Jay Honeck
June 24th 05, 05:09 AM
Tonight, after spending the last couple of days camping at a nearby lake, we
had to clean the hotel courtesy van and run a few other errands that had
been blown off for too long. With temperatures hovering in the mid 90s, and
the wind really blowing all day, no thoughts of flying had entered our
minds...
....Until early evening, when the wind settled down and the sun hung over
Iowa City like a crimson ember in the western sky. We use our hangar rather
like a big storage shed for the hotel (it's only 30 seconds away), so while
the kids lazed on the couch and Mary tidied up the kitchen area, I was
struggling to fix a piece of lawn equipment. As I finally got the danged
weed-whacker to work, it appeared to be "Beer-thirty" -- when suddenly Atlas
beckoned to me from across the hangar. It was almost as if he was teasing
me, saying "Sure, you can have that stupid beer -- but *then* you can't fly
me!"
Beer could wait. Without a second thought I asked Mary if she'd like to go
find some cool air with me, and I didn't have to ask twice. The kids mowled
a bit, but they were slowly wilting in the heat, and the thought of the
crisp, cool air at 3500 feet was too inviting, even for them. So we were
soon pulling Atlas from his lair, and saddling up for an early evening
sunset flight.
The air was thick and still as we taxied out. There were two students on
downwind, somewhere, while Mary did her run-up. It seems that the patterns
always get bigger in the evenings, and these guys were apparently training
to fly the heavy metal, cuz Mary was able to taxi to the runway, do her
run-up, run through her checklist, and have everything ready for flight
before Student #1 was even turning base.
With plenty of room to spare, Mary took the runway, right across from the
Inn, and we departed smoothly into an absolutely milky sky. Atlas was on
rails as we climbed out at half his normal rate of climb, with full tanks
and four on board. I was silently happy for those 235 horses, as we had
done this too many times with the 150 horse Warrior, and those businesses at
the end of Rwy 25 looked a LOT farther away now than they used to!
Aiming south, for no particular reason, we loosely followed the 4-lane
highway that connects Iowa City to nearby Washington, Iowa. Winds aloft
were clearly high, as our ground speed fell into the 115 knot range,
indicating a 25 knot wind squarely on the nose -- but you would never have
known it. The airframe never so much as shuddered, and there was almost no
sense of motion as we slowly climbed out over the vast corn and bean fields
of rural Iowa, stretching to the horizon....
Suddenly, and without a burble, we broke out on top of the haze layer into
crystal clear blue sky at the strikingly low altitude of 2500 feet (about
1700 AGL). Usually by evening the haze layer is up around 6500 feet, so
this was a pleasant surprise. Up there, the sun was still brilliant, and
visibility was a million miles in every direction -- you just couldn't see
much of anything on the ground. It was not quite a fog layer, and not
really a cloud layer, but the air was cool and clean and all was right with
the world as we droned on in silence.
Coming into the pattern at Washington from a left base for Rwy 18, we slowly
descended back into the murk, heading directly into the sun. Looking
straight down I could see farms and homes, but straight ahead was an
indefinite horizon with little dark bumps here and there that might be small
towns or farms. It was a day to be thankful for GPS, and for our intimate
knowledge of the local geography, as no one would want to be navigating by
pilotage in such conditions by choice.
With the Washington water tower ahead, we both knew our position precisely,
and I was able to relax and evaluate the crops below. My family got out of
farming over 120 years ago, and I wouldn't know a heifer from a longhorn,
but after living in Iowa for 7 years I've developed an eye for corn, and it
looks like the crop is doing well despite a fairly severe drought. I
would say that a good, soaking rainfall will be critical in the next week or
so, but -- for the moment -- you can almost see the corn grow. Everything
as far as you can see, here in the World's Breadbasket, is emerald green,
and it almost looks fake.
On short final for 18, we were both struck with the effect of flying low
over the nearly-hip-high corn fields, and how similar it was to flying over
water. It was VERY difficult to judge altitude over the gently swaying
corn, and Mary used the VASI to her advantage, with the end result being a
smooth landing and roll out...
