I'm now a private pilot!

Ah, that last blog post smell ... today was the day!

At the last minute 9UL became available, so I scrambled to reserve it and get a checkride scheduled. Everything fell into place perfectly, so this morning at 10 am I was at the airport with Stephen, ready to go. Cumulus clouds towered into the sky, portending a bumpy ride. We took off and headed north for Gnoss. Low-level clouds meant that I enjoyed a flight over Oakland at only 1,000 feet above the ground. I may have to fly my departures like this all the time.

Over San Pablo the sky was clear and I climbed to 3,000 feet and prepared to enter the pattern at Gnoss. Stephen talked me through the best strategy for doing it, and I pulled it off reasonably well, making a short-field landing. I then departed for Sonoma Valley, an airport I had never been to.

Sonoma Valley Airport was just over a ridge of hills. Its runway is so small that I had to make two entries, as I lost sight of it the first time. When I turned final, I truly realized just how pencil-thin the runway was.

"Wow ... that's a hell of a runway," I couldn't help but say. Stephen told me to show him a go-around, and I was somewhat relieved. We then departed for Petaluma, where I made another good pattern entry, landed, and taxied to parking. We grabbed a bite to eat at the Two-Niner Diner, chatted about all things aviation (including the future of the Alameda Aero Club, which unfortunately looks bleak), then returned to the plane to depart. I got a weather briefing over the phone; the briefer said that low-level clouds were obscuring hills and mountains, and he didn't recommend VFR flight. Stephen said we'd be fine.

As we flew over Santa Rosa on the way to Healdsburg, it looked like he was right: The clouds were 2,500 feet off the ground and well clear of any hills. Due to a misunderstanding, I accidentally busted Santa Rosa's airspace. Stephen wasn't pleased. I got to enjoy a picturesque final approach at Healdsburg again, even if it was a bumpy one, then took off for Cloverdale. At Cloverdale I practiced the pattern entry one more time, then demonstrated my new "aeronautical decision-making skills" to Stephen by telling him I felt fatigued, and it was time to go back. He was mightily pleased that I was able to recognize it now, instead of just ignoring it.

Santa Rosa's runway 14 was out for maintenance, so Tower was scrambling to fit everyone on runway 19. I made a short-field landing and taxied off at the first exit to the Jet Center, where this time we let the attendants fuel the plane, instead of doing it ourselves. Since we were hours early, Stephen and I retired in the pilot's lounge and fell asleep on their big, cushy chairs. Commercial pilots do a lot of waiting around when they're not flying, and don't get a whole lot of sleep, so every FBO generally has a place where they can wait and/or sleep. This one had a nice little board games collection, which was promptly ignored to get some Z's. The sleep helped clear my mind and prepare myself for the checkride.

When Steve did arrive, he was clearly in a big hurry. We rushed through the paperwork, and he told me to preflight expediently while he kept a casual eye on me. He said we didn't have a lot to do, so we'd just fly to Healdsburg, do a landing, then come back and call it a checkride. Who can disagree with that?

Ground gave me clearance to taxi to runway 19, where I did my takeoff. I had forgotten that it was supposed to be a soft-field takeoff, and of course Steve isn't allowed to help me out, so I kind of fudged it and transitioned into a soft-field takeoff as I rolled down the runway. He seemed to buy it though.

I did my best to stay calm and in control as I made my northward departure. Steve was looking everywhere. I remember Tuesday he told me to "use your people skills and keep an eye on your examiner. If he looks scared, you know you're doing something wrong." The problem is, when Steve cranes his neck to look every which way, it's hard to tell if it's fear or just vigilance. In this case it was merely vigilance, but I worried. Since Santa Rosa was busy, there were a lot of planes nearby, and honestly I think I sort of lost my situational awareness for a while on climb-out, but we managed to get out without almost hitting anyone.

I descended into Healdsburg, crossed over the field, then headed southeast of the field to prepare for a long, easy, slow entry into the pattern. I had no intention of rushing it. Steve stopped me before I'd barely begun, though, and said, "OK, you know what you're doing. Let's get out of here." So, I departed the pattern and gave Santa Rosa a call again.

"Skyhawk 739UL, Santa Rosa tower, remain clear of class-delta for now, we got guys working the runways, they're gonna shut the runways down for about 10 minutes, I'll get you your landing clearance after that." It was an unusual radio call.

With 10 minutes to kill, Steve said, "Give me the controls. Want a tour? I love to fly." I let him take control of the plane, and he took me over wine country, pointing out local rivers and lakes. He was eager to float over countryside and clearly loved his hometown.

"I'm not sure if this is a good idea, or not ... but can I ask you a question?"
"Sure, anything."
"Do you promise you didn't cut my checkride short because I screwed something up?" Honestly, I was pretty worried that was the case.
Steve laughed. "No, you did great. Were you worried?"
"Well, my soft-field..." I didn't want to admit I knew that I did it wrong, because Steve would be forced to assess that. Fortunately, Steve had already come to a different conclusion. "Yeah, you gotta work with what the control tower gives you. I know you'd do a perfect soft-field takeoff if tower had let you."

Whew. Yeah, I like that. It's the control tower's fault. I can go with that.

Tower gave us permission to land, and Steve continued to fly the plane right up to the airport, where he gave it back to me and asked me to do a soft-field landing. Tower, however, asked me to do a short-field landing. Steve was not content to let tower override him again, so he had a simple solution: "Make it both a short- and soft-field landing." Yeah, alright.

I came into the runway behind a Bonanza, but at 250 feet or so above the runway Tower told me to go around. Steve immediately seized the opportunity and watched me like a hawk as I performed the go-around procedure. Fortunately I did it fine, and re-entered the pattern for a second landing. Steve and I had no idea why Tower wanted us to go around, but whatever. Steve didn't mind the opportunity for a real-life test.

So I made my short-and-soft-field landing on 19 eventually, and taxied back to the Jet Center. Steve signed my logbook, gave me my temporary certificate and a kitschy little placard, said a quick congratulations, and was on his way. He obviously wanted to get home, but he did mention he was proud. I grabbed Stephen, still in the pilot's lounge.

"I'm a pilot. Let's get out of here." He shook my hand and congratulated me. Stephen had been listening to me over the radio and was surprised at how short the checkride was. I told him that Steve burned through it.

I flew back with Stephen, a nice leisurely flight over the North Bay down to Oakland. Stephen offered one last lesson for me.

"Want me to show you how to land on 33?" I had been wanting this lesson for a while.

"Definitely."

So we got our clearance to land on 33. Stephen talked me through the process. I made a low pass over 27R at 200 feet or so, then turned final to 33 and landed right next to the Old T's. It was quite a dramatic landing, and a great way to finish my last day as a student pilot and my first day as a private pilot.

I thanked Stephen for all the instructing I did, and said I'd see him around. I want to get my instrument rating next, after I've had a few months' rest and flying just for fun ... but I probably won't blog that. Writing these posts has been fun, but it's enough to do it once.

And here we have it. The complete record, from sim jockey to private pilot, in 5 months. I hope you enjoyed reading about it. If there's any one piece of advice I can give you, no matter who you are, it would be to follow your dreams.

I don't believe in Heaven, and I feel that this life on Earth is the only life we've got. I would have never forgiven myself if I were on my deathbed without a pilot's license. So, if you have the time and money, I urge you to follow your dreams as well, because you will not get a second chance.

And finally ... give me a call if you want to go flying!!

Total Cost: $10,968.42
Total Time: 174 days (5 and a half months)
Total Hours: 65.6
Total Flights: 40

An e-mail from Stephen

Tim,

We have reached the point where the AAC only has one active plane. This leads me to point out to you another alternative for finishing up. I have hesitated to mention this because I wanted to be the instructor who signed you off, but the ridiculous situation at the AAC leaves me no alternative.

You could contact North Coast Aviation at STS, where Benedict has his office, and explain your situation to them. They would probably have an instructor who would be willing to instruct you on the pattern entry procedures and then sign you off for your checkride. You might be able to arrange it so that they instruct you in the morning and you do the checkride in the afternoon. You'd have to figure out how to get yourself to STS.

You may be interested to know that the present situation has convinced me what I have long suspected -- that I will not be able to build my flight training business around the AAC planes. I have been looking for a couple of 152s for over a year, and once I acquire them, I will be doing little instructing at the AAC.

Good luck!

Stephen

No, I didn't pass my checkride

Let's get that out of the way right now. I failed my checkride. I will have to do it again.

I arrived at the airport extra-early, giving me time to update my weather briefing and finish up my "homework." Stephen showed up shortly thereafter, and we left for Santa Rosa early to do some last-minute patternwork at the Santa Rosa airport. Stephen arrived with bad news about the airplane, though. Since this is a public blog, I won't go into details, but basically, I was left with two choices: I could be 100% perfectly legal, but take a course of action which would add unnecessary difficulties to my checkride ... or I could skirt the law a little without risking my checkride performance. Given that the risk was very minimal and I wasn't doing anything immoral (like cheating on the checkride or such), I ultimately decided to take the former course.

We departed IFR even though the sky was clearing up. Oakland's radar is out of service today so they constantly ask you where you are to keep track of everyone.

Stephen showed me a few things I could expect when I pursue my IFR certification. As we climbed through the thinning cloud layer, he said, "Your 0.1 hours of IMC is about to begin." The airplane passed through the clouds in a matter of seconds. "Your 0.1 hours of IMC is now over." Quaint.

I arrived at Santa Rosa and entered traffic for 19, where Stephen had me do some touch-and-goes. I feel like my soft-field landings are fine, so I made all of them short-field. They got progressively better and better. When we were satisfied, I landed, refueled the plane at the same place I sprained my ankle, and brought it to the Sonoma Jet Center.

