Lost in the Bowels of LHR

Ye who constantly ask me which airports I hate the most will now perk up. Your twisted curiosity will be slaked. But I will speak of only one—London’s Heathrow.

So why would I despise an airport with two marvelously long runways, great approaches, good competent English-speaking controllers and amenities American airports only dream of? But first the amenities.

The airport is huge and complicated with taxiways running

everywhere, but taxiing around Heathrow (identifier LRH) is easy as eating kidney pie. (Okay then, lemon pie.) Why? A row of green lights embedded in the tarmac suddenly light up—just for you. “Follow the green,” the ground controller tells you. Nothing else. No confusing instructions. Just follow the green-brick road. It’s like a train on the tracks. (Alas, some parts of LHR are not yet equipped for this.)

The other is the docking system. In almost every airport we go to in Europe no marshaller is needed to park you. A big LED sign with lights and symbols guides you to a smooth and precise stop exactly where you need to be at the gate. At American airports—even many of the big ones—we still must rely on a tiny man standing out front of the behemouth plane waving his wands, giving corrections and attempting to have us stop at the precise place where our nose-wheel is supposed to rest. Not easy to do, apparently. During the last 11 feet the marshallers are supposed to slowly move the wands together, letting them touch as the nose-wheel reaches the stop point. Many times they become lazy and suddenly slam the wands together forcing you to stomp on the brakes. The nose bobs down with a huge bow and you imagine 200 people in back cursing you while rubbing the backs of their necks. But not in LHR.

So what is it I hate about LHR? It’s not the layovers. I love the layovers in London. It’s not the crowded terminal either; I’ve never been in the LHR terminal!  A van picks us up beside the plane. You’re scratching your head. How could I not like that? But I do. It’s what comes next that I don’t like—and I don’t like it a very lot.

Last time I was there—which was typical of other times—it took the van nearly half an hour to get off the airport. To be fair that included a stop of less than five minutes so that the relief pilot (more commonly referred-to as the “Bunkie”)  could drop off the General Declaration at the customs office. After the long Atlantic crossing you just want to sleep but the constant stopping, going, turning, and careening is torturous. You sit back and try to relax while watching plane after parked plane go by on one side and the steel and concrete of the terminal structures on the other. One intersection after another comes at you. The driver takes one to the left, one to the right, then another and another.

Sign after sign grows in the windshield and whips by the side, all flashing arrows and acronyms known only (apparently) to the van driver. Suddenly planes disappear and you are emboweled in the dark alleys and recesses of the airport’s never-ending complexes of buildings and structures. You feel like a mouse scurrying around in a busy factory. You rub your eyes and try not to notice that you have been here before—not last week or month, but five minutes ago. Is the driver lost? Making more money on the time clock? Playing a sadistic game on you?

Overhead you see an endless canopy of structural steel, pipework, cables and concrete slabs flowing by as the driver shifts and revs, turns and swerves. You check your watch; you boarded the van more than 15 minutes ago. Your eyes fall shut. You hear the roar of trucks and busses passing you by and the whine of jet engines coming and going. Then a speed bump springs your eyelids open again.

Finally you see a gargantuan model of an Airbus 380 sitting on a pedestal in the center of a round-a-bout and you slump in relief—you are almost out. Then fields and trees appear and you are on the expressway into town. Ahh. Only an hour left.

Yes, it's only a model

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) VI

(Continued from previous)

I saw tendrils of dust and dust devils flowing southeast across the cactus-studded desert. I looked ahead toward Tucson at a horizon obscured by ochre dust. Marana and its wide runway lay five miles to the right, the narrow LaCholla strip five miles left. Dave wanted to meet me at Marana. He didn’t think I should try LaCholla, where he lived, in these winds. I was too new to the plane. Its runway was thin; it was higher in elevation and nearby mountains regularly sent turbulent gusts across it. His plan was a total wimp-out, but it was safer. Yet deep down inside I knew all along what I was going to do. I turned left.

On downwind I saw LaCholla’s windsock standing nearly straight out and whipping side to side. I thought about the narrow runway and the curious tailwheel modification I had, called a rocket rod, which some pilots had told me made crosswind landings extremely dicey. My earlier practice at Marana had resulted in a few teeth-clinching swerves at tailwheel touch-down, but the runway was wide enough to contain my embarrassing veers. That margin-of-error was absent on the narrow strip ahead, and I had made only one acceptable landing there earlier in the day. But the winds were calm then.