Stopping in to grab a cold pop and look around, we were surprised to find a
classroom full of folks in the FBO. Apparently they're running a ground
school in little Washington, Iowa, and have managed to attract a classroom
full of new aviation enthusiasts. With approving nods to all concerned, we
headed back out onto the steamy ramp, the air absolutely still and thick
with pollen and perfume, secure in the knowledge that more aviation addicts
would be taking to the skies in a few months. But, for use, the sky
beckoned now...
Unfortunately, Atlas had other ideas. Our key starter switch has been
acting goofy lately, with the "push-to-start" action only working for about
a half turn of the prop. Normally, this is more than plenty, as our engine
always starts on the first blade (when properly primed) but the combination
of the brief stop and the hot temperatures left me unsure of how to go about
priming that big ol' 6 cylinder engine. I figured it was clearly hot, and
certainly didn't need a prime....
Wrong. I could only get a half-turn out of the prop at a time before the
key switch would disengage, and the battery was starting to run down. With
the sun now below the horizon, it was getting down to "do or die" time, when
at last I found the proper key position to get the starter to engage -- and
STAY engaged -- for several consecutive turns of the prop. In seconds I was
able to get the big guy started, but only by ramming the throttle to the
firewall. I had apparently flooded the engine, and we darned near ended up
driving the courtesy car home...
With the alternator pulling 65 amps (we initially popped the circuit
breaker), we knew that it had been close -- we had nearly run our old
battery dry. Taxiing out, I made a mental note to get that damned key
starter replaced, and probably a new battery, too.
But, with the digital amp meter slowly counting back down to the normal
range, all thoughts of gloom were behind us as I climbed out into the milky
white haze. Popping out on top it turned out that the sun hadn't really
"set" at all, yet, but was merely obscured by the thick layer of almost-fog.
We were suddenly in brilliant sunshine, arcing over a darkening, satiny
landscape of almost magical appearance.
Alas, the headwind had become a tailwind, and our flight back to Iowa City
was short, but sweet. Descending back into that all-embracing velvety
whiteness, I rounded the pattern as if on rails, without so much as a burble
over the wings to make me move the yoke. Atlas touched down lightly,
belying his stubby wings and beefy engine, and -- despite our close call --
I couldn't help but say a silent prayer of thanks for our good fortune.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"
had to clean the hotel courtesy van and run a few other errands that had
been blown off for too long. With temperatures hovering in the mid 90s, and
the wind really blowing all day, no thoughts of flying had entered our
minds...
....Until early evening, when the wind settled down and the sun hung over
Iowa City like a crimson ember in the western sky. We use our hangar rather
like a big storage shed for the hotel (it's only 30 seconds away), so while
the kids lazed on the couch and Mary tidied up the kitchen area, I was
struggling to fix a piece of lawn equipment. As I finally got the danged
weed-whacker to work, it appeared to be "Beer-thirty" -- when suddenly Atlas
beckoned to me from across the hangar. It was almost as if he was teasing
me, saying "Sure, you can have that stupid beer -- but *then* you can't fly
me!"
Beer could wait. Without a second thought I asked Mary if she'd like to go
find some cool air with me, and I didn't have to ask twice. The kids mowled
a bit, but they were slowly wilting in the heat, and the thought of the
crisp, cool air at 3500 feet was too inviting, even for them. So we were
soon pulling Atlas from his lair, and saddling up for an early evening
sunset flight.
The air was thick and still as we taxied out. There were two students on
downwind, somewhere, while Mary did her run-up. It seems that the patterns
always get bigger in the evenings, and these guys were apparently training
to fly the heavy metal, cuz Mary was able to taxi to the runway, do her
run-up, run through her checklist, and have everything ready for flight
before Student #1 was even turning base.
With plenty of room to spare, Mary took the runway, right across from the
Inn, and we departed smoothly into an absolutely milky sky. Atlas was on
rails as we climbed out at half his normal rate of climb, with full tanks
and four on board. I was silently happy for those 235 horses, as we had
done this too many times with the 150 horse Warrior, and those businesses at
the end of Rwy 25 looked a LOT farther away now than they used to!
