"You're spending alot on tobacco these days. Are you feeling a little stressed out?" Most people have a bartender, shrink or psychic. I have a tobaccanist named Randy. Such was the question posed by Randy as I purchased a Padron 5000 today for lunch. My third Padron in about 2 weeks. Apparently my "All-is-Well" facade wasn't as convincing as I thought. Funny thing about facades, they only seem to fool the ones hiding behind them.
"Are you stressed out about the engagement?", he asked.If there is anything in this world I'm more at peace with, it's my engagement. I don't say this merely because I know Laurie is reading. I say it because it needs to be said. When you find someone that's as crazy about you as you are her AND that you know you can trust, excuse my french, but don't dick around gents--make it official. "No, it's more the cumulative effect of a lot of other stuff.", I replied.
The other stuff would partially consist of an unusually hectic work load but mostly of a sense of despair that this country will ever be able to develop a consensus about anything. For one thing consensus among ourselves would make pundits, politicians and the press less relevant. So they're never going to let that happen. They will make sure they do all they can to keep us at one another's throats. They'll keep us arguing.
Now don't get me wrong. I like a good argument. Ah, who am I kidding--I love a good argument. But argument is the last place anyone's mind will be changed about anything, very simply, because pride will not allow it to happen. It doesn't matter what facts you have to back your argument, intellectual pride makes it virtually impossible for anyone to admit they are wrong. The only times in my life that I have truly had a change in my point of view, or at the very least came to better understand another point of view, were in moments of quiet reflection.
But in a sound-bite nation of 24 hour news networks, Bill Maher, Rush Limbaugh, Al Franken and Bill O'Reilly quietly reflecting on anything is really hard to do. Or not. Quiet reflection is just a push of the "off" button away, I guess. I just need to do more of it. What little I've started doing seems to be helping.
Don't get me wrong. We should stay informed, but just as continuously eating without waiting for digestion would be bad for your body (not too mention messy), so I think continually taking in information without reflection is bad for the mind. At least I'm learning it's bad for mine.
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
Thursday, September 22, 2005
CNNFOXNBCABCCBS: Purveyors of Panic
I know this is going to come as a huge shock, but the media blew yesterday's airline "disaster" out of all semblance of proportion. Lets start with the nature of the emergency. A landing gear malfunction. This malfunction effects only one phase of flight. It in no way prevents the plane from flying or even makes it unsafe to land. Does it result in damage to the aircraft? Of course, but the only way yesterday's network soap opera masquerading as news could've ended was exactly the way it did. As a non-event with a scraped up plane. Real pilots who fly big jets train for such eventualities to the point that when such eventualities occur they are routine. The only way it could've possibly placed the passengers in any danger was if, oh, I don't know, the dimwitted cabin crew left the in-flight TVs on so the passengers could watch the media speculate wildly about their impending doom and cause some of them to panic and/or have a heart attack.
As a pilot I nash my teeth everytime the media discusses anything aviation related. I can only imagine the same nails-on-a-chalkboard reaction is experienced by any other professional when the media attempts to "inform" the public on their area of expertise. Another brilliant case would be the recent expose by a prominent network, prime-time news show on the "risk" posed by general aviation. I can't recall what network or when because I'm too lazy to Google it right now. Sufficeth to say it found the bogeyman at just about every little airport it visited.
Never mind that none of the airplanes used in 9/11 was a GA plane from an "unsecured" airport. Never mind that most GA airplanes do not have the payload or capacity to carry enough explosives to blow your nose. And never mind that there are thousands of easier less costly methods to reek death and destruction than little airplanes. By the end of this show, you were convinced (if you were entirely devoid of the most basic logic skills and scared of shadows in your closet) that we were vulnerable to attack from thousands of jihadists in tiny single engine airplanes.
