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As I mentioned last week, I attended the premier of the movie “Amelia.”  Now let me say I am a bit biased as my Ford Tri-motor appears several times in the film. That being said, I really liked the film!  It is a sophisticated portrayal of Amelia’s life. Sure, everyone knows the ending but that’s the point in my view. book. Being an Amelia fan, I can tell you that she is one of the most misunderstood icons of the last century. I know of which I speak. 

Back in 2001, I organized the re-creation of her first record flight. It was a flight across America. Her Avro Avian which was given to her by Lady Mary Heath after the Fokker crossing.  I studied Amelia’s life in great detail in preparation for this 2001 re-creation (see: www.AmeliaFlight.com). 

What always has bothered me is that everyone knows a great deal about her last flight, and nothing-to-precious-little about her life before that final flight.  This new film goes a long way to correcting that. 

Her life was full of ironic twists and turns. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Amelia lived in St. Paul for a while! I was able to drive by her old house (pictured here to the right) and even got a copy of her high school transcripts!  

Trust me on this one – see the movie. You will enjoy it. And don’t forget to look for the Ford too!

 

Richard’s story emerged over lunch at a local restaurant. I don’t even know how it came up in the conversation.

Years ago, he and his stepfather had gone on a four-day hike in the desert, looking for lost treasure. They’d followed old mining roads and pack trails high up into the Weaver Mountains, following vague directions given to them by an old miner who had recently gone to that great mother lode in the sky. As days wore on, they found one landmark after another. On the third morning, they were searching for their last landmark, some cabins deep in a thickly treed canyon. Although they couldn’t see any sign of the cabins from a ridge overlooking miles of high desert terrain, later that day they stumbled upon them while following a spring-fed creek. By then, they were out of time and had to start on their way back home. They never went back.

Richard’s tale of a four-day hike in the desert, living off the land and finding old buildings hidden away in canyons, fascinated me. I’d done my share of exploring when I was in my teens and had some interesting tales to tell. But none could come close to his. I wanted to know more, to see the cabins with my own eyes. Perhaps I thought it was a way to recapture part of my youth, when the simple pleasure of discovery was all the reward I needed after a long hike on a hot day.

But although Richard wanted very much to find the site again, a work-related injury made a long hike or horseback ride impossible. And Richard was certain that there were no roads anywhere near the canyon, so a Jeep wouldn’t get us there. Besides, with thousands of acres of mountainous terrain and numerous canyons with spring-fed creeks, locating the site would be like finding a cactus spine in a patch of tumbleweed. After all, Richard’s initial visit had been long before the era of GPS and he wasn’t sure where the site was.

I can’t recall if it were Richard or me who suggested the helicopter as a means to find his hidden cabins. If Richard suggested it, I’d probably been thinking about it quietly already, so his suggestion seemed perfectly natural. If I suggested it, I don’t recall him being surprised, so he must have been thinking about it, too.

Back then, in September 2002, I owned a 1999 Robinson R22 Beta II I affectionately called simply "Three-Niner-Lima." I’d owned it since October 2000 and had done most of my flying at its controls. I learned to fly late in life, earning my private pilot helicopter rating shortly before my 39th birthday and my commercial rating a year and a half later. Three-Niner-Lima sat two, including the pilot. Although it didn’t have much power — a fact that became apparent at higher elevations, especially on warm days — it was fun and relatively inexpensive to fly.

Richard, his wife, and I met again over breakfast the next day. I brought along some topographic maps. Richard pointed out where he and his stepfather had parked the car for their hike and where he thought they’d hiked. He pointed out a few canyons with springs that could be the canyon they’d visited. I saw a number of 4WD roads and pack trails on the map and pointed them out. Richard repeated with certainty that there were no roads leading into the canyon.

There was a lot of mountainous terrain to cover. When flying helicopters, mountains mean three things: high elevation, which limits available power; unusual winds, which can make landing difficult or hazardous; and uneven terrain, which makes it hard to find an emergency landing area in the unlikely event of an engine failure. With all this in mind, I suggested that we begin our search early in the morning, before the temperature rises and the winds kick up. We agreed to meet at 6:00 AM.

One thing led to another and I was unable to keep our appointment. So we put it off a few days. Thus, it was by chance that we made our flight thirty years to the day of Richard’s original hike — a fact Richard didn’t realize until much later.

