Roadblocks in the Sky Part 3, Finale

This is it! - we hope.

I seem to have a thing for taking checkrides at any place but my home airport. When I took my private pilot exam, I had to fly myself 60 nm north to Chico to meet the examiner and take the practical test. A year later I was ready to get my instrument ticket and this time it was down to Sacramento’s Mather airport to meet an examiner who was available during my limited window of time. Naturally by now I was feeling it would be nice to simply drive to Auburn and take a flight test right there and not to have to go somewhere else.

But with the latest development, I had a choice: have Rick, my examiner, come back up to Auburn the following week and pay him the full retest fee—or accept his offer for a generous discount if I would fly myself over to his home airport in Cameron Park... So much for staying local. I picked the obvious choice.

Probably the worst thing about discontinuing the test was coming back home and bumping into all my friends who were very excited to know the results. Thankfully the week went by quickly, and pretty soon I was staring down my checkride day again. I got word that the plane was back in service, so I went out for a good long session, practicing the navigation, landings, high work, and familiarizing myself with the area around Cameron Park.

The landing gear was working flawlessly. That wasn’t the only thing Bob had fixed. Apparently the pilot’s seat had been sagging, so he straightened that problem out. Of course, I hadn’t even noticed the seat was broken—until it was fixed. I wished he would have done that after my checkride.

Everything seemed to stay together as I headed back to Auburn. It was a bit disconcerting to have some small birds appear in front of the plane and flash past the window. They managed to make it out of the way and a few moments later I touched down with a plane that was as flaw-free as any 44 year-old plane can be. Next flight on the schedule: a hop down Cameron Park the next morning to see Rick again.

Since we were meeting at noon, I didn’t have to be up hours before dawn getting ready. I was enjoying my leisurely morning a bit too much, however, and I found myself scrambling at the last minute plugging in newly adjusted headings in my navlog. Finally getting it all together, I headed out the door, hoping that this time I would return with a brand-new Temporary Airman Certificate.

Bad attitude. Ok, that's an old joke. Wasn't funny at the time.

The flight to Cameron Park in the Arrow was short, barely 12 minutes long. I was thrilled when I took off to find the attitude indicator (artificial horizon) all out of whack, indicating a 60-degree bank while in straight-and-level flight. Just the day it would decide to break. Since it's not a required instrument for VFR flight, I got out a sticky note and pasted "Inop" over the dial's face. Halfway through the brief flight, the instrument mysteriously revived.

Entering the pattern, I decided to do warm up for the day by arriving with a short-field landing. As I descended down final I could see a figure standing in the transient parking, watching. I flared…and floated, finally settling down with a thud beyond my aiming point. So much for that.

Rick was the person waiting in the parking area. We went inside the local maintenance hangar’s office and did the online paperwork. We were both grateful the government shutdown had just ended, because that meant the bugs with IACRA (the FAA’s online certification website) had been fixed. No oral to do today; it was just a short briefing from Rick on what the “plan of action” for the flight was, and then back to the plane to go do it.

First up on the to-do list after taking off was cross-country navigation. I picked up a course from Cameron Park that followed Highway 50 toward South Lake Tahoe. The VOR at Placerville gave me the opportunity to demonstrate my ability to use electronic navigation, and the pilotage and dead reckoning also worked out quite well. It helps when your checkpoints aren’t 50 miles apart.

After about ten minutes it was time to move on to the next part of the scenario. “Okay Michael, let’s say we don’t like the look of the weather up ahead and I hear they make some good hot chocolate down at Rancho Murieta. Take me there.” Righto, time to demonstrate diversions. Do some quick plotting and calculations, turn to the new heading, and advise the examiner of the ETA. A  few minutes later, bingo! Right over the field, right on time.

Demonstrating lazy-eights between other no-so-lazy tasks.

Maneuvers were next. Steep turns, lazy eights, slow flight, power off stalls, power on stalls, accelerated stalls (did I mention stalls?). The next part was fun: a simulated engine fire, necessitating a rapid descent. That led to the next emergency procedure of demonstrating an approach to landing in a field of my choice. Eights-on-pylons rounded off the maneuvers and then it was time to start on landings back at Rancho Murieta.

Somehow a “normal” landing doesn’t always come off as well for me as some of the other, more technical landing techniques. In this case a bit of crosswind combined with a tense hand on the yoke resulted in a touchdown left of centerline. I was more concerned with setting down in the mandatory 200-ft window, so I wasn’t even thinking about the centerline until I heard Rick’s voice in my headset. “Michael, see those white lines? We’re supposed to be over there.” I stiffened, and got on the rudder pedals to realign the plane in the middle of the runway.

A soft-field take-off and landing followed. Touchdown seemed a bit squirrelly, but I met the main objective of holding the nose wheel off the ground as long as possible. Needless to say, I was also quite concentrated on that centerline. Returning to the beginning of the runway we took off again for the most dreaded maneuver of the commercial checkride: the power-off 180 degree accuracy landing.

“This is it. Remember, you have one shot at this. Show me you can put the plane down on the mark.” Though I was well aware of the high stakes, I didn’t find this maneuver that intimidating. Maybe I should have. I think I was just dreading the short-field landing back at Cameron Park more than this.

All set up on downwind, I pulled the throttle back and started my arcing turn for the runway, making sure to focus on my aiming point. Right away I realized the lower-than-usual traffic pattern altitude had thrown me a curve ball and I was already getting too low. Time to pull back the blue knob. Trees and buildings were passing rather closely below the plane now as I continued making a beeline for the tarmac. I could see Rick start to stiffen up out of the corner of my eye. As I steepened the bank a couple hundred feet above the ground to line up with the runway, I wondered if he was going to call the game for my rather low maneuvering. But no, on we sailed, now with the aiming point definitely within reach.

