Pilot weather reports, more simply known as PIREPs, are those rare commodities that general aviation pilots yearn for during preflight planning or while en route using datalink weather. They are vital since they answer these basic questions: At what altitude will I likely encounter ice? What is the severity of those icing conditions? What is the severity of turbulence at my planned altitude? And the most frequently asked question: What altitude will I find the cloud tops?

Perhaps there’s a PIREP or two out there that might just fill the void and answer one or more of these basic questions.

Other Consumers of PIREPs

It’s important to know that pilots are not the exclusive consumers of your reports. Meteorologists, air traffic controllers, dispatchers, briefers, and researchers are all extremely interested in your PIREPs. On a visit to the Aviation Weather Center (AWC) in Kansas City,

Missouri, nearly two decades ago, I asked one of the forecasters if PIREPs were important to him. He responded without hesitation, “Oh, god, yes!” as if his job depended on it. While he could continue to do his job without PIREPs, a forecaster can do his job better with more of them in the system.

Some meteorologists that issue terminal aerodrome forecasts (TAFs) examine the latest PIREPs before constructing their forecast. By far, the forecasters that depend on PIREPs the most are those located at the Center Weather Service Units (CWSUs) and those at the AWC. Let’s say an urgent pilot weather report from a Boeing 767 comes in for severe icing. An audible alarm will sound on the forecaster’s terminal at the AWC alerting them to the urgent report. They must click the alarm to silence it. AWC forecasters affectionately call this the “blue light special” since the alarm button turns that color.

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Such a PIREP will likely trigger the AWC meteorologist to pick up their “bat phone” and start a conversation with a CWSU meteorologist. They put their heads together to determine if there’s a need for a SIGMET or perhaps just a simple center weather advisory (CWA). The goal is to avoid advisories that may conflict and create confusion for pilots, although it does happen from time to time, especially when the weather is rather extreme.

As such, SIGMET advisories for severe or extreme turbulence and severe icing literally live and die by PIREPs. An urgent PIREP (UUA) of severe icing or severe or extreme turbulence may trigger an AWC forecaster to issue a SIGMET based solely on the conditions reported by a single pilot or aircrew. In fact, if you read the SIGMET or CWA text carefully, you will likely notice it often says, “RPTD BY ACFT” or “RPTD BY B767,” which tells you the SIGMET was issued due to one or more PIREPs of severe conditions.

At the other extreme, the AWC forecaster may cancel a SIGMET because there are no longer reports of severe icing or turbulence in the area. It may just be mostly moderate reports. Again, the decision to let the SIGMET die or extend it largely comes from PIREPs.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with a forecaster issuing a SIGMET without pilots reporting severe conditions. However, many forecasters want to see “ground truth” before issuing one. This is because issuing a SIGMET for severe ice, for example, makes the area a no-fly zone for most GA aircraft. Your TBM 960 can no longer legally fly through this area since it is not certified for flight into severe icing conditions. The FAA will no doubt pull the SIGMET as evidence that you should have known better if you turn yourself into a flying popsicle and need assistance.

Automation Ingests Your PIREPs

Your PIREPs are incorporated by weather guidance such as the Current Icing Product (CIP) and Graphical Turbulence Guidance (GTG) product found on aviationweather.gov. Both of these use PIREPs for icing and turbulence, respectively, to build the product’s analysis.

For example, a positive icing report helps CIP to increase the confidence there’s icing at the altitude reported by the pilot at the time the guidance is valid. Conversely, if the report is for negative icing, it might decrease the icing probability at that altitude.

But don’t try to fool the algorithm. If you were to report moderate ice in an area where the sky is obviously clear, it will be able to toss out your bogus report since it also relies on other observational data, such as satellite and surface observations (METARs). Sure, it’s unlikely any pilot would file a bogus report on purpose, but at times turbulence PIREPs are miscoded as reports for icing or the VOR identifier provided in the report for the location is miscoded (e.g., ODG instead of OGD).

Filing That Report

If you are like me, you undoubtedly find it difficult to file a pilot weather report. This is especially true when flying in busy terminal airspace, where it often matters the most. Whether flying IFR or VFR with flight following, it’s a challenge.

First, you need to leave the frequency. That involves asking the controller permission to switch frequencies so you can make that call to flight service. Once you’ve received permission, then you have the chore of finding the correct frequency and hoping someone on the other end will answer. When the weather is challenging, expect to hear, “N1234B, you are number four, standby.”

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Can you just give the controller your PIREP and skip the call to flight service? Sure, but the controller’s primary job is not to file your report—it is to separate IFR aircraft from other IFR or special VFR aircraft.

In other words, there’s no requirement for that controller to take your report and forward the details to flight service so the rest of the stakeholders in the aviation industry can take advantage of it. If you are reporting severe conditions, such as severe or extreme turbulence, severe ice, or low-level wind shear, the controller should be passing this along. However, in busy airspace, the controller may just say, “Thanks!” and that’s as far as it goes.

If you are lucky enough to have an internet connection in the cockpit, there are resources to file the report online. You may find that some of the heavyweight apps provide this service. There is one such portal on the aviationweather.gov website.

Just be aware that you have to create an account and then make direct contact to provide your name, airman’s certificate number, and specific affiliation (e.g., airline, flight school, government, military, etc.) for validation purposes. Once this validation is complete, you can sign in and file a report directly online. Those reports are appended with “AWCWEB” in the remarks like this one:

OVE UA /OV KCIC/TM 1515/FL260/TP B737/TB MOD/RM 180-260 AWC-WEB

However, to make the process even easier, download the Virga app (search for “Fly Virga” in the App Store or Google Play Store). This is a great option since it is fully integrated with the aviationweawther.gov PIREP portal. Visit www.flyvirga.com for more information. Note that you still must have a Wi-Fi or cellular connection to file the report.

When making a PIREP, be sure to be specific. Avoid general terms, such as “icing during the climb” or “turbulence during descent,” unless you specify the altitudes you experienced icing or turbulence in the climb or descent. This is critical since nobody knows what altitude you climbed to or descended from. Moreover, the CIP and GTG analyses depend on these specifics in order to utilize your report effectively.

Also, for turbulence reports, add details such as whether or not you were in or outside of the cloud boundary. This is to differentiate turbulence related to convection (i.e., cumuliform-type clouds) versus clear air turbulence.

Age Makes a Difference

How long is a PIREP useful? While it’s difficult to pick out a particular length of time, reports of icing conditions more than 75 minutes old are typically useless to a pilot and to the CIP algorithm. Not unlike thunderstorms, icing conditions and intensity can change rapidly in time and space. Precipitation and clouds come and go as the synoptic, or big weather picture, changes. Clouds become supercooled due to rapid cold-air advection, and other clouds become glaciated (all ice crystals) as temperatures fall below minus-20 degrees Celsius.

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From an aging perspective, turbulence PIREPs have an even shorter shelf life than icing PIREPs. Turbulence is highly transitory. An eddy of air might be propagating to a lower altitude after a pilot encounters it. Twenty minutes later, the next pilot at that same altitude may not see any bumps since the cause of the turbulence is now at a lower altitude. Again, it’s hard to agree on a specific time, but after about 45 minutes an isolated report of severe turbulence is probably too old to trust.

