Today was supposed to be an 11 AM-to-3 PM lesson, as I need a few more hours of checkride preparation to meet the legal minimum. However, the wind was so calm and the sky so clear that Stephen asked me if I wanted to just do a cross-country solo to Santa Rosa and back.
"Hell yes."
So, he told me to get a weather briefing (to be extra sure) and then preflight the plane. I'd be flying N854AC for the first time in weeks, since she had finally had her new pistons broken in and could be used for normal flight.
The weather briefing was my first, so I kept accidentally interrupting the briefer because I didn't know the flow of it yet. He explained that the weather would be basically wonderful, with a few clouds hanging over the Bay and some moderate winds in Oakland by the time I returned. The winds were 2 knots greater than the maximum allowed by Stephen but he said he'd write a waiver; "you can handle it."
So, I preflighted the plane and had Stephen do the requisite paperwork. I didn't actually get a chance to plan this cross-country solo (and in retrospect perhaps Stephen had expected me to have a flight plan to Santa Rosa and back on hand), so after he waved goodbye and took off, I sat in the cockpit of 4AC, thumbing through the sectional charts and writing down radio frequencies. 4AC doesn't have a GPS so I'd have to navigate VOR to VOR, and I'd have to use the maps or my best guesses to stay out of class-B airspace.
I started up the plane, got my clearance, and took off from runway 33 in what was the first solo I'd done in a little while now. (This fact came sharply to mind as I departed.) Departure went smoothly, and although I was too busy to enjoy the sights out the window, I was able to keep myself from any airspace incursions through use of maps and memory. A line of low clouds obscured El Cerrito, and Stephen had told me to divert if I needed to, to avoid flying over clouds, something a student pilot isn't allowed to do, so I stayed clear of them.
Once out over San Pablo Bay, Departure handed me over to Center. I decided to stay with them for traffic advisories, rather than terminate services for a quieter cockpit, because lately I've been reading in magazines about how easy it is to miss traffic that's pretty close to you. I began my climb to my cruising altitude of 4,500 feet and tuned in the Scaag's Island VOR. (I forgot to identify ["tune-identify-twist"], but I would remember that for later VOR's.)
Over Scaag's I then proceeded to the Santa Rosa VOR, which is collocated with the airport. 4AC may not have a GPS, but it does have DME, so I figured out how to work that thing and got a distance to the VOR that I could watch whittle away as I got closer.
I passed over the Santa Rosa Valley, in between mountain ranges, and finally trundled over the city of Santa Rosa. I saw the airport in the distance, a wide swath of brown in an otherwise unbroken city, so I told Center I was beginning my descent. They terminated services and I tuned to Santa Rosa Tower.
OK, I had to know the lay of the land now. My Pilot's Guide was in the copilot's seat, and I thumbed through it to the Santa Rosa page, and read the relevant notes. First off, the tower has no radar, so they rely on you to be studious about reporting where you are, in order to sequence traffic. So, looking at the map and out the window, I deduced that I was just passing over a prominent racetrack, a VFR reporting point called the Fairgrounds.
"Santa Rosa Tower, Skyhawk 854AC is over the Fairgrounds, landing, with Juliet."
"Skyhawk 854AC, Santa Rosa Tower, make left traffic for runway 14, report midfield, be advised there's a flock of pelicans zipping around the runway near the 14 numbers."
I was still 7 miles out and it wasn't easy to tell which runway was 14 (much less see any pelicans), and therefore how to enter the left downwind for it. Judging by the map, I followed the highway under me I'd be making a more-or-less acceptable base leg for runway 14. Tower vectored a departing helicopter along the same freeway, so after a short exchange over the radio we agreed that he would stay on the east side of it and I'd come in on the west side.
I entered the pattern and reported I was midfield. The control tower was emphatically tracking those pelicans, issuing "All Aircraft Be Advised" alerts. They must be one wily flock of pelicans ... That or the tower operator for a sleepy airport like STS has nothing better to do.
So a few more traffic reports -- some other planes on their way to runway 14 -- and I was set up to land. I was coming in a little fast but I put in flaps in an attempt to control it. Tower let me know that those pelicans were right on the approach vector to 14 but that they were high, so I kept my approach low and close to the ground. I still didn't see them, however.
Then, as I was passing over the threshold lights, not 20 feet above the ground and 100 feet from the runway, all of a sudden -- BAM! -- there they were. A giant flock of black birds in below and in front of me. I panicked and pulled the stick back, and the airplane pitched up and sunk. I brought the nose forward and the airplane landed, nosewheel first, on the runway a good 10 or 15 knots faster than it should have. My face cringed as the gaunt nosewheel struck the runway. (The tiny thing cannot support the weight of the plane by itself.)
The airplane recoiled from the bounce and flew back into the air, then came back down again for another bounce. With each shuddering, teeth-clenching ricochet, I struggled to maintain control, but it was already too late: The aircraft was set to bounce five or six more times before it finally stayed put on the ground. I brought the plane to a hasty stop with only a few hundred feet of runway left to go.
I have no excuse for this lapse in judgement. The moment I saw those birds I should have pushed in the power and gone around for another landing attempt. It's all part of the learning process, but mistakes like these are dangerous. If something -- anything -- isn't right during the landing, don't even think: Just push the power in and go around.
Well, I didn't go around, so here I am, sitting on the runway, knowing full well everyone at the airport saw that atrocious landing.
"Skyhawk 854AC, go to Ground, 121.9." Odd that Santa Rosa and Oakland have the same Ground frequency.
"854AC, going to Ground, and we'll reattach our landing gear." I made a feeble, pathetic joke to try in some poor way make light of the shitty landing.
"Santa Rosa Ground, Skyhawk 854AC is off runway 14, request progressive taxi to refueling." Ground gave me turn-by-turn instructions to get to the fuel pump, which was positioned very awkwardly and required some hairpin parking on my part.
I switched off the plane and got everything ready for fueling. Despite the fact that a giant sign read "DO NOT REMOVE NOZZLE UNTIL YOU HAVE PAID," the first thing I did was remove the fuel nozzle. I felt like a complete dumbass, and sure enough, the fuel pump didn't work. After about 15 minutes of trying to figure out how to work that damn labyrinthian pump, I put the nozzle back in its holster, canceled the transaction, and tried again.
Fuel was flowing now. I couldn't find any stepladder so I simply climbed up on the plane with the footholds, and began refueling. Shortly thereafter is when I fell right back down again, fuel nozzle flying out of my hand. I came down hard on my ankle, which was promptly sprained.
The pain was harsh, and I was immediately worried it was broken. It was obvious I couldn't walk very far, so I called Stephen and asked him his suggestion. He told me, well, I suppose, he'd have to come get a pilot and fly up and get me.
"You don't sound very happy," I said nervously.
"Well ... I'm not. I had other plans." We left it at that. I called Liz, thought the situation over a bit, then decided that even if I couldn't walk, my ankle was still good enough to fly. I called Stephen again and told him that I'd fly back myself. He seemed relieved. Liz, however, was mortified. She was convinced this was a bad decision, through and through.
"This is my decision as pilot-in-command," I told her. I had considered the risks of flying back myself versus the inconvenience of having Stephen come up and get me, and I had made my calculated decision. It was already better thought-out than the last decision I had made (regarding certain pelicans).
So, in spite of the sprained ankle, I clambered on to the airplane again and refueled the plane, spilling a lot of fuel in the process. I got both wings refueled when another aircraft had parked and shut down, the pilot waiting for his turn. Not wanting to be in the way (and unable to figure out how roll up the fuel hose), I pulled out the towbar, and in another painful experience, hauled the plane by hand out of the way.
"Fuel hose won't roll up?" the jovial pilot asked. His plane was also a Cessna 172. "When that happens, you gotta talk to the guys in there." He pointed to a shed crawling with bugs. I entered tentatively, and continued through to the adjacent hangar, where I saw some airplanes and helicopters with their engines exposed, undergoing repair. But no people.
The pilot told me not to worry about it, he'd handle it, so I decided to just get going. I made sure the blast from my propeller wouldn't trouble him, then struggled back into the plane and got her ready for departure.
I got my taxi clearance and took the airplane back to 14, this time finding my own way. Once I had takeoff clearance I pushed the propeller in and I was off. Shortly after liftoff, I was overcome with a sudden sense of dread. So many unusual things had just happened, that I worried that with all the distractions I had forgotten something. Did I put the tow bar back? Did I lock the baggage compartment? Did I leave something there? I climbed to 3,500 with an unshakeable anxiety that didn't disappear for five minutes or so. Thirty-five hundred feet is well above Santa Rosa's airspace -- when I remembered that Santa Rosa Tower had no radar, I let them know that I had left their airspace, and they let me go.
Not wanting to add any additional risk to the equation, I contacted Oakland Center and asked for a flight following. They helped me avoid local traffic. At 3,500 feet, with the lower air pressure, the swelling in my right ankle increased significantly. Fortunately, the distractions of flying kept my mind off the pain.
"N854AC, how are you getting to Oakland?"
"854AC is going to Scaag's then direct to Santa Rosa."
Since Center was concerned about my route I figured I'd better stick to it. I double-checked my heading indicator and flew to Scaag's as accurately as I could. As I passed over it, the needle began to dip to the left, and when I looked out the left window, I could see it, the lonesome little VOR in the middle of the marshlands north of San Pablo. Center passed me on to NorCal Approach, who guided me along a typical approach to Oakland.
My workload decreased, and I enjoyed the view as the plane slipped along through light turbulence to the Mormon Temple. A right turn and I entered the traffic for 27R. Tower gave me some traffic advisories, which I picked out. I brought the plane down for a much, much better landing on 27R, then got clearance to taxi back to the Old T's.
Hopping out of the plane, the pain immediately returned, and I hobbled around securing the aircraft, then limped back to the Old T's. I gave my parents a call and they agreed to pick me up. I let Liz know I made it back alive, but she was still not at all pleased.
I had a solo (or lesson) scheduled for tomorrow but with these newest developments I fear I will be on my back all weekend.
Cost so far: $7,416.88
Time so far: 126 days
Hours so far: 42 hours
Projected certification date: August 21, 2007
Projected total cost: $8,800
20070726
So, maybe you'd like to learn to fly now?
So let's say you also live in the Bay Area and you'd like to learn how to fly. With so many airports and flight instructors to choose from, what will you choose? It depends on what your priorities are. I can impart a little wisdom.
Like buying a house, choosing an airport is about three things: Location, location, location. If you're like me and you're relegated to using solely public transportation, then the number of airports you can train at is reduced significantly. In fact, I'd count that as the primary reason I am learning at Oakland International: I can get to it.
