was probably a minor issue because there were no indications otherwise,” Harnagel said.

He began descending so the engine would (in theory) produce more power, when a routine scan of the engine gauges revealed zero oil pressure. “There was an immediate spike in my stress level as I realized the engine was likely to quit very soon,” he said.

Harnagel checked for nearby airports and changed the intended destination to Newton, Mississippi (M23). Suddenly, the engine began to shake violently as it entered its final convulsions, having dumped all the oil overboard.

“It seemed the engine was going to shake itself off the airplane,” he recalled. “I quickly shut the engine down by closing the throttle and turning off the fuel and mags, but the wild vibration continued for a bit before the engine finally seized completely. The vibration was so intense, I noticed screws falling out of the panel.”

With residual oil spilling onto the hot exhaust, there was a plume of gray smoke and the smell of burning oil, so Harnagel knew there was a possible engine fire. He began an emergency descent to hopefully decrease the likelihood of combustion. Realizing there was no fuel or ignition available, so the probability of engine fire was low, he resumed a “best glide” descent. However, the altitude lost in the emergency descent meant the Newton airport was no longer an option.

“I looked around and accepted that I would soon be landing somewhere other than on a runway,” he said

Noticing what appeared to be a suitable open field, he set up a spiraling approach while he communicated his situation to ATC. He had previously declared an emergency, so ATC was trying to give him a phone number to call. With everything going on, Harnagel wisely ignored this and returned to focus on flying the power-off approach to a field that now seemed somewhat short for the Bonanza. Flying the circling approach toward the tree line surrounding a cow pasture, he heard the “chirp” of the stall warning.

“[I told myself,] don’t stall! Don’t stall!” he said. “I waited to decide on whether to drop the landing gear or not until I could get a better idea of the surface conditions.”

With the field seeming firm and not too rough, he selected “gear down” on short final. The airplane’s touchdown was surprisingly soft, and it rolled rapidly over the uneven terrain before coming to a stop just before the row of trees at the end. Quickly exiting the airplane, Harnagel and his passengers began to reflect on what had happened. Subsequent inspection would reveal the failure of the turbocharger with the resulting loss of oil leading to a catastrophic failure and destruction of the engine.

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Another pilot flying a Piper Cub in August 2017 had a different experience. Jason Archer was giving a lesson to a new student on a beautiful day in Massachusetts when the engine simply expired. No warning, no vibration, just a sudden quiet. Just before, the two had been enjoying the scenery and the simple pleasure of flying low and slow over the hills and forests.

At the time of the accident, Archer had been flying for about eight years, accumulating more than 4,000 hours with more than 2,500 hours of instruction given. He was flying almost daily in Cub-type airplanes, teaching basic skills to a variety of students.

Archer took the flight controls from the student and quickly ran through the short list of possible fixes. Switch tanks, carb heat “on,” ignition on “both.” No change, no power.

“I quickly went through [thinking] ‘this doesn’t make sense,’ to ‘I can fix this,’ to ‘I need to fly the airplane,’” Archer said.

Archer also remembers hearing the voices of his flight instructors saying, “Don’t panic. Fly the airplane. Work the problem.” He told me that was weird, but it helped keep him focused.

“I didn’t have much altitude, and there were no good options available, with a carpet of forest broken only by tiny fields, too small even for the Cub,” he said.

He briefly considered a lake but quickly rejected the option, knowing the airplane would likely flip over, making escape impossible. Archer remembered hearing that a landing into trees could work if done properly, and with no other viable options, he committed to putting the gliding, yellow Cub into the oncoming row of trees.

“I remember having this strange kind of intense focus where things seemed to happen really slowly,” he said. “I felt like I was in complete control of this event, even though thinking I had no control over the outcome.”

Maintaining a speed just above a stall, he flared at the last moment before seeing and hearing the crash of branches as the airplane came to a quick stop, 10 feet off the ground in a cherry tree. In the ensuing silence, he confirmed that both he and his passenger were OK. Help arrived soon in the form of a landowner with a ladder. Both shaken occupants freed themselves from the wreck and climbed to the ground.

Both Harnagel and Archer remembered feeling a flood of emotion afterward with many thoughts: “Did this really just happen?” “What did I do wrong?” and “What could I have done differently?” In Archer’s case, the engine had suffered a broken crankshaft gear that immediately stopped power output.

As I listened to both Harnagel and Archer tell their stories at EAA AirVenture this past summer, I couldn’t help but think back to my own experiences with similar events, including a couple of engine failures and one memorable flat spin. Over many thousands of hours and years of aviation experience, it seems inevitable that some bad things will happen. Do this long enough and there will be some bad days. I’ve often wondered about why some such events lead to destruction while others result in remarkable success. What can we learn? Are there survival skills to be passed along to help the next pilot who encounters similar in-flight emergencies?

So, after a bit of discussion and reflection, here are my thoughts.

First, as Archilochus said more than 2,500 years ago, “We do not rise to the level of our expectations. We fall to the level of our training.” This certainly rings true. Both Harnagel and Archer were able to perform in the face of significant danger, ignore the onrush of emotion, and focus on doing the next right thing. We tell pilots to think logically about the choices available, but in reality, given the fear and stress that come rushing in whenever we face the possibility of disaster, this is not easy. Again, through training, practice, and experience, we can improve the chances for success.

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Both pilots had the foundational skills needed to keep the airplane under control and fly it all the way to a stop while protecting themselves and their passengers, despite the fear and emotion that naturally accompanies such events. Only through proper and regular training can we depend on our abilities rather than simply hope for the best. It also illustrates the importance of proper training in basic aircraft control. The ability to fly the airplane instinctively, manage the energy, and visualize the resulting flight path is critical. Unfortunately, many instructors do not teach this, and many pilots never learn how to do it. On the day when they are required to call on those abilities, often they come up short.

There is another related aspect to this, which is to simply refuse to quit. One of the deadly hazardous attitudes for pilots is resignation. It is easy to just give up when the situation seems hopeless or overwhelming, but that mental strength to just keep trying, while pushing aside the emotional rush, allows us to have the best chance for success. Another consideration in all such events is the role of luck. As Laurence Gonzales writes in his excellent book Deep Survival: Who Lives, Who Dies, and Why, you can do everything right and still die.

So, perhaps we should give some thought to the types of flying we choose to conduct. Maybe flying at night or in low IMC in a single-engine airplane is something we might avoid. For others, the risk is acceptable with proper equipment and mitigation strategies. We all accept that there is inherent risk in our aviation activities, knowing sometimes events conspire against us. When that time comes, I hope, like Josh Harnagel and Jason Archer, you rise to the challenge and have a great story—and outcome—to share.

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the November/December 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. You can hear more of Harnagle’s account on ILAFFT episode 66. 

The post A Tale of Two Engine Failures appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Larry Leonard and I roomed together our college freshman year at the Castilian dorm, where I met my future wife, Karin. Before starting our senior year, Larry and I moved into the same Austin apartment complex, each in a one-room efficiency, and Michael Rafferty was in his sophomore year at the University of Texas.

Driving through the west Austin hill country one late summer day, Michael and I spied a hang glider for sale in a front yard. We were both aviation enthusiasts and inspired to take up hang gliding after watching James Bond in the opening scene of Live and Let Die. Although we didn’t buy that particular glider, the owner put us in touch with the Austin hang glider club.

The club was run by two Steves—Steve Burns and Steve Stackable, a 1975 U.S. motocross national champion. “Stack” was the ultimate cool dude. This wavy-haired motorcycle star had raced in the Houston Astrodome in the 1970s.

