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.