Of course the media is not entirely to blame. There have been some very high-profile screw ups from my winged brethren that have only added fuel to the fire. The most recent and famous case being the instructor and student that violated the DC no-fly zone on their way to an airshow. What the media failed to report was, that while one GA pilot screwed up, the other half a million that flew that day did not. Yes they caused a lot of havoc on the ground, but that was due more to government over reaction than any actual danger that a two seat, 100hp VW with wings posed to the nation's capitol. But since less than 1% of us fly, it's easy to spice up the 6 o'clock news with that hyperbole that seems so essential to any kind of public discourse these days.
I think I may take the occasional blog to explain facets of the ATC system or aircraft operation so the handful of you that read this can perhaps help dispel some of the fanciful notions that have been planted in your friends' heads. This subject also dovetails nicely with, what I believe is the greatest threat to our nation and civil society as a whole--lack of perspective. I believe many of the so-called controversies, political arguments and bad--no, make that terrible--policy making decisions are solely because no one has any point of view but their own anymore. Our children are not taught history (except at Illiana Christian School where they not only excel due to the professionalism of the instruction, but the tuffness of the instructor as well) and we, in the west anyway, have no objective morality.
But that's for later. Right now I have to go watch crap. I can think of no better way to ruminate on the decline of Western civilization.
As a pilot I nash my teeth everytime the media discusses anything aviation related. I can only imagine the same nails-on-a-chalkboard reaction is experienced by any other professional when the media attempts to "inform" the public on their area of expertise. Another brilliant case would be the recent expose by a prominent network, prime-time news show on the "risk" posed by general aviation. I can't recall what network or when because I'm too lazy to Google it right now. Sufficeth to say it found the bogeyman at just about every little airport it visited.
Never mind that none of the airplanes used in 9/11 was a GA plane from an "unsecured" airport. Never mind that most GA airplanes do not have the payload or capacity to carry enough explosives to blow your nose. And never mind that there are thousands of easier less costly methods to reek death and destruction than little airplanes. By the end of this show, you were convinced (if you were entirely devoid of the most basic logic skills and scared of shadows in your closet) that we were vulnerable to attack from thousands of jihadists in tiny single engine airplanes.
Of course the media is not entirely to blame. There have been some very high-profile screw ups from my winged brethren that have only added fuel to the fire. The most recent and famous case being the instructor and student that violated the DC no-fly zone on their way to an airshow. What the media failed to report was, that while one GA pilot screwed up, the other half a million that flew that day did not. Yes they caused a lot of havoc on the ground, but that was due more to government over reaction than any actual danger that a two seat, 100hp VW with wings posed to the nation's capitol. But since less than 1% of us fly, it's easy to spice up the 6 o'clock news with that hyperbole that seems so essential to any kind of public discourse these days.
I think I may take the occasional blog to explain facets of the ATC system or aircraft operation so the handful of you that read this can perhaps help dispel some of the fanciful notions that have been planted in your friends' heads. This subject also dovetails nicely with, what I believe is the greatest threat to our nation and civil society as a whole--lack of perspective. I believe many of the so-called controversies, political arguments and bad--no, make that terrible--policy making decisions are solely because no one has any point of view but their own anymore. Our children are not taught history (except at Illiana Christian School where they not only excel due to the professionalism of the instruction, but the tuffness of the instructor as well) and we, in the west anyway, have no objective morality.
But that's for later. Right now I have to go watch crap. I can think of no better way to ruminate on the decline of Western civilization.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
30 Years of Shark Hunter
Today I'm coming to you from the field office in Dyer, IN. Last night Laurie and I celebrated Mike's (of Mike and Katie) 30th with some of his friends and a lot of his family. Yes, I have met Shark Hunter Sr. Katie, in typical fashion, organized a fantastic party with great food. She also set up some tables in the back yard/garden area complete with tiki torches. I'm sure she'd want me to make sure you all knew that she set up the tables by herself without any help from Mike. These and all her other efforts made for a great evening and Mike was ushered into his 30's in style.The only real disappointment was the low turnout from the Champaign contingent. I understand everybody had stuff going on, but it was kind of a bummer that only Laurie and I were on hand to represent--south siiiieeeeed! If you haven't done so yet, get up there and see them (looking at you Mckee). I took numerous Cheeseburger blows to the arms and shoulders on your behalf. You owe me.
