AircraftOwner Online

    If you’re like me, you love flying – sometimes to get somewhere and other times just for the fun of it – and there is no time like vacation time to fly. The weather tends to be good and because you’re on vacation, you can plan a more leisurely trip that avoids the chance for “get homeitus”.

    First, take a look at all of your options for travel. Last year I ran the numbers for a trip to and from OSH, assuming a departure from Amarillo, Texas. That article caused quite a stir because it proved that the General Aviation option was clearly better than either the Airlines or driving a car.

    So, why not plan a cross country vacation yourself and see how it works out. First by figuring your total cost for a trip in your car. Be sure to include hotels, food and fuel along the way. If you want to factor in “travel time” you could add something for the days you will spend sitting behind the wheel vs. enjoying your destination.

    Then then take a look at the airline travel time and cost. Don’t forget to include luggage charges, parking if you need it, time to and from the big airport, etc. Unless you elect to travel from one big hub to the other, and purchase your tickets well in advance, the airline option will not be all that great.

    Now pull out your Pilot’s Operating Handbook and plan a trip to someplace fun. Be sure to use one of the free fuel stop planning aids on the Internet to help keep your fuel cost at rock bottom. Don’t forget: when you are flying yourself it’s easy to take side trips you would simply not take in your own car. Plus, side trips are impossible when you are on airlines.

    How about car rentals? I have found that many times you can get a free loaner car at an FBO if you just buy fuel (and sometimes even if you don’t). This helps make lunch stops a lot more fun than some McDonald’s along the freeway. You can stop at small towns and small airports that add an extra spice and slice of life to your travels. Even on overnight stops you can often borrow the car for free.

    Then there is simply the fun of flying yourself. It’s easy to vagabond around the country when you are on vacation. Pick some destinations that you have always wanted to visit. For example, have you ever flown Out West? It’s a lot of fun and not nearly as difficult as some people seem to believe, particularly when you choose your routes carefully.

    Sure, if you are going to fly some mountain passes you should brush up on your higher altitude/terrain flying skills. Thinking about it is often more imposing that actually doing it. Take Jackson Hole for example.

    I can’t tell you how many people say they would never fly into Jackson Hole. Heck, you would think it’s at the bottom of a crater somewhere. Fact is, it is not really that difficult if you plan for it. And if you don’t like the idea of flying into Jackson, you can elect to visit nearby Driggs, Idaho or West Yellowstone, Montana both of which have even easier approaches.

            It really does not matter where you elect to visit. The point is, you own an airplane – why not use it for your vacation? Plan it out and you will discover General Aviation offers your vacation many more options, more than likely at a lower price than driving or flying commercially.

    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.

One of the oldest aviation clichés holds that a pilot certificate or rating is primarily a “license to learn.” Nowhere is that saying more appropriate than it is for the newly rated instrument pilot. Like many pilots, I was eager to exercise my new privileges by getting the wings wet almost before the ink on my temporary certificate dried. Having passed the instrument rating practical test, I was confident of my ability to operate in the system, to shoot approaches, and even to enter and fly holding patterns. I had mastered the art of the scan and the rhythm of cross-check, interpret, and control. My knowledge of instrument flight rules (IFR) and procedures was solid. As I quickly learned, though, my understanding of weather— specifically, how to think about weather in terms of a given flight—was as patchy as the clouds I so proudly passed through on my first IFR flight.

The gaps in my knowledge became crystal clear on a very cloudy day a few months later when I launched into rapidly deteriorating weather that eventually forced a diversion and an instrument approach to near minimums. I’m not proud of the “go” decision I made that day, but the experience does have a silver lining. As you might imagine, it provided powerful motivation to become a dedicated and lifelong student of aviation weather. Eventually, it also led to discovering a simple, but very effective, framework for deciding whither and whether to fly in weather of all kinds.

