This is the 100th installment of The New Owner, and I suppose it’s only natural that the milestone is occurring amid a maniacal blend of emotions swirling around said ownership.

On one hand, EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, is next week (July 22-28), so there’s massive excitement for epic times just ahead. On the other hand, some maintenance issues have arisen over the past couple of weeks that create severe trepidation and directly threaten those amazing times.

It’s a perfect representation of aircraft ownership as a whole. Amazing experiences put at risk of derailment from unforeseen circumstances, fighting back and forth like so many Hollywood heroes and villains. But instead of the villains threatening the powers of good with swords, guns, and death rays, the threats come in the form of grounded airplanes and massive repair bills.

Frankly, I’d prefer to take my chances with the guns and death rays.

• READ MORE: Airplane Types Unlock AirVenture Locations for Parking, Camping

The first sign that something was amiss came several days ago in the form of engine oil. More specifically, a few extra drops on the hangar floor, slightly higher consumption than normal, and a new sheen collecting on the bottom of the engine. It wasn’t that my Continental engine was leaking oil. That’s pretty typical for most old Continentals. It was that mine was quite suddenly leaking in new places, at higher volumes, much differently than normal.

At any other time of year, it would be a simple matter of postponing future flights and booking some time with my mechanic. But this was Oshkosh month, a time when the severity of any mechanical problems increases exponentially as the date of the magnificent fly-in nears. And being that the big event was only a couple of weeks away at this point, panic quickly set in.

I immediately texted my mechanic, Ryan. He’s a great guy who embodies rural Wisconsin friendliness and honesty. He’s the kind of person who will bend over backward to help you and happily provide educational lessons about the tasks he’s performing along the way. He and his brother own and operate Johnson Brothers Flying Service in Lone Rock, Wisconsin, about 40 miles west of Madison.

While I was waiting for his reply, I examined my engine. I couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of the oil, but I suspected my Continental C-145 was experiencing weepy pushrod seals. This is a known issue with the type, as well as with the later version, the O-300.

I’ve always been amused at the engine’s midproduction name change from C-145 to O-300. Continental evidently figured that referring to the engine by the displacement (300 cubic inches) made it sound more powerful and impressive than referring to it by the 145 hp it produces. Marketing 101, I suppose.

Ryan replied that he would try to make it out sometime during the week before my departure to Oshkosh. But because he was so busy, he couldn’t guarantee it. I’d just have to wait and hope. In the meantime, I opted to remove my upper and lower cowls for a closer inspection.

To someone like me with close to zero mechanical aptitude, dismantling your airplane’s upper and lower cowls to reveal an entirely naked engine is simultaneously empowering and intimidating.

In one respect, it makes you feel like you know what you’re doing. Anyone walking past the open hangar door would naturally assume you possess some rudimentary level of knowledge and proficiency. But in another respect, you’re pretty sure you’re fooling nobody.

For the purposes of an engine inspection, however, it worked out just fine, and I was able to trace the leak to the oil temperature probe on the back of the engine accessory case. I forwarded this intel to Ryan.

The next afternoon, I received a text from him. Unbeknownst to me, he made it out to my plane and addressed the leak. I was ecstatic and headed right out to the airport for a shakedown flight prior to my trip up to Oshkosh.

Sure enough, the oil leak appeared to be taken care of. I preflighted the airplane, pulled it out of the hangar, and hopped in—only to discover that the throttle was inexplicably encountering some kind of blockage halfway into its travel.

Thinking that a running engine might somehow solve the problem, I started it up but found that nothing had changed. The throttle knob would only advance about halfway to full throttle before encountering a hard stop.

Now, things were getting serious. It was a Friday evening, less than a week before my planned departure to Oshkosh. Ryan was busy and wouldn’t be able to chat until Sunday or Monday. Desperate not to miss the big event, I gave my friend Dan a call.

“Hey, man, have you sold your Ercoupe yet?” Dan replied that he had not. “And you’re not going to make it to Oshkosh this year, right?” “That’s right,” he replied. “We’ll be in Michigan all week.”

• READ MORE: Flying In to AirVenture: A Carefully Orchestrated Cacophony of Chaos

He knew I was angling for something, so I explained.

“I’m dealing with some mechanical issues on the 170, and I’m not sure if it’ll be fixed in time for Oshkosh,” I said. “If it’s not, how about I take the Ercoupe up and hang some of those big ‘for-sale’ signs on the prop so a half million people see it?”

After considering this for a moment, Dan agreed that it would be a win-win sort of situation.

With a backup plan firmly in place, Saturday came and went. On Sunday morning, I received a text from Ryan. He was available to zip out to the hangar and have a look at my throttle issue.

The fix took him all of about five minutes. He explained that he must have inadvertently dislodged part of the throttle cable while inspecting something else during the oil leak work. He assured me it wasn’t likely to occur again and said he’d be entirely comfortable flying it. He also said that because it was his fault, he wouldn’t be charging me for the trip out. I gave him a 100-dollar bill anyway to show my appreciation.

At the time of this writing, I have just about everything packed up. My tent, sleeping bag, cooler, chairs, underwing party lights, and coffee supplies are ready to go. This afternoon, I’ll fly a shakedown flight to check for any errant oil leaks and confirm all is in order. With any luck, I’ll be flying my own plane up to Oshkosh tomorrow and, much as I sincerely appreciate Dan’s offer, hopefully not an Ercoupe.

If you wonderful readers will also be at Oshkosh next week, please come find me. I plan to be somewhere around Row No. 67, right up on the airshow crowd line. I’d like to thank you in person for your readership and support over the past few years and give you a sticker or two.

Just look for the blue 170 with Alaskan Bushwheel tires. Or, depending on how things go, a classy little Ercoupe.

The post When Unforeseen Circumstances Threaten to Derail Amazing Experiences appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

As is the case with any first-time airplane owner, he’s pretty excited and has been asking me all kinds of thoughtful questions about the logistics of flying into the biggest aviation celebration in the world, EAA AirVenture in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. One of his first questions pertained to the geography of the July 22-28 event and in what area he should plan to park and camp.