Required PIREPs

According to 14 CFR § 91.183 (b), a pilot flying under IFR in controlled airspace must report “any unforecast weather conditions encountered” by radio to ATC. Given this broad-brush regulation, you should limit your report to any forecast errors strictly significant to aviation operations. Unless it is urgent, there’s no need to make a big deal out of it either.

For example, let’s say you depart an uncontrolled field that has a TAF issued, and the forecast suggests that ceilings will be 2,000 feet at the departure time. As you climb out, you penetrate the lowest cloud deck at 900 feet AGL—this is significant to aviation, and you should report it to ATC. “Cirrus 1WX, one thousand two hundred, climbing four thousand, ceiling niner hundred overcast” is all you need to say.

While ATC may make use of this report for its own purposes, it is highly unlikely it will assemble your report into an official PIREP. To be sure this is relayed to the rest of us inquiring pilots, take a moment to file that report with flight service when you have the time.

Catch-22?

One of the comments I repeatedly hear from pilots is, “If I report icing, won’t I be admitting guilt if I’m piloting an aircraft not certified for flight into known icing conditions?” I’m not an attorney, however, I believe the answer is yes and no.

There was a similar concern from pilots when cockpit voice recorders (CVRs) were first introduced. Could the FAA use the recording against a pilot? The FAA said that wasn’t the intention, and CVRs were strictly added to improve safety of flight to learn why mistakes are made—not to bust the pilot during some random audit.

Similarly, there are no PIREP police waiting to nab you at the FBO in random fashion. Now, if you reported icing conditions and then had a hard landing that caused a prop strike due to a load of ice on the airframe, it’s likely the FAA will use your own PIREP against you.

Controllers are there to help you out of a bad situation. As always, confess to them that you are quickly becoming a flying popsicle. Be assertive with your request— tell them exactly what you need. For example, “1WX is in moderate icing and needs an immediate descent to four thousand.” If necessary, don’t hesitate to declare an emergency because doing so will likely get you priority handling.

Just remember that PIREPs are not just a private conversation between you and flight service. They are broadcast to the world. So, try to challenge yourself on each and every flight to file at least one PIREP.

So it doesn’t matter if the weather is extremely challenging or “oh-so boring.” Sometimes the best report is one that states smooth conditions and negative icing. There may be a pilot out there getting their back fillings jarred, and your report of glassy smooth conditions just 2,000 feet above them will help make their flight more enjoyable.

The hardworking folks at the AWC only complain when they don’t get enough PIREPs. So, let’s file those reports and not give them a reason to complain. I can tell you from firsthand experience, there’s nothing worse than a whiny meteorologist.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post The Ins and Outs of Pilot Weather Reports appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Our visit was almost perfect, with exciting matches, great competition, and enough spare time to enjoy some of the city’s attractions. The only downside was the drive, which took about six hours from our home in New Jersey. As we crept on a congested section of the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I glanced at Ben and said, “Let’s fly next time.”

I have learned to make such suggestions in a confident tone that belies the complex, often unpredictable nature of traveling in light aircraft. High winds , freezing rain, or any hint of a winter storm could scuttle our plans with little notice. If things go as planned, though, Dad might look like he knows what he is doing. It all worked out this year.

Getting There

Ben and I planned to fly right after school dismissal on a Friday afternoon so we would arrive in time to meet up with teammates for dinner. As usual, though, a number of delays conspired to grant us a departure at the tail end of sunset. Cleared for takeoff from Essex County Airport (KCDW), I lined up on Runway 22, applied full power, and soon Annie, our Commander 114B, was rising above suburban New Jersey, bending to the north to avoid nearby Morristown Airport’s (KMMU) Class D and heading straight for Pittsburgh.

Within 15 minutes the orange sky just above the horizon faded to black, and we were cruising through darkness, listening to radio traffic and acknowledging occasional handoffs from ATC. We also monitored our progress across Pennsylvania’s vastness based on the clusters of lights marking waypoints on the ground.

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Scranton, Wilkes-Barre, and Hazleton, a solo cross-country destination from my student-pilot days, slipped by quickly. Getting past Harrisburg to our south, however, seemed to take forever. The headwind at 6,500 had risen to 30 knots almost directly on the nose, adding to the sense of slog. Still, we were making far better time than the many closely packed headlights on the turnpike below.

Ben had retreated into slumber long before Harrisburg but awoke in time to see the encouraging glow of Altoona, followed closely by Johnstown before Pittsburgh loomed ahead. Soon we had our runway in sight and were cleared to descend and contact the Allegheny County tower. After shutting down I checked my watch. The trip took 2 hours and 30 minutes, which was not bad considering the wind and far better than a six-hour drive. We picked up our rental car and got to the hotel before the kitchen closed. Just.

The Airport

There are several airports convenient to Pittsburgh, from turf strips to the 2-mile-long runways of Pittsburgh International Airport (KPIT). Many general aviation pilots have long considered Allegheny County Airport (KAGC) the most convenient access point because it is in town, close to the places business and personal travelers want to visit. For those approaching from the east, as we did, KAGC is especially efficient because it is nearly 20 nm short of KPIT, tucked beneath the big airport’s 4,000-foot Class B shelf.

Opened in 1931, Allegheny County Airport succeeded Bettis Field, an airport developed in the 1920s on former farmland as part of the rapidly growing airmail network. Bettis became an aviation crossroads that hosted a number of notable pilots, including Charles Lindbergh and Amelia Earhart. KAGC was the primary field serving Pittsburgh until KPIT opened in 1952. By that time it was clear that the old airport was too small to handle the jet airlines that were on the way. Standing on the ramp now, however, it is easy to imagine DC-3s, DC-6s, and other propeller-driven transports operating there.

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To understand what a big deal the airport was, GA pilots have to visit the original art deco terminal. Typical of early airline terminals, the building is beautifully decorated but impossibly small by modern standards, without the space required to handle modern ticketing lines and TSA checks. Airplanes and the flying public were smaller then. The Pittsburgh History & Landmarks Foundation added the airport to its list of historic landmarks in 1981.

Things to Do

Pittsburgh is a stunning place, beginning with its geography. The famous three rivers—the Ohio, Allegheny, and Monongahela—converge downtown, and parts of the city sit high above atop steep inclines and sheer cliffs. Beginning in the 1800s, steam-powered incline planes, also called funiculars and gravity railways, were used mainly to transport coal but quickly caught on as passenger services connecting many of the hilltop communities with the busy riverbank districts below.

More than 20 funiculars operated through the early 20th century before ridership gradually declined and most of the tracks were removed. Today you can ride the restored Duquesne and Monongahela inclines that have long provided direct access to the hard-to-reach Mount Washington and Duquesne Heights neighborhoods high above the city. The funiculars’ hilltop stations provide some of the area’s best views.

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Visitors could spend weeks walking and driving across the city’s many bridges and studying their varied designs. With three rivers meeting downtown, Pittsburgh’s transportation network revolves around the bridges. Anyone interested in architecture could also become happily lost among the wide-ranging styles of Pittsburgh, where one can find colonial-style taverns sandwiched between steel and glass high-rises and Brutalist apartment blocks.

