With my Alaska trip written up I've come up with several ideas to keep this blog going. Some will be trip reports, some surrounding technical aspects of flying that have interested me enough to further my education on.
...but sometimes, you just have to go out and have fun. I've flown the San Francisco "Bay tour" many times. One day last year, several folks were visiting and a pilot friend and I decided to take them on a bay tour. Why not make it a flight of two? Here's a little clip one of the passengers took near Sausalito.
The sun had just set. Next time, we need to get up there before sunset to get the #2 airplane basking in that "golden hour" light outside the bridge. That was also the flight where I got the image that's presently at the top of this blog -- the sun was just above the horizon then, just past abeam SFO.
Formation flying is a fun challenge. Like many things in aviation, preparation is the key. We had a lengthy preflight brief going over our plan and several what-if-type scenarios. Flying the #2 airplane, I didn't enjoy much of a bay tour at all - my eyes were glued to the lead, who scanned for traffic, talked with ATC (we were treated as a single airplane), and the like. I'm by no means a formation expert but had some good training on it, along with aerobatic flying, shortly after receiving my private pilot license many years ago.
Showing posts with label Mooney. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mooney. Show all posts
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Heaven is spelled "Seldovia"
Day 13, part 1: Homer to Seldovia to Talkeetna
The Mooney-flying Alaskan hosts I met last week suggested that I take at least a half-day to explore Seldovia, a hamlet across Kachemak bay from Homer. Given their favorable report of taking their Mooney (decidedly a fair off-pavement airplane with its low prop-to-ground clearance) to its gravel runway, I decided to give it a try. The brief visit would be one of the highlights of the trip.
After breakfast and another walking tour of Homer we came across a place everyone in town raved about: Two Sisters Bakery. I am a sucker for really well-done pastries, and a snob when it comes to mediocre ones, and this place was as good as I've had anywhere. It beats my favorite place close to home, Schat's, and that's no small feat. I point at a large sticky bun covered in cinnamon goo and pecans to my wife. She comes back with that, a large chocolate bread roll that's more chocolate than bread, a heavenly roll, and tall coffee. The B&B breakfast had nothing wrong with it, but this really started the day!
Fueled, we walked back to the airplane. The baby Eagle was still hanging out in the nest, not making any attempts to fly this morning. Walking past the water aerodrome the way to the airport, we caught a float plane starting its takeoff run - the loaded C185 (or 206?) took much longer in time and distance than I was seeing with solo Super Cubs at Lake Hood, taking most of the lake to get airborne.
Back at Homer airport I find the FSS and the briefer reminds me of Chris, the DJ character on Northern Exposure. I think he knew Santa Cruz too, not surprising. He provided a leisurely briefing, and had a few good stories to tell about life, the local music scene, and our new favorite bakery. I promise I'll come back to file after making a hop to Seldovia w/o flight plan as i'll be in radio contact, or should be, the whole time.
Yesterday we landed after flying IFR from Anchorage, with the assumption that the weather that rained on us camping the night prior would clear, and eventually it did, providing a nice clear sky to the west yesterday evening. Today that's gone. Its high overcast -- ceiling 7000' or so, with occasional rain due to a nearly stalled warm front stretching across the Cook Inlet off of a low off to the west - the weather breaks between storms don't last very long, though thankfully this next storm is weaker. You could just see the showers obscuring the horizon where Augustine Island's volcano was visible in the clear last night. Despite this, the weather is fundamentally good, and should be good VFR for our Seldovia hop, and then back up to Talkeetna in the late afterrnoon.
By the time we're airborne its past 11. Oh well, lazy tourists on sabbatical and all.
I
want to show my wife glaciers from above while the opportunity presented itself. This won't be like
the northern side of the Wrangell-St. Elias range like the week before, but several glaciers in Kenai Fjords park make their way down toward Katchemak bay from the icefield above, visible from on the ground at Homer. In the air and going across the bay, my wife quickly spotted a large pod of whales off the right wing during
climbout. On to the glaciers, she was quite impressed, but I had to hold
back as the grandeur from last weeks' overflight was still on another level.
After zipping up and down a few glaciers we turned down the coast for the quick trip to Seldovia. The coastline opposite Homer is dotted with occasional signs of man, wooded islands, and still inlets. A truly beautiful place. About 10 miles to go to Seldovia, and we noticed that the rain shower across the Cook Inlet is now closer. Not a thick shower, but its apparent there's a good chance we'll get rained on if we go to Seldovia, walking around for a few hours. Doubt creeps into my mind. This feeling, like an old lazy bum, would prefer to sit and watch airplane videos on youtube instead of doing anything productive. He even gets a word in, asking my wife if she really wants to walk around in the rain again. Now the doubt is in her mind. Somehow I push the doubt out of my mind. We're here, this place has been recommended, we've got the right gear, who cares if we walk around all afternoon in the rain?.
Seldovia airport is just over 1,800' of gravel, with trees on both ends of the runway, separated from the runway with 200' & 500' "safety areas" of water. Before even contemplating going in there, I dug out my airplane's flight manual with its paltry set of 1960s performance charts and saw that at maximum gross weight, the airplane should be able to land and takeoff again in less than half the runway. The "book numbers" provide no provision for an unpaved surface, soft-field technique, and ginger acceleration to keep the propeller free of dings from rock. I knew from prior experience at my home field what the airplane will do (when I don't screw up), and decide that the 100% safety margin (1,800' vs 900') should be sufficient. I'm also about 10% under maximum weight, which will help. Still, its a small runway and requires that a pilot new to the area be on their 'A' game and abort the landing (or subsequent takeoff) if certain parameters that will affect distance are not met.
We arrive and I decide to fly an entire pattern to scope out the field - starting on the upwind leg - at about 1,000' AGL. Looks doable, so we try for the landing. Wind is calm down here, so no need to worry about gust factor. Final at 75mph slowing to 70 during the slight dog-leg turn through the clearing in the trees. Touchdown isn't smooth but is within a couple airplane lengths of the start of the runway after chopping the power and we get off about half way down, right where all the locals do later when I get to watch them land. Who says you can't get a Mooney into a short strip?
