“To live is to fly, low and high. So shake the dust off your wings and the sleep out of your eyes,” is a line from the song “To Live Is to Fly,” written by a Texan, the late Townes Van Zandt, and made popular by another Texan, the late Guy Clark.

Those songs, along with Jerry Jeff Walker’s “Mr. Bojangles,” have been long-standing hits on my own aviation playlist. I say aviation playlist, though my ability to listen to music while flying has all but disappeared, and that, paradoxically, is a good thing. Back in the old days, when I flew mostly VFR, one could listen to uninterrupted music while flying. Once I got a Cessna P210 and headed for the flight levels, music in the air became much harder to appreciate.

Multiple panel-mounted music systems allowed for ATC communications to interrupt the songs, but that was frustrating. Nothing worse than bellowing along to the Eagles’ “Hotel California” only to be interrupted by a pilot who requires his rerouting to be repeated three times with phonetic spelling. By the time the music comes back on, all you hear is “…but you can never leave.”

I bought the Cessna P210 right about the time Hank Williams Jr. released a song called “High and Pressurized.” In my day job as a cancer surgeon, I played this song in the operating room, the car, and the house. We were going up, up to those flight levels. “It don’t take long to get there, if you’re high and pressurized. It ain’t very far from nowhere, if you’re high and pressurized.” There’s a line about the mile-high club, but that’s for a different day and different magazine.

• READ MORE: Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets

Just as with the P210, I finally twigged to the fact that music in operating rooms inhibited communication. Though there aren’t many thrills that can match performing a complicated cancer operation while listening to some Jimmy Buffett, I gave it up. I am down to listening at home or in the car. This is a real but necessary loss. I had noticed that when we closed a patient’s incision after a big operation, the residents and fellows seemed to work a little faster if Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Free Bird” was playing.

No doubt I’m dating (aging?) myself with these titles, but the music my kids listen to seems to reflect the times: dirge, lament, and depression. Many surgeons play classical music while operating. That wasn’t for me. I was more into the Eagles than Gustav Mahler. Interestingly, the effect of music on surgical task performance has been studied. A report in the International Journal of Surgery compared multiple studies and concluded that “classic music when played at low to medium volume can improve surgical task performance by increasing accuracy and speed. The distracting effect of music (should be considered) when playing loud or high beat type of music.” OK then.

“Eight Miles High” by the Byrds was thought to be a drug song, but to me it represented a band of young musicians who had discovered the private jet and thrill of rocking westbound at 43,000 feet. Can you imagine such a thrill? Come to think of it, altitude always seems to provide perspective and release from earthly concerns.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Foo Fighters, and Pink Floyd all recorded songs called “Learning to Fly,” but they aren’t about learning to fly actually. They are metaphors quite easily understood by any pilot. They are about recovery and restoration, victory and perseverance. Isn’t that what learning to fly is really all about?

The album that captures the romance of commercial flight was made in the 1950s. Come Fly With Me by Frank Sinatra featured songs about Chicago, New York, Brazil, and Paris.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

The cover showed the jaunty crooner with a come-hither gesture. In the background lurks a Constellation in TWA colors. Given that Connies flew nonstop from San Francisco to Paris in the ’50s, I can’t imagine a more romantic image.

You want lonely? Try “Early Morning Rain” by Gordon Lightfoot. “Big 707 set to go…She’ll be flyin’ o’er my home in about three hours time.” If that doesn’t conjure up a lonely, barely sober dude by the side of the runway, I don’t know what does. You want wistful? In “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” John Denver, contrite but not reformed, sings of separation and regret. He promises a wedding ring, but we’re not convinced.

Whereas songs about commercial travel are redolent of separation, loss, and loneliness, tunes about flying are exuberant and, well, uplifting. It is all about becoming airborne. My flying friends, when queried, came up with some great tunes. The theme from the 1954 movie The High and the Mighty is all strings and whistling—just like that ancient pelican John Wayne whistles about in the cockpit. One suggested “Born to Be Wild” by Steppenwolf. I’m confident you’ve got a few.

Every friend mentioned the song that captures the exuberance and challenge of flight: “Danger Zone” by Kenny Loggins. If you were alive in 1986, had an interest in flying and a pulse, you could not get this melody out of your head. I don’t know how old you were when that movie, Top Gun, came out, but anybody over 8 will remember the ripped bodies, grave bravado, amazing flight scenes, and the iconic line, “I feel the need…the need for speed!”

As the movie opens, we watch fighters launch off a carrier deck, steam curling up, the quick salute, and then the cannon shot. The P210 didn’t fly like that, but it was close enough for me. I felt exhilarated as if I were Pete Mitchell, Tom Cruise’s character.

A need for speed indeed.

This column first appeared in the May 2024/Issue 948 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post That Sound of Music in the Air appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I’ve been a lucky passenger on five such flights, and I have found them to be exciting and fun, but frustrating. The first was the most impressive. At dinner one night many years ago I offered how I was flying commercially from Tampa, Florida, to Chicago the next day. My dinner guests said they were too—only they were chartering a jet. Would I like to join them? Well, OK. I promised to bring sandwiches for lunch as partial (miniscule) compensation.

The next morning I arrived an hour early, loaded with expectations and roast beef sandwiches. I watched as the crew prepared the Challenger 604. There was a stain on one of the leather seats. The first officer arranged a blanket in an artful manner that hid the stain. Soon my friends arrived, the door was closed, and we started up. I sat as far forward as possible on a sideways-facing seat to get a glimpse of the cockpit.

Before I could stow the sandwiches, we were out of 6,000 feet msl and climbing. I spent the next two hours kneeling between the two pilots and occasionally making a big deal out of serving sandwiches to my hosts. I did not split my time evenly, and my behavior is best described as rude. I think they had to clean up the sandwich wrappers themselves. All too soon we were on the arrival into Chicago Midway (KMDW). My hosts wanted to know if I would like to join them in the limousine into town. Sure, I answered. Big mistake.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

Straining against the seat belt, I watched as we landed and taxied in. The crew shut down, opened the door, and got the luggage. Handshakes all around. And then an unexpected disappointment: We got in the limo and turned onto the grimy streets of the South Side of Chicago. There was no time to linger. No time to put the pitot covers on, no time to savor the magnificence of flying 900 nm in a morning in absolute comfort at FL 380. I sat in the limo, straining again against the seat belt, looking forlornly out the back window as the FBO and my friends’ many thousands of dollars disappeared into the gloom. Wow.

