We're pottering along in Cessna 051, 2,000' above the darkness of a quiet Central Valley night, on a wide downwind vector for the ILS back into Stockton (KSCK). A few minutes earlier we'd gone missed as planned on the KSCK RNAV 29R approach after a nice stop-and-go, the first of a projected four or five approaches to get me IFR current (and proficient) again. We're discussing John's new bluetooth GPS for his iPad (which he's brought along and is showing me how it works in real-world use), waiting for another vector back towards the localiser. We're also (of course) idly listening with one ear to NorCal Approach's frequency, when — out of nowhere — a voice we connect with a certain semi-local bizjet we'd heard earlier on-frequency pipes up and asks in a rather faux innocent tone something like "so when did you guys [ATC] start saying 'tree' and 'fife' for 'three' and 'five'? It sounds really funny to me" (yes, our controller's been saying 'tree' and 'fife' quite by the book all the while).
Argh, I think. Not this again — they've been saying it that way for years now, especially the newer controllers (and it's even in the AIM) — where's this guy been all that time? Or is he just trying to be funny? The controller responds with a fairly non-committal answer along the lines of "that's the way we're supposed to say it now", and the other guy persists with several lines about how silly it sounds; and, several times, we can hear the controller's increasingly "I-don't-really-want-to-be-having-this-conversation" responses coming back between the calls to other planes for real stuff.
Just as I'm snidely remarking to John that hell, that's the way we in large parts of UnAmerica have been saying it for a while now, and what's with all the Good Ole Boys in America coming out of the woodwork and complaining about it, a new voice pipes up on frequency — a (much) older no-nonsense voice (I'd almost swear it's Lou except the voice isn't quite his) that simply points out that 'tree' has been the way it's been for a long time, and what's to complain about? (and, implicitly, "get with the program!"). So much for stereotypes. I'm tempted to add my own accented voice to the conversation (something along the lines of "bloody whingeing yanks!" :-)), but, as I've complained about in the past, my accent really marks me out on air, and I'd never get away with it ("Cessna 051! That was you, wasn't it?! Expect to hold at JOTLY for 35 minutes!"). And, in any case, as John reminds me, "American" is actually now one of my (several) nationalities, so who am I to complain?! Humph. The controller tries to end it all by handing the original complainer off to the next sector, but the pilot on the other end can't help getting in a parting shot that (I guess) was intended to be humorous, but just comes off as lamely missing the point (again). We plod on in the darkness over the Central Valley, marveling at the state of radiophonic discourse and aviation standards-keeping, waiting for that vector….
A few seconds later it comes, and we head off towards the localiser, my brain back in approach mode. I hand fly the ILS (under the hood) steadily down to 150' with John watching like a hawk in the right seat — not bad for a flight that started out with me feeling very rusty indeed. It surely helps that the wind's fairly constant (a quartering tailwind right down to the ground) and the traffic's nonexistent.
We go missed again, and back with NorCal we ask for and get full pilot nav for the Tracy (KTCY) RNAV 26 approach, starting at our current position with OMWAP as the IAF, and including the course reversal hold. This goes well (with the G1000 steering us around the hold), and John gets to do the landing after I look up at the MDA. About the only interesting thing about this approach is the use of waypoint names like "OMWAP" or "IVABE"; John and I argue about how the latter should be pronounced, and the controller avoids using it at all. Back with NorCal on the missed we head back to Oakland for the ILS 27R.
Somewhere close to GROVE for the localiser we start hearing a non-stop string of approach clearances, vectors for traffic, and ATC instructions on air, and just as I'm remarking to John about how it's suddenly a zoo out there, we get a square 360 for traffic on the ILS — traffic we can see on the G1000's TIS as several white diamonds converging on the localiser in an interesting-looking cluster. Par for the course for Oakland, I guess, but I enjoy this sort of thing, and I'm usually happy to go a long way out of my way for faster traffic and to make the controller's life easier (it's all flying, dammit, and it's always good IFR flying exercise). By the time we're back on vectors for the localiser and cleared for the ILS, there's only one plane competing with us for the approach, an Amflight Navajo bearing down on us from a dozen miles behind us Out There somewhere beyond our TIS display.
The ILS is an approach I know like the back of my hand — an approach I nearly botch in the last few moments as I'm hand-flying under the cone of stupidity and John casually suggests setting the flaps in a specific way that combines a momentary throttling back with flap deployment (nothing tricky, just done in a way I don't normally do). I make the mistake of thinking about it and then doing it, which puts me dot or two to the left and a dot low on the ILS before I recover — I should have just ignored John or done it by instinct, I guess. Still, no one dies as a result of my over-thinking, and the landing is a success.
We taxi to the Business Jet Center for fuel, and discover it's a bit of a zoo as well — a CHP helicopter, a King Air, and an anonymous and expensive Gulfstream, or Challenger or whatever are all departing from in front of Business Jets simultaneously, and we make damn sure Cessna 051's out of the way and has its control locks in. I stand outside on the ramp for a minute in the thick of things watching the CHP helicopter depart sideways to avoid hitting 051 and the business jet, and the noise of all three aircraft in the night is astonishing — the sort of thing you usually either love or hate (you can probably guess which applies to me).
After hangaring 051 John signs my logbook, and I'm IFR current again. What matters at least as much, of course, is whether I'm proficient as well, but after a bunch of hand-flown approaches and similar exercises, I don't feel too bad.
February 11, 2011
February 02, 2011
The Workout
There's been an unusually cold, dry, and gusty northeasterly wind all day, and I suspect there'll be turbulence out over the hills as a result, but by the time I get to Oakland Flyers it's calm and clear. And dark — it's going to be a long evening's work with John to get club- and landings-current again, and get the BFR flying stuff out of the way (if I can). Oh, and to get proficient again, even if just for the basic VFR stuff; I'll leave the heavier IFR stuff for next time. At least this time I'm feeling fine, and despite the earlier wind there's not even a Center Advisory threatening severe turbulence to rough things up in annoying ways, just a bunch of the usual obstruction and airspace NOTAMs littering DUATS when I looked at it.
I preflight Cessna 051 in the dark, managing to bruise and cut my hand (again) on the hangar door. I don't really have any detailed idea of what John's got in mind for tonight's flight, but the whole point of this evening for me is not to plan beyond making damn sure there are no TFR's in the way or that I don't do anything stupid, and that I keep ahead of the plane.
