First, in April 1996, I had spent an hour in recurrent training in my Skyhawk. We had done some air work, including steep turns and slow flight, as well as some partial panel flying. As we returned to the Purdue University Airport (KLAF), my instructor suggested a no-flap landing, something I had not practiced since primary training nearly 10 years previously. It went well, and I was reminded that no-flap landings are faster and with a more nose-high attitude.

Second, a few days later I went with my daughter’s preschool class to visit the KLAF tower. The day was solid IFR with little activity, so the tower controllers had to be creative to entertain 15 5-year-olds. They brought out the light guns and the kids were captivated. 

The main event occurred a few days later when my wife, daughter and I flew to Kalamazoo, Michigan (KAZO), on an early Saturday morning. We had made this trip many times, and it proved the utility of a small airplane. Instead of spending seven tedious hours on the highway to spend five hours with my wife’s family, we spent three pleasant hours in the air to spend nine hours with her family. The flight was easy, we had a relaxing day with my in-laws, and in late afternoon we returned to the airport for the flight home.

• READ MORE: Everyone Should Pay Close Attention in the Cockpit

The walkaround was normal, the tanks were full, and with a forecast for “severe clear,” we were set for a relaxing flight home. On the run-up pad with the engine to 1,700 rpm, the mags checked out, and the oil pressure and suction were in the green. The ammeter showed a discharge with the landing light turned on and returned to center with the light off—well, maybe not completely center but close enough. After all, many a CFI had complained that these gauges in Skyhawks were not precise. A small voice in the back of my head said, “Hmm, maybe I should investigate that,” but I ignored the voice and we departed. 

On our IFR flight plan, as I spoke with air traffic controllers, the radio seemed scratchier than usual, but this was probably just some random electrical glitch, right? No. Just as the sun was setting, we lost all electrical power—no radios, no transponder, no lights, and, of course, no flaps. 

This happened as we were about 25 minutes from KLAF, but we were directly over a small airport where I had frequently practiced touch-and-goes. I told my wife that we could land immediately—without flaps—but otherwise all would be straightforward, and we could call a friend to fetch us. Alternatively, we could continue homeward. I explained that although ATC had lost our data block when the transponder lost power, the primary return was still visible on radar, moving steadily to KLAF. Chicago Center would tell the KLAF tower that a NORDO was inbound. We would fly 1,000 feet above pattern altitude, looking for the steady green light that meant we were cleared to land.

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My wife said that we should go ahead to KLAF. I was grateful for the vote of confidence. I grabbed my flashlight so that I could see the instruments and on we went. And it worked out exactly as I had told her: We approached KLAF above pattern altitude, saw the steady green light, entered the pattern, and made an easy landing in the dark with no landing light and no flaps. (And it was really dark—when we left KLAF that morning, I was wearing my prescription sunglasses and had left my regular glasses in the car in the hangar). After we had put the plane in the hangar, I called the tower and thanked the folks for their help. They confirmed that Chicago Center had forewarned them of my arrival and that they had alerted everyone in the pattern to be especially vigilant.

On the drive home, I reflected on the evening’s events. On the one hand, I was pleased that I had handled the emergency calmly and by the book. And I was grateful that the event had occurred in familiar airspace with no additional challenges associated with bad weather. On the other hand, I was annoyed that I had misread the signs that led to the emergency. 

What did I learn from the episode? 

First, periodically expand my scan of the panel to include instruments, such as the ammeter, that are on the far side of the panel. Second, receive recurrent training regularly to get feedback from a CFI about skills that may have grown rusty and should be practiced. Third, use the ATC system. These folks provide great service that can simplify a pilot’s tasks and can be a tremendous asset in an emergency. Fourth, when there are signs that something might be wrong, don’t weave a story to explain and then dismiss those signs. Instead, when the little voice says, “all is not right here,” pause to evaluate what’s going on.

Finally, keep a spare pair of glasses in the flight bag! 

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Listening to That Inner Pilot Voice appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

My dad and grandpa’s Cessna 172 Skyhawk XP, with its delightfully itchy sheepskin seats and the “Please step outside to smoke” sign on the dash, introduced me to aviation as a 7-year-old. I would practice ELT searches with my dad, organize Jeppesen charts, and try to read the instruments just like he would.

And being a kid in the ’80s, buzzing soccer games and friends’ houses only helped cement a love of aviation—and, as it turned out, adrenaline. I assumed that my dad’s skillful IFR landings and the rigor applied to his Civil Air Patrol work were the norm for pilots.

With grandpa’s passing, the C-172 went away. We didn’t have much extra money, so Saturday morning flights became a thing of the past. I grew up and eventually started a company and had some kids and raced some cars. I knew enough about being a pilot that I would not have the time to fly consistently and, therefore, I would not learn to fly well. As the company did better, I would dry lease or fly on fractionals to meetings and races. I wouldn’t think about the pilot we hired, the maintenance record of the airplane, or how young the pilot in command was. I was just excited to be in a small airplane again.

• READ MORE: Finding a Deer in the Headlights

The first lesson to pay attention came in the form of an early delivery Eclipse 500. I often dry leased a Malibu and hired a pilot (its owner). I enjoyed the steep approaches to Truckee, California (KTRK), and talking shop as I flew in the right seat with him. Each flight was an informal lesson. Soon, his Malibu went away, and a brand-new fast and high Eclipse 500 took its place. The idea of a very light jet (VLJ) was intoxicating. So much so that I never once questioned his ability to step up from the Malibu, nor did I question the sea of yellow “INOP” stickers that littered the panel of this dubiously certified little jet.

He and I were flying a short hop from McClellan Airfield (KMCC) in Sacramento, California, to the 3,300-foot strip at Gnoss Field (KDVO) in Marin County. Prior to takeoff, reports of fog made Gnoss a no-go, so we planned to fly an even shorter hop to Napa County (KAPC), which, it turns out, was also in the fog.

I sat in the right seat, and we talked about the new little jet’s systems. I admired the cockpit layout and the elegant sidestick jutting out from my right armrest. As we came in for the approach to Napa, there was thick fog for miles. I assumed it was a high layer and we’d punch right through just like dad used to. The pilot descended into the fog, and I did my job being a quiet passenger. In a slightly stressed tone, he asked if I could see the runway. Runway? We’re still way deep in the thick of the fog. And then there it was, still shrouded in fog, maybe 400 feet below and well to the right of us. I pointed it out as the numbers passed by us, and the airplane aggressively turned to line up with the still-shrouded runway. There was no way we were going to try to land, right?

