Belief versus Trust

My student was concentrating hard as he tried to maneuver the plane into position for a simulated failed-engine emergency landing. The motor was idling and the only tools at his disposal for managing his glide to the runway were the pitch of the plane, the bank angle, and the amount of drag deployed. We were below 1,000 feet now, and both of us were tense - my student as he did his best to make it to the runway, and me as I did my best to ensure we stayed safe during this training exercise.

"Watch your speed," I said, as he stared intently out the window. He glanced down and then looked outside again toward the runway that was starting to come into view in front of the aircraft.

"Speed!" I said more forcefully. I saw him push slightly on the stick, but as he did so the view of the runway started shifting upward in the windscreen, presenting the visual cue that we were coming in short. His grip tightened on the stick and all too surely the nose started to rise as he unconsciously started to exert back pressure on the control in an attempt to shallow the glide angle.

The airspeed indicator was dipping below glide speed now. "Push! Push! Nose down!!" I added forward pressure on the stick to get the nose down and regain speed, that vital, lift-producing ingredient. We were back at glide speed, but it was painfully obvious that at this angle there was no way the plane was going to make it to the runway.

The student was already trying to pick the nose up again, an exercise in futility that wouldn't end with a reusable plane (or occupants).

"Can we make it to the runway?" I asked tersely.

"No...no, we can't," he managed.

"Where are you going to land?"

"In the field here," he answered quickly, looking at the grass immediately in front of us. "Okay, good. Go-around," I replied.

After a climb back to altitude and a short debriefing on the importance of maintaining glide speed, it was time for another go. He did better this time, making sure not to glide too far away from the runway during his descent, and keeping better tabs on his speed. But there would still be plenty more opportunities down the road to fight that powerful urge to pull on the stick when things weren't looking right.

This story isn't about any particular student. The story is a composite, because everyone has been here, myself included. We all learn early on in pilot training that it's impossible to stretch a glide. There's a speed at which the plane glides most efficiently; go faster and you get more drag, go slower and you get more drag as well - either way, you get a steeper glide angle. Keep slowing down and eventually you'll stall the wing, in which case you can forget about gliding at all.

The only way to control your speed in the glide is to manage the pitch of the plane with the elevator control, pushing the nose down to allow gravity to do the work that the propeller would have done. And this is where a deep-seated human survival instinct can actually kill you. Without proper training and conditioning, every one of us will try to pull back on the elevator control when we feel threatened by the ground. The impulse is almost overwhelming when you're a half mile away from the runway with only a quarter mile of gliding capability. Yet if it came down to that, your only real chance of surviving is actually to keep the nose down and "fly the thing as far into the crash as possible" (Bob Hoover). And surprisingly, the odds of walking away can be quite good. The alternative is almost certainly a bad outcome as a result of stalling the plane a couple hundred feet off the ground.

This is where difference between belief and trust can mean the difference between becoming another statistic or living to tell the tale. Belief doesn't require any action. Trust does. My students believe me when I say they'll kill themselves trying to stretch a glide. But get them in a situation where the plane appears to be dipping toward a place they don't want to set down, and the first few times they won't trust me that keeping their speed up will keep them alive. The hand creeps back, the speed decays, and before things go too far, I end the scenario. It's valuable for them to experience this in a controlled environment, though, so that they can be aware of their natural tendency and realize that it doesn't work. It's important refresher training for me too, particularly when I give a demonstration and glance down to see my speed starting to dip a bit below best glide speed.

This is what flight training is about. Learning what to believe, and then learning how to trust what you know will work when you're faced with the almost-overpowering instinct to do the exact opposite.

It's the same way in life. What do you believe? You might say you believe that God is good and that everything He says is true. But when the rubber hits the road, do you really trust Him and act on those beliefs? Or do you revert to that powerful instinct to trust yourself instead?

