Clearing the Funeral Mountains, we descended into Death Valley.

Bypassing Las Vegas, we descended over the desolate Funeral Mountains into a moonscape of salt flats and mineral-tinted rock. There we spotted Furnace Creek Airport next to a tiny palm-studded rectangle, the only visible green in all of Death Valley. Our altimeter on downwind indicated 600 feet – field elevation here is minus 210 feet.

Furnace Creek Airport floats in a dry-baked sea of salt flats.

“Salt devils” and the Panamint Mountains dominate views from the Furnace Creek Inn.

“I’m Jane McEwan,” said the driver, “and this is my father, Bill. Did your car break down?” Jean explained that we’d flown here by light plane, and were bound for the Golden Canyon Trail.

“You’re pilots, eh?” said Jane, “My friend Dan flies a Piper Arrow, and I’ve just subscribed to something called Flight Training magazine.” Bill chimed in. “I used to fly gliders, even built some myself.” Jean and I swapped glider-flying tales with the man. Though each of us had first soloed in Schweizer 2.22s, Bill had far surpassed our own soaring accomplishments – he flew among record-setting soaring pioneers around Inyokern, California.

“There’s the trailhead,” I observed, disappointed that our promising conversation would prematurely end. “Are you here to see wildflowers?” asked Jane. “That trail is geologically interesting, but there’ll be few blossoms. Dad and I are driving to where the big show is supposed to be, forty miles south of here. Care to join us?”

“You bet!” replied Jean and I in unison. We soon learned that Bill and Jane had driven from Ridgecrest, California, on a father-daughter daytrip to celebrate Bill’s own milestone. “I’ll be ninety next week,” he explained. Bill was a Rhodes scholar at Oxford when the Germans bombed England in 1940. Evacuated home, he earned a PhD in physical chemistry from Harvard before serving in North Africa and Italy. After the war, he developed rocket propellants at China Lake Naval Ordnance Test Station for the early aircraft missile programs.

Next thing I knew, Bill was swapping molecular formulas for various drug families with Jean, a doctor of pharmacy. His business card, however, identified him as a sculptor. “Did you carve that beautiful bola tie?” asked Jean. He had. Another of Bill’s passions explained his love for flowers. “Growers know my invention for propagating orchids, the McEwan Flask.”

At 282 feet below sea level, Badwater is the lowest point in the Western Hemisphere

The salty but rare presence of water offers uncommon recreation at Death Valley.

Fields of Desert Sand Verbena blooms tint the normally bleak landscape.

Returning to Furnace Creek, we topped the fuel tank for our newfound friends and headed poolside for a dip. How incongruous it seemed, in this desert oasis isolated by hundreds of miles of uninhabitable salt and rock, toasting life that evening over gourmet chile-dusted salmon and orange-and-horseradish halibut.

Petals of the Desert Five-Spot reveal delicate inner beauty.

The wonder of Oshkosh extends beyond AirVenture itself to the innumerable aerial road trips spawned by the event.

Morning mist fills valleys in Arizona’s White Mountains.

“Where did you come from? What do you fly?” For one week a year these questions fuel conversation at Oshkosh and airports all across the country. Devotees from far corners of the continent pile into everything from ultralights to bizjets and migrate toward Mecca.

I myself launch one sweltering morning from amid giant cacti of the Arizona desert. Normally my travels are guided by carefully structured flight plans, but that seems inappropriate when bound for Oshkosh. This is a spiritual journey, after all, so I make no commitments — just steer toward Wisconsin and wonder where I’ll end up.

Volcanic cinder cones mark the Arizona–New Mexico border.

Here in the mountains are certain funnels through which light planes must fly. From Phoenix I direct my Flying Carpet eastward toward Glorieta Pass and Las Vegas, New Mexico. Along the way I traverse forests and mountains, cinder cones and lava flows, adobe cities and Albuquerque. Then on my left materializes old Santa Fe, where my buddy Bruce lives. The urge to stop is powerful — I rarely seem him — but the day is young, the skies are clear, and my travelin’ tunes prod me onward. Perhaps on the return trip…

The ancient adobe city of Old Acoma Pueblo, New Mexico.