• READ MORE: Oshkosh 2024 Notice Outlines Changes for Pilots Flying to AirVenture

Without hesitation, I recommended that he join a mutual friend and me in the centrally located vintage area. A solid week of knuckleheaded antics with a couple of old friends as our airplanes are parked side by side at Oshkosh is the stuff of dreams. As I looked into it, however, I discovered that his airplane—a beautiful 1973 Bellanca Super Viking—was built just past the 1971 cutoff for the vintage category.

I found this to be frustrating. I know the cutoff has to be made somewhere, but his Super Viking is relatively rare, with a sweet design and old-school craftsmanship. It seems wrong that it’s not permitted in the vintage area while scores of Bonanzas and Mooneys that are barely distinguishable from their 1980s-era counterparts fill the rows there. 

As it turns out, the Experimental Aircraft Association clearly defines not just the vintage category of aircraft but the subcategories as well. Within vintage, they are as follows:

• Antique: Aircraft manufactured before August 31, 1945
• Classic: Aircraft manufactured from September 1, 1945, through December 31, 1955
• Contemporary: Aircraft manufactured from January 1, 1956, through December 31, 1970

Chris, therefore, needed a quick lesson on the lay of the land at AirVenture. And so I presented him with an overview of his options, such as they are.

As his aircraft doesn’t fit into the EAA’s categories of vintage, experimental, or warbird, he will be directed to one of two areas upon landing—the “North 40” or the “South 40.” Located at the far north and far south ends of Wittman Regional Airport (KOSH), respectively, these are the largest areas where most airplane owners park and camp.

• READ MORE: Flying Into AirVenture: A Carefully Orchestrated Cacophony of Chaos

They are, however, quite different. And while arriving aircraft are not guaranteed to have a choice of which they’ll be directed toward after landing, pilots can print and display a sign requesting one or the other.

If the incoming traffic flow and the workload of the ground marshallers allow, they’ll direct you to your preferred area. So it’s good to know how they differ. 

Additionally, each area has its own unique vibe, with differences not readily apparent in the Oshkosh Notice and markedly different pros and cons. Here’s how I described them to Chris:

North 40

The North 40 is the area surrounding Runways 9-27 at the north end of the airport.

It’s got a lot going for it. The proximity to businesses and restaurants makes it easy to walk to grab a bite of non-EAA food or pick up some supplies. The latter comes in handy when a severe storm approaches and materials for last-minute hail protection suddenly become needed.

Because parking/camping spots are arranged on both sides of the runway, the views of arriving and departing aircraft are fantastic. One needs only walk to the end of their row to sit and watch all the arrivals and departures. It’s not at all unusual for your morning wake-up call to come in the form of multiple P-51s banking directly overhead as they depart for a dawn patrol formation flight. Few alarms are so sublime.

Amenities abound in the North 40. In addition to a small shower trailer on the north side of 9-27, the south side has two separate shower/restroom buildings. Several rows down, there is also a cafe that serves full meals and a small store for toiletries, snacks, and necessities.

A regular procession of dedicated school buses makes constant loops from the show entrance to the Basler ramp in the northeast corner of the airport. Simply flag down one as needed, settle in among your new friends for the ride, and call out the row number where you’d like to be dropped off. I like to leave a small tip for the driver after reaching my destination.

The biggest downside? The steady noise from Interstate 41 and adjacent roads. While mostly just background noise, it adds something of a rest area vibe to an otherwise magical aviation experience. At night, it’s not uncommon for an errant semitruck, Harley-Davidson, or emergency vehicle to wake you up from an otherwise peaceful slumber.

South 40

If the North 40 is city living, the South 40 is quiet life out in the country.

The very southern end borders a 55 mph county road, but there’s otherwise no automobile traffic noise to speak of at night. It’s a peaceful, relaxing vibe.

While the peaceful tranquility is nice with respect to cars, it’s a bit of a downer when it comes to airplanes. Situated well south of Runway 36-18, there are no great views of the runway and only approaches—not landings—are visible from most rows. The vast majority of the South 40 is well south of the action.

The EAA has done a good job bringing the recently expanded South 40 up to speed with amenities. It still falls short of the North 40, but it now has a small store, and showers are easy to find. In addition, there are now more numerous and more frequent shuttles to and from the main show grounds, making it easier to get back and forth. 

For those regularly frequenting the ultralight strip, the South 40 sits in relatively close proximity. Campers stuck walking back to their airplanes after the legendary STOL demo and Twilight Flight Fest face a walk of only a mile to the most distant row in the South 40. This compares with a walk of nearly three miles to the most distant row of the North 40 and provides strong motivation to catch the last shuttle before being shut down for the night.

Armed with a clearer understanding of his camping options, Chris is now better prepared for his first trip to AirVenture in his first airplane. With any luck, the EAA will gradually expand the cutoff for the vintage category to include his sweet Viking.

Until then, I’m sure he’ll have a blast wherever he ends up.

The post Airplane Types Unlock AirVenture Locations for Parking, Camping appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This is something I see fairly regularly, albeit more commonly in reference to more basic and affordable types. A prospective buyer polls a general audience for specific advice about a major purchase, and the replies are both predictable and suspect. All too common is the warning that parts for anything other than Cessna, Piper, or Beechcraft are impossible to find. While certain aircraft (and engines) do indeed present some difficulty with regard to parts availability, the vast majority are entirely possible to own and operate without too much trouble.

There are far better ways to become informed about a given aircraft type, and my favorite, by far, is type clubs.

• READ MORE: Going to the Birds, And How Not To

For a nominal fee, one can purchase an annual membership to a type club and instantly gain access to a treasure trove of virtually any mass-produced type out there. Good clubs offer online libraries chock full of scanned documents, manuals, diagrams, and literature. Additionally, many club websites are home to online forums with comprehensive prepurchase inspection checklists, airworthiness directive (AD) lists, and firsthand knowledge crowdsourced from current and former owners. Best of all, membership is almost always made available to shoppers who aren’t yet owners, offering an extremely affordable education about a type under consideration. 

