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

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.

“Need help?” yelled the guy in the tour boat.

“No thanks,” I replied, not daring to turn my head too far, for fear of falling into the water. We were adrift in the middle of the Colorado River, with me balanced precariously face down on the seaplane’s float, pumping water out of the forward float compartments.

Twice we had tried to take off, unsuccessfully, given today’s calm wind and glassy waters. “You must not have emptied all the water from the floats,” said examiner Joe La Placa, finally, “get out there and do it again.” Great way to start a checkride, I thought.

Lake Havasu widens the Colorado River not far from Needles, California.

I was here to earn my single-engine seaplane rating from La Placa Flying Service at Lake Havasu City, Arizona. At the time Joe and Jean La Placa trained seaplane pilots from all over the world — this in a state with just one natural lake and only four rivers that flow year-round. (These days Joe limits his service primarily to single-engine land- and seaplane flight tests.)

My training began at a tiny cove on the river with no flight school and no ramp — just a faded-orange Cessna 150 on floats, forlornly perched atop a winch platform. Unlike normal 150s, this one features bracing behind the windshield, and an electric fuel pump to ensure fuel flow at high pitch attitudes. Between the seats is a handle for raising and lowering water rudders on the floats, and under the cowl lurks 150hp, half again more than what originally came installed. Floatplanes are no speed demons — the oversized engine is required to get the airplane off the water.

Like boat hulls, seaplane floats accumulate water, and therefore must be pumped out before every flight. I was to become expert at this process, using a hand pump and one powered through the cigarette lighter receptacle. “Drain the floats properly before leaving shore,” Joe counseled me, “’cause it’s a lot tougher in the middle of the lake.” (I would later learn the truth of this wisdom.)

We also checked the propeller for water erosion and cracks caused by spray, a problem so serious that wilderness seaplane pilots sometimes carry hacksaws in their survival gear, for removing damaged prop tips if necessary to reach a place where proper repairs can be made. Water flying often requires improvising where help is not available.

After preflight, I was surprised to see two-foot lengths of tiedown rope still hanging from the wings. “Those show us which way the wind is blowing on the water,” explained Joe.

Lengths of tiedown rope are left dangling from the wings to show wind direction when the plane is stationary on the water.

We zeroed the altimeter to mark the lake’s surface, and started the engine. “No need to test the brakes,” observed Mr. La Placa with a smile. As soon as the engine starts you’re moving — there’s no ground resistance to hold you in place. With water rudders in the water, “idling taxi” proved surprisingly easy.

Next I learned high-speed taxi “on the step,” which means hydroplaning like a speedboat. From there it’s a simple matter to increase power and take off. Once in the air flying was like a landplane, but more stable due to additional weight and lift from the floats.

It turns out that the biggest seaplane kick is flying low — really low. We spent almost all of our five flight hours within five hundred feet of the water, including downwind for landings at two hundred feet.

Height above water is tough to judge, especially under calm conditions, so for landing I learned to stabilize our approach for minimum descent rate, then wait for the plane to land itself… better to touch down softly, as there are no springs on the floats. Mr. La Placa also taught me to skim the shoreline on final, so as to better “feel” the level of the lake surface ahead. For “short field” practice we landed in a postcard-pretty cove and beached the airplane for a break.

Joe La Placa shares pre-takeoff pointers.

By the time for my recommendation ride with instructor Barry Grant, I felt like pretty hot stuff; my takeoffs and landings were going great. But I inadvertently “plow taxied” back to shore, slogging nose-high through the water with lots of power, without getting “on the step.” You’re not supposed to do that, Joe chided me upon return, because it consumes fuel, erodes the prop, and accumulates water in the floats.

Worse yet, I apparently didn’t get all that water out prior to the checkride, leading to our takeoff debacle. If only that tour boat hadn’t come by, me bent over the pump with my butt in the air, and all those people waving! Fortunately my efforts paid off and we took to the air, the rest of the checkride being so much fun that my embarrassment was quickly forgotten.

We flew the Colorado River through craggy Topock Gorge, its tumbled peaks cast aside as if by ancient gods playing in red clay.

Along with airwork and water maneuvers, we flew the rugged Colorado River north to Needles, California, traversing massive marshes and ancient Indian glyphs along the way. Best of all was craggy Topock Gorge, its tumbled peaks cast aside as if by ancient gods playing in red clay. Upon return Jean La Placa greeted us with completed paperwork, sweet home-grown tangerines, and a smile to match. We winched the plane out of the water, and suddenly it was over.