I say "you", but I guess I'm really writing this for myself. I need a reminder to act on my beliefs, because otherwise they have no use. Words like, "All things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to His purpose," (Romans 8:28) don't cease to be true just because they've become cliched and I don't feel like they can help right now. Yet I stop trusting them whenever things in my life start falling apart. Instead of holding on to what I know is true, I see the rough place that I'm headed for and subconsciously start reverting to what feels right and natural. In so doing, I give up the only way that works.

Following God's way doesn't come naturally; it takes training and practice. But I'm thankful that He's such a patient Instructor, as He repeats over and over, "Do not fear, I will help you" (Isaiah 41:13).

I believe Him. I think one of these days I'll actually start trusting Him more too.

First Flight

N8739E, the first airplane that I flew

Today I bade farewell to my student who finished up his course. He's on his way back home, where he will start the next chapter in his journey to becoming a professional pilot in the right seat of one of those large, sleek airliners. I'm excited for him, and I find myself imagining what it would be like to be in his shoes pushing forward on a set of jet engine thrust levers for the first time. Maybe I'll have the opportunity to do something like that one day too. In the meantime, I have the privilege helping future pilots like him earn their wings in single-engine training aircraft.

As he leaves, another student is just starting the challenging, but exciting Stage 1 of his training. This is where everything goes from being just theoretical head knowledge to being the real, visceral experience of taking off, flying maneuvers, talking on the radio to ATC, and bringing the airplane in for a landing. When he finishes the stage, he'll be ready to solo - a moment that every pilot remembers for the rest of his or her life.

Flying a plane for the first time is also a moment many people always remember. Since I've been doing this for so long, I often forget how tremendous of an experience that first flight is and I have to remind myself of those memories - the thrill and excitement of controlling a flying machine, the challenge of trying to direct the plane's wandering nose in the direction I wanted it to go, the fascination of seeing the familiar points on the ground shrink and melt into an ever-widening landscape. Despite getting somewhat overwhelmed at the end when the instructor talked me all the way onto final approach, when the propeller came to a stop back at the parking ramp, I couldn't wipe the huge grin off my face. I was completely and absolutely hooked. I knew this was what I was meant to do and I have never looked back.

 Tomorrow I get to give this experience to my new student. I think he's going to like it - and I look forward to seeing the twinkle in his eyes and imagining the grin beneath his mask.

The Sights We See

A blurry shot, but those are thousands of birds

Flying is an intensely visual experience. From day one, our instructors drill the idea into our heads that we need to look out the window. You have to look outside to see what the plane's attitude - orientation - relative to the horizon is, you need to look outside to spot other planes and airports, you need to scrutinize visual cues as to what the wind is doing and whether you're on glidepath to the runway. In this dynamic three-dimensional world, there is lots to look for, perceive, process, and respond to. And in all this searching for optical information, sometimes the most significant part of the picture is lost in plain sight: the view.

If I were to be honest, I think the view is one of the most basic, visceral reasons I became a pilot. It sounds trite, I know, but it's the reason I take the window seat every opportunity I get, the reason I hike the highest mountains I can find. There's just something about seeing everything from above that is hard to describe, but oh, so fascinating to experience.

Just today I was remembering that aspect of why I'm a pilot as I sat in the right seat, coaching my student through traffic pattern practice. He's in Stage 2 of private pilot training, meaning he already has the fundamentals down and has finished a few solo flights already. So it's a bit less work for me now and I can sit back more while he flies a fairly good-looking pattern. As he does the flying, I can steal lingering glances at the world beneath our wings, and there's always something interesting to see when I take a moment to look: a long string of UPS trucks winding their way out from the distribution center like a procession of little brown caterpillars; Canada geese scattered along the side of the riverbank; a family in the park that appears to be having a barbecue - oh, wait, that smoke isn't from a grill. Looks like they just fired off a model rocket. Lovely. Some things are better not to see, ha!