Michael and I entered Austin Air Sports’ small wooden shop and asked about hang-gliding lessons. Through Burns’ connections, we found a great deal. Michael and I split the $800 cost of a 1980 Spirit Electra Flyer, featuring an innovative crossbar, making the large, 200-square-foot hang glider pretty nimble and maneuverable. It had multicolored, earth-tone panels with brown in the center, then orange, tan, yellow, and red ones extending out to the purple wingtips. The entire disassembled glider was relatively easy to transport, fitting into an 18-foot blue canvas bag, about 2 feet in diameter.

Launching a hang glider required a hill to run down, and that meant we needed a four-wheel-drive vehicle. I bought my brother’s green 1978 Subaru BRAT, a tiny two-seat pickup truck with a four-speed manual transmission and a 4-foot bed covered by a white camper shell. Once loaded, our “glider in a bag” extended 2 feet in front and behind the 14-foot truck, but we were in business.

Learning to fly a hang glider required a mastery of taking off and landing first and foremost, much like learning to fly any airplane. We only needed a small hill, and for that, Austin Air Sports used the football field sunken in a shallow bowl at Murchison Middle School. Our beginner’s lessons reminded me of Charlie Brown skiing down his pitcher’s mound. The flights lasted only seconds, but they suited our needs.

Our Spirit glider came complete with training wheels mounted on the control bar. I stepped into the blue harness that ran from shoulders to crotch like an old-fashioned men’s swimming suit. Our knee-hanger harness had two thick 6-foot ropes shrouded in material stitched into it at my shoulder blades and attached by wide Velcro straps just below my knees. This simple style of harness kept our legs and feet free to run down the launch ramp. The two thick ropes, held together with a carabiner, then hooked to the glider frame above and behind my shoulders.
Once safely buckled in and with my white half-shell motorcycle helmet in place, I hoisted the triangular control frame assembly onto my shoulders. My arms were draped around the downtubes of the triangle and my wingtips extended out 17 feet in each direction. I ran a few steps down the small hill, and the large wing became airborne within seconds. For the initial training, my only goal was to fly straight ahead into the football field and belly land. This allowed the wheels to touch—and me to coast to a stop. After a flight shorter than Orville Wright’s famous one back in 1903, I stood up and unhooked the carabiner. Holding onto the pointed nose of the kite, I pushed it up the hill for another go.

Larry joined Michael and me, and we each practiced numerous takeoffs before learning the art of flaring the large kite for a normal landing. As the glider approached the landing zone, I pushed gently forward on the control bar, raising the nose but not enough to climb back into the air. This allowed for a feet-first landing, like a duck settling on water. If I pushed too aggressively on the control bar, I risked climbing 10 feet up in the air, stalling the wing, and crashing to the ground. Hang glider pilots have broken their legs from this sort of botched landing.

After a few weeks of Charlie Brown pitcher’s mound practice, we were ready for a real hang glider flight. The nearest suitable launch location in flat Texas was a 400-foot hill on Packsaddle Mountain, an hour and a half west of Austin between Marble Falls and Llano. Michael and I strapped our bagged glider to the top of the BRAT and set off for the Texas Hill Country behind our instructors, Stack and Steve.

The little 4-cylinder truck bounced its way along a 2-mile dirt county road off Highway 71, finally turning off at the base of an outcropping where two hills merged into one, raised at both ends with the right side higher than the left, giving it the appearance of a horse’s packsaddle. Our launch point was the southern, higher hill, and the truck tackled the rutty dirt trail up to the 400-foot summit.

With the kite fully assembled and my harness and motorcycle helmet donned, I carried it on my shoulders to the wooden launch platform, which was painted like a gigantic Texas flag in red, white, and blue. Stack said the first few attempts would just be sled rides, a simple flight with only mild S-turns from the launch platform to the cow pasture directly below. Given the increased speed of this flight versus the small football stadium hill, I was instructed to just make a belly landing on the training wheels until I gained more experience.

Balancing the kite on my shoulders, I jogged down the 10-foot ramp and was airborne after just three steps. The wind whistled in my ears as the craggy hillside fell away below. Ahead lay a vast pasture used for grazing cattle, which made for an easy landing zone. My inaugural flight lasted perhaps a minute, and I glided toward the dry, brown, summer grass for a soft landing.

Now came the tedious part. During my short flight, Michael drove the BRAT down the bumpy road and into the pasture, and together we partially disassembled the kite, folding the wings together along the central spar and taking apart the aluminum triangle. Hoisting our kite back onto our trusty little pack mule, we drove back up the hill for another flight. Lather, rinse, repeat. Early on, Michael and I would each take three short flights then turn over the kite to the other person for their turn to practice. It became quite a long day for just a bit of flying, but the experience was exhilarating.

After a few more sled rides, I began to get a feel for the handling of our Spirit glider from takeoff to landing. I started to add gentle turns to the flights, cruising back and forth along the hillside in what is called “ridge lift,” created from the southerly wind flowing toward Packsaddle Mountain. As long as the breeze blew and I stayed in a thermal or ridge lift, the glider stayed airborne indefinitely. There were just two things limiting our flight time: Michael was waiting for his turn, and while gliding I was in a front-leaning-rest, push-up position, which became tiresome.

Typically, our flights lasted about 20 minutes, and this was plenty of time to take in the rustic sights of the Hill Country. Like a hawk scanning the land below, I could see the Colorado River to the north and east, divided by dams to form lakes Buchanan, LBJ, and Travis. To the south, I saw Highway 71 snaking its way west toward Llano, and miles and miles of cedar and scrub oak-covered hills. Gliding was very peaceful, with only the soft hiss of the wind in my ears and the creaking and clinking of the aluminum glider frame.

On occasion, our desire to fly like a bird was enhanced when we were shadowed by a pair of turkey vultures that launched from the surrounding trees to follow our kite. As the pilot, I was rarely aware that I was leading a formation of birds. With the large black birds following just aft of my wingtips, I couldn’t see them, but they made for some excellent photographs.

Communing with nature occurred not only during flight but also during the evening landings. Our landing zone was the preferred dining spot of the roaming herd of cattle. Around 5 p.m., as the sun began to set and we were getting in our last flights, about 30 black cows began grazing right in our landing zone. Just as aircraft used to buzz sheep or cattle, I too took part in that ritual.

After cruising in the hillside ridge lift for a half hour, I flew away from the hill and out of the lifting wind currents to begin a shallow descent to the brown, grassy field below. I gained enough speed to allow for a “go-around” if things didn’t look right before landing. I whistled over the uninterested bovines just 5 feet above their backs. Once clear of the munching moos, I pushed forward on the control bar, raising the nose slightly. I then circled back to a clear grassy spot for a flare, touched my feet to the ground, and shouldered the kite. I loved the calm, thrilling experience of hang gliding.

Unfortunately, my flights didn’t always go as planned. One evening, the winds started to pick up as our day came to an end. Wanting to get in just one more flight, I suited up for a last run. I ran down the launch ramp and became airborne just as a gust of wind hit my left wing and blew me immediately toward the radio tower guy wires about 50 yards to the right of our ramp. I immediately shifted my position to the left corner of the control bar and threw it up and to my right, trying to counter the wind with a hard left turn. Fortunately, my right wingtip missed the guy wires by a few feet, and I cruised away from the tower and into the hillside updraft.

