There’s a subset of the population that simply craves excess and revels in abundance.

While that may be true for some jet-setting globetrotters, in the world of GA aircraft ownership, such thinking is relatively rare. Big airplanes have correspondingly big fuel tanks that cost big money to top off.

But what if your mission calls for heavy iron? What if your top priority was to own and fly the biggest airplane possible?

Here in the U.S., such dreams are complicated somewhat by an FAA regulation that requires in-depth training and certification—known as a type rating—to fly jet aircraft or any aircraft with a maximum takeoff weight in excess of 12,500 pounds. While structured, thorough training isn’t necessarily something one should avoid, the regulation begs the question: What are some of the biggest aircraft types a typical private pilot could fly without crossing that threshold and having to undergo such training?

Here, we explore your options if size were prioritized over the typical factors we consider during an aircraft purchase:

Cessna 208 Caravan

Ask just about any Caravan pilot how it flies, and they will invariably describe the big Cessna as nothing more than an oversized 182.

Simple systems, docile handling, and flight characteristics  similar to just about every Cessna produced with tricycle gear define the Caravan. Those who fly them for a living might lament the presence of a propeller or the lack of a swept wing, but they’re always quick to praise it overall.

• READ MORE: Seeking Out Ghosts of Your Airplane’s Past

First flown in 1982, the Caravan continued a trend that arguably began with the growth of the 172 into ever-larger variants. After the 172 and 182 first flew in 1956, subsequent larger versions appeared in the ’60s, including the 205, 206, and 207. Popular in remote, rugged regions like Alaska, these workhorses earned a solid reputation for reliably moving people and cargo into and out of challenging areas—and doing so economically. The Caravan is known as “the flying Swiss Army knife” because of its versatility.

As these models sold through the ’70s, Cessna began exploring a larger, clean-sheet development that would utilize a Pratt & Whitney Canada PT6A turbine powerplant. The resulting model 208 Caravan saw immediate success—initially in the original configuration as a nine-to-13-passenger aircraft, but particularly after 

FedEx ordered 177 cargo variants a short time later.

Most private owners opt for the standard passenger version or the lengthened Grand Caravan with additional seating. The cabin can be configured with high-density seating for utilitarian operations or plush club seating that resembles the seating arrangement of private jets. With full-fuel payloads in excess of 1,000 pounds and an available belly pod that enables the transport of baggage without cluttering up the cabin, overnight trips with friends become simple and straightforward.

Perhaps the most impressive aspect of the Caravan, however, is how simple and straightforward it is to exercise such capability. Even the Grand Caravan, with its nearly 9,000-pound maximum takeoff weight, 

performs as predictably as a four-seat 182. Transitions into the big Cessna are simplified with modern Garmin avionics, and the type is popular enough that qualified training is easy to find.

One of the Caravan’s most intriguing aspects is the availability of Wipaire amphibious floats. Equally capable of operating from land or water, these enable anyone with a seaplane rating to access an even wider variety of destinations–and have fun doing it.

One Caravan amphibian owner inbound to this year’s EAA AirVenture was reportedly notified of an incident at the airport and instructed to hold around a lake for an estimated 45 minutes. Making the best of the situation, the pilot simply landed on the lake, shut down, and went for a swim with his friends until arrivals were allowed in.

If that’s not a fun way to operate a big airplane, we don’t know what is. 

Grumman Goose

While the Cessna Caravan can achieve some impressive things with its amphibious floats, there’s something to be said for a pure flying boat—particularly one with the lineage and soul of a classic 1930s-era Grumman Goose. A product of aviation’s golden age, developed in the era of barnstormers, airmail, and art deco style, the Goose was one of four twin-engine flying boats of Grumman fame.

The model that most people are familiar with is the hulking, 37,500-pound HU-16 Albatross. Designed to perform rescue operations for the U.S. Coast Guard, it was able to handle rough seas in the open ocean and handily exceeded the 12,500-pound limit for this exercise. The rare G-73 Mallard was the next size down in the Grumman flying boat lineup, and at 12,750 pounds, it only just exceeded our weight limit.

