It was somewhat an act of faith not to phone anyone on Saturday morning, though. I'd gotten the weather reports and forecast, which indicated it would be a fine winter's morning in Morris, Illinois. Temp 32F/0C, either a high overcast or clear skies, winds about 10 knots straight out of the north... Not bad at all. Then I stepped outside. In Gary, Indiana is was 1,000 foot/300 meter ceilings with scuddy clouds racing by underneath around 800 feet off the ground, winds at least 20 knots/37 kph. Full IFR - meaning instrument flight conditions - and a nasty, wet, biting wind off Lake Michigan. Brrr! I kept telling myself that a lot of this had to be lake effect weather (it was) and as soon as I drove past the west margin of the big lake everything would improve. If it was anywhere near that interesting at Morris someone would have called me, or would call me in the near future. Just relax, you can trust these folks to call if a cancellation is required, they're very good about that...
Yep, just as I was passing the 394 interchange on my journey west the clouds, which had been rising higher as I went, ended and the sun broke out. End of that concern. And the wind was dropping as I continued along, although still out of the north. Which was OK - that would leave it lined up with the runway at Morris, no problem.
Got to the airport in good time. Did my usual first-thing dash to the Little Pilot's Room. After that, I noticed that the trailer was empty of anyone but me. I saw a prominently placed hand-scrawled note on the main counter and in amongst the mesages was one addressed to me saying I should pre-flight and fuel the airplane. The Citabria clipboard was also sitting on the counter. OK, no problem.
Next stop was the trunk of the car, where I selected the gear for the day - proper sunglasses, today's choice of extra seat cushions (I'd picked a few extra up last weekend so I wouldn't have to chase the ones owned by the flight school), headset, two pairs of gloves... On the way to the hangar I noted a lack of snow but there were a few puddles. Or rather, they looked like puddles, but a cautious testing revealed them to be solid clear ice. I made note of that, might be handy to recall that as I taxied out.
I stopped in at the airport office, made my fueling request, then went to the hangar. Opened up the big doors to get more light in the place, did the pre-flight, very routine. I left the airplane engine heater plugged in until I heard the fuel truck start up, then found the towbar and had the airplane out in the alley between hangar rows by the time the fuel truck showed up. Closed up the hangar, then went outside, signed for the gas, and double checked to make sure the caps were properly on the fueling ports. Let's see, we have a fully fueled, pre-flighted, pre-heated airplane gradually cooling down in the winter air, and only one thing missing....
Cellphones have their uses. "J, if you want a ride in the airplane, you'll have to get out here before I take off..."
I suspect he was doing the time-honored tradition of camping out someplace warm with coffee while the student did all the prep work. Generally only done with students the instructor trusts to do the prep work correctly. A few minutes later he comes scooting across the ramp and up onto the wheels to check the fuel caps, then into the airplane (Those caps had been checked by the fuel guy, me, and J... we're not paranoid, naw...)
We spent the usual extended interval wrestling with the seat belts. A four-point harness isn't that complicated, but, as J pointed out, there are obvious reasons the straps for an aerobatic airplane are very stiff and reluctant to pull through while making adjustments. After all, it would be a Bad Thing to have the seat belts loosen up while you're inverted or under several g's. Very hard to control the airplane while you are going >splat< on the ceiling of the cockpit. He then started talking about pulling straps tight enough to make one's legs go numb, and some of the high performance stunt planes using a system of ratchets to really tie one down to the seat. I laughed a bit at that, saying that was a few years off for me at the least, but would make note of it for future reference. I think if I owned my own airplane this would be less of a battle each time in that I would pretty much use the same strap "setting" each flight, but a lot of people fly this trainer and we're all different shapes and sizes.
In amongst all this fiddling with straps and buckles J did mention that he talked to D, who had said everything went well the week before, I did a good job. That's always good to hear. I mentioned that she said she thought I had excellent crosswind control. Which J said she had also mentioned. Now all I to do was live up to my reputation.
As I'm flipping switches and checking stuff J mentions the airplane has a new battery. I express good thoughts about this, and said that I had been getting tired of hand-propping the Citabria. And it did start on the first try, a nice, hearty rrrRRRRRRRRRR!
And then it died.
Grrr! Rechecked everything. I had forgotten to set the mixture control. Dumb! I'd somehow skipped over it going down the checklist. Nevermind - reprime the engine, full rich mix, start -- rrRRRRRRRRR! and this time it kept going around. Very nice battery - had enough juice for two starts in a row. Quite an improvement.
