1. Beware of homemade parts and accessories.

My airplane’s previous owner was a retired rocket engineer who had it for roughly 40 years. He spent his career working in various facets of aviation and aerospace. His work is literally aboard the Voyager space probes at this very moment.

• READ MORE: The First Lesson in the New Airplane? Overly Eventful

If ever there was a guy who could properly care for a single-engine Cessna, I reasoned, this was the guy. And he did indeed take good care of it…and he also fabricated a few things himself, like custom cowl plugs to prevent birds from nesting in the engine. The plugs were well-made and easily utilized by any reasonably intelligent individual.

However, the cowl plugs were not idiot-proof. More specifically, they lacked any obvious visual indication that they were in place. I learned this during my very first lesson in my airplane when I neglected to remove them, overheated the engine, cracked multiple cylinders, and was forced to have a top overhaul done on the engine.

It was entirely my fault. But had I used a mass-produced cowl plug that was designed with idiots in mind, I would almost certainly have spotted the red flags or streamers from the cockpit, removed them prior to engine start, and avoided an embarrassing and costly mistake.

The lesson? Beware of amateur-built items like cowl plugs, wheel chocks, gust locks, and similar accessories. Determine what makes them different from mass-produced versions, and consider whether these differences could be the first link in a chain of events leading toward an unfortunate incident.

2. A good engine monitor is an extremely worthwhile investment.

Prior to the panel upgrade I made last year, my airplane had a variety of antiquated engine gauges, including a digital cylinder head temperature (CHT) readout that only ever displayed the temperature of one of my six cylinders. The other gauges were all positioned on the far side of my panel, well outside the normal field of vision. When I installed a Garmin GI 275 EIS engine monitoring display, this single unit replaced nine individual gauges while bringing far more engine information into my field of view. It also logs and stores engine data to help mechanics diagnose tricky engine issues.

Now, having flown with the GI 275 for about six months, I can say I’ve never paid more attention to the state and health of my engine. For example, just as I refer to a target rpm and airspeed on takeoff, I now also use a target CHT during climb out. This ensures I’m not inadvertently subjecting the engine to unnecessarily high temperatures, and it makes me wonder whether such an upgrade would have alerted me to high CHTs earlier and prevented the engine damage I incurred during the unfortunate cowl plug incident.

3. A good mechanic is an effortless solution to annoying problems.

Over the past few years, I’ve come to realize something related to aircraft ownership and finances—any problem that requires a total investment of only three figures to remedy is an absolute no-brainer, worthy of your immediate attention. 

I’m fortunate to have the means to say this, and it makes my scrimping and saving in other areas of life a bit less painful. But it took me a while to understand. For example, I spent the better part of a year putting up with a stubbornly tight fuel sump. Every time I’d pull a sample out of the left tank before a flight, I’d have to position my fuel strainer just so and then put muscle into pushing it upward. Half the time, the strainer would slip, and I’d end up with a fuel-covered hand. It was annoying.

It was similarly annoying to deal with my 170’s original mixture knob. It was the old kind that resembled a carb heat knob. It had about 2 inches of stiff travel, and precise adjustment was simply not possible. I hated it from the get-go.

I eventually made each of these annoyances disappear forever with the wave of a credit card and a call to my mechanic, who, conveniently, is willing to drive to my airplane. A new fuel sump was only around $20, a new McFarlane vernier mixture control was a few hundred, and each required only a small amount of time for him to fix. Had I realized just how quick and easy it was to clear my mind of annoyances that distract me from flying duties, I would have addressed them far earlier than I did.

4. Don’t put up with poor checklists just because the previous owner did.

The checklists that came with my airplane were absolutely terrible. For some reason, the run-up checks were included in one massive “Before Takeoff” checklist. This meant that when hammering out landing after landing with full-stop taxi-backs, I had to sift through and omit the various steps of the runup when running through the lengthy before-takeoff checklist. 

It wasn’t long before I missed an important item.

On perhaps my sixth or seventh takeoff of the day, I applied power and was surprised when the airplane leaped off the runway far earlier than usual. I was similarly surprised when, after getting into ground effect, it stubbornly refused to accelerate. Within seconds, I put two and two together and realized the flaps were still set at 40 degrees. Gingerly retracting the first couple of notches to avoid settling, I cleaned up and cleared the departure-end trees with a healthy margin.

It spooked me, though. And like the aforementioned small annoyances that continually pestered me on every flight, I realized I’d been needlessly putting up with this checklist annoyance for too long. I ultimately created new and better checklists, and I supplemented them with a five-item pre-takeoff flow that I perform after lining up in position and immediately prior to advancing throttle for takeoff (fuel selector, trim, flaps, mixture, and carb heat). Since making these two changes, I’ve never missed an item before takeoff.

5. It’s OK to not be adventurous or to not fly at all.

Airplane ownership has been a lifelong goal for me. The flying I’d do in my head, sitting in seventh-grade social studies or, later, in aviation law or advanced meteorology, was downright majestic. I envisioned myself setting off on adventures every weekend, exploring new airfields, and meeting new challenges as though I were starring in my own weekly Indiana Jones-inspired miniseries. 

Reality has proven to be far less grandiose. Grappling with the daily challenges of a demanding full-time job, an additional part-time job, and all the other duties that weave their way into saving for a house and retirement leaves me mentally exhausted more often than not. Accordingly, simple, unremarkable flying has proven to be the most enjoyable over the past few years, and it’s not uncommon to want to unplug and relax even when presented with a picture-perfect day.

For a long time, I felt pretty guilty about this. Here I am, having finally obtained the airplane of my dreams, one that’s equipped with all the necessary mods to set off on epic backcountry trips, and I’ve only been using it to hone my tailwheel skills on mundane grass strips. And here I am, often opting not to fly at all on many days with beautiful flying weather. 

Eventually, I realized that there was plenty of time to tackle the more exciting kinds of flying I’ve always envisioned. It took me decades to achieve airplane ownership, after all, and if taking a relaxed approach to my flying hits the spot for the time being, that’s OK. It’s both comforting and intriguing to know that by saving up and buying a more capable airplane, I’ve got one I can grow into rather than out of, abilitywise. And it feels good to know that plenty of adventures lie ahead.