The walk into Seldovia is where our first inklings of what a special place this is - finally getting a taste of real Alaska. A large aluminum drainage pipe runs under the road leading from the airport 1/4 mile to down. At the base of it is a pool of later about 3' deep and 15' in diameter. It is filled with Salmon, the stream form it to the ocean barely enough for one to scoot by due to the relatively low tide. Is this little drainage and creek their actual spawning run?
A couple hundred yards later we cross a bridge going to town, where the real bonanza starts: hundreds of Salmon hover in the shallow inlet. A fellow comes by to fish from the bridge and snags one on the gill while reeling in his lure. Like shooting fish in a barrel. A boy and girl each start to fish, and will later be rewarded with dinner for a family. A true bounty. The inlet is postcard perfect itself, with houses perched above the water on high pilings due to the large tidal swings, rowboats moored nearby.
We spent the next couple hours expiring the quiet town - accessible by air or sea, in intermittent rain. Pushing that doubt aside was the best move we made all day. Life moved more slowly here. Another case where the photos do the talking.
Back at the airport, a Cessna 180 landed as we had a late lunch getting ready to go. I didn't pay much attention until its occupants unloaded their cargo into the pickup truck next to us, and I saw a large set of fuzzy antlers protruding out.
"We got this on the North Slope. Have been making trips back and forth to haul the meat out."
I learned a bit about how to preserve Caribou for the several days that it took to get the meat back to where they'd landed their airplane, and then to shuttle it and their gear back across the state. The pilots, both retired airline guys, confirmed my intuition as far as the community and lifestyle were concerned.
"Seldovia is like Alaska twenty-five years ago" one remarked. I could identify with that being raised in rural west Hawai`i.
Before departing I paced the first half of the runway and picked out a go/no go spot where I expected to be airborne, and to plan my route of taxi and power application to avoid any large rocks. Fortunately a nice path that was mostly dirt occupied the southern end of the runway, allowing me to do a nice 180 at the end of the runway and not have to delay much in getting power applied on the takeoff roll. Going to full throttle with little to no ground speed tends to be worse for the propeller as an area of low pressure is created on the ground beneath it. Stones can literally be sucked into the prop. By bringing the power up slowly as the airplane gains speed, this is minimized.
The takeoff went as planned. I felt the main gear leave the ground just where I expected and I held the airplane in ground effect to get the gear up and accelerate to climb speed. A slight dog-leg to bypass the higher terrain and we were out, over the ocean again.
We flew back to Homer - taking all of 10 minutes - with the intention of getting gas, but I read the fuel price in error (mistaking the much cheaper jet fuel for avgas). We had enough to continue on, so I decided to again stop in Wasilla for gas before going on to Talkeetna, our next evening stop. The trip back up the Kenai was delightful, this time allowing us to get to know the landscape, and then on to Talkeetna as I did the week before.
The Mooney-flying Alaskan hosts I met last week suggested that I take at least a half-day to explore Seldovia, a hamlet across Kachemak bay from Homer. Given their favorable report of taking their Mooney (decidedly a fair off-pavement airplane with its low prop-to-ground clearance) to its gravel runway, I decided to give it a try. The brief visit would be one of the highlights of the trip.
After breakfast and another walking tour of Homer we came across a place everyone in town raved about: Two Sisters Bakery. I am a sucker for really well-done pastries, and a snob when it comes to mediocre ones, and this place was as good as I've had anywhere. It beats my favorite place close to home, Schat's, and that's no small feat. I point at a large sticky bun covered in cinnamon goo and pecans to my wife. She comes back with that, a large chocolate bread roll that's more chocolate than bread, a heavenly roll, and tall coffee. The B&B breakfast had nothing wrong with it, but this really started the day!
Fueled, we walked back to the airplane. The baby Eagle was still hanging out in the nest, not making any attempts to fly this morning. Walking past the water aerodrome the way to the airport, we caught a float plane starting its takeoff run - the loaded C185 (or 206?) took much longer in time and distance than I was seeing with solo Super Cubs at Lake Hood, taking most of the lake to get airborne.
Back at Homer airport I find the FSS and the briefer reminds me of Chris, the DJ character on Northern Exposure. I think he knew Santa Cruz too, not surprising. He provided a leisurely briefing, and had a few good stories to tell about life, the local music scene, and our new favorite bakery. I promise I'll come back to file after making a hop to Seldovia w/o flight plan as i'll be in radio contact, or should be, the whole time.
Yesterday we landed after flying IFR from Anchorage, with the assumption that the weather that rained on us camping the night prior would clear, and eventually it did, providing a nice clear sky to the west yesterday evening. Today that's gone. Its high overcast -- ceiling 7000' or so, with occasional rain due to a nearly stalled warm front stretching across the Cook Inlet off of a low off to the west - the weather breaks between storms don't last very long, though thankfully this next storm is weaker. You could just see the showers obscuring the horizon where Augustine Island's volcano was visible in the clear last night. Despite this, the weather is fundamentally good, and should be good VFR for our Seldovia hop, and then back up to Talkeetna in the late afterrnoon.
By the time we're airborne its past 11. Oh well, lazy tourists on sabbatical and all.
After zipping up and down a few glaciers we turned down the coast for the quick trip to Seldovia. The coastline opposite Homer is dotted with occasional signs of man, wooded islands, and still inlets. A truly beautiful place. About 10 miles to go to Seldovia, and we noticed that the rain shower across the Cook Inlet is now closer. Not a thick shower, but its apparent there's a good chance we'll get rained on if we go to Seldovia, walking around for a few hours. Doubt creeps into my mind. This feeling, like an old lazy bum, would prefer to sit and watch airplane videos on youtube instead of doing anything productive. He even gets a word in, asking my wife if she really wants to walk around in the rain again. Now the doubt is in her mind. Somehow I push the doubt out of my mind. We're here, this place has been recommended, we've got the right gear, who cares if we walk around all afternoon in the rain?.
Seldovia airport is just over 1,800' of gravel, with trees on both ends of the runway, separated from the runway with 200' & 500' "safety areas" of water. Before even contemplating going in there, I dug out my airplane's flight manual with its paltry set of 1960s performance charts and saw that at maximum gross weight, the airplane should be able to land and takeoff again in less than half the runway. The "book numbers" provide no provision for an unpaved surface, soft-field technique, and ginger acceleration to keep the propeller free of dings from rock. I knew from prior experience at my home field what the airplane will do (when I don't screw up), and decide that the 100% safety margin (1,800' vs 900') should be sufficient. I'm also about 10% under maximum weight, which will help. Still, its a small runway and requires that a pilot new to the area be on their 'A' game and abort the landing (or subsequent takeoff) if certain parameters that will affect distance are not met.