We had initially planned on getting a lunch, but with only 30 minutes until my checkride, Stephen suggested we just wait in the lounge. So I bought a snack and passed the time, waiting for Steve to show up.

He did around 1 pm. Steve is a talkative fellow who has a habit of going on long tangents, making it hard to follow his train of thought. He brought me into a room where he finished up my paperwork, then had me retire to his office to begin the oral exam.

The oral was straightforward and easy. I got a few questions wrong here and there, but on the whole, it was clear I had done my reading. Steve was satisfied. He then spent a short time talking about a person's inability to judge his own actions. He mentioned a pilot he flew with today, who, during the oral, had sworn up and down he was a careful and safe pilot, but when the checkride came, ignored warnings that could have compromised his safety. He used this as an example: You can say you're safe, and you're attentive, but your subconscious mind has an interesting way of conveniently missing key pieces of evidence when it doesn't want to believe. The trick to really being a safe pilot is to be able to step back and realize when you're purposely convincing yourself that everything is fine.

It sounded straightforward at the time, but as I now know, saying is easier than doing. If you read this blog entry to the end (foreshadow time!), you'll see how his advice couldn't have come at a more fortuitous time, for I myself will have fallen victim to this same trap before the end of the day.

He watched casually as I preflighted the plane. We entered the aircraft together and he gave me a bit of a pep talk, then had me depart the area. I was nervous, and it was obviously preventing me from thinking straight, but I told myself to focus and take things one step at a time. It seemed to help.

We departed runway 14, and as I was climbing, I realized I hadn't prepared myself for the fake cross-country flight at all. Steve noticed this. "So ... what navigation are we using for this flight?" he asked.

"Umm ... dead reckoning," I said, while I scrambled to find my flight plan in my kneeboard. I took it out, unfolded it, and read off the first heading: 120. I turned to 120 and continued climbing.

"Excellent. You're on course and you're climbing to altitude. That's all I need to see: It tells me you can do dead reckoning. Now show me VOR navigation."

OK, my mind switched gears rapidly. I tuned, identified, and twisted the Scagg's Island VOR. He told me to use Santa Rosa instead. This got me mixed up and I turned the wrong radial in, but eventually I noticed my mistake and corrected it. This is all he needed: If you make a mistake, it's fine, so long as you correct it. Saying that you know you did it wrong isn't good enough. You have to make it right. (You can guess why I'm being so emphatic here...)

So, at 3,500 feet, he had me do slow flight. No problem. Stalls? Fuggedabout it. Steep turns? Well, I made a mistake with the trim wheel, but in the end I managed to salvage it, and I think I was within parameters the whole time. Either Steve didn't notice or didn't care, because he said my airwork was great.

He then had me divert to Petaluma. I dialed it into the GPS. He said GPS navigation is like "fish in a barrel, but it's equipment in the plane, so you can use it. Would have been nice to see you find your way using a sectional, but still ... There's a GPS in the plane, you can use it. End of story."

Over Petaluma he told me he wanted to see that I could make a safe entry into the Petaluma pattern. Stephen had always told me to overfly the field at 500 feet above pattern altitude, but on my last checkride Liz said I really should be doing it 1,000 feet above, so I overflew the field about 1,000 feet above the pattern altitude. I noted the windsock, picked out some traffic, and then began my descending turn to enter a right 45 for runway 29.

Petaluma was particularly busy today, so much so that the radio was a constant stream of chatter. I turned the wrong direction to enter my 45, and I was rushing it, so I made it very close to the field. Steve was listening intently to the radio and looking all around the airplane. Had I been paying attention, I would have noticed: He was scared. He knew I was coming up on another plane (heard the other guy over the radio) and I didn't, and he was scrambling to find that guy before it was too late.

I made a shitty turn to enter the 45, and since it was in the wrong direction, I was too close to the field, completely in the wrong place, and since I wasn't listening to the radio, I had no idea that I was coming right into the path of another airplane.

"Maybe I should have made a left turn," I said. This was it. This was the last moment I could have saved my checkride. Had I fixed it, instead of saying it, I would have gotten another opportunity. But since I continued my right turn, Steve drew the line.

"Climb to 2,200 feet immediately and depart the area," he said. Either I didn't believe or didn't want to believe that this was the moment my checkride ended (or my subconscious mind was choosing to ignore the evidence), so I simply followed the instruction as if it were part of the test.

"Look behind you," he said. I did. Another Cessna was passing behind us, uncomfortably close. "You cut him off! I was listening to him over the radio, I knew he was coming right for us. I was hoping you heard him too. You gotta stay sharp around uncontrolled airports, they're very dangerous. And you were right. You should have turned left -- why didn't you? I don't mean to pick on you, I really don't ... this is a learning experience."

Steve has a way of going off on tangents that made it seem less bad than it was. When he launched into another story, I settled back, still believing the test was on. He had me return to Santa Rosa, where he said we would practice short and soft-field landings. I found it odd that we weren't going to go to Petaluma after all, but I just put it out of my mind rather than think about the implications.

Back at Santa Rosa I demonstrated my ability to work in controlled airspace, and got my landing clearance. Steve told me we'd be doing some short- and soft-field landings on 14. He asked me to make a short-field landing for my first one. I did so, and it went well, and the plane touched down without a hitch.

"Alright, take me back to the Jet Center."

It still hadn't gotten through my screen of denial, the implications of this statement. "I thought we were doing touch-and-goes?"

"You didn't pass the checkride. You know this." I guess on some level I did, but now every fiber of my body knew. He continued talking, leaving no pause, no opportunity for these words to hit me upside my head, and it worked somewhat. I brought the plane back to the Jet Center, already telling myself that it's done, there's no sense going on with the woulda-coulda-shouldas ... it's already over.

"You know," he continued, "it's somewhat luck too. If that plane hadn't been there, and you had made the mistakes, you'd have gotten your license. I would have said, 'Now, Tim, what you did back there was unsafe and I'd strongly recommend you brush up on your pattern entry skills,' but you would have gotten away with a warning. It's just bad luck there was a guy there. He scared me, and that's the end. Your examiner gets scared, checkride over."

We secured the plane and Steve went in to debrief Stephen. I collected my things (and myself), and made my best effort to not cower in front of Stephen's aura. I sat and listened to the debrief as professionally as I could, and tried not to look at Stephen's facial expression.

Once Steve had finished up, I apologized to Stephen for adding additional paperwork. "It's all part of the game," he said, though I detected some insincerity.

Stephen and I prepared to depart back to Oakland and call it a day. I was to schedule one more lesson to practice entry into uncontrolled airfields, then another checkride. As we walked out to the plane, I asked him: Why not do the practice now? I still have the plane for a few hours. He said sure.

I started the airplane's engine when an attendant for the jet center tried to get my attention. "He wants you to cut the engine," Stephen said. I turned the ignition switch to off. Stephen shook his head. "That's not how you shut down the engine," he said, pulling the mixture back to idle.

The engine stopped and the attendant began to reach beneath the plane to remove the chocks. As he did so, the engine sputtered back to life momentarily, and the propeller made a few more swipes through the air, then stopped. The attendant quickly withdrew his hand.

"What did you do?" Stephen screamed at me. "You nearly killed that guy!"

I immediately removed my hands from the controls. "I didn't touch anything!"

"Tim, calm down, take a breath, and do it by the checklist. Let's get out of here." His words stung, and I struggled to maintain composure while restarting the engine and departing the field.

"Are you sure you want to do this lesson?" Stephen asked, concern in his voice.

"I don't know. Let's go to Petaluma for starters and see how I do."

"Alright."

Stephen had me fly to Petaluma, where he talked me through an entry into the pattern. I overflew the field at 1,000 feet abovve, and Stephen said I really should do it at 500 feet above. I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Petaluma was still very busy, so it was difficult to squeeze my way into the pattern, but I managed to nonetheless. I made a poor landing, and the airplane bounced its way down the runway.

"So where to now?" I asked. "Gnoss?"

"I'd like to go back now," Stephen said. Since you don't argue with your instructor, I simply complied and took the plane back to Oakland. On the way back, as we passed over Berkeley, I began to think about what Steve had said, about complacency and ignoring evidence. It was at that time I noticed I was having trouble keeping my eyes open. This is about when it all fell together: I was exhausted, and it was impacting my performance. To you, the reader, this might have seemed obvious: I nearly killed someone starting the plane, I made a terrible landing at Petaluma, and I couldn't even keep my eyes open. But to me, I had no idea I was worn out until this very moment, because I was ignoring the evidence. I had a mental picture in my head, and having a picture in your head is so powerful that your subconscious will discard any evidence that works contrary to that picture.

Steve was right -- you can say this sort of stuff to a pilot... You can ask him on the oral what he would do in this situation and he would immediately say, "I would turn back and land. It's unsafe to be flying when you're that fatigued, and I put safety first." And you know what? He would believe it too. He would believe that, faced with that situation, he would make the right choice, and put safety first. Everyone does. It's not until you actually are faced with that situation, like I was just now, that you realize: Making that choice is harder than you'd think. It's an easy choice if you're given all the evidence, but your subconscious mind has a nasty way of withholding evidence you don't necessarily want to see.

While the thoughts pertinent to this epiphany were raging through my head, I said to Stephen, "You were right. I am worn out. I should have just headed back."

"I'm glad you realize that now."

We talked a bit about this sort of complacency, and Stephen's general opinion is that it's impossible to know yourself so well that you can make these kinds of decisions with total accuracy. The best you can do is try, and hindsight is always 20/20. I got my landing clearance at Oakland, made another shitty landing, fueled the plane, and returned to the Old T's.