The morning of our flight was clear, cool, and calm. We took off from Wickenburg, heading north, just after sunrise. Although Three-Niner-Lima was equipped with a panel-mounted GPS, I brought along my hand-held Garmin, which has mapping capabilities, and set it up to log our route. Later, I was able to overlay the route on some topographic maps, which gave us an interesting view of our flight.

We climbed over the Weaver Mountains in the early morning light. It was slightly hazy that September morning, as if the desert were trying to send its moisture up to the sky to start monsoonal rains as early as possible. But because the summer had been so dry, the desert was a parched beige color, with dusty green patches of vegetation. Up in the Weavers, however, it was obvious where springs flowed. Dozens of canyons were green with tall cottonwoods and other water-loving trees of the desert. It was under one of those canopies of trees that we’d find the hidden cabins.

We flew a relatively standard search-and-rescue pattern, weaving back and forth over one canyon after another. For safety’s sake, I needed to remain at least 500 feet up. Since we were operating in an area of rapidly changing elevations, I kept my eyes outside the cockpit, concentrating on keeping us clear of terrain. I did my best to place the best view on the left side of the cockpit, where Richard sat, scanning the ground.

After about 40 minutes of searching, we were getting discouraged. I felt bad for Richard, who had come prepared with hiking shoes, water pack, and camera, ready to relive a thirty-year-old experience. He clearly expected us to land somewhere and it had gotten to the point where he didn’t really care where. We talked about finding a landing zone near one of the more densely vegetated canyons and I saw a spot that might work. After doing a high reconnaissance, I told him I’d try an approach, but warned that if the site didn’t look smooth or level, I’d have to break it off.

I went in cautiously, my eyes on the proposed landing zone, an arm of the mountain that seemed flat and clear. I was about 100 feet from the ground when Richard called out suddenly, “There it is!” I tore my eyes from the landing zone for a quick look and saw the weathered roof of a cabin among the trees. A moment later, I touched down on level ground on a high point near the canyon, surrounded by prickly pear cacti, agaves, and scrubby creosote bushes.

Richard and I were both excited as I cooled off the engine and shut down. I marked my helicopter’s location as a waypoint on my handheld GPS and followed Richard toward the canyon. There were some cattle trails that wound back and forth along the slope and headed into the trees. One thing I’d learned about free range cattle is that they always know where the water is. Following their trail would lead us to the creek.

Three-Niner-Lima in the landing zone, only 1/10 mile from the cabins.

We began to see signs of long-gone occupation as soon as we got into the shade of the tall trees that filled the canyon. First a thick pipe, broken here and there, which must have carried water from the spring-fed creek. Then an almost intact wagon wheel lying among the broken remains of a cart, some old tools, and saw blades. We continued down toward the creek, our feet crunching over years of fallen leaves. We walked around a thick bed of what looked like irises and then came face to face with the first cabin.

A wagon wheel and some tools were the first signs of civilization we encountered under the canopy of trees.

I don’t know who built the cabin or how long it had been standing beneath those trees, but I know it’s old — perhaps a hundred years or more. Its sides were made of crudely shaped wooden planks, which had colored with age to warm browns and dark grays. The roof was corrugated tin sheets, laid almost haphazardly to provide the best coverage. A stove pipe came though a hole in the roof and another pipe led from the ground into the wall. Two windows faced out over the stream, which gurgled softly nearby.

Richard approaches the main cabin.

A small porch and open doorway faced us and we wasted no time stepping up for a peek inside. There were two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom. Inside the kitchen, we found the remains of a wood-burning stove and a sink with a countertop. A firewood bin had been built into the wall between them. In the bedroom, a bed frame stood neatly against the window. Although the floor looked to be in remarkably good condition, especially in the bedroom, Richard and I thought it best to stay outside, where we were less likely to damage the fragile remains.

Beyond the main cabin stood a second, smaller cabin, which had probably been used for storage. That cabin was surrounded with a dense growth of vines. Had I been properly dressed in heavy jeans and hiking shoes, I would have made my way through the growth for a closer look. But my lightweight slacks had already been torn on the 1/10 mile hike from the helicopter to the cabins and my Keds did little to protect my otherwise bare feet.

The other cabin.