We arrive and I decide to fly an entire pattern to scope out the field - starting on the upwind leg - at about 1,000' AGL. Looks doable, so we try for the landing. Wind is calm down here, so no need to worry about gust factor. Final at 75mph slowing to 70 during the slight dog-leg turn through the clearing in the trees. Touchdown isn't smooth but is within a couple airplane lengths of the start of the runway after chopping the power and we get off about half way down, right where all the locals do later when I get to watch them land. Who says you can't get a Mooney into a short strip?
The walk into Seldovia is where our first inklings of what a special place this is - finally getting a taste of real Alaska. A large aluminum drainage pipe runs under the road leading from the airport 1/4 mile to down. At the base of it is a pool of later about 3' deep and 15' in diameter. It is filled with Salmon, the stream form it to the ocean barely enough for one to scoot by due to the relatively low tide. Is this little drainage and creek their actual spawning run?
A couple hundred yards later we cross a bridge going to town, where the real bonanza starts: hundreds of Salmon hover in the shallow inlet. A fellow comes by to fish from the bridge and snags one on the gill while reeling in his lure. Like shooting fish in a barrel. A boy and girl each start to fish, and will later be rewarded with dinner for a family. A true bounty. The inlet is postcard perfect itself, with houses perched above the water on high pilings due to the large tidal swings, rowboats moored nearby.
We spent the next couple hours expiring the quiet town - accessible by air or sea, in intermittent rain. Pushing that doubt aside was the best move we made all day. Life moved more slowly here. Another case where the photos do the talking.
 |
| Downtown Seldovia |
"We got this on the North Slope. Have been making trips back and forth to haul the meat out."
I learned a bit about how to preserve Caribou for the several days that it took to get the meat back to where they'd landed their airplane, and then to shuttle it and their gear back across the state. The pilots, both retired airline guys, confirmed my intuition as far as the community and lifestyle were concerned.
"Seldovia is like Alaska twenty-five years ago" one remarked. I could identify with that being raised in rural west Hawai`i.
Before departing I paced the first half of the runway and picked out a go/no go spot where I expected to be airborne, and to plan my route of taxi and power application to avoid any large rocks. Fortunately a nice path that was mostly dirt occupied the southern end of the runway, allowing me to do a nice 180 at the end of the runway and not have to delay much in getting power applied on the takeoff roll. Going to full throttle with little to no ground speed tends to be worse for the propeller as an area of low pressure is created on the ground beneath it. Stones can literally be sucked into the prop. By bringing the power up slowly as the airplane gains speed, this is minimized.
 |
| Near Soldotna, northbound |
We flew back to Homer - taking all of 10 minutes - with the intention of getting gas, but I read the fuel price in error (mistaking the much cheaper jet fuel for avgas). We had enough to continue on, so I decided to again stop in Wasilla for gas before going on to Talkeetna, our next evening stop. The trip back up the Kenai was delightful, this time allowing us to get to know the landscape, and then on to Talkeetna as I did the week before.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Mooney fun in Talkeetna, introduction to Anchorage
Day 8: Palmer to Anchorage (Merrill field), Alaska
I was put in contact with a local Mooney owner by one of the Mooney parts suppliers I use in California. The owner, an A&P mechanic who had done an outstanding job restoring his M20C, and his lovely family made arrangements to meet me in Wasilla for fuel before flying our respective airplanes up to Talkeetna for lunch. As usual, the weather was interesting. The wind at Palmer and Talkeetna, dead calm. Wasilla, barely a 5-minute flight to the west of Palmer in similar geography, had wind gusting to well over 20 knots. Between Wasilla and Talkeetna, low fog (which we'd fly over), all underneath an altostratus deck that kept the Alaska range hidden from view.
The 5-minute hop over to Wasilla was uneventful aside from spotting numorous airstrips. Everyone and their uncle flies here, and being a well-populated area the land was littered with grass runways galore. One could take a quick look around from 1,500' AGL and probably count 20 unpaved runways within a few mile radius. The family I was meeting based their airplanes off of such a (shared) private strip. At Wasilla, we did a quick briefing to fly formation to Talkeetna; I'd be wing-man of course. The wind was gone within a few minutes of departing Wasilla and it was a surprisingly smooth flight. My host flew a good, solid, stable lead and it required very little effort to hold formation along the way.
Along the way my hosts were kind enough to get some nice air-to-air photos of me, and I managed to get a quick camera phone video in while at a safe distance.
Talkeetna is worth a stop on any Alaskan trip. Several air taxi services operate tour and other charter flights to circle around nearby Denali, the highest peak in North America. Many of the flights include glacier landings, a technique pioneered by bush pilot legend Don Sheldon. Some go to see the sights, others to start climbs. A couple friends of ours made attempts on Denali (one with a successful summit) several years ago, and launched each expedition to the mountain with a flight out of Talkeetna All manner of bushplanes from Cessna 180s to Beavers and turbine-powered DeHavilland Otters were fitted with retractable skis for this purpose. The air tour activity, even on a cloudy day, runs nearly non-stop. Seeing a turbine Otter (think small school-bus on wings with a thousand-horsepower turbine on the front end) nearly levitate off the end of the runway was impressive every time.
The town itself is all of a few square blocks, pretty all over, and while a tourist trap, was my kind of tourist trap: Few kitchy wares for sale, but plenty of good food and, for those done wit their flying for the day, great beer that I'd get to try on my next visit (I decided right then and there to bring my wife back later).
My hosts treated me to a great Reindeer sausage sandwich for lunch before we walked back to the airport to go our separate ways.
On my own once again I looked over the Anchorage terminal chart and Alaska Flight Supplement to brief a flight into Merrill Field, one of Anchorage's airports. My wife was still 48 hours from arriving so I'd reserved a rental car and cheap place to stay for a couple of nights. I'd previously read that flying into the Anchorage area is akin to a bee returning to the swarm around a nest. Anchorage itself is a medium-sized city, but has a collection of airports smashed up against each other, from an air force base to a large international airport and worldwide cargo hub. Because of all this the airspace to get in and out of various airports is stratified.
