Introduction
I spent several years teaching in a boarding school in
Arizona, about half way between Tucson and Phoenix. While there I bought Microsoft Flight
Simulator to play on my IBM PC. This turned out to be a surprisingly sophisticated
game. It included navigational radios
and the various land-based beacons that pilots use for navigation. Trying to control the plane with the keyboard
proved difficult, and the type of joystick available at the time didn’t provide
the right feel, so I bought a yoke that would plug into the computer and clamp
onto the edge of my desk. It adjusted
the ailerons by pushing and pulling and the rudder by turning, just like a real
plane.
I got pretty good at basic flying. I would trim the plane
to maintain altitude and approximate heading
then go to dinner. When I
returned I’d use the nav radios to figure out where I was, find the nearest
airport and land. Well, I’d try to land
at the airport. Though I was pretty good
with the flying part, I could not land other than by gliding down to the
ground—which took four or five times more space than the length of a long
runway—and even then I sometimes crashed.
I worked at it but could not get the hang of landing, so finally I
decided to really learn how. I went out
to the local airport and signed up for flying lessons.
I don’t remember how long it took before I soloed, but my instructor, Frank, estimated that I had about five hours’ worth of “stick time” from flying
the simulator. Taking off and basic flying were no problem, other than having
to constantly monitor the gauges. But landing was another story. Just like on
the simulator.
I got ok at the approach—not great, but ok—but I was
having a hell of a time recognizing when to do the final flare. See, the concept is that you’re coasting in
just above stall speed, and when you’re a few feet above the runway you pull
back on the yoke, raising the front of the airplane, and thereby inducing a
stall, and the plane drops gently onto
all three wheels. But I just couldn’t judge when that moment came.
One night after an afternoon of practicing landings I was
lying in bed going over the procedure, reliving the experience, and I got this
visceral sensation of falling at the moment when it was time to do the final
flare. That was it! I knew when to flare: when it feels like the
bottom has dropped out—like I’m suddenly falling. The next day I went to the airport knowing
that I would be able to land successfully and take my first solo. And it was so.
Before learning to fly I could only land my simulator if
I had a virtually unlimited runway, even with a small prop plane. After learning to fly a real plane, on the
simulator I could land a Lear jet on an aircraft carrier.
I wrote the following shortly after the event described, in 1985.
Solo Flight
A five knot cross wind prevented my going out solo
immediately. Frank, my instructor, went up with me to do a couple of
touch-and-goes first. My crosswind technique was atrocious, but on the third
landing he said to drop them off. “Are you sure?” I asked. “Those were really
rotten landings.” I had flown solo only once before.
He assured me that if I had to I could land normally,
because the wind was so light. “But practice your slips while you’re up there,”
he added.1
As Frank left the plane, he said, “Just stay on this side
of the highway so if you get lost you can find the way home. Come back in about
20 minutes.”
So off I went. I
headed east, out of the landing pattern, and found the road to line up on to
practice slips. The desert is well-suited for this sort of drill, because all
the roads are absolutely straight and flat. Mountains punctuate every horizon,
but between them there is not so much as a hill. This is the Casa Grande
Valley, in southern Arizona. It’s January, but even this time of year the
ground gets warm enough in the middle of the day to cause turbulence in the
air. Because of that and my teaching schedule, I always fly in the late
afternoon.
After slipping back and forth above the road for about 15
minutes, I turned west, toward the airport. At least I thought it was toward
the airport. The sky was very hazy, particularly looking into the 5:30 sun. I
didn’t see the airport. Going back and forth over the road maybe I ended up
further south that I started. I could see a town to the north. Perhaps it was
Eloy. I turned north to check it out. It didn’t look right, and I didn’t see an
airport in the appropriate location relative to it. Maybe it’s Coolidge, I thought.
If this is Coolidge that the highway is way off to the west. If it’s Eloy the
highway should be immediately west of town. But I have trouble identifying
interstate highways from above the desert. There’s a big road down there, but
it doesn’t look like it has exit and entrance ramps.
Well, I couldn’t make up my mind whether it was Coolidge
or not, but I decided it couldn’t be Eloy, and something else was bothering me
about that time: on the radio I had been hearing a lot of traffic coming going
at the Coolidge airport, and if this was
Coolidge, then there was an airport down there somewhere with planes coming and
going constantly, and I could see neither the airport nor the planes. I didn’t
like the idea of learning emergency avoidance maneuvers right that minute, so I
figured the best thing to do was to get out of town before sunset — which was
rapidly approaching.
Flying south, I recognized a lake to the southeast. That
meant Eloy should be south or southwest of me. But I couldn’t see it. Finally,
I called Eloy Unicom2 and asked for Frank. I figured that he’d be
out there watching me and listening in on the radio. But he wasn’t listening.
Someone did respond though. I told him I was trying to find Eloy and that I saw
this lake to my southeast. He said “That’s Pichacho Reservoir. Casa Grande is
west of there. Casa Grande VOR is 114.8. Eloy is on the 92 degree radial3.”
