As we rolled-up to the wreckage, the fuselage of the huge aircraft suddenly surrounded us, scattered all over the neighborhood.

Some small sections were smoldering.  Other large sections were torn apart, revealing rows of seats, cavernous cargo holds and personal effects soaked in hydraulic fluid.

Hundreds of miles of avionics wiring loosely threaded the broken jumbo jet together, with one of the engines planted firmly on a nearly front lawn.

From the signature double-aisle 3-4-3 layout in the economy cabin, I knew immediately this was a Boeing 747.  And with the tail section still in tact, the livery told me it belonged to All Nippon Airways.

 There were no signs of life.  No passengers.  No rescue crews.  Just us.  About 200 people, snapping pictures, wondering just what went wrong.

“Folks, what you see here is a real aircraft used in the 2005 Steven Spielberg film War of the Worlds,” the smiling Universal Studios tour guide announced over the tram PA.

It was one of several stops on the famous back-lot tour, and it was instantly the most memorable for me.

An actual 747, trucked in and torn apart to form an unforgettable movie set only aviation buffs could truly appreciate.

For a moment, I thought of myself as an NTSB investigator arriving on the scene of a terrible catastrophe, ready to go to work figuring out where the accident chain began and ended.

But unlike Tenerife, Lockerbie, or Long Island, this 747 scene didn’t come with the worst part of any investigator’s job.  No death.  No remains.  No families to notify.

Just an up-close view of the massive destruction inherent to a 900,000 pound machine that suddenly stops flying.

And as the tram slowly pulled away to its next studio set, I felt a new found respect for those charged with the massive task of putting these pieces back together.

A critical responsibility to find a cause, and closure, after the worst case scenario.

For information on how to get up close to this amazing movie set, go to the Universal Studios Hollywood website.

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

Tell us by leaving a comment below: is this aircraft Real or Fake?

But just as I tugged on my seat belt one last time, the Continental Airlines Boeing 757 suddenly banked left, pitched up and the engines came alive.  We were going around.

This wasn’t the first time I had experienced a missed approach in an airliner.  But I immediately knew this one was different.

Rather than roaring back to a normal missed approach altitude, we quickly leveled off, the gear remained down, and the partial flaps remained out.  The screen in front of me settled on ”Altitude: 2000 feet.”

As we worked through a now gentle turn to the left, three loud dings chimed through the cabin.  I peeked down the aisle and saw the lead flight attendant grab the phone, quickly hang it up, then jump up.  Her colleagues in the back briskly walked forward and huddled at the bulkhead.

The plane then leveled its wings, as the intercom came alive.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.  As you can tell, we’ve aborted our landing and gone around.  Just before touchdown, we got a warning light in the cockpit saying we had an unsafe condition with our flaps.  We have the aircraft under control and are returning to the airport.  However, we will not be lowering the flaps anymore, and therefore we will need to land a bit faster than usual.  This may cause the brakes to get hot, so I’ve declared an emergency and asked the fire crews to meet us on the runway as a precaution.  The flight attendants will now be instructing you on a brace position, and how to evacuate if it comes to that.”

Almost instantly, the cabin crew snapped into its well-rehearsed and perfectly-choreographed preparation for an emergency landing.  They spread out and demonstrated the brace position.  Hands up on the seat in front of you.  Head down.  Remove your coats and high heels.

Then a final check of the cabin for any loose items.  A few passengers stopped the flight attendants along the way, asking the worst-case scenario question: “are we going to crash?”

The cabin crew was calm.  Answering questions with a generous use of the words “precaution,” “experience,” and “safety,” before returning to their jump seats.

Those near me texted loved ones.  Some silently prayed.  But most just sat there, anxiously glancing side to side, realizing their fate was in the hands of the two men up front.

“30 seconds,” the captain announced.

More screams.  A few squeals.  Then a chant from the flight attendants: “arms up, head down.  Arms up, head down.”  Over, and over again.

I grabbed my phone and began rolling…

There was no panic.  Just hushed anxiety.  And as you heard from one of the passengers, an “anti-climatic landing,” but enough of a relief to yield a hearty round of applause.