Historical groups offer numerous walking, bicycle, and bus tours that can give visitors concentrated doses of Pittsburgh’s rich history in specific areas of interest. One example is “Fire in the Valley: Carnegie Steel and the Town That Built America,” an in-depth tour of the Steel City’s industrial past, including sites of former mills and pivotal events such as the 1892 Battle of Homestead, a clash between members of the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers union and Carnegie Steel’s security force.

There is so much to see that you might want to stage your own walking tour by choosing a group of waypoints within a reasonable distance. During breaks in the volleyball tournament, I joined groups of parents to check out local shops, galleries, and the vibrant craft beer scene. Our hotel was around the corner from the Andy Warhol Museum, a must-see for any visitor and a wonderful resource for anyone interested in learning more about the late artist and Pittsburgh native. Warhol is buried in St. John the Baptist Byzantine Catholic Cemetery in nearby Bethel Park.

Pittsburgh is not a small town, but it feels like everything is close. Its sports venues are in town, all of them easily walkable. Acrisure Stadium, where the NFL’s Steelers play, sits in a picturesque spot near a riverfront promenade. Last year our downtown hotel was across the street from PNC Park, where the MLB’s Pirates play. The PPG Paints Arena is home to the NHL’s Penguins and is situated within a few blocks of the convention center where our volleyball tournament takes place. Our rental car remained parked for most of our stay.

One thing you should think about when planning a visit to Pittsburgh is when you might be able to make a return trip. There will always be something that you missed because you ran out of time. Even if you carefully choose your points of interest, you are bound to meet someone who will recommend an attraction you had not considered.

In our case it was the Mount Washington neighborhood, once known as Coal Hill. After the tournament we wound up spending hours exploring this one-of-a-kind community and its challenging terrain. It is the kind of place that impressed even teenage Ben, who took dozens of photos and kept asking if we could walk just a bit farther to see what was around the next corner—a minor miracle.

Eventually we got back to the airport and prepared for another night flight. I had planned to be airborne earlier but could not complain because the Mount Washington stop was so much fun. As usual, Ben poked fun at the headlamp I wear when preflighting at night. He finds it almost too nerdy for words, but I would not fly without it.

We took off toward the city, taking in a beautiful parting view before making the 180-degree turn that put us on course back to KCDW. ATC cleared us to climb through the Class B, and soon we were cruising at 5,500 feet. Ben fell asleep before we cleared the Mode C veil, leaving me with the hum of Annie’s IO-540 for company. The 30-knot winds aloft from Friday night were still with us, too.

Only on the tail this time.

Allegheny County Airport (KAGC)

Location: West Mifflin, Pennsylvania

Airport elevation: 1,251.5 feet msl

Airspace: Class D

Airport hours: Continuous

Runways: 10/28, 13/31

Lighted: Yes, all runways

Pattern altitude: 1,000 feet agl for all traffic

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Pittsburgh Offers Steel, Coal, Culture, and Much More appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Succinctness is the single most prized quality a pilot can exhibit when on the radio. It’s almost as if that little push-to-talk button is buried on the backside of the yoke so as to remind you to only use it when necessary. Break glass in case of communication.

This is for a good reason. There are times when multiple pilots are trying to talk to a controller in busy airspace. Without concise communications there will quickly be a backlog of speeding airplanes no longer in their original positions. At some point, this transitions from a nuisance to a danger. And so we are taught to be frugal with our words.

Say who you are, where you’re at, and what you want. Do so using the fewest number of words. Like a chef making a reduction, distilling the information I need to convey to its purest essence is a joyful exercise for me. The sauce just tastes better.

Becoming a writer, and later a pilot, taught me that words are powerful, have distinct meaning, and should be used sparingly. As an added benefit, people will plain like you more when you’re succinct. Certainly air traffic controllers. I remember being at a wedding with my dad when a known yapper in the family took to the podium to make his speech. My father stretched his legs out, slid down in his chair, closed his eyes, and proclaimed, “Nap time.” Even as a 10 year old, I had a conscious thought that I never wanted anyone to have that reaction to me opening my mouth.

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Flying south from Sullivan County Airport (KMSV), my home field upstate, toward New York Class B during rush hour, things sometimes get a little unruly—at least on the radios. Combine a collection of airplanes all trying to check in at once with a tired controller toward the end of his shift who possesses a strong New York accent, and I will find myself wishing I had popcorn on board.

New York Approach: “OK, everybody stop talking! JetBlue 2073, heading one-eight-five, climb to one-seven thousand. I got two Pipers calling. The one near Kingston, say request. Everyone else, standby!”

Let me tell you, pilots become wonderfully concise when responding to a stern call like that. Everyone just tightens it up. Short and sweet. Good sauce. Nom. Nom. Nom.

Whenever I’m entering the pattern at KMSV, my instructor, Neil, will come on the radio after I’ve made my initial “10 miles from the field” call. “Hello, Ben. How are you?” KMSV is pretty far from anyone or anything, and there isn’t ever much traffic. Yet it still makes me anxious to talk on the CTAF if it’s anything more than calling out my turn to left base. When I answer him with even the shortest pleasantries, I feel like I’m breaking some rule, or at the least, betraying some code. It just feels wrong. My replies are so short you’d think I disliked the man.

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I sometimes take this quest for succinctness too far. Tail numbers should be read back in full when other aircraft in the pattern have similar numbers as yours. My Bonanza is N1750W. When another pilot calls in with a tail number ending in “four-zero-whiskey,” that is not the time to be signing off with my usual, “five-zero-whiskey.” You spell it out in that case. Common sense.

Altimeter readings are a toss-up. When checking in with a new controller, I don’t repeat back the altimeter numbers unless there’s some monstrous difference from the last reporting station that would signify a weather change I’d want to confirm. Short of that, I just give my trusty “five-zero-whiskey.” It means I heard them, and I’m not gonna take up even one extra second of their precious time.

Creativity is not usually rewarded on the radio, but I will admit I love reading back anything with three zeros as “triple nothing.” Sue me. In life outside the cockpit, this desire for brevity has not served me well. Sometimes in conversation I will understand the point someone is trying to make long before completion. It takes everything in me not to stop them midsentence and say, “I got it,” and then summarize in two sentences what they’ve spent the last three minutes (and counting) trying to convey. This is decidedly not a great way to make friends. And apparently I’m not very good at hiding this aversion because even when I manage to keep my mouth shut, people will ask me if I am in pain. On the inside. Yes. I am.

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Screenwriters are like pilots: We have to get the most information across using the least amount of words. While a novelist can use language without any constrictions to paint a vivid physical and emotional landscape, we are beholden to some basic limitations. Screenplays are generally 120 pages, which universally correlates to one minute per page and yields your average two-hour movie. Reminds me of an old-school timing approach from the FAF to the MAP. 

There are levels, of course. Some of us are merely good on the radio. Some of us are heroes. I have heard recordings of pilots who have just declared an emergency that sound like they’re on muscle relaxers signing up for a meditation class. I am in awe of these pilots. I’ve only declared an emergency once in my 13 years of flying, and I have zero interest in hearing that tape. I was on my heels, scared, and my little brain added a whole bunch of unnecessary words to every transmission. 

I’d like to think my dad would appreciate my radio calls—emergencies notwithstanding. He passed long ago. But if he’s up there listening, I hope he gets to hear me read back a revised IFR clearance departing New York airspace with clarity and an economy of words. That or a really good wedding speech.