• READ MORE: Beloved Flight Instructor’s Lessons Continue to Replay in Airline Captain’s Head

Thankfully, the pilot chose to go around. We went around on a steep climb to the right. And that’s when I heard the stern voice of the ATC—who I would soon find out was sitting in the tower…to our right—tell us that the go-around was to the left, and it’s critical to know and follow go-around procedures. We climbed back out of the clouds, he lined it back up, and we tried it again. Nope. Then again.

The third time, it went worse. The runway was nowhere in sight. The pilot muttered something about how we need to be careful as there are antennas nearby. We finally see the ground, which I think was somewhere between Runways 18L and 6. He went around again…to the right. The controller was now aggressively chastising him on the radio when I realized that we were still low and still turning and now in a banked descent somewhere near the tower and Runway 6. I looked up (yes, up) through the windshield and saw an access road and grass at a very odd angle to the panel. We weren’t level nor straight. And there is a tower somewhere to our left.

I knew enough about flying that this is a view that not many see from the windscreen of a jet a couple of hundred feet off the ground and can talk about later. My confidence that the pilot was in control was near zero. I knew that we needed to level the wings and pull back ASAP. I had the clarity of mind (thanks be to evolution for situations such as these) to know that grabbing that elegant little sidestick would probably kill us. Or then again, maybe it would save us.

The cliches of time slowing down and life flashing before my eyes proved to be true. My fingers opened inches from the stick, and I looked left to the pilot’s hands to see if he was going to level us first. I would give him exactly one second before I’d yell, “My plane!” I know, this is a supremely dumb idea. My brain was very much in “don’t-die” mode. Thankfully, he didn’t freeze up. He flew the airplane out of the situation that he got us into.

We climbed out as the controller gathered himself and offered a different type of IFR approach. I didn’t understand this exchange. What are we using? To this day I have no idea how he was navigating. Whatever was offered by the concerned controller was declined.

We rose above the clouds and were silent. Neither of us wanted to talk about what had just happened, so I asked him to go back to McClellan.

“Can’t. Not enough fuel,” the pilot responded.

I asked if we could declare an emergency and land at Travis Air Force Base (KSUU). That runway has to be a mile wide and 3 miles long.

“No,” he said.

What? Why would we depart Sacramento and into Napa’s fog with a thimble full of jet fuel?

We had to go back in for another try. I was not excited about this, so I just shut my mouth and did my best to spot the runway. Due to the stress of the situation, I have little recollection of that landing other than the controller talking him through it and, in a wise act of self-preservation, reminding him that the go-around procedure is to the left.

I learned about flying from that. Know your pilot. That was the last day I ever flew with or talked to him. And I never received an invoice.

The next lesson about flying regarded the airplane, not the pilot. The pilot was new to me, and lessons learned, I asked many questions about him and those who knew and recommended him. He was an instructor, A&P mechanic, military, commercial, with tens of thousands of hours over the decades. This was no hobby; this was his career. However, the airplane he was going to fly was a recent JetProp-converted Malibu. All the pilots talked about how fast and fun it was to fly. The giant exhaust sticking out of the cowling and expansive glass cockpit won me over.

He flew me from Truckee to Bakersfield, California (KBFL), so I could test a race car at the track in nearby Buttonwillow. The flight down was fast and comfortable for a solo passenger. When the day at the track was done, I made my way back to Bakersfield and climbed into the JetProp. The pilot did his walk-arounds, safety checks, and used checklists. I like this guy. We took off into the moonless black night over central California and left the lights of Bakersfield behind. I was tired, so I sat in the rear-facing seat and kicked my legs up. I was looking at the scattered lights of a few farmhouses far below. It was dark. It seemed too dark. I then noticed that there were no lights on the wingtip.

That’s odd.

I looked over my shoulder to the pilot and saw no lights on the panel either. He was digging through his duffle, so I used my phone to light the cockpit. He grabbed a flashlight and a hand-held radio and visually swept the panel. A lone old-school artificial horizon was installed to the far right of the new glass panel. It was in the worst possible position for a single pilot in the left seat, flying on a moonless night over dark farmland.

The pilot calmly radioed an emergency and climbed higher to give us the best possible chances if the engine stopped turning. Unfortunately, the radio was low on batteries, so he could only make a short call before it died. He would leave it off for a bit and then turn it back on for a short transmission.

He continued to fly the airplane, scan the instruments with his flashlight, and try to restart the electrical system to no avail. He kept calm despite some (actually, a lot of) sweat. The emergency gear extension knob was used, and two clunks were heard—but not three. He turned the radio back on and requested a flyby to see if the nose gear was actually down. As he approached the tower, the emergency lights on the runway lit up the night as fire trucks and ambulances staged themselves along the taxiways.

The tower controllers apparently didn’t know where we were, and we flew right by in the dark and didn’t get a gear-down affirmation signal. I assumed radar would tell them where we were, but it didn’t seem like they were able to see us. The pilot kept scanning the panel, flying the airplane, and checking altitude to ensure that we were still within glide distance of the airport. As he flew the pattern it was eerily dark, so I stared at my phone and contemplated texting my wife.

He flew a perfect approach. As we descended over the sea of emergency lights, he held the airplane a few feet off the runway and landed long in order to bleed speed then gently set down on the mains. He then held the nosewheel up until he could gently set it down. Like butter. The gear held. I clearly had the right pilot for the situation. We taxied off the runway, and he shut down the engine on the taxiway—and it got very dark around us once again.

The downside to landing long is that no one saw us. The controllers would later share that they assumed we were down out in the dark desert. The runway was so long and wide, this tiny unlit airplane was easy to miss as it landed long right down the center while they were scanning the skies.

Someone radioed to the emergency crews that they thought they saw someone. All the emergency trucks started racing down the taxiways. The pilot yelled for the first time. “Get out of the airplane! They don’t see us!”

After all this, we were about to be run over by one or more well-meaning, 70,000-pound fire trucks. We ran from the airplane into the grass as their lights finally spotted our darkened plane, and they slammed on their brakes.

I rented a Nissan Sentra and drove the six hours home.

I had vetted the pilot but did not vet the airplane beyond admiring the panel and that sexy exhaust. A short had killed its generator, inverter, and battery. I should not have chosen to fly on a recently converted airplane until hundreds of flight hours had passed.

Passengers should educate themselves to vet both plane and pilot. The admiration and trust we have for both is well earned but should not be universally applied.

