I had reached a point in the traildragger training where calm conditions were no problem. So now I needed conditions that weren’t calm in order to finish my training and demonstrate that I could handle this machine safely.
So, of course, the wind decided to go elsewhere.
Flying airplanes is, of course, great fun and I really don’t need an excuse to go do it. However, I do not have unlimited wealth and while J is a good flight companion I really couldn’t justify showing up for 2-4 hours a week for him to say, repeatedly “Good job!” and not much else. At least not if I was paying him to do so. So I adopted a schedule of flying for an hour to an hour and a half every two weeks to keep my skills up. At least that was the theory - this time around events such as weather and the annual Morris “Air Fest” had conspired to make it three weeks, which is the point I start to noticably lose my edge.
I sure could use the pick-me-up by that point, though - the world outside the airport wasn’t looking too pleasent, what with major hurricanes displacing people by the million and New Orleans flooding and the price of gas going through the roof. And folks wonder why I like to get off-planet occassionly…
Oh, yeah, the price of gas - C sent out an e-message to her customers more or less apologizing for raising the hourly rental rates on the airplanes because aviation gasoline had reach $3.50 a gallon at Morris. I read that on the day regular unleaded for the car reached $3.85 a gallon at the gas stations near the Illinois border in my neighborhood. And C is complaining about the price of avgas…? If I didn’t know that avgas really was incompatible with my Toyota I might have been tempted to fill up at Morris, but like I said, I know better.
The world was looking more and more crappy.
Then I was incautious enough to mention my plans for flying on Sunday to one of the nervous-nellies I work with. This generated a look of horror (more than the usual I mean) and the statement “You can’t be serious?!”
“What? I fly most weekends.”
“But…but… this Sunday is September 11! Isn’t that… disrespectful? Is that allowed? Should you really be doing that, on that particular day?”
You know, I can kind of see how there’s a minority of folks out there who would be offended by airplanes flying over the US on September 11. Oddly enough, these folks don’t seem to have any problem with the airlines flying that day (though they probably wouldn’t take a flight themselves) even though it was big airliners and not little toothpick-and-rag airplanes like I fly that caused the Big Horrible Thing to happen. On the other hand, there’s another minority of people called “pilots” for whom flying on September 11 is symbolic of taking back our own skies. Getting on with our lives, as the President said we should. In other words, I have zero problem with flying on any day on the calendar - weather, the machine, and my health permitting. So yeah, I’m flying on September 11, deal with it.
Like I said, the world was looking more and more crappy.
So, there I am, driving out to Morris yet again. On the way there I note the color of the sky, which is a pale blue, almost milky color. That’s indicative of high humidity and haze. I’m not entirely happy about it (at this point, I hadn’t been happy for about two weeks about a lot of things) but it wasn’t unexpected. We had seen the same effect after hurricane Dennis earlier in the summer. When the hurricanes come ashore down south they kick a lot of warm, moist Gulf air northward, all the way into the upper Midwest so even if we didn’t get rain from them they still affected our weather. Thank you, Katrina, for screwing up visibility over northern Indiana and Illinois. It was a petty complaint, compared to what folks down south were going through, yes it was. It was also awesome to contemplate just how far-reaching the effects of that weather system were.
Even so, I’m happy to be rolling into the parking lot. I got out, rummaged around in the back to get my gear in order. That usually means get the headset out and untangled, select appropriate sunglasses/visor/hat for conditions, and any other paraphenalia needed for the day’s activities. In this case that included a checkbook as I owed some money from August. I strolled into the office a half an hour early (traffic had been light that morning), paid my bill, and chatted with the front desk girl until J showed up. Ah, things were getting back to normal already! Actually, I believe J was on time that day, so it was a little better than normal.
