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While all of those details and specifications were whirling about in my head, it was with some resignation that I accepted I would have little to no control over the paint scheme of my eventual airplane. I knew I could wind up with a sweet-looking classic paint scheme, and I knew I had a similar chance of winding up with some horrific creation that combined bad colors with gaudy design. I wasn’t going to sacrifice my list of mechanical requirements in favor of a nicer paint job, so the look of the airplane would be entirely up to fate.

On one hand, an airplane’s paint scheme is wholly inconsequential. Sure, you’d like to have reasonably intact paint that seals the airframe and protects it from corrosion. But aside from that, so long as the airplane is mechanically sound and within your budget, it shouldn’t matter how it looks. We can’t, after all, see the outside of the airplane when we’re flying it.  

• READ MORE: Previous editions of “The New Owner”

But on the other hand, an airplane’s personality is largely defined by its appearance. Particularly with regard to vintage aircraft, a correspondingly retro, period-correct paint scheme really enhances its ability to represent the era and transport you back in time. And while the attractiveness of a given paint scheme isn’t easily quantifiable, it has to strike a chord within you; when walking away after your flight, you shouldn’t be able to resist one last glance back over your shoulder to admire your pride and joy.

With this in mind, I embarked upon my airplane search with guarded optimism. I hoped the airplane that ultimately checked all my boxes would also happen to have a cool paint scheme, but grudgingly accepted that it likely would not.

The Battle of Heart vs. Head

It wouldn’t take long for my brain and heart to do battle. The first example that produced such conflict was a Cessna 120 adorned in what I considered to be a fantastic retro paint scheme. While not original from the factory, it appeared to be from the 1950s or ’60s and with a bold orange as the primary color, it really stood out from the crowd. I loved it. Unfortunately, this particular 120 didn’t have quite as much useful load as I needed, and despite being offered at a very attractive price, I ultimately had to pass on it.

The opposite situation occurred a few months later in the form of a pristine Cessna 140. It was the exact year I was after, it had the engine I wanted, and it had fairly new wing fabric. Even the avionics were updated. It checked every single box on my list. But there was a problem—a problem in the form of multiple sets of stripes adorning the airframe in various soft shades of pink and purple. Objectively, it wasn’t terrible, but something about it really rubbed me the wrong way and try as I might, I just couldn’t get over it. I ended up waffling for a few weeks, which was long enough for the seller to realize he had priced the airplane too low. He subsequently raised the price by about $8,000, effectively taking it out of the running.

Other Hopefuls

A handful of other contenders came and went. Some had no paint at all, and were simply polished aluminum. This can look stunning. Also stunning is the amount of hard manual labor required to create and keep that mirror finish. 

A couple friends of mine recently acquired a classic straight-tail 182 that is primarily polished aluminum. To date, they’ve invested a total of 50 hours of buffing and polishing…and they’re still not finished. The product of their collective efforts will look amazing, and they’ll have earned every turned head.

At face value, a plain white airplane with no color or design features at all would be profoundly boring, but I would have been happy to find one with such a basic paint scheme. With modern vinyl wrap technology, it’s easier than ever to create a unique design, have custom stripes/accents printed and cut, and wind up with a completely custom, personalized look. In speaking with some individuals who have done this, it seems that the FAA generally permits such graphics so long as they’re limited in size and serve as accents rather than a complete wrap of the airframe.

Just as clothing can dress a person up or down, a paint scheme can do the same with an airplane. Outfit a 1947 Bonanza with neutral paint and a single cheat line, and it will disappear on any ramp, going completely unnoticed to those around it. Paint that same airplane in a 1990s-era scheme with neon-colored squiggles and abstract shapes, and you’ve got the equivalent of your grandfather strutting around in Hammer pants; confusing at best, and adversely affecting appetites around it at worst.

The Winner

When I found the airplane that would ultimately become my own, I felt like I hit the jackpot. It’s adorned in its original 1953 paint in two-tone blue. From 30 feet away, it looks fantastic…but get any closer, and the decades of use became glaringly obvious. It has what car collectors call patina, with tales to tell and nothing to prove.

In an ocean of preppy new airplanes with the glitz of Hollywood’s hottest young stars, my airplane might instead be played by Sam Elliott or Morgan Freeman—rugged and experienced with a look that suggests it knows things you don’t…which is absolutely the case. With more than 10 times as many hours logged as I do, the airplane tends to fly better all by itself when I’m not fooling with the controls at all. If ever there was a paint job that reflected the personality of the airplane wearing it, this was it. And like any good paint scheme, I can never resist one last look back over my shoulder as I walk away.

The post Paint Schemes Often an Unfortunate Afterthought appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I had just purchased a bratwurst and was looking for a place to sit down. Spotting an open seat at an occupied picnic table, I asked the folks sitting there if I might join them, and as is always the case at Oshkosh, I was welcomed with smiles all around.

The usual, friendly introductory questions made their way around the table, and I came to learn that the three gentlemen had all flown in from Arkansas—two in a Cirrus SR22 and the other in a 2015 Mooney Ovation. It didn’t take long for them to continue their original conversation centered on the ongoing maintenance and operating expenses for their airplanes, and as a first-time owner myself, I listened with interest.

The Mooney owner was lamenting a recent annual inspection that had turned out to be far more expensive than anticipated, amounting to about $9,000. His maintenance shop had, as it turned out, discovered around 50 discrepancies ranging from worn brakes to a more serious engine issue. He wasn’t whining and wasn’t expressing any regret—he was simply explaining his ownership experience in a resigned, matter-of-fact manner. It was a complex airplane with all-weather IFR capability, he reasoned, and unexpectedly pricey annuals were simply the price of admission.

The Cirrus owner had similar reflections. His seven-figure airplane was new enough that most of his maintenance concerns were still covered under warranty, but he planned to own it for many years and was fully expecting to face similarly high maintenance expenses in the future. The parachute alone, he explained, has to be repacked every 10 years to the tune of about $18,000.

I paused, staring at my now half-eaten brat and considered these numbers. The parachute itself cost $150/month to own and maintain. That’s more than I was paying for hangar rent. The aforementioned $9,000 annual amounted to about a third of the acquisition price of many of the airplanes for which I’d been shopping over the past couple of years.

We may have all been flying single-engine piston airplanes, and we may have been flying them to similar destinations, but when it came to the ownership experience, we were clearly living on completely different planets.

As I stumbled back into my far more humble world of ownership, I’d reflect upon this reality regularly, wondering what it must be like to fly an airplane that was more than 60 years newer and an order of magnitude more expensive to own and maintain than my trusty old Cessna 170.

