Few people outside the aerospace sector are aware of the breadth and depth of our admittedly insular little world. If it’s not an airliner or fighter jet, it’s pretty much off the radar for the general public.

I’ve been fortunate to partake in a wide variety of different flying activities throughout my career: aerobatics, sea planes, instructional flying, tailwheels, antiques, formation, skywriting, experimentals, warbirds, crop dusting, and now the rarefied world of high-end jet charter.

But there’s one particularly tantalizing segment of aviation I’ve yet to delve into: the low level back-country “bush” flying you’ll find in places like Idaho, Alaska, and Canada. There you’ll find aircraft with astounding STOL (short takeoff & landing) capabilities, especially in the hands of the right pilot. These guys routinely alight in places you’d never think an airplane could go without sustaining fatal damage.

The key elements are skill, experience, and of course the proper equipment. Put large enough low-pressure tires on a Cub and it’ll land on virtually anything. Ice, snow, water, and rocks that are more aptly described as boulders.

A few years ago a guy named Greg Miller started filming his off-airport exploits and published ‘em under the name Big Rocks Long Props. If you haven’t seen the series, volume 5 is about to be released, and the cinematography looks to be the best yet due to the new cameras and mounts they’re using.

If you enjoyed that one, take a look at their Study of STOL video. It centers on the annual STOL contest in Valdez, Alaska. I’ve seen helicopters that could barely land in that short a space — and that’s the raison d’etre behind it all. When you don’t need pavement and have a landing roll of less than 100 feet, you journey to places few fixed-wing pilots will ever see up close. Fishing in a remote location, climbing a glacier, exploring a tiny sand bar, it’s all within the realm of possibility.

There’s a practical application for this kind of flying, too. Most of the world lacks our aviation infrastructure. If you want to get around in places like Africa, you’ll be landing on short, rough strips in the middle of nowhere. Bush flying is more the rule than the exception in the third world.

Anyway, much like sea plane flying, every bush landing is different because the surface conditions are always changing and the undulating terrain creates unpredictable wind conditions. Even for the experts, it’s not always easy. Here’s a narrated clip of Greg Miller nearly busting up his airplane while filming volume 2 of the series.

Even though most of us don’t do this kind of flying, there’s a good lesson here: you can do something of great difficulty just right a thousand times, and then you make one little mistake and you’re a Youtube sensation for all the wrong reasons. Fair? Maybe not… but aviation is like that.

Last month a Beech Queen Air experienced a low-altitude failure of the left engine shortly after takeoff. The aircraft crashed into a densely populated area of Parañaque City in the Philippines and resulted in 14 fatalities.

The Queen Air was a precursor to the King Air 90 — essentially a large cabin-class twin with supercharged reciprocating engines. I’ve logged more than 2,000 hours of flight time in a military derivative of the King Air known as the U-21A, so the accident certainly piqued my interest.

During my years flying that aircraft, quite a bit of time was spent talking, thinking, training, and otherwise preparing for just the kind of scenario encountered by the pilots in this accident: a sudden engine failure while low on altitude and airspeed.

Catalina VOR/DME or GPS-B approach procedure

Even with our PT-6A-20 turbine powerplants, it was never going to be a cakewalk if it happened in real life. Thankfully it never did. But such a failure was one of the few things that absolutely had to be handled correctly and expeditiously if you wanted a fighting chance at keeping your aircraft aloft. That’s why we spent so much time training for it.

I recall more than a few dicey single-engine, partial-panel approaches to the Catalina Island Airport (KAVX) during recurrent training in simulated instrument conditions. Even with minimum drag and max power from the remaining engine, starting the exercise from a relatively low-energy state (though still well above Vmc) left the U-21A with little climb capability.

Add in the notorious downdrafts flowing off the cliff at the end of Catalina’s runway and the fact that the missed approach at Catalina takes you to a VOR which sits on a mountain 488 feet above airport elevation but only 1.8 nm from the field, and you can see the magnitude of the challenge.

At the time I was flying for that company, all training missions were done in the actual aircraft — no simulators. As such, we’d only perform low speed engine failures with plenty of altitude. Vmc rollover scenarios were approached, but for safety reasons never allowed to fully develop.

I have often wondered exactly what it would look like if things went badly. Sure, the plane would yaw and roll toward the dead engine, just as it does during the Vmc demonstration that every pilot must perform on their multi-engine checkride.

But how quickly? Would idle thrust from the good engine allow recovery in time? Or would it break off into a spin? And if so, would that spin be recoverable given the fuel in the outboard tanks, the weight of the engines hanging out on the wing, and the size of the control surfaces?

These are questions that not even the manufacturer of the aircraft can answer. They don’t test a failure to maintain Vmc to it’s ultimate, stabilized condition. Nor do they typically perform full spin testing regimes on planes of that size and type.

It’s a big question mark, much like the “loss of all engines” scenario in a transport jet aircraft. No data is required from the manufacturer about best glide speed, engine-out range, etc., so none is provided to the pilot. The official line from the FAA is that if you follow procedure correctly it cannot happen, even though it has happened dozens of times in the past and will again in the future.

Actually, I can think of one exception to the lack of spin testing in multi-engine aircraft: the Beech B55 Baron. Raytheon spin tested it in 1998 using a Vmc rollover entry and concluded that the airplane was probably not recoverable.

In fact, among the nearly 100 spins they performed in the Baron, the only two which were unrecoverable without the use of a spin chute were the aggravated spins entered via the Vmc rollover method.

As far as the Vmc situation is concerned, at least some data is available on the Queen Air because the Parañaque accident was caught on tape.

Remains of the Lycoming IGSO-540 powerplant

I’ve watched this thing a dozen times, and it’s difficult to judge the aircraft’s airspeed or altitude except to say that both were fairly low, as one would expect shortly after takeoff. In other words, the energy state was low and there wasn’t much altitude to play with, so when that engine failed, the Vmc rollover began quickly and wasn’t going to allow the pilot much time to respond.

You can hear the sound of the Lycoming IGSO-540 engine backfiring before the camera even finds the aircraft. The backfiring was probably the reason the photographer was searching for the Queen Air in the first place. Then airplane begins to yaw and roll toward the dead (left) engine.

Within a few seconds the airplane reaches about 50 degrees of bank and breaks into a left-hand spin. I count about two seconds between the start of the spin and ground impact. It’s that fast.

How’s that for a wild ride? Hopefully it will remain on YouTube as a reminder for every multi-engine pilot: Vmc is not to be trifled with.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, so while I’m on the road this week, I leave you with a couple of my recent favorites.

Statistics show that as of today, there are about 71 million web sites running WordPress. Those sites publish 500,000 new posts per day and are viewed by more than 320 million people every month.

Mind boggling, isn’t it? Kind of like the national debt or the number of stars in the cosmos, it’s difficult to even wrap your mind around a figure of that magnitude.

I’ve been a WordPress user for — what, probably seven or eight years by now. Before WP, it was Movable Type. Remember that one? Yeah, it still out there. Let’s see, prior to Movable Type my site was developed and maintained using nothing more than Windows’ built-in Notepad program and an ancient version of Photoshop. That goes all the way back to the site’s genesis in 1995.

I dropped Movable Type when publisher Six Apart decided to move away from the open source model and begin charging for the software. At that time, MT was the undisputed champion platform for bloggers. Nothing else even came close. WordPress existed, but it wasn’t half the product it is today, and the user base was small. The decision to move away from open source started a mass exodus away from the Movable Type platform, and I was one of those who jumped ship.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t mind paying for software; in fact, there are dozens of software packages I have paid for over the years and continue to buy. But there’s something insanely great (as Steve Jobs would say) about products developed under the open source model. The talent it attracts, the size of the developer community, the motivation of those who labor over the code. It can be messy at times, and there are no guarantees about quality, security, or anything else, but there’s no arguing about the success WordPress has achieved, and that’s why I use it here.

WordPress is unique because while it’s still a free open source product, one of the developers — Matt Mullenweg — managed to built a for-profit company based on WP. That’s not easy to do. Even Google has trouble making money off the free stuff it has developed.

Cleverly named Automattic, Mullenweg built it to the point where he’s investing in other start-ups through a venture capital firm he founded called Audrey Co.

If you’re a computer nerd, you probably know all this. I bring it up because one of the firms Audrey Co. invested in (and later sold to AOL) was About.me. The gist of the site is that it’s a single place to create a personal splash/bio page and aggregate all the other content you’ve got around the web. I don’t know what it is about this thing, but I spent a whole day playing with the profile creator. It’s addicting.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m on the road, camped out in a Hilton hotel room in central New Jersey with a bunch of free time on my hands. Ah, the glorious life of a charter pilot! Not that I’m complaining. The money is good and you don’t have to look far to find a boat load of unemployed pilots, so you won’t find me looking this gift horse in the mouth.

Anyway, after playing with About.me for a while I came up with a simple profile with a short bio and links to other social networking sites I use.

It took me about two minutes to create this profile.

The only problem is, I’m not sure what to use this thing for! I’ve already got a web site. All the profile info is here on the House of Rapp. It’s a testament to the elegance and beauty of the product that I want to find a use for it even though I don’t have the need. It’s much like an Apple product in that regard. In fact, I can totally imagine Steve Jobs using About.me. Considering the fact that Apple just supplanted Exxon as the world’s most valuable company, that might be the best testament they could ever ask for.

If you don’t have a web site of your own, About.me is so well executed that it could do for you what WordPress did for me: become your own personal home base on the web, the URL you put on business cards and attach to your signature. Give in a whirl.

Welcome to 2012, the year it’s all supposed to end. Everyone likes to joke about the Mayan calendar, but perhaps they simply knew the election cycle would be tedious enough to make the entire planet take the Jonestown route.

The turning of another page on the calendar reminds us of the passage of time. Or at least, it would if anyone had a calendar with physical pages to turn. For most it’s now done with the click of a mouse or flick of the finger on the iPhone. Even that is becoming passé — now you can simply talk to Siri and have her handle the scheduling for you.

Oh those wacky Mayans!

I wonder how long it will be before we can say things like, “Siri, load the ILS 19 approach and fly it for me. After we land, please taxi to Atlantic and have them add 16,000 pounds of fuel. Oh, and order ‘the usual’ for me with the caterers, will you?”

The past twelve months has seen some changes for me in the flying department. Last month I flew my final flight in the U-21A for Dynamic Aviation and got the ceremonial hose-down by the Los Alamitos JFTB fire department.

A fellow pilot captured part of the event on a solid-state video camera he’d won at the company Christmas party the night before. He apologized profusely for the quality, but I’m just happy to have a memory of my final day there.

Over the course of four years I logged 2,000 hours of time in those old Vietnam birds, upgraded to captain, and flew as a training captain to help the up-and-coming PICs get comfortable with the left seat.

I won’t miss cleaning out augers, flying at the top of the inversion layer on a 105 degree day with hot air from the compressor being exhaused into the cockpit, or taking off and landing at the same airport all the time. But there are certainly some things I’ll miss about the job. The people, for one. Though many of them were low-time when they’d arrive at CMF, that didn’t matter. I always admired the positive attitude, strong work ethic, and good humor they’d display. It was inspiring to watch them learn and grow.

The aircraft were pretty bare-bones, lacking even a simple autopilot. So the whole 2,000 hours were hand-flown with a great degree of precision (measured in feet!) in high-density airspace, often at low altitude, very close to terrain, and it places that one would not normally be allowed to fly at all, let alone VFR.

Cirrus SR-22

True story: I was flying back to Orange County from Napa in an SR-22 a couple of years ago and drank a huge cup of iced tea enroute. By the time I reached southern California, I really needed to get to the bathroom. As I approached Van Nuys, I asked the controller if I could take a shortcut through the LA Class Bravo airspace and go direct to SNA.

At first the controller flatly denied me, saying “you can’t just do whatever you want around here, you have to fly one of the published transition routes or go around the airspace!”. After a moment’s thought, I keyed the mike and said, “Would it make any difference if I said I was a Medfly pilot?”. He replied, “Oh, you fly for Medfly?? Cleared through the bravo airspace, proceed direct John Wayne Airport.” As they say, membership has its privileges.

At Medfly, there were times when we’d literally be in a loose formation with A380s on final for LAX. Down at 500′ mixing it up with helicopters. Dodging skydivers (or as we called them, meat-bombs) around Lake Elsinore. Zipping up and down the Cajon pass while turbulence beat us to hell and back. Making 60 degree bank turns and reversing course while rolling out within 10 feet of the center of the next course line. My accuracy wasn’t always that good, but I somehow convinced myself to take credit for it when it was.

Of course, the big event for me in 2011 was moving into the Gulfstream IV. After spending the better part of a month in Dallas this past summer obtaining my type rating, I’ve had a few months to get used to the real-world aspect of flying this airplane and learning how much I still have to learn.

Another beautiful sunset as seen from the flight levels

The G-IV is a fairly complex piece of machinery and there are all sorts of quirks, tips, flows, rules-of-thumb, and procedures you don’t get taught in school. Thankfully I’ve been flying with some highly experienced pilots who have been passing that stuff along. As the “new guy”, you want to ask questions, but not so many that you become annoying. My 6+ years as an instructor taught me that you can learn an awful lot by watching, so I do that as much as possible.

I’m also new to international flying, and have made several Atlantic and Pacific crossings. None of this stuff is hard, but details are important in this job and there are plenty of them. Miss just one and you can find yourself in a pickle. Example: I flew a pair of Hawaii trips over the new year, and somehow managed to airline out to Kona without taking the black pants which are a rather vital part of my uniform. Small detail, but kind of an important one. On the plus side, I learned something new: the Macy’s in Kona stays open until 9 pm on New Year’s eve.

In the room-for-improvement category, landing the Gulfstream is still a bit hit-and-miss for me. Oh, the landings are all perfectly safe. But when there are passengers on board, pilots pride themselves in providing the smoothest ride possible, and the landing is one of the last things they experience.

Kristi got her first ride the G-IV in 2011. Hmmm, come to think of it, so did I!

Swept-wing jets are a little different than other aircraft in that regard. For one thing, with the radar altimeter, judging one’s altitude above the ground is a non-event. The aircraft verbally counts down your altitude from 50′ AGL in 10 foot increments. But once the mains are down, the nose must also be flared for landing, lest it come crashing down with enough force to make you wonder if that’s how the nutcracker got it’s name. Getting it just right takes a bit of finesse.

Some Gulfstream IVs have the galley right behind the cockpit, while others have it in the aft portion of the pressure vessel. That location seems to affect the physical input necessary for a proper secondary flare. Also, you don’t want to waste so much time trying to finesse the touchdown that you land outside the touchdown zone. This is a larger airplane and it will eat up runway quickly if you let it float endlessly seeking that feather-smooth touchdown.

I also worry because the nosegear is only locked a fraction of an inch overcenter. I’m sure it’s more than sufficient for the job, but it’s one of those tidbits from ground school which I wrote in my notebook with a big exclamation mark next to it. Everything on these jets costs big money. The brakes alone cost tens of thousands of dollars to replace. Each.

My writing is probably far less interesting to many of you than the photos I post, so I’ll conclude by offering up a few photographic highlights from the year. Thanks for being part of the journey, and may 2012 bring happiness and good health to both us and this crazy industry of ours!

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

With a title like that, you’d think I’m about to expound on the virtues of a massage parlor which offers the proverbial “happy ending”. Alas, it was only the alliterative qualities of the title which I was after, and so we’ll be sticking to aviation topics today. And P.S., please get your mind out of the gutter, my friend.