A few years later the same benefactors offered my wife, Cathy, and I a flight from White Plains, New York, to Tampa. This trip was in a Beechjet, so the magnificent stairs thing wasn’t happening, but the airplane was plenty roomy, and I got that seat that allows for cockpit survey. I was glued to the flight deck and let Cathy handle the niceties of polite conversation. Did I notice low fuel lights? I was too naive then to know what they might look like.

Speaking of naive, I was totally out of it when John and Martha King (yes, John and Martha—you read that right) offered us a ride in their Falcon 10 from Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB), to Tampa (KTPA) with a stop in Savannah, Georgia (KSAV). Oh, do I wish I had been typed in that airplane, or any jet, when we took that flight. It was just as you have seen in their videos—except no one was taping the trip. Their interactions were textbook. Their generosity was overwhelming. I still remember arriving at KTPA, taxing into our home base. Yes, I’m with J&M, everybody.

• READ MORE: Bam! In Life and in the Air, Things Can Change in a Hurry

The latest (and greatest, so far) was the shortest. John Raskai took nine of us in his Embraer Phenom 300 from Tampa to Savannah to visit the Gulfstream factory. That’s right, there were 10 of us in total. The Phenom has seven seats, a belted lavatory, and two pilot positions up front.

Raskai is a story in his own right. Newly married out of high school and driving a delivery truck, his is the quintessential American dream that now has him flying his own Phenom. I had never met him, yet here he was, taking us to Georgia. This is the kind of unreal generosity that seems not unusual among self-made jet owner-operators. I’ve benefited from it before.

After introductions all around, we boarded. There was no rush. John and his copilot, Christophe, had flown together before. We were like school children on a field trip. Everyone in the back was a pilot—most were high time ATPs. Raskai’s flying skills were about to be scrutinized by 100,000 collective hours of flight time.

Door closed and locked, I could hear the welcome litany of the checklist—in a French accent. Engine start was at 9:09 a.m. We took to Runway 1R at KTPA at 9:16 a.m. With 10 souls on board and 2,700 pounds of jet-A, we were still 2,000 pounds below MTOW and scheduled to land with a comfortable 1,300 pounds of fuel.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

The next few seconds were unlike any acceleration I had ever experienced. We were airborne in seconds. ForeFlight showed climb rates of up to 5,000 fpm. Rocket. As impressive as the jet was, the piloting was seamless. From the back I could see a knob turned (altitude preselect?), a button pushed (I’m guessing Flight Level Change), and then the gentle application of power until our deck angle had to be 20 degrees nose up. Our landing in Savannah on Runway 10 was smooth and right on the aiming point, allowing us to make the turnoff leading directly to the FBO. Pro all the way.

Our flight home left me staring out the window at a vivid sunset, thinking about airplanes and the people drawn to them. Everybody in that aircraft is romantic about them, and every one of them has been amazingly generous to me. We were treated to an instrument landing at KTPA. The light rain made the landing even sweeter. When we taxied in and shut down, I was suffused with a sense of well-being. I just sat there until everybody else had deplaned. Then I helped Raskai reset the seat belts the way any jet owner will understand—just so.

I was the last man out of the airplane, but nobody was in a hurry to leave. We hung around and watched John put on the pitot covers, stood around awkwardly, then reluctantly said goodbye.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Cruising westbound at FL 430 with just more than an hour to the destination, we’re chatting about our groundspeed, which is just tickling 400 knots, the headwinds, and, despite constant rearrangement of the sun visors, the annoying persistence of sun in both our faces.

Suddenly, BAM!

Stunned, I can’t make out what has happened, but whatever it is, it is catastrophic. The master warning is blaring, and I think I see some flashing lights, but the air is filled with condensation and junk. Sudden catastrophic decompression.

We wordlessly execute our memory items. Don oxygen mask, switch to mic oxy mask. With communication established, we go to the emergency descent memory items. Throttles to idle, speed brakes deployed, start with 15-degree nose down. If nothing seems to be falling off the airplane, accelerate to M_MO. Check pax oxygen. Go to the checklist.

This was not a dream, nor was it real, yet it was pretty much the equivalent of what happened over the summer. It wasn’t the airplane that had a problem—it was me.

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

After a leisurely hike with my wife, Cathy, son, and his family in the Ledges of New Hampshire, we went back to the cottage, sent the parents home to Boston, and had dinner. We had bought some chicken at a farm near us in Vermont. The chicken had led a coddled life; no hormones, nothing but the best feed, and plenty of room to roam. Cathy made a sheet pan chicken dinner.

I was really looking forward to the next week. The grandkids were great, and my flying friend, Bill Alpert, had invited me to copilot a Cessna Citation CJ2+ from Nantucket, Massachusetts, to Tampa, Florida, at the end of the week. Our Beechcraft P-Baron should’ve been out of its Florida annual by then, so I could fly it back to New Hampshire. What a package.

About an hour later, BAM!

Violent vomiting and other even less appealing gastrointestinal events alternated in bewildering fashion. We’ve all had the GIs at some point, but this was different. Cathy kept busy changing sheets and cleaning me up. The kids slept, obliviously.

By morning I had passed out twice, once on the bathroom floor, once next to the bed. The place was a mess. By late afternoon, I had not improved, had lost 5 to 7 liters of fluid, and Cathy called the fire department. The responders had a chair for just this kind of situation and took me down a flight of stairs as I waxed in and out of consciousness. “Keep your hands in,” I heard them say. In the ambulance they started an IV. Off we went to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center, arriving just at shift change: 7 p.m.. Just another day at the office for my saviors.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

An initial assessment found I was perilously low on red blood cells that carry oxygen and white blood cells that fight infection. The diagnosis of B12 deficiency was entertained, I’m told, but I missed most of the discussion. I was out of it. By the time I was capable of understanding, more sinister diagnoses were being discussed by various consulting physicians. Resuscitated, I was fit to go home on day 5.