And so it goes — the usual menageries of departure and power-off stalls, slow flight, precision flying, unusual attitude recovery (there has to be a punchline there somewhere), steep turns, etc., bits of it done under the hood, most of it out over San Pablo Bay. In general, I don't do too badly, and I quite enjoy this sort of stick-and-rudder workout — stuff I don't get to do very much nowadays.
On the first of the unusual attitude recovery exercises I look up when John tells me to and see a very dim and monochromatic G1000 display in front of me and unthinkingly use it to recover rather than the reverted right-side MFD or the backup steam gauges. I feel kinda dumb (I'd just assumed John had turned it down to almost invisibility to make the exercise a little harder; I guess I wasn't smart enough to work out what was really happening), so we do it twice more, once with the steam gauges, once with the reverted right-hand screen. No problems here, either.
After a while John springs a surprise on me by getting me to do the KAPC (Napa) LOC RWY 36L under the hood. I don't feel prepared for this at all — I generally like to internalise likely approaches on the ground before I do them in the air, and I don't have the plates handy (they're in the bottom of my flight bag somewhere). Never mind — John hands me his iPad with the approach plate loaded, and I use it to get us onto the ground successfully, if a little roughly in the last segment or so of the approach (my flying at this point of the approach is what in Australia we used to call "agricultural"). In any case, it's not like I've never flown this approach before…. The iPad certainly fits easily into my approach to approaches (with a couple of minor irritations), and if I weren't putting off buying an iPad until the iPad 2 comes out (at least), I'd already have one. Oh well, can't have everything.
We head back to Oakland for another practice approach followed by some landing practice, a bunch of stop-and-goes on 27L in various configurations and a couple of nice swooping short approaches (I love these…). John gets a nice short field landing and take off in there somewhere, and, overall, I feel OK with my performance.
Back in the clubhouse John signs me off for the BFR, and I guess I'm legal for another two years.
* * *
Before we clamber into Cessna 051, I mention to John that I'm idly thinking of buying new headsets — my old Lightspeeds are getting pretty ratty, and I need another headset in any case for visitors and passengers (I have some friends from Australia visiting in March who'll want to fly). John happens to have a spare set of Lightspeed Zulu's in his car, and I end up borrowing them for the flight (thanks John!). Not bad, not bad at all — both more comfortable and better-sounding than my old Lightspeeds; I may have to invest a bit of money in the next few weeks on some new headsets. Or not — it's not like I fly enough to really need anything much better than my clunky old passive (and very sturdy) Dave Clarks that my passengers usually get to use nowadays.
I preflight Cessna 051 in the dark, managing to bruise and cut my hand (again) on the hangar door. I don't really have any detailed idea of what John's got in mind for tonight's flight, but the whole point of this evening for me is not to plan beyond making damn sure there are no TFR's in the way or that I don't do anything stupid, and that I keep ahead of the plane.
And so it goes — the usual menageries of departure and power-off stalls, slow flight, precision flying, unusual attitude recovery (there has to be a punchline there somewhere), steep turns, etc., bits of it done under the hood, most of it out over San Pablo Bay. In general, I don't do too badly, and I quite enjoy this sort of stick-and-rudder workout — stuff I don't get to do very much nowadays.
On the first of the unusual attitude recovery exercises I look up when John tells me to and see a very dim and monochromatic G1000 display in front of me and unthinkingly use it to recover rather than the reverted right-side MFD or the backup steam gauges. I feel kinda dumb (I'd just assumed John had turned it down to almost invisibility to make the exercise a little harder; I guess I wasn't smart enough to work out what was really happening), so we do it twice more, once with the steam gauges, once with the reverted right-hand screen. No problems here, either.
After a while John springs a surprise on me by getting me to do the KAPC (Napa) LOC RWY 36L under the hood. I don't feel prepared for this at all — I generally like to internalise likely approaches on the ground before I do them in the air, and I don't have the plates handy (they're in the bottom of my flight bag somewhere). Never mind — John hands me his iPad with the approach plate loaded, and I use it to get us onto the ground successfully, if a little roughly in the last segment or so of the approach (my flying at this point of the approach is what in Australia we used to call "agricultural"). In any case, it's not like I've never flown this approach before…. The iPad certainly fits easily into my approach to approaches (with a couple of minor irritations), and if I weren't putting off buying an iPad until the iPad 2 comes out (at least), I'd already have one. Oh well, can't have everything.
We head back to Oakland for another practice approach followed by some landing practice, a bunch of stop-and-goes on 27L in various configurations and a couple of nice swooping short approaches (I love these…). John gets a nice short field landing and take off in there somewhere, and, overall, I feel OK with my performance.
Back in the clubhouse John signs me off for the BFR, and I guess I'm legal for another two years.
* * *
Before we clamber into Cessna 051, I mention to John that I'm idly thinking of buying new headsets — my old Lightspeeds are getting pretty ratty, and I need another headset in any case for visitors and passengers (I have some friends from Australia visiting in March who'll want to fly). John happens to have a spare set of Lightspeed Zulu's in his car, and I end up borrowing them for the flight (thanks John!). Not bad, not bad at all — both more comfortable and better-sounding than my old Lightspeeds; I may have to invest a bit of money in the next few weeks on some new headsets. Or not — it's not like I fly enough to really need anything much better than my clunky old passive (and very sturdy) Dave Clarks that my passengers usually get to use nowadays.
January 25, 2011
The BFR, Part 1
I've flown more than I've let on in this blog in the past few months, but not much — bad weather, vacation, and the pressures of a real-world job have combined to keep me out of the cockpit for a lot longer than I'd like. So I look forward to today as a chance to do a bunch of things: first and foremost, ensure that I still remember what all those things on the displays on the front panel are trying to tell me (and what to do when they tell me something Interesting); to get club-current again; extend my landing currency (it's not expired yet, but it's getting close, and I could do with some serious landing practice); to get instrument current again (a few approaches and holds will probably do — I'm not really that un-current as far as IFR goes); and then (maybe) get the whole biennial flight review (BFR) thing rolling again. It's been a little under two years since my last one; I need to get it out of the way again before the end of February. I book a long session for this evening with John to try to get as much done as I can.
So, a lot on my plate. It's not helped by the Center Weather Advisory for severe turbulence issued for the Oakland area mid-afternoon a few hours before I'm due to fly, nor by the self-imposed deadline I had at work of getting a particular bit of tech stuff working properly by 17.00 today. Which I do, but when I get home to prepare for the flight, I realise I'm exhausted — I'd worked until very late last night and got up very early (for me, at least) this morning. I recheck the weather and NOTAMs, etc., with DUATS — the center advisory is still there — then grab some food. I'm still exhausted (what did I expect?). I wander out to the car and drive to the airport (Oakland, KOAK). On the way there I realize it's not going to magically get better — I probably shouldn't fly this evening. I certainly wouldn't fly with passengers or on my own; I could probably get away with it with an instructor on board, but I don't like doing that sort of thing. Maybe I can salvage something from it; we shall see. Mostly, I don't want to have wasted John's time by dragging him out to Oakland just to have me cancel on him (his drive to the airport's a lot longer than mine; I could easily walk there if I had to…).
