Friday

Out for a walk at Stearman Field

Training Day 2. Today would be my initiation to the real stuff of multiengine training: engine failure procedures. It began with the first takeoff. I pushed the power levers forward to the stops and began accelerating the plane down the runway for a normal takeoff. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Herb reach forward and pull something with a quick flick of his wrist. The plane immediately began a swerve to the right. It took a moment to register that one engine was dead and the other was going to pull us off the runway in a few short seconds. Another moment was lost in wondering why Herb just did that, but then the reality clicked and I quickly pulled the throttles to idle and stomped on the left rudder pedal to point the nose back to middle of the runway. My first encounter with a rejected takeoff.

Next was the inflight scenario. Herb gave me a bit more time to get used to this one. He began by slowing pulling the one throttle to idle while we were in cruise flight, allowing me to work out the control pressures needed to keep the plane flying straight. He had me fly along for some time in this manner, letting me experiment with turns and pointing out the anemic 50-foot-per-minute climb rate that we were just managing to maintain at Vyse speed. After I’d had some practice flying around with first the left, and then the right engine idling, it was time to do get some first-hand practice actually shutting down and feathering one engine, as one would have to do if the engine was malfunctioning. It was definitely a strange feeling to look out and see the propeller sitting motionless, a state that you usually only see when the plane is on the ground and parked. But that’s what this training is all about—learning that it’s quite possible and safe to keep flying the plane on one engine as long as you do it right and follow your training.

Herb walked me through the restart procedure and then it was time to go into the engine failure drills where I would learn how to react if an engine failed in a time- and altitude-critical phase of flight like shortly after takeoff. He gave a quick demo of the five-step procedure that he wanted me to do in order, and then gave me control and proceeded to cut an engine. The plane shuddered slightly and began yawing and rolling to the side. “Okay, fly the plane,” I mumbled, pushing in rudder and aileron to try to keep it flying straight. I suddenly realized that what all those training articles had said was right—I really had no idea which engine was out. But that’s what the procedure was for. With Herb’s prompting I labored my way through the steps, calling the number of each step out loud as I performed it.
“One…two…three…” Engine levers set for maximum power. “Four…five”. Flaps and gear up.

“Now identify the failed engine,” Herb commanded. I still didn’t quite know which one it was, but the next step in the procedure would fix that problem. I looked down at my legs. My left foot was pressing hard against the rudder pedal and the right foot was on the floor doing nothing. I slapped my right thigh and then pointed at the engine on that side. “That one is dead.”
“Okay, verify.” I pulled back the throttle on the right engine—if I had identified the wrong engine, there would be a noticeable loss of power and a corresponding yaw. There was no change. “Feather it.” I went through the motion of starting to feather the propeller to place it in a minimum drag position and Herb followed up by resetting the engine controls to give “zero-thrust”, which is a slight amount of power to simulate the feathered condition.

“Good. I’m giving you the engine back. Watch the rudder,” I heard Herb say, signaling the end of the exercise. I eased off the left pedal as the power on the right engine was restored. I relaxed my iron grip on the yoke and took a breath. “Alright, let’s do it again,” he said.

My legs felt like jelly by the end of the flight, following engine-out after engine-out. It was an empowering feeling, though, getting to see the time-tested procedure in action and programming the correct response into my muscle memory. I saw first-hand how easy it is to get things wrong unless you do the procedure methodically without skipping steps, like when I correctly identified the failed engine and then started to reach for the wrong throttle during the “Verify” step before I corrected myself and grabbed the correct lever. The procedure would have caught the mistake, but being careful to avoid rushing will prevent the majority of mistakes from happening in the first place. The last thing you want is to kill the good engine—it’s been done before.

Coming in after an evening "hop"

The following flight lesson took things to the next level, with engine-outs under the hood. Since an instrument-rated pilot who becomes multiengine-rated is probably going to go and fly IFR in a twin, it’s required to get training on how to handle engine failures in instrument conditions. By this point the drill was familiar and though the outside view was blocked, I was able to get the hang of keeping the plane under control and going through the Identify-Verify-Feather procedure. The confusion of which engine had failed was magnified by the lack of visual cues, but by focusing hard on the heading indicator to know which rudder to step on and then following the procedure, I was able to successfully keep things under control while the outside view was blocked.

With the intro at altitude completed, it was time to fly engine-out instrument approaches. Again, it turned out to be more manageable than I expected. The main difference was in having to remind myself that I was essentially committed to land once on final approach, because the typical light twin doesn't have the capability to fly a missed approach on one engine.

My legs held out for the flight—just barely. I was ready for a good, long rest by the time we made it back to Stearman Field. After we shut down, Herb informed me we had now gone through all the maneuvers that were required for the checkride. Tomorrow we would practice them up to standards, Friday morning we would fly to get warmed up and work out any bugs, and then I’d take my checkride. Whew!