As it turned out, I would only have to wait a few months to find out. Through a connection separate from FLYING, I was invited to take a demo flight in a brand-new Beechcraft Bonanza G36 at the Textron headquarters in Wichita, Kansas.

Newness Unveils Another World

I’d flown an old, 1960s-era Bonanza before, and as the general, overall design of the Bonanza hadn’t appreciably changed since its introduction, I wasn’t expecting a vastly different experience. And while the performance numbers and handling did indeed feel very similar to what I’d remembered, I didn’t anticipate how the small details and refinement would all add up to completely change the overall experience.

Up until that demo flight, all of my flying had taken place in well-used, but well-loved airplanes. Everywhere you looked in these modest mounts, various levels of wear were evident—door jambs were scratched up, interior trim was cracked, paint was faded, ashtrays were stuck open, and so on. Similarly, everything you touched reminded you of the decades of use incurred by the airplane. Seat tracks required some jostling to click into place, door handles needed some muscle to operate, and one look at the upholstery reminded you of the multiple generations that had flown the airplane over the years.

• READ MORE: Previous editions of ‘The New Owner’

The result was a constant reminder that—while perfectly airworthy—these were tired airplanes. Consciously or subconsciously, you’d never stop scrutinizing each mechanical component with a bit of skepticism, confident in your preflight inspection but never forgetting that you were only ever one part failure away from having to consult an emergency checklist.

Sliding into the new Bonanza was like sliding into another world. Unlike all the previous airplanes I’d flown, every touchpoint reinforced the feeling of flawless mechanical perfection. The solid metal toggle switches clicked into place with satisfying precision and an audible clack. The doors opened and closed smoothly and easily. The carpet and headliner fabric was perfectly trimmed and fitted, the new windows provided flawless outward vision, and there was a total lack of squeaks and creaks as we taxied over any broken, uneven pavement.

In the air, the airplane flew as I’d expected, with no big surprises—predictably pleasant, with stable, responsive handling. But the aforementioned fit and finish exuded a feeling of precision I’d never felt before. I was enveloped in a sense of security and peace of mind, and I came to realize that this aspect—despite not being quantifiable or showing up on a spreadsheet—was much of what those well-to-do owners were paying for when they bought their new aircraft.

Additionally, I considered how this impression would be particularly noticeable by non-pilot passengers. Those not familiar with the meticulous nature of regular aircraft maintenance might be disproportionately put off by an older airplane that is mechanically sound but visually and tactilely shabby. They would certainly be much more at ease in an example with exquisite fit and finish and a quieter cabin.

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I came away from the demo flight with a new appreciation for factory-new aircraft. With a price tag that starts out at nearly $1 million, I was no closer to being able to afford the Bonanza, but I had a much better understanding of the value they provide to pilots fortunate enough to own them. Without an aging airframe and components constantly lurking in the back of their minds, those owners could enjoy piece of mind while focusing their attention on the flight itself.

How Did This Change Me?

On the airline flight home, I wondered whether the factory-new experience might have spoiled me, and whether I’d become less enamored by my humble 170 that looked as though it had served in multiple wars. Fortunately, my fondness for it remained. 

Although I had a new respect for the gleaming new machines, flying one also gave me a new appreciation for the experience of owning a vintage example…and indeed, for being an owner at all. 

Just as the factory-new benefits of confidence and peace of mind are difficult to quantify on a spreadsheet, so too is the satisfaction of serving as a caretaker of a vintage airplane. Becoming intimately familiar with the condition and age of each system and providing the necessary care to ensure the airplane is passed on to the next owner in as good or better condition as when I acquired it is immensely rewarding. It’s a hobby in and of itself, and provided you go into ownership with properly calibrated expectations, it’s a darned enjoyable one.

The post A Glimpse Into ‘The Good Life’ Provides Reflection appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I didn’t anticipate that at the same time, Delta Air Lines was preparing its own press release, announcing that it would no longer require college degrees of applicant pilots. 

Depending on how you frame it, this either took too long or came as a surprise. 

On one hand, some of the largest companies in the world, like Google and Apple, have already eliminated their requirements for people to hold four-year degrees in order to apply successfully. Apple—which recently became the world’s trillion-dollar company—said in 2019 that about half of Apple’s U.S. employment last year was made up of people who did not have a four-year degree. So, in this sense, it would’ve been hard for airlines to support any point that lacking a four-year degree might hinder their workforce’s productivity. 

In another sense, airlines have unfortunately formed an asset class consistently exposed to volatility when there are social disruptions even beyond their control—unlike tech companies, arguably—that have thrived in disruption. So, with this reasoning, the changes that Delta and other airlines are making should be welcomed.

This trend will surely shake up the industry, and I expect that stakeholders will be slow to admit it. After all, these stakeholders are a part of the pipeline that has fed the airlines for years, but amid unrelenting workforce shortages, they’ve become chokepoints for the industry. To be clear, these stakeholders are the very colleges now being threatened. 

Delta, in this decision, is effectively admitting that for its business, college degrees are “nice-to-haves.” This isn’t to say they don’t have social value otherwise, but as far as operating an airplane, the airline is taking the position that pilots without degrees do just fine. While they won’t say how it relates to their ability to recruit pilots because of the worsening pilot shortage, two plus two still makes four. That’s as much conjecture as I’ll pursue. 

What Does This Mean For Prospective Pilots?

Meanwhile, the real question facing prospective pilots today is: should you finish, or even go to college, or go through your local fixed-based operator? 

I was faced with that decision 11 years ago. I made the case to my parents that college would be more attractive to prospective employers, but it would be hard to win that argument today.

If you’re already in college, should you finish? 

My quick response to all of the above is yes. 

For most people, even those convinced that they know what they want to do, college is still the best choice. 

College is valuable for much more than just the academic skills you learn, and it’s hard to make the case against that. From my point of view, there are many reasons to go to college aside from earning credits that are very difficult to earn elsewhere. 

Some of these include:

It’s the best place to build your network.

While you might meet friends at future places of employment, colleges are unique in that they are a smorgasbord of varied individuals from all walks of life. You could make the argument that there isn’t another place for you to be exposed to people from all over the world, life experiences, passions, and a host of other tacit traits than a college campus. 

• READ MORE: Michael Wildes Archive

Even on virtual campuses, you are exposed to more people in college than not, and even if you take to measure the market cap of two of the five largest companies in the world by market cap, namely Microsoft and Alphabet, their seedings took place on college campuses.