At any rate, be sure to watch Cheeseburger's condiments for any photos, many of which were taken by moi. I got roped into picture taking. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk into a room full of Shark Hunter's relatives and ask everyone to smile. They would, but initially they all had this, "And you would be . . . ?" expression on their faces.
Looks like it's time for soup, so that's it for now. Happy Birthday Mike. 30's just a number. From here on in you're only as young as you feel.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
The Weekend that Almost Wasn't-Part Deux
First off, I just want to say Kool Mo P is a jag. Thank you.
I've decided that Part II of last weekend's travelog will be a pictorial. Besides, once the whole magilla that was described in part I was over, the weekend went pretty smoothly with a minimal amount of drama. And as anyone who's ever sat in a puddle of piss on the CTA will tell you, drama is essential to an interesting story.
Instead I bring you pretty pictures. Enjoy.
Getting ready to go. Mom called.
This cloud's sportin' a 'tude.
Level at 7,000, somewhere over Indiana.
Buzzing the Big Guy's Condo (on the right)
Over Lily Creek
Sunset cruise on Lake Cumberland
View of Lake Cumberland from the Lure Lodge patio.
LD and LV. Brt.
On short final to 14 left back in Champaign. Bummer.
I've decided that Part II of last weekend's travelog will be a pictorial. Besides, once the whole magilla that was described in part I was over, the weekend went pretty smoothly with a minimal amount of drama. And as anyone who's ever sat in a puddle of piss on the CTA will tell you, drama is essential to an interesting story.
Instead I bring you pretty pictures. Enjoy.
Getting ready to go. Mom called.
This cloud's sportin' a 'tude.
Level at 7,000, somewhere over Indiana.
Buzzing the Big Guy's Condo (on the right)
Over Lily Creek
Sunset cruise on Lake Cumberland
View of Lake Cumberland from the Lure Lodge patio.
LD and LV. Brt.
On short final to 14 left back in Champaign. Bummer.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
The Weekend that Almost Wasn't--Part I
This is going to be a two part post, because I just got back and don't really feel like writing about the whole thing right now. I will explain the title, however.
I took 9'er-7 Charlie to Flightstar to have the little engine malady that sprung up on my trip down to Atlanta checked out. Turns out it was just a bum spark plug. The mechanic I talked to said they ran it up and everything worked fine after they put the new plug in. This was great news. I was going to get off with a very small repair bill and the plane would be good to go Friday night. I was starting to get excited about the weekend's prospects. Laurie and I decided to celebrate 97 Charlie's return to flight status with a trip down to Kentucky.
Everything seemed to be in our favor. The weather was shaping up to be fantastic and Laurie said she would hit town by 5, meaning we could conceivably be in Kentucky by 7:30 Friday night. After work Friday, I filed the flight plan, ran home and packed, Laurie showed up at 5 and we we're off to the airport. I was looking forward to a gorgeous twilight flight full of golden hues and smooth air.
I'd been out to the airport the night before to square up with Flightstar on the repair bill and fuel the plane up so all we'd have to do is load 'er up and fly. A little story detour here to give props to Matt the line guy at Flightstar. When I got into the hangar Thursday night I noticed the main latch chain was broke. This latch is located near the top of the hangar door and you need the chain to release it. With the chain broke and me unable to reach what little of it was left without a ladder (which I don't have), I had no way of opening the hangar. Matt, seeing my predicament, took it on himself to run back to the line shack, get a ladder and tie some new rope on for me. I tried to tip him, but he'd have nothing of it. Just happy to help I guess. Anyway, you'll never meet him, but next time you're out, raise a glass to Matt the line guy.
Back to our story--so, it's Friday, Laurie and I get to the hangar a little before 6. We load up the bags and beer, and I preflighted the plane. The beer, incidentally, was for the Big Guy who was stranded in a dry county down in Kentucky and called me Thursday night desperate for Rolling Rock Green Light. You could say we were on a humanitarian mission of sorts. After all, frosty mugs in the freezer and no beer in the fridge is one of life's crueler ironies.
