Posted Thu Jul 7 14:07:23 MDT 2022
If you're looking for detail on the current Situation: departing Socorro, NM this morning, I found engine roughness on the left mag. This is almost always caused by lead fouling, and sure enough, I realized I'd left the mixture lever full-rich. Socorro is at 4850 feet, so full rich is about 30% too rich, and basically guaranteed to foul plugs. I did the clearing procedure (run up the engine and lean it way out, which should burn out the lead), and it seemed to solve the problem, so I took off. However, on the way to Deming, I checked that mag again, and the roughness was back with a vengeance.
I was close to Hatch, and actually diverted there to land and check it out, but realized there was nothing at Hatch, it's literally just a runway. No buildings, no fuel, no people, etc. So, I didn't actually land, electing to trust that my engine would keep running to Deming, which looked like a much more full-service airport.
Yes, and no. There's an air-conditioned pilot's lounge, from whence I type this, but there's no mechanic. Fortunately, the fuel guy did allow me ot park in a hangar, so I'll have a cool(er) place to work as I check out the plugs. Fortunately, it appears that the lower plugs (which are almost certainly the culprits) are quite easy to access, so once the engine is cool enough to not burn me, I can pull the plugs out and look for problems. This is why I packed tools, and if this is the only use of them, I'm getting off quite lightly.
Look for more updates later, hopefully this will be a quick fix, and I can be on my way. Next location TBD, but generally "west."
Later, that evening...
I pulled the spark plugs at Deming, and didn't see anything unusual: a bit oil-soaked, a bit of a too-big electrode gap, but nothing damning. No lead fouling. I put it all back together, and prepared to get back in the air after doing some planning.
I was sitting in the pilot's lounge, trying to figure out my next destination. I was trying to decide between Las Cruces, which was close, but entirely the wrong direction, and Tucson, which was quite far, and definitely the right direction. Both had a decent chance of having a shop that could look at my problem, though Tucson was more likely.
Before I could really make a decision, though, I heard two line guys in the next room, loudly discussing pedophiles, and Trump, and faggots and more pedophiles, then some plainly obvious conspiracy theories about confirmed pedophiles. In short, this sounded like two men who would do me injury if they understood my politics and my personal life (which has nothing to do with children, but right-wing media has apparently decided that I and about everyone I know are pedophiles).
One of the line guys had told me there was in fact a mechanic he could call in for me, but that person was 20 miles away, and it was obviously going to be a pain for everyone.
Between those two things, I just wanted out of Deming.
In the end, I decided to head for Ryan Field, outside of Tucson. It looked like it would have the facilities I was after, and wouldn't be too busy, like Tucson International would. It was also over 2 hours away. At least I'd checked out my little rough-running problem. I was careful at runup to check the mags and make sure everything seemed to be working like it should. It was, so I blasted off.
However, once I got up a few thousand feet, I checked the mags again, and the roughness was back. At this point, I made what is objectively the wrong choice, though it turned out alright: I kept myself aimed west, for Tucson. In the absence of other factors, I should have turned east, and headed for Las Cruces, which was only 40 minutes away instead of somewhere past two hours, and had a decent chance of having a mechanic around to help out.
But, westward I stayed pointed.
As I'd expected, I was in for a few hours of rough air, and constantly wrestling the plane onto its intended course. There were rainstorms marching slowly eastward when I departed Deming, which I had to divert north around, though that was only a minor inconvenience. Those rain clouds were the only visible weather I had to contend with.
The invisible weather, though. The ups and downs and wiggle-waggles and sudden upsets. It never seemed dangerous, but it meant that I was indeed constantly wrestling the plane back to where it should be pointed. I'd brought it on myself, of course: I'd started the engine at Deming at 4:11 pm. Prime time for afternoon heating and winds.
