Q2 2022 | VOLUME 149 | ISSUE 2

PREFLIGHT

Timo Breidenstein

N EXT G RE AT FL IG HT

A Tara Air de Havilland DHC-6 Twin Otter on final to Lukla’s airport (VNLK) in Nepal

Q2 2022 | VOLUME 149 | ISSUE 2

Ed i to r - i n - C h i e f Julie Boatman

EDITOR-AT-LARGE Pia Bergqvist TECHNICAL EDITOR Meg Godlewski CREATIVE DIRECTOR Amy Jo Sledge COPY EDITOR Sara Withrow PRODUCTION MANAGER Edward Bartlett PHOTO EDITOR Theresa Petruso

CONTRIBUTING EDITORS Les Abend Jason Blair Peter Garrison Dick Karl Martha Lunken Jason McDowell Dan Pimentel Sam Weigel Ben Younger

SENIOR VICE PRESIDENT, GLOBAL SALES AND STRATEGIC PARTNERSHIPS Lisa deFrees / [email protected] ACCOUNT EXECUTIVE Andy Welch / [email protected]

FLYING MEDIA CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER Craig Fuller CHIEF OPERATING OFFICER Preston Holland CHIEF FINANCIAL OFFICER John Day MANAGING EDITOR, FLYING Mark Spoor MANAGING EDITOR, MODERN FLYING Meg Scarbrough EDITOR-IN-CHIEF, FLYING Julie Boatman CREATIVE DIRECTOR, FLYING Amy Jo Sledge PRODUCTION MANAGER, FLYING Edward Bartlett COPY CHIEF, FLYING Sara Withrow REPORTER, TRAINING AND EDUCATION Ashley Barajas SENIOR WRITER, FLYING Thom Patterson SENIOR WRITER, FLYING Meg Godlewski SENIOR WRITER, FLYING Kimberly Johnson SENIOR WRITER, FLYING Jeremy Kariuki SENIOR BUSINESS WRITER, FLYING Michael Wildes SENIOR TRAVEL WRITER, FLYING Jonathan Welsh SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER Grace Carlon

For customer service and subscription questions, such as renewals, address changes, email preferences, billing and account status, go to: flyingmag.com/cs. You can also email [email protected]; in the U.S. call toll-free 800-678-0797, outside the U.S. call 515-237-3697, or write to FLYING, P.O. Box 6364, Harlan, IA 51593; Attn: Retailsingle-copy sales: ProCirc Retail Solutions Group, Tony DiBisceglie. For content reuse and permissions, please email [email protected]. Copyright 2022, Flying Media Group. All rights reserved. Reproduction in whole or in part of any text, photograph, or illustration without written permission from the publisher is strictly prohibited. Email: [email protected]. Send all subscription correspondence to the Harlan, IA, address. Please allow at least eight weeks for a change of address to become effective. Include both your old and your new addresses and, if possible, an address label from a recent issue. Occasionally, we make portions of our subscriber list available to carefully screened companies that offer products and services we think might be of interest to you. If you do not want to receive these offers, please advise us at 515-237-3697. FLYING is a registered trademark of Flying Media Group. Printed in the USA. Subscriptions: Go to flyingmag.com/cs if you have a subscription question, or write to FLYING, P.O. Box 6364, Harlan, IA 51593. Subscription Rates: USA addresses - one year for $75.00, Canadian addresses - one year for $100.00, and all other international addresses - one year for $120.00. Cash orders only, payable in U.S. currency.

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PREFLIGHT

F LYI N G CON TR I BU TORS

THOM PATTERSON is a staff reporter for FLYING and Modern FLYING. Previously, his freelance reporting appeared in aviation industry magazines. He also spent three decades as a TV and digital journalist at CNN’s bureaus in Washington, D.C., and Atlanta, Georgia, eventually specializing in aviation. He loves air shows, and he has reported from his favorites in Oshkosh, Farnborough, and Paris.

JEFF BERLIN, a photographer and cinematographer, knows his runways. He began his career shooting fashion in New York, Milan, and Paris, is a passionate instrument-rated aviator, and has contributed as a writer and photographer to most major aviation magazines. Jeff has been profiled in Cowboys & Indians and American Cowboy magazines for his rodeo and western work and is now working in motion pictures, which he sees as a natural evolution from shooting stills. He’s gearing up to shoot his first feature film later this year.

JASON BLAIR is a flight instructor and an FAA designated pilot examiner, and an active author in the general aviation and flight training communities. He has published a series of guides that tackle specific topics for general aviation pilots, including buying and owning an aircraft, flying tailwheel, and operating in the mid-level altitudes in light airplanes. He has served on several joint FAA and industry committees to help modernize processes and improve safety for pilots.

JOEL KIMMEL is an illustrator based in a small village in Ontario, Canada. Some of the many things he likes to draw are portraits, maps, and travel postcard illustrations. He has been illustrating the I.L.A.F.F.T. column since the summer of 2020. He enjoys learning about flying and having the opportunity to draw and paint so many different aircraft and the pilots’ exciting stories. Joel says the most rewarding aspects of these projects are portraying the story in dramatic ways, and the most difficult things to draw are cockpits and dashboards—there are so many buttons and dials!

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LE T TER FROM THE EDITOR

V IE W F RO M A BOV E

THE ‘MAGS’ PREFLIGHT Taking our time with the details sets the right stage for flight.

LT. COL. (RET.) Terry “Mags” Slawinski graduated from the U.S. Air Force Academy in 1972, and at the top of his class in undergradutate pilot training. He went from the F-4 to the F-16, serving as an instructor in his squadron before joining the U.S. Air Force’s legendary Fighter Weapons School, where he also taught in the F-16. I first met Mags not long after I’d obtained my Formation and Safety Team Wing Pilot qualification, back in 2001. I quickly learned about this modest pilot’s precision and consummate skill from flying alongside him—he wore his silver wings with pride, but with a certain lightness of heart. From Mags, I soaked up the value of focused, methodical attention to those elements of flight that take place on the ground. Among our formation-flying friends, his extended preflight briefings were legendary—only to be outdone by the detailed discussions he’d lead once the sortie ended. An hour would pass after the chocks went in, and at times members of the flight would be gazing longingly at the beer fridge waiting for his final wrap up.

The time spent made sense in the context of the formation mission, which is the most objectively hazardous type of flying most civilians will do. In his everyday aviating, however, when we were just flying along as a gaggle of friends out for lunch, Mags would still take at least 45 minutes to preflight his airplane—at the time, a pristine Yak 52TW built in Bacāu, Romania, by Aerostar. Mags owned that steed for years, but he approached the airplane every time with fresh eyes. I witnessed the same attention to detail from William Kershner, former Piper Aircraft test pilot and author of a series of well-loved flight training manuals. In his later years, he taught spin training exclusively, based at the Sewanee, Tennessee, airport (KUOS), using one of his two nearly matching Cessna 152 Aerobats, named Wilbur and Orville. He counseled me during our first walkaround together on the importance of a conscientious preflight inspection. We took our time—though he had literally thousands of hours spinning the very airplane we circumambulated that morning. To him, you never knew what any given preflight might present to you. I also saw the same focus and regard for the details when I met up with Roger Sharp, fixed-wing and rotorcraft instructor and examiner, in Texas, to fly the Beech 18 for the story, “Warbirds You Can Fly: Beech 18.” After introducing me to the airplane with an oil fun-

nel and orange latex gloves, we adjourned to the hangar office for the preflight briefing. He pulled out two pages of notes written in longhand, which he proceeded to go through line by line, to ensure he’d covered all of the most critical topics relevant to our flight. Once the brief was complete, he presented me with those notes— some of which I share with you in the story. He’s given thousands of hours of dual, and he comes to each lesson with a plan. When I prepared for my first solo flight earlier this year in the 1988 SOCATA TB-30 Epsilon I’ve been flying, I slowed down, and I channeled these pilot emeriti. I walked up to the Ep with a beginner’s mind, taking the time to communicate with the airplane and myself— and appreciate every step. We approach each issue of FLYING in a similar way, with methodical attention to detail, not taking the tiniest bits for granted. From the classic Beech 18 to the grace and power of the Embraer Praetor 500 to the honest value of the Piper Tomahawk—each aircraft we look at with a fresh eye. We have felt rewarded by your enthusiastic response to the first issue of 2022. We hope you find the same level of care in these pages as we share an exciting new fleet of stories with you.

Julie Boatman Editor-in-Chief

} JULIE BOATMAN is a flight instructor with an airline transport pilot certificate and type ratings in the Cessna Citation

Mustang and the Douglas DC-3—but she finds true happiness flying low and slow. Follow her: @julieinthesky on Twitter.

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MORE FROM FLYING We’re adding special issues to expand your print experience. BY CRAIG FULLER

WELCOME TO THE second issue of the next generation of FLYING. We are honored to have you join us in our journey in reimagining the future of FLYING magazine. When I first acquired the magazine, the thing that stood out most to me was how timeless and connected the brand is to the aviation community. It has been around

since the early days of aviation, when going to the skies was considered mysterious, exciting, and adventurous. In those days, taking to the skies was limited only to a fortunate few—aviation was an elite luxury reserved for the bravest members of society. The romantic aspect of aviation is largely gone from the broader culture—reserved strictly for dedicated aviators—the very group that make up the FLYING audience. We are here because aviation adds something vital to our lives. Whether it is the airplanes, the adventures they create, or the memories we make in the skies, we are here because aviation means almost everything to us.

As we have reimagined FLYING magazine, we have tried to capture the romance of what it means to be an aviator. We hope you get lost in the pages and the adventures herein. FYI: We are expanding our magazine beyond four quarterly installments this year to six, with two new special issues for 2022. One is our Adventure FLYING issue, which will feature aviation destinations in the southeastern U.S., coming this July; the other is a new FLYING Buyer’s Guide which will debut in October. You must be a subscriber to receive these additional issues. If you are not already a subscriber to FLYING, please become one. Your subscription helps fund our efforts.

} CRAIG FULLER is CEO of FLYING Media Group and an active pilot of his ICON A5 and Tecnam Astore. If you wish to connect

with Craig, you can find him on Twitter at @freightalley.

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LE T TER FROM THE PUBLISHER

POINT OF VIEW

CHURCH VS. STATE Preserving integrity BY LISA deFREES

FROM MY POSITION now, and through my 27 years with FLYING, I’ve been able to observe the evolution of media to incorporate digital streams and enhanced print experiences. In this letter, I want to weigh in on the deliberate choices we make at FLYING to ensure we’re bringing you the best content possible. Before reading on, let me make it clear that this is not an article about religion or government. If there is any discussion of religion in our pages, it is specifically the religion of flight. As an aviation magazine, we use “church vs. state” metaphorically to refer to any undue outside influence over our editorial content. The separation—such as that between church and state in the U.S. Constitution—between FLYING’s work with its advertisers and our editorial path remains distinct. So why is this important? FLYING is one of the few aviation consumer magazines in existence today that’s free from an association agenda or trade objective, and the only one that covers the full spectrum of flight, always from

a pilot’s perspective. We were the first magazine to do this, founded in 1927 by William Ziff Sr., whom many regard as the founder of special interest magazines. We hold an important place in the evolution of print media, but even more so, we have grown with and contributed to the evolution of flight. Since our founding, our role has been to aid in the comprehension of aviation knowledge by creating an immersive, uncompromised environment in which you can learn, and be inspired and empowered. It is a sacred union formed between us, one that must always be preserved through the delivery of credible and authentic content—or, rightfully, we lose you as a reader. This is, perhaps, more important today than at any other time in the

evolution of media, given how the proliferation of digital content has blurred the lines of integrity. Our “church vs. state” distinction is firm across all of our platforms. Of course, it’s to our benefit. While integrity is essential, it also gives us the freedom to raise a critical voice when it’s needed, or to formulate an educated opinion with which you may or may not agree. We welcome the debate. Integrity also liberates us and fuels our enthusiasm for flying because, as we all know, airplanes are incredible machines that enable extraordinary life experiences and they should be celebrated, unapologetically. As we continue to navigate the future of flight together, know this: Integrity matters as much to our team as it does to you.

} LISA deFREES, senior vice president of global sales and strategic partnerships, is a student pilot and 27-year member of

the FLYING team. She resides in Greenville, South Carolina, with her French Bulldog, Chuck Yeager.

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PREFLIGHT

ASK F LY I NG

?

Why does the pilot in command sit on the left side of the cockpit in an airplane?

Many aircraft in early aviation had tandem seating. When flying solo, the pilot in com mand often sat in the back seat in order to keep the aircraft within its weight and balance envelope. When side-by-side seating became more com mon, the PIC took the left seat. Theories abound as to why this is.

There is the left seat/left traffic theory, which relates to vantage point. Sitting on the left side of the cockpit, the PIC has a better view of the runway during traffic patterns to the left. The left-turning tendencies caused by P-factor, asym metrical thrust, spiraling slipstream, and torque make it easier for the airplane to turn to the left rather than the right. Pilots figured this out, and the left traffic pattern was born. Another theory relates to automobile design. In American cars the driver sits on the left side. As airplanes and automobiles were developed around the same time, it makes sense that they would borrow designs from each other. The ignition, magnetos, and instruments are often concentrated on the left side of the cockpit as well. A third theory: Many side-by-side aircraft were designed with the throttle in the middle of the panel, putting the throttle knob or lever to the right of the left seat. As right-handedness is more predominant than left-handedness, when the PIC sits in the left seat, their dominant hand is available to work the throttle.

} MEG GODLEWSKI has been an aviation journalist for more than 20 years and a CFI for more than 18 years. If she is not

flying or teaching aviation, she is writing about it. She is a founding member of the Pilot Proficiency Center at EAA AirVenture. 14

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PREFLIGHT

CH A RT W IS E

ROCKY MOUNTAIN METRO, DENVER RNAV (G P S) RWY 30R The airport on a mesa lies downwind of the Continental Divide. BY JASON BLAIR

A MULTIPLE IAFS

Approaching from the south, a pilot might choose NSPYR or if from the north or east, ROKXX as the first point they select on their GPS to transition onto the courses for this approach. Each of these waypoints offers a pilot an opportunity to select a most efficient position from which to get established onto the approach and continue inbound. B MANDATORY ALTITUDE AT LAWNG

Not something you see on all approaches, this approach has an intersection that has a “Mandatory” altitude noted. When a pilot transitions from the PLAAY fix to the L AWNG waypoint, they’re expected to be at 7,000 feet msl, not above or below it. It is not a minimum altitude—in this case, it is a mandatory altitude. This is most commonly used when ATC needs to route traffic across points where over or underlying airspace may have other traffic transiting at different altitudes.

FOR THOSE HEADING to the Denver area—especially those who plan to explore the north side of town—Rocky Mountain Metro Airport (KBJC) gives pilots a great option. More frequently used by general aviation traffic, this airport offers parallel runways and multiple FBOs. In the event of IFR weather, a pilot might choose to use the RNAV (GPS) Rwy 30R approach. In the springtime, pilots should watch for mountain-wave-induced winds that can hammer the mesa upon which the airport sits. Summer brings the thunderstorm season, though cells are often widely spread and easy to spot visually. A few other things stick out on this approach that a pilot should note before they head inbound. C MINIMUMS FOR WAAS AND NON-WAAS

the difference between getting in or not. Plus, the LPV will offer the pilot a GPS/WAAS-derived glide slope they can follow for a stabilized approach.

Knowing what approach minimums are applicable for the equipment in your aircraft is important. In this case, the two main approach minimums that most aircraft have to choose between are LPV and LNAV. Offering both of these options, the approach allows an aircraft capable of receiving WAAS to fly to LPV minimums that are lower than those for an aircraft not equipped with WAAS. Those without must fly to the LNAV minimums. A pilot will need to know what equipment they have and use it to select the proper minimums as they fly down the approach. In lower weather conditions, it might be

D WHEN TO GO MISSED

With “going missed climbing arrows” depicted at multiple points from the 1.0 nm point with a “1” number note and a “V” (visual descent point), and beyond that, an “M” at the RW30R point, a pilot might get confused at when they really need to go missed on this approach. To determine which missed approach point (MAP) to use, refer back to the question of which minimums apply. For the “1” note indication, going missed would happen only if the pilot

was flying the approach as an LNAV (non-WAAS) approach. The RW30R point would be applicable to LPV or LNAV/VNAV approach minimums and would require the pilot to go missed at the decision altitude along the glide slope—if the runway environment was not in sight. e MISSED PROCEDURE NOT TO SCALE

The missed approach takes a pilot first on a climb straight ahead to 6,300 feet and then up to 10,300 feet after a right turn to the HYGEN waypoint—and it has a note that says it is “Not to Scale.” This is a hint to the pilot that there may be “some distance” between the MAP and the missed approach holding point. To get the depiction to fit on the chart, they need to do this sometimes. It means the pilot will need to be ready for a short— or in some cases longer— distance to where they will arrive at the holding point. You’ll want to be ready to read the distance from your GPS box as you transition.

} JASON BLAIR is a flight instructor, an FAA examiner, and an author in the general aviation and training communities.

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Reproduced with permission of Jeppesen. NOT FOR NAVIGATIONAL USE. © Jeppesen, 2020.

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PREFLIGHT

M OD E R N F LY I NG UP DATE

Germany-based Volocopter’s electric air taxi demonstrator includes 18 rotors for horizontal and vertical flight.

HAVE eVTO LS T UR NE D TH E CO R NE R? With public offerings and big players in the market, type certification edges closer to reality.

Courtesy of Volocopter

BY THOM PATTERSON

MORE THAN 150 STARTUPS worldwide claim to be developing electric vertical takeoff and landing aircraft—also known as eVTOLs. In 2021 and into 2022, a handful show real signs that they’re closing in on success. The eVTOL movement aims to create emissions-free air taxis that provide short, environmentally friendly flights over traffic-congested cities. The past year brought several encouraging trends for this fledgling industry. First, air taxi manufacturers cut deals with some of the world’s most successful and respected passenger airlines. Also, more auto manufacturers threw their chips on the table. On Wall Street, investors upped the ante—declaring a front-runner and predicting that the eVTOL market will be worth more than $1 trillion

by 2040. All the while, major eVTOL companies reported significant progress toward type certification. For years, eVTOL companies have made it clear they intend to become both aircraft manufacturers and airlines that operate their own air taxi services. This is important because vertically integrated business models can be extremely expensive—especially in the aviation sector. In February 2021, United Airlines announced a partnership with California’s Archer Aviation to purchase $1 billion in Archer eVTOLs, with an option to buy more. At the time of the United deal, Archer had not yet publicly unveiled a prototype aircraft—let alone flighttested one—but it showed investors that Archer had the backing of one of the world’s largest airlines. 18

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PREFLIGHT

MO D ER N FLYI NG UPDAT E

Six months after Archer’s deal, Lilium followed suit when it announced a billion-dollar agreement to sell 220 eVTOLs to Brazil-based airline Azul. The following month, U.K. eVTOL company Vertical Aerospace partnered with helicopter operator Bristow Group, a leader in offshore oil and gas transportation, to develop and purchase up to 50 eVTOLs. Germany-based Volocopter announced a deal with Japan Airlines (JAL) to work toward “permanent” air taxi operations in Japan—with a commercial launch “within the next three years.” JAL also reached an agreement with aviation leasing company Avolon to buy or lease as many as 50 VX4 eVTOLs from Vertical Aerospace. The deal mirrors Avolon’s contract with Brazil’s Gol airline to purchase or lease up to 250 VX4s. “Airlines should have an interest in the emerging eVTOL market,” says Robin Riedel, a partner at management and consulting firm McKinsey & Company, who analyzes and tracks disruptive aerospace and air transport industries. Airline participation in eVTOL will allow them “to stay in the loop, and also to shape it and enter it when the moment is right. Partnerships are one way to do that, and it gets airlines closer to the action.”

general, eVTOLs that get through this process can firm up commitments to suppliers, partners, and so forth, Riedel says. “So it’s an important step for the industry that lifts it to the next stage.” In September, Morgan Stanley singled out Joby as a potential front-runner by giving it an “overweight” rating. Longtime aviation analyst Richard Aboulafia, managing director at AeroDynamic Advisory, counts himself among the skeptics. He says the high influx of investor funds aimed at eVTOL is a result of “too much cash looking for a home.” For the moment, cash is still cheap— interest rates remain relatively low. “That’s not usually how aviation is funded,” Aboulafia says. MOVEMENT TOWARD VERTIPORTS

Y

ou can’t operate an airline without infrastructure on the ground. For eVTOLs to truly become viable, strategically located vertiports will need to offer efficient facilities for boarding and exiting aircraft, charging batteries, and providing daily aircraft maintenance. Technical infrastructure can be expensive, which is why major eVTOL companies announced partnerships in 2021 and 2022 to build new facilities—or to repurpose existing ones. For example, Archer and Joby both publicized vertiport partnerships with Reef, the largest parking garage owner in the U.S. Reef’s network includes more than 4,800 garages across 70 percent of North America’s urban population.