As someone who creates spreadsheets and compiles detailed documentation for purchases as minor as a toaster, I joined The International Cessna 170 Association early in my shopping process, years before actually purchasing one. I spent hours soaking up as much info as I could about the type. Of particular note was a pinned thread in its forum that listed approximately 30-40 items to address immediately upon purchasing a 170. The list was detailed, and the reasoning behind each item was provided.

When I finally bought a 170 and dropped it off for its first annual inspection, I presented that list to my mechanic. Before long, he completed approximately a dozen various mods, many of which I’d never have discovered without entering the 170 community. I learned that the parking brake has a history of becoming partially engaged after a rudder pedal is pushed to the stop during crosswind landings or taxiing, and we followed the advice to disconnect it entirely. We proactively replaced the tailwheel leaf springs and old copper oil pressure gauge lines. I also had him perform multiple specific inspections that weren’t called out in any manufacturer materials.

• READ MORE: When It’s Better to Have It and Not Need It

Without question, my $45 annual membership had just paid for itself, and I hadn’t even tapped into any of the scanned documentation. Neither had I posted many of my own questions in the forum or engaged with any of the all-knowing 170 owners and their decades of experience maintaining the type. With such informed and helpful people at my disposal, happy to help tackle problems and lend their expertise, this membership is one that I don’t think twice about renewing.

Type clubs like this are also an excellent source of events. Many hold refresher and currency clinics aimed at sharpening the skills of the owner group as a whole. Some even negotiate special rates with insurance companies for owners who have demonstrated an ongoing effort to undergo recurrent training. And even if a club hasn’t arranged for formal discounts, I’ve spoken with one insurance broker who acts as an owner advocate, presenting underwriters with proof of such training and negotiating lower rates as a result.

Other clubs do an excellent job with social events. At face value, many of them appear to be little more than excuses to devour vast amounts of cheeseburgers and ice cream. But if such temptations are what it takes to motivate owners to preflight their airplanes and get into the air regularly, well, that’s good for airplane and pilot alike.

It’s possible rare types benefit the most from a vibrant, active type club or owner’s association. The Meyers Aircraft Owners Association is a textbook example. With a small fleet size to begin with, airframe parts can occasionally become difficult to source. So when the original factory jigs and tooling were located by a Meyers owner, he purchased everything and stored it all in a secure location for preservation. Due to his efforts, the entire Meyers community will be able to source brand-new airframe parts if and when they are required. 

• READ MORE: 5 Things I Wish I Had Known Before Buying My First Airplane

To determine whether your type has a corresponding club, simply Google your aircraft  along with the words “club” or “association,” and you’ll likely find any that exist. Additionally, the EAA Vintage Aircraft Association maintains an excellent list of type clubs.

Finally, if your time and workload permit, consider getting involved and giving back to your community of owners. Help to organize a fly-out or two during the summer. Contribute some of your newfound knowledge in the forums. And lend a helping hand to others who are navigating the steep learning curve of ownership for the first time. 

The post Navigating the Aircraft Ownership Learning Curve Through Type Clubs appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

But the other day, when I opened up my engine cowl during a preflight inspection and discovered several pounds of grass, twigs, and debris packed tightly into every nook and cranny of my engine compartment, the local starling population was fortunate they were out of my reach. 

It had been a long week, and for days, I’d been looking forward to the simple pleasure of solitary pattern work at a nearby 1,700-foot grass strip that I love. The runway is rolled so frequently, it’s as smooth as a pool table. After a long, frustrating day of work, an hour or so of landings is a great way to clear my mind and unwind.

• READ MORE: When It’s Better to Have It and Not Need It

On this particular day, however, the birds had ensured my trip to the hangar had the opposite effect. I worked for about 30 minutes with a flashlight, needle nose pliers, and a Shop-Vac to remove the piles and piles of brush and grass from around the engine before finally giving up. I wasn’t convinced I’d be able to remove every last bit of it, and given the fire hazard it presented, I decided I’d let my mechanic remove the cowl and blow it all out thoroughly when he arrived for some unrelated work later in the week.

As I reflected on the day’s ruined flight, two observations occurred to me. First, while the shopping process for a hangar to rent is nowhere near as complex as that of an airplane, one can still benefit from some basic detective work. And second, when given the choice, a nicer hangar is most likely worth the extra investment.

Last summer, I opted to move out of my original hangar and into my current one, reasoning that I preferred to share the two-airplane hangar with my friend Dan, who occupies the other half. While it would be difficult to give him up as a hangar mate, the extremity of the bird infestation now has me reconsidering the move. I simply never took the time to look into the new hangar in depth. A hangar is a hangar, I thought.

• READ MORE: 5 Things I Wish I Had Known Before Buying My First Airplane

Now, with a few years of ownership behind me, I’m able to assemble a list of subtle but important concerns that will dictate my selection of future hangars. The current bird concern tops the list, as so much time can be wasted cleaning off droppings and clearing out nest materials. But I’d also approach existing hangar tenants to determine whether water seeps in through the roof or beneath the walls and whether ice dams trap form during the winter.

I’d also ask about the land immediately around the hangar and find out whether it floods and how well the snow is actually cleared during winter. If the main door is electric, I’d be curious to know what happens in the event of a power outage and whether a small generator or battery pack could be plugged in to get the airplane in or out. After all, a power outage that leaves the door open ahead of a violent storm could be disastrous for both the hangar and the airplane inside.

Cell service would also be a concern. With decent coverage, I’d have good day-to-day connectivity, and I’d be able to use a remote switch to turn my engine preheater on or off from home. Good coverage would also enable the installation of cameras, both for security and to check the runway and ramp conditions before making the drive to the airport. My current location has terrible coverage, and all of these things are challenges.