John's already at Oakland Flyers when I get there, and I immediately tell him the situation — I think I'm too damn tired to fly properly this evening, especially with that center weather advisory still current (not that I actually believe it's as bad as reported, especially later in the day when the offshore winds have died down, but it's yet another factor in the decision making). He's good about it all, and suggests we do the non-flying bits of the BFR instead. I knew he was going to say this as soon as I walked through the door — and I know I haven't really studied for it or done the required reading in enough detail to be confident of getting through it. I've done a bit of preliminary reading, but digesting the whole FAR/AIM thing in an hour or two isn't my kind of thing, and I'm not particularly confident I won't make a fool of myself. I tell John all this, and he just suggests we do it anyway — it really isn't all that hard, and hell, if I really do screw up, I can do it again when I actually expected to do it.
So for the next ninety minutes or so we sit there in the club's luxurious space (ha!) while I try to answer a bunch of questions about charts, Part 91 legalities, airspaces and clearances, decision making, weather — all the stuff you're supposed to know. In the end I don't do too badly — I have to bluff a bit with some of the VFR chart stuff (I'm sadly more used to IFR charts nowadays, and ATC is usually responsible for my airspace usage or avoidance) and some of the answers to the more obscure stuff just seem to well up out of my subconscious — and I pass, or at least satisfy John that I'm good for another two years of flying, at least from the legal and knowledge point of view. Shame about the actual flying bits though — I guess I'll have to wait till next week or the week after that to get back in the air, get current, get at least half-way proficient, and (hopefully) complete the BFR. We shall see….
So, a lot on my plate. It's not helped by the Center Weather Advisory for severe turbulence issued for the Oakland area mid-afternoon a few hours before I'm due to fly, nor by the self-imposed deadline I had at work of getting a particular bit of tech stuff working properly by 17.00 today. Which I do, but when I get home to prepare for the flight, I realise I'm exhausted — I'd worked until very late last night and got up very early (for me, at least) this morning. I recheck the weather and NOTAMs, etc., with DUATS — the center advisory is still there — then grab some food. I'm still exhausted (what did I expect?). I wander out to the car and drive to the airport (Oakland, KOAK). On the way there I realize it's not going to magically get better — I probably shouldn't fly this evening. I certainly wouldn't fly with passengers or on my own; I could probably get away with it with an instructor on board, but I don't like doing that sort of thing. Maybe I can salvage something from it; we shall see. Mostly, I don't want to have wasted John's time by dragging him out to Oakland just to have me cancel on him (his drive to the airport's a lot longer than mine; I could easily walk there if I had to…).
John's already at Oakland Flyers when I get there, and I immediately tell him the situation — I think I'm too damn tired to fly properly this evening, especially with that center weather advisory still current (not that I actually believe it's as bad as reported, especially later in the day when the offshore winds have died down, but it's yet another factor in the decision making). He's good about it all, and suggests we do the non-flying bits of the BFR instead. I knew he was going to say this as soon as I walked through the door — and I know I haven't really studied for it or done the required reading in enough detail to be confident of getting through it. I've done a bit of preliminary reading, but digesting the whole FAR/AIM thing in an hour or two isn't my kind of thing, and I'm not particularly confident I won't make a fool of myself. I tell John all this, and he just suggests we do it anyway — it really isn't all that hard, and hell, if I really do screw up, I can do it again when I actually expected to do it.
So for the next ninety minutes or so we sit there in the club's luxurious space (ha!) while I try to answer a bunch of questions about charts, Part 91 legalities, airspaces and clearances, decision making, weather — all the stuff you're supposed to know. In the end I don't do too badly — I have to bluff a bit with some of the VFR chart stuff (I'm sadly more used to IFR charts nowadays, and ATC is usually responsible for my airspace usage or avoidance) and some of the answers to the more obscure stuff just seem to well up out of my subconscious — and I pass, or at least satisfy John that I'm good for another two years of flying, at least from the legal and knowledge point of view. Shame about the actual flying bits though — I guess I'll have to wait till next week or the week after that to get back in the air, get current, get at least half-way proficient, and (hopefully) complete the BFR. We shall see….
October 31, 2010
Out Of Context
As penance for being such a slacker that I still haven't gotten around to writing up my last few flights here, here's a very recent photo of me in the right seat for once, probably ordering the flight engineer to restart that bloody number three engine immediately or he's being sent straight back to the galleys (flight engineers seem to get younger every day). Locals (and a few others) will probably know where this was (and what sort of plane it is)….
More real entries later.
September 25, 2010
Hot And High
It's another hot Central Valley day out there; this time, though, I'm in the right seat as safety pilot for Evan. He's under the hood as we approach Linden VOR (LIN) for the VOR/DME RWY 1 approach into Westover Field / Amador County Airport (KJAQ, a.k.a. "Jackson"). I briefly look over the approach plate and make fun of Evan for picking what looks like the easiest approach in the state. About the only thing that's even mildly interesting about it is the note that says use Sacramento Executive's altimeter setting if you can't get the local one — but KSAC's something like 35 miles away and in a different sort of physical environment altogether. I guess the 300' MDA penalty takes care of that, but in any case we've got the local AWOS on COM 2 and it's not just giving us the altimeter settings and all the usual boring stuff about wind and ceilings, etc., it's giving us the local FBO's Avgas and Jet-A prices! And damn they're cheap, at least compared to home (Oakland, KOAK) or a lot of other places in the area. Pity we don't need fuel.
We get to Linden VOR and turn to the final approach course. It's hot dry country down there, shimmering golden-brown Sierra foothills studded with green oaks and the occasional man-made lake or reservoir under the relentless California sun. Classic gold rush country. We've been cleared for the practice approach some time ago, and we're turned over to CTAF quite early. It's the usual Central Valley mass of incoherent, inconsistent, or hapless calls and stepped-on transmissions from the usual distant suspects like Gnoss (KDVO) and Tracy (KTCY) and much (much) further away, but there's no sign of anyone on air at Jackson itself. We potter on along the approach course at a steady 3,000' MSL, past the LIN 8 DME fix and towards the LIN 15 DME fix. We both think it's kinda quaint (or at least unusual) to be doing a VOR approach, let alone one without a GPS overlay (I was kinda surprised to see it existed at all when Evan mentioned that'd be the approach we'd do). There's no doubt that this is a straightforward approach, even if it's a VOR approach — in fact it's one of those approaches without even a published procedure turn, and whose missed approach notes just basically tell you to turn around and backtrack twenty-something nautical miles to Linden VOR, at which point … well, what? That's where the missed instructions end.