The post 5 Things I Wish I Had Known Before Buying My First Airplane appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I was not an aircraft owner until I had more than 10,000 hours, but I know of a number of professional pilots who purchased and flew aircraft for training and/or time building. I think that ownership can make sense in certain circumstances, but definitely not all, and the choice requires a sober consideration of your needs, wants, and resources.

The conversation about aircraft ownership usually centers on costs versus renting, which has become increasingly expensive and can feel like throwing money down the rathole. The thing is, rental and overall training costs can vary wildly, and there’s not always a strict correlation between cost and aircraft or training quality. Part of the equation must be the cost and quality of rental and training in your area, and whether you are geographically limited or can search further afield.

• READ MORE: Can Airline Flow-Through Agreements Benefit Your Pilot Career?

Three Flavors

Ownership costs come in three flavors: upfront, fixed (monthly), and variable (per flight hour). I don’t consider the purchase price to be a cost, because used aircraft prices are quite stable and historically tend to appreciate at roughly the rate of inflation—you should get that money back. Upfront costs include the expense of finding and inspecting the aircraft as well as the price of registering it in your state (sales and/or use tax; 0 percent to 10 percent of the purchase price). You won’t get this money back. Fixed monthly costs include the price of financing the aircraft, insurance, hangar/tie down, and planned annual maintenance. Variable hourly costs are fuel, oil, and an unplanned maintenance and overhaul fund.

You need to make some assumptions about your usage. Let’s say that you plan to fly the aircraft 500 hours total over the course of 18 months of ownership. You have found a promising IFR-equipped Cessna 172 for sale locally for $75,000, hired an A&P to do a pre-buy inspection for $1,000, and live in Florida where sales tax is 6 percent. Your upfront sunk costs are $5,500, or $11 per expected flight hour. You have good credit and got a loan to finance 80 percent of the purchase at 5 percent interest, which works out to $250/month. You’ve found an insurance policy covering training for $2,000/year, or $167/month Your local airport has a T-hangar for $300/month, and you’re budgeting $1,000 for each annual inspection. Your fixed costs are $800/month, or $29 per flight hour. And lastly, fuel at 8 gallons per hour and $7.50 per gallon, another $1/hour for oil, and $30/hour for the maintenance and overhaul fund yields variable costs of $91/hour. All told, you’re looking at $131/hour for your very own 172. Not bad, right? You certainly won’t find a rental that cheap these days.

A few things will have become apparent to you during this exercise. First, you need to have $20,500 laying around, because no bank will finance 100 percent of an aircraft loan. Your 500 hours of flight time over 18 months will cost you $65,500, and none of this can be financed. You’ll still need to pay an instructor, and though you can do your private certificate, instrument rating, and time building in the 172 (and CFI/II, if you wish), you’ll still need to rent a complex or TAA airplane for your commercial and a twin for your multi rating (and MEI). It’s still going to be considerably cheaper than going to a Part 141 ratings factory, but keep in mind that Part 141 training can usually be 100 percent financed, and often at a lower interest rate than owning an airplane. So this is very much a case of needing money to save money.

The second factor is that ownership adds financial risk. Bend some metal during training and your insurance goes up? Get kicked out of your cheap hangar and the only one available nearby is $1,000/month? Unexpectedly expensive first annual? Engine doesn’t make it to TBO? All these common situations have the potential to raise your hourly rate well above renting.

The third glaring fact is that the more hours you fly your airplane, the cheaper it gets, and vice-versa. In the above scenario, if you were only planning to keep the airplane for 12 months and 250 hours, your hourly costs rise to $150/hour, which isn’t a lot less than rental in many areas. Conversely, 1,500 hours in 24 months works out to $108/hour. Ownership doesn’t make much financial sense for someone planning the traditional route of paying for their first 250 hours and then getting a time-building job. But if you really don’t want to flight instruct, tow banners, fly skydivers, or work at another traditional entry-level flying job, then owning an airplane will get you to 1,500 hours far cheaper than renting. This might make a lot of sense if you have a well-paying job that gives you enough time off to fly a lot, and don’t wish to leave it until you start working for an airline.

• READ MORE: Soaring Comes Close To Being ‘One With the Sky’

About the only other scenarios where sole ownership might pay off is if you have the opportunity to lease back the airplane to a flight school, or if you plan to hang out your shingle as an independent CFI.

I’ve long argued that shared ownership makes the most sense for the vast majority of pilots, because you split your upfront and fixed costs, and airplanes love to be flown more. Let’s say you go in on that 172 with two friends who are also about to start flight training and who all plan to fly 500 hours in 18 months. The airplane is now loving life at 84 hours per month, the engine has a better chance of making TBO, each of you only need to bring $6,800 into the deal, and the hourly rate has dropped to $105/hour. The three of you can share a local CFI and knock out your training in no time flat, and you can double-dip time-building hours by logging safety pilot time while your buddy flies under the hood.

There is a group of eight flight attendants at my airline that are doing exactly this. They formed a conglomerate and bought a Piper Warrior together, did much of their flight training in it, and are now building flight time together to get hired at a regional airline (and get automatically hired back at my airline after a few years!). I’m so damn proud of these folks’ ingenuity and thriftiness, and I can’t wait to welcome them to my side of the flight deck door.

But honestly, I think this focus on cost misses the real attraction of aircraft ownership for the aspiring professional pilot: It potentially represents a massive increase in the value of your training and time building. Not having to work around an FBO or flight school’s schedule is huge. Being able to put together long cross-country adventures will build your flight time faster, give you a trove of valuable experience, and be far more enjoyable and less likely to burn you out. You’ll know your airplane intimately, will have the assurance of knowing you’re the only one flying it and it’s not being abused by other students, and you’ll gain a great deal of insight into systems and maintenance.

• READ MORE: What’s the Big Deal About Seniority?