As we taxi out, with me detouring around various icy patches or just sliding across as seemed to be most expedient, J mentions that today I'll be doing all the radio work. No problem. Also suggests taxiing out to the end of runway 36 before doing the run-up, to let the engine warm up nicely. No problem. The wind is grabbing a little at the airplane, but by this time I've gotten pretty good at managing things. Get out to the end of the taxiway, check everything out, check one last time for traffic, briefly rehearse so I spit out the correct airplane call sign and airport, and then it's onto the runway.
Here we go, down the runway. Acceleration fine, engine fine, tail came up quickly... it was more of a headwind than I was accustomed to. Standing still we were already doing about 1/3 of take-off speed (it's the wind over the wings that counts, remember, whether it's from the engine moving you or the wind blowing past you) so it didn't take long to accelerate. The wheels left the ground a bit sooner than I expected, at which point I discovered that the south end of the field had a bit of westerly crosswind the windsock and airport flag had failed to inform me about. We immediately started to slide right but I compensated for it as quick as I could and climbed out.
We'd already discussed the day's lesson - some steep turns and stalls for airwork, a trip to Cushing for some landings (conditions permitting), then back to Morris for more landings. The original plan had been to climb to around 2500 or 3000 feet for the airwork, but the air was still a little bumpy at that altitude so we continued up until we were above the occassional puffy cloud nearby and the cloud decks off in the distance. J suggested 4,000 to 4500 feet, and given the cold air it didn't take long to climb up there, only about 5 minutes. Said to do some turns as soon as I was ready, and watch that I keep them coordinated as I'd been just a hair sloppy on the climb out.
Got myself ready, and banked into a left turn. While trying to keep altitude, airspeed, and bank steady J continues to talk to me from the back, mentioning I'd used just a bit too much stick and less rudder than I should have. Starts into the "it's all about the rudder" speech, with frequent references to aerobatics and precision. Says when I come around to a west heading again to switch to a right turn using just the rudder. So that's what I do, 45 degree left bank to 45 degree right bank using the feet. Gosh, darn that did work pretty nice.
I mentioned that with the rudder the rolling motion started very slow then, as the bank steepened, it sped up until it was faster than I was entirely comfortable with. There was a sense that it wanted to keep going and invert entirely. Which, of course, it certainly could. It's when the "overbanking" tendency kicks in, when the airplane wants to seek straight and level by going inverted rather than upright, that you know you're in "steep turn" territory. No big deal, really - maintaining a steep bank is a basic flight manuver you learn early in primary training - but it takes a little finesse to do it with precision. At 45 degrees you're starting to feel heavier, and at a 60 degree bank you're under 2 g's if you're in straight and level flight. Not only does it take more force on the controls, but your arms are heavier, too. It's not an illusion - everything really does weigh twice as much, even your eyelids (funny how you become aware of such things) and jowls (not that I have any) and what not. If the instructor is piling extra work on you, like making a change in the radio setting or some such, there is a very strong tendency to undershoot the target when reaching for something. When the manuver is to make a 360 in one direction like that, then reverse and turn the opposite way, during the transition between turns the extra g force comes off momentarially, which gives the illusion that you're rising when you're not. And all that heavy-light-heavy stuff, not to mention a 90 degree reorientation of the scenery outside, can have your ground-creature senses having hissy-fits. Oh, yes, meanwhile you're supposed to have made that flip from left to right precisely at 270 on the compass (or whatever heading you were assigned). I am so glad I am not prone to motion sickness.
I did a couple 360's and reversals, with the bank changes on 270 over a handy country road that served as a landmark. As we started turning right on the third round J says level out on a heading of 360, which means putting everything back to straight and level while the fluid is still swishing around my semi-circular canals but no matter, I'd pretty much been ignoring them the last few minutes anyhow. Left rudder and match the wings to the horizon, everything in parallel.
I mentioned something about how maybe J should let me finish the tailwheel training before getting started on aerobatics, as I was getting the sense he was setting me up for that. The reply wasn't exactly in words, but got the message across. "Ah, you're not letting me off that easy, are you? You're sneaking in pre-aerobatics stuff, aren't you?" The resulting soft chuckle was defnitely in the affirmative. He's determined to drag me into inverted flight and advanced manuvers - gently, if he can talk me into it, but perhaps kicking and screaming otherwise.
J said to set up for slow flight, reduce speed to 60 and do some stalls. That's carb heat first --
"You came back on that throttle a bit too fast." said J.
"I didn't touch the throttle."
Puzzled moment of silence. The prop is still turning. That's a good sign, right? Seems to be at idle. I push the throttle full forward.
No change.
Uh-oh.
J says "Is the engine still running?"