I can see the runway from about five miles out, and we debate whether to do a circling approach to runway 19 or a straight in to runway 1. The AWOS claims a very mild wind favouring runway 1, but we actually have a slight tailwind at 3,000'. We decide on the straight in, especially since the runway's long enough that even if the density altitude is fairly high and there's a 2 knot tailwind, we'll be fine. Evan makes a few calls on CTAF, but all we hear is the staticky squeally babble from far away, and we potter on. Past the LIN 15 DME fix the runway and airport environment get clearer — the runway basically sags in the middle and it seems to be sitting on a small semi-wooded hill. Nothing terribly unusual for the California foothills, but you never know — a deer might dart out from nowhere or the hot wind might suddenly start gusting something terrible at ground level.
As we get closer I notice that Evan is still going along at 3,000'; my instincts tell me we need to start lower now, and I hint at the issue over the intercom. Nothing worrying, at least not yet, but that airport environment down there looks a little unforgiving if — like me, and like Evan — you've never even seen the place before, let along landed there. Evan's OK with the current altitude, and we potter on; the weather's hot as hell even up here, but there's really no wind at all. Still no one else on CTAF or (as far as I can see) in the pattern. A minute later we're still too high in my judgment, and this time I let Evan know a bit more forcefully. Still nothing too worrisome, but Evan mutters something and points the nose down while cutting back on the power.
We start descending, but maybe not enough — within another mile or so I tell Evan we're still high; he says he's working on it. We're bang on laterally — it's just the altitude that's off. We both notice simultaneously that the tailwind has strengthened quite a lot in the last few miles, and Evan again considers circling. I obsess more and more about the altitude, and say so out loud again. We approach at quite a high rate of speed, the runway looking more and more scary as we get closer. Evan starts counting the altitude down in hundreds; I start thinking we're going to have to go missed, but I stay quiet this time. At the MDA, Evan looks up — and swears. Yes, we're way high, very fast across the ground, and it's even hotter down here than either of us had expected. And the runway's almost beneath us. It takes Evan about a second to decide to go around and go missed, and we do what amounts to a low approach over the runway at full power, climbing in the heat, and announcing our broad intentions on CTAF. Good move, I say to Evan. He gets the plane re-trimmed and pointing in the right direction, then says he just hadn't realized how fast we'd been going across the ground (ATIS was no help here), and how much quicker he'd needed to descend. Hot and high, and no way he was going to land on a small unfamiliar hilly runway with a tailwind in this heat.
We go back to NorCal for our next destination. Not for the first time, I guess, I jinxed an approach by making fun of it; but this was definitely one of the few times I've been involved in a real unplanned missed approach. Quite a lesson.
* * *
The rest of the flight's another lesson — mostly in how to cope with the heat and glare of the Central Valley and at Mather (KMHR) after a perfect approach and landing there by Evan, and in trying to decipher ATC's true intentions on the way back into Oakland. At one stage on vectors for the practice ILS approach into Oakland in the left seat I get a string of conflicting and inconsistent altitude assignments (in quick succession, something like "maintain 4,000", "descend maintain 3,000", "at or above 3,000", "at or below 3,500", etc. — all altitudes quite unusual in my experience for where we are at the time), and, inevitably, a few minutes later by "83Y, what's your assigned altitude?". I have the immediate IFR pilot's reaction to this — horror that I've busted an altitude somewhere — but for once it's not a controller hint, it's a case of (I suspect) a controller getting his wires crossed and thinking we're someone else (also, we're actually VFR in Class E airspace at that point, but still…).
Back on the ground at Oakland, the Texas Rangers 757 is parked near Kaiser next to the old Alaska hangar; I guess it's here for the North American Men's Baseball Championships (a.k.a. "The World Series"). It's looking sleek and expensive there in the sun. Later, 83Y's hangar is shady but still hot, and we struggle to clean all the million or so squashed bugs off the leading edges (an inevitable part of flying above the Central Valley) and generally tidy things up. Evan's still wondering about the missed approach (a go-around, really), but there's not a lot to wonder about: he got it right in the bigger picture, and if the tailwind was a lot stronger than forecast or as observed on the ground, well, there are an awful lot worse things to do than going around when you look up at the MDA and don't see the runway where you think you should….
We get to Linden VOR and turn to the final approach course. It's hot dry country down there, shimmering golden-brown Sierra foothills studded with green oaks and the occasional man-made lake or reservoir under the relentless California sun. Classic gold rush country. We've been cleared for the practice approach some time ago, and we're turned over to CTAF quite early. It's the usual Central Valley mass of incoherent, inconsistent, or hapless calls and stepped-on transmissions from the usual distant suspects like Gnoss (KDVO) and Tracy (KTCY) and much (much) further away, but there's no sign of anyone on air at Jackson itself. We potter on along the approach course at a steady 3,000' MSL, past the LIN 8 DME fix and towards the LIN 15 DME fix. We both think it's kinda quaint (or at least unusual) to be doing a VOR approach, let alone one without a GPS overlay (I was kinda surprised to see it existed at all when Evan mentioned that'd be the approach we'd do). There's no doubt that this is a straightforward approach, even if it's a VOR approach — in fact it's one of those approaches without even a published procedure turn, and whose missed approach notes just basically tell you to turn around and backtrack twenty-something nautical miles to Linden VOR, at which point … well, what? That's where the missed instructions end.
I can see the runway from about five miles out, and we debate whether to do a circling approach to runway 19 or a straight in to runway 1. The AWOS claims a very mild wind favouring runway 1, but we actually have a slight tailwind at 3,000'. We decide on the straight in, especially since the runway's long enough that even if the density altitude is fairly high and there's a 2 knot tailwind, we'll be fine. Evan makes a few calls on CTAF, but all we hear is the staticky squeally babble from far away, and we potter on. Past the LIN 15 DME fix the runway and airport environment get clearer — the runway basically sags in the middle and it seems to be sitting on a small semi-wooded hill. Nothing terribly unusual for the California foothills, but you never know — a deer might dart out from nowhere or the hot wind might suddenly start gusting something terrible at ground level.
