AircraftOwner Online

In May 2008, another helicopter pilot and I flew my helicopter from Wickenburg, AZ to Seattle, WA as the first step of repositioning the helicopter to Central Washington State for cherry drying season. It was the longest cross-country flight I’d ever completed, taking more than 10 hours of flight time over three days.

    My companion, Louis, was a recently certificated flight instructor interested in building time in R44 helicopters to qualify him for flight instruction in that aircraft. Louis did most of the flying, leaving me to document the flight with photographs, which appeared in a series of blog posts. This article is adapted from those blog posts.

    We got off the ground around 6:15 AM, which Louis says is a big accomplishment for him. He’s not an early riser like I am and waking up at 5 AM was a bit of hardship for him. But an early departure was vital. Temperatures in the Arizona and California deserts were expected to reach 100°F. We were flying west, so the sun would be mostly behind us during the 4+ hour flight. That was a good thing. But midday, the sun would be shining into the cockpit and no amount of forward speed would get cool air moving through the ventilation system. I wanted to be on the
coast by noon.

    From Wickenburg, we headed almost due west to Parker, AZ. I’m very familiar with this stretch, having flown to Parker many times. It’s a pretty dull flight across the desert. We crossed the Harcuvar Mountains at Cunningham Pass, crossing one of the empty valleys where Patton once trained his tank corps. Patton’s training area stretches for well over 100 miles between the area north of Chiriaco Summit on I-10 in California to the area north of Bouse, Arizona. From the air, you can still see the faint double lines of tank tracks criss-crossing the empty desert.

    A short while later, we reached Parker, AZ, along the Colorado River. On the right, we could see the airport with its new runway. On the left, we could see the farmland south of Parker, with the blue ribbon of the Colorado River winding away toward Mexico.

    From Parker, we continued west toward Twentynine Palms, CA. This was probably the most dreary part of the flight—mile after mile of empty desert. I didn’t take many photos. The only point of interest was a “substation” (according to my chart) at Iron Mountain north of Joshua Tree National Park. The open canal winds its way to the base of the mountain and enters it there, coming out of the mountain on the opposite side. Are they generating electricity there? Or is it a pumping station? Either way, Louis and I agreed that it was weird for the canal to take a detour through the mountain when it could have easily followed the road.

    We continued through Twentynine Palms, then headed northwest around the mountains of Big Bear to our first fuel stop at Hesperia. I’d never been there before; I usually refueled at Apple Valley. Louis landed on the runway and I hover-taxied us through the dusty ramp area to the self-serve pump. We worked together to fuel quickly. It was getting hot—nearly 90° at about 9 AM—so after a quick bathroom break, we took off again. By that time, a bunch of small airplanes were coming in, probably to fuel up. Hesperia was the cheapest fuel around.

    We continued west. The area beneath us was now densely packed with homes. We passed south of Palmdale Airport, flying between the canal and the main road. A while later, we were climbing into the foothills of the mountains. We passed just south of the Gorman VOR at Grapevine and continued on up a valley. It was a pleasant flight between rolling hills covered with green and tan grass and billions of orange flowers. Beneath us were ranches and small lakes—and the same road my husband and I had driven on two years before on a road trip to Napa, CA.

    Soon we were headed down the opposite side of the mountain toward the Pacific Ocean. I dialed in the ATIS and Tower for San Luis Obispo and started a dialog with the tower controller. She directed us to park in an area marked “No Parking” (which I still think is funny). We shut down and went into the restaurant for lunch. I was surprised to see four airliners come in during the short time we were there: American, Delta, US Airways, and United. They were all small commuter planes, although one of them was a jet. I didn’t think San Luis Obispo was that popular.

    Once away from San Luis Obispo, we headed northwest, intersecting the coast at Morro Bay. Anyone who has driven the Pacific Coast Highway (the PCH; Route 1) can tell you how incredibly beautiful it is from the road. But that’s nothing compared to the view from 1,000 feet up, just off the coast. I took quite a few pictures, experimenting with my fisheye lens along the way.