I preflighted, J scrounged up the fuel truck, and we both climbed in. This was getting really routine, which is good. Hardly anyone was flying - J commented that it had been full Instrument Flight Rules (IFR) in the morning and only just cleared up to Visual Flight Rules (VFR) around 11:30, so just as well I hadn’t scheduled until noon. Not entirely accident, that - I’ve been flying long enough to know that if there’s going to be mist and haze this time of year it will be heaviest in the morning hours. I was also hoping the winds might pick up a little in the afternoon, which is about the only time you’ll ever hear me say I hoped the winds would pick up - outside of training I prefer the weather to be as calm as possible. Visibility was 4 miles, 5 at most, which might be legal for VFR flight but was far, far from ideal. You do have to watch carefully under those circumstances because if the visibility suddenly gets worse you could be in a very serious situation.
I may have mentioned this before - the Citabria in question is strictly a day VFR airplane. That means you are only permitted to fly it in good weather in the daytime - and you’re a fool if you step outside those limits. The airplane is simply not equipped for flying solely by reference to instruments (think of a car without windshield wipers or headlights - fine in good daytime weather, hazardous at night in a rainstorm). Didn’t matter that J has an instrument rating - he couldn’t use it in this airplane because the instruments were lacking. Not even worth making the point that even if there had been IFR instruments he couldn’t use them anyway since he sits behind me and doesn’t have Superman’s x-ray vision to see through me. Attempting to fly this airplane through clouds would be a good way to get yourself killed, so neither of us brought up the subject, there would be no point in doing so.
So… the visibility was legal and a little better than legal. What made this a reasonable risk (in our opinion) was that we weren’t going far and the trend was towards increasingly better visibility and not increasingly worse. Trust me, if that trend had reversed we would have gotten on the ground before things got any more dangerous - even if that meant landing before we reached an airport. I’d done it once before to save my skin - and that in an airplane where instrument flight was at least possible with the equipment on board - I’d do it again if I thought I needed to do so. I just didn’t think it would be necessary, that’s why I thought taking off was a reasonable decision.
So - preflight, engine start, run-up, and all that jazz. Again, all very routine at this point, and I couldn’t find anything wrong with the airplane. We put-put out to the runway, look left-right-and-up for other people, and J asked for a normal take-off.
So that’s what I gave him. A completely normal, uneventful, smooth, down-the-certerline, almost-boring take-off. Which was not bad after three weeks on the ground.
J said to head for Cushing.
I looked around at the horizon. Not just out in front, but as far around the 360 degrees as I could. Haze, lots of haze. Did I want to leave the Morris traffic pattern in this? It really was my decision. If I had said I was uncomfortable venturing into the mist J would have gone along with that. Let’s see… it’s legally VFR visibility… but just because something is legal doesn’t mean it’s a good idea…
Hmm…Stable weather, with a slight improving trend. We’re low - I can get to ground in a hurry. There are lots of places between Morris and Cushing we can land if we have to do so. I’ve landed in a field before, I know what that is all about. This airplane is actually fairly well suited to an off-airport landing. I’m famillar with the local area, therefore unlikely to get lost. I have someone with me even more famillar with this area, and thus even more unlikely to get lost.
“Compass heading 330, right J?”
“Correct”
I turn to a 330 heading, looking for the quarry north of Morris. It’s visible. Good. That’s easily 5 miles or more from our current location. The visibility isn’t great, but you can see where you’re going. Then after that the northwest-southeast road that “points” to the two airports. Then, after that, I can sort of make out Cushing in the whiteness. As usual in lower visibility, landmarks seem farther apart.
On the way over J mentions not to expect much traffic at Cushing. Weather? No - there was a crash the week before, the towplane and a hang glider went down together. Aw, crap… have I mentioned the world being a lousy place lately? Apparently it was one of the more experienced tow pilots, too. No further details - rumor had it someone passing by on the road nearby saw the wrecks. As annoying as the gliders could be, I’d rather have them up and bothering me than hear about something like that.