Anyway, aviation is a tough place for the dollar store crowd. When it comes to bargains, the list is short. Nowhere is this more true than when it comes to owning an airplane. The first thing any veteran aircraft owner will tell you is that there’s no such thing as an inexpensive airplane when it comes to overall cost of ownership.

Sure, you can buy a piston twin in today’s market for almost nothing, but good luck with the fuel burn, insurance rates, and parts supply. A relatively low-time Gulfstream III can be had for a few hundred thousand dollars, but the maintenance cost will exceed the value of the jet within months. Even the vintage tailwheel aircraft like the Citabria and Cub, which are the airplanes I think of (after laughing, of course) when someone utters the word “bargain”, can eat a hole in your pocket as they require true artisans to work on (and frequently fabricate) the wood-and-fabric airframe components.

AOPA never disappoints in the photography department

While the word “bargain” is a relative term, if you want maximum performance and fun for your dollar, it’s hard to beat a single-seat Pitts. AOPA’s Dave Hirschman recently penned an article about the Pitts S-1, accompanied by some gorgeous photography.

You can get a high-quality S-1 biplane for $30,000 in today’s market. Fuel burn is low, the airplane is mechanically simple, and I can’t think of any other model which approaches the cruise speed, climb rate, aerobatic capability, or sheer fun you’ll get out of one. The aircraft is still not cheap to own, but the ratio of dollars spent to smiles generated is approached by few airplanes. Perhaps an RV-3 or Wittman Tailwind might come close.

The Pitts has the added advantage of making a seriously skilled pilot out of any individual with the temerity to try and land one. High approach speeds, short coupled landing gear, and a total lack of forward visibility in the flare mean this airplane separates the men from the boys when it comes to skills. Even the best of us can be humbled by this overgrown R/C model with just a moment’s inattention.

Having said that, I would take issue with one aspect of Hirchman’s article. He writes:

The old sage’s line of thinking has been applied to stalls, spins, night flying, aerobatics, carrying passengers, and even flying without a GPS. It’s tempting fate to do it, so don’t. What’s so annoying is that if you take this to it’s logical conclusion, you’d never fly at all. No one ever completely masters flight, so why not avoid tempting fate and just stay on the ground?

My S-2B -- a larger, two-seat, certified version of the S-1

Isn’t this the same logic that keeps instructors from taking students aloft when the weather is less than perfect? At some point you’ve got to take a risk in order to gain the experience and proficiency that will keep you safe when you fly. There’s a line there you don’t want to cross, but I question where many people choose to place it.

Besides, the old sage’s logic flies in the face of a primary reason to own a Pitts: the difficulty of landing it. Would the airplane be as intriguing to its legion of followers if the landing sequence was docile and forgiving? I think not. In the end, it depends on what you’re looking for out of your flying experience. Unless you seek an aircraft which will challenge you from the moment you start taxiing until you shut the thing down at the end of the flight, a Pitts is best avoided.

Waiting for the starter to give me the "go" at Borrego Springs in 2006

Based on my years of owning a Pitts, teaching in them, and flying everything from jets to seaplanes to gliders to warbirds, I’d opine that if you can land a Pitts — I mean really land it well and do so on a consistent basis — then you can land anything. A Concorde, a space shuttle, a lunar lander. I once heard a NASA pilot say the exact same thing, and he actually flew the space shuttle!

Nothing I’ve seen or heard of compares to the challenge of landing a Pitts in the kind of strong gusting crosswinds you’ll find at virtually any aerobatic contest around the country on a given weekend. The exhilaration of completing a bone-crushing Advanced unknown sequence, covered in perspiration, amped up with adrenaline, and entering the pattern with the realization that, in many ways, the best part of the flight is yet to come.

Forget the aerobatics — that’s the real fun in flying a Curtis Pitts design.

You might recall that I reached 215,000 miles on the odometer of my 1993 Eclipse. That seemed rare enough. But I recently stumbled upon Drive to Five, the blog of an Acura owner who recently reached the 500,000 mile mark with his ’94 Legend coupe.

Half a million miles is enough to take you to the moon and back, then around the world a couple of times. I suppose just reaching a mileage mark isn’t all that dramatic. With enough money, you can replace or repair any part on a car. That’s how we keep airplanes flying for a half century or more: money. They’re worth enough that it makes economic sense to pour large sums into the maintenance and occasional refurbishment of the aircraft.

A few things stand out about this particular car. First, it’s still running on the original engine, transmission, and clutch. Second, the owner doesn’t baby the car; he’s driven it off-road and even used the vehicle in road races. Finally, he claims that even after half a million miles, the car doesn’t smoke or leak a drop of oil. Oh, and he averages better than 30 mpg.

Acura got wind of his web site and invited him to the company’s headquarters in Torrance to celebrate the milestone. He managed to arrive for the ceremony with 500,000.2 miles on the odometer. They awarded him some expensive parts, free maintenance until the end of 2012, and even put his car in their museum for the day.

I wonder how many hours an aircraft would have to accrue on the Hobbs meter before Boeing, Beech, Cirrus or any of the other OEMs would do the same. It’d have to be a pretty large number, because airliners already post some impressive stats. A sizeable fleet of DC-3s built in the early 1940s are still flying some 70 years later. In 2004, South African Airways retired a 747-200 built in 1971. At that time, it had accrued more than 107,000 hours of flight time.

The December issue of NASA’s Callback newsletter tells the tale of several dual flights where simulated emergencies turn into real ones.

If you’re a pilot and don’t subscribe to Callback, I highly recommend doing so. It’s a monthly publication of the Aviation Safety Reporting System and always an entertaining read. This month happens to cover general aviation incidents, but they also grab reports from airlines, corporate operators, medivac, fractionals, and everyone else in the aviation world.

Anyway, as a CFI it’s a bit painful to read this month’s reports knowing that there was an instructor on board who could have intervened to prevent the accident. Part of me thinks “there but for the grace of God go I”, as virtually any instructional flight can end up going badly.

In fact, I say a little prayer every time I climb into a high-performance tailwheel aircraft like the Pitts. Think about it: I’m up there in the front cockpit, unable to see what the student in the back seat is doing. I can’t look at him, and without the intercom wouldn’t be able to communicate with the guy at all. There are a dozen ways that student could destroy the airplane and there would be nothing I could do about it. Literally nothing.

If he jams on a single brake while landing, I can’t turn that brake off — it’s a guaranteed ground loop. He’s the only one with access to the fuel mixture control. If he grabs the canopy release by mistake during a maneuver, there goes a $10,000 piece of plexiglas. Even getting in or out of the airplane on the ground can easily cause thousands of dollars in damage.

Having said that, some common practices among flight instructors have never made sense to me, and one of them is highlighted in this Callback.

In this incident, the pilot of an R182 neglects to lower the landing gear on a simulated engine-out approach during a practical test. In this case the second set of eyes in the right seat wasn’t just an instructor, but an FAA representative known as a “Designated Pilot Examiner”. In other words, a very senior CFI.

During the approach, the landing gear warning horn would have been sounding continuously: beeeeep! beeeeep! beeeeep! The purpose of that horn is to warn the pilot that the gear is not down and locked. So the question is, why did neither pilot hear the horn?

The answer is that they did hear it. They simply taught themselves to ignore it! The pilot attributes the inability to respond to the gear warning horn to “nerves and stress”, but that’s not what caused this accident. It was his training. Don’t believe me? Here’s a YouTube video of the exact same thing happening to someone else.

Did you hear the horn blaring continuously in the background? Do you think you would have failed to notice it? Lest you think that sort of thing could never happen to you, let’s look at what usually causes these accidents.

Typically the student is working toward their commercial pilot certificate and are moving into a retractable gear aircraft for the first time. Several of the FAA-mandated maneuvers for that certificate involve attempts to maximize airplane performance without engine power. Specifically, it’s the steep spiral, 180° power off accuracy approach, and simulated engine failure.

Two outta three ain't bad...

When power is reduced to idle in these maneuvers, the landing gear warning horn begins to sound. However, in order to maximize aircraft performance, the instructor teaches the student to leave the landing gear retracted. During the steep spiral, it typically stays that way throughout. During the 180° power off approach and simulated engine failure, the gear is often left retracted until landing is assured or more drag is required. That could be anywhere from 20 seconds to several minutes. And all that while, the gear horn is beeping away. Beeep, beeep, beeep…

Do you see what’s happening? The instructor is allowing the pilot to desensitize himself to the gear warning horn. It’s no wonder people ignore the horn and make gear-up landings — it’s what they’ve been training themselves to do all along! To be honest, when you look at this training technique, it’s a wonder that gear-up landings aren’t more prevalent.

There’s an easy way to avoid this trap: teach yourself that anytime you hear the gear warning horn, make it stop. It’s that simple. The horn is there to prompt you to do something — so do it! Either increase power or lower the landing gear. Just make the horn stop. That way, when you do inadvertently neglect to lower the gear one day, the horn will function as the safety device it was designed to be rather than an annoying beeping in the background on a YouTube video which has been viewed 29,426 times.

Yes. Yes it could.

I can’t have been the first person to come to this conclusion. In fact, aircraft like the King Air and Gulfstream IV have a landing gear warning horn silence button. I’ve never understood why light GA aircraft like the Centurion and Bonanza don’t; it would save many pilots from expensive and embarrassing incidents. It’s counter-intuitive to think that a warning horn silence button would actually prevent gear up landings, but it’s true.

Instructors, if your aircraft doesn’t have any other method of silencing the horn, please teach your students to lower the landing gear during low-power maneuvers as soon as the gear warning horn sounds. The additional performance you get out of leaving it retracted is not worth the cost of a gear-up landing. If a pilot ever encounters an actual engine stoppage in flight and they want to leave the gear up, by all means go ahead and do it. Take the extra glide distance. Should he or she make an inadvertent gear up landing some day after a bona fide in-flight powerplant failure, nobody will care. Not them, and certainly not you.

Popular Mechanics recently posted a relatively solid analysis of the 2009 Air France flight 447 accident. It has the rare virtue of being a good read for professional aviators and non-pilots alike.

The article indicates that the pilots — and there were what, three or four of them involved on the flight deck? — were seemingly unaware that the aircraft was aerodynamically stalled. It sounds impossible for a crew with ten thousand hours of flight experience to be so oblivious, but almost the exact same thing happened in the Colgan Air 3407 accident. The aircraft was stalled, the captain didn’t understand what was going on, and he physically held the plane in a deep stall all the way into the ground.

However, in this case, perhaps the problem isn’t that they weren’t aware of the stall warnings, the high pitch attitude or the descending flight path, but rather that they did not believe the airplane could be stalled at all.

That’s on par with believing in the tooth fairy.

Ah, the myth of the un-stallable airplane! Is this what Airbus, airlines, and the FAA are allowing instructors to teach pilots? I certainly hope not. Electronics and fancy design features are no match for the basic laws of physics.

Let’s review. Any airfoil — propeller, main rotor, fan blade, stabilizer, wing — can be stalled. There is no such thing as a stall-proof airplane, just as there are no unsinkable ships (see: RMS Titanic). Anyone who teaches otherwise is a link in an accident chain.

Angle of attack

Now, stall resistant? Sure, under specific conditions, there are design elements ranging from canards to stick pushers to computerized flight control systems which may help prevent the airfoil from reaching the critical AOA. But to say that an airplane cannot be stalled is just foolish.

I’m not sure if it’s marketing hyperbole or human pride which causes such claims to be made. Even when an Airbus is flying under normal law, there are atmospheric factors (many of which happen to be found in the type of thunderstorm Air France 447 flew into) which can lead to a stall. Remember: a stall can occur at any airspeed. Mother Nature can dish out things no airliner can handle, even if it’s manufactured by Airbus.

So because they haven’t seen it before, it can’t happen? Even on a clear blue day, computers can fail. Bugs can emerge in the very software they’re counting on to ensure a stall does not occur. The training these pilots receive sounds inadequate, to say the least. Sad to say, this is not a problem limited to US Airways or Air France or pilots flying the Airbus series. Stalls are poorly understood by a the majority of pilots in my experience.

Ironically, the weakest part of the Popular Mechanics piece also happens to be their description of a stall:

The author may have a perfectly valid understanding of aerodynamics. Perhaps he just wants to simplify the description for the magazine’s readership. Either way, the description is completely wrong. Stalls have nothing to do with airspeed and they don’t occur from flying too slowly. There is no critical speed at which the wing “becomes less efficient”. Stalls occur exclusively from exceeding the critical angle of attack, period.

Angle of attack and airspeed are not related. You can reach the critical AOA at cruise airspeed. At the opposite end of the spectrum, if you fly at zero G, an airplane will not stall even if the airspeed is zilch.

I don’t understand the reticence to explain AOA, even to a non-flying audience. The concept is stone simple. Everyone knows that any two non-parallel lines will eventually intersect to form an angle. Describing a chord line and the concept of relative wind shouldn’t take more than a paragraph or two. That understanding makes all the difference in the world. At least, it would have to the crew of flight 447.

Now it just so happens that the critical AOA will be reached at a specified speed under a specific center of gravity position IF the load factor is exactly 1g. But this Airbus was flying through a major thunderstorm in the middle of the Intertropical Convergence Zone. The would have been significant turbulence and the load factor on the airplane would have been all over the place. Assuming the load factor will always remain at 1g is simplistic at best.

Had the pilots considered that a stall would result from excessive angle of attack and not from a specific airspeed, they could have compared the high pitch attitude to the decreasing altitude and high vertical speed and figured things out. The problem was exacerbated by the A330′s design, which masked Bonin’s control inputs because there was no force feedback to the matching set of flight controls to let the other pilot know what the aircraft was being commanded to do.

It’s doubt the official accident report will see it this way, but it seems to be that the Air France 447 accident chain started many, many years ago when the Airbus was designed. It continued when the cruise pilots were in primary flight training and learned to associate stalls with airspeed rather than angle-of-attack. Thorough aerobatic training would have disabused them of that notion rather quickly.

It was only after those pieces were in place that a pitot system failure could have resulted in the loss of the airframe when the flight crew had seven miles of altitude with which to reach the conclusion that the airplane was stalled.

According to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, the nation’s highways are safer than in years past.

Assuming you’re in a car, that is. Apparently if you’re driving a truck or walking, somehow the trend is going in the wrong direction.

A Los Angeles Times article quotes the NHTSA as calling this number “the lowest fatality rate ever recorded, with 1.10 deaths per 100 million vehicle miles traveled in 2010″.

Since my focus is obviously on aviation, I’m curious about how this compares with the fatal accident rate for general aviation.

The FAA’s most recent statistics cover the period through September 30th of this year and show a current rate of 1.16 deaths per 100,000 hours flown.

In order to make an equivalent comparison, we have to convert miles driven to hours driven. No one knows how many hours Americans spend on the highway each year, but we can ballpark it if we can come up with an average speed for the nation’s automobiles.

For a conversion factor, I looked at data from the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety and the NHTSA’s Highway Safety Desk Book. No clear national highway speed average emerged, but there were several studies which showed that highway speed limits are frequently exceeded. No surprise there, right?

If we assume an average highway speed of 65 mph, an automobile fatality rate of 1.1 per 100 million miles comes out to one death every 1.4 million hours. The GA equivalent is 16.24 fatalities per 1.4 million hours. In other words, the fatal accident rate for general aviation (defined as all aviation except for airlines and the military) is 16.24 times worse than that for the nation’s highways.