The post The Wisdom of Keeping Transmissions Short and Sweet appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ve been a lucky passenger on five such flights, and I have found them to be exciting and fun, but frustrating. The first was the most impressive. At dinner one night many years ago I offered how I was flying commercially from Tampa, Florida, to Chicago the next day. My dinner guests said they were too—only they were chartering a jet. Would I like to join them? Well, OK. I promised to bring sandwiches for lunch as partial (miniscule) compensation.

The next morning I arrived an hour early, loaded with expectations and roast beef sandwiches. I watched as the crew prepared the Challenger 604. There was a stain on one of the leather seats. The first officer arranged a blanket in an artful manner that hid the stain. Soon my friends arrived, the door was closed, and we started up. I sat as far forward as possible on a sideways-facing seat to get a glimpse of the cockpit.

Before I could stow the sandwiches, we were out of 6,000 feet msl and climbing. I spent the next two hours kneeling between the two pilots and occasionally making a big deal out of serving sandwiches to my hosts. I did not split my time evenly, and my behavior is best described as rude. I think they had to clean up the sandwich wrappers themselves. All too soon we were on the arrival into Chicago Midway (KMDW). My hosts wanted to know if I would like to join them in the limousine into town. Sure, I answered. Big mistake.

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Straining against the seat belt, I watched as we landed and taxied in. The crew shut down, opened the door, and got the luggage. Handshakes all around. And then an unexpected disappointment: We got in the limo and turned onto the grimy streets of the South Side of Chicago. There was no time to linger. No time to put the pitot covers on, no time to savor the magnificence of flying 900 nm in a morning in absolute comfort at FL 380. I sat in the limo, straining again against the seat belt, looking forlornly out the back window as the FBO and my friends’ many thousands of dollars disappeared into the gloom. Wow.

A few years later the same benefactors offered my wife, Cathy, and I a flight from White Plains, New York, to Tampa. This trip was in a Beechjet, so the magnificent stairs thing wasn’t happening, but the airplane was plenty roomy, and I got that seat that allows for cockpit survey. I was glued to the flight deck and let Cathy handle the niceties of polite conversation. Did I notice low fuel lights? I was too naive then to know what they might look like.

Speaking of naive, I was totally out of it when John and Martha King (yes, John and Martha—you read that right) offered us a ride in their Falcon 10 from Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB), to Tampa (KTPA) with a stop in Savannah, Georgia (KSAV). Oh, do I wish I had been typed in that airplane, or any jet, when we took that flight. It was just as you have seen in their videos—except no one was taping the trip. Their interactions were textbook. Their generosity was overwhelming. I still remember arriving at KTPA, taxing into our home base. Yes, I’m with J&M, everybody.

• READ MORE: Bam! In Life and in the Air, Things Can Change in a Hurry

The latest (and greatest, so far) was the shortest. John Raskai took nine of us in his Embraer Phenom 300 from Tampa to Savannah to visit the Gulfstream factory. That’s right, there were 10 of us in total. The Phenom has seven seats, a belted lavatory, and two pilot positions up front.

Raskai is a story in his own right. Newly married out of high school and driving a delivery truck, his is the quintessential American dream that now has him flying his own Phenom. I had never met him, yet here he was, taking us to Georgia. This is the kind of unreal generosity that seems not unusual among self-made jet owner-operators. I’ve benefited from it before.

After introductions all around, we boarded. There was no rush. John and his copilot, Christophe, had flown together before. We were like school children on a field trip. Everyone in the back was a pilot—most were high time ATPs. Raskai’s flying skills were about to be scrutinized by 100,000 collective hours of flight time.

Door closed and locked, I could hear the welcome litany of the checklist—in a French accent. Engine start was at 9:09 a.m. We took to Runway 1R at KTPA at 9:16 a.m. With 10 souls on board and 2,700 pounds of jet-A, we were still 2,000 pounds below MTOW and scheduled to land with a comfortable 1,300 pounds of fuel.

• READ MORE: Pilot Learns Something New Even on Familiar Route

The next few seconds were unlike any acceleration I had ever experienced. We were airborne in seconds. ForeFlight showed climb rates of up to 5,000 fpm. Rocket. As impressive as the jet was, the piloting was seamless. From the back I could see a knob turned (altitude preselect?), a button pushed (I’m guessing Flight Level Change), and then the gentle application of power until our deck angle had to be 20 degrees nose up. Our landing in Savannah on Runway 10 was smooth and right on the aiming point, allowing us to make the turnoff leading directly to the FBO. Pro all the way.

Our flight home left me staring out the window at a vivid sunset, thinking about airplanes and the people drawn to them. Everybody in that aircraft is romantic about them, and every one of them has been amazingly generous to me. We were treated to an instrument landing at KTPA. The light rain made the landing even sweeter. When we taxied in and shut down, I was suffused with a sense of well-being. I just sat there until everybody else had deplaned. Then I helped Raskai reset the seat belts the way any jet owner will understand—just so.

I was the last man out of the airplane, but nobody was in a hurry to leave. We hung around and watched John put on the pitot covers, stood around awkwardly, then reluctantly said goodbye.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Often the instructor leaves a space or empty line to record a dual instructional flight—or forgets to sign it off because the end of the lesson was hurried. Either the CFI, learner, or both had someplace else to be. There was the intention to sign off on the flight time later, but before this could happen the CFI moved on.

Without the instructor’s signature, those hours of dual don’t count toward the experience requirements for a certificate or rating. In essence, the learner may end up paying for these hours twice.

Both the learner and CFI need to take responsibility for this. Structure the lessons so that you have at least five minutes to fill out and sign the logbook—if you are going to be late, you are going to be late. This is that important.

Log the Time Correctly

Logging the flight incorrectly can also void the experience. FAR 61.51(b) provides the details on what should be logged in a “manner acceptable to the administrator,” and that includes total flight or lesson time, type and identification of aircraft, flight simulator or training device, and flight or ground training received.

The logbook is a legal document, and precision counts. Write out what maneuvers were done, how long the flight was, and include any ground discussion—your logbook might read 1.2 flight, climbs, turns, descent, 0.2 under hood, and then note the number of takeoffs and landings.

Flight instructors should also include the time spent in pre- and post-flight briefing. I denote this with a “G” and a description of what was discussed—for example, 0.3 G “ground reference maneuvers.”

• READ MORE: Make Flight Reviews for CFIs Worthwhile

If the lesson is all ground discussion, that should also be logged, and some logbooks have a preprinted section for this. Again, give details. “Review aircraft systems” is too vague. Instead, go with “aircraft systems for Cessna 172N, pitot static vacuum, electrical, engine, oil, gyroscopic.” If the logbook doesn’t have a predetermined section for ground instruction, create one—the same can be done for AATD instruction.

Make sure to have the CFI clearly label instruction given in any “areas found deficient” from the knowledge test, as this is required and needs to be appropriately accounted for. The examiner will want to see that during the check ride.

Details, Details

Do you remember the first time you put the details of the flight in your first logbook? Some flight schools have the learners do this from day one. The CFI tells the learner what to write, then the instructor reads the entry to make sure it is correct and signs. Some CFIs learn the hard way not to sign and then let the learner fill in the details. While most people are honest, there are some learners who take advantage of the instructor’s trust and pad their hours.