As Simple as 1-2-3

It is important to get a detailed weather briefing and I was always very dutiful about obtaining and printing out weather information from Flight Service (FSS) or one of the online direct user access terminal (DUAT) providers. Even more critical, however, is knowing how to pull the most important pieces of information from piles of printer paper and apply them to the flight you’re about to make.

Easier said than done. There was a time when I stared at those faithfully acquired weather printouts with the same expression of earnest confusion my Cocker Spaniel displayed when I tried to explain the importance of a bath. She didn’t get that picture any more clearly than I got the flick on weather. The Spaniel never did understand the bath rationale, but the light-bulb moment for my understanding of aviation weather came courtesy of a simple concept in Robert Buck’s Weather Flying

book. As Buck explains, there are just three ways that weather affects an aviator:

1. Weather can create wind.

2. Weather can reduce ceiling and visibility.

3. Weather can affect aircraft performance.

Eureka! With this framework, I began to notice that data in aviation meteorological reports (METAR) and terminal aerodrome forecasts (TAF) is structured to provide information on each of these three weather conditions. I finally had not only the tools needed to mine the most critical pieces of information from the printout, but also the foundation for evaluating a specific day’s weather in terms of both the specific pilot—me—and the specific airplane I planned to fly.

When the Wind Blows

In both METARs and TAFs, the first item provides information on an airport’s wind direction and velocity. A key to wise weather decision making is to consider these numbers in relation to both the pilot and the plane.

With respect to the pilot, the primary issue is proficiency and comfort with a known or forecast crosswind. If you are not comfortable with the crosswind component at the departure airport, it’s a good day to stay on the ground or, better yet, hire a qualified instructor to help scrub the rust off your crosswind takeoff, approach, and landing skills. If it is the crosswind at the destination airport that gives you pause, the next step in the windy weather decision-making process is to determine whether the winds are more favorable at alternate airports within range. When crosswind comfort is an issue at either end of the flight, it also pays to check wind at airports along your route in the event that diversion becomes necessary.

Regarding the airplane, the primary issue is its maximum demonstrated crosswind component, which is usually in the range of 12-17 knots for light GA aircraft. Though it is not a legal limitation, a GA pilot is wise to regard this value as a personal limitation. Here’s why. Aircraft manufacturers develop aircraft performance data through rigorous flight tests. These activities are conducted by professional test pilots who are, as the phrase goes, “simulating average pilot skills.” However hard we try, non-commercial GA pilots still may not obtain the aircraft performance that a professional who is “simulating” an average pilot’s skill level can achieve.

Also, even if the true maximum crosswind component is higher than the published (demonstrated) value, there is inevitably a point at which full deflection of a given airplane’s rudder, in combination with aileron input, will not be sufficient to correct for the drift resulting from a stiff crosswind. Pilots refer to this condition as “running out of rudder.” I speak from experience when I report that it does get your attention. That particular teachable moment came for me on a gusty autumn day when I was first learning to fly from the right seat of a Cessna 150. Even with the right rudder pedal jammed all the way to the floorboard, the trusty little trainer was no match for the crosswind at that particular airport.

Bottom line: Regardless of pilot proficiency in crosswind flying, it is also critical to consider whether the airplane is up to the challenge. A crosswind that is perfectly manageable in the beefy twin-engine Piper Aztec may well be too much for a tiny two-seat trainer.

Flying Blind

The next component of METAR and TAF reports ceiling and visibility, conditions that are the primary reason for learning to fly by reference to instruments. For legal instrument flying, an aircraft must be properly equipped and certified for IFR. Since, regardless of equipment, the airplane itself is not affected by the presence of clouds and precipitation, weather decision making in this area most logically focuses on the pilot.

For legal operation in instrument meteorological conditions (IMC), a pilot must be

both instrument rated and instrument current in accordance with Title 14 Code of Federal Regulations section 61.57. For safe operation in IMC, though, the pilot must also be proficient in basic attitude flying, instrument operating rules and procedures, course intercepts and tracking, holding, approaches, and all other aspects of instrument flying.

