After a few minutes of a steep, rough ride, we emerged into a clearing in the otherwise dense forest. Burn marks surrounded the mysterious, misshapen circle, and the ground was scorched black. Looking around, I could not find the culprit. It looked as if a fiery, pancake meteor had hit the earth, resulting in a non-crater.

Turns out it was an airplane. From the lack of a debris field you could tell the pilot plowed straight into the mountain. They had since removed all of the remains— both man and man-made. Bone and aluminum.

My friend told me the story behind the crash. A gentleman around my age had plans to see his girlfriend in another state. The morning he was set to depart was foggy and near zero/zero. But he was instrument rated and his airplane had a parachute. Let’s go!

From the propeller marks it was later determined the airplane was making power when it hit the ground, so he most likely suffered some type of spatial disorientation— my bet would be somatogravic illusion.

• READ MORE: Conversations in Dispatch Can Get Tricky

I looked around the perimeter and found something in the weeds—a small, melted chunk of aluminum. I stared at the piece of metal in my hand and wondered, “Why didn’t he just wait a few hours?”

I could have titled this column “Pheromones” and made it a more generalized treatise about flying unsafely during courtship. But the truth is women aren’t this stupid. Just us. Men.

A woman would know that a man she liked would still be around in a few hours. They understand the theory of object permanence. Men, we wear blinders. We get tunnel vision. And miraculously, around this one particular subject—unlike, say, mowing the lawn or loading the dishwasher—we never, ever experience mission creep. We never lose the scent, so to speak.

I recently got a full panel of bloodwork done. My doctor called me in and told me that I was generally healthy, but she said the one thing that had changed was my testosterone levels. She explained that they were far lower than they had been in 2016, my last full test. She offered up supplements to bring them back up. I didn’t have to think long… Hard pass. I explained to her that the freedom of not being bound, pinned, and betrothed to that specific hormone was not something I would give up for anything.

In hindsight, if I were given the option to bring my levels down to where they are now back in 1989, I would gladly have done so. I would have made 20 more films, written a hundred more screenplays, and saved a million more dollars on drinks, meals, gifts, and who remembers what else—all working to appease one appendage with an outsized role in my decision-making process.

In the movie Good Will Hunting, Matt Damon’s character wants to “go see about a girl.” He’s very determined. He also has the sense to do this in a sedan and leaves Boston on an unusually sunny day. Well played, Matt. That being said, if he had access to a Bonanza on a typical overcast New England winter morning, I wonder if he would have waited for low IFR to lift before departing. My guess is no.

Most of you know about my incident in Telluride, Colorado, that I have written about extensively in these pages. There was a woman behind that. I had plans to fly to Santa Fe, New Mexico, with someone I had recently met, and whom I did not want to disappoint. Our morning got off to a late start and the winds had picked up. We missed our window. I pushed on. She was very beautiful. I totaled the airplane.

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In the earliest days of my flying career, when I had only my private pilot certificate and no airplane of my own, I was flying a woman from my home upstate to a racetrack in New Jersey in a rented Piper Cherokee. When we departed KMSV, it was clear and a million, but down at Millville there was a solid overcast about 1,200 feet agl. I looked for a hole. There was none. All my friends were waiting for me just under that shallow cloud layer below us. They had a race bike ready for me to ride. We circled for a few minutes as I weighed the options.

I had the compulsory few hours of instrument training needed for my private under my belt, but nothing more. I knew the terrain fairly well, having flown there on numerous occasions. And apparently that was all I needed to make a horrible (and illegal) judgment call when I decided to slowly spiral down into those clouds. I didn’t even know what an instrument approach procedure was back then.

I kept myself in a steady state turn descending at 500 fpm, knowing/praying the ceilings would spit me out where the ATIS promised. And they did. We landed safely. I explained my drenched shirt as a gland issue. My companion was duly impressed, and I was permitted to mate. But anyone reading this who has flown an airplane knows how easily this could have gone south.