One example of this is going into Merrill from the northwest as I was planning to do. I'd cross into town from the west over the Knik arm of the Cook Inlet. The special flight rules in the area specify that a pilot going into Merrill cross the arm, and then downtown, at either under 600', or above 2,000' -- fighter and heavy transport traffic to and from the air force base flies between.. and that was one little slice of airspace, among many in the area. En route, I was in an area with actual radar coverage for the first time since leaving Seattle, and got traffic advisories. No longer was the reply light on the transponder dark, as it had been for the last week of flying.
Once handed over to Merrill tower crossing the Knik arm, I finally saw why things were divvied up this way - the air force base was right next door. I was instructed to fly north of the field on downwind to land to the west, and made a pretty tight traffic pattern (even by my own standards) to do so. One thing I noticed flying almost every day for the past week was that my skills had ratcheted up considerably. I fly the Mooney, on average, once a week but this much time between man and machine tends to step things up a bit, and make the airplane an extension of the pilot. Being on one's "A" game to maneuver the airplane to a precise location, speed, and altitude were that much easier.
I landed in the rain, and even so it didn't take long for my appreciation of Merrill to develop. Here was an area, several city blocks' in size, completely littered with airplanes and related businesses over every square foot. General aviation is on a slow decline in the lower 48, here it is thriving, if out of nothing else than necessity. The airport was abuzz with Super Cubs launching for remote locales, Cessna 207s hauling cargo, and even King Airs with cargo pods on their bellies. One thing absent was a big fancy FBO (fixed base operator) ready to roll out the red carpet for a customer. Here it was all function over form. For a pilot, it was an exciting place to be.
I was put in contact with a local Mooney owner by one of the Mooney parts suppliers I use in California. The owner, an A&P mechanic who had done an outstanding job restoring his M20C, and his lovely family made arrangements to meet me in Wasilla for fuel before flying our respective airplanes up to Talkeetna for lunch. As usual, the weather was interesting. The wind at Palmer and Talkeetna, dead calm. Wasilla, barely a 5-minute flight to the west of Palmer in similar geography, had wind gusting to well over 20 knots. Between Wasilla and Talkeetna, low fog (which we'd fly over), all underneath an altostratus deck that kept the Alaska range hidden from view.
 |
| Wasilla to Talkeetna, flight of two |
Along the way my hosts were kind enough to get some nice air-to-air photos of me, and I managed to get a quick camera phone video in while at a safe distance.
 |
| Turbine DeHavilland Otter |
 |
| DeHavilland Beaver |
The town itself is all of a few square blocks, pretty all over, and while a tourist trap, was my kind of tourist trap: Few kitchy wares for sale, but plenty of good food and, for those done wit their flying for the day, great beer that I'd get to try on my next visit (I decided right then and there to bring my wife back later).
My hosts treated me to a great Reindeer sausage sandwich for lunch before we walked back to the airport to go our separate ways.
On my own once again I looked over the Anchorage terminal chart and Alaska Flight Supplement to brief a flight into Merrill Field, one of Anchorage's airports. My wife was still 48 hours from arriving so I'd reserved a rental car and cheap place to stay for a couple of nights. I'd previously read that flying into the Anchorage area is akin to a bee returning to the swarm around a nest. Anchorage itself is a medium-sized city, but has a collection of airports smashed up against each other, from an air force base to a large international airport and worldwide cargo hub. Because of all this the airspace to get in and out of various airports is stratified.
One example of this is going into Merrill from the northwest as I was planning to do. I'd cross into town from the west over the Knik arm of the Cook Inlet. The special flight rules in the area specify that a pilot going into Merrill cross the arm, and then downtown, at either under 600', or above 2,000' -- fighter and heavy transport traffic to and from the air force base flies between.. and that was one little slice of airspace, among many in the area. En route, I was in an area with actual radar coverage for the first time since leaving Seattle, and got traffic advisories. No longer was the reply light on the transponder dark, as it had been for the last week of flying.
Once handed over to Merrill tower crossing the Knik arm, I finally saw why things were divvied up this way - the air force base was right next door. I was instructed to fly north of the field on downwind to land to the west, and made a pretty tight traffic pattern (even by my own standards) to do so. One thing I noticed flying almost every day for the past week was that my skills had ratcheted up considerably. I fly the Mooney, on average, once a week but this much time between man and machine tends to step things up a bit, and make the airplane an extension of the pilot. Being on one's "A" game to maneuver the airplane to a precise location, speed, and altitude were that much easier.
I landed in the rain, and even so it didn't take long for my appreciation of Merrill to develop. Here was an area, several city blocks' in size, completely littered with airplanes and related businesses over every square foot. General aviation is on a slow decline in the lower 48, here it is thriving, if out of nothing else than necessity. The airport was abuzz with Super Cubs launching for remote locales, Cessna 207s hauling cargo, and even King Airs with cargo pods on their bellies. One thing absent was a big fancy FBO (fixed base operator) ready to roll out the red carpet for a customer. Here it was all function over form. For a pilot, it was an exciting place to be.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Seattle
Day 3: An island on the Columbia river to Edmonds, Washington
Departing the island was much easier. Our fearless leader timed the trip by the tide, and the dinghy only had to be used to ferry people and gear from shore to the sailboat. It would take two trips to get everyone, everything, and all of our trash out. I volunteered to be towed out on the trash-barge-dinghy and fend off from the sailboat as necessary. The sailboat's 10-horsepower engine made an honest 6-knots motoring, and the trip back to the dock was pleasant.
Back ashore, I was given a ride back to Scappoose. My new iphone had internet service along the drive and I filed IFR to Paine field, Everett Washington. The skies were about 4,000' overcast, plenty to go underneath, but I wanted some time hand-flying on the gauges to evaluate my instrument flying prior to heading even further north. Back at Scappoose, it was airport open-house day and the field was alive with visitors, Maules on amphibious floats, Piper cubs, and at least one other Mooney. After purchasing the last "cheap" fuel I thought I'd get for the trip, I launched and picked up an IFR clearance in the air: Fly heading 030, join the airway, maintain 6,000'.