All too soon I was winging my way homeward aboard the “Flying Carpet,” with rich images of sun and spray captivating my mind as they would for days to come. When learning something new, no matter how many others may have preceded you, there’s a bit of pioneering associated with it. The popular TV slogan notwithstanding, all it really takes for adventure is to boldly go where you have never gone before. Flying gives us that opportunity time after time.

Skimming gracefully over blue waters at 200 feet… Wow! I’m still dreaming about it.

In the comment box below, tell me about your own fun experiences with flying, whether for lessons or as a passenger.

About Greg

Greg Brown is an award winning flight instructor, pilot, author and columnist. In 2000, he was the National Flight Instructor of the Year. Greg writes the Flying Carpet column for AOPA’s Flight Training magazine and co-authored You Can Fly! with Laurel Lippert. His other books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot’s Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit Greg Brown’s own blog at www.GregBrownFlyingCarpet.com.

As I’ve shared over the last few days in my posts about Jeanne Peterson, Chevy Chevallard, and Phil Ferdolage, there is no ceiling age when you’re too old to learn to fly. Regardless of age, staying focused and committed (persistent) toward your goal is the key.

Today, I’d like to share an email from Mark Harris written to Jeanne Peterson that shows how anyone can face challenges becoming a pilot, but that keeping at it will bear fruit.

Hi Jeanne,

Mark was challenged by landings, but flew solo at 47 years old on Halloween day 2007

My name is Mark Harris. Greg Brown asked me to drop you a note regarding my experience in learning to fly. I just turned 47 a couple of weeks ago and have had my private pilot’s certificate since the end of March of 2008. So I’m a relatively new pilot with about 160 hours under my belt. I’ve always wanted to learn to fly, ever since I was a kid, but waited until my kids were older and I had a little more discretionary funds to learn. As soon as I received my certificate I bought a [half] share in an older [Cessna] 182.

During my primary training I caught on quickly to most things in flying. The one area that dogged me was my landings. For some reason I just couldn’t get it. And my CFI wouldn’t let me solo until I could land consistently. Go figure…

I read every article, read books, and listened to every podcast I could get my hands on [to] help me master my landings. I even contacted Greg with my concerns via email which is how we originally met. While I was extremely frustrated I knew intellectually that I would get over this hump, but that didn’t make my frustration any more palatable.

My CFI was smart enough to recognize my issue and changed the focus of our training to include an earlier-than-planned cross country flight along with other maneuvers to take my mind off the trouble I was having. After a while, the landings started clicking, slowly at first but getting noticeably more consistent. I was actually landing on the centerline of the runway now.

Mark now flies regularly throughout Arizona, including for business

It got to the point where I was feeling confident about my landings and I was “willing” my CFI to jump out of the plane so I could solo. One day he did! And I felt more confident with him out of the plane than I did with him in it. I did my 3 landings without incident and he took my T-shirt and wrote all over it and hung it up in the training room. He took my picture next to the plane. That was Halloween day of 2007.

It was all worth it. I use my plane for work almost weekly and fly all over the state of Arizona and recently made a flight into John Wayne Airport (SNA) in the LA basin area.

I know that you will do great, just keep heading towards the ticket. You’ll be glad you did.

Regards,
Mark

 

 

For Mark as with so many others, persistence paid off. Just months after earning his pilot certificate at the age of 47, Mark is now flying wherever his business needs take him.

What are some of the reasons you want to fly? What obstacles worry you through your anticipated flight training? Insert your thoughts in the comments section below.

About Greg

Greg Brown is an award winning flight instructor, pilot, author and columnist. In 2000, he was the National Flight Instructor of the Year. Greg writes the Flying Carpet column for AOPA’s Flight Training magazine and co-authored You Can Fly! with Laurel Lippert. His other books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot’s Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit Greg Brown’s own blog at www.GregBrownFlyingCarpet.com.

There’s no age limit to learning to fly, as you’ll continue to hear me say. A few days ago, I introduced you to Jeanne Peterson and her concern about perhaps being too old to earn her pilot’s license. Today, I would like to introduce you to my friend Phil Ferdolage and the message he sent to Jeanne about her concern.

Phil’s message is about persistence and patience toward his goal of flying.

