The airplane, manufactured in 1960, had been updated with, among other things, a couple of flight data recorders. Their memory cards survived the crash and allowed National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigators to trace in minute detail the events that led to it.

The 1,765-hour, instrument-rated commercial pilot, 43, an insurance agent and entrepreneur, had earlier flown a longtime friend from Fayetteville to Stuttgart, Arkansas. The trip took an hour. The friend, who had previously co-owned a Cirrus with the accident pilot and knew him well, reported that the flight was uneventful and that the pilot took off to return to Drake Field in Fayetteville (KFYV) 15 minutes after landing. He said that the pilot had told him that the airplane was fully fueled before they left Fayetteville. 

It was late dusk and a full moon had just risen when the Bonanza, cruising at 4,500 feet, approached Drake Field. Eighteen miles out, it began a gradual descent at about 425 feet per minute. At 10 miles, the pilot called the tower and was cleared to land. 

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When the Bonanza was around 3 miles from Drake, its speed decreased and its rate of descent increased. Six hundred feet above the ground, it started a left turn toward an open field, but before it reached the field its left wing struck a tree and it fell, out of control, to the ground. The airplane came to rest upright but fragmented. There was no fire.

NTSB investigators found nothing wrong with the engine, and there was ample fuel in the main tanks. The auxiliary tanks were empty. The fuel selector was set to the left main.

A decade or two ago an accident like this would have fallen into the “for unknown reasons” category. The electronic data recording devices, however, led the NTSB straight to the probable cause—”the pilot’s mismanagement of the airplane’s fuel system.” 

In order to understand how a man described by his old friend as a “really good” pilot who was “knowledgeable” and “particular” about how he operated an airplane, one must first understand the fuel system of the M35.

The airplane had two main fuel tanks of 25 gallons each and two optional auxiliary tanks of 10 gallons each for a total capacity of 70 gallons. Its 260 hp engine burned around 14 gph in cruise. The fuel injection system of the IO-470, like all Continental fuel injection systems, pumped more fuel than the engine needed and sent the unused portion back to a tank. According to the airplane handbook, the vapor return amounted to 10 gph. If a main tank was selected, the vapor return went to it. If the aux tanks were selected, which fed simultaneously, the vapor fuel went to the left main. 

This arrangement had several implications. One was that even though the engine was burning only 13 or 14 gph, the 20 gallons of auxiliary fuel would be gone in less than 50 minutes. Another was that if the aux tanks were selected before there was space for the return fuel in the left main, the return fuel would be vented overboard. The POH discouraged switching to the auxiliary tanks before the left main was half empty.

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 The POH instructed the pilot to take off on the left main (and, without explanation, not to take off with less than 13 gallons in each main). On the trip to Stuttgart, the pilot actually appears to have taken off on the right main and switched to the left six minutes later. After 26 minutes, he selected the aux tanks and continued to feed from them for the remainder of the flight, presumably returning to a main tank shortly before landing. At Stuttgart he had about 54 or 55 gallons of fuel remaining, of which around 8 were in the aux tanks and 24 in the left main.

On the return flight, he burned fuel from the right tank for the first 49 minutes. He then made a fateful decision: He selected the aux tanks. 

Seven minutes later, return fuel from the aux tanks had filled the left main and presumably begun to run out the vent. After another six minutes the fuel pressure began to fluctuate, and then it disappeared entirely. The Bonanza was now 1,400 feet above the runway elevation and several miles out. The remaining 40 seconds of electronic data showed no restoration of fuel pressure.

Evidentally the pilot had selected the left main and was attempting a restart when time and altitude ran out. The NTSB did not speculate about why the engine failed to restart. Presumably there was quite a bit of air in the lines. The pilot did maintain control of the airplane, and although he slowed it to minimum speed before impact, he did not stall it.

The NTSB report credits the pilot with 377 hours in “this make and model,” but it is silent on an important question: Was the fuel system on his previous Bonanza differently configured from that on this one? In an online post, one of the pilot’s associates stated that the Bonanza he was flying “was a new one to him” and “an unfamiliar airplane” but does not say in what way it was unfamiliar.

If the Bonanza he had previously owned lacked the optional auxiliary tanks, it’s possible that the pilot had not yet developed a set of habitual operating procedures for them. If he had, he might not have made the mistake of switching to the aux tanks, which contained only a few gallons of fuel, with little time remaining in the flight and with almost no room for return fuel in the left main. Nor, perhaps—assuming that he had not forgotten how little fuel was left in the aux tanks—would he have placed reliance on the ancient float-type fuel quantity senders, which were prone to drop out entirely at the seldom-visited, near-empty ends of their potentiometers, to keep him from running a tank dry. 

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Maybe, because switching to the fuller main is part of the airplane’s prelanding checklist, he performed a mental calculation—8 gallons in the aux tanks, 10 minutes to landing, reduced flow in the descent—and concluded that there would still be fuel in the aux tanks when he ran his prelanding checks. But in that case he may have forgotten that fuel was being drawn from the aux tanks at nearly double the rate that the engine was using it.

All airplanes have quirks. The Bonanza POH provided an accurate and concise description of the fuel system but did not trace every hypothetical path from a feature to a problem. It’s up to the pilot—especially one becoming acquainted with an unfamiliar airplane—to ensure that a quirk doesn’t turn into a pitfall.

Note: This article is based on the National Transportation Safety Board’s report of the accident and is intended to bring the issues raised to our readers’ attention. It is not intended to judge or reach any definitive conclusions about the ability or capacity of any person, living or dead, or any aircraft or accessory.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post It’s Up to Pilot to Ensure Quirk Doesn’t Turn Into Pitfall appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

With a career spanning over four decades, Wagstaff has not only made her mark as one of the premier aerobatic pilots in the world but also dedicated herself to the critical mission of aviation safety and the education of budding aviators. 

Wagstaff’s journey into aviation began in the late 1970s. She earned her private certificate in 1980, and it wasn’t long before her skill and passion for precise flying led her to aerobatics.

Known for her flair and daring spirit, she has captured the hearts of aviation enthusiasts and peers alike. Her breathtaking performances at airshows and her role as a key figure in the aerobatic community have earned her numerous accolades, including multiple titles as the U.S. national aerobatic champion—she was the first woman to win the title in 1991. 

However, Wagstaff’s influence extends well beyond the spectacle of aerobatic routines.

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Recognizing the importance of safety in aviation, she has become a staunch advocate for best practices and risk management. Her commitment to safety is not just theoretical but deeply personal, reflected in her meticulous approach to both her own flying and the broader aviation community. 

Education is a cornerstone of Wagstaff’s mission. She has taken on the vital role of mentor and educator, striving to pass on her expertise to the next generation of pilots through her school, Patty Wagstaff Aviation Safety, based in St. Augustine, Florida.