The views never get old, but sometimes I forget that reality as I get hyperfocused on whatever training objective we're trying to accomplish. But every now and then I catch sight of something really neat - perhaps a giant cloud of birds rising up from the wetlands and undulating across the landscape like a shimmering flying carpet, or splashes of bright blue lupine fields shouting the arrival of spring from the borders of Folsom Lake - and I just have to remind myself that I'm so lucky to have such an amazing office view.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm still pursuing the elusive end-goal dream pilot career. But I also have to admit that the journey is at least half the fun. I believe it's important to do what you love. And while you're doing what you love, remember to also love what you're doing.

Back in the Hot Seat

The peaceful picture doesn't show the wind

Earning the multi-engine commercial add-on was a good feeling, but I couldn’t let myself fully enjoy the sense of accomplishment because I was only 50% of the way to my goal. The plan was to knock out the MEI (multi-engine instructor) rating right afterward, since the maneuvers would essentially be the same and would just need to be flown from the right seat. So it was on to Week 2 of multi-engine flying with Herb at Prairie Air Services.

The first week had gone very smoothly, but now I would have to start working hard. The abnormally calm weather I’d been enjoying gave way to more typical Kansas wind and rough air. The transition to the right seat was not as I expected since Herb insisted I use the steam gauges on my side of the cockpit rather than trying scan cross-panel to the nice G5 that I’d gotten accustomed to using in the first week. Finally, I was dealing with some negative transfer since every plane I’d flown prior to the Apache had required some back elevator pressure during takeoff rolls and following touchdown to keep things stable. The Apache on the other hand required forward yoke to keep weight on the main wheels, and that was occasionally coming up to bite me since my muscle memory told me to do the exact opposite.

Somehow I didn’t feel quite as good of a pilot as just a couple days earlier. But that’s normal. I’ve learned there are always going to be those days and I just remind myself that while it doesn’t feel awesome at the moment, it’s going to get better, so keep pushing on.

After a few flights getting familiarized with the maneuvers as flown from the right seat, Herb switched me back to left seat for some instrument work. I needed a total of 15 hours PIC multiengine time for the MEI rating, but Herb didn’t think it was necessary to spend all that time grinding out maneuvers. “Let’s give you a thorough instrument proficiency check while you’re time-building,” he suggested. I was game for that, as I enjoy IFR procedures. The next 3 flights I spent under the hood flying DME arcs and shooting ILS and VOR approaches. It was a nice change of pace.

All too soon, though, it was back to the right seat and that exasperating airspeed indicator on the copilot’s panel that indicated 5 - 10 knots too fast. Herb resumed drilling me on maneuvers in earnest, making sure not to mince his words as he critiqued my performance. He threw in some instructor practice as well, showing me the techniques he had learned from a Navy instructor on how to manage the engine controls for simulated engine failures. So while Herb flew, I took my turn playing “instructor” and giving him alternating left and right engine failures.

The last training flight did not feel great at all. The bumps had been particularly nasty and I had found myself struggling to maintain altitude and airspeed within the normal tolerances. Then, on the way back to Stearman Field from doing airwork, I set up for the wrong traffic pattern and would have made a straight-in landing with a tailwind if I hadn’t somehow caught my mistake.

Taking off for another "hop"

Each lap around the pattern was an ordeal as well, since Herb insisted on the technique of setting the throttles for descent and then leaving them alone for most of the approach, instead varying the base to final turn and the flap setting to achieve the proper glidepath. It’s a great technique that works particularly well for small twins since it’s too easy to move one throttle a little more than the other and end up with slightly asymmetric thrust. But I was still having trouble judging exactly when to turn, and with the strong headwind and updrafts and downdrafts playing havoc on my approaches, I couldn’t make Herb or myself happy.

By the time we taxied up to the hangar, I was feeling rather apprehensive about the afternoon’s checkride. Not one to be profuse in praising students, Herb had usually ended each flight with a brief, “Good hop,” if he was pleased with the performance, but today it was just an “Alrighty,” as he unbuckled and stepped out. “You’ll do your oral in the afternoon and then by the time you’re ready to fly, the wind should be dying down,” he said before disappearing into the house to get started on the paperwork. I certainly hoped so.

