Seven Sierra Whiskey (VII)

(Final part)

Helicopters know how to trash up the neighborhood. Rotorwash is some of the worst air to fly through, especially when landing. A hovering chopper is bad enough; it spreads rolling, crashing waves of turbulence in all directions. But when the helicopter moves ahead in ground effect from a hover, a new blast of unpredictable swirls and curls wash behind the ungainly machine. And when there are three of these colossal egg beaters tearing up the cushion of air over your intended landing spot, you're in a bad pickle.

I knew what was coming. Invisible tornados were waltzing with each other on that runway, waiting with twisted sneers for a little yellow and white airplane to join the mix. The fuel gauge still showed two gallons. I didn't know if that was accurate or not. I suspected it was not, but I didn't waste much time deciding to tackle the rotorwash rather than risk running out of fuel on the go-around.

The first buffet began at about 30 feet then got worse. That's about when I normally check airspeed for the last time. I worked hard at correcting the wing-rocks and the nose-yaws, but I sure didn't want the nose moving up or down. I focused on touching down at a point I picked ahead and tried with some success to nail the pitch attitude. As the runway came up I tried to level out for a wheel landing, but the plane ballooned up and rolled right. I added power and lowered the nose slightly, trying to keep the nose aligned with rudder and aileron. It was like trying to land in a cross wind that shifted from left to right and back, again and again.

The airplane finally contacted the runway about half way down in a firm three-point attitude, heading for the edge, and then went airborne again. The second touchdown (if you can be generous enough to call it a “touch down”) happened with the nose pointing to the right side of the runway. Again it went airborne, yawed and tried to roll. The rolls were the easiest to stop. The yawing and pitching were demons.

At last the plane plopped down and stayed down, though I had to correct with rudder first and then brakes to keep it on the runway. I turned off sweating bullets--full metal jackets. I taxied to the FBO, shut down and went in for a long gulp of ice water. Then I went out and watched the lineman gas the RV up. He stopped at 30 gallons. I had 8 gallons left—almost an hour of fuel at economy cruise. I had planned for ten, but eight wasn’t bad.

I went back in to pay the bill and saw some Army aviators in there. “Did you guys fly the Black Hawks in?” I wanted to explain why I had to have that runway.

They turned and looked at me with menacing, displeased faces. Uh oh, I thought. They’re going to hose me for breaking up their formation. One spoke up. “Those are Apaches, Sir! Not Black Hawks.”

I felt like a tin horn. These guys didn't mind having to vacate the runway for me, but they were pissed at my insult. It was like calling a fighter pilot a cargo jock. I backed away uttering my sincerest mea culpa.

Back out at the plane a couple of corporate pilots with white shirts and epaulettes studied the Six. (Their Challenger was parked beside my pocket rocket.) I phoned home to tell the family about what time I would get in. I told them I would update them with a text when I got in the air. Some of them were following me on Flight Tracker.

Taxing out I told the tower controller about the hour of fuel I had left. I didn't want him thinking I actually did land near empty. The Feds require that you plan flights with a 30 minute reserve for visual flights. It might appear to him that I had violated that. He said he was glad it all worked out and thanked me for entertaining him with that landing. But he added that I should have told him sooner about the fuel concern. Fair enough.

I took off at about 3pm for the final leg, which would become one of the most unforgettable flights I've have ever had. I climbed to 7,500, which is where AOPA's Fly-Q program said was the most optimum for tailwinds, but I found I only had about a five knot push. I set a GPS direct course for 3M5 (Moontown Airport), engaged the autopilot and altitude hold and relaxed. It was nice to gaze down at plush green farmlands and forests after the long haul over the stony dry country.

About half way across southern Arkansas I flew into a netherworld that teemed with swarms of billowing cumulus, their bottoms flat, their tops reaching up into air too thin for me to breathe. I knew that to descend below them would put me in a bad ride due to bumpy air. Between them though, the air was as smooth as a baby's butt. I began weaving around them by using the turn knob on the autopilot—a disgustingly effortless way to fly an airplane.

It was a delightful ride. I had done this before in jet aircraft for brief times, but had never cruised for so long amidst these towering beasts turning left, then right, maintaining a rough line of progress toward the destination and still seeing landmarks below. I marveled at how quick the brilliant clouds flowed by my wingtips. I had flown many a fast plane but never owned one that would put away the real estate like this one. The RV had messed with Texas, crossing its longest axis in four hours.

The radar controller at Memphis Center called me. “Seven Sierra Whiskey, it looks like you're deviating around clouds. That's fine, just let me know if you change altitude.”

Sometimes it's good to have Big Brother watching you. From time to time he pointed out other air traffic in my vicinity, and weather too. “Seven Sierra Whiskey, there is an area of heavy precipitation at your one o'clock, ten miles.” Due to the marvelously clear air between the white titans I had already seen the storm with its blue rain shaft below it, and was steering for its north side.