There are other stories. I’ll save them for another time. And no need to call my insurer. With my additional years and commensurate drop in Mountain Dude (testosterone), those days are long behind me. I write about them here so that maybe I’ll reach a young pilot, swimming in hormones who has similar thoughts about what he might do to gain favor in a woman’s eyes.

And I hope no one reads this as anti-female.

Quite the opposite. Ironically, most women would not be impressed by this decision-making in the least. In fact, if they knew the risks you had taken without their consent, you would likely be kicked to the curb. If there were a being on this planet who would understand a flight delay brought on by real safety issues, it would be a woman. Women are patient and understanding and generally risk averse.

And, fellas, gonna let you in on a little secret… If she’s willing to get in an airplane with you at all, you can be sure she already likes you. So, take a cold shower and wait for VFR conditions and common sense to prevail.

To this day, I keep that hunk of melted aluminum in my flight bag. Sometimes I’ll even take it out and hold it. It’s a great reminder of what not to do when you want to “go see about a girl.”

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

The post The Things We Men Pilots Do to Impress Women appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

It’s not like I’ve never heard those words before. Things happen at busy airports, and the tower will sometimes throw something at you at the last second. But this was unusual in that I was on short final. No, short final is actually a misnomer in this case. I was over the numbers. Flaps down, gear down, throttle back to 15 inches, trim plus-9 and increasing. I was, quite literally, about to land. Things went a little sideways from there, but let’s back up a minute first.

I was flying a friend to Newark Liberty International Airport (KEWR) so she could catch a commercial flight home. I worked it out so that we’d land before 3 p.m. in New Jersey, avoiding the afternoon rush (and the increased landing fees the Port Authority charges). I filed IFR even though it was clear and a million. Always best to do so when flying into Class B airspace. Many pilots get nervous about flying IFR into busy airspace, but the reality is that it’s far easier than VFR. You’re told what to do and when to do it. It’s actually a great help in regard to workload mitigation. You can’t bust airspace when you’re IFR as they take all the decision-making out of your hands. Well, not all the decision-making. And that’s where my problem was.

It’s a short flight from Sullivan County International Airport (KMSV) in Monticello, New York, to KEWR, and before we even settled into cruise, we were being vectored around for a visual to Runway 11. Approach sent me over to Tower and immediately they asked me to keep my speed up then cleared me to land. I have been in this situation before and, wanting to help out, I do my best to comply. Flying into Newark in a single-engine piston makes you the redheaded stepchild. No way around that. So you do what you can to fit into the fast-moving environment. I maintained 160 kias for as long as I could then had to slow down to get configured for a stable approach. As it was, I did this on the later side. On a 5-mile final, I pitched up and pulled power to get below the 150 kias landing gear actuation speed. We quickly decelerated. The airplane stabilized in no time as I flew my Bo “by the numbers.” In this case, a descent, which means 18 inches manifold pressure and plus-3 on the trim. This setting will always give me a 500 fpm descent with the gear down.

I had heard nothing from the tower since being cleared to land, though I was aware there was a jet behind me. Being just a half mile from the runway, I dumped all the flaps at once and trimmed up to plus-9 to maintain my stabilized approach. Over the numbers I pulled power to idle and was trimming up to plus-12 when Tower told me to go around.

I have been asked to do things on short final before and it’s normally a nonevent. Flying into Van Nuys, California (KVNY), this past spring, I was told to change from 16R to 16L about a mile from the threshold. No problem. Bank left, continue descent, squeak the landing, impress your friends. Like most of us, I’ve also been told to go around more than once. No biggie. But this was different. I looked at my ForeFlight log, and it showed I got as low as 61 feet msl. That’s 44 feet agl at KEWR. This is where that decision-making I mentioned earlier comes into play. I should have simply said, “Unable.” There was no hazard in front of me. I was cleared to land. It was my runway, and I was committed at that point.