Prop control forward, full flaps, bring it in. Start to flare…oh, we’re going to float. I pulled out my last trick, reaching down and smoothly lowering the flap handle to the floor. The flaps retracted, dumping lift from the wings, and we settled firmly onto the runway inside the 200-ft window. And dead on centerline.

Now for that last landing. I powered up the plane, took off, and headed back to Cameron Park. Rick directed me on the specifics of how locals fly the traffic pattern so as to airport neighbors happy. “Make a dogleg from base to final here. We don’t fly over that person’s house because they tend to get upset and call the airport manager,” he said, pointing at a building on the ridge to our right.

I was on final now, looking at the runway beyond a very long displaced threshold. I was a bit high and a bit fast. Not good things. I pulled power and got back on what looked like a good glide-path. The runway loomed. I flared. And ballooned.

The plane came back down, hitting the main gears rather solidly, but I couldn't tell if I had landed within the prescribed window. Somewhat distracted as I wondered where I had touched down I was late on the brakes, and then completely forgot to retract the flaps to maximize braking effectiveness (although it’s not a requirement). I felt very warm and uncomfortable as I taxied back to the parking ramp.

I shut the engine down and Rick asked me about what to do post-flight. He mentioned a pilot he knew who lost his job because he failed to check the business jet after landing. When he returned the next day to fly the boss, they saw the plane had actually been damaged in flight by a bird strike. What could have been fixed overnight resulted in the boss being late and the pilot getting fired.

We pushed the plane into its parking spot as he continued to share little snippets of information. Then, almost as a forgotten gesture, he stuck out his hand and grasped mine in a quick a handshake. “Oh, congratulations, by the way,” he interjected. I felt slightly weak. I almost didn’t dare to believe it. I had passed.

Debriefing back in the office was helpful. He went over the stronger and the weaker points of the flight, and then managed to wrangle IACRA into producing a printable certificate. Finally, there it was in black and white: Temporary Airman Certificate, Commercial Pilot, issued October 17, 2013.

I think this picture says it best.

I managed to get a quick snapshot with Rick and my certificate back out at the plane before we said goodbye and went our separate ways. I climbed into the Arrow and slowly began setting up the cockpit for the return flight. I took my time, trying to process the past hour and a half. My brain felt completely saturated; somehow this felt like the toughest test yet. But by the grace of God I had passed. One thin piece of paper. One huge milestone in the path to the mission field. One sweaty commercial pilot.

Amazing what we'll go through for something from an inkjet printer.

Roadblocks in the Sky Part 2

Looking for those silver linings.

With the Arrow down for maintenance for the umpteenth time, I was starting to get anxious. Monday, the day before my stage check, I had done a practice flight and I really hadn’t impressed myself. Now I had lost another much-needed chance to practice, and I had no idea if the plane would be back in service early enough to get in one last flight before the checkride. Whatever was going to happen, it was going to be close.

I left the airport and went home to do some more reading for the oral. My hard work of studying ahead for my EMT class had paid off, so I didn’t have to spend the afternoon slogging through medical reading. I still had to go to class though. I’ve been quite blessed to be able to take EMT training this semester for very little expense, but the drawback for me has been two “late” nights a week (I consider going to be after 10:00 p.m. to be late for me). I was not looking forward to another late night, especially this week, and especially since my sister had been sneezing and hacking away at home with a full-blown cold. I tend to get sick much easier if I don’t get to bed early enough, and of course that’s just what I needed this week.

Somehow, though, I had a sense that God was going to work something special out. I wasn’t disappointed. Arriving at class, I joined the shuffle of students as we got together in the classroom to get our group assignments for the evening. Rob the instructor gave the order of events. “Alright guys, we’ve got four stations to rotate through like usual, but we’re going to make them quick rotations tonight. We’ll do a half hour at each station, so if you’re moving quickly, we’ll get out of here early tonight.” A collective cheer went up, and I smiled. Lord, You have a plan.

The second best thing to flying a real airplane.

Wednesday I did my best to concentrate on reading the Federal Aviation Regulations and getting my flight plan in order, but I kept having the nagging thought of What if the plane isn’t ready until tomorrow? I finally came to the conclusion that if I couldn’t practice today, I definitely didn’t want to get my practice in tomorrow with the examiner in the right seat. I would have to be able to fly today, otherwise it would be best to postpone.

Sometime after lunch I felt my pocket vibrate. I pulled out my phone and saw my instructor’s name on the screen. “Hello, Beau?”

“Hi Michael. Just wanted to let you know the part’s in and we’re getting ready to pull the plane out of the hangar.” My pulse quickened. “That means I’m coming out there to fly it. See you in a few minutes!”

A look of blithe, short-lived optimism as I head out.

This was what I had been waiting for. The last piece to fall into place—and I was sincerely hoping it wouldn’t fall right back out, perhaps in the form of another component on the plane failing. I grabbed my flight bag and headed out the door.

The baby blue-colored plane was waiting for me as it sat on the ramp in the afternoon sun. Everything about the exterior appeared to check out, so I climbed in to get the machine going and see how it was working. Following a normal takeoff, the gear retracted, all the appropriate lights extinguished and we were on our way.

First off I picked up a heading to simulate flying my cross-country assignment to Mammoth. After a few minutes of following the heading and identifying checkpoints along the way it was time to practice diverting to another airport. I picked Placerville and quickly plotted a new course and estimated the ETA. With the new numbers I turned to the airport and got ready to do some pattern work.

It's considered rude when this gauge waves at you.

On climbout after the first touch-and-go I raised the landing gear and then began hearing some high pitching whining in my headphones. I checked the electric loadmeter. The needle was pulsating, indicating something was using electrical current. Probably the landing gear motor cycling for some reason. I lowered and raised the gear again and the noise disappeared. Hmmm, not sure if I like that.