If you have some choice, though, you will inevitably hear the words Reid-Hillview Airport at some point. Reid-Hillview (RHV), located just east of San Jose, is the "hub" of private pilot training in the Bay Area. You can learn anything there, and there's tons of instructors to choose from.
So, does that automatically mean you should learn at RHV? No! First off, consider the advantages: Is having hundreds of instructors to choose from a good thing? Finding a good instructor is not like finding true love. If you're a generally personable guy, then most instructors will get along with you (at least) well enough. Give me three instructors, and I'm pretty sure I'd jive with at least one of them.
So then what's good about RHV's selection? Well, it means you can get newer or more obscure licenses (like the Sport Pilot License, which isn't taught anywhere else in the Bay Area), and, if you have a specific kind of plane you want to learn to fly in, you have a better chance of finding an instructor with that airplane model.
However, I didn't learn at RHV. I learned at Oakland International (OAK). Oakland International has one big claim to fame, in terms of pilot training: It's an honest-to-god, busy international airport. If you can fly in Oakland's airspace, you can fly anywhere. It really prepares you for flying with the Big Boys. I can only imagine how it feels to be a pilot like the kind they find up in sleepy airports like Petaluma, flying into OAK for the first time to visit a friend. They must be mortified. Fortunately, in the fast-talking, fast-thinking world of Class-B and Class-C airspace, an Oakland-trained pilot is prepared.
If you're going to learn at Oakland, and you don't own an airplane, you'll have to learn through a club. This leaves you basically have two major choices: the Alameda Aero Club and Oakland Flyers. My decision to go with the AAC was based primarily on price and the interaction I had with their staff.
Oakland Flyers has the better selection of aircraft. The AAC has four airplanes, all Cessna 172's, all more than 20 years old. The airplanes are well maintained by a passionate maintenance crew, but they don't look like much, and they aren't "cool" tailwheel, multi-engined, glass-cockpit, or aerobatic planes. Oakland Flyers has a bunch of planes of varying types and capabilities, but from what I hear tell (and this is nothing more than blatant hearsay), their planes break down more often, and their maintenance crew is slower to fix them.
In addition, Oakland Flyers is more expensive than the AAC. In fact, I have the strong suspicion that the AAC has among the best rental prices in the entire Bay Area. Maybe when I make some more money I will also enroll in Oakland Flyers, so I can enjoy membership in both clubs, but for now, the AAC is fine. It's a modest and homely club, with its four old clunker 172's, but it's reliable and cheap.
I don't intend to answer all the questions that a potential future pilot might have. ("How much will it cost?", "Is it safe?", "What can I do and where can I go?", etc.) There are plenty of websites that can give you general information on learning to fly (and my instructor's site answered most of my questions). My intent here is to give you some Bay Area-specific information that you wouldn't find anywhere else. Hope it helps!
Like buying a house, choosing an airport is about three things: Location, location, location. If you're like me and you're relegated to using solely public transportation, then the number of airports you can train at is reduced significantly. In fact, I'd count that as the primary reason I am learning at Oakland International: I can get to it.
If you have some choice, though, you will inevitably hear the words Reid-Hillview Airport at some point. Reid-Hillview (RHV), located just east of San Jose, is the "hub" of private pilot training in the Bay Area. You can learn anything there, and there's tons of instructors to choose from.
So, does that automatically mean you should learn at RHV? No! First off, consider the advantages: Is having hundreds of instructors to choose from a good thing? Finding a good instructor is not like finding true love. If you're a generally personable guy, then most instructors will get along with you (at least) well enough. Give me three instructors, and I'm pretty sure I'd jive with at least one of them.
So then what's good about RHV's selection? Well, it means you can get newer or more obscure licenses (like the Sport Pilot License, which isn't taught anywhere else in the Bay Area), and, if you have a specific kind of plane you want to learn to fly in, you have a better chance of finding an instructor with that airplane model.
However, I didn't learn at RHV. I learned at Oakland International (OAK). Oakland International has one big claim to fame, in terms of pilot training: It's an honest-to-god, busy international airport. If you can fly in Oakland's airspace, you can fly anywhere. It really prepares you for flying with the Big Boys. I can only imagine how it feels to be a pilot like the kind they find up in sleepy airports like Petaluma, flying into OAK for the first time to visit a friend. They must be mortified. Fortunately, in the fast-talking, fast-thinking world of Class-B and Class-C airspace, an Oakland-trained pilot is prepared.
If you're going to learn at Oakland, and you don't own an airplane, you'll have to learn through a club. This leaves you basically have two major choices: the Alameda Aero Club and Oakland Flyers. My decision to go with the AAC was based primarily on price and the interaction I had with their staff.
Oakland Flyers has the better selection of aircraft. The AAC has four airplanes, all Cessna 172's, all more than 20 years old. The airplanes are well maintained by a passionate maintenance crew, but they don't look like much, and they aren't "cool" tailwheel, multi-engined, glass-cockpit, or aerobatic planes. Oakland Flyers has a bunch of planes of varying types and capabilities, but from what I hear tell (and this is nothing more than blatant hearsay), their planes break down more often, and their maintenance crew is slower to fix them.
In addition, Oakland Flyers is more expensive than the AAC. In fact, I have the strong suspicion that the AAC has among the best rental prices in the entire Bay Area. Maybe when I make some more money I will also enroll in Oakland Flyers, so I can enjoy membership in both clubs, but for now, the AAC is fine. It's a modest and homely club, with its four old clunker 172's, but it's reliable and cheap.
I don't intend to answer all the questions that a potential future pilot might have. ("How much will it cost?", "Is it safe?", "What can I do and where can I go?", etc.) There are plenty of websites that can give you general information on learning to fly (and my instructor's site answered most of my questions). My intent here is to give you some Bay Area-specific information that you wouldn't find anywhere else. Hope it helps!
20070725
Lesson #22: More checkride preparation
You'd think today would not be a day for a lesson. You'd think overcast clouds, blotting the sky from horizon to horizon, hanging a mere 1,000 feet above the ground, would prevent any sort of VFR lesson from taking place.
Well, my checkride is mere weeks away. And that means not even IFR weather will stop Stephen from cramming more lessons in.
Stephen filed an IFR clearance from Oakland to Napa with the intent to cancel it once we were above the clouds so I could do some checkride practice. After preflighting the plane, I was eager to try my hand at talking to IFR Clearance Delivery for the first time, but Stephen said he'd be doing the radio work.
At first I was dismayed, but then I saw in his hands a notepad with some completely incomprehensible shorthand scribbled on it. As the controller spoke a mile a minute, Stephen jotted down more indecipherable shorthand. This shit was serious.
So, I was told to ask ground for a taxi. Runway 15/33 was closed for repairs, so we taxied aaalll the way down to 27R, and got our IFR takeoff clearance. A lot of IFR radio work is just saying the same things a VFR pilot would say, but adding "IFR" to the end.
"Oakland Ground, Skyhawk 739UL, taxi runway 27R, IFR."
or, "Oakland Tower, Skyhawk 739UL, ready for takeoff runway 27R, IFR."
It's like a badge of honor, informing the world that you, sir, are an IFR flight.
So, Stephen gave me a 30-second primer on how to do a takeoff through the clouds, and I pushed the power in and we were off. Once we cleared 300 feet I turned to our assigned course of 310 degrees. Another 700 feet later and the bitty little Skyhawk punched through the imposing cloud layer. I couldn't help but feel like I had broken a fundamental rule of flying as the blinding whiteness enveloped us, like I had treaded into forbidden terrain.
So, focusing on the instruments, I kept us climbing and on course. A few minutes later, at 2,300 feet, the clouds slid away and I was treated to an unobscured view of the blue sky above, and a slowly shrinking blanket of clouds below, broken intermittently by mountains around the North Bay.
My first thought was how strange this was -- seeing such a vista not from the tiny window of an airline, where such views were commonplace to me, but from the embracing windows of my tiny Skyhawk. Yes, it could clear the clouds. Here was living proof.
Stephen stuck with the IFR plan until we cleared SFO's class-B airspace, then canceled all our services and turned off the radio. (You can see our course at FlightAware.) He had me set a course for a mountain near the Sonoma Valley, and along the way we practiced slow flight. A few turns in slow flight and some power-on and power-off stalls.
He explained that my performance was passable ("If I were the examiner you would have passed"), but that that wasn't good enough. I needed leeway to overcome the nervousness I will have on my checkride, so it has to be better than passable. It has to be awesome. So, we practiced until what little edges I had were rounded out.
Next up, steep turns. Two or three of those and I was starting to feel sick. It's hard to keep your stomach from getting sick when all you have to see is blue sky and white clouds. My steep turn performance had degraded somewhat since I last did it, so we worked at it until it was up to spec (and I was getting dizzy).
By now we were over clearing in the clouds, with the houses of Sonoma Valley in view below us. Stephen had me practice standard rate turns, with climbs and descents, and a few other maneuvers. We then turned around and he announced that my next challenge would be recovery from unusual attitudes.
Wonderful.
Stephen slapped the hood on my face. I closed my eyes and put my hands in my lap, trying to think about non-dizzying thoughts, while Stephen had way too much fun tilting and banking the plane, flying it like a bucking bronco in the sky. He knew he was torturing me, that asshole.
Fortunately, recovery from unusual attitudes is easy peasy, but even still I made a few small mistakes that were quick to be ironed out. Satisfied that I was doing fine by now, Stephen filed an IFR flight plan back to Oakland, did the magical notepad shorthand thing again, and had me follow the controller's instructions to take me back into landing. Oh, and he told me to keep the hood on, so I could rack up some simulated instrument hours.
The difference between an IFR approach and a VFR approach is that, in an IFR approach, you're not allowed to do anything until you're told to. A VFR approach consists of broad instructions, like "proceed to the Mormon Temple" or "#2 for landing," whereas an IFR approach consists of exact courses and altitudes to hold.
The controller doesn't generally tell you why he's making you turn where he is, but with the help of the GPS, I was able to keep tabs on what was going on. A simple "turn right to heading 135" command lacks any context -- especially since clouds obscured the airport completely -- but looking on the GPS it was clear he was turning me for a right-45 entry into the pattern.
So here we were, entering the traffic pattern over an airport we only knew in an abstract sense, since below us was only an endless sheet of white clouds. Plus, I had the hood on my face anyway.