CARMAKERS JUMP IN

Courtesy of Beta Technologies

H

onda—along with one of Detroit ’s Big Three, Stellantis (formerly known as Fiat Chrysler Automobiles)—jumped into the eVTOL game as well. Stellantis agreed to provide Archer with cockpit design elements and advanced composite material capabilities. The use of very strong, lightweight, carbon fiber composites will be critical to eVTOL designs. Honda announced it will develop a new eVTOL aircraft as part of a proposed “mobility ecosystem,” which would include ground transport, air transport, and a reservation service system. The move complements the conglomerate’s decade-long investment in the business aviation sector through development of the series that’s now evolved into the HondaJet HA-420 Elite S light jet. Archer, Joby Aviation, Lilium, Vertical Aerospace, and others, each raised hundreds of millions of dollars in fresh investor capital in 2021 and early 2022, helping them stay afloat until commercial revenue starts flowing in. Instead of launching traditional initial public offerings (IPOs), Archer, Joby, and Lilium merged with special purpose acquisition companies (SPACs) as a faster path to go public. As a result, they became publicly traded stocks, with varying success. The new funds have helped them expand operations and development toward certifying their aircraft. In

UPS plans to add 10 Beta Technologies eVTOLs in 2024.

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California-based Archer Aviation’s eVTOL test article Maker performs its first hover test last December.

In Los Angeles, city officials and Volocopter began collaborating last year with Urban Movement Labs—a government-community transportation partnership— to work with neighborhoods on planning potential vertiport locations.

platform Ascent to provide 100 eVTOLs by 2026 to operate in Bangkok, Manila, Singapore, Tokyo, and Melbourne, Australia. The eVTOL industry shows no signs of slowing. Archer, Joby, Lilium, and others are expected to continue developing prototypes, moving closer to type certifying their aircraft with aviation regulators. Lilium plans to conduct flight testing in Spain aimed at winning EASA type certification in 2024. Joby expects to receive a Part 135 air carrier certificate in 2022 as well, allowing the company to operate as an airline. It intends to operate with traditional existing, certified aircraft until its eVTOL aircraft wins type certification—expected in 2023. As eVTOL leaders continue to commit to key benchmarks, skeptics will be watching closely to see if this emerging sector makes good on its promises. }

GLOBAL ATTENTION

Courtesy of Archer Aviation

T

he industry sent strong signals this past year that the Asia-Pacific region could be a top eVTOL market. Germany’s Volocopter announced a major partnership with China-based Aerofugia. A new company—Volocopter Chengdu—will work with the Chinese government to begin eVTOL service by 2026. Last November, Volocopter also conducted the first flight demonstration in South Korea of the company’s 2X prototype—signaling plans to establish air taxi service there. Brazil-based Embraer has also staked a claim in the Asia-Pacific region. Embraer’s Eve Urban Air Mobility subsidiary sealed a deal with helicopter booking

THOM PATTERSON is a staff reporter for FLYING and Modern FLYING. He is a former aviation freelance writer, and TV and digital journalist for CNN in Washington and Atlanta.

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PREFLIGHT

I . L . A . F. F.T.

STORM RACING Compounding a list of poor decisions

“WOULD YOU GO TO Hanover County, Virginia, and fly the Cub I just bought to my grass strip in southeastern Wisconsin?” A friend in need asked me—and I was happy to make the trip. “Sure.” So I flew commercial into Richmond where the seller picked me up, then introduced me to the prewar Piper J3L-65 Cub. She was original and in remarkably good shape, so I prepped her for the trip and slept on the FBO’s couch that night. We departed at dawn intending to complete the 600mile jaunt back to Wisconsin in one day, provided we could pass the bottom of Lake Michigan before a storm system blowing up from St. Louis, Missouri, arrived. The Lycoming 65-hp engine smoothly pucketa-pucketa’d along, and the skylight made the cockpit a bright

and cheery space. We were warmly greeted at both fuel stops. During the second stop, I checked on the weather: The front was west of Indianapolis, moving northeast. My goal transitioned to something similar to Rinker and Kern Buck’s Flight of Passage: A True Story: If we could just get into Indiana... Passing Grand Lake in western Ohio, dark anvils dominated the western horizon. Since there were several small airports south of Fort Wayne, Indiana, I decided to race the front to one of them, or divert east to Van Wert County. The O-145-B2’s stack was roaring at 2,500 rpm and the head gaskets held, but that pudgy USA 35B airfoil was no match for the winds aloft. With an anvil looming above, I noticed an orange blob below: a windsock, limp on its pole beside a small 22

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PREFLIGHT

I . L . A . F. F.T.

That Lillipution Lycoming gave us all she had... hangar. The adjacent narrow strip of green beckoned us. We peeled off into a descending turn, slipped down to the eastern threshold, and settled into—not onto—grass that was well over two feet tall, through which the old wooden Sensenich prop was now flailing. We were committed to waiting out the storm here—I had to throttle up to keep us moving. Using the hangar as a reference, we snaked through the grass to where there would likely be tiedowns. Facing the hangar, I shut down, leapt out, and managed to find three old tires— with nylon ropes still inside—through the fescue forest. I lifted the tail and repositioned the old girl between the tiedowns. With the front roiling above, I tied down the wings and was just pulling the lock knot tight on the tail rope when the frontal gust hit hard. The old ropes, green from disuse, managed to hold fast as heavy raindrops began drumming the fabric. I slid into the back seat and closed up the cockpit. It was like being in a car wash. The winds rocked us against the ropes. I fastened the seat belt, lest a tiedown fail and we get flipped. Then I discovered the skylight leaked, just above me. The wind eventually died down and the downpour subsided to a gentle rain with lots of virga drifting by. The visibility wasn’t improving: we were down for the night. Mosquitoes—protected from the rain by the wings and having discovered every opening in the cockpit— harassed me for blood with their unwelcome whine. As dusk closed in, I rinsed down some snacks I’d brought along with water from a canteen. I stepped outside under the wing and was promptly ambushed by mosquitoes. I retreated to the cockpit, closing the door and window with their poorly kept promises of protection. I hung my legs over the front seatback, trying to get comfortable—I tried straddling the seatback, I tried positions that a yogi wouldn’t attempt, and I crawled over the seatback to try various contortions up front, all to no avail. The front seat seemed more exposed to the whining marauders, so I returned to the back seat and hunkered down. The temperature dropped, and my A-2 flight jacket was no match for the damp cold. I needed to layer up, so I stuffed the few articles of clothing I had inside the jacket and zipped it all the way up, tucked my hands into my armpits, and shivered myself to sleep. The cycle of drifting off to sleep, hearing a whine close by, swatting the air until quiet was restored, and drifting back

to sleep continued until dawn. Fortunately, I could see clear skies to the west. I ventured out on feet too frozen to feel, stretched my legs, and performed a walk around, removing torn grass from the lower tail wires, wing struts, and main gear, and untied and coiled the ropes back into their tires. I stomped the grass down under the prop and examined both it and the air filter. The filter was clean, but the prop had a definite green hue to the brass leading edges. I completed the preflight and prepared the cockpit. The eager Lycoming started on the first blade and pucketa’d away as her oil warmed. I performed a quick run-up and began a high rpm taxi through the rough to the far end of the runway. To turn around at the end, I had to get out and pick up the tail as if she had a tail skid. At the other end of the runway was a typical paved country road with a set of power lines and a barbed wire fence running alongside, with a soybean field beyond. I could see up and down the road. There was no traffic for this humble runway, so I fed in the power, and flailed grass about three quarters of the way down the runway. That Lilliputian Lycoming gave us all she had—not much—but it was enough to get above the grass and into ground effect. Keeping the nose down to build speed, the Cub and I departed between power lines and fence, climbing out over the soybeans, headed for home. It’s easy to romanticize flying cross country in an antique: It’s just you and an aging airframe with an anemic engine spinning a wooden prop on some grand adventure, but we still need to exercise good judgment. Racing a cumulonimbus to achieve an impulsive goal is foolhardy, and not diverting to your planned alternate is stupid. Being in a hurry to land, then landing at a strange airport without first verifying its condition, is poor practice. Compounding that error, I put myself in a hurry to leave. I ignored my fatigue and the runway conditions, and performed a risky stunt. I could have napped while a local farmer mowed the grass. Then I would have cleared the power lines by 50 feet. All the poor decisions that should have led to our demise were in perfect alignment. I got away with it, yes, but not because of skill, nor luck: it just wasn’t our time... then. } ANDY GELSTON is a private pilot and an A&P/IA. He keeps the old birds flying out of Post Mills Airport (2B9) in Vermont, along with hot air balloons, and gliders too.

24

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PREFLIGHT

AFTE R M AT H

IMPROVISATION Habit born from overconfidence plus nonchalance add up to a deadly combination.

ACCORDING TO THE PILOT’S own account, he and his lady friend were on a weekend jaunt to Saline Hot Springs, a tiny, rather charming clothing-optional oasis located in the middle of nowhere on the eastern edge of Death Valley in California. He approached the 1,350-foot gravel and rock “Chicken Strip” at 60 knots in his Grumman Yankee, landing uphill, as recommended. Something went wrong, and the Yankee came to rest upside down at the far end of the strip. The pilot broke out what was left of his side of the canopy, and he and his friend crawled out uninjured. The airplane, however, was a total loss. That happened in June 2016. Seven months later, the pilot flew his other airplane, a Mooney M20, into a mountainside in Southern California. The pilot, 56, an electronics engineer, commuted three times a week from his home in Tehachapi, California, to the company in Los Angeles where he had worked full time prior to his semi-retirement in 2015. He would land at Torrance (KTOA), a large GA airport

10 miles south of Los Angeles International (KLAX). A colleague would meet him there and they would drive to work together. The straight-line distance from Tehachapi (KTSP) to Torrance is about 95 statute miles. Tehachapi lies in a valley ringed on three sides by mountains, and overlooks to the east the Mojave Desert, NASA Armstrong Flight Research Center, Edwards Air Force Base, and the Mojave Spaceport of Burt Rutan and SpaceShipOne fame. The natural route from Tehachapi to Torrance would be to fly eastward out of the valley, then turn south. You would probably cruise at 5,500 or 6,500 feet, depending on wind conditions, to cross the mountains on the south edge of the desert— home, incidentally, to the portion of the San Andreas Fault which is said to be preparing a cataclysmic temblor for Los Angeles. You would fly over Van Nuys Airport (KVNY), staying above Burbank’s Class Charlie airspace, drop down to 3,500 feet to thread the VFR corridor through the Los Angeles Class Bravo—don’t forget to change your tran26

Adobe Stock

BY PETER GARRISON

sponder to 1201, the required squawk code in this corridor—and then call Torrance. These are the published VFR procedures. And it appeared, from the tracks stored in his Garmin GPS, that the pilot, who had more than 2,500 hours and an instrument rating, usually did make the trip VFR. The Garmin stored records of 35 trips, beginning about a month before the fatal accident. Of these, 17 were between KTOA and KTSP. In a few cases, the pilot had taken off but eventually turned back, presumably because of clouds over the mountains. It was winter, when Los Angeles would be free of the morning coastal stratus of the spring months but prone to frontal passages and lingering clouds over the mountains to the north. Between the Garmin and ATC radar, the final, fatal flight was precisely documented—and perplexing. After emerging from the Tehachapi basin, the pilot had flown straight toward the Lake Hughes VOR, which is located on a 5,800-foot peak in the mountains that mark the south edge of the desert. The track was west of all the other stored routes, and differed from them in being absolutely straight. The airplane was obviously on autopilot, whereas it had equally obviously been hand-flown on all the previous trips. KTSP is at an elevation of 4,000 feet. The Mooney had initially climbed to 7,500 feet, then turned toward the Lake Hughes VORTAC and immediately returned to 6,500. It stayed there for a short time, then descended to 5,750 feet, where it remained until it struck the mountain just 70 feet below the summit and a stone’s throw from the VOR antenna. National Transportation Safety Board accident investigators could find no explanation for the altitude of 5,750 feet. The hemispheric rule called for 6,500, since the heading was 210. Fox Field (KWJF), 10 miles or so east of the Mooney’s track, was reporting overcast at 2,400 feet, or 4,750 feet msl. It is extremely probable that a similar ceiling prevailed over the mountains and the ridges were obscured. The pilot was not in contact with air traffic control, and the NTSB determined that he must, at some point, have entered IMC. The reason for the 5,750-foot altitude, which the pilot maintained quite accurately, can probably be inferred from his previous tracks and altitudes. Although he sometimes flew at 6,500 or 7,500 feet, on three occasions he had crossed the mountains at 5,700. Even at that height, he still had 1,000 feet of ground clearance, because the mountains east of Lake Hughes are only 3,500 to 4,500 feet high. Only a couple of isolated peaks rise to 5,200 or so. On one occasion, he had passed about a mile and a half east of Lake Hughes, but he was then at 7,000 feet and would not have formed a definite idea of the height of the VOR. He knew that he could drop down below the overcast once he had crossed the initial group of ridges. He was low enough to be out of the way of IFR traffic—hence the odd, neither-here-nor-there altitude—but high enough

to get safely over the mountains. To ATC radar, he would look like scud-running VFR traffic. The hemispheric rule does not apply to traffic flying less than 3,000 feet above terrain. The elevation of the Lake Hughes VOR is indicated in tiny, faint characters on the sectional—much less conspicuously than the heights of charted obstacles. But it is unlikely that the pilot consulted a sectional chart. He was improvising and believed that he was so familiar with the terrain that he had no need of a map. But there was a critical difference between this flight and the others. This time he was navigating by the VOR, not by pilotage, and the VOR turned out to be a trap. Two aspects of this accident are worth reflecting upon. One is the role of habit and the sense of security that it brings. Familiar tasks frequently repeated dull alertness. The pilot probably felt no threat from these low, forgiving hills. The other is the pilot’s evident willingness to improvise, to take chances, to shrug off norms and regulations. Most pilots would not consider a Yankee, with its high approach speed and small tires, a good candidate for a rugged desert strip a third the length of the typical GA airport. He tried it anyway. The willingness to take a chance and the optimism about likely outcomes that took him to Saline in the Yankee were also perhaps in play when he decided to fly blind across mountains within—he thought—a few hundred feet of them. Perhaps they also made him reluctant to subject himself to the regimentation, scrutiny, and delays of an instrument flight plan. Adventurousness is not a vice, even in pilots. Which of us has never done an unwise thing, taken a chance, or broken a rule? Proverbially, there are no old, bold pilots, but in fact, there are plenty. The trick is to strike a balance—to know when to be rash and when to draw back. This accident represents the convergence of a psychological willingness to behave unconventionally and a confident lack of concern born of habit. Unfortunately, it is not always in our power to recognize our mistakes as we are making them. That’s why we fall back on rules and procedures: They insulate us from our own frailties. One may feel a grudging admiration for bold nonchalance—but really, all things considered, he should have filed. } This article is based on the National Transportation Safety Board’s report of the accident and is intended to bring the issues raised to our readers’ attention. It is not intended to judge or to reach any definitive conclusions about the ability or capacity of any person, living or dead, or any aircraft or accessory.

PETER GARRISON taught himself to use a slide rule and tin snips, built an airplane in his backyard, and flew it to Japan. He writes a monthly installment of Aftermath for FLYING online as well. He has contributed to FLYING since 1968.

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PREFLIGHT

IN D E P TH

MORE T H AN A GRE AT STUN T A legendary movie pilot reveals a lifetime of great stories.

BY DAN PIMENTEL

Photo illustration by Amy Jo Sledge, photos courtesy of Corkey Fornof

M

OVIE PILOT J.W. “CORKEY” Fornof has flown thousands of hours performing aerial film stunts that probably looked crazy to the untrained eye. However, his impeccable record shows a career-long commitment to safety at all times. In movies such as Mission: Impossible II, Six Days Seven Nights, The Phantom, Face/Off, and James Bond thrillers Licence to Kill and Octopussy—plus many others— Fornof was involved in the on-screen aerial stunt flying, not only as the pilot, but also on the teams that coordinated every mission. Fornof’s body of work could fill a book, and in fact, it will soon, as he is currently working on his biography, My Life Is a Movie, to be released at a later date. It will be a wild ride through a career that features just about every outrageous thing you could do with an airplane while the cameras were rolling… except fly right through a billboard. That stunt was planned, but cut for one of the Bond films, and—like everything Fornof has done—had it happened, it would have been spectacular. Here’s a look at the backstory of how Fornof has done so much and lived to tell the tale.

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FLYING Magazine (FM): Your 17,000-plus hours not only include movie stunt work, but also a long career as an airshow pilot and test pilot. How many performances and different aircraft fill your logbooks?

my approval. For air-to-air filming, I always have a full safety briefing before filming sequences, and everyone on set knows I am the director during air-to-air shoots. FM: What is one of the closest “close calls” you have had while filming a stunt sequence?

Corkey Fornof (CF): I’ve flown more than 3,000 lowlevel aerial performances and practice sessions as a formation team or solo in the T-6 Texan, P-51 Mustang, F8F Bearcat, Pitts Special, Bellanca Super Viking, Christen Eagle, and the world’s smallest jet, the BD-5J. To date, I’ve flown 311 different aircraft.

CF: We were using Kauai’s Nā Pali coast flying a Cessna 402 to shoot sequences by flying down the dramatic canyons towards the ocean. Coming over one saddle, I saw three swinging wires all about 2 inches in diameter. With the nose 45 degrees down, there was no way to go over them, and if I went under them, I would impact the ground, so I just tried to fly between the wires.

Glenn Watson (above); Courtesy of Corkey Fornof (opposite)

FM: When your movie stunt flying involves dangerous maneuvers, who is in charge when planning the stunt, and who has the final say when it comes to safety?

FM: How does someone survive flying a Cessna 402 through three large power wires?

CF: I work as an aerial coordinator/stunt pilot, which is a Screen Actors Guild (SAG) position to write, design, and fly the ‘money shot’ sequences. On set, I have total control over safety. If I, the director, or first assistant director (1st AD) sees an uncomfortable situation and makes a safety radio call of “CUT CUT CUT,” that stops everything and gets everyone’s attention.

CF: The top wire came across the nose and windscreen and clipped off part of the vertical rudder. I felt pain in my left foot and looking down, I saw a long gash about 3 feet by 5 feet at the rudder pedals, where part of the wire was attached. At the time, I had no idea we were dragging about a 150-foot-long piece of the wire, which acted like a tailhook as we took out the main power lines into Princeville. The airplane was still flying, so no emergency was declared. We landed safely at Lihue [PHLI]. I credit the training I had with saving all of our lives.

FM: With so many moving parts to a stunt flying sequence, what measures are put in place to assure safety from start to finish? CF: Posted on the call sheet is a notice that aircraft will be used on set, and everyone must attend a safety briefing before filming. The 1st AD will make it clear that before anything is done around or to aircraft, it must have

FM: What’s the best piece of training advice you ever received? 30

The aircraft that Fornof has flown could fill a museum—such as this F9F Panther his father flew in preparation to deploy to Korea. “It was a thrill to sit in a jet he flew,” Fornof said. “Holding the stick and throttle he actually used was a magic moment.”

CF: The training from my father, Bill Fornof, and Bob Hoover was unbeatable. They were kings of the airshow business in the 1960s and 1970s. They told me to go watch a ballet because when you watch a ballerina on stage, you see they have total control over their hands and feet, and they demonstrate total control in energy management. They also have great situational awareness on stage. I learned to fly as they dance, in total control. FM: So what’s the story about you and Bob Hoover’s signature Panama hat? CF: When I was 13 years old, I started flying in the back of Hoover’s Mustang to airshows, to clean his airplane and my father’s Bearcat. I was getting sunburned cleaning the airplanes, and eventually started wearing a Panama hat. Hoover saw me wearing it at one of the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base shows and liked it, so he started wearing one too. So I was the person who introduced Hoover to that style of hat, which sort of became his trademark. He signed that original hat, and I still have it in my office. FM: What was the biggest stunt you ever filmed? CF: Flying a Jetstar II through a large hangar door in Face/Off. The shot had 26 cameras, more than any other shoot in film history. We had one take, so I watched my GPS for 60 knots, and then just turned 90 degrees and drove the Jetstar through the hangar doors while explosives were going in the hangar.

QUICK

6 FM: Who’s the one person living or dead you would most like to fly with? CF: Gen. Jimmy Doolittle FM: If you could fly any airplane or helicopter you have not yet flown, what would that be? CF: Curtiss P-6E Hawk or Boeing P-26 Peashooter FM: Describe the most remote airport you’ve ever used. CF: Too many to name. If I needed a strip at a distant location, the film’s transportation department would cut and level one for me. FM: What do you believe has been aviation’s biggest breakthrough event or innovation? CF: Powerplants (jets, now electric) and a giant leap in avionics. FM: What is one important lesson you learned in your training? CF: That the airplane can fly better than I could. FM: When not flying, I’d rather be… CF: With my family or building scale-model airplanes.

FM: Is flying these unbelievable stunts ever fun? CF: It is all very hard work, but we do have our fun. During the filming of Phantom, I was Catherine Zeta-Jones’ stunt double for the biplane scenes. It was not an easy task—she’s beautiful. I wore a long wig and a leather helmet. That night at a cast party by the resort’s pool, as the crew was having some good-natured fun ribbing me, Catherine grabbed an open mike and said across the entire resort PA system that if she and I were in the same dress, wig, and make-up, you couldn’t tell us apart from a half-mile away! The pool area came apart with laughter. }

DAN PIMENTEL is an instrument-rated private pilot and professional photographer whose life stops anytime an airplane flies overhead, as he cherishes the moment.

