Max Grogan, a pilot and avid photographer, posted this story to BeechTalk.com, a wonderful community of pilots and Beechcraft enthusiasts. I was immediately entranced and contacted Max directly to thank him for this heartwarming story of the brief friendship of two men, united by a love of flying. He was kind enough to give me permission to reproduce his words and photographs so that I could share them with you. It is longer than my usual posts but worth the read, I promise.

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Although I had never seen the man before, I knew it had to be Clayton. I could tell by his walking cane. It was a knotty, crooked and gnarly old thing. I was sure I had seen it before. It looked as if a vine had once wound itself around a young sapling which was now fashioned into a support for an ancient relic of a man. Later I would find a joyful spirit, and the enthusiasm of a much younger man lay hidden in repose within his large but frail body. Once he was a young hero, answering the call to arms and performing his duty to preserve his nation’s freedom. But this day he leaned heavily on the cane as if he would topple, helpless, into a heap of old bones and wrinkled skin without its solid support.

The pilot grapevine works quickly. Should a wing be dinged, a tire burst upon landing, or someone forgets to lower their wheels, the phones will ring. Pilots are gossips when it comes to unusual happenings at their airport.

I got the call on that beautiful post Labor Day afternoon: A plane had slid off the runway into the Tennessee River at Knoxville Downtown Island Airport. The story being relayed was that it was a beautiful and recently restored Mooney flown by a very old man.

I got the message around noon. I’m not one to go running to look at a wreck or other traumatic event, so I took no action to see the plane. I was planning to fly my plane that afternoon and decided I would look into it when I arrived. I had almost forgotten about the event by the time I drove across the bridge to our lovely airport. Upon arriving I went into the office for the usual free cup of fresh coffee. The place was buzzing with talk of the earlier incident when the plane went into the water. Now I was at the root of the grapevine. I listened as people described the event and the participants.

The stories related how an elderly gentleman, a former World War II pilot, had recently bought a newly refurbished Mooney airplane. He and his nephew decided it was a fine day for an airplane ride and off they went. Never mind that he hadn’t flown in over thirty years, or that no one had checked him out in the plane. Since he had paid cash and did not have an insurance policy with which to comply he felt he was on his own and could do as he pleased.

The Federal Aviation Administration requires a pilot to pass a physical examination and a flight review conducted by an instructor before acting as pilot in command. This pilot knew he could not pass either. But he had a burning desire to fly his own plane again. The gossip was he bought the plane and defied the regulations. He flew it. Fortunately he also took a passenger along on that fateful flight.

As I sat alone, on a picnic bench outside the airport office while finishing my coffee, an ambulance drove into the parking lot. A man in his forties, wearing hospital scrubs and carrying a small plastic bag exited the ambulance and entered the office. Shortly afterward he came outside and sat down near me. He was now carrying a strange looking walking cane as well as his package.

It occurred to me he might be one of the accident victims and I asked if that were true. With a sigh and a deep breath, he acknowledged he had, indeed, been in the plane. I asked him to tell me about it and he related the events of the crash. He paused occasionally to stare toward the runway and the hidden spot where the plane was mired in river bottom mud as if he were reliving the frightful experience. He was obviously shaken, and very concerned for his uncle who had sustained a bad bruise and serious cuts on his right leg, his only injuries thankfully. He had returned to the airport for his car and his uncle’s cane which the divers had recovered. The hospital had given him the scrubs to wear and the bag contained his wet clothing.

Clayton was his uncle, he said, and he had admired him all his life. He wanted to be like him and fly airplanes but had never had the opportunity. Uncle Clayton had lived in California since before he was born and he rarely got to see him. Over the years his uncle would talk about flying the big planes during WWII, including the biggest, the B-17. He had promised: Someday he would take him into the air.

Uncle Clayton’s wife had died only a year earlier. She had begged him to move her back to Tennessee before she died and it seemed the end was near for her. So Clayton sold their beautiful home of many years. It was very nice, and was perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Unfortunately Clayton’s wife died only a few months after their return to Tennessee.

Clayton had loved his wife dearly. They were married for 67 years. He would do anything for her. After the war he had owned several small planes and had a slight accident in one of them. He gave up flying after that to please his wife. That was a huge sacrifice he made for love. Yet, he never gave up his dreams of owning and flying his own plane again.

Now, his wife was gone. So many years had passed since he was last involved in aviation. The old desire to lift into the sky and fly his own plane began to haunt him. He dreamed of flying once more. Old memories kept flooding his mind and he thought perhaps there might be one last chance to relive the days of his youth. As he mourned the loss of his beloved companion, the memories of his days performing graceful pirouettes aloft became overwhelming and he bought a plane. He was a man of significant wealth. He could afford to buy a nice airplane. He answered an ad in an aviation sales magazine and agreed on a price.

The plane was delivered to the Downtown Airport. Clayton went up with the seller for a short flight, payment was made, and the deal was completed. Once again Clayton owned a plane. It was a beauty, a Mooney, resplendent in its new finery of glistening white paint, leather upholstery and high end avionics. This Mooney was a fast, complex, high performance plane. Its forward cocked tail and low slung retractable landing gear showed promise of high speed even while sitting still on the airport ramp. Clayton wanted to fly it and take his nephew aloft but there were the license and medical currency problems.

Clayton had a valid pilot’s license, as they never expire, but he was 89 years old and in bad health. He knew he could not qualify medically so therefore could not be tested for proficiency with a required semi-annual flight review. Also disappointing for him was that none of the instructors of whom he inquired would go up with him. They feared, rightly so, he might go flying on his own with possible serious consequences.

So, unable to meet federal requirements, Clayton woefully let the fast, sleek Mooney sit on the ramp for days, then weeks, until finally a month had gone by. Clayton could resist no longer. He went to the airport and started the engine in his plane. It purred smoothly, with a low rumble and a promise of speedy high adventure. He taxied it across the ramp and down the taxiway to the end and near the runway. He ran the engine up to medium power while holding the brakes, but he resisted the temptation to go at high power down the runway and lift off into the sky. He returned to the ramp, tied the plane down and went home. Sadly unfulfilled, he returned again the next day, and the next. The routine of taxiing was repeated at higher and higher speeds but he would, each time, return and park the plane on the ramp. Then he gave in to temptation. He called his nephew and announced he was ready and they were going flying. The big day had arrived.

The nephew innocently arrived after the announcement that Uncle Clayton had been practicing and was ready for their flying adventure. Finally, the promise would be kept!

They boarded the plane and, in routine fashion, Clayton taxied the plane, performed the engine check, and off they went. Into the sky they soared. Clayton made graceful turns, climbed and dove. He performed a stall and even a spin. What a skilled pilot he was and the nephew was so excited and proud. All too soon they flew toward the airport. Clayton announced he would make a few landings. As they neared the runway he lowered the landing gear.

He flew above the runway at high speed and the nephew though it was just practice, a low pass but, suddenly, at 120 miles per hour, the plane’s wheels touched down on the runway. Uncle Clayton was attempting to land the plane! The nephew instinctively knew they were flying much too fast, but it was too late. Although the runway is 3,500 feet long there was less than a thousand feet remaining when the Mooney first touched down. Clayton closed the throttle and applied full brakes until they were locked and sliding, but the nephew knew this was not going to stop the plane in time. Down the asphalt they skidded, then across five hundred feet of grassy over-run, but still the plane was not stopped. Beyond the grassy area was the rocky rip-rap protecting the island’s banks. They bounced through the rocks and on beyond and across the sandy shore. Still with energy in reserve the Mooney skidded into the water and was propelled fifty feet from shore before it finally stopped.

Now they had been in a plane crash and the plane was sinking into thirty feet of water. The nephew hastily opened the door and crawled onto the wing. He reached back inside and tugged and pulled at his uncle until finally he too was on the wing. Just as the plane slid beneath the surface they began to swim for shore. Clayton was struggling and the nephew, a skilled swimmer, turned him onto his back and began one-handedly paddling them to shore with Clayton yelling and splashing. Fortunately a mowing crew of two men had rushed to the shore soon after they saw the plane slide into the water. The two men dove into the lake and met the nephew and helped get Clayton safely on land again. Although shaken the nephew was uninjured but Clayton was having problems with his right leg.

