Sun, 20 Aug 2017
The crop duster takes on his 500 gallons(!) of pesticide while Norbert wakes up
The Grapevine (as I understood it at the time -- research now suggests I've got the wrong name) is a range of mountains that stretches roughly east-west north of Los Angeles. As I chatted with the crop duster pilot that already-hot morning at Mefford Field in Tulare, CA, he casually mentioned, "Are you worried about going over the Grapevine?"
Well, I hadn't been, until he mentioned it.
I had, as expected, slept poorly at Mefford Field. Between the heat and the freeway noise (somewhat attenuated by wearing earplugs, but that introduced its own discomfort), I woke up frequently, and slept only lightly. Still, I did sleep, and I didn't feel particularly tired when the brightening sky woke me up around 6.
The other thing that had woken me up was some variety of large truck trundling by, its diesel engine loud against the backdrop of commuters on the freeway. It pulled up and parked nearby, and I figured it would be prudent to get up and see if I'd inadvertently parked the plane in the way of someone's activities for the day. A man popped his head around my plane, and I asked if I was in the way; he said no, but that they were about to make a whole lot of noise.
I arose to see a tanker truck parked 30 feet away, with a caged area in back where a man in white coveralls was already busily mixing something from slickly packaged white cardboard boxes. My suspicion was confirmed when one of the crop dusters rolled up, its big turbine motor screaming oddly as it idled. The gent in the coveralls dragged a big hose over and attached it to a port on the plane. Pesticides. I thought it was hilarious that they were packed up in very clean, white boxes with a colorful swoosh on the side, looking like packaging for shoes or industrial toilet paper more than semi-controversial chemicals.
I ended up chatting with the ground support guy and the pilot both, at different times. The ground guy was talkative, and was much easier to talk to, since the plane wasn't sitting there screaming for most of our chat. The pilot seemed very nice, though between his noise-cancelling headphones and my earplugs against the turbine noise, we said relatively little to each other.
Then he made his comment about crossing the Grapevine, and I started worrying that maybe I was taking the whole thing too lightly. I walked behind their hangar and made my requisite call to Flight Services to check the weather.
It was great in the San Joaquin valley, where I was, but in the Los Angeles basin, there was a heavy overcast, and the briefer didn't think it would burn off until 11 am or later. It would take me most of my flying time before I would encounter the overcast, so this wasn't a huge deal, but it meant I couldn't really start the trip in earnest for a couple of hours from that point.
Mefford Field, although many things, was not a place I felt like hanging around for a few hours. I googled up "california airports with restaurants" or something, and found that Bakersfield Muni (L45) in Bakersfield had a cafe attached that sounded intersting: the Rocket Cafe. Bakersfield was just about an hour's flight from Tulare, so I packed myself up and alighted into the intangible aether at 9 am almost to the second.
A town amidst the fields, somewhere north of Bakersfield
The flight to Bakersfield was uneventful, and I passed the time by listening to Ruby 2, a somewhat inscrutable sci-fi radio drama from the 1980s that my brother and I used to listen to. Every so often, Bakersfield Approach or Norcal Approach would interrupt the story with a radio call, but since I've had the story memorized for decades, this was no real impediment.
Land in the San Joaquin valley seems to be largely given over to agriculture, which makes sense for an enormous flat plain with lots of sun and reasonable access to water. Occasional towns dot the landscape, connected by long threads of freeways.
Eventually Bakersfield hove into view, and I navigated around Meadows Field (BFL) to the smaller Bakersfield Muni, a few flight-minutes further south. I dropped down and taxied into the parking area for the Rocket Cafe.
The Cafe itself is a large room with a bar, many tables, and profuse displays of sports memorabilia. Pretty much what you'd expect from an airport bar. I ordered an omelette with hashbrowns and a glass of orange juice as I continued reading the pulp WWI book I'd picked up for my brother David, who's researching for a story set in an alternate WWI timeline.
An hour and a half after shutting down the engine, I was firing it up again, wondering how slow the takeoff would be in the heat of a Bakersfield summer day (about 100° F; answer: not substantially worse than all the other fields I'd departed in the high 90s). Breakfast sat comfortably in my belly, and the weather reports around LA had shown complete improvement, so there was nothing to stop me from continuing with the trip (but the air conditioning in the restaurant was sure nice, and I took the opportunity to charge a radio that had been doing excellent work).
I-5 running straight as an arrow toward the pass south of Bakersfield
As I flew toward the mountains, I realized that there was no way I was going to climb high enough to be comfortable before I reached them, so I started doing the flying equivalent of switchbacks, zig-zagging over the valley trying to gain altitude. I initially aimed for 7500 feet, but eventually climbed up to 9500 as the mountains loomed larger.
Because I was so high, the actual traversal of the mountains was completely uneventful, though Norbert's oil temperature was creeping higher with every climb, so I was keeping an eye on it in the heat. I tried to spot the handful of airports that the map showed were present, but only saw one or two. My ability to recognize airports improved noticeably during the trip, but Agua Dulce (L70) remained hidden to me.
The final pass, with LA in the hazy distance
I told my air traffic controller that I would start my descent as I passed over the final mountain toward Burbank, but he had me stay high to allow jet traffic to pass under me. That was an odd feeling, to be flying over the jets in a Champ. I had several altitude holds as I descended toward El Monte (EMT), my final destination. The LA airspace is quite busy.
Finally I was allowed down, and made the approach to El Monte. The tower told me to turn for the base turn into landing over the 210, but since I didn't know where that was (I was directly over it, as it happened), his explanation delayed me until it made more sense to make a straight-in approach. I landed at El Monte and shut down at 1:06 pm, 48 hours and six minutes, and 15.8 flight hours, after I'd departed Harvey Field in Snohomish.
Flying with David
Norbert on the ground at El Monte
My brother has never flown with me before. Since he lives in LA, and I live in Seattle, the factors have never come together before. Additionally, he's preparing to write a story about a plucky young woman who successfully flies a WWI era monoplane against all odds as part of her adventure, and I've been consulting with him on technical aspects of the airplanes and tech in the story. It was completely logical that we should go for a flight together to put some of the theory we'd been talking into practice.
We drove to the airport (a day and a half, and one very welcome shower, after my arrival), and I gave him the preflight speech as we drove. Which control does what, what to do in a variety of foreseeable emergencies, the order of events and what to expect, etc. We went over the plane, and I gave him a narrated preflight inspection. It was all good material for the book.
We strapped in and called the tower for takeoff clearance. I had reset the video camera to record full-speed video, so that he could have a visual reminder of what we'd done. Unfortunately it's not set up to record our intercom audio, which is too bad. We took off to the south, and followed the traffic pattern to depart the area to the northeast. The air was bumpy from all the heat rising off the pavement, though not unusually so.
I had forgotten, in the many years since we were children, that David used to get seasick on the sailboat we had. It briefly crossed my mind that morning, but I forgot to mention it in the preflight discussion. It turns out this sensitivity hasn't changed.
We flew over to the practice area east of El Monte, and discussed the various features on the ground. He mentioned he was feeling a bit ill, so I decided we would avoid the more strenuous maneuvers I'd been planning to demonstrate -- nothing aggressive, but steep turns can be tough on the ol' motion sickness.
I demonstrated a power-off stall (David's wife had given me a very disapproving look when I mentioned we'd try stalls, and I had to explain why it was safe, and wasn't as bad as it probably sounded; in brief, a stall makes the wings fly less efficiently, but if you do it a couple thousand feet in the air, it's simple to recover from, and offers basically no danger -- it's something every student pilot learns to do early on). I demonstrated a power-on stall. David said, "Oh, I think I'm gonna throw up," and I heard him anxiously opening up one of the airsick bags helpfully tucked into a little pocket directly in front of the passenger. The mic went quiet for a minute, then he returned, saying, "Ugh, but I feel better now."
We decided to return to the airport and land, to reassess if it made any sense to continue flying. We were quickly down, and David said he felt better, so I restarted the motor and we went up again, with the goal of giving him at least a few minutes of stick time. Before we'd even made it to pattern altitude, another bag came out, and I called the tower back to ask for a return to the lovely, stable ground.
He felt bad for cutting the flight short, but I assured him it was no trouble: through the previous owner's foresight, there were airsick bags ready for use, and the only downside to the adventure from my point of view was that I had two fewer airsick bags now. I felt bad that the motion was bad enough to make him sick, but there was no way to control it in that situation. It's too bad we didn't go flying on the previous, overcast day, simply because the air probably would have been calmer. But, as he said, hindsight is 20/20. He was still able to get up in the air, and despite getting ill, had a good time. Who knows, maybe his plucky young woman adventurer will also suffer a bout of airsickness, now.
Next: Can a Champ really fly from LA to Ashland in one day?
Sat, 19 Aug 2017
In the previous episode, I described getting myself from the Seattle area to Ashland, OR.
Hint: my tent is in the corner
I didn't sleep well in Ashland, overwhelmed by the sound of crickets and cars occasionally driving by on the road behind the airport. I was too warm to start, and then too cold until I woke up and dragged the sleeping bag over me. The sky started lightening around 5:30, and I was thoroughly awake by 6.
I'd planted the tent in front of a parking spot for the Brim Aviation hangar. As I was making my somewhat bleary way to upright, someone parked further down the lot, and came over, asking if he could help me (I had the impression he thought I was homeless). I explained that I was flying through and had sought a dark place to sleep, and he laughed. He said it was a good thing I was up, because they were about to get really busy with fire-fighting flights.
I finished packing myself up, and got the weather briefing on the phone (I was pleased to find that the terrible cell coverage I'd expected was actually pretty good, particularly once I was on the ground). Nothing of note except the smoke, which was going strong from a number of local fires. Norbert looked surprisingly majestic in the early-morning light as I packed up and got myself ready to go.
Norbert in the sunrise light
I got myself oriented, and taxied out to runway 12, surprising a deer as I went. It bounded over a wire fence, then turned to look at me curiously as I trundled past in my green and black plane. I lined up on the runway, and launched at 8:18 am. Someone had called on the advisory frequency that there were a pair of heavy military helicopters transiting the area, and they passed me by as I climbed away from Ashland, making altitude to get over the pass just south of town.
Two heavy military helicopters passed me by
Up and over the pass -- for some reason, it was really fascinating to see the roadworks under me as I flew over I-5 -- and into the valley beyond, for my first tantalizing view of Mt. Shasta. The smoke was pretty heavy, and I ended up climbing all the way up to 9500 feet (the highest altitude I aimed for on this trip, though I reached it several times) to get clear of the smoke. The smoke continued to have its interesting scent, but I blew my nose orange afterwards, so I think I'm happier to have not lingered there.
The route that I-5 follows after Ashland is well defined by a series of distinct small mountains to the east. I had a vague impression that they might have been formed by a giant putting down a series of toy mountains and arranging them for a pleasing visual effect. Of course, I viewed all this through a layer of smoke, and the haziness contributed to the dreamlike feeling of it.
Onward and upward. I finally reached 9500 feet, and leveled out to cruise above the smooth white layer of smoke. I noticed an odd optical illusion, where when I looked at something that I thought was level with me, evidence told me it was actually lower. For instance, I would have sworn the smoke layer was level with me as I passed Mt. Shasta, but I knew for a fact that it was between five hundred and a thousand feet below me. The illusion was particularly strong when looking at mountain peaks. I'd spot one that I was sure I'd smack into if I flew over it, and on the chart it said the actual elevation was two thousand feet below me.
Mt. Shasta from 9500 feet, civilization just visible below
Once past Mt. Shasta (which has its own weather station, that I tuned into as I passed), it was over the many-tentacled Shasta Lake, and on to the broad, flat valley that starts at Redding, and continues south all the way to the Grapevine mountains that spread north of LA.
My next stop was at Willows (WLW), which I had initially (ha!) planned to be my first day's stop. It took me nearly 3 hours to fly from Ashland to Willows, and although I could have done it had I launched exactly on schedule, I'm really glad I didn't. The remainder of the flight to Willows was unremarkable except for one thing: the temperature inversion.
As I descended into Willows, the temperature on my $6 aquarium thermometer (with the temperature probe jammed into the little fresh-air vent around ankle level), the temperature slowly climbed from about 20° C at altitude to the high 20s, then there was a palpable spike. I wasn't looking at the meter as I descended, but I could feel it as I passed into the inversion. Suddenly it seemed like it was 10° C hotter.
Willows, CA (WLW)
On the ground in Willows, it was hot and dry. I pulled up to the self serve tank, and filled the plane up. I had been in communication with Glenn, who I was hoping to visit in Placerville (PVF), both to meet him, and to see his airplane. As you can read elsewhere, I'm just starting on a project to build a Marquart Charger biplane, and Glenn is a huge proponent of the type online. When he moved to California as I was planning this trip, it was obvious I'd have to stop in.
So, I launched from Willows just past 11:30 am, and climbed to 7500 feet, as much to escape the heat as anything else. I flew past Sutter Butte, which is an odd sight in the middle of the otherwise completely flat plains of the valley. I had to give Beale Air Force Base a wide berth, as they had a Temporary Flight Restriction around the field, which seems to be pretty much perpetual. Once I was around that, it was direct to Placerville.