Beyond Las Vegas, mountains become memories and Earth transmutes ever-so-gradually from brown toward green. Featureless barrens stretch unending until perforated by irrigation circles in western Kansas - great lime-hued rings plopped on gingerbread earth. Munching celery from my cooler, I ponder the crops held by those rings, and the lives of the farmers who tend them.

Featureless barrens give way to irrigation circles in western Kansas.

My fuel gauges are bound for empty, plus I’m itchy to get out. I retrieve my sectional chart and… Wow - look at all these airports! To a guy fixated on landing at every Arizona airstrip, this rediscovery is a revelation. Airports are worthy notches on one’s pistol in more isolated country, but here in the Great Plains they lie at every crossroad. Hmmm, there’s a nice one ahead — Garden City, Kansas. What’s there? I’ll stop.

“Goin’ to Oshkosh?” queries the tower controller when I report in.

“Sure am,” I reply.

“Lots of traffic headed that way earlier,” she says, “some unusual planes including a squadron of Chinese Yaks from Arizona.”

“Those are from my own airport!” I reply, surprised.

Final approach at Garden City, Kansas.

“I’ve been taking pictures,” she continues, “brought my camera to work with me this morning.” Under me the huge airfield is empty when I turn downwind, except for one solitary Piper parked on the ramp (never did see the pilot.) It’s nearly as hot here as Arizona — disembarking into blistering sunlight, I’m greeted by an older man wearing a seed corn hat.

“Welcome to Garden City,” he says with purpose, extending his hand toward mine. “My name is Phil.” I introduce myself, too, and before long find my tanks filled with fuel, my pocket full of candy, and a new friend in this high school science teacher who teaches aviation and works summers at the airport.

I’m making good time — better than planned. But where to, next? I retrieve my cell phone.

“Dave? It’s Greg. You gonna be around tonight? Thought I might drop in at Ames and meet you for dinner. You’ll be there?” I’ve never met Dave in person, though we’ve shared many hours on the phone — he’s my former book acquisition editor from Iowa State Press. Rejuvenated by Dave’s welcome, I remount the Flying Carpet and call for clearance.

“I’ve never been to Oshkosh,” says the tower controller as I taxi out. “What’s it like?” Briefly I recount past visits before departing her airspace. “Have fun,” she says before handing me off. “And stop by Garden City on your way home!”

“Might just do that,” I say, meaning it. How can such a quiet place offer such a warm welcome in so few minutes? I trek across Kansas, then southeastern Nebraska near Lincoln. I’ve never been to Lincoln and consider stopping. But Dave’s expecting me.

Crossing the Missouri River into Iowa, I ponder the few bridges for ground-bound travelers and reenter my hazy Midwestern youth. The earth is emerald here, smothered by thick air and a cool blanket of clouds. I’d forgotten the richly manicured creeks and riverbanks marking this part of the country. Have I changed, too? It all seems so different than the untamed landscape of my adopted West. There, civilization is veneer; here it’s one with the earth.

Lower and lower I drift, savoring the friendly ground beneath me. One can’t cruise at 2,000 feet in the West; that’s mostly underground. So many trees! Ames appears ahead in twilight. I land in clammy mist and breathe the dense air. Everything is sticky here — when flying East I always wonder for the first day or two if I’m sick. Dave greets me at the line shack.

“Let’s eat light,” I suggest. “Sushi, maybe?”

“In Ames? You’ve got to be kidding,” says Dave. “For that matter, we’ll be lucky to find anything other than fast food at this time of night.” We settle for a place at least having the word “cafe” in its name, and spice the remaining evening with cold beer and warm conversation.

The Mississippi River peeks from beneath clouds on the last leg to Oshkosh.

A young Iowa State University engineering student tops my tanks next morning, and I’m on my way. Vapor shrouds Iowa and Wisconsin, slowing progress for VFR pilgrims. But to me as an instrument pilot, the low clouds offer new hope that tiedowns might remain open at my destination. Some aviators consider instrument flying unnatural, but for me it’s salt o’ the Earth. Climbing through stratus, I relearn the song sung by Cessna wing struts in the soup — reassured by such music, I soon cruise on top at 5,000 feet while my VFR friends scurry for openings underneath. En route I peep through a hole at my aviator’s birthplace in Madison, Wisconsin.