At about 100 feet on final approach my speed was 90 knots and the RV didn’t want to slow. I was relieved—I had a good excuse to go around. I powered up climbed out. On the second approach the speed was good. I remembered what Phil had told me—that a wheel landing might be best for me. I tried his technique of flying just a foot off the runway and then let the plane settle. (You might remember that I am used to sitting some 30 feet in the air when my main wheels touch.) Concentrating on crosswind control input, I misjudged the height above the runway, slammed the main wheels down and bounced. I converted to a 3-point landing and settled on with all three. It bounced again, settled and swerved. I caught it with rudder, then opposite rudder when it reversed its swerve. It slowed and began tracking centerline. I yelled, “Hooah!”

I taxied it to Dave’s hangar, shut it down and texted him: “Am on ground at LaCholla.” Ten minutes later Dave drove up and congratulated me. Deep down inside, he said, he knew I would come here.

We were up before daylight next morning. Dave had a 7am departure to Chicago on Southwest. He walked me out to the hangar and opened it. We pushed the Six out and I loaded my gear. He had to go. He bade adios, closed the hangar up and drove away. I stood alone with the RV all loaded and gassed and thought about the 1428 miles and two fuel stops ahead. Would the RV be sitting snuggly in its hangar at its new Huntsville, Alabama base tonight, or stranded at some God-forsaken New Mexico, Texas, Arkansas or Mississippi airstrip waiting for weather, parts, or repair? Time to find out.

The O-360 engine sent its goodbyes cascading across the sleeping airpark’s residents and I turned east. The majestic 10,000 foot Mt. Lemon flowed by my right side as I climbed quickly up to 9,500. I checked in with Albuquerque Center for radar flight following, set in a course for the Newman VORTAC, just north of El Paso and watched the sun rise out of the desert right in front of me. The autopilot held a course exactly on the purple line on the GPS map screen and the altitude-hold nailed us at 9,500. I began to feel pretty good. 

Over Newman I set in a new course for Andrews, Texas, just north of Odessa. I chose Andrews because a little Google search the previous evening revealed that fuel was a dollar a gallon cheaper there than at the bigger airport at Odessa. In a quick 2.5 hours Andrews appeared out front, and I tensed up when I saw its windsock sticking out like a hitch-hiker’s thumb. But I managed a reasonably safe bumpy, bouncy, swerving landing, hoping no one on the adjacent golf course was watching.

Two corn dogs, a Mountain Dew and forty minutes later I took off and set a GPS course for Texarkana, Texas (or is it Arkansas?). Fort Worth Center shepherded me past the DFW airport, which I could clearly see off to my right. Despite having that gargantuan airport so close, the Center called my attention to only two nearby pieces of air traffic—one a Southwest 737 and the other, two F-35s which I never saw.

Feeling more confident than ever in the RV-6, I had planned this leg—the second of three—to be the longest, stretching my fuel down to a one-hour reserve. But as I began my let-down to Texarkana the fuel gauges started to do funny things. The left got so low the red Fuel Low warning light came on. That was curious. But the right tank still had more than

enough. 

Still, I was passing airports that I could go in to. About 30 miles out I passed the last one and stared over in its direction. My mouth got dry when I saw the right tank gauge get uncomfortably low. It didn’t make sense. I knew how much fuel this engine burned per hour. I knew how much fuel the tanks held. It was simple math. I should have more than this gauge was telling me. Still—you probably know the feeling.

The tower told me to report left downwind.  The winds were light—that was certainly good news. But then I saw the left tank go to ZERO and the right tank to TWO GALONS! Holy smokes. Imagine what I thought when the tower told me to extend my downwind for three Apache helicopters on final

approach. “Can’t do it,” I said. The tower wanted to know if I was declaring an emergency. I dodged the question and said, “My fuel gauges are unreliable. I don’t know how much I’ve got left.” He cleared me to turn final at my discretion. I turned in close and my jaw about dropped open when I saw ahead the three Apaches were hover-taxiing down the runway—very slowly! I pressed the mic button: “Seven Sierra Whiskey cannot go around. I’ve got to have that runway!”

The Apaches did not wait for the tower to ask them to vacate the runway ASAP. They all simultaneously rotated 90 degrees and scurried off over the grass. Then the tower cleared me to land. I clinched up and swallowed hard—I knew what was coming. Now I wanted a crosswind and didn’t have one. I needed Mother Nature to clean off that runway.

Apaches are very powerful attack helicopters and that sudden 90 degree swivel they made and then their forward movement created unimaginable whirlwinds waltzing with each other, going up and down, sideways, spinning like tornados and just waiting for a little yellow RV-6 with a pair of eyes peering over its instrument panel like a scared Kilroy to come down through their unseen gauntlet. I knew I was in for one hell of a ride and maybe the ultimate test of my ability to keep from undoing the fine work the builder of this plane had done.

(Sorry. I thought I could finish the series with this one. Next time for sure.)

 

Why do digital cameras make your prop look like it has 50 blades? Cool, though.

Forgot to bring any CDs