Placerville is somewhere in them thar hills
The approach to Placerville was hillier than I'd been expecting. The map shows that it's in the foothills of the mountains, but somehow it doesn't make clear just how hilly it really is. As I dropped down once I was finally sure I had the field in sight (I didn't want to lose altitude until I was sure where I was going to land: the Champ is not a quick climber), I traded radio calls with someone else who was departing, and fought the controls a bit as the wind tossed me around. I braced myself for a difficult landing. It was on the "handful" side of the "easy-peasy:handful" spectrum, but manageable.
As I was tying the plane down, I got a text on my phone: "We're sitting at Norbert's ten o'clock in the open hangar." I walked over and shook hands with Glenn and his wife Judi, and we immediately started into the biplane talk. We've been conversing online for many months as I've sorted out what kind of biplane I wanted to build, and we were immediately comfortable talking planes.
Glenn showed me over his plane, and some of the special touches the builder put in. I sat in the cockpit and noted how I fit -- generally pretty well, though the rudder pedals were a bit closer than I really wanted them, but it's simple enough to get them placed properly while building. My plane will definitely have the pedals in the right spot, and I will hopefully build them in such a way that they can be moved for different pilots (though perhaps not easily).
Glenn kept glancing apprehensively at the windsock on the runway, and I could see why. It would swing back and forth between running directly down the runway (good) and straight across the runway (bad). The fact that it was variable was the worst part of the situation, though. It would make landings in the comparatively twitchy Charger somewhere between "handful" and "disastrous" on the ol' spectrum. "Easy-peasy" was not in the offing. So we decided to go to lunch instead. We had a lovely Mexican lunch at the base of the hill on which the Placerville airport is perched.
Back at the airport, the weather had calmed just enough that Glenn was willing to go flying, so he prepped the plane and pulled it out. I slipped on the flying helmet and goggles, he fired up the engine, and we taxied out to the runway.
The takeoff was interesting: the movements of the plane were much more sharp and definite than the Champ. The tail raised abruptly, and we lifted off very definitely, with none of the "yeah, sure, I guess" feeling the Champ conveys. Of course, it's got 60 additional HP (150 vs. the Champ's 90), and only weighs a hundred or two hundred pounds more.
We climbed for a minute or two, chatting over the intercom as we flew. My microphone was quiet, so I found myself covering the mic with my hand and leaning forward to avoid the wind noise that constantly threatened to drown me out.
Glenn gave me control of the plane, and I did some gentle maneuvers -- we were both feeling full of heavy Mexican food, so aerobatics were definitely not in the cards -- getting a feel for the plane. For the short time that I flew it, it was very pleasant and really just felt like an airplane. There was nothing surprising about it, it just did what I asked it to do. I wasn't willing to wrench it around between my lack of experience and our full bellies, but my time at the stick was pleasant.
I noticed that I also felt much more in control than my last open-cockpit flight, in Oregon with Dave in his Starduster. Not that anything was substantially different beween the Charger and the Starduster; I think the big difference was between my ears. I was much more mentally prepared this time, I think.
When we were back down, they offered me a place for the night in their spare room, which was a very tempting offer (particularly as I thought back on the night half-awake in a tent in Ashland). However, I felt a powerful urge to keep moving: LA was still over 300 miles away, and I needed to cover more distance.
So, I bade them a fond farewell, and went back to my plane. I filled it up with gas as the wind gusted around me, and taxied out to the runway. Glenn and Judi were right behind me, bound for an ice cream social at a nearby airpark. It was funny to watch their short flight on my ADS-B display, which shows a map overlaid with my route, and other airplanes in the air around me. I took off just before 5:30 pm and aimed myself southward for somewhere between Fresno and Bakersfield.
My destination wasn't exactly set in stone. I'd targeted Porterville (PTV), which has the cheapest fuel in the area, but the GPS remained insistent that I would arrive about 15 minutes after sundown. Since the plane isn't legal to fly at night, I considered my other options. Cell coverage came and went at random in the air, and I tried several times to look up the local airports online as I flew. I finally got my search result back, and decided on very little information to try for Mefford Field (TLR) in Tulare. The fuel price (five cents per gallon higher than PTV) was the only definite fact I had, but I assumed based on its size and location that there would be facilities like a bathroom available. The GPS said I'd be there just before sunset, so I decided that was good enough.
Flying a plane built in 1956 when you're my size is always a compromise. Planes were built for the size of the average person at the time, which was about a 5' 7" man who weighed 150 lbs. I am... larger than this. The problem I was really running into was that my legs are longer than the stretch to the pedal was designed to accomodate. Add to this that my body has started getting painfully stiff in the knees if I sit in one position for too long, and there was a recipe for some trouble.
I had discovered as I flew down to Ashland that I could cross my legs around the control stick, though this left the problem of cruise rudder: the plane needs a pretty constant 3 or so pounds of pressure on the right rudder pedal. It's not a lot, but if it's not there, the plane flies a bit crooked (or "uncoordinated" in pilots' parlance). An uncoordinated plane is basically flying with one side to the wind, which makes everything less efficient and increases drag by a lot.
The thing I realized as I sat there with crossed legs was that the rudder pedals for the passenger (who sits behind the pilot) are right next to the pilot's seat. I could drop my hands right onto the rudder pedal on either side of my seat. So, I just added that rudder pressure with my right hand while I flew with my left. It was hard to coordinate the controls, but I worked on it as I flew and slowly got better.
Crossed legs didn't solve the problem that I really wanted to straighten my legs, but at least it resolved the issue of keeping my knees in only one position for the entire flight.
I think those are house boats
Flying over the hills toward Mefford, I passed a number of lakes that seemed to have a series of house boats on them. There was no obvious way to get to or from the house boats, so I'm not sure what the deal was with them. Perhaps there was some kind of water taxi available.
I had a small monocular (basically a compact telescope) with me, and it came in handy any number of times to identify things on the ground, or occasionally other planes. Telescopic examination of the little white dots on the lake suggested they were house boats, mostly because I couldn't imagine what else would be shaped that way.
Soon enough I was past the hills and back out over the flat valley plain. It was another race with the sun, but the sun had a dirty trick up its sleeve: as I went further south, sunset got earlier and earlier. Still, I was once again able to get my wheels on the ground a few minutes before the sun completely disappeared below the horizon.
Norbert faced by a large crop duster the next morning
Mefford Field was not really what I was expecting, though it made perfect sense for where I was. There was a self-serve tank, and I'd noted a sign for Johnston Aviation pointing the opposite direction of where I was going. But other than that, there was a small crowd of very distinctive looking agricultural spraying planes: crop dusters, and not much else. There was no FBO (fixed base operator, the jargon for the typical pilot services business found on most airstrips), and it became increasingly obvious that I would have no access to a bathroom. I picked a tiedown spot that was further away from the lights, and noted with interest the dust skittering away in the wind as I pulled the chains out of their recesses in the pavement to hook the plane to the ground.
Tied down, I pitched my tent, suddenly aware of the noise of the freeway only a couple hundred feet away. The pavement radiated heat, adding to the heat that was already in the air -- I took a picture with the thermometer in the background, blurrily showing what I think is 37° C (98° F). I am not a great fan of heat, and I knew it was going to be an uncomfortable night. I thought harder about finding a hotel in nearby Tulare (pronounced "to-larry"), but laziness overcame me. I washed my face off at a hose attached to one of the hangars, and did my best to sleep on my thankfully insulated sleeping pad.
Fri, 18 Aug 2017
Last year, I took a long cross-country flight in a rented Piper Warrior, from Seattle to Mono Lake in California, just east of Yosemite National Park, about as far south as San Francisco. It was a cool trip, but it was breathtakingly expensive at $130 per hour plus tax.
So this year, when I found myself the owner of a 1956 Champion 7EC (known affectionately as Norbert, after the dragon hatched by Hagrid in the first Harry Potter story), it occurred to me that I should look at another long cross-country. I fixed my sights on Los Angeles, so that I could visit my brother: we rarely get to spend any time together, and when we do, it's always in the context of a family gathering like Thanksgiving or Christmas.
I just returned from the flight (like, this evening -- I should be taking a shower and going to bed, instead I'm sitting here writing), and wanted to relay some of the more interesting parts.
I planned to take a week to make the trip: I'd fly down on Saturday and Sunday, hopefully stopping in Placerville to visit a friend who has a Marquart Charger biplane. David (my brother) and I would hang out for a couple of days, go flying, etc., and I'd return later in the week, again taking two days. I'd take a week off from work to accomplish all this, and hopefully have a few days at the end to recuperate.
As the time was running out to my week's scheduled vacation, Seattle welcomed (if that's the right term) a choking haze of forest fire smoke from nearly 100 fires burning in the interior of British Columbia to the north. I tried going flying the weekend before I was to leave, and basically had to turn around and land after half an hour -- the smoke just kept getting thicker, until I didn't feel I could safely fly through it any more. I just couldn't see well enough.
So there was some anxiety about my ability to leave on Saturday morning as planned. Fortunately, the weather seemed to be on my side, and late Friday night, a westerly wind came in and started clearing the smoke. Of course, in its place, it left a low overcast, so my start on Saturday was still delayed for three hours, waiting for the clouds to lift a bit.
Packed to the gills, I say!
I was eventually able to take off on Saturday, the plane packed relatively to the gills with Stuff: I was planning to pitch a tent next to the plane on my overnight stops rather than finding a hotel and doing all the phoning and taxicab riding necessary for that eventuality. I'd realized when I got to the detailed planning that there was no way I'd make it to LA in two days if I was going to stop and hang out to talk biplanes for half a day, so the plan was now to stop the first day in Ashland, near the Oregon-California border, and again somewhere in the valley, between Fresno and Bakersfield.
Norbert, being a Champ 7EC, is not what you would call a speed demon. In perfect conditions, it cruises at about 85 MPH. If you're trying to burn all the gas as fast as possible, it'll cruise up to 105 MPH, but the plane is perceptibly unhappy at that speed. So I banked on about 85, forgetting about (or, perhaps, imagining improbably favorable) wind.
Downtown Seattle is somewhere out there in the haze
So, I launched in the early afternoon of Saturday. The smoke was still a distinct presence as I left, and it would become a running theme of the trip.
I ended up recording time-lapse video of the entire trip, which will be posted later, once I've had a chance to catch my breath a bit.
The first leg would take me from Snohomish, north of Seattle, to Stark's Twin Oaks Airpark (7S3; every airport has a code, like SEA for SeaTac, or PDX for Portland International), in Hillsboro, OR. I had planned on about two and a half hours, and it ended up taking almost three. I planned to fly the route at 9500 feet to save fuel (the plane is more efficient the higher it flies) without giving sufficient thought to the wind at different altitudes. I averaged 70 MPH on that leg. The only reason it went any faster than driving a car is that I could fly in a straight line, and didn't have traffic to deal with.
Mt. Rainier in smoke
Once at Twin Oaks, I fueled up and ate half the sandwich I'd brought. After too much dithering, I bought a quart of oil after I used the quart I'd brought with me, then I was off again, bound for Roseburg (RBG).
The flight down to Roseburg was unremarkable, except for the continued presence of the smoke. There were particular altitudes where it was concentrated the strongest, and flying through them smelled like someone had turned campfire smoke into a candy, and I was smelling the result. It was pleasant and nostalgic and vaguely disturbing all at the same time.
Dashcam shot of the industrial fuel pumps at RBG as I taxied up
Roseburg was a cool little airport, just off I-5, and tucked neatly between all the hills. As I flew the traffic pattern to come in for a landing, I was very nearly level with some rich-looking houses on a hill west of the field. I found myself wondering if those rich people had expected to have ratty small plane pilots looking in their windows all day, when they bought their fancy house on the hill. Refuelling at Roseburg was bizarre, as the fuel pump looked like something designed by a Windows 95 screensaver, and it took me almost ten minutes to figure out how to actually ground the plane, turn on the pump, and pump my gas. The only reason I made it under ten minutes is there was an airport geezer (this is a term of affection for people who hang out at airports watching the planes come and go) who came over and offered his insights into the industrial-looking system. I regret not taking a picture, but I was in a hurry. (Update: found a shot of it in the time-lapse footage!)
Norbert is an odd plane in one way: it has navigation lights and a landing light, but it doesn't have a rotating beacon or strobe light. You need at least nav and either beacon or strobe to be legal to fly at night, so Norbert is not technically night-legal. There's no one around who would bust me for it, but I make every effort to not fly in the dark.
A smoky sunset from the air near Ashland
The reason I was in a hurry leaving Roseburg was that by my calculations, I could just barely reach Ashland (S03) by sunset, which is the legal limit for this plane. I'd previously called the airport, and gotten permission to pitch a tent there (other airports I called all gave me a very CYA "no camping allowed" response, with various poorly-reasoned excuses offered along with the official policy).
So I poured on the meager coal (Norbert is not a powerhouse), and shaved a corner off my flight from Roseburg to Ashland: I'd planned to follow I-5 (giving me a convenient if highly dangerous emergency landing strip -- I plan every flight for the contingency of the engine giving out, since I've only got one), which would have meant flying to Grants Pass (3S8), then onward to Medford (MFR) and Ashland. I decided instead to go up to 9500 feet, giving me extra clearance over the mountain peaks, and fly directly from Roseburg to Medford. I lost the safety net of having the freeway nearby, but it meant I would make it to Ashland before sunset.