The existence of the IFR currency requirement bespeaks the perishable nature of instrument flying skills. As many pilots have discovered, though, maintaining just the legal minimum requirement for currency may not be enough for proficiency and confidence. If you haven’t flown in IMC recently, or if you have any doubts about your proficiency level, it behooves you to get some practice with a safety pilot or, better yet, some dual instrument-refresher training with a qualified instrument instructor.

Let’s assume you are rated, current, and proficient. Is that enough? Another part of being proficient and safe in IMC is knowing and adhering to your individual personal minimums. One way to approach this important task is to consider—honestly—how comfortable and proficient you are in the basic weather categories for aviation. VFR, marginal VFR (MVFR), IFR, and low IFR (LIFR). Be sure to account for day versus night operations in each category. For instance, I am very comfortable flying in day MVFR in my home airspace, but night is a different story. My own personal minimums also prohibit intentional operation into LIFR conditions. The minimums I set for IFR vary according to how much recent time I have flying in IMC, and how recently I have practiced flying instrument approaches. (Note: For specific tips and techniques for developing your own personal minimums see “Getting the Maximum from Personal Minimums” in the May/June 2006 issue of FAA Aviation News.)

The Little Engine That Couldn’t

The third major way that weather affects aviators is through its impact on aircraft performance. The temperatures in METARs, TAFs, and winds and temperatures-aloft reports can give you a good indication of two weather phenomena that will undoubtedly sap your airplane’s operating capability: icing and high density altitude.

An airplane is a machine, and all machines have performance limits. Consequently, a vital part of deciding whether to fly in weather likely to include such performance-reducing elements as icing or high-density altitude is to have a rock-solid understanding of what your airplane can—and cannot—do. The best piloting skills in the world cannot overcome the airplane’s physical performance limitations. Think of it this way: Even if you are super pilot, there are hard limits on what you can expect when flying a Super Cub.

A word about performance calculations: If the ground school memory of doing triple interpolations to calculate a two-foot difference in takeoff distance has discouraged you from regular use of the performance charts for your aircraft, rest assured there is an easier way. Simply use the next highest numbers shown on the chart to get a “ballpark” estimate, and then add a 50–100 percent safety margin.

For the purists: Yes, precision is important, but only to a point. If you calculate a takeoff distance of 1,242 feet in high-density altitude conditions and the last two feet (or even the last 42 feet) really make a difference in whether you can operate or not, you should stop and consider whether it is wise to fly at all in those conditions. As the saying goes, there are no emergency takeoffs.

Learning after Landing

A final thought: When you complete a challenging flight in weather, you may want nothing more than to go home and unwind. The immediate post-flight period, however, is one of the best opportunities to increase the weather knowledge and understanding that will guide effective decision making. Make it a  point to learn something from every weather encounter. At the end of a flight involving weather, take a few minutes to mentally review the flight you just completed and reflect on what you learned from this experience.

Still another way to develop your weather experience and judgment is simply to observe and analyze the weather every day. When you look out the window or go outside, observe the clouds. What are they doing? Why are they shaped as they are? Why is their altitude changing? This simple habit will help you develop the ability to read clouds and understand how shape, color, thickness, and altitude can be valuable weather indicators. As your cloud-reading skill develops, start trying to correlate the temperature, dew point, humidity, and time of day to the types of clouds that have formed. Take note of the wind, and try to visualize how it wraps around a tree or whips around the corner of a building. This exercise will help you become more aware of wind at critical points in your flight.

Weather is a fact of life for pilots. Developing your weather knowledge and expertise is well worth the time and effort you put into it, because weather wisdom will help keep you—and your passengers—safe in the skies.

Susan Parson (susan.parson@faa.gov) is a Special Assistant in the FAA’s Flight Standards Service. She is  an active general aviation pilot and flight instructor.

            One of the things I like most about aviation is the opportunities for adventure that if offers. Certainly there is the flying itself, but I also take a great deal of interest in other aspects of our art form.  

