For this pilot, the transition from a Cessna Citation CJ1, 2+, and 3 to a Beechcraft P-Baron was an eye-opener. Training is different. Jet training includes engine failure during takeoff, the so-called V₁ cut.

This is almost always accomplished in a simulator and usually easily handled by maintaining heading, retracting the gear, pitching to a speed called V₂, and climbing to a safe altitude. In a piston twin, this is “simulated” at a safe altitude by retarding power on one engine, the so-called V_MC (minimum controllable airspeed) demonstration.

• READ MORE: How to Make Sure Your Cross-Country Hours Count

As a practical matter, the Baron is a lot busier than the jet. Taking off with full power means reducing manifold pressure and propeller rpm soon after takeoff. This usually occurs just as the tower gives you a new heading, altitude, and frequency change. Once in cruise, there is the matter of leaning the engines by reducing the fuel flow to each engine while watching the cylinder head temperatures (all 12) and exhaust gas temps.

• READ MORE: What Should a Pilot Do if a Single Engine Quits in Cruise?

In typical jets, the red fuel lever is either on or off, no leaning involved. In descent the piston engine needs to be kept warm, so power reductions are done very gradually. This limits the rate of descent. In the jet, you just pull the power to idle and dial in 2,000 fpm (or more) down and don’t think twice about it.

This column first appeared in the January-February 2024/Issue 945 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post What Does It Take to Transition From a Jet to a Piston Airplane? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

For starters, I rounded up two airline friends for a lunch trip from Tampa International Airport (KTPA) to Sebring Regional Airport (KSEF) in Florida, a distance that is all of 71 nm. These minor trips are flown at 7,000 feet and barely afford enough time to set the power and pick up the AWOS. With a flurry of help from the right-seater, we fly an RNAV approach and land at KSEF. Lunch is good.

The lack of smooth professionalism is obvious to all concerned. Tellingly, our taxi out from the ramp at KSEF is interrupted by the line guy frantically waving one of our windshield sunscreens. How it escaped the airplane to land on the ramp, no one seems to know.

Our return trip to KTPA is uneventful, though, if you don’t count the fumbled hot start and crosswind landing. The avionics are new to me and a puzzle. The powerful Garmin GTN 750 is a bewildering suitcase full of capability—all wonderful, I am certain, but hidden behind a series of buttons and touchscreen icons. I find myself pummeling the “home” button like a man trying to make an office copier work.

Five days later comes the real test. With my wife, Cathy, and our dog, Rocco, in the back, I call upon good friend Tom deBrocke to “help” me get us to New Hampshire for the summer. Tom’s just the guy for this. He owns not one but two Aerostars, flies as an airline captain, and has bailed me out on numerous occasions, some of which are so embarrassing that I will refrain from detailing them for your amusement.

• READ MORE: Getting to Know That New-to-You Airplane

So it is that we take off at 10 a.m. from KTPA with intent to land at KGED (Delaware Coastal Airport) and show off the airplane to my eldest daughter and her family. It is immediately evident that this might be a challenge. The GTN 750 paints a sobering picture of thunderstorms strewn across the route. We climb slowly to FL 210 and begin to lean the engines. The POH shows true airspeeds of 220 knots and a fuel burn of 16 gallons an hour per side. With the pilot’s operating handbook open on Tom’s lap and our faces poised in rapt attention inches from the hard-to-read “Insight” engine gauges, we find that anything near peak TIT (turbine inlet temperature) is not attainable without the CHTs (cylinder head temperatures) exceeding the recommended limit. Reluctantly, we settle on fuel flow of 24 and 22 gph and leave the cowl flaps open, which the POH says will cost us 9 knots.

As our recognition of this fuel flow sinks in, the view out the window is not reassuring. The GTN 750’s Nexrad picture and the radar’s splotchy patterns of red and yellow are not confidence builders. We ask for and receive multiple deviations and begin to discuss landing elsewhere. Richmond, Virginia, comes to mind. The forecast calls for rain but good ceilings and visibilities. Though the wind is out of the northeast, we are given the RNAV 20 approach, which adds to our total time en route. Three hours and 37 minutes after takeoff, I’m slithering down the wet wing with visions of a broken leg or hip.

