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. 

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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.”  

• READ MORE: Lessons Learned – To Hell You Fly

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.

• READ MORE: Hangin’ Out in Austin

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. 

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Although I’ve been flying for more than 20 years, I only recently received my commercial certificate, and shortly thereafter, my very first assignment to fly a family from San Antonio to Telluride in a beautiful Piper Turbo Saratoga, a PA-32-301T. The aircraft is owned by the family and managed by their longtime pilot, Nat. The job was exactly what I was looking for, and I excitedly became acquainted with both Nat and the aircraft. It was explained to me that they have made this particular trip in this particular aircraft dozens of times.

Nat recommended that I fill the tanks, put all the luggage in the nose compartment, and everything would be “spot on.” In preparation for the journey, I took the free online mountain course offered by AOPA, watched a couple of YouTube videos, and honestly felt quite comfortable. Despite having absolutely no mountain experience, I was not about to turn down my very first paid flight. I may not have even performed a weight-and-balance check had the flight not been to KTEX. After all, it was only me and two passengers. The hundreds of hours I had in a similar Piper, a Cherokee Six PA-32-300 boasting a useful load of 1,560 pounds, was working against me.

The scheduled flight was more than a week away, falling during the busy Fourth of July weekend. I retrieved the POH and generated an aircraft profile in ForeFlight. Nat was right. To complete the 700 nm trip nonstop would require full tanks. Moving on to weight and balance: pilot (220 pounds); front passenger (230), his wife claimed to be 135 (I added 20 pounds for her overinflated lips); passenger luggage (50 each); pilot luggage and flight bag (30). I was shocked to see the result sitting 351 pounds over the allowable maximum gross takeoff weight with a forward center of gravity to boot. The useful load on this Saratoga is only 1,011 pounds. I hate to think what might have happened had Nat requested I complete this flight at the very last minute. Relying on my knowledge that he had completed this exact trip on numerous occasions, combined with the fact that he weighs about 20 pounds more than I do, I believe I may have accepted the mission without ever even looking at the weight and balance.

An aircraft’s performance was calculated for a standard degree day at sea level, when the engine was new and producing 100 percent power. As an engine wears and ages, a marginal decrease in performance and power occurs. Many issues, like a cylinder with very low compression or an issue with a valve, might not be detectable when operating during the vast majority of the time. However, when operating in the demanding and performance-stealing conditions of high density altitude, these previously undetectable problems can prove to be catastrophic. Non-turbo engines lose 3.5 percent of their rated horsepower for each 1,000 feet of altitude. If one is departing an airport with a 7,000 feet DA, 25 percent of the horsepower is lost (3.5 times 7 equals 24.5). If an old, tired engine is only delivering 94 percent of the power it did when it was new, an additional 6 percent is unavailable. This results in an aggregate loss of 31 percent of the rated horsepower. The combination of a decrease in performance attributed to high density altitude and an aircraft that exceeds its maximum gross weight limitation has caused the loss of far too many pilots and their unsuspecting passengers. 

Once set up, it takes less than two minutes to perform a weight-and-balance check on any of the aviation mobile apps. Do not be a victim of complacency. Add the following items to your checklist:

• Lean the engine to peak performance by increasing the throttle to full then slowly decreasing the mixture until the maximum rpm is reached. Leave the mixture at this setting.
• Set the flaps to the recommended takeoff setting. This setting is found in the aircraft’s POH.
• Calculate 50 percent of the runway remaining length and identify the corresponding marker or landmark that will let you know once you reach this point. Multiply your rotation speed by 0.7 and, if your aircraft is not at this speed by your designated 50 percent spot, abort the takeoff.
• In non-turboed aircraft, the horsepower adjustment for density altitude is calculated with the equation related earlier. A 160 hp engine operating at a density altitude of 7,000 feet will only deliver about 121 hp, and the prop is less effective at the higher density altitude as well.
• Accidents involving high density altitude are often associated with aircraft that are also overweight. I believe it to be one of the most preventable accidents—and it can be prevented before the aircraft ever leaves the ground. If you are operating in high density altitude conditions with a loaded airplane and you have any doubts whatsoever, you can always postpone the trip until early the next morning or another time of day when the temperature and density altitude are both likely to be lower.

I created reference charts with the weight and balance recommended by Nat and the calculation following the POH-specified loading requirements. Both were significantly over the maximum, though the POH figures would at least have given us a better chance.  The weight and balance recommended by Nat was actually 550 pounds outside of the recommended envelope because of the forward center of gravity.

The POH for this aircraft mandates that all luggage be loaded in the rear unless the fifth seat is occupied. Only then should luggage be loaded in the forward baggage compartment. The added weight of the air conditioner plus the turbo results in an aircraft that necessitates loading as instructed by the POH and not relying on habits or instruction from well-intentioned pilots. Needless to say, I didn’t take the flight.