    A while later, we took a detour past Hearst Castle at San Simeon. My camera was having trouble focusing through the Plexiglas—I really should have taken the door off—but I managed to get a pretty good shot of this monstrosity, despite the glare. Mike and I had visited it years ago and it really is amazing inside.

    We continued north along the coast, taking a minor detour past Hearst Castle at San Simeon. Although we were wearing life jackets—which insisted on—I didn’t want to be beyond gliding distance of shore. Louis, who lives and trained in Seattle, is used to flying over water; I’m not. If we had a problem, I wanted to come down on dry land. Of course, for much of the distance, the only suitable landing zone on the coast was the thin ribbon of the PCH. An emergency landing would not be pretty.

    I made a communications error as we approached Monterey’s class C airspace. We needed to go through the airspace, with the permission of the tower, to stay on our coastline course. Unfortunately, we were flying at 1,000 feet with 2,000-foot mountains between us and the tower. Instead of climbing right away as I should have, I waited until we were only 7 miles out. We still had to climb to talk to the tower. The tower told us to call NorCal approach. I did and received a transponder (squawk) code. But they didn’t tell us we could enter. So we circled around just south of Monterey’s airspace, waiting. Finally, when they figured they’d punished us long enough, they got on the radio and told us to talk to Monterey tower. I gave them my request and was approved. We went back down to the coast to transition at 1,000 feet. The entire process took a good 15 minutes, but I learned my lesson. I’d call NorCal approach in the future.

    We flew past Monterey and Pebble Beach, cutting across the peninsula to save time. On the other side, the tower instructed us to head due north, right across the bay. We were about three miles offshore, only 1,000 feet off the water, when I started getting nervous. I asked the tower if we could either come in closer to shore or climb. (I really do hate flying over open water.) The controller sounded annoyed, but let us come back to shore. Then he cut us loose, telling us to call NorCal Approach. I was glad to be rid of the Monterey area.

    A while later, when we were still about 40 miles short of Half Moon Bay, we saw the marine layer starting to build along the coast. This was a bad thing for navigation. We’d planned on hugging the coast all the way to the Golden Gate so we wouldn’t have to talk to San Francisco tower for a transition of the area. But with very low clouds blanketing the coast, that would not be possible. Louis wanted to climb above the clouds and follow the coast anyway, but I was definitely not interested in that. My VFR on top experience is limited and it never included large bodies of water. Besides, what was the sense of flying above the clouds when we could fly somewhere else with a better view?

    So we climbed to 2,000 feet and I managed to get the Flight Service Station on the radio. I asked if the low cloud condition persisted all the way to the Golden Gate. She told me that her satellite image was not that detailed. So we decided to take a more inland route. When she told us she couldn’t give us flight following at our altitude, I volunteered to climb to 3,000 feet so she could see me on radar. I don’t think she was happy about it. She turned us over to NorCal Approach just as we passed Half Moon Bay. I was glad we hadn’t landed there for fuel, since the clouds had already covered half the runway.

    NorCal approach gave us a squawk code and confirmed that it saw us on radar. Then it turned us over to San Francisco Tower. They asked us to climb to 3,500 feet. That’s like nosebleed territory for me, but we complied without complaint.

    The view from up there was absolutely amazing, with the marine layer coming in from the west like a thick, white, wooly blanket. To the east, however, the airport and city remained perfectly clear. I got a few good shots as we flew through.

    I also got a chance to show off my traffic information system (TIS), which only works in Class Bravo Airspace. It clearly identified a number of targets that we were able to see in the air. With the fog coming in through the Golden Gate, all the sightseers were out in their planes. The tower warned us about a small Cessna at our altitude as we approached the bridge area. He recommended that we climb, but since we were already a bit lower, I told him we’d descend. Louis dropped us down another two hundred feet and we passed behind him. I don’t even think he saw us. I really don’t like flying high because of the planes that are up there. There are seldom any planes down at 500 to 1,000 feet AGL.