Over the next month, the diagnosis became clear: acute myeloid leukemia. The worst. Five-year survival rate for people over 20 is 28 percent. Not only that, but those survival statistics are for patients younger than me. And then this: The only known cure for my subtype is a bone marrow transplant. Don’t Google this. A month in the hospital is the least of it, and the therapy itself carries a 25 percent mortality rate, I’m told.

What the heck does this have to do with flying airplanes?

One, it is a reminder how your week, my week, anybody’s week can go from anticipating flight to hanging on for dear life. As a young surgeon, I learned this in the emergency rooms where I met that motorcycle jockey who left home one morning with high hopes and the feel of speed that made his T-shirt climb up his back but was now lying motionless in a bed with a bad spinal injury. Motorcycles are often referred to as “donor cycles” in hospitals.

Two, just as you are completely dependent on the expertise of the folks up front on the flight deck when you board an airliner, you are putting your life in the hands of people you just met. You better hope that the airline has rigorous selection policies, expert training, and superb maintenance, not to mention strict criteria for the mental health of the folks in the jumpseat. Same goes for these new doctors. They seem pretty young and sure of themselves. Oh, wait, that was once me.

Three, with luck, you are on a professional river from ground school to mastery to captain’s wings on a Boeing 787. These accomplishments, while impressive, are of little help in a situation like this. Like your progress in the profession, largely determined by hire date and seniority, you become a leaf on a river. It is flowing, and you have little ability to steer a course. Your doctors, your diagnosis, and the system of American healthcare now have you in its maw.

Four, you have friends and family who care about you way more than you had dared to hope. My group of male friends—doctors, lawyers, newspaper journalists, pilots, IT gurus, former NFL players, and mechanics—have stepped up with a platter of helpful and encouraging selections. Who knew that Graeter’s Ice Cream from Cincinnati is the best? I’ve got 10 1-pint containers straining the freezer door.

I’m confident that there will be more aviation themes to this “journey.” I’ll try to avoid the maudlin and tell you what it’s like. Such intel may come in handy someday.

Meanwhile, the Baron is up for sale.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Bam! In Life and in the Air, Things Can Change in a Hurry appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

If a car geek were to visit the Rolls-Royce factory, they might feel as we did while getting a private tour of Gulfstream Aerospace in Savannah, Georgia. We were met at the front door by Shafer’s friend, Jay Neely, vice president of law and public affairs at Gulfstream’s huge campus right on KSAV. It was a federal holiday, so we had the place to ourselves. Neely said he didn’t mind coming in on a day off because he loves showing off the place to fellow airplane lovers.

“At Gulfstream, we call them true believers,” Neely said.

Jay felt like a flying brother—one with a Piper Cheyenne IIXL. In a gleaming conference room where each of us received and immediately donned a Gulfstream cap, Jay walked us through the history of the iconic airplanes that carry the company name. Born in the 1950s at Grumman Aircraft Engineering Co. in Bethpage, New York, the GI was the first postwar aircraft designed for business use as opposed to those converted World War II military airplanes pressed into civilian service. The success of the GI prompted the development of a business jet called the GII and, in 1966, migration of the civilian component of Grumman to Savannah, where a steady supply of skilled workers and space to expand awaited.

The 1970s and ’80s saw the development of the GIII and GIV despite ownership changes. It was in the late ’90s that General Dynamics purchased Gulfstream.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

“Then we had the financing to really build advanced R&D and develop extraordinary airplanes,” said Jay.

We got a glimpse of the Integration Testing Facility. A working, fully decked out cockpit of the new G700 had almost 50,000 hours of testing on it. Gulfstream has worked to make the side-stick cockpit integrative so that the pilot monitoring can feel the pilot flying’s input. You will remember an Airbus accident where a contributing cause was the lack of understanding between crewmembers as to what the other pilot’s inputs were and who, exactly, was flying the airplane. Heads-up display (HUD) and EFVS (enhanced flight vision system) adorned both pilots’ positions.

While they were testing the cockpit, it occurred to Gulfstream engineers to test the cabin too. A fully functioning mock-up of the G700 cabin was constructed.

“We wanted to know if there was something that seemed appealing during the first few hours of flight that became less appealing on a 12-hour flight,” Jay said. “So we put a flight attendant in with some ‘stationary’ passengers, gave them laptops, served them dinner, and let them sleep as if on a real flight.”

That is some attention to detail. A Bentley coupe comes to mind.

In the actual airplane, quiet is the theme. As soundproofing and noise reduction have improved with each iteration, Gulfstreams are almost eerily quiet.

• READ MORE: Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed

“You can sit at the back of the cabin and speak with someone in the front in a normal tone of voice,” said Jay. “The loudest sound in the cabin was made by the gasper fans to supply air to each seat, so we put a muffler on the fan.”

When you pick out the mahogany or cherry for your dining table, your tail number is attached to the actual log from which the interior will be made. The side rails will match. Same goes for leather choice. Jay had some interesting tales about various clients’ wishes for special touches, as you can imagine.

Space? You want space? The G700 fuselage is larger than the G600’s, and you can feel it. The classic Gulfstream windows are larger than any airplane window I’d ever seen. I couldn’t help but think of the pressure on them at altitude. At the back of the mock-up was a double bed. I just had a moment to contemplate what it would feel like to wake up in flight and look out that window.

Three of us got to experience the G700 simulator at the FlightSafety facility next door. Screens? They’ve got 10 touchscreens, HUDs, synthetic vision, enhanced electronic vision, and electronic checklists. The side stick is intuitive, and the ergonomics seemed perfect. This pilot’s performance? Less than perfect. The haptics, HUD, and excitement must have been too much. I resembled a man fighting off bees at a picnic.

The actual construction of the new G700 and G800 takes place in a dedicated building.

“You may notice that all our buildings except this one are arranged like stripes on a centerline, but this one sits at 45 degrees,” Jay said. “It turns out that all the permits and certifications were in place, and a few weeks before we were scheduled to break ground, the FAA said the new building would obstruct the tower’s view of the approach end of Runway 28. So we turned the building.”

If nothing else, you’ve got to be resilient to make a Gulfstream. As we walked in the production facility to see airplanes under various states of assembly, one of our gang said, “It smells like top quality in here.” Did it ever. Our mechanic friend, who works on other big jets, said these airplanes are built differently. “That bulkhead was milled, not stamped,” he said, marveling at it.

