Although we were not getting flight following—the request was denied because ATC was too busy—I insisted on monitoring the frequency. I was about to explain why to the learner when another pilot requested the RNAV 35 approach to the airport starting at ARWEL, an IFR fix a few miles to the east of us and about 1,000 feet above us as published. 

• READ MORE: Improving CFI Training Remains a Never-Ending Goal

“We’re about to have company out here,” I said.

The learner, who had been a private pilot for several years but did not have an instrument rating, mentioned he flew in this area often and saw a lot of airplanes, but they were never on the airport frequency.

“That’s because they are on with Seattle Approach,” I replied. 

We talked about how this is different from the air-to-air communications frequency used in the other practice areas that pilots used to announce their location and intentions. Not only do these auditory tools back up the ADS-B information, they also prepare learners for their cross-country flights and instrument training, which as any IFR pilot will tell you, is radio intensive.

• READ MORE: The Confidence Factor in Learning to Fly

The experience requirements for a private pilot certificate per CFR 61.109 include three hours of flight training in a single-engine airplane on the control. Also required is the maneuvering of an airplane solely by reference to instruments, including straight and level flight, constant airspeed climbs and descents, turns to a heading, recovery from unusual flight attitudes, radio communications, and the use of navigation systems/facilities and radar services appropriate to instrument flight.

Usually, this experience comes from the learner donning a view-limiting device and spending .2 to .5 of an hour under the device while they fly headings, altitudes, and maneuvers at the direction of their flight instructor. 

Occasionally a CFI will pick up an IFR clearance and have the learner fly an approach into an airport. But for the most part private pilot candidates don’t learn about the IFR approaches until they begin their instrument training. This can be a challenge when the learner flies out to their “favorite practice area,” blissfully unaware that they are close to IFR fixes—essentially, they are “playing on the freeway.”

Know Where the Traffic Congregates

In ground school we learn to be extra careful near VORs, over published ground visual checkpoints, and in the traffic pattern because these are places where aircraft congregate. We should be mentioning IFR fixes as well that may be well away from an airport.

Do you know where the instrument approaches begin at your airport? Ask an instrument-rated pilot, like a CFI, to show them to you. This is best done pulling up the appropriate instrument approach plate and comparing it to a VFR sectional. You may discover that your favorite place to do turns around a point is just 1,000 feet below an initial approach fix for the ILS. 

• READ MORE: The Art of Ground School

Some flight schools make photo copies of the local instrument approaches and overlay them on a VFR sectional so that their noninstrument-rated pilots will know where they are. This is accompanied by textual descriptions of what to be on the lookout for and appropriate procedures, such as listening on a particular frequency or an altitude limitation or caution.

According to the renter pilot I was flying with that day, he had no idea he was in the vicinity of the RNAV approach and what altitudes were used by the pilots flying the approach. Although the conditions were VFR, we obtained an IFR clearance and executed the RNAV 35 into the airport so he could see where the pilots flying the approach would be in relation to where he liked to fly. 

He was delighted. He had been flying for years but never knew what was going on in the instrument world. He said he had no intention of getting his instrument rating but was happy to have better situational awareness—and learning took place.

The post Discovering Situational Awareness in the Instrument World appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I’m a plain-Jane, single-engine-land private pilot with an instrument rating now, but I spent many years and lots of flight time instructing, testing, and examining, both in and out of the FAA. And, heaven knows, as well as the FAA and a large part of the flying and nonflying world, that I don’t always play by the rules. But there’s a particular emergency that bothers me and needs discussion because tragic accidents related to it keep happening.

It involves those engine failures after takeoff, and I’ll admit this is a controversial subject. So many involve severe damage and fatalities when the pilot instinctively tries to turn the airplane more than 180 degrees to land back on that beautiful and safe piece of concrete behind them.

As we all know, theories about handling this ugliest of emergencies have been kicked around forever. But it can’t be denied that pilots keep trying and fatalities keep happening.

They tried to get back but didn’t make the runway…

…had just lifted off when a so-far undefined emergency caused them to initiate a return to the ground. Though the pilots initially survived the crash…both died soon afterward … At least one of the pilots had constant exposure to and promulgated a safety culture that talked often about the ‘loss of power on takeoff’ scenario. (It didn’t work for him).

