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.

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

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.

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.

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.

But, your first jet is always your favorite. OK, not really, at least not my feelings about the Tweet. But I had been flying a 150-horsepower Piper Super Cub for four years prior to entering the USAF, so to me, the T-37—with its twin 1,000-pound thrust Continental jet engines—was a big responsibility. I took each flight, solo or with an instructor, as a very serious affair, and I felt extremely blessed to be training in jets in the USAF.

The T-37 was relatively small, possessed a midwing, and sat quite low to the ground. It had side-by-side seating and a big plexiglass canopy, hinged at the back, that allowed easy access to the cockpit. The two smallish jet engines that powered it were nestled in the fuselage, slightly below each wing, with the exhaust exiting behind and below the trailing edge of the wings right next to the fuselage. The instrument panel, compared to modern jet aircraft, looked as if someone took all the displays, dials, lights, knobs, and handles needed to operate the aircraft, threw them against the panel and installed them where they hit it. Random is a word that comes to mind on the placement of some of the lights, displays, knobs, etc. There was nothing ergonomic about that instrument panel, but, hey, it was a jet, and I was strapping in to go on my second solo.

In as much as “Willy,” the nickname of Williams AFB, was a place where USAF pilots learned to fly, it was also, as we were told in our in-brief prior to the beginning of flight training, a place where the USAF trained its air traffic controllers. We were warned that sometimes the controllers would make mistakes, and to be skeptical and cautious if some ATC directives/clearances seemed unusual or unsafe. You kinda had the blind leading the blind at times when you had a solo student pilot being controlled by a controller in training; it was when another more authoritative voice came over the radio to countermand a training controller’s more tentative instruction that you knew the Supervisor Controller had taken command.

After strapping in and starting those extremely high pitched, constant noise, variable thrust engines on the Tweet, I was ready to taxi for takeoff. It was a fairly long taxi from where my Tweet was parked to the active runway. During this period in its operational life, Willy was very busy. T-38s, T-37s, and F-5s were mixing in with each other daily as they either taxied for takeoff or taxied back to their parking spots after landing, so you had to listen to the controller’s verbal taxi instructions while being wary, wondering if their instructions were tainted with some mistake.

I called ground with ATIS and told them I wanted to taxi for takeoff. They cleared me to taxi to Runway 30L, which was the normal T-37 runway; I had about a mile and a half, at least, to taxi to get to the assigned runway. Since the air conditioner on the Tweet was not very effective, we taxied with our canopy fully open; it was early summer in the desert, so it could get quite warm.

I was nervous as I prepared for this flight, yet cocky too, as I taxied out. I’d done well on my first solo, getting ‘excellents’ in all three areas in which I was graded. Having broken the ice with that fledgling foray into the wild blue of the western skies, I was looking forward to breaking the bonds of gravity without some instructor jumping on my ass about something I was screwing up. 

About two-thirds of the way to Runway 30L, after turning left onto another taxiway, ground control called.

“T-37 Solo [not my actual call sign], your aircraft is smoking,” said Ground in a casual tone and inflection.

“Roger ground, jet engines do smoke,” came my immediate response, thinking this was a controller intraining, and he’d not spent much time around jet aircraft.

“Ahhhhh, T-37 Solo, be advised that your aircraft is smoking much more than normal,” came a more authoritative voice from ground control.

I’d begun to suspect something actually might be wrong, though I was not sure what, when another voice came over the radio, and it was not ATC’s.

“Hey Ace!” came the familiar voice, “Look over your left shoulder.” It was one of the instructors in my flight (good grief). He was with his student taxiing behind me.

Since it was an instructor, and since he used the term “ace,” I felt compelled to do as he commanded; I looked over my left shoulder.

“Holy Shit!!” was my first thought as I saw a thick plume of whitish smoke being exhausted from the left engine. It filled the sky behind my jet; bloody hell, no wonder ground said my jet was smoking. All cockiness immediately left me, a modicum of fear replacing it, and I told ground that I was going to stop and do an emergency ground egress, shutting down both engines before leaving the jet. I never waited for a reply or another word from the instructor, who was now taking another route to the active runway.

As the smoke rapidly dissipated and my nerves settled, I stood off the taxiway to the side of my little Tweet; I could hear the sound of  “tinks” as hot metal cooled and the last wisps of smoke vaporized in the warm desert air. Other T-37s, T-38s, and F-5s taxied by and the pilots looked over at this pathetic student, still wearing his helmet, standing by his disabled Tweet.

A few minutes after shutting down and wondering what in the hell happened to my jet, while also wondering if I’d “FUBARed,” a maintenance truck drove up, along with an airport firetruck and a crew van. I told maintenance what happened: “smoke,” and filled out the maintenance log with the same thing I told maintenance: “Smoke.”