My second incident involved a revolutionary way to launch hang gliders by towing them behind a powered ultralight. Just as airplanes tow sailplanes in soaring, a French company pioneered a tether system for its powered gliders that we used to launch us from the pasture. Part of the three-ring release assembly included a weak link designed to snap if too many G-forces were pulled by the trailing glider. This way the powered leader would not drag a flailing kite, pulling them both back to the ground. Larry and Michael each took a turn, running with the kite for a few feet as the power glider gained speed and towed them safely to altitude for a smooth flight.

• READ MORE: Try These Low-Cost DIY Hangar Projects! 

I suited up in the harness and helmet and gave the towing tricycle glider a thumbs-up that I was ready. As he increased the thrust of his small propeller, I walked then jogged as he gained speed. Just like launching from our hillside ramp, I was airborne quickly, but the cool sensation this time was that I was only a few feet above the grass. I enjoyed the low-altitude cruise at grass-top level as the power glider gained speed and altitude. We flew up to 200 feet, and he began a gentle turn to the left. I must have been looking down or off to my right at the scenery because I didn’t notice his turn, started mine too late, and didn’t aggressively get back into position behind him. Within a few seconds, my kite was straining the tow rope and the weak link snapped as designed.

I now needed to make a quick landing back at the cleared field behind me. It’s a situation I had been trained for in flying small planes, just like an engine failure after takeoff. Needing to immediately turn back to the landing zone, I continued my wide left-hand turn and saw trees and a power line between me and the pasture. Without the ability to add power, I could only hope my descent rate would clear the obstacles as the trees and power line loomed closer. Luckily, my feet cleared the power line, and I successfully landed in the field. So much for that adventure. I was pretty shaken up by that episode, knowing I had caused it by getting out of position. While Michael would go on to enjoy years of hang gliding and soaring in a sailplane, I decided I would stick to powered flight. Give me an engine any day. 

Editor’s note: This story originally appeared in the September 2023 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine. 

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The Friday afternoon weather was clear and visibility unlimited (CAVU), and we were heading south at 7,500 feet to Key West, Florida, with a planned one-night stop in New Port Richey to visit my brother and his wife.

What could go wrong?

The trip had been planned for a couple of weeks, so when I got home from work, my wife was packed and ready to go.

It took about an hour to drive from our home north of Atlanta to our hangar in Rome, Georgia. Hangars are as scarce as hens’ teeth in the Atlanta area, which is why we ended up in Rome!64 miles from our house.

Our airplane, a beautifully restored J-Model Bonanza, was fueled and ready to go. After a thorough preflight, we took off and climbed to 7,500 feet for a VFR flight to Tampa.

It was a beautiful, smooth flight. A good time for my wife to recline her seat and enjoy a peaceful nap.

We had been droning along for a little more than an hour when I thought I smelled smoke. I surveyed the ground to see if we had flown through smoke rising from the ground. I didn’t see anything on the ground that could account for the smoke smell, so I asked my wife, “Do you smell smoke?”

Just as I did, I noticed the needle moving on the oil pressure gauge. We were losing oil pressure. Rapidly.

My first thought was the damage that could occur running the engine without oil. The engine had been rebuilt less than a year before, so I wanted to avoid harming it if possible.

I reduced the throttle to idle, pulled the prop to high pitch and pulled the mixture control out to eliminate the fuel flow. Even though the propeller continued to spin, I thought there was less chance of causing damage than if I allowed it to continue to run.

It took only a few seconds to realize we were less than 5 miles from the Thomasville, Georgia, airport (TVI), so making the field without power would be no problem.

I turned toward the airport and trimmed the aircraft for the best power-off glide speed. Next, I looked up Thomasville’s radio frequency, which was its Unicom frequency since it’s an uncontrolled airport. I broadcast our position relative to the airport, our engine-out condition and our intention to land.

(After landing, I learned no one had heard my broadcast because I had misread the frequency off the chart.)

Now I had nothing to do except fly the airplane. The aircraft was trimmed for the best power-off glide speed, and we were descending slowly through 6,700 feet.

I knew we had the airport made, so I lowered the landing gear, which stopped the gear-up alarm, which I later learned was frightening for my wife. With the additional drag from our landing gear, our descent increased but not enough, so I began an aggressive slip to further accelerate our descent without increasing our speed. I wanted to land as soon as possible, so I could stop the engine from wind milling to reduce the chance of damage.

We landed on Runway 4, and our momentum allowed us to clear the runway and come to a stop a couple hundred feet down a taxiway.

As soon as we stopped, my wife started crying. I was surprised. I had never seen her cry. Then I realized I had failed to reassure her during the descent. I had known everything was fine, but I had not told her. She only knew we had an emergency. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought to let her know.

The FBO’s linemen towed us to the maintenance shop, which was still open!thankfully.

After washing the oil off the engine and side of the airplane, they filled it with oil, and I started the engine to trace the source of the leak.

It took one second to determine an external oil line had ruptured. Typically, there are no external oil lines, but the previous owner had installed an external oil filter similar to those on automobiles. It was mounted on the firewall behind the engine, so it required a line to flow oil from the engine to the filter and another to return the oil to the engine. The lines had been replaced during engine overhaul a few months before and shouldn’t have ruptured. They were designed for oil under high pressure, and the Bonanza’s engine pressure was only about 80 psi. We could only determine it was a rare defect in the line. The shop had enough high-pressure line to replace the ruptured section but not enough to replace the return line.

That would prove to be fateful.

The repair and cleanup were completed in two or three hours, and we were ready to proceed to our first stop in Tampa. Actually, that’s not completely true. I was ready, but my wife had decided she wasn’t getting back in that airplane.

It took my best sales job to convince her that it was safe. I told her I had flown thousands of hours since I was 16, and my dad even more in his 60 years of flying, and nothing like this had ever happened. It was a million-in-one occurrence and would never happen again.

Reluctantly, she finally agreed and climbed aboard, and although we arrived at Tampa Bay Executive Airport after dark, it was a pleasant and uneventful flight.

After a couple of days at my brother’s house on the water in New Port Richey, we took off, heading to Key West.

It was a beautiful day, so we flew VFR, enjoying the view along the coast. I avoided Victor Airway 225, which routes you directly from Fort Myers to Key West. It takes you several miles off the coast. We weren’t in a hurry, and we could jump across a much smaller stretch of water by crossing the Florida Bay to Islamorada. It’s also a much prettier flight, especially flying along the keys from Islamorada to Key West.

After several days in Key West, we headed home. Again, we planned to stop and visit my brother and his wife for a couple of days.

We reversed course and flew back to Tampa Bay Executive Airport and enjoyed ourselves for a few days in New Port Richey, including dressing up for a seniors’ Halloween costume party.

We chose another beautiful day for our return flight to Rome, Georgia.

Departing Tampa Bay Executive, we leveled off at 6,500 feet on a course that would take us directly to Columbus, Georgia. The route paralleled the coast a couple miles off shore for several miles until coming back over land in the vicinity of Cedar Key.

We were just past Cedar Key when it happened again.

Not believing my nose, I asked my wife, “Do you smell smoke?”

Sure enough, we were losing oil pressure just like the week before. I knew immediately we had blown the other external oil line.

Turning back toward Cedar Key airport, I estimated we were about 10 miles away, so I began a search on the map to determine if there might be a closer airport.

It appeared the area was marshy and void of decent landing options, so I focused on Cedar Key and looked up their Unicom frequency.