I got a good 20-25 minutes of hand-flying in benign IMC before Seattle approach brought me down to 4,000' and gave a friendly vector to Paine. I overflew the submarine base at Bremerton, the site on Bainbridge island where our friends Joe and Sejal - my hosts for the evening - got married, and soon had the largest building in the world -- the Boeing factory -- in sight and called airport in sight.
Landing at Paine for the first time was a unique experience. Rows of brand new Boeing 747s lined the north end of the field. It was difficult not to be distracted. I made a little camera-phone video while taxiing past, but the view of them off to the side on short final was the one to remember. Towards the center of the field, at the general aviation area, were a line of 787 Dreamliners in various stages of completion. I parked the Mooney directly across from an Air India 787, complete from the outside sans engines. Large weights were suspended from the engine mounts, perhaps to keep the nosewheel on the ground of some other structural reason.
Our friends Joe and Sejal, from the Seattle area hold a special place in my heart. Without looking for a room to rent at Joe's house when he lived in Santa Cruz, I wouldn't have met my wife. They were on their final leg of a three-and-a-half month road trip through Mexico and Guatemala in their VW camper bus and graciously offered me a place to stay even though it was their first night home. They had visited us in Santa Cruz the 6 days prior and had taken their time to finish their vacation on the way up. Due to a mis-set clock and traffic, they would arrive after I would, and suggested I check out the port town of Mukilteo where the ferry to Whidbey Island docks. I assembled my borrowed folding bicycle and was on my way.
After a 6-mile ride to Mukilteo, I discovered that 1: the folding bike's seat was coming loose, quickly, 2: I had failed to bring Allen wrenches, and 3: It wasn't much fun to ride it uphill. Many people may say that about bikes in general, but it was especially true to the geometry and fit. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and though I could fit a road bike in the Mooney, I certainly couldn't with Alaska gear, nor could I afford a Pilatus PC-12 to stuff it all into in pressurized turbine-powered comfort. Fortunately, the up-hills were small and most of the ride was downhill. I sat on a bench in Mukilteo not far from its boat-ramp and lighthouse taking in the scene. The last remnants of a wedding party were packing up the catering equipment and brides' maids were loading floral arrangements into their cars. People were fishing, returning from trips in their small boats, and generally enjoying life. The clouds were broken here, providing a bit of sunshine followed by an impressive sunset by summers' standards. I passed the time making calls to Canadian flight services to check weather for the next day's journey north and staring at tiny weather maps on the iphone. By the time that was finished, Joe and Sejal called and told me they were close -- a few minutes later I saw their Blue bus, "Pablo" coming down the hill. We enjoyed dinner and a beer at happy hour prices and I collapsed to sleep in a comfortable bed after touring their home in Edmonds, an impressive display of restorative craftsmanship.
Departing the island was much easier. Our fearless leader timed the trip by the tide, and the dinghy only had to be used to ferry people and gear from shore to the sailboat. It would take two trips to get everyone, everything, and all of our trash out. I volunteered to be towed out on the trash-barge-dinghy and fend off from the sailboat as necessary. The sailboat's 10-horsepower engine made an honest 6-knots motoring, and the trip back to the dock was pleasant.
Back ashore, I was given a ride back to Scappoose. My new iphone had internet service along the drive and I filed IFR to Paine field, Everett Washington. The skies were about 4,000' overcast, plenty to go underneath, but I wanted some time hand-flying on the gauges to evaluate my instrument flying prior to heading even further north. Back at Scappoose, it was airport open-house day and the field was alive with visitors, Maules on amphibious floats, Piper cubs, and at least one other Mooney. After purchasing the last "cheap" fuel I thought I'd get for the trip, I launched and picked up an IFR clearance in the air: Fly heading 030, join the airway, maintain 6,000'.
I got a good 20-25 minutes of hand-flying in benign IMC before Seattle approach brought me down to 4,000' and gave a friendly vector to Paine. I overflew the submarine base at Bremerton, the site on Bainbridge island where our friends Joe and Sejal - my hosts for the evening - got married, and soon had the largest building in the world -- the Boeing factory -- in sight and called airport in sight.
Landing at Paine for the first time was a unique experience. Rows of brand new Boeing 747s lined the north end of the field. It was difficult not to be distracted. I made a little camera-phone video while taxiing past, but the view of them off to the side on short final was the one to remember. Towards the center of the field, at the general aviation area, were a line of 787 Dreamliners in various stages of completion. I parked the Mooney directly across from an Air India 787, complete from the outside sans engines. Large weights were suspended from the engine mounts, perhaps to keep the nosewheel on the ground of some other structural reason.
Our friends Joe and Sejal, from the Seattle area hold a special place in my heart. Without looking for a room to rent at Joe's house when he lived in Santa Cruz, I wouldn't have met my wife. They were on their final leg of a three-and-a-half month road trip through Mexico and Guatemala in their VW camper bus and graciously offered me a place to stay even though it was their first night home. They had visited us in Santa Cruz the 6 days prior and had taken their time to finish their vacation on the way up. Due to a mis-set clock and traffic, they would arrive after I would, and suggested I check out the port town of Mukilteo where the ferry to Whidbey Island docks. I assembled my borrowed folding bicycle and was on my way.
After a 6-mile ride to Mukilteo, I discovered that 1: the folding bike's seat was coming loose, quickly, 2: I had failed to bring Allen wrenches, and 3: It wasn't much fun to ride it uphill. Many people may say that about bikes in general, but it was especially true to the geometry and fit. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers and though I could fit a road bike in the Mooney, I certainly couldn't with Alaska gear, nor could I afford a Pilatus PC-12 to stuff it all into in pressurized turbine-powered comfort. Fortunately, the up-hills were small and most of the ride was downhill. I sat on a bench in Mukilteo not far from its boat-ramp and lighthouse taking in the scene. The last remnants of a wedding party were packing up the catering equipment and brides' maids were loading floral arrangements into their cars. People were fishing, returning from trips in their small boats, and generally enjoying life. The clouds were broken here, providing a bit of sunshine followed by an impressive sunset by summers' standards. I passed the time making calls to Canadian flight services to check weather for the next day's journey north and staring at tiny weather maps on the iphone. By the time that was finished, Joe and Sejal called and told me they were close -- a few minutes later I saw their Blue bus, "Pablo" coming down the hill. We enjoyed dinner and a beer at happy hour prices and I collapsed to sleep in a comfortable bed after touring their home in Edmonds, an impressive display of restorative craftsmanship.