The airplane seems unconcerned with our difficulties, and with $1,238 (!) worth of avgas in her tanks, we set off again for our final destination, Lebanon Municipal Airport (KLEB) in New Hampshire. Our filed route is immediately deemed inappropriate by Washington Center, and another route is laboriously read to us. This would take us 50 miles offshore over the Atlantic Ocean. I’m not keen on this development in an unfamiliar airplane and instruct Tom to negotiate for an overland route. “You may have to go back to 5,000 feet,” says the exasperated controller. I’m pretty fed up too, I think, having just struggled up to FL 210. In the end, we get rerouted multiple times but not forced to descend. Cathy is not impressed with my route-entering skills on the Garmin GTN 750. “Who is flying the airplane while you’re entering all that stuff?” she asks. Rocco is asleep across two seats in the back.

At 4:55 p.m., just a short seven hours after our departure from Tampa, I make my first acceptable landing in the new airplane. The Baron has seen us through. Unhelpfully, I can’t get the last time I flew from Tampa to KLEB out of my mind. It took the CJ1 less than three hours at FL 410.

So goes the personal evolution of airplanes for this pilot. Fortune has been exceedingly kind to me. I started airplane ownership in 1972 while an Army captain based at Fort Knox, Kentucky. I bought a 1967 Beechcraft Musketeer sight unseen at a sealed bid auction and have owned one airplane or another almost continually ever since. Talk about rich!

A parade of Cessnas and Pipers followed until 2017 when I returned to the Beech fold with a Premier 1. That was an amazing airplane, but it was continually in maintenance until a bird strike put it out of its agony. The CJ1 came next and has just now given way to the P-Baron for the reasons mentioned.

It is possible this will be my last airplane. There are a lot worse ways to ride into the sunset than via a Beechcraft Baron. That said, if the new FAA authorization bill passes with an increased max takeoff weight increase for BasicMed, you might find me in another airplane. For now, though, I’ll be learning—and leaning—the P-Baron with inquisitiveness and gratefulness.

I’m not dead yet, people.

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

The post Learning (and Leaning) a New Airplane Is Always a Rich Experience appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

If you had asked me last month, my feelings might have been a bit more mixed. It is true that a P-Baron is the best fit for me and my family as I transition from flying our Cessna Citation CJ1 to an airplane that qualifies for BasicMed. I could not find a version of my old love, a Cessna 340, that fit the BasicMed takeoff weight requirement, so the smaller, sportier Baron was the best choice. A fabulous airplane to be sure, but it ain’t no CJ1, if you know what I mean. It felt like leaving a high-end restaurant for a serviceable mid-level eatery—the food is still good, but the surroundings aren’t quite as sumptuous; not to mention losing the speed, altitude, and reliability of a jet. So, it’s out of Ruth’s Chris and over to Outback Steakhouse.

Thus resigned, a search was launched and advice was sought. Not many P-Barons with modern control yokes (1984 models and later) and good avionics were out there. After I had suffered a few false starts, an alert mechanic told me about an airplane coming to market. The owner had confided to his A&P that he just wasn’t using the airplane enough to warrant continued ownership. He would ask for a reasonable price.

I called the owner, Joe Kolshak, only to discover he was that Joe Kolshak, former heavy-equipment pilot turned executive vice president at not one but two major airlines. Kolshak revealed himself to be my kind of guy—straightforward, reasonable, and responsive. I agreed to his asking price pending a prebuy inspection. A few days later, I found myself getting off an airliner in Atlanta and taking an Uber to Peachtree-Dekalb Airport (KPDK), where Kolshak’s wife, Ann, was waiting to take me to his hangar.