That afternoon as I waited for the examiner to show up, I tried to think calm thoughts. It’s not a big deal, Michael. It’s just another flight; you do your best and if something doesn’t work out, it’s not the end of the world. I didn’t feel much better. I sat down at the desk in my room and pulled my Bible toward me, flipping to a passage that was surfacing in my mind. Psalm 18.

I read and savored the words. It was King David’s song of praise to God for giving him deliverance and the words resonated with me particularly well today. It was a warrior’s poem, but the unique characteristic was that every feat David accomplished, he attributed to the power of God that had enabled him to do it: “For by You I can run upon a troop; and by my God I can leap over a wall.” vs 29 NASB.  If you want to read something that makes you really feel like you have the most powerful Being in the universe on your side, this is the Psalm to look up. I was greatly encouraged and I tucked those words into the corner of my mind as I collected my teaching materials and began setting up in the classroom.

A couple hours later and it was showtime again. The examiner explained this would be an evaluation on how well I could teach, and then he gave me the topics to teach and a few minutes to prepare. It would focus mainly on multiengine aerodynamics and systems. I reviewed my notes and the outline I had, grabbed the hydraulic gear pump cutaway from off the shelf and then waited for him to come back.

“You ready?” he asked, coming in the door with his cup of coffee. I nodded. “Alright, go ahead.”

I started with systems and very quickly started to feel like I was floundering. I knew the information, but I didn’t know the “student”. I’ve always found it particularly awkward trying to “teach” examiners because they don’t behave like real students. I jumped almost immediately into an overly detailed explanation of the gear pump system and the related emergency procedures. The examiner had a glazed look on his eyes. My voice tightened up and I stopped for a minute to take a few swallows of water.

Aerodynamics seemed to go a bit better, but I was not thrilled with my performance as I came to the end. “Okay, you did alright,” the examiner said as he finished the oral segment. “But I would suggest you have a way to organize your systems lesson plan. Here’s a method I use. It’s called GOLE. Start off with the General description of the system. Then explain how to Operate the system in a logical sequence, beginning with preflight. Next go into the Limitations, and then finally talk about the Emergency procedures.” He gave a brief example of how that would look like if he was teaching someone about the fuel system. It was brilliant. “Most people just straight to the abnormal and emergency procedures, and they haven’t even explained the normal operation yet. This gives you a way to organize the information in a way that doesn’t confuse the student. Is that helpful?” I nodded vigorously.

“Okay then, let’s go and fly.”

We strapped into the Apache and the examiner performed the engine start and taxied the plane to the runup area; the instructor’s seat has no brakes. He asked me to talk him through a short-field takeoff, which I did with apprehension as I had no idea if he would do something unexpected. Thankfully he didn’t and a few moments later we were climbing up to the cruise altitude.

“Now I want you teach me how to do steep turns, okay?” “Okay…” I thought of how to start, since once again, I wasn’t quite sure how to treat my “student”. The examiner wasn’t interested in any prolonged explanation. “You ready? I’m starting,” he announced as he promptly rolled the plane into a ham-fisted bank.

I tried to stumble my way through instructions, but the commentary slowly dwindled. He finished his performance and then gave me control. “Why don’t you show me how to do it.” I took over and flew a set of steep turns and then moved on to demos of slow flight and stalls at his direction. My altitude control wasn’t looking too great, something the examiner had to point out at one point. The air, though somewhat smoother than the morning, was still making it a challenge to hold altitude. I kept soldiering on.

We moved on to the engine-out procedures and Vmc demos. The examiner had me talk him through a Vmc demo, again something that made me a bit nervous. Thankfully he performed as instructed on the first try, but then he wanted to show me how a student might behave in real life. He had me talk him through it again, but this time my verbal instructions elicited no response as the airspeed decayed and the nose began slide left. “Full right rudder, full right rudder. Okay, recover now, lower the nose, reduce the power on the good engine— no, no. My controls!” I finally said, taking over the plane as he pushed the left throttle forward. “What did I do?” he asked in a mock plaintive voice. “You’re supposed to reduce the power on the good engine, because your left engine is simulated failed.” I seemed to have done the right thing and he was satisfied.