• READ MORE: EAA AirVenture: A Study in Cargo and Packing

The G-21 Goose, on the other hand, weighs in at a respectable 8,000 pounds and thus qualifies for our list of big aircraft for private pilots. Powered by two 9-cylinder Pratt & Whitney R-985 Wasp Junior radial engines that each produce 450 hp, the Goose produces a sound and feel like no horizontally opposed piston or smooth-running turboprop can match. After flying a classic airplane with engines like this, nearly every alternative seems to have the soul of an Amana dishwasher.

There are certain advantages to a flying boat over an airplane with floats. Because the fuselage itself serves as the hull, the center of gravity sits much lower than that of a float plane. This increases stability in the water and, depending on the specific design, can withstand rougher seas. 

Additionally, the lack of external floats and braces can make a flying boat more aerodynamically efficient than an airplane on floats. For example, the Goose can cruise at just over 190 mph, while a Beech 18 on floats—using the same engines—can achieve only about 135 mph. Since both burn roughly 50 gallons per hour in cruise, the Goose’s faster speed makes it the more economical of the two on a given trip.

Of course, the mention of economy is laughable in the context of the Goose. With tailwheel landing gear, five-to-seven seats, multiple engines, and particularly as a seaplane, obtaining insurance would likely require divine intervention. Alternatively, one could become independently wealthy and self-insure.

But performance numbers and cost savings are not what the Goose is about. The Goose is about transporting you to an entirely different era of aviation on every flight. Reach up and grab the ceiling-mounted throttle levers, peer through the prop arcs just ahead of the cockpit windows, feel the reverberation of the big radials, and you might as well be Indiana Jones on your way to dinner in Monaco after delivering provisions to your team of archeologists in Alexandretta.

de Havilland Canada DHC-6 Twin Otter

Moving up from our 8,000-pound contenders, we finally reach the biggest and heaviest aircraft one can fly without a type rating.

At precisely 12,500 pounds, it’s not a coincidence that the maximum takeoff weight of the de Havilland Twin Otter matches the maximum limit imposed by the FAA. De Havilland correctly reasoned that the Twin Otter would be that much more attractive to prospective customers if it could be flown by pilots without a type rating. 

Not that additional advanced training would be a bad thing for Twin Otter pilots. From the beginning, the 19-passenger twin turboprop was designed to access some of the most inhospitable locations on earth. From Antarctic expeditions to the South Pole to commercial service to the shortest commercial runway in the world to hair-raising mountainside operations in Nepal, the Twin Otter has extreme capability, and operators use every bit of it.

If outdoor apparel manufacturer The North Face made an airplane, this would be it.

• READ MORE: The Pros and Cons of Aircraft Towing Solutions

Fundamentally, the Twin Otter differs from other similarly sized twin turboprops in its short takeoff and landing (STOL) performance. With a published STOL takeoff distance of only 1,200 feet to clear a 50-foot obstacle and 1,050 feet for landing over the same 50-foot obstacle, the short-field capability is astounding. 

In comparison, the non-STOL Embraer EMB-110 Bandeirante, with the same engines and the same passenger capacity, requires 2,648 feet and 2,848 feet, respectively.

Everything comes at a price, and this capability is no exception. Equipped with big double-slotted Fowler flaps and drooping ailerons, the wing is optimized for low-speed flight and, consequently, is less efficient at higher speeds. Additionally, the exposed wing struts and fixed landing gear, while lightweight and durable, add more drag to the equation. Ultimately, you can expect a maximum cruise speed of around 160 knots.

The Twin Otter is as versatile as it is capable. Standard landing gear enables operation from rough, unimproved runways. Lightweight straight floats provide water access without much of a payload penalty, while fully amphibious floats are able to be flown from land or water. Similarly, both straight skis and wheel skis are utilized in harsh winter climates like Antarctica.