Soon emergency medical personnel arrived and transported both men to the nearby hospital for observation and possible treatment. A rescue team was summoned and divers went into the water and attached a cable to the tail-end tie-down ring of the fully submerged plane. An attempt was made to pull the plane ashore but the landing gear dug into the muddy bottom twenty feet from shore, halting the removal effort. The divers removed what personal items they could from the plane, including the pilot’s walking cane. They tied the cable to a small tree to keep the river’s current from sweeping it downstream toward Knoxville.

As I flew over the partially submerged Mooney later that afternoon, I reflected on the events related by the nephew and others. I was saddened by the end of the story about his long awaited adventure with his Uncle Clayton. The plane would remain there for two weeks until a salvage crew finally arrived, lifted it ashore, removed the wings and carted it away.

A few months later, on another of my frequent visits to the airport, I was looking out the office window at the planes tied down on the distant west ramp. I spotted a V-tailed Beechcraft Bonanza that I had not seen before. Since that is the type of airplane I own, my curiosity was aroused. I asked the lady on duty if that was a transient or a newly based plane at our airport. She allowed as to how it was now based at our airport and owned by a man whose first name was Clayton. I said “Surely you don’t mean the same Clayton who put the Mooney into the water!”. With a big grin, she said it was. I asked if he was flying it. She said he wasn’t, because he couldn’t get anyone to fly with him. I couldn’t believe it. He had bought another plane. His dream was still alive!

Weeks passed and the Bonanza apparently was never moved. Over time sand and grit had blown against the plane’s tires making a little ridge, a tell-tale sign of inactivity. The windscreen was hazy with a thick layer of dust. I kept checking, but there was no change and the tires were slowly losing their air.

Then, on a mid-afternoon visit to the airport office, I saw the gnarly cane again. I stood and studied the man leaning upon it for support. I recalled the other time I had seen the cane and the story I was told that fateful day.

There could be no other like it, being of such uncommon design. It was being leaned upon by an elderly gentleman engaged in conversation with another stranger. This had to be Clayton. I was excited. I really wanted to meet him. I walked over to the ancient stranger and introduced myself, announced I was a plane owner and asked if he owned a plane, while thinking I probably knew the answer. The old gentleman looked me squarely in the eye, and, while leaning upon the cane, rose to the full height allowed by his worn body. Then he took a deep breath, pointed with the cane and proudly said “Yes, I do, I own a Bonanza, the one parked on the ramp there.”.

Smiling inside, and feigning ignorance, I asked if he was flying it much. He replied that he was not, and as a matter of fact, had never flown it. He said he could not get anyone to fly with him. I announced firmly “Sir, you are looking at a man who will fly with you.”. He looked at me with a wide smile and a bright sparkle in his old grey eyes. He said “Hallelujah, I will get to fly my plane.”.

Our friendship had begun.

Clayton and I went to my hangar where I showed him my Bonanza and related a summary of my flying experience. We sat on the old tattered sofa and enjoyed the warm spring weather with the hangar door fully opened. We sat and chatted for a long while, into the late afternoon. He showed me the bandages on the unhealed leg and related the events of the Mooney crash. They were much the same as related by his nephew. He matter-of-factly said he just forgot how to slow the plane down for landing. No excuses. I liked that about him.

The better part of an hour was spent listening to Clayton talk of his days in the US Army Air Corps. I kept prodding him for more information until I had a pretty good idea of his military service. He was inducted fairly late in the war as he was employed in a job which excluded him from military service when the war started. He left the job and volunteered for the military with a firm goal of becoming a pilot. He reached his goal and received his initial pilot training in Texas. He trained in open cockpit Boeing PT-18’s (Stearmans) and advanced to instructor. He soon moved into multi-engine training and eventually became qualified in the B-17, a very large four-engine bomber. He was instructing in the B-17 when the war ended, having never left the states for combat.

Over the next few meetings with my elderly friend I was able to extract more and more fascinating information about all the planes he flew. The things he related from his two years flying in the military were of great interest and I never tired of hearing of them. He had an interesting civilian life as well. After the war he returned to his original home, Knoxville, and gained employment with a food processing company. He advanced to plant manager then accepted an offer to move to California in 1957 for a similar but much higher paying job. He got lucky with stock options and was able to retire at the very young age of fifty.

Clayton owned several single engine airplanes between 1946 and 1975. The list included planes made by Luscombe, Taylorcraft, Cessna and, his favorite, Swift. He flew all over the country as he lived in the east and later on the west coast. His wife never really liked airplanes and only flew with him a few times. Although he quit flying to please her he never lost his love of aviation and missed it greatly during the following years.

During that first meeting at my hangar we made plans to fly his plane. We agreed to meet the following day and set a time. He reached for the old cane and, using it, struggled to his feet, flashed the wide smile I’d seen before and laughingly proclaimed “Boy,oh boy, we’re gonna have fun!”.

I purposefully arrived a half hour early the next day to do a thorough pre-flight inspection of the Bonanza and to put air in the tires. It was a fine day in mid-May, cloudless, with bright sunshine and light wind. Clayton, full of exuberance, was already there ahead of me. He was sitting in the cockpit of the plane, on the pilot’s side, manipulating the controls. Clayton, by now, was ninety years old. But his attitude belied his age this day. He had the look and air of excitement of a child about to be turned loose on a playground.

I performed a very thorough inspection of the plane. It had now been sitting on the ramp for over two months without being flown. As I finished checking all parts of the plane, and satisfying myself it was in a safe flying condition, I walked in front of the left wing and spoke through the window opening. I told Clayton the plane was ready to be flown but there was one last thing: I would be occupying the left seat as I would be the chief pilot. Though I could detect slight disappointment, he nodded and said “That’s fine, I just want to get in the air.”.

We were ready. Surprisingly, the engine started very easily. It ran smoothly and oil pressure was excellent. I made sure we had good communication over the intercom and left the ramp for the run-up area at the end of the taxiway. The run-up check verified excellent engine and propeller function. I turned and told Clayton to put his feet on the rudder pedals and his hands on the wheel. I instructed him to put no pressure on the controls and the goal was for him to be able to feel the control inputs I would make.

I taxied the plane to the departure end of runway 8, applied full throttle and guided the plane down the centerline. The plane lifted off smoothly and I raised the landing gear. We were flying. When we had gained 200 feet of altitude I removed my feet and then my hands from the controls. I turned to Clayton and announced “You have the airplane, maintain this attitude and fly straight ahead. He seemed to sit straighter as he assumed control and he had a look of great concentration as he guided us through the air.

I directed Clayton’s efforts. I would give him a compass heading and an altitude and he would guide the plane in response to my requests. At first I handled all engine power settings. He flew to the northeast until we had risen to 5,500 feet as indicated on the altimeter. After having him level the plane I told him to make some ninety degree turns and to maintain a constant altitude. I gradually increased the difficulty of the maneuvers. We flew in steep turns, climbs and descents. We did figure eights and 360 degree turns. My new friend and co-pilot flew the Bonanza with skill and finesse. He was an excellent pilot and his touch on the controls was light and smooth.

After twenty minutes of maneuvering I asked what he wanted to do next and he said he just wanted to fly around and look at the beautiful countryside. So we sat and flew in silence. He would occasionally dip a wing for a better look and make a turn or two. I managed a few covert glances at my co-pilot. The look of joy and contentment on his old sagging and wrinkled face was one I shall always treasure. That look put a song in my heart that still resonates to this day whenever I think of him.