Another day. For now ... I feel like people at work really miss me, taking all this time off. With so many aircraft down for repair, it's basically impossible to get a time slot that's not 3 weeks in the future, so my "finish-up" (as Steve calls it) might be a little while yet. A break would be nice, and some time to convince people at the office that I'm not completely off the map.

But I haven't given up yet.

Just an update.

I'm so scurred. The checkride is tomorrow. Examiner said I'm to plan my flight to Bakersfield.

Wish me luck!

Solo #5: Pre-checkride practice

I was supposed to fly on Friday, but it's been so cloudy lately that I was unable to go up. I remember in my phase check with Liz, I had commented that the clouds were getting worse, and that I felt rushed to finish up and get my license before the worst winter weather came. I was hoping she would diffuse the fear with a warm statement to the effect of, "Oh, it should get better for a while first." Her response ended up being, "Yeah ... things are getting bad quick." That didn't help.

I flew Saturday morning, with the intent of practicing what I had learned from Liz. It was still very foggy and cloudy when I woke up, but I held feeble hope that the weather would be good enough to solo by the time I had gotten to the airport. Things were indeed good enough to solo, but only marginally so, as I would soon see.

After I had lifted off into the air, climbing up a few hundred feet, it became immediately apparent that the poor weather would hinder my opportunities this flight. I had gotten my clearance to San Pablo Bay, but it was flanked by an imposing wall of clouds about 2,000 feet high. Had I a private pilot's license, I could simply fly above them, but alas, as a student pilot, I must stay below clouds at all times.

Indeed, the whole of the Bay was covered in clouds, with the exception of Oakland Airport. It was as if a single hole in the sky had been punched allowing me to take off, but leaving me with nowhere to go. Beneath the clouds it was hazy, and I could barely make out things more than 10 miles away.

The area behind Mt. Diablo looked more promising, so I asked NorCal if I could amend my clearance and go to Mt. Diablo instead. They approved my request but noted that numerous aircraft were also doing airwork there. Apparently others had had the same line of thought as I.

When I was over the practice area I began practicing my power-on and power-off stalls, as Liz had asked me to. NorCal chimed in now and then to keep me updated on a number of airplanes moving through the area. All in all, this made me feel very crowded, like I didn't have enough space to spread out and practice comfortably. I made frequent clearing turns and kept a wary eye out for all this traffic.

Practicing stalls alone feels unstructured, because you have no one to slap your wrists when you get lazy. I felt as if I hadn't broken the process down into discrete steps as the examiner would want, that I was just sort of mushing through it trying to get it all done. Liz would later suggest I try "armchair flying," where I simply sit in my chair at home and pretend I'm flying, thinking through and miming all the steps of a stall, one by one. It's sure a hell of a lot cheaper than flying, I'll give her that.

Eventually, as NorCal restricted me further and further, I got frustrated and decided to leave the area and head for Byron and practice an engine-failure-over-an-airfield the way Liz had asked me to. I punched Byron into 9UL's GPS and had it direct me to the field. NorCal saw I was leaving and let me go, and I changed frequencies. Judging by the amount of chatter on the Unicom, Byron wasn't exactly sleeping either.

I announced my intentions and positioned myself above the field at 3,000 feet. I cut the power and descended in circles over the 45-entry point. There was a glider circling the field as well, I saw him make long, slow circles near the smaller runway. I guess you could say there were two gliders that day. As I descended further, I saw a Pitts biplane working the pattern just below me. Realizing that, by forcing myself not to use power, I was creating a hazard for other aircraft, I decided to abort the descent. I pushed in power, climbed back to 3,000 feet, and moved a little further out.

The glider was now setting up to land on 23, while the Pitts was doing his touch-and-goes on 30. I cut power again and began descending turns over the reservoir. As I descended, I saw a pair of menacing black jets taxiing together parallel to 30. As they set up to take off, I heard their radio call.

"Experimental 59L, taking off, runway 30, pair of L-39's, formation departure, straight-out."

True to their word, the two black jets took the runway and blasted off in unison, accelerating quickly over the plains north of the airport. Oh, to own one of those... What sucks about flying in a 1969 Cessna 172 is that you're basically the bottom of the barrel. Every plane you see, whether it be a low-and-slow bush-flying STOL like the Scout, an aerobatic like the SF.260, or a high-speed thrill ride like these L-39's, is a plane you'd rather be in. It's such a long road to fly one of those jets, too ... you'd need a private pilot license with an airplane rating, high-performance endorsement, complex endorsement, a type-rating for an L-39, pressurized endorsement, and probably an instrument rating. You'd probably have to get well over 500 hours before even sitting in one of those things. Times like this make me feel like the road is so long.

As another aircraft joined the Pitts with his patternwork, I felt that even Byron was too busy for me to be doing simulated emergencies. Furthermore, it had dawned on me that I couldn't land at Byron as a student solo pilot anyway. That tears it ... I pushed the power back in and headed home. This wouldn't be the most productive practice session.

As I passed westward over the field, the glider was touching slowly down on 23. A small tow truck, barely a dot to me, was driving into position to haul it back to the tarmac. It was all interesting to watch. Gliders aren't really my thing -- I prefer the freedom of flying wherever I want to the challenge of staying aloft -- but I can see why they would be fun.

With the haze and the clouds threatening to ruin future flying opportunities, I've started viewing my instrument rating another way. What used to be an optional endeavor has now basically turned into a requirement, so much so that the glory of getting my pilot's license has been tempered. Upon receiving it, I'll still feel as if I'm only halfway done, that until I earn my instrument rating, I won't truly have my wings. After all, what good is a pilot when six months out of the year he can't fly because of clouds and rain?

Fortunately, the haze wasn't so bad that I couldn't find Oakland with the help of 9UL's trusty GPS. Tower told me to stay at or above 2,500 feet for some departing jet that I couldn't see. I ended up getting pretty close to the airport while staying up at 2,500 feet, long after I would have descended normally. In fact, by the time that jet passed me, I was not 3 miles from the field, way up high at 2,500 feet. Tower cleared me to land and told me to "descend at your discretion." Yeah.

I didn't really know what the "right" way to deal with this situation is, so I sort of made very steep S-turns on my base leg while dropping like a stone out of the sky, bleeding off all this useless altitude. My last S-turn put me right on target and set me up for a perfect final, so even though I wasn't really intending it to look good, it ended up looking basically perfect, like I knew exactly what to do. I brought the plane down for a gentle landing.

At Kaiser they had coned off one of the fuel pumps, leaving only one other. N612SP, Stephen's personal aircraft, was sucking up gas at the available pump, although Stephen wasn't at the controls. It was the other guy he rents the plane to. Not wanting to waste gas and engine time, I shut off my plane and hauled out the towbar, preparing to haul the plane to the pump myself.

When 2SP was filled up, her pilot procured her towbar (which looks a hell of a lot nicer than mine) and began hauling 2SP out of the way by hand. All the while a very fancy-looking business jet had taxied right next to Kaiser to pick up some very rich fellows. They had stepped out of the Kaiser terminal, a husband and wife, dressed in brand-name suits and carrying brand-name luggage. They watched me and the other pilot with a sort of wonder, as we both struggled to pull our planes along together, each laborious step inching a 4,000-pound aircraft a little closer. All this while an attendant collected their fancy bags and loaded them into their fancy jet's luggage compartment. I'm never one to be bitter about those who have more money than me (after all, it's capitalism at work), but the whole picture was noteworthy, to say the least.

After getting the plane positioned, I filled her up and then went into Kaiser to pick up an A/FD. I'll need it for the checkride. I ended up buying the wrong one (Northwest refers to Oregon and above; California is in Southwest), so now I have two. Well, I suppose it will be useful if sometime I fly way (way) off-course and end up in Idaho...

On my way in I had noticed an F/A-18 Hornet, a beautiful Naval fighter jet, parked at the jet center. (Is today "Everyone show off the paramilitary jets you own" day?) I vowed to take a photo of it for me and you guys. However, a tiny gnat of an aircraft, a low-wing half the size of my plane, had taxiied behind me and was waiting for gas. Weighing my options, I ultimately decided to push my airplane backwards to where the closed fuel pump was, out of the way of other planes, then rush and snap that photo:



The pilot and his buddy of the gnat were pulling it into position. With gas prices so high, everyone uses towbars nowadays. I hopped into my airplane to start her up. As I did, the pilot of the gnat approached me. I was worried he was going to lecture me about where I had pushed my plane; I was new to this situation so I just had to guess where to put my plane. In fact, he asked me, "d'ya want me to remove your towbar before you taxi?"

Huh. "Yes please." That would have been bad.

He removed the towbar from the nosewheel and handed it to me. I thanked him, shut the door, and started the plane. I brought her to the Old T's, shut her down, and headed back to the clubhouse where Liz was instructing one of her students on slips-to-land. She and I had a good talk on my performance, and she was pleased that I was taking what she had said to heart. She wished me luck on my checkride (along with her quiet, shy poindexter of a student) as I left the airport.

Cost so far: $9,678.47
Time so far: 169 days
Hours so far: 57.5
Flights so far: 38

Phase check #2

The second phase check is the final club-mandated step before I can do my checkride. It's an opportunity for an instructor who isn't Stephen to evaluate me and make sure I'm ready. Though I've got two more solos scheduled for touchups, at this point I am now home free to take my checkride.

I got to the Old T's late but Liz was still patiently waiting for me. She chatted with me a bit during preflight, informing me that she has a habit of writing things down throughout the examination -- it can appear ominous, but she writes good things down as well as bad.