Of course, if my estimate of the average speed of a car on the highway is wrong, the ratio would change accordingly. Lower highway speeds would give cars a better comparative safety record per hour driven. Likewise, if cars average higher speeds, general aviation looks more favorable.

Any way you slice it, it seems you’re safer in a car than you are in the air, unless you’re flying the airlines. Their safety record is so good that in some years you couldn’t even perform a comparison with automobiles because the Part 121 airlines had no fatalities whatsoever.

For a more detailed look at how various GA segments stack up safety-wise, take a look at the Air Safety Institute’s annual Nall Report. I love this publication because it breaks down the numbers based on a variety of factors including phase of flight, commercial vs. non-commercial, fixed-wing vs. helicopter, mechanical vs. pilot error, etc.

If you’re a GA passenger looking for tips on how to judge the relative risk of a particular flight, I wrote about some things to consider (see “Is Flying Safe?“) when flying general aviation.

I said it before and I’ll say it again, the one thing airplanes and cars have in common is that accidents due to mechanical failure are extremely rare. Crashes, especially fatal ones, are almost always caused by errors of judgement by the operator. Driving while intoxicated. Scud running at night. Aggressive or distracted driving. Deplaning a passenger with the engine running. You get the picture.

So while nobody’s perfect, you’d do well to consider your opinion of the person you’re traveling with before zooming off into the sunset. It’s difficult to quantify solely with numbers, but it’ll improve your odds dramatically regardless of the conveyance.

Ah, the checklist. If Shakespeare was a pilot, he’d have written an ode to it.

Once confined to the world of aviation, formal checklist discipline is now common in hospitals, assembly lines, product design, maintenance, and just about any other instance where loss of essential time, money, or bodily function can result from improper procedures or forgotten items.

Some pilots can’t imagine flying without one. Like a child wandering the yard without their favorite blanket, they’d quite literally be lost without that laminated piece of paper guiding them through each phase of flight. I’ve seen pilots who seemed to enjoy using the checklist more than the actual flying.

Others have a difficult time understanding why a written list is needed at all, especially in simple or familiar aircraft. “Use a flow or mnemonic and let’s get going!”, they’d say.

John Laming seems to fall into the latter category. His Air Facts opinion piece (“Is Your Checklist Really Necessary?”) is an odd take for someone with his military and commercial airline experience. Initially, I concluded that even after all those decades in the air and thousands of hours logged, he still doesn’t understand the purpose of a checklist. Is that possible? Or was his piece simply designed to provoke a strong response from the reader?

After re-reading the article, I’m starting to believe that Mr. Laming has just encountered too many badly-designed checklists. As anyone who’s operated a wide variety of aircraft types (I’ve flown over 60) can tell you, poor checklists are more often the rule than the exception, and the worst of them will leave a long-lasting bad taste in your mouth. They disrupt the flow of a flight much the way an actor with poor timing can disrupt a scene.

One of the great aviation mysteries is why so many lousy checklists continue to exist. They’re not limited to small aircraft, either. The manufacturer-provided checklist for the Gulfstream IV, for example, is comically long. I don’t know who designs these things, but I highly doubt it’s the line pilot who’s going to be using it day in and day out.

The answer to such cosmic riddles is far above my pay grade. What I can say for sure is that it’s vital for aviators to understand both the purpose for a checklist and the proper way to use one.

The purpose should be self-evident: to ensure that nothing important gets missed. Lowering the landing gear, setting the pressurization controller, those sorts of items. The key word is important, and I think that’s where many checklists fall apart because once the document gets too long, human nature dictates that pilots will either skip items inadvertently or leave the entire thing stowed.

Proper checklist usage, now that’s something a bit more complex. When an aviator is new to an aircraft, the checklist serves as a “do” list. In other words, each item is read and then the action is performed. Even if a cockpit flow exists and is being taught, the list will have to be read and performed one step at a time because the pilot is simply unfamiliar with the location of switches and controls.

As time goes by, the flow and/or checklist is slowly memorized. Eventually the pilot reaches the point where they’re actually faster and more comfortable performing the items from memory. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that. In fact, it’s a good thing, because it allows the checklist to serve as a CHECK list. Once everything is done, you quickly read through the items on the page to ensure you haven’t forgotten anything.

In my experience, it’s not the neophyte who is at greatest risk for missing something, it’s the grizzled veteran who whips through the flows at lightning speed and then neglects to use the checklist at all. It’s overconfidence. They’re so sure they haven’t forgotten anything of life-altering consequence. And to be honest, they’re usually right — but that’s not the point.

I see this kind of failure quite frequently when flying glass panel aircraft with pilots who are computer geek Type-A personalities. They’re literally too fast with the flows and need to slow down a bit.

Caution is also warranted when circumstances force a pilot to perform tasks out of their normal order. Often this happens due to interruption from ATC, line personnel, passengers, weather, or even another pilot.

Speaking of weather, here’s a case in point: I was in New Jersey getting a Gulfstream IV ready for departure during a strong rainstorm. We had started up the airplane to taxi to a place on the ramp where it was somewhat protected from the weather so our passengers wouldn’t get quite as soaked when they arrived. That simple action broke up the usual pre-flight exterior flow and as a result I neglected to remove the three landing gear pins. Thankfully the other pilot caught it during his walk-around, but it shows how easily that sort of thing can happen.

The best checklists, the ones that are truly effective, share some common traits. For one thing, they’re short and sweet. They hit the critical items in a logical order and leave the rest out.

In an aerobatic aircraft, a pre-takeoff check would cover the fuel selector, canopy, fuel mixture, flight controls, etc. In a swept-wing business jet, on the other hand, the critical items are different. Flaps become a vital item, because unlike other aircraft, if those aren’t set right the airplane can use far more runway than you’ve got available. It may not even fly at all.

Checklist design and usage is an under-appreciated skill. As with many things in aviation, when it’s done right it’s a thing of elegance. Art, almost. So next time you’re flying, take a critical look at your checklist and the way you use it. How do you — and it — measure up?

The life of an aviator is indisputably rich in adventures, unique experiences, and, as Magee phrased it, “a hundred things you have not dreamed of”.

Even in that life, however, there are a few days which stand above the rest. Who can forget their first solo, the successful checkride, or the name of their first passenger? As anyone who’s been there can attest, even the most diminutive among us stands ten feet tall at the end of those flights.

Another big moment — one of the very sweetest in my experience — is the day you escape any niggling notions of common sense and purchase an aircraft of your very own. Today, that often means what a salesmen would refer to as a “pre-loved” aircraft. Pre-owned. You know, used.

A select few among us, however, still have the opportunity to hop a miserable flight in the aluminum tube and take delivery of a brand new airplane just as it rolls off the final assembly line. Think of it! A gleaming aircraft sitting under the lights with flawless paint and interior, the latest technology, zero hours on the Hobbs, and even that elusive “new airplane” smell.

Those who’ve had the experience are typically the deep-pocket types. But occasionally a professional pilot will get to be part of the experience as an instructor or ferry pilot. I’ve had three such opportunities in my career thus far, and even on the periphery of the experience it’s an exciting thing to be part of.

The most recent of the three was a new turbo-normalized X-Edition Cirrus SR-22. The owner purchased the aircraft before he’d even started pilot training. I saw the option list and it literally had every box checked off. In addition to the dual turbochargers and dual intercoolers, it had dual AHRS, dual air data computers, synthetic vision, infrared EVS, G1000 Perspective avionics, oxygen system, TKS “known icing”, an upgraded propeller, and a dozen other things.

I don’t think the buyer thought about the weight of all this stuff when he was selecting his options. The airplane is the heaviest Cirrus I’d ever flown. In fact, the full fuel payload was only sufficient for a single person. I don’t mean a single person beyond the pilot — I’m talking just the pilot! We were over gross weight for the first leg of our return flight, as I’d never even considered the need for a weight and balance computation with just two of us on board. Lesson learned.

We found out later that part of the problem was that this airplane was originally built as a normally aspirated Cirrus. The market for those airplanes was pretty soft at the time, so in order to move the inventory, they retrofitted it with a turbo system at the factory.

This shouldn’t have caused a weight penalty. However, the folks at Tornado Alley Turbo in Ada, Oklahoma took one look under the cowling and realized that this was an older, heavier turbocharger kit that had been in use before the advent of Cirrus’s flight into known-icing (FIKI) certification. The FIKI system has dual pumps and more extensive TKS panel coverage on the airframe, leading to higher weight.

Cirrus had asked Tornado Alley Turbo to find ways to lighten the exhaust system on the FIKI SR-22s, and TAT responded by designing a new exhaust system with lighter material that offset the weight of the deicing components. Problem solved.

The question is, why wasn’t this serial number retrofitted with the light exhaust? TAT surmised that this heavy exhaust system had been sitting on the shelf in Duluth and the Cirrus folks decided to put it on the plane. Good for Cirrus, bad for the new owner of this aircraft, as he may own the heaviest SR-22 in the entire fleet. Although for what it’s worth, I don’t think he really cares one way or the other.

Anyway, I managed to take a few photos along the way, and offer this retrospective on a delivery trip for a brand new airplane.

The airplane had only 13 hours on it when we accepted delivery at the factory in Duluth, MN. Can you imagine the smell of all that sumptuous leather? Thirteen hours is just enough for the production test pilots to ensure everything works properly and the included factory training for the new owner.

Departing Duluth, we cruised in the mid-teens to our first fuel stop in Kansas City. Pit stop, refuel, a quick call to my nephew Michael to say hello, and we were back on the proverbial “road”.

The airplane’s weight was easily felt on takeoff, but once airborne she seemed to do just fine. As with all the heavy turbo-normalized SR-22s, the airplane gave the best numbers up around FL250, where we’d see true airspeeds beyond 200 knots. This was a pretty typical ground speed during our trip. My favorite part of the flight was always the descent, where the ground speed would run up to about 250 knots (288 mph).

The Perspective avionics suite in action. Notice the Garmin GFC700 autopilot. This delivery was about a year ago, and at the time that autopilot was brand new.

The new owner wanted to stop in Ada, OK to have the guys at Tornado Alley ensure the turbo system was set up correctly. As it turns out, no major adjustments were needed, just a few clamps and such needed tweaking.

Our visit to TAT added to my already high level of respect for the company. They had guys working on our plane all afternoon. The final charge? Zero dollars. They were just happy to have us there, the logic being that if the turbo system operated properly, we’d be happy customers and it would help their reputation. I couldn’t agree more.

I think there’s also a bit of a safety concern. These turbochargers and the related exhaust components are high speed (30,000 RPM), high heat producing widgets. An exhaust leak can be a serious hazard, and turbo system maintenance is vital to safe flying. It’s not that they don’t trust Cirrus to set up the turbo properly, but the folks in Duluth couldn’t be as knowledgeable about the turbo as the folks who designed and built those components.

TAT found that this airplane has the older heavyweight turbo system on it. Apparently it was built as a normally aspirated airplane and then turbocharged later in order to sell it. While the guys were working on the plane, they gave us a car to drive into town for lunch, and upon our return offered us a tour of the GAMI/TAT facilities.

This is a mockup of what the turbo system looks like on the SR22. They build it, box it up like this, and send it to Duluth. Cirrus just bolts it to the engine. TAT’s goal was to make the installation as “idiot-proof” as possible.

This is where the balanced fuel injectors — sold under the name GAMIjectors — are manufactured. These balanced fuel injectors are the key to lean-of-peak engine operation and have been a part of the Cirrus since the beginning. I’ve flown a thousand hours behind these things, so it was fascinating to see how they’re made.

These are molds for part of the turbonormalized SR-22 exhaust system.

This is an SR22 turbo system, boxed up and ready for shipment to Duluth.

Exhaust component inventory on the shelves at Tornado Alley. Each of those pieces is worth thousands of dollars.

GAMI has a highly instrumented test cell where they test out all their products. Right now they’re working on the G100 unleaded 100 octane fuel. You can see a tank of the stuff on the trailer in the foreground. At the time of our visit, they were testing it on an SR22 they had put into the Experimental category.

This Continental IO-550-N engine has been running at 400+ horsepower for years, and it was at TBO when they installed it!

The test cell control room. The circuit boards are for an upcoming turbo and fuel controller. At the time of our visit, the buzz surrounded a new feature called World Peace.

We departed Ada late afternoon for our next stop, Albuquerque. While in cruise, an instrument scan of the engine page showed an electrical anomaly.

It seems that the Cirrus’s electrical issues haven’t completely been solved, although they’re a great deal better than they were in the days of the early SR22 models with the “old” electrical system and the analog engine gauge backups.

This is a good learning opportunity. Alt 1 shows no amps, but all bus voltages are normal. What’s happening here?

Check out the “max groundspeed” number! Apparently this is not only the heaviest SR-22 in the fleet, but also the fastest…

The next scheduled stop after Albuquerque was Las Vegas, however we elected to continue on to Los Angeles due to weather coming up from the south. As it turns out, it was a good move. We would have been stuck there for days.

This photos shows one of the great safety features of the glass panel. Weather is downloaded from the XM satellite and displayed on the huge MFD map. On the right side of the screen you can see that it’s showing NEXRAD radar, cloud tops, lightning, cell movement, SIGMET/AIRMET, METARs, and PIREPs — all in graphical form, along with the age of the data (typically 2-5 minutes old).

By watching the rate at which the cells were moving from left to right, we were able to time our passage through the “gap” between the blue restricted areas on either side of the Daggett VOR.

Looking back at the weather we had skirted.

The high desert north of Los Angeles. We were passing over Lake Arrowhead and looking west. These isolated buildups are typical of the high desert area in the summer.

Delivery completed! The shiny new airplane is tucked away for the first night in her new hangar at Torrance Airport.

Clear communication is important in virtually every aspect of life. From business deals to formal schooling to everyday interaction with friends and family, life flows a lot smoother when communication is clear and concise.

This holds especially true in aviation. Unfortunately we already have many things going against us in the cockpit when it comes to clear communication with air traffic controllers. The environment is loud, radio transmissions are often stepped on, and standard phraseology is not always utilized. Controllers are sometimes guilty of this last item, but in my experience it’s far more often the pilots who are at fault. I could write for days about that one.

Even when standard phraseology is used, communication can remain unclear. That’s one of the reasons (ICAO standardization being the other) the instruction “taxi into position and hold” was recently replaced with “line up and wait”. Some pilots, especially those from abroad and/or those for whom English is not the primary language, confused “hold short” (don’t enter the runway) with “position and hold” (taxi onto the runway and stop).

“Line up and wait” is the standard throughout the rest of the world, so even though to my ear it sounds like a description of a day spent at Disneyland, it was adopted by the U.S. about a year ago.

One of my co-workers likes to use the multiple definitions of ‘class’ to illustrate how the FAA can muddy the waters with its choice of words. In the aviation world, class can refer to medical certification, pilot certification, or a sub-category of aircraft.

Another word which can cause confusion is “short”. As in, short approach, short runway, land-and-hold “short”. Each of those means something different to an aviator. But it’s also an area of potential miscommunication between pilots and controllers.

That’s why the FAA has recently announced a new rule for the use of the word “short” as it relates to a runway that has been shortened by temporary construction:

I like this change. The terminal environment presents a pilot with the highest workload of their flight — the landing and takeoff phases. And it’s a well known fact that most accidents take place on the ground, so anything which clarifies communication is welcome.