Yesterday’s eight-hour marathon makes this final two-hour hop seem short. Hotdogs await me when I touch down at Dodge County Airport in the little town of Juneau, and friendly faces. But a lump fills my throat. Grandpa Buschkopf used to greet me at this airport after I married his granddaughter. We often drove together to what was then called the Oshkosh Fly-in; there biplanes kindled tales of barnstormers from his youth. Where’s Grandpa and his old Pontiac? Time has failed to shelter me from the pain of his absence. One can fly most anywhere, I suppose, but not from the past.

Renting a car, I meander between memories and great red barns toward Oshkosh. Though warm friends and fellow pilots await me up the road, there’s also loneliness at such huge gatherings — not like the rich company of sky and clouds escorting my Flying Carpet on this solo pilgrimage across the country. Those happy companions will rejoin me Friday morning, when I depart sunburned and fulfilled on the long journey home. ©2009 Gregory N. Brown

LSA “trike” over Kauaii

Kauai, Hawaii… what a great way to get to see a new place from a gorgeous perspective! And if you’re already a flight student, a wonderful way to build hours and try a new aircraft, as well.

In aviation, it’s often the case that if someone gets behind the controls of an aircraft, is allowed to “fly it,” and enjoys the flight, then there’s a good chance that person will take up flying — and there aren’t many other more beautiful places for this to happen than in Hawaii, taking introductory flights in Light Sport Aircraft.

I had the opportunity to fly in Kauai providing introductory trike instruction flights. It was amazing what a difference these LSA make in folks’ attitudes about flying, and in their ability to do it — encouraged by the beauty of the place in which they’re doing it. Many take control of the trike in 5 minutes and can fly it around the island with confidence.

It has been a great experience for me, to see this happening, while teaching in the islands: the experience of flying the trike and exploring parts of the island that the trike can take you to, brings those who try it a new perspective on learning to fly. Many want to take flying lessons afterwards. Will you?

Have you started your flight training yet? If not, why? Still looking for that perfect CFI?

It’s not uncommon for prospective student pilots to delay flight training months or even years, waiting for the perfect CFI to come knocking on the door. The trouble is, CFIs never come knocking on the door. (Hell, you’re lucky if some of them even show up for lessons on time.)

And “perfect” is really a loaded term when it comes to CFIs anyway. What’s perfect? Smart? Sexy? Funny? Knowledgeable? On most of these accounts you’re in luck:

• Smart? Many CFIs are smart, often to the point of irritation. It can be particularly endearing when all that brainpower comes tucked behind a forehead that still dreads acne.
• Sexy? Most CFIs are reasonably attractive, some being downright gorgeous. If you learn best whilst you giggle and blush, this is the attribute to consider. And though “distractions” are an important part of primary pilot training, distractions on this scale are really better suited toward more advance pilot training, like instrument or commercial ratings.
• Funny? None are as funny as me, so let’s skip this one.
• Knowledgeable? I’ll bet this is the one that’s holding you up. How do you know how knowledgeable a person is about a subject you don’t know yourself?

The “certified” part of the “certified flight instructor” title suggests the FAA has educated and examined these folks. It’s supposed to mean no matter which one you get, you’ll get what you need. And no matter what happens, your money won’t be wasted.

You know, it’s like choosing a masseuse or masseur from a line up.

Here’s the truth: It’s near impossible to find the perfect CFI up front, because you play such an important role in the ultimate determination of who’s perfect. Who will you connect with? Who’s schedule fits your schedule? Who’s nearby? Who will laugh at your jokes? (After all, it’s your money.)