To this point, we were running like a well oiled machine. Laurie has become very good at assisting me in loading the plane and helping me preflight, so we were belted in and ready to fly in about 15 minutes. My tail was waggin'. I got situated, arranged the charts, put on the headphones, primed the engine and reached for the master power switch, which to my horror was already on. The party bus came to a screeching halt. No, it went careening off the cliff. I could not believe it. The guys from Flightstar had forgot to turn off the master switch when they were done testing the plane Thursday. For you non-pilots out there, this is about as rookie a maneuver as they come. My battery was as dead as a door nail.
After a profanity-laced exclamation, Laurie and I got out of the plane and I called Flightstar. Saint Matt answered the call. We tried jumping it, and were able to get the engine started, but I had no electrical whatsoever. The alternator, which requires some battery power to start generating current, was doing nothing. I shut down the engine again, swore some more, then called Matt again. I explained the situation and he said he'd contact the on-call mechanic and see what they could do.
At this point I decided to scratch the flight. It was getting dark and the forecast down by mom and dad called for significantly reduced visibilities after dark. Even if it'd been forecast to be perfect, by now I was in no condition emotionally or psychologically to be operating an airplane. I don't think livid quite covers it. While I fumed and phoned mom and dad to break the bad news, Laurie, all too aware of how pissed I was, did what she could to ease my troubles by quietly unpacking the plane and putting everything back in the car. Man, I love her.
We drove back to the Flightstar offices where Matt was waiting for us. He had called the on-call mechanic who wanted to talk to me about the situation. I told him the situation was they had left my master switch on and that my battery was dead. I further "explained" that the alternator was dead and that I had no electrical even with the engine running. The mechanic said it was likely the battery had been completely depleted and that it didn't even have enough of a residual charge to power the alternator field. To his credit he offered to come in and check it out so we could still make it down to Kentucky that night. I told him I'd already decided to scratch the flight and that it'd by fine if he could look at it Saturday morning.
Laurie and I decided to head into town, get some dinner and then turn in. If they could sort out the battery problem Saturday morning before noon, we'd try to make it down to Kentucky again. About 9 or so Saturday morning I got a call from the mechanic saying he had "good news and bad news". "Give me the bad news," I sighed. He went on to say that my original battery was completely kaput. It wouldn't even take a charge. The good news was they had a spare that they could replace it with. What was conspicuously missing from the "good news" was that they would be picking up the tab for this little fiasco. There wasn't any admission of fault.
After waiting a few moments and realizing no mea culpa was forthcoming, I decided to get direct. "So, I'm not getting charged for this right?". Brief, but pregnant, silence then, "We'll make it right." Not really wishing to waste any more time to try and divine what "We'll make it right." meant I decided to get flying instead. Once again we loaded up and this time we really did fly.
I have a sick feeling that the mechanics are going to deny they left the master on. In which case they're going to not only get me for the spark plug repair, but a battery installation, too. I've been going round and round about how I'm going to fight this if they do. Or, if I'll even fight it. It won't be the first time a pilot was financially raped by an FBO. Maybe I'll just grab my ankles and join the ranks of silent victims.
Still, if they deny negligence on their part, I might just tell them, "Well, since I didn't leave the master on and you didn't leave the master on, I suggest you find out who did and send them the bill." Like Castanza rehearsing his comebacks, I've played this conversation out in my head more than once this weekend. We'll see.
The next post will be more sweetness and light--and maybe a picture or two. We did have a good time, once we got through the airplane travails. Later . . .
I took 9'er-7 Charlie to Flightstar to have the little engine malady that sprung up on my trip down to Atlanta checked out. Turns out it was just a bum spark plug. The mechanic I talked to said they ran it up and everything worked fine after they put the new plug in. This was great news. I was going to get off with a very small repair bill and the plane would be good to go Friday night. I was starting to get excited about the weekend's prospects. Laurie and I decided to celebrate 97 Charlie's return to flight status with a trip down to Kentucky.
