New Beginnings and Old Endings

I said goodbye again today. I made the hour-long drive down to the Mather airport to go one more time to a place where I learned so much, taught others, and had many memorable experiences. Today it was with a big duffel bag full of uniforms, accessories, and company property. I wouldn't be needing those anymore. It was a very relaxed couple hours - turning in my stuff, signing a paper, chatting with the few remaining colleagues who hadn't left for the airlines yet, meeting the new guys who were just starting their own new chapters, wishing my former student all the best. I stayed longer than I planned; that's something I always tended to do there. But finally it was time to head out the door, presumably this time for good - presumably, because who knows where life will take me; I didn't imagine I would end up working here twice.

The goodbye was strangely easy this time. I guess it just helps when you're ready to move on and you've had time to prepare for it. It's not that I won't miss the place. I am grateful for my time at a place with such awesome people and amazing airplanes, and it was good to have this familiar place to land at when I dropped back in from Indonesia during a rather scarce time in the aviation industry. It was also a really helpful refresher to get back into the swing of things in an airline-oriented training environment. But I have to admit, I'm ready to take the next step and see what is beyond flight instructing.

Though it wasn't a difficult goodbye to say today, it was still an ending. And when something that has been a part of my life ends, I invariably find myself thinking of other goodbyes and chapters that have ended. Some are chapters that I have fond memories of, others are ones remembered with a wistful longing to relive them. Some bring smirks of amused recollection and a sense of relief that they are indeed over, while others cause my eyes to mist up as I think of how the story was just getting started when the book itself abruptly ended. Those are the ones that are the hardest to forget and the most poignant to recall.

Now I'm saying another farewell to something familiar and preparing to step into a very big unknown. What I'm currently shooting for could be a short ride to a dead-end. Or it might be the start of something that I could have only dreamed of - except that dreams can sometimes have a way of turning out to be pretty empty too, sometimes. To be certain, I have very mixed feelings about what's next. What I'm hoping for the most is a touch from God, a clear direction from Him.

Well, the next few weeks and months will be telling. I'll try to post the highlights as I have time. And though I'm apprehensive as I step forward, I have to remind myself of some words that speaks courage:

"And the Lord, He is the One who goes before you.

He will be with you, He will not leave you nor forsake you; do not fear nor be dismayed." 

Deuteronomy 31:8 NKJV.

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.

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.