And then, after sitting on the taxiway for 30 minutes to cool the brakes, the ordeal was over as soon as it began.  But the lasting impression for me, as a pilot, will linger much longer.

While a  757 is much different than my rented 172, this served as a textbook example of how to handle an emergency for anyone who flies…

• If anything is unusual during your final approach, don’t hesitate.  Go around.  Our captain could have landed the first time, but why risk it.
• Fly the plane.  Several minutes went by before the flight deck even talked with the flight attendants or passengers.  They waited until the wings were level and the aircraft was stabilized.
• Don’t hesitate to declare an emergency.  While it’s likely Continental’s policy is to declare an emergency during this situation, don’t underestimate your problem, and never worry about FAA paperwork.  Use all of your resources in the moment.
• Keep yourself and your passengers calm.  Be honest.  Explain what’s happening.  Go over the evacuation procedures again.  The flight attendants never looked concerned.  Do the same from the left seat.

And in the end, this was one of the best landings I had ever experienced in a 757.  Maybe they should take a tip from us private pilots, and come in with partial flaps more often.

So is it Real or Fake?  Leave a comment below to let us know.

My mission was relatively simple: deliver myself and two cats to LAX.

Skoshi & Sumo waiting for their trip to LAX

Upon check-in, it seemed Delta Airlines had done this before.  $200 per feline.  Swipe.  An easy form.  Signed.  And a TSA screening.  Check.

A nice man calmly wheeled the two-year-olds toward the plane as I walked to the gate.

Six hours later, our flight touched down in the City of Angels, and after some heavy braking, clawed its way to the gate.

I then made my way to the Odd Sized Baggage window and declared myself ready to meet my cats, and my wife outside.

It was a Friday night at LAX.  It seemed the whole world was converging on the airport, both airborne passengers and their earthbound rides.

The honks outside gave way to a siren chirping inside, and the baggage carousel lurched to a start.  But after 10 minutes of watching nothing but air go around, I got this feeling it wouldn’t be a normal night.

Sure enough, all that spinning aluminum suddenly stopped, prompting tired groans from the Honolulu passengers, and those waiting for bags from other origins.

Twenty more minutes, and two laps later in the car outside, my wife said she was going around again.  And then it happened.

“Ladies and gentlemen in the Delta baggage claim area.  We apologize for the delay.  It looks like an animal has gotten loose on Delta flight 1170 from Honolulu.  The plane has been locked-down.  We do apologize and hope to have your bags out to you as soon as possible.”

No way.  I was sure it was just one of the dogs I saw checking-in behind us.  Those crazy canines.

As if I was wearing a t-shirt that said, “I’m traveling with cats,” a man nearby came up to me and interrupted my “No joke: animal loose on my flt… better park!” text message to my wife.

“Hey, one of the flight attendants told me they heard barking during the flight through the cabin floor boards.  It looks like my dogs were spooked by a cat that got out.”

No way.  If so, I’m sure it was another cat… uh, one that I didn’t see check-in behind me.

Seeking official word, I walked into the baggage office.

“Sir, we’re still trying to locate the animal, and I don’t know if it was a cat or dog.”

By now my wife was by my side.  A worried look had replaced the color in her face.  And then, as if we stood waiting for an emergency room update, a less than urgent baggage claim attendant walked toward us.

“Mr. Archer, yes, it was one of your cats that got loose.  We’re still trying to locate it.  We do have your other cat safely in its kennel downstairs.  Hang in there.”

I could.  But the people waiting for their bags were losing patience, and in the process somehow singling us out as the guardian of the perpetrator.

Twenty more minutes, and the agent was back with an update, as bags simultaneously began pouring on to the carousel.  This was good, or very bad news.

“Sir, we’ve located your cat.  Our baggage handlers are trying to coax it out of the cargo hold,” she smiled.

Fifteen minutes later, with the baggage claim area now nearly silent, Skoshi the cat and his brother Sumo were rolled-out on a dolly, as if nothing had happened.

That is, until I tugged on the kennel’s gate.  It fell off.