Dear Jeanne,

Learn to fly with persistence like Phil Ferdolage

Greg asked me to share some of my thoughts and experiences about flying. There is so much to tell that I don’t know where to begin. I will say that learning to fly and getting my pilot’s license is the greatest thing I’ve ever done. (Next to getting married, of course, in case my wife is reading this).

I earned my license at the age of 57. Now I am 59 and am determined to earn my instrument ticket before I turn 60. I’m currently taking IFR lessons from Warren Crain at Pigs Can Fly in San Luis Obispo, Ca. I mention his name because Greg probably knows Warren.

I went through three instructors before I earned my license. The first had a bad temper, the second, who was only 19 years old at the time, went to work for an airline before I finished up, and the third finally got me to the finish line.

Above the clouds – Phil’s reward for patience in his flight training

Like everyone else I had a problem with the flare, but Greg Brown was kind enough to give me some pointers that really helped. Plus he hooked me up with Chevy who had recently got his license. Hi Chevy.

I fly mostly to Sacramento Executive and to John Wayne to visit kids and grandkids. There’s nothing like flying. Keep your eye on your goal and don’t get discouraged if you have a little setback. You will feel so proud the day you get your license.

I’ve attached a few photos you might enjoy. One is of beautiful clouds that I flew around on my way back from SAC. The other is of two young eagles that I took up one day last summer. They loved it.

Phil

 

For Phil, even turnover among his flight instructors couldn’t stop him from learning to fly. You too can overcome obstacles. Whether it’s your age or unforeseen challenges, flying is worth it. Just be persistent and patient and you’ll achieve your goal.

What are some of the challenges you worry about in the process of learning to fly? Let’s talk about them in the comments section below.

About Greg

Greg Brown is an award winning flight instructor, pilot, author and columnist. In 2000, he was the National Flight Instructor of the Year. Greg writes the Flying Carpet column for AOPA’s Flight Training magazine and co-authored You Can Fly! with Laurel Lippert. His other books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot’s Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit Greg Brown’s own blog at www.GregBrownFlyingCarpet.com.

Feeling too old to learn to fly? Let’s change that feeling.

Age is not a factor when determining if you can obtain your pilot’s license. Health and physical ability, yes…but not age. To help prove it, my friend and retired Air Force Lt. Col. Chevy Chevallard added his own encouragement in response to an email I received from Jeanne Peterson, who was struggling through her private pilot lessons at an older age. (See yesterday’s blog post.)

Dear Jeanne:

You are to be commended for this endeavor, and I’m betting you’re becoming an excellent, wise, and SAFE pilot! And yes, it can get discouraging. I had a heck of a time figuring out the “round out.” Finally, my instructor said, “Chevy,” what do you see when you look at the cowling? I said, “I’ve never really seen the cowling!” (I’m 5. 6″) I was sitting on a pillow, but apparently it was about one inch too thin. That day we added a second cushion, and my round out problem went away for good. But it sure was frustrating! I think it’s especially so when, like you, I’ve “been there, done that” in a lot of ways, and I just couldn’t GET IT. But I did, and you will too. SO glad you’ve taken up this challenge!

Become a pilot even at 54 like retired Air Force Lt Col Chevy Chevallard

For context, here’s my story: About a month before I retired from the Air Force, I joined the flying club at my base, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado. At the time I was 54 and change. I started ground school and flight training in August 2004. I finished ground school eight weeks later, and rather than follow the conventional wisdom “Take your FAA Knowledge Exam ASAP,” I decided to wait. I had done very well in my ground school written stage checks, but I just didn’t feel I KNEW the material. So, I took another six months to study and well, I was the only member of my ground school class to ACE the test. I kind of felt the same way about taking the practical test, too. So, I trained for 16 months, accumulating about 100 hours before I took that test, and, again, did well. Since then, I’ve found a flying partner (my former flight instructor, who’s 83, an active CFI at our club, who has over 5000 hours (many of it as a career Air Force pilot, the rest as as CFI), and who skis 20 weekends a year), and we take short cross countries. From these experiences, I’ve learned a little about instrument flying, including GPS, too. I fly once or twice a month, and that’s wonderful for me and my schedule. I continue to read voraciously (I still take AOPA Flight Training) and I photocopy articles that cover “weak spots” I need to focus on. Then the next time I have an opportunity to fly (solo or with my flying buddy), I’ll pick an issue or two to focus on, and apply it. Last week I focused on what to do if my seat slips back on the rails during takeoff (answer: pull back on the throttle, not the yoke!).