            For example, this past weekend I was flew to Tarkio, Missouri to hang out at the Wing Nuts flying breakfast. Tarkio is the home of congressman Sam Graves. Sam is not only a great pilot, but he serves on the Aviation Subcommittee of the U.S. Congress. He is a great proponent of aviation and works tirelessly on the behalf of General Aviation.  

            I had the chance to sit down and talk with Sam about a number of GA issues including through-the-fence and 100LL Avgas.  Access through-the-fence at local airports is a “no-brainer” which will hopefully get resolved sooner rather than later. The issue of 100LL aviation fuel is more complicated.  I am not going to begin to address that issue in this blog but I am making it a point to educate myself on that issue in greater detail starting today. We should be paying attention to this because there is a lot going on with various special interests starting to take positions that may or may not be in everyone’s best interest.  But that’s something for a subsequent blog.  

            I guess it’s the intellectual stimulation that aviation offers that I have been pondering recently. Inquiry and curiosity add to the fun of flying.  I am talking about not only the political issues, but the history and physics that come in to play.  

            For example, tomorrow my friend Rich Hornbeck and I are getting on a flight to Juneau, Alaska. From there we will take a 5 hour ferry trip to Skagway. Then we will rent a car and drive two hours to Carcross in the Yukon. There is a gravel strip in Carcross that I want to visit. Why? Because it is there that Ford Tri-motor, NC-1077 was based. And it was there that it last flew before it was abandoned for many years.  1077 was rescued years later by Gene Frank of Caldwell, Idaho. I purchased and restored the aircraft. Today it is the oldest flying metal aircraft in the world (see: www.FordTri-motor.com for the notes on the aircraft). 

              Anyway, a Canadian friend is going to help me get access to the hangar office where company records of the aircraft may be stored. My understanding is the office has been locked and abandoned perhaps for decades. While I may show up and find an FBO operating out of it, at the moment I feel a bit like Geraldo Rivera opening a sunken safe. It’s adventure in the quest of knowledge; in this case of the history of an historic aircraft I happen to own.  

            It’s the immersion and involvement in aviation that I enjoy so much. I am certain that you can find the same sort of excitement in other pursuits but for myself, I can’t imagine anything I would rather be doing.  Perhaps you feel this way too.

    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.

A very senior pilot was asked, "How might I fly through a thunderstorm that I could not avoid?"

The answer he wanted to give was either, "You can't." or "Don't try."

But the question needed to be answered. Here is his advice:

Just about the only way to inadvertently get into a thunderstorm is by flying instruments in clouds with embedded thunderstorms and without either weather radar equipment onboard or ground-based weather radar available to your air traffic controller. Let's assume this is how Fate dealt you such a poor hand.

The greatest risk in thunderstorms is structural failure. My advice is: don't do anything that helps the thunderstorm break your airplane. When you realize that you are in trouble, slow down. I mean not just to maneuvering speed but much slower than that. Slow to what is known as 'slow cruise' - the speed that you use in holding patterns. This will be fairly close to the best rate of climb airspeed for your airplane. Slow cruise is slow enough to minimize the adverse effects of turbulence and fast enough to keep your controls responsive. Consider putting your wheels down. This will help you stay slow. Most airplanes are not as strong with flaps out, so don't use flaps unless there is no restriction against it in your pilot's handbook for the airplane.

The reason to slow down is that the higher your airspeed, the greater force turbulence can impart on your airplane. That destructive force comes in the form of lift. Remember that lift is proportional to the speed of the airplane squared. Slow is good.

Too slow is not good simply because the last thing that you need is to stall and spin when you are in a thunderstorm.

There is an expression in aviation that says a pilot's priorities are aviate, navigate and communicate, in that order. I agree. Certainly your most important task is to fly the airplane. However, you need all the help you can get. So tell air traffic control (ATC) that you are in trouble and need help. Ask them to vector you out of the thunderstorm. Tell them that you cannot maintain the assigned altitude - because you cannot. Ask them to vector you away from high terrain. Be aware that your inability to maintain altitude can easily put you in a position where you cannot communicate with ATC for some period of time.