This article was originally published in the May 2023 Issue 937 of  FLYING.

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I checked weather en route, and it looked okay, with no icing reported along our intended route as I planned my departure from the Aurora, Illinois, airport (KARR). After a thorough preflight inspection, we hopped in the airplane, fired it up, picked up our instrument clearance, contacted ground, and taxied out to the runway.

Tower cleared us for departure, and we initially climbed to 3,000 feet msl. We contacted Chicago Center and were cleared to 11,000 feet for our cruise altitude. 

Above the clouds, it was sunny and calm, and our exchange student—never having flown in a small airplane before—was awed by the experience. 

Things were progressing along just fine until we reached eastern Ohio, when I noticed the cloud tops beginning to rise. I asked Cleveland Center for a clearance to 15,000 feet so we could continue to enjoy the smooth ride. We donned our oxygen masks and began our climb. 

As we ascended to 15,000, it became obvious that we were flying into an area where the cloud tops were approaching 15,000 and higher. I requested a climb to 17,000 feet, figuring I could stay out of the clouds and hopefully get close enough to the Morristown Airport (KMMU) to descend quickly through the layers. But I was wrong…that’s when the trouble began.

As soon as we reached 17,000 feet, we started clipping through the cloud tops—and that’s when the “Ice Man Cometh”—or “cameth” in our case.

I had never encountered icing before. The windshield iced over almost immediately, along with the wings. My airspeed started decreasing, and I couldn’t believe how quickly ice accumulated.

At this point, I knew we were in trouble. It was like my worst nightmare. I thought, this can’t be happening!

Execute a Plan

My thoughts immediately went back to my training and the admonition from instructors to never panic. And to execute a plan immediately. I let Center know we were picking up ice and needed an immediate descent to a lower altitude, hoping to find warmer air layers and stop the ice accumulation.

Center responded with, ”Mooney, maintain 17,000; you have a Dash 8 commuter underneath you.”

I replied, “Move the Dash 8—I’m descending now.”

Center cleared us down to 9,000 feet, where I leveled off between layers. At this point, we were still carrying the ice load, but the airplane was flying. We stayed at 9,000 feet until Center cleared us to 3,500 feet—and that’s when the banging started. It startled us at first, but it quickly became obvious that the noise came from the ice melting and breaking away—and hitting the airplane.We contacted the tower and were cleared for a VFR approach into Morristown. We landed without incident.

As I taxied up to the terminal, my wife and kids were waiting for us. I parked and opened my door and noticed a chunk of ice on the entry step. The cowling still had ice accumulated on the intake openings—a sight to behold.

Never Panic

So, what did I learn from this experience?

Never panic. Do not become complacent or let yourself be intimidated by ATC (in my case, Center). Act without delay, and do whatever you must to keep you and your passenger(s) safe.

Also, I could have done a better job analyzing the weather along my route.

Even though there were no en route icing reports at my filed altitude, I was not aware that the tops of clouds are generally laden with the most moisture and, at higher altitudes, that ice will form and accumulate very quickly on cold surfaces. Climbing to try to stay above the clouds and ice probably was the wrong decision.

Also, there are upgrades you can make to your airplane to help buy time. The Mooney and I returned to the Mooney Aircraft factory at Kerrville, Texas, later that month, where we had a TKS anti-icing system installed.

This article was originally published in the April 2023, Issue 936 of  FLYING.

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The rules were simple. Don’t fly into the prohibited area of the capital, Seoul, aptly named P-73. Don’t fly into the Korean president’s TFR. As with the U.S., these were likely to pop up unannounced, or sometimes even move. And don’t ever, ever, stray north of the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone), into the People’s Republic of Korea, also known as North Korea. The North Korean military was known to try and lure aircraft across the DMZ through MIJI, or meaconing, intrusion, jamming, and interference. They’d set up false NDBs to mimic stations in South Korea. In the winter, when fresh snow covered panels indicating the DMZ, they would set up false panels in North Korea, or use other means to lure crews across the border, then shoot them down. Part of our Korea check out was testing on our ability to navigate the DMZ.

One day I found myself on the mission board with another lieutenant and longtime friend, John. We had gone through the lieutenant basic course together and he was one class ahead of me in flight school. We were told to put some hours on an airframe, so we decided to make a day of it.

We would fly up to the northeast corner of South Korea by Sokcho and follow the DMZ to the west. We would hop into Camp Page in Cheongju for some gas and lunch, continue westbound to just north of Incheon, then follow the west coast of Korea down to our base, Camp Humphreys, near Pyeongtaek. A storm had recently come through and dumped some snow, so it promised to be a nice day for flying. Joining us was our crew chief, Sergeant Morey. 