Fornof with his father, Bill Fornof.


E M B R A E R

P R A E T O R

5 0 0 :

SUPERIOR CONTROL The latest evolution of the EMB-550 series takes fly-by-wire into a new realm. BY JULIE BOATMAN IMAGES BY JIM BARRETT AND EMBRAER

“ THE TECH MAKES YOU A BET TER PILOT.”

We were halfway through an initial briefing on the Praetor 500—my full-scale orientation to the midsize business jet—and McKeage's statement caused me to pause my notetaking and consider the principle. Embraer has had decades to develop its proprietary fly-bywire flight control systems (FBW FCS), the technology to which he was referring. The company launched its initial FBW FCS with the AMX International attack aircraft in 1984, saw it through two generations of regional jets—the E-Jet and the E2—and in 2015, iterated it again for the C-390 Millenium military transport. In flight, I’ll witness its evolution and intelligence working behind the scenes—but it operates just under the pilot’s ability to sense it, as it diligently keeps the demons at bay. While most new turbine aircraft offer sophisticated layers of overspeed and underspeed protection, FBW FCS operates differently—rather than just jumping in to save you, it’s in the background making minute adjustments, trimming to match the current profile.

Even if that profile involves losing an engine. The Praetor 500, certificated in 2019, carries the same model designation (EMB-550/500) as its predecessor, the Legacy 450, which first flew in 2013 and entered the market in late 2015. With more than 210 flying, the Praetor series has logged more than 300,000 flight hours, and completed more than 195,000 cycles. AirSprint and Flexjet joined the fan club with Praetor additions to their charter fleets at 10 units and 39 units, respectively. With the longest range in the midsize segment, it can tackle true coast-to-coast U.S. city pairs without restriction. Positions in the delivery queue stretch to late 2023 and early 2024. But with Embraer’s upgrade program, an operator could foreseeably find a Legacy 450 and “Praetorize” it, gaining most of the strengths of the newest model. These include new winglets, a new avionics load, updated fuel control unit wiring, and wing refueling ports.

Jim Barrett (right)

BRAD MCKEAGE Vice President of Flight Operations Embraer Executive Aircraft, Melbourne, Florida

The fly-by-wire flight control system includes five layers of redundancy within the electrical schematic to protect the crew from a total system failure: two generators , an APU, two main batteries , and two backup batteries—and if all else heads south, a ram-air turbine (RAT) to deploy into the slipstream to generate juice for critical capabilities like controlling the airplane.

The lines of the Praetor 500 echo each other in their flow, from winglet to empennage.

Jim Barrett (3)

The T-tail features a swept horizontal stabilizer pair at the top of the vertical fin .

Winglets (opposite page) not only look good but are also likely to boost range.

The main landing gear houses twin wheel assemblies plus the Praetor's powerful braking system .

Preflight goes quickly with streamlined access points and systems information on the flight deck, dialing down the number of stops on the walkaround and enhancing serviceability—and taking away the need to get out a stepladder, in most cases. The Pro Line Fusion delivers a series of safety regimes and envelope protection, including Embraer’s 'E2VS' enhanced vision system with three cameras (infrared, ultraviolet, and visible spectrum) for CAT II instrument approach credits to a 100-foot

Jim Barrett (3)

decision height with authorization.

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FUSION UP FRONT Commanding the flight deck, the Collins Pro Line Fusion in the Praetor uses four large flight displays and a keypad paired with a roller-ball-equipped controller on each side of the center console. On first approach, many modern turbine cockpits look similar—the differences come to light in the details. As I sat in the left seat prior to our flight, demo pilot Jim Barnhart began a formal briefing. He walked through the preflight sequence and revealed the thoughtful layout of the control groupings for each system. On the overhead: electrical to the far left; fire protection, fuel, and pressurization in the center left; APU and cabin in the center right; and ice protection to the far right. The checklists on the Fusion have undergone an edit as well, and they only serve up the necessary steps in each phase of preflight, inflight, and after-landing regimes. This is an extension of the “dark and quiet” flight-deck concept pioneered by Boeing—if everything’s fine, the panel is dark and the only sounds are

the wind rushing over the wings and the hum of the engines. Yes, they mounted the Honeywell HTF7500E turbofans a good 33 feet behind us, so we needed the engine indication system to be sure they were running when they're near idle on the ground. In flight it was a different story, as their 6,540 pounds of flat-rated thrust (up to +18 C to ISA) can propel the 500 forward at up to Mach 0.83/466 ktas at FL 410 (with four passengers and a moderate, mid-cruise fuel weight). During the demo flight we spent most of our time in a range of bugged airspeeds in order to fly through several flight-envelope sequences with the FBW FCS. I hand-flew the airplane into both low-speed and highspeed excursions—but the most fun had to be the steep turns. “Put it from 45 degrees to 45 degrees, and see how fast it goes,” said Barnhart, encouraging me to test the system’s responsiveness. The FBW and other safety elements may limit your ultimate bank, but you can go back and forth with a roll rate that is truly impressive.

Connectivity comes via an international KA band from Viasat for global coverage with streaming up to 40 Mbps—or the more economical choice for domestic operations , Gogo’s L5 Avance in the U.S. for up to 10 Mbps .

Two keypads (one for each pilot) allow for entries into the system , using a specially shaped controller with a rollerball to move the cursor and highlight fields on the screens for filling in the blanks .

IN TO THE IN TE R IO R Most Praetor 500 owners spec a seven-passenger cabin configuration with up to nine seats possible on board, in addition to the two-pilot crew. That cabin stretches 6 feet tall and almost 7 feet wide—the widest in the class. An aft closet behind the lav section allows for 40 cubic feet of cargo to ride along inside the pressure vessel. An additional unpressurized cargo bay in the rear fuselage holds 110 more cubic feet of bags and equipment. The interior itself holds a key to the Embraer sensibility, which not only takes into account current

aesthetics, but also the upgrade potential that lies ahead. When designing the latest Praetor interior, the team factored in the concept that—as connectivity and display technology evolves—owners will want to update their passenger consoles without spoiling the fine lines. Therefore, USB ports and in-flight entertainment system controls slide out of view, and they’re housed in modular components, akin to the line-replaceable units composing the integrated flight deck avionics up front. With upgrade paths already in place, the Praetor 500 appears well positioned for long-term ownership.

The main four seats amidships in the cabin articulate into a lie-flat berth for long-distance travel .

Jim Barrett (3)

An optional expanded galley up front can accommodate an oven and attractive storage for bar ware.

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The vacuum lavator y cubicle in the aft cabin also houses the emergency exit—and Embraer passed certification on the 500 with the ability from the flight deck to unlock the door that normally closes the cubicle off from the rest of the cabin . That design choice enabled a more cohesive cabin environment—without a break in the seating and window lines to accommodate the exit hatch.

The aft cargo compartment benefits from one key aspect of fly-by-wire: no control cables or rods taking up space in the empennage.

The upper trim within the cabin has been reinforced to allow for handholds during entr y, exit, and moving through the space during turbulence (opposite page). 41

The Praetor runs solidly in the green for its class on operating costs, which we accessed from Conklin & de Decker. For a typical 1,000 nm mission, with four passengers and NBAA IFR reserves, the variable operating cost ranges from $2,047 to $2,958 per flight hour, plus a fixed annual cost of up to $638,859, based on 400 flight hours per year and other assumptions for a crewed aircraft. Several items contribute to advantages over its nearest competitor, the Cessna Citation Latitude—chief among them that the FBW system saves both weight and maintenance downtime by up to 40 percent. Fuel burn in long-range cruise runs around 1,870 pph.

EMBRAER PRAETOR 500 Price (as tested): $16.995 million High cruise speed: 469 ktas Max Mach number: 0.83 MMO NBAA IFR range (2 crew + 4 pax): 3,340 nm Takeoff distance 1,000 nm/NBAA IFR: 2,875 ft. Landing distance unfactored/NBAA IFR : 2,091 ft. Max operating altitude: 45,000 ft. Length: 64 ft. 7 in. Wing span: 70 ft. 6 in. Height: 21 ft. 1 in. Cabin length: 24 ft. Cabin width: 6 ft. 10 in. Cabin height: 6 ft. Maximum payload: 2,921 lbs. Payload, full fuel: 1,610 lbs. Pressurized stowage: 40 cubic ft. Aft cargo stowage: 110 cubic ft.

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43

one with the sky An airline pilot goes back to the basics with a glider. BY SAM WEIGEL IMAGES BY LEIGH HUBNER

am sitting in a semi-reclined position, ensconced in a small cockpit with a bubble canopy a few inches from my head. It offers an expansive view of Chilhowee Gliderport’s bucolic surroundings, but the peaceful scene does little to calm the butterflies in my stomach. I focus on the towplane idling a hundred feet away and subconsciously wipe my sweat from the stick as Jason Arnold, who co-owns and operates the gliderport with his wife, Sarah, attaches the towline. I am intensely aware of the empty seat behind me. Sarah Arnold, my instructor, now stands to the side of the staging area, the very picture of serene calm. I flash back to the morning of my 16th birthday, staring bug-eyed at the empty right seat of the flight school Cessna 150. “Just do what you’ve learned the last three years, and you’ll be fine,” Jerry Graham said as he climbed out. Mind you, on this first solo I’ve only had a half-day of preparation, but the principle still applies: concentrate on procedures, and the butterflies dissipate. I look around the PW-6’s tiny cockpit and make a final before-takeoff check: seat belt, canopy, controls, tow-rope release, rope taut and free of knots. I give Jason a thumbs up, and he picks up my left wingtip. I take a deep breath, say a silent prayer, and waggle my rudder, signaling the tow pilot that I’m ready to go. The roar of the towplane’s engine is distant and somehow unreal, but the surge of acceleration is instantaneous. Jason runs along for a few paces; once he falls back, it takes nearly full aileron to keep the wing off the ground until airflow increases. I have a sense of being on a funhouse ride as I jolt across the turf, feeling every divot. The relentless pull of the towplane makes me feel at the mercy of the beast. That’s not quite the case: I still have directional control, and I have a yellow tow release handle if I really want to stop. The most likely abort scenario would involve a problem with the towplane’s engine, and if it so much as hiccups at low altitude, the tow pilot will pull his own rope release and leave me to fend for myself. I am quite dependent on him for the first minute or two of the tow—

and yet, oddly, he is even more dependent on me. As I reach flying speed and break ground, I am careful to level a few feet above the grass runway, until the towplane begins its climb. Letting the glider wander too high at this point would forcibly lift the towplane’s tail and cause a disastrous dive into the ground. Sarah told me that there have been several such accidents in the last few years, two of them fatal. Now, this tow pilot knows I’m on my first glider solo and must be spring-loaded to pull the release if I show the slightest homicidal tendency—but if I were particularly careless, he might not have time to react. It’s a strange sort of intimacy I’m sharing with the person on the other side of this rope, a gruff man I only briefly met. I stay laser focused on the towplane and slide into proper position as he begins his climb, feeling for the trim knob with my left hand and easing it forward to relieve the forward force on the stick. We climb through 200 feet agl. From here, I could make it back to the runway in case of a rope break or release, a feat that always surprises power pilots for whom such a low-altitude turnback must spell disaster. I know it’s possible because I did it myself a few minutes ago when Sarah pulled the release handle without warning, right at 200 feet. My sense of shock was appropriately realistic—I wasn’t expecting a simulated rope break then. I recovered my wits and smartly rolled into a 45-degree bank to the left, like I’d briefed before takeoff. As the airspeed decayed to 56 knots, I eased the back pressure to maintain max L/D, our best glide speed in still air. The runway came into view, and I made a quick S-turn to maneuver onto final. Surprisingly, we had plenty of altitude to spare, and I actually used the spoilers to get down. I touched down and rolled to the staging zone, where Sarah asked me if I was ready to do it by myself. I gulped and said yes. This time, 10 minutes later, the rope holds and the towplane makes a left turnout to the south. I concentrate on staying perfectly behind and just above him, and once we’re above 1,000 feet I practice “boxing the

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wake.” Flying a glider on tow is a bit like formation flying—if your every move also affected the lead ship and they were aware of every control input you made—and if getting out of position could result in a nasty jerk or rope break. You learn to keep the rope taut, and you also practice slack-line recovery maneuvers. I linger on tow up to nearly 3,000 feet; Sarah told me to go play a bit and enjoy my first solo, but it’s still

early afternoon and the “lift” (glider-speak for thermals and other rising air) is looking fairly indifferent with only a few wispy fair-weather cumulus dotting the sky. Finally, I pull the release, the rope leaps away with a sprang, and the towplane dives away to the left while I maintain altitude and bank right. The dull roar of the towplane’s engine is replaced by the whisper of the wind and I set off to the west in search of lift.

EVERYTHING ZEN I can’t pinpoint a single factor that made me decide to get my glider rating. My wife, Dawn, has lately accused me of being a rating-chaser because I got my seaplane rating and haven’t used it much, and I want to do the multiengine sea, though I have no realistic hope of using it, ever. Similarly, I originally started skydiving with the intention of going no further than the student course. And the truth is, given where we are in our lives, there’s little chance that I will put a glider rating to good use in the near future. One could suppose there’s a certain amount of machismo involved (OK, you can waterski, but can you drop a ski? You can fly, but can you fly with no engine?). I don’t think that’s what’s going on here, though; this is more of a Zen thing. Almost everything I’ve done in general aviation over the last 10 years has been along two parallel veins: honing my stick and rudder skills to become more perfectly one with the airplane, and simplifying my flying to more perfectly resemble the ideal of natural, unaided bird flight—to become as one with the sky. Some of this is clearly a rebellion against the stultifying rigidity of my airline pilot profession, and some is an attempt to knock off the calcification of mid-

dle age and claw back the proficiency of my freightdogging youth. By their very nature, sailplanes demand and reward smoothness and precision—and seat-of-the-pants judgment—in a way that modern airliners do not. As for childhood dreams of bird flight, I’ve tried a lot of things, including wind-in-your-hair sky sports like hang gliding and skydiving. Nothing comes quite as close as soaring. On an aesthetic level, I think gliding produces a purer relationship between the pilot and the machine, and between the pilot and the sky. Staying airborne becomes about skill, about being in tune with your aircraft and your environment. Flying is incredibly sensual in a glider. You feel the jostle of lift as you enter it, sense where it’s strongest by which wing it lifts. You visualize the movement of air in smoke and dust, in telltale clouds, and in the other creatures (avian and human) sharing your airspace. Soaring flight is not exactly silent, but the primary sound is that of your craft slicing through the air. Most gliders are now equipped with electronic varios that add a wonderfully whimsical, musical sound to lift: a happy, lilting song when entering, and a sad-trombone dirge when lift dies. 46

IT TAKES A VI LL AGE In thinking about gliding, there’s one word I keep coming back to: relationship. It is apropos in many ways: not only in the relationships between the pilot and their machine and environment, but also in the bonds of friendship formed between kindred spirits of the same feather. Soaring is a communal sport. It must be, for it takes a village to rig, move, launch, tow, and retrieve a glider. Seldom will you get a crew together to launch just one or two gliders. Either the fleet flies together, or nobody flies at all. Soaring clubs are the rule. Goodnatured competition is the norm, and a great deal of socializing takes place before, during, and after weekend gaggles. Commercial operators like Chilhowee are surprisingly rare, and even Chilhowee feels very much like a club. It’s appropriate, then, that Chilhowee Gliderport is owned and operated by a young married couple—Sarah and Jason—and that I was introduced to them by two dear friends I’ve written of in these pages before, Sylvia and Hugh Grandstaff. Sarah is the primary instructor

and designated examiner at Chilhowee, but Jason also instructs, and they tag-team ground crew, tow pilot, and maintenance duties. Besides the sleek, high-performance PW-6 I flew, Chilhowee trains students in a beautifully restored Schweizer 2-33 and also has several single-place ships for rent, as well as two converted crop-dusters for aerotow. It’s a neat little operation in a beautiful location in the shadow of Chilhowee Ridge in the southeastern corner of Tennessee, which attracts pilots from around the world. Quite apart from running Chilhowee, Sarah Arnold is best known in the soaring community as one of the top competitive glider racing pilots in the world. In fact, shortly before my visit, she won the standard class gold medal at the Women’s World Gliding Championship in Lake Keepit, Australia. Sylvia Grandstaff has been good friends with Sarah for years and was one of her Team USA teammates at Lake Keepit; she suggested that if I wanted to get my glider rating, I should learn from the best.

In search of lift: A glider pilot must seek it in thermals, ridge lift, or the mountain wave—and make do if it dissipates.

On a bright September morning, Dawn and I pulled into Chilhowee after a long drive from New York City. When I first met Sarah, she came across as quiet and unassuming, almost shy. But I caught a hawklike intensity in her eyes and noted the economic purposefulness of her movements. When I asked her a question, she’d think intently for a moment and reply with a short, succinct answer that conveyed exactly the information I wanted to know. In nearly three decades in aviation, I’ve come to recognize Sarah’s type, and when they speak, I listen. She’s a pro, and I quickly came to feel a certain kinship with her, though our particular corners of the piloting profession are rather far apart. In the glider on our first lesson, I got to watch Sarah fly for a minute or two. She had me take off and box the wake, and fly the release; but a few minutes later, a little turbulence jostled the glider and Sarah suddenly said, “My controls, I think there might be a bit of lift there.” As I relinquished the stick, she threw the glider into a 60 degree bank to the left, got another jostle, entered

airframe and long-winged grace, was to fly it like a 737 with 179 sinners’ souls and one saintly grandma in the back. Sarah showed me with one deft movement how to fly this sleek bird, whether in an emergency response to a rope break or in a champion glider racer’s pursuit of transitory lift. Now, on my first solo in a glider, off the tow and free to roam, I try to put myself in Sarah’s place. Where would she look for lift? That cool river valley I’m about to cross clearly isn’t it; the vario confirms the area of sink and I (rather counter-intuitively) push the stick forward to get through it quickly. That half-grown bean field? The vario shrugs noncommittally. I continue on to a scraggly-looking corn field and am rewarded with a distinct jostle that forces the left wing upward. I sling into a steep left turn and the vario begins to sing a happy song of lift before falling silent. I bank hard to get back to the thermal, but fly out of it even more quickly. Then I see a red-tailed hawk circling below me, and I realize that the lift is a little more down-

a steep right turn, and circled for 90 seconds, varying the bank and turn radius slightly. Finally, she shrugged and said, “not much there,” turning the controls back over to me. But even those two minutes gave me something to use. A few flights later, when Sarah pulled the tow release on me at 200 feet, my turn back to the runway was her turn: smooth, coordinated but aggressive. My natural tendency, given the glider’s seemingly dainty

wind. I ease the bank, approach at an oblique angle, and as the vario breaks into steady song, I throw the glider into a tight circle, “centering” the thermal. The hawk appears at my altitude and circles opposite me, completely nonplussed by his white-winged companion. After a few minutes and 1,500 feet of climbing, the lift dies abruptly; nothing I do seems to bring it back, and the hawk disappears. But it was a beautiful moment while it lasted. 48

Dawn Weigel (2)

SOARING WITH HAWKS

IN THE WE EDS After soaring majestically with the hawk, it’s time to get in the weeds with the turkeys. I’ve elected to go for a commercial add-on rating, and that means I need 20 solo takeoffs and landings. This is to get comfortable with what are the most demanding parts of glider operations: launch procedures and traffic patterns. The most common glider fatality is the stall/spin accident. It tends to occur when pilots try to stretch their glide range to the gliderport rather than accepting “landing out,” which seldom results in injury or damage to the glider but always involves a fair amount of crew work and a certain measure of bruised ego. Ideally, one enters the pattern with enough energy that the base and final is flown with a partially deployed spoiler. The spoiler is analogous to the throttle in powered aircraft; it is used to adjust the

glidepath as needed, and it makes the glider surprisingly airplane-like in the pattern. The really important thing is to stay coordinated. The glider’s long wings result in an enormous amount of adverse yaw, and you have to lead turns with the rudder. Surprisingly, I get in half of my solo flights on the first day of training. Apart from the first solo with the hawk, all are tows to slightly above pattern altitude, a quick release, and a normal traffic pattern with landing a few minutes after takeoff. You could make nine stopand-gos in an hour with a powered airplane, but in the glider I have to get turned around and hooked back up to the towplane. Over the afternoon, it becomes more routine, and every ground turn goes quicker and smoother. By the end of the day, I have made 15 flights, 10 of them solo, and I am well on my way to a glider rating.

A glider's long , high-aspect-ratio wings create a large amount of adverse yaw in turns, so you lead with the rudder.

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THE CH AN GE UP The next morning, I arrive to the gliderport and find that I’ll be flying with Jason today, since Sarah will be administering my check ride. Jason is an interesting guy; he’s an accomplished glider pilot in his own right but happily lives in the shadow of his wife’s virtuosity, crewing for her at glider racing contests. Jason and Sarah have different and complementary personalities: where she is quiet and intense, he is gregarious and laid-back, the surfer dude to her gunny sergeant. In other circumstances, I think Jason and I would get along famously but on this morning, we fail to mesh. I’m too keyed up today, too conscious of the approaching check ride and possible weather delays, ready to master this machine. Our first flight features several mutual misunderstandings and some rather sloppy wake-boxing on my part, which comes as little surprise: plateauing and even backsliding a bit just before check rides has always been my modus operandi. But then as we practice stalls, I have trouble getting the glider to break cleanly to Jason’s satisfaction, and my frustration catches up to me. After two attempts, I give the stick a good yank; the nose comes up rapidly, the wing loads up, and sure enough, the glider gives up the ghost quite definitively, starting to drop a wing before I stop it with a stab of rudder. Jason is characteris-

GETT ING A G LID ER C E RT IFI CATE It's straightforward—and you will learn a lot about airmanship, micro-scale weather, and aerodynamics.