The intensity of rain in a thunderstorm can be truly phenomenal. Quite possibly your engine or engines can start to ingest a great deal of water. This water can turn to ice in your carburetor especially at high altitudes and low power settings. When you apply carburetor heat, the mixture enriches forcing you to lean the engine or risk fouling the spark plugs. Tuning the engine is an integral part of flying the airplane, your most important task.

The updrafts and downdrafts in a thunderstorm can far exceed a general aviation airplane's ability to climb or dive. So just ride them out. Don't start building airspeed by pushing your nose down to stay at your assigned altitude in a strong updraft. If you get caught in a strong downdraft, go to your best rate of climb airspeed at full power. You will still go down - just not as fast and not so far. When the downdraft dissipates, you can start climbing back to your assigned altitude. If you have oxygen and perhaps if you don't, ask ATC for a higher altitude so you will have a greater margin of safety when you enter your next overpowering downdraft. If ATC will not grant you a higher altitude, do not be afraid to declare an emergency and tell ATC that you are going to a higher altitude.

There are two things that you should remember here. First, if the FAA issues a violation, it is better to argue in court that you needed that higher altitude than it is to have the surviving members of your family argue in court that the FAA should have cleared you to a higher altitude. Second, when you go high without oxygen, you get so stupid you don't know how truly stupid you are. Having said that, when you are at 10,000 feet facing 12,000 feet peaks and a known thunderstorm behind you, the options start to narrow. For me, it is better to face hypoxia than certain death.

To sum it up: Plan your fight and check your weather well enough to know that you are not going into a thunderstorm.

If, by some fluke of nature, you end up in a thunderstorm that was not predicted and you could not see, then

1.) Slow down.
2.) Remember that flying the airplane is your most important task.
3.) Get out of the thunderstorm as quickly as possible.
4.) Keep going straight with wings level while you ride out overpowering up and downdrafts.
5.) Tell ATC.
6.) Ask for help.

Article Source: http://www.articlesnatch.com

About the Author: Doug Daniel a is long time pilot, flight instructor, software engineering manager and author. His department developed the software for the out-the-window-displays for the space shuttle, F-117, RS-71 and numerous other exotic airplanes. His writing focuses on flying techniques designed to make flying easier and safer. If this was interesting, visit his website at http://www.FlyingSecretsRevealed.com/flying_questions/

Pilot and controller fatigue has been making aviation headlines in recent years, punctuated by the February 2008 incident in which the crew of a regional jet fell asleep at the controls on the way to Hilo, Hawaii. Although it’s usually airliner mishaps that make front page news, general aviation pilots are subject to the same fatigue-related risks and potential for disaster.

Consider this example and ask yourself (honestly) if it seems familiar: After a full workday in a distant office, a pilot flies his/her aircraft home and shoots an instrument approach to minimums at night. Or, the flight instructor who agrees to take just one more student after a full day of flying, pushing the limits of Title 14 Code of Federal Regulations section 61.195, which prohibits instructors from teaching more than eight hours in a given 24-hour period.

Fatigue is part of our workaholic American culture, which is known for too much of the wrong food, too little of the right exercise, and insufficient or poor quality sleep. Pilots are not immune to developing such bad habits. In its annual sleep survey for 2009, the National Sleep Foundation found that 20 percent of Americans sleep fewer than six hours and that only 28 percent sleep more than eight hours per night. We report more sleep than we actually get, so the data perhaps

underestimates the actual amount of sleep loss experienced by most Americans.

In the spirit of “know your enemy,” human factors research is making progress toward making us wiser in the wearying ways of fatigue. The FAA offers a brochure for pilots titled “Fatigue in Aviation,” which offers some useful tips on staying healthy and alert, but each pilot needs to be aware of his or her own unique habits and physiological limitations.