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

The post Everyone Should Pay Close Attention in the Cockpit appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Since I was planning a flight the following week during the day from Paine Field (KPAE) in Everett, Washington, to Jefferson County International Airport (0S9) to take a taxi into Port Townsend, then fly back to Paine after dark, I needed to get night current. Having not flown at night much over the last couple of years, I thought that I would prepare in advance.

I rented a Cessna 172 from Regal Air at KPAE and scheduled company CFI Nick Butterfield to come along to make sure that I was up to speed. Instead of just doing three stop-and-goes on Paine’s 9,010-foot-long runway, I asked Nick to put me under the hood to see if I could keep a heading and altitude without looking at outside references, then do a couple of night landings at “JeffCo.” 

The hood work turned out to be a very good idea. I was very rusty on instruments. “That’s harder than I remember,” I told Butterfield as he asked me to climb from 2,500 to 3,500 feet while changing directions from west to south and descending down to 2,700 feet while turning to north and then back to the west. Keeping straight and level at a prescribed altitude provided a challenge. It seems that I had trouble with my scan. Focusing on the altimeter caused my heading to drift and vice versa. It took several attempts before I could get it right.

After the hood work, it was well after dark but a beautiful, clear, calm night to fly 20 miles over Puget Sound, picking out city lights on the shoreline. As we got near JeffCo, I let Butterfield know that I had flown there many times, even back in the day when it was the only U.S. international airport with a grass field, but never at night.

• READ MORE: Beloved Flight Instructor’s Lessons Continue to Replay in Airline Captain’s Head

Butterfield shared that he had not either. He said he avoided that airport at night since it was set in forests that, in the dark, looked like a “black hole.” He also heard that wildlife could be a problem in those conditions.

“It looks like we are both in for an adventure,” I said. Around 7 miles out near Port Ludlow, we headed toward Port Hadlock to avoid overflying a Navy-restricted area on Marrowstone Island. We switched to JeffCo’s frequency, and Butterfield checked the weather and learned that the winds were calm and that there was no other air traffic. He then asked me what I planned to do next.

I told him that I was going to continue along the shoreline, get the airport lights in sight, turn west from the shoreline, and then go on a 45-degree entry to a left downwind to Runway 27 for a full-stop landing. He responded, “Right answer.” After beginning a descent to pattern altitude of 1,100 feet, it did seem like we were over a black hole with only a couple of cellphone towers and the distant runway lights in view.

After turning on the 45, the airport complex came into full view, and my first night landing in a long time was OK. The second was a bit better. After landing, we exited the 3,000-foot runway and taxied back to 27. 

Along the way, I let Butterfield know that there was a very good restaurant called the Spruce Goose Cafe at the airport that is definitely worth a breakfast or lunch flight and that the Port Townsend Aero Museum offers a great variety of military and civilian aircraft. But one of the best reasons to fly to JeffCo is that it is just a 10-minute taxi ride from the historic seaport of Port Townsend.

At the end of the taxiway, I came to a full stop and looked around, announced our intention to depart on Runway 27 for a left downwind departure, and began to enter the runway. Then we both saw a deer scamper away from the south side of the runway, and I came to a full stop on the centerline. We both looked around and did not see any more critters.

I pushed in the throttle and began the takeoff roll. Suddenly, another deer ran from the north side of the runway, coming to a dead stop on the centerline and staring at our landing light. I yanked the throttle out, hit the brakes hard, and stopped less than 10 feet from the deer.

After pausing to look at us, the deer sprinted to the south side of the runway, disappearing into the darkness beyond the runway lights. Butterfield and I took a deep breath and stared at each other. “That was quite a wildlife experience,” I said.

• READ MORE: Ice on the Wings Brings About a Near-Miss Episode

“If you hadn’t hit the brakes,” he said, “that would have been very messy.” 

Not exactly sure where we were on the runway, and a bit excited, I decided to taxi to a midfield exit and go back to the start of Runway 27 for another attempt. Fortunately, that takeoff was uneventful.

We headed back to KPAE, where there are no blackholes around the big complex that includes one of Boeing’s large facilities to the north of the runway. However, the tower closes after 9 p.m., and there were five aircraft in the pattern, all trying to get night current. Adding to the multiple headlight scenario, a Horizon Air pilot announced, “Inbound for landing on 34 left, 10 miles out.”

Those of us in the pattern extended our downwind legs a few miles before attempting to land. I gave myself a “B” grade on the first attempt. The next try was a squeaker I deemed worthy of an “A.” Time to call it a night and talk more about deer in the headlights. Butterfield filled in my logbook: “Four night landings; one deer near miss.”

After that experience, I will follow Butterfield’s lead and avoid JeffCo after dark. The next week, I took off just before dark from the airport—avoiding more deer in the headlights—and got back to Paine before the tower closed so it could direct traffic.

Tom Murdoch is the director of the Adopt A Stream Foundation (www.streamkeeper.org), conducting aerial wildlife surveys and taking aerial photos of the organization’s stream restoration projects.

The post Finding a Deer in the Headlights appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

My first flight instructor, Mario Feola, always loves to ask me questions like that one. He is perpetually curious about how my job is going and how it relates to the tips he passed on to me. He likes to see the ripple effect his teaching had on the making of a learner pilot, especially one like myself, now a new captain on a 45-ton airliner. Instructors are like that, especially wise, gray-haired ones. Mario has as much experience, and gray hair for that matter, as any airman I ever met. He has a big belly, a white beard, and a dominating presence in any room. He’s pretty much a jolly Italian Santa, only happier and more generous if that’s possible. This Santa, however, doesn’t have any reindeer—just a small, single-engine Cessna.

“So, what do you use?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, all of those hours crammed in that sardine can-sized plane with you, sweating in the Mississippi heat, cruising at what seems like dangerously low altitudes, really did have a profound effect. I learned a lot.”

• READ MORE: Ice on the Wings Brings About a Near-Miss Episode

Like the time I was in freezing conditions and started picking up heavy ice outside Minneapolis-Saint Paul International Airport (KMSP). It was the kind of cold that makes penguins shiver and Minnesotans fly south for the winter—which was exactly what we were doing. The thick, clear ice started piling up on any surface exposed to the elements. No big deal: “Turn on the wing anti-ice protection.” Without hesitation, my first officer reached up and moved a switch that propels lava-hot air, taken directly from the interior of our own jet engines, and shoots it down a shielded enclosure within the edge of the wings. The resulting spike in temperature melts even the worst that this frozen tundra can throw at us.