I flew several more patterns at Placerville, with intermittent repeats of the oscillating whine in my headset, before I headed to Mather airport in Sacramento to do some landings there. Coming up on a 2-mile final for runway 22R, I got my clearance from the tower and prepared the plane for landing. I grasped the landing gear handle and selected the down position. Nothing. No familiar hum of the gear motor with the usual bumping sensations of the wheels dropping down.The landing gear was not extending. I must say that was a unique feeling for me as a pilot, to expect a very necessary mechanical operation to occur, and to have it fail right to perform right before my very eyes.

I wasn’t the least bit frightened however. Most airplanes have a backup system for extending the landing gear, and in the case of the Piper Arrow, the wheels aren’t even locked up in the retracted position—they’re just held up by hydraulic pressure. Simply pulling the pump circuit breaker and pushing a lever to dump the pressure lets the gear fall right out.

Of course I was interested in doing a little bit of troubleshooting to try and get the system working again, so after using the backup system I reset the circuit breaker and tried. The hum of the landing gear mechanism sounded and I felt the vibration of the wheels swinging back up into place. Alright, let’s lower them again. Normal operation again. Very strange. The apprehension was building again in my mind. No, the plane wasn’t dangerous; but I was starting to doubt whether the plane itself could pass the checkride.

Getting back on the ground at Auburn I pulled out my phone and gave Beau a call. He had an answer for each of my concerns. “Are you sure you got the landing gear handle all the way in the detent? I didn’t get it in once and I thought the gear system had failed.” Well, I wasn’t quite sure. I guess I didn’t try it twice before using the backup system. And as far as the gear pump cycling repeatedly, well just recycle the gear if that happens. I shrugged as I hung up the call. Not much left we can do. Tomorrow is showtime!

The old chart joke: what is that grey line? Yes, Rick asked me.

Thursday morning was another beautiful California fall day. I had been up well before sunrise, getting in my morning run, devotions, breakfast, and obtaining my weather briefing. Rick was going to meet me at 0800 at Mach 5. I collected my things and myself, took one last look at my to-do list to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything, and then stepped out the door. This was it.

Bob was coming in from the hangar when he saw me enter the Mach 5 office. Rick was at the counter making himself a cup of coffee. “Aha—your victim is here!” Bob joked. “No, not victim. This is my partner,” Rick corrected him. I liked the sound of that better.

Beau popped in to say hi and then we were left by ourselves in one of the empty classrooms. Rick began with the requisite preliminaries. “As you know, there are three possible outcomes to a checkride: 1—you pass; 2—you get a letter of disapproval; 3—you get a letter of discontinuance. The letter of discontinuance is kind of like a ‘timeout’. It doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it just means that for some reason—maybe the plane breaks—you had to stop the test and you will continue it later. Sound good?” I nodded. “Ok then,” Rick said, looking at the clock. “Let’s say that the exam has officially started now.”

The next two hours didn’t feel like two hours. The time went by quickly as Rick checked me off on the different topics in the oral one by one. My confidence levels were ready to go through the roof by the time we were finishing the oral exam. Then Beau poked his head in. “Did they tell you?” he said with an uncomfortable look on his face.

Always a first for everything - including getting one of these

Oh no, tell us what? “Another instructor and student were out flying the Arrow and the landing gear pump started cycling again. Well it cycled so much that it overloaded the electrical system and blew the circuit breaker, so they had to come back.” It was an unreal feeling, to be listening to this latest piece of news. “Bob is calling around right now to find a replacement power pack, but it'll take a few days to get it.” Not again. Rick started rummaging in his duffel case, as I sat there in quiet incredulity. He pulled out a form and began filling it out. The letters at the top of the piece of paper spelled out that third possible outcome. Letter of Discontinuance.

Roadblocks in the Sky Part 1

An increasingly familiar, yet unwelcome sight.

Well, I think it’s time to continue the story, isn’t it? With my solo excursion to Lompoc, I had filled almost all the requirements to be able to take the checkride. The only thing I still had to do, other than practice maneuvers until I was proficient, was fly a 2-hr day cross country and a 2-hr night cross country with my instructor. I suppose the FAA feels that a commercial pilot should have some additional instruction on going places, since that’s eventually what a commercial pilot does.

We planned our flight to Visalia, in the lower central California valley. I liked the idea my instructor suggested of taking the cheaper Piper Warrior, since we weren't going to be practicing maneuvers anyway on this flight.

Fellowshipping aloft as we swap mission trip stories.

To get the 2 hours daytime, we left Auburn at 5:30 p.m., landing just after sunset (day-time is considered to go for up to about a half hour after sunset). As you probably guessed, all we had to do to get the 2 hours of nighttime was turn right around after refueling and head back to Auburn. The flight couldn’t have been timed more perfectly: exactly 2.0 hours for each leg, meaning no extra flight time I had to pay for. “I think that Someone had that one planned out,” my instructor remarked happily. I agreed.

With the last requirement out of the way, the reality started sinking in that the only step remaining now was the checkride itself. But getting to take that checkride was going to prove to be more of a challenge than I thought. Looking at my neatly penciled 3-week schedule, I could see where it had already been necessary to rearrange several things and cut out others. But I was still making progress, maintaining my momentum of studying hard and flying regularly, and I had even made sure to reserve the plane for my target checkride date of October 3. I hadn’t reserved an examiner yet, however.

It quickly became painfully clear that it could be more weeks than I could afford before an examiner would be available. You see, examiners are very busy people and failing to get something scheduled early on put me in a tough place. The problem that a student on a budget faces is how to achieve a peak level of proficiency and maintain that long enough to get the test over with. Become good at something and then fail to practice for several weeks and you’ll feel almost like you’ve forgotten how to fly a plane the next time you go aloft. Or get good at something and pay big bucks to keep that skill level by going out to rehearse again and again. Naturally, once you’re nailing the maneuvers, you want to take the checkride as soon as possible and be done.