And on THAT cheerful note, it was time to get ready to land at Cushing. Review of soft-field techniques - full stall 3-point landings, wheel landings, wheel take-offs, regular take-offs, shortfield take-off and landings, softfield take-offs… that was, after all, the point of this exercise - to review and improve my now-existing tailwheel techniques. I noted that J was no longer giving me a break by offering to taxi the airplane - and I didn’t really feel I needed breaks like that anymore. Again, this was getting routine and where not routine then at least normal. And no one, no one other than us was flying out of Cushing.
On the good side, I really started to nail the landings
Time to go back to Morris for the pavement work. One more take-off from grass, then I turned to the recipricol of 330 to go back to Morris, picking up on the pointer road and the quarry along the way to keep me oriented.
As it happened, the wind had come up to 10-15 knots - almost as strong as I needed to fnish off the tailwheel lessons but straight down runway 18 instead of the perpendicular crosswind required. Oh, well. I could still get in some worthwhile work with wind, maintaining an accurate ground track, and allowing for gusts.
So that’s what we did. A taildragger on pavement is harder than on grass, I keep saying that, probably because it’s still true. Cushing had been a good warm-up, and I was doing better than I expected after several weeks on the ground. J mentioned that he noticed that after about three weeks anyone’s skills got rusty, including his.
So round and round we went, J coaching from the back and me muttering and working the rudder pedals up front. Like I said, the gusts were mostly straight down the runway. Not the crosswind practice I really needed, but good training nonetheless, as even headwind gusts present their own difficulties and hazards.
In a tricycle gear airplane in gusts I tended to bring the airplane in a little “hot”, that is, faster than usual. This provides for better control, and also some buffer so that if the wind decides to un-gust you retain usable airspeed. And in the Citabria some of that is true as well - bring it in a little faster than usual, perhaps do a wheel landing if necessary, where you fly it onto the runway instead of letting it settle on its own.
The thing is, the Citabria floats pretty good, even with two adult human beings aboard. Too much airspeed and it just doesn’t want to come down. Once you hit ground effect this tendency increases - it is entirely possible to pull the throttle back a thousand feet above the ground, glide down, and be going so fast that you can use up a mile or more of runway - meaning you run out of runway - before it slows down enough to stop flying and touch down. This is why one of the more common causes of accidents after engine failure is overshooting the chosen landing zone. Speed control is very important when landing.
Sure, you can force the Citabria to land - and hit the pavement with enough force to literally bounce you back up into the sky. Not only is that embarassing, you won’t have as much forward speed afterward and you’re getting closer to losing control of the machine. This would be a Bad Thing.
So, landing in gusts is compromise between compensating for gust effects and going slow enough to actually land.
As I was about to demonstrate.
Coming in on a rather uneventful final approach – I could feel the gusts, but I had things under control. I kept us lined up on the runway, good rate of descent, just a little faster than usual but we had plenty of runway.
And that’s when the headwind dropped…
To a pilot, the air isn’t “thin” next to the ground. It’s something real and substantial. I can feel it in the vibration of the airframe, the way the machine responds to my commands. I can feel it in resistance to the movement of the controls. Sometimes, to demonstrate this difference, when flying with a non-pilot in a Warrior I’ll have them work the flap lever while we’re motionless on the ground, then have them put in the first notch of flaps in the early phase of the landing. They never fail to comment on the difference in effort required. It gives you a real sense that there is something out there, something that can actually hold you up off the ground.
But when your airspeed drops below a critical level the magic goes away. When the headwind drops, your airspeed does likewise and if you’ve misjudged your “gust-factor”…well, it’s not a comfortable feeling.
There are two main sources of vibration in flight - the engine/prop and the airstream. If your airspeed drops the engine is still busy but the airframe is less so. There’s a perception of things becoming still. The sound level drops because the air isn’t rushing by you so fast, and this is even more noticable on final approach because the engine is usually at idle and as quiet as it ever gets while still running. You can work the controls all you want, but there’s nothing pushing back against them.
That’s about when the falling sensation kicks in.