College helps your social development. 

Another benefit of college is having room for personal growth. College gives young people four years to learn as much about the world, at virtually no penalty. It also gives them room to learn as much about themselves, which is an important note because at 17 or 18 years old, very few people know, or should know what they want to do for the rest of their lives.

When students leave home for the first time, they get to be exposed to ideas that their circles of influence couldn’t encapsulate and realize that there’s much more to the world than they imagine. It happened to me. Going into college, I could only imagine a world where I was an airline pilot, even though I maintained other burning interests. I had no idea about business aviation, or that I could combine media and aviation and be just as fulfilled as when I was flying full time.

There are opportunities you only get in college.

Society has recognized education as so important and has systematically structured itself so that all the creative benefits go toward students. Internships, student discounts, free admissions—the list goes on. One of the saddest days of my life was losing access to my “edu” email because of the benefits and access I had by simply being in an institution of higher learning.

It’s hard to overlook the benefits that college offers, in addition to what it does for the collective society. I hope that companies aren’t making these adjustments for short-term financial gain—and that the effects won’t reverberate long into the future when people miss out on less obvious, but much valued, societal upside.

The Other Side of the College Argument

As the cost of training is often cited as a big barrier to entry for would-be professional airline pilots, the decision by Delta and airlines that follow will fundamentally chip away at some of the inequity that exists in society for less well-off but competent people who deserve a chance. The extra capital that students can forgo by just focusing on earning their pilot certificates will lessen the financial burden that pilots and their families face. 

Furthermore, for pilots saddled with student loan debt, virtually eliminating the extra cost of tuition means that monthly payments for a lesser amount of debt make entry-level pilot pay more attractive.

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Entry-level pilot pay has long been a hot topic, and while many airlines have tried to be supportive, the industry’s method of pilot compensation is arguably archaic and has turned many pilots away. For those reasons alone, a college degree is a hard sell.

Finally, I sense that the airline could be implying that flying an airplane, well, really isn’t that hard. I don’t mean to be coy. The level of automation blended with the standardization of the airspace means that well-coordinated companies could practically train anyone to fly. 

Gone are the days for heroics in pilots. Sure, there are “Sully” moments, but even Captain Sullenberger had years of training that conspired toward his success. All this to say, for its own business’ sake, I would suggest that the airline is taking the position that the pilot’s core set of skills—flying the airplane and the other to follow instructions—are ultimately important to them. After all, many corporate and charter pilots have arguably flown more difficult missions, and many of their departments have long looked past the four-year degree.

What Happens Now?

How will colleges and universities that offer pilot training respond? I expect that universities will react to this immediately, but I hope that instead of savvy marketing campaigns, they reinvigorate the intangibles as well as the obvious assets they offer. In a way, this move by Delta, other airlines, and all the tech companies is great for society because it’ll encourage colleges to trim their hefty and rising tuition bills, improve admission rates, and retain students, or live up to the cost. In fact, maybe this is one of the best news, not just for students, and pilots, but for colleges. 

Will prospective pilots go to school to study something else, then get their training outside of college? 

This will be a most important topic to follow in the next year.  

I’d love to hear from you. Do you think new student pilots should go to college? Send me a line at michael@flying.media and let’s discuss.

The post Should Prospective Pilots Go to College? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Stewart and her husband Cody have operated the business for the last six months. So far, they’ve hosted dozens of airplanes and their owners in their community on Texas’ Gulf Coast.

This offering is a succession to a several-year journey that began after Cody received his private pilot certificate and the family moved to the Rockport area from San Antonio. 

Coming back and contributing to the community where the couple met and first resided together was not a hopeful reality. In fact, the two were in a good position to better the town of almost 9,000 only a year after Hurricane Harvey devastated the Texas Gulf region in the summer of 2017. 

“Rockport is a heavy tourist community with condos, beaches, et cetera, and was hit pretty hard. So, we wanted to come back and help to build back up the economy here.”

Moving 150 miles south, they initially hoped to bring their Piper Cherokee 140 with them. Quoting the airport manager’s reply when Cody asked whether there was available hangar space, he said, “Get on the list; there are roughly 60 to 70 people waiting for hangars in front of you.” 

“There were about nine hangars destroyed during the hurricane,” Cody added, “so space was hard to come by.” Shortly after learning of this problem of supply and demand, Cody thought of the opportunity to solve it. His proposed solution also would provide a new resource for the local aviation community. 

Getting The Space

After pitching the option, he was granted the opportunity to use shared hangar space where ultimately ACTS Aviation, a Part 61 flight school, got its start. Since the business’ first days of sharing this hangar, until now, it has grown in both scope and size. ACTS currently has four aircraft, several instructors, a growing portfolio of real property investments, and minted a baker’s dozen of new pilots in 2021. 

• READ MORE: Grant Boyd Archive

Much of this growth can be attributed to Cody and Megan’s sense for business, as well as their experience with real estate investing and development. The latter has enabled them to capitalize upon opportunities at the airport and positively contribute to aviators in their area and beyond. 

How It Started

In 2020, the couple purchased a 4,800-square-foot box hangar at the northern end of the field. At first, the purpose of the hangar was to house the flight school’s aircraft. It had served in that capacity until recently, when the airport gained a new T-hangar with 12 rentable spaces built by ACTS Aviation. 

With the flight school’s airplanes moved out of the box hangar and into the T-hangar, the question was what purpose should the freshly vacated space serve? A standing personal wish of the couple inspired the answer.

The Stewarts have real estate interests in Colorado. Rather than drive, they’ll typically fly themselves to the nearest airport. Megan said that while flying saves a considerable amount of time over driving, it still leaves something to be desired—that is, a convenient place to stay.

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“Every time that we go on a trip with our two elementary-age kids, we wonder if there is anything like the box hangar [of ours in Rockport]. A place where you can keep your aircraft and also stay at. Hotels at airports are often booked and as a family it would be more convenient to stay somewhere with more space.” 

Thinking about it some more, the couple arrived at the following conclusion. “If we are looking for this, then others must be as well.” With this thought in mind, they set out to make convenient, on-airport accommodations a reality at Aransas County. 

So, they began transitioning the box hangar with existing furnished space toward becoming a short-term rental. Guest quarters sit at the rear of the hangar. 

“The space has a large bedroom with a king-sized bed and an office,” Megan said. “The bathroom is spacious with a walk-in shower, and the kitchen is outfitted with everything you need. The living space has a comfortable couch and a queen-size Murphy bed for any additional guests.”