Chevy

Carl “Chevy” Chevallard, PhD, LtCol (USAF, Ret)
Colorado Springs, CO

 

 

 

So, tell me… What concerns do you have about learning to fly an airplane or getting your Pilot’s license? Again, answer in the comments section below.

About Greg

Greg Brown is an award winning flight instructor, pilot, author and columnist. In 2000, he was the National Flight Instructor of the Year. Greg writes the Flying Carpet column for AOPA’s Flight Training magazine and co-authored You Can Fly! with Laurel Lippert. His other books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot’s Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit Greg Brown’s own blog at www.GregBrownFlyingCarpet.com.

Jeanne is a reader of my Flying Carpet column in Flight Training magazine. She boldly wondered what age was the ceiling that one could go about learning to fly. I explained anyone can, but that you need to keep motivated toward your goal in order to achieve it.

To help Jeanne out, I forwarded an encouraging email from my friend Linda Anderson, who recently earned her private pilot license at age 60. What happened next is a testament to why the pilot community is so strong. I’ll let Jeanne explain it in her own words…

Dear Greg,

Last November, I emailed you wondering if 48 [years old] was too late to learn to fly. At that time you forwarded me an email from Linda Anderson. I just wanted to thank you for that email. It was such an encouragement to me. I emailed her about her flying experiences and we have become friends. Whenever I’m discouraged, she encourages. We share more than our flying experiences, but it’s so important to be able to talk to someone about flying.

Linda and I have never met [in person], but are making plans for this summer … Since I first emailed you I have almost 40 hours in my logbook in a Cessna 152. It has been a difficult winter to get flying time in, especially with the bitter cold weather we have had in January… At times I have been discouraged thinking it is taking me so long to be able to solo, but then when I put it in the perspective that 40 hours is ONLY one week worth of work then it is truly amazing what I have accomplished so far. If someone would have put me in a plane on a Monday morning and told me that after five days of work, maybe by Friday evening I could fly that plane all by myself, I’m not so sure I would have believed them. CFI’s are so amazing and patient.

[I just turned] 49 this past week. I am still on track with my original goal of completing my certificate before I turn 50 next year. It’s a goal that I now see as obtainable through the encouragement from you, Linda and other pilots who are constantly asking me how my flying is going.

Thanks again,
Jeanne Peterson

As you can see, Jeanne is on track and headed toward her solo flight and her goal of getting a Private Pilot License.

I was so touched by Jeanne’s seedling enthusiasm that I wanted to encourage her further by asking some fellow “older” pilots to share their experiences. I wanted her to see, and you too, that you really can learn to pilot an airplane at any age, even into your 50s, 60s, and beyond.

I’ll post the resulting emails to Jeanne from my friends over the next few days. You’ll find them to be worth returning to read.

A question for you though… Are you considering becoming a pilot? If so, what if anything might be holding you back? Answer in the comments section below. I look forward to hearing from you!

About Greg

Greg Brown is an award winning flight instructor, pilot, author and columnist. In 2000, he was the National Flight Instructor of the Year. Greg writes the Flying Carpet column for AOPA’s Flight Training magazine and co-authored You Can Fly! with Laurel Lippert. His other books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot’s Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit Greg Brown’s own blog at www.GregBrownFlyingCarpet.com.

Ninety minutes even in a single engine aircraft, you can find yourself in another world. On one particular day for me, it was magical!

The whining of gyros gave way to mystical drums and rhythmic chanting, crazily mixing images of flight with those of ancient and sacred ceremonies. Chills traveled our spines — we could scarcely have been more astonished if we’d arrived by flying carpet.

Bright colors mark mineral features of the Painted Desert. (photo by Dan Sobczak)

Adventurer Richard Halliburton would have appreciated our situation. After hitching around the world by freighter and camel in the 1920s, he became obsessed with visiting remote Timbuktu, legendary mid-Sahara caravan stop. The way to get there, he decided, was by “Flying Carpet,” a black-and-crimson Stearman he bought and shipped to England in 1931. From there with pilot Moye Stephens he traveled the ancient world, captivating princesses and paupers alike with first airplane rides at exotic places like Baghdad, the Dead Sea, headhunter country in Borneo, and yes, Timbuktu.

It’s tempting to look back at those times and think we missed the real adventure of flying. Well, we didn’t. Flying was out of reach for all but the wealthiest people in Halliburton’s day, so his audience could enjoy flying only vicariously through his writing. Today we get to live exploits Halliburton’s readers could only dream of — piloting our own flying machines, on our own adventures.