The previous two legs had shown me that the RV doesn't come down very fast without its flaps out, so you need to begin the descent a long way out. I knew better than cutting the power to idle, which might shock-cool the engine, so I reduced power to about half the manifold pressure I had used for the cruise and trimmed the plane for a gradual descent. Soon familiar landmarks came into view and I checked in with Huntsville Approach Control. I flew past their big airport (one runway is 13,000 feet long) and saw the mountains ahead. I knew Moontown was in the valley, just the other side.

My butt was sore, but I knew I had plenty of fuel left (the fuel quantity gauge was behaving itself now) so I decided a fly-by of my house was in order. I live not far from the airport on a hillside with nothing but farmland out front, so it doesn't annoy anyone to make a fly-by. I glanced out to the side. The porch and yard were empty—nobody watching. They must be at the airport I thought. I banked around and in a minute I was in the traffic pattern. The wind was calm and the sun low as I took the Six down the runway, wide open. I glanced aside toward the hangar area. Nobody there. Strange.

I pulled up, went back around and plopped 7SW down on the grassy runway, with only a small bounce, turned off and rolled up into my hangar port. I shut down the engine, sat for a couple of minutes and climbed out. I looked around. It was a head-scratcher. Not a soul stirred. The airport was empty of life.

As I unloaded the plane, four vehicles came up—one each for wife and three sons. They were shaking their heads, wondering how they had missed the arrival with all the information they had. Scott was running errands with a friend when he checked Flight Tracker. “Oh my gosh, he's almost here!” he told his buddy. “That cat is covering ground!” He rushed out to the field but, like the others, had overestimated the arrival and was too late. They were all disappointed. They had wanted to see and video an arrival fly-by.

Arriving without the family fanfare was somehow fitting. I had been alone with that plane for many hours, and now it and I made a lone arrival. It was all okay.

Thus began 7SW's residency at Moontown Airport where it would join the company of five other RVs, and I was to become the beneficiary of those planes' owners' vast pool of knowledge. As to the dreaded “rocket rod,” I would discover that many RVs had them, and I would keep mine—at least for a while.

Fetching the RV was an adventure of sorts, made possible by some first-rate people in Arizona who helped me along. And it was the culmination of a long winter of soul-searching—of not knowing what I should do; of wondering whether to buy another plane or retire from general aviation; of mourning my friend's death; of going to bed and waking up with visions of the Yak shuddering in an accelerated stall, then diving into the ground.

I had finally made my choice. Sport aviation was in my blood, and a little yellow and white airplane had flown by and gotten tangled on my heart strings. I had a lot more learning ahead to get to know 7SW, but I knew one thing for certain. This was what George would have wanted me to do.

The sun to my back was making me an even bigger redneck than I am.

GPS makes you lazy. 167 knots at 65% power makes you happy, happy, happy.

This was one of several rainbow bedecked rainshafts I skirted over Mississippi.

7SW in her new lair.

7SW (Seven Sierra Whiskey) III

(Continued from last post)

We had just leveled off at our first planned altitude of FL 280. As we burned down fuel we would incrementally increase our altitude up to FL 360 (with of course the permission of whichever controlling sector we were in). We had just bade sweet dreams to the relief pilot, who went back to take the first break. With the 767 pointed south and Sao Paulo 9 ½ hours in our future, I got out my company I-Pad to read up on the latest changes to the “pubs” (publications). 

When the I-Pad fired-up, a picture of my hoped-for RV-6 burst onto the screen. As soon as I wiped it away and opened the content locker, Wes, the guy in the right seat said, “Wait! What was that plane on your I-Pad?”

“It’s a Van’s RV-6. Familiar with it?”

Wes nodded and said, “Some. Tell me about it.”

I told him all I knew about the RV-6, which wasn’t really much, and went into detail about the trials and challenges I was going through to get it. He nodded and kept quiet, but intently listened. I didn’t know that he was reeling me in like trophy fish.

Wes was actually older than me—unusual for a first officer. He was due to retire in a few months. A retired USAF colonel, he had joined the airline 14 years ago after a zipping career flying F-16s and as a T-38 instructor pilot.

When I finished telling him all I knew about the “Six” he came clean. Wes was a nationally recognized RV expert. He had built several RVs, the models 4, 6, 7 and 8. He had even built for others. He presently owned an RV-8, which is a

RV-8

fighter-like tandem cockpit model. Such was his expertise on the RV line of aircraft that he owned a business selling DVDs that showcased his RV building and operating techniques.

Wow! I had hit the jackpot. I had so many questions to ask him I wasn’t sure the long flight down to GRU and back, and the 36 hour layover, contained enough time for them. Wes was delighted to be paired with a captain who shared his interest and he dove into the guts of RV ownership. Like a hungry dog I devoured every word.

I handed my I-Pad over to him and he began scrolling through the pics I had taken on my first trip to Tucson to see the plane. He bragged on its clean, sleek appearance, but then I cringed when he uttered, “Uh oh!”

He pointed to the tail wheel assembly. “You’ve got a rocket rod. Get rid of that before you fly it!”

“Rocket rod?” I said. “What’s that?”