Then it happened…a triple chime.

A triple chime is the highest-priority audible alarm in the aircraft. It is usually followed by a dozen nasty messages from the flight computer and an equal number of vulgarities from the flight crew. This one was no exception—bleed leak. The boiling, hot air from the turbines had escaped and was pouring into the unprotected components inside the wing. In a few moments, the compressed air would begin to destroy flight controls or even melt and deform the wing, leading to an uncontrolled roll motion. But to stop the heat now also meant that the ice would continue to compound aggressively on a cold wing, adding weight and disrupting the flow of air, which leads to an aerodynamic stall and a really bad day for my airline’s insurance provider.

“Remain calm, slow down, think.” Mario’s words passed through my mind. I first heard them a decade before. He was trying to get me to finally understand cross-country flying. Back then, long distance was from Diamondhead, Mississippi, to Slidell, Louisiana, not quite LAX to JFK just yet. “Remain calm, slow down, think.” Sage words reminding a learner that a lot of wrong decisions made in haste can turn a simple problem into the headline on the 9 o’clock news. OK, deep breath…think. I just heard another airplane report that the turbulence dissipated when it exited the clouds far below us. That means this layer must end with the base of the clouds.

• READ MORE: Treat High-Altitude Turbulence with Knowledge and Respect

“Perform the checklist for the bleed leak. We are going to declare an emergency, descend out the bottom of this weather layer and into the clear below,” I thought to myself. “Any ice we pick up will be minimal, and we will carry extra speed into the landing to compensate for any lift lost or weight gained.” Twenty minutes later, I was calmly telling the passengers, “Thank you. Please fly with us again.”

That wasn’t the only time a lesson came hurtling back into my consciousness uninvited. Like the time we were learning how to climb and descend at set speeds. It was a basic and rudimentary task that every pilot must get through. It was during that lesson that I observed our course would drive us into a spring shower, the kind that gently sprinkle rain, barely enough to get the ground wet, just enough to make you curse if you just finished washing your car. I asked Mario to go around it, but he refused: “It’s just water. Remember, it’s only water.” We passed through the shoot of drizzle without so much as a bump. The rain splattered the windscreen and slid right off. My fear was unfounded.

Once on the other side, Mario was quick to point out an unusual anomaly. Down below us, on a bubbly set of cotton-white clouds, was a perfectly round rainbow, cotton-white clouds, was a perfectly round rainbow, and in its center, the shadow of our airplane. “It’s a pilot’s cross,” he said. “It only happens when the sun is behind you, water is still hanging in the air, and those puffy marshmallows are down there. Our shadow makes the shape of a cross, and it’s only ever seen from above, solid proof that God loves pilots.”

A dozen years later, I was passing over the Great Plains. This time, however, I was five times faster and 10 times higher but still just as uneasy when the first few raindrops hit my windscreen. After all, the place 30,000 feet beneath me is nicknamed “Tornado Alley.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. You may notice some flashes of lightning originating from the thunderstorm cell to the left side of the aircraft. I just wanted to reassure you that I’ve adjusted our flight path to take us well clear of the storm. However, I do ask that you remain seated and firmly buckled up, as I expect to encounter some residual pockets of isolated rain and turbulence. Please do not be alarmed if we fly through any rain. Remember, it’s only water.”

As I ended the PA, I could see the apprehension of my new-hire copilot beginning to crack through her calm demeanor. “You’re not nervous?” she squeaked out. “Nah, we will be fine,” I said. “God loves pilots.”

At no point did Mario’s words ring truer than during an August flight to Montreal. We had just taken off and made our first turn out of Minneapolis. Passing through 3,000 feet, barely two minutes into our journey, a deafening boom rattled the whole airframe. Dials and needles on the faces of the engine instruments spun wildly out of control, the airplane lurched to one side, and a flame the length of a small car spewed out of the tailpipe of our left engine. I had seen this scenario a dozen times before from the relative calm and safety of our company simulator, but now the stakes were raised with real people behind me and real granite below. Instinctively, I grabbed the controls and reverted back to my Cessna days: “You fly the airplane. Don’t let it fly you.”

“I have the controls. Give me the quick reference checklist for engine one fail, severe damage, no relight, N₁ at 0.0 percent, engine temp past limits, standby for possible fire indication.”

That bark to my copilot was unmistakable. I am the captain. The ship returned to earth just a few seemingly hour-long minutes later with procedures done, flight attendants needlessly ready to spring into action, miles of runway cleared, a massive commercial airport at a standstill, and a dozen fire trucks waiting patiently. I landed without incident, taxied to the gate and then personally apologized to each passenger for the interruption of their travel plans. Every single one of them boarded our spare airplane to take them along the same stretch of sky just 40 minutes later. That told me that they trusted me—and would do so again.

Mario, there are some lessons from you that are far more important, though—the ones I live every day. The things I took to heart most were the things you didn’t do or say—like the fact that you never gave me a bill. Thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours of your time, just volunteered, for nothing in return. You taught me that the best things in life are freely given to those that can never give it back to you. I’ve heard it elsewhere called grace. You taught me the value of patience, especially during the times it seemed like I was learning to crawl, not fly. I’ve never seen you get angry, and I’m not sure it’s possible for you. You taught me about having faith in the people you care about, and you never doubted me, even when I failed—and I failed a lot. You taught me to push myself to excellence, even if that push felt like a kick in the butt.

You once told me that you envied me. I guess it’s because I’m living out your dream occupation. But that’s just not the reality. I envy you. It is true that I’m a captain now, but you didn’t just make me into a pilot. You molded me into a better man, a man more like yourself, and that’s what I really wanted the most. That’s what I learned from you, Mario. I learned about flying, and life, from that.

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

The post Beloved Flight Instructor’s Lessons Continue to Replay in Airline Captain’s Head appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

My father got his private certificate when I was a tyke. He logged about 800 hours in his life. He never owned his own airplane, but I grew up around aviation enough to have caught the disease very early. Though he was the one who actually taught me to fly, he was not an instructor. I went through the formality of earning my private certificate in 1983 at the age of 26. I did this at the Grosse Ile Municipal Airport (KONZ) in Michigan, located on an island in the mouth of the Detroit River where it empties into Lake Erie. I always loved flying, but now I was rabid about it.

In those days I was working very long hours, and with a fresh ticket and access to a Cessna 150, I squeezed in flights whenever I could. That involved more night flights than was probably advisable at that point in my experience. But I loved being up at night and my regular routine of flying up the river and around downtown Detroit at 1,000 feet. Taking in the tapestry of lights was always magical and intoxicating.

