Three years and 2.7 hours later, I’m cashing in my rain check.  No, not on a trip cancelled by solid IFR.  But on some good old point-and-shoot flying that many of you probably take for granted.

In May of 2007, with 55.9 hours in my logbook, 5 of them solo, I was closing in on a private pilot ticket at the ripe old age of 61.

I first soloed in December ’06.  However, in May of ’07, I had a personal early recession and had to give up flying for awhile.  Awhile turned out to be three years and three weeks.

In June of this year, with a new job and much higher salary, a bunch of bills mostly paid off, and the financial future looking much brighter, my thoughts naturally turned again to the skies.

Unfortunately, however, my two-year medical had expired and now at the age of 64, I was a bit cautious about going to see the doc.

While grazing the web, I discovered Atlanta Sport Flight at Fulton County Airport (KFTY), a 35-minute drive away (on a good Atlanta traffic day) and made a phone call.  And that call kicked-off a new obsession with N187SF.

I was awestruck when I first saw the CZAW SportCruiser, and impressed at how “fast” she was for an old, very-married man like me!

With all of my previous training in 152s and 172s, it was like having been infatuated with a beat-up old pickup truck and suddenly discovering a Ferrari.

In my first familiarization flight, I quickly realized her sleek lines required some gentle handling.  You don’t just jerk her into the air, you carefully caress her off the ground… in just 350 feet.

You also don’t have to wrestle her to ground on landing, hoping she doesn’t bounce or otherwise become ill-tempered.

Just ease her down and let her gently glide onto the tarmac at her own graceful pace, with tons of runway left ahead of you to do with whatever you like.

After a circuit or two in the pattern, you learn she isn’t waiting around for you.  Instead of wheezing along at 1,800 rpm on the downwind, she’s drilling holes at 4,300 rpm on the throttled-back Rotax.

My first hour of pattern work was scary.  I was behind this thoroughbred most of the way around and my landings showed it, especially with 3 years of rust.  But the second time out, we better understood each other, and the next six landings were almost pretty.

I know some of you will scoff at the Sport Pilot license.  But before you judge a man in his declining years, come sit in this glass cockpit, with low wings, and a range of 600 miles.

Just don’t sit next to me.  The extra seat is, of course, for my real obsession – my wife – who can clearly see the new twinkle in my eyes from the gift of aviation, and its second chance to make a first impression.

Article by Warren B. Causey; Send him an email & read his other posts…

• My First Solo…Twice
• Be Careful Who You Call
• Swapping Paint

Chris Archer Blogs by ABA Members, Blogs by Archer Atlanta Sport Flight, CZAW SportCruiser, Fulton County Airport, KFTY, Warren B. Causey

The following blog was written by Archer Bravo member Bruce Williams, who hopes we all learn from a flight he was lucky to walk away from…

Some friends of mine won a lottery entitling them to go on a moose hunt in a remote area on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains.  With no road access, other than some cut lines, it was important for my friends to see how they could get into the area.

On a warm day in mid October of 1983, they approached me about flying them down to “have a look” at the lay of the land, and maybe spot a moose or two.

I called a local flying club about renting a Cessna 172 for the flight, and as luck would have it, one was available.  I told them there were three passengers, and made sure the aircraft wasn’t full of fuel.  So far, things were shaping up pretty good.

I then called the weather office to make sure we wouldn’t run into any problems.  The forecast called for some clouds at 3000 feet, with a 12 knot wind from the southeast.  Nothing too challenging for me as an IFR, multi-engine rated commercial pilot.

We arrived at the airport and I added 10 gallons of fuel, bringing the tanks up to the ¾ mark, as indicated with a dipstick.  I did my usual thorough walk-around of the aircraft.

After filing a flight plan, getting everyone aboard, and giving a pre-flight briefing, I fired up the old gal.  She purred to life nicely so I taxied over to the run up area, set the brakes, and did a complete run up, following the checklist to the T.

Everything checked out.  We lined up on the runway with our take-off clearance, I applied maximum throttle to the aircraft.

I noticed that she didn’t seem to be developing full power, and kept my eye on the gauges to see if I could recognize a problem.  After a few moments the RPM’s crept up to 2450, so I relaxed a little and continued the takeoff roll.