IF YOU'RE JUST STARTING TO FLY, you can get your initial private pilot certificate in gliders with an aero-tow or other endorsement: - Be 16 years old - Pass a knowledge test - Fly with an instructor for 30 to 40 flights pre-solo, and then log at least two solo hours and a total of 10 hours in gliders - Pass a practical test If you already have a pilot certificate with an airplane rating, you can add the glider rating by: - Flying with an instructor, and then logging 10 solo flights - Passing a practical test (no knowledge exam is required)

tically unflappable: “Well, that was more of an airshow maneuver; we try to go a little easier on 'em…” Crimson rises in my cheeks. I didn’t break any limitations, but I showed the hamfistedness of an amateur. I think back to when I did something similar in the Cessna 150 at the tender age of 13. “Now Sam,” admonished Jerry, “you have to treat the airplane like a woman.” Of course, I had no clue about women at that age, but I understood Jerry’s gist, and with his gentle hints, I learned to keep the airplane in trim, fly with my fingertips, and make smooth control inputs that resulted in even changes of load factor. It’s technique that has served me well in airplanes from the Piper J-3 to the Boeing 767. Now I take a deep breath, clear my mind of the bad energy that’s built up over this flight, and make a much smoother approach to stall with a clean but less aggressive break. After lunch, Jason and I have a much better flight, and then I set about pounding through all my remaining solo trips around the pattern. Toward the end of the day, I have enough time to take a high tow, get out of the pattern, and attempt to thermal with the hawks again. There’s not a lot of lift around, just enough to maintain altitude for a while, and I play a “what-if” game of what I would do if I were actually attempting to go somewhere in these fickle conditions.

A P ILOT R EBOR N By lunchtime, the ink is drying on my new ATP certificate, with its amended line: “Commercial Privileges - Airplane Single Engine Land and Sea; Glider.” Handshakes are exchanged, photos are taken; I’m a new glider pilot. What now? Time will tell. My new home in the Pacific Northwest is not prime soaring territory, and procuring a single-seat glider will likely take a backseat to buying a four-seat taildragger to share with my wife, dog, and friends. At least Chilhowee is within striking range of my airline’s major hub in Atlanta, and there are many other cool soaring destinations around the U.S. that have affordable gliders for rent. But what you do with the rating is almost irrelevant. The real value of glider training lies in the sharpening of stick and rudder skills and the honing of airmanship that it provides. This carries over to all of your flying, regardless of number of engines or lack thereof. That alone is good reason to make getting your glider rating a top priority. The fact that it’s a beautiful experience and a hell of a lot of fun is just the cherry on top. } SAM WEIGEL began flight lessons at age 13 and worked his way up to flying for a major airline. His new online series, V1 Rotate, explores the world of the professional pilot.

Leigh Hubner

The weather is quite marginal the next morning, and Jason and I spend it on a mock oral exam, during which I learn quite a bit about cross-country and contestflying strategy. The following day, we get skunked completely by low clouds and rain. Instead, Dawn and I load up our Nissan Xterra and go exploring the muddy logging roads and misty peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains. We enjoy a nice quiet night in our cabin tucked into a river valley on the east side of the Chilhowee Ridge, sipping wine and studying glider textbooks by the firelight. Thankfully, the weather breaks and the next morning dawns clear and cold. I arrive at Chilhowee early, ready for the check ride and completely free of jitters. By my count, I’ve had 51 check rides thus far in my career, and while a few were less than perfect, so far I’ve managed to avoid a pink slip; I generally do my best flying under pressure. Sure enough, both the oral and flight test go very well. Sarah pulls the tow release at 200 feet on the very first takeoff, but by now I expect such shenanigans, and at this point, 200 feet seems like tons of altitude in this sleek ship. We make several more flights in quick succession, testing tow procedures and airwork, and various types of landings.

APPROACHABLE AIRCRAFT

PIPER TOMAHAWK A re ward for prop er tec h niqu e in a mo de rn desi gn

BY JASON MCDOWELL

Mark Kolanowski

The wide stance of the Piper Tomahawk's main landing gear provides sure-footed stability.

eciding on an airplane type with a limited budget is an exercise in balancing strengths and weaknesses. One type might provide great cruise speed or payload, but less expensive examples might come at the cost of a high-time engine or old fabric. For the same price, it might be possible to find a different type that has been freshly restored with a low-time engine, although chances are, it will have fewer seats and less capability.

But what if one type’s perceived weakness is something that can be addressed with awareness and appropriate training? In the case of the Piper PA-38 Tomahawk, its unique stall and spin characteristics resulted in accidents and a poor reputation early in its production run. The reputation lingers today, but owners agree that if one is willing to train and fly appropriately, it becomes a non-issue—and a non-issue that enables a prospective owner to obtain a lot more airplane for a lot less money than other types.

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DESI G N Back in the late 1970s, the field of training aircraft was dominated by legacy types that traced their designs back to the 1930s and 1940s. The popular Cessna 150 and 152 were based upon the old 140, Cubs and Aeroncas had changed little over the years, and—whether equipped with a nosewheel or a tailwheel—most trainers also had high wings, cramped cockpits, and limited visibility. When Piper set out to claim market share from Cessna in the primary trainer category, it took a fresh approach. Rather than build an updated Cub or a smaller Cherokee, Piper surveyed thousands of flight instructors across the country to determine what characteristics were most desired in a training aircraft. It solicited input on what features the perfect one should have and how it should fly. The instructors provided plenty of input.

Having spent decades in cramped cabins, they asked for more space and comfort. Having dealt with huge blind spots in the form of a high wing positioned at eye level, they asked for more visibility. And they wanted an airplane with a sharper, more pronounced entry into stalls and spins. They reasoned that a student cannot fully understand or properly learn spin recovery in an airplane that will automatically return to normal flight when the controls are released. Piper got to work and created an airplane that met each of these demands in the form of the Tomahawk. It built the airframe around the popular 112 hp, fourcylinder Lycoming O-235. Although the low-wing design necessitated a fuel pump, Piper positioned the fuel selector in a location on the panel that’s both easy to see and easy to reach. And, like so many other models in that era, they opted for the style of a T-tail.

Jason McDowell (2)

The fuel selector and fuel gauges are centrally positioned—and easy to see and reach in the heart of the instrument panel.

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The T-tail on the Tomahawk looks and flies differently from other empennages that feature a low-slung horizontal stab.

M O D E L H I STOR Y The result of the research was a new training aircraft that was thoroughly modernized and differentiated from the legacy trainers of the day. In the end, Piper would sell nearly 2,500 examples between 1978 and 1982. In those four years of production, the Tomahawk line remained simple and uncomplicated. The vast ma-

jority of Tomahawks are the initial model, known simply as the PA-38 Tomahawk. During the last two years of production, Piper introduced the Tomahawk II variant, with minor improvements to the cabin: heating, ventilation, and soundproofing. The company also made a few smaller improvements to the interior to provide more comfort to those on board.

A survey of Tomahawks listed for sale at the time of this writing found eight examples ranging in price from $25,000 for a particularly rough example to $69,000 for one with a freshly overhauled engine and updated avionics. The median price of the group was $30,500, and the median airframe time was 3,717 hours. A total of 444 Tomahawks are presently listed on the FAA registry.

Because many Tomahawks have been used for flight training at busy schools, it pays to be discerning. Airframe total time is something to note, as is the condition of an aircraft that might have led a hard life at the hands of primary students. However, an airplane that has been used regularly over the years tends to accumulate fewer issues in general than one that has been a hangar queen, so don't discount a former school model. 56

Mark Kolanowski

MA RKE T S NAP SHOT

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T HE M O ST M OD E R N T R A I N E R … I N T HE '80S When FLYING featured the Piper Tomahawk on the cover of the August 1978 issue, the very modern trainer—designed for the times—had been on the market for only eight months. Contributor William Langewiesche took his time getting to know the new aircraft, including its T-tail, with its GAW-1 airfoil and wrap-around windshield. “The instrument panel is low-cut. The fiberglass cowling slopes down from windshield to propeller. When you’re taxiing, you’d swear that the air had been let out of the front tire. “Inside, two sliding seats are mounted on tracks that cant upward, raising the seat as it nears the panel. There’s no other vertical adjustment; the idea is that if your legs are short, so is your torso. Piper’s engineers figured out an angle to fit almost everyone, and it seems to work. The pilot sits high in the Tomahawk, and the visibility from the cockpit is unexpected and spectacular. “The view from aloft invited me to forget everything but my impulse to fly low, enjoying the wooded mountains of Pennsylvania. First impression: pure delight.”

FLIGHT CHARACTERISTICS The Tomahawk’s T-tail makes it easy to spot from across a ramp. Like the T-tails Piper fitted to the Arrow IV and Lance, it is said to have been chosen by the marketing department for its looks, but it has more drawbacks than legitimate performance advantages. A Tomahawk pilot must retrieve a ladder to perform a thorough preflight inspection, and to clear ice and snow off of the horizontal stabilizer in the winter or remove bugs from the leading edges in the summer. Fortunately, the Tomahawk’s other design elements offer legitimate benefits that are immediately apparent. If the cabin size and layout of the Tomahawk had been the accepted norm and the competition had all waited until the late 1970s to introduce their cramped cabins with limited visibility, their airplanes might not have done so well in the marketplace. Indeed, the Tomahawk’s roomier cabin feels downright luxurious compared to an early taildragger or Cessna 150, and the outstanding visibility comes as a pleasant shock to everyone except possibly Ercoupe pilots. Most two-place trainers endowed with engines in the 100-hp range require discipline with regard to loading, and the Tomahawk is no exception. With full fuel, anyone much over 150 pounds would be wise to consider the weight of the other occupant before departing—a survey of 18 owners found that the average full-fuel payload was 303 pounds. Fortunately, the 30-gallon fuel capacity is larger than that of many competing models, and this provides some flexibility with regard to payload. After settling in, a Tomahawk pilot will find that most controls are well-designed ergonomically, both easy to see and reach. Taxiing is straightforward and the nosewheel steering is positive and responsive. A pilot unfamiliar with a T-tail would be wise to review its nuances prior to flight. Because the horizontal stabilizer and elevator are positioned outside the propeller slipstream, the elevator takes more time to become effective, and thus, a bit more time and distance is required to raise the nosewheel for a soft-field takeoff. If the pilot continues to hold full nose-up elevator as the nose rises, they might be startled when the horizontal stabilizer enters the slipstream, instantly gains effectiveness, and sends the nose abruptly upward. This stems from the T-tail design itself, rather than representing a safety issue specific to the Tomahawk, and it’s easily countered after the pilot becomes familiar with the tendencies of the T-tail. The rest of the takeoff and climbout are typical of any O-235-equipped trainer, predictable and a bit anemic when fully loaded. The spring-based elevator trim and the tiny trim wheel feel less effective and less precise than trim-tab based designs, but they do the job.

Most owners report cruise speeds in the 95-knot range with a fuel burn of roughly six gallons per hour. No Tomahawk review would be complete without mention of the airplane’s stall and spin characteristics. The topic of much debate over the decades, many studies and analyses have been conducted, and opinions still differ. People who have never flown them equate them to death traps, predisposed to enter and difficult to recover from spins. Those who fly the Tomahawk understand that when designing the airplane, Piper simply gave the aforementioned group of CFIs precisely what they wanted— an airplane more willing to enter stalls and spins, and one that requires specific inputs to recover from them. That said, there is still debate regarding the consistency of the airplane’s stall and spin characteristics. Master CFI Rich Stowell, who has flown more than 26,000 spins in more than 160 different airplanes, tested one Tomahawk in depth. He found that its spin characteristics were unremarkable compared with other airplanes and that the airplane performed as Piper literature states it should perform. Stowell does, however, go on to question whether the spin characteristics are truly uniform across the fleet. The National Transportation Safety Board raised the matter of Tomahawk stall-spin characteristics formally in a Safety Recommendation to the FAA in 1997 and asked that the agency conduct an investigation and test flights. The FAA did so, and it reported in 1998 that the concerns were unsubstantiated. In any case, owners strongly recommend seeking thorough flight instruction from an instructor who is well versed in the Tomahawk. If doubts remain about the stall/spin characteristics of a particular Tomahawk, it shouldn’t be difficult to find a qualified instructor or aerobatic pilot to go spin the airplane and report on its characteristics. In normal cruise flight, the Tomahawk is an enjoyable airplane to fly. The sweeping, unrestricted visibility makes it easy to spot other traffic; it handles predictably, and the heater keeps the cabin toasty— even on frigid winter days in northern climates. On approach, the airplane flies predictably, and the pilot can readily make changes to airspeed or profile. One mustn’t forget that T-tail during landing, however—leaving some power in or landing at a higherthan-usual pitch attitude can catch a new Tomahawk pilot off guard. As on takeoff, if the horizontal stab sinks low enough to enter the propwash, effectiveness spikes and the pitch can increase abruptly. The effect is not unlike encountering a sudden wind gust. While recovery is easy and straightforward, it’s a nuance for which one should be prepared. 58

OWN ERS H IP

Jason McDowell

Economy is one of the primary strengths of the Tominstruction and have correspondingly high-time airahawk. A relatively low purchase price, a 2,400 hour frames. Fortunately, Sterling Aviation Technologies of engine TBO, and low fuel burn keep operating costs Goodyear, Arizona, offers a kit that extends the spar life at a minimum. Insurance is also relatively affordable. to at least 18,650 hours. The $4,300 kit requires approxMultiple low-time owners report annual insurance imately 64 hours of labor to install, and it’s a great alterpremiums between $1,000 and $1,500 per year, even native to scrapping a high-time airframe. for new student pilots utilizing the Tomahawk for their Other ADs apply, but none require an inordinate primary flight training. amount of time or money to address. The majority are The relatively simple airframe is straightforward either one-time mods or can be resolved readily. to repair and maintain, and lacks complicated, proFew STCs are offered for the Tomahawk and thus, most Tomahawks are virtually identical from a prietary components that can make other types more challenging to service. With nearly 2,500 examples mechanical standpoint. One STC allows for the installaproduced, the supply of replacement parts helps to tion of higher-compression pistons, bringing the horsekeep Tomahawks airworthy and out of the maintepower from 112 to 125. Although the increase in power is nance hangar. Prospective owners are wise to caremodest, it is said to be quite noticeable. Unfortunately, fully review the maintenance logs of any Tomahawk the STC seems to have become orphaned and is no lonthey find. Not long after the type ger available for purchase/installaentered production, a high number tion on existing Tomahawks. of stall/spin accidents resulted in Although no official type group PIPER TOMAHAWK presently exists, the “Piper Tomthe FAA creating an airworthiness ahawk Owners” Facebook group directive (AD) that requires the inPrice $25,000 to $69,000 is vibrant and full of enthusiastic stallation of four stall strips on the Powerplant (varies): owners who are eager to welcome leading edge of the wing. AccordLycoming O-235, 112 hp newcomers into the fold. More iningly, every Tomahawk should have Max cruise speed: 108 kias formation can be gleaned through had them installed. Endurance: 5 hours @ 6 gph Other A Ds introduced a life Max useful load: 505 lbs. the Piper Flyer Association. limit for certain parts. Every 3,000 Takeoff distance over a 50-ft. Now more than ever, it has become difficult to find a certiobstacle: 1,440 ft. hours, the vertical stabilizer atfied, 1980s-vintage airplane in the tachment plate must be replaced. Landing distance over a 50-ft. $30,000 to $35,000 range. The obstacle: 1,462 ft. The part isn’t expensive but the job Tomahawk offers relatively easy, requires about 40 hours of labor. Insurance cost: Low straightforward ownership, and The Tomahawk wing is subject to Annual inspection expense: Low existing owners take every oppora life limit of 11,000 hours. Although Recurring ADs: A couple to watch for this is a high number, many TomaParts availability: Good (from the tunity to praise their machines and hawks have led a busy life of flight recommend the type to others. } OEM and others)

BUCKET LIST

AIRPORT IN THE SKY B Y P I A B E R G QV I ST / P H OTOS B Y J E F F B E R L I N

Many pilots dream of landing on an aircraft carrier, trapping the wire and coming to a stop before the carrier deck ends and the airplane s wiftly drops into the ocean . But for civilian pilots , that challenging opportunit y is inaccessible. There are a fe w airports , howe ver, that offer a similar experience. One of those is Ca talina Airport (KAVX ), a l s o k n o w n a s t h e Ai r p o r t i n t h e S k y .

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The main town of Avalon on Catalina Island surrounds the harbor and offers shelter for pilots and sailors alike. ocated 1,602 feet atop a mountain on scenic Catalina Island—offshore of Palos Verdes, California, and easily seen from the coastline of the Los Angeles basin— Catalina Airport is a bucket list destination for lots of pilots. Many who have been there make it a point to return to enjoy the challenge of the airport and all that the area has to offer. Much like the iconic Se-

dona Airport in Arizona, the ground drops off dramatically at each end of the 3,000-foot runway, making the approach challenging enough that most LA-region aircraft rental facilities require a special checkout for pilots who want to take an airplane to the island. If you’re looking for a fun challenge, Catalina is a terrific choice that also offers great attractions and delicious food.

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GETTIN G THE RE The first challenge of flying to KAVX lies in the approach from the mainland. As displayed on a sectional or terminal area chart, the Los Angeles basin looks much like a poorly assembled quilt filled with multiple layers of Class B, Class C, and Class D airspace, as well as a permanent TFR. While navigating this mess might be intimidating for pilots not familiar with the area, it’s just a matter of studying the chart to determine the best route and altitude to fly to stay out of the way of airspace you absolutely cannot fly through. The rest is easily handled by communicating with SoCal Approach. If you’re coming from the north or northwest, the Los Angeles Special Flight Rules Area (SFRA) allows you to fly right over the Los Angeles International Airport (KLAX), avoiding the detour around the Class B to the east, where you would either have to fly really low (below 2,000 feet msl) or far east of downtown Los Angeles. The SFRA instructions were easy enough to find on a paper terminal area chart, but ForeFlight and other electronic navigation services hide them well. In ForeFlight’s documents section you will find a folder named “FAA.” The folder includes all kinds of chart supplements, and in the folder named “Visual Chart Supplemental” you will find the “Los Angeles TAC Supplemental” document, which provides all of the available Class B transition routes, including the Los Angeles SFRA. You need an internet connection to access these documents. The SFRA allows pilots to fly right over the runways at KLAX while flying along the Santa Monica VOR 132

radial southeast at 3,500 feet or northwest at 4,500 feet. Per the instructions, you need to fly slower than 140 kias, squawk 1201, have your anti-collision and nav lights on, and self-announce at certain locations. While the most common transition route for light aircraft is the Los Angeles SFRA, there are other transition routes that require a Class B clearance from either SoCal Approach or the Los Angeles Tower. Arriving from the east, there are multiple layers of Class B to be aware of and a bunch of Class D and C airports, including Fullerton (KFUL), Long Beach (KLGB), Torrance (KTOA), and John Wayne/Orange County (KSNA). Also, the area around Disneyland has a permanent TFR that must be avoided. You can thread the needle between the Class B layers (as long as you stay south of the main approach segments) and the Class C and D by flying at 4,500 feet westbound. However, you would be insane not to get flight following. To provide a safety margin—in case of an engine failure over the water—you might opt to fly at 6,500 feet on the way to the island. Just be aware of the Class B segment that extends south between 5,000 and 10,000 feet near the Palos Verdes peninsula. If your intended flight path takes you through there, SoCal might provide a clearance, but make sure you hear and repeat the “cleared through Class Bravo” verbiage. From the closest mainland point, you will only fly about 20 nm over the water. It’s close enough that you’re not required to carry life preservers, but it’s recommended to have one available for each occupant.

The author's Mooney provided a suitable mount for her latest visit to the island, where she's flown for many years .

Other than the airport itself, the island has very few possible landing sites since its steep hills extend all the way down to the Pacific Ocean, in most areas with either very narrow strips of beach—or none at all. An engine failure will almost certainly end up in a ditching and having a life preserver could indeed save your life. Also, keep an eye out for boats since they can serve as rescue vehicles in this unlikely situation.