As we get closer I notice that Evan is still going along at 3,000'; my instincts tell me we need to start lower now, and I hint at the issue over the intercom. Nothing worrying, at least not yet, but that airport environment down there looks a little unforgiving if — like me, and like Evan — you've never even seen the place before, let along landed there. Evan's OK with the current altitude, and we potter on; the weather's hot as hell even up here, but there's really no wind at all. Still no one else on CTAF or (as far as I can see) in the pattern. A minute later we're still too high in my judgment, and this time I let Evan know a bit more forcefully. Still nothing too worrisome, but Evan mutters something and points the nose down while cutting back on the power.
We start descending, but maybe not enough — within another mile or so I tell Evan we're still high; he says he's working on it. We're bang on laterally — it's just the altitude that's off. We both notice simultaneously that the tailwind has strengthened quite a lot in the last few miles, and Evan again considers circling. I obsess more and more about the altitude, and say so out loud again. We approach at quite a high rate of speed, the runway looking more and more scary as we get closer. Evan starts counting the altitude down in hundreds; I start thinking we're going to have to go missed, but I stay quiet this time. At the MDA, Evan looks up — and swears. Yes, we're way high, very fast across the ground, and it's even hotter down here than either of us had expected. And the runway's almost beneath us. It takes Evan about a second to decide to go around and go missed, and we do what amounts to a low approach over the runway at full power, climbing in the heat, and announcing our broad intentions on CTAF. Good move, I say to Evan. He gets the plane re-trimmed and pointing in the right direction, then says he just hadn't realized how fast we'd been going across the ground (ATIS was no help here), and how much quicker he'd needed to descend. Hot and high, and no way he was going to land on a small unfamiliar hilly runway with a tailwind in this heat.
We go back to NorCal for our next destination. Not for the first time, I guess, I jinxed an approach by making fun of it; but this was definitely one of the few times I've been involved in a real unplanned missed approach. Quite a lesson.
* * *
The rest of the flight's another lesson — mostly in how to cope with the heat and glare of the Central Valley and at Mather (KMHR) after a perfect approach and landing there by Evan, and in trying to decipher ATC's true intentions on the way back into Oakland. At one stage on vectors for the practice ILS approach into Oakland in the left seat I get a string of conflicting and inconsistent altitude assignments (in quick succession, something like "maintain 4,000", "descend maintain 3,000", "at or above 3,000", "at or below 3,500", etc. — all altitudes quite unusual in my experience for where we are at the time), and, inevitably, a few minutes later by "83Y, what's your assigned altitude?". I have the immediate IFR pilot's reaction to this — horror that I've busted an altitude somewhere — but for once it's not a controller hint, it's a case of (I suspect) a controller getting his wires crossed and thinking we're someone else (also, we're actually VFR in Class E airspace at that point, but still…).
Back on the ground at Oakland, the Texas Rangers 757 is parked near Kaiser next to the old Alaska hangar; I guess it's here for the North American Men's Baseball Championships (a.k.a. "The World Series"). It's looking sleek and expensive there in the sun. Later, 83Y's hangar is shady but still hot, and we struggle to clean all the million or so squashed bugs off the leading edges (an inevitable part of flying above the Central Valley) and generally tidy things up. Evan's still wondering about the missed approach (a go-around, really), but there's not a lot to wonder about: he got it right in the bigger picture, and if the tailwind was a lot stronger than forecast or as observed on the ground, well, there are an awful lot worse things to do than going around when you look up at the MDA and don't see the runway where you think you should….
September 09, 2010
Not A Good Sign
There's a large column of smoke rising up in front of us somewhere in the distance across the Bay as we drive through Alameda. We're heading towards Oakland Airport (KOAK) for a short VFR fun flight; my passengers are N. (a colleague from work) and his girlfriend C., neither of whom have flown in small aeroplanes before (they're English (and I'm mostly British, dammit) so it's spelt that way just this once). At this stage and from this distance it looks like someone's burning industrial trash or something, or it's a brush fire in the hills, but I can't help mordantly joking it's probably a plane gone off the end of the runway at San Francisco (it's that British sense of humour, I guess). A few minutes later it's looking pretty serious; it's rising up a couple of thousand feet and spreading horizontally maybe a couple of miles at the top of the usual inversion. It's dark brown, and looks menacing and sinister. I start thinking it may actually be a plane crash — from here the smoke looks to be rising from just under the departure end of KSFO. Not a good sign. My passengers make nervous jokes about it; I point out that we see columns of smoke like that a fair bit around here, and that it's probably a small brush fire. These things happen in California.
We can't see the smoke from the ground while preflighting and running up the plane at Oakland, and basically forget about it. A local pilot's pushing his 182 back into one of the neighboring hangars, and we talk a while with him — he's just back from Burning Man and spent hours washing the plane trying to get the alkali salts and dust off the exterior (I don't envy him that job — one of the clubs I used to belong to basically banned their planes from going to Burning Man because of the dust, which clings tenaciously and corrodes very quickly…). N. and C. learn about the basics of clambering into and back out of our little 172, and how to use the intercom and headsets, and seem fine with the idea of trusting their lives to me and the plane. I think (like me) they're both nerds enough to be impressed by the G1000 system and the way it all works together. We get in, talk to Ground, request the Bay Tour, and take off after the runup off runway 27R. And there it is again — much larger this time, and looming over the area south of San Francisco (South City or San Bruno(ish)), with clearly visible flames at the base. It's not in an industrial neighborhood, so it's probably some sort of major house fire or something. I can't shake the idea that it's a plane gone in off KSFO — it's in just the right place for an errant departure or arrival.
Immediately we're switched to NorCal from Oakland Tower someone on-air asks the controller what the hell that smoke is — the controller responds with something about a burst gas main, and it all seems a lot less worrisome as we potter on towards the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz, Angel Island, the Golden Gate, etc., in perfect California weather. If it weren't for the periodic requests on air by planes coming on-frequency for information about the spreading smoke and flames, we'd probably forget the thing — there's just too much to see elsewhere, and my passengers are enjoying the view.
We circle the Golden Gate a couple of times, then head off towards Napa (KAPC) so we can swap seats — N.'s done his bit of flying and now C. wants to sit in the front. The landing at Napa's fun — it's getting dark and it's Just Another Boring Bay Area Sunset all around us — and Napa's empty and quiet. We stop at the runup area off runway 24 and C. gets in the front. We depart 24 out towards San Pablo Bay, and once we've departed Napa's airspace I let C. fly for maybe fifteen minutes. She enjoys it (more so than N.), and we do a bunch of turns and mild maneuvers in the darkness over the bay as she gets the feel for it all. She seems to enjoy this a lot, but we have to return to Oakland after about twenty minutes. I take the plane back and call NorCal.