Everything seemed to be in our favor. The weather was shaping up to be fantastic and Laurie said she would hit town by 5, meaning we could conceivably be in Kentucky by 7:30 Friday night. After work Friday, I filed the flight plan, ran home and packed, Laurie showed up at 5 and we we're off to the airport. I was looking forward to a gorgeous twilight flight full of golden hues and smooth air.
I'd been out to the airport the night before to square up with Flightstar on the repair bill and fuel the plane up so all we'd have to do is load 'er up and fly. A little story detour here to give props to Matt the line guy at Flightstar. When I got into the hangar Thursday night I noticed the main latch chain was broke. This latch is located near the top of the hangar door and you need the chain to release it. With the chain broke and me unable to reach what little of it was left without a ladder (which I don't have), I had no way of opening the hangar. Matt, seeing my predicament, took it on himself to run back to the line shack, get a ladder and tie some new rope on for me. I tried to tip him, but he'd have nothing of it. Just happy to help I guess. Anyway, you'll never meet him, but next time you're out, raise a glass to Matt the line guy.
Back to our story--so, it's Friday, Laurie and I get to the hangar a little before 6. We load up the bags and beer, and I preflighted the plane. The beer, incidentally, was for the Big Guy who was stranded in a dry county down in Kentucky and called me Thursday night desperate for Rolling Rock Green Light. You could say we were on a humanitarian mission of sorts. After all, frosty mugs in the freezer and no beer in the fridge is one of life's crueler ironies.
To this point, we were running like a well oiled machine. Laurie has become very good at assisting me in loading the plane and helping me preflight, so we were belted in and ready to fly in about 15 minutes. My tail was waggin'. I got situated, arranged the charts, put on the headphones, primed the engine and reached for the master power switch, which to my horror was already on. The party bus came to a screeching halt. No, it went careening off the cliff. I could not believe it. The guys from Flightstar had forgot to turn off the master switch when they were done testing the plane Thursday. For you non-pilots out there, this is about as rookie a maneuver as they come. My battery was as dead as a door nail.
After a profanity-laced exclamation, Laurie and I got out of the plane and I called Flightstar. Saint Matt answered the call. We tried jumping it, and were able to get the engine started, but I had no electrical whatsoever. The alternator, which requires some battery power to start generating current, was doing nothing. I shut down the engine again, swore some more, then called Matt again. I explained the situation and he said he'd contact the on-call mechanic and see what they could do.
At this point I decided to scratch the flight. It was getting dark and the forecast down by mom and dad called for significantly reduced visibilities after dark. Even if it'd been forecast to be perfect, by now I was in no condition emotionally or psychologically to be operating an airplane. I don't think livid quite covers it. While I fumed and phoned mom and dad to break the bad news, Laurie, all too aware of how pissed I was, did what she could to ease my troubles by quietly unpacking the plane and putting everything back in the car. Man, I love her.
We drove back to the Flightstar offices where Matt was waiting for us. He had called the on-call mechanic who wanted to talk to me about the situation. I told him the situation was they had left my master switch on and that my battery was dead. I further "explained" that the alternator was dead and that I had no electrical even with the engine running. The mechanic said it was likely the battery had been completely depleted and that it didn't even have enough of a residual charge to power the alternator field. To his credit he offered to come in and check it out so we could still make it down to Kentucky that night. I told him I'd already decided to scratch the flight and that it'd by fine if he could look at it Saturday morning.
Laurie and I decided to head into town, get some dinner and then turn in. If they could sort out the battery problem Saturday morning before noon, we'd try to make it down to Kentucky again. About 9 or so Saturday morning I got a call from the mechanic saying he had "good news and bad news". "Give me the bad news," I sighed. He went on to say that my original battery was completely kaput. It wouldn't even take a charge. The good news was they had a spare that they could replace it with. What was conspicuously missing from the "good news" was that they would be picking up the tab for this little fiasco. There wasn't any admission of fault.