I bit down on my first impulse, which was to say Why are you asking me? Aren't you supposed to be the expert around here?. First of all, if it's a real engine failure sarcasm is not a good response to the situation. Second, I, too, am supposed to be "expert" on this sort of thing, being a pilot myself.
No, the engine wasn't running.
"Er... she's really quit." said J "OK, it's a real emergency. My airplane."
"It's all yours." I said, yielding control immediately. J plonks into best glide. I'm sure we're going through all this much faster than it felt at the time. I had some brief thoughts on worst case scenarios - clearly, the airplane is still under control, Citabrias glide very well, we started at 4500 feet which gives us time and options, there's nothing under us but farm fields, I've landed in a field before, the guy behind me is a very competant pilot, there's absolutely no reason for anything but pride to be damaged here. I would definitely say there had been some anxiety, but I didn't really feel fear. Engine failures are serious, but when they happen at a decent altitude you have time to deal with the situation and the odds were still very much in favor of a safe landing.
Perhaps you're wondering how two experienced pilots could be uncertain, even for a moment, as to whether or not an engine is running. After all, they ARE pretty noisy machines. And they're sort of important to this whole flying business.
The thing is, even a glider isn't silent. A powered airplane that has suddenly become a glider isn't silent, either. You've got the air going by the fuselage, for one thing - most folks can hear wind going by their homes during a storm, or their cars going down a highway, and the wind passing by an airplane is likewise audible. Even more so, actually, given the speeds airplanes travel through the air. There are the various rattles and creaks all vehicles have. And that prop - which is still moving - generates its own noise component. And it IS turning, which you usually associate with "engine running". On top of that, modern aircraft engines are quite reliable, most failures being at least in part the fault of the hairless ape at the controls. When the unexpected truly happens there's that few moments when your mind goes "No, not really - this is a prank, right?"
Meanwhile, back at the emergency, somehow it escaped my attention that, while J has now become pilot in command he has only limited access to certain important controls. I'm the one who has to do the knob twiddling. J runs down the engine failure checklist (we're both supposed to have that memorized) while I do the actually fiddling - fuel on, mags on, mix --
Oh, I am such a fucking idiot!
I'd pulled the mix instead of the carb heat. Remember what I'd said about the hairless ape at the controls? I shoved it back in. Got a hearty roar out of the engine and the prop immediately spun back up into near-invisible. Total loss of altitude: about 700 feet. Hmm. We spent probably a minute or less dealing with that.
My first impulse, after the engine restarted, was to loudly proclaim what a stupid, boneheaded thing I had done and beat my forehead against the instrument panel. This was impossible - not the talking part, the beating myself up part. The restraint harness kept me quite nicely in my seat, actual forehead-abuse would have required unstrapping. I asked if J was going to yell at me for being a screw-up.
"No, you're doing a fine job on your own. Now let's see some stalls. I've got the carb heat this time, reduce speed, just pull back - see, nose drops on its own. Now you do it."
So I did, although I was probably still pretty tensed up - I was getting the "don't be afraid of the manuver" reassurances from the back seat. J told me to look out at the left horizon, look at the angle of the wing with that horizon. Did three or four stalls one right after the other - stall, recover, fly, stall, recover, fly. Sure, let's follow a non-drill engine-out with one of my least favorite manuvers!
But it got me back to flying the airplane, which was the whole point of this morning's exercise.Then it was off to Cushing. Took me a moment to sort out the landscape - we were twice as high as I usually overflew this area, and things looked different with the greater altitude. And Cushing was closer than I thought it was, and I had 3,000 feet/900 m of altitude to lose to get down to pattern height. J was asking me to "circle the field" and I thought of a couple different interpretations of that, so there was a brief back-and-forth while I clarified what, exactly, he wanted while I was reducing speed (checked multiple times I was grabbing the correct knobs), slipping a little, and changing the radio to Cushing's frequency. On the way to the field J remarked that ground below had a thin layer of snow, which was good. Better frozen than soggy if you're landing on grass. I didn't want to spend the afternoon digging an airplane out of the mud. We leveled out at standard pattern height. I could feel J leaning over to the left and looking down at the runway even before I turned to look myself. My attention was divided between looking and flying, so he was getting a much better view than I was. Didn't see any snow on it myself. Given that the temperature had been right at freezing at dawn and one could expect things to warm up as the day went on... well, I had some concerns. We both did. J said he saw some patches that might be muddy that might be frozen, or might not, but he didn't want to break through them and... 'nuff said. Also, there was absolutely no one else at Cushing, which is not a good sign either, this being relatively warm and good winter flight conditions. We both decided to err on the side of caution and go back to Morris.