She and a team of carefully selected flight instructors work with both aspiring aviators and experienced pilots to foster a deeper understanding of aviation principles. The school’s approach to teaching is characterized by an ability to distill complex concepts into accessible lessons.

In addition to her professional achievements, Wagstaff’s writing serves as a beacon of wisdom for the aviation community. She has previously served as a contributor to Plane & Pilot magazine, sharing narratives that are crafted with a genuine desire to uplift and educate. Her ability to connect with readers on both a technical and personal level has made her contributions particularly impactful.

We delve into Wagstaff’s perspective on aviation safety and her vision for the future of pilot education in this Q&A interview: 

FLYING Magazine (FM): You are well-known as an aerobatic champion and performer, but what a lot of people don’t know about you is that you’ve dedicated yourself to educating other aviators. Was there a particular moment or event that inspired you to found an educational program?

Patty Wagstaff (PW): Airshow pilots often wear many hats. They run their own businesses, some own FBOs, flight schools, or work as airline pilots. It’s rare to find pilots who exclusively fly airshows, even if they fly a full season of 18 to 20 shows a year.

I’ve been a CFII (certified flight and instrument instructor) since the mid-1980s. As I got more into competition aerobatics and airshow flying, I didn’t have the chance to do much teaching until, in 2001, I started training the pilots of the Kenya Wildlife Service Airwing. I found it fun and incredibly rewarding, and the program continues today.

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All along, people kept asking when I was going to open an aerobatic school, so it was in the back of my mind. Then one day in 2014, the planets aligned—I had an eager student, the right airplane, and office space became available. I had a broad vision, but, as I like to say, I had the forest in sight but not the trees. I had a lot of help, even from the ideas my students had, and it has developed organically into the busy airmanship, aerobatic, and upset training school it is today.

I’m really proud of Patty Wagstaff Aviation Safety. We’ve attracted students from around the globe, offering a variety of courses, and we have exceptional instructors. I might be the conductor, but everyone in the band is passionate and committed to helping pilots become more skillful and confident, and ultimately enjoy flying more.

FM: Can you talk a little about the challenges facing aviation today as the number of students increases dramatically each year?

PW: The skies in Florida are very busy with flight training these days. You really have to keep your head on a swivel and be extra vigilant for traffic. The other day, I flew to Daytona Beach in an Extra and was No. 10 on final for landing. This truly seems to be a most optimistic time with abundant opportunities for aspiring flight students to make aviation a career.

We do, however, face challenges in flight training. It’s understandable that a private pilot course can only cover so much, but many student pilots today are missing out on some fundamental skills that were traditionally taught, such as pilotage, spins, upset training, and more. For example, we often fly with newly minted private pilots who lack rudder skills and who have never done a deep stall, but these basic airmanship skills are crucial to becoming a good aviator and for handling emergencies.

Recently we started the Patty Wagstaff Aviation Foundation. Our goal is to provide students with much-needed upset training. We will soon launch our website for those interested in supporting pilots who face financial challenges in getting this critical training.

FM: You have a fantastic career full of achievements. What would you say is the most important lesson that aviation has taught you?

PW: Thank you. I’ve been really fortunate in so many ways.

Aviation is always such a metaphor for life—it’s a constant challenge and a lifelong learning process, and it keeps you humble. Just when you think you’ve mastered it or have it figured out—bam!—it has a way of reminding you that, no, you’re not that good.

You’ll never have it completely nailed, and that is precisely what I love about it.

Aviation is also a very small community. If you are in the business of aviation, you will run into the same people over your entire career, and because of that I think it keeps people honest and forthright.

FM: What has been the most rewarding part of educating other aviators?

PW: Watching them learn what the rudder is for! That’s part of it, but we take our jobs very seriously in that we are teaching habits that could very well save their life someday.

We are totally committed to imparting the right information to improve a pilot’s overall airmanship—and that is very rewarding. The other part of it is watching the fun light come on. Other than making pilots more skilled and competent, my ultimate goal is to help people enjoy flying more.

FM: What is something you wish more people understood about flying?

PW: I wish there wasn’t such a fear factor about aviation, especially general aviation (GA). I’d like to assuage their fears by letting them know that accidents caused by mechanical failure are rare.

That a well-trained pilot who uses good judgment and consistent procedures is a safe one. 

That aviation is the best way to get around, and much safer than driving on a highway. 

That a four- or five-hour trip by car can take only one hour in a small airplane 

That aviation is available to everyone, not just wealthy people.

This feature first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Patty Wagstaff Is Always on Mission appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

My one reservation was that our 78-year-old Franklin 150 engine had been freshly overhauled before purchase, and, between Pacific Northwest weather and building our hangar/living quarters, we’d only put 100 hours on it. By comparison, we owned our previous Piper Pacer for over 18 months and flew it some 220 hours.

The difference was that we made a number of ambitious cross-countries with the Pacer, while the Stinson has remained largely local. Infant mortality is a thing with newly overhauled engines—even those of more recent manufacture than the Franklin—and I was leery of venturing into the northern wilderness without a decent proving run. 

My own cross-country-making skills were also in need of a brush-up, having not been really exercised since we sold the Pacer in 2016. Yes, my day job involves regularly flogging Boeing 737s across the continent. But ensconced in the flight levels and enjoying performance and equipment that afford something approaching all-weather capability, those skills are practically irrelevant to the experience of being down in the rocks and the clay, trying to make serious miles in a VFR-only, single-engine aircraft of limited performance.

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The information-gathering and decision-making processes are entirely different, and the required degree of self-reliance much greater. These skills atrophy with disuse. The reality is that on marginal days in the Pacific Northwest, I mostly just don’t fly the Stinson, and so I haven’t had a lot of recent practice in making the fine calls. My brain, like my airplane, needed a proving run to get up to speed before tackling the north country. 

Longtime readers may recall past columns about our friends Sylvia and Hugh Grandstaff, previously of Texas and Alabama and the various forts and bases associated with Sylvia’s 13-year Army career as a CH-47 pilot. Since Sylvia left the Army a few years ago, the Grandstaffs moved to California, where Hugh now flies for Cal Fire. Most recently they bought a 70-acre parcel several hours north of San Francisco, and Dawn and I have really been looking forward to seeing it. Fortunately, there’s a small airport nearby in Boonville, California (D83). With a five-day stretch of time off work around my birthday in mid-April, it made the perfect destination for a leg-stretching, cross-country flight.

Weather delayed our departure on Monday, April 15, until after noon. Our airstrip sits just in the lee of 1,800-foot Green Mountain, and we frequently have low ceilings even after nearby Bremerton National (KPWT) is reporting good VFR. Eventually we were able to duck out under a 1200-foot ceiling for the first 5 miles and had great weather for the rest of the day with mostly clear skies, unlimited visibility, and a slight tailwind.