Once I was committed to my path, I started to question my own judgement. The smoke was pretty thick, and the sun angling through it from near the horizon made it completely opaque to the west. I could still see to the south, in my direction of travel, but when I looked west to spot the comforting ribbon of I-5, the smoke shook its proverbial head and said, DENIED! I pressed onward.
Rogue Valley International through the smoke
It was with some relief that I spotted Medford's Rogue Valley International Airport (MFR). The mountains I crossed to get there were particularly forbidding-looking in the smoke. I told Air Traffic Control that I was going to descend to below the smoke deck, since the remaining distance to Ashland would pass quickly. I kept glancing behind me and at the clock, and managed to get wheels down in Ashland just as the sun dipped below the horizon. I was within a minute of arriving too late. After having left Seattle three hours late, I was astounded the timing had worked out so well.
I gassed up the plane and pitched my tent behind a hangar, trying to get myself away from all the sodium-vapor lights around the airport, and the rotating beacon (a green and white rotating light that advertises a land airport to the night flyer, but also sweeps the airport grounds every few seconds). The Ashland layout was pretty nice: there was a bathroom available, and the tiedown fee was a mere $7 per night. There was even a picnic table, at which I had the other half of my sandwich for a late dinner.
It was with contentment at my accomplishment that I lay my weary head down to sleep, and listened to the crickets going mad in the dark around me.
Tue, 18 Apr 2017
I recently had the opportunity to level-up my airplane game: changing a tire.
I've changed many a tire on motorcycle, bicycle, and once or twice on a car, but changing a tire on an airplane was a new experience. I can see why the FAA allows pilots to do it: it's surprisingly easy.
On a motorcycle with a tubeless tire (which has been a lot of my experience), you have to employ a distressing amount of force to unseat the bead, and getting the tire fully on the rim can be a surprising amount of work as well. Seating the bead is an exercise in "Will it explode and kill me?" as you apply 80 PSI to a tire rated for 40, and it slides into place with two loud BANG! noises.
An airplane, on the other hand, is a gentle, simple affair. You jack up the landing gear leg (simple on the Champ I was working on, my 1956 Champion 7EC), undo the axle nut, and pull the wheel off (carefully placing the bearings to the side, to be cleaned, inspected, and repacked with grease). The tire is deflated first, just in case the axle nut was the only thing holding it together. Then you undo the three bolts holding the wheel halves together, and pull them out of the tire. No force required, it just all gently comes apart.
In my case, I was missing some key components, so the process took much longer than it should have. I didn't have replacement cotter pins (special aviation cotter pins are required, though at 17 cents apiece, they don't exactly break the bank), so I had to walk over to the maintenance hangar and spend $1.80 on 10. After I took the wheel halves apart, looking over the bolts that hold the halves together, I wasn't entirely convinced they were aviation-grade hardware, so another walk to the maintenance hangar, and $20 later, I had a complete set of replacement hardware for both wheels.
As it came time to re-assemble the wheel with the new tire in place, it became obvious that I was missing a torque wrench, so I toddled off to Harbor Freight to blow $22 on a small clicker wrench in inch-pounds -- the one I have at home can't be set to a small enough value to deal with aviation hardware, so I hadn't bothered to bring it. I switched on the air compressor that came with the plane, and.... nothing happened. Poked around a little bit, but it wasn't obvious what was wrong, so I drove up the road to a bike shop and bought the fatty-est floor pump they had, and now I've got an air source that doesn't make any noise or need any power.
Fortunately, I had the appropriate grease (AeroShell #5) on hand, and greased up the bearings as I reassembled the whole mess in the afternoon sun, wishing the rain clouds would come back so I'd stop overheating. The axle nut is a weird one, just a round section of pipe, appropriately threaded and with holes spaced every 30° around its circumference: it should be basically finger tight, then you throw a cotter pin through it to keep it from coming loose.
Unfortunately, I discovered that the axle nut cover has two of three screw-holes stripped out, so I'll be taking it to someone for some Helicoil action. I'd hate to see my lightweight hubcap spinning away from me on landing some day.
In all, though, the experience of changing an airplane tire was gentle and lightweight compared to dealing with motorcycle or even bicycle tires. It was delightful in how easy it was. I can't wait to tackle the next one, particularly now that I've got all the bits and pieces read to go.
Fri, 30 Dec 2016
As I am extremely unlikely to fly for the remainder of the year (all one and a half days of it), I decided to tally up my flying hours.
Just a sliiiiight jump there in 2016.
Tue, 27 Dec 2016
This year, Kwanzaa-bot brought me a Stratux box, which is a little Raspberry Pi-based ADS-B receiver. Neat!
So, I hooked it up and set up Avare, my aviation app of choice, to read the data. Totally works. Neat!
But, what the heck does it all mean? There are these hard-to-see dots, and small text, and although it's cool to see other airplanes flying around, it seemed a bit obscure and hard to understand. So, I ended up digging into the source code, and figured I'd write up a quick document to let other folks know what the ADS-B display is actually showing you in Avare.
Decoding the ADS-B Data in Avare
ADS-B traffic data in Avare is represented by a colored dot with a line extending out of it, and a small text area beneath the dot. The dot moves as updates are received, but if an update is missed, the dot will not move.
Dot color: The dot is colored to indicate the vertical position of the traffic. The colors are as follows:
Barb direction and length: The line extending off the dot (called a barb in the source code) shows the velocity of the traffic. The longer the barb, the faster the traffic is moving. The direction it points shows the indicated heading of the traffic.
Text info: Each target has text associated with it, in a small box below the dot. This consists of two pieces of data, separated by a colon. The first is the callsign of the traffic (such as ASA1234 or N12345), and the second is the target's altitude.
If your altitude is known, the altitude will be displayed as a + or -
value (eg, +5000 or -120). If your altitude is not known, the target's
pressure altitude (ie, altitude above sea level) will be displayed,
NOTE: when you see
I'm looking forward to flying with ADS-B In on my tablet, and I'll be glad to know what I'm actually seeing on the screen. If I find changes to how it works, I'll try to update this document.
Thu, 22 Dec 2016
I went out to visit a Champion 7EC in person today, which I was considering buying. The ad sounded good as far as it went, but I knew that it had been somewhat neglected by its current owner, who wants to get out of flying. So, I was going with the theory that it might be a bit rougher than what I was looking for.
In case you're feeling lost: the Champ 7EC is a 2-person airplane, this particular example built in 1957. I'm looking into Champs as being the kind of plane I might really enjoy owning -- I love flying the 7AC Champ at Harvey Field, and the 7EC is basically a 7AC with an electrical system (which means no hand-starting, yay!).
The drive out to Eastern Washington took a bit over three hours, and I chose today because it looked like the last day where the weather and my schedule might coincide in the near future. I stopped in town to grab a burrito before I continued on to the airport.
I was greeted upon entering the office with the information that the man I wanted to speak to wasn't around, as he was out for lunch, but the logs were there on the table if I wanted to look them through. Look them through I did, and the picture which emerged was not exactly positive, but was good enough that it would be worth checking out the plane itself in person.
When my man arrived, we talked for a minute or two, and the subject of the airplane's current owner came up. They described him as "Mr. Magoo-like." If you're not familiar with the reference, Mr. Magoo is an old man character, famously short-sighted to the point of blindness. Further conversation revealed that our owner only had an annual on the plane every 5 years or so, probably didn't have a medical cert, etc. For obvious reasons, I'm not putting anyone's name anywhere here, since I don't want to get any of these fine folks in trouble.
We walked into the hangar to look over the plane.
This particular Champ started life as a 7FC, which was the famously reviled "Tri-Champ," a tricycle-gear Champ that most people disliked, simply because Champs have always been taildraggers. Bellanca issued a Service Letter on how to convert a 7FC to a 7EC, and this letter was followed to make the conversion.
My first impression of the plane was mediocre, and unfortunately it didn't get better from there. The paint was patched and faded, though not badly so. We approached from the right side of the tail, and my man explained that he'd taken the gear legs off to repaint them -- I had told him I anticipated coming next week, but the weather forecast convinced me to come early, and so I caught him somewhat unaware. He'd also removed the upper cowling, and those parts were sitting off to the side, stripped and ready for new paint. It looked like he was doing a good job with them, so no complaints on those touch-ups.
The interior was as I'd seen from the advertising photos, with no real surprises. The inside of the plane was the best part of it, with clean instruments, if not the most lovely panel. The seats appeared to be in good shape, including the wide rear seat, which would fit two skinny people. It was interesting to see the extra frame tubes that were installed to support the nosewheel, and which would render the frame more sturdy in a crash, though probably also a bit heavier than a real 7EC.
We walked around to the engine, and that's where things went downhill for me. Although the engine was rebuilt about 20 years ago, it was in rough shape. Rusted rocker covers were the worst sin that the engine itself indulged in, but aft of the engine, the battery was covered by a distressing coat of white acid damage, there was exposed wiring, frayed insulation, and the baffle seals looked like they'd been salvaged from the Titanic before being installed and left in the sun.
The starter is the old pull-type, where you pull a handle in the instrument panel, which engages the drive gear and completes the connection all at the same time. Nothing wrong with this on its face, but the unit itself had chipped paint and rust showing, and just generally looked like it was halfway to the scrap pile. The pull mechanism appeared to work, but was loose on the starter -- possibly normal, possibly not, I'm not familiar enough with them to know.
I ran my fingers over the leading edge of the metal McCauley prop, and was pleased with the first blade, but the second blade revealed a heavily dressed area 1/5 of the way from the tip that is probably perfectly legal and safe, but gave me real pause. I noticed the wing root fairings (and later the elevator trim tab) had badly peeling paint, and the gap sealing rubber at the wing root was ancient and cracked. The landing lights and nav lights looked to be in good shape, and strobes had been added to the wingtips.
As I continued my walk-around, I noticed that the ailerons were quite stiff, and moving the stick confirmed that both ailerons and elevator felt like I was fighting ancient oxidized grease, or possibly rust, on the pullies. Not encouraging at all. At the same moment, I tried the carb heat knob, and realized that it had probably not been pulled in years, and certainly wasn't about to start moving now. Master switch on, and the radio lights up, but has no display. Mr. Magoo probably hasn't used it for years; no idea if the transponder works or not.
The tailwheel was trapezoidal in cross-section, as if the mount were permanently rolled to the left, though it looked alright, and any misalignment wasn't visually obvious (helped by the fact that the plane was rolled ~10° to the left to facilitate the gear leg work). The tail looked like a standard Champ tail, though the numbers on the port side of the tail were peeling badly.
In general, the plane felt like one of those situations where you mentally read over the ad again in your head, and realize that although it was accurate, and although the pictures you saw were correct as far as they went, there was an awful lot they didn't say. The advertised price of $29,500 also suggested a plane that was in decent shape, although I never expected it to be a show winner at that price.
I feel bad that my reaction to the plane was so negative, as the gent who was showing it to me was correct -- this plane just really needs someone to take it home and fly it regularly. Unfortunately, I am not that person. I need whatever plane I take home to be in good shape, not a project. I have project enough ahead of me without buying a second one.
Fri, 02 Dec 2016
I have reached an odd plateau in my search for an airplane. I am basically equally compelled by two fairly different approaches, and I keep switching back and forth between them, depending on my mood.
On the one hand, the Champ. There are numerous 7EC Champs out there for sale, and they look pretty good. On the other, the biplane. I have found a surprising number of Charger and Charger-adjacent biplanes out there too. These are photos of planes that are currently up on Barnstormers, not necessarily planes that I'm thinking about buying.
How They Differ
Here's a breakdown of the important differences between the two plane types. Note that most of these dollar amounts are not real, they're just to give a sense of the differences between the planes. I've colored some fields red and green to indicate where I like or dislike a factor about the plane. Uncolored fields indicate differences that are of minimal importance, or where I prefer both choices equally (sometimes for different reasons).
A few notes about what these things mean.
Horsepower: No doubt you're looking at me a bit sidewise right now. Despite what every advert in every magazine will tell you, some people do not actually want all the horsepower. I really like the Champ's low-powered approach.
Climb Performance: Why should I rank these dramatically different climb rates equally? Same reason I don't place a huge value on horsepower. They're both fine.
ADS-B Out: This is an avionics system that I will be required to install by January 1, 2020, so it's pretty much a guaranteed cost. The huge difference in price is because the Champ is certified, whereas the Charger is experimental. This means that (practically) you can use cheap gear in the Charger that you can't in the Champ. Additionally, the Champ will require the services of an avionics shop for the installation. In truth, $5000 may be unrealistically low for the Champ.
Travel-worthy: Going any distance in the Champ is a pleasant, if somewhat slow, affair. There's a lovely enclosed cockpit around you, and as long as you have the patience to wait out the relatively slow cruise speed, it's fine. The Charger, on the other hand, will get you there a little bit faster, with less luggage, and feeling like you've just been beat up for however long you've been flying. The open cockpit is not a deal-breaker, but it makes longer journeys less pleasant.
