“Know your limitations and don’t exceed them”

is common advice for aviators. That statement is all well and good, so far as it goes. It generally encourages you, as the pilot, to do a good job of preparing for each flight and keep up your stockpile of skills by regular training and practice. In doing so, you’ve made sure you’re not going to overstep your abilities. The problem is, there’s more than this one limitation involved in the average flight, beyond just the perils that can be met by our piloting ability. We need to consider the full range of hazards we’re facing, and that involves more than just assessing the pilot’s ability.

The pilot in command (PIC) of a flight certainly has to make sure that he or she’s not exceeding the capabilities they’re able to muster. Knowing when to say “no” is vital to survival, something we need to consider not just at the beginning of the flight, but throughout its progress. However, the aircraft has limitations of its own, ones established both by its design and practical performance. And the operating environment presents its own limitations on our activity, quite aside from the skills of the pilot and innate performance of the airplane.

All three sets of limitations will combine to affect the outcome of our flight. We may be the best pilot ever born, but we can’t force a tired Skyhawk to climb above its genuine absolute ceiling, undefined by any performance chart. And the finest example of a Cirrus SR22 is not going to want to lift a full load out of a backcountry strip on a warm afternoon with a density altitude reading five digits. Each of these three constraints—pilot, airplane, and environment—needs its own consideration to assure adequate safety.

There Are Pilots—Then There Are Pilots

We all like to think we have the right stuff, that we’re the proverbial “good stick” who can exercise every privilege on our certificate to the utmost perfection. On any given day, however, we can be just a little bit off our game. Remember that time you tried for a squeaker landing to impress the kids and you dropped it in with a thump? Face it, if this is your first real low-visibility takeoff into a low cloud deck in a year, you may be legal to do it, but should you?

Your piloting limitations are not a solid wall, but a fluid barrier that rises and falls with your recent experience, fatigue level, and even the amount of preparation. A hastily thrown-together trip into unfamiliar territory means raising your personal minimums for the departure. You should go only if the weather is as benign as forecast, good alternates exist, and you feel good about doing it.

There’s a country song by the late Toby Keith that goes, “I ain’t as good as I once was, but I’m as good once as I ever was.” That optimistic outlook doesn’t apply to pilots with rusty skills. Face it, you took that multiengine commercial check ride decades ago. Can you fly a zero-thrust, single-engine approach to minimums today? Probably not without some practice.

The point is, meeting the POH performance figures is a job for factory test pilots who fly every day. Establish your limitations based on needing half again or double those handbook numbers—plan to aim low and finish high. Always underpromise and overdeliver, not the other way around. You should never write checks with your mouth, or your thoughts, that your body can’t cover. Stay honest in your relationship with the airplane. You can get away with lying to other pilots, but don’t ever try lying to your aircraft about your abilities. That will come back to kill you.

• READ MORE: Pro Tips for Private Pilots: ADS-B, Are You ‘In’ or ‘Out’?

This Plane Has Always Before…

Every aircraft, even my 1946 Aeronca Champion, comes with a set of operating limitations. Beyond the ones printed on paper, there are also practical ones determined from experience. It doesn’t matter how good the pilot is, or how nice the old bird’s running, those limitations are still exactly that—limitations. Don’t ask the airplane to do more than it can. In most pilot-error accidents, the outcome was determined when the pilot made a decision to proceed outside the aircraft’s capabilities. Too many pilots have believed the brochure brag of a 700-mile range and have flight planned accordingly, to their eventual regret. Fuel is consumed in hours and minutes, not miles. Unfortunately, getting away with stretching the gas supply once or twice tends to tempt you into applying it as a matter of course.

Always ascertain which of the airplane’s bits and pieces of equipment are not available. Yes, you ought to be able to fly any procedure without the autopilot’s help, but if you’re faced with a three-hour trip in the clouds, single pilot, do you really want to do that? Sure, you might be good enough to fly an ILS down to 200 feet above the touchdown zone, but if the airplane’s glideslope needle is flagged, you’re going have to miss at the localizer-only minimums. Your superior skills aren’t the limitation; the airplane’s capability is. Be ready to work with what you have left, and that means respecting new limitations.

I have one airplane in my hangar that can only carry 500 pounds of payload with the fuel tanks topped off—that’s it, if I’m going to respect the max-takeoff-weight limit, and I will. I know better than to ask that airplane to do more than it can. We often have to work within the limitations of the aircraft we’re flying. Piloting skills have nothing to do with it. Let’s be real, part of that “pilot stuff” is making the right decision to not exceed the limitations of the equipment, whether it’s because of the engine, airframe, radios, or endurance.

This means knowing what is and isn’t possible with a given airplane’s published limitations. I once had to do a photo shoot from a Piper Cherokee Six with its rear door removed, which is allowable and safe. But then the customer wanted some shots from the other side, and he asked if we could remove the front door and shoot out that opening. No, I said, that’s not permitted by the aircraft operating limitations, and it would be an experiment I wasn’t about to conduct.

Today Is Not The Day

The operating environment often generates additional limitations over and above those of the pilot and airplane. On a recent morning, I was scheduled to test-hop an experimental plane to check rigging, a simple task well within both my own and the aircraft’s limitations. But the reported ceiling was only 400 feet at the appointed hour. So, despite the readiness of the pilot and airplane, the flight was delayed until VMC prevailed.

I often abort a flight in the old Champ for wind reasons. I’ll fly in crosswinds up to 10 mph, but no more, because I know the aged mechanical brakes aren’t able to prevent weathervaning above that figure. Taildraggers boasting more weight, better brakes, and a locking tailwheel may have higher wind limitations, but every day is different, and its conditions must be evaluated, quite aside from the pilot’s and airplane’s own limitations.

For flight in icing conditions, which should actually be called “flight avoiding icing conditions,” we need an airplane equipped for the task and a pilot who’s skilled in its use. It’s not just working boots or TKS that gives us the capability to deal with icing. It’s also important to have a fast climb rate to quickly reach nonicing airspace above the icing layer. In the absence of such performance, we’ll consider the environment to be unsuitable for flying that day.

Even the best airplane, flown by the best pilot, cannot overcome the limitations imposed by extreme operating environments. Thunderstorms, wind shear, severe icing, thick fog, strong crosswinds, and density altitude producing a negative climb rate are all factors that absolutely must be considered in the context of our ability to fly.

We have some wonderful airplanes in the marketplace, outfitted with some truly amazing avionics suites and supported by a great ground-based ATC system. Purchasers of some of those million-dollar singles have been told they can go anytime, anywhere. Not so. There are still times when the limitations of the operating environment prevail.