LANDI NG THERE Catalina Airport can get extremely busy, so it’s best to follow proper non-towered airport procedures. A point called Two Harbors—also referred to as “the isthmus”—is an easily identifiable narrowing of the island located a few miles and almost directly west of the airport. It is a perfect initial reporting point that allows you to turn onto the recommended 45-degree angle to the right downwind for Runway 22. You will likely feel really low at the 2,602-foot pattern altitude. This is an illusion courtesy of the mountain-top location, and you just have to trust your instruments (provided, of course, that you have the proper altimeter setting, which the ASOS provides). Use known power settings and the 45-degree angle to the runway as your base turn to keep a familiar descent path. There are other illusions to overcome to avoid an incident. The NTSB database reveals a substantial list of accidents, most either near the approach or departure end of the runway. The winds favor Runway 22, which is good because Runway 4 has a 2.2 percent downslope for the last 2,300 feet. However, the slope gives the illusion of being higher than you really are. If you're low, you can get stuck in downdrafts at the approach ends. Runway 22 has a pulsating visual approach slope indicator (PVASI) with a three-degree glideslope. It is located on the left side of the runway and can be hard to see unless you know what you’re looking for. The PVASI has one light, blinking red if your approach is low; it shines solid red if you’re slightly low, solid white if you’re on the glideslope, and blinking white if you’re high. The frequency of the pulsations increases the further you get from the glideslope. The cliff drops about 1,500 feet from the airport down to the Pacific Ocean—good incentive to make it to the runway. The upslope in the runway ends about 3/4 down the strip—a fact that has fooled many pilots. The illusion of seeing the end of the runway coming up quickly makes some pilots attempt a go around, only to have them try to stop once they see the last quarter of the runway. Those are the pilots who sometimes end up tumbling off the departure end of Runway 22. If you want to practice landings at this challenging runway, be aware that touch and gos and intersection takeoffs are prohibited.

BEI NG T HERE Catalina Airport is a public-use airport. However, it is privately owned and operated by the Santa Catalina Island Conservancy. The first thing you need to do after you land and park in front of the Hacienda-style buildings is to run up to the office to pay the $35 landing fee. Overnight stays require an additional $20 per night. Be aware that you might get stuck on the island unexpectedly. The weather patterns can be unpredictable. Very low clouds can quickly shroud the airport, so keep a close eye on the marine layer. The airport has been well known for poor runway conditions. There were potholes and pebbles on the surface that made the already challenging landing a particularly bumpy affair that had the potential to damage your airplane. In 2019, the Catalina Island Conservancy partnered with the U.S. Department of Defense to repair and restore the runway. The airport was closed for several months while about 200 Marines and Seabees replaced the torn pavement with concrete. While the condition of the runway is vastly improved, and you should no longer be worried about damaging your airplane, the surface is still quite uneven. In addition to a fun flying challenge, Catalina offers a long list of attractions. Most people hop over to the island for a quick buffalo burger at the DC-3 Gifts & Grill restaurant, which is mere steps from the parking area. There are other tasty items on the menu, and while the food is yummy, it is outdone by the giant

cookies. By the way, the cookies are free for Catalina Aero Club members: $175 gets you unlimited landings for a year, a free cookie for every $10 you spend at the restaurant, and discounts for multiple services on the island, including the bus ride to Avalon, the main town on the island. If you have time for a longer visit, there are lots of activities available. There is a fun and scenic hike around the entire airport. It is not uncommon to see bison roaming free (the buffalo burgers are sourced elsewhere), but beware! The bison can be aggressive and have been known to attack. If you can fit a bike into your airplane, mountain biking near the airport is also terrific. Have time to stay the night? The very scenic Little Harbor Campground sits on the east side of the island, approximately five miles from the airport. Fortunately, in this case, you hike down to the campground and up at the end of the stay, so you only have to bring your food down the hill. If you’re looking for creature comforts, take the bus down to Avalon. It is a 10-mile venture on dirt roads, but well worth it. There are three buses that travel each way per day, so plan accordingly. Avalon has several quaint hotels and great restaurants. There are also tennis courts, a golf course, a beautiful public garden, and the iconic casino. One visit is simply not enough for Catalina. Once you go, you will want to return. }

A LITTLE CATALINA HISTORY CATALINA ISLAND wouldn’t be the place it is today if it weren’t for William Wrigley Jr., who purchased the Santa Catalina Island Company in 1919 after making a fortune selling chewing gum. Wrigley’s vision for Catalina was to provide employment for the locals, create a special retreat for vacationers, and preserve the beauty of the island for future generations. When Wrigley died in 1932, his body was interred in a sarcophagus at the Wrigley Memorial and Botanical Gardens on the island. While the memorial still exists, Wrigley’s remains were moved to enable public access to the gardens. Wrigley Jr.’s son, Philip, continued to operate the Wrigley Company after his father’s death and commissioned the airport. Construction began in 1940, but it was halted after the attack on Pearl Harbor, when the island became a temporary training facility for the U.S. military.

The tall building that houses the office was originally used as a control tower, built in the mid- to late-1940s. United Airlines brought passengers to the airport from KLAX and other local airports in the historic, locally designed and built icon—the Douglas DC-3—until 1954. Catalina Airlines took over at that point and flew passengers to the island until 1959, when the airport opened to general aviation. For decades, the airport was visited regularly by a DC-3 operated by freight company Catalina Air Boats, which used the airplane to fly freight and mail to the island until 2017. The historic presence of the DC-3 on the island is fitting since Donald Douglas, founder of the Douglas Aircraft Company, loved the island. He sailed there often, and his ashes were laid to rest here too—in its waters.

Bergqvist's proper technique on approach to KAVX results in a tasty reward: the buffalo burger at the airport cafe.

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your airplane is as old as you are What difference does it really make?

BY PETER GARRISON IMAGES BY JEFF BERLIN

eorge Hulett learned to fly in the Army in 1967. He flew Bird Dogs, those quaint observation airplanes that were basically Cessna 170s with the rear deck lowered to provide all-around visibility; they had a Continental O-470 engine rated at 213 hp in place of the 170's 145 hp O-300. After he got out of the Army, he and two partners bought a 182—O-470 again, now rated at 230 hp—which they kept from 1971 to 1979. In 1983, Hulett and another partner bought a 1963 210—O-470 powered still, but now with 260 hp. His partner died in 1990; since then, he has been the 210's sole owner. Hulett, 77, was 19 when his 210 was built. The airframe has more than 6,400 hours; he guesses that he is to blame for around 3,000 of them. The airplane has had two engines while he's been its owner. The first succumbed to a prop strike when a main gear hydraulic actuator burst, and Hulett had to put the 210 down on two wheels. (Remarkably, there was only minimal damage to the airframe.) He says the airplane's been quite trouble-free, apart from periodic freshening-up. He replaced the radios in 1992, replaced the windows and interior, and repainted the airplane once. Its performance is the same,

and he does not recall noticing any difference when the old engine was replaced by a fresh one. Hulett's 210 has gone a million miles. And that's not unusual. Ominous reports of the average age of the general aviation fleet offer, without mentioning sources or statistical methodologies, figures ranging from 30 to 50 years. The differences may be due to including or excluding certain categories, like homebuilts or jets, but even without a statistical analysis, you could stroll down the line at any general aviation airport and see that a lot of old airplanes are still in use. Their collective longevity is due to a number of factors. Airplanes are required to be systematically inspected, and parts that wear out have to be replaced. Many failures that might take airplanes out of the fleet are forestalled by AD notes, which make the collective experience of the fleet available to each of its members. Owner associations and online discussion groups help keep airplanes flying. Barring accidents, an airplane flown 100 hours a year can easily have a lifetime similar to that of its human operator. New airplanes outperform older ones mainly because they have more power. Horsepower for horsepower, an old airplane with new avionics can do everything a new airplane can do, and costs much less.

Photo illustration by Amy Jo Sledge, images by Jeff Berlin

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George Hulett was 19 when his Cessna 210 was built; he's seen it through two engines and a King stack, updated in 1992.

But doesn't an airplane lose performance as it ages? You and I do; why shouldn't an airplane? If an airplane lost performance with age, it would have to be the result of one or more of three elements: power, drag, and/ or weight. Weight may change as owners add accessories, change avionics and so on, but probably not in percentage terms by much. The surface area of an airplane and its shape are responsible for most of its drag, and they do not change over time. Still, leaky door or canopy seals increase drag, as do plastic fairings that get cracked and bent out of shape, and worn-out or missing engine baffles that allow more air to flow through the cowling than is actually needed for cooling. But those are all problems that are easily prevented by good maintenance. That leaves the engine(s). In an ideal world, engines wouldn't wear and TBOs would be infinite. Sorry, we got off on the wrong world. Wear can be slowed by frequent oil changes and gentle operation, but a worn engine is bound to be less “tight” than a new one. Does tightness matter? In the au-

tomotive community, it's widely believed that engines gain power for the first 10,000 miles and then it gradually dribbles away. Like many widely-held opinions about things that would be difficult to test, however, this may just be an unverified extrapolation from what seems like common sense. On scientific and technological matters, common sense is not enough. I asked Continental and Lycoming whether they had any hard, well-controlled data about the effect of engine wear on power output. Continental replied—falsely, as it turns out—that they had no information on the subject. A Lycoming spokesperson said the same, but he ventured to guess that even if an engine lost some power as it approached TBO, it would not be enough for the pilot to notice a difference. I then called George Braly, one of the founders of GAMI, the Ada, Oklahoma, creator of balanced injectors, Tornado Alley turbo-normalizing systems, and G100 lead-free avgas. Braly, who has done a lot of testing and analysis of airplane engines on a dynamometer, dismissed the intuitively attractive notion that 70

Courtesy of George Hulett

IS IT JUST LOW T ?

lower compression means lower power. Low compression may be an indicator of general wear, but an engine with 60/80 compression does not yield appreciably less power than an engine with 80/80. There is not enough time in a compression-plus-power stroke to allow a significant amount of cylinder pressure to be lost or for a significant amount of the fuel-air charge to escape into the crankcase. Continental, Braly related, once deliberately assembled an engine without piston rings in order to establish a baseline measure of the effects of ring wear. Even without rings, the engine still made rated power. The Lycoming spokesperson, boldly uttering the name of a competitor, had mentioned the same experiment to me.

Braly pointed out that crankcase oil analysis provides indirect evidence that even worn rings do not affect power much. Power output is essentially a function of the amount of fuel being burned in the cylinders. If even 1 percent of the fuel-air charge were blowing past the rings into the crankcase, you would soon see large amounts of lead in the oil; you don't, even in engines with low compression. (If low compression is due to a leaking exhaust valve, it’s an acute rather than a chronic problem, and is not necessarily related to the age of an engine. A leaking valve requires prompt attention; it's not a problem that will fix itself, and it can lead to more extensive damage.)

BUT THAT'S NOT THE WAY IT FEELS Subjective assessments of performance are unreliable. It’s almost impossible to create identically controlled conditions using engines at different stages of wear in similar airframes. Cruising speed and top speed are insensitive to small changes in power. Climb performance is much more sensitive, but because climb rate is affected by weight, speed, mixture setting, atmospheric movement, and instrument error, it's even more difficult than cruise speed to judge. Expectation plays a larger role in pilots' assessments of performance than engine wear does. Leon Jackler is an attorney in Washington, D.C. He has had a 1976 Grumman Cheetah for the past 20 years. Freshly overhauled when he got it, its engine is now nearing its 1,800-hour TBO. Before he acquired the Cheetah, he had an AA1B Yankee, whose engine he had overhauled. You could say it was a precautionary overhaul; there had been no noticeable change in the airplane's performance, but its compression was down

and “it had been a while.” The overhaul revealed some corrosion and some camshaft wear. After overhaul, the engine seemed “smoother and more responsive,” but Jackler admits, that impression could have been a case of confirmation bias. “After you pour money into it, you convince yourself it's different.” What definitely changed, he says, was his confidence in the engine. After the overhaul, there were no mysteries; its condition was absolutely known. Jackler sees a positive value in owning an airplane for a long time, especially if, as he does, you find an A&P familiar with the type, take an active interest in your airplane's maintenance, and perform as many owner-assisted tasks as the regulations allow. If you know your airplane well, you can often detect and diagnose incipient problems. “What mechanics hate most,” he says, “is someone who comes in, says, ‘It's making a funny noise,’ drops the keys on the table, and leaves.”

SAY AGAIN? Avionics age. Capacitors leak, connectors corrode, digits darken. As it happens, however, they are also the category of part in which the greatest innovation occurs, and so they are likely to be replaced from time to time in order to gain functionality or just for the pleasure of playing with new gadgets. On the whole, however, the experience of George Hulett—who you will recall, installed new radios in 1992—is not untypical. His 30-year-old Kings work fine. My own experience with avionics has been fortunate, if not necessarily typical. I got Collins Microline radios in 1975. Only recently did one of them stop working. Their longevity may be a reflection of the quality of Collins radios, but my Narco AT-50 transponder lasted

almost as long; I swapped it for a Garmin GTX 327— another near-antique already—when ADS-B came along, and I expect the Garmin to outlive me. Old instruments also have surprising longevity. Gyros wear out, but pressure and electrical instruments can last indefinitely. Most of the instruments in my homebuilt were inherited from my previous project, which I built in the 1960s and ’70s, and some of those, in turn, I found in surplus stores among bins of Korean War-era equipment. As far as I can tell, they still work with undiminished accuracy, including an airspeed indicator that came, or so I was told, from a Douglas DC-4. Luck—or to call it by another name, pure chance— must have a lot to do with it. 71

FATIGUE AND CORROSION: THE DESTRUCTIVE DUO Although performance need not suffer with age, there is a separate age-related issue that is at once more real and more insidious: the deterioration of the airplane's structural materials. Back in the day, decay of wood and fabric was taken for granted. Aluminum, which became prevalent after World War II, created an initial impression of greater permanence, but that impression was illusory. High strength aerospace alloys, created by adding small amounts of other materials like copper, zinc, manganese, and magnesium, are more susceptible than pure aluminum to the light metal's two deadly enemies: fatigue and corrosion. Fatigue is the result of repeated stresses at a level above about 30 percent of the design limit. In a normal category airplane, that would mean above 1.2 G, which most pilots would call “light chop.” Airframes that do a lot of daytime, low-altitude flying and those that make a great many short flights are, therefore, the ones on which fatigue is likely to appear earliest. Although small parts, like springs and hinges, can also fail from fatigue, the locations of most concern are naturally the most highly loaded components—spar caps, wing and empennage attachment fittings, and landing gear. They are also the parts in which a failure will have the most disastrous outcome. The word fatigue seems to suggest that a metal part, like a tired person, is made weaker by years of service, but that isn't the case. A fatigued part retains its strength until cracking begins. It then loses strength more and more rapidly as the stress is concentrated at the leading edge of the crack and the remaining load-bearing cross section of the member grows smaller.

A cracked part may remain in service for a long time before failing, and until cracking begins, the appearance of fatigued material—including its microscopic structure and its magnetic and resonant properties—is unchanged. I once had a crankshaft break. Microscopic analysis of the fracture surface revealed a longstanding, gradually spreading crack; most likely it had already been there, unsuspected, during several long nighttime over-ocean flights. What you don't know... Unfortunately, it is very difficult to thoroughly check all critical airframe components for cracks; the critical parts may be inaccessible and cracks can be minute and hard to see. Dye penetrant and magnetic resonance inspections, which highlight cracks that elude visual inspection, cannot be applied to an entire airframe but only to areas that are known to be suspect. That is why fatigue is sometimes revealed in the worst way, by an airplane losing a wing or engine in flight. It's happened to lots of familiar types—Beech 18s, King Airs and T-34s, Cessna 210s, even a C-130. The first line of defense against metal fatigue is other people's airplanes. Airplanes in fatigue-prone use are, or at least should be, inspected more frequently than average for cracking, and so you are much more likely to receive an AD arising from another airplane's fatigue failure than you are to experience one yourself. Composites do not fatigue in the same way as metals do, but they do undergo changes as they age. Sixty years ago, when composite sailplanes and Chevy Corvettes began to appear on the market and Piper Aircraft built an experimental prototype trainer, the Papoose, out of fiberglass, enthusiasm for the aerodynamic potential of composites was dampened by doubts about their dura72

bility. They have exceeded even optimistic expectations. Although they are potentially susceptible to hidden damage from impact, and such damage, called delamination, can be very difficult to detect, composites’ imperviousness to corrosion more than makes up for the remote possibility of undetected damage. Corrosion is the other name on the Enemies List. Corrosion is metal rot. The most familiar form is rust, the reddish-brown oxide of iron. Oxides of aluminum are shape-shifters, sometimes appearing as grayish powdery scabs, sometimes as a black ring around a loose rivet, and sometimes as wormlike tracks under paint. Since pure aluminum has relatively good corrosion resistance, the alloy sheet used in aircraft construction has an extremely thin layer of pure aluminum, called “cladding,” rolled onto its surfaces. If the metal is kept dry and not scratched, this is usually sufficient protection, and the unpainted internal surfaces of half-century-old airframes may be free of corrosion. On the other hand, airframes on whose inner surfaces condensation forms from local humidity, or in which water can pool or seep between overlapping surfaces, are certain to corrode. Salt hastens the process, and so airplanes in humid

coastal environments, like the Gulf states, need particular attention. Between fatigue and corrosion, how long can an aluminum airframe hope to hold out? That question increasingly exercises minds as the collective age of the general aviation fleet rises. Some airframes seem ageless; the Douglas DC-3 comes to mind, with the Cessna 172 not far behind. Some parts of some models, including wings or spars, are subject to manufacturerimposed life limits or inspection intervals. It's impossible to make general statements about how such limits are arrived at or what they really mean—other than that it becomes unlawful to operate the airplane once they have passed. It's rare, however, for a component life limit to be lower than 10,000 hours for a fixedwing airplane. And so, because of our love for nice round numbers with lots of zeros in them, and despite countless anecdotal counterexamples on both sides, 10,000 hours became the rule-of-thumb life expectancy for metal GA airframes. The composite structure of the Cirrus SR22 currently has a factory-imposed limit of 12,000 hours, but that is likely to change—probably upward—as service and test experience accumulates.

YOU'RE NEVER TOO OLD The oldest airworthy airplanes in the world have lived more than a century, and while they probably have few remaining original parts, they demonstrate the possibility of extending an airplane's life almost indefinitely, given sufficient care (and money). If the average age of airplanes in the general aviation fleet is, say 40 years, there must be a good many airplanes older than that.

Some are battered wrecks, suitable to be flown only with fingers crossed. Some are impeccable restorations of fabled types, like Beech Staggerwings or Grumman Widgeons. In between, there's a world of airplanes that have decades of potential life and undiminished performance left in them. They just need conscientious owners to keep them flying. [

The panel of the author's airplane, "Melmoth II," bears witness to the durability of avionics and instruments.

“We plan to create a one-of-a-kind, rural adventure resort that can host almost any kind of event, but is still centered around the lifestyle of an active aviator.” —CRAIG FULLER

ADVERTORIAL

EXCITEMENT BUILDS FOR A NEW LUXURY FLY-IN COMMUNITY

by Pilots, for Pilots Southeast Tennessee setting offers cost-of-living and quality of life benefits

“It’s not an airpark, it’s a way of life” is how Craig Fuller, the CEO of FLYING and visionary behind The Fields, opened the presentation to a group of pilots who had come to hear about the large aviation-themed community and resort in East Tennessee. While all of the people in the room were pilots and nearly all owned airplanes, they came to hear about the broader amenities and what life would be like as a member of The Fields. Many of the pilots and their families were attracted to the unique luxury fly-in community because of its promised resort amenities such as a spa, vineyard, hiking trails, rock climbing, equestrian, and fishing, with an active aviation community. Located in scenic Sequatchie Valley, in the heart of Southeast Tennessee, The Fields is an aviator’s dream, ideal for backcountry, sport, and seaplane pilots who want to explore with their airplanes. Just outside of Chattanooga, the development spans 1,500 acres and offers valley and mountain bluff residential properties with a private asphalt runway planned. The Fields’ runway will accommodate pistons, twin turbo airplanes, and more powerful aircraft. Hangars will connect directly to taxiways and allow for residents to park their airplanes at their homes.

light retail and commercial properties are planned, as well as a high-end, craft farm-to-table restaurant and grocery store. Over time, the community is expected to host a number of renowned restaurants, a vineyard and winery, and a resort and spa. In its former life, the property was a working family farm, and the original barn—that dates back to when FLYING Magazine first launched in the 1920s—is still on site. There are plans to turn the barn into a wedding pavilion that can host hundreds of guests under its 50-foot-high rafters. “We plan to create a one-of-a-kind, rural adventure resort that can host almost any kind of event, but is still centered around the lifestyle of an active aviator,” Fuller says. OUTDOOR ADVENTURE PARK The Fields takes advantage of the natural features that make southeastern Tennessee a destination for outdoor enthusiasts from around the world. As part of the development plan, several hundreds of acres at The Fields will be reserved for outdoor activities. The rear section of the property has topographic features that are ideal for developing a 4x4 adventure park for residents. The Fields also has multiple year-round waterfalls that make for some unbelievable hiking opportunities with breathtaking views of the valley, and a mile of riverfront shoreline that offers some of the best fishing in the area. Bring your mountain bike, shotgun, fishing poles, and your sense of adventure. Mountain bike trails, skeet shooting, ropes courses, kayaking, and boating will be available at The Fields. Long-term plans include developing an equestrian center with boarding and trails. And the area has world-class rock climbing. In fact, the region

LUXURY AMENITIES An inviting community center will welcome residents, aviators, and outdoor enthusiasts living and/or visiting The Fields to gather together after a day of hiking, fishing, or flying. Luxury rental villas will be developed to accommodate overnight and short-term visitors looking for a weekend getaway. A swimming pool, tennis courts, pickleball courts, playground, bowling alley, and nearby 75

ABOUT THE FIELDS The Fields is a master-planned luxury fly-in resort community that features an airpark with hangar homes and outdoor adventure activities.