The winds today were unusually strong -- 18 gusting to 26 at Oakland. Despite this I never used any sort of crosswind takeoff procedure; it had simply slipped my mind. Liz would ding me for this later. A fire in the San Jose hills blanketed the South Bay with smoke, visible even from Oakland. The wind was coming from a very unusual direction, 160 degrees, so I got clearance to runway 15.

We took off for the Mt. Diablo practice area where Liz had me do some simple hood work holding headings an altitudes. My ability to maintain an altitude has clearly gotten rusty, but it was within standards so she didn't note anything. She had me do some steep turns and other basic maneuvers over Livermore and south of Mt. Diablo. We climbed well past 6,000 feet, the highest I'd ever been in a club aircraft.

Liz had the most issue with my stalls. Stephen had apparently never taught me to keep my hands off the aileron, and it was my habitual use of ailerons for correction that was causing my stalls to be so ugly. It took several stalls to work it out of me, but by the end I had nearly kicked the habit, and I was using strictly rudder coming into and out of the stall.

Periodically Liz would tip her attention down to scribble a note on her kneeboard. I know she had said earlier that she writes both good and bad notes, but you can't shake a subtle feeling of failure each time she does it, like you're being "written up" for some infraction you made.

Next came the unexpected (but unavoidable) simulated engine failure. I had remembered what Stephen told me about making my turns as if I were flying the pattern. I picked a landing spot right alongside I-5 and began pattern turns as I lost altitude. Liz, however, did not like this approach. She later insisted that I should position the airplane at the 45-degree entry point and make tight circles there, so that when I reached pattern altitude I simply had to fly the base and final legs. This is completely different than what Stephen suggested, and I felt like I was being pulled two ways. Now, frankly, if I really do have an engine failure at high altitude, I'll have no idea which of the two strategies to use.

With all our altitude now gone, Liz had me set up for ground-reference maneuvers. First was S-turns along a country road out east of Mt. Diablo, then turns around a point. The point in this case was a large gray barn. With the wind so strong, my corrections were very obvious, and it was clear to Liz I knew how to perform the maneuver. Flying so low to the ground on a hot day meant the plane was constantly buffeted by strong turbulence. My stomach can usually handle turbulence just fine but this was trying even for me.

Next we headed to nearby Byron Airport for patternwork and landings. This was a very unusual experience: The wind was over 20 knots fast, and shooting nearly straight down the runway. The result of this is that the plane came into land at basically a crawl -- I felt like I could hover the plane at a standstill above the runway, the wind was so strong. Another airplane without a radio was in the pattern with me: Watching him land was like watching a helicopter land, inching excruciatingly slowly to the touchdown point.

Liz had me do some soft-field landings (short-field landings weren't really necessary with the wind; I was able to stop the plane in only a few hundred feet anyway). She critiqued my pattern as having gotten sloppy. Although the unrelenting wind and turbulence was partially to blame, it's true I've started cutting corners on my base and final legs.

Following that we returned to Oakland. I had to climb up above the mountains south of Diablo to get a signal. Cresting over the peaks, I was greeted by an East Bay shrouded in low-level clouds. I was worried, but Liz had me listen to the ATIS one more time, which remarked "few clouds" over the airport. Liz assured me that this meant that while most of the Bay was covered in this marine layer, the airport, at least, was clear enough to land at.

So, I weaved between the clouds on my way to Oakland, picked out the 27R runway, and landed. Liz remarked my crosswind landings were perfect. Lots of practice, I guess. I taxied to Kaiser and refueled alongside a Decathlon painted in stunning shades of blue and green:



I wouldn't immediately call the livery beautiful, but it was certainly a refreshing change from the usual yellow-and-black scheme. Parked nearby was N612SP, Stephen's personal aircraft, and he had his head inside the cockpit. We walked over to chat with him a bit. After I left to fuel the plane, Liz had a private chat with Stephen, no doubt about my strengths and weaknesses.

I took Liz and I back to the clubhouse where she went over her thoughts, point-by-point. It was a lot to take in, so I asked her for four or five things I should concentrate on for my next two solos, to improve my checkride performance. She gave me her top picks, and I wrote them down. I have two solos to iron out these bugs, then it's checkride time.

Cross-country solo #4: Backwater fun

When my checkride does come, what's likely to happen is this: Steve (the checkride examiner) will tell me to plan a flight to some far-off distant land. We'll take off and I'll begin flying there; however, rather than sit on his ass for a few hours while we trundle along, he'll divert me to a nearby airport where I can show him I know how to do landings and patternwork. The airports he generally likes to take people to are Gnoss (DVO), Petaluma (O69), Healdsburg (O31), and Cloverdale (O60). I've been to the first two, but never to Healdsburg or Cloverdale, so Stephen thought it useful that I do a cross-country solo to those two airports.

One of the things I enjoy doing before a cross-country solo is firing up Microsoft Flight Simulator and "e-flying" the route to get a feel for it. Flight simulator helps you learn where small airports are in relation to major land features. I was able to figure out where to look for Healdsburg Airport when I was over Santa Rosa, it being nestled in the foothills of the Santa Rosa Valley. One thing it does not portray very accurately is the quaint beauty of the surroundings.

I departed Oakland under the watchful guise of NorCal, who kept clearing me into class-B airspace even though I repeatedly told them I was a student pilot and therefore unable to enter the class-B airspace. Using 9UL's GPS I flew a course over Scagg's Island to Santa Rosa, passing over the airport at 4,500 feet. Stephen had said I could just fly direct to Healdsburg, and I was initially intending to, but I decided it would be very unlikely that Steve The Checkride Examiner would have me fly direct, so I got the "full experience" by navigating from waypoint to waypoint.

Over Santa Rosa and 8 miles out, Oakland Center asked me if I had Healdsburg in sight yet. I said, somewhat embarassingly, that I did not. I poured over the sectional chart, comparing features on the ground and in the map, and struggled to envision the surround in Flight Simulator. Finally, a few minutes later, I picked out its tiny runway in the distance, and gleefully informed Center of my accomplishment.

Descending into Healdsburg I was greeted with the typical CTAF audio experience: A jumble of pilots talking over each other and getting stepped on. As I descended further into the valley, flanked by mountain ranges that rose above me, most of the excess noise was filtered out until about the only thing I could hear on the advisory frequency was Healdsburg and Cloverdale traffic.

Preparing to land, I immediately discovered that Healdsburg has a gorgeous final approach -- probably the most interesting I've seen. You skim the tops of rolling hills, fields of grass and wheat, cows and horses, trees, and ponds and streams. It was as if I had flown into a Calvin & Hobbes strip where they explore the backwoods on one of their treks. It was so mesmerizing that I vowed to fly it again, so that I could snap a picture:



OK, so the picture doesn't really do it justice. Healdsburg is a sleepy airport (surprise) with a rather confusing taxiway layout. I managed to get my airplane back on runway 31 for takeoff, where I did a practice go-around and then proceeded further north to Cloverdale. I snapped a picture of the field as I departed northward.



Cloverdale was just a hop, skip, and a jump away, so I merely had to climb to a thousand feet or so to clear a line of hills between to the two airports. The view along the way was more of the same gorgeous backwater northern California fields.



As I crossed over the hills, Cloverdale came into view in the distance. I was already just about lined up to its runway 32, so I figured that rather than fly the pattern, I'd just make a long straight-in approach. I wondered briefly if that sort of thing is safe at untowered airports (or if you are expected to enter the pattern normally no matter what), but I figured as long as I announced my position diligently and kept an eye out it shouldn't be a problem. It would only occur to me later that perhaps I should have practiced the pattern at Cloverdale, since there's not much point in just landing there and taking off.

The landing at Cloverdale was pretty uneventful save for a very unnerving gust of wind that hit me as I was only a few feet above the field. It lifted the plane up and almost outside the runway border. I seriously contemplated going around for a second or so, but ultimately decided the landing was salveagable. I didn't land on the centerline by any stretch of the imagination, but I got the plane down OK, and that's what matters.

I taxiied to the fuel pump, which was in plain view. I had to pee pretty badly, and was relieved to find a restroom right nearby, covered in spiders and spiderwebs. After emptying my tanks and filling my plane's, I started her back up and brought her back to runway 32 for takeoff. Next to me were a group of people walking to the airport in skydiving gear. I wondered who would come all the way out to this nowhere airport to go skydiving. Perhaps for the scenery?

As I departed Cloverdale for Oakland, I snapped a picture of the field, which in retrospect looks a lot like Healdsburg:



I checked in with Oakland Center and got my flight following back to the airport. It was a nice cruise back to the Bay Area, so I took the time to stare wistfully out the window and watch the scenery crawl by beneath me. I took a few scenic detours here and there, as I was in no rush, enjoying the North Bay. Things got busier when I checked in with NorCal and got my approach clearance. Lately I've been making my approach course directly over my own apartment. This allows me to gawk at my neighborhood from above (who doesn't love that), and the noise from flying low and slow over the area helps keep the rent down.

I landed at Oakland, and as is the case after every cross-country flight, my feet struggled to know ground for a few minutes, and my inner ear felt like it was banking and soaring for most of the day. It's all part of what makes it so exciting.

Cost so far: $8,925.82
Time so far: 162 days
Hours so far: 54.1
Flights so far: 36

Lesson #25: Well, maybe *this* is the final lesson

Last time I had a lesson, my engine-out-over-an-airfield procedures were poor. Namely, I just sort of made turns while I descended to the airport. This left me in a poor position to set up for a landing, and I botched the procedure. Thus, this time, when I pulled the power over Gnoss field once more, I was careful to make my turns similar to those of a traffic pattern. Then, as my powerless plane descended slowly over the airport, the lowest turn simply became my pattern.

"Gnoss traffic, Skyhawk 9UL is over the airfield, 2,000 feet, simulated engine failure, circling to land."