On Deciding

Aeronautical decision-making, or ADM, is a fashionable buzz phrase that is, in reality, as old as flight itself. Deciding to begin or continue an act of aviation requires consideration of every limitation we’re about to approach. Sometimes our total package of limitations is unbalanced by the aircraft itself, and sometimes it’s the environmental conditions of the day. And sometimes we’re just not feeling up to it. Never let someone else’s decision to fly become your own. Respect all of the limitations.

Editor’s Note: This story originally appeared in the MARCH 2024 issue of Plane & Pilot magazine.

The post Triple Threat of Limitations appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Whenever student pilots interact with controllers rather than fellow apprentices in the break room, there’s going to be much less forgiveness when mistakes are made. Learners are expected to absorb rapid-fire instructions, acknowledge everything verbatim, and comply without question–all with limited capacity and familiarity. It’s no wonder errors take place in such a situation.

Some ground-based role-playing is expected to prepare students for Class D operations, subsequently accompanied by actual immersion. Fortunate indeed are the learners who start out flying at a tower-controlled airport, from hour-one, with a CFI at their elbow to run interference until they get it right. Even so, there will be plenty of opportunities for unforeseen out-of-the-ordinary circumstances to come up, leaving them unprepared.

At greater disadvantage is the learner who has matriculated at an uncontrolled field, now tasked with having to enter the world of ATC. Suddenly, strange new terms are emanating from the headset, each one fraught with a paralyzing fear of descending wrath from above if misunderstood. Again, there will invariably be changing situations that require adaptive instructions, containing terms not covered in schooling. 

One contributor to learners’ mistakes is “expectation bias.” Inexperienced pilots expect to hear the usual taxi instructions, such as a simple “cleared for takeoff, left turn approved” when reporting ready to go and a welcoming “cleared to land” as they announce their arrival. It can’t always happen, and an offbeat clearance can be misunderstood or even disregarded in favor of what was expected.

• READ MORE: The Wisdom of Flying Tight Traffic Patterns

It’s also easy to read back instructions and acknowledge with one’s N-number yet not fully register the clearance cerebrally. In the rush to comply, a parroted reply can register wrongly. “Turn right zero-five-zero, maintain at or below two-thousand-five-hundred, contact departure on one-two-five-seven-seven” becomes a left turn to two-five-zero, and the ensuing straightening-out results in a busted altitude restriction. 

The simplest ATC requests sound confusing when you haven’t heard them before. “You’re number three, extend your downwind, I’ll call your base” leaves a learner wondering how to fly the approach. Staying on the downwind course leads to lost altitude unless adequate power is maintained, and they have to stay aware of the fluid traffic situation. The number-one aircraft is probably at the runway by now, and number two is turning final. If you report airplane-two “in sight” with “November such-and-such has the traffic,” you’ll hear “maintain separation with that traffic.” Turn in behind it and keep a matching speed, and you can receive your “cleared to land” as soon as it’s turning off the runway. 

“Make a right 360 for spacing” confuses a learner on a left-downwind expecting a “cleared to land.” Once acknowledged, you should make a crisp medium-bank circle away from the field that brings the plane back onto the downwind after a minute or so, not a wandering creeping orbit covering half the county. 

Tower controllers want to plan for after-landing movement of the airplanes under their control and will bark a “where are you parking?” while the learner is rolling out. Expect this, and have a reply ready like “Mom and Pop’s Aviation” so the controller will know whether you’re exiting left or right, and then be prepared for “exit at Delta Three, contact ground point-nine when clear” or “remain this frequency, taxi via Delta, Echo, Foxtrot.” 

The important rule for student pilots, or anyone struggling to comprehend, is to let the controller know if you don’t understand the instructions. Better to seek clarification than proceed blindly, bollixing up the traffic flow. Some airports’ local procedures are different than what you’re used to at home; if you don’t understand, say so. Never, ever surprise a controller; do what’s expected, and all will be well.

The post Working With ATC appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Our lingua aerial is full of strange new terms unrelated to those of other activities that may have been encountered heretofore. “What’s a ‘pitot tube’ or ‘VOR?’” beginners will ask. A “chord line” might logically have something to do with holding strung fish, and a “class,” as pertaining to aircraft and pilots, carries an entirely different meaning than social status or botanical divisions.

Most new immigrants to our world of flight pick up the language rather quickly, acquiring it conversationally from speaking with other pilots and listening to training videos. Even so, they can be misled by over-reliance on casual acquisition. One older pilot at our airport called RNAV (random, or area navigation) “Ray-Nav” instead of “Are-Nav”, infecting a few pilots along the way. And a local CFI always persisted in announcing that he was “backpacking” for departure; we all knew he was back-taxiing on the runway.

So, learners have to rely on correct sources, to get it right. Adopting other pilots’ speech leads to errors like the commonly heard announcement “turning final for runway zero-one,” even though there’s never a zero cipher painted on the runway in this country. ATC would simply clear you land on “runway one.”

I remember, years ago, watching a ground-school presentation of an instructor teaching sectional-chart pilotage navigation. He pointed to a black landmark spot labeled “Cem” and referred to it as “the small town of Cem” without further explanation of its non-living residents. The FAA now prints it out as “Cemetery.”

Airport surroundings are fraught with new terms. The place airplanes are parked can be called “ramp”, “apron” or “tie-downs.” The shed where they are stored is a “hangar”, not a “hanger”, and the propelling fluid is “fuel” not “gas.” And why do we “shoot” a landing, but not a takeoff? We don’t drive the airplane on the ground, we “taxi” it to something called the “run-up area.”

There’s a danger in picking up words without also acquiring their meaning. During the pre-takeoff ritual, learners dutifully check their “mags,” but when asked what they are looking for, they can’t relate the slang for “magneto” to ignition and its potential for misfire. Similarly, they talk of “carb heat” without knowing how a carburetor actually works. Fluency should not be presumptive of understanding.

Commonly used terms sometimes don’t mean what they really say. When we say “it’s VFR” we’re really referring to the weather, which currently meets visual meteorological standards, not the flight rules that apply. “Solo” is obviously the opposite of “dual” (instruction) when student pilots log flight time, but it’s also redundantly counted as “PIC” (pilot-in-command), more properly used as a tie-breaker designation when two or more pilots are on board. A now-archaic term was “supervised solo”, denoting that an instructor was in the loop as well.

An FAA inspector once pointed out to me that I had not really earned a private pilot “license.” The FAA does not give licenses, but “certificates” carrying certain privileges. “This certificate,” he intoned, “only gives you a license to learn.” Thus, the affectation “PPL” acquired from international usage is rather a pointless nomenclature in the U.S.