A CFI on an introductory flight lifted off about two-thirds down a 4,140-foot runway and struggled to gain altitude. The passenger reported the CFI said the engine wasn’t ‘making power,’ declared an emergency, and turned back to the runway. The airplane stalled and impacted the ground about half a mile from the airport.

While no discrepancies were found, the airplane was at or above max gross weight, and the 94-degree surface temperature significantly reduced climb performance. Making an emergency turn back to the airport, ‘the pilot failed to maintain adequate airspeed and flew the airplane beyond its critical angle of attack, leading to an aerodynamic stall.’

I assume you’re confident this won’t happen to you…and you’re right, it probably won’t. If you’re reading this magazine, chances are you keep your airplane and engine in tiptop condition and are always conscious of your fuel load. You can properly compute a weight and balance, particularly in high-density-altitude situations, and your CFI taught you years ago (or maybe during your last flight review) how to make a successful 180-degree turn back to the runway from about 1,000 feet agl.

• READ MORE: Martha’s Return to IFR Skies

Attempts to make successful, emergency 180-degree returns to a runway on climbout are too often catastrophic. Most everyone’s been introduced to the “simulated engine power loss on climbout,” using an altitude—at least 3,000 feet agl—as the pretend runway elevation. You’ve discussed the maneuver with your instructor, so at 4,000 feet or higher he pulls the power, you immediately pitch for best glide, and enter a 30-degree banked turn (probably to the left) back to that imaginary runway. And after a few tries, you’re pretty good at it. Maybe you can even do it from 500 or 600 feet.

Practice with a CFI to determine the height above the “ground” you need to successfully make that descending turn, and don’t forget to factor in skill, wind, temperature, density altitude, and the airplane you’re flying. Add a “startle” or surprise factor of at least 100 feet. With practice, using a base altitude of something like 3,000 feet agl, you’ll get an idea of how high you need to climb before making the turn back.

I hate to think of experienced and current pilots I’ve known who tried it in the heat of battle but were unsuccessful and aren’t with us anymore. It’s a dangerous and demanding maneuver—and something we rarely face.

If a sudden engine failure should ever happen, imagine the shock, confusion, disbelief, and subsequent slowness to react. Instead of immediately pitching to a best glide while looking for a decent spot or starting that turn you’ve decided to make, you’re probably checking to find what’s wrong…a fuel tank ran dry, a throttle slipped back to idle, or oil pressure. All that’s OK—after you’ve picked a spot and nailed the airspeed and flap configuration.

It goes without saying you’ll increase your odds of avoiding all this with a thorough preflight check (the fuel, visually), reviewing the topography around your home or familiar airports, being sure everybody’s securely strapped in and, without scaring the hell out of them, explaining what you and they will do in the unlikely event of a forced landing, like opening the doors before impact. But don’t forget to repeat to yourself the msl altitude you need after liftoff before attempting a return. Consider using best angle of climb (V_X) and brief it to yourself before takeoff. If you’re not yet there in the climb, pick the best spot you can find ahead—ideally a farm field, golf course, or soccer field, but a highway (even one with traffic), a road, or even a city street can work. Treetops can, too, if you’re slow enough on impact. Once on the ground, steer between trees to take off the wings. Then, as Bob Hoover preached, “Fly it through the crash.”

I have to confess that, in my heart, I wonder if you can really train yourself to do this. Think about being in that position—600 feet above runway elevation in a climb and then a sudden engine stoppage with no warning. By the time your brain freeze thaws, you’ve already lost 100 feet or more, but you rudder it into a steep turn, forgetting how stall speed rises rapidly and lethally in an uncoordinated, 45-degree bank. You’re thinking that this has to work—that runway’s right behind you and a little cross-control doesn’t make much difference. Now you’re in a lethal situation—a steep skid and airspeed nearing stall. You’re determined that you’ll make it. Nobody will be hurt or killed, the airplane will stay intact, and there won’t be any publicity or news coverage, FAA, or Monday morning quarterbacking. It’s your life back there, and with enough effort and a little luck, it will go on as before.

Except it can’t and won’t.