Falling out of the sky is a rare thing for airplanes, but it’s something every pilot fears at the back of his/her mind. You’re a damn fool if you don’t fear that sort of thing. I’m not talking about a dive, or controlled aerobatic manuvers - that’s not falling, that’s just another sort of flying. “Falling” is an uncontrolled surrender to gravity, and it can hurt you bad.
The one thing you don’t do that low to the ground is pull back on the stick - low and that slow, it will only drive you into a stall, which is a Bad Thing that low to the ground. If you stall 20 or 30 feet above the ground you won’t have time to recover, you will slam into the dirt. It takes mental effort and self-discipline to not haul back on the stick.
The only thing you can do is go to full power. I’m not sure if I hit the throttle first, or J did, or we both went for it at the same time.
Then we had to wait.
It was only a second or two. A very short time. Problem was, even a short time can seem long. With the engine at full power there really wasn’t anything more to do. We were either going to hit hard or we weren’t, and there wasn’t a damn thing more we could do to improve the situation.
Damn, I hate being a passenger! I want to be in control!!!..
The airplane continued towards the runway. I was grinding my teeth, alternating tensing up and forcing myself to relax. We were starting to accelerate forward - would it be enough? Just how good were the gear struts in this thing, anyhow? I was anticipating a power-kick-to-the-tailbone-and-spine, the kind that travels all the way to the top of your skull, and it wasn’t something I was looking foward to… I was sure we’d survive the landing, but it was the sort of situation where you could be looking at a significant repair bill if things didn’t start improving in a hurry.
We descended into ground effect, and moved forward. We were still going down but the wheels just brushed the ground, they didn’t impact, and we were off again almost immediately. And both breathing a sigh of relief.
I started babbling an apology for misjudging the approach conditions, even as J started up with how much it took him by surprise, too. Well, that’s why you need to train for less than ideal conditions. Stuff happens. Good save, make it look easy, don’t tell the tourists how worried you were, you’re only allowed to sweat on body parts your passengers can’t see.
Well, OK, deep breath and relax and all that. We’re still flying. That’s the good news. And to some extent, the bad - because we have to land this thing eventually. In these conditions.
One more time around. Watch that airspeed carefully! Keep a hand ready on the throttle! Alright, bring her down, gently… gently… let’s do a wheel landing, shall we? We have lots of runway, take our time… there, it just slid onto the ground, pretty as you please. Keep working those rudders, you aren’t done yet. Another burst of headwind almost but not quit lifted us off the runway again, then the sky finally let go of us and we were fully on the ground. Ah! That’s a relief!
Taxiing in gusts was a little bit of fun as well. I was tired but it was no time to let my concentration wander. Your feet are steering the airplane, but in wind you need to steer the wing as well, even on the ground. If you don’t, the upwind wing will try to lift - remember, it’s air going over the wing that generates lift, and the wing doesn’t care if that moving air is from the engine and prop pulling you forward or from wing pushing on you. Even in a tricyle gear airplane this tendency towards flight can get you in trouble - it’s rare, but it is possible for a strong gust to flip a small airplane entirely over (Me, I try to keep to my knitting on days like that, rather than aviation). In a tailwheel airplane it’s worse - they’re just not as stable on the ground and they want to swing around like a weathervane. I may be put-putting along in a straight and seemingly calm line on a gusty day, but inside the cockpit I might, in fact, be pretty busy between working the rudders and stick. The airplane is ambling along, all peaceful and calm, and I’m inside doing something that looks like a cross between disco and epilepsy. Well, alright, not that extreme, but you get the idea.
Got the Citabria back to the hangar and put it away. Did the usual logbook entries and had a brief chat about the flight. It was the usual what went right, what went wrong, and what to think about for next time. There was a “next time” schedule for the following week, but also the understanding that unless conditions were suitable for what I needed to work on it wouldn’t happen. One thing I like about this place - they do understand that my funds aren’t unlimited.
In actual fact, it would be four weeks before I returned… but that’s another story.