New aeronautical colloquialisms crop up every now and then, some of which are not really productive. “On the go” is now a popular way to announce that you’re in the midst of a touch-and-go, an intention that you probably already communicated. “Last call” seems to be a good-bye salute, given when you’re departing the area, as if anybody in the bar cares. “Anyone in the area, please advise” remains trendy, official admonitions to the contrary, tempting listeners to respond, “What advice do ya need?”

Most of our misunderstandings during the learning process have limited consequences, and we soon acquire understanding with a bit of practice. Stumbling along the way only results in snickers and sniping from upper-class learners. For my part, I’m still learning new expressions as aviation requires continual upgrading of my communication skills.

The post Learning the Lingo appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

Often referred to as the “whiskey compass,” “wet compass,” or “standby compass,” the magnetic compass is a required item per FAR 91.205 for flight in nearly every category and class of aircraft. It’s considered to be that important because being able to find your way across the surface of the Earth is crucial to the successful completion of a trip. The magnetic compass is utterly reliable because it has no power source to fail, so long as the Earth’s magnetic field endures. AHRS (attitude/heading reference system) units and spinning iron gyros need electricity or vacuum power, but the magnetic compass just sits there, on its own, wobbling in its case, giving a source of direction after all else fails.

Which is not to say our compass can’t show a false indication, but at least it’s consistently false. One only needs to understand how its error modes work, and it will still provide enough information to guide our path. It is because of these compass errors that more stable devices, such as gyroscopes or electronic instrumentation, were invented. But backing them up is the job of the magnetic compass.

No, It’s Not Whiskey

The simplicity of the compass is its virtue. That pivoting, circular “card” with numbers on it always seeks to remain fixed in space while the aircraft moves around it, aligning itself with the Earth’s lines of magnetic force that terminate at approximately the north and south poles. To dampen the jiggles experienced by everyone who has attempted to use a hand-held compass, a viscous fluid fills the chamber housing the precisely gimbaled card, usually colorless kerosene or aliphatic naphtha.

The term “whiskey compass” can be traced to the time of wooden sailing ships when alcohol was used as compass liquid because it did not freeze like water does.

Should you smell the odor of jet fuel emanating from the cockpit carpet of a piston-powered airplane, you’ll probably find that the sun-baked gasket sealing the compass has succumbed to old age. Wiping the bottom of the housing will verify your diagnosis. The compass still works but is highly unstable.

It’s not unusual to find a fluid-filled compass with a low volume of kerosene, leaving a horizon-like line of demarcation between air and fluid. It would be foolish to assume that this half-full indication can be used as an attitude reference, since centrifugal force keeps it in a level state while turning. Rather, low fluid leaves the compass card liable to tremble and spin without proper damping.

The newer vertical-card compass eliminates the liquid-filled chamber, using eddy current damping to reduce oscillations and lead-lag error. It also offers intuitive turn orientation, with a presentation similar to the steam-gauge directional gyroscope, or its electronic representation.

• READ MORE: Best Pilot Kneeboard Options in 2024

Card? What Card?

No compass installation is perfect—pristine, unadorned compass correction cards notwithstanding. Along with the compass itself, there’s a certification requirement for a posted placard of corrections to be applied to its readings at 30-degree intervals. The airframe, radios, and other instruments can acquire or emit magnetic disturbance, throwing the compass’ indications off by a few degrees. An aircraft compass has correcting magnets within the case that can adjust some of these specific errors, but not all, hence the correction card that says “for [fill in blank], steer [fill in blank].” If yours is missing or not filled out, your aircraft is not legal for flight.

In your first hour of training, you were probably told to largely disregard that compass mounted on top of the panel or up in the windshield, which was placed there to remove it from interference emanating from below. You were done a great disservice. If you are flying an older aircraft with a directional gyro (DG) at the bottom of the “standard T” panel arrangement, you’ll need to reset the gyro periodically by—ta-da—the faithful old magnetic compass. A DG has no brain of its own. It merely seeks, for a while, to stay oriented with a spot it was told means north. Eventually, it will need updating.

GPS directional references are also artificial, in that they are calculated from weak, easily disrupted signals processed by a computer that needs stable power. To hug the magenta line presented by our navigator, we must fly a compass heading, so that the GPS-derived track number equals the flight plan’s course. The glass cockpit’s AHRS or ADHRS platform contains the magnetic reference needed for EFIS displays, but it’s still based on compass technology, albeit much more stable.

Why Does It Deviate?

The compass, as you learned early in ground school (and promptly forgot), is subject to a host of errors, including the aforementioned deviation in each aircraft. And because the forever-roaming magnetic poles are not located exactly where the geographic north and south poles are shown, there will be isogonic and agonic lines of variation displayed on your navigation chart with a number showing how far off the compass is pointing from true north/south. Shown with an accompanying “E” or “W” to signify east or west variation, this denotation has nothing to do with the direction in which you’re flying. Rather, it shows the degrees the compass is pointing east or west of the true pole.

To fly in the true direction, subtract an easterly variation amount from the measured true course, or add a westerly variation, which will provide the magnetic course you’ll need to steer. A final adjustment will need to be made for the deviation shown on the compass correction card.

As a rudimentary check on the health of your compass, take a look at it when lined up for takeoff. It should read within 5 degrees of the runway direction, shown by the large numbers on the pavement ahead of you (Remember, runway numbers are rounded off to the closest increment of 10 degrees). If you find it to have a larger deviation, make an appointment with your instrument repair shop for a “compass swing” to bring it back into alignment.

If the air is smooth and you’re not maneuvering the aircraft, all will be well. The compass unfailingly sits there, presenting a truncated number every 30 degrees with lines showing 5-degree increments between. Most rudimentary magnetic compasses, however, use a horizontal compass card, around which the aircraft moves, as opposed to the vertical-card presentation of a steam-gauge or electronic directional gyro. Such vertical cards show a desired course to the left or right of the present heading in the direction one naturally would turn to get there.

The old magnetic compass (unless you’ve retrofitted with a vertical-card compass) works backward. You’ll see the numbers leading in the opposite direction of the way you want to turn to get there. When using a horizontal compass card, even one in an old World War II-style directional gyro, you must remind yourself to “go left to decrease, right to increase.”

• READ MORE: Flying Precise When it Isn’t Nice

What else can go wrong? You’ll need to ignore the compass’ acceleration/deceleration errors when on an easterly or westerly heading. A sudden slowdown will pull the compass card toward the south, while speeding up will send it slightly off to the north. Just wait until your speed stabilizes and the compass will settle down.

When turning toward a northerly or southerly heading, the magnetic compass tends to lead or lag the aircraft’s motion. Most pilots learn this as Undershoot North and Overshoot South or UNOS. As you approach true north, the compass movement slows down, showing an error while turning about the same amount as latitude. At 30 degrees north, expect a lag of 30 compass degrees. Roll out wings level, and the compass catches up just fine. If turning toward a south heading, the compass will run ahead of the aircraft by about the same amount. All of these errors reverse themselves in the Southern Hemisphere.