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Our first leg was a short one to Chehalis-Centralia (KCLS) for cheap gas, followed by a lovely 250-mile cruise down to Roseburg (KRBG) in west central Oregon. There was still over two hours of daylight remaining when we departed Roseburg, and I considered continuing to Crescent City, California (KCEC), but the marine layer along the coast had been persistent for several days and, despite a favorable forecast, the temperature/dew point spread was uncomfortably close.

Heading across the formidable Klamath Mountains to arrive at a potentially deteriorating destination with fading daylight and marginal gas to get back is the sort of thing that makes my antennae tingle. Instead, we made a scenic, half-hour hop to the mountain town of Grants Pass, Oregon (3S8) for the night. 

The friendly folks at Pacific Aviation Northwest loaned us a trusty airport car and directed us to the best dog-friendly hotel in town. We enjoyed a warm, beautiful evening, and I planned the following day’s flight to Crescent City via U.S. Highway 199 and then down the coast to Ukiah and Boonville following U.S. 101. This route, which I preferred for being shorter and more scenic than California’s Central Valley, was completely dependent on the coastal weather. Indeed, the marine layer did in fact move back over Crescent City around sundown. The new TAF reflected that but still claimed early clearing by midmorning. 

It was not to be. Despite a relaxed breakfast and a fashionably late appearance at the Grants Pass airport, the coastal METARs depicted a once-again tenacious marine layer. And furthermore, there was a completely unforecast broken layer a couple thousand feet over Grants Pass, which, problematically, was visibly obscuring our intended departure corridor to the southwest.

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Time for Plan B. We instead departed southeast toward Medford, Oregon, soon left the aberrant ceiling behind, and enjoyed a gorgeous flight up the Rogue River Valley over the Siskiyou Pass and past Mount Shasta. By the time we landed in Red Bluff, California (KRBL) for gas, the coast had cleared up nicely, making for a stress-free, one-hour flight across the Coastal Range to quaint little Boonville (D83), with its 2,800-by-50-foot paved runway tucked into a scenic valley.

Hugh met us and helped push the faithful Stinson into his rented hangar. Total flight time southbound was just over seven hours. 

We had a fantastic couple days with the Grandstaffs and fell in love with their impossibly scenic off-grid homestead high up a golden, oak-peppered ridge overlooking the Rancheria Creek watershed. Our dog Piper had a great time running around the ranch with the Grandstaff’s deaf, three-legged rescue pup, Dove. We went hiking, drove out to the coast, went flying in the Stinson (incredibly, the first time Sylvia and I have flown together in our long friendship), and shared an unexpectedly fine meal at an unpretentious gem of a restaurant in Boonville. It was a special birthday spent with treasured friends. 

Several years of my early career were spent living in and flying all around California, and every time I come back I’m absolutely gobsmacked at how fantastic it is—especially the northern half of the state. There’s a tendency for outsiders to decry the congestion, high cost of living, supposedly suffocating regulatory structure—“Californication”—and I won’t deny that the most crowded areas hold little appeal to me. But California is an enormous and tremendously varied state, more akin to a medium-sized country, one that would take a lifetime to fully explore.

There’s a lot to love in California, particularly for pilots and those who enjoy outdoor adventure, and a surprising portion of it is lightly populated and not so terribly expensive. The Grandstaffs are not wealthy, but simply by putting down roots outside of commuting distance from San Francisco (and putting a lot of sweat equity into their land), they could afford a fairly large and beautiful spread of property. Well done, you two. 

An approaching low-pressure system forecast to make landfall on Friday prompted me to move up our northbound departure by a day, and we were rewarded with fine weather and a light tailwind in southerly flow. This time we were able to take the coastal route to Grants Pass, stopping in Little River, California (KLLR) to top up on fuel, then cruising up the rugged shoreline to Crescent City, and climbing up and over the redwood forests of the Klamath Range.

From Grants Pass we retraced our route to Chehalis-Centralia and finally back to our home grass strip, where a gusty north wind set up a potentially sketchy landing on seldom-used, downhill-sloped Runway 30. I decided to make a low inspection pass and beat a retreat to Bremerton National if things got too sporty. As it turned out, the challenging approach through a small notch in the tall pines lining the threshold went perfectly, and once below the tree line in smooth air, I found myself in perfect position to land in the touchdown zone—so I did. Total time northbound was six hours. 

The plane worked great, and the engine ran smoothly throughout the trip, with fuel burns of 9 to 9.5 gph (typical of the Franklin, which is thirstier than an equivalent Lycoming O-320 or Continental O-300) and true airspeed averaging 105 mph. I gained some useful, real-world performance data for max gross weight operations, the weather provided a few decision-making opportunities, and I got practice in filing, activating and closing VFR flight plans again.

In short, our jaunt to California and back was exactly the sort of cross-country proving run I had in mind. I returned with renewed confidence in the plane and my own skills,and looked forward to our Alaska flying adventure with eager anticipation.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post A Leg-Stretching Jaunt to the Golden State appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

We were gathered just off of the grass Runway 29L, and everyone stared intently at the ridgeline to our west. When a solitary, tiny cloud formed a few thousand feet above the ridge, the pilots became suddenly animated.

They were coming off of a long stretch of bad weather—little to no wind and sunny skies. The kind of weather that any nonpilot would likely refer to as perfect. That little cloud signaled rising air. Clouds generally form when rising air cools and can no longer hold the moisture it carries.

It’s the rising part that gets glider pilots excited. In fact, it’s the difference between gliding and soaring. Gliding is what you do when you can’t find lift. Soaring is what you do when you can.

A week before heading home from LA, Tom Phillips, a FLYING reader, reached out to me about trying soaring. On the surface, soaring does not meet my criteria for earning new ratings, which largely means frequent usage. I will likely not do a whole lot of gliding outside of my instruction. 

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However, Phillips explained that it would teach me a great deal about energy management. This is a nice way of saying that if the day should come when the engine in my aircraft quits, I will find myself piloting a very heavy glider. 

And so I found myself sitting in LA traffic as I made my way down to Lake Elsinore for my initial lesson. I assumed that the acronym stood for Lake Elsinore Soaring Club. Nope. It came into being in the 1980s as the Low Expense Soaring Club based out of Adelanto, California. I can not imagine how happy they must have been to find Lake Elsinore as their new home. Not a single business card or piece of stationery was lost in the transition. 

I was lucky to have Doug Hingst assigned as my instructor for the day. Hingst is a 737 captain and check pilot for Alaska Airlines. He has 17,800 hours with around 350 in gliders. He owns a high-performance glider, and in fact, the day after our lesson he soared for nearly four hours and flew 200 miles on a single tow by finding lift in all the right places. 