If I were to start over today, knowing what I know now, I’d buy a classic taildragger, let’s say an Aeronca Champ, for $30,000. I’d get my private in it and then build time flying it all over America at 75 mph ($79/hour for 500 hours in 18 months), go to a Part 141 school for instrument through CFI, and then once I had a couple hundred hours of tailwheel time, I’d hang out my shingle as a niche tailwheel instructor (going rate: $60-plus/hour) and get to 1,500 hours that way. I’d have fantastic stick and rudder skills and a bunch of great stories to take to my first airline job.

This is a bit of a fantasy, because few zero-time pilots have the knowledge to successfully navigate such a path on their own. You’d need guidance from experienced owners and old-school instructors. It should give you the idea, however, of the possibilities if you get a bit creative and deviate from the cookie-cutter career path that will leave you $100,000 in debt and potentially bore you to death en route to the promised land.

The post Should You Buy an Airplane for Training and Time Building? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Most pilots are familiar with the event. Now known as EAA AirVenture, thousands of airplanes and their owners converge upon Wittman Regional Airport (KOSH) in Oshkosh, Wisconsin, for a weeklong aviation celebration. Aircraft of all types show up, manufacturers unveil their newest offerings, daily airshows take place, and good friends catch up and share laughs over beer and brats.

Like many pilots, I made my first pilgrimage to the event as a passenger. Back around 1998, or so, I belonged to a flying club in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that maintained a fairly active social calendar. When a couple of members invited me to ride along to Oshkosh in the back seat of the club’s Cessna 182, I leapt at the opportunity.

We flew a 182 there, and opted to take the direct route right over Lake Michigan. This is a somewhat controversial strategy. Such a route, even at our cruising altitude of 12,500 feet, introduces a stretch of about 20 to 25 minutes where, should you experience an engine failure, you will be unable to glide to either the Michigan or the Wisconsin shorelines. I learned that when flying in that stretch, the engine makes some very concerning noises. In your head, anyway.

Although we filed IFR for the flight there, things became somewhat hectic as we approached Oshkosh. While on final to Runway 27, the controller advised us he would be placing three P-51s ahead of us and a B-17 behind. Feeling like we had been teleported into World War II, we monitored the warbirds closely while also keeping an eye out for flak.

The following week at Oshkosh was magical. Camping with friends, seeing thousands of airplanes, and simply taking it all in was a memorable experience. But the trip there was what stood out. The challenge of managing the weather, the route, and the traffic made the rest of the experience feel like something special; it was an adventure that had to be earned, and the payoff felt that much sweeter as a result. 

As I walked around the grounds that week, I observed the aircraft owners around us in the midst of their own individual adventures. Seeing them taxi into their parking spots, set up camp, and then kick back in the shade of their wing as they watched arrivals, I became enchanted. The idea of single-handedly orchestrating all the necessary planning and logistics to get to the world’s greatest aviation celebration and then relaxing with my very own airplane became a lifelong goal.

A quarter-century later, I found myself poring over the weather forecast and reviewing the arrival procedures, ready at last to orchestrate the logistics of my own arrival with my own airplane. While most of the process proved to be straightforward and manageable, the weather forecast was ominous. To me, anyway. 

• READ MORE: FLYING‘s Complete Coverage of EAA AirVenture 2022

It all came down to crosswinds. When you’re as new to tailwheel flying as me, you look for every opportunity to minimize or eliminate them. From opting to fly in the early morning or late afternoon to seeking out airports with suitable runway options, to changing your flying and travel plans completely, you do what you need to do to be safe and conservative. In the week leading up to AirVenture 2022, it became clear I’d have to do some or all of these things to get to the big event safely and without any insurance claims.

The forecast called for winds that were both strong and gusty. With a self-imposed crosswind limitation of 8 knots, I was motivated to plan my arrival around the day with the most favorable winds. Ideally, this would occur on the Thursday prior to the beginning of the big show. This, I had learned over the years, provides just the right amount of time to arrive, secure a great parking/camping spot, and settle in to observe the thousands of weekend arrivals.

Looking at the National Weather Service’s graphical forecast, however, a Thursday arrival looked bleak. Winds gusting to nearly 30 mph were well above my limits, and the rest of the week looked similar. Monday’s forecast, however, was perfect. Not wanting to arrive in the chaos that defines Saturday or Sunday, I was left with one alternative—fly to Oshkosh a full week early, on the Monday before the show kicks off.

The idea of flying up a full week early seemed ludicrous at first. There would be no food vendors open, no trams running, and virtually no other aircraft to see. It would be a ghost town.

But it would be Oshkosh.

I considered the situation. I was able to work remotely. Provided I had access to electricity and Wi-Fi, it made no difference whether I was in an office or in a tent. And the weather on Monday morning looked positively idyllic, with light winds right down the runways at both my home airport as well as at Oshkosh. It seemed arriving so early would provide many upsides with virtually no downsides.

By 9 a.m. Monday morning, I had the airplane packed and preflighted. This early in the week, the Notice (formerly known as the NOTAM—a detailed set of arrival procedures specific to AirVenture) would not be active. I would, therefore, be able to fly directly to the airport as though it was any other Class D airport, with no complications. 

The 170 took its time getting off the runway. The 85-degree heat, nearly full fuel tanks, and 150 pounds of camping gear slowed acceleration, as did my newly installed, low-pressure tundra tires. But take off it did before settling into a very luxurious climb. The price of a 180 hp Lycoming O-360 STC certainly seems high, but during takeoffs like this, the trees on the departure end of the runway seem even higher. 

Before I knew it, I had leveled off and had little else to do but absorb the reality that I was on my way to Oshkosh in my own airplane. Still new to EFBs, I found the entire navigation process laughably easy. Formerly intimidating concerns, like the location of airspace and, indeed, one’s own location at any given moment, were clearly displayed as plain as day. Simply follow the magenta line, monitor the engine, and look for traffic. Before you know it, you’re approaching your destination stress-free.

The controllers at Oshkosh were friendly and accommodating as ever. I requested and was granted the use of Runway 27. Because of the nonexistent crosswind component, the most interesting part of the landing was my adjustment to the new tundra tires, which contacted the surface sooner than anticipated and threw me off just enough to make a soft yet ugly landing. 