Think hard about it here on the ground.

This column first appeared in the December 2023/Issue 944 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Getting Tired of Tragic Accidents After Engine Failures on Takeoff? Yeah, Me Too appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Early in training, I made a night instrument takeoff from Lunken Airport (now KLUK) in Ohio, using a runway adjacent to a hillside with traffic on a busy highway at the base and well-lit neighborhoods climbing the slope. I unearthed a hood that was extra wide and allowed me to cheat a little with a glimpse of terrain on the sides. What seemed like a great idea was a bad mistake and an excellent lesson in vertigo. As I began to climb, I was almost hypnotized—totally confused—by moving lights I could see under the left side of the hood. I’m pretty sure we would have flown into the hill if Roger hadn’t taken the controls…and, yes, smacked me on the head.

The test presented some challenges—in night training I hadn’t experienced the turbulence of sunny, hot afternoons. Inspector Ropp and I weren’t using headsets and, unfortunately, he’d eaten something with lots of garlic the night before. On the plus side, it was pretty simple since I had one VOR receiver for approaches and holds. And, yes, I passed!

No, wait, that was the test in 1967.

In those days, the normal progression of certificates and ratings took you from private pilot to commercial, to flight instructor, and then you went on for an instrument rating. It was five years from the time I became a genuine private pilot in 1962 to accumulate the time and pass the writtens and flight tests for the commercial certificate and a flight instructor rating. And getting that CFI was critical because the only way I could eat regularly and earn enough to keep flying was to instruct. And, boy, did I instruct…about 6,000 hours total over the next 10 years.

First, I worked part time for Cincinnati Aircraft, a Cessna dealer. The Cessna 150s and 172s were great trainers but had the world’s worst radios—the Cessna 300 series. We reentered traffic patterns on lights nearly as often as we did communicating over the radio waves with the tower. When the Midwest winter was grounding the airplanes, owner Witham Smith demanded those of us with instrument ratings file IFR, climb above the overcast, give an hour of basic dual, make a VOR approach into Greater Cincinnati Airport (KCVG), and then fly VFR underneath the 13 miles back to Lunken. At best, an “hour” of dual was closer to two. I “declined,” got fired, instructed for Johnny Lane at Lebanon (I68), and then started my own flight school.

Well, fast-forward 56 years and here I am back at it again. During the year of enforced downtime after the “bridge” revocation, I crammed and passed the private and (wickedly brutal) instrument writtens. Then, on Christmas Eve 2021, I did the private practical in a Cessna 150. So, I assumed getting the instrument rating in my Cessna 180 would be a piece of cake. Wrong again.

• READ MORE: Martha Lunken Earns Her Wings (Again)

At risk of boring you with a lengthy tale of woe, it was another year before the airplane and I felt the sprinkle of holy water. I sat out a lengthy annual inspection in January and February and miserable weather during the Midwest’s February and March. But late in March 2022, I hooked up with Steve Reinhardt, a CFI who is consummately patient and intimately familiar with my Garmin GNS 430 (about which I knew little more than “direct-to”) and ForeFlight (which was a total mystery). Best of all, Steve doesn’t hit students on the head. Then my elderly DG failed, so I put 72B in the shop for installation of two flush-mounted Garmin G5s. Three weeks passed, and I was struggling to learn the equipment while precisely hand flying my “very light on the controls” 1956 Cessna 180. And the various intricate approaches and holds were at airports about 10 miles apart—it was a bitch!

Next, a guy ran into the tail of the 180 on the ground at Lebanon, and it would be close to a month until we got the vertical stabilizer and rudder back from Williams Airmotive in northern Indiana. They’re great people with an outstanding shop for control surfaces. At one point, a very special guy named Dean Mallory, who hangs out at Waynesville’s Red Stewart Airfield (40I), offered me the use of his Cessna 182. Talk about friends!

But the delay wasn’t only damage, avionics installations, and weather. It was a steep learning curve for me to master the intricacies of the Garmin equipment and ForeFlight. More than once, I nearly lost heart.