The end result is perhaps analogous to a heavily modified Jeep Wrangler rock crawler. This is a machine laser-focused on extreme capability, able to access places few others can.

If you want fast, comfortable, long-distance transit, there are far better alternatives. But if you want the ability to take a group of friends and a few weeks of camping supplies deep into the wilderness via short, rudimentary airstrips, the Twin Otter is tough to beat.

Beechcraft King Air 260

Take a survey of the most common mission profiles of most aircraft owners, and you’ll find that landing on mountaintop airstrips in Nepal and delivering supplies to the South Pole tend to rank toward the bottom of the list.

More likely, buyers will be interested in fast, comfortable transportation between well-established metropolitan airports. And if their passengers are able to watch cat videos on Instagram and take naps along the way, all the better.

This is where a proven performer with all-around usability comes into play, and few are as proven as Beechcraft’s King Air family. With lineage extending back to the Twin Bonanza that first flew in 1949, the platform evolved into the ’50s-era, piston-powered Queen Air before culminating in the turboprop King Air family that remains in production today.

While many variations of the King Air have been produced over the years, the line can generally be divided into three primary variants.

The entry-level 90, with seven seats and a 10,100-pound maximum takeoff weight, is commonly positioned as a step up from cabin-class piston twins. Excluding the commuter airline variants like the Model 99 and the 1900, the largest King Air is the 350, with seating for 11 and a maximum takeoff weight of 15,000 pounds or more.

Splitting the gap is the midrange 200-series, exemplified by the King Air 260. Like the Twin Otter, it features a maximum takeoff weight of precisely 12,500 pounds, eliminating the need for type-rated pilots. When it comes to real-world, cross-country capability without a type rating, few options are as refined and proven as this King Air series.

The basic formula hasn’t changed much over the years. Combine two Pratt & Whitney PT6 turboprop powerplants, a roomy cabin with comfortable club seating, and docile, well-mannered handling qualities, and you’ve got a flexible performer that, unsurprisingly, has been successful for decades.

One sign of Beechcraft’s quality is the U.S. military’s continued allegiance to the brand.

Over the years, the Bonanza, Baron, Twin Bonanza, Queen Air, and King Air have all found roles in various branches of the armed forces. If ever there was a “mil-spec” airplane, this would be it, and it’s telling that direct competitors like the Cessna Conquest and Piper Cheyenne never followed suit.

With an avionics suite that includes autothrottles, digital pressurization, and synthetic vision, the newly updated 260 reduces workload, making it easier than ever to manage in flight. In the end, this King Air just might be the single closest thing to a private jet available to fly for pilots without a type rating.

Antonov An-2 Colt

Life isn’t all about sensibility and economic viability. Not all of us dream of flying IFR from one perfectly manicured resort town to another.

In a world of smooth yacht rock and clean-cut golf tournaments, some of us long for Metallica and Burning Man.

For this subset of the flying population, the Antonov An-2 is just the ticket. First flown in 1947 and produced in largely unchanged form for approximately 50 years, this monster taildragger was to the Soviet Union what the C-47 was to the U.S.—a rugged, dependable transport that can survive multiple wars and rise to just about any challenge.

With a maximum takeoff weight of 11,993 pounds, it falls just under our weight limit and is, therefore, a natural contender for one of the largest aircraft one can fly without a type rating.

Since its introduction just after World War II, the An-2 has worn many hats, serving as an airliner, military transport, firefighter, crop duster, and even an armed attack aircraft. Nearly 20,000 examples were built in Russia, Poland, and China. Provided you have the means of shipping and importing goods from those parts of the world, spare parts are plentiful.

Everything about the An-2 is massive, unrefined, and utilitarian. The 9-cylinder Shvetsov ASh-62 engine, a development of the Wright R-1820 Cyclone that powered the Boeing B-17 Flying Fortress and Grumman HU-16 Albatross, produces just over 1,000 hp at takeoff power. While doing so, it consumes a staggering 110 gallons per hour.