I taxied to my preferred parking/camping spot in the vintage airplane area and was greeted with a hearty “Welcome to Oshkosh!” The parking volunteers were on duty and happy to assist a full week before the show was slated to begin. The friendly volunteer asked where I’d like to park, and ultimately, invited me to shut down and explore my preferred area on foot to find the best spot, which I did. There were, apparently, many benefits to arriving early. 

After properly securing the airplane with double tiedowns, I bribed a nearby volunteer to give me a ride to a local hotel. It wasn’t that I needed a place to sleep—my tent works fine—but rather that I needed a place to work. Convenient electric outlets, reliable Wi-Fi, and air conditioning would make my three work days far more enjoyable, and two reasonably-priced nights in a hotel would do the trick nicely until my vacation officially began on Thursday.

Walking away from my airplane, I couldn’t resist a glance back. By any measure, my first solo flight into AirVenture was a sham. I arrived in perfect weather. I arrived before the busy, chaotic arrival procedures were in place. And I was able to have my first choice of the most prime parking spots on the grounds. 

But at the same time, I managed risk, I flew within my abilities, I got to Oshkosh, and I did it all without having to file an insurance claim afterward. I was a pansy, but I was a safe one. And if achieving my 25-year dream of flying my own machine into AirVenture meant easing into it as I was able, I felt good about it.

The post The Early Bird Gets the Good Parking at Oshkosh appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For the rest of us, things are somewhat different.

While particularly dedicated mechanics will travel more than an hour away to conduct a top overhaul on an engine, the general expectation in my area is that the aircraft owner will transport the aircraft to the mechanic. So when basing your aircraft at a small rural airstrip and service is about 50 miles away, one must become something of a logistics expert. This, I learned, is an aspect of aircraft ownership with which one must contend when arranging for an annual inspection.

Although my airplane’s last annual inspection was completed by the previous owner in July of last year, I thought it prudent to get a jump on things. Oshkosh was only about a month away, after all, and there’d be nothing more depressing than driving there while your airplane sits in the maintenance hangar back home. Particularly when you live only about 100 miles away from the big event.

Time was, therefore, of the essence…and so too was good planning. The first step was getting the airplane to the mechanic in Lone Rock, Wisconsin, several counties away. Having soloed my Cessna 170 for the first time just one week prior, I was very interested in the surface winds and in minimizing any crosswinds, particularly on paved runways. Although I’d had my private certificate for many years, tailwheel flying was still fairly new to me and my personal limits were correspondingly low.

Planning became a matter of looking for that perfect moment where nice weather conditions converged with my available time off as well as the availability of someone to pick me up. I did, after all, have to return home after dropping the airplane off. I reached out to a few friends, explained my situation, and because they’re such great guys, I soon had multiple options lined up.

On the morning of my flight to the mechanic, I got an early start to take advantage of relatively favorable winds. The destination was a rural airport with two paved runways. Runway 9/27 was 5,000 feet long, and 18/36 was 1,850 feet long. Between the two of them, I was confident I could find an option that minimized any crosswind component.

I called for my weather briefing just as I was walking out the door to head to the airport. After discussing winds for a few minutes and determining that they’d be out of the east, the briefer ran through the NOTAMs and casually mentioned that Runway 9/27 at my destination was closed. This meant I’d have to land on the far shorter runway with a direct crosswind right at my personal crosswind limits. 

I wasn’t happy with the situation. But everything was technically still within limits, and as the east/west runway would remain closed until September, there wouldn’t be much getting around it. I opted to go for it and headed to the airport.

In addition to learning my new-to-me airplane, it had also been nearly 20 years since my most recent solo cross-country trip. Though I had occasionally toyed with iPad apps like ForeFlight and Garmin Pilot, I still hadn’t gotten used to how laughably easy they made navigation and situational awareness. Gone were the days when a pilot had to actually determine where they were with pilotage and VORs; now, one simply steered to avoid airspace and followed the magenta line. To those of us who were still accustomed to using paper charts, it was the stuff of dreams.

After loading up the various goodies I was having my mechanic install as part of the annual, I spent a few minutes getting set up in the cockpit. I clamped my phone into a handy suction cup mount just left of the yoke, activated my flight plan, and ensured I had my backup iPad and backup power supply handy. Minutes later, I was climbing out against a backdrop of bold blue sky and warm spring sun.

Without any paper charts to fold, draw on, and refold, I focused instead on the basics like maintaining altitude and keeping a sharp eye out for traffic. I fired up a homemade ADS-B In unit a friend lent me, paired it to my phone, and yet again marveled at how thoroughly I had been outpaced by modern technology. It’s fashionable to remain wistful and romantic about the good old days, but when it comes to things like this, I’m in no hurry to go back.

The scenery unfolded briskly thanks to a healthy tailwind. Before long, I was entering the pattern at my destination, all the while trying to make sense of the non-stop screeches and minute-long piercing squeals that define CTAFs across the country. Whereas navigation and traffic awareness had moved into the 21st century during my absence, radio communication clearly had yet to progress beyond the 1930s. 

As I rolled out on final, a significant crab indicated a crosswind that was exercising every last bit of my 8-knot limitation. Combined with stickier, less forgiving pavement, these would be some of the most challenging conditions I’d ever encountered in the meager nine or so hours I’d logged in my airplane. My sole mission in life became to maintain perfect coordination during touchdown. 

Fortunately, I met my goal and maintained great coordination throughout the landing. Unfortunately, this came at the expense of misjudging the flare height and stalling the airplane in from about 3 feet above the runway. All was fine, though. The airplane shrugged it off and didn’t seem to care nearly as much as I did. Still, I apologized to it on the taxi in.

I shut down at the maintenance hangar and met up with Ryan Johnson, the mechanic who performed my engine’s top overhaul. We went over some items pertaining to the annual inspection and parked the airplane in his hangar. As I walked away, I silently prayed to the airplane gods, asking them to have financial mercy on me during my first annual. 