I'd tried calling the weather briefer about the possibility of mountain winds, and where I mentioned a few days ago how I'd gotten an absolutely knowledgeable and enthusiastic student of the local weather, this time I got a very dull-sounding gent who sort of confusedly related the absense of turbulence warnings along my route of flight. You can't win them all, I guess.
Of course, the trip also stretched out much further than I initially anticipated. I'd thought at first it would be a two hour flight, and at the two hour mark, the estimate was that I still had 40 minutes left. Indeed, by the time I landed at Ryan Field, I had 2.6 hours on the timer.
But I flew through some really beautiful landscape. Lots of pretty mountains, lots of interesting scrubland. I saw my first playas, and wondered if any of these was where Burning Man was held (I have very little knowledge of that, but I have a lot of friends who have been).
I found myself following the freeway (I-10, for most of the way), rather than the more-direct route, which would have taken me over some pretty rugged terrain. The knowledge of the marginal mag was weighing on me -- I recognized at the moment I decided to keep heading west that this was the much more dangerous choice, and I found myself sticking much closer to my safety nets, the freeway being a big one. At least if I had to land there, someone would find me.
Finally, after far too long, Albequerque Center transferred me to Tucson Approach, and my goal hove into sight through the gathering haze of sunset: Ryan Field, substantially away from the built-up part of Tucson. Looking down at what were clearly single-family homes for miles and miles between Tucson proper and Ryan Field, I thought it would be a half-hour drive just to get to a hotel. I hoped that Ryan would have a decent pilot's lounge that I might stay in.
Two of Ryan's three runways are closed for maintenance, which I knew going in, but of course I don't control the winds. So I ended up landing on runway 24 (which means it's pointed at roughly the 240° point on the compass), with wind coming from 330 at 5 gusting to 15. That's a significant crosswind, but more importantly, a gusting crosswind makes it extra challenging.
I'd landed with crosswinds back in Florida, and found it to be something of a non-event, mostly thanks to the long training I've had with the Champ. The trick is to not think about it at all, and just let my instinct flow with the plane. It's easier when you've had hundreds of hours to hone your instincts for a particular plane, of course.
In this case, I wouldn't rate it a stellar landing, but it was acceptable, and certainly much better than my first landings where I was flaring far too high. The roll-out was more exciting than normal, but I kept it on the runway, and didn't really have any problems. I rolled off the runway, and taxied through the oppressive heat to the surprisingly hidden itinerant parking and fuel area.
Got the plane full of fuel, and since it looked like I was too late to have any chance of finding a hangar, I just tied it down next to a few other planes at the edge of the overnight parking area. Fortunately, Ryan does indeed have a decent pilot's lounge. The only thing it's missing is a fridge. However, I ate the last of my cheese tonight for dinner, and it was the only thing that needed to be refrigerated. Everything else in the cooler was there mostly as thermal mass to help keep the cheese cooler.
And so that's where I find myself now. The nearest hotel was indeed quite a drive away, and prices are much higher here than previous places I've stayed, so I just stuck with my lounge plan. It'll be handy for when I wnat to start calling around to shops tomorrow morning: I noticed at least one of them opens at 6 am, so there's a chance I could get the plane taken care of in the morning and be on my way before the day gets to the fiercest time of the heat.
That's the wildcard coming up: I need to find a shop to take a look at the plane's spark plugs, and see if cleaning them up and setting the gaps properly will solve the stumble. If not, I'm probably here until we can figure out what's going on. Although I made the relatively risky trip to Tucson, I'm not interested in pressing further until we can solve that problem. It's fairly new, so hopefully will have some kind of obvious solution. The trick will be finding a shop who's able to look at it with no warning.