According to those fortunate enough to have logged time in the beast, attempting to wrangle it through steep turns and crosswind landings is not unlike trying to ride an inebriated water buffalo through a museum’s display of priceless antiquities and fine china. Significant upper body strength is required, and at times, one wishes for a third arm to keep everything running properly. Once finally established in a given phase of flight, things unfold both slowly and deliberately. 

Slow flight is, in fact, one of the An-2’s greatest strengths. With an estimated stall speed of only 35-40 knots and a kite-like 770 feet of wing area, it requires just over 500 feet of runway for takeoff and slightly more for landing. The kite-like qualities turn against you in crosswinds, however, with anything more than 8 knots described as “intolerable.” Taxiing in winds greater than 20 knots is said to be impossible.

Finding a rational reason to purchase such a machine requires searching one’s heart and ignoring one’s brain. For nearly any mission, there exists a more logical and economical alternative. However, logic and economy are simply not significant factors for those who own and love the An-2. 

Instead, this belching, oily anachronism is itself an experience. The purchase could perhaps be justified during preparation for the onset of a Mad Max-style zombie apocalypse scenario, wherein a large aircraft is needed to survive the harshest conditions imaginable with limited maintenance support.

But otherwise, one purchases an An-2 simply to enjoy the An-2.

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

The post Planes That Are Not Too Big for Fun appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

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. 

• READ MORE: Nothing Short of a Fatal Mismatch

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.

• READ MORE: A Cautionary Tale About Pilot Freelancing

 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. 

• READ MORE: Two Fatal Cases of the Simply Inexperienced

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.

• READ MORE: C3.AI Top Executive Possesses High Aviation Quotient

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.

• READ MORE: In Depth with JoeBen Bevirt Illuminates the Joby Vision

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.

• READ MORE: Love Affair: The Last Frontier Awaits

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.

• READ MORE: Finding That Right Pilot Buddy to Bid With

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.

• READ MORE: Part 2: Exploring New Zealand’s Grand Islands by Air

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. 

• READ MORE: Total Eclipse: What a Difference an Airplane Makes

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. 

• READ MORE: Machines, Like Human Bodies, Do Not Like Sitting Still

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.

• READ MORE: The Wisdom of Keeping Transmissions Short and Sweet

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.

Are service documents mandatory? No. Are they a good idea to implement? It depends, but for the most part, yes, and you’ll soon discover why.

Corrosion comes in all shapes and sizes. It is a natural process in which metals deteriorate due to chemical reactions with environmental elements, such as oxygen, moisture, and pollutants. In aviation, corrosion can manifest in various forms, including surface, pitting, intergranular, and stress corrosion cracking.

Each type poses significant risks, potentially weakening the structural integrity of the aircraft and leading to safety hazards. We’ve recently seen how corrosion affects wing spars like with the Piper PA-28 and Cessna 177 and 210, for example. These started as Service Bulletins (SBs) to inspect for corrosion and escalated to mandatory compliance in the form of Airworthiness Directives (ADs).

• READ MORE: How Do I File a Pilot Weather Report Online?

The implications are severe. Corrosion can lead to structural failures, increased maintenance costs, and, in worst-case scenarios, catastrophic accidents. Once you have the basics and understand the theory, you are ready to progress to the next level.

That’s right, it’s aircraft maintenance time, and here’s one example.

Learjet 45

The Learjet is legendary among corporate aircraft—produced from 1964 to its unfortunate scuttling in 2021. Learjet became synonymous with business aircraft in the early days of private business travel.

“Learjet models are known for their exceptional performance, speed, and range,” said Sky Aircraft Maintenance. “Airframe issues can be a common maintenance concern for Learjet aircraft. Due to the high speeds and stresses placed on the airframe during flight, wear and tear can occur over time, leading to a need for structural repairs. This can include corrosion.”

On July 13, 2007, the Australian Civil Aviation Authority released AWB 57-004 Lear Jet Industries 45 Wing Corrosion. The agency said this correspondence was needed because “recent reports have been submitted indicating that corrosion has been found on the lower skin of both wings fitted to the Lear 45 aircraft. This corrosion resulted in the replacement of the entire lower-wing skins.”