Once my days on Earth are done, I hope to be riding the clouds, and no airplane will be required. Had I taken this flight and it ended with disastrous results, I might have earned a ride to hell. 

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

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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.

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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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Soon we are taxiing to the ramp while I’m admonished to raise the windward aileron (we have a 5-knot crosswind the Kid seems to think of as a small hurricane), and, “Taxi no faster than a person would walk.”Once again, I pretend not to hear his advice, a product of his many years of aviation experience and a grossly swelled head.

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

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

The instructor broke the silence.

“Okay. Turn off here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That worked out well,” Rob offered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The post Flying With A Recluse Spider Onboard appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

The June wedding was set to take place at the Brasada Ranch in Bend, Oregon. We had talked about flying commercial, but with the ability to take time off from work and leave at our convenience, it seemed more cost effective and efficient to just fly ourselves. I was excited to fly this trip as it was going to be a long-awaited vacation and my first trip to Oregon from Minnesota in a Cessna 182RG aircraft.

The flight plan was set for us to depart from Crystal, Minnesota (KMIC), early in the morning to take advantage of the cool temperatures. Our first stop would be Sioux Falls, South Dakota. We would then continue west toward Billings, Bozeman, follow the I-90 corridor to Missoula over Lookout Pass, then overnight in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. The next day, we would depart and fly southwest directly into Redmond, Oregon. 

We set off in the morning, slightly later than I had initially planned. In my defense, I still had a bit of packing and flight planning to do, but because of the late departure, the afternoon temperatures had started to climb quickly and produce conductive activity over the farmlands in the Midwest. In spite of modifying the cruising altitude for smoother air, my best-laid plans went awry. After much protestations, my wife and co-pilot insisted we land in order to allow her to lie down, vomit and faint. Because of the departure delay, prolonged and consistent convective battles with thermals resulted in a very bumpy ride. The trip was not starting out as smoothly as I’d hoped.  

The first fuel stop was at Hot Springs Municipal Airport, South Dakota (KHSR). After landing, I decided to modify the flight plan to take a southerly route to just north of Casper, Wyoming, where we could head west toward the Tetons. The forecast wasn’t promising. The convective conditions were expected to persist through southern Montana for more than the expected flight time. After a small respite in an air-conditioned pilot lounge, I offered to stop the flight and proposed the alternative route. My noble co-pilot (her idea) agreed to proceed further just to get out of the Midwest and reach the cooler weather over the Tetons. Unless we were away from the heat, the convection activity along our original route would likely be around the next day. 

With the new flight plan approved, we took off to the south, flying to Casper/Natrona County International Airport (KCPR). This southerly route would prove to be cooler and just as beautiful. The plan would have us flying around the southern end of the Tetons at a lower altitude but in cooler, hopefully less bumpy air.  

Approximately 100 nm from the rising terrain just east of the Tetons, Minnesota FAA Center contacted me to amend my IFR plan and suggested a route change to avoid traffic. We were instructed to fly directly west to Pocatello, Idaho (KPIH), above the 13,000–14,000-foot terrain of the Tetons, provided we had the required oxygen for high-altitude flying. I confirmed the onboard oxygen and accepted the proposed IFR flight plan changes. For the next 100 nm, I carefully monitored the Tetons, looking for clouds above the mountains since the outside air temperatures flying at 16,500 feet would be subfreezing. 

Before long, my co-pilot, ever the canary in the coal mine, announced that she was feeling ice crystals blowing on her face through the air vents (her trick to abate motion sickness) and was concerned for icing. I heard her concern, but my focus was not on the apparent fogging and frozen moisture build-up on the aircraft windscreen, as I was specifically monitoring the struts and leading edges on the wings for any signs of ice formation. Having lived in Minnesota for many years, I’ve had significant experience with icing conditions on many long cross-country flights in the past. I was used to watching for icing conditions and noticed that these conditions were light and not sufficient to cause any aircraft control issues unless we continued for a significant flight time in the clouds. 

After several minutes of flying, the ice did begin to start to form on the leading edges of the plane, and so I executed a rapid U-turn. As we had flown closer to the Tetons, I was able to discern that we would be flying through clouds at the altitude required for proper terrain clearance. After changing our course, I waited until 5 to 10 nm from the rising terrain, then contacted ATC to modify the flight plan back to my originally filed IFR plan. 