October 3 wasn’t going to happen though. After calling the examiner that I wanted to fly with and talking with him a bit more, we came up with a plan for the 10^th, one week later. “But if we’re scheduling, just be sure you’re really ready because I have a lot of people cancel on me last minute,” he cautioned. I assured him that I wanted to plan on that date, while I shifted uncomfortably on my end of the phone. I might not be ready today…but I’m going to make sure I’m ready by the 10^th!

Taxiing for another pattern pounding session.

And so it was the final sprint. Up and down in the plane, back and forth from the airport. Wake up, exercise, have devotions and breakfast, take care of household chores and then hit the books. I was actually glad for the extra week to study for the oral, and my spreadsheet estimates made it look like there would be just enough funds for the additional flying.

When I showed up one morning to fly with my instructor, he had some good news for me. “I just talked with Rick and he’s going to be able to do a stage check with you on the 8^th.” A stage check with an examiner is basically a mock checkride, and is a valuable tool for preparing for the real thing. My busy examiner had been freed up a bit and now I would have the benefit of doing some ground and flight time with him before the big day. Both my instructor and I could see God’s hand working.

October 8 dawned bright and clear. The California climate was being true to its nature and things were shaping up wonderfully for the checkride two days away. I got to the airport and met Rick the examiner, who had flown his plane over from his home airport. My instructor saw me coming through the door and gave me a bit of ribbing. “You must be pretty confident, as I don't see you carrying a ton of books!” Yeah, sure.

Looking for the source of the latest trouble.

We sat down and started going over the highlights of regulations, flight planning, systems, and all the other pertinent topics. I took notes as we came upon unfamiliar questions, soaking up Rick’s knowledge and insight. Things were going swimmingly until my instructor showed up again. He had just returned from a flight with another commercial student. They were pulling the plane into the shop to get it up on jacks because the Gear In Transit light wasn’t turning off when the wheels were retracted. I groaned.

After poking around, Bob the mechanic figured out that a bad nose gear microswitch was causing the problem. They would overnight the part, and as for my examiner and I…well, we would just fly on checkride day.

Rewind

Yes, I put the headset on the table just for the picture.

So – what happened?? I know you’re wondering. Well I’m wondering too. So until I find out, you won’t know either! But there’s plenty to catch you up on from the last month, and with some of the moments of leisure I now have, I will do just that. Where did we leave off? Oh yes, flights to Southern California…

Last year I made a rather expensive mistake when I completely failed to make sure a flight to Redlands properly qualified for my commercial cross-country requirement. However, apart from an important lesson in double-checking stuff, I gained one a notable fringe benefit: the chance for another long flight. (And the chance to spend a lot of money again…)

You see, airplanes are made for going places, and sometimes it’s easy to forget that when all you do is go out and fly an endless round of traffic patterns. There’s just nothing like climbing in a light aircraft and going somewhere new, even if it’s just to turn around and come right back. It certainly beats driving.

Avoid the hairy-looking blue lines and you won't get shot at.

I was looking forward to getting to go cross-country again. Since I was eager to get on a fast-track to finishing my certificate, I planned a one-day marathon flight in the Arrow. No relaxing dinner at the airport restaurant or staying overnight with friends; it would be down to Southern California and back, all in 6 hours. Really all I would have time for anyway, between Biochemistry class periods.

I chose Lompoc as my destination, checked and double-checked the mileage, filed my VFR flight plan, and headed out to the ‘drome to get airborne. I had some goodies along with me in my flight bag. Last year I test-flew a top-of-the-line noise-canceling headset. This year I had a set I could call my own, and I knew the investment would definitely be paying dividends on this flight. To go along with headset, I had also downloaded the complete collection of Mozart Piano Concertos on MP3 to listen to on the way—I was especially looking forward to this!

Who's that on the wing?!

I was wheels up at 1640 and began winging my way southward. With the piano and orchestra playing softly in the background I watched the fields and farmlands of the Sacramento and Central valley pass by, followed by the funny sand dune-like hills on the western side. Then it was over the coastal range, a glance at Paso Robles where I would be stopping for fuel on the way back, and on down the shoreline. The sun was shining through the cockpit almost the whole way down, but I hoped enduring the late-afternoon lighting would pay off with a beautiful sunset.

See the runway out there? Yeah, that's what I thought.

Approaching Lompoc, I skirted around Vandenburg Air Force Base’s airspace and then began the somewhat tricky task of finding my airport. Picking out airports can be challenging, especially when you haven’t been there before. To top things off, the sun was now right in my face and turning the coastal haze in the air a brilliant yellow. I’m thankful for GPS, even though there are still other reliable ways for finding airports (over-flying the area at altitude is one way that makes it a lot easier to spot).

Pointing the plane toward where the field was supposed to be, I made my radio call and then managed to glimpse the runway up ahead. Judging by the silent radio, the airspace was deserted. Of course, who would want to be flying traffic patterns at this time of day with the sun blinding you on final? Only one pilot, I suppose.

The runway loomed in front on me. Landing gear down, full flaps, power back, start flaring and—oops! Thadunk!! (sorry, I’m terrible at coming up with verbal sound effects) Quick, add some throttle before it drops back down again. I hadn’t judged my height right and I had contacted the runway in a less than graceful fashion, resulting in a bounce back into the air. I quickly corrected and the plane settled back to the ground firmly as I muttered about the lovely lighting.

Gorgeous. This was worth waiting for.