Years later, in February 2019, Learjet, now owned by Bombardier, released a series of Service Bulletins addressing “wing spar inspection.” The reason? Corrosion had been observed on the lower-wing splice plates, requiring a more frequent interval to detect and correct protective coatings.

Remember our chat earlier about adhering to the manufacturer’s recommendations? 

• READ MORE: What Does It Take to Transition From a Jet to a Piston Airplane?

Fast-forward a bit and the series of Learjet bulletins are now the FAA’s AD 2021-23-08.

What prompted this escalation? According to the AD, exfoliating corrosion was found on a particular Lear 45 upper surface of the lower center-wing, midspar splice plate during unrelated maintenance. The corrosion appeared to extend halfway through the thickness of the splice plate. Since the initial report, the FAA has received 23 additional accounts of corrosion from Learjet.

Jerel Bristol, owner of SEAL Aviation in Hollywood, Florida, was not surprised when the call came in. Bristol is aware of the trouble that Learjets have with wing-spar corrosion and knows the AD well. His team deploys to aircraft or ​AOG situations for mobile fuel leak repair, nondestructive testing, and structural repairs anywhere in the world.

During the center-wing inspection, a SEAL technician identified corrosion on the center-wing splice plate. I spoke with Bristol, and he said that it is a common area to find corrosion past repairable limits, which requires the replacement of the forward and aft splice plates.

After pulling the affected parts off the airframe, the SEAL team quickly repaired the area and replaced the damaged parts. The pictures reveal a sea of cleco fasteners. 

The guys buttoned up the Lear, and the owner was wheels-up again. 

The Cause

The big question remains: What causes corrosion?

One follower commented on a SEAL Aviation webpage post about the Lear 45 repair, stating that brine used for deicing could have contributed to the corrosion. He is not far off. Environmental elements can contribute to aircraft corrosion.

These factors include:

• Humidity and moisture, particularly in coastal regions.

• Temperature fluctuations which can cause condensation.

• Exposure to deicing fluids and other chemicals.

• Poor maintenance practices and infrequent inspections.

The environment is not the only player in the corrosion game. According to Aviation Devices and Electronic Components (Av-DEC) in its article “Causes of Corrosion,” industrial pollutants are equally harmful and can be difficult to protect against.

These include several contaminants such as:

• Ozone (exposure from high altitude, motors, and welding)

• Carbon compounds (exposure from combustion engine exhaust)

• Sulfur dioxide (exposure from engine exhaust, smokestacks, and acid rain)

Operators and GA aircraft owners alike are well advised to take heed when an SB shows up in the mailbox. A recommended inspection, especially when it can be coordinated with other scheduled or unscheduled maintenance, may help ultimately reduce the total cost of ownership and down time if/when an issue becomes an AD.

Perhaps the best reason to take a closer look is personal safety and peace of mind through identifying a problem before it manifests in something tragic.

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

The post Corrosion 101: What Causes It? 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. 

• READ MORE: That Sound of Music in the Air

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. 

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

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. 

• READ MORE: Taking the Grand Tour at Gulfstream Aerospace

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.

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.

The contest, which typically occurs on grass or dirt areas parallel to paved runways, was to take place alongside Runway 5-23. 

On Friday afternoon the wind picked up. It blew out of the northwest across the STOL Drag course. Qualifying heats were postponed until the next day. 

A number of the competitors then decided to conduct an impromptu “traditional STOL” event, omitting the drag racing component. They would use the grass Runway 31, which was conveniently aligned with the wind. The pilots, organizers, and FAA inspectors who were present held a safety briefing, and the participants were divided into four groups of five or six aircraft to prevent clogging the pattern. The objective of the contest was to see who could come to a full stop in the shortest distance after touching down beyond the target line.