On this particular Friday morning, we had more modest goals in a more modest aircraft. Hingst helped me get into the Schweizer 2-33A, which was tight but not cramped for my 6-foot-4 frame. The glider weighs about 600 pounds empty and is the instructional workhorse of the American soaring community. I looked around for a headset that did not exist. Right. No 9-liter noise-making monster turning a fan right in front of me. 

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The cockpit is truly sparse, just a couple of instruments with the VSI being the most important. No attitude indicator, no radios, no screens. The experience, like the aircraft itself, is extremely analog.

Hingst sat behind me as members of the club attached the tow rope to the nose of our glider—the other end of which was attached to an idling tow plane. I was told the rope itself must have 80 percent of the tensile strength of the gross weight of the glider. OK. There are rules. Thank God.

Rich, a 70-something club member, held the left wing up at the tip so that it would not drag on the ground for the initial takeoff roll. I was having a hard time understanding how Rich was going to keep up with an airplane on foot until the tow plane applied throttle. The glider’s wings generate so much lift that within a few strides the wing was able to carry its own weight. Five seconds later, we were airborne leaving all expectations on the ground.

The tow plane took us right toward that ridge in search of exactly the conditions we avoid in powered flight. Namely, turbulence. I pulled the release handle at around 3,200 feet, and the cord snapped forward with the tow plane banking left as we banked right—a routine practice between glider and tow pilots. 

Hingst found us a thermal in no time, and after showing me the ropes, let me circle up in the column of rising air. We climbed almost 5,000 feet, going all the way up to 8,000 feet, powered solely by Mother Nature. Hingst’s son was in another glider, and we climbed together in the same thermal.

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Expectations I had were quickly challenged. 

A few examples:

• There is no communication between tow and glider pilots regarding the moment of disconnecting the rope. You just pull the knob whenever you like.

• A center stick in itself means nothing in relation to roll rates and general authority. I suppose I’ve seen Top Gun one too many times. The Schweizer is a training glider and handles like an ’80s Cadillac with over-boosted power steering. However, that sluggish response also equates to very benign stall characteristics. 

• I was told to put the tow plane’s landing gear on the horizon as a marker for where we should be positioned during the climb. I was worried about wake turbulence, but the real issue is getting too high behind the tow plane. This can pull the tail of the tow plane up and into an unrecoverable dive. 

• There is no need for headsets. Rushing air is the only sound you hear. Hingst spoke to me plainly, and I was able to hear everything he said. Mostly what I was doing wrong.

• Midair collisions are a real concern in the pattern with powered airplanes. Not so in gliders. Multiple planes operate in the same space, even sharing thermals. I have never been that close to another aircraft, save for my ride in a then-AeroShell T-6 at Oshkosh.

• A 70-year-old person is perfectly capable of running next to a glider on a takeoff roll.

I liked getting everything wrong. It made me shut my mouth and listen. I liked being a beginner again, drinking from a fire hose. My brain enjoys new stimuli, and the experience delivered in spades. 

Hingst and I stayed airborne for close to two hours on one tow. We moved along the ridge looking for different thermals, using clouds and even vultures as signs of lift. 

We might have gone longer, but at one point after circling up in a thermal, I realized I was sweating profusely even though the temperature inside the cabin had to be in the low 50s. As it turns out, making tight turns in a circle for 15 minutes straight with the sun on top of your head will make you nauseous. Well, it made me nauseous. I asked Hingst if he had an airsickness bag. Negative. He asked me not to throw up if possible. Copy that. 

I nonchalantly suggested we head back, praying I didn’t get sick all over the panel. Hingst used the speedbrakes to great effect and brought us in on speed and on target.

This was the one expectation I had that was confirmed: There is no go-around. No second shot. You are going to land one way or another. Better make it count. 

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Nothing Comes as Expected During Quiet Flight appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Charged up and inspected (a post-buy I guess you could call it), I enjoyed flying this airplane for five years. I cruised at 110 knots and I got to fly fast eastbound and slow westbound. One flight from Chicago’s Meigs Field to St. Louis took over three hours at an average ground speed of 78 knots. At some point traffic on the interstate below appeared to outrun us. 

Time led to a succession of airplanes, each a little faster than its predecessor. A Piper Arrow gave way to a Cessna 210, which in turn was followed by a P210. The P210 could get up to the lower flight levels but was no faster, and maybe even a little slower, than the unpressurized 210.

This airplane was the winner for low flight. After a good tail wind on the east side of a cold front, I ran into furious headwinds out of the northwest after crossing the front. En route to Chicago, I descended to 10, then six, and then four thousand feet, watching the fuel reserves evaporate. Whew.

I flew that P210 for 13 years before buying a Cessna 340. Pressurized and faster, the 340 was flight planned for 190 knots true airspeed. It had the benefit of performing well at lower altitudes when we wanted to stay below strong headwinds and with turbocharged engines could climb into the lower FL 200s to take advantage of a strong tailwind. 

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It was when fortune shined upon me and I moved up to turbine-powered airplanes that altitude, speed and, for that matter, reliability became predictable. A Piper Cheyenne was arguably the best airplane for our needs. With a true airspeed of 230 knots and a penchant for lower flight levels (it was most comfortable at 23,000 feet), this airplane allowed nonstop flights from Tampa, Florida, to Lebanon, New Hampshire. Occasionally, though, that meant that a healthy boost from a quartering tailwind was required, but we did it more than once.

Over 17 happy years that airplane took us to Vancouver, San Francisco, Chicago, Colorado Springs, Miami, Key West, Marsh Harbor in the Bahamas and, of course, to our summer cottage in New Hampshire. The engines never hiccupped once. They were so reliable that flights across the Gulf of Mexico from Tampa to New Orleans were done without anxiety. 

All this turbine time allowed me to change careers at age 67 and be hired by a Part 135 operation where I flew Cessna CJ3s. Taught by some of the best and most patient captains, I became comfortable with true airspeeds of just over 400 knots and altitudes as high as FL 450. These weren’t my airplanes, though, so even though I was at the controls and became a captain, the special feeling you get from your airplane just wasn’t there.

The CJ3 experience gave me confidence to buy a single pilot jet when I retired. The Beechcraft Premier 1 was a real airplane, with sophisticated systems. MMO was .80. Two things about this airplane were really remarkable. As the sole occupant of the airplane, I occasionally found myself, alone, at FL 410—and the feeling was magnificent. And, yes, as a safety precaution, I always kept the oxygen mask nestled in my lap. 

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The other remarkable thing about this Premier was its speed. My highest ground speed was 577 knots. A true airspeed of 450 and a quartering tailwind of 170 knots provided the push. These true airspeeds made headwinds less of a nuisance and made tailwinds a thrill. I have a picture of my daughter reading a magazine while the cabin information sign showed a ground speed of 629 mph. 