The controller then instructed me to make right turns for my downwind and base legs. When you're flying IFR, the controller has you make a much larger pattern than a typical VFR pattern, with each leg miles long and taking 5 to 6 minutes to complete. Since our Skyhawk was likely the slowest airplane in the pattern, the controller made us make a few "sequencing turns," whereby you get out of the way so a faster plane can overtake you.
Finally, here we were, on final, descending through the clouds. Stephen had me take off the hood since we were in clouds anyway, and who doesn't want to watch white wisps float past your view. Raindrops collected on the windshield. Since I couldn't see the airport, much less the runway, the approach was an ILS one, guided by the two needles in the VOR. I did my darndest to keep them centered. Finally, with a sudden whoosh, the clouds cleared, and there 4 miles in front of me was 27R, as promised by the instruments, waiting to be kissed by 9UL's tires.
Since it was a long final I kept the speed up til the very end, when I brought the plane down to 60 knots and let it touch gently upon the runway. Apparently Tower can read my mind, since she didn't even ask where I wanted to go, she just cleared me to go wherever the hell it was I was headed next. So, I taxied to Kaiser, and added some fuel to the wings, while the blanket of clouds (above me once again) showered me with tiny raindrops.
And like the journey in, you can follow the journey back home on FlightAware.
Probably the most epiphanous part of the journey occurred during the base leg, when over the radio I listened in as a hapless VFR pilot arrived at Oakland, ending his 4-hour trip from Van Nuys, dismayed to find the airport clouded over. Since he lacked an instrument rating, he had no choice but to turn around and find another airport to land at.
This (the realization of the doors an IFR rating opens for you), plus the exhilarating experience of flying through and around clouds, got me thinking. I asked Stephen some questions about getting my own instrument rating. Apparently it would be another 3 months' effort and another $10,000.
But maybe... Maybe...
Cost so far: $7,291.78
Time so far: 123 days
Hours so far: 40.4
Projected certification date: August 23, 2007
Projected total cost: $9,000
Well, my checkride is mere weeks away. And that means not even IFR weather will stop Stephen from cramming more lessons in.
Stephen filed an IFR clearance from Oakland to Napa with the intent to cancel it once we were above the clouds so I could do some checkride practice. After preflighting the plane, I was eager to try my hand at talking to IFR Clearance Delivery for the first time, but Stephen said he'd be doing the radio work.
At first I was dismayed, but then I saw in his hands a notepad with some completely incomprehensible shorthand scribbled on it. As the controller spoke a mile a minute, Stephen jotted down more indecipherable shorthand. This shit was serious.
So, I was told to ask ground for a taxi. Runway 15/33 was closed for repairs, so we taxied aaalll the way down to 27R, and got our IFR takeoff clearance. A lot of IFR radio work is just saying the same things a VFR pilot would say, but adding "IFR" to the end.
"Oakland Ground, Skyhawk 739UL, taxi runway 27R, IFR."
or, "Oakland Tower, Skyhawk 739UL, ready for takeoff runway 27R, IFR."
It's like a badge of honor, informing the world that you, sir, are an IFR flight.
So, Stephen gave me a 30-second primer on how to do a takeoff through the clouds, and I pushed the power in and we were off. Once we cleared 300 feet I turned to our assigned course of 310 degrees. Another 700 feet later and the bitty little Skyhawk punched through the imposing cloud layer. I couldn't help but feel like I had broken a fundamental rule of flying as the blinding whiteness enveloped us, like I had treaded into forbidden terrain.
So, focusing on the instruments, I kept us climbing and on course. A few minutes later, at 2,300 feet, the clouds slid away and I was treated to an unobscured view of the blue sky above, and a slowly shrinking blanket of clouds below, broken intermittently by mountains around the North Bay.
My first thought was how strange this was -- seeing such a vista not from the tiny window of an airline, where such views were commonplace to me, but from the embracing windows of my tiny Skyhawk. Yes, it could clear the clouds. Here was living proof.
Stephen stuck with the IFR plan until we cleared SFO's class-B airspace, then canceled all our services and turned off the radio. (You can see our course at FlightAware.) He had me set a course for a mountain near the Sonoma Valley, and along the way we practiced slow flight. A few turns in slow flight and some power-on and power-off stalls.
He explained that my performance was passable ("If I were the examiner you would have passed"), but that that wasn't good enough. I needed leeway to overcome the nervousness I will have on my checkride, so it has to be better than passable. It has to be awesome. So, we practiced until what little edges I had were rounded out.
Next up, steep turns. Two or three of those and I was starting to feel sick. It's hard to keep your stomach from getting sick when all you have to see is blue sky and white clouds. My steep turn performance had degraded somewhat since I last did it, so we worked at it until it was up to spec (and I was getting dizzy).
By now we were over clearing in the clouds, with the houses of Sonoma Valley in view below us. Stephen had me practice standard rate turns, with climbs and descents, and a few other maneuvers. We then turned around and he announced that my next challenge would be recovery from unusual attitudes.
Wonderful.
Stephen slapped the hood on my face. I closed my eyes and put my hands in my lap, trying to think about non-dizzying thoughts, while Stephen had way too much fun tilting and banking the plane, flying it like a bucking bronco in the sky. He knew he was torturing me, that asshole.
Fortunately, recovery from unusual attitudes is easy peasy, but even still I made a few small mistakes that were quick to be ironed out. Satisfied that I was doing fine by now, Stephen filed an IFR flight plan back to Oakland, did the magical notepad shorthand thing again, and had me follow the controller's instructions to take me back into landing. Oh, and he told me to keep the hood on, so I could rack up some simulated instrument hours.
The difference between an IFR approach and a VFR approach is that, in an IFR approach, you're not allowed to do anything until you're told to. A VFR approach consists of broad instructions, like "proceed to the Mormon Temple" or "#2 for landing," whereas an IFR approach consists of exact courses and altitudes to hold.
The controller doesn't generally tell you why he's making you turn where he is, but with the help of the GPS, I was able to keep tabs on what was going on. A simple "turn right to heading 135" command lacks any context -- especially since clouds obscured the airport completely -- but looking on the GPS it was clear he was turning me for a right-45 entry into the pattern.
So here we were, entering the traffic pattern over an airport we only knew in an abstract sense, since below us was only an endless sheet of white clouds. Plus, I had the hood on my face anyway.
The controller then instructed me to make right turns for my downwind and base legs. When you're flying IFR, the controller has you make a much larger pattern than a typical VFR pattern, with each leg miles long and taking 5 to 6 minutes to complete. Since our Skyhawk was likely the slowest airplane in the pattern, the controller made us make a few "sequencing turns," whereby you get out of the way so a faster plane can overtake you.
Finally, here we were, on final, descending through the clouds. Stephen had me take off the hood since we were in clouds anyway, and who doesn't want to watch white wisps float past your view. Raindrops collected on the windshield. Since I couldn't see the airport, much less the runway, the approach was an ILS one, guided by the two needles in the VOR. I did my darndest to keep them centered. Finally, with a sudden whoosh, the clouds cleared, and there 4 miles in front of me was 27R, as promised by the instruments, waiting to be kissed by 9UL's tires.
Since it was a long final I kept the speed up til the very end, when I brought the plane down to 60 knots and let it touch gently upon the runway. Apparently Tower can read my mind, since she didn't even ask where I wanted to go, she just cleared me to go wherever the hell it was I was headed next. So, I taxied to Kaiser, and added some fuel to the wings, while the blanket of clouds (above me once again) showered me with tiny raindrops.
And like the journey in, you can follow the journey back home on FlightAware.
Probably the most epiphanous part of the journey occurred during the base leg, when over the radio I listened in as a hapless VFR pilot arrived at Oakland, ending his 4-hour trip from Van Nuys, dismayed to find the airport clouded over. Since he lacked an instrument rating, he had no choice but to turn around and find another airport to land at.
This (the realization of the doors an IFR rating opens for you), plus the exhilarating experience of flying through and around clouds, got me thinking. I asked Stephen some questions about getting my own instrument rating. Apparently it would be another 3 months' effort and another $10,000.
But maybe... Maybe...
Cost so far: $7,291.78
Time so far: 123 days
Hours so far: 40.4
Projected certification date: August 23, 2007
Projected total cost: $9,000
20070722
Lesson #21: Polish in preparation for my checkride
The time's a-comin'. Stephen decided that, rather than do another night cross-country (since I didn't need any more), we should polish my landings. We would instead stay in the pattern at Oakland and practice short- and soft-field landings, then when night fell, practiced landings without landing lights.
I preflighted 12R, the Death Trap -- which, by the way, is even scarier to fly at night. The thing has no interior lights to speak of, so to fly at night Stephen had to hold a flashlight on the instrument panel so I could see the dials. That would put any passenger in a state of unrest.
I got my takeoff clearance and performed a normal takeoff and entry into the 27R pattern. It was immediately obvious how sloppy I'd become -- I didn't bother climbing to pattern altitude, my turns were too steep, my flap usage was awful, and my first attempt at a short-field landing was atrocious. Admittedly, I didn't understand that he wanted my first landing to be short-field, but still...
My short-field takeoff was equally as wretched. I was confused and out of practice. So as I brought the plane around for a second try, Stephen went over the steps with me. Landing #2 was much better, as was takeoff #2. And by landing #3, my short-field work was checkride quality.
So, we did some soft fields. They went OK at first, and a few landings later Stephen had all the bugs ironed out. Landing at night was tricky because Stephen's flashlight illuminated only a handful of dials. When he turned off the landing light, I was forced to use the runway lights as a ground reference, keeping them in my peripheral vision to judge my height above the ground. For the second landing at night, the landing and taxi lights were off, meaning I had no ground references except the runway lights. Fortunately, I landed just fine.
We brought the plane directly back to the Old T's, taxiing down 27R and 33, where I waited for Liz to pick me up in the car we had rented for the day. Stephen offered to have her come along as we went up for another "training session" (really a tour of the Peninsula), and Liz was more than happy, so I reserved 9UL and preflighted the plane.
After all, no self-respecting friend would let a friend fly in 12R for her first flight.
The plane was loaded up, everyone was strapped in, and Stephen gave me a few pointers here and there while I flew the plane out of Oakland and down to the Peninsula. We followed the Bay Bridge to downtown San Francisco, its toll plaza amazing at night. We marveled at breathtaking skyscrapers such as the Transamerica Tower, continued along the Embarcardero over the piers to the Golden Gate, turned northward over Sausalito, and turned back towards the East Bay.
Liz didn't get a good look at Alcatraz so I turned back and hovered over it for a bit before continuing to Emeryville and getting a landing clearance. I brought the plane back to Oakland for a smooth landing. It was 11 PM so Stephen took off immediately (the flying time being his treat) while Liz helped me secure the plane.