The following is also included:

• Complimentary Wi-Fi 
• Dedicated office area with desk
• A fueled, small SUV courtesy vehicle 
• An air hockey table, hammock, and cornhole boards

With the beds made, towels hung, and dishes put away, the Stewarts were ready for the soft opening of this “Hangar Stays” space. The first visit affirmed their desire to offer this hospitality option at Aransas County.

How It’s Going

Word began traveling around about the hangar. The couple says that even with limited marketing efforts on their side so far, just about every weekend has been booked—and many weekdays, too.

The success of the concept includes a market that excludes the general public. Owing to local airport and general safety guidelines, only certificated pilots (and their guests) with a registered tail number can book a reservation. Additionally, there is an amount of liability paperwork to be completed prior to stay that pertains to the patrons and their aircraft. Even with the requirements that take a bit of time to complete, the convenience of the fly-in accommodations has been unmatched for visiting pilots. 

On the flying side, Cody noted, “The hangar, with a 59-foot door opening, can comfortably fit one to three general aviation aircraft. Or one large aircraft, depending on the make and model. The largest aircraft that has fit so far is a King Air 200 with winglets. The most airplanes [at the same time within the hangar have been] three Piper low wings.”

Cody said the response has been positive.

“Hearing from the corporate pilots that have stayed here thus far, they love it,” he said. “But their only wish was that there was another bedroom so that they don’t have to fight over which one gets the Murphy bed in the living room.” 

The Stewarts took this well-understood feedback and incorporated it. Rather than building out another bedroom next to the existing one, they instead opted to acquire another box hangar at the airport. Planning to close on the property in February, it has the desired second bedroom, but with the added benefit of a “slightly larger hangar.”

Having received enthusiastic and thankful reviews, the Stewarts think there is a lot of runway for this type of service. Whether it is adding the personal touches that inspire guests to return or having the ability to host pilots who may not visit Rockport otherwise, the couple’s experience thus far has been positive. 

And they hope for competition. 

“Our hope is that more of them open up, so that we have more places to go to as a family,” Megan said.

The post Texas Couple Unveils Unique Airport Vacation Rental appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Ah, airplanes. A magical vehicle, taking Seven and me to destinations markedly different from our point of departure. In the many trips we made by truck to racetracks in the southern states, she would feel the gradual change in temps at each rest stop on the interstate. But getting off a commercial flight in Costa Rica having departed JFK in the coldest month New York has to offer must have been bewildering to her. Maybe magical too.

When Seven first started flying with me, she hopped right on the wing with her tail wagging, expertly maneuvering through the 180-degree turn into the back seat of the Piper Cherokee I trained in. She’d look out the window during climb, then fall asleep for cruise and wake up on cue for descent. When I bought my airplane, she made it her own, same as she had with the pickup. She wanted so badly to stick her head out the window but never did quite understand why this wasn’t possible. I wanted to build an AirCam just so she could experience an open-air cockpit.

By airplane, Seven and I went to some amazing places together. We flew to my friend Jay’s lake house in Georgia, where she pooped on the ski boat but settled in nicely after said deposit was made on the bow. We flew to Telluride, Colorado, where I snowboarded while she played in the snow with my friend Rosie’s dog, Indy. We flew to Montauk, New York, where she frantically dug holes on the beach with my friend Glen, searching for buried tennis balls. In flight, she entertained and calmed nervous passengers who were unsure about flying in a small airplane.

Seven never made a mess in the airplane. It seemed like she knew it as our magical truck, not to be desecrated. Preparing for trips, she watched me carefully as I loaded her food, water bowls, and (most important) an assortment of balls and Chuckit launchers. As she came to love the airplane, she began to migrate from the back seat to the cargo area behind it. She would make the move midflight, throwing off my CG a bit, but happily finding a suitably flat area to stretch out in.

We had years of adventure together. When there wasn’t a human to share a new experience with me, there she was, ready and willing—and eternally excited to see what would be waiting when she jumped off the wing at whichever new town we landed. Everywhere we went, Seven melted hearts. FBOs unfriendly to dogs made sudden exceptions. Ubers let her jump right in the back seat. Hotels that don’t allow pets—well, I would sneak her in the back door once I checked in. She loved Sedona, Arizona, the most because the airport’s restaurant on the field had an honest-to-god dog menu with food prepared by the same cook that made my dinner. In return for that loyal companionship, Seven trusted me to get her wherever we were going safely. I held up my end of that tacit agreement—for a time.

The Night Things Changed

Departing Caldwell, New Jersey, one night a few years back, we encountered turbulence so great that one bump forced her to vertically leave the rear seat, hitting the ceiling hard enough to displace an overhead panel before being dumped back into the seat with no less force. She looked at me, whimpering, as if to say: “This is not a flying truck. I do not love this any longer.”

From that day on, she had no desire to jump onto the wing. Any trips by air required her to be picked up and gently placed on the wing, at which point she dutifully boarded, clearly unhappy about it and likely thinking this was her last flight. For a solid year, I flew with my right hand behind me, stroking her soft head to stop the shaking that occurred every time she settled into that rear seat. Treats helped. I always had a few pieces of something in my pocket to coax her in and then calm her down. Her anxiety lessened but never went away. She stayed vigilant to the dangers of flight in a way her owner did not. She was on board that fateful spring morning when I stalled our Beech Bonanza departing Telluride and slid down the runway so far that we burned the aluminum skins down to the spars, totaling the airplane.

I’ll never forget the moment when I let her out after we came to a smoking, grinding halt. She always jumped out of the airplane with purpose, happy that we were back on terra firma. But this was different. She leapt off the wing onto the tarmac and stood stock-still, waiting for me to come to her. I held her there on the runway while she shook uncontrollably.

She looked at me as if to say: “Hey, I’ve been cool with this flying thing for a while now. I know it makes you happy and all, but this is it for me. I’m done.”

We took a long break after that as my new Bonanza was prepped and readied. Once done, I had no intention of leaving Seven at home. My girlfriend, Kim, was in the picture at this point, and the two of them became close. Kim spoke dog, and Seven associated her with love and safety. With Kim, Seven would came along, albeit reluctantly, the shaking beginning as soon as the hangar door opened. If Seven saw anyone else in a nearby hangar, she would sprint to them and act as though she were pleading for an instant adoption or safe passage off the airport via a ground vehicle. It was like canine political asylum, with Seven claiming her life was in danger with her owners in the next hangar. Kim would dutifully follow and reclaim her, lovingly loading her in the back seat of the airplane and comforting her for the remainder of the flight. I hated seeing Seven so afraid. It reminded me of my extraordinary failure as a pilot.