Avoid Becoming a Headline

As a pilot, one of the best ways to avoid becoming an NTSB accident statistic is to ask yourself, “If this flight goes badly, what would the NTSB report say about me? How would the headline read the next day? ‘Sleep-Deprived Pilot Avoids Fatigue Warning Signs and Crashes, Killing All.’” If it’s bad, maybe you should reconsider flying and take a nap.

When there is an accident, an incident, or a close call, trained investigators seek to determine the cause in an effort to prevent such events from happening again. The best investigations identify not just the obvious cause, but rather the numerous factors in the overall chain of events.

The following are a list of simple questions that investigators may ask during an incident or close-call investigation. Pilots can benefit from pondering these questions before they leave the ground, to assess whether they are suffering from fatigue that could lead to an embarrassing incident or a deadly accident.

Example of Investigative Fatigue Questions for Work Task Mishaps (adapted for GA operations)

- How long were you awake prior to the mishap?

- How long was your last “major” sleep period (more than two hours sleep) prior to the work

task mishap?

- How much additional sleep did you obtain through nap(s) since your last “major” sleep

period?

- How much did you sleep in the 24 hours prior to the work task mishap?

• How much did you sleep in the 72 hours prior to the work task mishap?

• How many hours did you work in the five days prior to the work task mishap?

Squeezing in More Sleep

Avoiding fatigue is not rocket science, yet we as humans continue to challenge conventional sleep wisdom by drinking too much caffeine, consuming too much refined sugar, not getting enough exercise, and engaging in other sleep-preventing behaviors, all while working long hours often under great stress. Our jobs have reduced the requirement for extensive physical work, and child’s play is now more likely to involve a computer game than a ball field. This vicious cycle drives us to exercise less, eat more, and sleep less—and the cycle continues.

The solution is amazingly simple, yet often difficult to implement: Get more sleep. Humans need about eight hours of sleep in a 24-hour period. It takes about 15 minutes in bed to fall asleep, and your last 15 minutes of sleep is not healthy, restorative sleep. That means that you should spend eight and a half hours in bed, dedicated to sleeping, each night. Don’t allow television, radio, or food in bed. If you miss sleep one night then you must sleep extra the following night to catch up.

If you want to avoid fatigue, these simple rules are not negotiable. If you are uncertain of your sleep duration, then you should try keeping a sleep diary. This may be the first advice you would get from a clinical sleep professional. The FAA developed a chart (see previous page) that you can use to track your sleep patterns over a 14-day period. Do you need more sleep? Go to www.mxfatigue.com and find out. Numerous scientific studies have matched the performance of fatigued drivers to the performance of drunk drivers. The next time you are awake for 20 hours straight remind yourself that your performance level is equivalent to that of a legally drunk driver. Fatigue can affect not only your ability to drive the car, but your decision to drive in the first place. Should you be flying an airplane when you are in that condition? Write the next day’s page-one

headline in your head, and then lay it down on your pillow to sleep.

William B. Johnson, Ph.D., is FAA Chief Scientific and Technical Advisor for Human Factors in Aircraft Maintenance Systems. He joined FAA in 2004 after 30 years of private sector experience in academia, safety engineering consulting, and airline/MRO training. He is an Aviation MaintenanceTechnician and a 40-year pilot.

Katrina E. Avers, Ph.D., is a research scientist in the Human Factors Research Division at FAA’s Civil Aerospace Medical Institute. Her research focuses on organizational assessment, fatigue education, fatigue reporting systems, and fatigue risk management programs for flight crew, cabin crew, and maintenance technicians.

Pilots are taught to follow the “IMSAFE” checklist to evaluate their mental and physical fitness before each flight, but how do pilots get and stay fit? FAA offers a brochure titled “Fit for Flight” (http://www.faa.gov/pilots/safety/pilotsafetybrochures/media/FitFor_Flight.pdf) that provides some basic information for pilots on how to adopt and maintain a flying-friendly healthy lifestyle.

