From April, 2007

Valliant

I got the chance to fly a Vultee BT-13 "Valiant" yesterday. Those who flew the type during the Second World War often called it the "Vibrator" and I'd soon find out why. The BT-13 was a basic trainer used to by both the Air Corps and the Navy. My grandfather has a fair amount of time in the type.

I was flying with Kent Ferguson, an accomplished pilot and one of the most experienced flight instructors I've ever known. He's old, looks like the tobacco leaves that he smokes profusely when not aloft, and has the general appearance of a well-worn A-2 leather flight jacket. He's also sharp as a tack when it comes to instructing. We fueled the great bird while the man running the pump took some photos. Warbirds tend to catch a lot of attention. I strapped into the front seat and began to go through the checklist while Kent crouched on the wing next to me and talked me through starting the Pratt & Whitney. One switch spools up a flywheel that sounds like a turbine engine starting up. When the flywheel reaches peak RPM, the switch below engages the engine to the spinning flywheel and the big engine coughs to life with generous encouragement from the manual fuel pump and a proper display of blue smoke.

The BT taxies as easy as any taildragger I've ever flown. The forward visibility is good, requiring only minor S-turning to see forward. At the run-up area, the procedures were normal, though the placement of all of the controls and gauges is very military and not always intuitive. If nobody told you where the fuel indicators were, you'd sit in the cockpit all day and never find them. We taxied on to the runway and got her all lined up. Kent gave me the call to increase the power to full, and the engine came to life and everything started to shake and get very, very loud. I eased to stick forward and the tail came up, greatly expanding the view forward. At about 85, we rotated and easily climbed up away from the field and out over the plains. Kent called to close the canopy and things got somewhat quieter as I slid my plexiglass shield forward and locked it in place. "This is so cool!" I thought to myself.

Kent told me just to play with her and enjoy myself. I guided the old bird north and did several steep turns to get a feel for the rudder requirements. She needed less rudder input than the Champ to make a coordinated turn, which is good because the rudders are very heavy, though the ailerons and elevators are rather light. The sound of the big radial up front was intoxicating and I couldn't keep from grinning. Looking up in the mirror on the windscreen, I could see the same reaction from Kent.

We returned to the field and entered the pattern as Kent talked me through the before landing checklist. When I moved the propeller control forward to its stop, it was like putting on the brakes as the BT decelerated nicely. I cranked in 20 degrees of flaps on downwind and another 20 on base. On final, I kept wanting to ease the power back. The engine was making far too much noise to think about landing. We also seemed fast, so I eased the stick aft. "Don't take off power, keep it fast, get the nose down. More power, more power, don't get below 80!" Kent barked from the back seat. I wasn't accustomed to flying such heavy airplanes, but once we got down over the runway, it was just a matter of holding it off and looking down to the end of the field. Just at the time I expected, the big main tires thudded down on to the ground and I eased the stick forward to keep the tail up. The BT had no notions to wander to either side of the centerline. Kent called for power, and away we went for two more. On my final approach, I was able to bring it down with adequate power and attitude without too many words from behind. We taxied her back to the hangar and shut down, and dismounted. Once we were down and I could allow my mind to wander, I thought of how many young pilots over 60 years ago had sat in the very seat I was sitting in and had instructors make them sweat as they transitioned from light-weight tube and fabric airplanes. Then, unlike me, how many of them had been sent overseas and fought for America. How many had returned and how many had not? Reflecting on these thoughts as I looked at my reflection in the polished aluminum, I realized that this was not just a new airplane to fly, not just an awesome sounding machine, but it was truly hallowed ground.

Celestial Suspension

From 2 Years Ago

Fighting an obstinate headwind close to the Continental Divide, I decided that I'd had about enough for one day. What was I doing up there anyway? I got three or four mediocre pictures after taking scores. Mission accomplished, sort of. Oh well, even if I wasn't an aerial Ansel Adams with my new camera, at least it had been spectacular flying on this early autum evening. The mountains were proudly displaying their first permanent snow of the season. Heading west, nose down, get some speed, now bring it back up, sun in the eyes! OK, speed dropping off, kick her to the right, let the nose fall off to the side, stick to the left. Really feel gravity unloading to the point that it’s almost not there. Once the course is reversed, ease the nose back up. Don't let that airspeed get too high.