    San Francisco handed us off to Oakland Center as we continued up toward Sonoma Valley. We’d planned to refuel at Healdsburg, but the delay at Monterey had eaten into our fuel reserves. We decided to stop at Petaluma, which was at 20-30 miles closer. When I told Oakland Center that we wanted to discontinue radar coverage because we needed to make a fuel stop at Petaluma, he asked if we needed any assistance. I guess he thought we were really low on fuel. I told him we were fine and squawked VFR.

    Petaluma is a very pleasant airport. Louis set us down right in front of the self-serve pump and we shut down. Then we got right to work. We were both very tired and I know I just wanted to finish up for the day. It wasn’t far to our overnight stop at Ukiah.

    We took off a while later and the heat hit us soon afterward. Inland California was suffering a heat wave. We’d avoided the bad heat for most of the day, but it had finally caught up with us at 4 PM in that valley. The OAT hit 101°F at one point. The sun was coming in through Louis’s side of the bubble. It was hot.

    But we reached Ukiah quickly and without incident. The FBO guy topped off the fuel tanks and helped us get rooms and a cab. We wound up with a pair of “King Suites” at the local Comfort Inn for the astoundingly good price of only $89. Free Internet (WiFi or Ethernet), free breakfast, a pool, and a Starbucks right across the parking lot. Who knew traveler heaven could be found in Ukiah, CA?

Next month, I’ll fill you in on the remaining two legs of our trip, through Oregon to Portland and then past Mount St. Helens to Seattle.

    Helicopters have a reputation for being high utility aircraft. Sure, we all think about their uses for search and rescue, firefighting, and emergency medial services (EMS). And some of us might think about electronic news gathering (ENG) and traffic watch. If you live in a metro area, you’ve likely seen police helicopters and if you vacation in scenic areas, you may have enjoyed a sightseeing flight.

    But helicopters are used for far more unusual endeavors: logging, seismic survey, Christmas tree harvest, bird control, crop spraying, frost control—the list goes on and on. Cherry drying is the unusual helicopter service I provide.

    Here’s how it works. During the last three weeks of so before picking, cherries are susceptible to water damage. When it rains, the cherries get wet—especially around where the stem attaches—and if left that way, they can rot or split. The packing houses won’t buy damaged cherries because the public won’t buy them.

    There are several things growers can do to get rainwater off the cherries. They have big fans in the orchards that blow air over the tree tops. They have blowers that they normally use to spread fertilizers, pollen, and other substances that, when empty, simply blow air. But neither of these methods are as quick or effective as having a helicopter hover over the treetops, using its downwash to blow the branches around, thus shaking and blowing the water off the ripening fruit.

    A handful of helicopter operators provides cherry drying hover service to cherry growers in Central Washington State. It’s a very short season—some pilots are lucky to get three weeks worth of work. On a dry year, an operator is lucky to break even. On a wet year, an operator can do pretty well. The flying is dangerous and tedious. The standby conditions can be unpleasant and mind-numbingly boring. But as I begin my third season doing this work, I’ve learned to enjoy it.

    I got my start in 2008, working as a subcontractor for another pilot. He, in turn, subcontracted out to another organization that hired pilots with their own helicopters for the work. So rather than work directly for the growers, I worked for one or two middle men.

    The summer of 2008 was unusually dry. I was on contract for three weeks without having to fly even once. Then I relocated for a 10-day contract that based me in Pateros, WA, right on Lake Pateros. I was living in a motel on the lake with the helicopter parked outside on a patch of grass. I’d expected to have that week off and my husband, Mike, had flown up from Arizona to spend the week with me. The 10-day contract was a pleasant surprise. It also turned out to provide the only two flying opportunities for me the whole summer. The first came on July 1.

    We were watching the weather radar on the Internet and saw what looked like a little “perfect storm” converging on the town of Brewster, just up the river from my motel in Pateros. Convective activity to the west, east, and south all moved toward each other, as if they were magnetically drawn together. But it was the thunderstorm cells from the southeast that actually hit the town, one after the other. The wind kicked up, lightning flared, and whitecaps appeared on the normally calm lake surface. Although not a drop fell on us eight miles downriver, we could clearly see that Brewster was getting dumped on.