It was 1847 – 2 hours and 7 minutes and 279 nautical miles from Auburn. Try doing that in your Honda Accord! I smoothed my ruffled feathers, taxied back to the end of the runway, and took off into the sun to start heading back. Paso Robles was the next stop where I planned to gas up before beginning the night portion of my flight. On the way I was finally rewarded with the sunset I had been hoping for. That’s another experience that is even better when seen from the air.

Arriving at Paso Robles, I decided to take the runway with the strongest crosswind, to get some practice and also to make up for the first botched landing. It was quite fun, flying slightly sideways down final approach and then straightening out, putting the wing down and landing on one wheel first before setting down the other wheels. I felt I had redeemed myself.

Got gas?

After an hour on the ground fueling the plane, talking to a classmate on the phone about next morning’s Biochemistry quiz (“You’re where? Isn’t that like Central California…?”), and tidying up the cockpit, I headed out into the inky darkness for the final objective. The FARs say that a commercial pilot needs to have at least 10 night-time takeoffs and landings at a towered airport. So the last stop of the flight would be Sacramento International for some night-time pattern work!

Coming up on Elk Grove, with Sacramento beyond.

It’s always fun telling people that I can fly into places like SMF. Actually, “International”, as local pilots call it, is pretty friendly to small planes. The tower controller was very accommodating when I arrived and told him what I wanted to do. He set me up for runway 16L and then directed me to extend my pattern legs as necessary as the evening onslaught of airliners began arriving. It’s a pretty cool feeling to be right in there with the Big Boys, following Southwest and United Airlines Boeings down final approach!

Finally, I touched down for the tenth time and then powered away back to Auburn. “Thanks for stopping by,” the tower controller offered in farewell before handing me off to NorCal. Thirteen minutes later I was setting down gently at my home field.

There's something enchanting about airports at night.

The airport was quiet and still as I slowly taxied off the runway and to the parking ramp. I admired the pretty blue taxiway lights and the wind sock and wind tee that looked like lit-up Christmas ornaments. As I flicked off the master switches and pulled the mixture, I expected to hear silence as the noisy engine stopped turning. Instead, in the quiet cockpit the strains of the orchestra and piano immersed me. They were playing the last few lines of the Andante movement from Mozart’s 22^nd Piano Concerto. It was indescribable. Melancholic, yet so beautiful, and just…perfect. And then it was over. 

Seatbelts on!

Inscribing the itinerary.

Is it true that schedules are meant to be broken? I know I’ve certainly experienced my share of grief after making an impressively detailed schedule, only to end up throwing the whole plan out the window after the first few hours. However, despite the difficulty in keeping schedules, I have also found them to be excellent at making sure you at least get something done.

That's why I’ve been at it again. Just last week I realized that I’ve entered upon crunch time. It’s the last few weeks before finals, at least in my personal world of commercial pilot training, and I need to maximize every minute. The checkride, which I hope to be taking in as little as 3 weeks, consists of two equally challenging portions: the oral and the practical. If I satisfy the examiner when he grills me during the oral, then I get to take the flight portion. Provided that goes well, I’ll have a brand-new Temporary Airman’s Certificate.

But I’ve got a lot of prep-work to do so that I’m reasonably sure I’ll pass that checkride. Hence, my new schedule, with its designated study times and topics, as well as all the other things I have to do as a regular person. I must say, it is quite gratifying to look at this neatly penciled work. Having a clear map and knowing what I have to do actually gives me a bit of a rush as I set out to get it all done. I’ve also gotten a bit better at making schedules that are possible to keep—provided I don’t have too much outside interference…

There’s only one thing that I’m a bit bummed about on my schedule. There’s no time to blog. The most exciting time yet is right here, and I have to say goodbye for the next 3 weeks and leave you in the dark?! Well not quite. That’s what Facebook is for; I’ll be posting regular updates (I think you can call it microblogging) and maybe a few snapshots. So you can keep in the loop by checking out Air Mike Airlines on Facebook. I’ll also take notes and then after checkride day I'll do some full blog write-ups.

Alright, are you ready? Seat belts on—here we go!

Read the Instructions - Completely

Hmmm, the angle doesn't show how thick this puppy is.

There's a fat book that pilots become acquainted with early on. It's really two books in one, under the title of FAR/AIM - Federal Aviation Regulations and Aeronautical Information Manual. Certainly not the kind of book you'd typically be reading while sipping lemonade on the porch - unless you enjoy reading legal verbiage. However, there is a fair amount of useful information inside, such as what kind of stuff you have to do to get a particular pilot certificate.

I was leafing through FAR 61.129 a couple years ago, and saw that as part of the commercial pilot requirements, I would have to do a long solo cross-country flight. (I notice people's eyes usually widen when I tell them I have a cross-country flight to do - it's just a term that means a distance of 50 nautical miles or more, not necessarily an air trip to Washington's Air and Space Museum). I was a bit bummed that this 300 mile trip would have to be solo - a bit of a silly rule when you're already a certificated private pilot, and one who has had significant success saving a few bucks by bringing friends with cash along on flights. Regardless, I bit the bullet and began planning my flight so that I would be one step closer to being ready for the commercial ticket.

Charting my short-term future.

The destination I chose was Redlands in southern California, where my good friend Corey Harms lived. I would make a weekend out of it, flying down on Friday morning and returning on Sunday. Seeing that I would be coming with a plane, Corey asked if he could ride back up with me so he could check out housing by U.C. Davis for vet school. He would return home via Southwest. Sure, of course - I would meet the 300 nautical mile solo trip requirement on the way down (348 nm total distance) and then it wouldn't matter if I had someone riding along for the flight back. 

So off I went, on the first real trip I'd ever done in a light airplane. The choice of steed was the trusty, but slow Cessna 150. But who cares about speed when it's the journey that makes it all fun? Besides, I was test-flying a brand-new, noise-cancelling Lightspeed Zulu headset from the airport shop and that was going to definitely raise the comfort of travel. With an auxiliary cord input and an iPod, I was going to be living it up. 