My guess is that if you’re a recreational pilot who flies a typical four or six place GA airplane, you’ll look at this change and shrug. So the runway’s a little shorter, so what? A shortened runway is probably not a big deal to most piston-powered aircraft.

But a jet typically uses far more of the available runway at a given airfield, and missing a NOTAM about a shortened runway can have severe consequences. Not only do jets use more runway for takeoff and landing, but they fly those phases at higher speeds and weigh a lot more. In other words, far more kinetic energy to dissipate when something goes wrong.

By the way, I discovered this change through a subscription to the FAA Safety web site. I highly recommend signing up for their email announcements. The FAA’s web-based offerings have improved dramatically in usability and content over the past few years.

Ever wonder what goes on in the cockpit of an aircraft during an emergency? Yeah, me too — and I’ve had a few of them in my flying career. Emergencies are like snowflakes and fingerprints: no two are exactly the same.

Perhaps that’s why even experienced aviators find them as interesting to rehash as the general public. The only constant between them seems to be that they never quite match the experience received during flight training. That shouldn’t come as a shock to anyone who flies because there’s no way to simulate every possible scenario, especially when one of the tenets of emergency training is to avoid creating a real one in the process.

Yes, simulators are one answer. But they are not a complete or perfect solution since even the very best sims can only create the scenarios for which they’re programmed. In other words, the usual textbook issues: engine rollback, depressurization, wind shear, runaway trim, electrical failures, instrument failure, and so on.

The most challenging thing about training for emergencies is that there are so many possibilities that we can’t even think of them all. Aircraft are complex pieces of machinery and failures can happen in ways that even those who designed and built them cannot foresee. That’s when our intrepid aviator gets to start using all that experience and systems knowledge he’s acquired to try and puzzle things out.

Two of my emergencies were partial engine failures. One was caused by a blocked fuel filter in a Pitts, and the other was a broken cylinder in a Cutlass. When was the last time you saw that simulated? In training, engine failures always seem to be given as complete and instant losses of power. But in my experience that’s not realistic.

It’s at least as likely that you’ll have some power, but the engine is not running properly and on its way to eventual failure. Now things are even more complex, because in addition to the usual checklist items you must decide whether to shut it down. Will the vibration rip the engine off the pylon? Take a prop blade? At what point are you within glide distance of a landing spot and free to shut down the engine? If there’s smoke or fire, that will certainly impact your decision. What sort of terrain are you flying over? Are you in IMC or VMC?

As I said, a long decision tree with many variables. Some people try to encompass every scenario with a single flow or list of actions. I find those solutions to be tortured and not well suited to every situation. The bottom line is that emergencies often require critical thinking skills by the pilot, even if that thinking is as simple as “which emergency checklist is appropriate to this situation?”.

A fellow Gulfstream pilot related a scenario where he had just departed from an airport and noticed that the Engine Vibration Monitor was indicating excessive vibration in one of the engines. The flight manual for that airplane says not to shut down an engine solely for a high EVM indication. The captain elected to reduce that engine to idle thrust as a precautionary measure.

Then, the flight attendant who was occupying the jump seat in the cockpit told the captain that there was a lot of smoke in the back of the cabin. There was no smell associated with it, however, and no indication of fire either on the instrument panel or in the rear of the aircraft. It was almost a black fog.

The engine was secured and an emergency landing carried out. The cause turned out to be a slightly loose fan blade in one of the engines. Centrifugal force was allowing the blade to rub on the case and the resultant material was being ingested into the pressure vessel via the bleed air system. I don’t think that’s a scenario I’d heard of before it was related to me by the pilot who experienced it. In training, smoke usually equals fire.

Pyrotechnic damage to an F-86 Sabre. Click for the video.

Anyway, I got to thinking about how we train for emergencies because of this video. In it, an F-86 Sabre pilot flying at an airshow is inadvertently hit with a pyrotechnic device in mid-flight. I suppose it’s analogous to battle damage or a bird strike.

He reports that the impact was severe enough that it felt as though the jet had hit the ground. Then the airboss reports that the aircraft is shedding parts. Oh, and he’s at low altitude in an airplane with an ejection seat. What would you have done?

The pilot in question, Ed Shipley, is a model of professionalism and thoughtful flying. He calmly ensures the airplane is stabilized and then worries about ATC. There’s no hesitation in declaring an emergency. Next he gets all the available resources working on his behalf. That means the airboss, the controller, even an F-16 sitting on the ground. Phone calls are made, people consulted, and Shipley gets as much information as possible about what’s happened and what to expect upon landing.

With my theatre and opera background, I’d liken the pilot of an emergency aircraft to the director of an improptu play. To be fair, Shipley had an extensive array of resources available, but that very same help can be overwhelming if not managed properly. I once had an aileron jam due to FOD inside the wing of my airplane during an aerobatic competition and had that problem due to a long stream of questions and suggestions from those on the ground. They meant well, but it wasn’t what I needed at the time.

Partial engine failure in IMC. Click for the video.

Sometimes less-experienced pilots will allow controllers to direct their actions when things should be the other way around. You can find one such example in this Air Safety Foundation “Real Pilot Stories” narration of a partial engine failure (sound familiar?) in actual instrument conditions.

The flight comes through in one piece, and that’s all that matters. But if you watch the presentation, you’ll see that even the pilot admits that he didn’t get the information he needed from the air traffic controller. His decisions were influenced by a person who is not a pilot and didn’t fully understand the details of the situation.

Toward the end of the video, he recounts the lessons learned and in doing so sums up my message: the emergency you get isn’t always the one you’ve trained for.

Air Facts contributor John Zimmerman recently wrote about watching a pilot massively overload an aircraft and then proceed to takeoff from a short runway on a hot day, barely avoiding disaster.

He then asks how we should respond when an aviator is witnessed performing a Stupid Pilot Trick. Do we confront them? Call the FAA? Shrug and walk away? What is our responsibility, and when are we morally obligated to get involved?

It’s a difficult question to answer, especially for those of us who are not confrontational by nature. It’s something I’ve been struggling with lately, as Zimmerman’s article brought to mind a mind-blowing encounter I had with a Darwin Award candidate while conducing some commercial checkride prep with a student at a local non-towered airport this week.

Peter and I were working on high-performance landings and power-off 180 degree accuracy approaches when we witnessed a vintage Skyhawk enter the pattern on a 45 degree final. He proceeded toward the runway at low altitude, clearly out of glide distance of the runway while over a densely populated residential area. He then landed and taxied to the fuel pit without so much as a single radio call. Even the exterior lights on his aircraft were off.

At first this might not sound like a supremely egregious violation of good piloting practice and common sense. The lack of radio communication could be explained by any number of possible scenarios.

Maybe the pilot was transmitting on the wrong frequency. We’ve all keyed in the wrong digits on at least on occasion, right? Perhaps he had an electrical system or radio failure, or a bad push-to-talk switch. The wrong radio could have been selected on the audio panel. The pilot’s headset could be faulty.

Let’s also remember that aircraft at non-towered airports aren’t legally required to have a radio, let alone use one. In other words, the aircraft’s actions could be explained by information I didn’t have at my disposal.

Unfortunately, none of those things were true. The pilot wasn’t a random visitor to this airport. After we landed, I immediately recognized the N-number and paint scheme on the aircraft: this guy had been in a mid-air collision at that very same airport six years ago!

A bad way to end a flight

I remember it well. It was a very busy weekend day after an extended spate of stormy weather. In other words, everyone and their mother was at the airport that day to go flying. The pattern had been buzzing with traffic. On that memorable day, our silent hero had made the same non-standard pattern entry at the same low altitude, and did so with no communication despite the fact that his airplane has a fully functioning radio.

As if this isn’t enough, the pilot in question is also an instructor and I personally heard one of his students testify that he teaches them not to use the radio. His logic? “It’s better to focus on flying the airplane”.

Anyway, according to multiple witnesses on the ground, he’d overtaken another airplane from below and behind and the two airplanes had collided on short final. There were no injuries, and miraculously enough, damage to one airplane was minor while the other came away literally unscathed except for a dent on the horizontal stabilizer.

You’d think it virtually impossible for a mid-air to be survivable, but it does happen. The final approach collisions typically have one aircraft descending on top of another since they’re both aligned with the runway. The relative speed — and therefore, energy — of the collision is about as low as possible for two airplanes in flight.

These accidents don’t always have happy endings; the 2007 P-51 midair at Oshkosh one such example. Even then, one of the two Mustang pilots survived without injury. But there are also many instances of non-injury mid-airs. There was one between a Gulfstream jet and a King Air while on approach to Van Nuys Airport in October, 2000. Last July, two aircraft collided in cruise flight in Alaska without injury to any occupants in either plane.

Anyway, flash forward to today. Peter and I are taxiing back to the runway after our landing and as we roll past the fuel pump, I feel myself getting more and more angry. Not so much about what happened in the past, but that the pilot of that airplane learned absolutely nothing from his experience. He still has a radio and refuses to use it. He still makes non-standard entries and sneaks in below other traffic without yielding.

It astounds me to know that even a mid-air collision was unable to convince this guy of the errors of his ways. NTSB accident statistics clearly demonstrate that see-and-avoid cannot guarantee traffic avoidance. Your odds are best when you use all the tools available to you, and that includes standard traffic procedures, radio usage, aircraft lights, etc.

The moral of the story is that there are other people like him out there. What is our responsibility when we encounter one? If they kill themselves, fine. As they say, it’s a free country. But what about the folks they take with them? The students they teach bad habits to? The awful reputation they give to general aviation? The chaos they create even when nobody gets hurt?

Aside from talking to the pilot (and I’m fairly certain that wouldn’t do much good), there’s little I can do in this situation aside from using it as an teachable example for my student.

Except for the vague and variable definition of “careless and reckless operation”, the pilot did not violate any regulation I can think of. Radios are not required. Standard pattern entries and published TPAs are recommendations. We never got close enough to cause a near-collision situation. But mark my words, this guy is going to cause serious damage someday, even if it’s only second-hand through the poor technique he’s passed along to students.

He is, without a doubt, an accident waiting to happen. Again and again.

The situation reminded me (as many things do) of a Seinfeld episode, specifically the one where Kramer gets banned from a grocery store after demanding restitution for a bad mango.

Of course, in my case it wasn’t a store, but rather McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas this past Friday which locked me out. My crime? Flying VFR, apparently.

We were cruising over the California/Nevada border with a ground speed of nearly 230 knots. Not bad for a Cirrus SR22. So far we’d only been airborne for 40 minutes and were looking at a total flight time of less than one hour. Again, muy bueno. The weather had been decent. More than decent, actually; I’d managed to avoid any bumps despite the presence of a SIGMET for severe turbulence over southern California. Basically the whole day had been smooth and easy. And just when I thought we had it made…

"You're banned!"

We were starting our descent when L.A. Center handed us off to a Las Vegas Approach controller who summarily announced that we were not going to be able to land at McCarran and please say request. Oh, and remain clear of the Bravo. The tone in his voice made it clear this wasn’t a negotiable point.

Request? I’d like to ask you to repeat that, Approach, because I checked NOTAMs, TFRs, and paid special attention to known delays going into McCarran and found nothing. Okay, I didn’t actually say that, but it’s what I was thinking. I used to live in Las Vegas and have alighted there on literally dozens of occasions, mostly weekends (and frequently holiday weekends at that).

I know as well as anyone that Fridays are busy there even during a normal weekend and was prepared for a logjam at KLAS since not only was it Veteran’s Day, but the big Pacquiao vs. Marquez fight was slated to take place at the MGM Grand on Saturday.

What surprised me was the way they slammed the door on any non-IFR traffic. In 14 years and 6,000 hours of flying, I’ve never been turned away from a public-use airport without so much as a hint that there might be a problem. Well, except perhaps for the days after 9/11 when that ridiculous “enhanced Class B” airspace concept was first tossed at us by the FAA. Boy, talk about the left hand not knowing what the right hand was doing. Government at its worst.

The flight restriction over Nellis AFB made a mess of things

Anyway, I asked the controller if there was anything published that I might have missed, and he replied in the negative. He said that the controllers were surprised as well, but VFR arrivals into McCarran were not allowed and wouldn’t be for the rest of the day — if not the whole weekend.

Apparently the straw that broke the airport’s back was a flight restriction for the annual Nellis AFB “Aviation Nation” airshow. While I saw the TFR and knew we wouldn’t have to fly through it, I’d neglected to think about how the flight restriction might affect arrivals into McCarran. As you can see from the terminal chart snippet, aircraft arriving on runways 19L and 19R head right toward the TFR on downwind.

I’ve never been vectored that far north, even in the Gulfstream IV, but I suppose it could freak out the Nellis air boss to see a constant stream of traffic headed toward his protected airspace all day long. I’ve seen much tighter airspace situations for other airshows (San Diego Lindbergh Field during the Red Bull Air Race comes to mind), but then they didn’t ask for my opinion.

Evidently, the restricted airspace had more or less shut down approaches to two of the airport’s four runways, meaning general aviation traffic had to share with the Big Boys. Cutting half of Las Vegas’s runway capacity on a holiday weekend? Brilliant.

Next strategy: how about a pop-up IFR clearance into McCarran? It’s fortunate I wasn’t expecting that to yield any fruit, because it didn’t. By now I’d wasted enough of this controller’s time and threw in the towel, telling him we’d divert to Henderson.

After an uneventful landing there, we noticed that the ramp was unusually full, and not just with the typical GA traffic. There were plenty of Gulfstreams, Falcons, Challengers, and other high-dollar jets camping out in the boonies as well. It was rather difficult to even find an open space on Henderson’s expansive ramp.

In retrospect, landing in Henderson probably saved time. I called for a cab while on approach to the field and it was waiting there when we landed. On a weekend like this, the six mile taxi cab ride to the Strip was undoubtedly more efficient than the huge pattern, two mile taxi, quarter mile van ride, and taxi stand delay we’d have had to endure at McCarran. Not to mention cheaper fuel and no ramp fees to fork over.

Waiting to depart KLAS last summer. It was 120 degrees outside, and the a/c system wasn't doing much to fight the heat

I’m headed back on Sunday and wonder if Henderson might not be the most efficient way to go regardless of whether they’re accepting VFR arrivals. Sure, I could file IFR, but flying instruments takes so much longer and would probably involve some sort of “flow” delay before takeoff. On the other end, the wait to depart from McCarran (VFR or IFR) can be extensive even when all four runways are operating normally. Just getting a clearance often takes 20 minutes.

I recall a day last summer when I flew to McCarran in the same aircraft. We sat there baking on a 120 degree taxiway for 45 minutes like some sort of composite casserole in the oven, cooling our heels in a mile-long conga line of bizjets watching the oil temperaure creep higher and higher — eventually reaching the red line just as we received our takeoff clearance. The oil temp actually cooled off (due to increased oil flow at higher RPM) once we departed into the scorching heat.

Yes, Las Vegas plays hard ball. Even if you never step foot inside a casino.

If you’re mentally yelling “Tony Danza!”, think again my friend. When it comes to aviation, the rules are made by the Federal Aviation Administration.

Someone might want to let the L.A. County Board of Supervisors and Congressman Howard Berman in on that fact. The good Mr. Berman has introduced legislation — supported by the Supervisors — which, according to his press release, would “give the FAA the authority to set minimum altitudes and flight paths for helicopter traffic in LA country (sic)”.