That's an uneventful trip, although it put us directly on a southeast course. Right into the sun. I was wishing I had a second pair of sunglasses on top of the ones I had on. There was so much glare I was having a hard time reading the instruments and wound up flying mostly by feel. Came in 1,000 feet/300 m high - really, I had been just a little bit "off" the whole day. Except for when I'd been really off and shut down the engine.
oops! Probably just as well I had another pilot along. As I circled to lose altitude (took two trips around to do it, too) and entered the downwind for 36 I couldn't help but note the wind had shifted from due north to the northwest. Oh, phooey - now I had a crosswind to deal with. Grr.Carb heat - oh, yes, double check I've got the correct control - reduce power, reduce speed... made a radio call and came around on base still at pattern height. Grr. Power off, engine to idle. Another hit on the radio to announce the turn to final. Still high. OK, that's what slips are for, bring her down and at the same time use the slip to counteract the wind pushing us to the right, nudge in a little power. Straighten out, check airspeed, watch that drift, over the numbers... coming down...coming down... drifting right... rudder-rudder... drifting right... coming down...
The flare and touchdown just didn't feel right. Didn't feel like disaster about to happen, either, but it didn't feel right. For one thing, we definitely landed on the right side of the runway, which wasn't good, because the wind kept pushing at us. We were bouncing, little bitty bump-bump-bumps, which didn't feel too good. There was this disquieting (and not at all good for the tires) sideways motion. When I felt the tail start to swing around I added up all the not-so-good and pushed in the throttle for a go-around. The wheels stuttered a little on the pavement as I horsed it back towards the centerline, then we were up and away. As we climbed out I couldn't help but notice that J and I pretty much simultaneously checked the windsocks and the flag outside the airport office. Yes, the wind had not only shifted, it had picked up. I'd guess at least 15 knots/28 kph, likely even 20/37 judging by the motion of the flag, and definitely northwest now. Significant crosswind component.
Went around the pattern again, striving for better altitude/airspeed control. I'm actually feeling rustier than I did the prior week. Not my best performance, but there was still ample opportunity to redeem myself here. Indeed, the most crucial part of the whole trip was at hand. If you get nothing else right, get the landing right.
OK, here we go again. Turn crosswind, turn downwind and make the radio announcement. J mentions that it's OK to land long here, don't be too concerned with landing on the numbers today. Lots of runway, use all of it that I need. Carb heat (check - that is the carb heat, yes? Good - now pull the knob), throttle, airspeed. Someone ahead of me on base, yes, I can see him, not a factor. J has him in sight, too. Someone hits their radio and says "Hi, C". J says the other guy thinks I'm C. I said I didn't think we sounded much alike. J points out I'm in C's airplane and I have a female voice. Oh, of course, we women all sound alike. Understandable mistake. How's our descent coming? Hmm, could be faster, less power, same airspeed. Look - there's a highwing at the threshold. He announced his intention to take off. I announced our turn to base, which came later than usual due to traffic concerns, I wanted to be sure we weren't breathing down someone's neck while we were on final. Not to mention I thought there was already plenty of weather opportunities for go-arounds today, didn't need to add traffic conflicts into the mix.
Despite the crosswind pushing us to the east, I managed to turn too soon for final, bringing us out of the turn to the left of the runway. No problem - just let that wind push us over. Whoops! - not too far! Keep it on center, keep it on center... left wing down and lots of right rudder to counteract that crosswind... coming down... coming down... nudge the throttle to slow the descent...over the numbers... floating... floating... drifting right, damn!, more rudder with J coaching me from the back. We touched - less sideways this time but I'm still none too sure about this landing and as we slow we start that drift to the right again. More power, get back on center, less power to slow, drift, rudder-rudder-rudder -- starting to get some control
"How much runway do you have left?"
I looked. Uh-oh.
"Go around." said J.
Full power and up we go again.
"Is it me?" I said, getting that dreadful feeling that conditions may be in excess of my abilities this morning.
"No - that's a pretty good crosswind. Everyone is having to work at it, even the tricycle gears. You do need more right rudder, though. Too much stick - once you get the crosswind correction in you shouldn't have to move it, but you are. LOTS more rudder. Pay attention to the amount of runway you've got left - don't be afraid to use all of it, just don't try to use more than there actually is. You'll get it. Make it a full stop this time."
I'm so glad he's got faith in me. Given how this morning has been so far I'm half tempted to give up and ask him to land it. Not allowed, we're not nearly at that point. After all, if I was up here alone I'd have to land it. Nope, can't ask him to do it. We've got plenty of gas, I have easily an hour and half in which to make this work somehow...