Needle, Ball, Airspeed
…and Compass

Partial panel flying, a form of torture imposed on check ride applicants by instrument instructors, frequently removes the attitude and directional cues provided by gyro-stabilized instruments. That leaves us with only what was once termed a “basic panel,” consisting of a turn reference (turn needle or turn coordinator), slip/skid ball, and the pitot/static instruments. The rudimentary emergency instrument flying taught for the private certificate 60 years ago used this system.

The order of priorities when flying with the basic panel was, and still is, “center the needle,” which means stop any turn by using ailerons to keep the turn indicator neutral, “center the ball” by applying rudder to put the slip/skid ball in the center, thereby avoiding inadvertent turn entry, and “adjust the airspeed” by raising or lowering the nose to reverse any trend away from level-cruise (or climb/descent) airspeed. At this point, it is safe to glance at the magnetic compass, which will indicate correctly in the absence of turn or acceleration errors.

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None of the compass’ vagaries make it an unusable instrument. You simply need to understand when and how to expect erroneous readings, and either wait for a stable indication or correct out the error. In payment for this effort, the magnetic compass will be a faithful companion, unfailing in service and dependable at all times. More than that you can’t ask.

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

The post Your Magnetic Compass Remains the ‘Old Reliable’ appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

The problem is, those retracted wheels eventually have to be extended, in order to taxi to the ramp unaided. And pilots, being creative in their ability to ignore warnings and signals sent by the airplane, will find ways to land with the gear up. The increased maintenance and risk of loss associated with flying with “limber legs” were always present. Insurers, mechanics, and lenders began discouraging a later generation of pilots from buying such complex airplanes. Accordingly, Cirrus and other next-gen manufacturers have built fast singles with the gear firmly fixed in place.

However, many of the retractable-gear Beech, Cessna, Mooney, and Piper legacy fleet is still around, able to be purchased by new owners, and it behooves us to periodically revisit the cautions and techniques needed to operate them without incident. The FAA merely requires a logbook endorsement attesting to proficiency in operating one type of complex airplane; further training in other retractables is at the discretion of the pilot. 

You must avoid such laid-back transitions.

Study how the landing gear system works in any retractable-gear airplane you’re going to fly, what to do if it malfunctions, and what maintenance is required to keep it in tip-top shape. Get through training from knowledgeable instructors familiar with that type of aircraft, not just a few trips around the pattern but coverage of the plane’s limitations and requirements in all phases of flight.

When it comes to avoiding unintentional gear-up landings, make sure you understand how the airplane acts when it’s being forced to approach the ground without wheels. Yes, all retractable-gear planes were built with gear-up warnings that activate when power or speed is reduced with wheels retracted. Those can malfunction, or be masked behind the stress of passenger or ATC interaction.

What won’t malfunction is the airplane’s unnatural buoyancy in the absence of drag from the extended gear. If you’re reducing power to idle when a normal approach requires several inches of manifold pressure, you may be trying to land gear-up. If the airspeed remains fast as you roll out onto final, it may be because the wheels are still stowed. Listen to what your retractable-gear steed is telling you.

Checklists or GUMP rituals are fine, but make sure you’ve actually “done” the list, not just read it. I follow two rigid procedures to avoid landing gear-up. First, I never descend below normal traffic pattern altitude without assuring that the gear is down. You may think you moved the switch or handle, but did it really actuate, confirmed by indications and feel of the aircraft? Second, I always do a short-final check, when the approaching runway numbers are visible—gear-down, stabilized, cleared to land.

Flying retractable-gear airplanes is still a worthwhile endeavor, but it does require another element of risk management. Keep the gear system in tip-top shape, keep your skill at handling the extra piloting chores sharp, and never ignore the possibility that you missed that vital gear extension.

The post Gear Down Before You Go Down appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

“Ed,” I said, “ya gotta take smaller cuts at this carving you’re trying to make. Two-hundred foot deviations won’t satisfy the check ride requirements.” The problem was, we were flying in continuous light, occasionally moderate, turbulence, and the airplane wouldn’t stay still for more than a second or two.

With well-earned empathy, I could recall many times being in his seat, struggling to keep an airplane in bounds. I knew what he was going through, the frustration of feeling “I’m never going to get this.” Flying with precision is tough enough when you’re your own worst enemy, overcontrolling in an attempt to drive the airplane down a straight path. Add in turbulent air and the frustration triples.

We know what perfect performance is supposed to look like, but we can’t make it happen.

I took the controls and demonstrated how to dampen out some of the bumps, explaining as I went. “Let’s just bracket the entry altitude for now, keeping it within 50 feet plus or minus. But don’t focus on the altimeter reading; by the time you see a deviation happening, the airplane’s already on its way to further deflection. You see, the pitch attitude is where the first change takes place, then the altimeter reading moves, and finally the rate-of-climb goes up or down.”

Precision results from making small, early corrections, not easy to do when you’re bouncing like a leaf in the gale. Nevertheless, the basic theorem of flying still holds true: Power Plus Attitude Equals Performance. Set the power needed for the maneuver, place, and hold, the aircraft’s attitude where it should be, and you’ll stabilize on the desired result. Until, that is, unstable air upsets your applecart.

Chasing needles, or glass-panel tape presentations, won’t work. Following a course deviation indicator that refuses to stay centered in rough air doesn’t mean watching CDI movement and reacting; it’s the heading indicator that brings the course reading into alignment, and the heading is held steady by rock-solid wings-level flight.

Okay, bouncing air takes you off your heading; put it back, using minimal bank and a brief jab of rudder. Small, constant corrections, done early, yield better results than a swinging swordfight.

Airspeed control, particularly during approach and departure phases of flight, similarly requires attitude and, in some cases, power adjustment, if the air isn’t stable. Airplanes with fixed-pitch propellers are particularly vulnerable to rough-air upset; when sucked earthward by a downdraft, the pilot will naturally yank the nose up, and shove forward when boosted by an updraft. But rpm will sag and surge as a result, so both pitch and power need adjustment. Just don’t forget where the neutral parameters are, when the air turns smooth, so you don’t destabilize.

Much of the time, in light turbulence, the airplane just needs a little help from actively-participating hands and feet on the controls. I brace my feet on the rudder pedals to hold the nose from swinging, and if a wing goes up or down, some use of opposite rudder will help it come back to level on its own. Roll control should be reserved for big deviations.

Ed finally got the performance he wanted, by watching the horizon in his windshield and keeping it steady, in spite of the pounding from the turbulence. I used the checklist to cover up his horizon and altitude indicators, forcing him to concentrate on basic outside attitude, and he was amazed that it could be done that way. The performance instruments, I said, are tools for grading our flying.