Once on Cedar Key’s Unicom frequency, I heard another aircraft announcing it was inbound to Cedar Key. I keyed the microphone and announced to the Piper Cherokee that I was Bonanza N19FL, 10 miles northeast, inbound to Cedar Key with an engine-out.

He responded immediately, saying he would stay clear of the airport. I remember him asking me if we would be able to make it, and I replied, “I hope so.” To this day, I don’t know why I responded that way as I knew we would make it. Maybe I was being a bit dramatic. I didn’t know I was so inclined toward drama, and I’m not proud of it. Also, my dramatic retort scared the hell out of my wife, who once again was as quiet as a mouse as she listened to the exchange with the Cherokee and the screaming alarm.

Even though I had regrets from the previous week for not reassuring my wife that everything was fine, I did it again. I never said a word to her after asking her if she smelled smoke.

As we approached Cedar Key airport from the northeast, I determined we didn’t have enough altitude to enter downwind and land on runway five, even though that was the runway favored by the winds.

But I was going to be too high for a straight-in approach for runway 23 unless I killed excess altitude by slipping. As most pilots know, slipping is a great technique to burn off altitude without gaining speed, so once I was set up on final approach for runway 23, I lowered the landing gear, dropped my flaps and waited a few seconds to determine how my descent looked. I saw that I was still too high, so I applied full left aileron and full right rudder for about 10 seconds before neutralizing the controls and reassessing my glide path. I was still too high, so once again I applied full left aileron and full right rudder, this time for only about five seconds to ensure I wasn’t losing too much altitude. I remember repeating the slip four or five times before I was satisfied our glide path would get us to the first third of the runway.

The closer we got to the airport, the easier it was to determine the correct glide path. We ended up landing just past the numbers, with enough momentum to clear the runway on the far end.

After I pulled the airplane to a tiedown using a tow bar, a good Samaritan flew us in his turbine-powered Cessna Caravan to Ocala, where we rented a car and drove home.

A week later, my dad rescued the Bonanza by plugging the oil ports, bypassing the external oil filter, and flying it to St. Augustine.

My wife never flew in the airplane again. I blame myself for terrorizing her twice. I’m puzzled why I didn’t have the presence of mind to reassure her. Some have suggested I must have been so focused on getting us down safely, but the truth is I never was concerned. The idea of a dead-stick landing is far scarier than actually experiencing one.

A few months later, I reluctantly sold the airplane, which, as I mentioned before, was a real beauty. 

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“Experience is a hard teacher because she first gives the test, the lesson afterwards.” Vern Law (major league baseball pitcher)

Flying can be particularly unforgiving during the testing of the inexperienced, when we learn what not to do, if there is to be a next time, that is.

Having flown on a private license ever since earning the privilege back in 1981, I do have some experience with windy conditions. In fact, I experienced my first crosswind landing while on my flight test. I had no idea how to deal with it, and to this day, I can’t tell you if I landed the C152 or the examiner did. Once out of flight school, I transitioned to tailwheels and have rarely flown a nose wheel since. Learning has been a way of life for me, with much of my flying done on sensitive little homebuilts and cranky antiques. Each has required procedures I had to learn and remember. Having said that, there is no end to the learning required!and available, to look at it another way.

I learned several new lessons on a recent trip to and from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, across Canada’s prairies and through the mountains to Vancouver. Winds were an issue for this taildragger pilot right from the beginning. Lulled into complacency by tailwinds and their associated high groundspeeds while eastbound, I still knew in the logical part of my brain that there would be a bill to pay when westbound. And, indeed, there was. Ground speeds that had reached 154 eastbound were reduced to the mid 80s westbound, which also added fuel stops.

It wasn’t all a free ride to the east, either. It seemed that the winds were always across rather than down any available runway. A couple of these runways are regularly used by large airliners, and those big birds don’t seem to care as much. However, it was a little different for a 72-year-old Stinson 108 and its 75-year-old tail-dragging pilot. I chose to overnight in Regina both ways because of the winds. Once I was safely on the ground, the lead hand at the FBO graciously decided that the Stinson would be safer overnight in the hangar, parked cozily between a Citation and a Gulfstream, than it would being tied down outside.

Which brings me back to the issue at hand, which was those winds and my next stop, which I planned to be Pincher Creek, located in the Alberta foothills on the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. The mountains just to the west of the airport top 9,000 feet and southerly outflow winds into the valley create some interesting mechanical turbulence, especially for the uninitiated. For example, I now know that the Crowsnest Pass just to the west has recorded winds upward to 80 knots, and planes have been forced down by turbulence between Pincher Creek and Blairmore. Those who know the area say, “A nice day in Blairmore is like winning a lottery.” Others, like yours truly, who didn’t know any better at the time, go with fairly predictable results.

Back to Pincher Creek. The runway in use was uphill, which was a good thing, but it was also about 20 to 25 degrees out of the prevailing high and gusty winds, which was not so good. Question: Why do runways always seem to be out of the wind? Well, I made it in safely, at least.

But taxiing was even more interesting than the landing, if such a thing is possible—and, unfortunately, it was, and, unfortunately, I needed to get gas. It was difficult to turn out of the wind and required careful use of all the flight controls, power and brakes to avoid getting rolled up into a ball. During the right turn to crosswind, I used hard left aileron followed by down elevator, combined with full right rudder and locking the right brake during the full power turn to downwind.

Once finally at the ancient self-serve fuel pump on the ramp, its operation required that one read the provided crib sheet carefully and make out a paper credit card form. I hadn’t seen one of those in over 20 years. My guess was that they don’t get much call for fuel there, and now I think I might know why.

Once I had fueled up the rocking Stinson, the departure was even more of an epic than the arrival. Local advice indicated that the winds would abate in about 25 miles, when past the site of the Frank Slide. Not on this day.

I made the takeoff as diagonal to the runway as possible to minimize the crosswind a bit. That seemed to work, but gaining any altitude was difficult due to the extreme turbulence, and right in front of me lay a wind farm with its attendant giant windmills, looming so large that at one point, I gave serious consideration to how one might go between rather than over them. Fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.

For the next 30 minutes or so that it took to finally get out of the area, I was continually hammered by severe turbulence. The Stinson’s attitude and altitude constantly changed, varying from level through 90 degrees of bank and 45 degrees of pitch and sometimes concurrently. On more than one occasion, I had the nose up with full climb power and flaps while still going down at over 500 fpm. While all of this was going on, the G meter registered plus 2 and minus 1. Once finally into smoother air, I recall being thankful, among other things, that my baggage was still secured under a cargo net I had installed just for the trip.

In retrospect, what do I think that I should have done differently? Well, perhaps I could have planned my fuel stop for somewhere else, like Cranbrook, B.C. Or, once having fueled in Pincher, taken off and headed back to the east away from the mountains in order to climb above the local turbulence before turning back to the west. Another time, I might also question the local knowledge in a bit more depth than I did this time.

That day I had flown over nine hours during a day that had begun at 4 a.m., eaten little, drank less and somehow still managed to arrive safely home and put a useable airplane back in the hangar, and with a little more of that aforementioned learning accomplished.

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I got to Juneau in April of 1976, after a long Econoline van ride from Florida. I was there for a job—I hoped. Back in those days, before the age of Facebook and Google, how was an aspiring bush pilot living in the tropics to find out about jobs on the other side of the continent?