Each group completed two circuits without incident. Two groups had completed a third circuit, and now the third group was landing. The third airplane in that group was a modified Rans S-7, the fourth a Zenith STOL 701—unusual among the participants in having tricycle gear—and the last a Cessna 140. The S-7 landed, came to a stop in less than 100 feet, and taxied away. The 701 was still a fair distance out, and the 140 seemingly rather close behind it and low. 

• READ MORE: A Cautionary Tale About Pilot Freelancing

A STOL Drag representative who was coordinating the pattern operations radioed the 140 pilot: “Lower your nose. You look slow.” The 140 pilot did not acknowledge. Half a minute later, the coordinator again advised the pilot to lower his nose. 

A few seconds later, the 140 yawed to the right, its right wing dropped, and with the awful inevitability of an avalanche or a falling tree, it rolled over into a vertical dive and struck the ground an instant later. A groan went up from the small crowd of onlookers. “Oh, my God, what happened!” one voice exclaimed. What had happened was all too clear—a low-altitude stall-spin that resulted in the pilot’s death.

The 140 pilot, 45, had an estimated 470 hours total time, more than 300 of which were in the 140. He had already qualified for STOL Drag competitions at a previous event.

The wind at the time of the accident was 15 knots gusting to 21. (As with all aviation wind reports, the 15 is the sustained wind and the 21 the maximum observed; no information is provided about lulls or wind speed variations below the sustained value.) The pilot of the 701 said that he had been maintaining about 50 mph (44 knots), as he had on several previous approaches, and that the wind on this approach felt no different than on the others. 

The 701 is equipped with full-span leading-edge slats, which make it practically incapable of unexpectedly stalling. Operating at a likely wing loading of less than 7 pounds per square foot, it could probably fly at around 35 mph. For the 701, an approach speed of 50 mph was conservative. The 140’s wing loading was only slightly higher, but its wing was not optimized for extremely slow flight. The 140’s POH stalling speed at gross weight was highly dependent on power setting, ranging from 45 mph power off to 37 mph, flaps down, with full power.

• READ MORE: Two Fatal Cases of the Simply Inexperienced

An FAA inspector who witnessed the accident reported his observations to a National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigator. He noted that the 140 generally took longer to get airborne than other airplanes in its group, in part because the pilot, after first lifting the tail, rotated prematurely, so that the tailwheel struck the ground and the airplane continued rolling for some distance before finally becoming airborne. The pilot, he said, would climb steeply at first, but then have to lower the nose to gain speed. He appeared low and close behind the 701 on the last approach.

Earlier videos also showed that, on landing, the 140 rolled farther than other contestants, despite braking to the point of almost nosing over.

On previous circuits the pilot had used flaps, but on his last approach he failed to put the flaps down. The omission could account for the coordinator’s observation that the nose seemed high. Full flaps would have resulted in a more nose-low attitude.

The NTSB blamed the accident on the pilot’s obvious “exceedance of the airplane’s critical angle of attack.” It went on to cite as a contributing factor the “competitive environment, which likely influenced the pilot’s approach speed.” Since there were many knowledgeable observers of both the accident and of several previous takeoffs and landings by the 140, and everything was recorded on video from several angles, the NTSB’s diagnosis could probably have been even more specific and mentioned the failure to use flaps and the premature downwind-to-base turn.

If, by a chance misjudgment, the 140 pilot found himself too close behind the 701, he still had options other than slowing to the lowest possible speed. Since there was no one behind him, he could have gone around or made a 360 on final. The aircraft waiting to take off would have had to stand by a little longer, but only a fool would grumble because another pilot was being wisely cautious.

• READ MORE: Three-Mile Limit: Novice Pilots Succumb to the Perils of Total Darkness

Instead, the 140 pilot chose to maintain his spacing by flying as slow as he could.

The decisive factor in the accident was most probably the failure to use flaps. It was almost certainly inadvertent. He probably forgot to put the flaps down, then believed they were down—because he had them down on the previous circuits—and chose his speeds accordingly. Adding flaps would have brought the stalling speed down 3-4 mph and also obliged him to use a little more power. Actually, it would have been quite a bit more because he was low, and the added power would have given him still more cushion.