Yes... it's a pink iPod. On loan from my sister.

I got a late start departing Auburn, as I forgot to remind the office staff to leave the keys for me in the night box. It turned out better this way, however, because it gave extra time for the fog layer reported at my destination to burn off. I was wheels up by 0830 and flying my way down the Golden State with my ears bathed in beautiful classical melodies while the scenery passed below. Let me tell you, going somewhere in a G.A. plane is totally different than flying the airlines (for one thing, every seat is a window seat...).

I arrived at Redlands after an uneventful flight with one fuel stop.

Gassing up in San Luis Obispo.

I felt pretty accomplished that I didn't even once use the single navigation radio during the trip, instead using the old-fashioned methods of using a map, following a heading, and oh yeah, looking out the window. Then again, it's pretty difficult to get lost in California. I tied down the plane and headed out through the orange groves with Corey to his house.

After a short, relaxing weekend (with some not-so-relaxing moments when we came across 3 separate rattlesnakes while hiking), it was back to the air, this time with some company. I let Corey do a bit of flying, while I referenced the map and told him where to point the plane.

Friends + Flying = Fun.

We stopped for fuel in Coalinga, catching a powerful whiff of the beef farms below while approaching the field. Then, it was on to University Airport at Davis, where I bid farewell to Corey, and finally back to Auburn. A whopping 10.7 hours round-trip - and a whopping bill to boot. But it was a really fun flight, gave me great experience, and I had gotten the necessary flight in for my future commercial certificate. Or had I?

It was a couple days later and I had my nose in the FAR/AIM again, perusing the certification regs. Looking at the list of items under the Aeronautical Experience section for commercial pilots, I was mentally checking off the long solo cross country when something on the page seemed to stand out. I didn't quite remember reading that the first time round: "One cross-country flight of not less than 300 nautical miles total distance, with landings at a minimum of three points". My face and ears started to feel very warm. How many points did I land at on the solo leg? I knew the answer, but I was in denial. I was having a hard time believing what I had done - or failed to do. But unfortunately, my logbook recorded the cold facts: one fuel stop and one full stop. That was two landings...at only two points.

I have since learned the very practical lesson of re-checking important things. No, learned doesn't describe it well enough. Internalized would sum it up better.

More great views on the way! Ahem.

When you internalize something, it ceases to be a learned-by-rote fact, and instead almost becomes a part of you. Well, that reg also has almost become a part of me too, after all the times I have gone over it again. When I head out on that cross-country again, I won't be stopping at less than three airports.

That was May of last year. Now it's time to get this requirement taken care of for good. You want to guess what I'm going to be doing this coming week? Well stay tuned. Should be seeing a report with a more picture-perfect outcome.

Weekend Warriors

Join the queue. When the weekend comes, so do the pilots.

With all the flying I've been doing lately in preparation for my commercial checkride, I get to see what the Auburn airport looks like at different times of the week. It hasn't taken long for me to recognize a pattern. Three basic variables seem to largely determine the number of planes in the traffic pattern: time of day, day of the week, and weather.

Understandably, there are not very many guys out flying mid-week, probably because they're at work, in school, or both. Those who do come out tend to get their flying in during the morning, because the bright California sun during this time of year makes little cockpits without air conditioners very uncomfortable. Then of course, if it's just lousy weather outside, more people are going to stay home, or perhaps hang out indoors at the airport swapping tall flying stories.

I could have expected the airspace to be somewhat busier than the past few days when I headed out to the airport yesterday, but I didn't quite anticipate how crowded things would be. But, after all, it was the perfect Sunday morning for everyone and his dog (yes, I know of a guy who keeps a logbook for his dog) to hop in a plane and charge off into the cool, crystal clear skies.

After days of smoke-filled skies, it's hard to resist this.

The pattern had quieted down a bit when I pulled onto the runway to takeoff toward the practice area, but when I returned an hour later it was buzzing again. Usually I like to get in several landings on a practice flight, so after the initial landing, I headed back up the taxiway to takeoff again. This time I joined a line of two other planes waiting for another two planes to land. Sitting there twiddling my thumbs, I turned to Joel in the right seat (the 15 year-old aspiring pilot who finally got to take his first general aviation plane ride) and told him we would just do one pattern and then call it a day.

"Otherwise we'll be spending more time on the ground than in the air," I chuckled. By now the tail-wheel Skylane ahead of us was lifting off the runway, and it was our turn to take off. I waited a little bit longer, knowing that our zippy Arrow would catch up very quickly to the other airplanes making their way around the pattern. As I applied full power and sped down the runway, I heard an Experimental plane announcing its takeoff right behind us.

Just a few seconds after takeoff I started to see just how crowded the pattern was becoming. Off to my left I spotted two Cessnas on the downwind, flying side-by-side with just a few hundred feet between them. "Aircraft on the downwind, you guys are flying parallel," I warned over the radio.

"Roger, we'll do a 360 for spacing and re-enter the pattern," the pilot in the outer plane replied, banking to the right. "Arrow 90J is extending our upwind for traffic and we'll be number 3 when we turn on downwind," I announced.

"See and avoid" - sometimes both very challenging tasks.

Beginning my left turn to crosswind, another plane seemed to appear out of nowhere, just ahead and to the left, cutting in front of us into the traffic pattern. I couldn't remember hearing this guy announcing his presence, but then again, maybe I just lost his voice in the constant radio chatter. Adjusting my turn to try and come in behind the slower plane, I suddenly caught sight of the Experimental closing in from behind us. The pilot was droning something garbled over his radio, but the only thing registering was all these airplanes - and all way too close together! Feeling very boxed in, I started to turn for clearer skies.