After introductions, we climbed aboard and headed to Lakeland, Florida, with Kolshak at the controls. When I say “climbed” aboard, I mean just that. You enter the flight deck via the right wing. My initial attempts could not be classified as graceful…or even safe.

Once underway, we climbed to 11,000 feet and started to dodge thunderstorms. This was, I must say, even easier than in the CJ1 in the sense that the Garmin G600 and GTN 750 with SiriusXM weather gave a very clear depiction of the buildups. It goes without saying, though, the speed at which you can circumnavigate thunderstorms in a jet surpasses that of a P-Baron. We didn’t suffer a bump, though, and landed gracefully two hours later.

The prebuy went smoothly. My go-to shop in Lakeland (Double M Aviation) found some minor issues, but its owner, Mike Naab, told me, “It’s a very nice airplane!” Kolshak and I agreed on his asking price minus the estimated costs for the airworthiness discrepancies and the annual, which was due. We both signed a contract that was significantly shorter than the one used to sell the CJ1. No lawyers, no brokers, just two guys agreeing to transfer ownership of an almost 40-year-old airplane. Like I said, my kind of guy.

• READ MORE: Moving on from the ‘It’ Airplane

Tucker at Wenk Aviation Insurance, whom I’ve used for more than 40 years, found insurance. It wasn’t cheap, but the market for insurance for 77-year-old pilots, regardless of type ratings, currency, or total hours, is ugly. He recommended Wright Aviation for initial training that was insurance approved. When I queried its website, I got a call from Tye Jones, and we set a date for training with Todd Underwood, who is based close to home in Florida.

When I went to call Jones again, I noticed his phone number read “Colorado Springs.” Funny, I was headed there that day. When we spoke, I asked if he was indeed in KCOS. “Yes,” he said. A pilot for SkyWest Airlines, he’s based in KCOS and works for Wright as well. “I’ll pick you up at the airport and drive you to your hotel,” he offered.

It came to pass. Jones gave up his time during rush hour. This never happened at CAE, Flight Safety, or SimCom. We had a delightful drive, and I came home ready to get started. I memorized gear extension speeds, flap speeds, minimum control speed in the air with one engine inoperative, and turbulent air speed, among others.

On the appointed day, I met Underwood at Lakeland. Naab hooked up a power cart, and we rehearsed the use of fabulous avionics: the Garmin GTN 750 and G600. At 11:27 a.m., I did my first takeoff in a Baron. We headed north and climbed above the customary cumulous that aggregates over the Florida peninsula in summer. After steep turns, stalls (clean and dirty), single-engine demonstrations, and three landings at an uncontrolled field, I was exhausted, but there was more to come. Almost three hours later, I crawled onto the wing and headed for the water fountain. My dismount was risible. Next time, I plan to come off the wing face-first—I’ll leave it at that.

After more training and some weight and balance work in ForeFlight, Underwood cut me loose and left me with one important lesson soldered into my brain. He is a jet jockey, too, so he knows how I had been accustomed to removing my hand from the throttles after the CJ1 reached V1, the so-called decision speed. It is said in the jet world that after V1 you are going flying, pretty much no matter what. He reminded me that I hadn’t flown a piston airplane in 25 years and that single-engine flight just after takeoff is a dangerous thing in a light twin.

“What do you do when you hear a loud bang after liftoff, and the airplane starts to roll to the right?” Underwood asked. Unprepared mentally, I said control the roll with aileron and rudder, identify the dead engine, and feather the propeller on the dead engine. He pointed out that with full power on one side, I might be upside down and dead by the time I managed to perform these simple tasks. “Reduce power on operating engine,” he said. “At least you’ll have a controlled wings level crash…and you might just make it.”

Three days later, my friend, Tom, and I flew home to Sheltair in Tampa. Photos were taken, smiles flashed, and congratulations offered. Still, I kept thinking of Underwood’s advice—and that really high-end restaurant.

This column first appeared in the September 2023/Issue 941 of FLYING’s print edition.