And sure enough, within a minute, someone asks on-frequency what all the flames and smoke off San Francisco are all about… in the darkness, we've basically forgotten it all. We get the standard "Temple 2,5000, right downwind 27R" VFR instructions, and in the magic of flying above the lights of Richmond, Berkeley, Oakland, and other sundry places we forget it again. On final for 27R C. looks at the flashing lights and the runway lighting and says quietly "it's like a video game, isn't it…". It is. We land smoothly and taxi off to Kaiser to get fuel; over on 27L a Coast Guard helicopter is practicing lights-off short approaches and landings; there's a steady stream of light aircraft and freighters moving across the ground and in the air, visible mostly as just flashing abstract patterns. The whole airport often feels like a video game at this point. A few minutes later we're shutting down and hangaring the plane. N. and C. seem to have enjoyed the whole thing, and I got a fun VFR flight between the IFR workouts (which I don't seem to blog as much as I used to).
* * *
Hours later, back home, I can't help turning on the TV to see what the fire (which I'd mentally written off as fairly minor, if spectacular) was really all about. Not that minor at all: several deaths, large parts of a whole neighborhood up in flames. Not good news.
We can't see the smoke from the ground while preflighting and running up the plane at Oakland, and basically forget about it. A local pilot's pushing his 182 back into one of the neighboring hangars, and we talk a while with him — he's just back from Burning Man and spent hours washing the plane trying to get the alkali salts and dust off the exterior (I don't envy him that job — one of the clubs I used to belong to basically banned their planes from going to Burning Man because of the dust, which clings tenaciously and corrodes very quickly…). N. and C. learn about the basics of clambering into and back out of our little 172, and how to use the intercom and headsets, and seem fine with the idea of trusting their lives to me and the plane. I think (like me) they're both nerds enough to be impressed by the G1000 system and the way it all works together. We get in, talk to Ground, request the Bay Tour, and take off after the runup off runway 27R. And there it is again — much larger this time, and looming over the area south of San Francisco (South City or San Bruno(ish)), with clearly visible flames at the base. It's not in an industrial neighborhood, so it's probably some sort of major house fire or something. I can't shake the idea that it's a plane gone in off KSFO — it's in just the right place for an errant departure or arrival.
Immediately we're switched to NorCal from Oakland Tower someone on-air asks the controller what the hell that smoke is — the controller responds with something about a burst gas main, and it all seems a lot less worrisome as we potter on towards the Bay Bridge, Alcatraz, Angel Island, the Golden Gate, etc., in perfect California weather. If it weren't for the periodic requests on air by planes coming on-frequency for information about the spreading smoke and flames, we'd probably forget the thing — there's just too much to see elsewhere, and my passengers are enjoying the view.
We circle the Golden Gate a couple of times, then head off towards Napa (KAPC) so we can swap seats — N.'s done his bit of flying and now C. wants to sit in the front. The landing at Napa's fun — it's getting dark and it's Just Another Boring Bay Area Sunset all around us — and Napa's empty and quiet. We stop at the runup area off runway 24 and C. gets in the front. We depart 24 out towards San Pablo Bay, and once we've departed Napa's airspace I let C. fly for maybe fifteen minutes. She enjoys it (more so than N.), and we do a bunch of turns and mild maneuvers in the darkness over the bay as she gets the feel for it all. She seems to enjoy this a lot, but we have to return to Oakland after about twenty minutes. I take the plane back and call NorCal.
And sure enough, within a minute, someone asks on-frequency what all the flames and smoke off San Francisco are all about… in the darkness, we've basically forgotten it all. We get the standard "Temple 2,5000, right downwind 27R" VFR instructions, and in the magic of flying above the lights of Richmond, Berkeley, Oakland, and other sundry places we forget it again. On final for 27R C. looks at the flashing lights and the runway lighting and says quietly "it's like a video game, isn't it…". It is. We land smoothly and taxi off to Kaiser to get fuel; over on 27L a Coast Guard helicopter is practicing lights-off short approaches and landings; there's a steady stream of light aircraft and freighters moving across the ground and in the air, visible mostly as just flashing abstract patterns. The whole airport often feels like a video game at this point. A few minutes later we're shutting down and hangaring the plane. N. and C. seem to have enjoyed the whole thing, and I got a fun VFR flight between the IFR workouts (which I don't seem to blog as much as I used to).
* * *
Hours later, back home, I can't help turning on the TV to see what the fire (which I'd mentally written off as fairly minor, if spectacular) was really all about. Not that minor at all: several deaths, large parts of a whole neighborhood up in flames. Not good news.
July 18, 2010
It's Hot Out There
Like a lot of Bay Area residents, I must have driven up Interstate 80 straight through Davis — a small atypically-pleasant Central Valley town a few miles from Sacramento with a large (and rather good) campus of the University of California in it — dozens of times on my way to the Sierras or Tahoe or points further east. Similarly, I've flown over it dozens of times on my way to Sacramento Executive (KSAC) or further afield for instrument training or VFR trips away from the Bay Area; the runway's an easily-visible landmark on the way elsewhere. But amazingly (especially given the university), I've never actually stopped there, either driving or flying. So UC Davis's little Davis / University airport (KEDU) seems a natural place to go for this jaded pilot looking for a new instrument approach to shoot and a new local(ish) airport to chalk up as "done" (KEDU shouldn't be confused with KDWA, Davis / Woodland / Winters — yes, there are two closely-spaced airports with "Davis" in the name; not bad for a small town…).
Trouble is, it's hot out there — I'm a San Francisco Bay Area kind of person, and I've lived in coastal Northern California more than long enough to be kinda used to the mild dry summers here — so when I start doing my homework with DUATS and notice that the temperature out there in the Valley is already above 35C and forecast to be up towards 40C by the time we're out there, it's difficult to relate to the pleasantly sunny and breezy 20C around my neighborhood here in Oakland. I do a quick density altitude check out of curiosity: 2,900' for an airport effectively at sea level. Not that this really surprises or worries me, but it's one of those little reminders that all the world ain't Oakland, and makes me wonder what South Tahoe or Truckee would be like today. Not much fun in a normally-aspirated C172, I'll bet, with both airports up around 6,000' MSL.