• FOLLOW FROM THE BEGINNING: Previous editions of “The New Owner”

Not long after dropping the airplane off, my ride home arrived in his pristine Piper Pacer. I had reached out to Ed a few days earlier, asking if he’d be willing to fly me home, and he jumped at the chance. He and his wife are the creators of the YouTube channel The Flying Stampede, in which they are attempting to fly to every public airport in Wisconsin and win prizes offered by the Wisconsin Department of Transportation. In addition to helping me out, this would be another stamp in his Wisconsin airport passport.

We had a great breakfast at the positively adorable airport restaurant, where coffee and omelets were served with a healthy side of airplane chitchat from the group of local pilots that call it home. The combination of the airport’s main runway closure and increasing winds kept other airplanes away while we were there, so I made sure to tip the waitress well. With any luck, she and the restaurant will stick around for years to come.

Ed and I had a great flight back. While it had been our first time flying together, we proclaimed that it would not be the last. I thanked him again for his fantastic assistance and shot some phone video of him departing into the sun.

It had been an eventful day. I had successfully flown my first cross-country flight in 19 years. I’d utilized an EFB for navigation for the first time. And I’d conquered my most challenging crosswind conditions to date, albeit with an embarrassingly ugly landing. 

I also reflected upon another wonder of the modern era—the ease with which one can meet new people and build new relationships through social media. Among the cesspool of political forums, armchair experts, and snide comment threads, there exists some fantastic communities of wonderful people. My day was made possible through some of those connections.

It’s perhaps not unlike actual physical neighborhoods. A city can all-too-easily become defined by its worst areas and motivate us to stay away forever. But seek out the right parts, and you just might be rewarded with good conversations over good breakfast with new friends who will be there for you when you need them.

The post The Adventure of Preparing for The First Annual Inspection appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Fortunately, when it comes to general aviation, more respect is afforded to a rental airplane. We make every attempt to finesse our landings. We’re reasonably careful with switches, levers, and knobs. Generally, most of us tend to make an effort to leave the machine in as good or better condition than that in which we found it.

Prior to owning an airplane of my own, I wouldn’t have thought the day-to-day handling of one’s own machine would be much different. It seemed reasonable that the experience as an owner would reflect that of a renter, with a similar level of care and concern provided to the airplane. 

How wrong I was.

In reality, flying one’s own airplane can turn you into an entirely different pilot. A paranoid one, constantly on the lookout for any and all potential threats to one’s pride and joy and accordingly, to the state of one’s bank account. Gone is the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed student pilot full of optimism and blissful ignorance. In their place is a steely-eyed pessimist, anticipating any and all disasters, from flat tires to stuck valves to electrical shorts. And one who is terrified of damaging their first airplane.

This is the person I had become, and it introduced an unforeseen twist to my checkout training. Whereas in rental aircraft I simply flew as trained and had confidence in my abilities, I now had a personal connection to the airplane. Getting it wrong and bending metal would be a deeply emotional disaster—not just a financial one. 

At the controls of my Cessna 170, the brain cells with an emotional attachment to the airplane became annoying backseat drivers. They would constantly distract the brain cells that were flying the airplane with admonishments to pay close attention to the engine, be smooth with the controls, and for the love of God, to avoid ground loops at all costs. 

This added an entirely new element to my checkout training. Yes, I had to learn how to fly the airplane well, and I had to brush up on my rusty piloting skills—though I had my private and instrument, I was badly out of practice. But I also had to contend with the ever-present specter of getting things wrong and bending metal. Whereas such an event would be bad enough with a rental, it would be downright devastating in my own newly-purchased airplane.

• FOLLOW FROM THE BEGINNING: Previous editions of “The New Owner”

These thoughts swirled around my head as I hopped into the left seat to continue my checkout training. My instructor Pete and I had begun the process last summer and completed two lessons before an unfortunate engine issue reared its ugly head. Now, many months later with the engine repaired and broken in, I was determined to complete the checkout.

The first day back into the air took place in perfect weather. Winds were out of the northwest at about 7 knots, providing ideal conditions for crosswind work at a nearby airport with north/south and east/west runways. As an added bonus, one of those runways was grass and the other was paved, providing a multitude of potential lessons.

Pete had me perform some airwork on the way there to reacquaint me with my 170’s flight characteristics. Stalls, turns around a point, and a constant barrage of hypothetical situations kept me busy and before I knew it, I was setting up for my first crosswind wheel landing on a paved runway. The combination of a crosswind and an unforgiving runway surface was one that I had been dreading, as any miscalculations would be immediately amplified by the ample friction provided by the pavement.

Fortunately, I managed to wrangle my 170 in a reasonably safe manner, avoiding large bounces and staying coordinated despite the crosswind. I had made about seven decent landings on the airport’s two runways without any serious problems, when on the way home, Pete threw me for a loop. “Hey, let’s land at Sugar Ridge!”

Chilled, I glanced down. Sure enough, there it was. A grass strip that, to my inexperienced eye, looked no larger than a basketball court and sported a massive drop off on the east end of the runway.

I’d been there before as a passenger with my friend Jim. Jim has achieved absolute mastery of his own 170, which itself has been modified with a STOL kit, a larger engine, and a beautifully sculpted carbon fiber propeller that actually throws your head back when the brakes are released during takeoff.

When Jim took me into Sugar Ridge, he made it look easy. The dropoff at the east end of the runway didn’t faze him one bit, and his powerful 170 clawed its way into the air in a laughably short distance. Either that, or it blew the earth away from us.

Now, with my relatively anemic 145 hp engine and a truly feeble set of flying skills, I was not confident and thus, attempted to weasel my way out of it. “1,600 feet is pretty short for me,” I mused aloud. “I think I’ll just keep heading home where there’s a bit more of a safety margin.”

Pete wouldn’t hear of it, and ultimately presented me with an ultimatum; either I fly us into and out of Sugar Ridge, or I give the controls to him and he flies us into and out of Sugar Ridge. After a few choice profanities, I conceded and agreed to do the flying, reminding myself that the best time to get out of one’s comfort zone is when there’s an instructor sitting in the other seat.