• READ MORE: The Pros and Cons of Aircraft Towing Solutions

I would never have thought of these things when I first bought my airplane. But now that I know what to look for and what questions to ask, I’d spend some time hanging out at potential airports a bit and learning about their hangar situations before deciding on any particular location. And if faced with a nicer hangar option that comes at a premium cost, I’ll consider how much time and effort I’ve had to spend dealing with the various woes of a bad hangar and account for that in my decision-making process.

As for my current bird situation, I’ve got a plan. The airfield has recently been sold to a new owner. He’s not a pilot, just an enthusiast looking to get into aviation as a hobby. And it sounds like he has yet to go up for a flight with anyone.

There’s an old saying: “A good lawyer knows the law, and a great lawyer knows the judge.” Perhaps a nice evening flight among the hayfields will kick off a good working relationship with the new guy. With any luck, it just might culminate in some weatherstripping, deterrent spikes, and maybe a cat or two to address the bird problem.

The post Going to the Birds, And How Not To appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

It’s a bizarre set of standards we live by that usually defies logic. In my case, I can’t wrap my mind around spending more than about $500 to $1,000 on a tug to pull my airplane into and out of the hangar. I just can’t. 

I know it makes perfect sense to invest in a high-quality, long-term solution to an ever-present problem. “Buy once, cry once,” as they say. But I just can’t bring myself to spend the money on one, and I spent considerable time and effort finding a workable solution for my first airplane.

Here, then, I present a brief overview of towing options for the new aircraft owner.

Towbar

Pros:

• Cheap
• Simple
• Zero maintenance

Cons:

• Provides steering assistance only—no power assist
• Not a solution for heavy aircraft or slick ground surfaces

This is what most aircraft owners start out with. Ranging from flimsy, lightweight, collapsable ones that can easily stow in a baggage compartment to large, beefy versions that enable you to put your weight into it, towbars rely on human power…and human traction. The latter, I have come to learn, is a key concern in the Northern states. 

Attempting to move a fully fueled airplane up a slight grade into or out of a hangar with snow on the ground is often a futile effort. So, too, is stopping an already moving airplane—a somewhat more risky endeavor with potentially disastrous results. For owners of lightweight Ercoupes and 150s, a basic towbar will usually suffice, but for everyone else, the benefits of powered options quickly become apparent.

• READ MORE: Managing the Doldrums of Winter

Stationary Winch

Pros:

• Relatively inexpensive
• Takes up virtually no space
• Requires virtually no maintenance

Cons:

• Provides assistance in one direction only
• Requires installation into a concrete floor or wall stud
• Requires remote-control option for tricycle gear aircraft to enable steering with towbar
• Typically best suited to taildraggers as it can easily apply excessive and improper force to tail tie-down rings

Having never used a winch personally, I rely on the testimony of others. By and large, the people happiest with winch setups are those who have a requirement to pull taildraggers uphill into their hangars. As the tailwheel is the sturdiest point to apply such force, this makes sense. Some owners of tricycle gear aircraft report damage resulting from pulling a tail tie-down ring backward when it was designed to be pulled downward.

Tricycle gear owners are also hindered somewhat by the need to steer the nosewheel at the front of the airplane while controlling the winch in the back. Both corded and wireless winches are available to solve this problem, but this adds expense, eroding the winch’s primary benefit—low cost. For certain owners, a winch setup can provide a tidy solution to a difficult-to-park airplane, but the limitations are significant.

‘Frankentug’

Pros:

• Relatively inexpensive

Cons:

• Maintenance often required to resurrect older examples
• Abundance of substandard designs
• Many require proprietary attachments for each aircraft type

“Frankentug” is my own term. After browsing all the shiny new tug options online, I eventually slinked over to Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace to peruse the old, decrepit, used offerings. Many date back to the Ronald Regan administration, with correspondingly Eastern Bloc- and Cold War-era designs. These are the Frankentugs.

Sometimes you get lucky. Sometimes you search for “airplane tug” and are presented with several lightly used options that happen to be all set up for the exact type of aircraft you own. And sometimes these options are offered at sub-$1,000 prices. 

More commonly, however, the offerings resemble a living museum of backyard shade-tree engineering. Some are battery-powered, others plug directly into the wall, and still others are gas powered. The gas-powered examples will invariably require a thorough carb cleaning, and the battery-powered options will often require fresh batteries.

When I located my own Frankentug, I felt fortunate to find a plug-in electric version made by Powertow. Sure, the wiring up toward the handles was frayed and presented a shock hazard. And, sure, the tire was flat. But at $275, the price was right, and upon spotting the listing, I promptly hopped in the car and drove an hour to purchase it.

Unbeknownst to me, the tires on Powertows are horrifically difficult to remove and install. The adjacent gear for the chain drive is positioned so close that tire removal is nearly impossible. Accordingly, in the event of a flat tire, Powertow actually recommends that owners “purchase an entirely new wheel/tire/axle assembly for $170” to solve the problem.

Finding this quite off-putting, I instead begged my local small engine repair shop to replace the tube. Some poor kid was tasked with this and spent hours fighting with it before he was ultimately successful. Feeling bad for him and admiring his perseverance, I tipped him $40.

Next, because my tug was set up for a tricycle-gear aircraft, I had to spend an additional $250 for a tailwheel hookup kit, and then had to drill holes in the tug to install it. This brought my total expenditure to nearly $700. Still ultimately worth it, but just barely. Part of me wishes I had instead put the $700 toward a new, perfect tug.

Garden Tractors

Pros:

• Plentiful inexpensive options available
• Good hydrostatic transmissions provide light, precise touch to forward/back motion
• Can double as snow-removal solution

Cons:

• Still requires towbar of some kind
• Some fabrication typically required to connect towbar to tractor
• Taildraggers require ample hangar space behind airplane to accommodate length of  tractor and towbar

The easiest part of employing the garden tractor solution is sourcing one. Sub-$1,000 tractors are plentiful, and it matters not if the mower deck is missing or broken. Most important is the smoothness and controllability of the transmission engagement so as not to place undue stress upon your airplane.

