AircraftOwner Online

My friend, Rod, who flies helicopters throughout the west during the fire season, had been asking me to come visit him and his significant other, Liz, in their new home in Georgetown, CA for some time. Georgetown is not far from Placerville, where I visited them in my R22 back in November 2003. It’s also not far from Sacramento. So when Apple Inc. invited me to show off my latest Mac OS book at an internal event in Elk Grove (just south of Sacramento), and the Arden Fair Apple Store gave me a time slot for a presentation on the same day, it seemed like a perfect excuse for a cross-country flight in my five-month-old Robinson R44 Raven II helicopter. Nothing like mixing business with pleasure.

I took off from Wickenburg on Tuesday May 3, 2005 just before 9 AM. I’d planned the flight out and had checked the weather. Except for moderately high winds in the Edwards Air Force Base area of CA, the weather looked good and I was confident that I’d make the 500+ mile trip in one day. My calculations showed about 5-1/2 hours with two fuel stops. I headed almost due west from Wickenburg, with Twentynine Palms punched into my GPS as my first waypoint. That was a distance of about 150 miles.

It was all familiar terrain; I’d flown the route before. It passes just north of Aguila, slips through Cunningham Pass in the Harcuvar Mountains, cuts across the barren desert, and crosses the Colorado River just south of Parker. Then it’s more barren desert, marked up by the tread tracks of World War II tanks. The area was used extensively for tank training, and the two-track marks are still clearly visible from the air for mile after mile. I crossed over the town of Rice, which is no more than a deserted landmark. The flying was smooth and I listened to tunes on my iPod as I flew. It’s a good thing I had the iPod for entertainment, because there was very little beneath me worth noting. I skirted along the northern boundary of Joshua Tree National Park toward Twentynine Palms. There were signs of civilization beneath me. Small square houses scattered on the north side of the road. All of the homes were abandoned and there wasn’t much around them to indicate why they’d been built in the first place.

I crossed over Twentynine Palms and my GPS automatically steered me toward the next waypoint, Williams. There was nothing going on at Twentynine Palms, but at least I was flying over a good-sized town with things to look at. I’d flown to Williams airport before, but it wasn’t called Williams. I couldn’t remember what it had been called until I flew over it again: Hi Desert. It was painted on the runway. The place had been for sale the last time I’d stopped. I’d been in the R22 and had stopped there for fuel. It had one impressive home on it and the rattiest restroom I’d ever been in. I guess someone bought it and changed its name. I didn’t stop that day; the R44 holds more fuel so I didn’t need to stop until my next waypoint, Apple Valley.

There was a student pilot in the pattern at Apple Valley when I arrived. I think he was Asian, if his accent was an indicator. I got in behind him on downwind, watched him turn base and final, then cut in behind him, crossed the runway, and landed on the ramp. There were two men there, sitting in the shade of an Decathalon’s wing. After I landed, one of them climbed aboard and taxied away, leaving his companion on the ramp. I shut down and walked to the FBO to place a fuel order. Then I hit the terminal for the bathroom and a bite to eat. It was about 11:20 AM and I was right on schedule. I’d planned to leave Apple Valley by noon.

The restaurant at Apple Valley, Leonard’s, wasn’t anything to write home about. But it does make hot food. I ordered bacon, egg, and cheese on an English muffin -- they serve breakfast until 4 PM -- but was told that I could save money by ordering one of the breakfast plates. Rather than argue with the waiter, I just ordered what he suggested. When the food came, it was bacon and egg on a buttered English muffin with potatoes on the side. No cheese. Whatever.

Outside, a biplane landed and picked up the man who’d been on the ramp. I started thinking about whether it was possible to cross the country as a hitchhiker at small airports. You know, hitching rides with local pilots who are going 20 or 30 or 50 miles in the direction you want to go. Sounds like a summer adventure when I run out of money and have to sell Zero-Mike-Lima.

I paid for my breakfast and fuel, did a walk-around of Zero-Mike-Lima, and climbed on board. When I took off, it was just after noon. The first waypoint was Southern California Logistics (Victorville), the only towered airport I transitioned. It was about 10 miles from Apple Valley, so I reached it quickly. The controller cleared me across at 2800 feet and gave me the altimeter setting.

Victorville is an airliner graveyard. The last two times I’d crossed over it, I’d noticed a lot of Tower Air planes. A friend of mine, Alta, used to fly for Tower. This time, there were lots of United planes. The Tower planes were in the process of being chopped up. It was a very sad thing to see.

From Victorville, I flew toward Rosamond. On my last trip, I’d been stuck at Rosamond for an overnight stay because high winds made it hazardous to cross the mountains. I had no plans to ever stay at Rosamond again.

My flight path took me over even more empty desert with even more deserted homes in the middle of nowhere. To the north, I could see the huge dry lake bed of Edwards Air Force Base. But it wasn’t all dry. The heavy rains in the southwest seemed to have filled the southwest corner of the lake bed with water, making a shallow lake. Rosamond’s lake was full or overflowing, too.

I flew over the airport at Rosamond, exchanging calls with a southbound airplane pilot who passed about a half mile to my left about 200 feet up. Then I headed north, toward Tehachapi, where I planned to cross into the central valley.