He had a follow up question. “Now when you’re practicing engine failures on takeoff and you pull one mixture lever, what would you do if the student freezes up on you and doesn’t chop the throttles?” “I’d grab the throttles myself…” I replied. “They won’t let go. They’ve got them jammed forward and you’re going to be off the runway in 3 or 4 seconds.” Hmmm. “I guess I could cut the other mixture.” “That might be the only thing left to do,” he said. “I’ve had to do it maybe twice over the years.”

Air work finished, he directed me to head to Newton airport where we’d do some patterns. “You can show me a short-field landing first.” Yay, my favorite (not). Thankfully they are significantly easier in the twin because it just involves getting into the right height over the touchdown point and then as soon as you chop the throttles, the induced airflow from the propwash over the wings disappears and the plane will settle right where you want it to go without floating interminably. Problem was, during the earlier flights I guess I had been coming in too low and Herb warned me I was risking touching down early. I did my best to avoid that problem this time as I started leveling out the plane over the tarmac. But it wasn’t looking great - I’d overdone it and was probably a couple feet too high. I chopped the throttles and just barely managed to touch down on the spot, getting  probably the firmest arrival I’d had so far. “Herb really doesn’t like the Cessna flare landings does he,” the examiner chuckled, evidently referring to my 3-point touchdown. I was just thankful for the sturdy gear on the plane.

He took over the controls and started taxiing us back for the next takeoff. “I’m going to do the takeoff and you’re going to fail an engine on me before reaching 50 percent of Vmc. Be ready if I don’t react. Alright?” Now I was definitely worried about what he might try to do, given his advice at altitude. I decided to plan on failing the right engine, reasoning the yaw would be slightly less vigorous than if I cut the critical left engine. Plus, the left crosswind would help out a bit as well, so all things considered, I would have just a little more time to react if he pulled something weird.

The examiner announced his takeoff over the radio, rolled onto the runway, and pushed the throttles forward. I waited for the plane to pick up a bit of speed and then pulled the right mixture to cutoff, all the while springloaded to grab the throttles or cut the other engine’s mixture. The nose started swinging to the right, but he promptly closed the throttles and stepped on the rudder to steer back onto the centerline. I was so relieved I almost forgot to restart the engine. I caught myself and pushed the mixture lever forward and the slowing propeller kicked the engine back to life.

“Okay, I’ll continue the takeoff and this time you can pull a throttle above 400 agl for a simulated engine failure, and then you can talk me around for a single-engine approach and landing.” This proceeded in a very straight-forward way and since he was doing things properly, it was actually kind of fun seeing him do the flying. “I’m gonna do a Cessna flare,” he said as he crossed the threshold and then pulled the yoke far back for a nice soft touchdown.

With that maneuver finished, all that remained was for me to take us back to Stearman Field. I took control once again and took off for home base. The short flight back was beautiful. The air had finally smoothed out and the sun was just dipping below the horizon, casting an orange hue on the sky. The visibility was incredible and it seemed like I could see a hundred miles.

The airport lights were just blinking on as we touched down at the quiet airport. The examiner took over the controls to taxi the plane into its parking spot and I took a big breath of relief as I realized it was all over and done. Herb had done his work with excellence once again. And so had God.

I always love the "after" photo

Thank You Lord, I said silently. I really wasn't feeling it today, but thank You for helping me rely on You and thank you for the encouragement from that verse. Truly "by my God I  can leap over a wall"!

And with that my 2-week intensive was finished. Multi-engine commercial: Done. Multi-engine instructor: Done. 11 years of never really imagining I’d get to fly twins one day: Done.