    My boss called. “It’s raining like hell in Brewster,” he said. One of the growers had called him to report in. I was put on “active standby.” Since it was only around 6 PM, that meant there was a pretty good chance I’d fly.

    We waited, watching the storms move through. An Enstrom helicopter came upriver and slowly settled down over an orchard just south of the downpour, upriver from our position. Beyond him, the sky was dark gray and forked lightning bounced from cloud to cloud. He wasn’t there long. He departed to the southeast.

    My phone rang again at about 7 PM. “I’ve got some for you,” the boss said. “Got a pen?”

    He listed five orchards. I wrote down their names. They were all within 10 miles of each other, starting just upriver from my position. By that time, the wind had calmed. Although it looked as if it might still be raining in Brewster and beyond, it had apparently stopped over my orchards.

    “Okay,” I told him, “I’ll get started.”

    I changed into my flight suit and put on socks and sneakers. Then I went down to the helicopter with Mike. We pulled off my door and the tie-downs. The motel guests saw what we were doing. There were some kids and they started asking questions. Mike told them he’d answer all the questions when I was gone.

    I started up the helicopter and organized all my gear out on the passenger seat while I was warming up: my handheld GPS with coordinates for all the orchards and a loose-leaf binder with marked-up aerial photos of all the orchards. I plugged my cell phone into the device I’d bought to enable cell phone communication in flight. I tuned the radio into the frequency Mike would be monitoring on the handheld: 123.45. Then I finished my startup process, gave Mike a thumbs up, and took off.

    I was climbing through about 200 feet, heading upriver, when my phone rang. It was the boss. “C called and says its raining there,” he told me.

    C was the second orchard I’d be drying. (I won’t use real names here for various reasons.) It was across the river from the first and not far from where I’d seen the Enstrom do some drying at least 30 minutes before.

    I asked him what he wanted me to do. He responded that he was just letting me know. I ended the call. I was already arriving at the first orchard, M.

    M’s orchard was snuggled into a strip of land between a rocky bluff and a road. The rows stretched across the field at an angle that went downhill toward the river. I got down low and flew around two of the main block’s three sides to get a handle on how I’d tackle the job. At that time, I also looked for obstacles. The only power lines were on the other side of the road and were not a factor. Other than that, there were three tall PVC poles that stuck up about 5 feet above the tree tops in various locations and, of course, that rocky bluff.

    I settled into a hover five feet over the treetops on one end of the block and worked my way down the first row, from the rocks to the road. I pivoted with a pedal turn over the road, pleased that the wind wasn’t going to fight me. Then I worked my way up the next row. At the top, I sidestepped to the next row, made a 90° pedal turn, and began flying sideways down the row. When I was sure my tail would clear the rocky bluff, I completed my turn with another 90° pedal turn and continued down the row.

    I repeated this process at the top and bottom of each row, noticing a few things as I flew:

    • There was enough wind to push the downwash I generated to the southeast side of the helicopter. So as I flew over one row, I was really drying the row next to it.

    • When I flew downhill, I flew higher and faster than when I flew uphill. Both made perfect sense, although the speed was sloppy flying. I had to fly higher on the way downhill to prevent my tail rotor from tangling in the trees uphill, behind me.

    • It was extremely difficult to see the rows of trees. They were big and bushy and, from the air, there wasn’t much space between them. I had to rely on occasional views of the reflective material on the ground to remain lined up.

    • I was generating a lot more downwash than I expected. I may have been flying a little low.

    I was about a third of the way through the field when it started to rain. Keeping in mind that it was my job to dry the cherries, it didn’t make much sense to dry them when it was still raining. So I decided to call it quits and work on the next block, Orchard C. I flew across the river. It was still raining there, but much lighter. As I did my reconnaissance around the field, the rain just about let up. I settled down over the first row of trees and started drying.