I keyed the mic, "Experimental, did you say you were going over us?" "Yes," came the crackly reply. I wasn't thrilled with his method of traffic avoidance, but at least he knew where I was. I banked to re-enter the traffic pattern, this time as airplane number 4 in line for the runway. Flying along at 100 mph with gear down, I watched as each plane took its own sweet time descending toward the tarmac. Finally it was us touching down, and as I cleared the runway, I was happier than usual to be heading for the parking ramp.

I can't blame the Weekend Warriors for getting out to enjoy such a lovely flying day - after all, Sunday flying was all I was doing up until recently. But though it's good for everyone to be able to enjoy the miracle of flight, I prefer when everyone isn't doing it all at the same time!

More than Words

If a picture speaks a thousand words, what might a moving picture communicate? Decide for yourself by checking out this latest release from Lombart Productions! Last post I wrote about the joys of power-off 180 accuracy approaches, and I had so much fun practicing them that I decided to film one of my sessions and cut a video. So here it is! Thanks to my buddy Josh Dietrich who rode along and manned the Canon. Enjoy!

Powered Up for Power-Off's

Pick a runway stripe. Now land on it.

Just over 15 hours in my logbook now, flying the Arrow (or "Juliet", as Gretchen, the new receptionist, likes to call the plane, owing to it's tail number N7690J). Today was one of those better days flying, where you walk away from the flight with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction, knowing you made progress and you're moving forward. Not that there really are any bad days flying - some are just especially rewarding.

Last time I went up a couple weeks ago with my instructor Beau, he introduced me to the power-off 180 accuracy approach, which involves gliding the plane to a spot landing without the help of the throttle. My commercial training has been following the typical pattern of riding with Beau for a flight to get introduced to a maneuver, followed by a couple solo flights where I go out and practice what he showed me.

Contrary to my somewhat larger-than-life reputation for smooth flying, power-off 180's did not go so smooth the first couple times Beau had me try them. Everything happens so quickly and I just had my hands full getting the plane to the runway. Putting the thing on a specific runway stripe seemed next to impossible because invariably the plane would either be much to high and sailing right past, or hundreds of feet too early with no altitude or airspeed left. After I did several attempts, Beau hopped out on the taxiway and told me to go up and practice Lazy Eight's and Chandelles by myself, but to wait for now on power-off 180's.

Yesterday I got back in the plane for some solo practice, after my nearly 2-week hiatus from flying (due to the broken beacon and travel), and one of the things I worked on was... you guessed it, the power-off 180. No, I didn't disobey my instructor - I just took the maneuver to a safer environment, namely the Lincoln airport, with it's 6,000 foot runway and flat terrain. Flying pattern after pattern, chopping the power abeam the aiming point and trying to land closer to it each time, really helped me start to get a feel of where the plane was headed during the approach. By the time I was done, I felt a lot better prepared to revisit the maneuver with Beau.

My to-do list that I keep in my pocket, soaked in sweat.

So up we went today, to beat up the traffic pattern. It was sweltering, but as Beau remarked, there is an upside to that - the pattern was virtually empty since no one wants to fly in that heat. My first approach was not too shabby. I landed too short of the stripe, but the approach itself was very controlled and stable. The next time around, with Beau's last-minute coaching, I nailed the edge of the aiming point zone. A couple more approaches and Beau felt comfortable letting me do the maneuver by myself in the Auburn traffic pattern.

"Alright, I'll get off and you can go up and play. Just be safe," he said, stepping out of the cabin after we pulled onto the taxiway. So off I went, and boy was it fun. Reaching pattern altitude, I got ready for the first power-off 180: Gear down, run the GUMPS check (Gas, Undercarriage, Mixture, Prop, Seatbelts), chop the power, and start heading for the runway.

Once that throttle comes back, that's the last it's moving.

As soon as the throttle comes to idle, the plane starts dropping quickly. To make sure you make it to the runway, you have to immediately begin one continuous turn in that direction. From this point to touchdown, it's all about plugging in flaps at the right time, stretching the glide by pulling back the prop control, or slipping to come down quicker.

Quickly I realized I was coming in low, so I pulled back the prop control and felt the plane ease forward. That did the trick, and more than I needed, so forward went the prop control and now it was time to add the flaps. I continued my bank to line up with the runway, rolling wings level just about a hundred off the ground. The stripe I was aiming for loomed in the windshield - and then started passing underneath the plane. I was now flying in ground effect, the mysterious zone of air just above the runway where an airplane glides a lot more efficiently, and I knew the plane just wasn't going to touch down for another couple hundred feet. So I pulled out one last trick.

With the plane floating down the runway, 3 or 4 feet off the ground, I grabbed the flap handle and began smoothly lowering it to the cabin floor. It worked like magic. As the flaps retracted, the wings lost their extra lift, and the plane settled firmly to the runway - right on the mark. A big grin worked itself across my face. That felt really good.

As I opened the cabin door back at the parking ramp after several more landings, a cool breeze hit my face. Next to a great landing, that's the second best feeling in the world.

Light Bulbs Aloft

Generally, light bulbs are only useful when functioning.

They say it's the little things that make or break it for you. Whether those small things are something you can't control but they still affect you, or if it's the way you make little choices and decisions, small can have big power.

A time-honored ritual of the flying experience is the preflight inspection. Simply put, you check the airplane to make sure it's not broken and that it will fly. That means looking for the obvious (perhaps a big concave indentation on the fuselage left by a truck driver who didn't have good situational awareness) as well as the not so visible (like checking the fuel tanks to see how much gas you've got). Finding something seemingly small can be just as important if not more so as spotting something large.

Provided you do a thorough job, and avoid developing mental tunnel vision (Oh, there was a pool of oil on the ground underneath the cowling? I guess I was focused on checking the other stuff, so I must not have noticed that...), the preflight greatly improves your odds of catching problems on the ground so that they don't become problems in the air. If everything checks out, then it's time to hop in, and away you go.