"Which runway?" some deadpan voice asked.

"Runway 31."

Stephen watched with satisfaction as I completed the turns, but I was still way too high on final. I put in a full 30 degrees of flaps and made the biggest, fattest slip my feet could muster. The airplane was crabbed nearly sideways, and with my neck craned out the side window I carefully kept the plane aligned with Gnoss's windy runway. Fighting the crosswind, I watched the altitude bleed away while runway disappeared beneath me.

There's a saying in aviation, "There's nothing less useful than runway that's behind you." I wondered how much further the plane could float above the runway before I wouldn't have enough to land. Fortunately my fat slip bled away the last few hundred feet, and twenty feet above the ground and with three quarters of the runway behind me, I kicked out the crab. The airplane aligned itself with the runway and the nose pitched downward. I pulled the yoke back, assumed a landing attitude, and the aircraft settled on the ground, all three wheels at once, with about a thousand feet of runway left. I raised the flaps immediately to get weight back on the wheels, braked, and stopped the airplane a hundred feet or so short of the runway's edge.

Stephen and I were both aglow with pride. "That was pretty good," he said. "You flew it like Top Gun." Of course with him, every rose has its thorns. "You did a slip-to-land with full flaps. That's not something the POH recommends." This I knew, but Stephen pressed anyway. "The book says that you could experience 'elevator oscillation.' Now, I've done this a bunch and I've never once had the elevator oscillate, so if you do this in your checkride, just explain to the examiner that you figured in an emergency situation things like this are OK. Plus, everyone comes in high during an engine-out. Better to come in high than put it in the swamp."

"If you do this in your checkride" was a hallowed refrain this lesson. Everything I did was likened to how the examiner would respond. I practiced some go-arounds (which was practice I needed), then departed Gnoss. There Stephen had me do a stall. I failed miserably. I'm glad I told him I needed the work, because that was most certainly a terrible stall. Well two or three stalls later I was finally getting it, so Stephen had me practice steep turns then head back home.

My phase check with Liz Sommers is next Tuesday, and I scheduled my checkride for the following Tuesday. I wish I could do it sooner (nevermind the ominousness of getting one's pilot's license on September 11th), but these are the only times available. Two more weeks... two more weeks.

92%

So, I passed. 92% is pretty darn-itchin' good compared to what I was expecting ('round 85). Fifty-five questions right out of sixty, and as you can see, five questions wrong means five knowledge codes I need to study in preparation for my oral:

• G13 Reporting of Aircraft Accidents, Incidents, and Overdue Aircraft


• H989 Radio Navigation


• I27 Air Masses and Fronts


• J10 Other Airspace Areas


• J37 Sectional Chart

So, I'll e-mail Stephen and schedule sometime for him to give me schooling and sign off that I have received followup training.

The test was conducted at California Airways in Hayward Airport (no, I didn't fly there). Other club members talk a lot about California Airways -- after all, with the AAC reducing its four-plane fleet to three or even two, there's worry that people won't be able to get a plane when they need one. So people talk about joining California Airways to increase their options. Walking into their club building, I got a taste of the atmosphere of this club. Right at the door was the front desk, where a receptionist could sell you charts or aviation equipment, and nearby were couches and computers. This receptionist business made the club feel much less a club and more a corporation -- less a group of like-minded pilots and the planes they share, and more a company that offers you a service. Of course, I only spent an hour or so in the building, but that's my first impression.

They were having some kind of a BBQ, with hamburgers and hot dogs lined up, but even with that, compared to the AAC, this place felt like a business. The AAC is a much homelier and uglier place, but I had gotten used to its relaxed atmosphere so much that everything else seems stodgy in comparison.

Three foreign pilots were attempting to check out a plane for a trip to Napa, arguing at each other in what sounded like Hindi. A stout, heavy bald man was chastising them for taking too long, yelling "Just get it done! Stop arguing and get a plane!" This man I would soon learn is my proctor. The proctor was a gruff fellow who was clearly more interested in finishing the day and going home than anything else. He gave me a quick and heartless tutorial on the program, stripped me of all my belongings except my E-6B and my calculator, and left me alone in the room with the testing computer.

I was glad I brought my own plotter, because the plotter that was provided for me was the "other" kind (the kind I don't know how to use), whereas I was very familiar with the operation of my own. However, I did use their E-6B over my own, because there's was metal and therefore less likely to warp and introduce numerical error.

The proctor had told me not to write on any chart, and gave me two overlays and some whiteboard markers to use. I quickly realized this would be a problem -- I had to hold the overlay perfectly still over the chart for my plotting to be accurate, and the whiteboard markers barely worked on the plastic sheet. Plus, I only had two, and no way to erase the ink, meaning I could really only use it for two maps. This was not going to work. Eventually I opted to just write very lightly on the chart, and erase it afterward. After about 20 minutes of this I realized that I was surrounded my security cameras, so I humbly and surreptitiously finished the rest of the plotting with the damned overlays.

I worked through each question carefully and diligently, and with plenty of time to spare (no one runs out of time), I clicked the Finish button. Instantly my scores appeared -- 55 out of 60, 92%. Much better than I had expected. I was presented with a quick survey about which the proctor had warned, "don't fill that out unless you want junk mail." I saw no option to skip the survey, short of the close button for the whole program's window. Fearing that would shut down the entire program and erase my test scores, I opted to just take the survey and live with the ensuing junk mail.

My scores were printed, stamped, embossed, and returned to me. I received them with pride. All that's left now is my second phase check, some study time with Stephen, a last solo or two, and my checkride.

Lesson #24: A final lesson

Well folks, it's comin' close to that time. Stephen said this would be the last lesson I would do unless I really needed touching up on something. I've got my knowledge test scheduled for Saturday and a final phase check sometime next week, after which my checkride is nigh.

Today Stephen said we'd practice whatever I was getting rusty with. For me, this happened to be emergency procedures. He had me fly out to Gnoss field (flying over the Scagg's VOR just to make sure I got that down). Gnoss is famous for its crosswinds. Had they presence of mind when they built the airport, they might have oriented the runway somewhere other than 90° off from the prevailing winds. Alas, they did not, and Gnoss's runway 31 was known for being a pencil-thin runway amidst a torrent of crosswind.

I flew north over Oakland at 5 pm, watching the gridlocked cars below me with interest. I noted how I could only pick out two other airplanes in the sky, while below me there was a zoo of automobiles. A blessing and a curse, aviation's aura of impenetrability is.

So when we got Gnoss, and I finally found the runway right in front of me, Stephen had me fly over the field at 3,000 feet and simulate an engine failure. The throttle was pulled back, and with a lurch, the plane decelerated suddenly. I was supposed to announce my intentions over the otherwise silent radio, as well.

"Gnoss traffic, Skyhawk 739UL is over the field, 3,000 feet, simulated engine failure, circling to land."

I made slow circles around the airport, but having never done this before, I didn't really know how or where to circle. Thus, when it did come time to land, my circles left me in a poor position to do so, and on final approach, I was way too high. I couldn't salvage the approach, and what would have been my first landing became a go-around.

I brought the plane around the pattern and Stephen had me practice normal takeoffs and landings at Gnoss. Well -- normal is a stretch. The engine was running, to be sure, but the crosswind was beating down on my plane, and Stephen was telling me to make each landing a short- or a soft-field landing.

With sweaty, bare white knuckles, I brought the plane tentatively onto the ridiculously thin runway, accomplishing both a crosswind and a soft-field landing. With all the different variables in the equation, it was a miracle I was able to do it, and as the wheels touched pavement I let out a gasp of air. The taxi back found me heaving and breathing and sweating like crazy.

There were three more of these landings (and three go-arounds, damn you Gnoss), each one a thrilling, sweaty-palms affair, but those that did make it to the ground were passing landings.

Now Stephen found it time to add a third variable to this equation: He would cut the power somewhere in the course of landing. All of this combined gave me a headache, I was thinking so fast, but I managed to pull it through, and each time there was an engine failure the plane managed to make it to the runway safely. I had to fudge it sometimes and cut my base short, but I guess that still counts.

During all this Stephen made sure my traffic pattern work was checkride-quality, ironing out the bumps that had crept in. A couple of other planes joined us in the pattern, and got to watch me and my go-arounds. They must have known I wasn't a Gnoss native, not being able to handle these crosswinds well.

When we were satisfied, and I was drenched with sweat, Stephen had me take the plane back to Oakland for a much easier landing. He explained that he had me try the ropes at Gnoss because the checkride examiner likes to take pilot hopefuls there. Trial by fire, I guess.

He signed my logbook with an endorsement to practice at Gnoss on my solos, a not-unnoticed message that I should do that before I try for my license. I've got my knowledge test around the corner and the checkride will hopefully be shortly thereafter -- I simply can't wait.

Cost so far: $8,327.32
Time so far: 153 days
Hours so far: 48.8

Projected certification date: August 27, 2007
Projected total cost: $8,500

Long cross-country solo: The Big One

At some point during his training, every student pilot must face and conquer The Big One -- his long cross-country solo flight. The regs require that a student pilot log a flight to at least 3 different airports, and they have to be distant airports. All in all, you expect to take 3 or more hours of solid flying to do your route -- which explains why I left for the airport at 8 this morning and didn't get back until 5 pm.

The long cross-country hung over me for a few weeks now as one of the remaining obstacles left between my cert and me (excepting, of course, the checkride). With the weather as it's been these last few weeks, I was not very hopeful. So I considered it an absolute godsend that this Saturday morning was picture clear.