Aiming south, for no particular reason, we loosely followed the 4-lane
highway that connects Iowa City to nearby Washington, Iowa. Winds aloft
were clearly high, as our ground speed fell into the 115 knot range,
indicating a 25 knot wind squarely on the nose -- but you would never have
known it. The airframe never so much as shuddered, and there was almost no
sense of motion as we slowly climbed out over the vast corn and bean fields
of rural Iowa, stretching to the horizon....
Suddenly, and without a burble, we broke out on top of the haze layer into
crystal clear blue sky at the strikingly low altitude of 2500 feet (about
1700 AGL). Usually by evening the haze layer is up around 6500 feet, so
this was a pleasant surprise. Up there, the sun was still brilliant, and
visibility was a million miles in every direction -- you just couldn't see
much of anything on the ground. It was not quite a fog layer, and not
really a cloud layer, but the air was cool and clean and all was right with
the world as we droned on in silence.
Coming into the pattern at Washington from a left base for Rwy 18, we slowly
descended back into the murk, heading directly into the sun. Looking
straight down I could see farms and homes, but straight ahead was an
indefinite horizon with little dark bumps here and there that might be small
towns or farms. It was a day to be thankful for GPS, and for our intimate
knowledge of the local geography, as no one would want to be navigating by
pilotage in such conditions by choice.
With the Washington water tower ahead, we both knew our position precisely,
and I was able to relax and evaluate the crops below. My family got out of
farming over 120 years ago, and I wouldn't know a heifer from a longhorn,
but after living in Iowa for 7 years I've developed an eye for corn, and it
looks like the crop is doing well despite a fairly severe drought. I
would say that a good, soaking rainfall will be critical in the next week or
so, but -- for the moment -- you can almost see the corn grow. Everything
as far as you can see, here in the World's Breadbasket, is emerald green,
and it almost looks fake.
On short final for 18, we were both struck with the effect of flying low
over the nearly-hip-high corn fields, and how similar it was to flying over
water. It was VERY difficult to judge altitude over the gently swaying
corn, and Mary used the VASI to her advantage, with the end result being a
smooth landing and roll out...
Stopping in to grab a cold pop and look around, we were surprised to find a
classroom full of folks in the FBO. Apparently they're running a ground
school in little Washington, Iowa, and have managed to attract a classroom
full of new aviation enthusiasts. With approving nods to all concerned, we
headed back out onto the steamy ramp, the air absolutely still and thick
with pollen and perfume, secure in the knowledge that more aviation addicts
would be taking to the skies in a few months. But, for use, the sky
beckoned now...
Unfortunately, Atlas had other ideas. Our key starter switch has been
acting goofy lately, with the "push-to-start" action only working for about
a half turn of the prop. Normally, this is more than plenty, as our engine
always starts on the first blade (when properly primed) but the combination
of the brief stop and the hot temperatures left me unsure of how to go about
priming that big ol' 6 cylinder engine. I figured it was clearly hot, and
certainly didn't need a prime....
Wrong. I could only get a half-turn out of the prop at a time before the
key switch would disengage, and the battery was starting to run down. With
the sun now below the horizon, it was getting down to "do or die" time, when
at last I found the proper key position to get the starter to engage -- and
STAY engaged -- for several consecutive turns of the prop. In seconds I was
able to get the big guy started, but only by ramming the throttle to the
firewall. I had apparently flooded the engine, and we darned near ended up
driving the courtesy car home...
With the alternator pulling 65 amps (we initially popped the circuit
breaker), we knew that it had been close -- we had nearly run our old
battery dry. Taxiing out, I made a mental note to get that damned key
starter replaced, and probably a new battery, too.
But, with the digital amp meter slowly counting back down to the normal
range, all thoughts of gloom were behind us as I climbed out into the milky
white haze. Popping out on top it turned out that the sun hadn't really
"set" at all, yet, but was merely obscured by the thick layer of almost-fog.
We were suddenly in brilliant sunshine, arcing over a darkening, satiny
landscape of almost magical appearance.
Alas, the headwind had become a tailwind, and our flight back to Iowa City
was short, but sweet. Descending back into that all-embracing velvety
whiteness, I rounded the pattern as if on rails, without so much as a burble
over the wings to make me move the yoke. Atlas touched down lightly,
belying his stubby wings and beefy engine, and -- despite our close call --
I couldn't help but say a silent prayer of thanks for our good fortune.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"