I finally said “Clayton, take us home. We need to work on your landings.”. He burst into laughter and cackled: “I’ve sure proven I need help with that, haven’t I?”. He flew us back into the vicinity of the airport and I began to advise him on power reduction inputs and speeds to fly. I told him I would re-take control of the plane once we were lined up with the runway. This I did and executed a landing, with him on the controls, lightly, feeling my movements. Then as the plane rolled down the runway there was quite a bit of vibration from the left wheel. I called it quits for the day as I thought this would require either repair or adjustment.

What a magnificent day of flying we had! We tied the plane on the ramp and went to my hangar for a soda and a de-briefing.

We sat on the old sofa and talked on and on about all the things he wanted to do and the places he wanted to visit in his plane. We talked of other things as the day wore on. He told me of his career and good fortune in business. I learned how he met his wife almost three quarters of a century earlier, and how much he had loved her for all those years. As he spoke of her, I sat in silence. I noticed that tears were making little trails across his weathered and lined face. There were no apologies for the tears, and he made no effort to wipe them away. We looked directly into each others eyes, and he knew I understood.

I fell in love that day, in love with Clayton’s ebullient spirit and a determination to continue having a zest for an exciting life. I discovered a kindness and caring for others that was admirable. Most of all he was a true gentleman whose courteous ways reminded me of my father and others of a bygone era.

I took control of the plane’s maintenance and had it inspected and serviced by my mechanic. It was two weeks before the plane was ready. I kept Clayton briefed on the progress and let him know when the work was done.

We flew again in early June, flying to Oneida, Tennessee, where we fueled the plane and practiced a couple of landings. He flew the plane for all except the last minute or so of the landings. After we parked the plane I told him I was nervous now because he was again a good pilot. I asked him to promise he would not fly the plane without me. He said “Sure thing, Boss”. He pitched me the keys to the plane. He put me in charge.

He insisted he would treat me to dinner and we went to his favorite place, a steakhouse overlooking downtown Knoxville and the Tennessee River. We sat out on the patio and enjoyed our meal in the late afternoon sunshine as gentle breezes wafted up from the river. I discovered Clayton’s fluency in Spanish as he had a short discourse with our server. I was surprised. He ate there often, he explained. He had learned earlier she was a graduate student at the university and Spanish was her major. His knowledge of Spanish was acquired while living in California. He had vacationed often in Mexico and learned the language to be able to talk to the natives. It was another interesting facet of this jewel of a man.

Clayton invited me to his home and told me to bring my wife. I jokingly said “Oh no, I can’t bring her, you will try to take her away from me.”. He replied with enthusiasm “You bet I will and I just might do it!” So we agreed on a date and my wife and I drove the twenty miles to the northeast to his lovely hill-top home where he had a view of the distant Smoky Mountains. In his den I saw a karaoke machine and asked him to sing for me. He had a deep resonant voice and sang well for a couple of minutes then asked us to join in the singing. We sang a few songs with him and had a very pleasant visit. We made plans to fly again soon.

We flew again two weeks later. Clayton was making the landings during the end of the flight as I followed on the controls. His injured leg still bothered him. It had been bruised badly in the accident and a body as old as his repairs itself slowly. But, I was impressed with his ability and would have felt comfortable with him in command in the left seat. I told him so. He thanked me for the compliment and asked if I would go on a long trip with him. I responded in the affirmative and he said he wanted to visit someone in Arizona. We went to my hangar and pored over an aviation map of the United States. We planned two fuel stops for comfort and he was very excited. I said “Captain, I’ll put you in the left seat. I’ll bring a good book and relax while you pilot us to Arizona”. He beamed a radiant smile and used his favorite exclamation: “Boy, oh boy, we’re gonna have fun!”. He wanted to go soon and we talked of possible dates, needing to work around a couple of doctors’ appointments he had on his schedule. It became time for him to go. We hugged each other as had become our custom on parting. He shuffled to his car using the old gnarly cane and drove away.

As I watched him depart, I could not have known I would never fly with him again. I got the call. The one we never want. Clayton had died. His old heart had given out, beat its last beat. He made his last flight from earth and is now flying with the angels.

I grieve for my friend Clayton. I never fly my Bonanza without thinking of him. I loved his spirit, and the tenderness and kindness he showed me. He gave me the gift of his confidence: Confidence in my ability as a pilot and the very personal things he shared with me, never saying they were not to be repeated. We understood each other. We soared together, in his plane and in our many visits on the old sofa in my hangar. We talked of the things we had loved in life and the things we hoped to do. Though only a memory now, Clayton lives on in my heart and I treasure what we shared. Every moment. Every laugh. Every tear.

He was buried on a hot day in early July.

The cane was buried with him.

Author and Photographer: Max Grogan
All Rights Reserved.

(See more of Max Grogan’s photography here)

It’s been a while since the day I missed the runway at Oxford Airport. I’ve done a lot more flying and I’m a lot more competent. But my first near-miss (no damage was done except the loss of a runway light) is not an incident I’m likely to forget in a hurry.

The Saratoga is fast in the circuit and if it’s busy, I spend half my time trying not to sneak up on the 152s pottering along downwind like a Sunday driver in a tweed cap.

On that fateful day, I was thrilled to see that Oxford circuit was nice and quiet: there was a touch of a crosswind which meant that most of the students were grounded for the day.

I spoke to a friendly instructor at PFT who confirmed that it was fine for circuits, just not optimal for new flyers who were still trying to get their confidence up. I’d done crosswind landings in much worse weather so I wasn’t very concerned.

It was a beautiful day, brilliant blue skies and clear views of the Cotswolds below me. I hummed to myself as I zipped around the circuit a few times. I knew there was a crosswind and I was taking it into account but I wasn’t particularly worried.

Except then I missed the runway.

I’m still not quite sure what happened. I called final as I bore down towards the threshold. The approach was a little bit messy but tolerable; I decided to carry on. I pulled up as I reached the transition point and noticed a slight float.

I considered full power and going round as I knew the plane would lose speed fast and she could be a pig to land. Then I felt her begin to sink back to the ground and I thought, “No, this is fine, I’ll land it.”

Nose up, wheels about to touch, everything seemed OK. Then I blinked. Where did the runway go?

I was lined up perfectly but 10 feet to the left of the numbers. There was no time left: I touched down with the left wheel on the grass and the right on the runway, the nose wheel bumping along the edge.

There must have been a slight gust of wind that shifted me sideways as the plane was low and slow. I steered back onto the runway and vacated at the first opportunity.

Once parked, I crawled under the plane to see if the tyres and connecting bits looked normal. It slowly began to dawn on me that, although I looked at the underside of this plane every flight, I didn’t actually feel that confident about how it all hung together and whether it still looked right.

Ben, an instructor who I’d flown with previously, happened to be in Oxford that day and walked out to the plane. “ATC just phoned. You took out a runway light. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, I just don’t know about the plane.”

“Go to Operations and apologise. I don’t know if they will charge you or if it’s covered on their insurance or what. They want to talk to you. Take responsibility. Afterwards I can help you find someone to check it out.”

Luck was with me: while I was waiting to cower before a random air traffic controller, I saw Mark, the engineer who services the plane.

“Hey, good to see you flying, no time to chat, I’m on my way to Brittany,” he said as he rushed past me.

“I broke the Saratoga,” I said. He froze mid-step. I knew he would.

“Come on, show me.”

He looked it over, shook his head at a nick in the nose wheel, then pronounced the plane airworthy. “But watch that tyre, we need to get that fixed soon. Look at it after every landing, if you see any spreading or fraying, stay on the ground and call me.”

I was amazed he has that sort of faith in me; deep-down I felt that I had proven that I was still a student, not to be trusted with responsibility. I nodded seriously and he smiled at me. “It happens. You must have come down soft, those lights crack easy, they don’t want there to be any resistance. The nick happened after the light cracked and you rolled over it.”

A couple of pilots were standing around me now, I re-iterated what happened, no one seemed to think I deserved my licence ripped out of my hands. “It happens.”

“Plane’s in one piece, you’re in one piece, well done,” a man with a Scottish accent said with a pat on my shoulder.

I almost smiled.