Frank has not taught me about the VOR, but my flight
simulator has one which I have fooled around with. So I turned the VOR to 114.8
and then I figured there were two ways I could approach the problem. One was to
adjust the heading indicator to tell me what course to head for Casa Grande,
steer that course until the little “to” indicator popped to “from” then set the
gizmo to 92 degrees and steer that course to Eloy. The other way I could do it
was to set the thing to 92 degrees right away and continue flying south (or
turn around and head north of the needle indicated that) until the Needle told
me I had intersected the 92 degree radial. Then I could steer the reciprocal 92
degrees (272) and eventually pass over Eloy — or miss it because I intersected
the radial west of Eloy.
I figured Casa Grande was a long way out of the way, so I
opted for Plan B. Besides, the worst thing that could happen would be that I
would end up at Casa Grande, and then I could switch to plan A. Piece of cake,
right? Well, maybe, but….
You’ve got to understand something about this plane and
flying. Now and then something is not working just the way it should. For
instance there’s a little ball in a curved glass tube that’s supposed to tell
you whether you’re skidding, slipping, or in coordinated flight4. It
has little marks that indicate where the middle of the tube is — where the ball
should be. But the thing is put on crooked so that if the ball is in the
middle, you are skidding left or slipping right5. Another thing: for
a while there was a little problem with the electrical system: the alternator
didn’t work. We had to turn the power off once we got out of the pattern so we
would have some battery left for when we landed. There are a couple of things
that run on electricity that didn’t work when we did that. Like the radios and
lights, and some of the instruments. Frank would charge the battery before
flying, but sometimes it didn’t get enough charge to use the starter motor, or
maybe he wanted to save power, so we would play WWI fly boy. He would go around
the front of the plane and shout “contact!” I would check back “contact!” that
he would grab a propeller blade and spin it. When a cylinder fired, I would
jockey the throttle till she was running. Pretty neat stuff, and a real good
education, but the point is that all this did not exactly inspire my confidence
in the airplane.
So where were we? Oh yes, somewhere on the 92 degree
radial, heading for Casa Grande. Well to put it bluntly, I missed Eloy. But I
did find the highway6.
Yes, it was getting to be a nice sunset, but with the
haze and all. Kind of a glowing-pink-all-over type sunset. Sunsets from the
air, particularly in the desert, are really beautiful, but I was thinking more
of what inevitably follows a sunset: darkness!
However, I was comforted by the highway. All I had to do
now was find the Toltec Road exit and “drive” to the airport. I knew how to do
that. But I had to know whether to head north or south. If I really am on the
92° radial from Casa Grande, I was thinking, then I should see where Interstate
8 forks off from Interstate 10. In fact it should be right in front of me.
Well, I didn’t see it. Do you think that I decided that it really was there and
I just didn’t notice it? Do you think I thought my calculations were off? Or do
you think that I decided that the VOR was off? If you guessed number three then
you remember the paragraph that began, “you’ve got to understand…” (Or you know
me). I couldn’t decide whether to head north or south. I flipped a mental coin
and went north. I figured that at 100 mph, I’ve got to see something I recognize
pretty soon. I didn’t. I headed south. Same problem. There were some mountains
back north, with a town to the west of them. That configuration looked a lot
like Casa Grande. But, it was quite a bit to the north, which didn’t seem
right.
“Eloy Unicom, this is Cessna four-eight-three-six-oh.”
“Three-six-oh, this is Eloy.”
“Is Frank there?”
“I’m next door. I’ll go check.”
After a pause, I heard Frank’s familiar Western drawl.
“Bob, where are you?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you!”
“What do you see?”
I described the scenery, with particular attention to the
mountains and rapidly setting sun.
“Don’t worry. You have at least two hours of fuel left.”
“I hadn’t even thought about fuel. I was thinking about
light… Or the impending lack thereof. Frank, I’m officially scared!”
“Well, when it gets dark you will be able to see the
airport beacon. Then it will be easy to get home.”
“Frank…”
“Yes, Bob?”
“I’ve never landed at night before.”
“What’s your altitude?”
“2500 feet.” (I had wondered from my intended 3000 while
concentrating on the VOR and such stuff.”
“Do a spiral climb to 4500 and call me back when you get
there.”
Oh boy. Turns-about-a-point. I know how to do them. This
will give me something to concentrate on while killing precious time.
“Bob?” (It was taking forever.) ”What’s your altitude?”
“4000.”
“Okay, I want you to write down a few numbers.”
Frank told me the radio frequency of Eloy Unicom, and of
Albuquerque Center. He said, “Now I want you to turn your transponder to 7700
and call Albuquerque Center. Tell them you’re lost and looking for Eloy.”
All right, I’ve had a good time, but I’m tired of this
game now. I think I’ll just get out and walk
home. Hmmm, I’m at 4000 feet. Well, maybe I’ll play just a little longer. But
Frank has told me about transponder frequency 7700. That means emergency! What are you telling me,
Frank?
I followed Frank instructions, but Albuquerque couldn’t
hear me. Why should they? They’re 450 miles away! I tried again and they
responded, but not clearly. I was still climbing, and before long we could
communicate. (Wow, that’s amazing, I thought. Albuquerque is a long way away!