The post Getting to Know That New-to-You Airplane appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

A long-awaited Christmas holiday vacation with the grandkids in New Hampshire loomed without any hope of flying there. But then, what to my wondering eyes should appear, but my flying buddy, Bill Albert. Some people say you can tell if you have a close friendship by asking yourself, would I ask this person to pick me up at the airport? How about, would I ask this guy to drive a rental car from Orlando to Tampa, fly with me to Lebanon, New Hampshire (KLEB), and take an airline home the next day? Bill and I have flown CJ1s, -2s, and -3s together. He’s on my insurance policy. He volunteered to help Cathy, me, and our dog Rocco go to New England for the holidays. He is that kind of friend.

Only one problem: a giant weather system featuring heavy rain, high winds, and snow straddled the route. Furthermore, the forecast for Lebanon for the next two days was more blizzard than blue sky. By the time Bill got to Tampa, we had realized that we’d better arrange for him to get back to Orlando that night, or he would be our house guest for the foreseeable future. We found a flight from Lebanon to Boston, Massachusetts, at 1:13 p.m. that same day. If we got the 1,200 nautical miles behind us by 12:30, he might make it.

I had not flown in six weeks. In fact, I hadn’t even visited the airplane. Loss of single-pilot insurance meant we were selling the jet. Like a jilted lover, I didn’t even want to see her. This airplane that I have loved so was no longer going to be mine. I could not look her in the eye. Bill was a soothing compatriot. In the FBO, we looked at the radar together. Thunderstorms perched just north of Tampa and obstructed our path. We planned to ask for vectors to the east so as to climb to a safe altitude, turn on the ship’s radar, and head north, picking our way through.

This was not to be. After takeoff, we were given a heading of 360 degrees and step-climbed to 23,000 feet. Though we were in dark clouds, the radar didn’t show much, and our Nexrad information confirmed that the savvy Jacksonville Center controllers were threading us through some light spots. We broke out at 35,000 feet. 

Tailwinds materialized as we turned northeast and climbed to flight level 410. Fat, dumb, and happy, we were on top and amused ourselves by listening to the complaining airliners banging it out at FL 350. Speaking of complaints, Bill listened with his sympathetic ear to my whining about losing the airplane of my life. After a good hour of this, I realized I needed to acknowledge how lucky my life has been. I have had a great ride, but this restriction seems unrelated to my experience, abilities, and aviation decision-making capabilities.

Sure enough, our destination was holding up with VFR visibility. When Boston Center turned us over to the KLEB tower, Bill’s first words were, “Can you check on the 1:15 Cape Air to Boston for a passenger named Albert?” The tower acknowledged our position, and gave us the visual to Runway 36, but said that he thought the Cape Air flight had already left. Uh oh. On final, the tower said, “Oh, I see it, there is another Boston flight in about 30 minutes.” We landed, taxied in, and I dove headfirst into a crew car to get Bill around the field for the Cape Air check-in.

After unloading Cathy, the luggage, and the dog, we went back around the field to check on Bill. He was getting bored waiting to board. That night, we got 20 inches of snow. The airport was closed for two days. Bill got home by 9 p.m., exhausted, no doubt.

Three weeks later, how were we to get home to Tampa? The answer was the same (thanks, Bill), though the choreography was less propitious. Bill arrived by airline at 1:30 p.m., and by 2:00, we were in the cockpit. The tower said that there were ground stops for flights into Florida. Something about a computer issue at Miami Center and the effect on ERAM (En Route Automation Modernization program). Our EDCT (estimated departure clearance time) was 5 hours hence. We went back to our cottage, turned on the heat and the water, and built a fire in the fireplace.

Next day showed clouds with rain beginning early, so we planned our getaway accordingly. By now, headwinds had ruled out a nonstop to Tampa. We climbed to FL 380 and peeked in and out of clouds. Two and a half hours later, we landed for fuel in Savannah, Georgia (KSAV). During that long, slow leg, we talked about lots of things. I thought of my two friends who had unknowingly flown their retirement flights. One never flew an airliner again because of a medical issue, the other because of COVID. 