After waiting a few moments and realizing no mea culpa was forthcoming, I decided to get direct. "So, I'm not getting charged for this right?". Brief, but pregnant, silence then, "We'll make it right." Not really wishing to waste any more time to try and divine what "We'll make it right." meant I decided to get flying instead. Once again we loaded up and this time we really did fly.
I have a sick feeling that the mechanics are going to deny they left the master on. In which case they're going to not only get me for the spark plug repair, but a battery installation, too. I've been going round and round about how I'm going to fight this if they do. Or, if I'll even fight it. It won't be the first time a pilot was financially raped by an FBO. Maybe I'll just grab my ankles and join the ranks of silent victims.
Still, if they deny negligence on their part, I might just tell them, "Well, since I didn't leave the master on and you didn't leave the master on, I suggest you find out who did and send them the bill." Like Castanza rehearsing his comebacks, I've played this conversation out in my head more than once this weekend. We'll see.
The next post will be more sweetness and light--and maybe a picture or two. We did have a good time, once we got through the airplane travails. Later . . .
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Monday, September 05, 2005
Up, Down, Turn Around
It's been a while since my last post. Actually, it's been a while since my last successful post. A few days ago I tried to post a letter from my friend, Christy, who just finished 2 years in the Peace Corps. For some reason when I cut and paste her e-mail contents into the template it was causing wierd things to happen to the right hand navigation. I'll try again soon, when I come up with an alternative method that won't mess up the template and doesn't require any HTML on my part. I feel like the sorcerer's apprentice when I attempt to use HTML. I know just enough of the "spells" to be dangerous.
Some of you may be wondering why I'm still here. For those who aren't, I was called by Life Line Pilots to see if I would go down to Atlanta and fly food and med supplies into Mississippi. And I would have, but circumstances dictated otherwise.
The whole thing started when I received a call Saturday night from Karen, Life Line's Coordinator. At that time they thought they might need me to go down to Atlanta to fly doctors to Lousiana. She didn't have all the details yet, but said she'd call me Sunday with more info if I was interested. As Laurie will attest this disaster has really gotten under my skin for several reasons, all of which I might relate in another post. Let me just say, for now, I think everyone's energies would be best directed at seeing the rescue phase through instead of trying to score political points. When it's all over let the finger pointing ensue. Fry whoever you want. Impeach Bush for all I care. Just wait till it's over for crap's sake.
The other thing that's been weighing heavily on my mind was the fact I am one of a handful (less than 1% last I heard) of Americans that owns a plane. It's hard not to feel more than a little obligated to step forward and help out even if you're not asked. But not having ever participated in something of this magnitude before, I was a little anxious. As Laurie will tell you, I'm a pretty cautious pilot. I like to have everything planned out in advance. I like to have as many variables defined as possible. I like to be able to make a plan and stick to it. This is how most regular Life Line flights are. About all are scheduled weeks in advance and you get complete information on your destination, passengers, cargo, etc. so you can plan ahead. Rescue and relief operations are nothing like this. You have to be open to changing your plan at the drop of a hat and coming up with a new one on the spot. Even if the "spot" is at 5,000 feet halfway to the place you thought you were going and you've already burned half your fuel.
On the mission I accepted, I didn't get the call until yesterday at 4 p.m. All I was told was that I needed to be in Atlanta at 11 this morning to assist Angel Flight of Georgia in the delivery of food and supplies to Mississippi. She couldn't tell me where exactly in Mississippi I'd be going but that Angel Flight coordinators would brief me when I arrived in Atlanta. She couldn't tell me how long they would need me, either. I was told I could return home when I had to, but what if that was after only one flight? Would one tiny Archer load of supplies even make a difference? Should I leave this kind of work to more experienced pilots? Can I afford to miss work right now? All these things were swirling in my head (and stomach). The only thing I knew for sure was, that if I didn't go, it would eat me up inside. I won't lie, there was a baser part of me that saw this as an adventure. But what would've bugged me most if I hadn't gone would've been knowing I had been blessed with a unique ability to do something about this and did nothing. So, Laurie packed my duffle, I filed a flight plan, we prayed together and then I headed to the airport.