I still had my apologies to do, though. I went to the man in Operations to tell him what happened.

“Where?”

“Just past the numbers. Left side.” It seemed important to me that he knew I was landing on the numbers, even if I was, well, off-set a bit.

“Just a second. ” He called ATC, nodded a few times and hung up.

“It’s OK,” he told me. “They’ve already cleared it up.”

I blinked at him. I wasn’t actually offering to dash out to the runway to clean it up with a bucket and a broom. “Oh. Good.” I wasn’t sure where to go from there.

“There might be a bill. Never had this happen before.” I winced as he tutted at me. “Anyway, we’ll let you know. Taking her up again for more circuits?”

I shook my head. I’d had enough for one day. What I really needed was a stiff drink. It wasn’t that I always landed perfectly but, if it looked questionable, I’d always gone around. This was my first truly bad landing.

“Plane’s in one piece, you’re in one piece.” I recited the words to myself as I walked away. At the end of the day, I knew I was lucky.

I shouldn’t have hopped the fence.

It was shut with a big padlock and surrounded by barbed wire so I can’t exactly claim that I hadn’t noticed it.

But I’d walked such a long way – 5 miles! – just to take some photographs for my blog, it seemed such a shame to give up at the last hurdle. There was no one else there so it wasn’t like I was getting in anyone’s way. And it wasn’t like there was anyone to tell me off – just me and some cows off in the distance.

I didn’t know that they were guard cattle.

But let me start at the beginning…

Brookmans Park is a small village in Hertfordshire, population 3,475. There isn’t much exciting to say about the place: the locals are friendly, the Indian restaurant is divine, the village green is pleasant in nice weather.

However, pilots who fly around southeast England will recognise the name as home to the Brookmans Park VOR (BPK) which is used by aircraft flying in and out of the London area.

When I found out that I was going to be trapped visiting family staying locally for a few days, I immediately thought of BPK and wondered if I could actually visit a VOR and find out what they look like.

A VOR (VHF Omni-directional Radio) beacon is a navigational aid which broadcasts on a specific radio frequency in such a way that a pilot can get a bearing from the VOR to her aircraft.

Patrick Flannigan has a better explanation of this on Aviation Chatter: How VORs Really Work and you can even test it out yourself on his VOR / ADF Navigation Simulator.

If you want to know the detail, the Wikipedia article on VORs is probably the best single reference:VHF omnidirectional range

You can also read about how pilots use VOR’s on Plastic Pilot’s guide: Flying VORs For Dummies

It turned out that the Brookman’s Park VOR is not actually located in the village but a few miles east near Epping Green. The weather was glorious and I needed an excuse to get out of the house thought a walk would do me good, so I made my way there, walking along the country roads and enjoying the mild weather.

I used a hand-held GPS and reached the location after about 2 hours gentle strolling.

That’s when I discovered that the VOR was in a field, surrounded by a fence with two padlocked gates.

It seemed so sad. I could see the field and the VOR and a herd of cattle grazing in the distance. I considered my situation for a few moments and then convinced myself that the fence was merely to keep the cattle in, surely not to keep me out. Besides, I wasn’t going to do any harm. I just wanted a closer look at the VOR.

So I clambered over the fence with my camera in hand.

The ground was firm beneath my feet and the sun warmed my shoulders. A light breeze carried the scent of freshly-cut grass to me. The bird song was only interrupted by the roar of the engines overhead. If I had any chance of forgetting my purpose in coming to this lovely location, the air traffic would make sure I was reminded.

I was taught to avoid routing directly overhead popular VORs and VRPs when flying VFR as it is simply concentrating the traffic into a single place but I haven’t thought about in a long time. This was the first time I had a visual.

There was never any question of danger, the separation was more than enough but it did feel a bit like Grand Central Station above my head as various low planes from all directions flew straight towards the VOR.

I admit it: I regularly plug a route into the GPS, jumping from VOR to VOR in a dot-to-dot pattern to ensure I don’t get lost. Max Trescott recently wrote about flight safety and indentifying local hotspots and standing at the VOR, I could see exactly what he meant.

This was one.

Despite the traffic, it was a pastoral scene, the golden colours of September all around me, the cattle lowing and a blackbird singing in the distance. I walked closer to the VOR.

It was much bigger than I expected. I stepped around the cow pats and peered up at the phased array antenna. BPK looked both old-fashioned and futuristic, like something I might see in a 1950s sci-fi film.

I walked up to the fencing surrounding the structure and began talking close-up photographs when I realised that the cows were getting louder.

The two clumps of cattle I’d seen off in the distance had joined forces and come to deal with the intruder.

Of course, I didn’t realise this immediately. I simply thought that they happened to be wandering my way. I took a few more photographs, thinking the juxaposition of the cattle and the VOR would make for an interesting contrast.

The cows kept on coming. Now in my defence, I’m very much a city girl. I grew up in Los Angeles where there is not a lot of wildlife to be found, unless you count pigeons.

So I still did not realise that there was an issue. I thought the cows were interesting and I was pleased for the great opportunity for some nature shots. I looked for a clean bit of grass and knelt down, taking a few more photographs before I realised …

…that they were coming after me.

I smiled nervously and gave the cows a little wave. This had no effect at all. I decided that perhaps I had outstayed my welcome. I assured them that I was on my way and that I hoped they had a pleasant afternoon.

I turned my back. Mistake. Never turn your back on a herd of guard cows.

I heard the trotting of running cattle behind me.

I spun around and they screeched to a halt, a few yards behind me, chewing in a melancholy way, pretending that they weren’t after me.

I turned to continue walking to the gate. I heard the hooves thud against the grass. I whirled towards them and they stopped again, blinking innocently.

I began walking backwards, keeping an eye on what I now knew were killer attack cattle, ready to defend the VOR against all intruders.

They stumbled forward, slowly closing the gap between us. When I felt the cool touch of shade of the trees, I knew I was close to the gate. I turned around and made a run for it.

I had no idea I was capable of hopping a fence in a single bound but I’m glad for it.

The cows clustered at the fence and stared at me. They didn’t make a sound but the message was clear:

“AND STAY OUT.”

I assured the guard cattle that I had every intention of respecting fences in the future. Then I edged my way backwards until I was safe on the main road and I made my way back to civilisation.

And people tell me General Aviation is dangerous!

Flying is hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror.

When I first started flying, I presumed that the phrase was referring to the take-off and landing. I hadn’t even begun to conceive of things going wrong in the air; flying from A to B was the easy bit. Getting into the air and getting back down, well, that was where I found my heart beginning to race.

Now that I am only flying intermittently, I’m very aware that my skill-set is diminishing when I don’t get up into the air regularly. The first sign that I’m falling out of date is the quality of my landings. A simple flight after weeks of sitting on the ground is much more stressful than it should be. Instead of instinctively knowing what’s next, I have to think hard and I fall behind the plane, desperately trying to keep up with everything that needs doing.

A major change that has helped me in the Saratoga is shifting from the traditional approach. Like most PPLs, I was taught to use attitude to control airspeed and power to control height. However, the inertia of the Saratoga and its tendency to sink like a stone at low speed, combined with my inability to nudge the power gently enough to keep my pitch steady, can make this difficult. A bad approach can feel like a ship in heavy weather as I adjust the power back and forth to try to keep my perspective of the runway correct.

I flew with a commercial pilot last year and he mentioned that this was not the best system for fast planes. When flying a jet, he told me, pilots always used attitude for height and power to control airspeed.

This is referenced in one of my favourite books, Beyond the PPL

In days of yore, instructors always taught that on the approach you should control airspeed with pitch and maintain the correct glideslope with the throttle.

The technique taught was (and still is) a good device for getting students to co-ordinate properly their applications of pitch and throttle.

[...]

So the old-fashioned technique is not appropriate for a jet and its pilots are therefore taught to adjust speed with throttle and glideslope with pitch control. The need to co-ordinate pitch and throttle remains as before, but the cardinal requirement for the jet pilot is to monitor the speed on the approach to a degree which usually amazes piston pilots at first. You simply HAVE to nail that speed and catch any departure before it has a chance to develop into anything the least bit significant.