Here are some things to consider when choosing the CFI that’s perfect for you:

• Who makes you feel comfortable? You’re going to spend a lot of time in a small place with this person. Do you think you’ll get along? If not, move on. In my ever humble opinion, this is by far the most important consideration, because it affects everything else.
  Suggestion: Ask CFI candidates about their hobbies or interests. While they tell you, check to make sure their breath is fresh.
• Who’s available when you’re available? Things like weather, aircraft maintenance schedules and illness are things you can’t control, and you’ll be amazed often you must cancel lessons because of these and other factors beyond your control. But some things you can control, and daily schedule compatibility is one of the most important. CFIs want your business, so they might tell you things like, “Oh, I’m sure we’ll work something out,” or “Weekends are fine—airplanes are hardly ever used on the weekends in this country!” If your daily schedules don’t mesh, you’re never going to get through your training. Someone is available when you are, so keep looking.
  Suggestion: Ask CFI candidates to show you their schedules. See if time slots are free that suit you. Chances are, if the slots you’ll need are used up for the coming weeks, you’ll find yourself fighting with other students for time.
• Who’s nearby? Like regular workouts at a gym, learning to fly an airplane will make you more attractive. You picked your gym based in part on its convenient location, and you need to pick your CFI for the same reason—if your lessons aren’t convenient, you won’t go. In some areas, you won’t have a choice. But if you do have more than one nearby airport, choose the place you’re most likely to get to. Consider the CFIs at that “other” local airport less desirable, no matter how hot they look in their sunglasses and David Clarks.
  Suggestion: If your local airport isn’t very local, ask CFI candidates if they’re available outside the airport for ground instruction, which doesn’t require an airplane. This could end up saving you lots of time.
• Who can you afford? Each CFI charges differently. In some cases, the flight school will determine the costs. But if you pay your CFI directly, find out what kind of money you’re talking about. How much per hour? How long is a typical lesson? When does the clock start and stop?
  Suggestion: Ask CFI candidates how they conduct their business. This can be an awkward question, but you have a right to know—this is someone you’re hiring! You’re the boss, and don’t forget it!

Other things are important to consider too, in case you happen to be clairvoyant and can predict such things:

• Who’s airline bound? Some CFIs are training students while they pursue airline careers. It makes sense for them because they need the flight hours and students pay for the airplane. The trouble is that these CFIs can be more focused on their goals than yours. Not all, but some. Once that airline job comes along, you’re back at square one. You won’t loose the flight time you’ve already put in, but you can lose the momentum you need to get that license.
  Suggestion: Ask CFI candidates to describe their goals as aviators. If they mention the airlines, find out what time frame they’re looking at before they start looking for a job. If they’re already looking, you keep looking too. If they’re many months away from their job hunt, you might be able to get through your training before they go.
• Who seems stable? It’s not like you’re expecting your CFI to snap mid-flight, but a CFI who has been training for many years—particularly in the same location—might have the upper hand with regard to being there for you throughout your training.
  Suggestion: Ask CFI candidates how long they’ve been training. If they’re new to the area, that’s fine. Just ask some follow-up questions until you’re satisfied they’re not just passing through.

Choosing a CFI is tough, but it’s no reason to delay your training. All the hours you accrue during your training follow you forever; so even if you need to fire a CFI, you don’t need to start your training all over. Don’t be afraid to ask the tough questions. Good CFIs are used to it, and it will show them you’re serious about your training.

Ernie Adams shows off his ’39 Chevy at the Route 66 Fun Run stop in Seligman, Arizona.

“Hey, Dan, check out that ’39 Chevy. It’s just like the one I owned in high school – even the same color!” Dan drives a tricked out Camaro, so I doubt he appreciated the old car’s beauty as I did. Then again, my view was burnished by memories. As we crossed the road to see it, I remembered my dad encouraging me to buy the low-mileage antique he’d spotted on a street corner. Among life’s rich lessons was when girls at the Dog ‘n Suds drive-in bypassed the muscle cars to ride in my emerald Chevy. It only did 55mph, but like puppies and babies it exuded character so the girls loved it. Best of all, the narrow front seat ensured that such passengers rode deliciously nearby. After graduation I rebuilt the engine and journeyed in the old auto from Chicago through Canada to Maine and back.