Since I didn't get the call until 4 I wasn't airborne until about 7, meaning I had to spend some time over hilly terrain . . . at night . . . . with one engine. Don't get me wrong, I love night flying, but doing so over unfamiliar, inhospitable terrain does tend to attenuate the hearing to every single piston stroke of the engine. The slightest vibration or change in tenor, real or imagined, is enough to get the adrenal gland going. I forced myself to relax a little by engaging the autopilot and reclining the seat a little. The stars were amazing, but looking down at the glittering cities I felt like I was on the moon. Without company, long night flights can can make you feel rather lonesome.
I decided to stop in Chatanooga, TN because I'd flown in there before and it was only about 3 hours from Champaign--my comfort limit for long flights. After refueling I toyed around with the idea of continuing on to Atlanta, just about 45 minutes further south. But considering how hilly the surrounding terrain was, how dark it was and how tired I suddenly felt I decided to check into a motel for the night. I figured it'd be better to leave early this morning and fly into Atlanta with the benefit of illuminated terrain and a little rest.
The folk's at TAC Air (where I parked) were kind enough to shuttle me to the hotel and then back again early this morning. The driver that picked me up this morning told me they had two jet loads of hurricane refugees arrive yesterday. It took a second to process. Hearing fellow Americans referred to as refugees takes some getting used to.
After a quick pre-flight I fired up the plane and called for clearance. I rolled to the hold short line of the active runway and commenced the engine run-up. The "run-up" is when I check the magnetos that fire the spark plugs. Each cylinder of the engine has two spark plugs--each fired by a different magneto. This is to provide redundancy, but also to improve combustion and power production. You check these before take off to make sure each is working properly by isolating them while you run the engine up.
When I checked the right magneto the engine started sputtering. I swithced back to both mags and it ran smooth. Checked the left maganeto again--smooth. Tried the right magneto again--rough. Now what? I called ground and told them I had to go back and park while I sorted it out. Alot of times this kind of problem clears itself up. A "rough" mag is often just the result of some carbon build up on the spark plugs and you can usually burn it off in flight. And since the engine was running smoothly on both maybe that's all it was.
But if it wasn't I'd have to get it checked out in Atlanta and I'd be as useless there as I would be back home. The mission was supposed to launch at 11 and it was already 9. By the time I landed in Atlanta, found a mechanic on Labor Day, and got the plane in the shop, they'd be long gone before I could get it checked out. I decided to come home, get it checked out here this week and see if I could volunteer for a future mission. From what I've seen on TV there's going to be no shortage of opporunities.
For those of you who were thinking of me and/or praying for me while all this was going on , thank you. When I give it another go, I'll let you know.
Some of you may be wondering why I'm still here. For those who aren't, I was called by Life Line Pilots to see if I would go down to Atlanta and fly food and med supplies into Mississippi. And I would have, but circumstances dictated otherwise.
The whole thing started when I received a call Saturday night from Karen, Life Line's Coordinator. At that time they thought they might need me to go down to Atlanta to fly doctors to Lousiana. She didn't have all the details yet, but said she'd call me Sunday with more info if I was interested. As Laurie will attest this disaster has really gotten under my skin for several reasons, all of which I might relate in another post. Let me just say, for now, I think everyone's energies would be best directed at seeing the rescue phase through instead of trying to score political points. When it's all over let the finger pointing ensue. Fry whoever you want. Impeach Bush for all I care. Just wait till it's over for crap's sake.
The other thing that's been weighing heavily on my mind was the fact I am one of a handful (less than 1% last I heard) of Americans that owns a plane. It's hard not to feel more than a little obligated to step forward and help out even if you're not asked. But not having ever participated in something of this magnitude before, I was a little anxious. As Laurie will tell you, I'm a pretty cautious pilot. I like to have everything planned out in advance. I like to have as many variables defined as possible. I like to be able to make a plan and stick to it. This is how most regular Life Line flights are. About all are scheduled weeks in advance and you get complete information on your destination, passengers, cargo, etc. so you can plan ahead. Rescue and relief operations are nothing like this. You have to be open to changing your plan at the drop of a hat and coming up with a new one on the spot. Even if the "spot" is at 5,000 feet halfway to the place you thought you were going and you've already burned half your fuel.