    This block was also on a slope, but a much gentler one. Its main obstacles included a tall fan in the middle of the field and a set of power lines that ran across the upriver side of the block. Down below were numerous white picking buckets like the 5-gallon plastic “cans” filled with paint that you might buy to paint your house. The helicopter’s downwash sent most of them flying—in fact, if anyone had been down there, he would have been in serious danger. There were also some ladders, most of which were lying on the ground. The ladders must have been sturdy because my downwash did not knock over any of the ones that had been left standing.

    I went up and down the rows, being careful to avoid the wires at the end of each row when I made my turn. When I got to the rows closest to the fan tower, I simply sidestepped around it, double-drying a set of trees a bit farther away and pretty much avoiding the ones closest to the tower. But I think that my altitude—ten or so feet off the top of the trees—spread the downwash around enough to get most of the trees. I wasn’t going to get fancy with the maneuvers I’d learned on my training flight in May—not on my first flight, anyway. I finished that field in about 20 minutes, then climbed and crossed the river. Then I restarted the first block, Orchard M.

    In the meantime, I could hear other pilots on the radio. There was a group working out of Brewster Airport. One of them was flying a JetRanger; another was flying a big Sikorsky. They were working together, somehow. I didn’t see them. Later, I did see a few Sikorskys hovering over fields in Brewster. They looked like big bugs hovering 50 feet off the trees.

    I finished the main block of Orchard M and repositioned over a tiny block of younger trees farther down the hill. The trees were smaller and I found that I could dry two rows with one pass. I finished them off quickly and pulled up, heading toward my next orchard. I’d finished 23 acres (including the re-do) in a little more than an hour. Not exactly fast, but with ferry time factored in, it wasn’t bad.

    My next orchard was full of surprises. Only 3 acres in size, it was shaped like a quarter circle. The rounded edge was lined with seven very large pine trees. Where the trees ended, a set of power lines completed the border of the field. There was a house on one side and another house not far away from the rounded edge. I soon realized that I’d have an audience for my flight as I saw folks gathering along the deck of the second house.

    As I approached the orchard and got ready to settle down to tree top level, I saw two areas where the tree branches were going wild, as if Big Foot were walking among them. It turned out to be ground blowers that the grower was using to get the drying process started. The first time I got into the wake of one of these blowers, I got pushed around quite a bit, but when the grower realized I was overhead, he repositioned to one end of the orchard and shut down.

    Meanwhile, I’d begun drying. In this particular orchard, due to the shape of the block and the size of the trees, it was impossible to see the rows. I’d fly down what I thought was one row, make a complex turn at the end to avoid a big pine tree, and get ready to start up the next row only to realize that I’d either already done that row or I’d missed a bunch. Fortunately, my downwash was covering more than just one row at a pass and I had to satisfy myself (and the grower) with that.

    Near the end of the block, while making a difficult turn to avoid a big pine, I heard a loud noise and felt the helicopter shudder. At first, I thought my tail rotor had struck the tree and I shot forward to clear it. But the helicopter seemed to fly fine and, as I continued flying, I figured I must have just overflown one of the bird cannons. Erik, who had hired me for the summer, had warned that it would “scare the crap out of you the first time you hear one.” He wasn’t kidding.

    As I neared the very last row of the block, I realized that it was uncomfortably close to the power lines I’d noticed there before. Still a little frazzled by the loud noise I’d heard only minutes earlier, I decided I’d done enough. I lifted up and started toward my next orchard.

    I climbed to about 250 feet to cruise to the next orchard and consulted my list of orchards to do. I knew I had only two left. That’s when I realized that I’d forgotten to do the one near to the quarter circle. The only problem I had was that although I had a photo of the block, I’d never actually seen it in person from the air. We’d skipped it during my preview flight and I didn’t have its coordinates. That meant I had to find it from the air while in flight, using the photo as my guide.

    It’s not as easy as it sounds. There were orchard blocks all over the place below me. I had to get down low to look at the fruit on the trees. Most of them seemed to be apples and pears. When I finally found a cherry block, I assumed I had the right one and settled in over it. It was a block of young trees in a very easy layout with no obstructions. Nice and calming after the previous block.