As Dan and I approached the car, however, something didn’t seem right. In hazy memories my old Chevy loomed much larger. Certainly I didn’t recall bending down to look inside, as we did with this one. Yet surely this was the real thing, with its curvaceous proportions, detailed grill and sparkling chrome. “What the heck?” I said, figuring my mind was playing tricks. Lacking ’39 Chevy expertise, Dan just shrugged. We were soon enticed down the street by a burnt-orange pickup sporting yellow flames and a matching 1950s travel trailer.

Among my favorite flying destinations have always been the nation’s wacky and wonderful small-town festivals. This time I’d invited my pilot buddy Dan to check out the Route 66 Fun Run, a goodtime weekend auto tour that follows the nation’s longest remaining uninterrupted stretch of the historic highway across northern Arizona. “I have no idea what to expect,” I’d cautioned Dan when making the offer.

“Count me in,” replied Dan, “Flying anywhere will be more fun than trimming trees, which is what I’d planned for the day.” We decided to intercept the tour Saturday morning at Seligman, Arizona, rather than join the bigger party when the cars reached Kingman that afternoon. Flying weather would be better in the morning, and we could walk into Seligman from the airport. Kingman would require a taxi.

Saturday morning dawned cool and clear. Escaping the Phoenix air traffic hornet’s nest via the Bradshaw Mountains, Prescott, and the Chino Valley, we skimmed over Arizona’s higher, cooler northern plateau. Hues of hand-rubbed lacquer sparkled from below as we entered the traffic pattern over tiny Seligman. Unlike my previous visits to often-empty Seligman Airport, this time airplanes occupied every tiedown and interstitial space. Fortunately a departing Skywagon opened a gap between taxiway lights where we nestled the Flying Carpet.

We ogled a candy-apple rainbow of chopped and channeled ’49 Mercury sedans.

Guided by a pedestrian map posted at the airport, Dan and I walked downtown to old Route 66. There, quadruple rows of collectable cars clogged the historic thoroughfare for the length of town. This is no concours d’elegance, but an open-entry event where owners flaunt their treasures regardless of how exotic or mundane they might appear to others. Alongside lovingly restored Corvettes, Mustangs, and fire-breathing pickup trucks was a candy-apple rainbow of chopped and channeled ’49 Mercury sedans – I’ve never seen so many in one place.

A Fun Run participant shows off his 1930s cab-over-engine Chevrolet truck hauling an eight-wheel Jeep.

Other gems included an all-original ’26 Ford, a thirties cab-over-engine truck hauling an eight-wheel Jeep, and a VW Beetle surgically slimmed to the width of its driver. Such magical backyard creatures you’d never encounter at any white-glove auto exhibit.

A VW Beetle surgically slimmed to the width of its driver – such backyard creatures you’d never encounter at any white-glove auto exhibit.

As the cars accelerated slowly along Old 66 toward Kingman, Dan and I thrilled to the bright colors, broad smiles and revving engines associated with each passing vehicle. We’d just reversed course toward Lilo’s Cafe for lunch when I again spotted the ‘39 Chevy. This time, however, the car appeared in context with other vehicles around it. What’s more, a very tall man rested his foot on the running board and his elbow on the roof. Now it was conclusive — the old Chevy was most certainly not the right size.

“This yours?” I asked the man. “Yes,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Ernie Adams, ‘Mr. Dwarf Car.’ My friend Daren and I built it from scratch. You should see our dwarf ’42 Ford convertible…” He retrieved photos but was soon motioned into the procession. “Gotta go,” said Ernie. To everyone’s amusement, the big man compressed impossibly into the tiny car and buzzed away in a cloud of oily smoke.

Flying home that afternoon, Dan and I chuckled at the dwarf Chevy and its well-deserved place in the homespun heritage of small-town celebrations. I described the lavender municipal vehicles where I grew up in Lombard, Illinois, so painted in homage to the local Lilac Parade. “Picture a purple Plymouth Valiant police car with diagonal tailfins, Dan. Even the garbage trucks were lavender!”