Despite our find, Richard was still disappointed. He told me that the cabins he and his stepfather had found had apple trees growing in front of them. There was no sign of the trees that day — just the thick vines that covered the ground with a narrow cattle trail running through them. Although I pointed out that the trees could have died and rotted away during the past thirty years, he wasn’t convinced. He was sure we had the wrong cabins, although he thought we might be close. So we set off on a short hike down and then up the creek. Other than the cabins and some old fencing, there was no other sign of occupation.

After an hour exploring the area, it was warming up. Three-Niner-Lima sat at 5,000 feet — an elevation that would have an impact on its performance, especially on a hot day. Thermal updrafts and winds would be starting up soon, too. I was anxious to head out before performance and turbulence became an issue. As Richard and I climbed up out of the canyon and made our way back to Three-Niner-Lima, we talked about returning another day, with a better camera and the proper footwear for me. I marked the landing zone with a row of white rocks and walked around my ship to make sure stray cattle hadn’t damaged it while we were out of sight. Moments later, we were airborne, heading out over the canyon to start a spiraling climb over the mountain peaks between us and Wickenburg.

Richard, who is retired, spent the next few weeks trying to dig up some information about the cabins. He found an old man who knew about them and told him that there had indeed been apple trees. But some city slickers out camping in the wilderness had decided to cut them down for firewood. That had been years ago and no trace of the trees remained.

No trace of the people who lived there remain either. Or of visitors like us, who come to look but take pictures instead of souvenirs. Although the coordinates of the hidden cabins are safely stored in my GPS, they’ll remain hidden, too. Too many places have been destroyed by heartless vandals who take pleasure in rubbing out the traces of our state’s history. I’d rather let nature reclaim the site at its own pace than share the secret location of the hidden cabins of the Weaver Mountains.

Ignition System Maintenance

 

One of my pet peeves is the concept of “Annual” aircraft maintenance.  While the FAA has certainly mandated that our aircraft are inspected annually, that certainly doesn’t mean that the annual inspection is justification for doing all repairs on an annual basis.

 

Case in point is the aircraft’s ignition system.  The spark plugs, harness and magneto components all continue wear during the time between annual inspections.  Depending on the number of hours that you fly each year, this can be either a very small change, or a rather large one.  For most aircraft owners that I speak to, the annual inspection is the only time during the year that they remove their spark plugs for cleaning and inspection.  Unless forced to, by some ignition issue, such as a fouled plug, the plugs don’t get pulled and there is no opportunity for inspection of how the overall system is functioning.

 

That’s too bad, because some issues can progress without outward symptoms until it’s too late.  I recently came across a very compelling example of this when working on the ignition system of an AA-5 Traveler.  The engine had begun running rough, with ignition ‘misses’ fairly frequently.

 

The magnetos were disassembled and inspected, revealing a burned distributor cap and rotor on one of them.  The burning was focused on a single contact in the block.  The damaged magneto parts were replaced, which is an expensive proposition.  You can replace the cap and rotor on your car for less than $10.  Those similar parts in a Slick magneto cost upwards of $350.

 

Before, calling the problem ‘solved’, I investigated further to try to track down the origin of the failure.  It turned out to be a bad spark plug.  Believe it or not, a bad plug with excessively high resistance can cause the magneto to fail as well.  When new, aviation spark plugs have a resistance of about 1,000-1,200 Ohms.  However, this resistance climbs as the plugs get older in service.  Champion and Unison will not release official values for a bad plug resistance, but I was told unofficially that any plug showing 20K Ohms or more should really be scrapped.

 

That bad plug even looked different from the other seven when examining the electrodes.  It obviously had not been firing well and this might have been noticed if the plugs were examined more than once a year.  This aircraft was only a week before its next annual when the magneto failed.

 

Preventive maintenance is always the key to safe and sensible aircraft operations.  Spark plugs, oil, filters, etc. are all cheap in comparison to the damage that can occur when problems go unchecked!

Recently I read a story in one of the many aviation safety magazines I subscribe to. The story was about a pilot who tried to fly through weather using only uplinked next -rad weather radar. The flight did not end well for the pilot who lost control of the plane when he flew into a thunderstorm.
This is an example of technology in the cockpit that can kill you if you do not understand how it works. Dont get me wrong; I am a HUGE fan of uplink weather in the cockpit, but I understand that the next-rad radar images it displays is no less than 6 minutes old. Even a slow aircraft will 12 miles in six minutes. I would never consider penetrating a line of weather without on board weather radar.