Passenger Friendliness: The reason these are equal is because I have a variety of passengers I'll go up with, for a variety of types of trips, and they will split roughly 50/50 on whether the Champ or the Charger is the better plane to fly in. Some will love the gentle ease of the Champ, and some will love the rowdy fun of the Charger.
Resellability: The Champ has a ready market of planes and people who want them. It's not fantastic, though (the pilot population is shrinking steadily, and the population of pilots who want anything to do with a taildragger is tiny and shrinking). The homebuilt biplanes seem to have, effectively, no market at all. I'm chatting with sellers who have had their planes nominally for sale for years. I can only assume at this point that if I buy a biplane, it's mine forever, because I'll never be able to sell it.
What Does It All Mean?
I wish I could tell you. If I had all the money, I'd have one of each, but I don't, so I can't.
There is no single most important factor on that list, but the high ranking ones are resale value, travel worthiness, fuel costs, and the accessability of maintenance, both in terms of costs, and what can be done. The two planes are ridiculously balanced with those factors in mind.
I don't know what any of this means, but I suppose the best lesson I can take from it is that I should look at planes as they come up, and perhaps when the right one appears, it will make itself known to me. Unfortunately, I already know that this approach will leave me forever wondering about that plane I didn't go visit (most of these are far across the country in the Midwest or on the East Coast), or the one that appears shortly after I make my decision. I'm better off if I make a firm choice one way or the other, but I can't seem to find the right answer for myself yet.
Sat, 26 Nov 2016
In my previous entry, I looked at a Starduster Too for sale in Bellingham. Interesting, but ultimately not the right plane for me.
About a week ago, I noticed that there was another plane for sale in Bellingham (what is it about Bellingham?), this time a Hatz CB-1, which is also a small two-place open-cockpit biplane. I had been to visit one earlier this year, in Olympia, and it was interesting enough that it seemed like it was worth a closer look. In particular, it only has a 140 HP engine on it, which would make it much more like the Champ I so enjoy than the "overpowered" (for my use) 180 HP motors on some of the other planes I've found.
So I skipped out on work last Tuesday, and drove myself up to Bellingham to check it out.
The plane is being kept in a heated hangar at Command Aviation, at Bellingham International Airport. In conversations with Cassidy, Command's chief A&P mechanic, I learned that it had been sitting for a while, and that a pilot who had some experience in the plane would be there to meet me when I arrived. I reserved a Piper Warrior to fly up, but I had very little confidence the weather would support it, and indeed I ended up driving instead.
The plane is tucked into the back of the Command maintenance hangar, where it seems to be reasonably out of the way, and hasn't suffered from any obvious hangar rash. I ended up going over the whole thing, looking at all the documents, checking out everything I could think to check out.
The plane, N4257, is actually in pretty good shape. It hasn't been run in the last 2 years, which is the biggest technical ding against it, although it's been in a heated hangar for that entire time, so the chances of it being damaged by sitting so long are comparatively low.
What I learned going through the docs is that it was put together pretty well, but was ground-looped at least once a few years ago. Jeff, who had experience in the plane, said it was ground-looped twice, once in each direction. Command opened up the wings, and declared the repairs to have been well done. Looking at the plane itself, there were a couple of relatively minor technical issues (the cowling rubbing on the engine; the throttle cable having been improperly tightened so it didn't work correctly any more). Otherwise, it was pretty nice.
I did think a couple of choices were odd, notably the non-sensitive altimeter. However, the oddest choice is one that the builder doesn't really have any control over: the access to the front cockpit.
The Hatz CB-1 is well-known for having tough access to the front cockpit, where the passenger sits (in all these biplanes, the pilot sits in the rear cockpit for balance reasons -- the passenger seat is right on the center of gravity, so the balance isn't noticeably changed by adding 100-200 lbs there). I had noticed it in Olympia, but didn't give it a lot of thought. Then I tried to get in myself.
A word about me: I'm about 6'2" tall, and a relatively lean 215 lbs, but still, I'm a big person. I'm also unusually flexible for my size and age. With a bit of grunting and twisting around, I was able to get into the passenger cockpit. It wasn't fun, I wouldn't want to do it ever time, but it was possible.
Unfortunately, it would not be possible for some of the people at the top of my list of "passengers I want to fly with." Notably, my parents, who are healthy and in reasonable shape, but are not likely to be flexible enough to make that entrance.
To get into the seat, the prospective passenger must duck under the wing (the top wing completely covers the passenger seat), somehow pull their legs over the coaming around the cockpit, get their feet on the seat, and then slide down into the seated position. I found it easiest to shove my head and torso forward, between the windshield and the wing, as if I were trying to jump forward onto the engine cowling. But my chest is too deep, so I was listening to the windshield creak as I was doing it, and it felt very unstable.
I wasn't able to start the motor, but that's for the best. It would disrupt whatever minor oil protection the motor currently enjoys after sitting for so long. The passenger seat is a sufficient problem that it's simply not a good idea for me to pursue the plane. I'm sad about that, since it's otherwise such a good choice. There are other factors working against it, but they are no more substantial than I've found on any of the other planes I'm looking at.
Command Aviation is asking $25,000 for the plane, which is a pretty reasonable price. If you find yourself interested in a small biplane with a 140 HP motor and an inaccessible passenger seat (but much more friendly for people who are shorter and more flexible), I recommend you check it out.
I shall continue my search, with my sights set on a distant but seemingly near-ideal Marquart Charger next.
Sun, 30 Oct 2016
Some time late last year, it suddenly occurred to me that I was in a position to buy an airplane. I'd been flying a bit more, so it was on my mind. I ended up doing a bunch of research and settled on the Beech Musketeer as a likely plane I might own. It never really came to pass, since I wasn't sure it was actually a good idea (spoiler alert: owning an airplane, much like owning a boat, is never actually a good idea, as far as your accountant is concerned).
I decided, instead of buying a plane, to take the money I was seriously considering spending every month on this project, and put it into rentals for a year instead. If I still felt the same way at the end of my experimental year (ie, I'd flown a bunch, and didn't feel like I was breaking the bank), I would look more seriously into getting my very own moneypit in the sky.
Without thinking about it too hard, I spent the last year flying whenever the urge hit me, and have ended up spending a lot of time flying Harvey Field's Aeronca Champ 7AC. And really, I've grown to love it. The plucky little Champ, with its diminutive 85 HP motor and bare bones aesthetic. Something about it really puts a smile on my face.
So I realized, I'm in the same position again. Time to look seriously at planes. Only this time, it's not quite the same position: now I'm looking for an interesting tailwheel plane. Without getting into specifics, tailwheel planes tend to be older, they tend to be more quirky, and they're in much less demand because they're perceived as being more difficult to fly (specifically, more difficult to land) than the tricycle gear planes you normally see at the airport.
So, I've got my eyes open, and I'm looking at the Luscombe 8E, Champion/Citabria 7EC, and small, two-place homebuilt biplanes. The 7EC is the most familiar, for all that I've never been in one: it's a descendant of the Champ, and predecessor of the Super Decathlon I flew earlier this year. The biplanes are also surprisingly familiar, since that's all I've been reading about and studying up on for the last few years. The Luscombe is a wild card, since I know it's a small plane, but I don't yet know what they're like to fly, or whether I physically fit in the cockpit and/or through the door (they're small planes).
Today I was able to go up and see my first strong contender: a Starduster Too that's for sale near Bellingham. It's a plane that was built in the early 70s (registered in 1973 according to the FAA), and has been restored/refinished at least once, most recently in the late 1980s. It's powered by a 180 HP Lycoming O-360, which frankly seems like overkill for what I want, but there's no benefit to downgrading the engine unless it ends up being my lieblings-plane and I feel like throwing lots of money at it in return for a reduced resale value.
Walking around, the plane proved to be as the seller described: in generally good shape, though the paint was cracking for lack of sufficient flexibility to move with the fabric. The engine looked like most older airplane engines look: it had some oily spots and was generally a bit dirty, but there were no obvious problems and it seemed to be in fine shape.
This particular plane has a smoke system, which is cool enough, though it's hard to imagine when I'd use it.
The seller was kind enough to allow me to taxi it around, and it was surprisingly easy to handle on the ground. Just yesterday, I went for a lesson in a Cessna 170, which is a large taildragger, about the same size as a 172, which is Cessna's current four-place small plane. The 170 was a handful on the ground: the rudder didn't produce any real effect when taxiing around, and I had a hard time keeping it under control (a tailwheel plane is a bit like pushing a loaded hand truck in front of you -- if you don't keep on top of it, it will slip off to the side).
I was expecting/fearing that the Starduster would be the same way -- a real handful on the ground, requiring constant attention and care to keep it lined up where I wanted it to go. Instead, it went where I pointed it, and was much more like a sharpened up Champ, where the 170 was like someone had taken the Champ, reduced its steering effectiveness to near zero, then made it half again as heavy into the bargain.
I didn't have an opportunity to fly the Starduster, both because the wind was contrary for its runway, and because the seller would only let me go up with a non-refundable deposit "to avoid giving everyone and their brother joyrides." I can't blame him for that policy, but it feels jarringly off in a world where people eager to share the experience of their planes keep giving me rides just for the joy of going flying and sharing it with new people.
Regardless, it only took a few minutes of taxiing the Starduster around before I was feeling surprisingly comfortable in it. It was odd to come to that comfort level so quickly (though it's quite possible that it was a bit of beginner's luck masquerading as "skill"), but it mirrors my experience with oxy-acetylene welding earlier this year: I have read and studied up on both subjects for so long, that actually putting the knowledge to use was an immediate relief of a pressure I hadn't been aware was building. OA welding came to me almost immediately (I'm still not any good, but I was instantly comfortable with it), much like ground handling in the biplane came very quickly.
The cockpit of the Starduster is tight, but not so tight that it's uncomfortable. I probably wouldn't be happy in it for long flights, but I think it only has 2.5-3 hours of range in any case, so my butt and the engine would probably be competing for who needs to rest first. Most of my flying recently has been in the 1-1.5 hour range, and even a trip down to Portland would only take an hour and a half at most.
The front passenger's cockpit is a little harder to get into than the pilot cockpit from my brief attempt at each, but it's still pretty manageable. The passenger has sort of terrible access to the rudder pedals, since the landing gear truss is in the way, but it would be enough to fly the plane for a little bit. Both seats have acrobatic-quality four-point harnesses.
Speaking of acrobatics, the plane is clearly capable. The seller posted this video of himself flying it through a variety of maneuvers. I have very little interest in aerobatics, but it's eyebrow-raising to think I might have a plane that could do all that.
One thing I've heard from nearly everyone who's heard this plan is, "Wait, aren't you building a biplane?" That is true, but as I tell anyone who's interested to hear it, my biplane build is going to take 5-10 years, probably more like 10 than 5. I would hate to get to the end of that and realize I'm unable to fly for long due to a huge variety of factors that may come up, simple age and illness chief among them. It's unlikely I'll run into any problems, but why squander the time if I can do it now? This is one of those cases where you get to eat your cake, and have it too.
The giant burning question is now: could I live with an open-cockpit plane in the Pacific Northwest? It's not like we live in a tropical paradise here, and I would have to be ok with flying in near-freezing weather, if I wanted to fly year round (which I definitely do, if I can manage it). It's better than living in the midwest, where I might expect to be snowed in for three months of the year. Certainly I've managed to ride motorcycles successfully down to just above freezing, and arguably that's more arduous than flying, with the full-body exposure to the wind.
Whatever the case, whether I ultimately decide on a different style of plane, or even no plane at all, it's encouraging to have had this moment where I was in a biplane, very similar to the one I'm building, and was happy with the experience.
Update: With some reflection, I've realized that open-cockpit flying is not actually a burning giant question. My flying time is at least 90% solo, and I'm still wearing shorts as the weather descends into daily highs in the 50s and pelting rain. I'll be fine. Any passengers who might want to come with me would have to be willing to bundle up in the colder months, though.
Sun, 11 Sep 2016
I started my tailwheel training for real about two years ago, in Aeronca Champ N84842 at Harvey Field. I've had two different instructors in that time, the first doing the majority of my initial training before he got too busy, and eventually left, and the second helping me hone my skills and then, once proficient, burn off time to meet the 10 hours minimum required by their insurance carrier.
Harvey Field's Champ, a 7AC model, has been upgraded from the 65 HP engine to a freshly rebuilt Continental 85 HP. It's been flying out of Harvey Field, if I understand correctly, since it was new in 1946. It is not what you would call a fast plane -- it climbs at about 600 FPM under ideal conditions, and I haven't really seen it cruise higher than 85 MPH. It's got enough weight capacity to carry myself and an FAA-standard 170 lb person with full fuel, but not much more.
It has, to be sure, its fair share of dings and bruises and deficiencies, though no more than might be expected of a well-loved 7500 total time airplane. It's a pity that it doesn't have an electrical system, though mostly for lack of a starter. I'd love to take it further afield than Harvey or Paine, but the rules prohibit stopping the engine anywhere other than Harvey. Hand-propping an airplane is no longer commonplace, and most of us youngsters would mess it up and lose a hand into the bargain.