The departure was otherwise uneventful, and we climbed to 6000 feet and headed south to the designated hunting area.  The air was smooth, and the cabin was full of excited chatter.  Little did I know what was about to happen!

About 15 miles east of the hunting area we turned up a river valley to access the zone.  I flew directly over the river valley, which put me at 1000 feet AGL.  The surrounding hilltops were level with my wings.

After traveling up the valley for a few minutes, there was a fork ahead in the river, with a mountain peak in the middle of the Y.  I started to ask my friends which direction they wanted to go, just when I noticed the RPMs had dropped off a wee bit.

I told them we might have a problem, and turned my attention to the issue.

I followed all of the procedures I had learned in flying school: checking the mixture, electrical, throttle, fuel tank selector and carb heat.

The carb heat gave me some concern.  When I pulled the lever, there was very little resistance, which in itself was rather odd, and no quick drop in RPMs, as one would expect.

The approaching mountain pulled my focus back outside, and I now had to turn.

The RPMs had continued to drop, and as a result our airspeed bled-off while I fought to maintain altitude.  Moments later, the stall warning horn started to squeak, and I knew I had to do something quickly to save the turn.

I lowered the nose and began a shallow bank to the left.  We descended perilously close to the treetops, and with the wind sinking off the ridge, we had no place to go but down.

Everything started happening fast, but I knew from experience as a bush pilot that if we were going to survive I would have to hit the trees as slowly as possible.  I reached over to drop in 10 degrees of flaps, and at that very instant my left landing gear struck a treetop.

Trees in this part of Canada are roughly 60 to 80 feet tall, and they carpet the landscape, so there was no escaping them.  I rapidly pulled my hand back from the flap lever to hold the control yoke with both hands.

It’s difficult to describe how it felt landing in the trees on the side of that mountain.  Imagine being on a carnival ride that tosses you upside down, churning at 20 times the normal speed, and you might come close to the experience I had during the last 10 seconds of our flight.

Suddenly, I found myself looking out of what used to be the front windscreen, inside of a forest.  I yelled “everyone out”, leaped through the vacant windscreen, and ran 30 feet away from the aircraft.  Then I looked back.

I saw three limp bodies in the wreckage and fuel everywhere!  Without a moment’s hesitation I turned around and ran back.  Two of my friends were awake but dazed, and the third was unconscious with a large gash in his head.  The two conscious individuals came out of the wreckage, and after a few moments of shock, one of them helped me get the last person out.

I consider myself fortunate for several reasons.  First, I survived a crash in the mountains without a single scratch on my body.  Second, everyone else survived the crash with, for the most part, nothing more than some scratches.  Third, the fuel did not ignite during the crash.  Had it done so, I would not be writing this story.

So what went wrong?

The Canadian accident investigation team, in my opinion, chose to cast blame rather than find the specific cause of the crash.  For my part, I offer the following explanation for everyone to learn from.

The above graph shows carb ice can form at just about any temperature all the way up to 105 degrees!  And the Cessna 172 uses a normally aspirated Lycoming engine, which can and does develop carb ice in the perfect circumstances.

What is missing from the chart is the ability to “know” when you are experiencing carb ice.  The standard textbook explanation is that the engine will start to run rough when carb ice is present, and yes, I have experienced this type of carb ice in the past (over Los Angles actually, on a very warm day).

However, what I learned subsequent to the crash is that an engine can run smoothly and the RPM can drop off substantially at the same time.  This is like to leaning the engine too much (as the fuel outlet port is cut off in the venturi). 

During emergency procedures I had pulled the carb heat lever out and pushed it back in relatively easily.  There was no further drop in RPMs or any roughness from ice melting in the carburetor. This leads me to believe that the carb heat linkage cable was broken prior to the crash and thus the carb heat lever was not connected to the engine.

However, that was not noted in the accident report.  And when I asked investigators if they had checked the linkage, they gave each other a puzzled look, and couldn’t recall who inspected that portion of the plane.

No.  Mother nature didn’t help.  Had the prevailing winds for that part of the country been in existence that day we likely would have had an updraft, not a downdraft, from the ridge.  And the outcome could have been totally different.