    I noticed my phone ringing and reached out to answer it. It was Jim, another pilot who is based in Chelan. “Dan’s on the phone with the grower. He says you’re drying the wrong block.”

    I found that hard to believe. How many cherry blocks were
out there?

    “He says to go closer to the gray house.” What followed were instructions relayed by phone to get me in the right place. It was a lot like the game kids play when they’ve hidden something and give instructions to find it. “You’re getting warmer, it’s to your right, now it’s behind you.” You get the idea. I finally homed in on it.

    The block was easy and went quickly. I was definitely able to dry two rows at once and that really sped things up. I was making up for my earlier slow flights. As I flew back and forth, I caught sight of the people on the gray house’s porch supervising. Then I was done and climbing out for my last orchard.

    I had the coordinates for that, as well as the photo. I should have followed the GPS until I got a bit closer before descending to look for the fruit on the trees. I was cruising over orchard blocks at about 50 feet when I saw a set of power lines crossing the road about 150 feet in front of me. I pulled pitch and brought the cyclic back smoothly. Two men walking on the road stared as I climbed almost straight up to clear the wires. Whew! Learned my lesson. I followed the GPS the remaining 3/4 mile to the field.

    This last block also had blowers going. It was a nice 6-acre block with no wires and just one fan tower. I settled down 10 feet over the space between two rows of relatively young trees and followed them to the end at about 10 knots. When I got near the end, I spotted the grower watching me from a seat on an ATV. He gave me a thumbs up.

    I can’t tell you how good that simple gesture made me feel. It was my first day on the job and I’d made someone—a man who had waited more than 90 minutes for me to arrive—happy. Maybe I’d saved his crop. Who knows? But it sure made me feel good as I cruised over every other row of trees, drying the whole block in about 15 minutes.

    By this time, it was nearing 9 PM. The sun would be setting shortly. The storm had cleared out and the setting sun was casting an orange light over the Columbia River and mountains on the east side. It was beautiful. I climbed up to 400 feet and pushed a few buttons. Soon I had the boss on the phone. I told him I was done and asked if there were any others. He couldn’t hear me. Not at all. He told me to do the one I’d just finished, but if the grower waved me off, I should forget about it. But the grower had given me a thumbs up. I was done. Since I couldn’t communicate, I hung up. I figured I’d call him from the ground.

    I got Mike on the radio and told him I was coming in. He met me on the lawn beside the motel, holding my door. I shut down and we buttoned the whole thing up, adding fuel to top the tanks and putting on the tie-downs.

    That’s when I got a good look at the tail rotor. Although it was not damaged beyond a bit more paint worn off, it did have signs of something green on each blade. Maybe that loud noise wasn’t a bird cannon after all.

    I’d flown 2.1 hours. Although I probably should have done the work more quickly, this first flight taught me what to expect and how to get the job done more efficiently.

    I flew again two days later. When my ten-day contract ended, I went back to my base in Quincy and twiddled my thumbs for three weeks of beautiful, rain-free summer days. My total cherry drying flight time for the entire season was less than five hours.

    Afterwards, I headed home to Arizona, where I did aerial photo flights over Lake Powell for two months. By the middle of October, I was back in the Phoenix area, prepping for the winter season.

    Last year, the season was even drier—if that’s possible. If it weren’t for the standby pay, I would have had a very heavy loss.

    But this year is different. As I write this in early June, I’ve been on contract just four days and I’ve already flown twice. Growers who didn’t hire pilots have lost their crop, making the remaining cherries very valuable. This promises to be a profitable year for me and the growers with enough foresight to get cherry drying hover service protection.

    I now work directly for a handful of growers, providing them with better service while making a bit more money by being able to cut out the middleman. I take an active role with them in monitoring the weather and protecting their crop. When the picking is done I get more fresh-picked cherries than I can eat.