The landing was entirely uneventful, which was expected. Equipped with the largest flaps of any 170 subtype, my 170B could comfortably land in extraordinarily short distances. Takeoffs, on the other hand, could be a bit nerve-wracking, as the relatively low power sometimes made it feel as though clearance over departure-end obstacles could only be achieved via curvature of the earth.

Amusingly, this wasn’t far from Pete’s advice for the takeoff. “Just get into ground effect, and by the time you’re ready to climb, you’ll reach the drop-off and the ground will fall away from you.” Logically, I knew this was true, but it didn’t make me feel much better. Neither did the light and variable wind that was occasionally producing a tailwind.

Still, I forced myself to trust my instructor and I forced myself to ignore those brain cells that were so worried about damaging my beloved new airplane. As instructed, I got into ground effect and achieved a safe climb speed just before reaching the drop off. And as expected, it was somewhat terrifying.

But we made it. And one step at a time, I was learning to trust my own abilities as well as those of the airplane. While still harboring a strong emotional attachment to the machine, my nerves were beginning to subside and I was beginning to have fun. 

Our following lesson took place on a rainy day. The ceilings were high, but the rain was steady and in flight visibility was less than ideal. Pete had me run through some more emergency procedures, and then had me communicate with the approach controller at a nearby Class C airport to dust off another clumsy skill set that had seen little use in the past decade.

We performed more wheel landings on pavement, visited multiple airports I’d never before flown into, and utilized another relatively short runway. Throughout it all, my single biggest struggle was contending with the forward view—or lack thereof. Because we were flying in the rain, the windshield was continuously covered in large water droplets, and my depth perception was destroyed.

As it turned out, having to contend with those water droplets demanded such focus that I shed the nerves and “what-ifs” that had been distracting me during my previous lessons. By having to work a new problem, the old problems became less of an issue. What used to feel like insurmountable challenges began to feel more like a foundation upon which to build, and I was beginning to feel more confident.

Pete signed me off to solo after that lesson. If circumstances, schedule, and weather all cooperate, I will aim to do so in the next several days. And while there’s still a handful of brain cells that are terrified to damage my beloved 170, most have been effectively converted and are now looking forward to the flying ahead.

The post The Final Moments of Checkout Training Bring an Unexpected Fear appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Being an owner, on the other hand, is altogether different.

For one thing, you maintain a keen awareness of each and every system onboard the airplane at all times, well above and beyond what you might have experienced during your rental days. An odd rumble here, a subtle murmur there…signals like these whisper directly into your soul, suggest five-figure repair bills, and if you happen to be on a tight budget, chill you to the bone. 

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

Sure, they also suggest concerns about airworthiness and perhaps warn you of an imminent issue that might necessitate a precautionary landing. But as a humble new owner, having to handle an inflight emergency just might be preferable to having to handle a financial one. 

In addition to the sense of financial responsibility you feel as an owner, there’s an emotional attachment to your machine that’s even more profound. A responsibility to all its past and future owners to take good care of it and pass it on to the next owner in sound mechanical condition. All the past owners had successfully managed to do it, and now it’s your turn.

The weight of this responsibility weighed heavily on me and visions of getting it wrong swirled around my head as I taxied to the runway with my instructor seated next to me. It was a beautiful spring afternoon with pleasant temperatures and calm winds. Best of all, no other airplanes were out and about. Perfect conditions to continue my checkout training in my first airplane.

It was a long time coming. The poor Cessna had been down for maintenance from August until December. When the engine work had finally been completed, it took another four months to properly break in the new cylinders. 

The engine break-in was the tricky part. To properly break in new cylinders, an airplane must be flown at cruise power settings—no pattern work allowed—which was problematic, as I specifically needed pattern work to get checked out in the airplane.

I ultimately depended on good friends with 170 experience to help me with that. Whenever they were available and willing, we’d hop in and go blast around to nowhere in particular for an hour or so. Little by little, we flew the necessary break-in hours, and I was finally prepared to continue my check-out lessons.

My nerves were well under control, and I was eager to get back into the air. Still, the specter of bonehead-induced airplane damage was lurking in the back of my mind, and I was determined to exercise good judgment as I learned how my airplane handled during takeoff and landing. I looked forward to finding a massive grass strip someplace, several thousand feet long and maybe 100 feet wide, where there was plenty of room to fumble through some landings.

Instead, my instructor promptly directed me to a short grass strip I’d never heard of. While not overly short at about 1,600 feet, it certainly wasn’t what I had in mind. While on final, he casually mentioned that the first few hundred feet of the runway were pretty soft after a recent rain, and I’d probably want to avoid that section of the runway. 

Fortunately, I needn’t have worried. The 170’s massive flaps made short work of the short field, and I made some reasonably decent takeoffs and landings. After departure, we continued on to another grass strip that had the added challenge of a pseudo ski jump in the middle. My instructor, it seemed, enjoyed toying with me. 

After more pattern work consisting of both three-point and wheel landings, we headed to a third airport to get some fuel. This was the airport I was most concerned about, as it had no grass runways at all—only pavement. I’d never actually landed a taildragger on pavement before, and heard many stories about how unforgiving the surface is to a sloppy or less-than-proficient pilot.

The two surfaces differ in the amount of friction that exists between the tires and the runway surface. On grass strips, the tires imperceptibly slide left and right a bit as you make corrections with the rudder. This gives them less “bite,” and when you touch down in a less-than-coordinated state, the airplane will likely just squirm a bit to the left or right as you correct. Grass is easy. 

Pavement, on the other hand, demands quick reflexes and quick reactions. Because the tires get such good traction compared to grass, they bite into the surface. Should you touch down in any sort of a crab, they can quickly snap you around into a ground loop with little warning. If you’re landing on pavement, you’d better have great coordination and control.

Fortunately, the landing went fine and wasn’t nearly as brutal as I’d been anticipating. This was mostly because of the mercifully calm winds, but I think it was also a result of having done some tailwheel training with my friend Marty in his short-coupled Piper Colt taildragger. That frenetic little airplane behaves like an overly caffeinated hummingbird on the runway, and makes my 170 feel slow and drunk in comparison. 