This particular day our flying carpet had taken us to a place many would find mystical and exotic as Timbuktu — Window Rock, Arizona, capital of the Navajo Nation, where my wife and I had invited friends for a day exploring the annual Navajo Nation Fair.

Our journey carried us from the Sonoran Desert near Phoenix, over mountains festooned with Ponderosa Pine to the remote high-desert Navajo homeland, with its exotic wind-sculpted rock formations culminating in Monument Valley to the north.

Window Rock Airport on the Navajo Nation.

Beautiful and varied as the flight was, nothing could have prepared us for Native American drums filling the air upon arrival, beckoning us to the fair’s parade in progress only a quarter-mile away. There we were captivated by sights Halliburton would have appreciated — lovely Indian princesses on horseback, accompanied by their courts, and senior ladies of the tribe with their massive traditional squash-blossom necklaces of silver and turquoise.

Mystical dancers flashed colorful feathers, prancing to rhythms everyone in the audience seemed to know but us. We strained to understand the parade announcer until realizing our difficulty comprehending wasn’t the garbled sound system, but the Navajo language transmitted through it. Ninety minutes had carried us a whole world away from home. Tell me that’s not magic.

Window Rock, for which the capital of the Navajo Nation is named.

Alongside traditional costumes and Navajo cowboys marched high school bands, church groups, and country-western combos — even the Shiprock Detention Center had its float. It was just enough like our own Midwestern hometown parades to make the contrasts all the more exotic.

Cultural differences were subtle, but definite. Men distributed candy to each young admirer individually, softly saying, “Good morning… Thank you for coming.” The children laughed, squealed, and ran for goodies like kids at any parade. Only later did my wife observe that during the entire visit we never once heard a child fuss or cry.

This spectacle would have pushed thoughts of flying to the remotest corners of my mind, had it not been for rumbling dark clouds displacing brilliant blue sky from the Northwest. By the time we walked to the fair and dined on “Navajo tacos” of frybread, beans, and vegetables, the wind was howling, and our novice passengers were asking with concern, “Will we make it home tonight?”

“Don’t worry about that until it’s time to leave,” I told them. After all, if you limit your flying by what might happen on the return trip, too many great adventures pass you by. Better to make safe weather decisions one leg at a time, and accept an occasional night away from home as the price of adventure.

We wandered the fairgrounds, admiring everything from giant squash to Indian jewelry, and were en route to the Pow Wow dance competition when the thunderstorms fulfilled their threats with an hour-and-a-half downpour, crowding us with herds of fairgoers under shelter with the smell of damp straw and murmur of soft talk.

Miss Navajo Nation greets well-wishers at the Navajo Nation Fair Parade.

Later we slogged through mud back to the airport, just in time for another downpour. Worse yet, the terminal was locked, with its only telephone inside. “Fat chance these friends will fly with us again,” I thought, as the four of us huddled cold and wet under an awning, knowing the only two hotels in town were full. Fortunately a passing family loaned us their cell phone so I could get a briefing. Although a massive area of thunderstorms blocked our route home, Gallup with its motels was accessible in better weather to the Southeast.

Once airborne, however, a cheery voice from Albuquerque Center offered us guidance around the weather, via east and south. Although it meant flying from one tentative destination to another, we ultimately made our way all the way home VFR, steering like a pinball to avoid silvery towering cumulus, their dark shafts of rain punctuating green mountain views on either side.

With skies clearing toward home, I suddenly remembered our nervous passengers. “Are you two okay?” I asked, turning around.

Final approach to Window Rock Airport, Arizona.

“Are you kidding?” they replied in unison, grinning from ear to ear, “This is incredible!” The rain and mud hadn’t discouraged them, nor had the turbulent flight. We touched down in the orange glow of a Western sunset, and were home in time for dinner.

Richard Halliburton’s flying carpet might have been more colorful than ours, but I doubt he had many better days of adventure than this one.

About Greg

Greg Brown is an award winning flight instructor, pilot, author and columnist. In 2000, he was the National Flight Instructor of the Year. Greg writes the Flying Carpet column for AOPA’s Flight Training magazine and co-authored You Can Fly! with Laurel Lippert. His other books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot’s Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit Greg Brown’s own blog at www.GregBrownFlyingCarpet.com.