My fastest travel was, regrettably, as a passenger. Well, not too regrettably. In the 1990s you could cash in US Airways frequent-flyer points and book a Concorde flight. We didn’t have enough points for my wife, Cathy, and me to both fly Concorde, so she volunteered to fly to London the night before. I flew to New York, had dinner with a friend, and arrived the next morning at John F. Kennedy International Airport (KJFK) about an hour before British Airways was to launch a supersonic flight to London.

Stuffed with croissants and coffee, I got in line to board. When I got to the cabin door, I said to the flight attendant, “I would love to see the cockpit.” With a look of practiced disdain and a clipped British accent, she said, “Most of the children do.” Ouch.

I sulked to my seat and ordered a cognac. About half way across the ocean, the same flight attendant said that the captain would see me now. Armed with all sorts of Concorde trivia, including the facts that the airplane is longer at Mach 2 than on the ground as a consequence of friction-induced heat, that the airplane was trimmed by moving fuel backward and forward, and that, speaking of fuel, there would be very little left when we got London. 

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As I entered the flight deck, the engineer greeted me. I knew if I was to stay there very long, I had to make a friend. The flight engineer was great. He told me of a time when he kissed his wife goodbye and reported for a New York morning flight. When he reached New York, the engineer on the return flight had “taken ill,” so he was assigned to head back to London. “When I got home, my wife had gone out with some friends. I was having a pipe when she walked in and said, ‘I thought you were going to New York?’ I answered, ‘Well, I did.’”

As he was telling this story, I noticed an altitude of 56,000-plus feet. “We float around up here. There isn’t any other traffic.” That is the highest and fastest I ever flew.

The flight attendant reappeared to drag me away. I pleaded to the flight engineer to return. He said he’d try.

Sure enough, a different flight attendant came back during descent and ushered me forward. I had scored the jumpseat for landing. ATC cleared us into a hold. The engineer said this was just for show: “We don’t have the fuel to hold, but other airlines complain that we get special treatment, so we have this little dance.”

We were then cleared direct to Heathrow (EGLL). After landing we were momentarily told to hold short of a runway from which a new (then) 747-400 was departing.

As Air China rotated just in front of us, the captain turned to the first officer and said, “It must be like flying a bloody brick.”

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Half Century of Flight Has Included Some Altitude and Ground Speed appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

The normalization of deviance is a phenomenon in which individuals deviate from what is known to be an acceptable performance standard—basically, accepting less than the acceptable in terms of performance or cutting corners—until the deviant behavior becomes the adopted practice. It’s often defended with phrases like “it wasn’t too bad” or “almost” or “close enough” or “we’ve never had a problem before,” and at the flight school level, “my CFI said I didn’t need to know that.”

The normalization of deviance was discussed often at the Spring to Proficiency 2024 IFR Clinic put on by Community Aviation at the EAA Pilot Proficiency Center in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. The clinic involved pilots testing and enhancing their skills using scripted scenarios and custom lessons applied in a fleet of Redbird AATDs. The objective was to help pilots identify skills and soft spots and then develop a plan to maintain proficiency all year. 

When bad practices are allowed to go unchecked and unchallenged, they could lead to bad outcomes as the deviance becomes the norm, causing  a downward spiral of deviations and an increased acceptance of poor performance until there is an accident.

The Chain of Deviance

Just as accidents are typically caused by a chain of events, normalization of deviance is also caused by it.

Scenarios like the pilot who doesn’t use the checklist, or is in a hurry and doesn’t get a weather briefing, or doesn’t determine aircraft performance, were topics talked about frequently. Some pilots can become lazy and then start rationalizing behavior, telling themselves it’s a short flight, just us in the airplane, we’ve made the flight before, and others—you’ve heard them all, I’m sure.

• READ MORE: How to Beat the Summer Heat When

CFIs can fall prey to this too when they are in a hurry or feel pressured by flight school owners. The rolling Hobbs meter is what matters to the business owners. If the CFI consistently flies an aircraft with deferred maintenance, or rushes from one lesson to another, putting in minimal effort to determine aircraft performance, or doesn’t check the weather, or permits check-the-box instruction, that’s what the learners will accept as normal.

When the learner becomes a CFI, the cycle repeats.

When the Pilot Isn’t Prepared

There are no participation trophies in aviation. You either fly to the certification standards, or you don’t. The CFI needs to hold the learner accountable for these standards. The instructor isn’t helping the learner by just showing up and sitting in the airplane, especially on cross-country flights that require a flight plan.

One of the hardest things to do is cancel a flight when the learner isn’t prepared. Teaching someone how to fill one out can take an hour or more, so some CFIs are inclined to jump in the airplane and go anyway, relying on an app like SkyVector, or worse yet, Direct To on the GPS. 

• READ MORE: The Importance of Embracing Proficiency Culture

This is particularly poor practice if the learner has no idea about how long the runways are at the destination airport, if it’s towered or nontowered, predicted aircraft performance, weight and balance, etc. By allowing the learner to make the flight without thorough planning, the CFI has taught them it is OK to cut corners and skip preparation. At that point, the learner—who is ostensibly paying to become a pilot—is little more than a passenger. At the end of the 2.1-hour flight the learner still may not know how to use a sectional, plotter, and E6-B to create a flight plan, determine aircraft performance, check ground speed, fill out a navlog, etc.

It can lead to their future cross-country flights being done the same way. They push a few buttons on the tablet or GPS and activate the autopilot if so installed. This may come back to bite them during their check ride, because although they have logged the time as cross-country, they don’t have the required skills. This can make the DPE wonder if the CFI didn’t teach them these skills because the CFI never learned them.

The accelerated nature of flight training now has pilot candidates going from certificate to certificate or rating to rating—read that check ride to check ride—in minimal time and minimal hours. They learn the check rides, and many have very little solo flight experience—perhaps not more than 10 hours, because there is a new shortcut that allows the post-private pilot to fly with a CFI on board and log what used to be required solo time as Pilot Performing Duties of Pilot in Command (PDPIC).

While this builds the hours of the CFI it also robs the learner of the opportunity to gain valuable experience flying solo as in truly solo, in the airplane. The particularly distressing part of this is that a great many of these learners go on to be CFIs that want to be good teachers and experience builders rather than time builders—but they aren’t aware of the deficit they are operating under.

A friend who is a DPE sees this, as he has been tasked with flying with these underprepared pilot applicants who have the minimum required hours of solo flight time who were trained by a CFI with minimal hours “who is greener than Gumby” and doesn’t know how to teach beyond parroting what was taught to them by a (most likely) equally green CFI. Instead of trying to be better teachers, some of these inexperienced CFIs who are time builders focus on “workarounds,” like memorizing the knowledge tests or shopping for a Santa Claus DPE.