And yet, despite all these deficiencies, or perhaps because of them, I really like this plane.
There's something about being in a plane with that kind of history, and that lack of pretention, that is very gratifying. It feels like a human-sized plane, and one that can be flown by normal humans. There's no need for an iron-jawed, steely-eyed Pilot Man here. Indeed, the steely-jawed and iron-eyed among the pilot population probably scorn the Champ as a weak little trainer for students and weak pilots. So be it.
I find myself drawn to the underpowered vehicles wherever I find myself, so it comes as no surprise that the Champ is on my short-list of planes I enjoy flying. I also find that flying a tailwheel plane is far more engaging -- literally, I have to be so much more present and attentive for all the ground handling that it feels like a different world compared to the tricycle-gear planes I've flown.
I'm only at about 25 hours of tailwheel time so far, but I eagerly look forward to each new flight, and imagine that number will be growing steadily. I'm very glad I decided to do some tailwheel training a couple years ago. Now I just have to find other tailwheel planes I can rent for some diversity of experience.
Sun, 31 Jul 2016
I've had this conversation a number of times lately, so I'm sure there are others out there who would like to hear it as well.
Since about 2006 (see this previous article), I've been thinking about building an airplane, and for most of that time, I've centered my interest on a biplane. As I said before, I have gone through a lot of designs, but have basically settled on the Marquart Charger.
The Charger was designed in 1968 by Ed Marquart, as an American version of the Bücker Jungmann, a German biplane from 1932. The Jungmann was designed as a light trainer, good with relatively low horsepower, and nimble enough to do aerobatics. The Charger continues with that plan, though it uses more modern steel in the fuselage. It's a two-seat plane, and I'll be able to take up passengers with no problem, although weight will always be a thing to watch out for.
The plane is built out of steel tubing in the fuselage (the body), and the wings are made out of spruce wood. The whole thing is covered in fabric, except the sides of the fuselage are covered in aluminum from the engine back to the back seat. The fabric that would have been used in the 30s was cotton, but apparently that grade of cotton is no longer being produced. That makes sense, since when polyester came on the scene, it was a big improvement: cotton needs to be shrunk onto the frame with butyrate dope (a relatively noxious chemical, and a long, laborious process), while polyester can be shrunk on with a hot iron in a few passes.
The engine will be around 150 HP, although exactly which engine I go with is still up in the air. Most likely, I'll go for the same engine that you'd find in a Cessna or Piper light plane, a Lycoming O-320. This is an engine that looks like an old VW Bug engine, but scaled up: 320 cubic inches works out to a 5.24 liter engine (the Bugs only got as big as 1.6 liters). It's a very well-proven design, and you can get parts and service pretty much anywhere you can find an airport.
Most people, after they've finished goggling at the idea of a normal person building a full-size airplane a person can climb into, then wonder where on earth I'm going to do this huge project. The answer to that is fairly straightforward: I'm days away from starting construction on a new one-car garage in the back yard. It will be bigger than my last one-car garage by a little bit, but also substantially taller, and since I'm building it with the specific purpose of building an airplane inside, it won't be the multipurpose hodge-podge space that my last garage was.
Of course, an entire airplane definitely won't fit inside there, so it'll be built in pieces. The fuselage is about 15 feet long, but only about 3 feet wide. No problem for a one-car space. Each wing panel (there are four) is about 5 feet front-to-back, and about 12 feet long. Again, no problem. The tail is around 7-8 feet wide, and 6 feet tall. So, I can fit each piece, unassembled, into the garage. Once it comes time to actually attach wings to fuselage, of course, I'll need a bigger space, but that's years away. I'll rent a hangar somewhere, hopefully not too many hours' drive away. I've already got my name on the list at Harvey Field in Snohomish, where I've been flying their Aeronca Champ 7AC.
I expect this project to take between 5 and 10 years, depending on how diligent I am about working on it regularly. I'm pretty sure I'll have periods of intense work, and periods of less intense work, possibly resembling slack to an outside observer.
This is something I've been wanting to do for a long time, and it's pretty exciting that I'm getting close to actually starting on it. I've technically started, putting in a few hours doing CAD work so I can get some of the numerous little metal pieces cut by a waterjet company rather than endlessly hacksawing away myself. That will be a huge time savings, and well worth the expense. I've also got my build logging system partially completed; it's based on a database, so I'll soon have a page where you can go look at the build log, and it will update as soon as I add a new entry.
I hope that's answered the most common questions, but you know how to reach me if you have more.
Wed, 01 Jun 2016
Ages ago (2006, to be precise), I found I was bored with flying, and needed to figure out something different to do. I was just going out, flying around the pattern three times to keep current, and coming back. Uninspiring, and it felt like a waste of money.
So, I turned to the internet for inspiration, typing "ultralight" into your favorite mega search engine. A number of clicks later, I was saying to myself, "Wait a minute, why am I not just building a plane? What about a biplane? YEAH!"
Unfortunately, I looked around me, and realized that although a fine dream, I didn't have anywhere to do it. My garage was packed to the gills with motorcycles and motorcycle accessories, not to mention stuff, tools, more stuff, random junk, and some stuff. There was nowhere else for all this stuff to go, so I shelved the idea, knowing I would some day move, and be able to pick a house with a better shop situation.
That day has finally come, and I'm in sight of having a good place to build.
Now, of course, I have to figure out which biplane to build. There are a number of good choices, and I have, in that ten years, been through about a dozen designs, each appealing for a number of reasons, but having some ultimate downfall. First, it needs to carry more than one person. I'm not going to spend most of a decade building a plane only to self-indulgently deny anyone else from going flying with me. Next, it needs to actually fit me. I'm not the tall willowy fellow I always wanted to be, more like tall and well-packed. If I want a plane that will work for me and a realistic passenger, it has to have a 500-700 lb payload. On top of that, I want it to look "vintage," like it might have just flown out of the 1930s.
That all narrows the field considerably. The designs which are left after the culling process are the Hatz Classic and the Marquart Charger. Some research has revealed that they each have strengths and weaknesses: the Hatz is a good design, but suffers from a company selling the plans who are basically unresponsive, and from a front seat that is very difficult to get into. Not a huge problem if I'm taking up my lithe young friends from the theater, but a bigger deal if I want to take my parents. The Hatz also has, right there in its plans, the information necessary to mount a Rotec radial engine, which is high on the list of "Oooh, shiny."
The Marquart Charger doesn't have the front seat problem. It's still not like climbing into a car, but at least it's not a contortionist act. However, the designer passed away in 2007, and there's basically no one building one now. It also has a landing gear design which has a few issues, such as being stiff, and prone to cracking at some high-stress points. Although I will obviously always make perfect, slick landings, I don't want to build myself into a known issue.
Of the two, the Charger is currently my favorite. Since Ed Marquart passed away, the plans are now in the public domain, so I've had a chance to review them extensively, and it's easy to see how the plane goes together. It's a lot of work (a lot of work), but none of it is difficult. It's just time-consuming. It will also require some design work of my own, if I decide I want to drop the vast amount of cash necessary to get a Rotec hanging off the front of the plane; the Charger was designed in 1968, and the Rotec didn't show up until 2000.
The Real World
Of course, none of this internet research is actually worth a whole lot without some experience in actual, real-world biplanes.
So, I started looking around. When I was still planning on the Hatz Classic, I sought out Classics in the FAA database, but I only found a few registered, and all quite far from me. I wasn't yet ready to buy a flight to Ohio to look at an airplane, so I looked at the alternatives that were closer to home. There, I located a Hatz CB-1 (the original design on which the Classic is based; slightly smaller, a little bit less refined, otherwise identical) in Olympia. The plane's owner was on several of the forums I was now frequenting, so it was easy to get in contact with him.
I arranged a trip down to Olympia, and was able to spend about an hour circling around the CB-1, sitting in the cockpit, examining details, and generally making vroom-vroom noises. There was no arrangement to go flying, and even without it, I left quite happy with the experience. However, that front seat was troubling. I didn't even try to get into it, but it was obvious from looking at it (it's almost completely under the top wing, which means you'd have to fold yourself in half, dive between wing and windshield, drop your legs in, then slide down the seat until seated) that it would be a real challenge to get into.
Out of the blue, a Skybolt owner based at Paine Field (much closer than Olympia) offered to take me up in his plane. Of course, I said yes, and soon I had 0.8 hours of Skybolt time in my logbook. The Skybolt isn't one of my chosen designs, looking a bit too modern to my eyes, but still, one does not scoff at the opportunity to fly a biplane in this situation.
It was quite enjoyable, but still not exactly the right kind of experience -- it had a canopy, and I am definitely planning on my plane having an open cockpit, with just a windscreen between you and the elements. However, I did discover that, unlike a flight in a Christen Eagle II in about 2007, I was not hopelessly overcontrolling the plane, making it skitter about the sky like a drunken crow. It was a very positive experience, and made me begin to suspect that I could actually do all this, and end up happy with the experience.
Then, this past weekend, I got the opportunity to go up in a Starduster Too. Still not on my short list (it has very graceful lines, but I'm not smitten by the design). However, this plane has open cockpits, and is much more like the right feeling. It is, similar to the Charger, not designed for aerobatics, although it is certainly capable of them.
I found the experience of being in an open cockpit to be a mixed one. It wasn't disastrously windy, and I could certainly get used to the wind (and would quickly figure out the right clothing to make it comfortable). However, between the wind noise and the headset volume necessary to make any of the radio calls audible, I was half deafened by the time we shut off the engine. Obviously a better hearing protection system would be required.
The Starduster Too experience further suggested that I was on the right path, its owner and builder telling me that I've got a good touch for biplanes (a very encouraging comment, as it was unsolicited). I'll have to work on some of the aspects of open cockpit, but it still feels like a reasonable plan. Quite likely many passengers will enjoy the experience, but not choose to repeat it too often -- I think the feeling of all that wind, even though you don't feel the direct blast on your face, will be fairly overwhelming to many. Others, I'm sure, won't be able to wipe the grins off their faces.
At this point, I have plans for the Charger printed up (you can see them here if you like). I don't yet have a shop, but I have plans for one, and construction will hopefully start this summer.
Obviously, I need to get myself in the presence of, and hopefully an hour or two flying in, a Marquart Charger. There are two examples in Oregon, and I've already arranged with one of them to visit and see what we can see. I'll be very interested to see how cramped or open the cockpit is, and what I think of the plane in person. I quite like the swept wings in photos, but seeing it in person will be a different experience. To some extent, I can fix cockpit size problems, since I'll be the one building the plane, but clearly the physical presence of the plane is not something to lightly tinker with.
I would also like to get myself in the presence of a Hatz Classic, but I don't have any clear plans for how that's going to work. It may become a moot point: I've attempted to contact the seller to buy a set of "review" plans (printed on letter paper instead of the big 2x3' sheets), but haven't heard anything after a few weeks, and kind of expect not to hear from them. If I can't get at the plans, I definitely can't build the plane.
It's exciting, after a decade of thinking about it, to finally be within clear sight of the start of a project. There are still a few points to be sorted out before I can actually start cutting wood or steel (like taking a welding class starting in June), but I think I'm on track to actually start building ribs (a logical starting point) before the end of the year.
Mon, 15 Feb 2016
I've been flying in X-Plane a lot lately, since there's a huge variety of planes I can fly, and it's quick and easy to start off in some cool place, fly around, see the sights, etc. It's also great for practicing flying into and out of airports I've never been to before, or want to have more practice with. It's not ideal (I need an Oculus Rift or similar VR setup for it to be really good -- still waiting, Laminar Research!), but it's pretty good. Plus, I got it working on my Linux laptop, which is fantastic, and may be inspiring me to make my own folding portable joystick; but that's a story for another time.
Anyway, mere moments ago, I was flying a very nice Piper Archer III model out of Fairchild International, in Port Angeles, WA. It's a place I've never flown to or from in reality, and I wanted to practice flying in the area for future reference. The Archer III model is very similar to the Cherokee and soon Warrior models that I like to fly in real life.
My destination was Boeing Field, just south of downtown Seattle. The direct path is over the foothills of the Olympic mountains, so I climbed until I was at about 9500 feet, and cruised there. I have always maintained that extra altitude is your friend, and today that proved to be true.
I'm used to the simulator, just like all the real planes I've been in, being completely reliable. Nothing ever fails*. There are settings you can twiddle to make your flights more "interesting," but I've never set them. Imagine my surprise when I noticed my power going down.
* I've had real-life radios freak out before, but that's why I carry a handheld with me.
I did the things you're supposed to do: carb heat on, and when that made no diference, switched fuel tanks, turned on the fuel pump, looked in vain for the magneto switch (a substantial omission from this model -- no real plane could start or be operated without a magneto switch), set my transponder to the emergency code (7700). Had this been a real flight, I would have been talking to Seattle Center, and the instant power started to drop, would have declared an emergency and requested vectors to the nearest field. Unfortunately, X-Plane's ATC system is almost comically rudimentary (and has gotten worse in the last year or so), so I rarely bother with the radios except as a way to check weather conditions at a field.