Inside, was the dirtiest cat I had ever seen.  Grease.  Hydraulic fluid.  And covered in fear.

So what happened?

Well, despite my questions that night an in a follow-up email to Delta, I still don’t have an answer.

And perhaps I don’t need one.  The cat is safe.  The wife is happy.  And the cat still has at least a few lives left.

Do you have an airplane animal story to tell?  Tell us below…

Is it real or fake?  Tell us by leaving a comment below.

A tiny strip.  Clinging to a hillside.  Offset by a nasty, gusty crosswind.  Just the way we wanted it.  And as I crossed the threshold, I suddenly realized: wait, I’m not supposed to be landing here.

More on that in a moment.

It started as a friendly competition… with myself.

Before leaving Hawaii for a new job on the mainland, my goal - perhaps not original or unusual - was to land at every non-military airport in the state.

Shouldn’t be too hard, I thought, as I counted the 15 pieces of pavement in paradise meeting my criteria.  But then a local pilot familiar with my pursuit chimed in.

“Oh, don’t even think about landing at Kapalua (PHJH) on Maui.  All those rich people on the West side of the island don’t want to be bothered by the drone of a Cessna doing touch & goes.”

Well, that’s interesting.  The Airport Directory dug-in:

• Arpt Restricted to Part 121 & 135 Far Operators
• No helicopter operations
• No jet powered aircraft allowed
• No practice and training flights permitted
• Special Noise Level Standards in place
• Don’t even think about it, you annoying renter pilot

Okay, I made that last one up.  But they might as well print it.

A few days later while sitting at my full-time, non-cockpit, media-related desk job, I stumbled upon an old email from a friend of mine working at the Department of Transportation.  Ah, what the heck.  Doesn’t hurt to ask, right?

Three days later, a reply da-dinged into my inbox: “Hey there.  It shouldn’t be a problem approving your request.  Just send me some specifics about your flight.”

I lept for the phone and dialed my instructor, who had also been banned from Kapalua.  He didn’t believe what I was telling him.

“Dude, if you can hook this up, this flight is on me!”

Now where were we?  Back to short final, with runway 2 at Kapalua closing in.  Winds 050 at 19, gusts 29.  Doesn’t matter.  Fight it.  Nothing could ruin this now.

And after two respectable landings – one by each of us - and some teasing from an envious Part 135 pilot in the pattern, we had accomplished the impossible.

Landing a Cessna.  Where we shouldn’t.

A special thanks to Hawaii Department of Transportation Spokesperson Tammy Mori, Maui Airports Manager Marvin Moniz, and flight instructor Scott McLaughlin for making this possible.

So, is it real or fake?  Tell us by leaving a comment below…

After learning to fly at the nearby San Carlos Airport (SQL), I would make frequent trips through the busy airspace in order to access some of the most supreme sightseeing on the planet.

(A recent SFO Class B transition in a C172)

The Class Bravo transition is the best path home from the Golden Gate Bridge.  Alcatraz.  And anywhere else you’d like to leave your heart.

Over downtown San Francisco, I’d call NorCal approach with my request.  The usual instructions: follow the freeway south to SQL, and remain west of Highway 101 at 2500 feet.

About 3 miles from SFO, they’d switch you to the tower.

The controller would then tell you what to do next: proceed along the freeway, fly over the airport, or push you even farther to the West.  And that’s where my encounter occurred.

Similar to this recent incident, a heavy Boeing came barreling off runway 28L toward Asia and into my path, which by then had been pushed over towards Interstate 280 in San Bruno.

As I watched the jumbo get even bigger, SFO suddenly chimed in: “JAL 152 Heavy, stop your climb, maintain 2000 feet, Cessna crossing right to left 500 feet above you.

The 747  flattened its hump and thundered under our nose, as a big smile crossed my face.  Hey, sometimes the little guys get priority after all.

But now I realize, maybe that wasn’t supposed to happen.  Or perhaps the controller that day caught our conflict just in time to kept us legal.

Either way, if it wasn’t for these startled United Airlines pilots, it would have been just another Saturday in the skies over SFO.