If the learner believes the CFI is looking for shortcuts, the learner will likely be looking for them too. It’s not uncommon to find a logbook filled with line after line of “pattern work,” “practice area,” or “VFR maneuvers” under both dual instruction and solo flights. What maneuvers? Please be specific. Was one of those flights completed for currency? A proficiency flight? A particular solo lesson from the syllabus? Label them as such.

• READ MORE: Who Is Teaching? Low Time and Social Media Make for a Bad Combo

Learners and pilots, please take ownership of your training—initial or recurrent. As you fill up a page in your logbook, total the numbers, check your math, and then go back through the FAR/AIM to the experience section for the rating or certificate sought and determine what requirements have been met, what needs to be done, and then discuss with your CFI how to meet them.

The Long Goodbye

“When he gets back in town, we’re going to fly again,” the learner said. His CFI was now flying right seat for an air ambulance company. His schedule was two weeks on, one week off. If your CFI is being pulled in multiple directions, you need to be realistic about whether this business relationship still meets your needs.

Learners can get very attached to their CFI and won’t want to fly with anyone else. If the CFI is only available once a week, the training spreads out, with very little skill progression. It’s like going to the gym just once a week and expecting to see results. The lack of progress leads to frustration, which often evolves into apathy and sometimes the termination of training.

• READ MORE: Practice Crosswind Landings Whenever You Can

The CFI can suggest someone for the learner to fly with, and a meeting between the involved parties will make sure the transition is seamless. But even this doesn’t guarantee a good fit. A learner who had a good relationship with a professional CFI may find themselves in the clutches of a time builder who ignores the previously logged experience and demonstrated skills and makes them repeat it. It is particularly egregious if the learner is enrolled in a Part 141 program, where the change of CFI should be seamless, but there are some sleazy flight schools that insist learners repeat the training so they can pad the bill.

Under Part 61 the learner should insist on a stage check using the syllabus and airman certification standards (ACS) as the performance metrics. Sadly, there are some instructors who eschew the syllabus because they weren’t trained with one and will say the ACS is not required until the check ride. If this is the attitude you encounter, keep looking.

Plan the Departure

If you are the CFI who intends to move on, let your learners know your plan and work together to get the learner to a hard-stop point, such as the check ride, past solo, or particular stage check before you go.

No matter what, advise the learner to expect a skill evaluation with the replacement CFI. This should consist of both a ground session as well as flight. Remind the learners to manage their expectations. They shouldn’t anticipate a single flight to lead to a solo endorsement for check ride signoff. That’s just not realistic.

Working Around the Gap

As a final note, if you have a gap like this and the CFI is no longer locally available, reach out to your former instructor to see if they are comfortable writing out the required entry and signing off then taking a digital image of it and emailing it to you. Some DPEs are comfortable with that means to document experience. You can also call the local Flight Standards District Office for guidance.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Separation Anxiety: When Your Instructor Moves on, Your Logbook Tells the Story appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Describing these two hours required three pages crammed with significantly more words than my usual monthly allotment, and yet I promised to cover the balance of the tour in a single additional installment.

Well, here goes nothing.

I won’t even attempt to adequately describe the remainder of the first day, which involved a lot of probing around the Fiordland’s misty maze of mountains and glacial valleys with several minimum-radius turnbacks from socked-in passes before finally finding a clear one that dropped us into perfectly named Doubtful Sound. When I finally landed ZK-WAX back in Wanaka, our home base for the week, I was thoroughly exhausted, exhilarated, and emotionally spent. It was the most visually intense day of flying in my life, not to mention a great deal more work than I’m used to putting in these days. A good cigar, glass of scotch, and eight full hours of sound sleep were in order.

• READ MORE: Exploring New Zealand’s Grand Islands by Air

I was glad to find it wasn’t just me: Adam Broome, the North Carolinian piloting FlyInn’s other Cessna 172 (ZK-TRS) with his wife, Lissa, and FlyInn instructor Nick Taylor, confirmed that he was equally wiped out. And then McCaughan informed us that thanks to the weather window holding, we would be moving up our exploration of Mount Cook and the Southern Alps to the next day, never mind the wind forecast. This was akin to starting with the caviar and moving straight on to the crème brûlée—or perhaps more like competing in back-to-back Ironman triathlons.

The day began with calm winds, fair skies, and a short field approach into a 1,500-foot crop-duster’s strip in a cow pasture (very recently used, as I discovered soon after landing). From there we jaunted across to Lake Hawea and up the scenic Hunter River valley. The farther north we went, though, the windier and more turbulent it got.

At McCaughan’s urging, I moved farther and farther toward the downwind side of the valley until my right wing seemed to almost scrape the rocky slope— and then we were in a steady, powerful lift, riding the elevator upward at 1,500 feet per minute in relatively smooth air. My experience flying gliders came in handy, especially the bit of ridge soaring I’ve done. I became increasingly good at visualizing areas of lift and smooth air throughout our windy week and started to really enjoy surfing the ridges. Dawn, for her part, gamely endured the occasional solid thumping in the back seat, the price of admission for a whole week of world-class scenery.

• READ MORE: Pilot Mental Health Remains the Last Taboo in Aviation

Now climbing through 10,000 feet, the immense, icy form of the Mount Cook massif rose ahead. This was familiar territory, as we had camped and hiked in Aoraki/Mount Cook National Park the previous week. Mount Sefton, which had towered above our campsite in the moonlight and blazed in the morning alpenglow, slipped inconspicuously under our right wing. The Tasman, Hooker, Fox, and Franz Josef glaciers, whose gravel-strewn terminuses we had glimpsed from below, revealed themselves for the colossal blue giants they are, emerging from one enormous ice sheet draped around the shoulder of 12,218-foot Mount Cook. Climbers’ huts clinging to desolate rock ledges gave perspective to the landscape’s epic scale.

As Dawn and I gazed around, McCaughan sent a constant stream of radio position reports since flightseeing is popular here, and Mount Cook lies within a mandatory broadcast zone. There’s a standard circuit around the sights, but we were deviating to stay out of strong rotors downwind of the peaks. In any case, there weren’t too many sightseers braving the maelstrom, the conditions of which reminded me a bit of the long-ago winter I spent flying freight up California’s Owens Valley. The Southern Alps are a lot lower than the Sierra Nevada, though, and the winds aloft weren’t nearly as fearsome as during a West Coast frontal passage.

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After landing for lunch at Glentanner, we headed west to Lake Ohau and started up the fertile, ranch-dotted Hopkins Valley. As we approached Mount Glenmary the wind started really kicking again. Turning up a side tributary, we surfed up the leeward slope to clear a low saddle under Mount Huxley then ducked into the calmer Ahuriri River drainage. Working our way south, beyond Lindis Pass we descended into a gorgeous, golden valley with green fields, farm buildings, and an airstrip at the bottom.

This is Geordie Hill Station, the 5,500- acre ranch where five generations of McCaughans have raised Merino sheep and beef cattle and where Matt and his wife, Jo, started FlyInn. Originally, guests stayed at the ranch. Now accommodations are in the lake resort town of Wanaka, a 10-minute flight west. Dawn and I came to really enjoy Wanaka, but I think we would have been equally happy staying in the beautiful, peaceful surroundings of Geordie Hill Station.