Even when the air isn’t nice.

The post Flying Precise When It Isn’t Nice appeared first on Plane & Pilot Magazine.

It’s not that we can’t fly during the short, colder days. It’s just not worth the bother in the frozen states. Bundling up for the trek to the hangar, arranging for some engine heat, wondering if the battery is up to the start, chipping leftover snowplow detritus from the rollout path—naw, too much trouble, wait for a better day.

Floridians, meanwhile, fire up in their shirtsleeves and fly right on through winter. It was 50 years ago that folks in some enterprising EAA chapters thought up the idea of inviting their pale, pasty northern friends down to the lake country in Florida for an end-of-winter get-together. Quickly dubbed  Sun’n Fun, the fly-in/airshow took off like, well, spring break with airplanes. This year’s event runs Tuesday, April 9, through Sunday, April 14.

The site at Lakeland Linder International Airport (KLAL) couldn’t be a better choice. Nicely situated between the airspaces of the tourist mecca of Orlando and the Gulf Coast’s Tampa-St. Petersburg area, the venerable World War II facility, then called Drane Field, has adequate space and easy highway access from Interstate Highway 4’s corridor. 

Sport and experimental aircraft devotees flock in to mingle with all classes of flight, from balloons to ultralights, antiques to vintage, aerobatic to warbirds, and rotorcraft to seaplanes—you can find it all at Sun ’n Fun.

As with the midsummer extravaganza, EAA AirVenture, in Wisconsin, vendors soon latched on to the Sun ’n Fun explosion, and it became a showplace for products unveiled after winter gestation, with display hangars and booths galore. It’s a great place to shop for the latest innovations, or perhaps a fly-market find.

Daily (and sometimes nightly) airshows, constant flybys, lots of food choices, an on-field museum of flight, and educational seminars keep attendees entertained.

Getting in requires perusal of the 27-page NOTAM, available on the event website, which outlines the Lake Parker arrival procedure, which has been modified this year with a entry point on I-4 at Kermit Weeks’ Fantasy of Flight Museum complex (or even earlier), where one begins the 100-knot, 1,200-foot msl trek, heading southward to a racetrack turn point and westward to the north shore of the lake. From there, the interstate leads to another turn at two water towers prior to an interchange onto a 90-degree interception path to the downwind leg for either Runway 10L or 28R, depending on surface winds. 

Bear in mind that the 75-foot-wide arrival runway is normally used for a taxiway, and the paralleling main runway is reserved for other activity. As at Oshkosh, colored dots painted on the temporary runway are used as aiming points for separation. There’s also the Paradise City grass runway, well south of normal traffic, and Choppertown for the helicopters.

Walking around the grounds guarantees plenty of exercise, although the semicircular flight-line shape appears deceptively short compared to a straight-line layout. There’s abundant shade under the Spanish-moss-laden live oaks, under which northerners are advised to seek shelter from the unaccustomed sun. I routinely return from Sun ’n Fun with peeling skin, even with ample protection.

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But, as always, the devil is in the details. When it comes to student ownership, there are definitely cons to offset the pros. While buying instead of renting may look like a logical move—assuming you’re doing well enough to pay for your own airplane—the concept may not be as rational as it appears.

The Right Airplane?

The airplane you really want to own after you get your certificate may not be the best primary trainer. An airplane designed for learning to fly is typically a low-horsepower, two-place, economical-to-operate light aircraft. If you plan to use your newfound privileges for travel, exploring, or carrying a family, you’ll need four or more seats, with reasonable speed and adequate range. Do you really want to burn 10 gallons per hour or more practicing slow flight and steep turns?

Bear in mind that most family-type airplanes are not good vehicles when it comes to learning the art of flying either. Many larger aircraft are actually too stable and too easy to fly. The best trainer is an airplane that responds to mistakes in a noticeable manner, giving feedback that is often masked while flying a gentle cruiser. When learning stalls and landings, you want a trainer that delivers a message, clearly and unmistakably.

Next, why should you abuse your dream machine by banging into the runway, shoving the throttle in and out, and hanging on the prop doing stalls? It’s probably better to learn how to fly with finesse using the sturdy rental aircraft of your flight school before you put down the money on your dream machine.

And, most importantly, learners eager to buy their own airplanes frequently do so without guidance. Any aircraft purchase should involve a mechanic’s advice, including a prepurchase inspection disclosing flaws and paperwork issues. It is not uncommon for after-acquisition problems to show up that preclude taking instruction or checkrides in the airplane. Any potential money to be saved over rental charges is eaten up in corrective repairs.

Take Your Time

I always advise students and freshly-rated new pilots to avoid rushing into ownership right away. Take time to rent or beg demo rides in various different airplanes, trying them on to see if their appealing looks translate into desirable flying qualities, comfort and roominess, and performance. When you’re starting out, you really don’t know what you don’t know, and are therefore susceptible to bad advice, sales pitches, and lustful dreams. Take time to date a few prospective flight partners, just so you don’t wind up in a disappointing, costly relationship.

Case in point from my own airport: A newly minted, Skyhawk-trained pilot with about 50 hours bought a 65-year-old Beechcraft Bonanza a few days after he got his certificate, an experience that hasn’t worked out well for either of them.

Are You and It Insurable?

And then there’s the matter of insurance. If you are a student pilot, flying a simple two- or four-place airplane, you can expect to pay 25 to 30 percent more than a rated pilot to get coverage, according to Scott Smith at Iowa-based SkySmith Insurance Agency. That has to be factored into the cost of ownership. Insurance companies don’t like lifetime students, so renewal becomes progressively more difficult if you don’t move along to the check ride.

Owner students tend to vacillate rather than finish in a timely manner, often taking years to do so. Invariably, when I trained primary students in their own airplanes, they would acquire more than 100 hours of flight time before taking a check ride, roughly double what renter students logged. The pain of renting incentivizes, it seems.

Suit-Shy Teachers

It may be difficult to find an instructor willing to take on a student pilot who has his/her own airplane because of perceived liability issues. A rental ship has to be checked out from the flight school’s operations desk and returned on a schedule, so the supervising instructor has some control over a student’s comings and goings, once soloed. Weather, darkness, and fuel shortage hazards are backstopped with extra eyes and hands, confirmed before the key to the airplane is handed over.

By comparison, there’s little to keep an owner student from succumbing to the temptation to fly on a whim, endorsement stipulations notwithstanding. The liability incurred with a nonrated owner being able to roll out the airplane without supervision may dissuade CFIs from taking the risk of having a learner go rogue. Good intentions and promises to the contrary, the temptation to go flying without authorization is great, and most instructors have had bad experiences with owner students.