CFI Sets the Example

We learn that accidents are usually caused by a chain of events. I submit that a chain of events is also responsible for the normalization of deviance. When we accept the behavior of Hand-It-to-Me Henry, who wants the answers but won’t look things up for himself, or Pencil-Whip Penny, who expects to be signed off with minimal effort, we are enabling the poor behavior.

Flight instructing will make you a better pilot, and you may be surprised at how fulfilling it can be. That being said, it most definitely isn’t for everyone. If you don’t want to be an instructor—especially if you feel it is beneath you—go tow banners, fly as someone’s safety pilot, do pipeline patrol, talk your way into the right seat of a charter operation, or build hours any way besides teaching. 

• READ MORE: Separation Anxiety: When Your Instructor Moves on, Your Logbook Tells the Story

If you are going to teach, expect there will be a learning curve. Ask an experienced CFI you trust and respect to allow you to sit in on a ground lesson, or ride in the back during a flight lesson—always ask the learner if you can do this because you are riding on their dime. The learner is doing you a solid, so perhaps you could offer to help pay for their airplane or thank them by buying lunch. 

It’s more than teaching someone to fly. The flight instructor is the first point of contact most  pilots have in the aviation industry. Do your best to be a positive role model from day one. If you make a mistake, learn from it, and don’t repeat it or allow it to become the first link in a chain of normalization of deviance.

Draw upon your experience with both the good CFIs you had and the poor ones—the latter may teach you what not to do. Strive to be the instructor the learners remember favorably because you helped them build a solid foundation of skills and set the example you hope they follow in their piloting career by not taking shortcuts.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Normalization of Deviance Can Cause Problems for Pilots appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

AOG means that even though the operator may have an extensive FAA-approved MEL (minimum equipment list) that allows for flight with certain mechanical discrepancies, it doesn’t apply to this situation. An AOG situation means the aircraft needs professional service to make it ready to fly. Until then, it’s grounded.

I can relate to being grounded as a bone marrow transplant for acute myeloid leukemia leaves a person in an AOG situation. After four months of “consolidation” chemotherapy, I was cleared for transplant at the Moffitt Cancer Center in Tampa, Florida. There was some special irony to this as I had served as the founding medical director of the institution and had worked there for more than 25 years before I retired 10 years ago. I hadn’t been back in the building since, but there’s still a picture of me in the lobby from back then when I had hair. 

Whereas the consolidating chemo was well tolerated, transplant is another matter. For the first six days I received more chemotherapy and on day five was given total body irradiation. 

• READ MORE: That Sound of Music in the Air

On day six at about 2 p.m., a clear plastic bag arrived with donor stem cells designed to replace my own obliterated bone marrow with donor cells. The bag was cold and looked to contain a cup and a half of orange slush, about 7 million stem cells. 

About 10 p.m., long after the last cells had been transfused, all hell broke loose. It turned out that my donor cells and my original cells got into a fistfight. Fever, fatigue, and overwhelming weakness prevailed. Cytokine release syndrome, they called it. For the remainder of my 32-day hospital stay I was essentially bedridden—AOG. Since discharge I’ve been doing rehab. They say for every day lying in bed it takes three to recover. 

What does this have to do with airplanes? It reminds me that anything can happen, anytime, anywhere. Everything in life is fragile—our health, our machines, our planet.

Aircraft are complex pieces of equipment. A small spill in the lav can lead to a corrosion inspection that might find damage requiring extensive repair, or in some instances, make the aircraft unfit to fly. Even though a previous crew may have felt it left the airplane in fine shape, things happen. My own Part 135 flying experience saw a couple of notable aircraft-on-ground situations..  

While preparing to fly from Naples, Florida (KAPF), to Teterboro, New Jersey (KTEB), with two passengers in the Cessna CJ3, the flap handle came off in my hand. A surprise! We called maintenance, which was based across the state in West Palm Beach, Florida (KPBI) and dispatch, located in California. A rescue ship was sent to pick up our passengers, and a maintenance tech drove across the state to repair the aircraft while we went back to the hotel. It was expensive due to peak season.

• READ MORE: Riding in the Back of Some Nice Private Jets

Sometimes aircraft damage requires a ferry flight to a more robust maintenance facility. I read recently about a cargo 767 that suffered a hard landing in Portsmouth, New Hampshire (KPSM), with significant structural damage. A ferry permit was issued, and the plane was apparently flown to a major repair facility, but the ferry flight was restricted to 10,000 feet and 250 knots. 

I once had to ferry an aircraft for maintenance that had been flagged AOG. It went something like this.

I got a call from the chief pilot, “Dick, you’re the best pilot for this assignment. Actually, you are the only captain available. Someone has drilled a hole in the wing spar of one of our airplanes. The hole is too big to be serviceable, and the airplane has to be ferried to Wichita, Kansas (KICT), from Teterboro, New Jersey. The flight has to be done when no turbulence is predicted and VFR weather is forecast for the departure and  destination airport. Tomorrow looks good.”

And so a great first officer and I went to dinner that night, not quite sure what to expect of “holy spar.” The next day as we traversed the country, we joked around by asking each other every few minutes, “You still got a wing over there?”

This column first appeared in the July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post AOG: When an Airplane—or We—Can’t Fly appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

About two weeks had passed since that fateful day in 2001 that none of us will ever forget. In uniform, with my wife’s hand in mine, we approached a NYPD officer standing on the corner, a couple blocks away from Ground Zero. Pedestrian barricades surrounded the area.

“Can we go through?” I asked, motioning at a small gap. The police officer nodded, a solemn look on his face.

“Did you fly the kind of airplane that hit the towers?” the officer asked.

“Actually, I flew the airplane that hit the North Tower,” I said. “It’s in my logbook.” 

I had said those words in my head but repeating them out loud unexpectedly punctuated their significance with a lump in my throat. The police officer took a moment to process my statement and then remarked, “Oh, wow.” He gestured toward the gap and said simply, “Be careful.” 

I wasn’t quite sure if his statement was a warning for the physical hazards of the area or the emotional assimilation of the scene. After attempting to survey the surrealistic nature of the destruction, and understanding how many human lives were obliterated, I took the officer’s statement to mean both.

• READ MORE: Replacing Airline Pilots With AI

It’s been over two decades since the attacks on 9/11. All of us were seemingly connected in some way to the horrors of that day. Someone knew someone deeply affected by the shock of that terrible moment in history. As an airline pilot, I felt especially violated. The machines that we revered had become weapons of mass destruction. We had allowed our sanctuaries to be infiltrated.

Are we in a better place now? Are crews better able to protect our passengers from a terrorist threat? The short answer is yes, but it’s important to understand the evolution of why. Because the answer has many elements.