The rocket rod was a modification to the original design. Wes

went into a long discourse. “The closest time in my entire career that I came to crashing was flying an RV with that modification. It’s a bear to land the plane in a stiff crosswind with that.” He looked over at me. “Get rid of it. Get some original tail wheel parts from Van’s. Take them with you to Tucson and change them out.”

I was astounded. What if I had never met Wes? Would I have been flying a booby-trapped plane? I made plans to get the parts and took in all Wes had to say.

Fast forward a week. I’m sitting in the pilot lounge when an old friend, an ex-Navy Hornet driver named Karl drops by. Karl is in the process of building an RV-8. He asks to see my pictures and I open the I-Pad. He grins. “Beau-ti-ful!” he says. Congrats! You’re gonna love that!” Then he frowns. “Uh oh! You’ve got a rocket rod! I’d get rid of that.”

Karl reiterates what I already had been told and offers me a spare set of chains and springs to make the conversion back to the original design. I gratefully accept and he sends them to me in a few days.

Meanwhile, after calling a number of A&Ps in Tucson (licensed airframe & powerplant mechanics) I finally got a lead on one who could do the job. His fee was $500. But his experience with experimental aircraft was limited. At that point I was desperate for help. I booked him for July 8^th. Hopefully, he could complete the inspection that day, sign the plane off, and I could arrange to fly with an instructor (or at least someone familiar with the plane) the next day.

My luck with that search was good. I connected with Phil, an Alaskan Airlines pilot who lived on the same airfield that Dave was on and owned an RV-6A. The difference was, his had a nosewheel rather than a tailwheel, but he explained that he had much experience in tailwheel aircraft and, for $50/hour he would check me out in my RV.

Whenever I thought about it, the words “my RV” seemed fleeting. It wasn’t my RV yet. I had only told an implusive, unpredictable, eccentric woman that I would buy it as soon as I got the cash together, and even then I had spoken through a third party (Dave). That’s all I had! I really didn’t have a plane at all. I feared I was chasing the wild goose, or maybe even a pig in a poke.

When I wasn’t thinking about that, I was pondering the tailwheel situation. I had not flown a tailwheel plane in years. I knew they were squirrelly and hard to handle. I remembered the embarrassing time I was checking out in the Mississippi Civil Air Patrol’s O-1 Bird Dog.

The O-1 is a Viet Nam era forward air controller plane with a

 

O-1 (USAF), L-19 (Army) "Bird Dog"

tailwheel. My instructor in the back seat weighed nearly 300 pounds. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t land that airplane. Every time the tailwheel touched down hell broke loose. We swerved side to side, each swerve getting more violent than the first until the speed got low enough to bring it under control.

We went over to Jackson’s big airport to practice, where the runways were long and wide. With a crosswind blowing and the big man in back I precisely flared the Bird Dog to a gentle 3-point landing, at which the world outside the windshield went dizzily wild. The control tower, hangars and passenger terminal whirled so violently it all blurred. The left wing went down dangerously close to the tarmac and the plane pivoted around its left landing gear 360 degrees or more before coming to a wing-rocking stop.

We both sat there trembling when the control tower came on the radio and in a calm voice said, “Bet that was a fun ride!”

I never did check out in that Bird Dog. My instructor was just too heavy. His weight moved the center-of-gravity so far aft that controlling the plane would have been a challenge for the most experienced combat veteran O-1 pilot.

Think about it this way: Ever pushed a tricycle backwards? (Think, single wheel in back, like a tailwheel plane.) It goes anywhere but where you want it to go. But push it frontwards (single wheel in front, a la nosewheel aircraft), it glides smoothly straight ahead because the center-of-gravity is forward of the main wheels, not aft. Despite its inherent unsteadiness on the ground the tailwheel airplane is still popular because it looks sleek and is generally faster because a nosewheel does not stick down into the wind.

All this weighed on my mind as I made more arrangements. The plane needed a pitot-static re-certification. Several shops in Tucson can do this but the one I wanted, recommended to me by Phil, (owned by a guy named Juan) was the cheapest ($295) and wouldn’t return my calls. I needed to schedule the check on July 9^th after I had (hopefully) gotten familiar enough with the plane to fly it over to Ryan Field where Juan did business.

But at least I was making progress. The loan came through and I rushed to the bank to get a cashier’s check made out to the widow. I downloaded and printed a standard aircraft bill-of-sale and filled it out. It only needed her signature. I called Dave in Alaska. He said, “Express mail it immediately.” 

I went to the post office and paid for “next day” service. The postal clerk looked at the address. Delta Junction, Alaska. “It’ll be Monday before it gets there,” he said. (It was Wednesday.)

“But what about next day?” I demanded.

He chuckled and shrugged. “It’s Alaska, man!”

I texted Dave, knowing that while he was hunting or fishing he rarely tended e-mail or texting, but the response was quick. “Perfect! I’ll be back in town Monday. I’ll go see her then.”

I just hoped she would still be there.

(Continued next post) 

 

Many times on this quest I considered giving up and buying a boat.

But looking at this picture of 7SW sitting in Dave’s hangar waiting

for a new owner to rescue her from her loneliness reinvigorated me.