• Tennessee is one of the lowest-cost states in the U.S. to live (No state income or capital gain taxes). • Located in the Sequatchie Valley, TN (30 miles from Chattanooga and 90 miles from Nashville) • 800+ homes, starting at $500,000 • Valley and mountain properties available, suitable for smaller homes or large estates • Community to include farm-to-table restaurants, retail, spa and resort • Outdoor activities include: rock climbing, equestrian activities, vineyard/winery, 4x4, hang gliding, kayaking, plus boating and water sports on nearby lakes • Groundbreaking set for spring 2022; move-in as early as 2023

has more miles of climbing walls than the Boulder, Colorado, area. For the hunter or fisherman, it’s a sportsman’s dream. The valley also offers hang gliding opportunities for pilots who want to get back to the basics. SALES HAVE EXCEEDED EXPECTATIONS While the development has not yet broken ground, the response from the aviation community has been tremendous. With more than 600 inbound inquiries and more than 40 lots already contracted, Fuller says he’s overwhelmed by the reception the development has received. “We have exceeded the proforma plans we set for 2026. Based on initial demand, we have decided to accelerate our timeline for development,” he says. Feedback from the initial cohort of future residents demonstrates the uniqueness of the development, especially among aviation enthusiasts. “Most airparks are old and aging. The Fields brings a new flavor to the concept of an airpark,” says CP Jois. He and his wife, Simi, a professional photographer, have committed to building a home and hangar at The Fields. “The valley presents a meditative surrounding,” CP adds. “[And] the people involved in the project—their passion is contagious. The recent makeover of FLYING magazine is a prelude to what The Fields will be.” Another future resident, Ben Dorman, said the close proximity to Chattanooga (30 miles), a metro population with half a million residents, the variety of outdoor entertainment options, and the planned luxury amenities at the fly-in community persuaded him to put a deposit on a hangar home at The Fields. Dorman is also looking forward to living with his three aircraft: a Vans RV-14, Cirrus SR22T, and a Citation Mustang. “It is such a great experience to be around like-minded fellow aviators,” he says. IF YOU LIVED HERE, YOU’D BE HOME Once complete, The Fields will comprise 800 residential homes, many with hangars; 180 vacation villa rentals; 35 hangars; and an outdoor adventure center. The development will also be home to the FLYING Media Group headquarters and studio. Fuller, who plans to hangar his ICON A5 and Tecnam Astore at The Fields, says the luxury fly-in residential development is perfect for the business professional or entrepreneur who can live anywhere in the world. “If you’re seeking a low-tax, business-friendly location, and you want to take advantage of an on-site runway and enjoy an adventure-resort lifestyle, join me and the FLYING community at The Fields.” INTERESTED IN LEARNING MORE ABOUT THE FIELDS? Construction began this spring and home sites are available for presale. The first residents are expected in early 2023. Visit FlyTheFields.com.

WARBIR DS YOU CA N F LY:

b ch 18 A classic wartime twin turns into an executive transport—and a challenge for pilots. BY JULIE BOATMAN IMAGES BY GLENN WATSON

o you look at a Beech 18 and see the heritage in its lines? The model has become so iconic to the modern pilot’s eyes that we tend to look at its silhouette in the sky, and see a reference only to that classic twin.

But those radials thrusting skyward have an inheritance from the design that came before it—the Beech Model 17, known to most as the Staggerwing—in those very engines, and much of the technology used initially to turn the company’s flagship single into a multiengine work of art.

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MODEL DEVELOPMENT More than half of those originally sold to new owners in the 1940s went to pilots who already knew the Beech 17, according to Robert K. Parmerter, author of the comprehensive Beech 18: A Civil & Military History. “Could this new twin-engine monoplane build on the growing reputation of the Beech Aircraft Company and pass on to a successor model the same legacy that it had received?” asked Parmerter in those pages. It filled a gap left between the 3- to 5-passenger singles and larger multiengine aircraft such as the Douglas DC-2, which carried up to 14 passengers. The Bureau of Air Commerce (the precursor to the FAA) challenged the industry to craft bids for a “small transport plane”

with two engines, to be used by its own line inspectors. “Ted Wells, chief designer and vice president at Beech Aircraft Company in 1935, recalled 53 years later that the announcement of the Bureau competition was the impetus for Beech, and it instigated design work on a Beechcraft twin,” Parmerter wrote. And was that model—fashioned to carry 6 to 11 passengers in that "sweet spot"—a success compared to its predecessor? More than 9,000 were built, with around 4,500 put to the military effort in World War II. Beech only built 745 of the various Staggerwing models, in comparison, making it clear that the twin came out on top.

The panel of a Beech 18 today carries relics from its past—and updates to keep it in line with current regulations .

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The twin rudders form an effective means of control in the yaw axis , but only once they're up in the slipstream.

THE CARE AN D FEE DING O F A WA RB IRD While Beech converted N611WP into the C-45H Expeditor model with an executive interior and configuration that it now carries, Scarlette is still a warbird at heart. During the period from 1951 to 1952, the U.S. Air Force contracted with Beech to convert 900 of the C-45 models, rebuilt from original RC-45s, C-45Bs, C-45Fs, T-7s, and T-11s. They exited the factory this second time as C-45G and C-45H models. N611WP began life as a U.S. Air Force T-7C, construction number 6060, and in 1954, transformed into AF-875, a C-45H. The FAA issued its new certificate of airworthiness on March 22, 1961, under its prior registration number: N9478Z. As N611W, it flew for the Farm Service in Brawley, California, through 1965, when it was picked up by Pacific Airmotive in Palm Springs. A midair collision while on approach at Van Nuys (KVNY) with a Piper PA-28 on July 15, 1967, only resulted in minor damage, thankfully, and the twin returned to service with a succession of California operators through the 1970s. In October 1991, Jim McBurney, of Tyler Aircraft Company in Tyler, Texas, purchased the airplane—

now N611WP—and he showed it off several times at the annual Beech Party Fly-In at the Beechcraft Heritage Museum in Tullahoma, Tennessee. McBurney sold the airplane to Malcolm Thurmond, of Georgetown, Texas, in May 2000, and 21 years later, Jerry Gregoire and Roger Sharp took over the care and feeding of this classic, basing Scarlette at San Marcos, Texas (KHYI). As any modern owner of a vintage airplane can attest, the purchase only begins the journey—both from a learning standpoint as well as a financial one. As the years pass between the time when a given airplane rolls out of the factory with all of its spare parts and manuals intact, those tools and instructions evolve, fade, and often disappear, leaving a certain amount of creativity necessary to keep an old girl flying. You need a good relationship with oil, for example. Whether you put on gloves or not, the 450 hp Pratt & Whitney R-985-AN-14B engines circulate the dead dinosaur juice even when they’re not running. And that’s why my rendezvous with Scarlette began up on her wings, taking the oil scavenged from the drip bottles and filtering it back into the sumps on each engine. 82

A PI LOT' S CHALL EN GE The aircraft that demand the most from you as a pilot are the most fun to fly—so says Sharp, who would shepherd me through my first hours taxiing and taking to the air in Scarlette. He approached our briefing with a stack of notes to ensure he covered the initial round of precious knowledge borne from his experience and of pilots before us. Much of our first preflight briefing centered around the differences between controlling the Beech 18 on the ground versus most every other airplane I’d ever flown. The model has a non-steerable tailwheel, and an

empennage that sits outside of the propeller slipstream when the airplane is on the ground. “The rudder is mechanically blocked by the wing in its three-point attitude,” according to Sharp’s notes from that briefing. “On takeoff—raise the tail early. On landing, keep the tail up.” The idea is to keep the tail and rudder elevated into the relative wind as long as possible. Without counter-rotating props, there is real torque and P-factor at play, equating to a significant amount of left-turning tendency on the ground when the power comes up.

M ASTERING THE TAXI Control on the ground during taxi—and when the tail is still planted during takeoff and landing—only happens by using differential throttle and braking, in that order of preference. Sharp calls it “wrist control,” and I would soon learn what that special twist of the right wrist would feel like as I made my first exit from the chocks on the thankfully wide ramp at San Marcos Airport. “The rudder doesn’t do anything,” Sharp says. “So try and not push the pedal before braking. Good luck with that.” Turns out, most pilots who have flown anything other than the Beech 18 cannot help but push on the rudder pedal while applying the brake on one side when taxiing. The powerful muscle memory sticks, even as you continuously think to your-

self, “Don’t push the pedal.” Everyone does it—yours truly included. Taxiing goes well at first—I recall back to the only other airplane I’ve flown that has a similar means of ground control, the Douglas DC-3—as I get the “wrist twist” and tapping on each pedal as needed, to keep us in line as we make our way slowly out to the runway. The cool white endcaps on the throttle levers fit neatly into my hand, turning that twist into second nature in short order. For the runup, we lock the tailwheel; and because the amount of power in the Wasp Juniors together will overcome the parking brake, we throttle up each engine separately, running through the prop control, checking feather, and then the mags.

READY FOR TA KEOFF those brakes extend the takeoff run if applied, so I do my best to use them sparingly. Any crosswind correction calls for special attention because of this—it takes full aileron into the wind with any significant amount of crosswind because of the large tail surface. Throttles come up deliberately to 35 inches of manifold pressure. They’re not governed, so jamming the power forward is a big no-no. We want to baby the venerable engines, in any case. “You lead with the left throttle,” Sharp says. “If it veers left and you push the right rudder, it won’t help, so it’s setting you up for an issue.” When the tail comes up— early as planned—you also don’t want a lot of right rudder already in when it becomes effective.

We’ve briefed the takeoff, and I ask Sharp to demo the first one so I can concentrate on watching the progression. This is a technique learned from other good instructors—a student new to any aircraft benefits from just watching. Released from the worry of “doing it right,” you register more of what’s going on, and you can look where you want—not just down the runway—in the case of the takeoff. With the tailwheel locked—and we won’t touch it until we’re ready to turn off onto the taxiway after landing—the power comes up and the yoke is almost full forward. We want that tail in the air as soon as possible to gain rudder effectiveness. Differential throttle keeps us aligned with a minimum of brake tapping. Clearly,

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The tail comes up around 30 knots indicated—the ASI shows both knots and mph—and on that first run, we lift off after about 2,000 feet of runway just above the VMC speed of 85 knots. Gear comes up, and the minature tires in the landing gear indicators disappear. We’re clear now, and flying off to the practice area near Lockhart (50R), about 10 nm to the east of San Marcos. Once airborne, Scarlette handles very sweetly, with a minimum of adverse yaw, and a relative nimbleness given her size, weight, and age. I try out steep turns,

lazy eights, and slow flight before bringing us back into a stall, which with power off remains docile. Back in the traffic pattern, the Beech 18 can be hard to slow down, so you want to plan for that and make a relatively wide downwind and base. Sharp uses 120 mph indicated for gear and flaps—“it’s something a bit higher, but 120 works well”—and we want to keep at least 15 inches of manifold pressure in. Flaps don’t come with detentes, so you count 3 seconds approximately to actuate them in 15-degree increments.

The Beech 18 shows harmonious flight characteristics , especially when you consider the vintage era of the design.

MAK IN G THE L AND ING Sharp also demonstrates the first ically prepare myself for the mileBEECH 18/C- 45H landing. Three-point landings stone ahead. EXPEDITOR are certainly doable, but he sugFortunately for us all, the wind gests, not on your first attempt. Price: $75,000 to $120,000 or more, stays light and mostly down the To keep that rudder effective as runway, which is thankfully 100 depending on restoration feet wide and also prepared for long as possible, we make a wheel Powerplants: Pratt & Whitney my first landing in the Beech 18. landing as a matter of practice. R-985-AN-14B Wasp Juniors @450 hp The approach is best made relaYou can have the tailwheel come Max cruise speed: 220 mph down at 60 mph or at 30 mph. tively flat, with about a 3-degree Max range: 1,652 nm descent profile and a level pitch Most pilots would prefer to be goMax useful load: 540 pounds ing a little more slowly when the Takeoff distance: 1,760 ft. attitude. The goal: to touch down inevitable swerve occurs as the Landing distance: 1,460 ft. with minimum sink in that same small wheel in the back touches Max operating altitude: 21,400 ft. attitude, with the yoke forward, and let the tail stop flying on its the pavement. Length: 35 ft. 2 in. Off the runway, Sharp gives me Wing span: 49 ft. 8 in. own. “Don’t chop the throttle, fly the airplane to taxi back for my Height: 9 ft. 4 in. it on,” Sharp suggests. own takeoff and landing. I forget Empty weight: 5,844 lbs. He's cautioned me that, owing to a shuttle valve within the hyto come up on the brakes, and take Max takeoff weight: 9,900 lbs. a little more of an excursion than I draulic system between the brake did in my first attempt at taxiing. actuators on the rudder pedals, Lesson learned. Sharp remains calm; I think every whichever pilot applies the brakes first “wins.” “I can’t transitioning Beech 18 pilot has trimmed the grass a bit fix it,” he says. If I apply the brakes, he can’t override in mastering the girl’s somewhat contentious ground my actions. A sobering thought for that first landing. When the tires squeak on the pavement, I play a bit handling. But I get my act back together enough to rewith the yoke forward to feel that weight staying on it turn to the approach end of Runway 13. Time for my takeoff. I am up on the brakes a bit to till at last it sighs and settles gently to the pavement. start after locking the tailwheel and adding power I’m ready for the swerve, which is minor, and I keep it slowly and smoothly. With the yoke forward, I can together until we are slowed down enough to make the feel the relative wind build and engage the elevator, crossing runway and leave the active. Maybe it was beand the tail comes up as predicted. I have about half ginner’s luck, but I’ll never forget that sweet moment. the aileron deflection in to counteract about 5 knots of Sharp likes the airplane because it demands that you crosswind component, and the deflection is removed pay attention and fly it continuously from start-up to as the tail rises. shutdown. I now understand why the Beech 18 has the Without too much fuss, we’re back in the air and reputation it does, as a “tricky” airplane, but one that still compels pilots to want to master it. making a stately trip around the pattern. I throttle back I can tell you, it’s an entirely worthwhile pursuit. [ to keep us within gear and flap speed, and I psychologN611WP is one of a series of executive transport versions that Beech refurbished following World War II.

PERSONAL WEATHER MINIMUMS:

IDENTIFY YOUR OWN Experience coupled with desire makes you a safer pilot .

BY MEG GODLEWSKI ILLUST RAT I ON BY CL ARE NI CHO L AS

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here’s good reason why flight instructors place weather limitations in a student pilot’s logbook. These limitations must be in place because most student pilots don't have the experience to determine where their skill ends and luck begins. Once you’ve earned your sport or private pilot certificate, it’s your responsibility to establish your personal weather limitations—and abide by them on every flight. The purpose of having personal limitations is to mitigate risk. Personal limitations are predicated on pilot experience level, familiarity with the airplane, knowledge of the area, the weather, and the nature of the mission. They cover much more than just weather considerations.

IMSAFE AND PAVE As a student pilot, you learned about the “Swiss cheese model” that results in accidents. When all the risks line up—the holes in the cheese—accidents happen. The FAA has provided pilots with checklist tools (IMSAFE and PAVE) to help identify and assess risk before each flight. IMSAFE guides the pilot to check if they are affected by illness, medication, stress, alcohol, fatigue, and/or emotion and eating. PAVE prompts the pilot to consider: pilot currency/skills, airplane condition, enVironment (includes weather), and external pressures.

If anything pops up for you when you run through either checklist, identify the risks, and ask yourself if they can be safely mitigated. Not feeling well? Fatigued? Emotionally distracted? Reschedule the flight. Is the No. 1 VOR in the aircraft in need of a VOR check? Do you need it for the flight? If the answer is yes, could you take care of it? How is the weather? Will it be a challenge? Could you reschedule for later in the day after the weather improves?

PROFICIENCY AND CURRENCY One of the first things an aviator learns is that there is a big difference between FAA-defined currency and pilot proficiency. Often it's the lack of proficiency that gets pilots into trouble—sometimes when they have non-pilot passengers on board. Although three takeoffs and landings within 90 days make you current according to FAA regulations, you may want to impose a personal limit, such as, “I will not fly with passengers or in marginal VFR unless I've flown within the preceding two weeks,” or “If it's been more than 60 days, I will remain in the pattern for X number of touch and gos before I depart the area.” Personal weather limitations can be the most challenging for the newly-minted VFR-only pilot, and you may want to adjust them for passengers. For example, you might set yours as the following: “I can fly when

the ceiling is at least 1,000 feet and visibility is at least three miles; but if I have a passenger, I will not fly unless the ceiling is at least 1,500 feet and visibility is at least four miles.” Most pilots take great pride in their skills, and some go so far as to write down a commitment to maintaining proficiency and currency, noting, “I will make an effort to fly at least three times a month, for at least two hours.” This is followed by a plan to remedy the situation if they cannot keep the commitment, such as: “If it has been more than 45 days since I have flown, I will take a qualified instructor with me.” Many FBOs have a policy like this written into their rental agreements. For example, some require that if you have not flown one of their aircraft in the preceding 90 days, you must fly with an instructor.

SCENARIO 1 W h en th e weat her is bel ow y our per son al w ea the r l imi ta ti on s

THE WEATHER IS MARGINAL VFR and it is late afternoon. You’re a VFR pilot on day 86 of the 90-day currency cycle, so you rush out to the airport to get in three takeoffs and landings. In two days’ time you have promised to take your boss’s kid for a flight. You have a little more than an hour before sunset, and you are not night current. The winds are calm. As you turn on to downwind, you notice fog is starting to appear about three miles off the departure end of the runway. What are your options? • You could rush to try to get those three takeoffs and landings in before the fog gets worse. • You could make a full-stop landing and finish your currency flying tomorrow. In the time it took you to read that last sentence, you probably identified the risks: a rushed and rusty pilot rushing the pattern leads to a rushed landing, and those elements can put you behind the airplane. What would you do? You know from training and experience that three touch-and-gos usually take about a half an hour to complete. In theory, there’s time to get them all done. Do you feel confident in your ability to safely finish the currency flight, or would you feel better trying tomorrow? What is the worst that could happen? Is this flight worth the risk?

HIGH ER WOR KLOAD? I NCR EASE LIMITS Flying in an unfamiliar airplane is like cooking in someone else’s kitchen—it can be disastrous if you don’t know where everything is or how it works. When you are flying a new-to-you airplane, raise your minimums. Even if you are instrument rated, you may want to keep the first flight in a new-to-you airplane in VFR

conditions, especially when you are learning the panel or avionics suite. If the purpose of the flight is transition training to a faster or more complex aircraft, you may want to stay in VFR conditions so you don’t unnecessarily add to your workload and increase the learning curve.

L IMITS FO R PASSEN GE R FL I G HTS You may not have any qualms about a few bumps or gusty crosswinds, but your passengers could have other ideas. Both can be terror- and vomit-inducing for the aviation challenged. If you’re an instructor and you conduct an introductory or primary training flight, you probably have lim-

itations set by the school or FBO (or their insurance company). You also have to ask yourself, “Would I want the learner to fly in this by him or herself?” It is up to instructors to model good risk management. There’s a time and place for challenging weather—but you want them to learn, not be intimidated.

UNFAMILIAR TERRAIN If you are unfamiliar with the area you are flying in, raise the weather limitations—this is the enVironment part of PAVE. If you are a “flat-land” pilot and your normal VFR limitations are three miles visibility and a 1,000-foot ceiling, but you’re flying in mountainous regions, raise those limitations to five miles visibility and a 2,500-foot ceiling—especially if up until then you have only read about mountain flying.

If it is a new-to-you area, study the sectional chart ahead of time, in particular noting the VFR reporting points, visual landmarks, and pattern altitudes. You do not want to be heads down with the iPad or sectional while approaching the pattern to land. You should also seek out mountain-specific instruction from an experienced pilot before you go it alone over highaltitude and mountainous terrain for the first time.

SCENARIO 2 Renting an aircraft while on vacation

KEEP YOUR EXPECTATIONS in check if you want to rent an airplane while on vacation. It is not like renting a car where you show your driver’s license, give them a credit card, and off you go. Most FBOs will want to see your pilot and medical certificates, give you an open-book test, and then have you do a flight with one of their CFIs before they rent to you. The checkout can run the better part of two hours. Know this before you go into the situation so you don’t feel pressured to cut corners to “get it done.” One of the challenging aspects of this situation is that you probably don’t know anything about the FBO’s maintenance. You can, however, ask to see the airplane’s logbooks. Pay attention to the details. If the FBO smells like a fish tank or an ashtray, the CFI you are supposed to fly with shows up in dirty jeans and a T-shirt, and the aircraft looks about as rough as it can be, ask yourself if you really want to fly there. Even if they claim to be the “only game in town,” ask yourself if it’s worth the risk. Remember, it just takes two holes to line up in the Swiss cheese to give you a bad day.

SCENARIO 3

T h u n d e r s t o r m s : H o w c l o s e d o y o u go ?