I should schedule some more lessons; I'll do that now. It was great fun to bring Liz along on her first flight with me, and of course she can accompany me on any lesson I do, as Stephen is the pilot-in-command for these flights. She just might do that, too.
Cost so far: $6,980.99
Time so far: 119 days
Hours so far: 38.5
Projected certification date: July 25 to August 25, 2007
Projected total cost: $7,300 to $9,000
I preflighted 12R, the Death Trap -- which, by the way, is even scarier to fly at night. The thing has no interior lights to speak of, so to fly at night Stephen had to hold a flashlight on the instrument panel so I could see the dials. That would put any passenger in a state of unrest.
I got my takeoff clearance and performed a normal takeoff and entry into the 27R pattern. It was immediately obvious how sloppy I'd become -- I didn't bother climbing to pattern altitude, my turns were too steep, my flap usage was awful, and my first attempt at a short-field landing was atrocious. Admittedly, I didn't understand that he wanted my first landing to be short-field, but still...
My short-field takeoff was equally as wretched. I was confused and out of practice. So as I brought the plane around for a second try, Stephen went over the steps with me. Landing #2 was much better, as was takeoff #2. And by landing #3, my short-field work was checkride quality.
So, we did some soft fields. They went OK at first, and a few landings later Stephen had all the bugs ironed out. Landing at night was tricky because Stephen's flashlight illuminated only a handful of dials. When he turned off the landing light, I was forced to use the runway lights as a ground reference, keeping them in my peripheral vision to judge my height above the ground. For the second landing at night, the landing and taxi lights were off, meaning I had no ground references except the runway lights. Fortunately, I landed just fine.
We brought the plane directly back to the Old T's, taxiing down 27R and 33, where I waited for Liz to pick me up in the car we had rented for the day. Stephen offered to have her come along as we went up for another "training session" (really a tour of the Peninsula), and Liz was more than happy, so I reserved 9UL and preflighted the plane.
After all, no self-respecting friend would let a friend fly in 12R for her first flight.
The plane was loaded up, everyone was strapped in, and Stephen gave me a few pointers here and there while I flew the plane out of Oakland and down to the Peninsula. We followed the Bay Bridge to downtown San Francisco, its toll plaza amazing at night. We marveled at breathtaking skyscrapers such as the Transamerica Tower, continued along the Embarcardero over the piers to the Golden Gate, turned northward over Sausalito, and turned back towards the East Bay.
Liz didn't get a good look at Alcatraz so I turned back and hovered over it for a bit before continuing to Emeryville and getting a landing clearance. I brought the plane back to Oakland for a smooth landing. It was 11 PM so Stephen took off immediately (the flying time being his treat) while Liz helped me secure the plane.
I should schedule some more lessons; I'll do that now. It was great fun to bring Liz along on her first flight with me, and of course she can accompany me on any lesson I do, as Stephen is the pilot-in-command for these flights. She just might do that, too.
Cost so far: $6,980.99
Time so far: 119 days
Hours so far: 38.5
Projected certification date: July 25 to August 25, 2007
Projected total cost: $7,300 to $9,000
20070720
Lesson 20: Cross-country night flight
This weekend was supposed to be packed. A lesson Friday night, Saturday night, and a cross-country solo Sunday morning. Realizing that a cross-country night lesson on Saturday night, followed by a solo Sunday morning, and the significant travel time between would be strenuous, I booked a hotel between the two flights.
It wasn't until the next day I realized I booked it for the wrong dates, Friday night to Saturday morning. Okay, that's fine. I can still make use of the hotel: I can stay in the air late on Friday, without worry of missing a BART train.
Riding to the Old T's at 8pm on Friday, it dawned on me that I could just move my solo flight to Saturday morning and make full use of the hotel as originally intended. There are no planes available for Saturday morning and the weather looks to be crappy, but there's still hope... I guess.
I arrived at the Old T's as the sun was setting, and Stephen asked me if I had a flight plan to Santa Rosa ready. It was that moment that I remembered I accidentally threw it out. Stephen was not pleased. Regardless, he had me quickly plan a new flight to Santa Rosa, and since I had never been there before, familiarize myself with printed information on the airport.
Santa Rosa has a tower, but it closes at 8pm. He explained that it would be like flying into an uncontrolled airport.
I preflighted the plane with my own flashlight this time, and brought her to runway 33 after I got my clearance. Taxiing was much less eventful on account of the sun still being up; Stephen had wondered when night officially began and had even made me call some agencies to that effect, but no one had an answer for him. So I guess night officially begins when he says it does.
At the runway I made a point to note the departure time. I've been trying to get in the habit of remembering all the crap you have to do before you get in the air.
"Want to kill two birds with one stone?" Stephen asked as I climbed out of Oakland with the sun just below the horizon.
"Sure."
And on came the hood. Apparently I need like 5 hours of simulated instrument time.
Partially because I hadn't flown in two months, but primarily because the right wing had about 30 pounds more fuel than the left, I could not for the life of me keep that plane steady. We were zigging and zagging, wobbling about the sky. Stephen candidly suggested I feed from the right tank only, but that only fixed the problem very slowly.
So, the plane made lazy S-turns across the sky as I chased the VOR needle exasperatingly. Once we got over the Scagg's Island VOR, Stephen suggested I taske my hood off for a peek. It certainly was beautiful out; a crisp, cool night over the North Bay.
I continued further to the Santa Rosa VOR, and as I was 5 nautical miles or so out, Stephen had me take off my hood and find the airport.
"I see the rotating beacon, but no runways." I strained my eyes to see the runway lights.
"That's because you haven't turned the lights on." Oh! Pilot-controlled lighting! I eagerly clicked my mic in an attempt to get the runway to light up.
Click-click.
No dice. "Try it five times, and slower," Stephen suggested. I obliged, and the runway lit up like plugging in Christmas lights. After an ear-popping descent to pattern altitude, I entered a left 45 for runway 14, turned downwind, then base, then final. Landing was smooth and uneventful. Stephen had me click the lights on again on base, so they wouldn't go out on short final. I liked having power over such a large electrical device.
"On long night cross-countries, pilots keep themselves busy by turning on the lights for every runway they fly over," Stephen said. Shortly thereafter he noticed the fuel selector valve was still on "RIGHT," not "BOTH," and gave me heat for not following the pre-landing checklist correctly.
We discussed the possibility of getting fuel at Santa Rosa, but ultimately decided just to go back. For someone who has never been to this airport, taxiing around at night, I think I did pretty good. I had removed the relevant page from my Pilot's Guide and clipped it to my kneeboard, and it helped me not get lost.
I brought the airplane back to runway 14, then we took off again, departing straight-out for Scagg's Island. Once I was a thousand feet off the ground, the hood came back on, and that oh-so-familiar amateurish weaving began.
As I flew back under the hood, Stephen, true to his word, used the GPS to search for nearby airports, and turned the runway lights on as we passed. I saw him fiddling with Gnoss's and Petaluma's lights.
"I love flying at night," Stephen said whimsically. "It's so pretty."
Once over Scagg's, Stephen had me continue to the OAK VOR. In the process of tuning the OAK VOR I lost control of the airplane, which had already turned itself 180 degrees around and was descending rapidly. (I hate flying with a fuel imbalance.) After about 5 minutes of flying, he said I can take my hood off, and sure enough, there we were, over San Pablo Bay, approaching Hercules.
I checked in with NorCal Approach, and was told to head to the Mormon Temple.
"When you get switched over to Tower, I'll handle the radio," Stephen said.
Uh-oh. This could only mean one thing. "You have a surprise for me?"
Stephen made a wicked smile. He was up to something. "I remember back when a surprise meant like a birthday cake or something, not an in-flight emergency," I remarked.
"Surprises are fun."
After the handoff to Tower, Stephen made his request. "Oakland Tower, 739UL would like a low approach to 29, landing 27R, if you can squeeze us in."
"739UL, sorry, I got planes backed up for 25 miles. So that will be cleared to land 27R."
"Oh well," Stephen said to me. "At night the lights are 29 look amazing." 29 is the Big Runway, the one the big jets use when they land and depart Oakland. He explained that a low approach on 29 means flying the length of the runway not 50 feet above the ground, then making a steep turn and landing on 27R (I assume landing on the departure end).
That reminded me that I wanted to practice the low-approach 27R landing for runway 33, a similar approach, and he told me we could do that sometime. For now, though, I am simply landing on 27R, like so many other times. I made another smooth landing, proceeded to Kaiser for fuel, and spent $113 on filling up this very thirsty aircraft.
Like the previous night, the South Tower was handling all air traffic, so the radio was busy, sharing it with the Big Jets. I squeezed in my taxi request, and proceeded to the Old T's to shut off the aircraft.
Stephen wants my next cross-country solo to be to Healdsburg, an airport just beyond Santa Rosa. Though as I write this, it is the next morning, and the weather doesn't look promising. I may end up doing it tomorrow or next week.
I also have another cross-country night lesson Saturday night; who knows where that will be to. I'll find out in a bit.
It wasn't until the next day I realized I booked it for the wrong dates, Friday night to Saturday morning. Okay, that's fine. I can still make use of the hotel: I can stay in the air late on Friday, without worry of missing a BART train.
Riding to the Old T's at 8pm on Friday, it dawned on me that I could just move my solo flight to Saturday morning and make full use of the hotel as originally intended. There are no planes available for Saturday morning and the weather looks to be crappy, but there's still hope... I guess.
I arrived at the Old T's as the sun was setting, and Stephen asked me if I had a flight plan to Santa Rosa ready. It was that moment that I remembered I accidentally threw it out. Stephen was not pleased. Regardless, he had me quickly plan a new flight to Santa Rosa, and since I had never been there before, familiarize myself with printed information on the airport.
Santa Rosa has a tower, but it closes at 8pm. He explained that it would be like flying into an uncontrolled airport.
I preflighted the plane with my own flashlight this time, and brought her to runway 33 after I got my clearance. Taxiing was much less eventful on account of the sun still being up; Stephen had wondered when night officially began and had even made me call some agencies to that effect, but no one had an answer for him. So I guess night officially begins when he says it does.
At the runway I made a point to note the departure time. I've been trying to get in the habit of remembering all the crap you have to do before you get in the air.
"Want to kill two birds with one stone?" Stephen asked as I climbed out of Oakland with the sun just below the horizon.
"Sure."
And on came the hood. Apparently I need like 5 hours of simulated instrument time.