Seven came with us to Oshkosh, Wisconsin, in July. We spent the week looking at “magic flying trucks” and marveling at airshows. Afterward, we flew to my good friend Mike’s home airport in Rice Lake where he picked us up in his Cessna 182 amphib. We parked the Bonanza in his hangar and climbed up into the highest cabin that Seven or I, for that matter, had ever been in. Kim was already in the back seat. I gently passed Seven up to her. She settled into Kim’s lap as Mike started up the engine, taking off in clear air toward the setting sun and his home on a nearby lake. Though I did not know it at the time, it was to be Seven’s last flight. She passed away a few days later. But that night, as the Cessna rose into the sky, I looked back at her from the right front seat. Seven was falling asleep in Kim’s lap, not shaking even the slightest bit.

The post Dogs Love Trucks, But Not Always Airplanes appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I discovered the gaffe late in editing and chose not to reshoot, inserting a wry text comment about my bias showing, but the fact that I had mentally transposed the two was a warning flag. If I’m creating “V1 Rotate” to be a resource for all professional pilots, I need to start out by being clear who I’m talking about. 

My definition of a professional pilot, for the purposes of this web series, is a person whose primary income is derived from acting as a required crewmember of a crewed aircraft in flight. The qualifiers are important. I don’t consider a drone operator to be a pilot, though many pilots also earn money as drone operators.

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My definition also excludes non-required crewmembers and those paying to sit in the right seat of transport aircraft (though the pilot shortage has thankfully made this a much rarer practice than in the past). I don’t include those for whom flying is ancillary to their primary job. 

This might be controversial, but I think flight instructors fall into this category; their primary profession is education, not flying. The same thing applies to businessperson owner-operators; many of them certainly operate their aircraft in a professional manner (more below), but flying is not their profession. 

What Is Included

Despite these exclusions, my definition is still inclusive enough to span large swaths of the aviation industry. It includes:

• Test pilots
• Agricultural applicators
• Air taxi operators
• Air ambulance pilots
• Aerial fire patrollers and firefighters
• Pipeline and traffic watch pilots
• Banner towers
• Diver drivers
• Cargo haulers
• ACMI operators
• Corporate, fractional, and yes, airline pilots

There is a tendency among some, particularly airline pilots, to view the piloting profession as a hierarchy—with major airline pilots naturally at the top. Some of this is owing to the greater size of our aircraft (easier to fly, mind you, than many smaller types), or the theoretical size of our paychecks (honestly not that impressive anymore; you can make more money doing other things in aviation). 

Honestly, it’s probably more about the size of the egos, which can be quite monstrous, indeed. With this in mind, I will try to avoid being nakedly airline-centric in this series, though it’s the corner of the industry that I know best. 

There are a lot of interesting things to do in aviation from which you can build a successful career, and disinterest in airline flying in no way makes you any less of a professional pilot than I. 

• READ MORE: Sam Weigel Archive

Other Professionals

Now, although I just promulgated a rather narrow definition of the term, there is another use of “professional” that merits discussion: not as an identity, but rather as a way to describe how a pilot conducts themselves in the cockpit. 

To me, describing a pilot as “a real professional” is one of the highest compliments possible, and one that has nothing to do with how anyone makes their money. There are plenty of pilots whose flying style is best described as “professional” though they have never made a dime in aviation. And conversely, not all professional pilots act professionally; the vast majority do, but outliers do slip through.

As a young flight instructor, I saw a wide variance in how people conduct themselves in airplanes, and over time I came to recognize that experience is only part of the recipe. I’ve seen student pilots fly in a professional manner, and I’ve seen commercial pilots and ATPs veer far from it. I’ve seen Cubs flown masterfully and jets being handled hamfistedly. 

The pilots I’ve always admired most, no matter how they earn their paycheck, are those who know their aircraft and their personal limits well, who do things in a methodical, consistent manner, who approach each flight critically and thoughtfully, who make a habit of assessing and mitigating risks, and who fly with predictable smoothness and precision. 

I’ll have more to say in future installments about how aspiring pros can bring professionalism into their training and flying from the get-go. It’s a worthwhile goal; for one thing (and most importantly), developing those habits early will help keep you safe as you gain experience. An added bonus is that this is still a pretty small industry, with some particularly intimate corners where reputation still matters, and becoming known as someone who brings a professional approach to every flight will give you more opportunities to move up to bigger and better things, if that is what you desire.

The post What Defines a Professional Pilot? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

• Purchase insurance. 
• Get the airplane home from the seller. 
• Obtain some flight instruction. 
• Familiarize yourself with the airplane. 
• Log some flight time for insurance requirements. 

That sort of thing.

And then, faced with the complexity of those tasks and the reality of your full-time work schedule, you’ll contemplate quitting your job altogether and living out of your airplane like a Grateful Dead fan would with their Volkswagen van. You’ll reason that you can, after all, live in your airplane—but you cannot fly your house.

Someone has to pay the bills, though, and in my case as a first-time owner, it was more important than ever to work as much overtime as possible. Quitting my job would simply not be an option, and my work schedule would unfortunately remain a necessary obstacle with which to contend as I managed all the moving pieces of my airplane purchase.

A Possible Solution 

The post-purchase logistics were particularly challenging for me, as I lacked the currency and proficiency necessary to fly it safely. Yes, I had my certificate and my instrument rating, but it had been many years since I’d flown regularly. Sure, I’d recently taken a handful of lessons in a nearby Cessna 140 and earned my tailwheel endorsement, but I was still quite new to tailwheels. So the idea of just up and flying a new-to-me, unfamiliar Cessna 170 from Seattle to Wisconsin by myself was ludicrous. There was no getting around it—I’d need to hire someone to ferry my new machine home for me. 

As I considered each item on my lengthy to-do list, it eventually dawned on me that with the right instructor, I might be able to knock out most of the logistical items in one shot. 

I reached out to a few CFIs I knew and explained my situation. I was in Wisconsin. The airplane was in Seattle. I had three-day weekends to work with. I needed a checkout in the airplane and some refresher training to get back into the swing of things, and it would be fantastic if we could accomplish all of these things during the flight home. We could explore and camp out in cool areas along the way. It would be an epic adventure.