Portions of the fuselage are joined while mounted on cradles that sit on what look like railroad tracks and are so precisely built that the rivet holes, smaller than a No. 2 pencil, line up perfectly.

Toward the end of the building, fully assembled airplanes awaiting type certification were set to go. Standing under the massive wing, Jay explained the anhedral/dihedral design that allows these massive airplanes to land in less than 4,000 feet with no leading edge devices.

More importantly, they can depart high, hot airports, and fly real distances—no more jumping from Aspen, Colorado, to Denver to get gas before heading home to White Plains, New York. That just gets so old.

This column first appeared in the March 2024/Issue 946 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

On a route I’ve flown a zillion times, epiphany! Because of a painful, expensive, nine-week-long annual on our Beechcraft P-Baron in Florida, my family found itself in New Hampshire without a way home to Tampa, Florida (KTPA). I know that sounds ridiculous, but hear me out.

Our rescue lab mix is an aggressive dog not welcome on the airlines, so Rocco has become accustomed to (spoiled by?) the wonders of general aviation. He’s traveled in a variety of excellent airplanes, including the Baron, a turboprop, and two jets. He’s made the trip in fine style in this manner. Yet our airplane was more than 1,000 miles away. We needed help on a route I’ve come to know intimately.

I called Tom deBrocke and asked if he’d pick us up in his twin Aerostar. “Sure,” he said. DeBrocke’s an airline captain, an airplane nut, and an instructor, but most importantly a good friend. He’s gone coast to coast to help me out before.

It is close to 1,100 nm from Tampa to Lebanon, New Hampshire, but I doubt anybody has flown this route more than I have. At first, it was a Cessna P210 with stops in Raleigh-Durham, North Carolina, or Lynchburg, Virginia, northeast bound, or sometimes Norfolk, Virginia, and Charleston, South Carolina, heading the other way. The northeast trip averaged 6.3 hours, the southwest slog 7.4. Most recently, our Cessna Citation CJ1 could make the northeast-bound trip in less than three hours.

Since it had been more than 25 years since I had negotiated the northeast corridor in a piston airplane, I was full of questions about this trip in the normally aspirated Aerostar.

• READ MORE: Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed

Lesson No. 1: Aerostars are amazing. Tom had told me he planned to land in Salisbury, Maryland (KSBY), on the way up, but when I turned on FlightAware, I saw he had already overflown KSBY at 13,500 feet. So muchhttps://www.flysbyairport.com/for normally aspirated. I scurried to the airport to meet him. He made the trip in 5 hours and 24 minutes. This pleased me as I was paying for the fuel.

“Almost like a transcon at the airline, but I still have an hour’s worth of gas left,” deBrocke said upon stretching his legs. He collected his bags and checked the airplane, showing no interest in using the bathroom. Waving a portable john alarmingly close to my nose, I was relieved to hear that Tom hadn’t needed it. We arranged for hangar space as rain was predicted.

Lesson No. 2: There is no hurry. Usually, I’m running around wanting everybody to hurry up so as to get to Florida while it is still light and avoid any thunderstorms. Tom showed no such urgency. By the time we drove to breakfast, borrowed the crew car so we could leave our car at home, and returned to the airport, it was almost 11 a.m. After careful loading, explaining to my wife, Cathy, how the emergency exit worked and getting Rocco settled, we taxied out, did a fastidious run-up and took off. There was no rush. Tom was completely at ease. Our destination was Elizabethtown, North Carolina (KEYF), where it was said we could get 110LL for $5 per gallon.

Lesson No. 3: Just ask. I already knew that you almost never get the routing recommended by ForeFlight in this part of the world. But I watched with interest as Tom worked to get us headed in the right direction while level at 8,000 feet. First, he secured direct to Hartford (KHFD), saving about two minutes. When told we had to fly out over Long Island to fixes 40 miles over the Atlantic Ocean, Tom keyed the mic and said, “Hey, Approach. Any chance we could cancel here and climb to 8,500 and go direct to Richmond (KRIC)?”

“IFR cancellation received. Climb VFR to 8,500, keep the squawk.” Just like that, we were flying directly over JFK with Manhattan out the window. I had never had the nerve.

Lesson No. 4: VFR has special responsibilities not evident while flying IFR in jets. Having flown IFR almost exclusively since 1975, I was only distantly familiar with sectionals, military operations areas (MOAs), and restricted areas. Sure enough, Philadelphia Approach was kind enough to suggest heading to KSBY then JAMIE to avoid a restricted area around Washington, D.C. Patuxent Approach confirmed this wisdom. From then on, I watched as Tom sought to confirm the ceiling of various warning areas, MOAs, and Class B airspace.

• READ MORE: Learning (and Leaning) a New Airplane Is Always a Rich Experience

Lesson No. 5: Even the pros can miss something. As we started our VFR descent to KEYF, the AWOS announced winds favoring Runway 32. As we discussed how to enter the pattern, Fayetteville Approach asked if we were aware that all runways were closed at KEYF. What? No mention on the AWOS.

Not embarrassed, Tom said, “I must have missed that NOTAM, and it isn’t announced on the AWOS.”

“The closure is definitely in the NOTAMs. State your intentions,” came the rejoinder. “Standby,” said Tom. We quickly found Lumberton, North Carolina (KLBT), nearby with $5.50 gas. Though we could have entered the right base for Runway 31, Tom did the right thing. He overflew the airport and joined the left downwind. In no rush and at ease, he chirped her on.

“Oh, there’s the reason for the $5.50 gas,” said Tom, spotting a self-fueling spot. While Cathy and I walked the dog, Tom filled 114 gallons into three tanks via a choreography required to keep from tipping the airplane on its wing.

Only later did I look up KLBT on AirNav to see the full-serve and self-serve gas were both $5.50. When apprised of this, Tom didn’t miss a beat: “But I’m quicker.”

Lesson No. 6: It is so important to have really good friends. This is true, in general, but if you can find one who loves airplanes, that’s the best. I’ve been very lucky in this regard.

Gassed up and heading for home, we got the rest done IFR with an astoundingly favorable route. Tom had arranged for his Nissan Pathfinder to be on the Sheltair ramp, so unloading was easy.