I knew full well what was happening: The controller got the spacing wrong and did not want to make the jet behind me go around as he knew I might not exit the runway in time.

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It’s that voice-of-God vibe the controllers have. Sometimes you forget you’re allowed to push back. I did what I was told. And this is where it got a bit rough. My aircraft does not have approach flaps. Practically, what this means for me is that I don’t extend flaps on an instrument approach until I know I have the runway made. Why? Because this is the most dangerous, busiest envelope of flight that exists for a GA piston pilot. You’re close to the ground, and the airplane is about to go through some serious aerodynamic changes because of what you’re about to do. It’s a far simpler affair in a Pilatus or TBM. They have as little as one lever. I have three. For this reason, I don’t use flaps until it’s a sure thing since it means there’s one less thing for me to do when transitioning to a missed approach.

So…I acknowledged the go-around while I pulled back on the yoke to stop the descent. I added mixture, prop, and then throttle in quick succession. I retracted the flaps next. She moved around a little bit, but I kept things together and, as the airplane started to climb, I pulled the gear up. Not too bad, I thought. More than usual but not too bad. Except I had forgotten one important item—trim. At plus-12 with a clean airframe and full power, she suddenly shot straight up into the air.

It wasn’t close. No stall warning, but it got my full attention. I pressed forward on the yoke—hard. Forced the nose down as I spun the trim wheel forward with my right hand (not a time for the electric hat) until I felt the pressure subside and entered a normal climb. For a newer pilot, this is exactly how you enter a stall/spin condition.

Tower then sheepishly asked if I could make a short approach. Affirmative. Pulled back throttle to 18 inches and dumped the gear again. Flaps as well. Dove back toward the runway and squeaked the landing. The controller thanked me. No problem.

This column first appeared in the November 2023/Issue 943 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Conversations in Dispatch Can Get Tricky appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For the first time in more than a week, the low overcast gave way to clear skies, and wind speeds settled back to single digits. Winter weather advisories punctuated the coming week’s forecast in my Northeast region, so I was determined to make the most of what might be the last ideal flying day for a while. I got an early start on the drive to the airport with plans to revisit a few memorable cross-country routes I last flew as a student.

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After departing Sussex, New Jersey (KFWN), I headed for Sullivan County, New York (KMSV), for a fuel stop before continuing to Columbia County, New York (1B1), the destination of my first long solo cross-country flight. Approaching the airport, I made my 10-mile radio call. Shortly after that, I heard a pilot with a familiar voice entering the left downwind leg of the pattern. “Is that you?” he asked.

It was Ed, one of my Commander 114B’s previous owners. Small world, and perfect timing. We had tried several times, unsuccessfully, to meet up while flying. On Sunday it simply worked out. I tried my best to grease the landing, which I’m sure he observed closely, and we met at the fuel pumps, where I got to look over the 2003 Cirrus SR22 Centennial Edition he moved into after selling the Commander.

I would say he “moved up” to the Cirrus, but that would be an oversimplification. It would also potentially cut off hours of hangar talk regarding who got the better deal. Certainly the Cirrus has the advantage of being nearly a decade newer and—let’s say—dozens of knots faster.

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But I could argue that the Commander’s updated panel with a Garmin GTN 750 and dual G5s trumps the Cirrus’ mix of Avidyne PFD, Garmin 430s, and steam gauges for backup. As I sat in the SR22, I could also sense the relative snugness of its cabin compared with my spacious Commander.

What quickly became clear was that our transaction was a win for both of us. Selling the Commander allowed him to leave the aluminum and rivets behind in favor of a sleek, modern composite machine. While I do not think of myself as a Cirrus kind of guy, I do consider the SR series a technical and aesthetic tour de force that set a new standard when it debuted.