The most challenging aspect of the tractor option is the method of connection to the airplane. You’ll have to fabricate or source some kind of heavy-duty towbar, and you’ll also likely have to fabricate a means of attaching the towbar to the tractor. This may involve welding a ball hitch bracket onto the frame.

A good towbar is critical, and it perhaps bears mentioning that under no circumstances should an airplane be pulled with a rope or strap. Often, the more demanding job of a tug is to bring the airplane to a stop, and fabric doesn’t work so well under compression.

Best Tugs’ Alpha 2 and Alpha 3

Pros:

• Literally everything

Cons:

• Cost

I should preface this section with reassurance that I am in no way sponsored by Best Tugs, nor am I receiving any compensation for my views. Based on my own firsthand experience using its products, the tugs manufactured by the Utah-based company truly do live up to their name.

Best Tugs’ Alpha 2 and Alpha 3 models are powered by onboard batteries and employ actual differentials between their two wheels to provide perfect traction and steering. Power is controlled by a buttery-smooth electronic speed control that enables you to apply torque to the wheels so smoothly and delicately it seems you could clamp a Sharpie marker in the jaws and effortlessly sign your name on the hangar floor.

The only downside? These models cost roughly $3,500 to $4,000. Perfect as they are, that’s an expense I just can’t come to terms with—and I’ve tried. I’ve reasoned that one is simply parking most of the money, as one can expect to recoup at least 50 percent of the cost by selling it in the future. And that a permanent tug solution amounts to roughly the cost of one annual inspection. And that it’s not unlike a one-time insurance premium that makes you less likely to damage a wingtip or tail surface while moving your airplane around.

But nevertheless, the cost looms large. For the time being, I’m mostly content wrestling with my trusty Frankentug, risking electrocution, tripping over the cord, and reminding myself that it’s good to regularly get an upper-body workout to stay healthy and fit.

The post The Pros and Cons of Aircraft Towing Solutions appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

But from time to time, I’m welcomed by profoundly good luck. On rare occasions, days off align with fantastic weather, a usable runway, and a properly functioning, squawk-free airplane. On these occasions, I approach my flying with a healthy dose of suspicion and brace myself for the worst, but I make sure to appreciate the good fortune.

Last week, one such day presented itself. After a solid month of fog, low ceilings, and generally dreary weather, the sun reintroduced itself to the upper Midwest, and the people rejoiced. Waving hello to all the other happy citizens of my small town as Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah played loudly in my head, I made my way to the small, private airport I call home. While no bluebirds landed on my shoulder, a lone cow regarded me as I passed a nearby farm, and I figured that, given my location in the Wisconsin countryside, that would suffice as a stand-in.

Winds were light and out of the east, neatly aligning themselves to two of my favorite grass strips in the area. While a wispy cloud layer was visible above, low ceilings would not be a factor. And it was even pleasantly warm, setting me up for a relatively pain-free preflight inspection.

Upon arriving at the airport, I saw that the typical poor snow removal did present a few challenges. A couple of Volkswagen-sized dirt mounds littered the east end, and only a narrow strip of the western third had been plowed. Fortunately, I was confident I could successfully negotiate these issues and proceeded with my preflight. 

The preflight was successful in more than one way. I found no mechanical concerns to speak of, and my new technique of packing out any food (namely energy bars) out of the cabin had apparently alleviated the mouse problem I had encountered the previous month. Happily noting that the engine oil level had stabilized perfectly over the preceding eight flight hours, I pronounced the airplane fit to fly.

• READ MORE: Managing the Doldrums of Winter

The engine start and run-up were uneventful, and it was warm enough that I kept the window open for the sheer novelty of doing so in February. I dutifully made my calls on the CTAF as I backtaxied, but the airport and airspace above remained completely serene. Not one airplane was visible, even via ADS-B on my newly overhauled panel. 

While the sun gave the impression of warmth, the air was still crisp and thick, providing a bit more thrust than I’m accustomed to in the summer. Observing the engine stabilize at 2430 rpm early in the takeoff roll, I smiled as my 80/42 seaplane propeller clawed its way through the air and pulled me aloft in less than 400 feet. A quick turn southbound placed me on course for Brodhead, a favorite little airport of mine with three grass runways and a vibrant antique aircraft community.

A mottled landscape of brown and white unfolded beneath me, the remnants of our early January snowstorm receding into the lush soil. Because the state of Wisconsin is unable or unwilling to assign more than a few CTAFs to its airports statewide, a massive variety of unseen voices emerges from my headset. In a 20-mile radius, roughly 11 airports share 122.9, and we step on each other more often than kids forced to learn square dancing in gym class. 

Frustrating as it can be, this comes with a side benefit. As I depart my home field and visit the two other airports on my agenda, I can simply leave my radio tuned to the single frequency the entire time. Because we’re friendly people in the Great Lakes region, position reports are sprinkled with jaunty hellos and inquiries about the day’s plans. This creates additional congestion, sure, but so long as the niceties are kept brief, none of us complain. 

Before long, I entered the pattern at Brodhead. Keeping an eye out for the many radioless antique planes that call the airport home, I ensure every LED light is powered up and continue to dutifully make my position reports. Surprisingly, no other traffic is present, and as tends to be the case when no witnesses are around, I manage to nail each wheel landing, rolling my big Bushwheels onto the grass so lightly I could barely tell when they spun up. 

With the rust of a nonflying January sufficiently cleared off, I departed the pattern and made my way up to Albany, Wisconsin. Relatively short for the area at 1,700 feet, I enjoy challenging myself to take off and land within the first 500 feet of Runway 9— a distance clearly identifiable by the perpendicular perimeter of a neighboring cornfield. As I approached the field, I reminded myself how transients sometimes mix up the name Albany with a nearby town called Albion and listened for both names on the still-busy frequency.