I’ve heard of passengers being carried, clandestine cross countries taken, and even a charter flight completed by a student pilot, all undertaken without the benefit of clergy. Oh, sure, CFIs can elicit a promise (or stipulate in the solo endorsement) to always check with them before flying, and owners will offer to let the instructor keep the key in his or her possession—but a strong desire to go flying on a sunny day is hard to resist, and keys can be duplicated. Is it any wonder, in these litigious times, that CFIs do not want to assume the risks of taking on an owner learner?

I recall the experiences I had with my student, Joe, a family friend who had purchased a nice Piper Cherokee. I went by the hangar one fine Saturday morning and found the plane missing. Time went on and by midafternoon I was getting concerned—Joe had not returned. Just as I was about to mount a search, the errant PA-28 appeared in the pattern.

Joe said, “Oh, I figured you wouldn’t mind. It was such a nice day. I flew over to XYZ and got to talking, lost track of time.” He knew the rules about cross-country planning and sign-offs, but he just wanted to go out joyriding.

After a few more disturbing disappointments with other owner students, I gave up on the concept. “Get your certificate in our airplanes” became my standard response to such inquiries, “and then I’ll help you learn to fly your bird.”

To pleading entreaties, I would say, “I know I could trust you to obey the rules, but if I make an exception for you, I’ll upset all those other people I’ve turned down, so I can’t do it.”

It Costs More Than They Think

Student pilots with their own airplanes usually underestimate the cost and tasks of maintaining them. You must have a trainer inspected every 100 hours, not just annually, something that can slip up on a new owner. And then there are oil changes, transponder checks, ELT tests, and battery replacements to monitor, and recurring AD requirements that need to be met. Keeping track of these things often falls on the shoulders of the CFI, and they can be overlooked.

Owning an airplane means taking on taxes, storage, insurance, maintenance, servicing, and record keeping. These are distractions a student pilot doesn’t need while involved with learning to fly. There will be plenty of time to take on ownership after completing one’s initial training.

If you’re a student pilot with a strong desire to learn to fly in your own airplane, don’t proceed with a purchase without lining up a CFI, an insurer, and an A&P who are willing to work with you.

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

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Obviously, once they learned to fly in the 140, new pilots would be looking for a four-seat family airplane. The hulking, radial-engine Cessna 190/195, certified in 1947, was fine for the business-owner pilot and charter operator, but a more entry-level aircraft for personal flying was required. Accordingly, Cessna rushed an expanded 140 into production that was certificated on June 1, 1948, as the model 170.

Now referred to as the “straight 170,” it was a simple, scaled-up version of its predecessor, even retaining the 140’s fabric-covered, V-strutted wings. To feed the 145 hp 6-cylinder Continental, an extra fuel tank was slipped into the right wing and plumbed into its neighboring tank, giving 33.5 usable gallons. The 170 was received well enough, with 714 delivered in the last half of 1948. It offered good short-field performance and gentle, predictable handling, but it was obviously a placeholder needing improvements.

On December 15, 1948, Cessna gained CAA approval for the 170A, featuring the now-familiar, all-metal, single-strut, semi-tapered wing. It actually proved to be a bit slower and heavier than its forerunner. The triple-tank setup gave way to twin tanks but retained the small, plain flaps of the straight 170, with extra travel and area. The rounded vertical fin gained a dorsal addition, similar to the 195. A little more than 1,500 170As were built during 1949, 1950, and 1951. Although the improved 170B was originally approved on September 28, 1950, it was only introduced to the market as a 1952 model, probably because Cessna was busy developing the Model 305, known as the L-19A.

The 170B was the definitive Cessna light four-seater Wallace had always wanted. He already had his staff working on the Model 180, which used the 170B’s wing shape and L-19A’s engine with a constant-speed propeller to understudy the dated and expensive-to-build model 195. The more economical 170B cruised in stable aplomb with 1 degree,
44 minutes of wing dihedral, compared to the wandering ways of the 170A that had no uptilt. The L-19’s “barn door” flaps, extendable to 40 degrees, gave excellent control over glide path. Throughout 60-plus years of production, Cessna has relied
on the basic wing layout of the 170B for its four-seat airplanes, notwithstanding dalliances with the Cardinal 177.

For the first half of the 1950s, the Cessna 170 reigned supreme as a family airplane. It offered two yard-wide doors, a baggage compartment behind the fold-down rear seat, all-aluminum construction, and a great view of the world passing by at 110 to 120 mph. But Piper’s Tri-Pacer was chipping away at its market. Wallace could see the future, and it lay in tricycle landing gear. The 170B was quickly reworked into the tri-gear 172 for 1956, which was eagerly accepted by the public. The sporty look of the 170B was appealing, but practical and forgiving ground handling won out after 5,136 various 170s were built. The 108 Cessna 170Bs produced for 1956 were the end of the line.

So Why Is a 170 Appealing?

The 170 is one of those “shoulda bought all of ’em when we had the chance” airplanes. Ignored for years in the rush to embrace the latest and greatest “Wichita Wonder,” it has now taken on the status of cult icon. No longer a cheap back-row find, a Cessna 170, in any of its three variations, has turned into a valuable classic.

The 170B, built from 1952 to 1956, represented the transition from post-World War II light airplane design to modern general aviation. The elegant curve of the empennage was borrowed from the 195, and the tailwheel-type landing gear, called “conventional” in the 170’s heyday, was simply typical of the airplane population when it was introduced.

Yet, many of the 170B’s features were forward looking—metal, stressed-skin structure, large doors, effective flaps, and a roomy panel fitted with gyros and radios. The little airplane bequeathed its legacy to a whole line of Cessnas that followed it. It may be that when today’s vintage airplane aficionado invests in a 170B, they are seeking the cachet of an antique without the inconvenience of fabric covering, a hand-cranked engine, or limited ground visibility. The Cessna 170B is a modern airplane that happens to sit with its tail on the ground.

Walkaround Tour

Starting at the nose, the 170’s spinner is head high, the cowling inlets set off by integral cross braces. Swing-up cowlings were used in the pre-1955 170s for easy oil and battery checking. The 1955 version had fixed cowls with pop-open access doors on each side—the ’56 had only a single door. Dual exhaust pipes are used, and improved cabin heat distribution was introduced in 1953. The engine is mounted low in relation to the cabin, giving excellent visibility over the nose when taxiing and during flight.

The first 170s were powered by a Continental C-145, redesignated the O-300A in 1954. With 145 hp, it’s a smooth-running, little 6-cylinder engine that’s a fine match for the 170’s 2,200-pound gross weight. With no provisions for a vacuum pump, the 170 requires external venturi horns to power gyro instruments unless retrofitted with an O-300C or D engine to gain engine-driven suction.