As with most accidents, these issues stacked together to create a memorable experience.  I continued flying, raised two children, and have a relatively normal life through the grace of God and a lot of good luck!

You can email Bruce at bruce.williams@telusplanet.net.

Chris Archer Blogs by ABA Members bruce williams, carb ice, cessna 172, rocky mountains

I became interested in flying at a very young age, as I watched T-38s screaming through the skies around the former Williams AFB in Mesa, Arizona. I entered AFROTC to become an F-15 jock and was a senior scheduled to go to Undergraduate Pilot Training when the Vietnam Conflict ended.

With the war over the AF had too many pilots and didn’t want to train anymore, so I was put into Air Intelligence and sent to Lowry AFB in Denver. The week after I reported for duty I joined the Base Aero Club and started learning to fly. It was just $12 per hour wet and $5 per hour for an instructor.

A few weeks after getting my license – with a total, by then, of about 50 hours – I was shipped off to Okinawa, Japan, where I didn’t fly for 3 years. There was no place to fly, and the exchange rate made it impossible.

Well, twenty-five years later, our sixth child moved out, and it was time to start flying again. What a shocker to find FBO’s charging $110 per hour and $45 per hour for an instructor, not mention the fuel surcharge!

I spent twice as much money to get back up to speed and pass a BFR than I did to get my license originally. But it was worth every penny to be allowed to slip the surly bonds again.

After renting 172s and 182s for a while, I realized I wanted to fulfill another life-long dream: owning my own plane. It had to have plenty of leg room (I’m a pretty big boy!), have good fuel efficiency, and look sporty.

After looking around and talking to many people, I landed on the Cessna 177 Cardinal and started scouring the websites and “for sale” sections. I made a spreadsheet to compare the planes I was most attracted to, allocating points on a 1-10 basis for various items like age, HP, hours to TBO, avionics, exterior, interior, comforts, and cost.

About six months into my search I found my dream on one of the websites: N29304, a 1968 original Cardinal in great shape.

I had already started saving for a down payment, but wasn’t quite there. And a couple of months later, N29304 disappeared from the ads. Good Cardinals don’t stay there for long and I just knew I had missed my chance.

I decided to call the seller just to see if he got his price. He is a pilot for one of the airlines based out of Kansas City, and to my relief he explained that the ad had expired because he had been traveling so much he just forgot to renew it! I kept saving.

A month or so later I decided it was time to buy. I called the owner and set-up a date to fly from Arizona to Springfield, Missouri to look the plane over. I enlisted my oldest son as my “navigator,” and even purchased a new Garmin 296 and programmed the flight from Springfield back to Phoenix.

Then, about an hour before we were supposed to leave for Sky Harbor International Airport in Phoenix, I received a call from the owner saying that some guy that had flown the plane 3 or 4 weeks earlier had just e-mailed him a deposit and would be picking up the plane in a week.

Again, my heart sank. Once again my plane had seemingly slipped from my grasp. I returned to my spreadsheet, only to find that most of the other planes on it had already been sold.

A couple of weeks went by. And one day, I received an email I will never forget: “If you are still interested, she’s yours.” The owner of N29304 explained that the guy who sent him the deposit was extremely difficult to work with and never showed up to pick up the plane.

I called him right away, made arrangements to go to Missouri a week later and sent him a 10% deposit. On a Thursday evening in February, my son and I made our way to Springfield.

My heart jumped when I saw her. She was just as described and pictured in the ads, not perfect but certainly good enough. Flying her for the first time I knew I had picked the right model for me – just a light touch required now and then as she basically flew herself. I was definitely hooked on this Cardinal.

The previous owner had owned her for 18 years and had bought her with his dad. He seemed to have a very hard time letting her go, as he came back to the plane three different times while my son and I were preparing for departure.

I had planned a course basically along I-40 all the way to Flagstaff because we were new to the plane and there were airports all along that freeway. It got dark just as we reached Weatherford, OK, so we landed at Stafford Airport there for the night and found a Holiday Inn Express (also found a great steakhouse if you are ever in the neighborhood – Lucille’s, right next to the hotel).