While the continued lack of other traffic and witnesses promised another series of excellent landings, the light breeze decided I could use a bit of a challenge. It shifted around to the north and spilled over an adjacent tree line, randomly changing direction as it saw fit. Riding the swirls and eddies down final, I refocused and had fun trying to predict and anticipate this new variable. Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t, but while my landings were no longer things of beauty, I enjoyed the atmospheric lesson immensely.

Thoroughly limbered up after a good number of landings and short approaches, I headed back home and was welcomed with the aforementioned narrow strip of runway, bordered by the remnants of lazy snow plowing. It took little effort to properly align myself and set down on centerline, but I was then caught off guard by an errant puff of wind that launched me back up into the air like a hot-air balloon. Carefully maintaining a slightly nose-up deck angle and avoiding a pilot-induced oscillation, a quick shot of power cushioned my return to earth and I settled back down in an ugly yet safe fashion. 

A quick glance to the left revealed the reason for the bobbled landing—another airport tenant was standing nearby, recording me with his cellphone. Where were the cameras down at Brodhead? But my indignation soon subsided to thankfulness as the reality of a perfect day of flying settled in. Days like this don’t occur often enough. So we must soak them up and savor them when they do.

The post A Perfect Day for Flying appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This winter, we received about a foot of snow in one shot, followed by a week of subzero temperatures and high winds. That was about a week and a half of nonflyable weather for those of us still building our tailwheel skills. When the winds finally subsided they were replaced with temperatures in the upper 30s…which resulted in 200-foot ceilings and thick fog. We’re going on week two of these conditions, and it’s now been a full month since I’ve been able to fly at all.

Every aircraft owner in this climate must anticipate conditions and nonflying periods like this. But this is doubly important for relatively new owners like me still learning how to best care for their airplanes and refining flying skills. Gone are the days of landing the FBO’s rental airplane, tossing the keys to the person at the front desk, and forgetting about it for a few weeks. Now, as the caretaker of an airframe and engine, there are more responsibilities to consider.

So, as someone new to ownership, what should you consider when facing weeks upon weeks of nonflyable weather? For me, there are two primary areas of focus—the engine’s health and my perishable flying skills. 

It’s fairly common knowledge that the worst thing you can do to an airplane engine is let it sit unused for long periods. This makes every potential window of flyable weather that much more valuable, considering it might be followed by a month of inactivity. This is why, on my last flight, I pushed my limits a bit and ventured out on an extremely slick runway covered in mud and snow. 

That flight amounted to only one trip around the pattern. But with a thoroughly preheated and then warmed-up engine, the engine did, in fact, reach normal operating temperature as I was turning downwind. The ensuing sketchy runway conditions were bad enough to make me call it a day, but having gotten my engine up to temp, I effectively reset its “sitting on the ground” meter, and I felt better about having to leave it parked for the following weeks.

To ease the strain of starting an engine in frigid temperatures, I do a few things. First, I invested in the best engine preheating system money could buy, utilizing my rule that if the cost to upgrade from the cheapest to the best product available is three figures or less, I just do it. Like most systems, my Reiff preheater has a heating element on the oil pan…but it also has a metal band mounted around each cylinder to heat the entire engine evenly. This also prevents the introduction of piping-hot oil into ice-cold cylinders during start-up.

Similarly, I make a point of storing quarts of oil at home in a warm kitchen cabinet. This way, you’re adding nice warm oil into the engine if you need to add a quart. If your significant other complains about 20W-50 next to the corn flakes, simply put the situation into perspective by pointing out how you could be building an entire experimental aircraft at home but choose instead to hangar a prebuilt example at the airport for their convenience.

On the evening before each winter flight, I’ll drive out to the airport to plug in the preheater. Yes, there are devices to remotely activate such systems via a cellphone or Wi-Fi signal, but I take the opportunity to inspect both the airplane and runway. More than once, I’ve discovered an abysmal snow plowing job, mechanical issue, or some other problem that would have resulted in a canceled flight the following morning.

With a properly cared for and warmed-up engine, my next concern is my proficiency, particularly as a relatively new tailwheel pilot. Just as it’s bad to let your engine sit unused for extended periods, the same goes for your skills. With a typical Monday through Friday 9-to-5 schedule, the lack of daylight in the northern states this time of year effectively limits flying to only Saturday and Sunday. From there, low ceilings or high winds only have to occur a few times to thoroughly ruin a month of flying.

It’s a balancing act. On one hand, you want to respect your personal limits when you’re beginning to get rusty. On the other hand, pushing your limits a bit on a less-than-perfect day might give you the mental reset you need to sharpen your skills and regain some confidence. This will better prepare you to get through the next long period of poor weather and no flying.

It’s always good to go up with an instructor from time to time. If faced with a marginal day with, for example, winds outside of your personal limits, it might be a great opportunity to go up for a lesson, giving you the mental and mechanical reboot necessary to get through another few weeks on the ground.

The post Managing the Doldrums of Winter appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Like many others who grew up in southeastern lower Michigan, where allegiance to either Ford or Chevy was far more critical than any political leanings, I regularly entertain fleeting fantasies of vintage car ownership. Cars from that era are to modern vehicles what vinyl is to digital downloads. They require more attention, but the experience is a pure one that connects with the soul in a way the latest tech-laden, stability-controlled wündercars never will. 

But whenever I dive into researching the ownership of such sweet machines, I’m quickly reeled back to reality by a certain factor that is common among classic cars and  airplanes. Lurking beneath the bodywork are myriad concerns one must become familiar with to keep the machine in good running order.

There are many cars and airplanes that require relatively little attention outside of adding fuel and taking them out for a rip. A factory-new Cessna or Cirrus, for example, and nearly any modern car. But the older and more interesting ones demand more, and many prospective owners underestimate or overlook just how much more.

• READ MORE: Is It Better to Buy Your Last Airplane First?

To maintain a vintage airplane—even a modest one—in safe, reliable condition on a real-world budget, one must view the knowledge of its inner workings and maintenance as an entirely separate hobby in and of itself. Like any new hobby, this requires time and attention above and beyond flying and cleaning the airplane. From networking with other owners to proactively sourcing difficult-to-find parts to learning about the latest tips and tricks in type-specific forums, one must become an enthusiastic expert on the history, design, and maintenance of the airplane.