GPS technology wasn’t intuitive for me. Thermals on sunny days below 4,000 feet made for lots of turbulence, and the variety of approach procedures and holds mandated by the FAA at three or four airports within 10 miles of each other was difficult. I was scrambling to enter the information and push the right buttons while trying to hand fly the 180 precisely on altitudes and headings.

Yeah, I did it, and Steve recommended me one month short of my 81st birthday, and I flew a no-holds-barred, good practical test with Brian Trapp at John Lane Field (I68) in Lebanon, Ohio. Brian holds more designations than anyone in my experience and travels across the country—even to remote places like the Fiji islands—as an examiner, administering everything from medical check rides to re-exams and every conceivable airplane and lighter-than-air certificate or rating. Additionally, he owns and operates the Gentle Breeze Hot Air Balloon Co. with his talented and delightful pilot/partner, Laurie Givin. Brian knows his stuff, cutting no corners on the test.

Was so much time, effort, and expense worth it. Yes! Steve pounded the intricacies of the GPS equipment and procedures into my head, and I became more adept at precision flying in the 180. So many people kept me going—superb instructor Reinhardt, Mallory (“Hey, use my airplane.”), Flying Neutrons Club members at I68 (many of whom I’d certificated), IA mechanic Mark Day, and Givin, and Trapp, who flew in late the night before from Phoenix for the test.

As Henry Ford rightly said, “Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t—you’re right.”

This column first appeared in the October 2023/Issue 942 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Martha’s Return to IFR Skies appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Answer: Broadly speaking, the Y approach is more geared toward single-engine, piston-powered aircraft, and the Z approach more appropriate for jets.

Put the approach plates side by side and you’ll note the Z has lower weather minimums than the Y. They may also require different aircraft equipment and pilot certification, step-down fixes, and altitudes. The devil can be in the details, as a side-by-side comparison may reveal different missed approach instructions and one with a virtual glideslope that is not coincident with the RNAV glide path. One may allow circling, while the other does not.

• READ MORE: Everything You Need to Know about RNAV GPS Approaches

When requesting an approach at an airport with both the Z and Y variant, make sure you ask for the one most appropriate for your aircraft and pilot qualifications. If you (or your aircraft) don’t meet the approach criteria, be sure to tell ATC “unable.”

The post What Is the Difference Between RNAV Z and Y Approaches? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

A. Glade Spring VOR IAF

A pilot might use the Glade Spring VOR to transition onto the approach, using the 210-degree radial outbound to intercept the ILS course of 230 degrees. A small note along the course, though, indicates that while no procedure turn (NoPT) will be needed, the pilot will be expected to be at 6,000 feet on this leg. The note above the 210 degrees indicates that it is a 10.1-mile leg. That leg will require the pilot to be at or above 6,000 feet until they can descend to the lower 3,600-foot altitude once established inbound at KEIPY. This will keep a pilot away from obstacles in the area to the northwest while establishing onto the final approach path.

B. IM, What’s That?

There aren’t lots of approaches that we fly anymore with all three marker beacons: the outer marker (OM), middle marker (MM), and inner marker (IM). This approach still has two of them noted, the OM and the IM, which a pilot might reference to identify passage of the final approach fix at the OM (MOCCA) and an IM close to the missed approach point. While the IM isn’t technically the missed approach point when flying the ILS—that’s still at the decision height just prior to the IM—it is a good secondary indicator that you are reaching the runway area. It also might be used when flying the approach as a localizer-only approach. Be sure to turn up the volume on your audio panel for the marker beacons when flying this, and remember what color blinking lights are associated with each marker beacon (OM: blue; MM: amber; IM: white).

C. Step-Downs By Cross Radial

Since this approach doesn’t have DME to identify waypoints along the approach, a pilot might choose to identify the FAF and an intermediate step-down waypoint (when flying it without use of the glide slope) at EAVER, using cross radials from the HMV VOR to the southwest of the approach path. This might require tuning and twisting the VOR and associated radials on a second NAV source while flying the primary ILS NAV.