Once I started looking into methods for final approach, I found a lot of discussion about pitch and power. It seems clear that attitude for speed and power for height makes for one of the most practical demonstrations of secondary effects. It also works: I was very happy using pitch and power that way in the Cessna 172 that I trained in.

But the moment I shifted to using power for speed and pitch for height in the Saratoga, my landings improved. After two days of flying touch-and-go over various airfields, I felt confident in my ability to land this way: point the plane at the numbers and hold it there, use the throttle to adjust the speed. My adjustments remained minor and my approaches became smoother than they’d ever been before. My passengers were amazed at the difference.

However, I don’t think that it not simply a case of turning the controls around. The critical factor is that I began to control the plane using both systems. I finally grasped that it isn’t a question of using pitch or power but that they are completely interlinked. I’m sure this was stated a million times in the PPL but I only understood this as a theoretical concept. I didn’t really have an instinctive feel for the fact that you can’t change one without affecting the other.

I love long finals now simply because I can see how perfectly everything works together. I set up my approach and now I’m holding the pitch steady and watching my touchdown point and my airspeed. I can almost visualise a road leading down to the runway and just a tap on the controls to keep me travelling on it. I know the correct approach speed and holding to it has never felt so easy. My interaction with both the controls affecting both height and speed means that I avoid the abrupt power changes and my approaches no longer make people seasick.

When I completed my PPL, my instructor told me that my flying was perfectly competent but that I lacked finesse. It’s been a few years but I feel like I’m starting to understand what he meant and that just maybe I’m finally getting the hang of this flying thing. Now, if only I could learn to use a soft touch on the rudder and keep that damn ball in the centre, maybe he’d agree.

We’re taking off for the wild blue yonder next week, using the Saratoga to transport family between North Weald and Strasbourg. Unfortunately, I’ve not kept up with my flying over the winter and so I’ve fallen out of date. To take passengers, I should have made three take-offs and landings in the past 90 days to ensure that I am current and not taking risks with innocent bystanders. After this trip, I’ll be heading to England to do some circuits and get back into practice but in the meantime, it will be Cliff in the left-hand seat.

We have a pretty clear division of duties. As Cliff is flying IFR, he’ll be sorting his own navigation which leaves me in charge of maps, pre-flight inspections and passengers. The fact that only one of us can fly in instrument conditions means that if the weather is bad, I am the one who crawls around the muddy grass to drain the sumps. Perhaps I should re-think this concept of being a fair-weather pilot after all.

Often passengers will come out to the plane with me as I do the walk-around inspection and, although I try to give a brief explanation of what I’m doing, I can tell the concept makes many of them somewhat uncomfortable.

“Are you checking to make sure the wings won’t fall off?”

Once, I was on the ground, checking out the undercarriage when I heard one passenger say to another, “I asked her about that, she said she was looking for bird’s nests. I thought she was joking but you know, a bird really could build a nest down there, couldn’t it!”

I’ve been in the process of creating backseat documentation for passengers and, as a part of that, I thought I might offer a companion piece to my standard checklist. This cannot be used to check the plane but it gives useful information if you are following someone who is doing a formal walk-around of the plane.

In addition, it strikes me as useful to have a photographic record of what the plane should look like in normal conditions and an extra set of eyes comparing those photographs to the actual condition of the plane.

This month, the National Air Traffic Controllers Association in the U.S. announced their winners for the fifth annual Archie League Award.

Archie League Medal of Safety Awards

The ability to think quickly and remain calm under pressure while maintaining a situational awareness are all unique qualities that air traffic controllers possess. Without their willingness to jump right in to resolve complex situations, offer a reassuring voice to those on the frequency and coordinate their efforts with other controllers, this group of dedicated professionals wouldn’t be as successful as they are today at maintaining the safety of the National Airspace System.

The great thing is that NATCA put up details and audio recordings for the event which led to the regional winners. I’d recommend having a read through all of them but the write-up that particularly caught my eye told the story of the dual winners for the Western Pacific Region.

On Nov. 2, 2008, the pilot of N40NL found herself in such a situation as rime ice accumulated on the windshield of her aircraft. The pilot checked on to frequency reporting the weather problem, as well as a loss of airspeed indicator. It was up to NCT controllers Tom Gallagher and Neil Irvin to take over as the middle men between the pilot’s uncertainty and the danger unfolding.

If you listen to the audio, you can hear the stress in the pilot’s voice but then the conversation takes an unexpected turn: the pilot says she isn’t sure if the plane has pitot heat. Lucikly an air traffic controller familiar with the type was in the next room and was able to step her through finding the pitot and getting the plane safe.

IRVIN: Yeah, that metal Bonanza, you should have pitot heat and also … you might also want to make sure, I know it’s fuel injected, but you should be able to have some heat source to … in case your pitot heat’s iced over.
PILOT: Roger. I agree with you. I’m just not finding it.
IRVIN: OK. Do you have a flashlight?
PILOT: I think I just found it. I just turned it on

Maybe it’s because I was trained where the weather is variable – I can imagine California pilots get used to temperate weather – but I was surprised to hear that she hadn’t dealt with the pitot heat. I was taught to put on the heat as soon as I was in doubt. Got icing? Pitot heat on. Airspeed dropping? Pitot heat on. Low temperatures? Might want to put on that pitot heat. There is only one circumstance that I can think of where using pitot heat to solve a problem is absolutely the wrong thing to do:

AOPA Online: Driven to distraction

Leaving the pitot tube cover on is more subtle. The little flag just flaps quietly under the wing. A commercial pilot student rejected the takeoff in a Cessna 150 and went off the end of the runway into some bushes. There was no major damage and when asked what happened, the pilot claimed that he had no airspeed and was afraid the aircraft would stall on liftoff. His instructor had failed to demonstrate that the aircraft will fly just fine with no indicated airspeed — it’s the real thing you need to stay aloft. By the way, turning on the pitot heat to burn off the cover is not recommended as the residue usually works its way back into the tube and will require far more technical support upon landing. It also doesn’t resolve the initial problem.

Generally, however, pitot heat can do no harm – it’s amazing to me that a pilot in icing conditions hadn’t instinctively put the pitot heat on and in fact the Bonanza pilot was flying over mountains without being sure if she had pitot heat at all or where the switch might be. She stated that she couldn’t see through the window but didn’t think to put the heat on until advised by Irvin. On the other hand, when asked what type of ice she was experiencing, she responded with “rime” without hesitation, and she was right!

This makes me wonder if perhaps she was suffering from hypoxia, which would explain the confusion. There is no mention of whether the plane has oxygen but at the start she mentions coming down from 16,000 feet so presumably she must have had access to some form of oxygen. Still, I can’t quite imagine flying at those heights over mountains and not being hyper-aware of strategies for dealing with ice.

My favourite part of the transcript is once the pilot has the situation under control.

PILOT: Well, my wings have cleared off now and my, I’ve got my lights on inside the cabin and it’s warm and I can see. So I just assume continue on if it’s alright.

ATC would like her to land at Mather, 9 miles to her left, both to check out the plane and sit out the rest of the storm. The pilot, however, wants to continue to her destination as that’s where her car is. Irvin tells her that it is her choice but then takes advantage of a pause in the conversation to inform her of what she is going to do:

IRVIN: And November, Four-zero November Lima, [Mather] have the runway lights turned up quite a bit for you. The airport should be to your right front still about three to four miles. You’re showing 90 knots on the ground.
PILOT: Roger. I see the runway. They do have the lights on.
IRVIN: OK. Four-zero November Lima. You are cleared visual approach Runway 22 left, the left side. If you want the right side, we’ll get you over to tower here shortly and you can request that.

Note she had not at any point agreed that she should land at Mather! I think Irvin’s handling of this is absolutely brilliant.