Trade-A-Plane, of course. I ran across an employment ad offering a list of air taxi operators ($15). I received a page of 25 or so names, addresses and phone numbers of air taxi operators. I shot off a few letters describing my experience—mostly hauling emergency repair parts from the Vero Beach Piper factory to Miami International in a Cherokee 6, some dual given in Cessna 150s, a few seaplane and tailwheel hours scraped together renting over the previous years. In my dreams, I expected a few replies asking me some questions and an offer to hire me. Back then, there was no pilot shortage, no ads from commuter airlines offering signing bonuses, no flight schools begging for instructors, no airlines shuttering flights due to lack of pilots.

I knew the minimums listed by the operators in Alaska—500 hours with commercial and instrument. The kicker that got me was the 500-hour Alaska-time requirement before anyone would even look at you. All but one letter replied like this: “Give us a call when you have some Alaska experience. Conditions up here are tough. Heavy snow squalls, wind, fog, rain, two-hour preflights, heat the engine, scrape snow and ice off the wings. And not only bad weather, but the pay is low, there are few places to live and, even if you find something, rents are out of the park.”

However, one reply was different. I remember it to this day, from a woman who worked for a small air taxi. The letter started with the usual negatives I expected—the long winters and bad weather—but ended with the simple line, “This place is so beautiful that it’s worth every effort to live and fly here.”

Then and there, I decided to take a chance, drive up and look for a job. I thought I would try to show that I had the desire to fly in Alaska by driving all the way from Florida. That should make an impression, I thought, even though I still wouldn’t have the minimum flying experience.

So I quit the Cherokee 6 job, loaded my stuff in the van, and drove northwest across the continent to Prince Rupert, British Columbia. From there, I boarded the Alaska State Ferry to Haines. After Haines, I expected to drive the Alaska Highway to Fairbanks, wheel plane country. Along the way, I saw the southeast Alaska of razor peaks and deep glacier-carved water mazes, real floatplane country. In Ketchikan, Petersburg and Juneau, I called an operator or two if I had time till the ferry departed.

The replies were, as expected, “Sorry, we need float pilots.” I left the ferry at Haines, drove into the snow-banked town. I stopped at the first air taxi office on the main street. Entering, I asked about a flying job, and the counter lady pointed to a pilot stretched out on the couch, pant leg draping over his boot tops, belly draping over his belt, three days of stubble. He measured me up and down, “We’re based in Juneau. I’m stuck here for weather, probably the whole day. Snow squalls. Turned around going to Juneau!lucky I made it back here. We get stacks of letters every day from people looking for jobs. What do you have to offer?” I said, “Three-thousand hours, just drove all the way from Florida,” and I pointed to my van out the window. “I figured I’d be able to sleep in my van along the way.”

He looked at me again, stared at my live-a-board van out the window and said, “Well, you got the right attitude for these parts, I can see that. Put your van back on the southbound ferry to Juneau. Stop at the main office. We need to put on a few pilots for the summer. You are here, and you’ve got a place to live,” he chuckled. “They’ll probably give you a check ride. If you can fly a 206, they might even hire you.”

To make a long story short, I was hired. Southeast Skyways wanted me ready for the summer tourists who would be arriving in late May on ships cruising their way along the inside passage from Vancouver. They’d check me out on the wheel plane 206s and 207s and, if that worked out, then the C206 floatplanes for the summer.

I learned a lot of lessons early on while right-seating with the more experienced guys in the wheeled Cessna 206s, 207s and Cessna 185 amphibians. The first day on the payroll, I rolled out of my van parked alongside the hangar. Ralph, one of the veteran pilots, approached. “First thing—get yourself a pair of coveralls and some work gloves,” he told me. “You’ll be doing more loading than flying. See that pile of boxes? Throw the beer cases in front, the light mail sacks in back. If the tail hits the ground, you got too much weight behind the seats.”

Before long, I could tell the difference between the high-pitched whine of a long-propped C185 from the de Havilland Beaver’s lower rpm-ed rumble. I learned to read the water, too. At mid-tide or lower, the rocks were just a few feet underwater—best not to taxi over them. After a 20-foot tide, you need to be aware of debris and logs drifting that had been floated off the lower, high-tide line, and to not land a wheel plane on the blonde, dry beach sand but aim for the upper edge recently wetted by the outgoing tide—and its harder-packed sand.

I learned to pay attention to the outside air temperatures, too. A temperature of 35 degrees meant heavy wet snow impossible to see through, while colder temperatures meant tiny, dry flakes, which made it easy to maintain good visibility through a snow shower. I learned to put the wing covers on at the end of a rainy day if the forecast called for temps to drop below freezing. I learned the hard way—by spending a night on the mud—to avoid shallow-sloped Admiralty Cove on an outgoing tide. I learned to cycle the water rudders after takeoff on a sub-freezing day or expect a slippery walk back on the floats after landing to kick them down.

One of the first lessons that had little to do with flying was the power of first impressions.

It was a warm early May morning, training over, temps well above freezing with drops of light rain, scattered shreds of stratus melding into the overcast. The Lynn Canal at 2,000 feet was wide open, 60 miles all the way to Haines. It would be my first air taxi flight with passengers in Alaska!

I loaded a few suitcases, a green mail sack, a box or two of groceries and several passengers into the C206 wheel plane. April was too early for tourists. My passengers were locals probably returning from shopping, a visit to a doctor or dentist, a late spring vacation in the lower 48.

I wanted to act professionally. With the passengers loaded, I climbed in the left front seat, buckled in, reached for the checklist in the lower left side pocket. And it wasn’t there! How could I look professional? I reached across, opened the glove box and pulled out the Cessna handbook. I flipped to the checklist pages and read them off. Just like a pro pilot!

After takeoff, I settled into the short flight. The passengers were relaxed, glancing down at the water, perhaps looking for the breach of a humpback, the splashes of killer whales? I landed in Haines, a smooth one, too, off-loaded the passengers into the van, and we drove the few miles to town. I had an hour or so till the return flight to Juneau was scheduled, so I took a short walk around the block. After I returned, having had my umpteenth cup of coffee, our ticket agent glanced at me, called me behind the counter and sternly commented, “One of the passengers said you had to read the how-to-fly manual to fly the plane. She was a bit nervous, but the flight went okay anyway.”

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Flash-forward 30 years or so, and I was standing at the bottom of the ramp alongside a Beaver floatplane waiting for my passengers for a flight to Pybus Point Lodge for a week of salmon fishing. The van pulled along the dock, and out climbed a group of men, mostly 60s, thick around the middle, latest L.L.Bean flannel shirts, rain jackets, blue jeans. The driver handed me a slip with the pax names and weights. All legal, of course. I stood, one foot on the float, ready to assist each one up the maze of struts and steps. I rarely met anyone with experience climbing into a floatplane. “Good morning, I’m Bob, your pilot. Watch your step. One foot here on the float, then this step.” Not much enthusiasm out of me at 7 a.m. on a Saturday.

All I really remember clearly of that morning was the comment of one of the graying, older passengers. As he stepped on the float, he measured me from head to toe. He reached to shake my hand, looking me in the eye and commented, “Glad to meet you. I like my pilots and surgeons to have gray hair.”

Today, 15 years later, I don’t do any more float flying. Much of my flying is in the back now, but I always remember those days and first impressions. When I do fly, I try to take a look at the pilots, and I, too, like to see gray hair on the pilot in the left seat, belly maybe straining at the seat belt. In that case, I’ll feel confident in my first impression that the left-seater has tens of thousands of hours, like I had in the Beaver. If I see a sharp-dressed kid looking like my grandson or -daughter, I’ll disregard my first impression, knowing that at least they don’t need to read the how-to manual to fly the plane like I did back then.