The next morning we headed for home. More headwinds, but this time we climbed to 10,500 and made better progress. After another stop in New Mexico, we decided to fly direct to Falcon Field (FFZ), N29304’s new home base.

It was a beautiful leg over the White Mountains, the pines all covered with snow. We touched down at 1645, 15 minutes earlier than I had told my wife. We logged 9.8 hours on the flight home and you could barely tell we had used any oil – not bad for 40 years old!

What a great trip! Really an amazing adventure, and quality time for my son and I to spend together. Now he is sold on learning to fly, and I’m like a little boy who just woke up on Christmas morning.

Article by Richard Harmon; Send him an email

Chris Archer Blogs by ABA Members Add new tag, Lowry AFB, Richard Harmon

I fell in love with “Echo Zulu” almost immediately. And our affair started after an unexpected decision by, of all people, my wife.

We were driving our 16-year-old son and two of his friends to a party across town, but it was clear we were going to arrive far too early. Out of the blue, Brenda said: “They don’t want to be early and it’s on the way, why don’t you swing by the airport and show the boys where you fly. Maybe we can look at the planes.”

Johann Strauss, one of my favorite composers, never wrote music that was more beautiful to my ears!

My wife has acquiesced reluctantly, at best, in my flying. For her to actually suggest a stop by the airport – even if it was on the way – was an epiphany!

As I turned toward the airport entrance, I went immediately into “sales mode.” I explained that the Cessna 152, N24884, is a old trainer and hasn’t had a paint job in a long time and is pretty beat up on the inside. But it has “a nearly new engine and everything has been checked out thoroughly and it’s a VERY SAFE AIRPLANE.”

I added hurriedly, “I’m only flying it to save money until I get fairly close to finishing and then I’m going to transition to a 172 so all three of us can fly together. I’ll show you one of those, too.”

As we walked across the ramp, there sat 24884, looking forlorn with its very chipped and spotty paint, and tiny much-used and abused cabin. I quickly motioned at it and said, “That’s what I’m flying right now,” then with more enthusiasm continued, “but this one over here is what I’ll be transitioning to very soon, let’s look at it.”

“It,” totally by chance or divine intervention, happened to be N733EZ, the second oldest airplane in Aero Atlanta’s fleet, a 1978 Skyhawk 172N. But Echo Zulu had a new paint job in 2001 and the interior has been much better cared for, so it was a much better choice for showing non-flying, suspicious wives and “couldn’t care less” teen-agers.

I opened the door and let them look around, ignoring poor old 24884 completely.

I noticed myself that the instrument cluster in EZ seemed to make more sense than it ever did in the 152. It’s the standard “six pack,” with everything grouped together making for a much easier scan. In the 152, the tach is way over to the right which always made scanning difficult for me.

And while it was different in some ways, EZ was still familiar. It even had a carb heat knob, which the one fuel-injected SP I had tried out didn’t have. I’ve been reminded about carb heat so many times by my instructor Eric that now I almost feel lost without that familiar knob.

“There’s no way you’re going to get me into that,” Brenda said pointing at 24884. But she said nothing about the possibility of getting her into Echo Zulu. In this case, the silence was golden, and Strauss never sounded better!

My next scheduled flight happened to be my second dual cross-country to Columbus, GA, 111 miles away. As soon as we were home I went on-line and changed my reservation from 24884 to 733EZ.

The flight was marvelous. The 172 requires more trim than 152, which you can control fairly effectively by just sticking your hand out the window. And you need a lot more right rudder on takeoff with those 60 extra horses out front. But it actually handled easier to me than the 152 ever did, and I took to the new instrument package immediately.

I spent 30 minutes “under the hood” on this flight and had to time one of my turns. Eric could see our immediate bond. EZ and I were in-synch, my flight planning worked perfectly, and Eric gave me one of his rare compliments.

Sorry 24884, but I have a new love. You served me well – if balky and bumpy at times, and always cramped – but my new love is what I’ll be flying to get my ticket.

Echo Zulu will carry me now, and with luck and a few more successful sales jobs, Brenda and an occasional teenager, too.