The western side of Korea is dominated by the Taebaek Mountain range, so the first half of our flight would follow valleys and ridgelines. It would be much like navigating in the Rockies. Our UH-60 was well equipped with two HSIs. There were rumors about some newfangled navigation system that was slowly coming online and would use satellites, but that was in the future. We did have a Doppler inertial navigation system, but it was so unreliable we would joke that if we taped 25 cents to it and threw it out the window, we could at least say we lost a quarter. So, we relied on our map, clock, and HSI. I would navigate the first half while John flew, then we would change out after lunch.

The flight progressed well. We hit the east coast of Korea, followed it up to the DMZ, then made a left turn to the west. I was right on the map, and our times were working out. At some point things started to seem a little off to me. A bridge was not where I thought it should be… a valley was not there… At some point I told John to keep flying up a valley to the west. He looked over at me and said, “You mean to the north?” I said no, to the west, and pointed to my HSI that was showing 270 degrees, or a west heading. He responded, “No, my HSI and the magnetic compass show us flying north, and we’ve been flying north for some time.”

I looked at the standby compass; it showed north. I looked at my HSI and it showed west. At some point my HSI had failed and drifted off by 90 degrees, but I did not get a “fail” flag. John then asked the question that was on all our minds. “Sam, are we in North Korea??” I looked at him and responded, “That’s one possibility.”

John immediately turned south, dove down as low as he could, and pulled the collective to get every knot of speed he could milk from our trusty stallion. He would throw in occasional jinks to the left and right in case a young North Korean conscript got a lucky shot off at us. I continued to try and locate us on the map, but everything was running together. Eventually we spotted a South Korean flag at a remote mountain airstrip. This was nothing more than a small dispersal strip with a control tower to be used if war broke out. At this point we knew we were in South Korea. The airstrip had no identifier, and I did not see it on a map. We were getting low on fuel but decided to continue a bit to see if we could nail down our location and proceed to Camp Page. But we agreed that if we got to a certain fuel state we would return to this airstrip for gas.

We continued for about 15 minutes, but our luck didn’t change. John, as pilot in command, made the decision to return to the South Korean airstrip and get gas. I made some calls on guard but got no response. As we made our final approach the control tower flashed red lights at us warning us off. Unfortunately by this point, other lights were flashing at us. Our low fuel lights. 

We landed and were immediately surrounded by Jeeps mounted with .50 caliber machine guns and mean looking Republic of Korea (ROK) soldiers. Their tedium of being assigned to guard a remote airstrip was broken. They had purpose and life. We were escorted to the parking ramp, then given the signal to shut down.

I told Sergeant Morey to tell the guards we were Americans; we just needed some gas. He got out with his hands raised and was only able to get out “We’re Americans…” before being thrown to the ground and having a rifle put to his helmet. We eventually convinced the ROK soldiers we were not North Korean infiltrators, got some gas, and continued our merry way back home, deciding it was best to cut things short. Well, merry except for Sergeant Morey who, for some reason, was silent and sulking the entire way home. We wrote up the errant HSI and it was checked out by maintenance. The response was the one every pilot dreads. “Checked. Could not duplicate.” We then encountered the nonstop comments about lieutenants and maps. Until… a few days later our XO (executive officer) and the maintenance officer were flying the same aircraft, and it happened again. They, however, became hopelessly lost and had to land in a frozen rice patty, hike to a phone, and call for a fuel truck. I guess it goes to show you. Sometimes God smiles on fools and lieutenants.

This article was originally published in the March 2023, Issue 935 of  FLYING.

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A normal sequence started on day one at 10:30 p.m. in Charleston, West Virginia, flying east to Baltimore, Maryland, then back west to Martinsburg, West Virginia, then further west, ending in Cumberland, Maryland, at 3:30 a.m. the next morning. At 11:30 a.m. on day two, I would fly passenger runs until 9 p.m., then at 9:30 p.m., pick up the airmail run back to Charleston, finishing up around 1:30 a.m. on the third day. At every stop, I had to unload and reload 1,600 pounds of mail and somewhere find time to check the weather and get something to eat.

This was all-weather, single-pilot flying. You didn’t cancel an airmail run—you flew.

One night, on the Baltimore to Charleston leg, I had an exceptionally heavy load of mail, so I elected to carry less fuel than normal. The weather was forecast to be good VFR at Charleston, so I had no problem with this fuel load. However, when I arrived in the Charleston area, it was (in the old sequenced teletype-style report format) W0X0F, which means “Indefinite, Ceiling Zero, Sky Obscured, Visibility Zero in Fog.” I got the weather in Huntington, West Virginia, and Cincinnati, Ohio—Huntington was down too, but above minimums, and Cincinnati was good VFR. I figured if I flew that direction, I would arrive in Cincinnati with about 15 minutes of fuel, so I chose to fly on to Huntington.