D. Missed to the NDB

The missed approach takes the pilot to the BOOIE (BO) NDB. Do you still have an ADF receiver that works in your airplane? For aircraft that don’t have one operational, you will need to have a suitable IFR GPS to identify the missed approach point. If you don’t, you technically wouldn’t be able to start this approach, since you couldn’t fly the entire procedure—unless you have radar assistance, as noted in the briefing strip notes. Be ready to transition to the missed approach on this, from using the ILS navigation source to a GPS navigation course in your nav system after passing the missed approach point. Messing up this transition has certainly befuddled many applicants on practical tests, and certainly other pilots in their real-world flying.

The post Tri-Cities/Bristol, Tennessee ILS or LOC Runway 23 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I live in the Pacific Northwest, where fog—the lowest of the low clouds—is a nearly daily occurrence, especially in the fall and winter. I live close to the water, and on some days it never lifts. Other days, we get a few hours of flyable sunshine and visibility, and we watch the temperature and dewpoint spread very carefully because fog can sneak up on you ninja-like. And if you are not instrument rated and in an instrument-capable aircraft, instrument current, instrument proficient, and prepared to “go on the gauges,” you may have a really bad day. Know your enemy, as my father used to say.

• READ MORE: When Smoke Gets In Your Skies

What Is Fog?

Per the FAA’s Instrument Flying Handbook, fog is defined as a low cloud, which has its base within 50 feet of the ground, reducing visibility to less than five-eights sm. In order for fog to form, three basic conditions must be met:

• There needs to be condensation nuclei, such as smoke particles, salt, dust, pollen, etc., for the moisture to condense upon. In the Pacific Northwest, we have this in the form of salt from the ocean and smoke from all the wood stoves.

• There must be high water content and a low temperature/dew point spread. Dew point is the temperature the air must be cooled to in order to become saturated. When the air is cooled or moisture is added to it and the temperature and dew point are within 4 degrees Fahrenheit/2 degrees Celsius of each other, fog is likely, as it forms when the temperature and the dew point converge. As the day heats up, the temperature dew point diverges, and the fog ‘burns off.’ In the evening, the process reverses. In  the afternoon, especially in winter, the process reverses usually around 3 p.m. Keep this in mind when you head out on late afternoon flights.

• Fog forms when light surface winds are present as they cause surface friction to create an eddy, causing more air to contact the ground

Fog is basically a cloud at the surface, but like other clouds, there are varieties, and each has certain characteristics. For example, some need wind to form.

To recall the types of fog, use the acronym SURAPIF (Steam, Upslope, Radiation, Advection, Precipitation, Ice, Freezing).

Steam Fog

Steam fog, sometimes known as “sea smoke,” forms when cooler air moves over slightly warmer water. Steam fog is usually not very thick and needs wind to form. It is associated with a shallow layer of unstable air, so you can expect convective turbulence flying through it.

Upslope Fog

Upslope fog forms as moist, stable air is pushed up a hill or other sloping land mass. As the air moves up, it cools, and when the temperature and dew point converge, there is fog. Mountain fog is sometimes mistaken for smoke, which is how the Great Smoky Mountains in North Carolina and Tennessee get their name. Per the Aviation Weather Handbook, this type of fog is most commonly observed in the autumn and spring months and is the densest around sunrise when surface temperatures are often at their lowest.

Radiation Fog

Radiation fog, also known as “ground fog,” forms over low-lying, flat surfaces on clear, calm, humid nights, especially over a wet surface like ground after rain. As the surface cools, the adjacent air also cools to its dew point and fog forms. Radiation fog can vary in depth from a few feet to about 1,000 feet and usually remains in place.

A subset of radiation fog is valley fog, which, as the name suggests, forms in lower-lying areas. It is very thick and is sometimes referred to as “tule fog.” It can form when the air along ridgetops cools after sunset. As the air becomes more dense and heavy, it flows down the slope to the valley floor, where it continues to cool and becomes saturated to form fog.

Radiation and valley fog can drop visibility to near zero and make any kind of transportation hazardous because you can’t see in front of you and lack any depth perception. You may not even want to taxi in that kind of fog. Radiation fog is often a factor in chain-reaction accidents on highways in the winter months.

Advection Fog

Advection fog occurs when a low layer of warm, moist air moves over a cooler surface. This is very common along the West Coast in winter. Advection fog requires wind to form, and an increase in wind speed can make it thicken. It is also tenacious, moving over water and then inland, then back over water for days or even weeks at a time. The horizontal movement of advection fog helps distinguish it from radiation fog.