Before I completely forget, I should talk about the rest of the day. Before the mag roughness, I departed Moriarty: into the motel office at 7 to collect ice for the camelback (which is still cold!), and some conversation with the hotelier, who was very impressed at the scale of my trip. Then into the delightful Isuzu. I didn't really expound upon this last time I mentioned it, but that little truck is fantastic: it's a normally-aspirated diesel from about 1982, and Moriarty is about 5000 feet up. It has exactly three power settings: accelerate slightly, maintain speed, and slow down. You can mash that pedal down all you want, but it will patiently accelerate at exactly the same sedate pace it was doing before you got all impatient. It's weird how much I enjoy that.
It is, in many ways, the Platonic ideal of the crew car: old, beat up, seen far better days, yet it just keeps running. It's perfectly serviceable for the task at hand: getting pilots from the airport to their destination in town and back. The ripped off upholstery and serape covering the seat cushions are the perfect extra touch.
In any case, I was at the hangar at 7:35 (talking to the woman in the motel office took more time than I'd anticipated, so I was late despite saying I'd be there at 7:30). I got my stuff packed into the plane, and we pushed it out. I handed the guy (Chuck, I think) 60 crisp American dollars, and he gave me back 10, making this the most expensive hangar of the trip, by a factor of two. It really throws Jack in Little Rock into stark contrast, as he sheepishly informed me it would be the horrendous price of $8 per night for the hangar there.
But then, I was off for Secorro, to meet Timbob from the forum. I wasn't sure if he'd be there, but I figured it would be nice to have a short leg, and indeed it was. Tim showed up a few minutes after I'd finished fueling, and handed me a can of selzer and a bag full of home-grown apricots and peaches ("donut peaches" -- very tasty!). We chatted for a while, and he introduced me to Ronny Johnston, and it was cool to shake hands with another Johnston who's not part of my extended family (that I know of). He was the very model of the tall, skinny cowboy. Tim, on the other hand, was a sort of beardy guy I'm very familiar with in my professional life, and always enjoy talking to. It was neat to meet Tim, as it's been neat to meet everyone from the forum so far.
He drove me over to his hangar, where he showed me the Starduster Too biplane he's rebuilding, along with a few other projects he's got stored up. He had to run off for a meeting at that point, but he dropped me off with Ronny, who showed me his Subaru-powered Pietenpol Air Camper, a mono-wing design that was first published in the 1920s, I think and designed for a Ford Model A engine, which stuck up in front of the pilot so as to completely block any forward view. The Subaru engine is much cleaner, and he had a big belt-driven reduction gear on it, which looked well built, and has apparently worked well for him.
Feeling the need to keep moving, I didn't stay as long as I might have. Tim invited me over to his house for lunch, and on a different trip, I would have taken him up on that. Ah well.
There in Socorro is where the whole mag situation started out, to loop things back around. When I taxied down to the end of the runway, I completely forgot to lean the mixture for the 4800 foot elevation, which meant that by the time I got to the run-up area, the plugs on the right mag were fouled, as described at the top of this entry.
And that brings us full circle. So, hopefully tomorrow I can get some help figuring out what's going on with the engine, and then I can be on my way toward Los Angeles.
The plan for that is kind of comical, actually: there's this convoluted zig-zagging path I have to follow to keep clear of all the military restricted areas, which may or may not be necessary (they may not be hot), but seems like the simplest way to deal with it. Avare, my charting app, thinks this is about 5 and a half hours of flying, though to me that sounds like about 7 hours spread across 3-4 legs. A long day even on a normal day, but adding on the engine maintenance, it sounds pretty improbable. So, I'd say there's a chance I'll be in LA tomorrow night, but it's pretty small. More likely I'll be there some time on Saturday.
Still! I'm almost to LA! That's pretty exciting, and I'm looking forward to seeing my brother and starting in on the really social leg of the trip. I've got friends all up and down the coast I'm hoping to visit.
Enough. Now to prep for bed, as best I can in a pilot's lounge, so I can be up in the morning to start calling shops, and hopefully find someone to help me out.
Here's the gallery of today's pictures (there are some cool ones!): July 7th picture gallery.
Copyright © 2022 by Ian Johnston.