Friday, August 12, 2011
So begins the northbound odyssey
Days 1-2: Santa Cruz, CA, to an island in the Columbia river
I departed Watsonville, CA alone on Friday Aug 12, one day later than planned, due to general laziness in final preparations and in maintenance availability to give the Mooney a quick firewall-forward inspection. My inspector found a few small items which were corrected with a few minutes' work, mostly in preventing things like wires from chafing on hardware. I'd been borrowing tools and the FBO's beater airport truck occasionally to work on the airplane, and thought it would be a good idea to fill it up. Between the gas and picking up some auto parts for my inspector, there was no labor charge; it’s great to have relationships like that in this day and age.
The first leg of the journey took me to the Portland, Oregon area. The plan was to hitch a ride with one of a large group of friends from my college years who were doing an annual camping trip that I'd missed every year since 2002. Being on sabbatical, I had no excuse not to attend this year and thought that the 500+ nautical mile trip north would make a good launch-off-point for Alaska. The trouble was, most folks were getting there Thursday due to the logistics of the camping trip. Each year, one particularly well organized individual set up the trip by scouting out a suitably remote location and maintaining a web page to collaborate on planning. This year an island in the Columbia river was chosen. The precise location is not important, but the logistics were: 20 people gathering together, who collectively had access to one ~20' sloop, one 10' aluminum dinghy, one electric trolling motor, and one set of oars to get everyone and their gear in and out. The closest boat ramp was only a mile away from the site, and the sailboat was berthed in a harbor about 20 miles away. There was one other person making the drive out from Portland after work Friday, and he graciously offered to pick me up at Scappoose airport after work. With the delay in my departure, it was him for a ride or miss the trip.
Bt the time I left the ground it was 1:30pm, the Mooney relatively well-packed with camping gear, food, survival equipment, Canadian charts, a 12-gauge shotgun, freshly-filled oxygen tank, parts to do an oil change in the middle of nowhere (I would buy a case of oil at some point), and the usual set of tools, hardware, tie-down ropes, chocks, and oil that normally reside in the airplane. I figured I'd have room for my wife who would join me later, and her backpack, assuming that was all she brought. The skies over the Monterey bay area had been particularly foggy. I was used to departing IFR to climb through the thin stratus layer, but at this hour of the afternoon blue sky was visible a couple miles north of the field. I took off VFR, leveled briefly to remain clear of the fog bank, and blasted up into the warm sunshine and hot atmosphere above the marine inversion.
I climbed to 6,500' initially, punched in KSPB into the GPS, and pointed the airplane's nose toward Livermore, a slight dog-leg and a bit lower than normal to stay under the flow of traffic inbound to SFO from the east. This seemed to satisfy ATC who let me do as I pleased. Clear of Livermore, I resumed climb to 10,500 and flew a 339-degree magnetic course that would take me over land I'd flown and driven over many times -- up along interstate 5, past the Sutter Buttes where Mt. Shasta usually comes into view, Red Bluff, Redding, a couple miles west of Mt. Shasta, and into Oregon. The wind aloft, initially forecast to give me a slight tailwind was more from the north, and robbed precious groundspeed; would I have my hour of fuel reserve in Portland? It was looking iffy. Somewhere around the Oregon border, the wind swung around to the southwest, and finally south, and boosted groundspeed from 135 knots up to 160; my true airspeed somewhere around 145. I climbed to 12,500' abeam Klamath Falls and Medford. The wind didn't get any better, but the Mooney cruises at about the same airspeed on slightly less fuel. Between all of this I had two hours' fuel at Scappoose; no worries.
The remainder of the flight was relaxing. Started descent just past Eugene. Portland approach wanted me to keep clear of their arrival and departure routes, so I overflew PDX at midfield and got a nice view of downtown before turning to the west for Scappoose. I arrived after just under four hours, and my friend was driving onto the field to pick me up as I taxied in.
At that point I learned that arriving on Friday was a good thing: The borrowed dinghy was woefully underpowered for the amount of ferrying needed, and last night the trip organizer and sailboat owner drove to the dock, and sailed up the Columbia river with about half of the trip attendees, a trip that took all night. At 630am, they ran aground on a sandbar and had to wait for a rising tide to get un-stuck. This much I learned from the friend who picked me up at the airport. We arrived at the dock at 630pm, right on time, and it wasn't until 8, just after sunset, that we saw the dinghy rowing toward us to pick us up. The sailboat now safely moored off the island, the owner did not want to risk getting stuck again as this was the following low tide.
The one-mile journey out to the island took a long time. The electric trolling motor was good for about 1.5-2knots, but was battery powered. A portable generator and battery charger in the boat kept it turning, in addition to charging the battery. Unfortunately, about half-way to the island the motor quit all together, and it was time to take turns rowing. By this time twilight had passed and it was dark, but a waxing moon one day short of being full had risen majestically above the tree-lined ridge providing an idyllic evening. I enjoyed rowing for about 15 minutes, getting a nice workout, before it became apparent that the rate of progress (against the incoming tide which makes the Columbia flow backwards) was almost nil. Fortunately we were abeam a beach on the island and resorted to running along in the shallow water towing/pushing the dinghy with our gear. At least one ship passed up-river while we were rowing, making me wonder about just how much wake would be generated, and how the tiny craft would handle it.
Despite the logistical trouble in arriving, the island was a wonderful place to camp. The island was almost entirely sand -- except for a few spots of muddy soil that appeared along the shore at low-tide. I don't think anyone found a rock. Even so, it was considerably wooded with a mix of conifers and deciduous trees alike, with copious amounts of blackberry bushes making the forested areas impenetrable without getting scratched up. Thus, the few acres' of sandy soil with only a scattering of trees and bushes provided a wonderful place for a group to enjoy themselves in solidarity. The next two nights were spent around the campfire, reconnecting with old friends and getting to know newcomers to the group.
The sunset at 46'N was noticeably later than at 37'N where I departed from. This simple act - a predictably-later summer sunset, further fueled my thirst to continue north.