Precipitation Fog

Precipitation fog forms when rain evaporates as it falls through cold air. When the precipitation stops, the fog disappears. You can notice this when the objects at the end of the runway disappear under fog as it rains then reappear when the rain ends.

Ice Fog

Ice fog forms in polar and arctic regions—and other cold weather locations—when the temperature is minus-10 degrees or below, and the air is too cold for the air to contain supercooled water droplets, so it forms tiny ice crystals.

Freezing Fog

Freezing fog occurs when water droplets freeze on contact to a surface that is below 32 degrees. This means anything the freezing fog touches will become coated with ice—including all aircraft. Sometimes you can watch it form on cold mornings. As the fog rolls in, the aircraft on the ramp will slowly see their windows turn opaque, and their surfaces will appear to sparkle. This process is different from frost forming, which usually involves sublimation.

Respect the Fog

Even with an instrument certificate and an airplane loaded with the latest in technology, fog can quickly become too thick to operate in and destroy visibility. This is why instrument approaches have weather minimums in the form of ceiling and visibility printed on them. Respect the metrics, as sadly every year there are pilots who attempt to land in weather below the minimums and don’t live to tell the story because they misjudged their altitude or distance from terrain because of fog.

The post Fog: the Malignant Weather Ninja appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For years I did not think much about his advice because most of my flying consisted of short hops in fair weather with no pressing need to reach a particular destination. After we bought our own aircraft late last year, though, I quickly came to understand the appeal of instrument flying. Now there are places my family and I want to go, and the airplane is the ideal transport—as long as the clouds are not too low, the morning fog has lifted, and the smoke from recent wildfires in Canada is not too thick.

• READ MORE: Your Ideal Aircraft Belongs on ATC Radar

There are so many things that can scrub a VFR mission, especially as we begin to fly longer distances. When we were taking the club’s Cessna 172 on 50 nm jaunts for breakfast or lunch, we were not too worried about the weather shifting as we traveled. A lot can change over 300 to 500 nm, though, and I have had to postpone numerous trips lately because of forbidding weather at our destination or at some point along the way.

Being able to fly through a low overcast would solve many of my problems, and my airplane is particularly well-equipped for instrument flight. I am beginning to feel like a slacker for not at least trying to match my aircraft’s capabilities.

• READ MORE: Taking the Dogs on Vacation in Your Ideal Aircraft

When my wife and I bought our Commander 114B, we agreed I would begin instrument training as soon as possible, so, yes, I have already waited too long. Still, there is a positive result from my delay. In our nearly seven months of ownership, I have seen firsthand how easily weather can affect our flying plans. I often wind up driving for 10 hours, looking at my kids’ disappointed faces in the rearview mirror, when the airplane could have made the trip in two hours while giving us a sweeping view of traffic-choked highways.

Over time I have transitioned from dreading instrument training to wanting it badly. It helps to know what you are missing. Clearly there will still be delays and cancellations even after I am rated to fly “in the soup,” but they will happen far less often. My family and I will have more freedom to make our own schedules and stretch out toward more distant destinations.

I recently recalled a scene from Mad Men in which main character Don Draper and pilot colleague Ted Chaough fly to a critical meeting in bad weather with Ted at the controls of his own airplane. The usually cool Don is clearly rattled by the experience while Ted pushes on through dark clouds and heavy rain. This was a high point for Ted, who confidently ended the scene with priceless comments about instrument flying.
For me there were few likable characters in Mad Men, but for just that moment I wanted to be Ted.

The post Instrument Rating Can Expand Your Travel Horizons appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

A. RADAR REQUIRED

Many approaches have a method to establish onto the approach without the use of ATC vectoring assistance. This approach does not. Note 2 specifically indicates: “Radar required for procedure entry” in order to get the pilot established onto the approach. While many GPSs are likely to be able to navigate directly to the CALEY waypoint, it is worth noting that this is an “IF” (intermediate fix), not technically an “IAF” (initial approach fix). So, even if your GPS can get you there, ATC needs to be providing radar services as you are vectored onto the approach or navigate directly to CALEY in order to set you up on the approach somewhere outside of the PEAAY waypoint.