    Best of all, I’m away from the brutal heat of central Arizona’s summer.

    I’d left Zero-Mike-Lima at Placerville after giving rides to my friends, Rod and Liz, and some of their family members. After breakfast, they brought me up to Placerville’s ridge top airport. It was about 11 AM by the time I was ready to go and a beautiful clear day was quickly filling with puffy clouds. After much hugging and many thanks, I cranked up, warmed up, and took off.

    The first stop was Mariposa, to take advantage of the “cheap” fuel there. On the way, I passed over Columbia again. There was a parade in town and I altered course just a little to take a look before going on my way. When I landed at Mariposa, I was the only one at the pumps. I took my time about arranging the awkward platform ladder and filling both tanks. A biplane was parked nearby and after a while a couple came out and stood by it. I assumed it was their plane. They didn’t talk to me and I didn’t have anything to say to them, so there was no conversation between us.

    “When are you going to get fuel?” the woman asked the man.

    “Well, when she’s done and she hovers away, I’ll move the plane over,” the man said.

    The conversation ended. The woman walked across the ramp to one of several V-tail Bonanzas parked there. I began to get the idea that they weren’t flying in the biplane. She came back and continued to hang out with the man. A woman who worked at the FBO came out and chatted with them. She didn’t talk to me either. I was starting to feel like a social outcast. I don’t think I’d ever been at a less friendly airport.

    I finished fueling, put the receipt in my Hobbs book, and went inside to use the bathroom. I was about halfway to the building when I heard the woman say, “For Christ’s sake. We’re never going to get out of here.”

    She obviously knew exactly how I’d felt only a few days before when two airplanes took their time fueling while I was waiting for them to finish, spinning my blades 100 feet away.

    I left a short while later. I was following the same flight plan I’d used earlier in the week, but in reverse. It was all programmed into my GPS, so it was easy enough to do. The weather was still nice, clearer than the day I’d flown up but with big puffy clouds. Mountains gave way to farmland that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Then, at Porterville, the foothills began and I started climbing again. It was after 1 PM and the clouds seemed to be descending faster than I was climbing. I was 30 miles away from Tehachapi when I listened to the Bakersfield ATIS and learned that the clouds were scattered at 3,600 with a ceiling of 4,200. Tehachapi was at 4001 feet.

    Soon I was flying around clouds, following valleys and ridge lines. Scud running. I’d approach a ridge at about 100 feet above it and, if I could see the next ridge, I’d cross it. If not, I’d follow the ridge line down toward the valley until I could see the next ridge. I did this for about 15 minutes, venturing far to the west of my course. Soon, I wasn’t getting any closer to Tehachapi and I wasn’t climbing. I reached the valley where a highway and railroad track climb up to Tehachapi and followed it with my eyes. I got about 2 miles before the road disappeared beneath the clouds.

    Damn.

    I punched the NRST (nearest) button on my GPS and learned that Bakersfield Municipal was 15 miles to the northwest. I changed course and descended. A while later, I was on the ground, parked in a transient parking space conveniently located beside the self-serve fuel island, at Bakersfield Muni. It was sunny there, but back in the direction I’d come from, the sky was full of low clouds. The tops looked pretty high, but not high enough to be convective. The bottoms blended into a white haze that shrouded the mountains.

    I used my cell phone to call Flight Service. It connected to Prescott’s FSS. Not what I wanted. I hung up on the recording.

    I pulled out my Airport/Facilities Directory and tried an after-hours phone number for Tehachapi Airport. The idea was to get a report of weather conditions from someone on the ground there. No answer.

    I called the AWOS at General Fox in Lancaster. Clear skies, 10 miles visibility. Winds 10 miles per hour. It was less than 40 miles away as the crow (but obviously not the helicopter) flies, but it could have been in another world.

    Then I spotted a pay phone. I dialed Flight Service’s toll-free number and was connected to the Rancho Marietta FSS. I pushed the appropriate buttons and went on hold. Instead of music, they played a recording of a current AIRMET. Mountain obscuration, it said. Duh. Really?