How many of you are using uplinked weather services while flying now? How are you using it? What are your experiences using it? How many of you want it but don't want to pay for it? What if the service was free? Would you be willing to pay to install the requisite equipment in the aircraft in order to use it?  Where am I going with this? ADB-S.

Let me hear from you!

M.Leighton

To learn more about Training and Saftey visit www.tmfintm.com !

On the way to NBAA, I'm going to stop in New York City for the premier of the new movie "Amelia," Tuesday the 20th.   Here's the Trailer...

My Ford Tri-motor has a small roll in the movie. The scenes were filmed in Canada last year.  We were on the set for two weeks with Hillary Swank (!!), Richard Gere and Ewan McGregor.  I was invited to the premier by my friend (and former computer business competitor) Ted Waitt who owns Avalon Films and is the Executive Producer.

The Ford was in four scenes. Who knows if they will all make it into the movie or not but it was fun.  I am attaching a shot showing Hillary Swank in the pilot's seat during the filming. 

During a break in the filming, I found myself in the cockpit of a DC-3 parked in the hangar with Hillary Swank and Ewan McGregor. We talked about flying for at least half and hour. Hillary said she was taking flying lessons in a Cirrus and had about 20 hours!  Then, Ewan started asking about it, and also became interested in learning.  I encouraged them both to continue to pursue flying.

Also, while on the set, Richard Gere came into the Ford, sat down, and started asking about the history of the ship.  He was genuinely interested and took a small history booklet I have printed about the aircraft.  You can read more about the Ford here.

Back in 2001 I sponsored the re-creation of Amelia Earhart's first record flight as a pilot which was across America in an Avro Avian.  You can read all about that adventure at www.AmeliaFlight.com.

All in all, just being on the set for two weeks was an absolutely fantastic experience, as was interacting with all the folks in the cast.  This is a "must see" movie.

More later!
Greg

Good morning all you pilots!

It's Friday and I'm getting ready to head for the the NBAA convention in Orlando next week.  This after one last trip to the backcountry of Idaho a couple of days ago.   The contrast reminds me of one more reason why we fly.

Idaho was great. Steve Appleton, Dave McDonald and I flew up to Stanley then on to Moose Creek. What a great place that is.  It was a relative quick two day event but really fun.  

On the way to NBAA I'm stopping in NYC for the premier of the new movie "Amelia."  They used my Ford Tri-motor in the movie.  We were there for two weeks and I will be suprised if the Ford appears for more than a minute.  I'll see if I can find a picture to post of Hillary Swank.

Fly safe and have a great weekend.
Greg

We want to here from you!

 

What is your favorite Aviation Destination and Why?

We want to know the place that is always top of mind, when the words, beautiful, gorgeous, and breathtaking are uttered. It’s the place you fly to every year, with great anticipation. It’s the place you don’t want to leave once you’re there, that offers a view from the controls that continually answers the question we are all asked at least once; “Why do you fly?”

 

 It’s a place that screams beauty from any angle you look at it, but is extraordinarily amplified to those lucky enough to see it with a birds eye view…

 

Share with us:

 

Upload Photos, Videos and tell us all about your great flying adventures!

FLYING LESSONS uses the past week’s aircraft mishap reports to consider what might have contributed to accidents, so you can make better decisions if you face similar circumstances.

Bestselling author and founding CEO of World 50 just posted one of my articles from Lessons from the Cockpit: Everyday Wisdom from the Flying Life on his website. Rick is the author of The Leap: How 3 Small Changes Can Propel Your Career from Good to Great.
The piece is entitled Follow the Glow. Please check it out at 
www.lessonsfromthecockpit.com 

Flaps, one notch. Mixture, rich. Sky, clear. Throttle, full. Brakes, released. The plane clings to the ground for an instant, Newton and one of his pesky laws stunts your movement, but soon, another law trumps inertia and you inch forward, creeping at first, then picking up speed, faster and faster, the landscape a green blur down both sides of the peripheral vision. Feet work the rudder pedals, a slight sway from left to right then back again. The stick vibrates your palm as a narrow, white needle springs to life on the airspeed indicator, its silent warning screaming that 30 more knots are critical before you can even think of lifting off. Meanwhile you’ve eaten up half the runway, the trees at the opposite end, the ones that appeared so gentle and kind and docile before, now furious, their faces gnarled in determination as they yank themselves from the ground, shake the red clay from their twisted roots and begin to charge toward you. Against your instinct, you hold steady, fighting the urge to jerk the stick back before it’s time, knowing if you do, the plane will become a mangled mess because you lacked airspeed, that vital element of lift and flight.