Prairie Air Service - a great home away from home

Normally I'd be getting a decent case of pre-checkride dread by this point, to be complemented by a less-than-restful night before the actual test. Yet this time round, I was strangely relaxed. Perhaps it was due in part to how quickly the whole training experience was going, not much time to stress out about the checkride. It was also largely thanks to the great setup the school had for its students. Herb’s house was located on the airport, and the building served as classroom, student lodging, dining room, and hangar. I had a quiet, comfortable bedroom and access to any training books or videos I wanted to study. Food was provided, and Herb’s wife Kathy cooked dinner for everyone in the evenings and she always made sure students felt welcome and well taken care of. There was no stress of trying to figure out meals while living out of a hotel and driving to the airport; everything was right there and I just literally had to only step out the door to go flying. Even the schedule was relaxed, as Herb made it clear he wasn’t a morning person and that I could expect to fly no earlier than 9:30.

And so by this point in the week the days had already taken on a familiar rhythm: wake up, eat breakfast while I read from my Bible, and then have the first lesson at 9:30 or more often 10:00. The afternoons were free for studying and then after dinner at 5:00 we would go up for a second flight. Then I usually went for a long walk on the airport property, and if the temperature was mild when I got back I would join Herb and his wife Kathy on their patio to sit and chat late into the evening. Though I could expect an intense workout with high expectations from Herb while in the plane, all that stayed in the cockpit and the rest of the day was just stress-free. It was lovely.

I went to bed Thursday evening realizing this was so different from any other checkride I’d had to date. No need to wake up before dawn to get ready. No need to do a long drive or fly myself to the test. And the fact that I still had one more training flight before the test itself somehow made it seem like just another event in the next day’s schedule. I slept soundly, with none of those exhausting I’m-running-behind! dreams to bother me.

Friday was another day of unusually calm air. I’d enjoyed the good fortune of being able to fly in very stable air this whole week—something not normal for Kansas at this time of year. Apparently, high altitude smoke layers from West Coast fires were messing with the weather pattern.

Herb had me run through each maneuver, demanding precision and promptness. I did my best, making a few mistakes here and there, but in general I felt it was a decent performance. It was certainly nice to be already warmed up for the afternoon’s flight—and this was one of Herb's secrets to having a high pass rate. 

But I was rather tired too! During the week I had made it a habit to chair-fly every time I came back from a lesson, reviewing mistakes and mentally rehearsing procedures to get the steps down smoothly, but today I felt that trying to do more mental practice was going to be counterproductive. Just take it easy. There’s no need to cram anything else; you’re ready, I convinced myself. So I went a took a nap. I felt great after that.

As 3:00 p.m. approached, I heard a vehicle approaching. Peeking out my window blinds, I saw the car pulling into the driveway. Yup, that was him. It’s showtime.

The checkride went as smoothly as I could hope for it to go. Herb had done his job well; the actual test itself was easier than flying with Herb. Granted, I made a few mistakes here and there—no checkride is error-free—but as the examiner continued to tick off boxes on his checklist and direct me to do the next maneuver, I grew more and more confident. The end was coming within sight.

“Okay, give me a normal takeoff from here and a normal landing back in Benton and we’ll call it a day. Sound good?” I nodded happily. I had finished all the “hard” stuff and all that remained was to make it back to the home airport without doing anything dumb. I stopped the plane in front of the hold-short lines at Newton airport to take a moment to set up the avionics for the leg back. I started to flip AWOS and CTAF radio frequencies for my destination airport into the number one radio when I realized what I was doing. “Oops,” I said sheepishly, restoring Newton’s traffic advisory into the active frequency. “Getting too far ahead of myself.” It was the last silly thing I did on the flight. The rest went off like clockwork, and as we pulled off the runway back at Stearman Field, I couldn’t keep myself from thinking, Michael, I think you made it...!

One of my favorite kinds of handshakes

My examiner was relaxed and nonchalant, as only people who do this job day in and day out can be. As I shut down the engine, he wrote down the Hobbs reading and then asked, “So you’re planning to do the multiengine instructor rating as well?” I nodded. “It’s the easiest of the three instructor rides. You’ll have no problem.”

A few minutes later my old plastic pilot certificate had a hole punch in it and I was holding a piece of paper with the words Temporary Airman Certificate at the top.
One checkride down. One to go.

Meet My Twin

You never know who you might meet on a plane...

As I walked down the aisle of the Southwest Airlines plane, I surveyed the rows of seats trying to decide which one I would choose for the flight. I spotted a man in a pilot’s uniform sitting by the window—perfect, that would be a good row to pick. I sat down in the aisle seat, sneaking a glance at the epaulettes on his shoulders. Four stripes; he was a captain. He was also occupied with his tablet, so I didn’t bother him but just pulled out my multiengine ground school materials and began studying. By the time we were descending into Wichita, he had noticed what I was reading.

“You getting ready to do some training?” he asked.

“Yes, I'm planning get my multiengine add-on this week," I replied, happy to be having a conversation with an airline pilot.

“Where are you going to be doing that?”

“Actually, I’ll be training just outside of Wichita at a small airport in Benton,” I explained.

“You’re not going to be training with Herb, are you?” My eyes widened. “Actually, that’s exactly who I’m going to be training with,” I answered, a little taken off guard.

The captain chuckled. “Good ol’ Herb. I did my multiengine rating with him, oh, back in 1987 or so. When I saw what you were reading, I thought, ‘Hey, I’ve seen those articles before.’ So Herb’s still at it, then.” 

