rbibb
Well Known Member
AS I get older and more reflective I realize I've had some experiences others, especially those new to the game might benefit from. This is about one of those experiences:
This is a story about lessons learned. Or more accurately one lesson learned in a manner that forever etches somewhere in the cortex an image that, from time to time is triggered by some random event and flashes again vividly in the eyes even though the original occurred over a time span greater than the interval measured by turn of the last century and that of the guns filing silent at Appomattox.
I was 16 and had recently soloed. It was some few weeks after my first solo and I had flown with my father in his airplane (I thought of it as mine, too) what I considered to be a cross country from our home base at the New London, VA dragstrip (W90) to the Smith Mountain Lake airport (W91) even though the chart still shows the distance between them to be a scant 15.7 nautical miles. We always thought of it as nineteen miles or so even rounding UP to 20 as the Champ didn?t register knots on the ASI as to do so would have further reinforced in the pilot or, if so deposited as my dad as PIC would always do, the passenger relegated to the front seat of the 7AC where a better view out the front could be enjoyed along with a unfettered look at the cork float powered fuel gauge and the creeping airspeed needle that seemed forever to hover around 80 miles per hour no matter what you did to try to increase your cruise speed.
And so we had traveled on a Saturday morning just four days after I had finally been signed off and had left terra firma with no one in thee back seat to bail me out should I let the nose stray ever too far from tracking straight as the Champ returned once again to earth. We had landed at Smith Mountain and Dad had suggested I do what all newly soled students are urged to do ? shoot some landings. It was mid July and mid July in Virginia is likely to be hot and humid even if it rare to get those sorts of scorching days of August where you regret going out and even having to breathe the humid soup that becomes the atmosphere that time of year. But this was not one of those days. It was clear as evidenced by the fairly unrestricted view of the Peaks of Otter some 20 miles or so to the west spared this day from the haze induced shroud that gives the range they are part of the moniker ?Blue Ridge? for most of the year ? especially the summer. It was, in short a perfect flying day for a new student pilot with more ignorance inspired confidence than God should allow brimming with, and unaware of, the knowledge of all he did not known.
The wind, if there was any was off the lake which the runway 22, or whatever the magnetic heading in 1972 dictated it should be designated, faced more or less into. Runway headings and such were not a big concern as I don?t recall the fairly recently paved strip (having started as a gravel or more accurately described red dirt strip only few years prior) having any runway numbers painted and if it did we didn?t care as, having no radio we didn?t concern ourselves with runway numbers only which way the windsock encouraged us to point the airplane on takeoff.
And so I taxied out and proceeded to take off and begin the repetitive drone around the airport that was to be my ritualistic exercise for a half hour to forty five minutes of learning to the point the Champ without managing to lose it off the side of the runway.
Soon I was to learn my first real lesson about how dangerous this activity can be and how the difference between feeling carefree and facing mortality can occur in the amount of time it takes a photon to circle the globe a few thousand times.
I was on downwind, a mere 5 or 600 hundred feet AGL having reached what we used as a pattern altitude just about the time when it was time to cut the throttle, hit the carb heat, and reach awkwardly above your left shoulder to the ceiling to bull the trim all the way back as you settled for a 70 mph turn to base and final approach. I had been drilled about keeping my ?head on a swivel? and not to keep it ?down in locked? at all times while flying. Words I suspect that some Air Corps instructor had offered in somewhat less than gentle terms to my father as he flew a Stearman in the depths of winter over Independence, KS back during the big one on the path to getting his wings and setting the stage for what was to become my obsession for flying this July morning.
In any event my first one, two, and three circuits went as planned. The landings were as probably to be expected not memorable either for their grease like qualities or there terror inspiring nature. The fourth would occur after a brief respite where, newly soled pilot had flown in circles above the field to calm down to the point where his hands, feet, and entire body did not tremble at the sight of an approaching runway.
All had been just so normal. I as on final ? maybe 2-300 feet AGL, Fighting to keep the airspeed nailed on 70, fighting to keep the airplane from drifting left nor right. Assuring myself that this time I would ?get the stick back stupid? as Rucker Tibbs had engrained in me before signing off for solo just 4 days prior. And then it happened. The image that periodically reappears for my eyes to recall became etched forever in my brain. I was the extended gear first ? there ? just three feet above my cockpit ? and then the rest of the Comanche ? red and white sailed past me and slide down what seemed like invisible rails for the runway which moments before had been all mine.
I reacted. Pushed the throttle in and began my go around. Couldn?t manage to keep it on a runway heading as I do recall flailing around the sky almost as a drowning man flails in the water until his energy expended succumbs to the elements. Staggering back to pattern altitude I flew in random ovals here and there somewhere in the vicinity of the airport until I decided to attempt to land. I was sure I was at fault. I was sure I would be banned from the sky. I came to appreciate just how close I, and however many were blissfully unaware in the Comanche, had almost died. I didn?t even have a driver?s license yet.
Epilog:
The Comanche had called Unicom. Had been informed about a no radio Champ in the pattern and yet had elected to come straight in. I didn?t see him largely because; once I had committed to land and began my base turn I focused on the runway. We were all lucky and I learned. I learned to ALWAYS look before making that final turn to LOOK, really really LOOK with the intention of finding that invisible airplane hidden in the ground clutter that confuses the radar that is our visual senses until you have are satisfied there are no demons lurking to overrun you on final. To this day I always look and I always remember the day I LEARNED.