I logged on to the NOAA website. Oakland: clear. Fresno: clear. Salinas: clear. All three of the airports I wanted to fly to were reporting no winds, clear skies, and perfect weather. This was going to be the day. I had wanted to download Seattle Avionics Voyager and try that flight planner out, but I completely forgot, and with only 20 minutes before I had to leave, I had to settle with AOPA's flight planner. I created some flight plans, and Stephen had me alter my route here and there based on his local knowledge ("Don't fly north there; they vector southbound flights down that corridor").

I had 4312R reserved, but I noticed 739UL was still parked at the tiedowns. I wanted to switch over to 9UL, because with its GPS I couldn't possibly get lost, but Stephen said to keep 12R, the bucket of bolts. "It'll be more fun," was his reasoning, which was not well received.

After he and I were both satisfied, he signed my endorsement. I had originally considered going all the way to Los Angeles, since my old college roommate was in town, but the endorsement he slapped down in front of me clearly said "No business or social purpose for this flight." He even asked me, to make sure.

"Do you know anyone at Fresno or Salinas?"

"Nope."

"Good. The fewer people you know there, the better. I had a student once who met a friend there ... they spent so much time chatting that he got back after dark, and had to divert to another airport to land VFR and spend the night in a hotel. He really fucked it up." That was the first time I heard him swear.

Sure enough, the endorsement said no flying after dark. Stephen continued his send-off speech.

"You're authorized to deviate from my restrictions in the interest of safety. Call me if something happens to you. ... Though, I believe at Fresno they fill up your plane for you, so I don't think you'll fall off again."

Har.

I preflighted the plane, waved goodbye to Stephen, and snapped a photo of that Hellcat I was talking about on Thursday for you guys.



After thumbing through the Pilot's Guide, writing down frequencies, studying the maps and weather charts, I was reasonably satisfied I could do the trip. To clarify, I was satisfied I could make it to Fresno. I would worry about the Fresno-to-Salinas leg when I got to Fresno. No sense trying to take it all in at once.

I started the plane, set up my radios, and let Ground know I wanted to taxi. They sent me to runway 33, and I climbed out smoothly from Oakland. I began my eastward turn. I picked up the Manteca VOR early, so I honed in on it and flew to my first waypoint. If you'd like, you can follow the path of my flight using this diagram of my route:



Tower advised me of some traffic also heading east right alongside me then told me to go to Departure. Departure cleared me into San Francisco's class-B airspace.

"NorCal Departure, Skyhawk 4312R is unable class-B."
"I was just offering; you don't have to take it," she said. Why so defensive?

Over Danville I began my climb to my cruising altitude of 5,500 feet. My original plan was to go all the way up to 7,500 feet, but Departure had restricted me to 5,500. It was a good altituede too; there's not too much to be gained by going up the additional 2,000 feet, so why bother? I flew my plan at 5,500 feet.

Over the unending farmlands east of the bay, and with the Manteca VOR tuned into the DME, I watched the miles whittle away. I pulled out my sectional chart and kept track my location, and used it to locate various landmarks around me. You know you have a long flight over uninteresting terrain when you start consulting your sectional to learn the names of the various bodies of water you fly over.

"Oh look. It's the Clifton Court Forebay. Yay." Beneath me, at 3,500 feet, I saw another aircraft just ahead of me, also flying to the Manteca VOR. I followed him above and behind the whole way there. At Byron tiny little planes took off and landed. It's wonderful, all the little things you see when you get bored.

I marveled at the majesty of such world-renowned cities as Escalon and Riverbank as I approached the Manteca VOR. Over the VOR I made my outbound turn and tuned in the Clovis VOR. Even though it was nearly 100 nautical miles away, I picked it up immediately. Hooray for flat terrain. Getting to Fresno would be easy.

Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to combine my radionavigation and my pilotage with some dead reckoning as well. I whipped out the slide rule and did some calculations to verify if I was set up for an on-time arrival. (I was not.)

Stephen had told me to use flight following for every leg of the flight, so I was with NorCal every step of the way. They don't tell you where to go or anything; they just let you know if other planes are nearby.

Heading southeast I continued my languorous journey over the countryside, picking out Turlock city and Airpark, and the surprisingly large Castle Airport. It looks like a military airbase, and it's so large for the smattering of small aircraft parked there. I continued over Merced down towards Madera.

Over Madera, NorCal handed me off to Fresno Approach. Fresno Approach told me to make a left downwind for runway 29L. Seeing as I was still out in the middle of nowhere, at 5,500 feet, with Fresno only barely coming out of the haze in the distance, I found that odd, and filed it under To Do Later. I continued over farmland for another 15 minutes or so, until I could make out Fresno International Airport in the distance, and I made my descent to pattern altitude.

I flew over the Sierra Sky park and positioned myself for a left downwind. About 5 miles out, the controller told me to widen my downwind.

"You're coming up on the departure corridor there."
"No problem, turning right now."

I nudged further on out from the runway and continued through the pattern. I turned a nice, wide base, and then final. Out here in these large, flat areas, the sun heats the ground during the morning, and the hot air at the surface rises up, creating a lot of inconvenient turbulence right when you are trying to land. It wasn't the hardest landing I've done, but it certainly was a doozy trying to keep the plane under control as it bumped and jostled all the way to the runway.

"Fresno Ground, Skyhawk 4312R is off 29L, taxi to refueling."
"12R, there a specific hangar you're going to?"
Huh? "12R, I'm going to transient refueling."

I remember Stephen having told me that things work differently at Fresno.

"12R, we don't really have a transient fuel pump ... We have a couple of places you can go to, though, that'll fill you up."
"Uhhh ... can you pick one for me? I'm new here." Very professional, Tim.
"I can't really pick one for you."

It was then I noticed Stephen had circled Mercury Air on my Fresno taxiway map, and written, "FUEL". Huh. Guess I should have noticed that earlier.

"Ground, 12R is going to Mercury."
"Oookay! Take B8 to B then make a right, and you'll be at Mercury."
"B8 to B to Mercury, 12R."

I followed the taxiways to the Mercury Air Center, where I couldn't see any fuel pump. Well, that makes sense, if there's no self-serve at Fresno. I figured I probably just needed to park my plane and find a guy to fill her up.

"Ground, 12R, confirm I just park it here?"
"12R, negative, there's a vehicle next to you, he'll show you in."

Sure enough, a tiny airport vehicle with a "FOLLOW ME" sign on it was trying to get my attention. I followed the little truck to a man with the two director cones, who was waving me in.

Uh oh. I'd never been directed by one of those orange-cone guys before.

He made the hand motions, and I did my best to follow them. I guess I did alright, because I never hit him and he never waved his orange sticks about frantically. He took off and another guy came up to my plane.

"Any gas?"
"Yeah, fill her up."
"Top it off? Alright." Lingo correction! "You staying overnight?"
"No, I'm departing after this."
"Gas and go? You got it." Lingo correction!

He grabbed a tanker truck and filled up my plane, leaving me to sit around and prepare for the next leg of my flight. I read the Salinas information in my Guide, browsed the map and took down some radio frequencies, and reviewed my flight plan.

Departing Fresno I made a right turn to intercept V230, which runs from Clovis (north of Fresno) to the Panoche VOR. (You know, this is all a lot easier if you look at the route picture I made.) Tower handed me off to Fresno Approach, who was confused about my route.

"4312R, Fresno Approach, verify you are heading to Salinas."
"4312R, that's affirmative."
"Okay, and you're making a northward turn? Most Salinas people depart to the East, is why I'm wondering."
"Yeah, I'm going to intercept the radial off of Clovis." I guess I should have specified which radial. There's 360 of them, after all.
"Copy that."

My CDI needle began to move towards the center and I turned on course down V230 towards the Panoche VOR. Approach came over the radio again.

"12R, you're beginning your on-course turn now?"
"That's affirm, 12R."
"Can you tell me your cruising altitude?"
"12R is cruising at 4,500." I had already climbed to my cruise altitude.
"And what model Skyhawk are you?"
"12R is a Cessna Skyhawk 172N slant U."
"Got it. The reason I'm asking you all this is the corridor is really busy today, and you've been flying in and out of it. Just trying to make sure you don't get run over by an F-16."

The corridor. I keep hearing about this corridor. It was at that moment that it clicked. The approach notes for Fresno stated that there was heavy F-16 activity at the field, and that these very maneuverable jet fighters make long approaches to the runway. The corridor must be where they fly in and out from the airport. The controller must have been letting the high-performance jets know some tourist was putzing around inside of their approach lane.

"12R, much appreciated."
"No problem."

The approach controller must have loved chatting with me, because five minutes later, well out of Fresno and over uninteresting farmland again, I got another call from him.

"4312R, verify squawking 0203." Hmmm....
"12R, that's affirmative, 0203."
"12R, your last digit keeps switching between a 3 and a 5, and I don't see your mode-C."
"We've had this problem before; recycling transponder." I turned the transponder off and on, gave it a good whack, and jiggled the knob for the last digit.
"12R, I'm getting your mode-C, and it looks like things are working fine." Hooray! "... Wait, no. No. The last digit is still flipping back and forth."

Sigh. Oh well. What else can I do?

"12R, switch to NorCal approach, 133.0."
"133.0 for 12R." I swapped frequencies. "NorCal, Skyhawk 4312R with you, 4,500. Be advised we've been having transponder problems."
"Skyhawk 4312R, NorCal, roger, altimeter 29.89. What sort of transponder problems?"
"Our mode-C is intermittent and the last digit is sometimes inaccurate."
"Roger that. Right now I see you just fine, 0203, level at 4,500 feet, but I'll let you know." Funny, it's working fine for him.

Now began a long period of silence, slipping slowly over the dustbowl west of Fresno. Unlike the farmlands and townships on the way in, the way out was much less interesting. Just dirt, dried up lakes, and dust devils below me. NorCal handed me off to another controller, who saw me up to the mountains east of Salinas.