Article by Warren B. Causey; Send him an email

Chris Archer Blogs by ABA Members

It was a beautiful Saturday morning in North Georgia, a bit crisp (for we Southerners) at 0 degrees Centigrade as I performed my 8:30 a.m. pre-flight. But I was dressed warmly. Once airborne the little Cessna 152’s heat vent kept most of the chill outside the tiny cabin.

Eric, my instructor, who understandably stayed indoors during the pre-flight, snuggled into the right seat told me to take off and handle the departure and 10-minute flight to the practice area myself. He was intent on staying warm.

The only clouds in the sky were at 12,000 feet and officially “broken Cirrus.” It was crisp and clear. Visibility forever. Passing through 2,000 feet on my way to 3,500, I left Cobb County’s McCollum Field and its Class D airspace behind.

I was on my way to becoming a Private Pilot, and after hours of doing nothing but flying the pattern in preparation for my first solo, I was eager to get out into the countryside again. This is why I took up flying in the first place, to be able to go places and see things, rather than go around and around in the pattern.

Once level at 3,500, I could see downtown Atlanta 30 miles away to my right, Stone Mountain off to the Southeast, beautiful Lake Allatoona on my left, to the north, historic Kennesaw Mountain was behind me, and the southern end of the Appalachians even further to the northeast. It was glorious, and fun!

The winds were so light out of the northwest that I really could fly with my thumb and forefinger, unusual in a 152 that bumps if someone on the ground sneezes a mile away. For six or seven minutes, I did lots of scanning for scenery, er, ah, I mean traffic. I threaded the needle, just north of Sand Mountain and just south of Air Acres, a 1,200-foot grass strip we use as an emergency field in the practice area.

Then the air-gazing abruptly ended. Eric pulled the throttle and announced, “You just lost your engine.”

After about an hour of rust-eliminating simulated emergencies and stalls, Eric told me to turn back towards McCollom. After pulling into the parking spot, Eric started to get out and told me, “No, you stay. The plane is yours. Just relax, go out and have a little fun.”

Oh joy! I was so happy I even negotiated a bit. “Do I have to go out to the practice area? Can I go out west?” “Out west” is where I live.

“O.K.,” he agreed, “but if you bust any airspace it’s your problem, not mine, and you have to watch for military aircraft out there.”

This was going to be great! Finally, I can just go out and look at the scenery, find the church I pastored for 10 years before I was transferred to another one, circle around the neighborhoods I know so well, and really enjoy the scenery.

Then, I made my first serious mistake.

As Eric was about to walk away, I said, “I’ll go in with you, I need to use the restroom.”

Once inside the training center, I made my second serious mistake of the day. Being a dutiful husband, I decided I should call my wife and tell her I would be a little longer and might even be over the house in a little while because Eric had, “Finally turned me loose.”

Of course, you know the rest. It was Saturday morning and I already had “wasted” two hours. I was needed at home for a backlog of chores.

Ah, well. As I went back out and secured the little 152, Eric saw my downcast. He had heard the call, and said, “You’re a pilot now. You can come out and fly anytime you want to.” And that was all I needed to hear.

A little fun occasionally is what it’s all about! It’s what justifies all the work. I’ll see you in the air. I’ll be the one picking you up against the background scenery!

Article by Warren B. Causey; Send him an email

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I have loved airplanes for about 60 years, since my mother wrapped me in a blue blanket that had World War II-era fighter planes in red and blue around the edges.

I have read literally hundreds of books about flying. I traipsed across Australia and the South Pacific with Sir Frances Chichester, going along knuckles-white on his first solo across the Tasmanian sea. I roamed the skies and, saw the glorious Taj Mahal from 500 feet and participated in the beginnings of modern commercial airlines with Ernest K. Gann. I joined the Army Reserve and flew through the dust and sand in Saudia Arabia, Iraq and Kuwait, hugging the ground to avoid the SAMs. I read “Stick and Rudder” before it became a classic.

My love of flying was firmly fixed and I wanted to be a pilot. However, like so many, I let things like low-paying jobs as a journalist, a marriage and child, college spread out over 20 years, and a lot of other things interfere with my goal.