One night the urge to fly welled up within me, and I headed to the airport where the 150 was tied down outside. Perhaps the most dangerous thing in life, and most certainly in aviation, is that you don’t know what you don’t know. And there were things I needed to know but did not. (Obviously, as I had been stupidly flying around at 1,000 feet at night.) As was a completely ordinary thing in Detroit in the winter, it had snowed. Per my training, I got out the broom and brushed off all the snow from the airframe. But (cue scary music here) there had been a bit of thaw, and under the snow was just a bit of ice. Not much, mind you. It was just a bit of crustiness, so I thought it couldn’t weigh very much. I figured it wasn’t a big deal since it was just me flying with partial fuel in the tanks.. It was a cold, clear, still night. Plenty of lift in this cold air, right? And, dang it, I wanted to fly so badly.

Everything else checked out just fine. I fired up the Continental O-200 and made my way across the big, dark, completely deserted field to the longest runway, did the run-up, lined her up, and shoved in the throttle. All seemed completely normal until I was out of ground effect, maybe 50 feet up. She felt saggy. This thing was not climbing. I was staring ahead into the inky blackness, where I knew a tall stand of pine trees was waiting for me at the north end of the runway. The accident chain instantly marched across my consciousness: inexperience, winter, night, ice, overeagerness, and drag, you idiot! I had stacked the deck against myself, and it was all going to end in those trees in a few seconds. There was really no better option than straight ahead, so I uttered a short prayer and waited for the impact.

It didn’t come. In the pitch darkness, I held the attitude indicator where I thought it should be and realized from the altimeter reading that I must have cleared the trees. I was soon high enough to have visual reference from the lights on the ground to the north. All I could think of was “climb.” The little 150 ponderously clawed its way up, while the altimeter moved at about the pace of hands on a clock. I eventually got up to a couple thousand feet and realized with terror that I was at that moment a test pilot in an unknown machine. I had no idea how to get it back down safely. I decided I needed to find out what the stall speed was with this stuff on the wings, so I would know what approach speed to use to avoid falling out of the sky. I decided I had enough drag already, so flaps probably would not be a good idea. I slowed down with my eyes on the airspeed indicator and waited for the break. To my surprise, the stall occurred at about the same speed it would normally. OK, I guess I’ll approach at the normal speed. I got her back to the field and lined up.

• READ MORE: Life Lessons of an Iced-Up Mooney

Grosse Ile airport is basically surrounded by water, and going in there on a moonless night one cannot see the surrounding trees. The runway lights are all you’ve got. It was a scary ride down the hill, and I carried a little extra speed anyway. At first, all seemed normal, but then almost too late, I realized that stalling wasn’t going to be my problem. This thing was coming down like a brick. The sink rate registered on my brain, and I firewalled the throttle, once again terrified that I was going to settle right down into those pine trees. The O-200 roared (like a mouse in a lion suit), and the laden little 150 somehow lumbered over the unseen treetops. I kept full throttle until I was just over the pavement. Fortunately, the runway was plenty long and I settled in smoothly. It was over, except my heart was about to pound its way out of my chest.

I vowed right then and there to never again fly any airplane with even a hint of anything on the wings. But perhaps even more importantly, I came away from that near miss with a constant question on my mind for any situation: What about this do I not know? Finding the answer is well worth any time and effort it takes. This has served me well in airplanes and in many other areas, such as just getting along with people.

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

The post Ice on the Wings Brings About a Near-Miss Episode appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The first day of the course was basic mountain flying. We covered mountain and high-altitude basics. Where and how to crash-land and survive. How to prepare an emergency pack. How aircraft performed. And so on. It was a thorough and excellent preparation.

By that time in my life, I had hiked and climbed all over central Colorado and felt a bit complacent about all the “stuff” I already knew. In fact, the instructor said he had never had a student as well prepared for emergency survival. (Wow! Thanks.)

The second day we launched from Longmont early in the morning. It was crystal clear and there was minimal wind. We worked our way along the Front Range, turned in toward the mountains just north of Pikes Peak, and then landed at Leadville-Lake County Regional Airport (KLXV), which is the highest airport in North America at 9,934 feet msl. We discussed density altitude, runway length, go-arounds at high altitude, and then landed.

I was alert in taking off from Leadville at almost 10,000 feet, but the turbo did its job, so away we went. We crossed Hagerman Pass (11,925 feet) at 12,500 feet while discussing the need for diagonal crossing of mountain passes in case of severe winds. It was all beautiful.

We worked our way down to the runway at the Glenwood Springs Municipal Airport (KGWS), which is 3,300-feet long at 5,916 feet msl. The instructor made clear that he wanted me at 72 knots, not 73 and not 71, because there was zero excess if I screwed up and landed in a housing development. Fortunately, that went smoothly. We turned around and departed down valley then worked our way up the valley to Aspen-Pitkin County Airport (KASE).

The reputation of Aspen being tricky is well earned. It lies in a narrow valley, but in the T210 it was pretty easy and has been such several times since. After the takeoff from Aspen, we headed to the north on a route that mountain pilots know well—and flatlanders often pay the price for not knowing well.

• READ MORE: Mountain Flying Tips

Heading easterly, we departed back over Hagerman Pass, and then the instructor said he wanted to demonstrate the effects of mountain wave flying. Heading north, we slid to the west side of the valley, and gently the wave pulled at us and we descended. We moved back to the middle of the valley and the descent stopped. We moved to the east up against the range that constitutes the Breckenridge Ski Resort and picked up the rising wave that swept us up and over the slope. It was elegant and beautiful. Then we flew north to return to Longmont.

As we approached Loveland Pass, somewhere around 13,000 feet, a huge, invisible sledgehammer slammed us, causing us to drop at least 1,000 feet. We had completely uncontrolled deviations 90 degrees left and right. Then we fluctuated up and down like a dying whale. I asked the instructor if he had been in s—t like this before. His response was, “Oh, sure…well, not this bad.”

Out of reflex, I dropped a notch of flaps. He admonished me to drop gear, too. Both the wings and fuselage needed to slow so they wouldn’t separate. This continued for what seemed like hours but it was likely minutes. As we slowly settled, we hit a sinker in straight-and-level flight, dropping at more than 1,500 fpm with pegged gauges. Fortunately, that diminished as we closed in on the top of Loveland Pass, which we missed by maybe a few hundred feet.