I laughed, amazed that I was in the middle of one of those stranger-than-fiction moments. 

“Tell Herb hi for me. I guess he did a good job; I’ve been a captain for Southwest for 26 years now,” he said as the plane pulled up the gate and we prepared to disembark.

It was a reassuring way to start off this latest training adventure. My instructor-to-be had certainly been in this business for a long time, which was a big reason I’d taken a friend’s recommendation and was flying halfway across the country to take this training program. Over the years Herb had given something like 3,000 sign-offs for certificates and ratings—to the point where it was now possible to randomly run into one of his former students! I had the growing confidence I’d be in good hands. I certainly wasn’t disappointed over the next couple of weeks.

One of the resident biplanes taxiing for takeoff

Stearman Field, where Prairie Air Service was located, was the essence of a small-town American general aviation airport. All day long the place was humming with activity, with aircraft departing and arriving and people strolling nearby as they watched the planes or headed to the airport restaurant. Many different kinds of planes could be seen coming and going, from modern homebuilts and traditional trainers, to turboprops and small private jets. There were at least a handful of vintage Stearman aircraft based here as well—which is how Stearman Field got its name—all immaculately restored and maintained. Almost every day at least one of these classic birds could be seen doing traffic patterns around the parallel grass runway, bright paint flashing in the sunlight and a distinctive rumbling growl issuing from its large engine.

The twin-engine Apache

Then there was Herb’s twin-engine Piper Apache: almost old enough to be a vintage aircraft, but certainly not as pretty the neighbor’s planes. It reminded me a bit of the pipeline patrol planes I’d seen in Texas: kind of like a work truck that was well-maintained for functionality and safety but not much more. But that’s essentially what it was; it certainly wasn’t needing to win any prizes. However, as the student who was staying in the room next to mine explained, it was reliable and honest.

The first morning after arriving I rode along in the backseat to watch Steve, my fellow trainee, run through all the maneuvers for his practical test which he was supposed to take that afternoon. It was immensely helpful to get a first-hand look at everything without the pressure of being in the pilot’s seat. It was also another morale boost to see a relieved Steve coming back to his room that evening after successfully passing his multiengine checkride. The next day would be my turn at the controls.

The first order of business in the training course was to go through a detailed cockpit orientation. After doing this for decades Herb had his method down to a well-scripted science and knew just exactly which things needed to be pointed out to a transitioning pilot who had never flown an Apache. He began with the view: “The first thing you’ll notice when looking out the front window is that there is no nose.” I stared out—he was right. Of course there was a nose, but it just wasn’t visible due to the design. The familiar sight of an engine cowling out front was all but missing. “Up until now, all your flying has been done by consciously or subconsciously sighting over the cowling. That won’t work in this plane, so to fly it precisely you will need to really fly it by instruments. You’ll find that’s how large planes are flown anyway,” he explained.

He moved on to some of the idiosyncrasies of the 1958 plane. “Now take a look at the trim,” he said, pointing up at the two rotary crank-handles mounted in the cockpit ceiling. “The trim in this aircraft is not user-friendly; it’s barely user-possible," he quipped. "So make sure you take a moment before you move it and think which direction you need to turn the crank.” He continued to deadpan his way through the explanation of the various switches, dials, and levers. I loved his dry wit.

Finishing off the briefing, Herb handed me the checklist and proceeded to walk me through the steps to start the engines. There was nothing particularly special about starting up the 160 HP carbureted Lycomings except that now there were two of every engine control. Something that would take me a while to get used to, though, was the way the power levers wouldn’t behave identically if I advanced them equally. It always took me several extra glances at the manifold pressure gauge to get the power settings matched. Just another fact of life flying old, small planes.

We took off and climbed away from the town to a good maneuvering altitude. I immediately felt lost over the endless, flat expanse of identical-looking Kansas farmland. Good thing this plane had GPS because I wasn’t convinced I’d have the geography figured out by the time I was supposed to take my practical test!

This first flight was a familiarization with how the airplane handled. Herb walked me through the different airwork maneuvers: steep turns, stalls, slow flight, speed and configuration changes. Steve was right; it was an honest plane, giving plenty of warning before stalls and handling smoothly. After having flown the DA40s the Apache had a much more steady and stable ride. It certainly wasn’t a fast plane, but that wasn’t necessary for training.

After the airwork, we returned to Stearman field for a full-stop landing and an afternoon break. “I usually don’t fly in the afternoon because it just gets too bumpy for meaningful training,” Herb said as we climbed out the plane. “We’ll fly again after dinner and work on traffic patterns.”

At dinner I learned my checkride had been scheduled for Friday afternoon. Today was Tuesday. It was a bit hard to imagine that, if all went well, in three more days I would be multiengine rated—and I had scarcely had one flight under my belt. But that’s the way an accelerated multiengine training program works and that’s why I was here! And I also knew it was going to be a lot of work and a very intense three days. So I did my best to put all thoughts of post-checkride celebrations aside for the time, and followed Herb out to the Apache to learn how to do landings in it.