However, the power continued to drop, and was soon reading negative numbers. I checked my chart and found WA45, Olympic Field Airport, a tiny private airstrip, was very nearly under my position. Not the most ideal place to land, since it's a short grass strip, but since it was very close, it gave me a lot of latitude for maneuvering. Much better than trying to stretch my glide to land somewhere with a nicer runway.
I overflew the field, losing altitude gradually (I had guessed at 80 knots as the best glide speed for the Arrow III, which is pretty close to the 76 knots listed in the checklist that comes with the model -- demerit points to me for not opening up the checklist in the moment, though). With no idea what direction the wind was coming from, if there was any wind, I arbitrarily chose a direction to go to lose altitude, and guessed at about what my turning point should be.
It's nervewracking flying a simulator when trying to maneuver relative to points on the ground -- the view options are very limited, and there's no chance to move your head around to see around obstacles like window pillars. The best solution I've found is to switch to the "Chase Plane" view, and move around to see the thing you need to see. It's not very good for anything that needs to happen quickly, but it can help.
Fortunately, my turning point was about right, and the airfield was lined up well. The angle looked about right, although as I got close, it was clear I was a bit too high. Better than too low, but still a problem. I dropped the flaps to full extension, which is similar to putting on the air brakes, and allowed me to dive to lose excess altitude without speeding up too much. I floated a bit as I lost speed, and touched down about midfield (not a good idea on a very short runway like this, but you don't get second chances when the engine has stopped), pulled the elevator all the way back to shift the weight onto the main wheels, and hit the "maximum braking effort" button.
I stopped off the end of the runway, but not by very much, and I didn't leave the runway going very fast. In real life, it might have damaged the landing gear a little bit, but the plane would have been otherwise undamaged, and all occupants scared but undamaged. If the runway had been longer, it would have been a bog standard landing, which is fantastic when landing with the engine out.
Once I was down and stopped, I ran through the menus, trying to figure out what had happened. All the failure options were set to Always Working, until I got to Engine Fire #1, which was throbbing red: Inoperative. So, assuming I had landed for real with an engine fire, I probably would have had to deal with smoke in the cabin, and the instant we were stopped, I would have jumped out with a fire extinguisher to see if I could keep the whole thing from going up in flames.
However, overall, I'm very happy with how that turned out. I've certainly run through emergency procedures with instructors, and in my head, but I've never had to deal with a real emergency (or, in this case, a "real" emergency). It's nice to know that even with the limitations of the simulator, I was able to effectively deal with the problem and get the plane on the ground without damage. I even did the right things (or mimed them, in the case of unlatching the door, calling ATC and declaring an emergency, etc.) that should have given me a good chance once we were on the ground.
I would say that I did not properly handle the scenario of "engine fire," but I also didn't know that's what was supposed to be happening until I interrogated X-Plane about it. In an engine fire scenario, the very first thing you do to try to contain the fire is to turn off the fuel and the magnetos, which is the opposite of what I did. However, I was working on the theory of fuel starvation, either due to carburetor ice or some kind of fuel feed blockage. I like to think that in a real life scenario, the problem would be more obvious -- I saw smoke in the chase plane view, but X-Plane has a tendency to start smoke going any time anything goes wrong, so I didn't think much of it.
That was a good training moment. I could have done better, but not by a whole lot. That's encouraging to discover.
Update: I have since gone back and re-run the failure scenario, and discovered a few things. First of all, the airplane model does, in fact, have all the necessary magneto switches, but they're in an overhead switch panel (along with the fuel pump and starter).
However, the most important discovery was that I had significantly short-changed myself on a landing location. With more than 9000 feet of altitude available to me, I was easily within range of Jefferson County Airport (0S9), near Port Townsend. It's a larger strip, has weather reporting equipment broadcasting 24/7, would be virtually guaranteed to have someone around, and could probably have fire trucks in position by the time I hit the ground, in case anything went horribly wrong. A much higher probability of landing safely, but also of surviving any crash or mishap. Also a high likelihood of mechanics being available to fix whatever caused the problem in the first place. Just a generally better place to be.
I looked up my first landing field, Olympic Field, on Google's satellite map, and discovered that it is actually a very narrow grass strip, with a narrow waterway parallel to the grass, suitable for landing a seaplane on. Neat! But also, very small. Better than landing into trees, but not my first choice if Jefferson County is also on the table.
One of the lessons I took from this incident is that I need to be more aware of some facts that become vital in an engine-out scenario: what direction is the wind moving? What is the best glide speed for the plane I'm in? What is the glide ratio at that speed? Where is the emergency section of the checklist? Where (in a real airplane) is the fire extinguisher, and can I actually reach it while I'm flying?
I also find myself more interested in asking the simulator to throw me random failures, both to see how I do, and to see where I'm blind to potential problems. This blends into my recent thoughts on ego-less flying, but that's a topic for a separate post.
Sat, 28 Feb 2015
Some time in 2006, I realized that flying was getting stagnant for me. I would go out and practice to keep my skills current, but it was always the same thing: take off, fly the pattern, land. Take off, fly the pattern, land. Repeat until sick to death.
So, I decided that I needed a new challenge. I started looking into ultralights. Then I found an ultralight with two wings: a biplane. Hey, wait! thought I. Biplane!
There followed a fiendish amount of internet searching, and I eventually settled on a plane that's far from practical, but would sure be cool: a Flitzer.
This is a plane you can only build from plans. There are no kits. You get some sheets of paper, and a comparatively active Yahoo mailing list. Awesome.
But, I thought, maybe I should figure out if I like flying biplanes first. So, I asked around, and found someone who would take me up for a demo flight in his Christensen Eagle. Although it was awesome, it was also horrible. Most of this I put down to aerobatics, which I said yes to with a bit too little forethought. I'm not an adrenaline junkie, and flying upside down and tensing my whole body to keep blood in my head (neat trick, glad I know it, hope never to use it again) is not really my cup of tea.
Years later, I got interested again, and took a milder approach: maybe I should figure out if I like tailwheel airplanes first. I had been flying the Flitzer Z-21 model in X-Plane (the best flight simulator you've never heard of) for years, but had never actually been in a taildragger.
So I looked around, and discovered Harvey Field (specifically Snohomish Flying Service) had an Aeronca Champ. Perfect! I went out and flew a bunch of lessons.
Then, today, flying with my second instructor (the first, who I get along with a bit better, being out on other duties), I flew enough time, and performed the various demonstrations of skill necessary: I now have a tailwheel endorsement.
What does this get me? Mostly the opportunity to go practice a lot more without having to schedule according to someone else's schedule along with the plane's availability. I have a long way to go until I'm comfortable in a tailwheel plane, for all that I've demonstrated sufficient proficiency.
Tue, 14 Aug 2012
I was able to use both Avilution AviationMaps and Naviator on flights this last weekend, and I now have more-firm opinions on the two apps based on actual use.
My favorite going in was Naviator, and I was largely not disappointed by this choice. I found it mostly intuitive to use, and without too many bad habits. This may sound like faint praise, and to some extent, it is. Naviator was not truly easy to use. It still had bad habits.
Notable among the bad habits were a disappearing plane icon (indicating my position on the map), and a bizarre recover-from-sleep refresh error. The disappearing plane icon could be worked around by zooming in or out, and the icon would reappear. It didn't happen consistently, although usually I was switching from some other screen or mode into the map when I lost the icon. The recover-from-sleep error was more vexing: the map would flash on and off repeatedly (and distractingly) until I hit the Back button and re-entered the map screen. This only happened when the program itself recovered from being dormant (such as when looking at some other app, and returing to Naviator), but it was pretty consistent. As I wasn't doing this during flight, it largely didn't affect me en route, but it was still annoying as hell when it did happen.
For all that, Naviator was still definitely my favorite among the four choices I outlined. Its data displays were big and easy to read, and I was comfortable reconfiguring them on the fly (so to speak) when I needed some piece of information that wasn't displayed. The "where will I be in X minutes" path of travel indicator was clear and easy to read, and easy to find on the screen. I didn't really use the airport information displays in flight, but for planning and prep work, that information was very handy.
Filing a flight plan was mostly very straightforward. The only weirdness was that Naviator apparently expects you to enter your cruise altitude to the foot (ie, 5000 for 5000 feet), whereas DUATS expects you to enter 050 for 5000 feet. I initially entered my cruise altitude as 055 (which was shortened to 55 by the app), but this was rejected by DUATS with the error message that it should be in 055 format. Confusing until I figured out that Naviator was lopping off the extra zeroes for me, but was actually lopping off the last two digits, no matter what they were. I entered the altitude as 5500, and the flight plan was accepted.
One other weirdness was that switching orientation (ie, from portrait to landscape) closed the screen for the flight plan I'd been filling out, and opened a new one. It saved the work I'd already done to the list of flight plans, but it was annoying, and happened several places in the app. I encourage Naviator to look into orientation switching functionality. The saved flight plan only inconsistently saved the flight times (departure, enroute and fuel onboard), and the estimated time enroute was occasionally, but not always, filled out apparently from the entered route and available winds aloft.
Among the very positive features was the flight recorder. This feature saved a complete track of my flight from takeoff to landing (configuration options let you set the speeds at which it starts and stops recording). For example, this track from our flight around Mt. Hood, which you can download, and open in Google Earth to see the path we traveled.
In all, my experience with Naviator was quite positive, and I recommend it for Android aviators. Its few bugs are acceptable, and reasonable workarounds exist. It would be delightful if those problems could be addressed, but for all I know, the next version is poised to come out even as I type this.
If I didn't have the example of Naviator to compare to, I would have been pretty happy with AviationMaps. Its interface is straightforward and easy to use, and it was noticeably less buggy than Naviator.
Unfortunately, I do have Naviator to compare with, and AviationMaps suffers as a result. Its information displays (speed, altitude, heading) were miserably small, and its plane icon was 20% transparent, with a light-blue dashed line indicating the projected path of travel that was very difficult to see. In fact, all the text in the app was miserably small -- possibly this is my own fault for having a 7" tablet (I'm doing all this on a Samsung Galaxy Tab 2 7.0), but there was simply no way I could expect to leave the tablet in my lap and read anything. I had to get it close to my face, or there was no chance.
Tapping on an airport brings up information about that airport including, very usefully, the bearing and distance to that airport. Unfortunately, that text brings "miserably small" to new depths, and my distance-adjusted eyes were not happy having to shift so rapidly to close-in reading. Still, once I was reading it, the airport information was very well laid out and included everything I needed to know at a glance.
As I said before, the bug experience with AviationMaps was excellent, with no bad behavior to report. Everything worked as it was intended to. I have already had several exchanges with AviationMaps' creator Avilution, and they have been prompt to respond, and had useful feedback to my question or comment.
AviationMaps features an X-Plane compatibility mode, in which it will read data from the X-Plane flight simulator, and act as if what you're flying in the sim is actually happening, essentially using X-Plane as an alternate GPS data source. This was interesting, but somewhat twitchy (the course of travel twitching back and forth about 20 degrees 4-5 times a second most of the time), and a bit hard to look at. In particular, setting the "3/4" display option, which puts your plane at the 3/4 point on the map, rather than in the middle, made the app unusable while talking to X-Plane. It was kind of annoying in the air, too, making it even more of a hunt than normal to find the partially-transparent plane icon showing your current position.
With an option to make everything bigger (text, icons, lines, etc.) and bolder, AviationMaps would be a strong contender with Naviator. They go about things different ways, but neither is right or wrong, they're just different. If you're in the market for an aviation app on your Android tablet, you should check both out -- they're both free for the first month, and doing a side-by-side comparison is a great way to decide what's better for you.
Ironically, it was Garmin Pilot that first got me excited about aviation apps on Android, and I ended up not using it. Look at previous entries to see my thoughts on Pilot. I will note that it's had several updates since I first loaded it (including going to a 2.0 version), but at double the price of the other two apps and with as many problems as I identified before, I just wasn't that excited for it.
I decided to stick to AviationMaps and Naviator for my in-flight testing, so I don't have any further feedback on Garmin Pilot, or OpenFlightGPS Free for that matter.
Using a Tablet
Actually using a tablet in the air was a bit more fraught with difficulty than I'd first anticipated. There were two major problems I noticed, neither of which will surprise veteran tablet users.
The first problem was with heat. All of my flights this weekend were in 80°+ weather and bright sun. The sun falling on the black tablet heated it considerably, until I looked down at one point and saw a message saying that battery charging was suspended due to high battery heat. The screen never blacked out or anything, so Samsung is to be congratulated for that, at least. I was able to hold the tablet over one of the fresh-air vents and get it cooled down. Subsequently keeping it out of the sun kept the problem from recurring, so I don't think it was the CPU overheating or anything.
The second problem was with the touch interface. By its nature, a touchscreen will be sensitive to inadvertent input such as when handling the device, and on several occasions I found myself looking at a very odd screen due to this problem. I think my ideal aviation tablet would have a lock switch on the side, so I could prevent it from receiving any touch input (and it would ideally pop up a little message when I did touch the screen, reminding me of the lock, so I wouldn't accidentally decide my device was broken if I forgot I'd locked it). This obviously has nothing to do with the apps. It does, however, suggest that a yoke mount would be a good investment, as the tablet would be much better controlled, and wouldn't subject it to so much handling as I juggled between map, kneeboard, and tablet.