My friend Chris is a good example. A few years ago, he purchased a classic Bellanca Super Viking. It’s a sweet machine, with 300 horsepower and a cruise speed that’s twice that of my 170. With a wood and fabric airframe, complex systems, and limited parts availability, it can be described as an airplane for “advanced” owners. Owning one of these is playing airplane owner on hard mode.

Fortunately, Chris possesses the motivation and interest necessary to embrace the challenge. When he was a kid, his father owned one, and his childhood produced many nostalgic memories of flying with dad. Accordingly, diving headfirst into the world of Viking ownership is a meaningful endeavor for Chris, and he has happily earned what I estimate is the equivalent of an associate’s degree in Super Viking ownership since purchasing it.

Similarly, my friend Kristin recently purchased a Cessna 170B and has assigned herself the task of learning all the minutiae of the type, from sourcing parts to addressing known weak points of the airplane to updating certain systems with modern components. For months, she peppered me with random questions via text. How do 170 owners deal with the limited clearance for radios behind the panel? Is it really advisable to remove the parking brake entirely? What about that landing gear reinforcement kit I’ve been hearing about? Is it worth it?

Both Chris and Kristin have made it their mission to become the most informed aircraft owners possible. Their interest and motivation are so strong, few things will ever catch them off guard. They know what parts and components are next up for overhaul or replacement. They’ve learned which mechanics in their area are the most qualified to work on their airplanes. And, accordingly, neither they nor their bank accounts are likely to be caught by surprise anytime soon.

It can be argued that if a prospective vintage aircraft owner doesn’t have the time or motivation to spend an hour or two studying and learning their aircraft type for every hour they spend flying, they’re taking a concerningly passive approach to ownership. People do this all the time, but these are the same people who overlook key maintenance items and don’t know where to turn when an obscure part requires replacement. Their passiveness erodes safety to a certain degree, and it results in an increase in both expense and downtime.  

• READ MORE: Love the One You’re With

As I investigated those old diesel Mercedes sedans more closely, I learned a lot. I learned how the floor pans happily deteriorate and rust out if a shaker of salt so much as glances in their direction. I learned that their insanely complex vacuum systems were apparently designed around witchcraft and dark magic. And I learned that if one lacks the time and knowledge to perform their own maintenance, one would be well-advised to marry into a family of qualified mechanics.

Before long, I realized that I most certainly do not possess the time or drive to earn the equivalent of an associate’s degree in Vintage Mercedes Studies. I knew my limits, and I knew I just wanted to be able to hop in and cruise around, fat, dumb, and happy. And my limited research revealed that, like a vintage aircraft, this machine is not at all suited to an owner like me.

So whether it’s a vintage aircraft or automobile, take a step back before diving in. Evaluate the amount of free time at your disposal. And consider the research and ownership of such a machine to be a hobby in and of itself, separate from operating it, and worthy of its own time and mental energy.

The post Vintage Aircraft Ownership Is Best Viewed as 2 Hobbies in 1 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Earlier this week, I went up for my first flight of the year on a cold and overcast New Year’s Day. And while I always make an effort to objectively evaluate my decision making in my still-new-to-me Cessna 170, I didn’t expect to learn three new lessons and enact three new personal rules after one short flight. But that’s precisely what happened as I kicked off a new year of flying.

The first lesson took place before I’d even completed the preflight. My first clue that something was amiss occurred when I retrieved my tire pressure gauge from the small flight bag I keep in the front passenger seat. I noticed bits of shredded paper towel littering the bag. Making a mental note to continue placing my custom-cut aluminum bands around each tire to keep mice out of the airplane, I continued my preflight. 

A short time later, while carefully inspecting my tailwheel on my hands and knees, I made eye contact with the culprit. There, staring at me in the face from a small access hole at the base of the rudder, was a small brown field mouse.

A few choice selections of profanity scared it back into the fuselage. Fortunately, however, some light drumming on the side of the empennage scared it back out of the hole, and it leaped from the airplane and scurried away. A closer inspection of my flight bag connected the dots—I’d left a couple of energy bars in the bag after my last flight, and the mouse had set up camp, helping itself to the feast.

New rule No. 1: No more leaving energy bars in the airplane.

• READ MORE: Buyer Be Aware: Having Your Own Airplane Is So Worth It

Thoroughly preflighted and apparently mouse-free, I hopped in and started the engine. Because I was the only one at the airfield, I opted to take a shorter route from my hangar to the runway. This route utilizes a dirt driveway that borders a large ditch. And it wasn’t until I advanced the throttle and tested the brakes that I realized there was a gradual slope all the way from my hangar to that ditch.

Brakes locked, the airplane slid toward the ditch at a crawling pace as I willed it to come to a stop. I used every trick my lifetime of winter driving in the Great Lakes region had taught me, including releasing the brakes to obtain some directional traction, but the ditch loomed ever closer. Just as I was creating a plan to pull the mixture and at least save the prop and engine, the right main mercifully encountered a small patch of gravel and the airplane ground to a stop. 

As I only recently moved into my new hangar, I’d never taken this taxi route in the winter. Accordingly, I’d never noticed the gradual slope and treacherous ditch. It was a chilling eye-opener, and I was ultimately able to cling to the hallowed strip of gravel and proceed to the runway safely. 

New rule No. 2: No taking the short taxi route with snow or ice on the ground.

Run-up complete, I trundled my way out onto the 3,100-by-90-foot grass strip and backtaxied to the end. On the way out, I made a mental note of an icy, muddy patch in the center of the runway about 600 feet from the threshold. I’m no stranger to operating on snow at this strip, but the odd combination of 1 to 2 inches of icy snow and muddy, unfrozen soil beneath robbed me of traction and made it challenging to turn around. An old skiplane trick of full forward yoke and some short blasts of power finally brought the tail around, and I was good to go at last.