Once all in the car, Tom drove us down to see our own long-lost Baron, snuggled in its hangar. As we swung back around to head for the exit gate, two line guys came roaring up in their golf cart: “Hey, you’re going the wrong way.” “Yeah,” said Tom. “This is the owner of 260 Alpha Romeo, and he just had to lay eyes on it.”

Ain’t that the truth.

This column first appeared in the December 2023/Issue 944 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I first learned of Rocco from a video posted on a website called “Lucky Lab Rescue.” He looked like the lab mix he was reported to be. Tellingly, he had no “bio.” Usually dogs up for adoption have been fostered and their traits have been cataloged. “Needs lots of space to run” and “not good with children” are a couple of red flags. Rocco had none. He was cute, if a little “mouthy,” on the 20-second video, so my wife, Cathy, and I arranged to have him join a caravan of dogs being shipped from the Midwest to the good folks of New England. Apparently, there is a well-worn path for dogs abandoned at kill shelters to adoption facilities in the Northeast.

We have had excellent luck with labs and lab mixes. We knew Rocco first showed up in a kill shelter in Kentucky and was transferred to a veterinary technical school in Indiana. From the paperwork that accompanied him, we found that he had been used for students to practice putting him under anesthesia and drawing his blood. I’m thinking that might give a fellow an attitude.

It did. Surprisingly, his animosity is not toward humans but dogs. It took several surprise attacks against friends’ and neighborhood dogs before we learned to keep him separated from all canines. His vet hospital and human emergency department visit bills topped 10 grand before we got the picture. We spent similar amounts on dog training with the graduation certificates as proof.

“Why don’t you put him down?” We heard this a lot. There was one problem: We were falling in love. With the kids, grandkids, furnace repair guy, and the pest man, he was an enthusiastic lab love. Our vet said, “I will not put a dog down for dog aggression. Your job is to keep him safe.” That sealed it.

Rocco’s first flight and first airplane was in our 1980 Piper Cheyenne I. He acted like it was natural to scurry up the airstairs and to make himself comfortable in an empty seat. When that became uncomfortable, he’d come forward, put his front paws on the wing spar, and peer into the flight deck with a bemused expression. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he seemed to say. He’d stare in hypnotic trance at the blinking reply light on the transponder.

It wasn’t long before we decided to buy a jet. Three years of Part 135 flying had finally taught me how, and I felt comfortable with single-pilot jet ops. We bought a Raytheon Premier 1. With its magnificent height, imposing airstairs, and lavish interior, not to mention Pro Line 21 avionics, I was in heaven.

Apparently, so was Rocco. It gradually dawned on us that perhaps this dog had been fibbing about his background. He climbed into the Premier and looked around as if to say, “This is all you got?” I wondered if he’d actually belonged to a family with a Gulfstream. We sent off his DNA to see if he was related to a Rockefeller, but no joy.

Still, he got awfully cozy awfully quickly, though he seemed to look askance at the ornate gold fixtures—not the kind of thing a well-bred dog would accept for haute couture.

• READ MORE: Rescue Dogs and Airplanes

When an errant pelican commuting at 4,500 feet dinged the wing, we sought the comfort of a Cessna Citation CJ1. Not quite as fast as the Premier, but never as maintenance needy, the airplane fit like a glove. Rocco claimed a seat, which we protected with a sheet. There was no question this was a smaller seat than the one to which he had been accustomed, but he took the indignity like a lab. He logged hundreds of trouble-free hours curled up in a ball and ready to party when he arrived.

Alas, my abilities as a dog aircraft provider atrophied with age, and we had to sell the CJ1 owing to insurance costs for “elderly” single-pilot jet ops. Looking to be “unleashed” myself from the aerospace medical boys and girls in Oklahoma City, I chose BasicMed. This led to a fine Beechcraft P-Baron.

And guess what? This is the most comfortable airplane for Rocco. He leaps easily into the back cabin, and the rear seats are so close together that he now effectively has a bench seat. This allows uninterrupted sleep for hours and hours. Rocco is good at this. It’s one of his finest skills. This is a good thing as his commute has become longer and regularly features a tech stop. At such interruptions, he parades around the FBO while Cathy and I keep an eye out for some unsuspecting fellow dog traveler.

We’d hate for him to have a rap sheet in another state. His countenance at the high-end FBOs could be best described as expectant. Just don’t let him spot a Chihuahua with a rhinestone collar—the fur will fly. So far, so good, though—just a dog and his airplane in harmony.

This column first appeared in the November 2023/Issue 943 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Master of Airplanes: Rocco Is One Lucky Lab, Indeed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For starters, I rounded up two airline friends for a lunch trip from Tampa International Airport (KTPA) to Sebring Regional Airport (KSEF) in Florida, a distance that is all of 71 nm. These minor trips are flown at 7,000 feet and barely afford enough time to set the power and pick up the AWOS. With a flurry of help from the right-seater, we fly an RNAV approach and land at KSEF. Lunch is good.

The lack of smooth professionalism is obvious to all concerned. Tellingly, our taxi out from the ramp at KSEF is interrupted by the line guy frantically waving one of our windshield sunscreens. How it escaped the airplane to land on the ramp, no one seems to know.

Our return trip to KTPA is uneventful, though, if you don’t count the fumbled hot start and crosswind landing. The avionics are new to me and a puzzle. The powerful Garmin GTN 750 is a bewildering suitcase full of capability—all wonderful, I am certain, but hidden behind a series of buttons and touchscreen icons. I find myself pummeling the “home” button like a man trying to make an office copier work.

Five days later comes the real test. With my wife, Cathy, and our dog, Rocco, in the back, I call upon good friend Tom deBrocke to “help” me get us to New Hampshire for the summer. Tom’s just the guy for this. He owns not one but two Aerostars, flies as an airline captain, and has bailed me out on numerous occasions, some of which are so embarrassing that I will refrain from detailing them for your amusement.