The mountainside approaching Tehachapi from the south is a wind farm. There are hundreds of windmills. The 15-20 knot winds forecast for that time of day in the area didn’t seem to have materialized. It was a relatively smooth flight as I climbed over the windmills. Only about 2/3 of them were spinning. New ones were under construction. It was nice to see that someone was interested in alternative energy sources back then.

I crossed over the mountain town of Tehachapi and its two small airports. One of these days, I’m going to land there.

Next waypoint, Porterville, 62 miles northwest. I’d programmed all of this into my GPS, so navigation was an breeze. I backed it all up by keeping track of my location on a sectional chart. The charts were all piled up on the passenger seat, folded so I could see what I needed to. Very neat.

A while back, I saw an AOPA safety video about situational awareness and over dependence on GPS for navigation. If your GPS fails, do you know where you are? I’ll never forget that video. That’s why I have the charts to back me up.

I was descending over the foothills of the Sierras, about halfway between Tehachapi and Porterville, when I started hearing a weird metallic clicking sound. It sounded like the seatbelt latch being snapped. Once, twice, a few times more. Then a steady but irregular stream of clicks. I looked around in the cabin, but could not figure out what was making all that noise. My instruments looked fine, the helicopter was handling fine. What the hell was it?

I was starting to think about making a precautionary landing, when I looked through the bubble as a huge bug hit the Plexiglas. Splat! Then clink! I was flying through a bug storm and the clinks I was hearing was the sound of bugs hitting the rotor mast shroud and skid pants. Sheesh! I descended a bit, but it didn’t subside. I started wondering whether the helicopter was being damaged and felt helpless to stop it. It went on for at least fifteen minutes. Then the sounds subsided and I continued my flight looking between bug splats.

The terrain here was gently rolling hills of greenish grass with scattered trees. Pretty but not outstanding. Not much in the way of civilization, although I did cross over a few remote ranches. By the time I got to Porterville, I was down in farmland. There had been some mild turbulence as the wind over the hills tossed me about. But then even that subsided. I was flying at about 500 feet above the ground with a white haze above me and limited visibility in all directions except down. Welcome to California’s Central Valley. I could see the ground perfectly well. The radio, which I tuned into the proper frequencies for radio calls throughout my flight, was quiet. No one was interested in flying in this white muck.

I passed over Sequoia and Reedley on my way to my next fuel stop at Mariposa. Somewhere along the way, I left the farmland and started climbing back into the foothills. By the time I reached Mariposa, I was in rolling mountains full of thick green grass and flowers, dotted with tall trees and cows. I crossed over a small herd of cattle on a hilltop, scattering what looked like javelina, before landing on the taxiway.

Two airplanes were at the self-serve fuel pumps. One had already fueled and its door was open but its pilot was nowhere in sight. The other was being fueled. A few men were chatting nearby. I hovered for a moment, then set down on the ramp about 30 yards away to wait. Spinning. Burning fuel. You think these airplane pilots would get the hint, but they were either being very dense or very rude. After about 10 minutes, I picked up and moved over to the other side of them, making it clear that I was waiting to get at the pumps. By this time they were both done fueling and they were just bullshitting. Seeing my helicopter a bit closer (and feeling its rotor wash) woke them up. They climbed on board and moved so I could get at the pumps.

The airport was beautiful. Well, the airport wasn’t beautiful. The area around the airport was beautiful. To the northeast was a high hill covered with grass and trees. As I fueled my helicopter, a cow and calf walked by on the other side of the fence. I could hear cows calling to each other. I took a photo, but it doesn’t do the place justice.

The airport staff was unhelpful and unfriendly. But the fuel was the cheapest around. And the bathroom was clean. So I guess you could say it was a good stop.

I took off on my final leg to Rod’s place, passing over Columbia and Placerville on the way to the coordinates Rod had given me. I passed over many canyons filled with rushing water. It was really beautiful -- so different from the barren desert I’d been flying over earlier in the day.

I zeroed in on the coordinates without much trouble, but beneath me were just trees and houses. On my third circle, I saw Rod down below, waving at me. I recognized his house from the pictures. I set up for an approach and started in. But the landing zone was surrounded by tall pines and I had to fly right over his neighbor’s house to land. I was about even with the treetops when I decided that I didn’t like the LZ. I added power and pulled out. I circled around, waved to Rod, and headed for the airport at Georgetown, only 2-1/2 miles away. (For the record, I did land there in September 2009 when I came through from Seattle to Wickenburg with my husband. But that’s another story.)

Rod arrived as I was cleaning bugs off the bubble (for the third time that day). He gave me a big hug and spent some time admiring Zero-Mike-Lima. Then we loaded my gear into his Jeep and headed back to his place.

The following days were a lot of fun. The helicopter stayed parked – except for short rides for Rod, Liz, and Liz’s nieces – so I won’t bore you with the details here. In the coming weeks, I’ll tell you about the return flight, which wasn’t nearly as smooth.

Maria Langer is a freelance writer and commercial helicopter pilot based in Arizona. The owner/operator of Flying M Air, LLC, she flies passengers on tours, day trips, and multi-day excursions throughout the southwest. Maria’s stories about flying helicopters will soon appear in a new book tentatively titled, Flying Helicopters: My First Ten Years. You can visit her online at www.MariaLanger.com.