By the time I was approaching 60 years of age, I probably had as much time in the air as any non-pilot you will run into. But other than a couple of hours when a friendly pilot shared the controls with me in a Cessna 172, and another in a Stinson, I had never flown myself.

Finally, with no small amount of trepidation, I informed my wife that I thought we now could (almost) afford for me to fly and that I intended to take lessons. After the usual, lengthy discussions about safety and finances, I finally got “permission,” and in June 2006, at the ripe old age of 60, started lessons.

I soon discovered that while my mind grasps the concepts about as quickly as it ever did, getting my slower physical reflexes to work in coordination with my mind was a bit challenging. But I progressed gradually and finally got to the big day of my first solo.

I had been well-prepared by a very patient instructor less than half my age, Eric Caderette. He felt I was ready and I felt I was ready. The big day dawned, a little windy for my taste, but a beautiful blue sky with historic Kennesaw Mountain in the near background as Eric endorsed my logbook and got out of the Cessna 152.

The taxi and radio work went very well and finally I heard those magic words, “Cessna 24884, cleared for takeoff.” I pushed the throttle, rolled out and lined up on the centerline and applied full power. I was a pilot – I thought.

The takeoff, climb out and turns to downwind went very well. I even had a brief moment to look around and take it all in. I”m really flying, by myself. I’m a pilot!

The controllers knew it was a first solo, they promptly cleared me for touch-and-go in plenty of time to apply carb heat (it is a 152 after all), reduce to 1700 rpm and begin the descent.

The turn to base was on speed and at altitude, the turn to final looked good, flaps went down at the appropriate speed and place, and I was lined up well. I put in the last 10 degrees of flaps at the right time and was on short final looking good. Then, things came apart!

Did I mention that it was windy that day? Did I mention that there is a huge open-pit gravel mine just off the end of the runway which frequently makes the wind do strange things?

Just as I began to flare, I think I caught a gust. I got the plane half down on one wheel and canted to the left, and suddenly discovered there’s grass over there!

I managed to get things sorted out short of the grass, but was pretty shaken by now. And my mind was behind the airplane. I found the centerline again – it was way over to the right – shut off the carb heat and applied power for takeoff.

Did you notice I left something out? Yep, in my now muddled frame of mind, I forgot to raise the flaps! The prop wash hit the flaps and all of a sudden there was grass ahead of me again.

Training kicked in, I pulled the throttle, but I was even more shaken. By this time, I was half-way down the runway and decided I had done enough stupid things for one day and calmly (you can seem calm in situations like this if you’ve been shot at a few times around the world) called the tower and told them I’d decided to make this one a full-stop.

So my first solo consisted of one bad landing and one aborted takeoff. I’m not a pilot.

I went over it in detail with Eric and asked him for a full evaluation of whether he thought I might be too old for this. He was very nice and said, no we would work through things. We tried to find a time on both our schedules where I could try it again, with him in the right seat for the first couple of landings until I got my confidence back.

Not as easy as it sounds. One day I could fly, but he couldn’t. Another day when he could, I would have just finished a drive of five or six hours and would be tired. I passed on that day and he boosted my confidence a great deal by telling me: “You can do this, you make good decisions.”

I thought about the “good decisions” comment for awhile. I had made a good decision to park the plane after the single first solo landing and aborted takeoff. I definitely was too shaken to continue. I made a good decision about not trying it again after a long drive. I made a good decision in asking Eric to go with me for the first couple of landings next time.

As it turns out, by the time I could get out again, Eric couldn’t accompany me, but I was feeling better about things. So, slightly less than two weeks after my first first-solo, I tried it again.

Everything went well this time. There was no wind. I made three good landings (hey, three out of four is not too bad), and I didn’t break anything on the one not-so-pretty landing. And I loved every moment of it!

Finally, I’m a pilot. And it only took two first-solos to get it right. My only question is do I count Dec. 5 as my first solo – as my logbook says – or Dec. 18 when I finally got it right? By the way, between the 5th and 18th, I turned 61.

I probably have a few more good years of flying left in me. And I’m going to love every moment of slipping those surly bonds. The reality is just as good as the dream!

Article by Warren B. Causey; Send him an email

Chris Archer Blogs by ABA Members Warren B. Causey