The next day, Matt McCaughan’s ranching duties took precedence, and we were paired with affable, experienced instructor Peter Hendriks for an overnight trip to the southeastern coastal city of Dunedin. The wind was still kicking, but at least lower terrain made for a less intense workout. From the central Otago crossroads of Cromwell we crossed into the Nevis River valley and followed it down to the verdant Southland Plains. We stopped at Mandeville’s pleasant little grass strip for lunch, checked out the Croydon Aviation Heritage Centre’s beautiful collection of vintage de Havilland aircraft, and made a quick flight with just Hendriks and I to complete the training requirements for my New Zealand PPL validation.

• WATCH: V1 Rotate: New Zealand by Air

Job done, Dawn clambered back into ZK-WAX and we headed south to the Catlins, a beautiful stretch of remote, craggy coastline straight out of western Ireland. We followed the wild coast northeastward, put in a good word with the controllers at Dunedin International Airport (NZDN), and landed at nontowered Taieri Airfield (NZTI). FlyInn put us up in a very nice hotel in central Dunedin, an atmospheric college town with a strong Scottish accent. Dawn and I had a good afternoon walkabout, then joined Hendriks, the Broomes, and Taylor for a lovely seafood dinner at an excellent restaurant tucked away by the seaport.

The next morning, we took a two-hour harbor cruise with local wildlife expert Rachel McGregor, spotting blue penguins, sea lions, and magnificent northern royal albatrosses at Taiaroa Head. A few hours later, we viewed the harbor from the air before heading up the coast to Oamaru and then inland via the Waitaki River and its series of impressive hydroelectric dams.

The weather window finally collapsed with a strong cold front bringing more wind, rain, and clouds than even a Kiwi pilot might care to tackle, giving us a Saturday off to poke around Otago wine country by car. Sunday dawned clear but windy, which we planned to mitigate by transiting Queenstown and Lake Wakatipu en route to Glenorchy. Queenstown Tower thought otherwise, given the steady stream of jets arriving down the Kawarau Gorge, so we were ordered to remain clear of controlled airspace. Alas, we bounced our way west across the mountains north of Queenstown, emerging from Monument Saddle to spiral down over the gravel-strewn Dart River on the way to landing on yet another beautiful grass runway.

After a ride into Glenorchy and a pub lunch, we headed back up the Dart River, this time via jet boat. It was a fun and beautiful journey, as the shallow draft and rapid speed took us 20 miles upriver into some rather gorgeous wilderness. It was well into the afternoon when we departed for the quick flight back to Wanaka, except there was so much interesting scenery that we dawdled and wandered, our track resembling a Family Circus cartoon. In particular, the spectacular Rob Roy Glacier near Mount Aspiring offered a perfect semicircular amphitheater to hang the flaps out and make a slow pass close inside the perimeter. ZK-TRS beat ZK-WAX back to the stable rather handily, and neither we nor Hendriks minded one bit.

Our last full day of flying circuited rural Otego, and I expected a fairly tame day out. McCaughan was back, his business with the spring lambs concluded, but he accompanied the Broomes while we nabbed Taylor, a very cheerful chap and laid-back instructor. After dropping in to visit the historic gold rush town of Clyde, we followed the popular Otago Central Rail Trail northeast to the Ida Valley and a little township called Oturehua. Now, Oturehua doesn’t have an airport, but there is a fairly level sheep paddock alongside the highway that Taylor assured me was fairly landable.

So much for a tame day out.

It seems the sheep had been absent for a few weeks as the grass was quite a bit taller than expected, but ZK-WAX handled lawn mower duties with aplomb. We visited 19th century farm-implement factory Hayes Engineering Works, with its fascinating water-powered, leather-belt-driven machine shop. Everything still works. The old-timer docent gamely powered up the shop and demonstrated use of the original lathe, press punch, shears, band saw, and more. After our visit, we enjoyed a beautiful flight surfing the ridges to Geordie Hill Station, where McCaughan gave us a longer tour, and Jo McCaughan cooked a fantastic lamb dinner. It was a really nice way to cap off our FlyInn experience.

We ended up moving our departure back by one day to do some more hiking near Wanaka and up around Rob Roy Glacier. The following morning we flew ZK-TRS to Queenstown to catch our airline flight home. True to form, New Zealand gave us a windier-and-cloudier-than forecast sendoff, with a slightly dicey ridge crossing and a good couple final thumps of turbulence.

I now hold a NZ PPL validation, which gives me solo privileges in New Zealand through June, should we care to return. We’re sorely tempted. My wife Dawn and I fell in love with the people, landscapes, and aviation scene in New Zealand, and I learned a great deal about mountain flying and NZ operations during our time with FlyInn.

If you have the time and money for a flying tour of New Zealand, I would highly recommend it. It’s a grand adventure, and a true bucket list experience.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Part 2: Exploring New Zealand’s Grand Islands by Air appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The next day, the wreckage of the 140, its front end crushed, was found a few hundred feet northwest of the pilot’s private strip. Since the flaps were down, it had evidently been approaching to land when it stalled and spun. There was no way to know why the mishap occurred, but the National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) report on the accident noted that conditions were such that carburetor icing was likely.

Stall spins are, and always have been, a common cause of fatalities in general aviation. They often occur during turns at the base-leg end of the pattern. What made this accident a little less usual than most was the history that led up to it.

According to the NTSB, the father, 39, was a student pilot. He had learned to fly from his grandfather, who had no pilot certificate at all. The father began logging time in 2007 and stopped in 2015. He got his last FAA medical in 2014 and his last fight review in 2015. He had a student endorsement for a Cessna 150 but none for the 140. The NTSB estimated his total time as 40 hours, of which 20 were as pilot in command and 20 were in the 140. These estimates were based, apparently, on the fact that the pilot used the 140 to survey local water towers from the air and report levels to their owners.

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The CFI from whom the pilot had received some flight instruction—and who described him as a “safe pilot”—reported that the pilot knew he was not allowed to carry passengers with a student certificate, but he was “anti-regulation with the government.” The NTSB attributed the accident to the “student pilot’s noncompliance and lack of experience” but noted it was impossible to know who was at the controls at the time of the fatal stall. The father could have been upholding the family tradition by teaching his son to fly.

Three weeks after that accident occurred, a Cessna 421 crashed in a wooded area near the DeLand, Florida, airport (KDED), killing its three occupants. A couple of witnesses saw the airplane flying at low altitude. One, who spotted the airplane on two occasions 10 minutes apart, described the engines on the second sighting as sounding as if they were idling. Another witness reported hearing popping or backfiring sounds. The latter witness also reported the airplane rolled to the left three times before he lost sight of it behind the treetops. It’s not clear whether by “roll” he meant a full roll or, more plausibly, a wing dropping and then coming up again.

The NTSB concluded “it is most likely the pilot lost control of the airplane while maneuvering” and added that the “pilot’s lack of any documented previous training in the accident airplane make and model contributed to his inability to maintain control of the airplane.”

• READ MORE: Fatal Cirrus Accident Shows That Some Knowledge Doesn’t Translate

The pilot of the ill-fated 421 was a 500-hour SMEL CFI. His logbook lacked a “complex airplane” endorsement, but that was probably an oversight. A complex airplane is one with flaps, retractable landing gear, and a variable-pitch propeller. It would be difficult to earn a multiengine rating in an airplane without those features—there aren’t a lot of Champion Lancers left.