One of the CFIs was totally on board with the idea and leapt at the opportunity. We began zeroing in on a set of dates that would work for both of us. We discussed airline tickets and hotel reservations. We created a tentative list of supplies and gear we’d want to have for the trip. Before long, we had an initial plan in place. But later, as I was telling a corporate pilot friend about the upcoming adventure, he identified a serious flaw I hadn’t considered.

Enough Time?

Because I was constrained by my three-day weekends, he explained, the entire journey would be compressed into a very tight time frame. After accounting for the time required to take an airline flight to Seattle and then get to the airplane itself, we’d have no more than two and a half days to make the trip to Wisconsin. 

The resulting distance per day that we’d have to fly would be challenging all by itself. But if additional challenges in the form of weather, diversions, or mechanical problems were to crop up, our timeline would become extremely strained. The resulting situation would be a textbook scenario for a bad case of “get-home-itis”—the phenomenon in which sound aeronautical decision-making deteriorates in an attempt to make it to the destination by a certain deadline.

My friend had a very valid point. I was indeed attempting to squeeze a 1,600-nm trip into about two and a half days. If we were planning to fly a Bonanza or a Baron across the country, the additional speed and altitude capability might make it more realistic. But with only 145 horsepower on tap and a cruise speed of around 110 mph, everything would have to go perfectly to get the airplane home on time.

Back to Square One

In the interest of eliminating the very first link in a potentially bad chain of events, I opted to take my friend’s advice—I scrapped the entire plan and went back to the drawing board. Ultimately, I ended up having a couple of friends with significantly more experience and significantly more time bring the airplane to me; a story in and of itself.

The airplane was delivered safely, and for that, I was immensely thankful. But at the same time, I was regretful that I was unable to make the cross-country ferry flight training extravaganza work.

• READ MORE: Previous editions of “The New Owner”

Looking at the map, we would have passed through some epic parts of the country. I would have been able to learn some mountain flying fundamentals as we passed through the Rockies. I’d also have had an introduction to high-altitude operations. As a Michigan/Wisconsin pilot, these would have been entirely new worlds, the likes of which I’ve never experienced as pilot in command.

Farther along the route, we could have explored unique airfields ranging from rugged strips in Montana to lush grass strips in Minnesota. We could have chosen any number of wide, smooth runways for crosswind work to build tailwheel proficiency along the way. 

A slight southward diversion would have taken us over the sweeping prairies of South Dakota and through the filming locations of one of my longtime favorite films, “Dances With Wolves.” Coincidentally, we would have overflown the location of another Kevin Costner film a few hours later, in the form of a certain rural baseball diamond in Iowa.

I was happy and thankful to have had my airplane delivered safely to me in Wisconsin. But if I had it to do over again, I’d do things differently. I’d arrange for a flexible stretch of time off from work—a stretch longer than just three days. I’d connect with a CFI well ahead of time as I shopped for airplanes so we could jump on an opportunity on short notice. There would be no way to know ahead of time where I’d eventually locate an airplane, but I could consider and establish some training goals to accomplish on the flight home. 

Ultimately, more thorough advance planning would have enabled a particularly unique, educational, and memorable mini-vacation. With the right instructor, the trip to bring your airplane home can serve as an airplane check-out and familiarization, a flight review, a long cross-country, and an epic adventure all in one. I can’t think of a better introduction to your new airplane than that.

The post Lack of Planning Spoils an Epic Journey appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

It also offered a streamlined path for someone like me who didn’t know much about the industry before I began. However, after a few courses, I admit, I saw instances when I could go faster. The volume of students in a Part 141 program—at least the one I was in—meant less flexibility. You had to make the most of your training block, or you might delay your course completion. There were other factors that could delay your progress—all beyond your control. So, the irony of training under a Part 141 umbrella was that the embedded structure limited speed, flexibility, and more likely cost more for the premium in services that it offers.

But, what if you understood what needed to be done and had the wherewithal to take matters, somewhat, into your own hands? Should you do it? 

Absolutely! 

When it was time for me to earn my CFI and CFII certificates—aside from an external urgency I had to get it done—I wanted to experience the nuances of the Part 141 versus Part 61 training world. For instance, recently, someone asked me if pilots had to fix things on their airplanes, and I laughed because the other value—or, conversely, limitation—of a Part 141 training environment concerns its typically structured maintenance services. 

I explained that the only thing I had to do in the program I was in was call dispatch for maintenance and for that person to basically say whether I could fly or not, per department rules. It was almost too easy to not go through the regime of determining if and how to fly with a piece of equipment that didn’t work.

To this day, I believe there are classmates who are now professional pilots, who outside of the structured environment, wouldn’t know how to proceed if they had to independently make a confident go/no-go assessment, and it isn’t all their fault. The entire premise of many Part 141 training programs is that you can almost be guaranteed a sure path to work as a professional pilot—and to learn to operate in very controlled circumstances.

Meanwhile, if you’re training within a Part 61 structure, if something breaks—and you need to know if you can go or not—tag you’re it! If you made the switch like I did when I was working on my CFI, you now had to exercise the principle of being pilot in command and being fully responsible for determining if the airplane was airworthy—and subsequently the safe outcome of a planned flight. 

So you can imagine that—despite the expensive training that was behind me—the first time I got into an airplane that was older than me to work on my instructor course, I was a little concerned. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone to the other extreme. I had to be sure for myself this time around. The fact that I had to earn back-to-back sign-offs for the initial CFI and instrument instructor rating in 30 days didn’t make it easier. 

To be fair, you could move fast in a Part 141 structure too, but there would be less wiggle room, as you will be competing for training slots in high demand. Plus, there would still be plenty of ‘help’ to see that you meet a deadline.

So if both parties are deadline-focused, why should you get your CFI under Part 61? Here are some things to consider:

With the right habits in place, you can move faster.

If your goal is to make a living as a pilot, even as a CFI, it’s incumbent that you don’t get stuck in flight training. Airline-fairing pilots will tell you that seniority is everything. That isn’t what I’m making the case for, however, especially if you plan to use being a CFI as a pathway to get to the airlines. 

Nor am I arguing for the “wham-bam, certificate at all cost” approach. Neither am I suggesting that an examiner is going to just pass you under either program. After all, you still have to meet the requirements and minimums to earn a certificate satisfactorily. Yet, we all know some certificated pilots who maybe should’ve warranted a second look by an examiner. 

So, in the end, it is up to you to ensure that you are actually a safe pilot. It’s tempting to think you will form better habits later—and so you should rush ahead now—but the chances are you will have fewer training opportunities the further along you get. And you’ll have formed poor habits in the interim.