The fuel system is elegantly simple—two wing tanks provide 37 usable gallons, gravity assures continuous fuel pressure, and the selector gives the option of left, right, or “both on.” Direct-reading gauges are located in the wing roots. Icing conditions should be avoided because the fuel vent pipe protrudes from the top skin of the cabin.

The wing’s tapered outboard sections improve lift distribution, with washout at the tip. An electric stall warner was standard from the 1949 170A onward. A heated pitot tube was not commonly installed. The 170B’s massive flaps are extended manually via a hefty bar between the front seats, latching into 10-, 20-, 30-, and 40-degree positions—1952 and ’53 airplanes did not have the 10-degree notch. A placard warns against executing slips with flaps extended, supposedly because of pitch oscillations.

The main gear struts are the flat Wittman spring steel gear legs, mounted far forward to lessen the possibility of a nose-over. Most 170s have been converted to Cleveland-type disc brakes in place of the original Goodyear system. Standard
6.00 x 6 tires are more than adequate for most purposes; a Scott 3200 tailwheel with an 8.00 x 4 tire cushions the aft fuselage. Unless modified, no external baggage door will be found, as luggage must be hoisted aboard over the rear seat.

Cessna 170B

• Price, new 1955-1956: $8,295
• Price, 2023 used, unmodified: $60,000-$110,000
• Wingspan: 36 ft.
• Wing area: 175 sq. ft.
• Length: 24.96 ft.
• Height: 6.63 ft.
• Maximum gross weight: 2,200 lbs.
• Empty weight, standard: 1,205 lbs.
• Empty weight, average: 1,324 lbs.
• Useful load, standard: 995 lbs.
• Useful load, average: 876 lbs.
• Baggage capacity: 120 lbs.
• Fuel capacity, total: 42 gal.
• Fuel capacity, usable: 37 gal.
• Seats: 4
• Wing loading: 12.6 lbs./sq. ft.
• Power loading: 15.2 lbs./hp
• Engine: Continental O-300A 6-cylinder, opposed, normally aspirated,
  direct drive, carbureted, 145 hp at 2,700 rpm, recommended TBO 1,800 hours
• Propeller: McCauley two-blade, fixed-pitch, 76-inch diameter
• Maximum speed: 136 mph
• Cruise speed, 75%: 131 mph
• Range, 75%, no reserve: 507 sm
• Cruise speed, 65%: 125 mph
• Range, 65%, no reserve: 566 sm
• Maximum range, no reserve: 692 sm
• Rate of climb, sea level: 690 fpm
• Service ceiling: 15,500 ft.
• Stall speed, flaps up: 58 mph
• Stall speed, flaps down: 52 mph
• Takeoff ground roll: 618 ft.
• Takeoff over 50 ft.: 1,625 ft.
• Landing ground roll: 458 ft.
• Landing over 50 ft.: 1,145 ft.

Climbing Aboard

Mounting up requires a determined effort, using steps below the cabin doors and assist straps on the doorposts. The front seats are boarded first, so they can be slid uphill to provide room for the back-seaters to get in. Wise Cessna tailwheel pilots rock the seat vigorously to make sure it is securely latched into a notch. There’s plenty of room for four average-size persons, which is all one should ask of the 170. The quoted 1,205-pound empty weight is frequently surpassed with mods and updates, reducing the useful load. One finds the usual Cessna cabin amenities—pullout ventilation tubes in the windshield corners, openable windows for added airflow on the ground (only the left window opens on 1956 170Bs), and, in the airplane’s delivered state, ashtrays all around.

The fuel selector is on the aft end of the center floor tunnel near the elevator trim wheel and flap handle. Early instrument panels had the gauges seemingly placed wherever there was room. Piano-key switches were changed to pull types in 1953. The radios and glove box were installed along the bottom edge of the dash below the shock-mounted instrument panel. The doorknob-size throttle sits at the center.

Through 1955, 170B interiors featured painted metal and honest cloth upholstery, but the last 170s and early 172s used Royalite plastic panels. The spring-latched doors pose little hazard if one should pop open in flight, merely requiring a quick slam to secure. Their windows are propped open with over-center latches. The rear windows used a rounded profile, enlarged to a more square shape in 1955. A hat shelf caps off the luggage compartment, which is rated for a 120-pound capacity.

Operational Characteristics

The Continental fires up readily with the starter’s pull knob, idling gently during taxi. Visibility over the 170’s nose is quite good compared to the bulkier 180/185 and 190/195—S-turns are rarely required. It’s still a tailwheel airplane, nosed into the wind for run-up with the yoke back. Pre-takeoff routine is easy. Fuel on “both,” controls exercised, trim set, mags and carb heat tested at
1,600 rpm, and lights and instruments checked and set.

Lined up for takeoff, the runway ahead is visible, if not the centerline. Keep the tailwheel firmly planted until the rudder becomes effective, then hold it just a foot or so off the ground to let the 170 fly itself off. If operating on grass, I usually drop 10 degrees of flaps if that’s available.

Liftoff comes at 50 mph in 600 to 800 feet, but it takes a bit to reach the 88 mph VY. Climb rate is maybe 700 fpm with two on board, less if loaded. The 175 square-foot wing is willing, but stock 170s aren’t over-powered. That said, I consider modifying 170s with bigger engines to be sacrilege. It was properly designed as a compromise between economy and capability.

Leveled into cruise, the world comes into view, and the 170B chuckles along at about 110 mph IAS on 2,300 rpm, a bit faster if nudged up to 2,400, burning about 8 gallons per hour. Control feel is nicely balanced—the 170B is heavier on the controls than the straight 170, but its dihedral means a nudge of rudder easily picks up a low wing for hands-off cruising. It also introduced balanced elevators, lightening pitch forces.

Slowed down, the 170B hangs on under control with flaps extended at 40 mph with 2,000 rpm. Power off, a stall comes at 55 mph IAS flaps up, 45 mph flaps down. Spins are approved if loaded within the utility-category envelope, offering little challenge for entry and recovery.

Landing approaches begin at 75 mph (flaps permitted up to 100 mph), slowed to 70 or even 65 over the fence. The 170B three-points nicely and can be wheel landed with attention paid to shock-free touchdowns. Mishandled, the spring gear returns all the vertical travel received with a developing crow hop, requiring a prompt go-around. Wheel landing a 170 requires delicate touch and timing, but it’s rewarding. Rollout shouldn’t require more than 1,000 feet, perhaps half that if you really try.

It’s a great old airplane, one that needs to be preserved by dedicated caretaker pilots and owners. Seventy-five years ago, it pointed the way to the future.