It’s become almost traditional for pilots to complain about the controllers in the tower making life difficult. I didn’t know about the Archie League Medal of Safety Awards before this year but I’ll be looking out for them in the future!

Joe is a pilot, sailor, former Marine (sniper) and an excellent story teller. He is 83 now and still going strong. He has neuropathy in his hands which means he can no longer use a typewriter normally. He doesn’t let that stop him, slowly typing out emails with two pencils so that he can tell friends about his adventures. I asked for his permission to share one with you.

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I knew we might have some trouble. There is no VFR night flying in Mexican airspace and we were running late. I was flying a single engine airplane and although the sky was still bright, the sun had officially set. I confirmed to the controller that I intended to continue inbound to Mazatlan.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec report downwind
Pilot: Zero 8 Quebec turning downwind.

The runway was clear in the dusk but as we turned downwind, every light in the airport – it seemed like every light for miles around – flashed on. My passengers recoiled from the window as I continued the circuit, confirming to the controller that I required fuel upon our arrival.

Mazatlan: Zero 8 Quebec you are cleared to land.

As we touched down, he gave me further instructions.

Mazatlan: Exit your passengers at the administration building, have them wait for the guards, then proceed to the gas pit and they will direct you to parking.
Pilot: Roger, will debark passengers at the administration building and proceed to the gas pit.

I stopped the plane in front of the building where we were surrounded by rifle-bearing troops. The two couples were escorted to a small, stuffy room and told that they must stay there. After fueling up and parking, I was marched into a dusty little office in the main building.

A severe-looking mustached administrator sitting at a dented metal desk asked me for every piece of paper that he could think of: passport, clearance into Mexico, proof of ownership of the plane. He stared at my license for a few moments and then cleared his throat.

He handed me my paperwork piece by piece as he spoke. “Señor, the lights, they is very expensive.”

I breathed a sigh of relief now that I knew what was going to happen. “The least I could do is to help to pay for them,” I told him with a smile.

The man nodded. “Señor, more or less 2,500 pesos for the lights,” about U.S. $10 at the time. He paused and then spoke again. “And the guards, Señor, they must be paid also.”

“How much for the guards,” I said, pulling out my wallet.

“2,500 pesos. But also, Señor, the man upstairs. He is tough guy.” He pointed straight up. Did I need to bribe God as well? Or perhaps he just meant the controller.

I tried to look stern. “OK, how much for the guy upstairs?”

“Señor, 2,500 pesos.”

I peeled off the required amount and handed to the man who nodded seriously as he counted it. I grinned at him and he smiled back; we were friends now. “And for you, Señor,” I asked him. “How much for all your help?”

He gave me a shocked look and threw out his chest. “For me is nothing, Señor! Is my job!”

He ordered us a taxi and led me to the tiny waiting room where my passengers waited nervously, surrounded by the guards still clutching their rifles. I leant in close and whispered to the two couples that we were in serious trouble. I told them that I had failed to contact the American embassy and that we were probably going to have to spend the night in jail.

“They’ve arranged for a taxi to take us to the hotel, to pick up our personal belongings in case that we don’t get out tomorrow.” We drove to the hotel in silence, where I asked them to pack their cases and meet me in the bar in 20 minutes to wait for the taxi driver to pick us up and take us to the jail.

Once at the bar, I ordered a variety of snacks and a pitcher of margaritas: a final fling. The passengers returned from the rooms one by one, pale-faced and unhappy, and bolted down their margaritas. One of the women had tears in her eyes.

The taxi driver walked up to me and put his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”

The woman burst into sobs: “I don’t want to go to jail!”

The taxi driver looked stunned. “Jail? Oh no! Mr Joe fix everything good. You no going to jail, you going to dinner.”

That was the final straw: I started laughing and could not stop. No one else in my party seemed to think it was quite so funny.

Not long after the Paris Trip I decided to take the same girlfriend to Perranporth on the north coast of Cornwall.  I hired a Grumman Tiger from LSF at Elstree.  The flight down was unexciting and we had a good weekend.

It was on the return journey we had problems.  For some reason, Perranporth had no fuel available.  I calculated what we’d burnt on the way down and worked out that we had just enough fuel to get back to Elstree and thence, if necessary, to divert to Luton.  At that stage of my flying career, I’m not sure if I had never learnt or if I had forgotten about "reserves" but in any case, it didn’t occur to me.

We take off and I’m talking to Plymouth who asked me whether I was flying North or South of Dartmoor.  I said I couldn’t see Dartmoor on the map to which I got the reply, "That large danger area right in front of you.  I assume you’re not going to fly right through it!"

I’d managed to overlook it completely and yes, had planned straight through it.  "North," I said, picking one at random.  Now I had to turn left and work out where I was going next.

All the way back, I was keeping a very close eye on the fuel and was surprised to see both tanks showed a quarter as we approached the outskirts of the London control zone, I’d expected less.  I had noticed, however, that there was a definite tendency for the right wing to drop when the plane was in trim which was very frustrating as it meant paying constant attention,

Just as we approached Greenham Common and I was about to call for MATZ penetration, the engine spluttered and started to die.  I switched to the right tank and it picked up again.  Back to the left and it spluttered.  The left tank was clearly empty though still showing a quarter.   The right tank also showed a quarter but I had no idea how much was actually in it.

I had been talking to London Information so called them and calmly asked for urgent permission to land at Greenham Common.  The controller was more panicked than I was: Greenham Common had nuclear missiles at the time and was at the highest level of security.

Meanwhile the plane was flying fine on the right tank but I still wanted to get down as soon as I could.  I downgraded the emergency and was transferred to London Radar.  They pointed out that I was almost overhead Booker (now Wycombe Air Park) and suggested I land there.  They said they’d rung them and the airfield was closed but that it would be OK to land there and they’d give me vectors.  You could hear the relief in the controller’s voice that I would not be flying into Greenham Common.

As taught when landing at an unmanned airfield, I carefully overflew the runway and did one circuit.  "Would you mind just landing it this time," asked my passenger on the second final approach.

Of course, with the airfield being closed, there was no fuel available so our romantic weekend away ended with a friend having to drive out to pick us up.  He grumbled all the way back.

I felt somewhat vindicated though.  I recalculated the fuel burn and found exactly what I’d expected but all in the right tank.  When I complained to the CFI at LSF, he simply shrugged it off with, "Fuel gauges are never that accurate."

An old friend of mine, also a pilot, mailed me recently saying:

Hey, how about you tell me a tale of the day you really learnt to fly, you know – not when you got your licence, but an occasion, when you really learnt to fly, come on, I’ve got some, I’ll tell you if you tell me. :) And don’t tell me you don’t have one, cos every PPL does – promise not to tell!

I immediately remembered my screw-up the first time I flew in IMC. As I started to write it down, Sylvia said, “That’s a great story for Fear of Landing” and insisted I share my failures with the world.

---

Many years ago when VFR on top was legal and I had about 10 hours post qualification, I hired a C182 from Leicester to fly my new girlfriend to Paris for the weekend. In those days, you had to land at a customs airport on the way out, so I planned Southend.

Weather at Southend was clear, at Leicester was overcast at 1000′. We sat at Leicester for hours waiting for a break in the clouds; Brigitte was not known as the most patient of people. Finally a break appeared and I rushed off, without checking Southend again.

Arriving at Southend, it’s totally overcast between 700′ and 1200′, also for miles around. “What are your intentions?”

“Request half-mile radar to final,” I reply, fully confident after my four hours’ “Instrument Appreciation” that was part of my PPL. No autopilot so I’m about to hand-fly in IMC.

ATC are unfazed and give me headings and descent. I’m trying out that scan I was taught and all seems to be going well. “Fly 260 degrees and descend to 700′.”

A few moments later, I get a call, “Please confirm current heading.”

I look. It’s drifted to 250 degrees but I respond, “260 degrees” and adjust my heading.

ATC assume my DI is 10 degrees out and come back immediately with “Turn right, heading 270 degrees”. Now it’s too late to come clean and tell them that, actually, it was I who was 10 degrees off, not the instrument.