Refueled, we landed at home base, KVDF, at noon. Bill took an Uber home. As I resettled, I learned that during the preceding six days, two Phenom 300s had crashed. Both had two-pilot crews younger than I am, a fact not lost on me. The next day, a friend pointed out that perhaps the KSAV to KVDF leg had been my retirement flight. There were no balloons, no water cannon, and no glowing tributes. I guess that could be true at any time for any of us.

This article was originally published in the April 2023, Issue 936 of  FLYING.

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Answer: The answer to this question can appear to be complicated unless you enjoy reading FAA regulations for personal amusement.

FAR 61.58 states: “Except as otherwise provided in this section, to serve as pilot in command of an aircraft that is type certificated for more than one required pilot flight crew member or is turbojet powered, a person must—

1) Within the preceding 12 calendar months complete a pilot-in–command proficiency check in an aircraft that is type certificated…”

• READ MORE: Is a Handheld Radio Required for Flying?

The regulation goes on to say that the proficiency check may be conducted by a “person authorized by the Administrator, to include aeronautical knowledge areas, areas of operations and tasks required for a type rating in an aircraft that is type certificated.”

Or “…a check or test may be accomplished in a flight simulator under Part 142…”

As an owner-operator of a Cessna Citation CJ1, this basically means a yearly check ride, the so-called “sixty-one/fifty-eight.” This can be conducted in the airplane or in an approved flight simulator. A number of training centers qualify for the Cessna Citation series. Slots for proficiency checks typically last three days and may be hard to find as demand for general aviation turbojet flights has increased since the COVID pandemic, and pilots are finding new jobs on new equipment or with the airlines. The cost for a single pilot 61.58 for a CJ1 is $6,500 to $8,000. Heavier, more complex airplanes are more expensive

• READ MORE: How Often Do Airliners Go Around?

Do you have a question about aviation that’s been bugging you? Ask us anything you’ve ever wanted to know about aviation. Our experts in general aviation, flight training, aircraft, avionics, and more may attempt to answer your question in a future article.

This column was originally published in the February 2023 Issue 934 of FLYING.

The post What Does a Pilot Require To Remain Current in an Aircraft Requiring a Type Rating? appeared first on FLYING Magazine.

I called LOFT Aero in California and arranged for “recurrent,” or a “61.58” in FAA speak. This provided an excuse to fly from my summer digs in New Hampshire to the West Coast, with some intriguing stops in Montana, Colorado, and New Mexico. How much fun is that?

Little did I know how basically “philosophical” this itinerary would be. There were several themes that presented themselves over the nine days away from home, including luck, expectation, privilege, and a sense of gathering clouds, both real and existential. There is something about the serenity of smooth, level flight that begets rumination.

The first stop was to visit my brother, Steve, and his wife, Rhonda, in Big Sky, Montana. Steve’s a retired pediatric surgeon who has morphed into a ski patroller on a fabulous mountain. Rhonda is a retired NICU nurse who teaches yoga in several mountain resorts. It is the Rockies, for sure.

Our first stop was for fuel in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Our direct route took us into Canadian airspace. Is it my imagination, or do Canadian controllers sound more like American ATC folks now? Premier Jet Center at Flying Cloud (KFCM) whisked us along with a top off. All stops on this trip were planned to use CAA (Corporate Aircraft Association) fuel prices. This group is for Part 91 turbine operations and almost always has the best fuel prices around.

The next leg, to Bozeman, Montana, was 30 minutes shorter but promised some thunderstorm activity upon arrival. That wasn’t the only challenging weather on this leg. My wife, Cathy, has been a super supporter of spending money on this dream jet of mine. The only trouble is, she’s a fearful flyer. Always has been, always will be. She’s afraid the airplane will come apart. Here’s the rub: She doesn’t want to be left behind and insists on flying with me, only to be terrified while in flight. The banging we got on arrival into Bozeman only certified her worry. We got shellacked. The airport got turned around, runway-wise, when we were on the downwind, so several course changes in punishing chop were necessary to land safely. I’ll admit, if I hadn’t had Part 135 flying experience, I would have been frightened too. But those days taught me what a pilot and machine can do. My brother met us with a big smile, but it took Cathy awhile to enter the conversation.