Partially because I hadn't flown in two months, but primarily because the right wing had about 30 pounds more fuel than the left, I could not for the life of me keep that plane steady. We were zigging and zagging, wobbling about the sky. Stephen candidly suggested I feed from the right tank only, but that only fixed the problem very slowly.
So, the plane made lazy S-turns across the sky as I chased the VOR needle exasperatingly. Once we got over the Scagg's Island VOR, Stephen suggested I taske my hood off for a peek. It certainly was beautiful out; a crisp, cool night over the North Bay.
I continued further to the Santa Rosa VOR, and as I was 5 nautical miles or so out, Stephen had me take off my hood and find the airport.
"I see the rotating beacon, but no runways." I strained my eyes to see the runway lights.
"That's because you haven't turned the lights on." Oh! Pilot-controlled lighting! I eagerly clicked my mic in an attempt to get the runway to light up.
Click-click.
No dice. "Try it five times, and slower," Stephen suggested. I obliged, and the runway lit up like plugging in Christmas lights. After an ear-popping descent to pattern altitude, I entered a left 45 for runway 14, turned downwind, then base, then final. Landing was smooth and uneventful. Stephen had me click the lights on again on base, so they wouldn't go out on short final. I liked having power over such a large electrical device.
"On long night cross-countries, pilots keep themselves busy by turning on the lights for every runway they fly over," Stephen said. Shortly thereafter he noticed the fuel selector valve was still on "RIGHT," not "BOTH," and gave me heat for not following the pre-landing checklist correctly.
We discussed the possibility of getting fuel at Santa Rosa, but ultimately decided just to go back. For someone who has never been to this airport, taxiing around at night, I think I did pretty good. I had removed the relevant page from my Pilot's Guide and clipped it to my kneeboard, and it helped me not get lost.
I brought the airplane back to runway 14, then we took off again, departing straight-out for Scagg's Island. Once I was a thousand feet off the ground, the hood came back on, and that oh-so-familiar amateurish weaving began.
As I flew back under the hood, Stephen, true to his word, used the GPS to search for nearby airports, and turned the runway lights on as we passed. I saw him fiddling with Gnoss's and Petaluma's lights.
"I love flying at night," Stephen said whimsically. "It's so pretty."
Once over Scagg's, Stephen had me continue to the OAK VOR. In the process of tuning the OAK VOR I lost control of the airplane, which had already turned itself 180 degrees around and was descending rapidly. (I hate flying with a fuel imbalance.) After about 5 minutes of flying, he said I can take my hood off, and sure enough, there we were, over San Pablo Bay, approaching Hercules.
I checked in with NorCal Approach, and was told to head to the Mormon Temple.
"When you get switched over to Tower, I'll handle the radio," Stephen said.
Uh-oh. This could only mean one thing. "You have a surprise for me?"
Stephen made a wicked smile. He was up to something. "I remember back when a surprise meant like a birthday cake or something, not an in-flight emergency," I remarked.
"Surprises are fun."
After the handoff to Tower, Stephen made his request. "Oakland Tower, 739UL would like a low approach to 29, landing 27R, if you can squeeze us in."
"739UL, sorry, I got planes backed up for 25 miles. So that will be cleared to land 27R."
"Oh well," Stephen said to me. "At night the lights are 29 look amazing." 29 is the Big Runway, the one the big jets use when they land and depart Oakland. He explained that a low approach on 29 means flying the length of the runway not 50 feet above the ground, then making a steep turn and landing on 27R (I assume landing on the departure end).
That reminded me that I wanted to practice the low-approach 27R landing for runway 33, a similar approach, and he told me we could do that sometime. For now, though, I am simply landing on 27R, like so many other times. I made another smooth landing, proceeded to Kaiser for fuel, and spent $113 on filling up this very thirsty aircraft.
Like the previous night, the South Tower was handling all air traffic, so the radio was busy, sharing it with the Big Jets. I squeezed in my taxi request, and proceeded to the Old T's to shut off the aircraft.
Stephen wants my next cross-country solo to be to Healdsburg, an airport just beyond Santa Rosa. Though as I write this, it is the next morning, and the weather doesn't look promising. I may end up doing it tomorrow or next week.
I also have another cross-country night lesson Saturday night; who knows where that will be to. I'll find out in a bit.
20070706
Lesson #19: Night flying
I arrived at the Old T's at 9pm, with the sun just barely set and the night air crisp and cool. I had forgotten my badge, but fortunately Stephen was waiting outside for me.
For this flight we would head over to San Pablo Bay and review some maneuvers, then get takeoffs and landings done at night. Stephen said the most important thing was to simply practice night takeoffs and landings repeatedly, since that's all the FAA really cared about.
We headed to the aircraft, and as I pulled my equipment out of my flight bag, I realized I couldn't see a damn thing, much less read the checklist.
"Can I flip on the master switch, just so I can see what I'm doing?" I asked. Apparently that was a perfect segue into lesson #1.
"Always carry two flashlights with you when you fly at night," Stephen said dryly, as he produced two flashlights and handed them to me. Under the light of the larger one, I worked through the checklist, ensuring that interior and exterior lights functioned properly. You never quite realize how bright your strobe lights are until they blind you during a nighttime walkaround.
Once the two of us were settled in I got my clearance, and began a nighttime taxi to runway 33. By now it was completely dark, and although the taxiway had reflectors and the airplane had a taxi light, I was still having a hard time keeping track of where I was going. I performed my runup and continued on to runway 33. Right in front of the runway-33 lighted sign I saw two flashing yellow lights, and it wasn't until after I sailed right past the hold-short line did I realize that those lights indicated where to stop.
My first runway incursion. Oops.
I got my takeoff clearance and brought the plane into the air. As we climbed to 2,000 feet I enjoyed the nighttime cityscape, a sight not unfamiliar but always beautiful. Stephen asked me to open an air vent and feel the air.
"Notice anything?" he said.
"It's very warm." Indeed, the air felt like it was around 100 degrees.
"There's an inversion layer." Warm air from midday had risen during the evening, meaning that while the ground was cool, at altitude it was temperate, even hot.
The other spectacle that caught my eye, flying towards San Pablo Bay, was the nighttime clouds. See, without any good frame of reference, I thought San Francisco Bay was San Pablo Bay, and got myself confused. In any case, a thick layer of clouds, about 800 feet off the ground, get pushed and funneled through the Golden Gate Bridge, and spread out on the other side, blanketing Richmond and Emeryville with clouds each night (and smearing the lights from the ground beneath them). From the sky it looked amazing, like the clouds were being squeezed through the bridge and squirted out over the Bay. How close they hugged the shoreline, too, was spectacular.
When we were over San Pablo Bay Stephen had me do two clearing turns followed by two steep turns. My ability to hold my altitude during a steep turn has improved significantly, and I was even proud of my execution. I gained 100 feet on the rollout, but these are small errors that can be ironed out. For my reference point I used a pair of well-lit towers, a TV broadcast antenna for a station whose call letters I've since forgotten.
Stephen then had me practice slow flight and some power-on and power-off stalls. I did the former just fine, but there are still some issues with my stall recovery. Firstly, I have a tendency to let the plane plummet during recovery, losing hundreds of feet unnecessarily. Secondly, my climbout procedures are a bit off ... I have to remember, carb heat off, throttle full, 20 degrees of flaps immediately, accelerate to Vy, climb at Vy, 10 degrees of flaps, accelerate to Vy, and so on in that pattern. That, plus keeping control of the airplane, is a lot to remember for what is essentially a 5-second recovery period.
Stephen asked me, "if you had an engine failure, where would you land?"
"I ... uhhh ... I guess ..." I had no idea. Looking around all I saw was well-lit city areas and pitch-black water.
"It's harder at night," Stephen explained. "You could pick one of the roads, but you run the risk of getting caught in power lines you can't see. The best option is probably to put it in the drink." When your best option is to ditch a fixed-gear plane in ice-cold, pitch-black Bay waters, your options aren't very good.
Stephen pointed out two nearby airports, San Rafael and Gnoss Field, to show me what they look like at night. We then turned around and headed back to Oakland for stop-and-go work. (You can't do touch-and-goes at night, they don't count, so you have to do stop-and-goes or full-stop landings.)
I got my clearance back to Oakland, and Stephen suggested I navigate using the VOR's and GPS, so I did. No problem, I was fresh from my last cross-country solo, where I did that as well. I was stuck behind another student pilot, also doing night training, and we were each given a runway where we did stop-and-goes.
I had some trouble judging where to make my turns at first, but I picked up a rhythm. The runways are nearly impossible to see when abeam, but when heading upwind you can see them just fine, since the lights all line up. The other advantage of night flying is airplanes are much more visible, with their bright flashing lights.
On my second landing, Stephen asked me to go around, so I performed a decent go-around maneuver. I asked him if it was for training, and he said no -- "You never want to risk it for night landings. Things didn't look good so we'll go around." We were way too high, anyway.
Four more stop-and-goes, and it was 10:30, and I had to call it quits. Plus, after so many landings in a row I start to feel kinda dizzy. We switched to 27R and got landing clearance, then taxied to Kaiser. At night there's one guy doing everything on the radio: Clearance delivery, ground (north and south field), and tower (north and south). It was interesting to be on the same channel as the airlines for once. Puts pressure on you to speak faster, since you're in the presence of old-timers.
I taxied to Kaiser alongside a Cessna Citabria, a small tailwheel aircraft. Manning the tiny airplane was a student not much older than myself and his instructor, a man who bears an amazing resemblance to Shooter McGavin from Happy Gilmore. He walks, talks, and dresses like he is God's gift to the rich and sociable.
Our McGavin friend yakked with us mindlessly about the joys of night flying, bragging about his student (who had apparently finished a long cross-country night flight), while I fueled the plane and tried not to appear uninterested.
I managed to fuel up half of the left wing when the fuel flow suddenly stopped. McGavin and his student had just started fueling. Stephen told me to try again, so I swiped my card and fuel flow was restored.
"Hey!" the other student said. "Pump stopped working!"
I fueled up the right wing and switched to the left, as the McGavin swiped his card in an attempt to get fuel flowing again. I managed to get a few drops into the left wing when the flow stopped again. By now we presumed that two people cannot fuel their planes simultaneously at this pump, so Stephen just told me to pack it up. Apparently he didn't want to hear Shooter talk about his "amazing" experiences either, and was content with leaving one wing empty in the escape. We put everything away and taxied the hell away.