As I continued westbound, passing over the Charleston VOR, Charleston Approach informed me the visibility had just come up to a mile. They then gave me a 180-degree turn back towards the airport, where I could see that the departure end of Runway 23 was clear but the approach end was still covered in fog. They also informed me that this was closing back down pretty fast, and by the time I could get vectored for the approach, it could very easily be zero visibility again. What could I do to get safely and legally in with only 1-mile visibility? The contact approach.

I was only 4 miles from the airport when they cleared me for the contact approach to Runway 5. Fortunately, I had already reduced power and extended the gear and flaps, lining up on the runway and slowing down to get the rest of the flaps out. One steep descent and landing later, I was safely on the ground in Charleston. As I was taxiing in, the visibility dropped rapidly, and the tower informed me that the reported visibility had just sunk to zero again. As I was taxiing the aircraft from the APO (Airport Post Office) to parking, ground control informed me that Huntington had a severe thunderstorm earlier that night, which had knocked out their lighting. I would have arrived at Huntington and not been able to land. Thanks to a momentary break in the fog and the contact approach, I was able to deliver the mail into Charleston instead.

After this incident, I vowed to never put myself in a situation where I did not have enough fuel for other alternatives, and it changed the way I looked at alternate airports—for example, Beckley, West Virginia, sits at a higher altitude and is less susceptible to fogging in. A knowledge of what the FARs said about what I could do was also important.

On another night, flying from Baltimore to Charleston, I was over Elkins, West Virginia, at 10,000 feet msl, and had been experiencing light to moderate icing. I changed altitudes three times to try to get out of it. After having to cycle the wing deicing boots multiple times, I noticed that the aircraft was not regaining speed like it normally would. Hearing the loud banging of ice sliding off the propellers and hitting the fuselage told me that the propeller deicers were working normally. There is only one deicing light, on the left wing, and it was pitch dark outside, so I thought to get my flashlight and shine it on the rightwing. There was almost an inch of ice on that wing: The deicing boot had failed.

I knew I was in trouble and thought about descending, but I realized that would be an irreversible decision—and I could use my altitude to keep my airspeed up if I had to. My airspeed was stabilized at 150 mph (about 130 knots). I thought, ‘OK, she is flying good, so this is a good airspeed and I can get the gear down at this speed.’ I did not know how much ice was on the tail, so lowering flaps would probably have not been a good idea.

I informed ATC of my problem and was vectored onto the ILS Runway 23 at Charleston. I traded my altitude to keep airspeed up and got the runway in sight about 5 miles out. I put the gear down on short final and kept my airspeed at 150, flaring out over the numbers and getting it stopped before I ran off the cliff on the departure end. I found out from the mechanics that with the rain in Baltimore, when I tested the boots before takeoff, some of that water got sucked inside the boot through a pinhole, and this later froze the valve closed, not allowing any air into the boot to inflate it. With this incident, I learned that instead of just reacting, fly the airplane first then think things through carefully so you can make the right decisions.

One other night I was flying from Martinsburg to Cumberland at 3 a.m. I had 1,000 pounds of mail in the back, and it was my last leg of the night. About 30 miles out, the manifold pressure on my right engine went from 30 inches to 23 inches—I had lost the turbocharger. To me, there were three possibilities: 1. The turbocharger had suffered an internal failure; 2. The wastegate had failed; 3. The exhaust manifold had failed.

Well, one and two were not too bad, but number three was, and it would be pumping 1,800-degree-Fahrenheit air into the engine compartment. It took me all of about five seconds to think about this before I shut the engine down. The only approach at that time was a circle-to-land VOR approach to an airport surrounded by mountains and it was night. On the approach, I broke out of the clouds at about 300 feet above minimums (about 1,500 feet agl) and was able to see the runway lights about 5 miles out. I was then able to set up a normal base-to-final turn and land safely at Cumberland. This taught me the importance of knowing my aircraft systems and how they worked so that I could act accordingly. Also, I learned the importance of situational awareness, knowing where I was and what was underneath me.

In more than 30 years and 25,000 hours of flying NAMC YS11s, Douglas DC-9s and DC-8s, and Boeing 767s as a freight dog, I know the unexpected and unplanned will happen: unforecast weather, mechanical failures, even traffic. I learned how to deal with these things by just stopping and thinking first and applying all of the above lessons learned.

This article was originally published in the December 2022/January 2023 Issue 933 of FLYING.

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