On the mission I accepted, I didn't get the call until yesterday at 4 p.m. All I was told was that I needed to be in Atlanta at 11 this morning to assist Angel Flight of Georgia in the delivery of food and supplies to Mississippi. She couldn't tell me where exactly in Mississippi I'd be going but that Angel Flight coordinators would brief me when I arrived in Atlanta. She couldn't tell me how long they would need me, either. I was told I could return home when I had to, but what if that was after only one flight? Would one tiny Archer load of supplies even make a difference? Should I leave this kind of work to more experienced pilots? Can I afford to miss work right now? All these things were swirling in my head (and stomach). The only thing I knew for sure was, that if I didn't go, it would eat me up inside. I won't lie, there was a baser part of me that saw this as an adventure. But what would've bugged me most if I hadn't gone would've been knowing I had been blessed with a unique ability to do something about this and did nothing. So, Laurie packed my duffle, I filed a flight plan, we prayed together and then I headed to the airport.
Since I didn't get the call until 4 I wasn't airborne until about 7, meaning I had to spend some time over hilly terrain . . . at night . . . . with one engine. Don't get me wrong, I love night flying, but doing so over unfamiliar, inhospitable terrain does tend to attenuate the hearing to every single piston stroke of the engine. The slightest vibration or change in tenor, real or imagined, is enough to get the adrenal gland going. I forced myself to relax a little by engaging the autopilot and reclining the seat a little. The stars were amazing, but looking down at the glittering cities I felt like I was on the moon. Without company, long night flights can can make you feel rather lonesome.
I decided to stop in Chatanooga, TN because I'd flown in there before and it was only about 3 hours from Champaign--my comfort limit for long flights. After refueling I toyed around with the idea of continuing on to Atlanta, just about 45 minutes further south. But considering how hilly the surrounding terrain was, how dark it was and how tired I suddenly felt I decided to check into a motel for the night. I figured it'd be better to leave early this morning and fly into Atlanta with the benefit of illuminated terrain and a little rest.
The folk's at TAC Air (where I parked) were kind enough to shuttle me to the hotel and then back again early this morning. The driver that picked me up this morning told me they had two jet loads of hurricane refugees arrive yesterday. It took a second to process. Hearing fellow Americans referred to as refugees takes some getting used to.
After a quick pre-flight I fired up the plane and called for clearance. I rolled to the hold short line of the active runway and commenced the engine run-up. The "run-up" is when I check the magnetos that fire the spark plugs. Each cylinder of the engine has two spark plugs--each fired by a different magneto. This is to provide redundancy, but also to improve combustion and power production. You check these before take off to make sure each is working properly by isolating them while you run the engine up.
When I checked the right magneto the engine started sputtering. I swithced back to both mags and it ran smooth. Checked the left maganeto again--smooth. Tried the right magneto again--rough. Now what? I called ground and told them I had to go back and park while I sorted it out. Alot of times this kind of problem clears itself up. A "rough" mag is often just the result of some carbon build up on the spark plugs and you can usually burn it off in flight. And since the engine was running smoothly on both maybe that's all it was.
But if it wasn't I'd have to get it checked out in Atlanta and I'd be as useless there as I would be back home. The mission was supposed to launch at 11 and it was already 9. By the time I landed in Atlanta, found a mechanic on Labor Day, and got the plane in the shop, they'd be long gone before I could get it checked out. I decided to come home, get it checked out here this week and see if I could volunteer for a future mission. From what I've seen on TV there's going to be no shortage of opporunities.
For those of you who were thinking of me and/or praying for me while all this was going on , thank you. When I give it another go, I'll let you know.
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