The 140 was a goose among swans in this flock of dedicated STOL airplanes that possessed a near-magical ability to take off and land in practically no distance at all. Still, it was OK to be an outlier. The point of the contest was to have fun. You didn’t need to go home with a trophy—not that there even was one for this impromptu event.

But integrating an airplane with somewhat limited capabilities among more capable ones required special attention to speed and spacing. It would be easy to make a mistake. Once the mistake was made, and compounded by the failure to use flaps, all the pilot had left to lean on was luck—or willingness to recognize an error and go around while there was still airspeed and altitude to recover.

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 July/August Issue 949 of the FLYING print edition.

The post Nothing Short of a Fatal Mismatch appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

Alaska was my 50th state to visit, and I had purposely avoided taking the airlines up to the “Last Frontier” in favor of a more adventurous arrival. I had grown up on my dad’s shaggy-dog tales of pushing an ancient Oldsmobile station wagon up the unpaved Alaska Highway of the 1970s. The Alcan, the Yukon—these were fanciful, faraway places that loomed large in an 8-year-old’s fertile imagination. Discovering their real-world counterparts for myself as an adult made for a joyous, memorable journey—all the better for sharing it with my frequent riding partner, Brad Phillips, and my wife, Dawn, on her first big trip on her own motorcycle. 

And yet there was an unexpected element of frustration. As I gained an appreciation for the grand scale and severe beauty of the landscape, so did it become evident that the few roads here are the slenderest ribbons of civilization that barely scratch the surface of the wilderness. All the really interesting bits seemed to start at the untracked horizon. The epic distances also limited the amount of backcountry exploration possible, even if we’d been equipped for off-road travel. This is vast country that begs to be explored by air. 

Indeed, the farther north we went, the more we found ourselves in airplane nirvana. Every Tom, Dick, and Harriet we met seemed to own a tricked-out Super Cub or a 185. Light plane traffic was a regular feature even above the loneliest stretches of road. When we got to Anchorage, I went bug-eyed at the vast rows of rugged taildraggers parked cheek to jowl at Merrill Field (PAMR)—a mini-Oshkosh without end. And then more of the same at the Lake Hood gravel strip, plus hundreds of seaplanes and amphibs around the lake. I’d found bug-smasher heaven.

• READ MORE: Finding That Right Pilot Buddy to Bid With

On the return leg of the trip, Dawn and I detoured from the Alaska Highway via the Haines Cut-Off, and then took the Alaska State Ferry down the Lynn Canal to Juneau. There we rented a straight-back Cessna 172 on bush tires, accompanied by a grizzled Alaska veteran of a flight instructor, and set off for several hours of exploration around spectacular Glacier Bay, including a low-altitude inspection of Muir Glacier. It was a highlight of the trip for both of us, and we talked about flying an airplane of our own to Alaska someday. 

Five years later, it almost happened. Having decided to sell everything, buy a sailboat, and escape to the Caribbean for a few years, we set off on one last hurrah with our 1953 Piper Pacer. We visited friends in New England, Florida, and Phoenix, explored Mexico’s Baja California peninsula, and revisited old haunts up the West Coast. But then, in Vancouver, Washington, our mid-time O-320 engine nearly self-destructed—I was lucky to land in one piece. Instead of enjoying one last adventure to Alaska and selling the Pacer there at a profit, I sadly gave her up as is/where is, absorbing the $12,000 loss philosophically.

Since then, I’ve spent quite a bit of time up north for work. On the Boeing 757 and 767 I occasionally flew to Anchorage, and since being based in Seattle as a 737 captain, both Anchorage and Fairbanks have featured heavily in my summertime bidding strategy. Of course, Alaskans will tell you that the best thing about Anchorage is that it’s so close to Alaska. I enjoy that proximity, the ever-present GA activity, the scruffy cast of interesting characters to chat up over a brew at Darwin’s Theory, and the occasional hiking or fishing adventure.