Every community must have its festival, no matter how far-fetched the justification. I remember driving my college pal Fred home through the little Wisconsin town of Abbotsford. “Wisconsin’s First City,” boasted the welcoming banner. “Strange, that the state’s first city should be founded in so remote a place,” I observed to Fred at the time. “That’s not what they’re celebrating,” he replied with a chuckle. “You see, there’s this alphabetical Directory of Wisconsin Cities and Towns…”

Near Prescott our attention shifted from cars and festivals to a striking cloud formation layered like a Dagwood sandwich.

Near Prescott our attention shifted from cars and festivals to a striking cloud formation layered like a Dagwood sandwich. Dan and I thought we were experiencing atmospheric history, but meteorologist friends later identified it as a variant of the common altocumulus lenticular cloud so familiar to mountain pilots. How embarrassing. Then again, I thought I knew a ’39 Chevy when I saw one, too.

I was in this position because a few months earlier I had attended my first Women in Aviation International (WAI) conference in Denver, Colo. It was full of young women, like bees on a flower bush, buzzing around from booth to booth looking for commercial flying jobs. I was merely working toward becoming a flight instructor, a goal already attained by most of the women (who were far younger than my 50 years).

Not looking for a job, I had plenty of time to hang around the fund-raising silent auction table where I found one item I was willing to bid on: two hours of aerobatic flight lessons with Sean D. Tucker. His home base is Salinas, Calif., a four-hour drive from my home in Truckee, Calif., so it wasn’t an impossible wish. I had no idea what it was worth, but I thought I could afford $400 for a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

About an hour before the bidding closed, I noticed that I was competing with one other woman who was raising the bid $20 every time. The price was up to $500, but I caught a glimpse of her across the room—twenty-ish, tall, blond, attractive, with a whole flying life ahead of her—and was inspired.

In the final moments, my competitor and I were standing shoulder to shoulder at the auction table with pens in hand. As she wrote in $600, she said, “I can’t really afford this.” Quickly scribbling $620 on the next line, I responded, “I can’t either, but I’m older than you, and this may be my last chance.” Perhaps she was relieved. I’ll never know, but she put down the pen and walked away.

When I realized what I had done, I felt sick. Not that I had outbid my youthful rival, but that I had just unwittingly spent $620. With Sean D. Tucker’s photo and prize receipt in hand, I entered the elevator to return to my room and lament what I had done. A small dark-haired young woman who had watched the battle at the auction table was there, too. “That’s so cool,” she said. “I’d give anything to fly with Sean Tucker, but I’d settle for a photo.” I handed her the picture and thought maybe I was taking home something after all.

When I met Sean at the Salinas airport for my first lesson in February 1999, he made me feel relaxed. My entire aerobatic experience had been a few spins in a tired Cessna 172. By that time, I was a new flight instructor and had demonstrated spins in my CFI training, but I had no idea what one would feel like in a new biplane made for aerobatic maneuvers. Sean illustrated what we would be doing using a toy airplane to demonstrate the airplane’s attitude. He said we would fly four different times, a half-hour each time.

I put on the parachute he provided and climbed into the backseat after he instructed me on how to get into the cockpit using the handholds and stepping only on the white crossbars on the see-through floor. Before climbing into the front seat, Sean identified the instruments and gauges, pointing out that there was no turn coordinator. I would have to “feel” the airplane with my bottom side. Then, he showed me the red knob near the window that unlocks the clear canopy in case of emergency. “When will I know it’s time to jump?” I asked. “When you see me gone, it’s time,” Sean joked.

He showed me how to start the engine and adjust the trim slightly “south,” or nose-down. We performed the run-up, and were off. The nearby practice area was a farm owned by a friend of Sean’s. My husband Tom had driven over to watch us from below as we did loops, rolls, spins, and hammerheads. Sean demonstrated the maneuvers, then instructed me to follow through and do some on my own. The half-hour passed quickly, and when Sean asked how I was feeling, I said, “Great!”

With that, he took the controls and put the Pitts into a flat spin. It was like one of those spinning carnival rides, which make me sick just thinking about them. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough. Sean asked again how I was doing. I think I said, “Okay,” but I’m not sure. He headed toward the airport, and in ten minutes, we were on the ground. Tom was waiting for us, but I couldn’t move. After a minute, however, I knew I’d better move, and fast.