However, I think, with the right habits in place, as I assumed I formed in my initial Part 141 and then Part 61 training, it is okay to move a little faster. The transition from training through course modules to training to meet a deadline forced me to think about the check ride from the beginning, and stripped away any unnecessary things I might have frittered my time away doing. 

It also helped that I had a training partner. When I was able to earn signoffs for both check rides in such a compressed time—in a different airplane than I was used to—and in an overall different structure, this actually was formative for how I would train my own students when I return to my Part 141 instructor role. 

I now understood how to set an end date with students from the start, because even if we were a little off, they would surely get done faster than their classmates, and kept them focused on the core things.

So, why not do the entirety of training for an ATP under Part 61? Well, the tradeoff in time for earning the R-ATP minimums favors the Part 141 approach, which I think makes sense if you want to work professionally in the airline world. But if you don’t have time to go back to college, and can spend the time to find a diligent instructor at your local flight school or FBO and train under Part 61, I encourage you to lean into that. 

Cost: You are on the cheapest route.

Flying is expensive. By the time you get to your CFI, you probably are nearing $100,000 in training expenses. Ouch! If you add a four-year degree on top of that, you could’ve mortgaged a decent house in a nice neighborhood. So, even with training delays, compressing your training allows you to maintain your proficiency, and reduces repeats, which means you will save tons of money. To be clear, the cost is directly tied to speed. 

As long as you have a dependable airplane and competent instructor, even with a few bad weather days and reviews, the cheapest way to fly is to go fast. While it will benefit to go slow-ish when you’re just beginning, once you’ve developed good habits, I suggest you make the trade-off between the premium comfort of structured training to efficient and cost-effective training. 

Maturity: You become PIC faster.

Most instructors will admit gaining their CFI certificate was the hardest leap. The transition from the left seat to the right requires that students become teachers faster than they can mentally adjust. I suspect this is why some people prefer the scenic route because they fear the weight of the responsibility on their shoulders. 

However, if you look at it another way, is there a better way to fast-track your personal maturity?

• READ MORE: Michael Wildes Archive

I argue that this would have benefited me as a student, as it wasn’t until after gaining my CFI and finding myself in a difficult spot that I was able to make the final leap—and even then it was too late for me. Indeed, having to make and deliver lesson plans forced me to know why I was doing what I was doing, and through my own way, I took more ownership of my journey as a pilot. As uncomfortable as I was going fast, that experience forced me to mature more quickly and made me a more knowledgeable, and safer pilot ultimately. I realized how much I actually didn’t know, and how much more I had to learn.   

On the Job Training: Teaching is how you learn to teach.

Making the perfect lessons is a myth. Until you stand and deliver and get another student to solo or take a check ride, you won’t really know what you know, or if you’re doing it right. In a world where pilots aren’t working as CFIs as a pass-through job, doing well is important, and you won’t know if you are until you actually interact with real students. 

So, the faster you get on the job, if you have a framework for course-correcting rather than perfection, you’ll be a better instructor overall. In fact, you’ll learn to teach with empathy because you’ll understand and demonstrate to your students that learning is a journey.

To be honest, earning my CFI and CFII at a faster pace than I was used to was a culture shock. I was so nervous the day before my CFI check ride that I called the examiner to reschedule, obviously to his annoyance. To my detriment, I sank back into the mindset that I had to perform perfectly, and I almost sabotaged the entire process, telling myself I needed to study more, beyond what my overseeing instructors recommended. 

Plus, when I did take the actual check ride, I wasn’t as nearly as perfect as I hoped to be, and still passed. Still, even with my self-inflicted delay, which took longer and cost more, I still saved much more than the alternative way. Now, every chance I get to give advice to incoming students, I encourage them to embrace the challenge of fast-tracking their instructor training. 

I’d love to hear from you. Do you think speed is important in training? What are some tips you have? Send me a line at michael@flying.media and let’s discuss.

The post Should You Fast-Track Your CFI? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

After being based at KTPA for 38 years, we were nudged out to a nontowered reliever airport, KVDF, known as Tampa Executive Airport. The flight took six minutes to fly but has taken months to reconcile.

Owning an airplane is a thrill. Sometimes the thrill is just looking at the aircraft on the ramp and thinking, “It’s mine.” Sometimes the thrill is in the maintenance costs. Sometimes the thrill is taking a friend or relative for an airplane ride. Sometimes the thrill is in the hunt for a safe harbor in which to hangar your pride and joy. Once you buy an airplane, hangar space is a worry. Any owner will tell you this.

I’ve owned airplanes while living in St. Louis, Missouri; Louisville, Kentucky; Chicago, Illinois; and now Tampa, Florida. Over many years, financial pressures and space availability have made for semi-constant anxiety. 

Will the airplane have a home?  

Will the hangar operator find a more attractive tenant? 

Can you afford the price increases over time?

When I first moved to Tampa in 1983, I found a hangar for my Cessna P210 at one of the two FBOs at the main airport, KTPA. It was close to my new house. When one FBO closed, I moved across the field to Hangar One, the iconic FBO with two huge canvas sails, one over the entrance and the other over the ramp. Given their suggestive configuration as seen from the air, pilots have long referred to the site (and sight) as the “Dolly Parton.”

The FBO’s name would change to Hawker Beechcraft, Raytheon, Landmark and Signature (among others, I think), but the buildings and the proximity didn’t. Many an evening, after a long day in surgical operating rooms, I’d drive or ride my bike to the airport to visit and admire a succession of increasingly capable airplanes. 

Life Changed, But My Hangar Stayed True

The 210 gave way to Cessna 340, which was replaced for 17 years by a Piper Cheyenne. My life changed, too. I raised three kids, got remarried, and moved a few times, but always to a house less than 10 minutes from the airport. 

Many of the linemen seemed to be as permanent as the proximity. I was involved in some of their lives. I saw a few as patients, operated on a few of their relatives, dispensed medical reassurance when asked, and generally tried to keep a nondemanding customer profile. My airplanes were often parked near or under airplanes owned by folks who owned the Tampa Bay Buccaneers or the New York Yankees. I was small potatoes. 

Over time, my financial and aviation capabilities blossomed, and it seemed that my home FBO was always supportive of my evolution. When I got hired by a Part 135 outfit, I would occasionally arrive at home base in uniform and in a Cessna Citation CJ3. The line guys would laugh; they knew this was a dream come true for me. 