As a member of the House of Representatives, you’d think Mr. Berman would know the FAA already has that authority. They’ve had it since the agency was founded in the 1950s.

Low flying fire department helicopter

What he’s either not aware of (or, more likely, just doesn’t care about) is that helicopters fly low for a reason, and it’s not just because they want to annoy the neighbors. The flight paths of helicopters are not compatible with those of airliners and general aviation traffic over the city of Los Angeles. They fly the altitudes they do because if they’re any higher up, they’ll be directly in the way of much faster, heavier, and less maneuverable jet aircraft.

When I fly for the Medfly program, we mix it up with downtown helicopter traffic every day. I also see the airliners buzzing right over our heads as we do it. The closer you get to LAX, the lower you have to be to fly underneath that traffic. Even in cases where there’s little risk of a collision, airliners still generate tremendous wake turbulence, and that can be a deadly hazard to something as light as a helicopter.

If they think 300 feet is low, someone should tell the Board that helicopters routinely fly as low as 50′ above the water as they transition along the shoreline just off the end the departure runways at LAX. Again, they do it for a reason. It’s the safest way to transition helicopters from one side of the airport to the other without disrupting operations.

I’m not suggesting helicopter pilots can’t fly more neighborly, but from my experience, the big noise is made by police, sheriff, and fire department rotary wing aircraft. If you want to do without their services, be my guest. But at least be honest about who it is that’s making all the noise. The TV news and general aviation helicopters are the ones flying the highest and therefore producing the least noise. I base that statement on more than 2,000 hours of flying at low altitude around the downtown area.

The L.A. Times article even shows a photograph of a fire department helicopter as it’s example of “low flying” traffic while proclaiming that it’s the paparazzi and tourists who are at fault.

The good news is that there is something the good Congressman can do to increase aviation safety in the L.A. area: withdraw his legislation and leave governing the skies to the experts.

Scott Spangler at Jetwhine recently opined that business jets are “merely pawns in the war over wealth”. His article was prompted by a snarky New York Times op-ed which gleefully zinged Texas governor Rick Perry for his frequent business jet travel.

While I don’t disagree with Spangler’s assertion, his missive got me wondering why American business is so timid about extolling the virtues of corporate aviation. They know the benefits of a business jet better than anyone, yet it’s virtually unheard of for any firm large enough to have a corporate aircraft to crow about what it does for them.

I know, I know: NBAA, GAMA, AOPA, and other industry alphabet groups have been trying to get the word out via No Plane/No Gain, GA Serves America, and other such campaigns. Those programs are well and good, but they’re passive efforts, not active ones.

I can’t recall the last time I saw a solid defense of business aviation to anything other than an aviation-friendly audience. What we need is a forceful push from people in the spotlight, folks like the aforementioned Texas governor, corporate leaders at annual meetings, experts giving media interviews, and those called on to provide Congressional testimony. When belittled about their business aviation activity, these individuals must speak out strongly and without fear, because the facts are wholly in their favor.

Instead, what we’ve been giving the general public for the past several years has been the polar opposite: mealy-mouthed statements, apologies, diversions, or even outright silence, followed by the curtailing or elimination of the flying that gives their company a competitive edge. Unless the institution in the spotlight is governmental, that is. But more on that later.

CEOs of Chrysler, UAW, Ford, and GM

The most egregious example of a missed opportunity was in 2008. Incidentally, it was also the event which started the mainstream vilification of business aviation in the first place. CEOs of the Big Three automakers — Ford, GM, and Chrysler — appeared before the House Financial Services Committee to appeal for a $25 billion dollar federal bailout.

They had each flown to Washington via private jet and were excoriated by the committee for it. So much so, in fact, that the next time they testified before Congress, they drove themselves from Detroit to Washington, D.C.

Ford final assembly plant

The automotive CEOs dug their own graves in that moment, and the rest of us have been paying the price ever since. Why didn’t Mulally explain that Ford Motor Company has assembly plants, parts warehouses, suppliers, dealerships, design centers, test tracks, and racing teams all over the planet? The company operates 24 hours a day, every day of the year, and when an engineering fault is discovered on a factory floor, it can idle that entire plant until the flaw is fixed. It requires engineers, and how are they supposed to get there? On an airliner?

Sure, send your team to the airport to take an inconveniently timed flight. They’ll have to be there two hours in advance so they can clear security, then if they’re lucky and the flight is not delayed, they eventually arrive at a major hub and then transfer to another aircraft that still won’t get them as close to the plant as a business jet could (fact: there are 250 commercial airports, but more than 5,000 general aviation airports in the U.S. alone). That makes no sense when an idled plant can cost the company hundreds of thousands of dollars every hour it’s shut down. Unless you’re a politician, of course.

Or when a NASCAR, NHRA, Grand-Am, or rally team sponsored and/or powered by Ford calls needing a part or because they’re having trouble with that Ford engine before a race, forget about sending support personnel and parts on the corporate jet. Send it UPS. Sure, it won’t get there until it’s too late to qualify, but hey, there are only a few million fans watching that race on TV. So the Ford logo won’t appear, who cares. It’s not like that costs money, right?

Ford is competing against increasingly efficient companies from South Korea, Japan, and many other places. They have to turn out the best designs and put them into production as quickly and efficiently as possible. Time is money, and business jets give Ford it’s edge (no pun intended), to say nothing of the fact that Ford has been involved in the aviation industry for as long as that industry has existed.

The Ford TriMotor

The Ford Trimotor was the first successful airliner and is an important enough part of aviation history that one hangs in the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum. Ford manufactured thousands of airplanes during World War II, at one point cranking out a B-24 bomber every hour. Even today the B-52 bomber flies with some Ford parts on it. Ford started an airline, had its own airport (which by the way hosted the first paved runway in the world). In 1909 Henry Ford helped build his first airplane. The Thunderbird and Mustang were named after airplanes.

You can’t separate Ford Motor Company from the history of aviation, past or present. They wouldn’t have been successful without it in the past and cannot achieve greatness in the future without it, either. That’s what Mulally should have said.

As far as executives are concerned, they aren’t the primary users of corporate jets. That’s just a fact. But when executives do use the company jet, it’s not only the most efficient way to travel, but it actually saves money. For one thing, CEOs at that level don’t travel alone. They bring people with them. They work on the airplane. And when you add up the total cost of last-minute, first class round-trip tickets for all those people (don’t forget taxes and fees!), the business jet suddenly becomes much more cost effective.

Is this a place to conduct business?

Think about what a CEO makes on an hourly basis. If he works 60 hours a week, Mulally’s $24 million annual salary breaks down at about $7,750 per hour. He’s probably traveling with people who make another few hundred dollars per collective hour. Let’s call it $9,000/hour total. Does it make sense to have them working aboard the airplane where they have access to secured Internet, company intranet, and telephone service? Or are the firm and its shareholders better served by having them sit in a crowded airline terminal where it’s too loud and public to discuss company business?

The ultimate insult is that while government representatives are belittling corporate America for their use of business jets, that very same government is busy buying and flying the largest and most expensive corporate jets on the planet for their own use.

In August of 2009, at the height of the financial crisis, the Wall Street Journal reported that the U.S. government had three 737s, two Gulfstream Vs, and eighteen other aircraft in the Washington, D.C. area for Congressional use. The government at this point was already spending in excess of $1,000,000,000,000 more than it received every single year. Government finances were in a worse place than any automotive company, so you’d think the Members of Congress would be ditching their business jets.

Au contraire. They were authorizing the purchase of eight additional jets for a cool $550 million.

Why didn’t the automotive CEOs ask members of the House committee about that? They should bring it up, along with the benefits of business aviation, ever single time the issue is raised by the media. Better yet, the very users of those jets should be shouting it from the rooftops. They should be broaching the issue at every available opportunity, because with China, India, Brazil, and South Korea investing heavily in business aviation and it won’t be long before their competitiveness surpasses our own.

Flying seems to be getting more painful every day for those confined to the airlines. If you think it’s bad here in the United States, take a look at Irish-based Ryanair. They take cheapness to a new level, both in terms of airfares and amenities.

Ryanair is quite famous for this. Far from being embarrassed by their reputation, they actually take pride in it. The fares may be low, but walk aboard their aircraft you’ll find less leg room than on any other airline. They’ve even gone so far as to remove the seat-back pockets in order to save weight and space in the cabin.

But that’s just the start. Ryanair charges passengers extra money if they are too heavy (a so-called “fat tax”). You’ll also get dinged if you need to print a boarding pass or use the toilet on board the aircraft. Checking luggage? That’ll cost you at least $41 per bag.

Never one to rest on their laurels, this month Ryanair has taken the “cheapo” mentality to a new level by virtually doing away with lavatories altogether.

While not exactly a long-haul airline, they do have awfully long routes for that sort of thing (Finland to southern Spain, for example), especially when you consider that the time on board the aircraft often includes long taxi delays. Imagine a two hour flight with a two hour ground stop.

I’m flying in the Gulfstream world, where there are two lavatories for a typical 5-7 people on board the aircraft. Ryanair is expecting 200+ souls to share a single restroom, and pay for the privilege. Can you imagine the conditions on board that airplane? I’m guessing it’ll be akin to what you’d find in a poor rural village somewhere in India.

Ryanair has been skewered by many, but few hit the mark quite like this parody:

So I’m off on the latest adventure! This one has me flying with a new crew to an old home of mine, Alaska. Boy, what a place! I lived in the state when I was a kid, but haven’t been back since then.

I had lived near Anchorage, which has 300,000 residents and is home to nearly half of Alaska’s entire population. This trip was going to take me to a village which was literally a thousand miles away from where I’d lived, yet was still within the same state. Alaska is like that. It’s so large that you could divide it in half and instantly make Texas the 3rd largest state.

Hard to believe that the United States purchased Alaska for only $7 million, or less than $0.02 per acre. And even then, the purchase was so derided by the public that the state was referred to as “Seward’s Icebox”. Much like California, it was the discovery of gold which put the state on the map.

Our route of flight from Van Nuys to Nome

Anyway, one of the best things about the on-demand charter job is that it will take you places you’d be unlikely to have reason to visit on your own, and this is definitely one of those trips.

We departed Van Nuys bright and early with a full load of fuel and touched down six and a half hours later in the arctic northwest town of Nome. This wasn’t the passenger’s destination, but rather a place to stop for fuel and a crew change. The plane went on to China with a different crew because under Part 135 rules, pilots are limited to 10 hours of flying per day and the total flight time for the two legs is far beyond that. However, we’re staying in town because the plane is returning to Nome for a fuel stop tomorrow and we’ll crew-swap again before flying on to New York.

The "main drag" in Nome. This is as congested as it gets here!

It was snowing when we landed, and by the time we shut down the engines on the ramp it had progressed to a full blown snow storm with 20 mph winds. The short walk from the jet to the FBO left my coat soaked from the heavy, wet snow. I’d checked the forecast weather before departure and it was calling for temperatures around freezing. Unfortunately I’d neglected to account for the wind chill and am paying the price when we walk around outside. The guy I’m flying with has it even worse. He left on a trip to west Africa and had packed for that climate, not knowing he’d be sent to the arctic circle on the next flight!

Strangely, the difference between the daily high and low temperatures has only been a couple of degrees. The high was 32 and the low 30 degrees. Since we’ve been here, it’s been a random combination of rain, snow, sleet, ice pellets, and wind.

The finish line of the famous Iditarod dog sled race

After getting settled in the hotel, we set off on foot to see the town. It didn’t take long. Nome is a large town by regional standards, but for those of us from Southern California, it’s quite small. There are only 3,000 residents here, most of whom seems to be native American. The town is most famous as the finish line of the annual Iditarod Trail Race, a 1,049 mile dog sled race which begins in Anchorage and commemorates a heroic 1925 transport of diphtheria antitoxin to the region by dog sled in order to stave off a deadly epidemic.

The Iditarod in an endurance event of epic proportions, almost a Badwater Marathon in the snow. They brave some of the most challenging weather and terrain imaginable — climbing 5,000 foot mountains in blizzard conditions with wind-chill adjusted temperatures of as low as 130 degrees below zero — and still manage to travel 1,000+ miles in as little as eight days.

Unless you're headed to Siberia, Nome is a long way from anywhere.

Nome looks out on the Bering Sea, and while there are a few towns further north, there’s not much further west. In fact, we came across a stack of directional signs which claimed Siberia is only 164 miles away. I’m tempted to say we can see Russia from here, but Sarah Palin beat me to the punch.

Government seems to be a major employer in Nome. Native Village Council, Board of Trade Office, Army National Guard, etc. Even the FAA has an office in town, along with a Flight Service Station at the airport. I’d read about Airport Advisory Areas and taught students about them for years but had never come across one in the real world. I was starting to think they didn’t really exist!

I think transportation is also a big deal around here. I don’t know of any other town this size with an airport as large as Nome’s. Bering Air has a sizable fleet of Caravans, Beech 1900s, and King Airs which service the region. Right after we arrived, an Alaska Airlines 737 arrived from Anchorage. In fact, there are actually two airports here, along with a harbor and a rudimentary road system which closes for the winter on October 31st. Despite the cold, it’d be interesting to be here in the dead of winter when even the sea is frozen solid.

This watermelon would cost about a dollar in Southern California.

The shock of the wind chill is nothing compared to the sticker shock of buying… well, just about anything around here. We visited a supermarket (or should I say, the supermarket) and noticed that a mini-watermelon which costs about a dollar back home runs fifteen bucks here in Nome. Gas is $6.00 per gallon. A gallon of milk is nearly $10. A six-pack of Coke is about the same. We bought a pitcher of local beer (“local” being from Anchorage, a thousand miles away) for $25 bucks. An omelet is $18. That’s what happens when everything in town has to be flown in.

I was sure that seafood would be the one thing that was cheaper here than in L.A. After all, this is where stuff like King Salmon comes from. There’s even a town in Alaska named King Salmon! Alas, seafood is pricey in the arctic just like everything else. Rents, leases, and wages are high here as well. There is no state tax or sales tax in Alaska, but Nome has a 5% local tax which they add to most things.

For a small town, they sure do put out a big welcome mat!

Despite having a population of only 3,000 or so people, the town has six bars, two liquor stores, seven churches, a major airport, a marina, and a regional hospital. In some ways it reminds me of Reno, the “biggest little city in the world”. In other ways, it’s the smallest of backwoods towns. Until you look at the surrounding communities, of course. They’re even smaller.

Well, we’re departing at 5 o’clock in the morning tomorrow for the east coast, then back to Southern California the following day. It’s been quite an experience visiting this wintery wonderland. It has reminded me of and made me thankful for all the comforts and conveniences of home that I frankly take for granted. Despite traffic jams and the other drawbacks of a major metropolitan area, all of us down there are quite blessed. From temperate weather to cheap food, there’s no place like Nome… er, I mean “home”.

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You’ve probably heard this one a million times: “Things aren’t always as they seem”. Magicians, artists, philosophers, advertisers, and many others base their whole lives on that aphorism. And why shouldn’t they? It’s demonstrably true.

Despite our ability to discern up to 20 million individual colors and an unbelievable 50,000 distinct scents, what’s most impressive is often what we don’t detect. Our auditory capability is so advanced that it can function as a biological sonar much as it does for dolphins and bats. The human brain is capable of things even the most advanced computers cannot hope to replicate, yet our ability to process the full range of stimuli in a busy environment can be extremely poor.