I did learn one unexpected lesson about how the airplane behaves on pavement. After touching down, I instinctively pulled the yoke all the way back to plant the tail, and this resulted in a moderate vibration from the tailwheel. Returning the yoke to a more neutral position eliminated it instantly. Keenly interested in prolonging the life of my tailwheel, I made a mental note to get into this habit on pavement.

After topping off the tanks, we began to head home when, about a mile or two north of the field, my instructor pulled the carb heat and reduced the engine to idle for a simulated engine failure. With more than enough altitude to play with, I turned back and, thanks again to those big flaps, managed to salvage an approach that began a bit too high. From there, we headed back home and wrapped up two hours of flying.

Overall, the resumption of my checkout training was a successful return to flying, and I had a great time. No cylinders were damaged, no metal was bent, and my takeoffs and landings went pretty well. Best of all, I’d managed to serve as a worthy caretaker of my airplane. With any luck, it’s a trend that will continue indefinitely so future owners will someday be able to experience it for themselves.

The post A Long-Awaited Return to the Skies Comes With Anxious Moments appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

This was the wisdom coined by mountain bike pioneer Keith Bontrager back in the mid-1980s. The logic, of course, is that a bicycle part that’s both strong and light will not be cheap, one that’s light and cheap will not be strong, etc. The overlying theory is that when budget is a concern, you can’t have it all, and compromises must be made.

The link between cycling and aviation has always been a strong one, and back when I began to seriously shop for an airplane, it occurred to me that there must be a similar principle that can be applied to airplanes. Not in terms of strength and weight, necessarily, but rather in terms of the compromises that we must face when budget is a concern.

At the time, I had saved enough money to be seriously shopping for a small, two-place Cessna 120 or 140. When it comes to certified airplanes, these are some of the most basic and affordable options out there; commonly even cheaper, lighter, and simpler than Cessna 150s. A great way for a newcomer to test the waters of aircraft ownership for the first time.

The Compromises Begin

I was already familiar with the strengths of 120s and 140s, but as I learned more about them, their weaknesses became apparent. Chief among them was the limited payload. With most empty weights hovering between 950-1050 pounds and 25 gallons of fuel capacity, precious little was left over for occupants and baggage. 

These were useful things to learn, because it kept me from making some decisions I might have later regretted. For example, I located a fantastic 120 in a nearby state that checked nearly every one of my boxes and was listed for only $21,000. But digging into the records, I learned that, thanks in part to the heavier metalized wing, I would personally only be able to carry a 70-pound passenger with full tanks.

That airplane was beautiful. It was well-maintained, nicely equipped, and would likely have proven to be a reliable machine for many years. But it would have crippled me in terms of capability. Effectively a single-person airplane, I would have been able to carry a couple backpacks filled with camping gear, but I would never have been able to take a friend along with me for the trip. 

My search dragged on and my frustration grew. But I diligently continued to deposit funds into my airplane account, and before long, more options revealed themselves. I had accrued enough savings to be able to consider the nicest 120s and 140s available…as well as some of the least-expensive Cessna 170s on the market. 

A New Quandry

This placed me in an interesting position. My search now bridged the gap between beautifully maintained, well-sorted basic airplanes that offered less capability, and more capable types that were comparatively shabby and in need of attention. Each option offered its own significant strengths, and each included its own headaches.

Being a fairly visual thinker, I attempted to quantify the pros and cons of each airplane I encountered in a spreadsheet. In doing so, it occurred to me that I was facing a limitation not unlike Keith Bontrager’s astute observations on bicycles. When constrained by a finite budget, I would have to choose which strength I wanted and then accept the weakness it entailed.

In the case of airplanes, it wasn’t a matter of having to decide between weight and strength, but rather, capability and reliability. When bridging the gap between two levels of aircraft, I could go with an entry-level type that was well-sorted and would most likely produce few maintenance headaches, but it would offer limited capability. Alternatively, I could go with a more capable type that had a larger payload and could access more challenging locations, but it would be well-worn and would almost certainly require more frequent maintenance…both expected and unexpected.

Capable. Well-sorted. Affordable. I could choose any two. 

There isn’t necessarily a right or wrong answer to this conundrum. It simply comes down to what sort of ownership experience one finds more appealing—and whether one prefers to eventually replace their airplane with another type, or stick with one for many years.

• DON’T MISS OUT: Subscribe to FLYING Magazine

A pilot motivated by visions of long cross-country travel will likely dream of Bonanzas, Mooneys, and Comanches; complex, high-performance machines that can provide a compelling alternative to airline travel. But with a fixed and/or limited budget, the only affordable examples of those types will likely have higher-time engines, dated panels, and possibly a collection of maintenance issues that have been deferred for years. A work in progress, so to speak.

To purchase such an airplane is to embark upon a long-term project; a constant series of upgrades and repairs, and a corresponding lack of airplane availability as it is taken out of service for that work to be completed. For many owners, this might be a perfectly acceptable price of admission to the ranks of Bonanza/Mooney/Comanche ownership. But for others, it may sour the overall experience of ownership, exhausting their patience as well as their budget.

The latter sort of owner might ultimately be happier with a more humble, less impressive type like a Musketeer or Cherokee. Yes, these might not match the more powerful, complex types in cruise performance, range, or ramp appeal. But an airworthy, operational Cherokee has better performance than a Bonanza that’s confined to the maintenance hangar, undergoing a three-week long repair.

Personally, I ended up opting for the more capable airplane that was a bit shabby and unsorted. I recognized it would be used purely for recreation as opposed to a primary means of travel. Being down for maintenance would, therefore, not create any tremendous hardship.

I also liked the idea of buying one’s last airplane first. Having found a scruffy example of my dream airplane, I accepted a future of regular upgrades and restoration. A propeller upgrade here, some new avionics there. I envisioned a long-term relationship in which I learn the most minute details of every system aboard the machine and chip away at opportunities to gradually restore it to beautiful mechanical condition.