Back at the Old T's I left a note for the next pilot that the right wing would be a lot heavier than the left, and Stephen and I discussed what's remaining in the process. He assured me that, no, my cert is not right around the door, that I have plenty to do yet. Apparently I need 3 hours of cross-country training and five hours of cross-country solo, so there's plenty of that left. In addition, I need some cross-country night practice, and of course The Big One, and a few other odds and ends. It's still a bit of a road yet, but as he said, I'm "cruising" through the syllabus.
I'm off to Germany now. Next week I have another cross-country solo scheduled, assuming the planets align again.
Cost so far: $6,399.34
Time so far: 103 days
Hours so far: 34.7
Projected certification date: August 19, 2007
Projected total cost: $9,200
For this flight we would head over to San Pablo Bay and review some maneuvers, then get takeoffs and landings done at night. Stephen said the most important thing was to simply practice night takeoffs and landings repeatedly, since that's all the FAA really cared about.
We headed to the aircraft, and as I pulled my equipment out of my flight bag, I realized I couldn't see a damn thing, much less read the checklist.
"Can I flip on the master switch, just so I can see what I'm doing?" I asked. Apparently that was a perfect segue into lesson #1.
"Always carry two flashlights with you when you fly at night," Stephen said dryly, as he produced two flashlights and handed them to me. Under the light of the larger one, I worked through the checklist, ensuring that interior and exterior lights functioned properly. You never quite realize how bright your strobe lights are until they blind you during a nighttime walkaround.
Once the two of us were settled in I got my clearance, and began a nighttime taxi to runway 33. By now it was completely dark, and although the taxiway had reflectors and the airplane had a taxi light, I was still having a hard time keeping track of where I was going. I performed my runup and continued on to runway 33. Right in front of the runway-33 lighted sign I saw two flashing yellow lights, and it wasn't until after I sailed right past the hold-short line did I realize that those lights indicated where to stop.
My first runway incursion. Oops.
I got my takeoff clearance and brought the plane into the air. As we climbed to 2,000 feet I enjoyed the nighttime cityscape, a sight not unfamiliar but always beautiful. Stephen asked me to open an air vent and feel the air.
"Notice anything?" he said.
"It's very warm." Indeed, the air felt like it was around 100 degrees.
"There's an inversion layer." Warm air from midday had risen during the evening, meaning that while the ground was cool, at altitude it was temperate, even hot.
The other spectacle that caught my eye, flying towards San Pablo Bay, was the nighttime clouds. See, without any good frame of reference, I thought San Francisco Bay was San Pablo Bay, and got myself confused. In any case, a thick layer of clouds, about 800 feet off the ground, get pushed and funneled through the Golden Gate Bridge, and spread out on the other side, blanketing Richmond and Emeryville with clouds each night (and smearing the lights from the ground beneath them). From the sky it looked amazing, like the clouds were being squeezed through the bridge and squirted out over the Bay. How close they hugged the shoreline, too, was spectacular.
When we were over San Pablo Bay Stephen had me do two clearing turns followed by two steep turns. My ability to hold my altitude during a steep turn has improved significantly, and I was even proud of my execution. I gained 100 feet on the rollout, but these are small errors that can be ironed out. For my reference point I used a pair of well-lit towers, a TV broadcast antenna for a station whose call letters I've since forgotten.
Stephen then had me practice slow flight and some power-on and power-off stalls. I did the former just fine, but there are still some issues with my stall recovery. Firstly, I have a tendency to let the plane plummet during recovery, losing hundreds of feet unnecessarily. Secondly, my climbout procedures are a bit off ... I have to remember, carb heat off, throttle full, 20 degrees of flaps immediately, accelerate to Vy, climb at Vy, 10 degrees of flaps, accelerate to Vy, and so on in that pattern. That, plus keeping control of the airplane, is a lot to remember for what is essentially a 5-second recovery period.
Stephen asked me, "if you had an engine failure, where would you land?"
"I ... uhhh ... I guess ..." I had no idea. Looking around all I saw was well-lit city areas and pitch-black water.
"It's harder at night," Stephen explained. "You could pick one of the roads, but you run the risk of getting caught in power lines you can't see. The best option is probably to put it in the drink." When your best option is to ditch a fixed-gear plane in ice-cold, pitch-black Bay waters, your options aren't very good.
Stephen pointed out two nearby airports, San Rafael and Gnoss Field, to show me what they look like at night. We then turned around and headed back to Oakland for stop-and-go work. (You can't do touch-and-goes at night, they don't count, so you have to do stop-and-goes or full-stop landings.)
I got my clearance back to Oakland, and Stephen suggested I navigate using the VOR's and GPS, so I did. No problem, I was fresh from my last cross-country solo, where I did that as well. I was stuck behind another student pilot, also doing night training, and we were each given a runway where we did stop-and-goes.
I had some trouble judging where to make my turns at first, but I picked up a rhythm. The runways are nearly impossible to see when abeam, but when heading upwind you can see them just fine, since the lights all line up. The other advantage of night flying is airplanes are much more visible, with their bright flashing lights.
On my second landing, Stephen asked me to go around, so I performed a decent go-around maneuver. I asked him if it was for training, and he said no -- "You never want to risk it for night landings. Things didn't look good so we'll go around." We were way too high, anyway.
Four more stop-and-goes, and it was 10:30, and I had to call it quits. Plus, after so many landings in a row I start to feel kinda dizzy. We switched to 27R and got landing clearance, then taxied to Kaiser. At night there's one guy doing everything on the radio: Clearance delivery, ground (north and south field), and tower (north and south). It was interesting to be on the same channel as the airlines for once. Puts pressure on you to speak faster, since you're in the presence of old-timers.
I taxied to Kaiser alongside a Cessna Citabria, a small tailwheel aircraft. Manning the tiny airplane was a student not much older than myself and his instructor, a man who bears an amazing resemblance to Shooter McGavin from Happy Gilmore. He walks, talks, and dresses like he is God's gift to the rich and sociable.
Our McGavin friend yakked with us mindlessly about the joys of night flying, bragging about his student (who had apparently finished a long cross-country night flight), while I fueled the plane and tried not to appear uninterested.
I managed to fuel up half of the left wing when the fuel flow suddenly stopped. McGavin and his student had just started fueling. Stephen told me to try again, so I swiped my card and fuel flow was restored.
"Hey!" the other student said. "Pump stopped working!"
I fueled up the right wing and switched to the left, as the McGavin swiped his card in an attempt to get fuel flowing again. I managed to get a few drops into the left wing when the flow stopped again. By now we presumed that two people cannot fuel their planes simultaneously at this pump, so Stephen just told me to pack it up. Apparently he didn't want to hear Shooter talk about his "amazing" experiences either, and was content with leaving one wing empty in the escape. We put everything away and taxied the hell away.
Back at the Old T's I left a note for the next pilot that the right wing would be a lot heavier than the left, and Stephen and I discussed what's remaining in the process. He assured me that, no, my cert is not right around the door, that I have plenty to do yet. Apparently I need 3 hours of cross-country training and five hours of cross-country solo, so there's plenty of that left. In addition, I need some cross-country night practice, and of course The Big One, and a few other odds and ends. It's still a bit of a road yet, but as he said, I'm "cruising" through the syllabus.
I'm off to Germany now. Next week I have another cross-country solo scheduled, assuming the planets align again.
Cost so far: $6,399.34
Time so far: 103 days
Hours so far: 34.7
Projected certification date: August 19, 2007
Projected total cost: $9,200
20070704
Cross-country solo #1: A flight to Oakdale and back
I hadn't realized just how hard it would be to do even one cross-country solo. The weather would have to be clear and calm from Oakland to Oakdale and back again, meaning winds would have to stay below 10 knots even into noon. This happens virtually never. I needed to get an instructor's sign-off for each flight, after he reviews my planning and discusses the flight with me.
Stephen was away until the fourth, meaning I was calling every instructor in the club's Rolo looking for a coveted signature. Joel finally agreed to review my flight at 9 am on Saturday, and after making the effort to bike out to his house, he went over my math and the weather briefing with me and talked about all the challenges I might face on this flight. Finally, at around 9:45, he decided I was fit to travel, and gave me my signature.
By the time I got back to Rockridge it was already 10:00 AM, and I knew in my heart that when I got to the airport the winds would be too strong. So, I didn't chance it.
On Sunday the clouds didn't clear up soon enough, so there goes that window.
Finally, on Wednesday, the fourth of July, my time would come. The previous night I was able to get ahold of instructor Liz Sommers, who reviewed my flight plan and gave me the sign-off. And, to my surprise and luck, the weather this morning couldn't have been better. Not a cloud in the sky, not a gust of wind, and the forecast showed continuing calm skies past noon. If this was ever going to happen, it would happen today.
I hopped on my bike and made the trek.
At the clubhouse I got a fresh weather briefing and updated my flight plan with the new winds. I wouldn't need these numbers, as my primary navigation aid would be the radios and the GPS, but it's always good to have backup. Liz and Joel both told me to emphasize practice on dead reckoning over other forms of navigation, but I reckon (excuse the pun) that they don't realize I've already got that DR shit down-pat-cold. I don't feel I need much more DR practice, and I thought it would be fun to try another method.
Joel told me to file a flight plan with the FAA, so I went ahead and used the computer to submit it. As I was printing my new flight plan, Stephen walked in the door. He must have been back from wherever he was. He and I discussed the plan a bit, he gave me some appreciated advice, and wished me luck as I headed out to 9UL.
I'm glad I was able to switch to 9UL -- that GPS is a terrific crutch, and I love having it for my first solo cross-country.
I hopped in the plane after preflight and started her up. All signs pointed to a safe flight: No squawks in the log, no problems on preflight, no weather, no winds, no nothing. Next step: Figure out how to input my flight plan into the GPS.
After some fumbling with the GPS's knobs I got my waypoints entered and my course activated. The GPS provided me with the bearing to my first waypoint. I organized my papers and maps, set my comm and nav radios, and got my taxi clearance.
It had dawned on me that I left the mixture fully rich during the 10 minutes since I started the engine, forgetting to lean it while idling. This wasn't a good thing.
I asked for 33 but they gave me 15, so I did my run-up immediately. After takeoff I turned on-course. I wasn't given any instructions to turn on-course before reaching the 27 runways, but I figured I might as well. I watched carefully for traffic in the pattern, knowing full well I might climb too fast and interfere with aircraft circling runway 27R. I tried to stay low until well clear of those runways.
On my notes I had written what altitudes I could fly at to stay clear of SFO's class-B airspace, and Oakland Tower helped me out. Stephen had told me, once Tower switches me over to NorCal Departure, to ask them for a quick frequency change, then pop over to the Oakland FSS and open my flight plan.