So I’m flying in IMC, trying to keep the scan up and having to add 10 degrees to all further headings. Or is it subtract? My work-load just doubled!

Breaking through at 700′ and seeing the runway ahead was an exhilaration I remember nearly 25 years later. If that didn’t teach me anything else, I learnt not to lie to ATC!

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I’ve been travelling all over the past few weeks; the route was something like Málaga – London – Maldon (Essex) – Hadlow (Kent) – Antwerp – Brussels – Popperingen – North Weald – Málaga. It’s all a bit of a blur, to be honest but I’m safe home now and planning some fun updates.

Meanwhile, Plastic Pilot is celebrating his 500th blog post with a contest! He’s looking for aviation-related photographs which will be put up to a vote by his readers next month and some fun prizes (and fame and fortune of course!) to the winners. But today’s the LAST DAY so make sure to get your entries in quick:

Enter the Plastic Pilot photo contest right now!

As I play catch-up with the rest of my life, I leave you with this view of London from Wednesday’s flight to get you into the mood. Although considering how cold it was, I thought I’d be in for clear skies, I was very disappointed as we flew past London and I found it was covered in murk!

We arrived home yesterday after a lovely trip getting caught up with everyone. We went to England to drop Connor off at school (*sniffle*) and to see Cliff’s mum then on to Strasbourg to check out Tony’s new digs, from there a quick jaunt to Mannheim to visit with my grandmother and then last night we flew home again to Spain.

Here’s my quick-pick favourite photographs from the flying:

Taking off from Málaga airport. It’s rare that the sky is so crystal clear, usually everything is in a dull haze and you consider yourself lucky if you can see where the sea ends and the sky begins. I wish I could have taken more photographs while it was so clear.

The weather was variable – Cliff did all the flights IFR. The streaky clouds and hazy skies made for some interesting views.

Cliff’s perfect landing at Strasbourg. I held the camera up and snapped, hoping that I had the angle right. I was surprised to find out it worked!

The view flying over the Alps at 10,000 feet. We flew over Lake Geneva but it is always odd to me to be that high and still see mountains higher than us.

Angouleme Tower last night, while Cliff was radioing for clearance. The initial hour of the flight passed quickly as we watched the sun set into dark red clouds. Then we ran into 30 knot headwinds which lasted most of the way home. We finally arrived at Málaga at midnight.

Flying always feels different after sunset. Isolated, elsewhere, in orbit instead of just above. My world becomes the plane and the plane is the entire world. Cities and farmland and lakes and railway lines, they are real. But the twinkly lights below me, the reflection of a desert sky, I find it difficult to believe that there are people down there. The black land below me gains a sheen of unreality, a world between darkness and dreams.

When you are flying at night, darkness is the enemy. Darkness could be an isolated area but it might be cloud or worse, a mountain rising above your height, obscuring your view. However unreal it may feel, that darkness may be very solid and closer than you think.

At the age of forty, I finally have an excuse for being afraid of the dark.

I’ve come down with some sort of horrific flu and really not up to writing a word – but I wanted to start posting, especially as I know Plastic Pilot is waiting to see how Lausanne is faring without him. As you can see, it was a bit cloudy over the Swiss Alps on our day of departure, so Cliff (who is instrument rated) did the flight. That meant I was free to take photographs!

Shoreham Airport is one of my favourite airfields with a convenient location and easily spotted from the air, whichever direction you come in from. They have a decently long (1,036 metres) asphalt runway with PAPI but their commercial traffic isn’t very high, so they are still General Aviation friendly and ATC has always been helpful.

One evening, we were coming in late. We’d left Málaga on time that morning but we were held up refuelling in France and then we had fierce headwinds all the way across France and the channel. I asked London Information to speak to Shoreham on our behalf: we had a passenger that needed dropping there and the taxi was already parked and waiting. Shoreham confirmed that they closed at 2000 which was approximately our ETA but that they would wait for us to get in. When I explained that we weren’t staying but wanted to taxi to the terminal and then go out again, the controller barely flinched. Everyone was watching the clock – we got in before closing but was a minute past closing time before I could get the plane in the rolling. The controller was patient and never pushy – he took his time without rushing me to switch to Farnborough so that he could shut down. Shoreham could have justified charging us through the nose for the extra five minutes of ATC but the controller was very friendly about the whole fiasco.

The end of last year the word was out that the Shoreham was in financial trouble – proposed expansion to the airfield was put on hold. Then on April 14th it seemed it was over: Shoreham Airport went bust with debts of over a quarter of a billion pounds. Stupidly I stopped paying attention at that point – and so did everyone on Wikipedia, which ends the story of Shoreham Airfield with all flights being blocked.

I know better than to use Wikipedia for research, dammit! In reality, the closure only lasted a single day and the airfield was immediately purchased and re-opened for business.

Certainly their their website makes it clear that it is business as usual, so my worrying was pointless. That’ll teach me!

So, my cheat sheet for the flight:

EGKA Shoreham
Date: 23 May 2008
Sunset: 19:55 GMT
Phone Number: General Enquiries: 01273 467373
Hours: Mon – Sat 0800 – 2000 (or sunset) Sun 0830-2000
Frequencies: APP/TWR 123.15, ATIS 125.30
Runway: 02/20 1036 x 18 Asphalt
Website: Shoreham Airport
Useful: Circuit Map
Divert: Biggin Hill

This’ll be a quick stop to pick up my son and then fly straight to Germany, where my presence has been requested at a family-get-together. So we’ll be flying to Mannheim City the same day and spending the weekend there. Wow, the Saratoga is seeing more action this month than it has all year!

Alfons Eigenmann’s description of Altenrhein airfield, as translated by Harald Rauch and edited by Ed Rathje:

The Altenrhein airfield was built in the years 1927-1928 by pumping mud from nearby Lake Constance (Bodensee) onto a swampy area close to the shore line. Almost in the middle of this area a turf runway of 600 x 100 meters was built, laterally marked on both sides by a ditch 240 cm wide and 80 cm deep, which was filled up with yellow gravel from the Jura (the mountain range bordering France in the west of Switzerland). The grass taxiway areas were on both sides of the runway. As the airfield was certified for light single engine aircraft only, it was not capable of heavy bomber aircraft operations.

It doesn’t exactly inspire one with confidence to hear that the airfield is based on mud piled onto swamp! Luckily I’ve been to Altenrhein before and I know it’s a wonderfully simple approach and at 1,500 metres the runway is more than enough for me to feel comfortable.

My quick reference notes:

LSZR St Gallen (Altenrhein)
Date: 16 May 2008
Sunset: 18:54 GMT
Phone Number: +41 71 858 51 65, +41 71 858 51 44
Hours: Montag – Freitag 06.30 – 12.00 / 13.30 – 21.00 Uhr
Samstag 07.30 – 12.00 / 13.30 – 20.00 Uhr
Sonntag 10.00 – 12.00 / 13.30 – 20.00 Uhr
Frequencies: Tower 118.65 MHz (119.7 MHz), ATIS 123.775 MHz
Runway: 10/28 1500m x 30m
Website: Airport St. Gallen – Altenrhein

Note: Do not rely on other people to gather information for you – and for the love of safety don’t rely on my notes being correct for your flight! Always verify all details yourself.

St Gallen actually has live webcams so I’m thinking that I might twitter my estimated time of arrival and see if anyone can spot us coming in!

I don’t know a lot about Lausanne but hopefully that’s about to change. After a bit of a refresher in North Weald, I’ll be braving a border-crossing into Switzerland: flying to Lausanne to meet with some people and hopefully to waste some quality time sitting at the edge of the lake looking at France.

My quick reference notes:

LSGL – Lausanne
Date: 14 May 2008
Sunset: 19:00 GMT
Phone Number: Phone +41 21 646 15 51, Fax +41 21 646 15 91
Hours: 0800 am to 0800 pm
Frequencies: ATIS 118.82, AFIS 123.20
Website: Lausanne airport (moves your browser, ugh!)
Useful: Circuit Details
Runways: 18 / 36

Note: Do not rely on other people to gather information for you – and for the love of safety don’t rely on my notes being correct for your flight! Always verify all details yourself.