ANOTHER TYPE OF WEATHER limitation strikes when thunderstorms boil up in the region in which you plan to fly. Most pilots have heard a common safety rule: Stay clear of any storm by at least 20 nm. If storms fall in a line, passing through that line then requires you to have a 40 nm gap between cells in order to make a safe transit. This is probably one of the most readily “busted” weather limits out there, as pilots commonly fudge that distance by half. They get away with it—for a while. And then, inevitably, they find there’s a good reason for the safety margin. That’s because cells often generate severe turbulence and toss out precipitation far from their primary visible cloud formations. This is one personal limit you don’t want to bust.

“Get-it-done-itis”—the close cousin to the deadly “getthere-itis”—can trigger poor decision making. Just about every airport has a story about a VFR-only pilot in a VFR-only airplane who did a scud run in his personal aircraft to get to the airport for a walk-in flight review. In one example: It was the end of the month and the pilot insisted that it had to be done today, because the aircraft was going in for annual and it had been 23 calendar months since his last flight review. The pilot flew in from his grass strip about five miles from the airport. His assessment of the weather was, “it looked

pretty good,” but after some questioning from the CFI, he admitted he had made the flight at 500 feet agl to avoid the clouds. He estimated the inflight visibility to be about two miles. He told the CFI that normally he would not fly unless he had at least a 1,000-foot ceiling and three miles visibility, but he “really, really, really needed to get this done.” The CFI asked the pilot about his personal weather limitations. Was he comfortable during the flight? Would he have brought a passenger with him? The answer was “no” to both questions—settling the matter—that in making the flight, he broke his own parameters. } 93

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AVOID ‘GET-IT-DONE-ITIS’

LIFE IN THE AIR

TAK IN G WI N G

L ANDING HOME Building our aviation dream house sparks a new perspective. BY SAM WEIGEL

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Sam Weigel (2)

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HE AIRSTRIP, SEEN from above, is little more than a momentary slash through the brooding forest between Green Mountain and Wildcat Lake; blink and you’ll miss it. I refrain from blinking, announce turning downtown on the seldom-used CTAF, and configure the well-worn rental Piper Cherokee for landing. I’ve landed at this strip exactly once; by backcountry standards it’s not a terribly challenging field, but it’s not your usual paved public airport either. I can’t see the runway as I turn base, but I can see my neighbor’s hangar and the crease in the trees that denotes the runway threshold.

Turning an offset final, 2,400 feet of beautifully manicured grass reveals itself through a slot between some truly monstrous Douglas firs, and my wife, Dawn, exclaims at the glittering apparition of Mount Rainier floating above the far end. I slip the little Cherokee down through the slot, straightening out above the grass and touching down softly. A windsock denoting a 10-knot tailwind whisks by, but no matter; this strip is one-way-in, one-way-out, and the grade slows us quickly. “Welcome home,” I say, as I turn around and taxi to a wooded plot near the windsock. Dawn squeezes my arm, tears in her eyes. It’s been a long road here, and Dawn’s first landing at Leisureland Airpark (WA96) marks a fitting end to this leg of our journey. Our 2021 odyssey began last spring, when we made a one-month cruise of the Bahamas aboard Windbird, a fond farewell to the sea-gypsy life we’ve led these last five years. In May, we embarked on our final passage north to Myrtle Beach, moved everything off the boat and into a cargo trailer and headed west. Our first stop was northern Alabama, where our friends Brad and Amber Phillips and Sylvia and Hugh Grandstaff resided at the time. Among other adventures, we crewed for a hot air balloon pilot on several weekends, and Dawn got to ride on a festival flight with dozens of other balloons—a bucket-list item for her. One month later, we decamped to Minnesota and the Dakotas, where we reconnected with family and collected the scattered remnants of our pre-boat life.

Our land is taking shape... by the sweat of our brow and the work of our hands. It was a busy summer. Besides commuting to a very full flying schedule out of New York City, I was spending a lot of time in South Carolina working on Windbird and assisting in her sale, and also trying to jumpstart development of our lot in Washington state. In one six-week period, I spent only three full days in South Dakota. I ended up thoroughly exhausted and in an unusually dark mood—something that more than one reader picked up on in my September 2021 column. In early August, we started our final westward migration, and a few days later, we coasted down the western slope of the Cascades on a sparkling clear summer day. An old college friend, Dan Adams (now a Boeing 767 captain at my airline), generously invited us to stay in his beautiful Tudor home in Tacoma’s Old Town—even though Dawn kicked him out the last time we roomed together, in Minnesota when we were young new-hire pilots for Compass Airlines. Dan may have had ulterior motives,

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LIFE IN THE AIR

TAK IN G WI N G for just before we arrived, he purchased a classic Hans Christian 34 sailboat, S/V Delphinus. Hans Christians are beautiful boats but they have acres of teak brightwork, which in Delphinus’ case hadn’t been touched in a decade. Luckily for Dan, his new roommates (us) had significant recent varnishing experience. I didn’t mind—the project made for a nice transition from boat life. Dawn and I had an admittedly half-baked scheme to clear some of our land, put in a septic system, and buy a tiny house to live in for the next couple of years. It turned out the permitting for that was not so simple, the contractor we were working with flaked out and disappeared, and heavy rain started early in October this year and quickly washed away our plans. It turned out to be a good thing. After two months of living tenuously at Dan’s house and feeling like we were treading in quicksand, we made the decision to get a small apartment in Bremerton and live there for at least a year while working on our land and building our hangar. Moving in and furnishing the bare space, we felt like newlyweds; we really were starting from scratch. What followed was an explosion in productivity and creativity. I was transferred to my airline’s Seattle base, and suddenly, instead of commuting across the country, I was taking the ferry across Puget Sound to work. With extra time on my hands, I began picking up overtime and socking extra money into the construction fund. Dawn and I started eating better and working out together, and we got ourselves seriously organized for the tasks ahead. Our research and planning kicked into high gear, and we began spending a lot of time at the airstrip, working on our land whenever the weather allowed. I bought a Sony a6400 and built a video rig, filmed everything, and

learned editing in Final Cut Pro to create a miniseries about building our aviation homestead. I’ll be working on the first episode by the time you read this. Separately, I launched the V1 Rotate web series for new and aspiring professional pilots on FLYING’s digital channel, with text and video pieces posted on the first and third Fridays of every month. Best of all, I got back into general aviation, taking to the skies every time the gloom lifted and the snow-draped Olympic Mountains glittered brilliantly across Hood Canal. After getting checked out in the Cherokee, I got tailwheel current and cleared to rent a beautifully restored Citabria, and then one of our future neighbors started lending me his Super Cub. I began loading barnstormers.com three times a day—but, seriously, can we talk about these ridiculous prices? Dawn and I started meeting local pilots, and we joined the local EAA chapter. Our land is taking shape before our very own eyes, by the sweat of our brow and the work of our hands, and we are falling in love with the rhythms of life at our little airstrip in the woods. Our dog, Piper, loves it too; he barks and wags his tail crazily every time we turn onto the road up there. We still have a long way to go before we build our hangar and house, and create the aviation homestead of our dreams; but at long last, we are exactly where we want to be, building the new flying life together that we chose during our years adventuring across the seas. }

Sam Weigel

SAM WEIGEL began flight lessons at 13 and worked his way up to flying for a major airline. His new online series, V1 Rotate, explores the world of the professional pilot.

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LIFE IN THE AIR

L E A D I NG E D G E

A brief repose for the author in his quest for eternal motion.

MOVEMENT Can’t stop. Won’t stop. BY BEN YOUNGER

There is an essential truth about human beings and movement. It’s in our genes. We were made for motion. We have figured out a way to move in all environments where most of our neighbors on this planet excel in only one. A penguin can walk, but it isn’t pretty. A human can outpace a horse over the distance of a marathon. Dissatisfied with terrestrial bonds, we refused to stay in our lane and took to the skies—something our bodies are still millennia behind in terms of evolution. Go get your

instrument ticket if you’d like to see just how much. Half the things you learn are how easily our internal systems are fooled. Somatogravic and vestibular illusions will turn your own body against you in the clouds. Forcing your insurrect limbs to do your mind’s bidding can become a battle at times. Here, our reach well exceeds our grasp from an evolutionary perspective. Still we move. Dangers be damned. Whatever pleasure center in our brains is triggered by movement, it is a powerful region. 98

Courtesy of Ben Younger

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HROUGH THE AIR, over the ground, across the water. Gravel, dirt, grass, asphalt, snow, and ice. Short distances. Long distances. A body in motion tends to stay in motion. I am that body.

In January, I traveled to Phoenix with a group of friends to go dirt bike riding in the surrounding mountains. I was unable to fly myself as my airplane was being worked on by my friend Phil at Taylor Aviation. Flying commercial got me thinking about how we travel for the pleasure of moving over another part of our planet in a different vehicle. Try to imagine what this would look like to an alien species observing our behavior. A group of humans gather at Newark Liberty International Airport (KEWR) in New Jersey and fly across the country. They get in cars and drive to a dirt lot under some power lines. They exit the cars and mount dirt bikes, which they ride in large circles for three days, before, ultimately, flying back home. They return with nothing but memories of firing neurons. They have no goals nor specific terminus. They gather no food. They find no treasure. Leaving New Jersey in the first place is probably the only thing that made any sense, if observing from a distance. I suppose this is why we call this a joy ride. Traveling over desert landscapes and across mountainous single track, we celebrated our speed, skill, and agility. Never mind the jumping cholla cactus I collided with that required needle-nose pliers to remove the 100-plus barbed spines that punctured my skin. Some of us are more blessed with skill and agility than others. Now, add general aviation to the mix and the quest for movement is intensified by an order of magnitude. Returning home to a working airplane, I immediately prepare for my next trip, for which I am the PIC. I am glued to ForeFlight and various other weather apps for two days, trying to find a window to leave New York in mid-January—a time when icing AIRMETs are as ubiquitous as $6-a-gallon 100LL at every major FBO chain. I finally got out with a VFR-on-top clearance taking me over a solid overcast, but I was hammered with 50knot winds on the nose. It didn’t matter one bit. I was in motion. The challenge of modifying the plan to avoid descending through ice-laden clouds and landing with enough fuel holds my interest in a way no in-flight entertainment on an airline ever could. I check the weather at multiple airports on my route, comparing their observed ceilings to PIREPs of cloud-tops west of my location. This allows me to judge the thickness of layers and, along with temperature readings, decide whether an instrument descent is feasible. All the while, there is constant movement. After stops in Ohio, Kansas, and Pueblo, Colorado, I am direct to Telluride (KTEX). This will be the second time landing there since the incident four years ago that cost me an airplane. I shook the bulk of the dust off this past August with the help of CFI Dennis Duggan, who went up and flew the pattern with me, reminding me that I am once again a pilot up to the challenge. My year in Albuquerque during lockdown was spent taking mountain flying lessons around Taos and it all came together for me. No more fear, just healthy respect.

Try to imagine what this would look like to an alien species observing our behavior. Leaving the Flower FBO at Pueblo, I grab a free hot dog and a quick chat with a minister’s daughter behind the front desk. I approach the Rockies later in the day when the winds have picked up some. I cross the first ridgeline at a 45-degree angle and at 4,000 feet over Hayden Pass. Where normally filing an IFR plan creates a sense of safety for me, here I find it advantageous to stay off the published airways and cut some corners to make time. In CAVU conditions, flight following does the same thing for me as an IFR clearance, and I only lose radio contact for a few minutes east of Gunnison. The approach is beautiful; and the sense of movement, so difficult to gauge at 14.5K, comes into sharp relief as I pass a mountain just a few hundred feet off my left wing on a two-mile final into Runway 9. The wind from the north rocks the Bo but I am ready with a full (though fast) aileron movement to the stop, to keep the wings level. My IAS is the same as it ever is on approach but groundspeed is so much higher in the thin air. I feel the extra speed looking out the windows. Flare, then chirp-chirp, and I am down and taxiing. My pal Rosie picks me up at the airport, and pulling my snowboard out of the back, I have this overwhelming feeling of gratitude for all of this coordinated motion, for the skill sets I have cultivated and honed that allow me to make all of these movements with precision. From an instrument approach to minimums to a backside cut on an overhead wave. I have trained myself for a life of motion. The next morning, I strap on my snowboard and drop into the trees to find the last of the fresh powder. I move between firs and pines slashing at the snow, appreciative of the decades of muscle memory I have stored for this exact movement. From the top of the gondola, I can see the runway in the near distance and the takeoff awaiting me when I leave here in a week’s time. Keep it moving. } BEN YOUNGER is a TV and film writer/director, avid motorcyclist, and surfer—but  it’s  being a  pilot that he treats as a second profession. Follow Ben Younger on Instagram: @thisisbenyounger.

99

LIFE IN THE AIR

GE A R U P

HIGH FLYER Altitude, higher altitude, and way up there

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BY DICK KARL

E’RE GOING TO TEXAS.

“Nah,” said Jason, “We’ll fly above that stuff.” Such was my introduction to flying jets, in this case the Learjet 31. With a service ceiling of 51,000 feet, there weren’t many clouds we couldn’t top; at least theoretically. I say theoretically because getting a Lear to Flight Level 510 before running out of jet-A was a challenge. Nonetheless, I was learning about the benefits (and perils) of highaltitude flight.

Starting out in a Cessna 150, altitude was a pretty simple matter. With careful attention to density altitude, most takeoffs were possible and cruising altitudes were seldom much more than a few thousand feet above mean sea level. Owning a Cessna P210 got me thinking about pressurization, advantages of flights in the high “teens,” and the thrill of announcing my presence at a flight level. Though 100

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“I doubt it,” I thought, after looking at the radar. There was a line of thunderstorms associated with a cold front stretching north to south across our route.

credited with a service ceiling of 25,000 feet, I doubt I ever made it higher than FL210. That was exhilarating enough for me. A Hank Williams Jr. song called “High and Pressurized” became my anthem. “It don’t take long to get there if you’re high and pressurized,” went the first verse. It is a tune about the satisfaction that comes with owning or renting a pressurized airplane. There’s a line about the mile high club, but that’s a topic for a different day (and maybe a different publication). Pressurized piston airplanes have the admirable trait of being able to fly low into headwinds and to ride the tailwinds up high. Turboprops aren’t so lucky. These airplanes basically have jet engines that are more fuel efficient the higher they fly, so bucking headwinds down low rarely makes sense over long distances. With service ceilings of 28,000 to 31,000 feet, you aren’t going to top any big thunderstorms in a turboprop either. Jets, however, make surmounting the weather a real possibility. That Lear 31 trip was my introduction to such magnificence. In fact, we laughed at my naiveté and at the wall of lightning and mayhem beneath us as we roared westward at FL430. Later that night, we retraced our route from Texas to St. Petersburg, Florida (KPIE), and climbed to FL470. We would have kept climbing, but the peninsula of Florida was fast approaching—and we didn’t want to overshoot and end up in Spain. I don’t know how high I have been. I mean that in a strict sense of altitude msl. Redeeming mileage points, I rode on Concorde once from KJFK in New York to Heathrow (EGLL) in London. After much whining and begging, I was allowed to enter the cockpit. I was astounded to see the altimeters showing 52,640 feet (I think). Given a block altitude (who else was going to be up here?), the pilots said they just sought the best altitude for the prevailing winds and temperature. The airplane was so fast—it routinely cruised at Mach 2.0— that eastbound trips and westbound trips weren’t but a few minutes different in regards to time en route. Soon, I was ushered back out of the cockpit by a stern British Airways flight attendant, so I really don’t know how high we actually got. Part 135 flying in a Cessna Citation CJ3 was my real classroom for learning about high-altitude flight. With a straight wing and hence relatively docile flying characteristics up high, we consistently flew at FL450 when possible. With generous and knowledgeable captains, I learned that although we could top those huge midwest thunderstorms at FL450, it was still a good idea to avoid flying directly over them. Just because it looked clear didn’t mean there weren’t ferocious funnels of turbulence rising from these prodigious forces of nature. I’m currently privileged to fly a Cessna CJ1. Its service ceiling is FL410, but I had never been that high in it until recently. Powered by two Williams FJ44-1A engines with a “mere” 1,900 pounds of thrust each, the CJ1 never seemed very enthusiastic about flying above FL390. Then I was taught a lesson.

I don’t know how high I have been. I mean that in a strict sense of altitude msl. While the airplane was parked at Wichita’s Dwight D. Eisenhower National Airport (KICT) for a routine maintenance visit, the Textron Aviation service center performed scheduled engine checks and replaced some seals. As part of their post-maintenance protocol, they flew the airplane. I watched with amazement on flightaware.com as the Textron pilots flew right up to 41,000 feet. Two days later, I was headed from KICT to Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB), a distance of 1,200 nm. With just a modest tailwind and me as the airplane’s only occupant, ForeFlight calculated I would land with 908 pounds of fuel. Though certainly legal, my personal minimum is 1,000 pounds of gas upon landing. Good weather was forecast at the destination for the next eight hours. After that, Hurricane Irma was to wash the Northeast clean. I decided to start out with the intent to climb to FL410, carefully check position, time en route, and fuel consumption against ForeFlight’s nav log, and see what happened. Thirty-nine minutes after takeoff, I was level at 41,000 feet; better than the 48 minutes shown on the nav log. The airplane felt exhausted, as if it had flung itself onto the shore after a difficult marathon swim, but gradually recaptured airspeed such that I was soon clocking 357 ktas and 0.62 Mach, as predicted. The tailwind was slow to materialize but fuel flow was down to 320 pounds per side, less than 100 gallons an hour. The Avidyne 550s showed me landing with 855 pounds of gas—not ideal, but that didn’t include fuel saved when the power is retarded for descent. This number also improved when those 60 knots of tailwind made their long awaited appearance. So, I sat there, fat, dumb, and happy. In time, the Nexrad radar update showed me skirting the hurricane and zooming along at a groundspeed of 435 knots. I was euphoric. I poured a cup of coffee and nuzzled the oxygen mask. I’m told the song “Eight Miles High” by the Byrds is about drugs. With the cabin altitude at just over 7,600 feet, hot coffee at my side, and improving estimated fuel-at-destination calculations, I required zero drugs for mood enhancement. Oh, yes, I landed with 990 pounds of gas and a 1,200mile smile. }

DICK KARL is a cancer surgeon turned Part 135 pilot who flies a Cessna Citation CJ1.

101

LIFE IN THE AIR

C FI C E NT RA L

PL ANNING THE BIG ONE Tips from an instructor before you take that long summer cross-country flight BY MICHAEL WILDES

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T’S APPROACHING THAT time of year when you might be thinking of taking that long trip you have envisioned. Sure, you have flown shorter cross-country flights before, but the trek that you have in mind won’t be like the old times. It’s easy to be biased about multiple things—your airplane, your ability, your experience—that will goad you into thinking this trip will play out like ones before, but these assumptions could be costly. Planning a long flight alone may involve some additional risk. To combat any gaps in your knowledge, my first recommendation is to have a flying partner go along with you, even just for some company. Another pilot in the airplane can work the radios to reduce your workload and help you stay alert. If you must go alone, depending on your level of comfort, break the trip up into multiple legs. If you plan to fly a trip that will take you from day into night, you want to get your airplane ready as well.