The day that U.S. airspace was opened to airline traffic after 9/11, I huddled my crew in an LAX jet bridge before we stepped through the entry door of our B-757 to begin preparation for our trip back home to New York. Trepidation was firmly anchored on the faces of our flight attendants. I did my best to assure them that the copilot and I would do everything in our power to keep us all safe, but we needed their eyes to report anything even slightly suspicious.

At that point, nothing had really changed in terms of security protocols. My airline hadn’t communicated much in the way of new procedures. Our union website was full of hyperbole and rudimentary ideas on how best to protect the cockpit. The most popular technique was to make certain one pilot had immediate access to the crash ax. We were mixed on how best to handle in-flight cockpit door access for lavatory breaks and crew meals.

• READ MORE: High Seas vs. Overseas Setup Has Similarities

But one important aspect had changed overnight—our mentality. We now understood our workplace had an unpredictable external threat that we hadn’t trained to manage. Airline protocol had been to cooperate with such threats. The outcomes of hijackings in the 1960’s and ’70s were mostly successful if the crew ceded to demands. 

Except for the brutal beating and execution of U.S. Navy diver Robert Stethem by Hezbollah terrorists, the 17-day hijacking ordeal of TWA Flight 847 on June 14, 1985, ended without further casualties because the late Captain John Testrake mostly cooperated. 

Perhaps partly through anger and grief, the old line of thinking transformed quickly into protecting the cockpit at all costs. With the U.S. government and airlines accepting the fact that private security firms had been inept at the passenger-screening process, the new mentality ushered in the formation of the Transportation Security Administration (TSA).

Type-A airline pilots weren’t going to sit on their laurels, especially since we were the last line of defense. Pilots’ unions lobbied and eventually won the ability to carry a loaded weapon into the cockpit. The voluntary Federal Flight Deck Officers (FFDO) program was born.

I resisted initially, thinking that the idea was a dangerous, knee-jerk response. But after interaction on a flight with my first FFDO copilot, I began to change my attitude. Despite having vocalized my concerns, the copilot’s calm and relaxed reaction convinced me that the FFDO screening process was selecting the right people.

• READ MORE: One ATC Sector of Separation

Regardless of my personal convictions about guns, I deemed a weapon one of the things in the toolbox to protect my passengers, so I applied for the program. That said, aside from the mechanics of self-defense and shooting the gun, the mindset required to protect the cockpit was one of the most significant aspects of the air marshal-conducted, FFDO training. The mindset came to me in an epiphany during a scenario-based exercise that I will never forget.

Another piece to the new mentality was strategically significant. It originated from an extremely important source. Rather than become victims to the terrorist threat, passengers were beginning to understand that their participation was essential. The heroics aboard United Airlines Flight 93 that crashed near Shanksville, Pennsylvania, became a rallying cry. It wasn’t long before reports of passengers subduing lunatics aboard flights circulated. These lunatics weren’t terrorists, but it proved people weren’t going to sit idly by while someone attempted to take control of their flight.

Beyond the post-9/11 public attitude adjustment, other security measures were being put into place. Aside from the U.S. initiative of terrorist hunting, the TSA was defining its protocols. Granted, we started with confiscation of nail clippers and moved on to 3-ounce restrictions on toothpaste, but it was a work in progress.

Eventually, TSA refined its procedures and now seems to be performing the screening process in a reasonable and certainly much safer manner. Behind the scenes, we have a much more robust system of security threat identification, with the no-fly list being a good example. Having acknowledged the failures of communication reported pre-9/11, intelligence agencies within the U.S. and across the world are sharing more information. 

At my airline, many of us will always remember the resounding clunk of the aluminum bar that swung across the cockpit door as it locked into place. The bar was the first initiative in maintaining physical cockpit security after 9/11. It was a symbolic and sad reflection of having crossed the threshold into the dawning of a new age in aviation.

Before, opening the cockpit door was a simple matter of using a key that pilots and flight attendants all had in their possession—a key that, at least on Boeing aircraft, opened any airplane’s cockpit door.

Now, the flight deck door is constructed with reinforced Kevlar panels. A code must be entered in an electronic keypad for the door to unlock. The pilots control entry electronically regardless of the code.

Additionally, all airlines have procedures and protocols for in-flight access to the cockpit. And finally, don’t assume your flight attendants will become submissive to an act of aggression. Many have been trained in self-defense tactics beyond that required during their recurrent training—the same for pilots.

Has the airline industry mitigated the terrorist threat after 9/11? Yes, but it’s an evolving process that requires everyone’s participation. For those airline pilots that aren’t old enough to remember that awful day, please learn from our mistakes. Complacency is one of our worst enemies.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post A Perspective on Cockpit Security since 9/11 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

We’re multifaceted individuals with diverse interests that usually make meeting new people a fascinating experience. Case in point, I once met a person who collects banana stickers—that’s right, the Dole, Chiquita, and countless other brand stickers that we all see and ignore. He can’t get enough, and as it turns out, he’s not alone.

Aside from the fun of amassing a collection of thousands of stickers, being part of a group of people with a shared interest also enabled him to build a network of friends, all assisting each other around the globe (which also allows him to travel to far-flung reaches of the planet). I suspect global travel wasn’t his initial plan when he started collecting banana stickers, but it was certainly a nice byproduct of the process.

Being part of a group of like-minded people has many benefits beyond personal connection.

In aviation, aircraft owners, pilots, and aficionados band together in model- and manufacturer-specific groups. Collectively, a powerful block of consumers can help resolve a common issue or move an OEM in a certain direction to improve a product for everyone. 

• READ MORE: The Great Circle Route

On the OEM side, I once worked for an early stage aircraft manufacturer who, like all aircraft OEMs, had its share of aircraft squawks that generated customer complaints at a pace commensurate with production increases. 

Rather than attempting to address an array of individual squawks from a growing consumer base, we asked the owners group to form a committee whose job it was to survey members to identify the most common complaints with the biggest pain points. 

Working in partnership with the committee, we agreed to focus on the top 10 issues identified by the members of the owners group. Once we came to an agreement that any one issue was resolved satisfactorily, that item was removed from the list and another squawk was added.

The feedback and process helped improve customer satisfaction, fostered brand affinity, increased trust, improved the production process and ultimately, the finished product. Working together in good faith led by a team of dedicated people helped both parties move the needle farther, faster.

On a much larger scale, our industry associations play a similar role. Associations like AOPA, EAA, NBAA, GAMA, and others, all serve specific constituents, and in some cases, have overlapping purposes that increase their collective power. But what’s most important is that we as individuals find the association(s) whose objectives and purpose align most closely with our own interests and support them through membership, proxy voting, letter writing, fundraising, and more. 

If we don’t have the time, energy, or connections to lobby lawmakers ourselves in order to help preserve rights or advocate for legislation that protects our vested interests, we need to support the groups that do. In this case, our industry associations are the full-time professionals who work diligently to protect something we all hold dear, our freedom to fly in whatever form that takes.  