The needle creeps, moving through mud, caught in a slow motion time warp as it arcs from 40 to 45. The magic number is 60. The trees blitz within their own time anomaly, but unlike the sluggish airspeed gauge, someone has pressed fast-forward on a true universal remote and the wooden creatures sprint faster toward you. 50…55… They close in, their crooked limbs stretching your way. 58… Too late to abort, not enough runway left to stop. 59… If only you had 30 more feet of runway…but wait…the plane rises, the wings on both sides physically lift, curving upward like a drawn bow pointed toward the ground. The trees strain skyward in final attempts to snag you in their tangled branches, but you sail over them by scant feet. You glance down, realizing now they outnumbered you. The front line hid an army of trees behind them, a whole nation of their wooden brethren, but now the menacing green creatures appear docile again, mere shrubs from your new vantage point.

For almost an hour, you soar over the countryside, scan the sky for oncoming aircraft, monitor the gauges, peek at your winged shadow as it glides across the ground, expanding when it darts up the side of a building and races across the roof before plunging down the other side where it shrinks once more. The setting sun draws your eyes as it brushes against the far clouds on the horizon, singeing their scalloped edges golden before morphing purple and red as the sphere sinks behind them.

It’s time to land. You point the airplane toward the faint lights of your home field, one of the shortest airstrips in your state, and you scan your gauges, paying special attention to the airspeed indicator once again to ensure you carry enough speed right up to the runway threshold, but not too much, lest you land long and ram the same trees you outwitted during takeoff.

Gentle touchdown in the grass field, an emerald sea sloshing against your wheels as you slow. A burst of power propels you to your tie-down where you throttle back, cut your avionics and lean your fuel mixture full back until the engine stutters and the blurred propeller slows until it’s visible once more.

You stretch three braided ropes, heave them taut to anchor your winged mare to earth until you return another day to do it again. Walking away, you wonder if you need ropes yourself, perhaps with sandbags tethered to their frayed ends for ballast because you float across the field instead of walk, the soft grass swaying beneath your feet in the tender night breeze because your mind is light, your body energized, and both are pulsing with life.

For a long time I thought I knew the reason I felt so alive, so energized after my initial fight training and beyond, but I was wrong. At first, when walking away from my plane after a flight, I mistook the intense energy that clung to my being as elation. And why not? I had finally pursued my dream, a long suppressed desire to fly.

I’m sure elation was embedded somewhere in the emotions I felt, but over time the true reason dawned. For that hour, from the moment I entered the aircraft until it was tied down, I thought of nothing other than piloting the plane. I didn’t conjure the past, futile attempts to relive and regret. I didn’t march through my monumental to-do list in my head. I forgot about bills. I forgot to fret over the future. In other words, I lived in the moment.

If I accomplished my goal in writing the beginning of this piece, you were living in the moment as well, forgetting the annoyances and distractions of life that vie for your attention. Yes, the piece may have taken your brain elsewhere, the reason so many of us like to read novels, but it’s still a “present” you experience real time, even though you may be in a fictional world.

After this realization, I searched for other activities that anchored me in the present. Good novels jumped near the top of the list. Exercise scored high as well. Just as reading locked me in the present, so did writing, an activity I started to immerse myself in with increased frequency. Nature was a biggie. Some claim a 20 minute walk once a day in nature does more for your well-being than any pharmaceutical wonder drug could ever accomplish. I agree with every fiber of my being. No matter what mood I’m in, a short walk outside will cure what ails me. It’s hard to stay down when you glide under green tree canopies while the sky pushes blue at you between the spaces in the leaves.

Want to know something else that tugs me into the present moment and never fails to spread a smile across my face? The sight of a dog’s head thrust out a car window, its eyebrows arched in sheer enthusiasm, tongue trailing in the wind. I guarantee all dogs live in the present. We could learn a lesson or two from them. Next time you're driving a car, ease down your window, erasing that curved glass between the you and the world. Feel the cold, or the heat. Shoot your arm out, palm down, and let your “wing” slice the air. Encourage your passenger to do the same. Who knows what will happen? Perhaps if you’re driving fast enough, you both may sail over that far horizon into the great wide now.

To read more posts please visit www.lessonsfromthecockpit.com