Flying 135 made owning and operating a jet feasible for me. I finally had real-world, real-flying experience. I had been schooled by some of the best and I was proud when I bought a Beech Premier 1 jet. The folks at the hangar were enthusiastic—to a point. Roland, whom I had known for 30-plus years, offered his congratulations and then said he had just one question: 

“Is it single-point?” 

He was asking about ease of fueling. Not long ago, he asked me to help his daughter write her essay for admission to medical school. That was easy, she’s a superstar and will soon be a doctor. 

The Change That Hurt

After almost 40 years in the same hangar, I had begun to relax. It seemed we were safe. And then, last summer, came an unwelcome surprise. A hostile accusatory letter from the general manager at Signature Flight Support Tampa and notice of a steep price increase told me that we were no longer wanted.

• READ MORE: Dick Karl Archive

Oh, my goodness, it finally happened. I get it; there are bigger jets out there than our Cessna CJ1. They burn more fuel and cost more to hangar. Still, the coldness of the rejection stung. I was sleepless for several nights. I just couldn’t come to grips with a change I had finally concluded was unlikely.

New space has been found at KVDF. The people there have been incredibly nice. The hangar price is reasonable, and gas is cheaper by a little. Still, I am as dislocated as a teenager whose family has moved across the country. 

In the end it became clear. We would move to cheaper, more welcoming, digs. Now retired, I can drive to a reliever airport without any trouble, though the interstate is a truck and muscle-car gauntlet.  

It will be OK, though. Mostly though, I’ll miss the linemen. I thought of them as friends.

The post An Aircraft’s Tough Goodbye to a Longtime Home appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This turf strip was added to attract more visitors to travel to Gaston’s, which is picturesquely located within the Northwestern Arkansas Ozarks.

Clint Gaston, the family-owned resort’s current caretaker, knows its history well. 

“Gaston’s was founded in 1958 by Al Gaston, my great-grandfather. At that time, we had six cottages with around 20 acres. After Al passed, my grandfather, Jim, took over and was able to grow it to 79 accommodations, with a full-service restaurant overlooking the White River, a 3,200-foot-long airstrip, swimming pool, state of the art dock, gift shop, nature trails, and more.”

Jim passed away in 2015, leaving Clint to continue the family’s legacy on the White River.

A Work in Progress

Gaston says that the airstrip has been extended several times throughout the resort’s 64-year history. 

“The airstrip has always been here [since Gaston’s first opened] but started out at 1,200 feet. It then grew to 2,400 feet and grew once again to 3,200 feet.”

Today, the airstrip sits adjacent to the cottages, restaurant, and other resort amenities, which overlook the 722-mile-long river that is fed by Bull Shoals Lake to the north. The river consistently stays around fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. And it’s this waterway with its world-class rainbow, brown, cutthroat, and brook trout fishing that visitors primarily trek to Gaston’s for. 

• READ MORE: Grant Boyd Archive

Some guests drive to the resort in Lakeview, Arkansas, which is approximately 120 miles (by road) to the East of Fayetteville and 80 miles southeast of Branson, Missouri. But, for many other Gaston’s visitors, their time begins when their wheels touch down on the well-maintained Bermuda grass.

“Everyone loves the airstrip and enjoys it. Many talk about how well it is kept up with,” Gaston says. 

Unsurprisingly though, there is a fair amount of routine and special landscaping work required to keep up with maintaining the airstrip. All of this work is performed by Gaston’s staff and consists of frequent mowing, preventative herbicide application, as well as small mammal control. 

Gaston says that most of the work falls into the following categories. 

“[These tasks are] mainly killing certain weeds and grasses to prevent them from taking over. We are always battling mole tunnels and stay on top of them all year long. As needed, we will roll the strip to help level out any imperfections.”

Unsurprisingly, mowing takes up a considerable percentage of the time spent maintaining the airstrip for aircraft operations. They use a six-foot-wide flail mower for the runway surface itself and then two large zero turn mowers for the airplane parking area. 

Altogether, it will generally take about eight hours to completely mow these surfaces. The frequency of this full day of mowing depends on the time of year and weather. 

“During peak season when the grass is growing well, we mow it once a week, sometimes more depending on the rate of growth due to heavy rainfall,” Gaston says.

Rain and the Runway

And regarding this rainfall and its potential to wreak havoc on pilots’ plans to land on the runway, Gaston notes there is little to worry about. “The strip itself drains water very well, but the tie-down area has a few low spots that will hold water after a heavy rain. It typically dries up after a day with no rain.”

Many types of aircraft have flown in, with the pilots enjoying the fruits of the Gaston’s team’s work to upkeep the strip. 

“The largest aircraft we’ve ever had in here was a DC-3,” Gaston says. “We see Cessna Grand Caravans, Kodiaks, Pilatus PC-12s, and many twin engine planes on a regular basis. We also get a lot of helicopter traffic.”

Pilots must navigate trees, powerlines, and other obstacles to successfully land at the resort’s airstrip, which has both 100LL for sale and tie-downs. Clint provides some advice for those looking to fly in for the first time. 

“Talk to a fellow pilot who has flown in and out of our strip or give us a call. There are some videos on YouTube that will give pilots an idea of the approach and takeoff.”

For instance, two videos of the long list covering the subject are “Gaston’s Approach to Landing – 4 GoPros” and “Gastons, AR (3M0) – Approach and Landing.” The first was uploaded by a channel entitled The Cardinal Pilot, which provides a point-of-view look into flying to the resort in a Cessna Cardinal. The uploader self-described the video, “Watch as I navigate the Gaston’s approach, flying it exactly as the older, more wise locals have told me.”

The latter video is from the Airplane Academy, which notes the following about Runway 6/24 and a Cessna 182’s operations into the airstrip. “Be sure to mind the power lines in the base leg when landing to the west.” 

So, whether you consider flying in for Sunday brunch, a week of fishing, or anything in between, it’s important to walk through flying to Gaston’s before physically doing it. These resources and others are important to getting a clearer picture of the airstrip and the challenges of operating at it.

Having spent much of his life at the resort, either working or enjoying it, Clint has seen it from nearly all angles. But his time on the ground there has far outnumbered seeing Gaston’s from the sky. That said, he intends on spending more time flying around the area and into the airstrip. 

Clint is currently a student pilot, diligently working towards achieving his private pilot certificate. “Once I get the written finished, I intend to fly daily for several weeks to get it all knocked out while it’s fresh on my mind.”

The post Arkansas Resort Known for Fishing and Its Grass Runway appeared first on FLYING Magazine.