The post A Floatplane Pilot Shares How He Got Started appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

From about the age of 4, I knew I wanted to fly. Nobody in my family was an aviator, nor did we know anyone who was, so I don’t know where that passion came from. My mother was a stay-at-home mom at the time, and my father was a musician. I just knew that was what I wanted.

My parents divorced when I was 5, and I lived with my dad and stepmom. Weekends were spent at my mom’s. When I was 7, my mother went to work for an oral surgeon who, it turned out, owned some airplanes. I begged my mom to ask him for a flight, which he gave me in a C-172 that same year. My stepmother knew I wanted to be a pilot but continually told me every time I spoke about it that I was too stupid and that I’d never be a pilot. This, I think, is what drives me to always be better and to improve myself. But between then and when I joined the Army at 18, I had to make do with model airplanes and my dreams.

A knee injury during training kept me from flight school in the Army, but while I was stationed at Fort Ord in Monterey, California, I completed my private license with the Naval post-graduate school flying club in Beech T-34 Mentors.

Later, when I had gotten out of the service, I was going through A&P school and pumping gas at the San Carlos airport while building my hours in those T-34’s.

It was then that I flew my first airshow, in 1987, at the Wings Of Victory airshow at Hamilton Air Force Base in Novato, California. All I did was fly formation passes past the crowds with other T-34s, but I was hooked. My new goal was to become an airline pilot.

My son was born in 1986, while my friends without kids were going to the regional airlines, starting at $9 an hour. I was struggling to make ends meet as it was, and there was no way I could live off that kind of pay, let alone pay for all my ratings that I needed to continue and take care of my family. So, with a newborn and stay-at-home mom to think about, too, I finally had to drop out of A&P school to became an air traffic controller, where I spent 27 years at Oakland Center while continuing to fly and build up my hours, as well getting the opportunity to fly an occasional show in the club’s T-34’s. But I still dreamed of flying jets.

By the 1990s, I had the chance to buy a jet, an L-29 jet out of Romania for just $8,000, and started flying that and cutting my teeth in the jet world. I only still had a private license at the time but got type rated in the L-29. Back then, the only requirement was to have 1,000 hours’ total time. Soon afterward, I got typed in the L-29’s big brother, the L-39.

My insurance company told me if I had an instrument rating, my insurance would drop, which sounded good to me, so I went to a seven-day instrument course. Because I had a lot of hood time flying with my friends (though only an hour of dual with a CFII), I ended up taking my check ride on the second day there, as I had the required time already, and I passed. The remainder of the week, I took my multi and commercial written and those two check rides. So I went for an instrument rating and left with multi instrument and commercial in just a week.  

Fast-forward again a few years to late 2007. It was then that I got the chance to fly a friend’s T-33 Shooting Star, which was one of my favorite planes as a youngster, and right away, I knew I had to have one. I soon found one that was priced in the low $100s and managed to scrape together enough money to put a down payment on it and get a loan for the balance. Five flying hours later, I was type rated in the T-33.

I felt as if I had been flying it all my life. And the price was right, though when you buy a jet, you soon learn that the purchase price was so low because the fuel consumption is so high. Luckily, at the time, jet fuel was running about $1 a gallon, so I figured I could afford to fly it 20 to 30 minutes (about 200 gallons per hour) a week.

Unfortunately, within a few months, the economy tanked, and in the span of a month, jet fuel skyrocketed to almost $8 a gallon. At that price, I couldn’t afford to fly my T-33.

So, to support my Jet-A habit, I decided to become a professional airshow pilot. I came up with a business plan. With no formal aerobatic instruction, I read the Royal Canadian Air Force maneuvers manual for the T-33 and taught myself aerobatics and came up with a routine. Soon after, I got my first SAC (statement of aerobatic capability) card. Those approvals go down in altitude as your skill and experience go up. My first card was for 800 feet, which is almost pattern altitude, but it was a start.

In business at last, I named my plane Ace Maker and the company Ace Maker Airshows. I did a couple big shows my first season—Seafair in Seattle and Fleet week in San Francisco. I didn’t earn any money for flying there, but I got the jet fuel comped and expenses covered. More importantly, a lot of organizers of other airshows saw me fly. It was great exposure. That first season flying, with an 800-foot card, I wound up flying about 100 hours, and I made a whopping $500; not a lot, I know, but I was flying my jet.

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And I was building the brand. My second season, I booked more than 20 airshows. And with my increased experience, I started my second season with a 500-foot floor on my SAC card, and halfway through the year I got bumped down to 250 feet. I wasn’t getting rich, but that year, for the first time, I made enough money to cover my expenses, which included insurance, hangar rent, maintenance and more.

By my third season, I had been granted a surface-level, unrestricted SAC card, which I’m proud to say I earned in just under two years, after starting at 800 feet. I felt like I had finally come into my own. That season, I flew another 25 shows, and I was now, believe it or not, the No. 1-booked warbird airshow act in the country, a position I’m proud to say I’ve held now for 10 years in a row.

And, finally, I was making as much money flying airshows as I was as a controller at Oakland Center. I would leap-frog my jet across the country, going from show to show. In between shows, I’d stage the jet at the next venue and airline home. With the T-33’s ability to fly 800- to 1,000-mile legs, hopping from show to show was easy.

With the airshows doing so well, I retired from ATC. In 2014, I purchased another jet, Ace Maker II. I kept one jet on both sides of the country, so I was nonstop anywhere in North America, and with that increased flexibility, I flew a record 30 venues in 2014.

“I felt as if I had been flying it all my life. And the price was right, though when you buy a jet, you soon learn that the purchase price was so low because the fuel consumption is so high.”

And the company was growing. In 2018, I hired an ex-FA/18 demo pilot full time and had East and West Coast demo teams, allowing us that year to fly at 50 venues.

After all this time, I’m not just a jet pilot any more but also a jet instructor. After a long selection process, 2018 ended with me being awarded a five-year contract to instruct at Edwards AFB’s Air Force Test Pilot School, and I also purchased Ace Maker III, as the tax savings easily justified the purchase. I flew as a target for the F-35 test squadron while at Edwards. (Don’t worry. They don’t really shoot you down.)

The past year started with another contract, to instruct at The United States Naval Test Pilot School at Patuxent River, Maryland, along with flying another 23 airshows, 30 for the company. Now, all three jets are painted in authentic Korean-era colors. And a three-ship performance is on the horizon as well.

It’s taken years, a lot of hard work, lots of money and a little luck. But I reached my dream of flying jets at airshows. Today, the people I idolized growing up I now call my friends. I am truly living the dream.

The post Making Jet Dreams Come True appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

As the sun peered out above the Atlantic Ocean, the wheels of my Dad’s 1951 PA-20 (Piper Pacer) spun free of the runway in St. Augustine, Florida. 

Deep breaths of fresh ocean air generated in me a feeling of youthful energy and optimism. This was the first time in a month the Pacer had flown, so we had conducted a thorough preflight under the lights in the hangar before rolling her out onto the predawn ramp to begin our trip. Little did we know, this day would be anything but ordinary as we set out to ferry home the object of my Dad’s latest desire. 

For years, my then-82-year-old father bought little airplanes, tinkered with them and flew them before finally finding them a new home, and he loved it.

Dad learned to fly at age 15 at Smith Field in Fort Wayne, Indiana. From that day forward, aviation became his vocation, his avocation and his passion. He loved to fly small airplanes, he loved to work on them, and he especially loved talking about working on them. 