After a terrific visit, we set out for Colorado Springs, Colorado (KCOS), where the Garden of the Gods and the Peppertree Restaurant didn’t disappoint. This leg featured a tailwind. While we were lucky to see ground speeds of 340 knots on the way west, eastbound on this leg featured lots of 430-plus-knot sightings. The weather was again great, and soon Runway 26R was in my sights. The CJ1 lands like a dream, thanks to trailing link landing gear—another gift from the engineering geniuses at Cessna. Colorado looked vibrant. Lots of ads for marijuana, which is legal there. Maybe that’s why the people looked happy, and the bars were full.

KCOS to KCRQ (Carlsbad) in Southern California is just over two hours with good weather at both ends. The only trouble was the line of cumulus that forms over the Sierra Nevada Mountains that guarded our arrival. This picket fence of cloud meant more turbulence and another dinner conversation about keeping the jet.

LOFT Aero was a pleasant surprise. The simulator is really nice and the instructors were very experienced and informative. My classmates were great also. Often, I learn as much from them as I do from the instructors. With my “61.58” in hand, we headed to Santa Fe, NewMexico, to visit an old friend.

Now, gifted with tailwinds and another good flying day, my thoughts turned to fortune. I’ve known Ellyn since 1970, when I met her and her husband, Rob, during our surgical internship. We became fast friends and, despite never living in the same town together again, we stayed that way. Rob was a talented neurosurgeon and a widely read intelligent man who liked to fly fish, climb mountains, and play squash. He was always in better shape than me, but he died over a year ago of a form of dementia. Physical fitness can’t beat some conditions.

Ellyn’s brave resolve and unfailing Santa Fe generosity lifted our spirits and on the next morning, we set out for home, KLEB, in Lebanon, New Hampshire, some 1,700 nm distant. There was just one cloud over the entire route, the weather everywhere else was pristine. As we rolled around the TAFOY2 departure  designed to gain altitude before heading over theSangre de Cristo Mountains, I could sense a slump in my feeling of well-being.

Our insurance on the airplane gets renewed in October, and I know that my age is likely to make single pilot operations untenable. Though I’m unaware of any actuarial evidence that a 77-year-old, single-engine pilot with an ATP certificate, type ratings, and 7,000 flight hours—2,000 in jets—is more dangerous than the crew that flew a race car driver’s Cessna Latitude into the ground, I can hear the hoofbeats of curtailment approaching quickly.

In addition to insurance worries, there is always the FAA. Though my single-eye glaucoma has been treated with a surgical drain, such that I don’t need drops anymore, Oklahoma City has maintained that I need to provide lots of ophthalmology evidence every year. My Class II certificate says “not good after June 30, 2023.”

Level at 370, doing a nice 420 knots over the ground, I asked for 5 degrees right to avoid that one cloud. It was a tall one, over 45,000 feet and best left alone. Musings came naturally. How can I convince the FAA to leave me alone? What’s next for me in life and in the air?

As I watched the farms of Kansas slide by, I thought about our trip. I thought about how lucky I have been to have flown Part 135 and learned about jets. How privileged I am to be able to afford this beauty I was sitting in. Why am I alive in the flight levels when some of my hardworking, honest, fit friends are already gone?

I’ve been unforgivably lucky. Two great professions, many great friends, and a fabulous family. The clouds I’m fearing are the sign that some or all of this will be ending. Maybe not now, but someday. God, I will miss this.

As my friend Larry says, “You’ve been blessed and highly favored.”

This article was originally published in the December 2022/January 2023 Issue 933 of FLYING.

The post The Emotional, Philosophical Journey to a Pilot Proficiency Check appeared first on FLYING Magazine.