Having put the equinoctial sun off my tail with a showy wing-over salute to Longs Peak, I rode the wave on down, at one point cresting 130 mph as indicated on the GPS. Nice tailwind. Even so, it’s always a lengthy glide down from the mountain, falsely seeming longer to get down than it did to claw up through the air with a naturally-aspirated 100 horse engine and achieve altitudes most would say impossible in a Champ. Perhaps an Aeronca would have trouble climbing above 14,000 feet over the plains, but when there’s air moving vertically, it can pick up a 900 pound airplane and its pilot and thrust the pair up hundreds of feet in a matter of seconds. A little scary at times, especially knowing that the same air can move back towards earth, but as long the rules of mountain flying stay fresh in your mind, there will always be a back door. Still, rules have exceptions.

On the way down I passed from the smooth, but swiftly moving westerly flow through an eastern current that was bringing a slight accumulation of haze against the foothills. This transitional zone proved to be rather turbulent. I pulled my seatbelt tighter and stowed the camera as my craft was tossed about in the invisible currents and eddies. At about 10,000 feet, I entered a third strata of air which seemed to extend to the ground. The atmosphere here was stable, perhaps moving ever so slightly to the west, if at all. The air was finally at ease, allowing my nerves to reach a like state. Still high above the foothills, Longmont lay directly in front of me. To the south I could see Boulder and even downtown Denver. For twenty or thirty miles in front of me, the sun had already set behind the Rockies, leaving the earth in that slightly purple shadow that precedes true night by an hour or so. Over my shoulder, the sun still blazed, it's rays finding their way through millions of miles of space to my wings, struts, and instrument panel. Left behind on the epic journey were the bluer shades which are lost to the hundreds of miles of atmospheric dust encountered when sunlight strikes the earth at dusk's low angle. Every surface of my craft touched by the retreating light glowed with a radiant bronze hue. Ahead of me, rising into the pale eastern sky, the full moon hung loosely. The highlands were a milky-white color with the dark craters and the Ocean of Storms matching the shades of blue of the surrounding sky. In this moment of light and shadow, of color and darkness, I felt suspended between three celestial bodies. As the sun fell lower behind me and the moon rose higher into the early night ahead, it seemed as though I was remaining still in space and the earth was rotating beneath me. I sat there, the last human in my field of view left in daylight, feeling entirely small, totally detached from the world below. It was slightly lonely and wholly humbling. Ahead, the shadow of the mountains grew longer and longer across the plains until it rapidly reached the horizon. Glancing rearward again, I caught the last glimpse of direct daylight. The sun, now just an orb in a gap in the rocks, suddenly disappeared, extinguishing any glow left in my wings, leaving my tube-and-fabric spaceship in the shadows.

Still descending, I passed over Longmont's airport, glancing down at the rows of airplanes tied down for the night. A few minutes later I was over I-25 and its two parallel channels of headlights and taillights. By this time, I was a mere thousand feet above the plains, back in the air that fits like a glove. Nearing home, I tuned to 122.9. Seven clicks. So long as I’m turning on the airport’s lights, I might as well turn mine on. Throwing the switches failed to reveal more than a faint red reflection in the instrument faces. Still too bright out for the cockpit light to do much good. Enter the empty traffic pattern. Make the obligatory radio calls. Fly a constant turn from downwind to the numbers, then hold it off til the mains... no, not yet, just a bit longer. There, stick forward, just like that. I swear the wheels on this plane must be made of butter. One of those perfect landings that come along once in a great while. Rolling out, plenty of runway ahead, no need for the tail to come down yet, just keep the stick forward with a hint of power. Ok, now let her settle and ease the stick all the way back. Turning off at the end of 33 and down the sloped taxiway to the hangars I kept the power off and just let gravity pull the little Champ down the grade, switching off everything but the lights. One left turn, onto the level ground, then just enough momentum to make the right turn in front of the hangar and she eases to a stop, no brakes used since releasing after the run-up nearly two hours ago. One day I’m going to shut the engine off once I exit the runway and Bob Hoover it on in. Now, that’s just getting boastful. Enough of that. I shut her off with the key as always and the prop comes to a stop leaving the right blade up as always, as though eager to be hand-propped at the start of the next outing. I sit in the quiet cockpit for a few moments, removing my headset and listening to the Continental tick as it cools.