Over the first year of ownership, my patience and budget would both be tested. I’d encounter some fun projects that could be magically completed with the wave of a credit card, and I’d encounter others that required weeks of research, an open-ended budget, and months of downtime. 

Such is the reality of opting for the capable option that happens to be less sorted. Were I able to omit the “affordable” portion of the formula, I’d surely have an airplane that offers the best of both worlds. But such is life, and with the proper mindset, one will appreciate the strengths while taking the challenges in stride.

The post A Modest Budget Makes For an Exercise in Compromise appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

One question I’ve fielded more than once is: “How did you come up with 200 hours per year as an acceptable minimum?” One reader mentioned that some mechanics and pilots set this threshold as 100 hours instead of 200.

This uncovers a universal law of aviation: If you ask 100 pilots a question, you’ll get at least 101 different opinions. This also shows the power of building a spreadsheet and plugging in real-world numbers. This column is not just about one pilot’s opinion. Let’s run last week’s example aircraft, but only change the number of hours flown per year to 100 and see what happens.

The 100-Hour Hypothesis

Our hypothesis for this experiment will be that we can change nothing but the number of hours flown per year from last week’s example and still come up with a reasonable cost of aircraft ownership.

Let’s take a look:

For me, this difference is stark. Yes, we’re spending nearly $8,000 less overall per year than if we’d flown 200 hours. However, our hourly cost has skyrocketed to $227.23! I don’t think many of us can sustain aviation activity while paying so much money to fly a 50-year-old VFR-only aircraft. 

Have we disproved our hypothesis?

This realization leads us to an important point: sometimes, it’s better to just rent.

Rent vs. Own

In some ways, renting isn’t as fun as owning. The airplane isn’t mine, and I have to schedule around countless other people who will never treat it as well as I do. However, from a finance standpoint, if you’re only flying 100 hours per year or less, renting costs you far less. 

How about a couple examples?

Leading Edge Aviation in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, rents a VFR C-172M with an O-320 for $116 an hour, including fuel. It’s two years older than the one we’ve been looking at, but flying it for 100 hours per year would cost roughly half of what we’d be paying to own a similar airplane.

And, there’s another element to consider if you were to own instead of rent at Doylestown. According to Airnav, the only fuel available on the field costs a whopping $5.89 per gallon. Plugging that cost into our calculator says it would cost us $243.91 per hour to own and operate our example aircraft out of KDYL.

• READ MORE: Previous editions of High Finances

What about on the West Coast?

Corsair Aviation at Van Nuys, California, has a Piper Cherokee for $140 an hour and a C-172N for $145. Fuel at KVNY ranges from $5.69 to an unbelievable $8.30 per gallon.

In my experience, renting on either coast tends to cost more than in the Midwest. This means you may be able to find even cheaper aircraft rental throughout the country. At those rates, flying just 100 hours per year in your own aircraft is a very tough sell.

Don’t forget that renters get to skip many headaches of aircraft ownership. Renters don’t have to:

• Wash the airplane
• Hire mechanics and hound them every few days to finish up the job
• File any ownership or tax paperwork
• Research part numbers and order those parts themselves
• Feel upset when the airplane gets a hangar rash—unless you have to pay the owner’s deductible

If we were being truly honest with ourselves, our calculator would include a line for the value of your time spent managing your aircraft. I left this out because it’s difficult to quantify, but it’s something to consider.

How Do They Do It?

You’re probably wondering how these businesses can afford to rent these aircraft out so cheaply. Between economies of scale and the benefits of owning the operation, they get a lot of discounts.

When you own a fleet of aircraft, you don’t pay by the shop hour for maintenance. You pay a salary to one or more A&P mechanics. They know your aircraft so well that they can get work done more quickly. They can probably even save you thousands by doing engine overhauls in-house.

When you own the FBO, you don’t pay full price for fuel. You may also own hangars. You can write off a few hundred dollars per hangar per month as a loss, but you’re not actually paying rent to store your airplanes.

As a business, you can also deduct the depreciation in your airplanes’ value from your taxes. The tax rules around depreciation and business debt are so generous that the purchase price of an airplane may be negligible for an FBO or flight school.

These companies also get a break on insurance. Although rates are much higher when an airplane is flying for hire, they can insure the entire fleet under one policy.

Here’s what the costs might look like for one of the FBOs we just looked at:

No wonder they can afford to charge so little for their aircraft. Even at those rates, they’re still making money every time you fly.

Break-Even Point

Let’s set our calculator back to our baseline assumptions and look at the effect hours have again. Using the same assumptions we had at the top of this page we see that flying an annual total of:

• 100 hours yields an hourly rate of $227.23
• 150 hours yields an hourly rate of $177.54
• 200 hours yields an hourly rate of $152.70
• 250 hours yields an hourly rate of $137.79
• 300 hours yields an hourly rate of $127.85

Somewhere near 225 hours per year our ownership costs match the rental rate for that airplane at Van Nuys, not accounting for much more expensive fuel in California. But would I honestly fly that many hours every single year in my own airplane?

Many aviation enthusiasts will try to “remind” you that you get the purchase price of your airplane back when you sell it. At some times this has been true. In fact, prices have climbed so much lately that if you’re selling an aircraft you’ve owned for at least five years, you could potentially double your money. I don’t think these prices will last though. The sad truth is that if you buy an airplane in the near future, it will probably sell it for less.

Even if you just break even when you sell, don’t forget that inflation is corroding the value of the money you have tied up in this aircraft.

I’m not saying you absolutely should not buy an airplane if you can’t get your costs down as low as renting at the local FBO. Personally, I’d pay an extra $7.70 per hour for my own airplane. The more honest you are with the numbers you plug into your calculator, the more realistic the results will be.

You may be able to economize or optimize on some of the costs we’re assuming here. Next, we’ll look at the biggest factors affecting aircraft ownership costs. We’ll see some clear ways to get more flying per dollar.

Thanks again for reading. Please keep your feedback coming, and fly safe!

The post Should You Rent or Buy Your Aircraft? 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.