Well, the problem was Tower wasn't letting me go. I was already 10 miles out from the airport and they hadn't told me to switch to NorCal. Over Lake Chabot, and crossing the Sunol pass, I gave them a friendly reminder.
"Oakland Tower, 9UL is over Lake Chabot..."
The controller responded suddenly. "9UL, go to NorCal departure 125.35."
"125.35 for 9UL."
I checked in with NorCal then requested the frequency change, but he refused on account of nearby traffic. There were two nearby aircraft, and though he told me where they both were, I couldn't for the life of me see them. He kept giving me updates on their position, but to no avail.
One of the airplanes passed behind me unseen, and became no factor. The other remained at my 12 o'clock. I finally saw two little dots in the distance, slightly above me.
"NorCal, 739UL sees two airplanes at my 12-o'clock..."
NorCal must have been satisfied. "9UL, roger. Frequency change approved, report back on this freq."
I popped over to Oakland FSS and finally opened my flight plan, already a third the way to my destination.
"Oakland Radio, Skyhawk 739UL would like to open his flight plan to Oakdale, departure time 9:46."
Oakland Radio came back with a Texan drawl. "Now hold a minute there, folk ... If y'all speak one at a time, I can deal with ya one at a time, y'hear?" I was pretty sure there wasn't anyone else speaking, but I paused for a bit to give this possibly-imaginary pilot the right of way.
No one spoke.
I rolled my eyes and tried again. "Oakland Radio, Skyhawk 739UL, request."
"739UL, go ahead now."
"739UL would like to open his flight plan to Oakdale, departure 9:46."
"Say again yer departure?"
"Nine forty-six AM."
It dawned on me that he probably expected the time to be spoken in military time (zero-nine-four-six) and in Zulu time (one-six-four-six Zulu). Oh well.
"Alright, yer flight plan's open, have a good trip now, y'hear?"
"Thank you Oakland Radio, and good day."
I popped back to NorCal. With the last of my departure chores completed, my workload dropped drastically. I watched the miles to go tick away on the GPS, enjoyed the sights outside as they crawled past my window, and generally let my mind wander.
The plane trundled south of Mt. Diablo, over Byron Airport, north of Tracy, over Manteca and south of Stockton, and finally to the Manteca VOR. As I passed over the VOR I looked out the window, trying to locate it, as if to give myself some sort of visual pat on the back for making it to the radionavigation beacon. I didn't notice it until it was behind me, but there it was; a small building with an immediately recognizable shape, sitting in an orchard.
I continued outbound on that VOR, scanning for Oakdale airport, and descending to 2,900 feet. NorCal terminated their services as I got close, and I located the tiny airport when it was about 10 miles out. I tuned in their CTAF frequency.
The problem with CTAF and Unicom frequencies is it's not one frequency per airport. If you tune into Oakdale's CTAF, you can also hear pilots landing and departing at Tracy, Lake Tahoe, Truckee, and other airports. This means you get a lot of chatter as pilots report their position over these uncontrolled strips. Because the radio channel is uncontrolled, everyone steps on each other too. I'm not even joking when I say the ratio of people who talk over other people, or get talked over, to people whose messages come out without interruption, is much greater than 1.
And, in FM radio, when two people try to talk at the same time, all you get is a howling screech. What this ultimately means is that 122.8, the CTAF for Oakdale, sounds a little something like:
"Tracy traffic, Piper 29--SCREEEEEEEECH--Truckee traffic, Mustang 41 papa is making left base for runway 21, Truckee. Oakdale traff--SCREEEECH--Tahoe traffic, helicopter 2976D is departing straight out--SCREEEEEEECH--Truckee traffic, Mustang 41 is final for runway 21. Oakdale traffic, Skyhawk--SCREEEEECH--"
You get the idea. It's annoying to listen to for more than 5 minutes.
Anyway, amidst the chatter and the cacophony, I did the "studious pilot" thing, and asked for wind and traffic advisories as I approached the airport. No one responded. I tried again when I was over the airport, and again, no response. I saw an airplane on the taxiway taxiing to runway 28, so figuring 28 was the active runway, I began a descent for a right 45 to runway 28.
"Oakdale traffic, Skyhawk 739UL is descending for a right 45 to runway 28, Oakdale."
Now someone responded. "Uhh, runway 28 is left traffic, be advi--SCREEEEEEECH." I got the gist of the message. Let it be said, the best way to get someone to talk to you over the radio is to make a mistake.
I confirmed left traffic and turned the plane around hard. I maneuvered for a left 45, then downwind, base, and finally final. I was reminded how narrow Oakdale's runway is.
I came into final a little fast and landed long, but the runway is long enough for these sorts of mistakes. At least I kept the plane in the centerline; that's what mattered most. I cleared the runway and brought her back along the taxiway to where I vaguely remembered the fuel pump was.
$3.95 per gallon. I brought the plane up to the pump. As I got out of the plane, I was immediately awestruck by the right wing. There it was, resting not three inches away from the shed that houses the fuel equipment. Had I moved the airplane merely three inches forward, I would have dinged the wing and created a shameful dent. Embarrassing disaster: averted.
I fueled the plane at the dejected, dirty old pump, brushing cobwebs off of fueling equipment. Then, with a heave and a hoe, I pushed the airplane about seven or eight feet back from the pump, to give myself enough room to turn clear of the shed when taxiing out.
An old airplane I could have sworn was a P-51 Mustang was taxiing down the runway for takeoff. Lucky bastard got himself a WWII fighter. I waved.
After starting up the plane, I ever so carefully taxied it clear of the pump, my eyes glued to the right wingtip. I winced as the wing passed the shed -- I couldn't tell how close I was to dinging it, but I knew I was close. Fortunately, it all turned out OK.
I brought the airplane to the run-up area when it hit me -- I never closed my flight plan! A flight plan is not something you want to leave open. Thirty minutes after your scheduled arrival, if they haven't heard from you, they send out the search and rescue teams. I knew the FSS wouldn't be reachable over radio on the ground, but -- thank heavens -- my Pilot's Guide had the phone number to call. I called them up as my plane sat idle at the runup area, and got my flight plan closed. Another disaster averted.
I performed my run-up, then took the runway, forgetting that at uncontrolled airports you should make a 360-degree turn in place before taking the runway, to ensure no one else is taking it either.
I departed straight-out, climbed just south of Oakdale proper to my cruising altitude of 4,500 feet. When clear of Oakdale I contacted NorCal and requested a flight following for flight back. It dawned on me that I also forgot to tell the controllers that I was on my first solo cross-country flight (something Stephen had told me to do), but I wasn't doing so bad thus far, so I let it slide.
I enjoyed the leisurely trip back to Oakland. I passed north of Livermore Airport, and saw a bustle of small aircraft circling the field for takeoff and landing. I passed south of Byron Field, and NorCal told me to proceed to Lake Chabot where they would hand me off to Oakland.
Well, shoot. I had no idea where Lake Chabot was (you can't see it very well from the east), and the GPS wasn't helping, so I made a best-guess. As I crossed over Danville, I descended to 2,500 feet to stay clear of the class-B, but I still couldn't see the lake. Finally, I noticed it at least 5 miles north of me.
"NorCal, Skyhawk 739UL made a valiant effort to fly over Lake Chabot..."
"739UL, go to Oakland Tower, 118.3."
I switched to Tower, and they instructed me to make a long final for 27R. I used the GPS to skirt the edge of Hayward's airspace, then lined up for final about 6 miles out. I was told to inform them when 3 miles out, but before I called in, I heard Stephen's unmistakable drawl over the radio. He was in 12R, teaching another student to land, requesting takeoff clearance from 27R.
I saw 12R in the distance, a tiny airplane taking off from my runway. I called in my 3-mile final, got my landing clearance, and sat amused that Stephen probably knew it was me.
After a silky landing, Tower told me to switch to Ground. Just before I would have switched, though, I heard Stephen come on the radio unexpectedly.
"Good job, Tim."
"Thanks, Stephen," I replied over the air.
I popped over to Ground and taxied to Kaiser. Just before buying fuel, however, I realized there was probably no need, since I fueled at Oakdale, so I simply put everything back away and continued to the Old T's.
Stephen arrived not long after I did, and I told him, "1.5 hours down, 1.5 to go."
"You'll cover that in your Big One," he said. The Big One is the hardest task a student pilot must complete before his checkride, a long and challenging cross-country solo to multiple airports many many miles away. That will be an interesting flight. I should bring an iPod.
Tomorrow I have a night flying lesson with Stephen, after which I will be able to conduct solo night flights, should I desire. On Friday I am leaving for Germany for a week, and I have another solo scheduled shortly thereafter. I am thinking of canceling my other cross-country solos, however -- it's so much damn trouble to conduct one, and Stephen's right: After my Big One I'll have my required solo cross-country hours anyway, so no need to create extra trouble.
In the meantime, my two or three faithful readers, ich werd' euch bald sehen!
Cost so far: $6,195.64
Time so far: 102 days
Hours so far: 33.4
Projected certification date: August 23, 2007
Projected total cost: $9,300
Stephen was away until the fourth, meaning I was calling every instructor in the club's Rolo looking for a coveted signature. Joel finally agreed to review my flight at 9 am on Saturday, and after making the effort to bike out to his house, he went over my math and the weather briefing with me and talked about all the challenges I might face on this flight. Finally, at around 9:45, he decided I was fit to travel, and gave me my signature.
By the time I got back to Rockridge it was already 10:00 AM, and I knew in my heart that when I got to the airport the winds would be too strong. So, I didn't chance it.
On Sunday the clouds didn't clear up soon enough, so there goes that window.
Finally, on Wednesday, the fourth of July, my time would come. The previous night I was able to get ahold of instructor Liz Sommers, who reviewed my flight plan and gave me the sign-off. And, to my surprise and luck, the weather this morning couldn't have been better. Not a cloud in the sky, not a gust of wind, and the forecast showed continuing calm skies past noon. If this was ever going to happen, it would happen today.
I hopped on my bike and made the trek.
At the clubhouse I got a fresh weather briefing and updated my flight plan with the new winds. I wouldn't need these numbers, as my primary navigation aid would be the radios and the GPS, but it's always good to have backup. Liz and Joel both told me to emphasize practice on dead reckoning over other forms of navigation, but I reckon (excuse the pun) that they don't realize I've already got that DR shit down-pat-cold. I don't feel I need much more DR practice, and I thought it would be fun to try another method.