B. DME FROM THE LOC

The DME on this approach is sourced from the ILS receiver, but it doesn’t count down to “zero” like many do. In this case, it is because there is also an ILS approach to the opposite runway, 23, and that is where the DME transmitter is located. If you were flying the ILS to Runway 23, it would count down to a DME point closer to zero, but since this approach is using the DME source from the opposite end of the runway, your missed approach point when flying the approach as a localizer would be at 1.5 nm. This is also helpful to refer to as you fly the ILS and descend to the decision altitude. It’s also worth noting that it could be easy to have aDME source selected to the ORF VOR, which is located on the field, but that would also generate an incorrect DME datapoint to use when flying this approach.

C. GS AND AP LIMITATIONS

A small note in this approach indicates: “Glide slope unusable for coupled approach below 744 [feet].” For many pilots who actively utilize automation, this is an easily missed note. This is an indication that by the time they reach this altitude, they need to transition to hand flying the aircraft. Technically, allowing the autopilot to remain coupled to the glide slope beyond this altitude is not authorized. For an approach with a decision height down to 226 feet and a TDZE of 26 feet, it means a pilot is going to need to keep those hand-flying skills ready to take over for a portion of the descent after passing the FAF at PEAAY and before reaching the DA.

D. CORRECT VOR FOR THE MISSED

A pilot who chooses to go missed on this and proceed with the published missed approach can easily mix up exactly what they need to do. Seeing the ORF VOR denoted on the approach plan view, and a radial denoted to the JHALL intersection just to the right of it on the chart, a pilot might initially assume this is what they will do. But a note on the box indicates this is an “Alternate Missed APCH Fix.” This would be applicable only if the pilot was doing something other than the expected published missed approach procedure, had been assigned the alternate missed approach, or requested it. A pilot would be expected to fly directly to the CCV VOR and hold on the 029-degree inbound course. This requires a pilot to use a frequency and navigation source they had not used until this point on the approach. A savvy pilot might have this frequency in the standby well ahead of time if they thought there was any chance they might go missed.

The post Norfolk (KORF) ILS RWY 5 appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

My first actual logged lesson was March 31, 2021. I then received my private pilot certification on October 15, 2021, and then went on to complete my instrument rating on August 22, 2022. This was all through Part 61 schools at Leopard Aviation and Scottsdale Executive Flight Training at Scottsdale Airport (KSDL). Most of my instructors came from Part 141 programs.

As of January 7, 2023, I sit with 266 hours total time—80 hours cross country, 19 hours night, and 50 hours in Cirrus aircraft with the rest in Cessna 172s.

If I were to total my expenses so far—thinking, on average, at $200 an hour—getting to this point has cost about $55,000 to $60,000 (Cessna 172s cost around $150 an hour; Cirrus range from $275 to $400 an hour, plus materials, tests, etc.).

I am planning on moving forward to get my multiengine add-on certification, as well as CFI, fairly quickly. Those will cost roughly $5,000 and $3,000 to $4,000, respectively.

My goal is to sit in the right seat for Part 135 operations (I’m not interested in Part 121),  and that seems to necessitate a minimum of 500 hours TT; however, more like 800-plus hours.

Thus, for me, the CFI, and eventually MEI (certified multi engine instructor), and CFII, are the track to keep learning intensely while now, finally, offsetting the costs of flying.

The commercial certification—from written, to oral, to flying—is really the apex of the knowledge and fundamentals of flying. (I haven’t touched a jet yet.) There wasn’t anything new per se in the curriculum, as it is built upon private and instrument knowledge, yet it demanded a much deeper understanding of everything I’ve learned to date. It was like getting your masters degree in flying, if the private certificate and instrument rating are your undergraduate degrees, and ATP like a Ph.D.

While not for everyone, the climb to commercial is an amazing way to really ensure you are proficient, knowledgeable, and thorough in your flying comprehension and techniques. It also puts you in the top third of pilots. Only 270,000, or 37 percent, of the 721,000 registered pilots in the U.S. are commercially rated or higher and actually able to earn money as a pilot. That is a very exclusive club, to say the least.