This is a story about lessons learned. Or more accurately one lesson learned in a manner that forever etches somewhere in the cortex an image that, from time to time is triggered by some random event and flashes again vividly in the eyes even though the original occurred over a time span greater than the interval measured by turn of the last century and that of the guns filing silent at Appomattox.
I was 16 and had recently soloed. It was some few weeks after my first solo and I had flown with my father in his airplane (I thought of it as mine, too) what I considered to be a cross country from our home base at the New London, VA dragstrip (W90) to the Smith Mountain Lake airport (W91) even though the chart still shows the distance between them to be a scant 15.7 nautical miles. We always thought of it as nineteen miles or so even rounding UP to 20 as the Champ didn?t register knots on the ASI as to do so would have further reinforced in the pilot or, if so deposited as my dad as PIC would always do, the passenger relegated to the front seat of the 7AC where a better view out the front could be enjoyed along with a unfettered look at the cork float powered fuel gauge and the creeping airspeed needle that seemed forever to hover around 80 miles per hour no matter what you did to try to increase your cruise speed.
And so we had traveled on a Saturday morning just four days after I had finally been signed off and had left terra firma with no one in thee back seat to bail me out should I let the nose stray ever too far from tracking straight as the Champ returned once again to earth. We had landed at Smith Mountain and Dad had suggested I do what all newly soled students are urged to do ? shoot some landings. It was mid July and mid July in Virginia is likely to be hot and humid even if it rare to get those sorts of scorching days of August where you regret going out and even having to breathe the humid soup that becomes the atmosphere that time of year. But this was not one of those days. It was clear as evidenced by the fairly unrestricted view of the Peaks of Otter some 20 miles or so to the west spared this day from the haze induced shroud that gives the range they are part of the moniker ?Blue Ridge? for most of the year ? especially the summer. It was, in short a perfect flying day for a new student pilot with more ignorance inspired confidence than God should allow brimming with, and unaware of, the knowledge of all he did not known.
The wind, if there was any was off the lake which the runway 22, or whatever the magnetic heading in 1972 dictated it should be designated, faced more or less into. Runway headings and such were not a big concern as I don?t recall the fairly recently paved strip (having started as a gravel or more accurately described red dirt strip only few years prior) having any runway numbers painted and if it did we didn?t care as, having no radio we didn?t concern ourselves with runway numbers only which way the windsock encouraged us to point the airplane on takeoff.
And so I taxied out and proceeded to take off and begin the repetitive drone around the airport that was to be my ritualistic exercise for a half hour to forty five minutes of learning to the point the Champ without managing to lose it off the side of the runway.
Soon I was to learn my first real lesson about how dangerous this activity can be and how the difference between feeling carefree and facing mortality can occur in the amount of time it takes a photon to circle the globe a few thousand times.
I was on downwind, a mere 5 or 600 hundred feet AGL having reached what we used as a pattern altitude just about the time when it was time to cut the throttle, hit the carb heat, and reach awkwardly above your left shoulder to the ceiling to bull the trim all the way back as you settled for a 70 mph turn to base and final approach. I had been drilled about keeping my ?head on a swivel? and not to keep it ?down in locked? at all times while flying. Words I suspect that some Air Corps instructor had offered in somewhat less than gentle terms to my father as he flew a Stearman in the depths of winter over Independence, KS back during the big one on the path to getting his wings and setting the stage for what was to become my obsession for flying this July morning.
In any event my first one, two, and three circuits went as planned. The landings were as probably to be expected not memorable either for their grease like qualities or there terror inspiring nature. The fourth would occur after a brief respite where, newly soled pilot had flown in circles above the field to calm down to the point where his hands, feet, and entire body did not tremble at the sight of an approaching runway.
All had been just so normal. I as on final ? maybe 2-300 feet AGL, Fighting to keep the airspeed nailed on 70, fighting to keep the airplane from drifting left nor right. Assuring myself that this time I would ?get the stick back stupid? as Rucker Tibbs had engrained in me before signing off for solo just 4 days prior. And then it happened. The image that periodically reappears for my eyes to recall became etched forever in my brain. I was the extended gear first ? there ? just three feet above my cockpit ? and then the rest of the Comanche ? red and white sailed past me and slide down what seemed like invisible rails for the runway which moments before had been all mine.
I reacted. Pushed the throttle in and began my go around. Couldn?t manage to keep it on a runway heading as I do recall flailing around the sky almost as a drowning man flails in the water until his energy expended succumbs to the elements. Staggering back to pattern altitude I flew in random ovals here and there somewhere in the vicinity of the airport until I decided to attempt to land. I was sure I was at fault. I was sure I would be banned from the sky. I came to appreciate just how close I, and however many were blissfully unaware in the Comanche, had almost died. I didn?t even have a driver?s license yet.
Epilog:
The Comanche had called Unicom. Had been informed about a no radio Champ in the pattern and yet had elected to come straight in. I didn?t see him largely because; once I had committed to land and began my base turn I focused on the runway. We were all lucky and I learned. I learned to ALWAYS look before making that final turn to LOOK, really really LOOK with the intention of finding that invisible airplane hidden in the ground clutter that confuses the radar that is our visual senses until you have are satisfied there are no demons lurking to overrun you on final. To this day I always look and I always remember the day I LEARNED.