One of my favourite bloggers, Plastic Pilot, used to be based in Lausanne. He has a video of the approach on his site so I almost feel as if I’ve been already.

I wondered which runway to expect and he told me the following:

Runway 18 has power lines on short final and a downslope. Be ready to go-around. Runway 36 is a bit tricky as you come in from the lake as the terrain on final slopes up. Preferential for no wind is RWY 36.

I can’t say that I prefer either of those approaches but I’m sure it’ll look less disconcerting when I’m coming in. Well, I hope so anyway.

I’m hoping to end up with some extra time in Lausanne to explore. Plastic Pilot was good enough to send me recommendations and a list of interesting places to fly to including what looks like a somewhat exciting approach at Saanen which he recommends trying out, with an instructor, simply for the experience.

Riss gave me a more down-to-earth recommendation:

The Musee l’Art de Brut is worth it, if strange. It’s not your typical museum.

The Museum is focused on a Japanese exhibition at the moment so I’m really hoping we’ll get a chance to see it.

Hopefully I’ll have interesting photographs (and boring stories about my landing) to share with you all soon!

North Weald airfield was established in 1916 to protect London during the First World War and prides itself for being a frontline airfield in the Battle of Britain in 1940. The military abandoned the airfield in 1964 but the Essex Gliding Club has kept the now unlicensed airfield active since the 1970’s.

My quick reference notes:

EGSX North Weald
Arriving 12 May 2008
PPR: 01992 524510
Hours: 09:00-19:00 or sunset
Sunset: 19:45
Website: North Weald Airfield
Useful: Airfield layout
Runway: 02/20 1920×45 asphalt (unlicensed)
and 13/31 – 916 × 45m asphalt (unlicensed)
Circuit height: 800′ QFE / 1200′ QNH
Divert: Stapleford
Location:Google Maps

Note: Do not rely on other people to gather information for you – and for the love of safety don’t rely on my notes being correct for your flight! Always verify all details yourself.

Arriving by car, you are advised to give way to aircraft at all times, a frightening thought. The airfield is a confusing mishmash of unlicensed asphalt runways and roads. Runway 13 is closed on Saturdays so as to host the local market but 31 remains in use. My copy of the plate has “do not go here on a market day” scrawled upon it, the idea of flying into a runway have covered with cars and market stalls is frightening.

However, North Weald also has some great advantages. The main runway (02/20) is 1,920 metres long and easily spotted – especially as you have to remain under 1,500 feet to keep out of of London Stansted’s Class D airspace. It is one of the friendliest airfields I’ve been to, with pilots, mechanics and students all smiling hello and often stopping to get a better look in the plane. And the Squadron has one of the best fried breakfasts in Essex.

The Saratoga is currently parked there, having undergone minor maintenance, leaving us to fly commercial in the meantime. I’m sure it’s lonely and dying to get off the ground and I want some practice before attempting the downsloping runway at Lausanne! I’ll be meeting up with Lee, one of my original instructors. Lee flies jets these days but fancies a bit of a spin in the Saratoga and wants to see how I’m flying these days. Masochist.

We’ve got a busy fortnight coming up – I’ve done a quick mock-up of the route we are starting to plan. The plane is parked in North Weald (in Essex) so the flying doesn’t start until we get there (the British Airways flight to Gatwick doesn’t count, that’s just a case of arrive at the airport and stand around feeling frustrated!). Then we’re flying south to Switzerland and navigating our way to Lausanne and then on to St Gallen for the weekend. Then, like some sort of psychotic dot-to-dot, we’ll head north with a vengeance to the Isle of Mull in the Inner Hebrides to pick up the wheelchair we dumped to save on weight on the last flight. Just a day or two there before we dive down towards London again, theoretically going to Shoreham but recent news means that looks iffy. I hope I’m wrong!

Then we’ll load up the plane and head home to Málaga via a quick overnight stop at Bordeaux for refuelling. Whew!

I’ve drawn it on Google Maps but that really just makes it clear how inefficiently we’ve made our plans – great zigzags! View the larger map for a more detailed view of our stops.

View Larger Map

Ever wondered what you’d do if you entered an unintentional spin? What about a flat spin, where the plane is horizontal and spinning like a top, all the while falling out of the sky.

Last autumn, there was a post to the Tipsy Nipper Owner’s Group Forum with this photograph and the following comment.

Whilst walking in the RSPB nature reserve in Tollesbury Essex I came across this Nipper after it had crash landed on Monday evening.

They were in the process of removing it on Tuesday morning when I went past, the pilot had a lucky escape as it had flipped over in the marsh, the pilot had to be freed by emergency crews.

The plane was immediately recognised as belonging to Neil Spooner but local news confirmed that he was unharmed. He posted on the message board within the week to let the members know what had happened:

A rather disturbing occurance, normal spin entry and the spin went flat. Having never done any flat spin training was rather at a loss as to what to do to recover (normal spin recovery techniques don’t work in a flat spin). However, a quick review of spin aerodynamics on the way down gave me a few ideas, one of which obviously worked. The engine stopped during the spin (22 rotations) which meant an outfield landing in a rather inhospitable area. The main wheels caught the two top wires of a barbed wire fence in the flare which both decelerated the aircraft and flipped it on its back. I spent 20mins waiting for the emergency services to turn up (pretty good I think) The police air support heli’ landed close by and 2 crew lifted the tail so I could open the canopy and step out. Absolutely no injuries except my pride.

Twenty-two rotations! No, he wasn’t counting, he had a webcam and laptop connected so that he could analyse his aerobatics later. You can read the full accident report as a PDF on the Air Accidents Investigation Branch website.

My last flight was in a big jet with a crew and mini-bottles of wine and everything. It made for a change but I think I prefer the Saratoga overall – especially after putting together this grab-bag from the world of commercial flying.

“Terrain, terrain, pull up. Too low.” Not something you want to hear as you are descending. At the new airport in Shamshabad, they don’t want you to worry. The official advice is to switch off the ground proximity warnings once the false warnings start. Sorry, but I really can’t blame the KLM pilot who decided to divert, even if he did end up 1500 miles away in Mumbai.

ProTraveller have stirred up some conversation with their Top 10 Most Dangerous Aircraft Landings in theWorld. They don’t actually single out individual landings (wouldn’t you hate to be that pilot) but it’s an interesting (and somewhat hair-raising) collection of airfields which could be considered a bit of a challenge. For a bit of context on #4, you might want to look at Plastic Pilot’s video of coming into Courchevel in a PA28. It does look a bit tricky!

Photos of the Divas Pink Flight, a themed flight put on for the Sydney Mardi Gras, looks like it was a seriously fun flight, although there is such a thing as too much pink. It must have been a bit shocking for those who booked it as a standard flight!

Cranky Flier writes about the EMD Safety Bracelet, a “nasty little device [which] will give flight crews the ability to physically disable you with the touch of a button.” Will all the too-pretty passengers be wearing them next season?

Ancient Pelican links a YouTube video of the funnest marshalling I’ve ever seen.

Some great photographs over at Francoflyersof the “Ryanair Water-Ski team” when a B737-800 skidded on the runway and then ran off onto the wet grass. The plane was quickly evacuated using the slides and there were no injuries. If it had been Gatwick, it would have made headline news.

Speaking of headline news, somehow I missed the woman passenger who was handed pliers to remove her nipple piercings before being allowed to board her flight. The TSA has made a statement that correct procedure was followed but conceded that maybe procedure should be modified. Maybe, as long as we get reassurance that we will remain safe from lethal piercings!

Meanwhile, the details of the Liquid Bomb have finally been released. One of the commenters at Schneier on Security has a solution: “No carry on, no hand luggage, naked passengers …that might work” But would the Pink Divas approve?