My goals are to add on a multiengine endorsement, as well as get my CFI—both to continue on my journey to getting turbine type rated. Receiving that commercial certificate is a key step in that journey.

Looking back, one of the things I would recommend is a Part 61 (independent) versus Part 141 (structured school). Given the magnitude of educational expenses these days, one should look at expected returns. 

I can say that at even $65,000 now to get through to commercial (in just under two years) and to start to earn money, I estimate I have another 200 to 400 hours of time building ahead of me. Unless you have unlimited funds, you need to plan out how or what your flying objectives are. What is your mission? If you see moving into a flying job, the economic argument of going Part 61 is pretty compelling. If you are self-motivated, then you can crank through at your own pace.

Part 141 is a fantastic option if you need the structure of a school that mimics undergrad program. At Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Florida, undergraduate courses cost around $60,000. The flying program, from PPL to instrument up through commercial costs about $80,000, which suggests it costs around $140,000. 

One advantage of Part 141 is that as a student, you can qualify to get a restricted ATP at 1,000 hours vs. 1,500 hours. That ATP is the Ph.D. enabling you to fly the commercial carriers where you can now land right seat jobs starting at a salary of $150,000 (and this is going up too).

And all these certificates last a lifetime. Sure, there are a lot of currency and proficiency elements you need to accomplish to stay sharp and capable, but by moving up though the ratings, you not only ensure your skills as a pilot are developed to their max, you also are setting yourself up for job opportunities that are very high in demand now and into the foreseeable future.

The post Becoming a Newly Rated Commercial Single-Engine Pilot appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I returned home Monday night after dropping our son off at school in New Hampshire following a long weekend at home. I had hoped to fly him back, saving time and boosting the trip’s fun factor, but alas, the weather forecast was just sketchy enough to convince me that driving was the better option.

This was a frustrating outcome as I had tracked the weather for days, and for a time Monday looked like it would work. I had also recently logged the last of 15 hours that my insurance company required before I could carry passengers in the Commander 114B my wife and I bought in November. I was itching to give Sam his first ride in the new airplane.

• READ MORE: Finding Your Ideal Aircraft: Take Time to Get Acquainted

By Monday morning, though, the forecast had taken an unfavorable turn, with stronger gusts than I would have liked at our home airport in Sussex, New Jersey (KFWN), and a low overcast at our destination, Lebanon Municipal (KLEB). I would not say the clouds were too low, and the reported winds were not ridiculous. Overall the conditions certainly were flyable, but I have found over time that whenever I use the word “flyable,” it is a hint that I should drive instead or just stay home.

This is one of those trips that is circuitous by car, so flying direct in 75 minutes instead of spending between four and five hours on the road feels especially efficient and is always tempting. Shaving so much time off the transit also helps make the case for having an airplane. And of course, flying is more fun than driving—to a point.

We pilots have to remind ourselves that passengers often have lower thresholds for discomfort than we do. Turbulence makes them sick, clouds make them worry, and precipitation, well, can you actually fly in that? Sam is not impressed when I tell him that I flew through a snow squall during my private pilot check ride (“Keep going. It won’t last,” the DPE said calmly). Besides, my rule for many years has been to take family members flying only in the best weather, with the hope that they will keep coming back. So far, it has worked.

• READ MORE: Bringing the New Baby Home

As Sam and I began the 300-statute-mile drive, I noted the clear sky and wind of, at most, 10 knots. I started to think we could have flown after all and that I had missed a great opportunity. Passing through Hartford, Connecticut, two hours later, we saw clouds mixing in, gradually progressing into an overcast at 5,000 feet or so. Still a go, maybe.

The telling moment came in Northampton, Massachusetts. We were on Interstate 91 North, which passes the edge of Northampton Airport (7B2). A Beechcraft Duchess was just taking off, headed in our direction. We watched as it caught up and passed directly overhead. I don’t think it had reached 500 feet when it began to disappear into the clouds.

I recognized the Duchess as one belonging to the flight school at Northampton and realized it probably was heading up for an instrument training flight. It felt like a message. At that point, I was able to sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about going for an instrument rating this spring.

The post When Planning an Airplane Trip, Make Sure the Car Is Ready appeared first on FLYING Magazine.