While associations have an essential function in preserving our freedom to fly, they also play an equally important role in the process of cultivating the next generation of private, commercial, and military aviators and aviation enthusiasts. 

Efforts to introduce youth to careers in aerospace, cyberspace, and outer space through STEM education and education career training need support, volunteers, and funding. My charge to all of us is to find something that interests you like AOPA Airport Support Network, EAA Young Eagles, Civil Air Patrol aerospace education, or any number of other public benefit flying organizations and associations and get even more involved where you can.

Chief among our roles as aviators and enthusiasts is to also be good stewards of general aviation so future generations can build on what has been accomplished thus far and enjoyed for more than 120 years. 

Even if joining one more thing isn’t something you have bandwidth for, invite an acquaintance to fill an empty seat and introduce someone new to the joy of flying.

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post It’s All in the Power of Association appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

It’s great to call them friends, but the conversation topic was grim: “What in the hell is going on at Lunken Airport?” Sure enough, the front-page headline in the Sunday Cincinnati newspaper shouted, “What’s Next for Lunken Airport…Cincinnati’s tiny, aging airfield…and what’s ahead for the struggling airport’s second century?”

“Aging”? OK. “Struggling”? I don’t think so. Mismanaged? You bet!

After the inevitable COVID-19 pandemic slowdown, Lunken general aviation and corporate traffic recovered dramatically. Recently there have been 10-to-15-plus jet operations each hour and an increase of 100,000 total operations in each of the past two years. Three thriving flight schools, plus private and corporate traffic, keep the control tower busy from 0700 to 2300 local time every day.

But the city is tearing out one of three runways—the oldest one that’s parallel to the primary, 6,100-foot 21L-02R. It has multiple functioning instrument approaches, lighting, and markings, but eliminating 21R leaves only a shorter runway, 7-25, which is unusable for airplanes over 10,000 pounds. gross weight and whenever the long runway is active because of crossing approach paths.

• READ MORE: An Ode to Aircraft Mechanics

Cincinnati Municipal Airport-Lunken Field (KLUK)  has long been home to large and small corporate flight operations with multiple business aircraft, including Procter & Gamble (on the field since 1950), Kroger, NetJets/Executive Jet Management, American Financial Corp., and more. These days there are more smaller jets and turboprops (Pilatus, TBM, etc.) that increase jet light turbine operations to about 250 daily.

The flight schools are seeing unprecedented growth with student pilots flying for fun or business and many pursuing airline careers. Lunken Flight Training, a Part 141 school, occupies two of the original three brick hangars built for the Embry-Riddle Company in 1927, and it’s swamped with students and renters. 

Years ago, Cincinnati Aircraft was where I launched my 6,000 hours of instructing and, much later, was a busy DPE. Jay Schmalfuss (c’mon, Cincinnati is a German town) has turned it into an impressive operation. Sitting in on one of its weekly huddles, I learned operations have risen 30 percent this year, following a 30 percent increase the year before. Its fleet includes 10 Cessna 172s and four Diamonds with more on the way.   

The FAA and the city also continue to demand that one of those three historic hangars be demolished because of its proximity to the Runway 25 takeoff area. This once beautiful, abandoned building has badly deteriorated—sad to watch. This most ornate of the three hangars has lasted for nearly 100 years with nobody crashing into it. From the ’50s through the ’80s, it was the place to learn to fly or keep your airplane. The exterior was classic art deco, and the interior offices were elegant, like something out of a movie. 

That art-deco terminal building—also now abandoned–was built with Works Progress Administration funds in 1936 and ’37. Flooding had been a danger (hence the nickname “Sunken Lunken”), but pumps, levies, and other flood-control measures tamed that problem from the adjacent Ohio and Little Miami rivers.

• READ MORE: Perusing Some Old Logbooks

The terminal’s beautiful lobby had a number of ticket counters for scheduled airlines when Lunken was once the city’s main airport and the world’s first and largest municipal facility. In the ’30s, American Airlines based at Lunken and operated schedules with Curtiss Condors and DC-3s. American opened its original Sky Chef restaurant in the building.

But after World War II the search was on for a larger airport. Federal funds were available, and across the Ohio River in northern Kentucky, a military field had been built during the war. Alben Barkley was a Kentucky Democrat and vice president under Democrat President Harry Truman, while Ohio was a solidly Republican state. So, it’s no mystery why the “Greater Cincinnati” airport was built on that property near Covington, Kentucky (thus the “KCVG” designator), and the major airlines abandoned Lunken for what is now Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International.

When I came to the airport in the early ’60s, the terminal building housed the control tower as well as a Flight Service Station, offices, the Airman’s Club, and the Sky Galley (once Sky Chef) restaurant. Any night of the week, the restaurant was crowded with airport and nearby racetrack people. The food was pretty good, and the bar was always jumping. 

I met Ebby Lunken there, we got engaged, and I worked for his Midwest Airways while getting private, commercial, and instructor ratings. When the little airline closed, Ebby moved to a second-floor office, and I played secretary to his (pre-Part 135) charter operation, booking trips on his DC-3 and Lockheed 10s in the mornings (and climbing out a window to tend a thriving herb garden on the roof). Afternoons and evenings, I flight instructed and eventually opened my own school. 

I’m no expert on city politics, but I’m pretty sure the City of Cincinnati knows as much about airports as I do about quantum physics. They hired a commission which recommended the airport needs to generate between $8 million and $27 million, and a new manager whose main qualification is he’s always loved airplanes and is “anxious to do whatever the city wants.”

So, all hangar rents have increased at Lunken Airport, and I have to get rid of the 1942 John Deere tractor stored in my hangar for a corporate pilot friend. That’s fair enough, but with Runway 21R gone and corporate hangars (no T-hangars) extending out into the middle of this essentially one-runway airport, the impact on us little guys and student traffic will be devastating. You can’t easily insert touch-and-go traffic between frequent jet operations.

• READ MORE: Sometimes the Flying Weather’s Fit Only for Turkeys

I wonder if all the fences and locked gates installed after 9/11 are the real reason that no bombings or hijackings have occurred at Lunken or any other GA airport. But sadly there’s no curious teenage eyes peering through to learn about flying anymore. 

Have we surrendered too much freedom to government mandates? Painfully, the Lunken Airport I’ve known and hung around for 62 years is becoming something very different. I’ve flown, loved, laughed, cried, crunched a few airplanes, and made countless friends at this old place. I’d sit in the control tower on crummy days and, even now, they call me by name.

I taught hundreds of people to fly and issued licenses to hundreds more from this field. It’s a special place that will always be my “Home Sweet Airport.”

This column first appeared in the September Issue 950 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Cincinnati Will Always Be My ‘Home Sweet Airport’ appeared first on FLYING Magazine.