Earth curvature saves the day!) I told Albuquerque what Frank had said to say
and they asked me to tune my transponder to another frequency (so they could
get an absolutely positive fix of me).
“Cessna three-six-oh, you are one mile northwest of Eloy.”
How embarrassing! Totally lost and only a mile from home!
I headed Southeast and started searching for the airport.
“Cessna three-six-oh, what is your heading?”
“110 degrees.”
“Correct to 145 degrees”
When I got around to 145 degrees, I saw the beacon – dead
ahead! “Albuquerque, this is Cessna three-six-oh. I see the beacon. I’m switching
the transponder back to 1200 and tuning to Eloy Unicom. Thanks for your help.”
“Albuquerque out.”
The ground was monochromatic black. Only the revolving
white and green lights indicated an airport, though I was practically right
over it. I had 3000 feet of extra altitude to dump in a hurry. I was
disinclined to take my eyes off that comforting beacon — I had spent so much
time trying to find it.
“Eloy Unicom, this is Cessna four-eight-three-six-oh
entering a right downwind for landing on runway oh-two.”
“Welcome home, three-six-oh. We missed you.” It was the
woman who had gone to get Frank. I would
have to thank her in person later.
“Bob, turn around and land on two-oh9.” That
was Frank. Why did he want me to do that? I was more familiar with oh-two and
what little wind was left slightly favored it. And I was already in the pattern
and boy, was it dark out! But, I turned around and came in on the opposite
approach.
On the downwind leg I had no trouble, but when I turned
base10, I could barely see my estimates. You see, what little light
there was came from the west, and on downwind that light was behind me,
eliminating the instruments. Now it was from the side.
When I turned final, I could not see them at all. I
leaned as far forward as my shoulder harness would let me to check by airspeed.
Don’t get below 60 or you’re a pancake,
kid. Concentrate on the airspeed and altitude;
I was wandering all over the place. I’ve done approaches like this on the simulator,
and they all end up in crashes.
Gee, I think I’ll go around. Full throttle, carburetor heat
off, flaps up, yoke back a bit, go to the right of the runway. Okay, this time
I’m going all the way around the pattern. I’ve done this hundreds of times before.
(Would you believe 50?) On
downwind, I searched for instrument lights, but couldn’t find them. Oh well.
Punt!
Don’t rely on the instruments, Frank always says. Judge
it by look, feel, and sound. Look at the
angle of the cowling to the horizon. At
least I could see a dim line of light on the horizon. (Frank explained later that that was why he
wanted me to land on two-oh: I could see the horizon while landing.) Now, keep this thing going straight. (Small
corrections, turkey.) Two columns of
lights marked the sides of the runway. Keep the plane going straight and between
those lights. Okay, now wait to feel the bottom drop out. (That’s how I
represent myself when to pull back on the yoke to get the nose up for
touchdown.) Okay, now! Not too far – you
don’t want to stall here! But keep
pulling. You know that’s your weakness. You don’t adjust for lost lift at this point. Keep pulling!
I even hit the first third of the runway, the way it’s
supposed to be done! Okay, I hit just a bit hard, but no more so than some
other times. Taxiing to the far end of
the runway, I pried my hands from the yoke and dried them on my pants. Calmly watching the ground go by, I basked in
the awkward jolts of an airplane rolling on the ground. On the taxiway I suddenly
thought to take my dark glasses off. Another half hour and it will be dark.
Notes
¹
In a crosswind landing you let the plane slip sideways
relative to the wind so that it flies straight relative to the ground. You end
up landing on one wheel then easing down onto the other two.
² Unicom is the
open frequency which is monitored at airports without a control tower. Most
uncontrolled airports use the same frequency, and when you call a Unicom
station anybody or nobody may respond. It’s rather haphazard.
³ VOR stands for Very high frequency Omnidirectional Range.
VOR stations send out signals that make it possible to determine how many
degrees it is either to or from that station.
4 In a skid, the tail of the plane is turning
faster than the nose, so the plane is “spinning out” as a car might do when
turning in snow. In a slip, the plane slides sideways and down. Coordinated
flight is when neither of these other two conditions is present.
5 depending upon whether you are banked left
or right.
6 As I sit here typing, I realized that had I
just headed 272 degrees from there I would’ve found Eloy, because I know the
highway is west of Eloy. However, 20/20 hindsight is fine for the armchair
pilot, but you put your can at 3000 feet and watch the sun go down and think of
all the right things at the right time!
7 The armchair pilot who is typing this says
that there is no other town that sits in that relation to the highway and
mountains between Picacho and Phoenix, and if I had been that close to Picacho
Peak, I would surely would have seen it, even with the haze. Therefore he reasons,
it had to have been Casa Grande, but
I just told the armchair pilot to shut up – he wasn’t there.
8 The transponder is a device that sends a
signal which is picked up by radar. With this, your plane appears on the screen
is a number rather than a blip. It makes positive identification by radar
possible.
9 Adding a zero to the end of the runway
number gives the compass degrees that runway heads. 02 and 20 are opposite ends
of the same strip, and the only strip at the Eloy Airport.
10 90 degrees to the runway, just before
turning to the final approach.