A few steps out of the airplane, and I was losing my lunch on the grass. I didn’t gauge the wind direction and was soon covered with it. Sean and Tom were laughing and gave me a demonstration on how to face downwind, something every man learns at a young age. I didn’t care; I was simply relieved that my lunch was on me and not in the new Pitts.

Although it took me all afternoon to recover, the next day I felt fine, eager to do anything but flat spins. Two weeks later, I returned to Salinas for my final two lessons. Tom and I brought along Wanda, his 85-year-old mother, and Helen, our 84-year-old friend who lives in Carmel, to watch. They were in on the preflight briefing, even asking questions about what we would be doing up there. As Sean and I taxied out to takeoff, Tom drove the twosome to the practice area for the show.

Sean and I flew a variety of maneuvers over the open field; I was becoming more comfortable with the controls and their effect. We did a hammerhead over the base of a small hill, which Wanda identified immediately, I learned later. Then, Sean said, “I’ll take the controls.” He pulled the nose up, turned the airplane toward our three spectators standing next to the car at the other end of the field, and pointed it toward the ground for speed. We were getting set up for a high-speed pass—or so I thought. At the last moment, Sean inverted the airplane overhead, thrilling them and me. For the one and only time in my life, I was an aerobatic pilot with an audience.

At dinner that night, Wanda and Helen couldn’t stop talking about the “airshow.” It was an experience that they and I would never forget. And all because I felt alone in Denver and grabbed a chance. Even though I haven’t been upside down in an airplane since then, I wouldn’t trade the experience of flying with Sean D. Tucker for any amount of money. He donated the gift of flight lessons to WAI, and I was beneficiary. Sean still greets Tom and me like old friends when we see him performing at Oshkosh every year. I’m not sure if it’s because I managed to get to the lawn in time, or whether he’s just a great guy.

Anyone who’s seen the inside of a gym can tell you: those with toned arms always have a weight in their hands, and those with killer legs are always squatting, extending, pressing, etc.

And, it makes sense: How else did they get that way if it wasn’t for all that hard work?

But those solid arms are often held up by chicken legs, and those award-worthy stumps are often supporting T-Rex-like upper torsos.

The trouble is, we tend to favor what works for us, whether in the gym or in the cockpit.

If you’re like many pilots, you practice, by instinct, what you already do pretty well. If you’re practicing soft field take-offs all the time, I’ll bet I could rely on you to get us out of the muddy grass. Or, if you’re practicing rapid-fire short approaches until the tower seems annoyed at the repeated request, I’ll bet you’re me.

But what don’t you do well? Chances are, it’s what you practice least. After all, what fun is practice that humbles us, or makes us nervous?
I’ll be honest: One weak link in my aviator skill set is navigation into unfamiliar airports. It’s not that I inherently fear the unknown; it’s just that I prefer to over plan my virgin approaches. I’ll check the charts, check the airport facilities directory (A/FD), ask other pilots, and I’ll even pull up an aerial map on Google—all because I want to know, without question, what I’m getting myself into. (And heaven forbid, when I get there the wind is favoring the other runway!)

In theory, what we see on VFR sectional and terminal charts should be all we need to safely land at an unfamiliar field. At a minimum, the text portion of each airport chart listing shows:

• The airport name (SCARY FIELD) and identifier (BAD),
• The airport elevation (666 ft.),
• The lighting situation (*L – part-time lighting, see A/FD for details),
• The longest runway length (2600 ft.), and
• The common traffic advisory frequency, or CTAF (122.7).

We don’t see the traffic pattern altitude, but we can figure that out by calling in on the CTAF, or just assuming it’s a standard 1,000 feet above the field elevation. (We also don’t see information about Internet access at the field, and there’s really no excuse for that, in my ever-humble opinion. Why would I ever land at a field that offers no WiFi if I still had gas in the tanks?)
For me, the information printed on charts is about as useful as a controller who offers progressive taxi instructions by saying, “go that way.” But I need to get over this.