• READ MORE: Getting to Know That New-to-You Airplane

So it is that we take off at 10 a.m. from KTPA with intent to land at KGED (Delaware Coastal Airport) and show off the airplane to my eldest daughter and her family. It is immediately evident that this might be a challenge. The GTN 750 paints a sobering picture of thunderstorms strewn across the route. We climb slowly to FL 210 and begin to lean the engines. The POH shows true airspeeds of 220 knots and a fuel burn of 16 gallons an hour per side. With the pilot’s operating handbook open on Tom’s lap and our faces poised in rapt attention inches from the hard-to-read “Insight” engine gauges, we find that anything near peak TIT (turbine inlet temperature) is not attainable without the CHTs (cylinder head temperatures) exceeding the recommended limit. Reluctantly, we settle on fuel flow of 24 and 22 gph and leave the cowl flaps open, which the POH says will cost us 9 knots.

As our recognition of this fuel flow sinks in, the view out the window is not reassuring. The GTN 750’s Nexrad picture and the radar’s splotchy patterns of red and yellow are not confidence builders. We ask for and receive multiple deviations and begin to discuss landing elsewhere. Richmond, Virginia, comes to mind. The forecast calls for rain but good ceilings and visibilities. Though the wind is out of the northeast, we are given the RNAV 20 approach, which adds to our total time en route. Three hours and 37 minutes after takeoff, I’m slithering down the wet wing with visions of a broken leg or hip.

The airplane seems unconcerned with our difficulties, and with $1,238 (!) worth of avgas in her tanks, we set off again for our final destination, Lebanon Municipal Airport (KLEB) in New Hampshire. Our filed route is immediately deemed inappropriate by Washington Center, and another route is laboriously read to us. This would take us 50 miles offshore over the Atlantic Ocean. I’m not keen on this development in an unfamiliar airplane and instruct Tom to negotiate for an overland route. “You may have to go back to 5,000 feet,” says the exasperated controller. I’m pretty fed up too, I think, having just struggled up to FL 210. In the end, we get rerouted multiple times but not forced to descend. Cathy is not impressed with my route-entering skills on the Garmin GTN 750. “Who is flying the airplane while you’re entering all that stuff?” she asks. Rocco is asleep across two seats in the back.

At 4:55 p.m., just a short seven hours after our departure from Tampa, I make my first acceptable landing in the new airplane. The Baron has seen us through. Unhelpfully, I can’t get the last time I flew from Tampa to KLEB out of my mind. It took the CJ1 less than three hours at FL 410.

So goes the personal evolution of airplanes for this pilot. Fortune has been exceedingly kind to me. I started airplane ownership in 1972 while an Army captain based at Fort Knox, Kentucky. I bought a 1967 Beechcraft Musketeer sight unseen at a sealed bid auction and have owned one airplane or another almost continually ever since. Talk about rich!

A parade of Cessnas and Pipers followed until 2017 when I returned to the Beech fold with a Premier 1. That was an amazing airplane, but it was continually in maintenance until a bird strike put it out of its agony. The CJ1 came next and has just now given way to the P-Baron for the reasons mentioned.

It is possible this will be my last airplane. There are a lot worse ways to ride into the sunset than via a Beechcraft Baron. That said, if the new FAA authorization bill passes with an increased max takeoff weight increase for BasicMed, you might find me in another airplane. For now, though, I’ll be learning—and leaning—the P-Baron with inquisitiveness and gratefulness.

I’m not dead yet, people.

This column first appeared in the October 2023/Issue 942 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Learning (and Leaning) a New Airplane Is Always a Rich Experience appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

If you had asked me last month, my feelings might have been a bit more mixed. It is true that a P-Baron is the best fit for me and my family as I transition from flying our Cessna Citation CJ1 to an airplane that qualifies for BasicMed. I could not find a version of my old love, a Cessna 340, that fit the BasicMed takeoff weight requirement, so the smaller, sportier Baron was the best choice. A fabulous airplane to be sure, but it ain’t no CJ1, if you know what I mean. It felt like leaving a high-end restaurant for a serviceable mid-level eatery—the food is still good, but the surroundings aren’t quite as sumptuous; not to mention losing the speed, altitude, and reliability of a jet. So, it’s out of Ruth’s Chris and over to Outback Steakhouse.

Thus resigned, a search was launched and advice was sought. Not many P-Barons with modern control yokes (1984 models and later) and good avionics were out there. After I had suffered a few false starts, an alert mechanic told me about an airplane coming to market. The owner had confided to his A&P that he just wasn’t using the airplane enough to warrant continued ownership. He would ask for a reasonable price.

I called the owner, Joe Kolshak, only to discover he was that Joe Kolshak, former heavy-equipment pilot turned executive vice president at not one but two major airlines. Kolshak revealed himself to be my kind of guy—straightforward, reasonable, and responsive. I agreed to his asking price pending a prebuy inspection. A few days later, I found myself getting off an airliner in Atlanta and taking an Uber to Peachtree-Dekalb Airport (KPDK), where Kolshak’s wife, Ann, was waiting to take me to his hangar.

After introductions, we climbed aboard and headed to Lakeland, Florida, with Kolshak at the controls. When I say “climbed” aboard, I mean just that. You enter the flight deck via the right wing. My initial attempts could not be classified as graceful…or even safe.

Once underway, we climbed to 11,000 feet and started to dodge thunderstorms. This was, I must say, even easier than in the CJ1 in the sense that the Garmin G600 and GTN 750 with SiriusXM weather gave a very clear depiction of the buildups. It goes without saying, though, the speed at which you can circumnavigate thunderstorms in a jet surpasses that of a P-Baron. We didn’t suffer a bump, though, and landed gracefully two hours later.

The prebuy went smoothly. My go-to shop in Lakeland (Double M Aviation) found some minor issues, but its owner, Mike Naab, told me, “It’s a very nice airplane!” Kolshak and I agreed on his asking price minus the estimated costs for the airworthiness discrepancies and the annual, which was due. We both signed a contract that was significantly shorter than the one used to sell the CJ1. No lawyers, no brokers, just two guys agreeing to transfer ownership of an almost 40-year-old airplane. Like I said, my kind of guy.

• READ MORE: Moving on from the ‘It’ Airplane

Tucker at Wenk Aviation Insurance, whom I’ve used for more than 40 years, found insurance. It wasn’t cheap, but the market for insurance for 77-year-old pilots, regardless of type ratings, currency, or total hours, is ugly. He recommended Wright Aviation for initial training that was insurance approved. When I queried its website, I got a call from Tye Jones, and we set a date for training with Todd Underwood, who is based close to home in Florida.