As with many personal pursuits, each pilot’s approach to aviation reflects their specific interests and quirks. I think that after years of flying traditional legacy aircraft, Ed appreciates the SR22’s simplified engine controls that set the propeller’s pitch automatically, and landing gear so aerodynamic that there is no need for retraction.

Meanwhile, after a decade of flying Cessna 172s I am thrilled to finally have a greater sense of control over my power settings and a big bump in cruising speed. My inner child has waited years for the privilege of adding “positive rate, gear up” to my list of departure call-outs.

Before heading out of KSMV, Ed admitted to missing certain things about the Commander, including the smooth, forgiving way it handles. But as he departed, climbing out vigorously after a very short ground run and giving a crisp wing-wag before disappearing quickly into the distance, he didn’t seem to be missing very much.

After topping off, I headed to my next destination as well, after a slightly longer ground run, but still feeling like still feeling as if I got the better deal. Gear up.

The post Finding Your Ideal Aircraft Without Remorse for Buyer or Seller appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

There are exceptions, though, like Sullivan County International Airport (KMSV). Perched on a hilltop, dominating the rural landscape, the complex is easy to spot from 10 miles away—or more. It’s so big that you might expect to call in to ATC as you approach, but the field is non-towered.

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For pilots accustomed to smaller airports, Sullivan’s 6,300-foot runway, which is 150 feet wide with grooved pavement, can seem like an embarrassment of riches. It would be difficult (though far from impossible) for the average 172 driver to overshoot such an enormous strip. Indeed, when I was training for my private, my instructor never took me there because, he said, there was no challenge to it.

After getting my certificate I began flying there regularly while hopscotching the region to collect hours and practice takeoffs and landings. I often wondered how many consecutive touch-and-gos I could perform on that long runway but never tested the concept.

Years later, when working toward endorsements for complex and high-performance aircraft, we made several visits to KMSV because the setting gives pilots extra space, physically and psychologically, to focus on handling, speed control, and other tasks besides simply getting on the ground safely. This is why the airport is also a popular destination among pilots pursuing instrument ratings or practicing approaches to stay current. There’s a little more breathing room.

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Tranquility might also be an attraction for advanced students. The radio is usually quiet, and you often have the pattern to yourself. I have rarely encountered other traffic at Sullivan, even though the place was designed to handle swarms of private aircraft and regional airline operations.

Located in Bethel, about 90 miles northwest of New York City, the airport opened in 1969, which was, by coincidence, just in time for the original Woodstock music festival. Longtime residents still talk about helicopters shuttling performers from the airport to the venue just a few miles away. While classic images of Woodstock focus on concert goers parking their Volkswagen vans on the side of the road and hiking to Max Yasgur’s farm, lots of folks also arrived in private aircraft.

The long-term plan behind the airport’s development was aimed at breathing new life into the vacation resort industry that dominated the Catskills region for decades through the middle of the 20th century. By the 1960s, operators of hundreds of Catskills resorts could feel a downward trend in the industry. Growing popularity of new destinations like the Carribean islands, made accessible by mainstream air travel, drove a significant shift in the market.

County and state officials worked with operators of the biggest resorts to push the airport plan, figuring the general aviation boom would bring in more travelers. Small airlines began using the airport as well. The former regional carrier Mohawk Airlines flew routes between KMSV and numerous destinations including Montreal and Toronto, which put International in the airport’s name.

But the airport never really hummed with activity the way its developers envisioned. Gradually the old resorts yielded under the weight of changing preferences, and the airport grew quiet.

Today there are still lots of things to do in the Catskills, like hiking, shopping, dining and going to shows. Like many upstate towns, Bethel and nearby Monticello saw an influx of former city dwellers during the pandemic. Air traffic still swells considerably during the summer, an employee told me. Interestingly, one of the biggest draws, he said, is Bethel Woods, an arts and entertainment center built on the former Woodstock site.

The post Lonely Airport With Long Runway, Interesting History, Seeks Visitors appeared first on FLYING Magazine.