So what’s the one thing I never practice? I never practice flying into random airports, just to force myself to “see” the approach from the perspective of a Third World VFR chart and not a Google map.

And, really, it’s an easy enough thing to do. I live within spitting distance of a dozen or more airports that would each be happy to host me, and I’m sure at least some of them offer WiFi. So, I promise here and now, I will practice this.

What do you promise to practice?

About Paul

Paul Hamilton is recognized as an expert in the Light Sport Aircraft (LSA) category. He is a pilot, flight instructor, aviation engineer, consultant, writer, video producer and business owner. Through his company, Adventure Productions, Paul specializes in teaching and informing people about flying (especially LSA) including students, pilots, instructors, mechanics, engineers and aerodynamicists.

Conventional, standard category LSA, such as a Piper J-3 Cub, are maintained the same way as their standard category brothers, such as a Cessna 172. There is no change to the way they have been maintained before the LSA category came along: they receive inspections annually, plus once more for every 100 hours of service if they are used for training or for-hire. The personnel allowed to perform maintenance and inspections are FAA certificated Airframe and Powerplant (A&P) mechanics or an FAA-certified repair station.

For Special LSAs (S-LSA), like the Gobosh 800XP and Flight Design CTLS, inspection frequency is determined the same way as conventional standard category aircraft. The personnel allowed to perform inspections and maintenance are A&P mechanics, FAA-certified repair station, plus persons who hold the new LSA repairmen certificate with a maintenance rating. You become an LSA repairman with a maintenance rating when you successfully complete a 120-hour FAA-approved course.

Maintenance, repairs and alterations can be performed by A&P mechanics, an FAA-certified repair station and LSA repairmen with a maintenance rating. For some maintenance items specified by the manufacturer in the manual, the mechanic must receive training from the S-LSA’s manufacturer. Check the Aircraft Maintenance Manual for information on what the manufacturer specifies.

For experimental LSA, inspections can be done annually by FAA repairmen and A&P’s with inspection authorization, or by the owner — as long as they have passed a 16-hour course making them a LSA repairman with an inspection rating. Experimental aircraft can include Special LSA bolt-together kits, S-LSA that have been converted to Experimental LSA, and any ultralight trainer transitioned to an E-LSA. Anyone is allowed to perform maintenance, repair and alterationson an experimental aircraft.

If you’ve got a question about maintenance and inspections, post it in the comment box below where we can find it.

• Lifestyle. Imagine living your dream. What lifestyle do you want to create for yourself? With so many types of aircraft, you can to choose what you want, what’s best for you.
   
• Speed. If you want a new and sexy airplane that burns half the fuel and flies as fast as your friends at the airport, look at the new, top-of-the-line LSA high-performance composite airplanes, such as the Gobosh 800XP and the Cirrus SRS.
   
• Versatility. If you want to store your aircraft in a trailer similar to sailplanes, to travel around the country in your motorhome, or save money on hangar rent, consider an airplane with foldable wings, a Weight-Shift Control (WSC) or a Powered Parachute (PPC), all of which are easily transported.
   
• Taking it slow. If you want to fly low and slow above the countryside for a great view, look at the two ultralight type aircrafts, which are now classified as an LSA: Trikes (a.k.a. Weight Shift Control, WSC) and Powered Parachute (PPC) models.
   
• Limited budget. If you want to own your own aircraft but have a limited budget, consider the ultralight type airplanes (WSC and PPC) and the new Experimental LSA bolt-together kits. In fact, with the easy to assemble bolt-together kits, you can now do your own maintenance, which saves you money on upkeep. You can also purchase an aircraft as part of a group, so everybody shares expenses.

What is your situation?  How do these factors help you to choose the right LSA? Post your comments and questions in the Comment section below the video. 

About Paul

Paul Hamilton is recognized as an expert in the Light Sport Aircraft (LSA) category. He is a pilot, flight instructor, aviation engineer, consultant, writer, video producer and business owner. Through his company, Adventure Productions, Paul specializes in teaching and informing people about flying (especially LSA) including students, pilots, instructors, mechanics, engineers and aerodynamicists.