Ensure that your aircraft is sufficiently equipped for night flight—just in case you get caught out during a flight segment that went longer than expected. Recall that there are different lighting requirements for day and night flights. Do you have the correct navigation and communication instruments? Can you operate at an optimal altitude for the trip? Are you meeting the proper fuel requirements based on the time of day and whether the flight is VFR or IFR? Do not aim to be minimally compliant 102

here. For a long time, fuel mismanagement was a leading cause of accidents in the widely flown Beechcraft models, the result of either fuel exhaustion or starvation. On the outside, it seems trivial, but I can appreciate the lapse in judgment because every time I transition to flying a Beech Bonanza that only has a left/right fuel selector and analog engine-monitoring instruments from an airplane with a “Both” fuel selector option, it isn’t my instinct to monitor the fuel and be ready to switch tanks. I expect that there are many pilots who recently bought airplanes and made avionics retrofits. After such upgrades, pilots could find themselves trying to decipher errors or warning messages they have never seen before. But the best way to mitigate this is to immerse yourself in the handbook and POH supplements for your new equipment so that you can anticipate any notifications ahead of your trip. Even if you do not memorize them, knowing where to locate the right buttons and the sequence to press in a crunch will relieve a lot of pressure. While new avionics have the potential to increase safety, National Transportation Safety Board data has shown that aircraft equipped with glass cockpits have a higher fatal accident rate than comparable aircraft equipped with the old-fashioned, “sometimeschallenging-to-decipher,” round mechanical gauges. This may be true in part because pilots do not know how to work the equipment, even if they know how to manage it in principle. The problem compounds when pilots are under pressure from ATC and completely forget the basics of flying the airplane first. Dueling with the weather has been the biggest challenge for pilots all around. Despite all the technological progress we have made in the GA industry, pilots still come up short when dealing with deteriorating weather conditions beyond their typical comfort level, even with additional reporting and the ability to view updated weather in the cockpit. According to a recent study of GA accidents, one of the leading causes of fatal accidents remains continued VFR flight into instrument conditions. The greatest number of accidents were reported in single-engine aircraft being flown by private pilots on personal flights. Aside from VFR into IMC, poor IFR technique is another major cause of weather-related accidents. Going on a cross country will expose you to even more phenomena that you’re unfamiliar with and test your mettle, but it can be easier if you prepare ahead. Keep in mind that summer thunderstorms often include hail. You might be required to deviate by a wide margin to steer clear of the hazards that come with it, and thereby stretch your fuel limits. Even for airplanes equipped with icing protection systems, traversing bad weather increases pilot workload—the icing protection systems on light GA aircraft are no panacea. The key to avoiding this exposure comes from understanding the broad picture of the area’s weather, not just for your planned trip time. Get a thorough picture by calling a briefer, talking to pilots, and using all your

resources through apps on your smartphone or tablet. Especially if you are flying solo, it’s worthwhile to have tools that can augment your decision-making. A clear picture of the weather will allow you to consider the optimum performance profiles, routing, and altitudes for your trips, as well as potential diversions or appropriate alternates, even though the appeal of being able to go directly with GPS will linger in your mind. As you already know to be conservative with fuel, always consider the potential to encounter lousy weather. There are other things to think about with GPS, especially as the FA A is decommissioning VORs and embracing newer “Tango” or RNAV terminal transition routes. Even if you have flown the same trip before, you might find yourself scratching your head when a controller begins rattling off new five-letter fixes and routes that sound like a foreign language. I have found this to be a most unsettling experience, especially in flight, and wound up kicking myself for my own expectation biases. One way you can anticipate this is by fast-tracking your flight review or instrument proficiency check to help expose yourself to changes in the system. If you decide to conduct your trip under VFR, consider flying as close as possible to populated areas. However, if the trip includes flying over water or unpopulated areas with the chance of losing your visual reference to the horizon, be prepared to file IFR even in clear skies. You don’t want your emotions to get the best of you. I know how it is. If the skies are clear on a good day, even if you have been flying all day—especially after required fuel stops—it’s enticing to complete that final leg and skip the hotel bill. I have been there before, and not getting home as planned can be a drag. I have had to overnight a few times because of weather and a malfunctioning electronic engine component. I was even more bothered that the next day when the mechanic showed up with a laptop to fix it—I lost a whole day of work drinking FBO coffee. Plus, you promised someone you would be there. It is tempting to think you will rise to the occasion, especially when things start to go wrong. But the truth is, you are just plain tired, and this may be compounded by a lack of recency of experience in your airplane. If the options permit, it’s always best to deviate to a convenient airport with the amenities you need—such as fuel, proper aircraft storage, and even a crew car— and finish the trip the next day. If you want to be wise, carry an overnight bag, just in case. You will thank yourself later. A long cross-country flight that exposes you to new environments and experiences is something every pilot should have on their bucket list, and if done safely, it can create memories for a lifetime. } MICHAEL WILDES covers business news for FLYING and appreciates all things aviation, media, business, and philanthropy. He holds MEI, CFI, and CFII ratings.

103

LIFE IN THE AIR

JUMPSEAT

A CL ASSIC DAY He (or she) who dies with the most toys wins. BY LES ABEND

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For a few years I have annoyed my wife with the notion of purchasing a car to match my birth year. The idea was unrealistic. The logistics of storage and maintenance intermingle with the trepidation that such an automobile could only be seen and not touched. After my exposure to the classic car world through my JetBlue captain friend, Mike Strauss, I realized that some toys can be classified as “drivers.” Drivers still have value, but can also be enjoyed beyond the boundaries of a car show on a blue-sky Sunday in June. With much supervision from Mike and another mutual friend, Kage Barton, a retired Continental/United captain, I was convinced to pull the trigger on my first classic

car. The purchase put a grin on my face. As expected, my wife managed a hesitant smile, gracefully acknowledging the acquisition. Interestingly enough, the seller was a spry 90-year-old who had been a Navy aviation electronics technician during the Korean War. He admired pilots, even though we attempted to convince him that he should probably raise his standards. Through him, I soon had the honorable responsibility of becoming the next “custodian” for a 1957 Chrysler New Yorker. Now in the world of classic cars, I was invited to appropriate events, one of them being the world-famous Mecum auction. There, toys in the form of cars, boats, motorcycles, and engines are displayed for bidding in 104

Les Abend

HE AXIOM IN THE SUBTITLE provokes a smile in most of you…or at least a smirk. Not only does it endorse materialism, but it suggests the pursuit of toy accumulation is competitive. Although we won’t admit it, most of us accept that not only is such a pursuit unattainable, it shouldn’t be the focus of our lives. That being said, it sure is fun to dream. I was fortunate enough to spend a day doing just that with one classic Piper Arrow and about 3,500 classic cars.

such utterly ridiculous quantities—from the paint-challenged to the ostentatious—that it boggles the mind. For this year, the auction venues were at 13 locations across the U.S., inclusive of live streaming and a regular TV show. In January, one show took place in Kissimmee, Florida, which presented the opportunity for a 35minute flight in my classic 50-year-old airplane. For those who have been following my tale of aircraft ownership woe, the Arrow returned to operational status in December after its six-month retreat in the lonely back corner of a maintenance hangar. An AMOC (alternative method of compliance) was finally granted following the Arrow’s failing an eddy current inspection last year—the result of minor abrasions in the two bolt holes of the right-wing spar cap that were addressed by an airworthiness directive instituted as a result of an accident in 2018. The AMOC simply allowed for bolt holes that were only thousandths of an inch wider in diameter than Piper’s specs. It’s probably the safest Arrow wing in the world now. With Mike departing in his Beechcraft Bonanza from Ormond Beach, Florida (KOMN), and me departing Flagler Beach (KFIN) in the Arrow, we coordinated a synchronous arrival into Kissimmee (KISM). My non-aviation passenger, Ken Bryan, is a local friend and classic car aficionado. I briefed Ken airline-style— and apologized in advance for any lapse in my piloting skills—assigning him the task of cockpit door opener in the event of a takeoff emergency. Aside from gusty winds, it was a blue-sky morning. Noting that the magenta line took us directly over DeLand airport (KDED) and its associated parachuting operation, I altered the heading to the west so as to avoid a possible encounter with a colorful nylon canopy. My contact with Daytona Beach Approach for flight following revealed a problem with Orlando ATC. They were short-staffed, probably an Omicron-related issue, so no flight following through Class B airspace—an operation the controllers normally accommodated. Utilizing my new flight-deck assistant, ForeFlight, I began the finger tap dance of determining airspace altitudes and the best frequency for monitoring Orlando Approach. A course to the west of the Class B seemed the best option. Unfortunately, it added an extra 10 minutes to the trek, but Ken was enjoying the scenery anyhow. Disney World, with its permanent TFR, was the next potential airspace violation to avoid. I would find out later that Mike had filed IFR in the Bonanza—with its advantage of ATC routing—so his only complicated task was to find Kissimmee. We landed with minimal issues other than a healthy crosswind. To Mike’s chagrin, we arrived ahead of him. Fortunately, George Vernon, a former American Airlines colleague and retiree was Mike’s passenger. George bore witness to the winner of our undeclared air race. I don’t remember working that hard on my JFK-to-London flights, but then we didn’t have that kind of fun.

We landed with minimal issues other than a healthy crosswind. To Mike’s chagrin, we arrived ahead of him. Although the Osceola Heritage Park in Kissimmee was the venue for the auction, you might consider it one of the world’s most expansive automobile museums. The only difference was that the museum pieces were all for sale. In seven hours we only viewed half of the cars. Mike is a human car encyclopedia, aiding our selfguided walking tour. He has an uncanny ability to procure the most obscure details from body style to the type of carburetor installed. I thought he was just making stuff up, but so far he’s only been wrong twice despite my myriad of questions. He was chastised appropriately for being incorrect. Performed with the melodic cadence of professional auctioneers, the auction itself was an incredibly efficient process. Most cars rolled onto the bidding stage were there for an average of two minutes. A cherry-red 1959 Cadillac convertible that sold for $155,000 might have taken another minute longer after a bidding war erupted. Although we weren’t seated in the bidding area, I kept my hands in my pockets. Because we stayed till the end, our flight home was into a night sky. Nighttime flying in a single-engine airplane is not my regular practice—having been spoiled with the luxury of a sophisticated jet and a competent copilot—but I found the courage nonetheless. Without assistance from Signature personnel, having paid the “facility fee” that had literally increased overnight to $50, we walked to our airplanes located at a dark, remote area of the ramp. We removed chocks and orange hazard cones on our own respective walkarounds. This time with the support of an IFR flight plan, Ken and I launched skyward. We were dazzled by the lights below and a display of fireworks from Epcot. Despite a rheostat failure that didn’t allow for dimming the panel lights, I managed to find the runway back home, albeit with a touchdown that was a little firmer than desired. It was a great classic car and a great classic airplane day. And no, there’s not a chance that I will die with the most toys. }

LES ABEND is a retired 34-year veteran of American Airlines, attempting to readjust his passion for flying airplanes in the lower flight levels without the assistance of a first officer.

105

LIFE IN THE AIR

UNUSUAL ATTITUDES

BACK HOME AGAIN A check ride marks this pilot’s full return to the skies. BY MARTHA LUNKEN

That morning I became a “real” private pilot…nine months since the revocation of all my certificates and ratings. Though I could pursue getting all of them back, at this time in life I won’t go for anything else except an instrument rating. I don’t need anything more. Sure, it’s nice to remember flying that single-pilot Lockheed Lodestar alone, instructing and testing pilot applicants for thousands of hours, and logging nearly 1,000 hours in a bunch of Douglas DC-3s. And I had loads of fun playing with an Aeronca Chief, a de Havilland Beaver, Piper Super Cubs, and a Republic Twin Bee on the water (even under a few bridges)—and pretending I actually knew enough to be a commercial hot air balloon pilot.

This time, I took my private ride in a 1967 Cessna 150 off a grass strip north of Cincinnati—a place I initially chose because the only tailwheel-rated designated pilot examiner (DPE) in the area is there. Why a Cessna 150? Well, as the time got closer, it occurred to me that DPEs these days advise their FAA “keepers” of any scheduled check rides. And keepers are tasked with conducting “observed rides” at least once a year. When I was a Fed, we would explain to the applicant that we weren’t assessing his or her performance—just the examiner’s adherence to FAA standards and giving a complete check ride. But naturally, the DPE would be in “high” gear and give the damnedest, lengthiest, and most comprehensive oral and flight test ever. 106

Courtesy of Martha Lunken (2)

A

S A CHILD, I thought Christmas Eve was hands-down the most magical time of the year, but December 24, 2021, was over the top.

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LIFE IN THE AIR

UNUSUAL ATTITUDES

When I worked in the Indianapolis Flight Standards District Office (FSDO), Herman, one of my busiest (and most beloved) DPEs in Terre Haute, famously flunked one applicant each year—when I showed up to ride along. And, yeah, I always felt sorry for the applicant that day who didn’t have much of a chance. So, what to do? I mean I’m pretty competent flying my Cessna 180, having owned it for 30-some years without seriously denting anything, but anybody can flub a maneuver, especially with two pairs of eyes watching (one pair rather critically from the back seat). Wrestling with this dilemma, somebody who shall remain nameless said, “Well, that’s easy; fly one of our 150s.” A long time ago, I logged close to 6,000 hours of instruction and testing, much of it in my flying school’s 1966 Cessna 150. But I still had to study the 1967 150 manual—which is more like a pamphlet—and dig into the maintenance logs for required inspections, total time, and weight and balance information. The “numbers”—VNE , VNO, VX—were pretty simple and the landing speeds were all around 60 knots. And I still remember how to lay out a cross-country flight on a sectional chart, wielding a plotter and an old-fashioned E6B (I’ve never figured out the electronic models). The examiner, Bob Miller—who I remembered from my own days as a DPE—was serious about this, FAA observer or not. Of course, an FAA inspector could have shown up for the oral portion, but I figured Christmas Eve morning was pretty safe. Anyway, Bob isn’t the kind of guy to cut corners. He’s about twice my weight, but we were still OK on weight and balance with full tanks, and I appreciated the body heat in that lovely little airplane on that cold December morning. The cross-country looked to be a no-brainer; the 150 had a rather medieval VOR receiver that instructor Emerson Stewart had reviewed with me during our three hours of dual preparation for the test. I also had an iPad with ForeFlight strapped to my leg, which was cumbersome since Bob insisted on my having the nav log sheet and sectional at hand. But, as we started out on the trip to Portsmouth, Ohio (KPMH), I was in familiar territory with a great first checkpoint— the big, beautiful Jeremiah Morrow Bridge across the nearby Little Miami River. Also, I had the VOR tuned for cross bearings on other checkpoints along the way, over the featureless, barren winter farmlands of Warren, Clinton, and Highland counties. As I was gloating over my prowess as a navigator, Bob told me to abandon the navigation and turn about 90 degrees northeast over a large lake where we performed every maneuver in the books. It was fun—an old 150 is truly a joy to fly. Eventually, when we finished the whifferdills, he said to resume the cross-country—but we weren’t starting from where my line started on the chart. I headed (approximately) for another checkpoint in the distance and tuned the VOR to center when we crossed over it. It

took quite a crab angle with winds aloft about 40 knots coupled with a slow airplane. Then Bob said to turn the VOR off. No problem—I still had that lovely ForeFlight thing on my knee until he took that away too. Eventually, I found Hillsboro, Ohio, in the distance—not exactly from where I was supposed to be but, hey, I found it. We came back home into the wind with several simulated forced landings en route and a bunch of landings back at Red Stewart Field. I passed! The day after Christmas I flew with a CFI at Lunken Airport (KLUK) to get the required endorsements for complex, high-performance, and tailwheel airplanes. Since then—no longer a passenger in my beloved Cessna 180—I’ve spent lots of time just boring holes in the sky. Well, and trying to get my mojo back on wheel landings. I’m still hitting the books for the rather intimidating instrument written, and then…we’ll see. What a roller coaster 2021 was! And I’ve had a hard time understanding all the publicity because, honestly, I’m a nobody in the airplane world. So much of the feedback was positive and encouraging (with some “she should spend time in jail” in the mix). The support really helped—thank you from the bottom of my heart. The downside is my bad example; I would hate to think that I encouraged anybody—especially young pilots—to try that kind of stupid and potentially dangerous stunt. I truly don’t have an explanation for this fascination, this obsession with airplanes and flying. I never walk outside without looking at the sky to identify cloud shapes, the wind, and weather, or to try seeing an airplane somewhere overhead. But I suspect many of you understand or you wouldn’t be reading this magazine. While I firmly believe the revocation was unfair, it proved that God works in mysterious ways, or “writes straight with crooked lines.” It put me in touch with so many people, both new and from the past—and I’m truly thankful for this wonderful passion we share. }

MARTHA LUNKEN is a lifelong pilot, former FAA inspector, and defrocked pilot examiner. She’s most recently mastered a Cessna 150, owns a 180, and loves anything with a tailwheel, from Cubs to DC-3s.

108

Don’t Take Off

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LIFE IN THE AIR

TEC H N ICAL I T IES

The intersection of aviation and history, where the Wright family meets Theodore Roosevelt on this page from Otto Kallir’s collection.

TIME COLLEC TOR A serendipitous discovery uncovers an aviation past. BY PETER GARRISON

M

In a separate thread, an old friend of mine, Tom Shima, married Barbara Kallir. It took several years of knowing Barbara for me to learn that her grandfather, Otto Kallir, had been a gallery owner in New York, and shared, along with his given name, my uncle’s narrative of emigration from Europe in the 1930s and a dedication to serious modern art and artists. It is likely that the two men knew each other, as their galleries were literally a block apart on 57th Street in Manhattan.

And so, oddly enough, the posthumous paths of these two New York Ottos converge upon me. But who knows how many of these coincidences almost occur in our lives? But wait—there’s more. The other day, Tom and Barbara sent me a catalog from a 1993 Sotheby’s auction. Prominent on its cover was Charles Lindbergh’s signature scrawled across a photo of him standing beside the Spirit of St. Louis. Less conspicuously, the title of 110

Jeff Berlin

Y FATHER AND HIS elder brother Otto were not fond of each other, and so I know little about Uncle Otto that is not in the public domain. He was born in Germany and emigrated to the United States, settling in New York, where he and his wife, Ilse, founded an art gallery: the Gerson Gallery. (“Garrison” was a youthful indiscretion of my father, which he regretted late in life.) After Otto’s death in 1962, the Gerson Gallery merged with the Marlborough Gallery, and so on. It’s all in Wikipedia.

the catalog was “The Otto Kallir Collection of Aviation History.” It turns out that if the 20th century had not gone the way it did, Kallir might have been an aeronautical engineer rather than an art dealer (and Grandma Moses, one of his protégés, might have remained an obscure hobbyist in rural New York). At the start of the catalog, I find a 1909 photo of him, age 15, wearing a smart three-piece suit and holding up a biplane hang glider, most likely of his own construction. In the same year, he published a treatise on the history of aeronautics since the Montgolfiers. It ended with the prediction that aviation would soon become “the safest and fastest means of transport in the world.” This was prescient, considering that the achievements of the Wrights had become widely known in Europe only a year earlier. He flew as an observer in Italy during the First World War. A brief flirtation with gliding ended when his wife declared it too dangerous. Austrian antisemitism stood in the way of his becoming an engineer, and Kallir became an art dealer instead. But he continued to enlarge the collection of aeronautical memorabilia that he had begun as a boy. After the annexation of Austria by Hitler in 1938, he financed his family’s emigration with the proceeds from the sale of that collection. Kallir resumed his hobby in New York, and his collection eventually grew to be one of the most extensive and important in the world. The auction of his holdings, 15 years after his death, represented the dispersal of a lifetime’s painstaking research and acquisition. To page through this book is to glimpse past worlds as their inhabitants experienced them. The items on offer are largely letters, telegrams, and handwritten notes. They reflect not the grand historic roles of their authors but their momentary preoccupations and moods. The earliest letters are from the late 18th century. One, written by an otherwise obscure Philippe Lesueur, describes in impassioned detail a Montgolfier ascent; he marvels at the neutral buoyancy of the huge balloon, so different from objects thrown into the air which come down “even faster than they went up.” Most of one page of the long letter is taken up by a beautifully detailed watercolor of the balloon. There are letters from Jean-François Pilâtre de Rozier and Marquis François Laurent d’Arlandes, the former reporting on preparations for the attempted balloon crossing of the English Channel that would result in his death. Oddly, the catalog omits to mention that those two, who ascended untethered in a Montgolfier balloon in 1783, have the inalienable distinction of being the first human beings ever to fly. Here is Roland Garros, a French near-ace of the 191418 war, who lacking an interrupter gear to keep his machine gun from firing when his propeller was passing in front of it, attached V-shaped steel deflectors to the roots of the blades. The ricocheting of bullets in random directions, though alarming to his squadron mates, led to a French tennis stadium being named in his honor after the war. In an undated, handwritten manuscript en-

titled “The Crossing of the Atlantic,” Garros proposes powering an airplane with electric motors fueled by energy beams from the surface, a Buck Rogers-like scheme perhaps more practicable over land. Otto Lilienthal—the supply of Ottos is unlimited— appears in the form of a number of letters that seem to me to radiate his particularly attractive combination of penetration and candor. To a journalist who touts a new design of flying machine to him, he wryly remarks, “A gust from the side will tip it over. But make yourself a little paper glider. You will have a lot of fun with it, and maybe it will bring you some useful insights.” Amid all these aeronauts, the composer Camille Saint-Saëns unexpectedly appears. He gossips for a while about various musical performances in Paris and London before interrupting himself to marvel, “But what does all that matter next to Blériot’s flight? I’d love to be in his shoes!” And then Lindbergh! We join him in 1925 in a hotel room in Denver, writing a note to someone about prices for barnstorming. Five bucks is the going rate— he writes, “$3.00 is as yet unheard of in Col[orado].” Here are relics of his mail flying career, including his matterof-fact typewritten report of parachuting out of his airplane into a dense fog. The airplane crashed nearby and was demolished, but the mail was intact and Lindbergh dutifully saw to it being delivered safely to a nearby post office. And then—perfectly preserved—his checks paying Ryan Airlines for the construction of the Spirit. Suddenly speaking French—Je certifie être parti…—he signs his name to the document of the Aéro-Club de France that makes his distance record official. We know, but he does not know yet, that his life will never be the same. The Wrights, of course, figure prominently, as does the beautiful handwriting of Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin. Among the lesser figures, I spot a familiar name: Jimmie Mattern. Mattern resided, like many others, in the second tier of distance flyers of the 1930s. I met him once, and he gave me one of his patented aluminum “computers”—the word meant something different then—which combined an E6B with a pair of dividers calibrated to measure distance on aeronautical charts, and also, being quite sharp, was useful for self-defense. It is still in my airplane. Ah, Otto—I wish we had met. Perhaps, if my father had been a more polite and compliant 19-year-old when he arrived in New York in 1937, I might have known my Uncle Otto, and he might have introduced you to his nephew who had just begun to fly. Perhaps you would have shown me those yellowed, handwritten pages, those hastily scrawled signatures, those faded bouquets of penny stamps canceled with the novel words “Air Mail”—and followed their scent to where this all began. } PETER GARRISON taught himself to use a slide rule and tin snips, built an airplane in his backyard, and flew it to Japan. He contributes Aftermath to FLYING, along with this wellloved column. He has contributed to FLYING since 1968.

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