For all that both apps included some variety of scratch pad, I still found myself grabbing for the pencil and paper when I needed to scrawl down a squawk code or frequency change. This will be a matter of personal preference, of course, but I found paper to be easier to deal with. AviationMaps' Flight Pad feature looks useful on the ground, but I would have been highly vexed with it in the air, again frustrated by tiny text and fiddly input. Paper simply worked better and faster.
Essentially, I was pleased with my experiment, and will be proceeding with Naviator. AviationMaps has some interesting features, but not enough to get me to blow $5 a month on them. I'll continue checking on Garmin Pilot from time to time (assuming I ever get another trial period), but I won't be giving them my hard-earned aviation dollars.
Fri, 27 Jul 2012
When I wrote my previous entry on aviation software for Android tablets, I missed out an obvious contender. I'm here to correct that omission.
$5/mo or $50/yr: Naviator
That contender is Naviator, an app in a similar vein to the other three.
I was originally turned off by Naviator, because the first thing it does is ask for you to create an account on their system. Honestly, I get enough of this crap in my life, and my first instinct was to shut down the app and uninstall it (which I did). I ran across it again several days later, however, and decided to give it a try. What's one more disposable email address, right?
I am glad I took the leap. Naviator is a very polished piece of software. It's clearly been refined through use and feedback, with all of the features well laid-out and easy to use. I haven't had any problems understanding how to do something in Naviator, although that may be as much me learning the ropes of tablet aviation software as anything else, it's hard to say.
Naviator strikes me as being the logical evolution of AviationMaps, which I had previously proclaimed my favorite. It includes most of the same features, while refining some of them, and adding new ones.
First, most of the things you want to do are easier to figure out. This only matters when getting used to the app, but if you only use it occasionally, it also means a shallower re-familiarization curve every time you pick it up. The data I care about on the map, such as the data fields, is big and bold, and will be easier to see in a bouncy cockpit. The data fields can also be reconfigured to your preference, similar to how many Garmin GPS units work.
Although Naviator doesn't go as far as Garmin Pilot with preflight planning, it offers the most useful planning section of the remaining apps. The flight plan, including magnetic course, distance, and ETA, is shown on half of the screen (easily resized by dragging the border between map and plan) -- this feature would be better on a bigger tablet, although it can be switched to full-screen view. Oddly, the full-screen option is hidden in the menu, rather than being present as a button next to the other buttons, where I expected to find it.
There are lots of little touches I like in this app: the big data fields; the NO GPS warning that stays prominently on the map (the only app in this collection which offers such a warning); the rubber-band route modification; lots of data available offline, without being prompted to collect it; night-mode that's very effective; scratch pad (although not as comprehensive as AviationMaps); a Nearest button.
The Nearest button in particular merits kudos: one of the many potentially life-saving applications of GPS is the ability to quickly find a place to land. AviationMaps also includes a Nearest feature, but I didn't know it was there until I went looking as I wrote this review -- it wasn't obvious, and the last thing I'm going to do as I battle a problem that requires an airport NOW is to figure out which non-descript button tells me where to get that list. Garmin Pilot includes a Nearest tab under the Direct-to button, which is about as unintuitive as AviationMaps' solution.
The night mode in Naviator is worth special mention as well. It includes a variable-strength dimming feature that effectively reduces the maximum brightness of all program elements. This is similar to how AviationMaps works, but goes even darker if you want.
In all, Naviator feels like a more finished product than AviationMaps. It's missing the comprehensive scratch pad functionality of AviationMaps, but in most other respects seems superior. Garmin Pilot remains the trailing choice for me, among paid services. It's exciting to have so many good choices available. It's a good time to be a pilot.
Sat, 21 Jul 2012
When I was in doing my yearly "I haven't rented in a while..." re-acquaintance flight a few months ago, my instructor showed me the tablet computer he was using as his chart replacement. It was pretty sweet, and got me thinking. Several months later, I decided (when a particularly good deal came along from a friend who upgraded) to buy a Samsung Galaxy Tab 2 7". I've been running the three obvious Android Electronic Flight Bag applications in parallel, and thought I'd share my experiences.
Notable about this is that I'm not using an iPad. Silly name aside, the iPad is apparently the go-to device for EFB use. For me, it's too big, and if I can avoid Apple iOS devices, I do, since I don't like the closed environment Apple has set up.
A note about compass calibration: I used GPS Status to calibrate my compass, and it launched in landscape mode. I ran the calibration, and initially thought the compass sensor had been installed to only use landscape orientation. Only when I re-set GPS Status to use portrait mode and re-ran the calibration did the compass work like I expected, with the compass pointing correctly in portrait mode.
All these reviews are (at present) only based on ground-based testing. I haven't had them up in the air yet, but I will before August is out, and I'll write a new article if that experience brings anything new to light.
I'll order these by price, since that makes as much sense as anything. It may be a useful bit of context to know that I'm fundamentally a cheap bastard, and I don't spend money if I don't have to. Thus (listen up, app developers), I'm only checking out the apps that are free, or offer a trial period to get me hooked.
Free: OpenFlightGPS Free
OpenFlightGPS Free is, as its name implies, free. It offers free downloads of sectionals (which are themselves free from the government -- your socialist dollars at work).
Like all these apps, it will stick your position on the map with more or less accuracy. They all include warnings that they're not to be used for actual navigation. The coding on the map is pretty good, locating me just about where I would expect to find myself. In addition, it'll give you basic instrumentation: altitude, ground speed, heading, magnetic bearing, latitude and longitude. But that's the end of it.
Unlike the other apps in this list, OpenFlightGPS Free doesn't include Airport/Facility Directory data, which makes it much less useful as an EFB application. No airport information, no frequencies, no taxiway diagrams. The information is out there, but this app doesn't deal with it.
It also has one weirdness that comes with the zero-dollar price tag: you have to choose your sectional when you launch the program. It won't just detect where you are and load the right thing, that I can tell. It will switch between sectionals you've downloaded automatically (like all of these, the expected operation is to download the charts you'll need before the flight, as befits the Galaxy Tab 2's Wifi-only connectivity).
It seems fairly stable, and quite workable, if you want a free chart mapper. It would still be a huge improvement over paper charts and no GPS, so I recommend it, even given its limitations.
$5/mo or $50/yr: Avilution AviationMaps
Avilution AviationMaps is a much more full-fledged program, including A/FD data, taxiway diagrams where available, and weather data which can be overlaid on the map. It also costs money, at $4.99 per month, or $49.99 per year (prices obviously subject to change, but that's what it costs right now).
All the data can be downloaded, and it gives you pretty fine-grained control over what you want to be downloaded. This is handy if you don't want to blow out your tablet's potentially meager storage capability with All The Maps. Weather and TFR data is downloaded when the app launches, and it's popped up a dialogue box when I started the app without wifi around. It still worked fine, but clearly wanted to get fresh data, so it would make sense to launch the app just before your flight to have the freshest data possible.
AviationMaps is pretty easy to use, although the context-sensitive options along the top bar take a little getting used to. It has the data you want to see (speed, altitude, heading) in little numbers next to the aircraft marker on the map. It has additional data (cross track error and such) in a bar across the bottom, also in little numbers. Good luck reading those in a bouncy cockpit, but they're there.
The airport data is comprehensive, including a PDF of the A/FD page and taxiway diagram, both of which are viewed within the app. This app is the only one which includes a "night time" mode, that dims the map display, turns the normally black-on-white data pages to white-on-black (for some, but not all, pages), and makes it much more night-vision friendly. It's still not perfect, but I appreciate the effort, and between the Galaxy Tab 2's lowest brightness and night mode, it would be pretty useful in night flying.
Update: I forgot to mention that AviationMaps also has what they call the Flight Pad, a section of the app which is surprisingly well-formatted for recording the stuff you need to record while at the helm: ATIS reports, mid-flight frequency changes or squawk codes (or a variety of other things), destination ATIS reports, etc. This is broken into Departure, Enroute, Arrival, Scribbles (a drawing slate where you can quickly scribble stuff), and Briefing. The Departure and Arrival tabs contain information about your departure and arrival airports, if you've got a flight route loaded: frequencies, airport data, etc. The Arrival tab includes a section which shows your orientation to the runway graphically (haven't tested this yet, but it looks promising). Neither of the other two apps include any kind of note-taking feature that I could find.
The map view includes graphical depictions of TFRs, and it took me a while to figure out that you can see the text of the TFR by long-pressing over a TFR area. I actually discovered the long-press menu by accident, so the documentation (which is sparse) could be improved. The long-press function is mentioned once, as being how you add an airport to a flight plan, in the tutorial which runs when you start the app for the first time.
$10/mo or $100/yr: Garmin Pilot
Garmin Pilot was heavily anticipated, and just recently made the leap to Android, from iOS. It costs the most of these apps, at $9.99 per month, or $99.99 per year for the lesser subscription (and more for the Pro subscription, which doesn't interest me). The app itself is free, and like AviationMaps, includes a month-long free trial.
At first glance, Pilot is a slick, well-crafted program. Even at second glance, it has a lot to recommend it: long-press on a location to get information, navigate Direct To, or just place a marker; well-organized airport information; actual flight planning software (the only app in the bunch to offer time/distance/speed/fuel calculations). The drop-down menu for different actions is big and bold and easy to see, even with some movement in rough air.
But (and you knew there was going to be a but here) it also suffers from some really bizarre omissions. At least on my tablet -- and I admit the 7" tablet is a bit of an odd size, as the help text suggests there are some features I'm not being offered -- there's no way to show altitude and groundspeed data on the map page. There's a dedicated page for seeing that stuff, and it's easy enough to switch to, but its omission on the map page is puzzling. There are lots of options, but it's missing some big ones, like drawing an intersect line off the nose of the aircraft when moving, or keeping the screen on while the app is running (in my testing, I had to repeatedly unlock the screen of the tablet to see the map -- this is an easy problem to avoid, and both other apps do it, so it's just an omission on the part of Digital Cyclone, the app's developer).
In addition to all this, the app dies somewhat at random. It will just exit with no warning, bringing up a dialogue box saying it's done so. I'm not sure why it's happening, but it happens both on the Galaxy Tab 2, and on my years-old Droid X phone. On the Droid X, I actually had a honeymoon period of several days where it worked perfectly, and now it basically won't even launch. On the Tab, when I was playing with it today, no problems, and no unxpected exits.
Garmin Pilot has the feel of an app designed by someone who's not a pilot, and hastily rubber-stamped rather than being given a proper design review by Garmin. As a company, Garmin is capable of great, great things (I own numerous Garmin devices, and am very happy with them), but this app is not really among them. I think the developer got a spec list, and they checked off all the boxes, but they didn't really get what they were building.
This is a good thing for Garmin, as all the pieces are there for a great app. They just need to be re-arranged and shifted and made for a pilot rather than (speaking as a geek who sits at a computer all day) a geek who sits at a computer all day. I could offer more recommendations, but the biggest one would be to have a half-dozen Garmin employees who are pilots sit down and try to use the thing for a few flights. They'll come up with a better list than I could, and many of the fixes would be easily implemented. Check back on this app in 6-12 months, and it may well be fantastic.
In my testing thus far, AviationMaps has proven to be my favorite. It's got enough data, it's easy enough to use, and I can actually imagine sitting through a cross-country flight with this thing on my lap as a reference.
Garmin Pilot, while it's interesting and promising, simply isn't there yet. OpenFlightGPS, while free and therefore a fine choice, doesn't have the extra data for which I find myself willing to pay $5 or $10 a month.
Thu, 08 Sep 2011
At 5:45 this morning, I helped load my friend Lissen's suitcase into the truck, and we trundled off to the airport. She's been here for three weeks (two here, with the week in the middle in Hawaii, scuba diving), and in that time we have done an absolutely bewildering array of stuff. I could write volumes about it all.
However, instead of writing volumes, I'm going to concentrate on one or two little posts about various activities that were particularly note-worthy. First up on that list is flying.
We ended up taking three flights over the course of her stay. The first flight, the day after she landed from Munich (a good solid 17 hour day, including 9 hours of timezone shift), we clambered aboard a Piper Cherokee out of Paine Field, and headed north. Destination: Orcas Island.
I've been to Orcas before, so there's nothing particularly note-worthy about the flight, to me. I take a standard semi-paranoid approach to it like I do to most flying, and go for altitude over the water. The only weird part of that flight was arriving at Orcas. The place was (comparatively) a zoo, with about 4 airplanes all jockeying for space. There was the biplane flying low over the island, in radio-silence. There was the apparent old-timer, who breezed in on a backwards approach. I think there was someone else; then of course there was us.
The wind was apparently very light, and each pilot seemed to take a different idea of what was a good landing direction. For myself, unused to small, uncontrolled strips as I am, this was disconcerting. The old-timer landed to the south. Someone else took off to the north. I approached for a landing to the north, then something convinced me an approach to the south would work better -- I think because I was following the old-timer. (I call him an old-timer because he had the kind of smooth non-chalance on the radio that suggested he had done this kind of flying so much before that I shouldn't think twice about it. And he promptly lined up against the published pattern direction, which totally screwed me up.) So the approach to Orcas involved steeper banks than I normally like to perform close to the ground, and got Lissen a bit nervous, as she confided in me later.