Check out this video clip I received via an IAC newsletter):

Another dozen video clips and experiments can be found on the researcher’s site. I was fascinated by this experiment, because I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t see the gorilla at all. They note on their site:

I can’t help but wonder how this phenomenon affects those of us who fly. Among lower-time pilots (whether that’s low time in general, or just new to the aircraft or operation), “selective attention” is sometimes referred to as overloading or task saturation, and while it’s especially common among student pilots in busy environments, anyone can fall prey to it. You’re so focused on this thing that you don’t notice a warning horn going off right in your ear.

A related example from the professionals would be Eastern Airlines Flight 401, which crashed into a swamp because they were so preoccupied with a landing gear indicator light issue that none of the three pilots in the cockpit noticed that nobody was flying the airplane.

Even in low-stress situations, there are illusions present every day when you fly. Some we’re well aware of, such as graveyard spiral, leans, coriolis illusion, etc. while operating at night. But others are more fleeting and hard to pin down. Are we seeing what’s really happening on those gauges and instruments? Did we hear what we thought we heard from that controller?

So tell me, have you ever missed the gorilla walking right past your glareshield?

In 1980, the decennial census counted 226,545,805 people in the United States. That same year, the FAA reported more than 827,000 of those folks held pilot certificates. That’s about one out of every 300 people.

By the end of 2009, the U.S. population had climbed to nearly 30% to 307,000,000 while the pilot count had dropped by 25% to 594,000. Today less than one out out of every 500 Americans is a pilot.

As the saying goes, there are statistics, damn statistics, and lies. But this is no lie: the world of general aviation is getting smaller, and every organization from AOPA to EAA has had their crack at explaining why. They’ve taken surveys, held town hall meetings, hired experts, analyzed statistics, published articles, and made proclamations for as long as I’ve been flying.

The decline has been blamed on everything under the sun. Some claim that fences and security procedures make the local airport an unwelcoming place. Others say liability concerns in today’s litigious society are at the heart of the problem. Or that flying can’t keep up with the excitement of modern video games and simulators.

My personal favorite? Blaming the flight instructor community. While there are certainly instructors out there with a lousy attitude and/or poor instructional technique, you will find that problem in every field of work from physicians to garbage collectors. For a long time, many people inside the industry have pointed the finger of blame at instructors. “The drop out rate for student pilots is 80%!”, they exclaim. Well, it must be the instructor’s fault, then.

Or perhaps not. There is truth in each of those assertions. Indeed, there are myriad reasons for the decay of general aviation, but chief among them is the cost.

It’s the Economy, Stupid

As with most things in life, the difference between what we want and what we have often comes down to plain old money. In my experience, when students can’t complete training, it’s almost always due to financial constraints. When experienced aviators curtail their flying and I ask them about it, the answer invariably comes back: I don’t have the money. I can’t count the number of times I’ve taken a friend for a flight and heard them gush about how much they’d love to learn to fly… until they discover the resources required to complete that training. And that was before the economy turned south.

The Sport Pilot certificate was supposed to make flying less expensive, but I don’t see the results. It’s true that more and more people are learning to fly in light-sport aircraft (LSA) even if they’re pursuing the higher private pilot certificate, but once your training is complete, what then?

If you want to continue flying, your choices are limited to renting or buying an aircraft. Renting is a tough sell because rentals usually come with daily minimums (typically at least a 3 hour/day charge) and that means even a weekend in Vegas will be cost prohibitive because the round trip from L.A. might take three hours but a Friday-to-Sunday trip could rack up six hours of charges. It’s hard to blame the rental FBO for the daily minimums. Airplanes are expensive assets and they have to keep them in the air to generate revenue.

So what’s the answer? Well, there are certainly ways to make flying more affordable, but they come with compromises and require thought, research, and creativity. If you want to fly badly enough though, you often can make it happen.

Parnerships: A Popular Option

One frequently-used technique is to share ownership with another pilot. Privately-owned general aviation aircraft tend to spend most of their time on the ground just sitting. They might fly once a week on average. Probably less. Why not split the cost and get the plane in the air more?

Aircraft partnerships reduce cost and can also allow you to fly a larger or more powerful airplane than you’d otherwise be able to afford. You’ll also have someone to share flying experiences with, and isn’t that part of aviation’s appeal?

On the other hand, partnerships do raise the possibility of disagreements between owners, mismatched goals or schedules, and different ideas about upgrades and maintenance. Think of it like a marriage: when it’s good, it’s great. When it’s not, it can get downright ugly.

The partnership route is one that I’ve used for two out of my three aircraft ownership experiences, and although they’ve not been perfect, I’ve been able to fly at times and in aircraft I could not have afforded on my own.

Flying Clubs: Low Commitment, Low Cost

Joining a flying club that has less restrictive daily minimums is another option for those without the resources to own. Flying clubs are typically non-profit organizations, so the hourly fee to fly an aircraft tends to be lower since they’re not seeking to turn a profit. They’re the credit unions of the aviation world, if you will.

Many flying clubs also charge by the tach hour rather than Hobbs hour, so you pay very little for time spent on the ground. That may not sound like much of an incentive, but a typical hour-long flight could involve as much as fifteen minutes spent on the ground taxiing, waiting, performing pre-flight checks, and so on. And if you’re taking a lazy sightseeing flight along the coast, the lower engine RPM means the tach meter runs slower and you pay less per hour.

One of the great advantages of a flying club is that the capital outlay for getting into the cockpit tends to be quite small. A typical club might ding you for an annual membership fee of $100 or so. Beyond that, you only pay for your flight time. If you move, lose interest, or just don’t have time to fly for a while, you’re not bleeding money each month for storage fees, taxes, required inspections, etc.

Sole-Ownership: Yes, Virginia, It Does Exist

Before you write-off the possibility of owning an aircraft outright, perhaps you should take a look at this AOPA Online article. Author Alton Marsh lists ten aircraft you can purchase for less than $20,000:

• 1980 Piper Tomahawk
• 1953 Piper TriPacer
• 1961 Piper Colt
• 1961 Ercoupe
• 1972 Cessna 150
• 1946 Cessna 120
• 1946 Cessna 140
• 1946 Luscombe 8A
• 1946 Aeronca 11BC Super Chief

Think about that. If you’re willing to hold on to your current car when it’s paid off, you could put those resources toward owning an airplane and probably not pay much more for the privilege. A typical 20-year aircraft loan of $20,000 at 7% interest with 15% down would cost $131.80 per month. To be fair, there are other expenses such as fuel, insurance and a tiedown/hangar fee to pay each month. It’s never going to be cheap, but it doesn’t have to be ruinous, either.

Not only are these aircraft relatively inexpensive, but they tend to be some of the most fun aircraft you can fly, tailwheels! I would go a bit further than the AOPA article and add a few experimental-homebuilt airplanes to the list. You can get a flying RV-3 for the same price. Yes, it’s a single seat airplane, but one that will do over 200 mph on seven gallons of fuel per hour. The Thorp T-18 two-seater gives RV-like performance on a much lower budget. There’s one for sale right now on Barnstormers for $22,000.

Maintenance: The Big Question Mark

No matter what aircraft you own, there is one large variable which can really eat a hole in your pocket: maintenance. It’s a fact of life for all of us who fly, as it should be. Safety and common sense demand we treat our flying machines with greater care than our automobiles because the consequences of a mechanical failure can be far more severe.

Unfortunately, the high cost of maintenance does more to drive people away from flying in general and ownership in particular than just about anything else. You think an auto dealership’s maintenance shop can shock you with their invoice? You ain’t seen nothing yet! In the world of aviation, it’s not difficult for maintenance to overtake all other ownership costs — combined. I’ve had maintenance bills so high I could have used the check to purchase a new car.

If you want to keep your flying affordable, there are several ways to cut the maintenance expense on your aircraft down to size. The ultimate solution is to pursue an FAA Airframe & Powerplant certificate, but that requires a major commitment of time, typically two years of full-time schooling.

If that’s too big a commitment, regulations (specifically, 14 CFR Part 43) allow aircraft owners to perform much of the preventative and routine maintenance themselves. The list is long and covers virtually all the typical maintenance chores on a simple GA aircraft:

• Removal, installation, and repair of landing gear tires.
• Replacing elastic shock absorber cords on landing gear.
• Servicing landing gear shock struts by adding oil, air, or both.
• Servicing landing gear wheel bearings, such as cleaning and greasing.
• Replacing defective safety wiring or cotter keys.
• Lubrication of the airframe.
• Making simple fabric patches.
• Replenishing hydraulic fluid.
• Painting (except balanced control surfaces)
• Applying preservative or protective material or coatings.
• Repairing upholstery and decorative furnishings inside the plane
• Making small simple repairs to fairings, cover plates, cowlings, and small patches.
• Replacing windows (except the windshield)
• Replacing safety belts.
• Replacing seats or seat parts with replacement parts.
• Trouble shooting and repairing landing light wiring circuits.
• Replacing bulbs, reflectors, and lenses of position and landing lights.
• Replacing wheels.
• Replacing most cowlings.
• Replacing or cleaning spark plugs and setting of spark plug gap clearance.
• Replacing any hose connection except hydraulic connections.
• Replacing prefabricated fuel lines.
• Cleaning or replacing fuel and oil strainers or filter elements.
• Replacing and servicing batteries.
• Replacement or adjustment of nonstructural standard fasteners.
• Removing and replacing instrument panel-mounted radios..
• Updating navigational software databases.

As if this isn’t enough, if an A&P mechanic is willing to supervise you, there’s literally no maintenance you cannot legally perform on your airplane. Want to overhaul the engine? Go for it. With an Experimental-AB airworthiness certificate, you don’t even need the A&P’s supervision.

I’ve come to feel that if we taught neophyte pilots more about ways to reduce maintenance costs, they’d be more likely to remain in aviation for the long-term. I try to provide that service for friends and clients wherever possible, because every new owner goes through a steep learning curve where maintenance costs force you to sell or find ways to economize. Heck, the simple act of joining a type club can do wonders for an owner seeking parts, knowledgeable mechanics, and advice on upkeep for their bird.

Conclusion

Flying can cost an arm and a leg, but it doesn’t have to. Whether you rent, lease, barter, own, or borrow an airplane, there is frequently a cost effective way to get — and stay — airborne. Fly a less-expensive plane, operate out of a cheaper airport, use mogas, volunteer for a non-profit and write-off some of the costs. When flying got too expensive for me, I decided to make it a career so I could not only get paid but also write off many of my expenses.

There are more ways to reduce the cost of flying than there is time to write it all down. What I’ve covered here are just a few basics. You can fly. The only real question is: how bad do you want it?

Some remarkable photographs have emerged from last Friday’s tragedy at National Championship Air Races. Several friends of mine were at the event, some as competitors (though none in the Unlimited category) and others as spectators. Between phone calls, texts, Facebook posts, tweets, photos, and video, I’ve received so many accounts of the crash that I almost feel like I was there.

I wasn’t, of course, and I’m glad of that now. I’d imagine there’s going to be some post-traumatic stress for the air race community to deal with once things settle down. Let me start off by saying that I don’t know what caused the accident, nor does anyone else with absolute certainty. The good news is that the NTSB will puzzle this thing out pretty quickly even if an official report isn’t issued until next year. The destruction of the Galloping Ghost was total and complete. Normally that would make the investigation harder. On the plus side, the NTSB was already on site at the time of the crash, the aircraft had data recorders on board, and there was plenty of photographic evidence to compliment the first-hand accounts from witnesses.

Here are but a few of the many images captured of the accident:

The first image seems to show a missing elevator trim tab. Was this the cause of the crash or simply a piece of a larger accident chain? Who knows.

In layman’s terms, the purpose of that tab is to allow control pressures to be equalized and the airplane trimmed so that it flies “hands off”. Without a trim tab — or even with it, if the pilot chose not to use it — as airspeed increased, the airplane would want to climb due to increasing lift produced by the wings. The pilot could, of course, just press forward on the stick and hold the airplane level, but that quickly gets tiring. And as the airspeed climbs, it would eventually become impossible to push hard enough to keep the plane from climbing.

At 500 mph, the Mustang’s wings were producing a tremendous amount of lift. Fighting that force was the elevator, and the only thing keeping it from slamming to the full up position would be that tab. If it failed, the plane would have pitched up rapidly enough to subject the pilot to 10 or more G’s.

Something's missing here: the pilot.

At least, that’s what happened to another modified Mustang a few years ago when it lost that tab during a race at Reno. In this photo, taken less than a second before the plane hit the ground, you can see that the pilot appears to be missing from the airplane. Obviously he’s there somewhere, but the G forces involved probably forced him down or back in the seat.

Everyone seems to agree that the response from emergency personnel, spectators, competitors, and crew was as good as could be expected, with calm prevailing rather than panic. Still, eleven people are dead as of this writing and even publications like AVweb are asking if the races should be held in future years. Normally the aviation community is of one mind when a piece of our world is threatened, but the feeling in this case is not unanimous in favor of the air races.

I’m not surprised at that. Most of the public (including, sadly, much of the aviation industry) doesn’t understand the world of competitive aerobatics too well, either. To most people, competition and airshows are the same thing when, in fact, they are worlds apart in both substance and safety. In fact, in the aftermath of the Reno crash, EAA has posted an article entitled, “An Air Race is Not an Air Show”. If you look at it geometrically, there’s no way a vehicle can go around a track of any sort and not, at some point, direct a lot of energy toward the crowd. Unless, of course, you place the spectators on the interior of the course, but even that has risks. That’s exactly where the competitor will go in case of engine failure.

My thoughts on Reno’s future? I’m of the opinion that air racing is important for several reasons. The first is historical. This sport goes back to the dawn of powered flight itself. It wasn’t long after the Wright Brothers developed a practical airplane that pilots began racing aircraft. At Reno, the first races were held before World War I. At one time there were air races in cities like New York, Cleveland, Chicago, and even Los Angeles. Those events helped spur the development of aviation and made characters like Roscoe Turner and Jimmie Doolittle household names.

Alas, all those races are gone now. The only real air racing left in the world is the annual event at Reno, and it would be a shame to see that disappear, too. It’s interesting to note that Jimmy Doolittle, who achieved considerable success and his initial fame in the world of air racing, became an opponent of the sport in later years. He felt that while it spurred the early development of the airplane, racing outgrew its usefulness once the industry took off and was simply a hazard with no true value.

Unfortunately this is one area where I have to take issue with Doolittle, because I see tremendous value even today in air racing. It stands as a testament to freedom, for one thing. Even the little guy can compete in this sport! He may not end up in the Gold class with a basic aircraft, but Cassutt race planes can be purchased on the used market for less than the price of a typical automobile. I have a former student who participated at Reno for the first time this year in his homebuilt Pitts S-1. What a feeling it must be!

The air races are more than just a good time, though. They add $80 million annually in much-needed economic activity to the Reno area. Hotels, restaurants, casinos, and tourism all benefit from the event. The state of Nevada has an official unemployment rate of nearly 15%. The real number is probably closer to 20%, with God-knows how many more people simple uncounted or badly underemployed.

The most important argument for the National Championship Air Races, however, is that they still advance the technology and capability of aircraft. People tend to focus on the Unlimited or Jet classes because they achieve the highest speeds and make the most noise, but look elsewhere and you’ll see amazing developments at Reno, especially among the Sport Class. The NXT, Venture, original Nemesis, and other ground-breaking designs were purpose-built for Reno, and those aircraft have led to aerodynamic and powerplant innovations which will find their way into other airplanes.