As the years progressed, the scales had tipped more to the latter, but even at his advanced age, he wasn’t all talk.

He was now in pursuit of his newest obsession, a 1948 PA-12, or Piper Cruiser. The Cruiser is the outgrowth of the J-5. It has an odd seating arrangement. The pilot, unlike in the J-3, sits in the front seat, and behind is a pair of cozy seats, side-by-side. It is, in most regards, like the J-5 before it, a glorified Cub, and Dad had his eye on a nice one. He fully expected to conclude the sale and bring home his prize, so I rode along to ferry one of the aircraft back to Florida.

We climbed into the sky with the morning sun and leveled off at 6,500 feet. Small, puffy clouds dotted the royal-blue sky as we began our three-plus-hour trek to western Alabama, where the Cruiser resided.

The outside air temperature was only 51 degrees, but we were quite comfortable due to the heat of the engine and the cozy confines of the small side-by-side cockpit of the Pacer. The Pacer is the four-place, short-wing, tail-wheel predecessor to the more common Tri-Pacer that had its third wheel on the nose. Like many Pacers today, Dad’s was actually a Tri-Pacer that had been converted to a tail-wheel.

Engulfed in the subtle smell of old leather, we raced the sun westward at 130 mph, sliding past the small towns of northern Florida and southern Alabama. In time, we approached the airport of our destination town. We followed the given directions from the airport and located the farm where the seller kept the Cruiser.

Circling the property, we spotted an airplane sitting in front of a tin-covered, three-sided barn on the western edge of a large pasture. Having been assured by the owner that the pasture was free of holes, ruts and other surprises, Dad lined up to land on the longest stretch most closely aligned into the wind.

Easing down smoothly onto the soft grass, Dad taxied to the barn and shut down next to what would hopefully soon be his new toy.

After some casual conversation with the seller, my Dad began the two-hour task of inspecting the airplane and its logbooks. Whenever you buy a new plane, you’re purchasing a big chunk of the unknown. Are there problems with the new plane? The answer to that is almost certainly “yes.” For the flight home, the larger concern in most cases is, is the plane airworthy? Dad found nothing seriously amiss with the Cruiser, he and the seller concluded the negotiations, and we changed the oil in the Cruiser and prepared it for the flight back to Florida.

Our plan was to depart the next morning, so Dad and I chose to fly the Pacer, the plane we flew in with, to the local hard-surface airport for fuel and to secure a room for the night before heading back to the farm field to pick up the Cruiser.

We climbed into Dad’s old, faithful ride and, after a cursory preflight—after all, this was not the plane we were concerned about—we cranked up and taxied to the far end of the pasture for takeoff. After completing the brief before takeoff checklist, Dad turned into the wind and added full power.

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As our takeoff roll started, we both noticed the engine wasn’t producing full power. Dad first checked the carburetor heat, which was the most likely power thief, but it was off. We were puzzled and continued to check everything we could think of as the Pacer bounced along the ever-decreasing runway.

At what seemed like half power, we slowly accelerated toward the barbed-wire fence at the far end of the pasture. The engine was running smoothly—it just wasn’t producing full power, and the obstacle was looming larger and larger. 

We were facing a razor-thin margin. Would we obtain flying speed and clear the fence or be just shy of the necessary speed and plow into it? Dad was flying, so it was his call to go or abort. Had I been flying, I might have aborted, but I didn’t know the Pacer nearly as well as my Dad. It was his call based on thousands of hours of experience and a couple hundred in the Pacer.

It was clear it was going to be close. After using nearly all available pasture, Dad eased back on the yoke, and the Pacer struggled into the air, clearing the fence by a few feet. I relaxed once we broke ground, but Dad remained focused. He still had trees to negotiate as we continued our stunted climb.

After clawing our way to 1,000 feet AGL, we flew to the local airport and landed without incident. We taxied to the parking area, refueled and tied down for the night. Before leaving for the motel, we inspected the Pacer for anything that might have contributed to the lack of power. Surprisingly, we found nothing. On the way to the motel, Dad called the seller to ask if he could pick us up in the morning so we could keep the Pacer at the airport to take advantage of the longer runway. The seller said, “You read my mind. I was concerned watching you leave here today. Thankfully you made it okay.”

He met us for breakfast the next morning, and we drove together to the farm, still thinking about the puzzle, still tied down at the airport. After a thorough preflight inspection and an uneventful takeoff, Dad and I flew back to town. After fueling, we again inspected the Pacer, again trying to identify its problem. Once more, we failed to find a thing. So, since the engine was running smoothly, we decided to fly it home.

I departed first in the Pacer. My takeoff roll was unusually long, and by the time I reached the end of the runway, I was only about 100 feet. Dad took off after I did, and quickly climbed above me.

Turning toward home, I slowly climbed to an altitude higher than I would have normally to give myself more options of places to land should the engine quit. Dad and I stayed in close proximity and in radio contact.

After less than an hour, Dad suggested we land in Tuskegee, Alabama, for lunch. I knew that the Pacer’s misbehavior was on his mind and that he might have had a good idea, because as soon as we landed and parked, he climbed under the Pacer’s engine and looked up into the exhaust stack.

“Aha!” he exclaimed. “The damn baffle has broken off and is blocking the stack.”

“What?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said as he climbed out from under the engine. “The baffle has broken loose and is resting on the bottom of the muffler, blocking the stack. That’s what is keeping it from generating full power.”

Every pilot knows what a muffler is. On the Pacer, it’s about 8 inches in diameter and 15 inches long. Welded inside is a smaller cylinder, the baffle, that’s perforated all around its circumference. The exhaust gases flow into the baffle and are diffused through the perforations, finally exiting out of the muffler through the exhaust stack.

The weld holding the baffle had broken, allowing it to fall and rest on the bottom of the muffler covering the outlet, where the exhaust gases exit. With the exit blocked, the exhaust gases couldn’t flow, creating backpressure, which limited the engine’s RPM and, hence, power production.

Greatly relieved at having finally discovered the cause of the problem, we decided to leave the Pacer there in Tuskegee. Dad quickly removed the muffler and placed it in the back of the Cruiser to be taken home for repair.

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We topped off the fuel tanks of the Cruiser, secured the Pacer, and took off for home. 

A few days later, we were back in Alabama with a repaired muffler, which did the trick. A few hours later, we finally got both airplanes home to St. Augustine.

As I think back to this experience, it’s a reminder that we’re always learning. Sometimes only experience can teach us what we don’t know. My Dad’s many hours around airplanes helped him think through every minute component that could have contributed to the Pacer’s problem. Watching him patiently process what we saw and experienced, both during our preflight inspections and in the air, helped me appreciate that safety in the air is a combination of experience, observation and vigilance. 

It’s worth mentioning that the baffle came loose on the flight to Alabama but went unnoticed due to the reduced power settings of descent and landing. How often have we skipped the preflight on the second leg because we had just flown the airplane and it was fine?

Will this experience inspire me to do a thorough preflight prior to all flights in the future?

Absolutely. And I’ll even look up the muffler.

The post Near-Disaster: Flying A Vintage Piper With Dad appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

The plane hit hard, the dust rose, and, for a split second, I had no idea what the hell had just happened. Then, once the realization hit me, I got this sick feeling, a sinking spell in my gut that threatened to knock me out of active participation in my only job just then—being a pilot—and I felt like crying but didn’t, thank goodness. As I battled my desire to run away from the hard reality I now faced, one thought reverberated, hollow, like an empty hangar with a single thought: “What had I just done?”