The brisk temperature rewarded me with a density altitude of around 1,500 feet below sea level. I made a mental note to brag about this to a certain California-based friend who takes every opportunity to boast about his state’s warm winter climate. My beloved McCauley seaplane prop clawed through the thick winter air, making the most of my airplane’s modest 145 hp and clearing the muddy patch with ease. 

The takeoff was uneventful, but the variable wind had developed into a healthy crosswind from the left. I kept this in mind, and on downwind, I took a step back and evaluated the situation. I was barely able to keep the airplane out of the weeds during my taxi out to the runway. Once there, I had difficulty turning around. And now I was setting up to land on a particularly slick surface with a crosswind.

Much as I wanted to spend an hour or two in the air, hammering out landing after landing, I decided not to press my luck. I was handling the hazards successfully thus far and could likely continue my pattern work safely, but doing so would expose me to an element of risk that, while not unmanageable, was not at all necessary. Leaving some power in during the flare, I made sure to bleed off as much energy as possible before touching down and did so safely and with no issues. 

Turning around was a different story. Once again, I struggled to turn around on the runway and skated my way back to the hangar, making sure to take the long route back. I was happy to call it a day and abandon the out-of-kilter risk-reward scenario in favor of some University of Michigan football in the Rose Bowl from the comfort of my couch.

New rule No. 3: No pattern work on snowy runways with a crosswind in excess of 5 knots.

Although I only logged 0.1 hours of flight time, it was a particularly educational flight. Best of all, with the exception of a couple of energy bars and a shredded paper towel, there was no property damage to contend with. That’s a win no matter how you chalk it up, and with that, the day of new rules was more successful than any my sister and I had experienced in our household years ago.

The post Making Personal Rules appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Nice as the Garmin equipment has been, I’ve also been pleasantly surprised at how effectively some of the smaller touches have improved the flying experience. Three of them cost less than $500, and they’ve completely erased some annoying distractions in the cockpit. Here’s a short overview of how a relatively small investment can significantly improve the flying experience of many old aircraft.

Matte Black Glareshield Cover

Look through old photos of aircraft from decades past, and you might notice how many utilized matte black paint just ahead of the cockpit windows. Like the black grease many athletes apply to their faces, this reduces reflection and glare and improves vision accordingly. Since then, anti-reflective paint has become available in various colors, but the concern remains.

When I had my panel overhauled, I didn’t consider this, and the tan-colored top surface of the “dashboard” created a horrible reflection in the windscreen. It was most noticeable on final approach, when the runway ahead would become visually washed out, and some of the details of the metal surface were also reflected in the windscreen. It was distracting, and I needed to do something about it.

After exploring fabric-based options, such as thin carpets and upholstery that could be applied to the surface, it occurred to me that a matte vinyl wrap would be a lot cleaner looking. I contacted a reputable local car wrap company, and a couple of weeks later, a technician drove out to my hangar to perform the install. It took him about 90 minutes. While my final bill was a bit steep at around $200, the job was done perfectly, with no imperfections or air bubbles that would certainly have resulted had I attempted the work.

Now, there’s no glare at all visible on the windscreen. Forward vision is clear, and there are no distracting reflections apparent anywhere. Now, when I get into various airplanes, I immediately notice such glare and reflections and recommend the same solution to their owners.

Permanently Installed Push-to-Talk Switch

When I lived in Kalamazoo, Michigan, I had a next-door neighbor who owned what was perhaps the most annoying dog on the planet. It was a corgi named Max, with a shrill bark that apparently fell into the same frequency range as a razor blade being scraped at high pressure across a chalkboard. Max was an idiot. He barked throughout the day at everything, from leaves falling to his own tail.

Push-to-talk switches that mount to control yokes with Velcro straps aren’t quite as annoying as Max, but they come close. They’re bulky, taking up space on yokes that might be better suited to a comfortable grip. Even tightened down, they freely spin around the yoke, constantly moving into new and inconvenient positions. And many I’ve used had sloppy, imprecise buttons that rock from side to side, leaving you guessing as to whether and when the switch inside would actually activate.

When I planned my new panel, I made sure to insist upon a new push-to-talk switch that had none of these issues, and the result is pure bliss. The switch is solidly attached with fasteners on the forward side of the yoke and never slides around and shifts position like the old one. The button itself produces a distinct click when activated and never cuts out. 

Best of all, it was pretty affordable. The switches themselves were only $8 each, and while I don’t have a specific, itemized figure for the labor hours required, it was probably no more than five or six. In the end, it was the equivalent of replacing Max with a well-behaved service dog, and I appreciate the upgrade every time I key the mic.

Vernier Mixture Control

This one probably isn’t very relatable to owners of modern, complex aircraft. But for anyone flying around a basic airplane from the 1940s or 1950s, there’s a good chance the plane is equipped with a terribly imprecise mixture control that looks, feels, and operates like a carb heat knob. And there’s a 100 percent chance it’s miserable to use.

This is what my airplane had for most of its life. Attempting to precisely adjust the mixture was laughable, given the knob’s 2 inches of travel. Leaning the engine became a wild guess and often amounted to pulling that knob out “about that much” and hoping for the best.

I hated that old mixture knob with a passion and vowed to one day upgrade to a proper vernier-style knob. I did just that during my panel upgrade, opting for a McFarlane solid wire vernier mixture control. For just over $200, I went from vague guessing to precise control, and when paired with the aforementioned GI 275 EIS, I now enjoy fine-tuning my mixture quickly and easily during every phase of flight. Best of all, I no longer have to worry about inadvertently pulling that stupid carb heat-style knob an eighth of an inch too far and causing the engine to stumble. 

Summary

Not every panel mod has to be a massively expensive affair. For less than $500, minor upgrades like these can legitimately improve your flying experience as well as safety. To save some labor dollars, add items like these onto your next annual, and with the airplane all opened up, it will likely take your mechanic that much less time to perform the installation.

The post Panel Upgrades: Small Investments, Big Improvements appeared first on FLYING Magazine.