In fact, the Sport Class speeds are rapidly closing in on the Unlimiteds. This year a Sport Class racer — a homebuilt Glasair III, no less — averaged nearly 400 mph. If the races continue, I have no doubt the Sport Class will eventually supersede the Sea Furys, Mustangs, and other warbirds. Likewise, you’ll see inventive touches among the Formula One and Biplane classes as well. Some ideas work out, some don’t. But as they say, you can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs. Dick Rutan once said that if it wasn’t for the willingness of people to risk death in order to achieve significant things, we’d still be looking at the rump of an ox as we plodded westward.

Yes, there are hazards. People can get hurt or killed, just as they have been at drag races, NASCAR races, boat races, and just about every other sporting event you can think of. Re-read my recent tome on the concept of safety if you want my thoughts on that.

Those who don’t know any better assume Reno is just a NASCAR-like airborne high-testosterone zone for beer-swilling red necks, but look in the pits and the stands and you’ll find engineers for NASA, Boeing, Lockheed, Scaled Composites, and other leading-edge aerospace outfits. Where else can you try out a new design and really see how fast it will go? Reno is THE test track for aircraft. May it live on for years to come.

As Ronald Reagan famously uttered with a shake of his head, “there you go again…”. I’ve noticed that more and more airports are starting to charge landing fees for non-commercial aircraft. Hilton Head Airport was in the news today as the latest to announce a levy for private aircraft landing at a small general aviation field.

The article notes this as the first airport in South Carolina to charge such a fee, but you can bet it won’t be the last.

In the past, this sort of levy was virtually unheard of in the United States. Over the years, such fees became common at the largest international airports (LAX, San Francisco International, etc). Then some “specialty” airports such as Catalina Island, which is owned by a non-profit conservancy, began charging landing fees. Catalina is a public-use field, but the airport is privately-owned.

Hilton Head Island Airport

Landing fees then progressed to popular publicly-owned airports like Santa Monica, Jackson Hole, and Aspen. With the economy hurting and governments deep in hock, I anticipate landing fees popping up more and more as municipalities demand that the local airport turn a profit to help the general fund. I can’t help but wonder why we aren’t doing the same thing with our roads. How about a per-mile tax applied every time you get in your car?

The inverse relationship between aviation’s cost and its vibrancy are well documented. Once a critical mass of landing fee airports is reached, that’s it. The fee becomes de rigueur, and we become Europe or Asia, where landing fees are high and omnipresent, and aviation activity is extremely low.

In fact, it seems the airport authority is hip to that fact, because they’ve estimated the landing fee will only bring in $100,000 per year. At $10 a pop, that’s 10,000 aircraft per year, or 27 landings per day. As a vacation spot with only 80-some aircraft based at the field, it seems they are anticipating a big drop in transient traffic. That should be great for the local economy, wouldn’t you say?

According to the FAA, in 2007 Hilton Head averaged 159 operations (takeoffs or landings) per day. As of July, 2010, that number was down to 109 per day. Traffic has dropped by a third in just three years. Will a $10 landing fee for a small private aircraft put a further dent in those numbers? Who knows. But I think it’s safe to say once the fee is established, it’s unlikely to stay at $10 for long. If you can hit those “rich guys” for ten bucks, why not $20 or $30? Just think of all the stuff they could pay for!

Mr. Werts was correct when he stated the fee was discriminatory. Did you notice that the charge for a non-commercial aircraft ($1.65/1000 lbs) is higher that levied on a for-profit business ($1.31/1000 lbs)? The flat rate for an average GA single-engine aircraft is well over $3.00 per 1000 lbs, more than twice the rate charged for an airliner.

The bottom line is that this is just another user fee, no different that the ones being proposed for flying in controlled airspace, receiving a weather briefing, flying an instrument approach, or filing a flight plan. Talk about killing the goose! Non-commercial pilots already pay for aviation infrastructure via fuel taxes, possessory tax on hangars, property tax on aircraft, and fees for parking, overnight stays, ramp usage, tiedowns, service charges, security, and more.

If it wasn’t for all that, perhaps the concept of a landing fee wouldn’t be nearly so objectionable.

In some ways, it’s difficult to believe that ten years have past since the infamous 9/11 attacks which impacted — and continue to impact — our lives so drastically. Each of us remembers exactly what we were doing that morning, how we heard the news. An exhaustive series of images and stories are indelibly etched into our memories, although one wonders how much of that is due to the incessant stream of news replays, documentaries, and other media.

On the other hand, there are times when it feels like September 10th, 2001 was a lifetime ago. The simple ability to escort a friend to the plane when they depart. Remember that? Or my personal favorite: being that smiling face a loved one sees at the gate the moment they emerge into the terminal. Instead, we now wait curbside in an idling vehicle as they awkwardly struggle to tote their baggage to the car, alone and under the suspicious glare of law enforcement policing the loading zone like some open-air Alcatraz.

Truth be told, there have been moments in the past decade when many of us look around at how things have changed and wonder how we would even define victory in this war. It’s something we don’t talk about much amongst others, lest we be labeled unpatriotic or denigrated by comparison to the suffering of those who perished on 9/11 or the Middle Eastern theater.

Unfortunately, such comparisons miss the whole point. The aftermath of 9/11 contained a trap, and as a denizen of the aviation industry, it’s not clear to me that we avoided walking right into it.

I recently read a comparison between December 7, 1951 and September 11, 2011 — both 10 year anniversaries of day which live in infamy — and the article pointed out that the anniversary of Pearl Harbor wasn’t really noted at all. It was supplanted by VE Day. The current struggle doesn’t seem likely to have such a definitive end, and perhaps that’s why our remembrances take place on the day of attack instead of the day of victory. If we wait until the day we are “secure” from all threat to celebrate our victory, we will be waiting a very long time indeed.

My view is (and has been since long before 9/11) that security and safety should never be the primary objective of political leaders, military, or ourselves. The most important thing we possess is our freedom, and the simple truth is that no terrorist could ever take that away. Only we can do that to ourselves.

History shows that freedom is expensive and difficult to obtain and all too easy to relinquish. Much like the apocryphal boiling frog, if it happens gradually enough you might not even notice. A little restriction here, a new legal precedent there, an executive order or two, it’s no big deal. We’re making everything safer. Who could possibly be against that?

Anniversaries of 9/11 are never happy times, and this is just another reason I find them so. Thankfully, this year the day’s activities provided the perfect counterpoint to a focus on what we’ve lost. One of my students made his first solo flight yesterday, and it really did add a joyous element to the day. There’s something about the first time a person flies solo. Imagine it: the instructor was always there to lend you a hand, but now he’s gone and it’s all up to you. Your first moment as the pilot-in-command of an aircraft!! You’re excited, happy… and maybe a little nervous. Here’s his first takeoff:

It wasn’t by design that this occurred on the 10th anniversary of the attacks, it just happened to work out that way. To be honest, beyond an extra careful check of TFRs and NOTAMs, I didn’t give it a second thought. It was only after the fact that I realized what a positive spin this put on an infamously lousy date in aviation history.

Most of the flying public may have been on edge yesterday, but now instead of picturing of airliners crashing into skyscrapers on 9/11, at least a few people will also be able to recall a joyous flying moment on that day. I am happy to be one of them.

After my recent article on the role of automation in the cockpit, I’ve followed this topic as the discussion continues on various sites around the blogosphere. A fair percentage of them have noticed the same hand-flying deficiencies develop after long periods behind the controls of highly automated aircraft.

Two in particular caught my attention. The first is from a former check airman:

And from a letter to the editor at AVweb:

I just spoke on the phone today with a friend who spent the past year flying an MD-88 for Dynamic Airways, the new Part 121 charter airline started by Dynamic Aviation. He’s transitioning to a different aircraft and encountered a few of the same challenges encountered by the Airbus pilot quoted above.

It occurs to me that flying “raw data” after a long period away from hand-flying can be as challenging as the transition to a new airplane. I see many similarities in initial pilot performance, especially if the aviator has been confined to a single aircraft type for a long period.

In that regard, I believe one of the best ways to keep yourself sharp is to fly varying types of aircraft. If, for example, you fly an aerobatic plane or a glider in addition to that shiny jet, odds are you’ll enhance and retain skills you probably aren’t even aware of. Perhaps that aptitude is simply the mental agility to move from one cockpit to another. Maybe it’s an improved competence with pitch/power relationships or comfort with unusual attitudes.

However poorly I may have explained it, I’ve simply noticed that those who fly multiple types of aircraft seem to be able to adapt to changes faster than those who don’t. I doubt this has as much to do with physical ability as it does mental acuity, something picked up by Sam in his recent post.

Speaking of Sam, notice that he comes to the same conclusion I reached in my original post: namely that the rudimentary flight skills must be developed in primary training because there is little room made for them during advanced ratings, and automation can easily mask the lack of those abilities until they are the only thing standing between a pilot and a Very Bad Day. As such, the case is made for conducting primary flight training in a non-automated aircraft, or at the very least, with the automation fully disabled.

I hope Sam doesn’t revise his opinion. In fact, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I’d take it one step further and suggest that every pilot should learn to fly in the most stone-simple tailwheel airplane available. They’re economical. They put the focus on primary flight skills most likely to atrophy later. They simply will not abide poor airmanship. And most of all, they’re fun to fly. Isn’t that why we got into aviation in the first place?

Unfortunately, the trend is headed in the opposite direction — even Cubs come with glass panels these days! But as far as I know, they’re still making them with an “off” switch, so the hope for a better training experience will continue to spring eternal.

I receive a wide variety of aviation-related questions from non-pilots such as passengers, students, friends, family, others. Over the years I’ve realized that a fair percentage of them are really asking the same thing: whether or not flying is “safe”, especially as it concerns general aviation.

Oh, not many people come right out and ask it directly. I imagine that’s because few folks wish to posit a question which might be perceived as impudent, especially on a sensitive topic at which they are at a disadvantage. It’s a respect thing. But the question is there, hanging in the midair like a model aircraft suspended from the ceiling.

For example, rather than come right out and ask if flying is safe, I’ve seen the inquiry phrased as:

• How long have you been flying?
• Do you fly much?
• Have you ever had the engine quit?
• Have you ever had an emergency?
• Know anyone who’s been in a crash?
• How much training did you have to undergo?
• How many hours do you have?

These interrogations don’t always belie a deeper question, but oftentimes they do, even if the individual doesn’t realize it. They want to know whether flying is a safe activity. And who wouldn’t?

Step back and look at it from the neophyte’s perspective. It’s a completely unnatural thing for a human being to go hurtling through the air at high speeds in a loud metal contraption. They’re transported to altitudes where the air is thin, the temperature is cold, and there’s enough altitude beneath their feet that the fall would kill them.

Everything about it says “don’t do this”. They know little of the aircraft’s design, the regulations involved, or the training, experience, and judgement of the pilot. Add in the fact that they don’t understand how something weighing thousands of pounds can magically defy gravity in the first place and it’s a wonder they’d ever consider boarding the aircraft at all. It’s just the sheer fact that so many people do fly and somehow survive the experience that gives them enough confidence to trust their lives to us.

So, dear reader, the question remains: is flying safe? As a pilot you’d expect me to say yes, of course it is. Look at the time and money I’ve invested in my flying. See all the ratings? Look at how thick my logbook is, how many different airplanes I’ve flown, or how much recurrent training I undergo. See how many magazines and web sites about flying I read every month? Check out this medical certificate which shows I’m in good physical condition for flying.

Those things are all well and good. But at the end of the day, it doesn’t change the fact that aviating is not a safe activity. Hell, any fool can see that you can get yourself killed by flying!

The problem is the word “safe”. Webster defines safe as “the absence of risk”. By that definition, flying is not safe and never will be.

But then again, by that definition it’s not safe to drive either. It’s also unsafe to walk down the street, exercise, go to work, stay in bed, cook, dine out, or breathe. Nothing in life comes without risk. Risk of inhaling a germ which will lead to your demise. Risk of a terrorist attack, car accident, building collapse, natural disaster, cancer from sun exposure, drug interaction, allergic reaction. The list is literally endless.

Risk is a part of life, and that’s not something modern-day Americans are inclined to accept (much to our detriment, in my opinion). We are accustomed to a world where risk can be averted through helmets, air bags, crumple zones, seat belts, inspections, and regulations. If that doesn’t take care of it, there’s always insurance, re-insurance, government backstop/bailout, legal maneuvering, or other methodology.

Nobody wants to hear that you can’t keep your kids or other loved ones safe, but it’s true. No matter how much you bubble wrap them, life is a long stream of risk which always ends in death. Perhaps the real question is whether you want to spend your time on Earth wrapped in the aforementioned bubble or get out there and live. If it’s the former, you can stop reading now. You’re done.

If it’s the latter, what you’re really interested in is risk management, and that’s where a good pilot shines. A monkey can learn to fly an aircraft, but it takes a true aviator to manage risk intelligently. After years of teaching people to fly and doing so myself both privately and professionally, I’m convinced that this is what separates the good from the not-so-good. It’s not physical flying skill (although that’s important), it’s not vocation vs. avocation, and it certainly isn’t hours logged. It’s judgement.

No pilot wants to admit that the pilot is the weak link in the system, but statistically it’s true. “Pilot error” outnumbers mechanical failure as a cause of accidents by a ratio of about 9 to 1, and many mechanical failures can be linked back to human error, whether on the part of the pilot or a mechanic.

John King said it best in his interview “Battling the Big Lie”:

If you’re the pilot, you have a high degree of control over your risk exposure. You get to decide what kind of weather you’ll take on, how much of the performance envelope you’re comfortable exploring, how much reserve fuel you’re comfortable with, what aircraft defects are acceptable for flight, and how illness, stress, fatigue, and emotion will affect your go/no-go decision. Yes, there are regulations for each of these items. But as anyone who’s logged more than a couple of hours behind the controls of an aircraft can attest, not everything which is legal is safe, and not everything which is safe is necessarily legal.

If you’re a passenger, you have far less control over your risk exposure when flying in general aviation aircraft, but that’s not to say you cannot control it at all. The biggest decision a passenger makes is whether to go flying in the first place. If you’re unsure about whether to accept that offer of a flight with your friend/spouse/family member, I would recommend considering many of the same items which pilots themselves are taught to look at when assessing risk:

1. First and foremost, do you trust the judgement of the pilot? If you don’t, nothing else matters. There are hundreds of decisions to be made on every flight, and most of them won’t affect flight safety appreciably. But when a critical one comes along, you want to be flying with a person who shows good judgement. If they don’t display it in everyday life, don’t expect them to start now. You don’t want headstrong, impulsive, anti-authority, or macho.
2. How much experience does the pilot have? They say good judgement comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgement. We all make mistakes, but the more time a person’s got “behind the wheel”, the greater the odds they’ve made some errors and learned from them. This is not to say you shouldn’t fly with a low-time pilot. They tend to be methodical and safety conscious, but experience is something worth considering.
3. How recent is that experience? Does your knight in shining armor having thousands of hours of experience? That’s good. If they were all accumulated decades ago, that’s not so good. Flying is a skill, much like driving a car or riding a bicycle. Sure, you never forget how to ride that bike, but after a long layoff you might be awfully rusty. So how much have they flown recently?
4. How’s the weather? Many accidents are weather related. Just like sailing a boat or driving a car, the odds are better when the weather’s likewise. Poor weather is not a harbinger of disaster, but it is a risk factor worth considering. If the weather’s cloudy, is your pilot instrument rated and current, and is the aircraft equipped for instrument flight?
5. Is the pilot experienced with the aircraft? Unlike a car, aircraft models differ remarkably from one another. A Cherokee is nothing like an Aerostar or a Baron. So how much time does your pilot have in the aircraft you’ll be flying? And how recent is that experience?
6. Is the pilot familiar with the route? If he’s flown the route many times, he’s also familiar with alternate landing fields, terrain considerations, airport quirks, and the like. If it’s a new route and/or a new airport, the risk may be higher.
7. Is there any pressure to make the flight? Repeat after me: you never ever HAVE to be anywhere when you’re flying. No meeting, ballgame, graduation, or wedding is so important that you’d rather die than not make it. Every pilot knows this, but pressure can be a subtle, self-induced thing. Watch for it.
8. Did the aircraft just come out of the maintenance shop? If so, the risk is higher. Aviation mechanics are good people, but they are also human and as such are prone to the occasional mistake. The first flight after a maintenance event is statistically a time of higher risk.