When I went to call Jones again, I noticed his phone number read “Colorado Springs.” Funny, I was headed there that day. When we spoke, I asked if he was indeed in KCOS. “Yes,” he said. A pilot for SkyWest Airlines, he’s based in KCOS and works for Wright as well. “I’ll pick you up at the airport and drive you to your hotel,” he offered.

It came to pass. Jones gave up his time during rush hour. This never happened at CAE, Flight Safety, or SimCom. We had a delightful drive, and I came home ready to get started. I memorized gear extension speeds, flap speeds, minimum control speed in the air with one engine inoperative, and turbulent air speed, among others.

On the appointed day, I met Underwood at Lakeland. Naab hooked up a power cart, and we rehearsed the use of fabulous avionics: the Garmin GTN 750 and G600. At 11:27 a.m., I did my first takeoff in a Baron. We headed north and climbed above the customary cumulous that aggregates over the Florida peninsula in summer. After steep turns, stalls (clean and dirty), single-engine demonstrations, and three landings at an uncontrolled field, I was exhausted, but there was more to come. Almost three hours later, I crawled onto the wing and headed for the water fountain. My dismount was risible. Next time, I plan to come off the wing face-first—I’ll leave it at that.

After more training and some weight and balance work in ForeFlight, Underwood cut me loose and left me with one important lesson soldered into my brain. He is a jet jockey, too, so he knows how I had been accustomed to removing my hand from the throttles after the CJ1 reached V1, the so-called decision speed. It is said in the jet world that after V1 you are going flying, pretty much no matter what. He reminded me that I hadn’t flown a piston airplane in 25 years and that single-engine flight just after takeoff is a dangerous thing in a light twin.

“What do you do when you hear a loud bang after liftoff, and the airplane starts to roll to the right?” Underwood asked. Unprepared mentally, I said control the roll with aileron and rudder, identify the dead engine, and feather the propeller on the dead engine. He pointed out that with full power on one side, I might be upside down and dead by the time I managed to perform these simple tasks. “Reduce power on operating engine,” he said. “At least you’ll have a controlled wings level crash…and you might just make it.”

Three days later, my friend, Tom, and I flew home to Sheltair in Tampa. Photos were taken, smiles flashed, and congratulations offered. Still, I kept thinking of Underwood’s advice—and that really high-end restaurant.

This column first appeared in the September 2023/Issue 941 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Getting to Know That New-to-You Airplane appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This loss prompted an attenuated version of the five stages of grief. First off came denial. Surely there was an insurance company that wasn’t so rapacious—it just had to be discovered. Next came anger. Am I any less capable today than yesterday? Then bargaining: Can’t I take frequent check rides to assess competency? Luckily, we skipped the depression component and found ourselves washed up on the shores of acceptance.

I was helped in this phase by many longtime readers who sent remarkably warm and supportive messages of condolence. One, which came from a West Point grad and Cessna Citation M2 owner, was especially poignant and helped put it all in perspective. He wrote: “I read your article as soon as I had the plastic off the magazine. I imagine it was tough to sell the jet, for sure. But….and I am not trying to be glib, in the words of Dr. Seuss, ‘Be glad that you are sad.’ You would not feel the sadness and remorse if flying that plane hadn’t given you so many hours and years of satisfaction. We are incredibly fortunate people (who) have been blessed to be able to make enough money to care for our families and engage in this most spectacular of human endeavors. You are in a rarefied company to purchase any sort of personal airplane (let alone earn an ATP and own a jet.) You have enjoyed a helluva run.” I have tucked this wisdom into my back pocket, and I shall keep it.

Accepting that age has its benefits and penalties, I decided to use this “opportunity” to switch to BasicMed from my habit of medical Class 1 and 2. The process was straightforward, my doctor was helpful, and the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association site provided a relevant course and quiz, which I passed.

Coming back down from a personal mountaintop of aviation, I found myself energized by things that exhilarated me on the way up. A twin-engine piston airplane is a remarkable beast in its own right. New avionics make the cockpit look more like a jet than the panels I remember from almost 30 years ago. The expense reduction for maintenance compared to operating a CJ1 will be welcome. There’s a bright side to this diminishment.

• READ MORE: OMG, Insurance!

Thus reconfigured, I sought to find an airplane that met BasicMed criteria of maximum takeoff weight (MTOW) of 6,000 pounds and no more than six seats (among other restrictions). Cessna 340s and Beechcraft Barons came to mind. The 340 is pressurized, and I have about 500 hours in them but almost all have been modified with vortex generators and engine upgrades, making their MTOW too high.

I contemplated finding one and removing the VGs but couldn’t get my brain focused to understand why I would willingly make an airplane less safe.

About this time, I fell under the spell of a high-powered consultant with an unusual pedigree: Embry-Riddle grad with a Ph.D. from Northwestern and now a partner in a highly regarded consulting company and, oh, by the way, a first officer at a regional airline on the side. This is definitely my kind of guy, and he could not stop praising the P-Baron—a pressurized version of the Model 58 introduced in 1976.

Most P-Barons have MTOW greater than 6,000 pounds, but there is a kit to make them BasicMed acceptable. Suddenly, I’m a Baron groupie. I am ghosting Beech Talk, an online aviation forum. The names of “Baron whisperers” started to be important. A good prebuy inspection and lots of Baron experience seemed like a good thing.

Barons built after the early 1980s have a different throttle quadrant location and may have electrical systems differences. Throttles on early ones are mounted up high, seemingly in the way of the engine instruments, but owners seem to love this nonstandard configuration (“When I put the power up, the instruments were right by my hands—perfect.”). I was skeptical.

Two later model P-Barons were advertised at high prices. Since I wanted to move quickly (Yes, you are right. I’m not getting any younger.), I rationalized the high asking prices. But both were under contract—one for months waiting for the electronic engine indication system (EIS) updating.

Then I found what I thought was going to be “the” airplane. With low time engines, new paint and props, reasonable avionics, and an attractive price, it was certainly appealing. I was on high alert. I asked Mike Naab of Double M Aviation in Lakeland, Florida (KLAL), to look at the logs.