As pilots who have flown more than one type of airplane know, the actions required to keep them right side up are alike for all. This 500-hour CFI with 40 hours of logged multiengine time had managed to start the 421’s two GTSO 520s, taxi, take off, and fly for at least 10 minutes. He seemed to have demonstrated an ability to control the airplane.

The 421 had a somewhat checkered recent history. Its last annual inspection had been performed five years earlier, and its Hobbs meter had advanced only four hours in the meantime. Its previous owner had put it up for sale on eBay, and a Texas man had bought it for $35,000, sight unseen, intending to spend a few thousand dollars having it restored to airworthy condition and then resell it. The 50-year-old airframe had, according to aircraft.com, 5,713 hours, and both engines were well short of TBO.

NTSB investigators found nothing to suggest the engines had failed, but the condition of the propeller blades indicated “low rotational energy at impact.” Fire destroyed all fuel tanks, and the NTSB report does not comment on the quantity or quality of fuel residues or the presence or absence of water or other sediment in the engines or what remained of the fuel system.

The Texas A&P whom the owner had engaged to travel to Florida and restore the airplane to airworthy condition had located a pilot to deliver it for $4,500. That pilot, 32, was in the right seat when the crash occurred. With a private certificate and 155 hours, he was even less qualified than the left-seat pilot to fly the 421. The owner declined the suggested pilot and instead gave the job to a certain instructor whose name he did not recall.

• READ MORE: Only Assumptions Can Be Made About What Took Down a Curtiss C-46 in Alaska

Most likely, this was the instructor who was flying the airplane when the accident happened. At the time of the accident the airplane had not yet been signed off by the A&P, and afterward everyone involved denied having any idea what the two pilots and their passenger were doing flying it. The NTSB speculated that the flight was probably of a “personal” nature—that is, a joy ride.

The NTSB blamed both of these accidents on inexperience. Although the South Dakota pilot owned his airplane and had flown, on and off, for a dozen years, his experience had been intermittent. The least one could say is that when the accident occurred, he was more experienced than he had ever been before. As for the other cause cited, noncompliance, it’s hard to see how it qualifies as a cause.

Plenty of experienced and compliant pilots stall and spin, and nobody says they did so because they were too experienced or compliant. In the case of the Florida crash, the NTSB cited the “pilot’s lack of training and experience in the accident airplane make and model.”

The analysis fails to even suggest the possibility of an external cause, such as, say, a partial power loss in the left engine. In fact, as an online bodycam video of the arrival of would-be rescuers at the accident site shows, the airplane came to rest right side up and was not severely fragmented.

Was it really out of control? Or was the pilot valiantly trying to cope with an emergency not of his own making?

Note: This article is based on the National Transportation Safety Board’s report of the accident and is intended to bring the issues raised to our readers’ attention. It is not intended to judge or reach any definitive conclusions about the ability or capacity of any person, living or dead, or any aircraft or accessory.

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Two Fatal Cases of the Simply Inexperienced appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The theory, based on a 1929 short story, supposes that we are all connected by a chain of five other people. Essentially, it’s the small world philosophy. Airplanes make the world even smaller. Such was the case on a day that my flying coincided with a friend that lives miles away. In addition, it was the same day in January that an Alaska Airlines 737 Max 9 lost a door plug in the fuselage, providing a harrowing experience for both passengers and crew.

One of my favorite Florida airports is Albert Whitted (KSPG), situated on Tampa Bay in St. Petersburg. Its location is within arm’s reach of downtown. The airport’s history is a nostalgic mix of aviation’s golden age, U.S. Coast Guard operations, and military training. The restaurant provides a scorecard-worthy landing view of the prevailing runway, notwithstanding a great menu selection for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. So, when my friend, Joe Bailey, a Southwest Airlines copilot, needed a ride to pick up his Twin Comanche from its minor upholstery renovation, I was pleased to provide my ferry services.

The trip also provided an opportunity to spend some time with my friend and airplane interior designer, George Mitri. Accompanying me was my friend and neighbor, Jack Kurdock, one of my frequent flyers who has an inquisitive engineering mind and appetite for a good burger. I provided concierge service for Bailey, flying eight minutes nonstop from our home base of Flagler Executive Airport (KFIN) and picking him up at Ormond Beach Municipal Airport (KOMN), where his Comanche was currently residing. Typical for airline pilots after coming home from a long trip, Bailey was happy to sit in the back of my Piper Arrow rather than perform copilot duties.

• READ MORE: Giving Your Airplane a Face-Lift and Tummy Tuck

With the interior inspection and lunch complete at KSPG, we made certain that all was well with Bailey’s airplane, waiting until both props were spinning and he taxied away. Although the weather was severe blue and white skies, I filed IFR, which takes the stress out of navigating

Tampa and Orlando’s Class B airspace as a VFR operation. That said, we had to accept the consequences of holding for a release, which took painfully longer than anticipated. Four decades of practicing my airline pilot voice did nothing to expedite the process.

Once airborne we proceeded via the typical waypoints and ATC sectors until an unusual handoff. With the frequency change, the controller advised that the next Orlando sector was very busy and to allow some time before checking in. An emergency was in progress at KMCO. “No worries,” I replied, thinking that my request for a shortcut on the route would not be in the cards. The emergency aircraft was mentioned, but it never transmitted on our frequency.

Unbeknownst to me, a serendipitous and unrelated phone call about a week later to my friend and Cessna Citation M2 owner, Tom Torti, revealed that it was he who had declared the emergency after experiencing two loud bangs at FL 340 en route to my former hometown airport of Danbury, Connecticut (KDXR). It turns out that the incident was an interesting set of circumstances.

• READ MORE: Airline Pilots Must Not Dismiss Mental Well-Being

Approximately 80 miles off the Florida coastline, shortly after leveling off, a loud bang rattled the airplane. It felt as if something had struck the M2. In the cabin, the wide eyes of both Torti’s wife and their golden retriever reflected the intensity of the event. Two to three minutes later, another bang was experienced. This time their furry family member thought it safer to take refuge off the floor and onto a seat.

No abnormal engine indications were noted. A little yaw “dance” occurred but subsided. A pressurization problem perhaps? Torti declared an emergency and requested direct to KMCO, knowing it was a Citation service center. Responding to the controller’s request as to the nature of the emergency, and not quite sure on how to define the problem, Torti replied that he was working through a controllability issue.

Requesting to remain at FL 340 until within gliding distance of the coastline, Torti mentally added a handful of shoreline airports as contingencies in the event the situation got worse. They landed without issues on Runway 18R at KMCO and taxied directly to the service center ramp.

Having experienced a similar situation in a Boeing 727 many years ago, I was fairly confident on what occurred. But let’s rewind back to Torti’s departure from Miami-Opa Locka Executive Airport (KOPF).

• READ MORE: Like Copilot, Like Captain: The Importance of Left-Seat Mentoring

While holding for departure on Runway 9L, some type of bird with a 1-foot wingspan made a swooping dive at the M2. A thump was heard and then feathers appeared out the right-side window. Torti requested and was granted a taxi clearance to park away from the runway so that a visual inspection could be conducted.