I departed Watsonville, CA alone on Friday Aug 12, one day later than planned, due to general laziness in final preparations and in maintenance availability to give the Mooney a quick firewall-forward inspection. My inspector found a few small items which were corrected with a few minutes' work, mostly in preventing things like wires from chafing on hardware. I'd been borrowing tools and the FBO's beater airport truck occasionally to work on the airplane, and thought it would be a good idea to fill it up. Between the gas and picking up some auto parts for my inspector, there was no labor charge; it’s great to have relationships like that in this day and age.
The first leg of the journey took me to the Portland, Oregon area. The plan was to hitch a ride with one of a large group of friends from my college years who were doing an annual camping trip that I'd missed every year since 2002. Being on sabbatical, I had no excuse not to attend this year and thought that the 500+ nautical mile trip north would make a good launch-off-point for Alaska. The trouble was, most folks were getting there Thursday due to the logistics of the camping trip. Each year, one particularly well organized individual set up the trip by scouting out a suitably remote location and maintaining a web page to collaborate on planning. This year an island in the Columbia river was chosen. The precise location is not important, but the logistics were: 20 people gathering together, who collectively had access to one ~20' sloop, one 10' aluminum dinghy, one electric trolling motor, and one set of oars to get everyone and their gear in and out. The closest boat ramp was only a mile away from the site, and the sailboat was berthed in a harbor about 20 miles away. There was one other person making the drive out from Portland after work Friday, and he graciously offered to pick me up at Scappoose airport after work. With the delay in my departure, it was him for a ride or miss the trip.
Bt the time I left the ground it was 1:30pm, the Mooney relatively well-packed with camping gear, food, survival equipment, Canadian charts, a 12-gauge shotgun, freshly-filled oxygen tank, parts to do an oil change in the middle of nowhere (I would buy a case of oil at some point), and the usual set of tools, hardware, tie-down ropes, chocks, and oil that normally reside in the airplane. I figured I'd have room for my wife who would join me later, and her backpack, assuming that was all she brought. The skies over the Monterey bay area had been particularly foggy. I was used to departing IFR to climb through the thin stratus layer, but at this hour of the afternoon blue sky was visible a couple miles north of the field. I took off VFR, leveled briefly to remain clear of the fog bank, and blasted up into the warm sunshine and hot atmosphere above the marine inversion.
I climbed to 6,500' initially, punched in KSPB into the GPS, and pointed the airplane's nose toward Livermore, a slight dog-leg and a bit lower than normal to stay under the flow of traffic inbound to SFO from the east. This seemed to satisfy ATC who let me do as I pleased. Clear of Livermore, I resumed climb to 10,500 and flew a 339-degree magnetic course that would take me over land I'd flown and driven over many times -- up along interstate 5, past the Sutter Buttes where Mt. Shasta usually comes into view, Red Bluff, Redding, a couple miles west of Mt. Shasta, and into Oregon. The wind aloft, initially forecast to give me a slight tailwind was more from the north, and robbed precious groundspeed; would I have my hour of fuel reserve in Portland? It was looking iffy. Somewhere around the Oregon border, the wind swung around to the southwest, and finally south, and boosted groundspeed from 135 knots up to 160; my true airspeed somewhere around 145. I climbed to 12,500' abeam Klamath Falls and Medford. The wind didn't get any better, but the Mooney cruises at about the same airspeed on slightly less fuel. Between all of this I had two hours' fuel at Scappoose; no worries.
 |
| Downtown Portland, Oregon |
At that point I learned that arriving on Friday was a good thing: The borrowed dinghy was woefully underpowered for the amount of ferrying needed, and last night the trip organizer and sailboat owner drove to the dock, and sailed up the Columbia river with about half of the trip attendees, a trip that took all night. At 630am, they ran aground on a sandbar and had to wait for a rising tide to get un-stuck. This much I learned from the friend who picked me up at the airport. We arrived at the dock at 630pm, right on time, and it wasn't until 8, just after sunset, that we saw the dinghy rowing toward us to pick us up. The sailboat now safely moored off the island, the owner did not want to risk getting stuck again as this was the following low tide.
The one-mile journey out to the island took a long time. The electric trolling motor was good for about 1.5-2knots, but was battery powered. A portable generator and battery charger in the boat kept it turning, in addition to charging the battery. Unfortunately, about half-way to the island the motor quit all together, and it was time to take turns rowing. By this time twilight had passed and it was dark, but a waxing moon one day short of being full had risen majestically above the tree-lined ridge providing an idyllic evening. I enjoyed rowing for about 15 minutes, getting a nice workout, before it became apparent that the rate of progress (against the incoming tide which makes the Columbia flow backwards) was almost nil. Fortunately we were abeam a beach on the island and resorted to running along in the shallow water towing/pushing the dinghy with our gear. At least one ship passed up-river while we were rowing, making me wonder about just how much wake would be generated, and how the tiny craft would handle it.
Despite the logistical trouble in arriving, the island was a wonderful place to camp. The island was almost entirely sand -- except for a few spots of muddy soil that appeared along the shore at low-tide. I don't think anyone found a rock. Even so, it was considerably wooded with a mix of conifers and deciduous trees alike, with copious amounts of blackberry bushes making the forested areas impenetrable without getting scratched up. Thus, the few acres' of sandy soil with only a scattering of trees and bushes provided a wonderful place for a group to enjoy themselves in solidarity. The next two nights were spent around the campfire, reconnecting with old friends and getting to know newcomers to the group.
 |
| I'm no botanist.. what kind of berries are these? Edible? |
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Anatomy of a late-winter cold front
Position: 30nm northwest of Gorman VOR, abeam Bakersfield, California.
Altitude: 10,000'
Groundspeed: 161 knots
Fuel flow: 8.5 gallons/hour
58 minutes from home
The last remnants of southern California suburbia, still basking in 80-degree sunshine have just disappeared behind the mountain range separating them from the San Joaquin valley. Beneath me, oil wells and supporting infrastructure dot the surface. To my right, Bakersfield is barely visible in haze while beyond it the Sierra crest is illuminated in sunshine. To my left, the eerily symmetrical hills on each side of the San Andreas fault are in plain view, and the coastal near San Luis Obispo and Morrow Bay barely visible as a thin layer fog butts up against the coastal hills.