    I was finally connected to a briefer. I gave him my N-number and told him I was a helicopter trying to get from Bakersfield Muni to Apple Valley over the pass at Tehachapi. I told him it was socked in and that I’d tried to cross but had turned back. “If a helicopter can’t make it,” I told him, “you know it must be bad.”

    He laughed. He then consulted the info he had. “When the wind blows from the northwest through that Central Valley,” he told me, “The clouds sometimes get piled up in the southeast corner.”

    “That’s what it looks like,” I told him.

    “Let me look at the satellite images,” he said. There was a pause, then, “Oh yeah, that looks like a mess. But over by Gorman, it isn’t so bad. You might be able to make it that way.”

    “I’ll have to check my chart,” I said.

    “Well, if you’re steering about 110 degrees for Tehachapi, you’d be steering about 160 for Gorman. You’d be following I-5 through the Grapevine.”

    I’d heard of Grapevine and told him.

    He described the road up to the pass, which was at 4200 feet. “There’s a flat grassy area at the top,” he said. “If things are dicey, you could always fool around there for a while.” He meant that I could land, but he wasn’t about to say that. “Just be careful for the power lines.”

    I’d heard about the power lines. We talked a bit more and I thanked him for his help. He reminded me that they always welcome Pilot Reports, then hung up.

    I went into the FBO, used the bathroom, then went back to Zero-Mike-Lima and topped off the tank closest to the pumps. When you’re heading into weather, you can never have too much fuel. I already had enough for at least another 90 minutes of flying time, but wound up putting another hour’s worth in. Why not?

    I consulted my charts and decided on a route that would take me to route 99, which intersected with I-5 a bit further south. I’d follow that up to the pass. With my plan made, I started up, warmed up, and took off.

    I flew over route 99 at about 500 feet AGL. Movement to my right caught my eye. It was a crop duster, painted bright red, yellow, and green, coming toward me on the west side of the road. It let a bit of smoke loose and rocked its wings as I diverted to the east a bit to give him room. He was flying about 200 feet below me. That’s something I’m not accustomed to: a plane flying below me.

    When I hit I-5, I started climbing. The road climbed up the mountains and I climbed with it. The clouds closed in, but always remained above me. At the highest point, when I was about 4500 feet MSL, the clouds were still at least a few hundred feet above me. I managed to snap a photo of the pass. I saw the flat area the briefer had told me about -- it was the same spot I’d decided to make my turn to the east. I turned, crossed the area, and began my descent.

    I hit some nasty turbulence as I descended. The wind was coming over the mountains there, causing mountain waves or rotors. I got bumped around quite a bit and had to reduce power and speed. My descent rate at one point was about 1500 feet per minute. Then I was off the mountains, in the valley beyond, heading toward Rosamond, listening to the controller at Fox (Lancaster) try to direct a half dozen planes that didn’t seem very interested in acknowledging his instructions.

    It was a perfectly clear day on the south side of the Tehachapi Mountains. The clouds were stuck, but were trying to overflow down into the valley. I snapped a photo to document the sight. I realized that there was no way I’d ever be able to get through the mess sitting on top of that pass.

    The rest of the flight was uneventful, if not downright boring. I had a 15-20 knot tailwind most of the way and averaged about 120 knots ground speed. At Apple Valley, the restaurant was closing early, but the manager had the cook make me a turkey sandwich. It was about 4 PM.

    I ate, topped off the tanks with fuel, and headed out again. I was now on the home stretch, with only two waypoints between me and Wickenburg. Then one. Then just Wickenburg, 157 nautical miles away.

    I was exhausted by the time I got to Cunningham Pass, but got my second wind over Aguila. I dropped down to about 300 feet AGL and sped across the desert. The wind had died down and the flying was smooth again. After the power lines at Forepaugh, I followed 60 at about 200 feet AGL for a while, racing the cars below me. I set down on the ramp at Wickenburg at 6:20 PM.

    It had been a good, long trip. Just what I needed to get flying out of my system for a few weeks.

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.