After approval, we proceeded, turned south to fly the eastern side of the Tetons, then headed west to Pocatello, Idaho (KPIH), for an overnight refueling stop. After a total of five flight hours from starting, we made it into Pocatello for the evening. My co-pilot was pleased to be on solid ground again and to be able to stretch out. She soon began to relive her “near-death” first-time icing experience. I knew once we had eaten, rested and enjoyed the lovely sights of Pocatello, all would be forgotten as it was a relatively uneventful trip. As I had expected, her lack of understanding of the icing conditions and a technical explanation proved sufficient to calm her nerves.

The remaining flight leg the next day to Redmond, Oregon (RDM), was uneventful, without any high-elevation terrain, convective weather or flight plan changes. We were rested and energized and able to finish after a total of 10 flight hours.

As part of my flight planning routine, I have come to expect that I need to have alternative plans for possible inclement weather for a susceptible motion-sick passenger. For many people, motion sickness is a sensation of dizziness, lightheadedness or nausea when traveling by car, boat or train. About one in every three people are considered highly susceptible to motion sickness. Everyone can get motion sickness, but some groups of people are more susceptible than others. The reason for this difference is not well understood. As a result, I have learned to request rerouting when ATC directions are not conducive to safe or comfortable flying conditions for my passengers or when my co-pilot instructs me otherwise!

Flying allows me the opportunity to challenge myself and experience a variety of situations from long cross-country trips, mountain flying, turbulent or convective avoidance, and inclement weather rerouting. Passenger comfort and enjoyment are critical considerations for cockpit safety, to maintain companionship on future flights, and to continue to financially support an expensive hobby.

In the end, the flexibility of planning and flying one’s own route, at their own pace, is worth the challenge of navigating around weather along a beautiful cross-country flight. The calculated costs of flying ourselves were comparable to the calculated total expenses of flying commercial. The time savings for convenient and expeditious departures, and the thrill and challenge of flying, more than offset the cost of flying commercial. 

The wedding venue at Brasada Ranch in Bend, Oregon, turned out to be lovely. We were not at the mercy of the airlines for tight departure times, safety check-ins or baggage handling. As pilots with our own aircraft, we were treated professionally at Redmond Airport and appreciated the convenient full-service ground transportation, nearby hotel accommodations and reasonable tie-down rates. 

Shortly after we settled into a local Redmond hotel, my co-pilot informed me that she would prefer to fly home commercially. Because of her willingness to deal with the bumpy conditions on the flight out, I felt it was a small victory to ensure that she would be open to try another similar adventure in the future. I considered the trip a victorious “win” even if she was only able to fly one way. This flight will always remain a memorable experience for my co-pilot as the flight-from-hell is further recounted as her “near-death” experience, which seems to grow more dramatic with each telling. Luckily, she continued to fly with me and to tease me about who was really in charge of the flight plan.

The post My Cross Country Flight With A Queasy Co-Pilot appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

I had flown my Cessna 172 South to Punta San Francisquito in Baja California, Mexico, to pick up two brothers. As I approached the resort, I saw them lying on the beach. The runway is usually a natural dry bed, though sometimes times it’s a mud bog. It was dry that day. To announce my arrival, I buzzed them. I’m sure they were not impressed with the Skyhawk fly-by. Their father was a pilot with the Blue Angels. I landed, and the brothers walked up to greet me. They had driven their GMC truck to the resort, a God-awful dirty place in the arid desert on the Sea of Cortez. One either loves it or hates it. The plan was for them to leave their truck at the resort for future use when they would fly back to the resort. Then I would fly them back home the next day to Montgomery Field and Long Beach in California. In exchange, I got the use of the truck when I flew to the resort. A good deal for both parties.

It was time for dinner, and the three of us were walking along the beach toward the restaurant, about 100 yards from our campsite. I saw the caretaker of the little resort, a woman named Chary, walking toward us with a man I didn’t recognize. We all met up, and Chary introduced us to the gentleman, who didn’t speak English, and said the man’s brother had been seriously injured when he was struck by a truck while riding his motorcycle. She asked if I could fly the injured brother to a hospital. I wondered, “Is he really seriously injured?” I was hungry and wanted the shrimp dinner. I could see by the look on the man’s face, however, that he was desperate to get help for his brother. It was getting dark, and if we were going fly the brother to the nearest hospital, we needed to get moving. The nearest hospital was 80 miles to the west in Guerrero Negro (Black Warrior), on the Pacific side of the Baja peninsula.

The injured brother was at a cattle ranch about 10 miles south of San Francisquito, called Rancho El Barril. I said firmly, “We need to get moving.” I loaded up the gentleman and took off toward Rancho El Barril. We landed at the dirt strip at El Barril just a few minutes later. The gentleman was disappointed and frustrated that his injured brother wasn’t at the dirt runway. We waited, and a few minutes later, a large group of people, many of them crying, arrived. Poly, the injured brother, was being carried to the plane on a piece of plywood. His injured leg was wrapped with a blood-soaked T-shirt. As I took out the backseat to make room, several men lifted Poly into the rear of the plane. Poly’s brother climbed into the co-pilot seat, and I buckled him in. The sun had set as we took off on the long sandy runway. If I couldn’t land at Guerrero Negro, my alternate plan was to fly to either San Felipe or Ensenada, as both have lighted runways.