When Dawn and I bought our Stinson 108 in August 2022, there was no question of whether we’d fly it to Alaska. It’s a tail-dragging, tube-and-fabric natural for the north country. The question was when? Building our hangar and attached living quarters came first—and that project was largely finished by July of last year. More seriously, the plane was unproven after a complete rebuild. And while the restorer did an excellent job of returning the Stinson to 1946 factory spec (plus modern radios with ADS-B), there were some updates that needed to be made before taking it farther afield. 

Since then, I’ve put about 100 hours on the tachometer, with a few minor issues cropping up. My A&P/IA encourages owner-assisted maintenance, which has been great for getting to know the airplane. We’ve added an Airwolf spin-on oil filter, installed shoulder harnesses, retrofitted LED lighting, and swapped out the ancient, venturi-powered turn coordinator for a modern uAvionix AV-30C primary flight display. I’ll never fly the Stinson IFR, but inadvertent IMC happens, and I feel much better having adequate instrumentation to survive a 180-degree turn. 

• READ MORE: Exploring New Zealand’s Grand Islands by Air

Weather permitting, we’re taking the Stinson on a shakedown cruise to Northern California in a few weeks. It should be about 13 hours round trip, our first longer cross-country with the airplane. If all goes well, we’ll head up towards Alaska the following month.. The general consensus seems to be that late May to early July is the best weather period, after incessant lows stop roaring ashore from the Gulf of Alaska but before the thunderstorm and wildfire seasons get going. In reality, weather can be extremely variable any time of year in this part of the world, and our itinerary will stay accordingly flexible. 

I should be able to bid a work schedule with about three weeks off. There are a few potential routes north. Having regularly plied the coastal route in the flight evels, I’d love to go that way, but the chance of getting a long, reliable weather window (in an area with notoriously poor weather and few airports) is pretty slim. In all likelihood, we will clear Canadian customs in Abbotsford, British Columbia, and head north to Prince George via the Fraser River Valley.

From there we can head northeast to join the Alaska Highway, northwest to the Cassiar Highway, or straight up to Watson Lake via MacKenzie and the infamous roadless Trench. The last two are more direct than the Alaska Highway but feature far fewer airports and little weather reporting. The Stinson’s relative lack of range is a big factor here. We can only do about 300 sm in still air with one hour reserve. We’ll likely need to carry jerry cans.

Frankly, given the potential for lengthy bouts of poor weather, I’ll be happy to just make it to Anchorage, where we have several sets of friends. Anything beyond that is a bonus. We enjoy the Kenai Peninsula and wouldn’t mind exploring around there and visiting family friends in Homer. It would also be nice to get up to Denali in good weather. Time permitting, we’d like to land above the Arctic Circle at Bettles, though I doubt we’ll have the time to get all the way up to Deadhorse or Barrow. If we really hit the weather jackpot, I’d love to visit Prince William Sound and the Gulf of Alaska coastline from Valdez to Juneau on the return leg. We’ll see how it goes. 

For the first time in ages, I’ve bought a bunch of paper charts and pubs, as we’ll be in areas too remote to depend on an iPad. Paper is also good for getting a feel for the lay of the land and war gaming various weather scenarios. The plane is nearly ready. I’ve ordered the FCC radio station license and CBP user fee decal. I’m currently getting together camping and survival gear and will shortly begin the weighing and winnowing process. I’m also spending a lot of time looking at flight procedures and weather sources for Canada and the various areas of Alaska. 

I’ll admit that I’m a bit nervous. This is a big trip that will definitely stretch my comfort level. It’s the most ambitious thing I’ve done in a light plane in at least eight years, perhaps ever. But most everything I’ve done in my life that was worth doing started out with this exact feeling. In every case I’ve been able to stay calm, take each challenge as it comes, think things through, and come up with solutions that get me through in one piece, usually with some more great stories to tell around the campfire.

With any luck, I’ll have a few more to tell you in the coming months. 

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

The post Love Affair: The Last Frontier Awaits appeared first on FLYING Magazine.