These were not small mountains. The range ahead of me reached up to the horizon, and although the sectional assured me that I was flying high enough to cross over them, they still looked pretty big. As I crossed over the Panoche VOR, I tuned in the Salinas VOR for my final waypoint for this leg. Unfortunately, with the mountain range ahead of me, I couldn't pick it up. I maintained the heading that the flight planner estimated I would use, hoping to pick it up as I got closer.

"Skyhawk 12R, NorCal, be advised that due to your altitude, the next controller isn't picking you up. Squawk 1200, radio services terminated."

I had debated climbing high enough to maintain radio services the whole way, but ultimately decided I could go without services for 30 minutes. I crossed over Highway 5 and into the Diablo Mountain Range. Predictably, things got really bumpy, as turbulence can always be found over mountain ranges.

I picked up the SNS VOR here and there, for short bursts at a time, allowing me to verify that I was slightly off course every so often. It crossed my mind that the situation wasn't very peachy: Nestled between two mountain ranges, with no one who could hear me over the radio, and nowhere flat to land in case of an emergency, and no radio navigation, I felt awful lonely. Maybe I should have climbed to a higher altitude.

I did my best to navigate using pilotage, but with the mountains all around below me it was difficult. I didn't hold the V230 airway, but I did manage to maintain an eastward course that took me over the worst of the mountains. With the turbulence finally going away and the mountains getting lower, I started to hear NorCal again. They tell you to call them 20 miles out, but with the poor signal I doubt I'd be able to reach them more than 10 miles out. I tried my luck.

"NorCal, 4312R, how do you read?"
"Aircraft calling NorCal, you're broken."

OK, maybe later. I continued over the second mountain range, pushing through some more bumpy air. I was careful to keep my airspeed below V_A. Towards the end of the second range, I saw Salinas out in front of me, and I was getting a steady signal on the VOR. I even got a distance reading on the DME, so I could tell NorCal where I was. I tried them again.

"NorCal, 4312R, how do you read?"
"Loud and clear, 1312R!" 1312R? Must have misheard. Stupid mountains.
Yes! My loneliness was over! "4312R is a Cessna Skyhawk, about 12 NM east of the Salinas VOR, 4,500, landing at Salinas."
"12R, squawk 0332 and ident." I did so.
"12R, radar contact, 10 miles east of Salinas. Verify you have juliet."
"12R is negative ATIS."

The controller gave me the weather information and told me to make a long straight-in for runway 26, then handed me off to Salinas Tower. I could make out what I assumed was Salinas Airport 10 miles ahead of me, and a runway heading out in my direction. I lined up with it and continued inbound, descending over the foothills to the strawberry fields outside Salinas proper. I continued my long final approach.

The tower controller kept trying to let me know I was cleared to land, but he referred to me as "Cherokee 1312R", probably because that's what the NorCal guy told him my callsign was. Anyway, I was not listening for "Cherokee," so I completely ignored the messages. Finally, he must have noted the fact that I was flying in at about 100 MPH, well below what a Piper Cherokee cruises at.

"Are you a Cherokee, 1312R?"
Now I figured out he was talking to me this whole time. "Oh! It's four three one two romeo, and I'm a Cessna Skyhawk. Three mile final."
"Gotcha. Cessna 4312R, cleared to land, 26."
"Cleared to land. And I wish I were a Cherokee." After all, anything's faster than a Skyhawk.
"Don't wish you were someone else," the controller smirked. "Love who you are!" Following this about five other aircraft came on the radio to say "Amen!" Gotta love small airports.

I completed my approach and brought the airplane in to land. Like Fresno, Salinas was all kinds of bumpy. I was white-kunckled and sweating trying to get the airplane on the ground, and I was able to do so with a couple of bounces.

"12R, state intentions."
"12R will taxi back and depart."
"12R roger, taxi back with me."

I figured I'd just figure out the last leg of the flight at the runup area. I had made a note of the runup location as I landed the airplane, since at Fresno I had to pour over the maps and find it.

So I turned the plane around and brought her back to the runup area for 26, where I cracked open the charts and figured out how to get back to Oakland. Stephen had written some notes down on my flight plan. Avoiding San Jose International's airspace is tricky without a GPS to help you, so he wrote down a VOR radial from Oakland and told me to keep to the right of it. He also wrote that most of the airspace is west of the 101, so just follow the foothills in and stay east of the freeway on the way to Oakland. Finally, he noted that Salinas would not hand me off to NorCal; I would have to find a reporting point, fly to it, and check in with NorCal to get services for the last leg.

I digested all this and then prepared for takeoff.

"12R is ready to go, 26."
The cheerful controller came over the radio. "Where are you going, 12R?"
"12R is going to Oakland."
"Oakland. Awesome. Hold short, landing traffic."
"Holding short."

Coming in to land was another Skyhawk, callsign 7UL. She landed tentatively at the airport and also bounced two or three times before settling.

"That you, Carol?," the controller asked.
7UL responded, "Mike! Good to hear your voice. How's the girl?"
"Uhh ... not so good."
"Really? What happened?"
"Well ... it's not something I can say over the radio."
"Got it."

I twiddled my thumbs. Another aircraft, a classic Piper Cub painted in classic blazing Cub Yellow, landed behind Carol's Skyhawk. I waited as the Cub vacated the runway.

"12R, cleared for takeoff, right turn, have a good flight!"
"12R, cleared for takeoff." I departed the Salinas Airport, and snapped a photo of the Cub taxiing below me.



The controller then came over the radio.

"12R, proceed to Oakland."
"Got it, 12R."
"You a fan?"
... Silence. I figured that was probably for me. "A fan?"
"Of Oakland. The A's. How do you think they'll do this season?"
Oh shit. A sports conversation, over the radio. "I dunno what you heard. They always do good," I said sarcastically.
"So how do you fly blind?"
I thought it was a pun. "You got me."
"Huh? I figured, since you think the A's are doing good, you're flying blind."
"Oh. I get it."

Well, I failed that baseball conversation utterly. The combination of an unfamiliar topic and the mental demands of getting out of Salinas OK was a bit too much to be comprehensive.

"Sorry, 12R is a student pilot on his long cross-country solo." I meant it as a justification for my absent-mindedness over the air, but he must have taken it like, "So don't bug me!", because he didn't chat with me any more after that.

Five minutes later, approaching the 101 and Watsonville, I asked for a frequency change, and the tower controller let me go. I searched the sectional, trying to figure my location and find a reporting point. I finally located South County Airport, and flew over it.



"NorCal, Skyhawk 4312R is over the South County Airport, 3,500, landing at Oakland, flight following."

They picked me up and got me in the system. The controller helpfully reminded me to stay east of 101. The Bay Area's sprawling metropolises slipped into view in front of me --- I was home free! I flew along the foothills and snapped a photo of downtown San Jose, with Reid-Hillview in the foreground and San Jose International behind it.



After 10 minutes of flying out in the bumpy foothills, I decided there was no point in denying myself a good view, so I turned inward to fly over the city and see the sights. Right as I did so, NorCal got in touch with me.

"Cessna 12R, make straight in for 27R via Lake Chabot, verify you are familiar with the area."
There was a lake to my right. "I see Lake Chabot to my right."
"Err... that's not Lake Chabot. Head northward and I'll keep you advised."
Great. Now he thinks I'm a tourist. In the back of my head I knew Lake Chabot wasn't this far south (it was actually the Calderas Reservoir -- check the map), but I guess I got trigger-happy.

So much for flying over the city. I turned back over the foothills to fly to the real Lake Chabot. Lake Chabot is where the SUNOL intersection is, the big intersection where all airplanes meet up to land on the 27 runways. I tuned in the ILS and the VOR and used it to navigate to SUNOL. After passsing over the mountains I saw Lake Chabot, and right as the CDI needles centered controller told me to make my turn.

There, 12 miles out, was the 27 runways, barely visible. I made another really long final approach, descending out of the foothills and over the city towards the runway. For fun, and since I had nothing better to do, I flew a perfect glideslope, keeping the ILS needles centered the whole way down.

About 4 miles out, they handed me off to Tower, who told me to switch to 27L. So much for the ILS. I sidestepped over to 27L. Apparently a slightly faster airplane was behind me, and he got 27R. On the way down Tower asked each of us to find the other airplane. I saw the other guy, across from me, landing at 27R, but he did not see me.

I finally landed at Oakland and got my clearance to taxi to Kaiser, where I refueled again. Finally, the long flight was over. It felt so good to get out and stretch. I brought the plane back to the Old T's after I refueled, paid a hefty sum to the Club for 3.6 hours of flying, and closed everything down. A job well done!

With all other requirements out of the way, the only thing left is to take the written examination and my checkride. I have a few more lessons with Stephen to get some last practice opportunities, but it will be only a matter of time before I take the final test. I feel prepared, especially after this flight, but they say a little fear is always healthy.

Well, I'm feeling pretty healthy then.

Lesson #23: Diverts and other diversions

It's been a long time since I've flown. Spraining your ankle after falling off a plane, especially when you're just a young whippersnapper aviator such as myself, can have a very detrimental effect on your flying acumen and acuity. This thought hovered in the back of my head as I prepared for what would finally be my first flight since The Accident.

Stephen told me we'd be practicing diverts. See, the way the checkride works is that the examiner will tell you to plot a course to some far off airport. Of course, he's not going to sit on his ass for 5 hours while you take him there; shortly after takeoff, he will have you divert to a closer one so that you can demonstrate your landing ability.

"So," Stephen concluded, "we will simulate that. I want you to plan a flight to Napa airport." Napa, truly a far-off airport, is just across the Bay, about 30 minutes away. It didn't take long to plan the flight. Scagg's is right next to Napa, so ... direct to Scagg's, then look for Napa.