Let me set the stage. This happened back in the mid-1990s. I wasn’t a new pilot, just one who didn’t have much experience. I started flying and got my Private when I was a kid—thanks, Mom and Dad—but took a lot of time off for college. I enrolled in a large Southern California university and signed up for what was then a new major, something called “Computer Science.” For four years, I battled bugs, wrote code and had fun outside of class hanging out with my fellow computer nerds. We were, I swear, way cooler than you might think (we told ourselves)!

Then, after college I got busy, like most kids, with finding a job, then working entry-level and paying bills and living life. Flying took a back seat. In those days, being an airline pilot was anything but a good career bet—we had family friends who had been furloughed a few times and who saw their airlines fold up shop, leaving them desperate for employment. There was no way I was signing up for that.

No, I saw flying as a hobby—an amazing one, admittedly— but unfortunately an expensive one, too. You see, Mom and Dad were no longer paying for my flying, and I lived too far from home to fly with them more than a couple of times a year in the family plane I wasn’t even rated to fly on my own (a nice Piper Aztec).

I started flying again in my mid-30s when I got a job as a computer network administrator at an aviation company in the Northeast United States that had a flying club and footed the lion’s share of the bill. I was back at it, flying older airplanes, yes, but that was okay with me, so long as I was flying.

So while I had been a pilot for more than 15 years, I had been an active one for only a couple. When I dusted off my big, fat Commercial Pilot logbook, with its fancy gold-embossed printing, I pried open the pages to see that this slab of a book was woefully thin on entries. The majority of the pages had yet to be turned, laying flat against each other, still white and stiff, waiting for flights that had yet to happen, places I hadn’t gone to and friends I hadn’t yet flown with.

When co-workers and friends would ask how experienced I was, I’d lie just a little, telling them I had “a few hundred hours.” But the truth was, I had just under 200 hours logged. I had just started on my commercial rating when I went off to college, and it, like my logbook, had been put on hold for the past decade-plus, though I hoped that was a temporary thing. And who knew how much I had forgotten.

So I was inexperienced and rusty, a condition that requires both time and effort to spruce up, and I was committed to doing just that. The thing about not having much experience, though, is that you don’t feel the lack until it’s put right in your face, like an accusation, like a doubter saying to you, “See! I told you that you didn’t know what you were doing!”

That’s exactly where I found myself that fateful day, still moving forward, still under control, still battling those bad, bad thoughts.

At that point in my flying career, I had built up a little time. I was flying not only in the company flying club but also with a different on the same field with bigger, faster models. My two favorites were a brown-and-orange Cessna 182 (remember those classic paint schemes?) that was going on its third engine but was kept in pretty decent shape, even if the paint was fading a little. I had gotten my instrument rating in that plane, though even with my fresh ticket in hand, I was anything but ready to start diving into actual IMC. Still, the rating gave me a little confidence, helped polish off some of the rust, and kept me safer against the possibility of loss of control were I to stumble into IMC while off on a VFR adventure.

It was in that same Skylane that I found myself that day wishing I was anywhere else.

It was a beautiful June day, a perfect day, and the plan was to fly to a well-known ski resort with a good buddy to go mountain biking on the ski trails. We had loaded the two bikes into the back of the 182 somehow, and, bright and early, departed from our home airport nestled in a crook of Long Island Sound and headed to Vermont, the Green Mountain State, for a day of fun.

The little mountain resort had a short runway, and I had been worried about it. As a pilot, you can’t help but hear that tired old saw about the things you can’t use being—fuel not in the tank, runway that’s behind you and altitude above you.

It’s a cliché, yes, but it’s a cliché because it’s true. Well, it’s mostly true. Fear of being short of something can lead to overcompensation. While trying too hard is seldom fatal, it’s not flattering, and it’s seldom good for the operation as a whole. Fear of not having enough fuel can cause a nervous pilot to fly over gross, and fear of being too low can lead to flying in clouds you’d really rather not be in.

The fear of leaving that runway behind you!such was my issue.

Speaking of that runway, I, like many pilots with little experience, had almost no experience flying off of really short strips. Strike that: off of runways that weren’t exceptionally long for Archers and Skyhawks and the like. The desert airport where I learned how to land a plane in California had a 6,000-foot strip and was home base for Lears and Citations. In comparison, my new home airport in the Northeast had a tiny 5,000-foot strip, only good enough for, well, okay, those same Learjets and Citations. It was overkill for a Skylane, but I was used to it to the point that it seemed like a minimum requirement.

So as I was planning for the trip, I was really worried that the tiny 3,000-plus-foot strip would prove a challenge, especially since the density altitude would increase the runway required at least a little. In response to what I perceived as a challenging strip to land on, I planned to make a short field landing. The last thing I wanted to do was land long and leave useful runway behind me. I got the charts out, calculated the required landing distance given all the variables, and saw that I had plenty of room to land. But did I really? Better safe than sorry, I thought.

Funny thing. The one thing that old saying doesn’t mention as being useless is runway not yet under your landing gear. And that’s exactly the spot I found myself in, lined up for a short-field landing for a field that, in reality, wasn’t really that short. I didn’t yet have a firm understanding of the concept of the power curve, that getting behind is a bad thing because you might not have enough power at your immediate disposal to get back in the groove, and that’s what happened.

My short field approach that was intended to land me right at the beginning of the paved surface instead deposited us on the dirt a good 10 feet before it, and deposited us hard. The aforementioned dust rose to greet the prodigious bang of our dramatic reunion with terra really firma, and in that split second I realized we had landed short. The immediate question then was, “What if there’s a big lip between the beginning of the runway and the part of the earth that’s not yet the runway?” I knew if there was, we’d be screwed. We wouldn’t die, or even get hurt. We were already really, really slow, way too slow, in fact, but it could wreck the airplane and tarnish my ticket for good. Not to mention my reputation around my company, which prided itself on safety.

Luck came to the rescue. I know that’s the last thing you should ever depend on to bail you out of a bad situation you just put yourself in, but I was eager to take any kind of help I could get. There was no discernible lip, the Skylane made the transition from dirt to pavement not smoothly but without a cracking sound, and we were stopped, or very nearly stopped, with just about all of the remaining runway distance ahead of us. I had to apply power to taxi all the way up to the midfield turnoff, and I felt as though every eye in the place, on the ramp, in the traffic pattern above us, was on me and my failure.

The plane was taxiing just fine. My passenger, my friend and co-worker, was a little shocked at the near-crash landing, but I played it off as just a touchdown that was a little too hard on the touch part, and he was good with that and never mentioned it again.

I parked the plane at the FBO and walked around, peering into the engine compartment, examining the gear and generally looking for any kind of damage I might have done to it. There was none visible. And later, back home, a friendly mechanic confirmed all was fine. I had dodged a bullet. Several of them. A barrage of bullets, in fact, and I felt appropriately stupid. But I’d figured out it’s safer to aim not for the end but for the number. Margin is our friend.

And I learned to understand and better appreciate the power curve and how it’s a space that has something precious for us. But in making that offer, the back side of the power curve is a friend that’s unforgiving of inexperience and ineptitude, both qualities of which I had in abundance that day and both of which I aimed these past 25 years and nearly 4,000 hours later to overcome while doing my best to be aware of the risks while never, ever overcompensating in seeking to give them too wide a berth lest I run into a whole different foe on the other side of safety.

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The post A Really Short Final And Hard Lessons Learned appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.