A slight roar from above reveals the presence of a Dash-8 passing overhead inbound to the big airport. In a few minutes, none of the passengers will be sitting silently listening to the sounds of a cooling airplane. The cramped cabin will be filled with clicks of seatbelts unbuckling, electronic beeps and chimes of cell phones and Blackberries powering up, and a hushed rumble of people awaking from a trance, standing up in the aisles eager to exit their cocoon.

"Hi, yeah, we just landed. Where are you at?"

Me, I’ll just sit here in my spaceship for a while, listening to her engine cool. I need a while to gather my thoughts before I set foot on planet earth and again join her ranks.

Lessons of the Night

The sun makes its way west and the world slows down. Lights below appear as the sky gets darker. I've often wondered how many lights illuminate automatically versus those that people choose to turn on. They always appear, marking where people have taken up residence. The lights of large metropolitan areas can easily stretch from horizon to horizon, but tonight, the lights of small towns dot the prairie and with a few yard lights scattered about the farms in between. There is no moon nor clouds and the stars have the sky to themselves, save for the few of us traveling the lonely airways.

Most piston-engine airplanes in the country have been tied down on ramps or put away safely in hangars before the night came. Their pilots have had dinner and are watching the news. Even most of the jets are sitting at their gates for the night, but there are those of us who are still venturing across the starry night. A few red-eye regional airline flights inhabit the higher altitudes and may share the sky with a military training flight. Crews flying hulking three and four-engined freighters from Korea, Alaska, or Luxembourg make their way to their destinations across the country. Their smaller brethren may find themselves in the middle altitudes in twin-engine cocoons. Even lower are some of us in single-engine planes traveling to from point A to point B for one reason or another.

Conditions couldn't be better. The winds are favorable, everything is working, as the visibility is unlimited for the first time in weeks. The workload is light, but I don't let myself get too lax. Charlie is sitting to my right and he is quietly observing as I perform a calculation. After I make a note, I glance out the window and behold the Milky Way. It has been a long time since I've seen this many stars. Gann would have no trouble taking a sighting with a sextant tonight. I make some sort of remark about light energy and the time it's taken for this starlight to reach us.

"That's getting pretty deep, once you get to talking about the size of the universe," Charlie says.
"Too many people get caught up in watching over the airplane that they fail to observe the wonderful things we see up here. That's why we do it, or why we should be doing it."

Charlie's been doing this sort of thing for longer than I've been alive. He obviously is still in quiet awe when he flies. The nature of our conversation has turned from technical aviation jargon to topics and relaxed attitudes more often found around a campfire. Our flames are the stars above, a few lights below and the red glow of the instrument panel. Flying on such a night often induces a trance-like calm over the pilot, and he has time to reflect on various things beyond the cockpit. We cruise on in silence for a while longer. My eyes haven't spent too much time concentrating on my nav log lately, but the needle is still centered.

We are soon passing our last VOR and inbound for home. We've decended and I can make out familiar landmarks like lakes and towns easily, but something is not right. The needle is not centered on our outbound course and I can't figure out why. OK, back into the cockpit. What's going on here? I know where we are, but I can't account for being apparently off-course. The instrument has given us no trouble all night. I query Charlie on the matter and he's not of much help. I run through a scan of a few items, turn the OBS, and then it hits me. I never changed frequencies and am still tracking off of a a station two checkpoints back. No harm, no foul, but I've learned a valuable lesson. Night flying is often beautiful and when everything is going right, things can start going wrong without being noticed. I have no doubt that Charlie meant everything he said during our period of campfire conversation, but he was playing off of my starry-eyed distraction and waiting for me to make a mistake, and it worked. Thankfully it was in excellent conditions. I might not have fared so well in a strange area with weather to worry about. I felt a bit humbled, but was glad he'd taken the time to teach me something that is only learened by years of experience.