The airplane was beautiful, but there had been hurricane damage. When I read, “the airplane was disassembled and transported for repairs,” I took a pause. When I learned about “…structural repairs to right wing, left wing, left aft fuselage, flaps…” I realized that this was complicated. I needed a Baron whisperer.

That high-powered consultant P-Baron enthusiast I was telling you about? He knew the “best” A&P from his ownership days. I sent him the 337’s summary sheet. He advised caution and just happened to mention one thing: He knew of an airplane coming up for sale, and it was one he had maintained, a 1984 model with great avionics and a strong pedigree.

I offered the asking price, and a prebuy in KLAL is scheduled for next week. I’ve been down the road of excitement before, so I’m trying to keep a lid on expectations. But hope springs eternal, even for pilots of advancing age. I’m feeling lucky.

This article first appeared in the August 2023/Issue 940 print edition of FLYING.

The post Moving on from the ‘It’ Airplane appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Of course, that’s the right thing to do. I wish I’d thought of that myself. It wasn’t a command and it wasn’t a rebuke. It’s just Rob being Rob.

Other than a sense of humor, what do these two guys have in common? Fifty-thousand hours of flight time, for one. Multiple type ratings, for another. General aviation backgrounds turned into “to-die-for” airline careers. Resilience, generosity, and faith most of all. Finally, how come I got lucky enough to know both?

I met Rob first, almost 20 years ago. At the time, he was regional chief pilot for Southwest Airlines in Dallas. When I spotted a copy of Ernest K. Gann’s Fate Is the Hunter on his bookshelf, we were off to the races, vying to finish each of Gann’s poetic sentences for the other. Soon Rob became my airline guru. I was stunned that a man in such a high position would bother with a surgeon pilot wannabe, but he did, nonetheless.

We became good friends, though the relationship was all one way. Most of our aviating could be called “hangar flying.” I would call Rob with a proposed flight and ask his guidance. His voice was always steady, and he taught me that almost all flights could be concluded safely if you were careful. When we flew together in my Piper Cheyenne, I always mimicked my impression of an air-line pilot. He indulged this, responding to my idea of a callout with a grave response that did not betray a hint of amusement, much less condescension. When I got a Raytheon Premier I jet, Rob acted as if he’d never seen a jet do 0.78 Mach before. I love this man.

• READ MORE: Nothing Beats Reuniting With Old Pilot Friends

Bill came into my logbook just a few years ago. Retired from American Airlines, he was an instructor and I was a client at Simcom on the Cessna Citation CJ1. After our first sim session, he took me aside and told me I didn’t fly like most owner-operators. I explained that I had flown Part 135 full time—an experience that changed me from a “doctor in a Bonanza” to a real pilot. He told me he was going to take over a CJ2+ for a business in Hilton Head, South Carolina, and asked if I thought a mutual friend of ours might be interested in being a contract copilot. Without a hint of shame or modesty, I replied, “Hey, what about me?” This turned out to be providential.

Rob flew Cessna 310s, Citations, Lear 24s, Cheyennes, and a ton of other stuff. He owned a flight school and was hired by American just in time to be furloughed. He jumped at a chance to fly for a small regional airline in his home state. He made captain by age 29 and retired as No. 1 of 11,000 pilots at Southwest.

Bill flew Cessnas, Mooneys, and Pipers. He was the sky watch traffic reporter in Orlando, Florida, and has an announcer’s voice to match. As a freight dog he flew Cessna 400 series and Lear 23s. For corporate America he flew Jetstars, Falcons, Citations, King Airs, and Sabreliners.

From the cups of these aviators, I have sipped many a story, a lot of wisdom, and a few good tricks. Humor, resilience, friendship, generosity, and faith have marked all of our interactions.

Whereas most of my flying with Rob has been in his airplane or mine, my flying with Bill has largely been “professional,” which is to say in the CJ2+. When flying to Hilton Head one day with the boss in the back, we were confronted with, well, a confrontational front. A line of severe thunderstorms straddled the destination and showed no signs of moving. The controller said the storms were “freight-training” along the front. It certainly looked to be the case. One cell after the other tracked along the line. You could almost hear the track crossing warning bell ring.

I voted for deviation to Savannah, Georgia, and a rental car for the boss. Bill, with all that experience, asked approach control for a hold. “Call the tower,” he said. “Ask for up-to-date conditions.” The tower said heavy rain, visibility quarter mile, and tornado sirens going off in all quadrants.

But I kept listening. Two circuits of hold later, I heard taxi instructions to an airplane on the tower frequency. If somebody was taxiing for takeoff, the weather must have improved. When queried, the tower reported 500-foot overcast visibility 5 miles, wind 050 at 6, and light rain. We landed soon thereafter.

That wasn’t the first time I saw Bill make the weather change for our benefit. I sat with a forlorn attitude looking at the impossible weather on our approach to Key West, Florida. Coming from Cancun, Mexico, we had no customs alternatives except to land at Key West. All I could see on the radar was red. I was dumbfounded to hear Bill exclaim in his optimistic way, “See, he’s taking us down the back side of all this, then he’ll turn us inbound. Perfect.” Suddenly, it was. The clouds had parted. We call this the “Red Sea” effect.

Rob has been generous with sharing his love of Texas with me. We conquered Marfa in my CJ1, laid on the runway at his fly-in home outside of Kerrville at night watching the stars while the asphalt gave back the day’s heat onto our backs, and dug deep into Cooper’s Old Time Pit Bar-B-Que in Llano in his Columbia.

“You want this leg?”

It’s Bill again. Forget the fact that the weather is terrible and all three top officers of the company are in the back. We have just had two great dinners together in New Orleans. Our conversations include flying, families, and the spiritual. Bill is deeply religious and knows I am less so. He never imposes his views on me, but I find myself feeling the power of his faith.

Same goes with Rob. When I apologized for sending him a bible quote with a note hoping he wouldn’t find it disingenuous, his response filled my heart.

“You’re a better Christian than many ‘Christians’ I know,” he said.

May each of us have such generous pilot mentor friends.

This column first appeared in the July 2023/Issue 933 print edition of FLYING.

The post Flying the Flight Levels with Rob and Bill appeared first on FLYING Magazine.