 “She asked if I could fly the injured brother to a hospital. I wondered, ’Is he really seriously injured?’ I was hungry and wanted the shrimp dinner. I could see by the look on the man’s face, however, that he was desperate to get help for his brother.”

I had been to Guerrero Negro many times before and had the GPS coordinates in my list of recent destinations. Night had fallen as we flew over the mountainous backbone of the Baja Peninsula. Once on the west side of the mountains, I made a radio call in the blind on the Unicom frequency. The runway is not lighted, and the tower was closed. Surprisingly, I got a response. Someone at El Barril had called someone in Guerrero Negro and told them that we were on our way. I radioed and asked if someone would turn on their headlights at the approach end of the runway. The runway is paved and long. Moments after the radio call, the headlights appeared. As I got closer, I saw a red flashing light on the highway heading toward the airport.

It was a new experience for me, landing at an unlighted runway at night. I kept descending until I saw the long black asphalt runway. Even with my landing light on, I still couldn’t see the runway until I was just ready to touch down. Guerrero Negro is located on the Pacific coast of Baja on the Viscaino Plain. Luckily, there is not a hill or mountain in any direction for probably 30 miles. As I landed, I could see the red flashing light was on an ambulance. I parked on the ramp, and the ambulance personnel quickly unloaded Poly, and off they went. The hospital at Guerrero Negro, I learned, is well-equipped. 

Several locals came to the plane and offered me a free dinner and lodging in town for the night. They made me feel like a hero. They were so, so grateful.

I accepted the dinner but told them that I would sleep in the plane. Later, after I’d returned to my Cessna, I was awoken by someone knocking on the door of the plane. It was a man and a woman. They had brought me blankets and a pillow. These folks were the best, so considerate. I was exhausted after the long day, so getting to sleep was not a problem.

I got up at daybreak to fly back to San Francisquito. I was looking forward to the early-morning low altitude flight over the desert and mountains. As I turned eastbound, I saw an ambulance with a red flashing light coming to the airport. I found out later that the doctors at the hospital couldn’t repair Poly’s broken leg, and they were going to fly him, in a different plane, to Hermosillo on the mainland of Mexico. Hermosillo has even a bigger and better hospital. Poly later told me they couldn’t fix him there, either, so they flew him to La Paz to see orthopedic specialists.

I made it back to San Francisquito and met up with the brothers, the ones I’d originally flown down here to give a lift to. We had breakfast at the restaurant, and off we went back to the U.S. We cleared Mexican customs at Tijuana and Brown Field in the U.S. I dropped off one brother at Montgomery Field and now had to fly to Long Beach to drop off the other brother. That final leg was back to San Diego’s Fallbrook airport. The whole time, I wondered if all this flying and no relaxing was worth the use of the old GMC truck.

Eventually, I got my answer. Over the years, I have flown in to visit Poly at Rancho El Barril many times. The first time, he was lying in bed, and he couldn’t get around. His leg didn’t heal properly. It was so badly injured, the doctors couldn’t repair the leg. He was so appreciative; he said, “You saved my life.” Other times when I went to see him, he wasn’t at the ranch.

Then, just last year, about 20 years after the motorcycle accident, I lost my mind and drove to San Francisquito, 12 hours from San Diego. The last three hours were on a rough dirt road. Juan and his son, Lionel, are the caretakers now. They were there with another man, dressed nicely in a button-up shirt. He was on crutches, but I still didn’t recognize him. As I fixed drinks for the four of us, we munched on salted peanuts in the shell and drank our cold beverages. We were sharing stories and having a good time when Juan said to me, while pointing at the man on crutches, realizing that I hadn’t made the connection, “That’s Poly!” It was just a coincidence Poly was visiting San Francisquito at the same time as I’d happened by. We were happy to see each other again after not seeing each other for about 10 years.

The four of us celebrated the reunion with a seafood dinner. Juan and Lionel prepared freshly caught lobster, fresh scallops and a nice salad. 

Baja has spoiled me as a fly-in destination, the beautiful Sea of Cortez and unspoiled deserts. I was fortunate to have been able to help someone, which made the trip even more special to me. And the lobster, not to mention the company, was better than that shrimp dinner I’d missed years before could ever have been.

Do you want to read more Lessons Learned columns? Enjoy “Memories Of A Former Spitfire Pilot” here.

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