Speed and Power

Climbing aboard the Mullicoupe, it is immediately apparent that this aircraft is unconventional and not designed in anyway to be easy. Because of the high deck angle provided by the extra-long main gear, the door sill is approximately navel-high. Ingress requires the pilot to back up to the single door on the right side of the fuselage and place one hand on the rear lift strut and the other on the seat in the cabin and push up and back into the cabin. Flying this plane requires some degree of physical fitness and flexibility.

Once aboard, Mark begins switching various toggles and turning valves. A shot of fuel to the engine, and he engages the starter and waits a few blades before turning the ignition switch to both. The R-985 fires and begins to come to life in that beautifully obnoxious way that radials do. Once all cylinders are firing, Mark eases the power forward and we begin to taxi through the aisle the gawking crowd provides. They spread before us like the parting of the Red Sea. Nobody wants to be in the way of the giant Hamilton Standard propeller. The 985 barks at idle like a 450 horse Harley as we make our way through the crowd and the rows of parked RV's and Bonanzas. Because of the extreme angle and the huge engine, forward visibility is generously described as limited. Views out the side are better. Mark asks me to make sure we're clear on the right. So far, so good. The Mullicoupe has more ramp presence than a Corsair, but it's actually a small airplane, not much larger than a short-wing Piper, but the engine and propeller make it seem as large as a fighter from the front.

When we make it to the run-up area, one of the CAP ground coordinators requests we turn the tail to avoid blowing debris on the ramp and the onlookers. Mark performs the run-up and the 'Coupe strains at the brakes and shakes on its bungees. When he's done, he taxis onto the runway, locks the tail-wheel, and stops on what I assume is the centerline. There is no way to tell. The only runway I can see is a sliver out the right side of the windshield.

"You wanna do the takeoff?" Mark asks.

Yes. I want more than anything to do the takeoff. I've wanted to pour the coals to this airplane more than any other. I do not exactly consider myself worthy, however. The Mullicoupe seems closer in performance to the Saturn V than my humble Champ. But what the hell, these kind of opportunities don't come every day.

"Sure," I stutter. "Tell me what I need to know."

"Just keep her straight," Mark says.

"I assume I'll need a lot of right rudder."

"A little. I'll be here if you need help."

He might be sitting next to me, but as soon as I take the stick in hand, put my feet on the big Beechcraft rudder pedals and reach for the throttle in the center of the panel, I feel quite alone. There are no more onlookers, there are no other planes in the pattern. There is just me, some very short wings and a very powerful engine. I ease the power in slowly. The noise is terrific. The super-charged, fuel injected acceleration is on par with the fastest muscle cars I've known. Keeping the runway sliver the same size in my peripheral vision, I've finally got the throttle to its stop. I suppose the tail is ready to come up. I ease the stick forward, expecting this to be the moment of truth where the tiger may decide to turn on me and bite. The tail comes up, the forward view improves significantly, and the airplane is tracking straight with no signs of instability. The runway is passing beneath us in a blur of speed. I decide that at this point that things are going smoothly enough to divert my attention to the airspeed indicator for the first time. Holy crap, it's passing right through 100 mph like it's not even there! At that moment, Mark is back in the cockpit. He lifts his up-turned palm in a subtle gesture. The plane is more than ready to fly. I ease the stick back, and we rocket off into the heavens and establish a 1500 feet per minute climb in no time. It has been perhaps ten or twelve seconds since the wheels started moving. I'll have to time it for sure next time Mark does one.

Mark takes the controls and performs a graceful 230 mph pass down the runway. During this time, I am able to reflect on the takeoff and realize that my heart is beating very, very fast and that I'm too sweaty for the cool early summer morning temperatures. What a thrill! No, that's not the right word. I don't know the right word. It was an experience that I won't ever forget. It was the pinnacle of all of my stick-and-rudder experience to that day, a bench mark. I'm still looking up. Next up on the climb will have to be landing this beast some day.