All parts of the airplane were inspected with a focus on the right engine. Nothing that provided evidence of a bird strike or ingestion was found. Torti departed without abnormalities right up until the big bang at FL 340.

Fast-forwarding to the Citation service center, the techs performed a preliminary inspection on the ramp, looking at various parts and pieces related to pressurization or anything else that could have caused the event. One tech had a hunch. He peered into the left engine. Lo and behold, the remnants of a suicidal bird were found distributed throughout the compressor section. A subsequent borescope inspection discovered bird innards.

Torti blamed himself for not spending more time scanning the left engine. I assured him that most of us would have made the same assumptions after witnessing feathers appear on the right side and the thump seeming to originate on the right side as well.

So, what happened? It was simply a compressor stall. The bird ingestion created an irregular airflow throughout the left engine, causing erratic surges. Although Torti and I joke that the M2’s Williams engine is just an expensive hair dryer, it can be susceptible to compressor stalls from even small sources of foreign object debris. Large fan engines are much less susceptible, unless, of course, your airplane is flying over the Hudson River and a flock of geese are encountered.

The fix was simply a compressor wash, which was much less than the $675,000 cost of the bird ingestion that destroyed an engine on Torti’s Mustang when one of his airplane partners had an encounter on short final.

At the end of the day, despite not diagnosing the problem, declaring an emergency was the prudent decision. Had Torti continued the flight, destroying the engine was a real possibility. I’m sure he would have handled the situation without difficulty, but no one needs the challenge of operating on one engine for real, especially over water.

Six degrees of separation? Apparently, it’s possible within ATC sectors. Who woulda thought?

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post One ATC Sector of Separation appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

We don’t have much violent weather in the Ohio River Valley, but we suffer through weeks of low, gray skies, rain/snow mix, and gusty surface winds. The surface winds at the moment are 240 degrees at 14 gusting to 22 knots with a light rain/snow mix. Ceiling is 1,300 feet overcast with rime ice reports up to 9,000 feet, plus a wind shear alert—winds at 2,000 feet are from 210 degrees at 50 knots. And that wicked witch, Mother Nature, plans even stronger surface winds with high temperatures in the single digits.

I go down to the airport, KLUK, and sit in the airplane, thinking maybe I ought to take it around the patch a few times, but the thought of pulling off the heavy winter cover, preflighting, and pulling it out of the hangar for a couple landings is too daunting.

So, I’ll regale you with a great story from Lunken Airport’s early days.

It’s a special place for me, but then who doesn’t feel that way about their home field? Lunken is older than most because in the early 1920s, when aviation was “getting off the ground,” the site was uniquely natural for an airport—a big, flat area within 5 miles of downtown Cincinnati. At the time the government was pressuring cities to build airports for the new and popular airmail service.

Called the Turkey Bottoms, this mostly farmland property was eventually purchased by my ex-husband’s grandfather, Eshelby F. Lunken (Lunkenheimer Valve Company), and deeded to the city as an airport for 99 years. Later a ditzy, civic-minded aunt assigned the lease permanently to the city. Bummer.

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In the early ’20s, the Cincinnati Polo Club used a portion, and its members didn’t appreciate a guy landing his “flivver” on their field between chukkers—7½-minute periods in polo.

It was John Paul Riddle, a talented, handsome (even when I knew him in his 80s), and fascinating barnstormer originally from Pikeville, Kentucky, who would play a very big part in creating what is now Cincinnati Municipal Airport-Lunken Field.

I came to know Riddle in the 1980s, when the airport was planning a 50th anniversary celebration, and I was asked to write a booklet for the affair.

“Damn,” I said to an old friend, J.R. Wedekind, “I wish that Riddle guy was still alive. There’s so much I’d like to ask him.”

“He is,” said Wedekind. “Lives in Coral Gables, Florida, and, at 80-something, still plays tennis every day. I’ll give you his telephone number. He lives in a two-family house…with his ex-wife upstairs.”

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So, I called, wondering if he’d be annoyed at the intrusion, but Riddle was, well, charming. We would talk many times in the following weeks because, like so many of us, his memories from way back were sharp and clear.

A celebration was planned, so the city and Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University (with which there was a quasi-connection) brought him to Cincinnati in summer 1987. Riddle hadn’t been at Lunken Airport for more than 50 years, but he recognized the hangars the city had built for what became the Embry-Riddle Company.

We talked for hours, he rode in my Cub, and we enjoyed a memorable dinner one night with my ex, Ebby Lunken, at a restaurant downtown. The Maisonette was an elegant, five-star joint, and the maître d’ was clearly uncomfortable. Ebby and Riddle were both quite deaf and communicated by shouting across the elegantly laid table.

Afterward, I drove Riddle back to Lunken and, as we neared the airport on a little street over railroad tracks called Airport Road, he muttered, “Oh, yes, I remember—Davis Lane.” That had been its original name many years before. I opened the door of one of the three hangars where, in the 1920s, the company had operated its flying and mechanic schools and kept the WACOs and Fairchilds used on its airmail route to Chicago. Standing in that dark hangar with this man with the rain beating down and not a word said was a rare experience.

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Riddle was the guy who had landed in the polo field with a passenger and then hopped riders in the afternoon before returning to Ravens Rock upriver. That field at Portsmouth was unlighted, so he would circle town until the local radio announcer heard the airplane and asked everybody with a car to line the runway with their lights on.

On one of his Turkey Bottoms trips to hop some rides, a local man named T. Higbee Embry approached him and asked how much a ride cost.

“How much do you have on you?” Riddle asked.

“Twenty dollars,” Higbee replied.

“That’s what it costs,” Riddle said.

Eventually, Riddle taught Embry to fly, and from that a partnership in a flying company was formed with Embry’s wealthy mother putting up money to buy two WACOs and Riddle running the operation. By 1927, the city had taken legal possession of the land and built three hangars for the new Embry-Riddle Company. It was a success, offering airplane sales, mechanic and flight training, and an airmail contract for daily flights from Cincinnati to Chicago (CAM 24) in WACOs.

He told me wonderful stories, and we pored over old photographs and newspapers the company published. By 1930, Sherman Fairchild brokered a deal for the company to be sold to the Aviation Corporation (which later became Avco), and one of its passenger/airmail companies moved into the hangars. American Airways—later American Airlines—started life at Lunken.

Embry headed to California and Riddle went to Florida, where he would become a big name in the airplane world. Ten years after selling the Embry-Riddle operation, he contracted with the government and trained more than 700 pilots and mechanics, filling big hotels in Miami for civilian pilot training programs. Then he moved to Brazil, where he ran an operation training pilots for its government and, after World War II, founded and operated a large freight carrier, Riddle International Airlines.

I stumbled on a charming story about Riddle’s early years in Pikeville, Kentucky. He graduated from Pikeville College, trained in the military as a pilot and mechanic, and came home to barnstorm. At a Fourth of July celebration in 1923, Riddle, to the huge delight of the townspeople, flew his Jenny under Pikeville’s Middle Bridge.

When I found the still-standing memorial and read it, I laughed but couldn’t help wondering, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

This column first appeared in the April 2024/Issue 947 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Sometimes the Flying Weather’s Fit Only for Turkeys appeared first on FLYING Magazine.