Unexpectedly, it stopped as it began. I was literally shaking and trembling. Wow. Was I almost killed?

Never before nor since have I experienced such turbulence. But I did come away with several lessons:

Mountain wave turbulence is unpredictable and can be treacherous. Keep plenty of clearance from terrain. Watch for capped clouds, spindrift snow, dust, or terrified pilots.

In particularly moderate to severe turbulence, slow down and drop flaps and landing gear if needed. Even in moderate turbulence and after years of flying, I will drop a notch of flaps to slow down things.

If turbulence is severe, use both flaps and gear and slow to just above stall speed.

Have good restraints and don’t be lazy about keeping them firmly fastened. Even with good restraints, we slammed our heads several times.

Mountain wave turbulence can be a great teacher that cuts both ways. Understand and respect it.

Subsequently, I have experienced many turbulent flights in the T210 and other aircraft. Admittedly, I had PTSD for several years after that episode, but you’ve got to get back on the horse and ride.

This is submitted in memory and honor of my friend and instructor, Cleon Biter, from Longmont. Cleon was an outstanding, patient, and brave flight instructor who died from nonaviation causes after surviving years of flying with young mountain pilots.

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

The post Treat High-Altitude Turbulence with Knowledge and Respect appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Looking back now, it dawns on me that most of what I know today did not come from the normal, required syllabus training but from life experiences, along with an occasional hair-raising event, one of which I can finally share.

Like many pilots, most of my private pilot training took place in a two-place Cessna. My CFI actually weighed a morbidly obese 350 pounds and was in his upper 60s. Were we always overloaded upon takeoff? No, because being a hard-working, skinny, 25-year-old, I carried maybe 120 pounds. My first solo, however, gave me a startling surprise, though, when the Cessna 150 trainer shot up so rapidly…I had just shedded 350 pounds and struggled to acquire the new, lighter “feel.”

Transitioning from a lighter to a heavier single is a process we learn largely on our own without much training. Check rides are a helpful measure of safety and highly recommended. The larger the aircraft, the heavier the controls, and while often more stable, it is always different. Moving up to more advanced aircraft enhances our joy of flying. Plus, the heavier the airplane, the more sophisticated it often is. Constant-speed prop, retractable gear, etc. Even more challenging are those “category/class” transitions (seaplane, twin-engine, etc.) that take us to the next level.

By the time I had accrued some 140 total flight hours, a friend mentioned that his wife and her sister were returning home from a trip back east. It was late June. To save them the expense of a night’s lodging in Dallas, I agreed to fly to Love Field (KDAL) and fly them back to the now long-abandoned Butterfield Trail Airport just north of Abilene. I had never met the two passengers-to-be, but Phil, a nonpilot, was a fit, lean, future Navy sailor who spoke often of his active wife and sister-in-law. I was ready to log some additional quality time in my flying club’s Cessna Skyhawk 172 (N3707R).

At this point, I had been checked out in the club’s Cessna 182 Skylane and its mighty 210 Centurion, but I didn’t see the need for a larger, more expensive option. Now I was in for a gut-wrenching surprise. My lack of experience caused me to select an aircraft unsuitable for the flight.

The flight to KDAL with Phil was pleasant and uneventful, and I anticipated the return flight would be equally smooth. Love Field was Dallas’ primary airport in 1967, and there was no delay entering its airspace and getting taxi clearance to the general aviation area. We did not wait long at the GA terminal for our passengers to arrive.

What I felt when first meeting Tillie and her sister, Emma, was a sense of astonished shock. These women were not obese. They were, well…ladies of significant size. And they each had a fairly large, old-style heavy suitcase. I’m sure I silently gasped when I realized suddenly that our little Skyhawk was destined to be dramatically overweight. Overweight, that is, if we could even fit them into the rear seats with their bags. We were going to be massively overloaded and probably out of balance. Should I tell my passengers, “No, I’m sorry. We cannot do this”? Should I warn them of the risk?

As a weight/balance experiment with satchels of bowling balls, I had once safely “test-flown” a friend’s Skylane while being perhaps several hundred pounds over the maximum takeoff weight. Perhaps somehow by having completed this ill-advised and unauthorized experiment, it validated my faulty decision to proceed.

Even if we could shoehorn the passengers and baggage in, I knew we might have to abort. The Skyhawk baggage area was about 90 pounds maximum, but the space was too small to accommodate a large suitcase. We discovered that we could partially squeeze one into this minuscule space, thereby sacrificing a good deal of headroom. The other bag would just have to ride on their laps. Very uncomfortable, but it was only for an hour and a half. At this point, I was just concerned whether we could get airborne.

The weather briefing confirmed widely scattered showers with hot, very humid conditions, and calm winds. Not helpful conditions, to be sure, with high density altitude in effect.

• READ MORE: A Wing and a Prayer

I taxied to Runway 18, 8,000 feet in length, as I recall. The tower said, “Cleared for takeoff. Right turnout approved.” We started our takeoff roll. And we rolled. I was ready to abort if necessary. We kept rolling.

Not expecting to use more than about 4,000 feet, but already passing that halfway point, I became aware that we might not be airborne anytime soon. But lots of pavement still remained. Finally, though, our speed was sufficient and we lifted off, albeit very slowly. But what is this? We weren’t climbing! If anything, we were just mushing along. And we’re running out of runway!

Clearing the fence and crossing Mockingbird Lane, we couldn’t have been more than 50 feet above passing buildings. Any additional problem at this height could have been catastrophic.

Some 20 minutes later, we were level at 6,500 feet msl. Reaching the cooler altitude made things easier. My passengers were silent but likely aware that we had just been given a free pass by the powers that be. We were grateful for our good fortune.

But the day was summed up with some valuable lessons subtly delivered and taken to heart. First, I learned to never assume your passengers will weigh the average standard of 170 pounds, as it was then. Don’t be reticent about asking their weight and baggage sizes. Second, know your aircraft’s capacities. It might be helpful someday to know your storage area dimensions. Finally, and perhaps most redundantly, always be prepared to cancel your plans, even if that means unhappy passengers and a bruised ego and wallet.