That heat strikes almost immediately we leave the inner Bay Area, and by the time we're cleared direct CODRU (the KEDU RNAV RWY 17 approach IAF for our purposes), it's hot, even though we're 5,000' up. Closer in, at 2,000 for the procedure turn, it's bloody hot, and Evan H., my long-suffering safety pilot in the right seat, listens to me whinge from under the Cone of Stupidity on how dumb it was to wear my usual black jeans and dark t-shirt (so perfect for a London summer's day…) here in Aggie land rather than shorts. At least it's a dry heat, which I actually like in the right circumstances.
We do the course reversal (thanks to the G1000) and descend towards Davis, getting hotter each mile. The one thing most people remember about driving through Davis is the water tower(s), which you can see from miles away (the campus is pleasantly hidden by trees and things like that), but from the air, every damn Central Valley town has water towers (and / or grain silos, at least north of the Delta), so that's not a lot of help for VFR approaches. Evan keeps his eyes skinned for the towers, which he claims he'll recognise, which (of course) he does through the haze as we join the approach inbound. It's definitely hazy — several times we were unable to see opposing traffic Travis or NorCal called for us until they were nearly on top of us — but that haziness means the air is nicely smooth, and the rough ride I'd feared from the earlier higher winds aloft forecast and just general experience over the Valley never materialise. It's that heat that's getting irritating, and by the time we're on short final I'm sweating heavily, something I rarely do while flying. As soon as we land and turn off the runway, I open the side window. Big mistake! It's actually hotter outside, of course, than inside, and the superhot air just floods in. Oh well. I'll survive.
As for Davis airport itself, there's not much to write about. It's way too hot to stop and wander around, so we taxi back to the other end of the runway and depart immediately. Two things strike me: fuel at Davis is at least 60c cheaper per gallon than at Oakland, and the airport is dead as a doornail at a time and place you'd expect a lot of Sunday afternoon rec flying and training. We never see another plane in the pattern, nor hear anyone else on CTAF the entire time.
We escape back on the missed to Travis approach, who don't sound too busy either, but if there's been one theme on this trip so far it's the way Travis dropped the ball on (internal) hand-offs or the Travis controller doesn't seem to know where the RNAV approach course reversal starts (he asks at least twice whether we've started our procedure turn inbound yet, once before CODRU, the IAF that defines the start of the hold-in-lieu for the approach, the other time just after CODRU, when we still have some 4 nautical miles to go before turning inbound). Nothing serious, and Travis is pretty GA-friendly for a (big) USAF base, but when we get handed back to NorCal after Travis solicited from us a precis of how we're going to do the next approach (the RNAV RWY 25 into Rio Vista, O88), NorCal clearly had no idea who we were or where we were heading, let alone that we were (supposed to be) heading direct for EPPES, one of the RNAV approach's IAFs, for a full pilot nav approach. Oh well — we'll survive.
As with a previous flight a long time ago to Rio Vista, I wonder out aloud from under the hood about how to pronounce "EPPES". I've consistently pronounced it "eeps", but without any real belief that it's correct; and in my experience, controllers tend to go to great lengths to avoid directly pronouncing waypoints or intersections with weird or not-obviously-pronounceable so you don't get any clues from them either. But this time Evan points out that there used to be a restaurant chain in the area called "Eppie's", and that the fix is probably pronounced "eppies" after the chain. D'Oh! I've been here long enough that I should have known that. Live and learn, I guess.
After we let NorCal in on our apparently secret plans, the approach into Rio Vista goes well; I've done this particular approach a lot, and Rio Vista was one of the airports I did a lot of landing practice at for my original PP-ASEL; and at least here there's some traffic in the pattern.
As with the landing at Davis (and other assorted bits of the flight), Evan videos the landing at Rio Vista with his new iPhone 4 (humph! I only have a 3GS). He points it at me as I'm saying something sarcastic about Travis or controllers in general; I suspect I'll survive the ribbing if the audio ever gets out (it was probably swamped by the sound of the engine anyway). The landing itself is in the face of a steady 25 knot headwind straight down the runway, and unlike Davis, where I was a little worried about the effect of the density altitude, landing and takeoff here are brisk. But it's still hot as hell, and we escape back to NorCal and the RNAV RWY 27L approach with LPV.
It's been a GPS kind of day, quite deliberately; a good workout. Back at Oakland, the early evening temperature's dropped down well below 20C, and I have to put my sweatshirt back on. Back to normal, I guess.
Trouble is, it's hot out there — I'm a San Francisco Bay Area kind of person, and I've lived in coastal Northern California more than long enough to be kinda used to the mild dry summers here — so when I start doing my homework with DUATS and notice that the temperature out there in the Valley is already above 35C and forecast to be up towards 40C by the time we're out there, it's difficult to relate to the pleasantly sunny and breezy 20C around my neighborhood here in Oakland. I do a quick density altitude check out of curiosity: 2,900' for an airport effectively at sea level. Not that this really surprises or worries me, but it's one of those little reminders that all the world ain't Oakland, and makes me wonder what South Tahoe or Truckee would be like today. Not much fun in a normally-aspirated C172, I'll bet, with both airports up around 6,000' MSL.
That heat strikes almost immediately we leave the inner Bay Area, and by the time we're cleared direct CODRU (the KEDU RNAV RWY 17 approach IAF for our purposes), it's hot, even though we're 5,000' up. Closer in, at 2,000 for the procedure turn, it's bloody hot, and Evan H., my long-suffering safety pilot in the right seat, listens to me whinge from under the Cone of Stupidity on how dumb it was to wear my usual black jeans and dark t-shirt (so perfect for a London summer's day…) here in Aggie land rather than shorts. At least it's a dry heat, which I actually like in the right circumstances.
We do the course reversal (thanks to the G1000) and descend towards Davis, getting hotter each mile. The one thing most people remember about driving through Davis is the water tower(s), which you can see from miles away (the campus is pleasantly hidden by trees and things like that), but from the air, every damn Central Valley town has water towers (and / or grain silos, at least north of the Delta), so that's not a lot of help for VFR approaches. Evan keeps his eyes skinned for the towers, which he claims he'll recognise, which (of course) he does through the haze as we join the approach inbound. It's definitely hazy — several times we were unable to see opposing traffic Travis or NorCal called for us until they were nearly on top of us — but that haziness means the air is nicely smooth, and the rough ride I'd feared from the earlier higher winds aloft forecast and just general experience over the Valley never materialise. It's that heat that's getting irritating, and by the time we're on short final I'm sweating heavily, something I rarely do while flying. As soon as we land and turn off the runway, I open the side window. Big mistake! It's actually hotter outside, of course, than inside, and the superhot air just floods in. Oh well. I'll survive.