Look, I’m as big a proponent of aviation as you’ll find — anywhere. But it’s a mistake to whitewash the risks inherent in flying, because it just promotes the false expectation that nothing can ever go wrong. Flying needn’t be a high-risk activity, but hopefully we can all agree that it’s terribly intolerant of carelessness. So let’s acknowledge the risks, analyze and mitigate it where possible, then get out there and enjoy the miracle of flight!

The only purely “safe” alternative is to never leave the ground, and that’s no option for me.

The Associated Press seems to have discovered what instructors across the country already know: persistent exposure to high-levels of automation can lead to loss of basic flying skill.

It’s not just the airline industry. The greatest advances in avionics and aircraft automation are not found in airliners, they’re found in reciprocating general aviation aircraft.

We now live in a world where you can ask your iPhone to whip up a flight plan and wirelessly transmit it to the avionics in your airplane so you don’t have to input a thing. Did ATC give you a re-route? No problem — and no buttons to press (except perhaps the Staples “easy” button). Just touch the screen of your Garmin navigator and drag the course line to wherever you want it to go. “So easy a caveman can do it”.

I’m not anti-technology. Far from it. I’m a computer nerd and can’t get enough of the stuff. Nor am I suggesting that a high-tech cockpit even makes life easier. Especially when stuff fails or doesn’t respond as expected, the work load can ratchet up very quickly. But the truth is that once you’ve got the boxes figured out, automation can and does rob us of basic flying skill unless we take a proactive stance to prevent the erosion of those skills.

How could it not? Automated aircraft make us flight managers, not pilots who physically control the aircraft. There’s nothing wrong with that, but it’s something pilots far and wide need to acknowledge and be aware of.

As Captain Dave noted, flying is much safer due to the march of technology.

He’s right. What remains unsaid, however, is that much like beefing up a weak point on an aerobatic aircraft, we’re just shifting the hazard to another area. The wing might be able to withstand 16 Gs, but that doesn’t mean the engine mount can. If you strengthen the engine mount, then the empennage or longerons become the weakest link. Each component has its own failure point and mode.

Likewise for automation. Sure, it relieves fatigue from hand flying. It brings amazing weather, terrain, and traffic information into the cockpit. Situational awareness is a snap. Fuel burn can now be accurately estimated to within a few pounds on a multi-hour flight.

But it also means we’re more disconnected from the airplane since we aren’t physically flying it. Up and down drafts are masked because the autopilot handles them for us — until it trims all the way to the critical angle of attack. I’ve seen that happen multiple times without the pilot even being aware of it. Our hand flying skills and instrument scan decay due to lack of use.

This sort of thing is especially unnerving to me because I’m aware of it and yet have also fallen victim to it myself on occasion.

I think of automation the same way I think of air traffic control. It’s a safety asset, but one I must constantly monitor because it has failed before and it will fail again some day. I’ve been vectored into traffic, sent across a localizer toward a mountain (ie. forgotten about), and given instructions meant for another aircraft. I’ve even had a controller attempt to cancel my active IFR flight plan in mid-flight without my assent.

Automation is no different. The challenge is to keep our skills sharp and expect the unexpected. If hand-flying skill was well established in the beginning of a pilot’s flying career, that’s not an insurmountable challenge. The modern aviator, though, sees this automation from a very early point, and for some of them, the basic flying skills are not well established. The automation serves to mask the inadequacies. As long as everything keeps running properly, no harm/no foul.

When it doesn’t? Well, that’s where the rock meets the not-so-proverbial hard place, as we’re starting to discover.

The topic of computers in my last post reminded me that this month marks the 30 year anniversary of the object which made me a bona fide rock star throughout the world. That’s right, the whole freakin’ world!

(Um, it may be worth noting that at nine years of age, my “world” consisted of a three block radius around our house in Studio City.)

The year was 1981. I was in fifth grade and an unfortunate part of the desegregation busing experiment of the early 80′s. If you’re not familiar with this, the idea was to force students who lived in good school districts to attend an abysmal institution in the worst part of south-central Los Angeles while the kids from that area were bused each and every day to my neighborhood to attend a “good” school. To make matters worse, our class didn’t go wholesale. No, they split us up so we were in a strange neighborhood and cut off from our friends.

So I was separated from my classmates and sent to a virtual prison of a school in near L.A. City College called Dayton Heights Elementary School. In retrospect, I had an excellent teacher. One of the best in my entire educational experience, in fact. I still remember his name: Mr. Clifford Claycomb. To show you what an amazing instructor he was, when my father had a tough time making it to a parent-teacher conference, Claycomb invited him to his home for a meet-and-greet conference after hours. As I recall, Mr. Claycomb even cooked dinner for us. When’s the last time you saw that in a public school teacher?

The venerable Basic/Four computer console, circa 1980

Anyway, computers just weren’t around in 1981. Nobody had them. They weren’t in schools, homes, and only rarely would you find one at an office. If you did it was probably a mainframe or mini-computer like the Basic/Four machines at my dad’s office in Vernon. I recall going there as a kid are being mesmerized by the sleek looking blue terminals. The keyboard and monitor were built into one unit. The screen was monochrome, but to me it still looked like something right off the bridge of the starship Enterprise.

My cousin showed me a secret menu entry which would lead to a sub-menu of games that he had programmed. Instead of pressing a numeric key to perform a business function, he had programmed the computer so that if you typed in SEMAG (“games” spelled backward), it would lead you to the good stuff.

That’s how it was in ’81. Computers may have existed, but we never saw them. Sure, within a couple of years the Apple II would start appearing in “computer labs” at school, but when you’re nine years old, two years is another lifetime. No, computers that year were for a select few to use at work. The idea of having one at home was absurd. Who could afford something like that?

And then suddenly one day — I think it may have been Hanukkah that year — everything changed. My brother Neil gave me a fairly diminutive wrapped box which blew me away. It had a computer in it! Not a toy, not a video game console (only one neighbor even possessed one of those, the venerable Atari 2600), but an honest-to-goodness programmable computer with it’s own integrated keyboard!

The Timex Sinclair ZX81

The ZX80 was so small and light that, as I look back on it, it might have been one of those product displays you’ll see in a Target or Walmart tagged with the placard “Non-functional unit for display purposes only”. A mockup, in other words.

I wasted no time hooking it up to the small, ancient color TV we had on the kitchen counter. I didn’t even have a place to sit down — I had to program it standing up in front of the counter top, right in the path of traffic through the house. The counter was high, I was short, the TV was fuzzy, but it didn’t matter. I had a freakin’ computer!

I recall being amazed by the incredible memory space available, a whopping 1 kilobyte (the rough equivalent of one type-written page). It didn’t come with the optional tape drive, so any programs I wrote would immediate disappear as soon as power was shut off and the ZX80 would have to be re-programmed next time it was booted. It came with a primitive version of the BASIC language built-in. The membrane keyboard was challenging to use because there was no tactile feedback and it was not possible to type in commands directly. For example, a simple BASIC programming line might look like this:

10 IF LEN(A$) = 0 THEN GOTO 90

The difficulty with the ZX80 is that the machine wouldn’t accept the code directly. You had to use a series of multiple-keystroke sequences for each command. In the example above, the commands “if”, “len”, “then”, and “goto” would each require a multiple-keystroke sequence to insert that particular word.

It was an odd way to program, and there were no “Idiot’s Guide” books to help me out. At least, none that I had access to. There was no internet to search for programs or help. No neighbors, kids, or teachers who knew anything about the mysterious little black box.

Even at age nine, I quickly reached the programming capacity of the little Sinclair. To be honest, its primary value was in being a device I could take to school to show all my friends and make them jealous. Except the girls — for whatever reason, they didn’t seem impressed by it.

I’ve often wondered what happened to that little computer. It was probably lost in the mad shuffle of boxes and furniture after my dad died the following year. It may well have been crushed into a thousand pieces under the weight of the metal Tonka toys I threw around the yard as a kid. Or perhaps it was donated and made its way into a computer museum somewhere. I’d like to think that’s where it is, out there collecting dust but still amazing the kids who see it.

I’ll always think fondly of the ZX80. It was the first of a long string of classic computers (TRS-80, Apple IIGS, etc) which have graced my desk over the years, and it represented a classic time in life. It was the year Reagan started setting aside that famous “malaise”. The year the space shuttle first took flight, MTV was launched, and the first woman joined the Supreme Court.

Good times indeed.

Aviation electronics have always been a topic of particular interest to me. For one thing, in a previous life I worked as a freelance web developer and computer programmer (read: nerd). As such, I’ve watched the evolution of general aviation avionics with great admiration for those who create them.

SPZ-8400 avionics suite in the Gulfstream IV-SP

As a pilot, however, I have to interact with these gizmos all day long, and as an instructor must know the avionics well enough to efficiently teach them to others. This makes them a continual source of frustration because computers are supposed to make our lives easier and modern day avionics don’t always do that. From teaching Garmin’s chapter/page philosophy to learning the Honeywell FMS and SPZ-8400 systems in the Gulfstream IV, it seems I spend more time working with avionics than I do flying the airplane.

When I was at Simuflite, my G550-rated sim partner told me that the initial Gulfstream 550 training course was 33% longer than the G-IV course due solely to the complexity of the avionics. My own observation training experienced pilots to fly the Avidyne and G1000 panels is that it adds at least that much time and money to reach an instrument-proficient level.

A stack of King "Silver Crown" series avionics

It used to be much easier. For many years, a the gold standard was silver. Silver Crown, that is — a line of digital radios manufactured by Bendix/King. Oh, there were more advanced things out there. LORAN, Omega, VOR/DME-style RNAV systems. But they were expensive and esoteric. For the most part, a decent avionics suite meant a couple of VHF com radios, a pair of VOR receivers, DME, ADF, an audio panel and a Mode C transponder. When you bought a new airplane or retrofitted an old one, that’s usually what you got. These radios were simple to operate and required no programming.

These days it’s a bit more complex. While GPS and computers have led to tremendous capabilities, it has also left us with systems which are complex enough that they can cause serious flight safety issues. “What’s it doing now?” Things wouldn’t be so bad if there were standards for the way pilots interface with the avionics, but aside from the location of essential flight data (pitch, airspeed, altitude, etc) on a Primary Flight Display, each manufacturer has their own nomenclature and operating logic for the systems they offer. The way each button, switch and knob works is different. The location of those controls varies widely.

And there are so many companies out there! Garmin, Avidyne, Aspen, Blue Mountain, Honeywell, Bendix, Becker, Chelton, Dynon, L-3, Sandel, Rockwell Collins, TruTrak, and more. These are just the ones I could think of off the top of my head.

The pace of development has increased over the past few years as hardware components have become less expensive and more capable. An AHRS which used to cost $10,000 can be purchased today for a few hundred dollars, for example. It’s led me to wonder what the “end game” in this avionics mish-mash would look like. Will one manufacturer (probably Garmin) take enough market share to force the rest of the industry to adopt it’s standards? Or perhaps some sort of avionics related safety issue will cause the FAA to step in and publish standards for avionics system interfaces?

I believe I’m starting to see an answer, and it’s due to a company which doesn’t even make avionics, and has never been involved in aviation. What are the odds of that? I’m referring, of course, to Apple and it’s iPad tablet.

I have to admit, when the iPad was first announced, I thought it would be a failure. Looking at the device, it didn’t do anything you couldn’t already do with an iPhone. In fact, it did less. It couldn’t make phone calls and at the time did not have a camera. Most importantly, it wasn’t small enough to put in your pocket, meaning it would have to be carried around in-hand everywhere you go. It was an near-iPhone with a larger screen. Who would pay for something like that?

Clearly I was wrong. Given the degree to which sales have surpassed even Apple’s initial estimates, few people had enough foresight to anticipate how the iPad would be used. I’m especially impressed by software development for the iPad because Apple uses a closed software system wherein each application must be approved by the company before it becomes available on their app store. Apple maintains tight control over the design of apps which run on their hardware. Yet this hasn’t stifled creativity and as a result the iPad is being used by physicians, librarians, teachers, and yes even pilots.

On the Gulfstream, we’ve replaced hundreds of pounds of paper charts with an iPad weighing just 1.3 pounds. Airlines are using the iPad for that same purpose with FAA blessing, something I thought I’d never see due to their reticence to accept anything not specifically certified (at tremendous expense, I might add) for aviation purposes. Part 91 Subpart K fractional operators are also using the iPad. And last but not least, owner-flown Part 91 aircraft can frequently be found with an iPad in the cockpit.

As great is the iPad is, we’re still missing a way to link it directly to the aircraft’s built-in avionics. This is vital because it’s the best way to eliminate all the data input from the programming process. For example, yesterday we made a flight from Van Nuys to Santa Monica, then on to Windsor Locks, CT and ending in Teterboro, NJ. Three legs, and each leg required a significant investment of time and effort to pick up airport information, receive a clearance, and program that flight plan into the avionics.

The duplication of effort could easily be eliminated. A computer at Arinc came up with a flight plan for us. Then it was filed with the FAA, whose computer system came up with an acceptable route based on that filing. That route was read to us verbally over a radio and manually programmed into a computer on the aircraft by me. Why not simply beam the data to a device like an iPad, which pilots could verify before zapping it to the avionics? It would have easily saved an hour of time yesterday. Time is money. Do the math.

You’d think the answer would come from the FAA or the airlines, as they would have the most to gain from increased efficiency and safety such a system would provide. Instead it’s coming from the bottom up. I don’t just mean general aviation, but specifically experimental GA. AVweb posted this video demonstrating the Aspen Avionics’ Connected Cockpit:

The Aspen rep explains it far better than I could. “A way to connect personal devices with the certified avionics installed in the aircraft”. Ideally this will be a two-way communication link, allowing you to download transfer essential flight data like block times, fuel burned, distance traveled, ground track, etc. back to the tablet for use in filling out logbooks, trip sheets, tracking maintenance requirements, and generally leaving the pilots free to aviate instead of program computers and complete paperwork.

Once we have that link and the programming has been eliminated, we’re on easy street because people will be able to bring a personal device like an iPad (which they already know how to use) and a software package they’re comfortable with (ForeFlight comes to mind) and communicate with whatever may be installed in the aircraft. Aspen Avionics gets that, and I believe their Connected Cockpit is just the beginning of The Great Integration. It can’t get here soon enough.