Joel told me to file a flight plan with the FAA, so I went ahead and used the computer to submit it. As I was printing my new flight plan, Stephen walked in the door. He must have been back from wherever he was. He and I discussed the plan a bit, he gave me some appreciated advice, and wished me luck as I headed out to 9UL.
I'm glad I was able to switch to 9UL -- that GPS is a terrific crutch, and I love having it for my first solo cross-country.
I hopped in the plane after preflight and started her up. All signs pointed to a safe flight: No squawks in the log, no problems on preflight, no weather, no winds, no nothing. Next step: Figure out how to input my flight plan into the GPS.
After some fumbling with the GPS's knobs I got my waypoints entered and my course activated. The GPS provided me with the bearing to my first waypoint. I organized my papers and maps, set my comm and nav radios, and got my taxi clearance.
It had dawned on me that I left the mixture fully rich during the 10 minutes since I started the engine, forgetting to lean it while idling. This wasn't a good thing.
I asked for 33 but they gave me 15, so I did my run-up immediately. After takeoff I turned on-course. I wasn't given any instructions to turn on-course before reaching the 27 runways, but I figured I might as well. I watched carefully for traffic in the pattern, knowing full well I might climb too fast and interfere with aircraft circling runway 27R. I tried to stay low until well clear of those runways.
On my notes I had written what altitudes I could fly at to stay clear of SFO's class-B airspace, and Oakland Tower helped me out. Stephen had told me, once Tower switches me over to NorCal Departure, to ask them for a quick frequency change, then pop over to the Oakland FSS and open my flight plan.
Well, the problem was Tower wasn't letting me go. I was already 10 miles out from the airport and they hadn't told me to switch to NorCal. Over Lake Chabot, and crossing the Sunol pass, I gave them a friendly reminder.
"Oakland Tower, 9UL is over Lake Chabot..."
The controller responded suddenly. "9UL, go to NorCal departure 125.35."
"125.35 for 9UL."
I checked in with NorCal then requested the frequency change, but he refused on account of nearby traffic. There were two nearby aircraft, and though he told me where they both were, I couldn't for the life of me see them. He kept giving me updates on their position, but to no avail.
One of the airplanes passed behind me unseen, and became no factor. The other remained at my 12 o'clock. I finally saw two little dots in the distance, slightly above me.
"NorCal, 739UL sees two airplanes at my 12-o'clock..."
NorCal must have been satisfied. "9UL, roger. Frequency change approved, report back on this freq."
I popped over to Oakland FSS and finally opened my flight plan, already a third the way to my destination.
"Oakland Radio, Skyhawk 739UL would like to open his flight plan to Oakdale, departure time 9:46."
Oakland Radio came back with a Texan drawl. "Now hold a minute there, folk ... If y'all speak one at a time, I can deal with ya one at a time, y'hear?" I was pretty sure there wasn't anyone else speaking, but I paused for a bit to give this possibly-imaginary pilot the right of way.
No one spoke.
I rolled my eyes and tried again. "Oakland Radio, Skyhawk 739UL, request."
"739UL, go ahead now."
"739UL would like to open his flight plan to Oakdale, departure 9:46."
"Say again yer departure?"
"Nine forty-six AM."
It dawned on me that he probably expected the time to be spoken in military time (zero-nine-four-six) and in Zulu time (one-six-four-six Zulu). Oh well.
"Alright, yer flight plan's open, have a good trip now, y'hear?"
"Thank you Oakland Radio, and good day."
I popped back to NorCal. With the last of my departure chores completed, my workload dropped drastically. I watched the miles to go tick away on the GPS, enjoyed the sights outside as they crawled past my window, and generally let my mind wander.
The plane trundled south of Mt. Diablo, over Byron Airport, north of Tracy, over Manteca and south of Stockton, and finally to the Manteca VOR. As I passed over the VOR I looked out the window, trying to locate it, as if to give myself some sort of visual pat on the back for making it to the radionavigation beacon. I didn't notice it until it was behind me, but there it was; a small building with an immediately recognizable shape, sitting in an orchard.
I continued outbound on that VOR, scanning for Oakdale airport, and descending to 2,900 feet. NorCal terminated their services as I got close, and I located the tiny airport when it was about 10 miles out. I tuned in their CTAF frequency.
The problem with CTAF and Unicom frequencies is it's not one frequency per airport. If you tune into Oakdale's CTAF, you can also hear pilots landing and departing at Tracy, Lake Tahoe, Truckee, and other airports. This means you get a lot of chatter as pilots report their position over these uncontrolled strips. Because the radio channel is uncontrolled, everyone steps on each other too. I'm not even joking when I say the ratio of people who talk over other people, or get talked over, to people whose messages come out without interruption, is much greater than 1.
And, in FM radio, when two people try to talk at the same time, all you get is a howling screech. What this ultimately means is that 122.8, the CTAF for Oakdale, sounds a little something like:
"Tracy traffic, Piper 29--SCREEEEEEEECH--Truckee traffic, Mustang 41 papa is making left base for runway 21, Truckee. Oakdale traff--SCREEEECH--Tahoe traffic, helicopter 2976D is departing straight out--SCREEEEEEECH--Truckee traffic, Mustang 41 is final for runway 21. Oakdale traffic, Skyhawk--SCREEEEECH--"
You get the idea. It's annoying to listen to for more than 5 minutes.
Anyway, amidst the chatter and the cacophony, I did the "studious pilot" thing, and asked for wind and traffic advisories as I approached the airport. No one responded. I tried again when I was over the airport, and again, no response. I saw an airplane on the taxiway taxiing to runway 28, so figuring 28 was the active runway, I began a descent for a right 45 to runway 28.
"Oakdale traffic, Skyhawk 739UL is descending for a right 45 to runway 28, Oakdale."
Now someone responded. "Uhh, runway 28 is left traffic, be advi--SCREEEEEEECH." I got the gist of the message. Let it be said, the best way to get someone to talk to you over the radio is to make a mistake.
I confirmed left traffic and turned the plane around hard. I maneuvered for a left 45, then downwind, base, and finally final. I was reminded how narrow Oakdale's runway is.
I came into final a little fast and landed long, but the runway is long enough for these sorts of mistakes. At least I kept the plane in the centerline; that's what mattered most. I cleared the runway and brought her back along the taxiway to where I vaguely remembered the fuel pump was.
$3.95 per gallon. I brought the plane up to the pump. As I got out of the plane, I was immediately awestruck by the right wing. There it was, resting not three inches away from the shed that houses the fuel equipment. Had I moved the airplane merely three inches forward, I would have dinged the wing and created a shameful dent. Embarrassing disaster: averted.
I fueled the plane at the dejected, dirty old pump, brushing cobwebs off of fueling equipment. Then, with a heave and a hoe, I pushed the airplane about seven or eight feet back from the pump, to give myself enough room to turn clear of the shed when taxiing out.
An old airplane I could have sworn was a P-51 Mustang was taxiing down the runway for takeoff. Lucky bastard got himself a WWII fighter. I waved.
After starting up the plane, I ever so carefully taxied it clear of the pump, my eyes glued to the right wingtip. I winced as the wing passed the shed -- I couldn't tell how close I was to dinging it, but I knew I was close. Fortunately, it all turned out OK.
I brought the airplane to the run-up area when it hit me -- I never closed my flight plan! A flight plan is not something you want to leave open. Thirty minutes after your scheduled arrival, if they haven't heard from you, they send out the search and rescue teams. I knew the FSS wouldn't be reachable over radio on the ground, but -- thank heavens -- my Pilot's Guide had the phone number to call. I called them up as my plane sat idle at the runup area, and got my flight plan closed. Another disaster averted.
I performed my run-up, then took the runway, forgetting that at uncontrolled airports you should make a 360-degree turn in place before taking the runway, to ensure no one else is taking it either.
I departed straight-out, climbed just south of Oakdale proper to my cruising altitude of 4,500 feet. When clear of Oakdale I contacted NorCal and requested a flight following for flight back. It dawned on me that I also forgot to tell the controllers that I was on my first solo cross-country flight (something Stephen had told me to do), but I wasn't doing so bad thus far, so I let it slide.
I enjoyed the leisurely trip back to Oakland. I passed north of Livermore Airport, and saw a bustle of small aircraft circling the field for takeoff and landing. I passed south of Byron Field, and NorCal told me to proceed to Lake Chabot where they would hand me off to Oakland.
Well, shoot. I had no idea where Lake Chabot was (you can't see it very well from the east), and the GPS wasn't helping, so I made a best-guess. As I crossed over Danville, I descended to 2,500 feet to stay clear of the class-B, but I still couldn't see the lake. Finally, I noticed it at least 5 miles north of me.
"NorCal, Skyhawk 739UL made a valiant effort to fly over Lake Chabot..."
"739UL, go to Oakland Tower, 118.3."
I switched to Tower, and they instructed me to make a long final for 27R. I used the GPS to skirt the edge of Hayward's airspace, then lined up for final about 6 miles out. I was told to inform them when 3 miles out, but before I called in, I heard Stephen's unmistakable drawl over the radio. He was in 12R, teaching another student to land, requesting takeoff clearance from 27R.
I saw 12R in the distance, a tiny airplane taking off from my runway. I called in my 3-mile final, got my landing clearance, and sat amused that Stephen probably knew it was me.
After a silky landing, Tower told me to switch to Ground. Just before I would have switched, though, I heard Stephen come on the radio unexpectedly.
"Good job, Tim."
"Thanks, Stephen," I replied over the air.
I popped over to Ground and taxied to Kaiser. Just before buying fuel, however, I realized there was probably no need, since I fueled at Oakdale, so I simply put everything back away and continued to the Old T's.
Stephen arrived not long after I did, and I told him, "1.5 hours down, 1.5 to go."
"You'll cover that in your Big One," he said. The Big One is the hardest task a student pilot must complete before his checkride, a long and challenging cross-country solo to multiple airports many many miles away. That will be an interesting flight. I should bring an iPod.
Tomorrow I have a night flying lesson with Stephen, after which I will be able to conduct solo night flights, should I desire. On Friday I am leaving for Germany for a week, and I have another solo scheduled shortly thereafter. I am thinking of canceling my other cross-country solos, however -- it's so much damn trouble to conduct one, and Stephen's right: After my Big One I'll have my required solo cross-country hours anyway, so no need to create extra trouble.
In the meantime, my two or three faithful readers, ich werd' euch bald sehen!
Cost so far: $6,195.64
Time so far: 102 days
Hours so far: 33.4
Projected certification date: August 23, 2007
Projected total cost: $9,300
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