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

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That said, you have lots of opportunities for making “first solo” flights, including ones taken not by choice but by necessity. Some are the ones we make in single-seat airplanes. Taking off in an airplane with no way to “get some dual,” or even to ride along to observe, is an awesome experience. It can not be undertaken without preparation, because you have to get it right the first time. Once you’re in the air, there’s no way to get help.

I well remember my first experience in this regard. The airplane was a Stits Playboy, a sporty low-wing homebuilt with an O-290 Lycoming up front. Before I took off, the previous pilot leaned over the side of the canopied cockpit and pointed out the relevant controls and switches, told me a safe speed to use on final, and turned me loose to learn on my own. I had plenty of experience with control sticks and tailwheels, so I just filled in the new blanks presented by the little Stits.

• READ MORE: Are Touch-and-Goes Good Practice?

During World War II the 200-hour wonders who strapped themselves into single-seat fighters were prepared about as well as they could be. They were products of a system that saw them begin with plenty of dual in tandem primary trainers, followed by advancing into more powerful basic trainers and then progressing into challenging advanced trainers. All of these machines had the student sitting in the center of a cockpit set up for one person, with a joystick in the right hand and throttle in the left, a tailwheel rolling along behind. The one-seat P-40s they eventually flew on their own were just more of the same.

Key to the process was adherence to procedures, worked out to minimize hazardous unknowns, and lots of study and classroom work, so the transitioning pilots would thoroughly understand the progressively more complex systems they were tackling. Experienced individuals would stand on the wingwalk and work the novices through their checklists until it became second nature, perhaps even blindfolded to prove they could find the required items quickly.

Getting as Close as You Can

As I flew other single-seat airplanes, I always tried to avail myself of as much knowledge as I could in advance by reading the flight manual and limitations, asking questions of my predecessors, and just sitting in the cockpit to become familiar with the setup. Sometimes it’s possible to get time in a similar two-seat airplane, which is how I approached the Cessna AGwagon spray plane. The Cessna 185 is a close approximation, and even though I had considerable previous time in Cessna 180s and 170s, I first went up in the Skywagon with an ag pilot for a little review.

Most spray planes have familial resemblance to two-place siblings, like Piper’s Pawnee and the Super Cub. On the other hand, Dean Wilson’s long-winged Eagle ag plane had no two-seat approximation, but I had flown other biplanes and had no problem adjusting to its size and seating. The DW-1 was built to be work-all-day friendly, so it held no surprises other than the spoiler-assisted method of making tight turnarounds.

The ultimate in getting prepared was being checked out in the Bede BD-5 homebuilt. The Bede folks had a “Truck-a-Plane” engineless BD-5 at the factory, rigged up on an articulated frame attached to the front of a hot rod pickup truck. Pushed down the runway in it at flying speed, one could practice liftoffs and touchdowns, and feel out the ailerons and rudder response. To learn how the landing gear operated, they just picked up a BD-5 and sat it on sawhorses shoved under the wings. You could then climb aboard and find out how to work the gear lever without jiggling the joystick in your other hand.

The point is, if you’re compelled to fly a single-seater, get as much knowledge as possible and work up to it through flying dual in similar aircraft. Of the couple of dozen one-holers I’ve flown, all were approached with careful progression through close approximations.

Solo Without a Checkout

In a similar vein, there may be times when you will be called upon to fly an aircraft with multiple seats but without the benefit of a formal checkout flight. That can be about as much of a “solo flight” as those single-seat experiences. As a ferry pilot, a lot of the planes I’ve picked up were simply left sitting in a hangar or tie-down, waiting for me to deliver it elsewhere. One quickly learns to rely on nothing in the way of installed equipment, despite assurances that “it’s ready to go.” In the first hour or two of the trip, you verify what you have and don’t have.

I once was engaged to ferry an aged Cessna 170A, and I soon learned it had no generator output. Eager to get it home, I obtained a NAPA battery charger and plugged it in at every fuel stop, juicing up the battery so I would have a starter and radios for the departure. In the middle of my final leg, I finally found a hidden unmarked switch under the dash that, when actuated, turned on the generator. Lesson learned.

Labels, even when installed, don’t always mean what they say. Tasked with taking an imported German motor glider out to the West Coast, I received a telephone checkout from the pilot who had brought it partway, mostly describing the quirks of its VW-based Limbach engine and three-position propeller pitch. When I tried to start it, the engine refused to fire. It turned out the fuel cock said “auf” when the gas was on, which turned out to be German for “on.” The label was correct—it was the pilot who was deficient.

• READ MORE: Effective Braking Techniques

When alone in the cockpit, it is doubly important to take every precaution to learn how to operate the systems because your only resource is what you bring to the party. Never assume “it’s just another airplane.” That may be true, but operating characteristics vary from one model to another. Late one afternoon, I arrived via a delayed airline flight to pick up a Piper Arrow that needed to be repositioned across the state. I had planned on being home well before sundown, but by the time I was finally deposited onto the Arrow’s ramp, the day was far advanced. With no RON (remain overnight) kit or flashlight, I fired up in the waning twilight and blasted off. Once underway, it occurred to me I really needed to turn on the panel lights, and none of my fumbling with the switch panel found success. Cell phone flashlights hadn’t been invented yet.

Finally, I recalled the stylish panel of 1970s-era Pipers utilized rolling rheostat switches beside the rocker switches, one of which turns on the instrument lighting. Panic subsided when I brought the darkened cockpit to well-lit life. The issue was my mission-focused urgency to get into the air without taking time to review the flight manual’s operating details of an airplane type I hadn’t flown in years.

Whether flying in a single-seat aircraft or alone in a multiseat cockpit, the responsibility of being pilot in command is the same. You are making a solo flight, and it’s up to you to do all the CRM (crew resource management) required to assure safety of the flight. Free of the distraction posed by having company, you should be able to do an even better job of single-pilot CRM. Instead, we often take the freedom of flying solo as a chance to ignore our duties.

There’s Always a First Time

There will be many first solo flights in your career beyond that one at the beginning of your life as a pilot. It may be the first time you climb into a cloud deck after attaining your instrument rating or the first time you bring up the landing gear of a retractable-gear airplane. Pushing the throttles of a twin-engine airplane forward on takeoff for the first time as the captain is never to be forgotten. Doing your first aileron roll or loop with no aerobatic instructor on board is a satisfying first solo as well. I will never forget that first tow release when being turned loose to fly solo in the club’s glider. Getting it back to the gliderport after hunting lift was now my responsibility entirely. Docking a seaplane on my own, without banging a float or missing the right spot to cut the engine, was another first that went into the favorite memory storehouse.

The point is, there will be plenty of first solos for us to remember as we pursue our aviation dreams. Treasure them all—big and small. 

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

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