A couple weeks ago I was getting ready to go up with a friend to practice my commercial maneuvers. It was a lovely Sunday morning, a lot cooler than recent days, and I guessed it was going to be a perfect day for flying. It probably would have been too, if we could have gone up. But the results of my preflight dictated otherwise.

Turns out a little rotating beacon light - also known as an anticollision light system - on top of the tail fin was not lighting up like it usually did. Of course it was full daylight, and who's going to narrowly avoid hitting my plane in the air just because they saw the slow-flashing red light at the last moment? Even though it seems insignificant, that little red light had the power to ground me. Something I had learned during groundschool studies drifted to the surface of my memory - something about needing to have that thing working during all operations, regardless of the time of day. (Check out CFR 14 FAR 91.209 (b) - and no, I was not reciting that specific code number when I was deliberating.)

So, when the mechanic's verdict came a few minutes later, after he unscrewed the assembly and found a part that was quite ready to be replaced, I had to declare my verdict and scrub the flight. Naturally I was a little disappointed, although not nearly so as my 15 year-old friend who was looking forward to his first ride in a small plane. But why kick up all that fuss, grounding myself and the airplane, just because a light wouldn't blink? It would have been quite easy to just ignore the problem and head off, and the risk would have most likely been negligible.

It all boils down to the little things. Making that small choice, not necessarily because you want to, but because you know it's the right thing to do. I'm not trying to say that I'm the perfect guy who never messes up - I've broken my share of the rules in the heat of the moment. But there's one thing I've come to appreciate, and it's summed up best in the words of a 19th century Christian author: "Every right action prepares the way for its repetition."¹ 

Each time you act from principle, you reinforce the neural pathways involved in such choice-making actions, making it easier to do the right thing next time. And that investment is important, especially when you're in high-pressure situations.

Wow. All that from a faulty light system! Just goes to show you that flying encompasses a lot more than just up-and-down whoop-dee-doo stuff. If there's one thing that you do more than anything while operating an aircraft, it is making decisions. Not a bad skill to refine for life in general.

I'm happy the problem has been fixed and I got to go aloft again today, this time with an illumined rotating beacon. As it turns out, I may not have gotten airborne anyway that day, because the next guy to try and fly it after the beacon was fixed found the starter had given up the ghost. But I gained a unique little lesson, with some important large applications.

¹Ellen White, Testimonies for the Church, Volume 5, p. 18.

Back with you

Piper Arrow: My latest toy (well, I wish it were mine...).

Wow, I didn't realize it had been quite that long since I'd posted last! Nearly 9 months have elapsed between posts, which is quite unacceptable. But after a prolonged period of radio silence, I'm back to give you the latest on happenings, both aerial and terrestrial.

A lot happens in 3/4 of a year, but to give you the short story I traveled and recorded with the JAMES4 quartet that I sing in, went to the Middle East with my classmates on a health education trip, graduated from college, learned how to be a stucco man, attempted to climb Mt. Whitney in a day (stopped half a mile short of the summit to go down with my buddies who were feeling sick), scored the grade I was aiming for on the commercial knowledge test, and learned how to fly a Piper Arrow. Oh yes, and I applied to be a pilot for Adventist World Aviation. 

Ok, so applying to AWA doesn't mean I'm off to the mission field tomorrow. But I am definitely making progress toward that long-term goal. Getting to the point where I'm ready to deploy will be quite a process, one that I've been learning more about during conversations with AWA personnel. A considerable amount of the work is building a base of support - friends and church family (and blog followers) who will chip in to support me and my project during the term of service. 

While the launching goal is being raised, advanced flight training, Institute of Frontier Missions, and site visits to the actual country I will be working in will keep things interesting. Yup, plenty to look forward to. However, I still have a couple qualifications to pick up before I can start all that, so that's what I'm hard at work on right now. 

A very important piece of paper.

Two weeks ago I passed the FAA written test for the commercial license and now I'm a good way into the flight training. It's really fun stuff too! Whereas the instrument rating was all about managing a collection of needles and dials on the panel, and was almost purely a cerebral exercise, the type of flying done on the commercial checkride is more akin to aerial artwork. It's all visual, very kinetic, and very fun!

Take for instance the Lazy Eight - what my instructor says is one of the most difficult of the commercial maneuvers to master. The graceful maneuver consists of 180 degree turns in which the nose comes up above the horizon during the first half of the turn, and then dips below the horizon in the second half. After the 180 is complete, you roll into another 180 degree turn in the other direction, repeating the same movements. Watching the arcs the nose inscribes, you would realize it looks like an eight on its side, sort of like ∞. It looks so easy when it's done right, and a passenger sitting next to you would hardly be able to even detect you moving the controls - the reason it's called a Lazy Eight. If there's one word that describes the skill set a commercial student has to develop, it's finesse: elegant ability and dexterity.¹

 

Other maneuvers that I am learning include Chandelles (maximum performance climbing turns), steep spirals, and power-out 180 accuracy landings. Oh man, those accuracy landings are going to be the biggest challenge. On the checkride, I will have to successfully glide the airplane from the downwind leg to a spot landing, touching down either on the specified mark or no further than 200 feet beyond. That's the distance from the beginning of one runway stripe to the next. With no touching the throttle. And only one chance to do it right. Well, what's the saying? Practice makes perfect...

It feels good to be back at the keyboard, tapping out updates so you can see how things are progressing with this future mission pilot. It's all so surreal - being an actual college graduate now, within weeks of getting my commercial license, and with the goal of becoming a mission pilot becoming an increasing reality. Stay tuned because it's only going to get more exciting from here on out!

¹Encarta World Dictionary