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

The post Weight, Weight, Don’t Tell Me appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

As we drove back home, I said to Dot, “It must be great to learn how to fly.” Dot said, “Why don’t you try it?” To which I replied, “No, I can’t. It would cost too much and take too much time.” So, there I was, two days later at Appleton International Airport (KATW) in the pilot’s seat of a vintage Cessna 150, clutching my student pilot certificate and taking my first flying lesson. In December, with my consulting work finished, we moved back to Massachusetts. After we resettled, I continued my flying lessons at Marlboro Airport (9B1). With its 1,659-foot runway bookended by extremely tall pine trees, there couldn’t be a better place to practice landings and takeoffs. I finally earned my private pilot certificate on May 14, 1975. After we got home, Dot and I held a proper champagne celebration. Then we had a serious discussion about flying, and I promised her that the one thing I would never do was buy an airplane.

Besides, renting would be fine. A month later, I was reflecting on that decision as I was sitting in the left seat of my newly purchased 1958 Piper Comanche 250 at Minute Man Air Field (6B6) with its 2,700-foot runway in Stow. Wow. My landings didn’t have to be precise at all, not after my Marlboro short-field training. In July 1976 with my flight hours adding up, and my wanderlust afoot, I thought it might be fun to try a cross-country flight in my “Baby Airliner.” What better destination than a trip to Oshkosh for another air show? At that time, Burt Rutan was selling his VariEze homebuilt kits to builders around the country—a composite, canard, high-performance aircraft. Burt would occasionally visit some of the builders to help them assemble the kits. There were three kits being built at Stow that would be flying to the Oshkosh show. We planned on meeting them there to see how well the airplanes performed. We had the privilege of working with Burt for a few days.

The Oshkosh show was scheduled to start on July 31, so we started planning for our big adventure. We were to be joined on the trip by Mal Bennert, a good friend of ours who was also a certificated pilot. We spent Saturday packing clothes and thoroughly preflighting the airplane, cleaning, topping the gas tanks, double-checking our checklists, planning the flight route, etc.

Later that afternoon, my son Bill and daughter Sharon dropped by to see how we were doing. Because it was early and a beautiful day, we asked if they would like to take a final sunset sightseeing trip before we left. It would include a stop at Manchester Airport (KMHT) in New Hampshire for the proverbial hundred-dollar hamburgers. It was probably a good thing that we took that flight because later, when I radioed my landing intentions, my second radio was dead. It was an emergency because I would not launch on this trip without both radios working. After we landed, I told our mechanic my problem. Fortunately, one of the local pilots said he had a radio he could lend us for the trip. We spent Sunday replacing and testing the radio. I slept soundly that night, and we left early Monday morning in kind of an overcast day.

• READ MORE: Leaving in the Chocks

Because I wanted to keep both tanks as full as possible, our first fuel stop was planned for Binghamton Airport (KBGM) in New York. We had been flying for about two hours, which put us over the Allegheny Mountains—not too hospitable on the ground. I was pilot flying for this first leg, and all was going well. Dot was in the back, reading a magazine, and we were just cruising along. Suddenly, I thought I heard a skipped cylinder from the engine. I asked Mal on the intercom if he heard that. He said, “Heard what? I didn’t hear anything.” I said, “Yeah, that nothing is the noise I’m talking about.” Just then, the engine coughed for a few beats then a few more until finally it went quiet. Nothing like a shot of adrenaline to liven up a dull morning. I wanted to start down the checklist for “Engine Power Loss During Flight,” so I said, “Mal, you’ve got the airplane.” He answered, “I’ve got the airplane.” I wanted to be free to check the obvious things that can stop an engine, the most likely being fuel starvation. The fuel selector was on the floor between the pilot and copilot. Looking down to move it would have taken my eyes off the horizon—not a good idea. I said, “Leave the flaps and gear up and trim for 100 mph.” Mal answered, “Flaps and gear up, trim for 100.” (For youngsters reading this, we were still using miles per hour back then.)

I looked down at the fuel selector, and it was positioned on the right tank, which was the correct one that I had selected before we left. I turned it to the left tank, pushed mixture to full rich, pulled carb heat on, and turned on the fuel pump. The prop was windmilling nicely, which was a good sign. The best sign, however, was the sound of the engine coughing twice, spitting a little because the carb heat was on, and then coming up to full power. “Now,” I thought, “pretend you’re a professional pilot. Just take a deep breath, wipe the sweat off your brow. Return all settings back to cruise. Continue with normal flight.”

• READ MORE: Why Do Pilots Use Checklists?

When we landed in Binghamton, I immediately dipsticked the right tank. It was dry as a bone. What had happened? As is so often the case, a series of small errors can result in a major problem. After we took the sightseeing flight Saturday, I had every intention of topping off the tanks when we returned, but I was totally distracted by the new problem—the dead radio. While working with that on Sunday, I completely forgot the needed gasoline, thus causing the right tank to be partially empty and run dry before my predicted time.

Is there a moral here to be learned? I don’t know. Checklists are only good when used at the right time. But how do you know when that is, and who checks the checklist checker?

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

The post Checklists Only Function When They’re Open appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

My ride that day was a brand-new Piper Archer, N2876K. It was well equipped for that era; it even had a two-axis autopilot and DME—a luxury in those days. The flight was planned for four hours plus, with a stop in Indianapolis for fuel and to check weather at the Combs Gates FBO. I filed my first solo instrument flight plan and departed at 8:30 a.m. local. The weather was VFR all the way to Indianapolis International Airport (KIND)with only early morning haze to contend with. After picking up my IFR flight plan from Cleveland Departure, I climbed with the sun at my back into a cloudless blue sky. I felt like I belonged.

A quick 2 hours and 15 minutes later, I was taxiing up to Combs Gates with a real sense of accomplishment, maybe even more than four days earlier when I passed my checkride. After all, I was flying in the “system” with no supervision—entirely on my own. However, that was about to change. The next segment between Indianapolis and 50 miles east of St. Louis produced one of those life-altering moments for an aviator, one that shaped every aspect of my future flying career.

As I topped off the tanks and had a sip of Coke, I had a pleasant conversation with a flight service specialist who gave me a standard briefing that included: “VFR along the entire route but with a chance of isolated thunderstorms.” Your typical Midwest summer forecast.

Fair weather cumulus started to form, but nothing in the briefing hinted at a go/no-go decision. In fact, the briefer mentioned the cloud bases reported along the route were at least 7,000 feet. Just for safety, I filed for a westbound altitude of 6,000 feet on Victor 14. I wanted to be on an IFR flight plan—just not hard IFR.

I headed west above the haze and leveled at 6,000 feet. As I approached Terre Haute, Indiana, I saw a confusing solid wall of clouds extending many thousands of feet above my altitude. The clouds didn’t look like cumulus. A quick call to Indianapolis Center confused me even more. The controller said he wasn’t “painting” any weather from my position all the way to St. Louis.