To be honest, I am feeling a touch of nerves on the next downwind. J is making encouraging noise and reminding me about rudders, basically reviewing one more time what I need to do better next time. Here we go again - carb heat, throttle, airspeed, descent... call turn to base. Looking good so far, and J confirms that opinion a few seconds later. Left wing down, LOTS of right rudder, keep on that centerline. Nudge power to level off and make sure we can make the field, over the numbers.... floating... reduce power.... right-rudder right-rudder right-rudder... don't mess with the stick, the stick doesn't steer you on the ground... right-rudder... bump on the left main then bump-bump for the right... right-rudder... slight bounce, keep the stick back, keep it back... b-b-bump... right-rudder right-rudder right-rudder... the tail starts to sink - RIGHT RUDDER - and comes down. Keep that stick back, keep that tailwheel solidly on the pavement, it helps a LOT with the steering, and more right-rudder right-rudder right-rudder...
We start to slow, we're still on the ground, and we're still on the center (more or less). I let out a big sigh of relief. "I believe I have actually landed this airplane." I announced to no one in particular. Can't slack off though - I kept on the rudders because that wind is still out there grabbing at the airplane.
From the back, J says that's a good landing, take the next turn off and taxi back.
"So, does that landing make up somewhat for shutting down the engine earlier?"
"As a matter of fact, I think it does. Taxi back and let's do another."
"Er... I dunno, I'm not too sure how many of those I have in me today. And I have been a little off..."
Thoughtful "hmm" noise from the back seat. "You do have a point. Let's end it on that one, then. Finish on a good note. Take it back to the hangar."
Which I did. J got out and helped me push the airplane back into the hangar. Then he said he'd meet me back at the trailer, and left me to put everything away. I double-checked everything was shut down (it would be a shame to run down that nice new battery by leaving the master switch on), everything secured, and the hangar properly shut and locked.
There wasn't a long post-flight briefing. It had been a short flight - if I had made the first landing it would have only been 30 minutes. Not the best of days, but not the worst, either. J asked if I was planning to go up the next day. I wanted to - what I wanted to do was redeem myself, in my eyes, if not anyone else's - but flying twice this weekend would mean no flying next weekend. Better to fly regularly. And, honestly, I wasn't sure I'd be in any better shape the next day. I was taking a vacation during the coming week because I was overdue for one and feeling a little mentally wore out, so maybe it would be better to rest up for a week, review some stuff like, say, engine-out procedures, and come back physically and mentally rested. J nodded and said he understood, and probably he did. Probably understood that I wasn't exactly feeling wonderful about the whole business at the moment.
J went off to his next student, and I stopped off at the school computer to make the scheduling changes. As I was doing so D and one of her students walked in, the student in question being a gentleman of middle years, somewhere in the 50-60 range. I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention, other than saying hello, when B (that's the owner's husband, in case anyone forgot - apparently he was running the place that morning) comes out of the business office and asks who has the Citabria next. Looked at me "Did you just fly it, or do you have it now?"
"I've flown already, I'm going home after I get done here. I think they have it." and pointed to D. Yes, they did. From the student's questions I got the impression he had just starting working on tailwheels. Of course, having just been up they start asking questions about conditions. The student didn't seem too enthused to hear that we went up to 4,000 feet to get into smooth air. I reassured him that the bumps weren't that bad (in fact, I hardly noticed them myself) but yes, it was worth going up to that altitude and given the cold air that wouldn't take long at all. D said something about Cushing. I said J and I had been there and J didn't like the looks of it and I hadn't felt like arguing about it. I was starting to feel like the bearer of bad news. And if he was a beginner at tailwheels he wasn't going to be doing the landings on pavement today, either, but I didn't say that. D had been talking largely about airwork with him, and certainly he could get that done under current conditions. She sent him out to preflight, then asked me how it had gone that day for me.
"Well, other than pulling the mix instead of the carb heat at that one point and shutting down the engine..."
She laughed "We all do that from time to time!"
I shrugged, "Other than that, it went real well. Bit of a crosswind on the landing. About as much as I'd want to deal with."
There was a bit more kidding about "educational" lessons and opportunities, then I climbed in the car and went home. >sigh< Not the best of days, but far from the worst. Lessons learned, noted, and studied for next time.
That is definetly not something you want to happen, though I'm sure that looking back one day you'll laugh at the mistake.
and the stuff like engine failures or memorable landings. Its just alot of people are kinda intimidated by the size of it, I know I leave it as my last tab before jumping into it. With a glass of drinks. And Biscuits. And go take a walk before hand. You get the idea. 
), but what yould we ad? I have only expierience in model airplanes, and I don't want to compare myself with the "big boyz".... *intimidated*