Get with a Program

While you don’t need the body of a professional athlete in order to fly, maintaining strength and flexibility is important. Muscles that aren’t used tend to atrophy and weaken—even that big one in your right leg that helps you keep the airplane on the centerline during takeoff. A healthy cardiovascular system helps you avoid potentially life-threatening conditions, such as heart disease and diabetes. One of the other important benefits of physical fitness is that your body is better prepared to cope with the various emotional and physical stressors that are encountered while flying.

Of course, we’d be remiss if we did not remind pilots to check with a physician before beginning any exercise program. If your FAA Aviation Medical Examiner (AME) is also your primary care physician, he or she may even be able to tailor a program to your specific needs and flying lifestyle.

Eat Right, Fly Smart

The “Fit for Flight” brochure suggests that pilots who want to improve their overall diet eat well-balanced meals that offer a combination of proteins, fats, and carbohydrates. Keep your energy up, but avoid eating a big nap-inducing meal right before a flight. While many studies have shown that moderate consumption of alcohol can be good for your heart and possibly reduce the risk of some types of cancer, pilots need to be mindful that the “eight-hour bottle-to-throttle” rule is the absolute minimum. Some individuals may require a longer period between drinking and flying depending on the amount of alcohol consumed and their personal metabolism.

Drinking enough water throughout the day is important for anyone, especially if you work out. Remember, dry air aloft can also make you thirsty, so always have bottled water available in the cockpit—and a good alternate in mind in case you or your passengers need a bathroom break.

A well-worn book in my aviation library is Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s North to the Orient, which is the author’s account of the 1931 flight she and her famous spouse made from New York to China via the Great Circle Route. Modern-day pilots might envy her the lack of congestion and restrictions that characterize today’s National Airspace System (NAS), but Lindbergh stresses that some things never change:

“Flight rests, firmly supported, on a structure of laws, rules, principles—laws to which plane

and man alike must conform. The firm black lines which we ruled straight across Canada

and Alaska, preparatory to our flight, implied freedom, but dearly won. Months, and indeed

years, of preparation made such freedom possible.”

The kind of straight-line freedom promised by performance-based navigation (PBN) and the NextGen technologies that we highlight in this issue is also dearly won—and achieved through years of effort and preparation.

A Handy Resource

Not surprisingly, getting the greatest benefit from new procedures and technologies requires preparation and effort on the part of the pilot. A quick Google™ search will produce dozens of

documents with varying degrees of detail on the elements of NextGen and performance-based

navigation. If, however, you are in search of a singlesource reference on both “old” and new procedures for operating in today’s NAS, take a look at the FAA’s Instrument Procedures Handbook (FAA-H-8261-1A). Originally designed as a reference for pilots who operate under instrument flight rules (IFR) in the NAS, the FAA Instrument Procedures Handbook expands on information provided in the more basic Instrument Flying Handbook (FAA-H-8083-15). It includes advanced information for real-world IFR operations, such as detailed coverage of instrument charts and procedures. The Instrument Procedures Handbook specifically covers IFR takeoff, departure, en route, arrival, approach, and landing.

Best of all (at least for purposes of this issue’s theme), the handbook addresses the concepts and procedures for area navigation (RNAV), required navigation performance (RNP), RNAV routes and designators, and many other aspects of operating in today’s NAS. You will find a general discussion of these topics in the handbook’s first chapter.

General aviation pilots who use—or expect to use—RNAV(GPS) approaches will find it especially helpful to read and study chapter 5, “Approach,” which presents RNAV, RNP, and approaches enabled by the Wide Area Augmentation System (WAAS) in practical operational terms. Still another part of this chapter explains the concept and the charting of terminal arrival areas (TAA).

For the TAA discussion as well as for other sections of the Instrument Procedures Handbook, the

graphics and illustrations are great, too. Check it out, and let your new knowledge help you make the most of NAS modernization.

Susan Parson is a special assistant in the FAA’s Flight Standards Service. She is an active general aviation pilot and flight instructor.

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.