At this point, I considered canceling IFR and landing at Terre Haute. But I scrapped that idea. My ego got in the way. After all, I had just passed my check ride in actual, and I was beaming with confidence. Onward I flew into the cloud bank. The initial ride generated an occasional bump at worst. I felt confident I had made the correct decision to continue. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Soon I was handed off to Kansas City Center over eastern Illinois. By this time, the Archer was jolted by continuous moderate turbulence. My confidence quickly turned into real concern. I keyed the mike and asked the new controller about the weather in front of me, but he only came back with “light to moderate” precipitation for the next 50 miles. At this point, the airplane was still on autopilot and handling the chop and occasional upset.

Then the situation got worse. Torrential rain, continuous lightning, severe turbulence, and—most upsetting to me—the vertical speed indicator was first pegged up to the stops and then pegged in the opposite direction. I reduced power for an indicated airspeed lower than maneuvering speed (V_A), but I knew I was in trouble. I was convinced the wings were going to separate from the airframe. I felt more like a helpless passenger than PIC.

I called Kansas City Center again, but this time I confessed my unfortunate position. I was on the verge of tears. There was little or no controlling my altitude. The updrafts and downdrafts were so strong I knew any attempt to maintain altitude would cause a break up.

• READ MORE: Racing a Storm Is Not the Best Choice

I needed help, quickly. The controller sensed the urgency in my transmission and calmly said, “Stand by.” A few moments later, the controller handed me off to a new one. I was to be his only customer, and he volunteered that he was only “painting” light to moderate precipitation, but I told him the airplane was in severe updrafts and downdrafts. He said to keep the wings level, and he would try to steer me clear of the heaviest precipitation.

Time stood still. I have no recollection of how long he vectored me. He kept saying not to worry about altitude and just try to keep the wings level. The controller continued to “suggest” headings followed by “How’s the ride now?” I wasn’t reassured, but I did robotically turn as suggested, all the time going up and down the elevator. I was soaked through with perspiration and exhausted.

This went on until just south of Litchfield, Illinois, when he cleared me down to the minimum en route altitude (MEA), and I broke out of the cloud bases. Now I had a fighting chance of surviving. There was lightning in all quadrants and sheets of virga I had to dodge, but that was manageable. While the updrafts and downdrafts had subsided, there still was continuous moderate-to-severe turbulence. My head hit the side of the airframe, the headliner, and the glareshield. And without warning, just as I was handed to St. Louis Approach, the airplane broke out into CAVU VFR.

I landed at Spirit of St Louis Airport with the aircraft in one piece—but I was scarred for life. I had been sure I was going to die and would be just another low-time pilot who flew into a thunderstorm. I was so grateful the controller had helped me through, but I knew I would never look at instrument flying the same way. Thousands of hours later, I am still haunted by that flight.

This article first appeared in the July 2023/Issue 939 print edition of FLYING.

The post Humbled for Life appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

After spending 10 years in the industry as a test pilot and having had to exit two test airplanes via ‘nylon letdowns’—also known as parachutes—I decided that academia might be a little less hazardous. So I became a professor of aviation systems at the University of Tennessee Space Institute in Tullahoma, Tennessee, where I became friends with Bill, who lived in Sewanee about 20 miles away.

The fellow who ran the FBO in Tullahoma (KTHA) at the time was Walt Harris. Walt had been a pilot for the State of Tennessee when Winfield Dunn was the governor. Walt had been his pilot and, as a result, believed that you could accomplish almost anything with politics. Walt also felt that the Tullahoma Airport needed an FAA-designated pilot examiner. After his efforts to encourage the FAA’s Nashville Flight Standards District Office (FSDO) to appoint one were unsuccessful, Walt went the political route by contacting his congressman.

The FAA does respond to political pressure, and before long, the Nashville FSDO contacted Walt telling him they would appoint someone, but that he needed to come up with the names of three people for them to evaluate. Walt, of course, wanted the job for his flying school. I became involved when Walt showed up in my office at the university’s facility at the airport, asking if I would submit my name for the evaluation. I have been an FAA-designated engineering representative (DER) test pilot since 1971, and this was 1980. Not really wanting to be a pilot examiner, I went along for Walt’s sake to be one of his three names. The other individual in the “hunt” was Jerry Ritchie, who had previously worked for the FAA as an inspector and was running an auto parts business in Tullahoma.

Several weeks later, I received a call from Walt telling me that the FAA would be in Tullahoma on a certain day for the evaluation, which would include an oral exam and a check ride. On the appointed day, I showed up at the FBO with the requisite paperwork filled out, but with no preparation for the oral examination or the check ride since I did not want the job.

The FAA had flown with Walt in the morning after they arrived, and they would fly with Jerry Ritchie and me after lunch. The oral exam consisted of a review of my paperwork and a few questions about my background, which was conducted by Lonnie Thurston (who has since retired).

After the brief oral, he said, “Let’s go fly.” He also said we would not need a preflight inspection since “we flew the airplane twice this morning, and it was okay.” I normally do not trust people I do not know well with my preflight inspections, but since he was the FAA—and I didn’t care about being a pilot examiner—I let it go. We climbed into the Cessna 172 that was to be used for the check ride, and I started the engine. Lonnie had told me what he wanted to do during the oral exam, so I proceeded to add power to taxi. The airplane did not seem to roll with what I thought should be enough power to taxi, but it had been a while since I had flown a Cessna 172, so I added more power. Still nothing happened.

About that time, Jimmy Chapman, the line boy at Tullahoma—now part owner in the FBO—came running out of the FBO waving his arms and pointing at the wheels. I then realized I had not pulled the chocks from the main wheels. Feeling like a complete fool, and knowing I was for sure not going to be a pilot examiner, the remainder of the ride went uneventfully. Upon com- pleting the flight, Lonnie told me they would let me know who would be designated in a couple of days. I was pretty sure it would not be me.

Much to my surprise, a few days later, Lonnie called to tell me that they were designating two pilot examiners in Tullahoma and that I was to be one of them. The other one was Jerry Ritchie.

I served as a DPE in Tullahoma for 25 years, issuing pilot certificates for private, commercial, instrument, and multiengine pilots. However, I never did find out what Walt had done that caused me to be designated instead of him. I was sure I had blown the check ride when I forgot the chocks.

It could be the FAA responds to political pressure—but not always in the way you would like.

The post Leaving in the Chocks appeared first on FLYING Magazine.