"Before we get there, I'll have you divert to an airport you haven't been to." Yay, surprises. "It should get you familiar with preparing to land at an unfamiliar airport while flying the plane."

Preflight went fine, but then, preflight's easy. I climbed up the airplane gingerly to check the fuel levels, stung by the ankle injury still. My first mistake didn't take long: I told Oakland Tower I wanted clearance to taxi, and they waved me off to Ground. Oops. Well, better that than a mistake during, say, landing.

So I told Ground where I wanted to go. They gave me my clearance, and I taxied the plane to runway 33.

"Let's do a soft-field takeoff."

OK. I pulled the stick back and pushed the throttle in for takeoff. Whoops -- soft-field takeoffs have 20 degrees of flaps. I yanked the throttle back out and the engine reluctantly settled back to idle. I added flaps and tried again.

So I've lost my edge...

The airplane lifted off in what was at best a passable rotation, and a poor departure. Stephen shook his head in disappointment as I screwed up the flaps-up procedure right in front of his face. The damn bird still flew though, and that's all I could ask.

The evening crosswind was in full effect, and my airplane was being blown about through the rising windshear.

"It's sure bumpy up here." Stephen stated the obvious as the plane struggled through the first 500 feet of altitude. Easy for him to say.

Oakland's air traffic controllers saw me out of the metropolis and then terminated their services. I pulled out the map and used some pilotage to verify I was on course to Napa. Stephen asked me a few questions and then told me to divert to Petaluma airport.

"I've been to Petaluma," I said flatly. I was so excited to learn what mysterious new airport I'd be landing at, too.

"You have? Oh. Oh well, go there anyway." Sigh.

I tried some pilotage at first to navigate to Petaluma, but Stephen suggested that instead I fly directly over the Scagg's VOR and then proceed outbound on a radial that would take me to Petaluma. I did some quick charting and figured out what I needed to do.

Having visually located the VOR tower while flying back from Santa Rosa two weeks ago, I was able to simply get to the VOR by finding it on the ground in front of me, rather than using the CDI. Still, as I passed over the VOR, the needles went wild and I got confused, and ended up flying out on the wrong course.

I made some corrections and eventually I was on course to Petaluma. I couldn't see the airport until it was right in front of me, ready to smack me upside the head. That's how it is sometimes. You search and scan for a runway, and you can't find it for the life of you, and then you take a second look and it's right there in front of you, large and plain as day.

Stephen had quizzed me to make sure I knew how to manage untowered airports, so I demonstrated this by calling for wind and traffic advisories and correctly reporting my position as I overflew the airport. I made a few radio mistakes here and there, but I did alright.

I overflew the airport but couldn't see the windsock. Slightly annoyed, Stephen pointed out to me, where, like the airport, it was in plain view exactly where I wasn't looking. Using it I deduced which runway to land on and the traffic pattern direction, and then made a descending turn to enter the pattern for runway 29.

Ah, two-niner. That takes me back to the last time I was at Petaluma ... my first cross-country flight, so long ago.

As I made the pattern turns, I set up for landing. It was a bit shaky but I managed to keep things under control. Turning final I was a little bit too fast, so I tried to keep my speed down, but before I could fix things, Stephen said to go around.

Predictably, my go around was utter shite.

"You didn't raise the nose. You took too long to push the throttle in. And you have to wait until you accelerate to V_Y before you start climbing." He listed off the problems like machine-gun rounds.

"Petaluma traffic, 854AC is going around, runway 29, Petaluma." I spoke these words of failure, broadcasting them for the whole sleepy airport to hear. Well, just my luck, another airplane was in the pattern too. He was right behind me, announcing his position. He landed just fine.

I made the traffic pattern again, and again turned final. This time, on final, I wasn't merely too fast -- I was way too fast. I was coming in around 110 MPH, way above V_FE and around the cruising speed for this Skyhawk. It was my decision to go around this time, and I don't doubt Stephen would have agreed.

"Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 4AC is going around ... again ... Petaluma." Oh, the shame! I might as well have said, "Petaluma traffic, Skyhawk 4AC doesn't know a damn thing about flying, Petaluma."

Stephen didn't let the opportunity pass. "An old pilot saying ... one go-around shows good judgement, two shows incompetence." Zing.

"Well, the last go-around was your idea, not mine. Does this mean we both have good judgement?"

I turned downwind again and again set up for landing.

"You turn base too early," Stephen said. "That's why you're coming in too fast." OK, simple enough: I'll turn base further out. I did and my speed was much more under control coming in to land. There was still the matter than the runway was thin as a string and the crosswind was pretty imposing. Despite it all, I managed to put the plane down reasonably softly. It bounced once.

I turned off the runway and Stephen pointed out the location of the fuel pump. Parked next to it was a beautiful Beech twin, with its sleek curves, two powerful engines, and spacious luxury interior. I mentioned that it looked so out of place in such a sleepy airport as this, and opined that it might even be a turboprop.

I parked alongside the Beech and prepared to refuel the plane. There was no stepladder. Suddenly I'm having flashbacks. Stephen hands me the fuel nozzle and recommends I just climb up the plane and refuel it.

"Oh sure, it's not like I've ever hurt my foot doing that." I waited until the Beech pilots were done with their stepladder, then bogarted that bad boy for my own use. Even the ladder was a rickety, unstable one, and I was very anxious while pumping gas into the wings. Like in Vertigo, it will be a little while before I can refuel planes the same way again.

After I was done refueling, and Stephen and I had our fill of trying to figure out how to work the alien pump, we climbed back into the plane.

"Now I want you to plan a flight to Rio Vista." There's an airport I haven't been to. "Fly over the Scagg's VOR." Surprise, some more practice flying over VOR's. I figured out how to fly it as the Beech started up its engines. It did so with a sputtering, jarring roar of a piston. Definitely not a turboprop.

The twin pulled out in front of us, and we stopped to let a very cool looking motorglider pass the other direction, then followed the twin to the runway threshold. There it sat for a good 10 minutes, doing an extremely long runup.

"Why don't you squeeze past them?" Stephen suggested. So I carefully and slowly brought my plane through the tight space they left for us, and maneuvered around the large Beech to the runway. I announced my intentions then made a takeoff and a right downwind departure from the airport.

I tuned in Scagg's and flew directly over the VOR again, and again I fucked it up. After flying outbound on more-or-less the right course, Stephen had me call it quits and return to Oakland.

I turned southward, on a course which put me directly through the path of aircraft departing Napa airport.

"Look to your left," Stephen said flatly. I did, and greeting me was another airplane which had just passed under us, uncomfortably close. It was at that moment that I realized I was flying through Napa's departure path. I tightened my turn to get out of the way, and remembered the last time I made this mistake. I bet Napa tower would be yelling at me again too, if they could.

I checked back in with NorCal and got my clearance to proceed to Oakland. They told me to squawk 0314 and I did. I heard nothing from them for a bit, then:

"854AC, confirm squawking 0314."
"854AC, that's affirmative, 0314."
"854AC, ident." Uh-oh. They can't find us. I idented and eventually heard back from them.
"4AC, we have you on scope, but show you squawking 0315 and I don't see your mode-c."
"Roger, recycling the transponder." Stephen turned it off and on. Transponders are such finicky things.
"4AC, no luck."

"Well, it's broken," Stephen said to me. "I bet that's the one from 12R. We can tell Ginny she needs to get a new transponder." This segued into a conversation about the future of the club's planes; in particular, the plans the club has to sell one or two of them, and use the money to spruce up the rest. That's a relative term -- it's like putting lipstick on the pig. At least maybe they can afford a modern transponder, though.

"4AC, I see you now, 0314, and your mode-C is working, level at 2600 feet."

The gremlins cleared out of the transponder and we were handed off to Tower as I made the approach.

"Tower, 6YC, traffic at your 3 o'clock, Cessna, level with you, landing on 27R, report them in sight."
"6YC has the traffic."
" 4AC, traffic at your 9 o'clock, Cherokee, level with you, landing on 27L, report them in sight."
Sure enough, right next to me was a Piper Cherokee landing just across from me. "4AC, traffic in sight."
"Wonderful," the controller said, undoubtedly satisfied.

Stephen asked me to demonstrate a textbook crosswind landing, and we sure had our fair share of crosswind. I concentrated hard as I did my best to bring the plane down smoothly. It wasn't perfect, but it was a pretty good landing, all things considered.

"Good job," Stephen remarked. "You're clearly rusty in other areas, but we can iron these things out."

I taxied directly back to the Old T's, secured the plane, and returned to the clubhouse to talk about my future. As usual, Stephen asked me how I was scoring on the practice tests. As usual, it wasn't hight enough.

"I can sign you off to take the written now, if you want, but I'd rather a smart guy like you come into checkride with a nice high score." Sure, I'll hold it off. My checkride is still a week or two away, anyway.

"When I fly with you next, we'll do another flight directly over a VOR." I still have to tidy up that skill area, apparently. "Finally, you need to finish up your solo requirements. Where are you going for your long cross-country?"

"I was thinking Fresno to Monterey to Oakland?"

"I'd do Fresno to Salinas to Oakland. Monterey is kind of a beehive."

"Okay."

As I walked out of the Old T's, parked there I saw Grumman F6F Hellcat, a large and menacing-looking WWII fighter, painted in USAAF trainer colors, perched and silent. You never realize how big those old warbirds are until you see them parked next to you. Man, what a beautiful aircraft. I should have taken a picture of it for you guys.

So, looks like, weather and God-willing, Saturday will be my long cross-country solo. There's only a few things left to do!