A late winter (this is June, mind you) low-pressure-center storm is approaching the coast. Hundreds of miles ahead of it, where I am, the sunshine gives way to a high overcast layer of cirrus clouds many thousands of feet overhead; the clouds will coalesce, darken, and slowly slope down to the surface over the next 200 miles, the air driven upward to condense by a thin wedge of colder air called a cold front whose position at the Earth's surface is still well out over the pacific. Winds of about 35 knots at this altitude, swirling counter-clockwise around the low are giving me a 15 knot boost in ground speed, while forcing me to point the airplane about 8 degrees left to maintain course.
The Mooney is still in smooth air, for now, and is completely "in the groove" -- holding altitude within 10 feet without any control input, wings remaining level with just an ounce or two of pressure on either rudder pedal very occasionally to hold the wings perfectly level... no autopilot necessary. I search for some non-Spanish-polka music on the ADF (which picks up all the AM radio stations). Not bad for a 45-year-old airplane....but mostly I'm happy because I'm getting excellent gas mileage with the tailwind.
...three hours earlier: The examiner places a piece of paper in the throttle quadrant to block my view of the fuel-air mixture levers. He pulls one to cut off fuel to one engine and the mighty (not really) Piper Seminole's nose lurches off to the left. Now its time to do the routine:
Maintain directional control: By stomping on the right rudder, raise the dead engine slightly with aileron, pitch for blue-line airspeed
Everything forward: Mixtures (except the one he pulled), props, and throttles
Everything up: Verify gear & flaps up
Identify: dead foot, dead engine
Verify: dead engine by pulling the left throttle back
"Don't bother trying to troubleshoot, pretend its got oil all over it" he tells me. Fair enough, one less thing to screw up.
Feather: Pull back the left prop control
The windmilling propeller comes to a rest after a few seconds, its blades now turned to slice into the wind. The hundred+ pounds of rudder force I'm holding can be reduced significantly as the drag produced by the windmilling prop goes away. This thing can still fly, but won't quite maintain 5,500' altitude, even with only two people aboard.
In another 30 minutes we complete the test. I've made a couple of small mistakes, but everything was satisfactory. As usual the examiner taught me a few things that I'll try to file away in memory should "bad things" happen someday. Come to think of it, every examiner I've had in the past has mentioned a few things of that nature and I can remember most of them. I now can pilot multiengine airplanes. Another goal checked off my list.
...20 minutes later: The smooth flying "in the groove" has given way to intermittent light turbulence and transition through a couple iterations of mountain wave from the coastal mountains. Small, low-altitude versions of lenticular clouds are visible over the Santa Lucia crest above Big Sur. The ceiling is nearing my altitude, with home reporting clouds at 11,000'. The temperature has dropped from 8C to 3C at this altitude in the last 20 minutes. Its nearly time to start down though, and its looking like this trip will be completed without having to worry about clouds or ice.
Altitude: 10,000'
Groundspeed: 161 knots
Fuel flow: 8.5 gallons/hour
58 minutes from home
The last remnants of southern California suburbia, still basking in 80-degree sunshine have just disappeared behind the mountain range separating them from the San Joaquin valley. Beneath me, oil wells and supporting infrastructure dot the surface. To my right, Bakersfield is barely visible in haze while beyond it the Sierra crest is illuminated in sunshine. To my left, the eerily symmetrical hills on each side of the San Andreas fault are in plain view, and the coastal near San Luis Obispo and Morrow Bay barely visible as a thin layer fog butts up against the coastal hills.
A late winter (this is June, mind you) low-pressure-center storm is approaching the coast. Hundreds of miles ahead of it, where I am, the sunshine gives way to a high overcast layer of cirrus clouds many thousands of feet overhead; the clouds will coalesce, darken, and slowly slope down to the surface over the next 200 miles, the air driven upward to condense by a thin wedge of colder air called a cold front whose position at the Earth's surface is still well out over the pacific. Winds of about 35 knots at this altitude, swirling counter-clockwise around the low are giving me a 15 knot boost in ground speed, while forcing me to point the airplane about 8 degrees left to maintain course.
The Mooney is still in smooth air, for now, and is completely "in the groove" -- holding altitude within 10 feet without any control input, wings remaining level with just an ounce or two of pressure on either rudder pedal very occasionally to hold the wings perfectly level... no autopilot necessary. I search for some non-Spanish-polka music on the ADF (which picks up all the AM radio stations). Not bad for a 45-year-old airplane....but mostly I'm happy because I'm getting excellent gas mileage with the tailwind.
...three hours earlier: The examiner places a piece of paper in the throttle quadrant to block my view of the fuel-air mixture levers. He pulls one to cut off fuel to one engine and the mighty (not really) Piper Seminole's nose lurches off to the left. Now its time to do the routine:
Maintain directional control: By stomping on the right rudder, raise the dead engine slightly with aileron, pitch for blue-line airspeed
Everything forward: Mixtures (except the one he pulled), props, and throttles
Everything up: Verify gear & flaps up
Identify: dead foot, dead engine
Verify: dead engine by pulling the left throttle back
"Don't bother trying to troubleshoot, pretend its got oil all over it" he tells me. Fair enough, one less thing to screw up.
Feather: Pull back the left prop control
The windmilling propeller comes to a rest after a few seconds, its blades now turned to slice into the wind. The hundred+ pounds of rudder force I'm holding can be reduced significantly as the drag produced by the windmilling prop goes away. This thing can still fly, but won't quite maintain 5,500' altitude, even with only two people aboard.
In another 30 minutes we complete the test. I've made a couple of small mistakes, but everything was satisfactory. As usual the examiner taught me a few things that I'll try to file away in memory should "bad things" happen someday. Come to think of it, every examiner I've had in the past has mentioned a few things of that nature and I can remember most of them. I now can pilot multiengine airplanes. Another goal checked off my list.
...20 minutes later: The smooth flying "in the groove" has given way to intermittent light turbulence and transition through a couple iterations of mountain wave from the coastal mountains. Small, low-altitude versions of lenticular clouds are visible over the Santa Lucia crest above Big Sur. The ceiling is nearing my altitude, with home reporting clouds at 11,000'. The temperature has dropped from 8C to 3C at this altitude in the last 20 minutes. Its nearly time to start down though, and its looking like this trip will be completed without having to worry about clouds or ice.
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