Anyway, the real point of this post is not Orcas. Nor is it the night-flight we took over Seattle, which was also beautiful and very enjoyable (but somewhat standard, after all my 4th-of-July flights).
The real point is the flight we took around Mt. Rainier.
I've never even pondered doing a flight like this before, but with Lissen here from Germany, it seemed like a fairly logical choice. I did some quick measuring and calculating, and it looked like a reasonable flight. The straight-line distance from Paine is only 68 nm to the peak. A flight around at a safe distance looked to be about 20 nm. In short, it didn't look like a terribly difficult flight. It would certainly be a unique and beautiful way to see the mountain.
Unfortunately, the only plane available to us was a venerable Cessna 152 -- if you are not familiar with this plane, picture something slightly larger than an ultralight with two seats and a Volkswagen Bug motor bolted on the front. This is not a literally accurate description, but it's not honestly that far off reality. It's not a speedy, powerful plane.
Still, it was the plane we had, and technically speaking, it's capable of the job. We folded ourselves in after the preflight inspection, filled the tanks up to the brim (I did not want to have any chance of running out of fuel over the mountains). With ourselves, full fuel, and a handkerchief, we were just under the maximum weight. (Actually, we were a few pounds over, but that's allowable given that you burn about 3-5 lbs of fuel in taxiing and run-up before take-off. We had to be careful what we carried with us, though.)
Fueled up and ready to go, we took off and got a southerly departure clearance from the tower. We launched, a bit creakily, into the misty sky, and I was suddenly faced with the most absurdly laughable navigation I've ever had. See the hugest thing on the horizon? Steer for that, and climb for all you're worth. I actually laughed out loud at how absurd it was, from a navigation standpoint. Rainier is huge and promiment from the ground. Get up in the air, and it is absolutely unmissable.
The 152 is many things, but a climber is not one of them. We even had the 152 with the "climb prop" (I hesitate to imagine what would have happened if I'd gotten the 152 with the "cruise prop," which would have further degraded climb performance). Our best rate of climb once we'd reached the 1600 foot pattern altitude was about 500 feet per minute. This is respectable, but of course, it was a hot day, and as you climb, you get into thinner air, which saps power from the motor. I didn't calculate the density altitude (I knew it was within reasonable limits), but the plane was definitely not at its best in these conditions.
So, we climbed. I called up Seattle Center and got us registered on their radar (a regular habit with me, and part of my preflight speech to new passengers: "If I keel over, the radio will be tuned to someone who will respond when you say 'mayday mayday,' so follow what they say"). I had noted while planning with the chart that the highest foothill (ahem, "foothill") around Rainier is about 7000 feet, but hadn't properly considered what that actually meant in an airplane roughly as powerful as a VW Bug. It was intuitively obvious once we were in the air. We had a lot of up to do, and only 60 short miles to do it in.
So, we kept on climbing. Seattle has this pesky "Class Bravo" airspace sitting over it like a misshapen upside-down wedding cake, which is airspace I'm not normally allowed into. It's centered on SeaTac, so we were hardly going to fly through it, but one of the layers kept me from going over 5000 feet, just when I wanted to be going past 5000 feet ("Gotta keep climbing!"). I called up Center and asked their permission. Fortunately, they were in a good mood, and allowed me in. We kept climbing. It was remarkable to look around, and see the extent to which the southeast side of the Seattle-Tacoma metro area is a bowl, surrounded on the south and east sides with sudden, jutting mountains. It reminded me a bit of the ancient computer game Populous, where as a somewhat omnipotent god, you could cause the ground to raise up, disrupting your poor worshipper's villages.
South of this sudden mountain-jut line, the ground looked decidedly less airplane-friendly. Lots of sheer, near-vertical lines. Sharp rocks, jagged peaks, tiny fir trees standing up along the slopes like intricately-shaped fur on an angry cat's back. I was glad we'd been climbing all this time.
The approach to Rainier is essentialy these hills which start out with a hint of rounded friendliness, but quickly march into the shapes of angry teeth. I glanced back at the instruments. The altimeter was slowly millimetering (it's like inching, but way slower) past 7000 feet. The vertical speed indicator was somewhere south of 250 feet per minute. I was trying to maintain a casual cruise-climb, which uses less fuel, and maintains the illusion that I'm not worried about anything. The plane will climb faster, but not a whole lot at this point: the airspeed indicator was holding steady at just under 80 knots, and best rate of climb is around 65. That's a pretty small margin between where we were, and the flat-out, oh-shit climb rate. I briefly pondered circling slowly back over the valley to gain a bit more altitude before attacking the angry teeth, but eventually decided we were safe. By my estimation, we never got closer than 1500 feet to any of the peaks, with much more space (vertiginously so) between the peaks.
Once we were over the foothills (which would be considered mountains in their own right, anywhere they weren't outlined against the incredibly impressive 14,410 ft height of Rainier), I relaxed a bit. The plane was doing fine, we were high enough, and my constant fiddling with the mixture knob was keeping the engine as happy as possible.
We leveled off around 8500 feet. I kept a distance of around 5 nm (I think, it was hard to tell, the scale of the mountain is so foreign) from the peak. Lissen's headset microphone had unfortunately given up the ghost in the first moments of the flight (but too late to go back for a borrowed headset, of course), so she was unable to say anything to me, and we had to communicate with hand signs from her, and talking from me. We circled, occasionally tipping up a wing to allow Lissen a better shot through the window, which we opened several times (one of my favorite things about the 152 is the swing-open window on each side, which can be opened at slower speeds). It was interesting to feel the tiny plane shift to the side as a window was opened and drag increased on that side.
We circled the giant mountain very slowly. I didn't recognize anything about it. I couldn't spot any of the numerous manmade landmarks I sort of abstractly know dot the mountain. The scale of it kept screwing me up -- it looked like we were orbiting it very slowly, but of course, we were continuing on at 80 or so knots (around 92 MPH). I kept eyeing the treacherous ground below us, pondering (as I always do) what I'd do in an emergency. There was very little in the way of horizontal land down there, and I vacillated back and forth between ditching in a mountain lake (cold, danger of flipping over, distinct danger of hypothermia once we were down) and the occasional but easily-reached river valley (huge boulders, flatter, more generally survivable assuming we got out of the plane in one piece, probably easier to find from the air).
Of course, I'm used to looking for fields that are plowed flatter than the next best field. All this gazing at deadly landscape was disconcerting in a sort of abstract way.
Lissen, fortunately, was not aware of what was keeping me occupied. She was gazing at the amazing view of the mountain out the right-hand window, taking pictures of the too-close majesty of nature (we didn't really have a wide enough lens between us to take it all in, but I was also concerned that we shouldn't dawdle too long over the angry-teeth landscape). I continued occasionally slipping the plane in order to lift the wing for a full-mountain shot, each time keeping one eye glued to the altimeter.
The views from our little perch in the sky were very impressive. Rainier is surrounded for many miles in each direction with row upon row of beautiful mountains. I took pictures that look like watercolors, with rows of mountains fading into blue mist in the distance. It was a stunningly clear day with mist in the distance, and air as smooth as I could have wished. I called in a pilot weather report that included the words "glassy smooth air."
I was surprised, as we rounded another fold of the mountain, to see that we'd already swung past north on the directional gyro (a better/worse compass) and cross-checked it with the magnetic compass. We'd approached the mountain from NNW, and gone around the east side to the south, then circled around. I thought we'd only completed half the circle (which made sense once I thought about it -- we only needed to turn 180° to hit north again). We continued until pointing about east, and getting about our starting view. By a series of spoken yes/no questions, we decided that we should turn back.
I circled the plane away from the mountain (yielding, of course, a fantastic view as that wing lifted high into the sky), and we headed back NNW toward Paine Field. Center had given up on me, lacking radar coverage that far out, as we approached the mountain, so I called them back and got us back into the system. With shocking speed, the valley floor rolled out in front of us, the jagged thrusting mountains suddenly behind us. With barely a thought, we went from 1500 feet above terror-landscape to 6000 or 7000 feet above perfectly flat fields and roads. Some part of me deep in my chest that I had not been aware of clenching gently unclenched.
One of the truisms of flying is that it's no good having runway behind you or sky above you. The converse of course is also true -- having huge volumes of sky between you and the ground is quite comforting. Airplane failures don't involve the wings falling off, they just involve the engine quitting or other things that need time, clarity and a lack of panic to sort out. Altitude gives you that time and space. If the engine had croaked at that moment, we probably could have glided all the way back to the Renton airport and made a fairly reasonable landing (I wouldn't have pushed my luck to such an extent, but we were in very good shape mere moments after being an uncomfortably short distance from angry rocks and mountainsides). An airplane "stall" is when the wing stops flying due to lack of speed, and has nothing to do with the engine; I've stalled a plane at full throttle many times as part of my training and subsequent practice.
And so it was with a curious sense of calm and serenity that we floated back to Paine Field, with its diagonal runway 11-29 full of 787s waiting for engines. Lissen has friends in Germany who are airline pilots, and fairly jealous that she's been so close to the nearly-mythical 787 Dreamliner. Our straight-in approach to runway 34R gave us a beautiful shot of the line of planes, which Lissen used to advantage, snapping photos until the sight was cut off just before touchdown. Despite the long straight-in approach (something I'm not very skilled at), our touchdown was almost perfect, and we rolled out to the FBO and shut down the little motor.
In the end, that flight was 2.3 hours on the Hobbs meter, which means we were about 2 hours actually in the air. It was also over 50 nm one-way, so I was able to happily scribe 2.3 hours under the much-neglected Cross-country column in my logbook.
Despite all the verbiage dedicated to staring sawtooth mountains in the face, this was a beautiful, very enjoyable flight. I would happily do it again, although I think next time, I would wait until I could get a bigger plane.
Fri, 22 Jul 2011
If you've been following along for a while, you'll be aware that around 2006, I spent a lot of time thinking very hard about building a biplane. The linked page is largely obsolete as far as which model I'd select, but otherwise goes through my thought process pretty well.
Building a biplane is an utterly senseless thing to do. It's an exercise in silliness. Even with my new revised thoughts on the matter, it would still be a $20k build minimum, and the monthly costs would be ridiculous, probably on the order of $400-800 a month before ever starting the plane.
Yet, my aversion to doing senseless things hasn't particularly made me any happier. Certainly some senseless things haven't worked out like I might have hoped (for instance, racing a motorcycle really wasn't my cup of tea, for all the reasons I'd expected). But I spend a lot of time not doing things because that would be a silly thing to do. Buying new motorcycles. Asking girls out. Trying new things. Even trying new bicycle routes. Silly.
But none of that has brought me happiness. Oh, I have a kind of ho-hum, "everything's going just fine" baseline happiness going on, but without peaks and valleys, I can't tell the difference any more.
The problem, of course, is that most times I diverge from my established habits, I'm reminded why I established them in the first place. New (bigger) motorcycles are heavy and inefficient and generally suck for the kind of riding I do. New bicycle routes have extra hills or take longer. Girls, when asked out, often say no in the kindest but most crushing way. For every upside, there's a stronger downside.
And so, I've successfully argued myself out of building a biplane, for the gazillionth time. Only that's not really all that fun. Sometimes it's fun to just follow a whim and quit being so goddamn sensible all the time.
This is hardly a promise. But I can't escape the thought that I would truly enjoy spending a large amount of time working on a very demanding, precise project that will one day turn into an airplane of my very own.
The Random Biplane Thoughts
I started this adventure, way back in 2006, by discovering a Loehle Spad XIII. I quickly discarded that as being too small for me, among other things. I lingered for a long while on the Fisher Celebrity, a mostly wood design, but eventually decided it too was too small. I finally decided that the Acrosport II was the right thing, then calculated what it would actually cost, and gave up on the idea.
Now, 5 years later, my thoughts run along similar lines, but I am more aware that what I don't want is an aerobatic plane. Those are fine for them as likes 'em, but that's not what I want to do. I just want to putter around in the sky. So now I'm thinking about a Ragwing Special II, another all-wood design that's described as being a good puttering-about-the-sky plane, as oppose to anything with acrobatic pretentions.
I was actually looking forward to learning to weld on a project like this, so I might consider making the fuselage out of 4130 instead of wood, if such an option is available.
Engines are another total toss-up. See the discussion on that biplane page I linked at the top, it's still pretty much all valid. Some of the choices have downsized, and I'd consider an AeroVee into the mix, but there's still no clear winner. There's no such thing as a good compromise between cost, weight, power, reliability and maintenance cost. Every engine excels at one or two of those things, and sucks hard and one or two.
The bottom line of all this is that I'm still in a weird exaggerated-clown-shrug (™ Alex B.) state of mind about the whole thing. I want to do it. I can't justify it. I can't believe what a fun-crusher I've become. Lather/rinse/repeat.
Written by Ian Johnston. Software is Blosxom. Questions? Please mail me at reaper at obairlann dot net.