As for Davis airport itself, there's not much to write about. It's way too hot to stop and wander around, so we taxi back to the other end of the runway and depart immediately. Two things strike me: fuel at Davis is at least 60c cheaper per gallon than at Oakland, and the airport is dead as a doornail at a time and place you'd expect a lot of Sunday afternoon rec flying and training. We never see another plane in the pattern, nor hear anyone else on CTAF the entire time.
We escape back on the missed to Travis approach, who don't sound too busy either, but if there's been one theme on this trip so far it's the way Travis dropped the ball on (internal) hand-offs or the Travis controller doesn't seem to know where the RNAV approach course reversal starts (he asks at least twice whether we've started our procedure turn inbound yet, once before CODRU, the IAF that defines the start of the hold-in-lieu for the approach, the other time just after CODRU, when we still have some 4 nautical miles to go before turning inbound). Nothing serious, and Travis is pretty GA-friendly for a (big) USAF base, but when we get handed back to NorCal after Travis solicited from us a precis of how we're going to do the next approach (the RNAV RWY 25 into Rio Vista, O88), NorCal clearly had no idea who we were or where we were heading, let alone that we were (supposed to be) heading direct for EPPES, one of the RNAV approach's IAFs, for a full pilot nav approach. Oh well — we'll survive.
As with a previous flight a long time ago to Rio Vista, I wonder out aloud from under the hood about how to pronounce "EPPES". I've consistently pronounced it "eeps", but without any real belief that it's correct; and in my experience, controllers tend to go to great lengths to avoid directly pronouncing waypoints or intersections with weird or not-obviously-pronounceable so you don't get any clues from them either. But this time Evan points out that there used to be a restaurant chain in the area called "Eppie's", and that the fix is probably pronounced "eppies" after the chain. D'Oh! I've been here long enough that I should have known that. Live and learn, I guess.
After we let NorCal in on our apparently secret plans, the approach into Rio Vista goes well; I've done this particular approach a lot, and Rio Vista was one of the airports I did a lot of landing practice at for my original PP-ASEL; and at least here there's some traffic in the pattern.
As with the landing at Davis (and other assorted bits of the flight), Evan videos the landing at Rio Vista with his new iPhone 4 (humph! I only have a 3GS). He points it at me as I'm saying something sarcastic about Travis or controllers in general; I suspect I'll survive the ribbing if the audio ever gets out (it was probably swamped by the sound of the engine anyway). The landing itself is in the face of a steady 25 knot headwind straight down the runway, and unlike Davis, where I was a little worried about the effect of the density altitude, landing and takeoff here are brisk. But it's still hot as hell, and we escape back to NorCal and the RNAV RWY 27L approach with LPV.
It's been a GPS kind of day, quite deliberately; a good workout. Back at Oakland, the early evening temperature's dropped down well below 20C, and I have to put my sweatshirt back on. Back to normal, I guess.
June 02, 2010
I Want One Of Those!
I've been away — a long way away — almost continuously now for two months (traveling to generally promote a new obscure software product line I've helped bring to fruition), so it's time to do a club refresher to satisfy insurance rules — and to remind myself what all those things on the front panel do (actually, with the G1000, there really aren't that many things on the front panel any more, just icons of things; never mind, it's the thought that counts…). The result's a typically mixed IFR flight to Napa (KAPC) and back with John in the right seat to stop me from doing anything too stupid; in general, despite the time off, I don't do too badly, with a couple of approaches hand-flown and / or under the control of the G1000 and autopilot, and I come away from it all with a sense of mild achievement. The weather's MVFR and we actually need to file IFR in both directions, but, frustratingly, I don't get to log any real IMC as we climb over the marine layer very quickly and it hadn't quite covered Oakland (KOAK) on our return.
The highlight of the flight for me — and why I'd blog it at all — is being able to briefly use John's new iPad with his SkyCharts Pro setup for the approaches. This thing does pretty much what I'd expect it to do — what I'd want it do do — and does it well. I'd worried a bit about how distracting it might be or how irritating it might be to fly with an iPad on your lap, but it worked out well. I didn't get to play with any of the other iPad stuff — the IFR and VFR charts, Foreflight, etc. — but the approach charts alone made it worthwhile. No, I can't afford one of these for a while yet (and, unlike John, I don't make a living from flying, so I can't justify it as a tax writeoff or a tool of trade), but it's hard to see myself flying in a year or two without something like this, at least. We shall see….
The highlight of the flight for me — and why I'd blog it at all — is being able to briefly use John's new iPad with his SkyCharts Pro setup for the approaches. This thing does pretty much what I'd expect it to do — what I'd want it do do — and does it well. I'd worried a bit about how distracting it might be or how irritating it might be to fly with an iPad on your lap, but it worked out well. I didn't get to play with any of the other iPad stuff — the IFR and VFR charts, Foreflight, etc. — but the approach charts alone made it worthwhile. No, I can't afford one of these for a while yet (and, unlike John, I don't make a living from flying, so I can't justify it as a tax writeoff or a tool of trade), but it's hard to see myself flying in a year or two without something like this, at least. We shall see….
May 09, 2010
Where I Am
Yes, no flying lately (at least not with me as PIC, even though I've flown more than 50,000 km in the last few weeks), as I'm a long way from Oakland at the moment (I was even further away a week or two ago). The image above was taken by me where I am now but a couple of decades ago (1985, at least). Back in a week or two….
April 07, 2010
Very VFR
Just another short note that should have been a full post, but that's how it is when you're simultaneously rehosting a bunch of blogs and juggling a job that takes you to Australia and Britain with not a lot of notice (it sounds a lot more enjoyable and exotic than it is — for one thing, why can't they send me to places I'm not from rather than places I've spent half my life in?!).
Apart from the previously-mentioned VFR fun flight, the most memorable thing was an IFR flight to Modesto (KMOD) and back with Righter K. (again) for instrument currency purposes one evening a few weeks back. Nothing much to report on that here except that this time it wasn't Very IFR, and my flying was predictably rusty and agricultural (as that great Oz hero Richie Benaud would say). Oh well. Maybe I'll get some more flying in over the next few weeks. We shall see….
April 01, 2010
This blog has moved
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March 30, 2010
We'll Be Right Back After This Short Message…
I'm about to start some Blogger-related re-hosting work which may have the side effect that YAFB may disappear intermittently over the next week or two, or appear with bits missing, etc. So don't despair or panic if things are even less coherent or up-to-date than usual here for a while….
What fun this all is!
What fun this all is!
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