Flight to Las Vegas Pirep -- Part I

Our idea was simple: Spend a cheap week with the kids somewhere warm.
None of us really cared where we went -- we just wanted some sunshine and a
swimming pool.

Somewhere along the way, our good friends Jim & Tami Burns *also* came to
the realization that winter in the Upper Midwest grows tiresome by March,
and -- over pancakes and eggs on a Sunday afternoon brunch flight -- we
began to plot our joint escape from snow and ice.

A few ideas were bandied about, but Las Vegas kept coming up as a fun
option. Cheap food, abundant sunshine, and ample entertainment beckoned us
westward. The fact that none of us gambled didn't seem to matter much -- we
just wanted to see something other than snow, ice, and mud! So, Vegas
became the destination of choice -- but how to get there?

Atlas, our Cherokee 235 Pathfinder, is a fine steed and well-suited to heavy
lifting and long flights -- and we had already flown over the mountains to
Nevada before -- but in winter, over those mountains? Nope, not a good
idea.

Jim's bird, on the other hand, a beautiful '66 Piper Aztec, seemed to be the
ideal choice. Fully IFR, with a coupled autopilot and two engines, the
Aztec was the perfect magic carpet. It also helped that it had six seats!

Of course, there were eight of us, counting Jim's kids. What to do? After
a few minutes of deliberation, Jim & Tami decided that their kids were "too
young" to enjoy Las Vegas, and sentenced them to a week at Grandma's
house -- so the trip was on!

Sunday, March 12 was D-day, and Jim & Tami arrived in Iowa City from
Wisconsin shortly after sunrise. The weather -- always a factor in March --
was gorgeous, with cobalt blue skies and light winds. The prog charts
showed all sorts of weather out west, but, hey, that was hours away! If we
only made it as far as Des Moines, we wouldn't care -- we were getting away
from it all!

So, in the plane we piled, along with our carefully weighed luggage, and
were soon droning westward along the Victor Airways. The air was smooth
and the chatter over the intercom was crisp and happy -- soon, we would be
in Albuquerque, NM!

Well, it didn't quite work out that way. As we approached Missouri, the
skies darkened, and the predicted convective weather began to build. We
were studying the approaching weather on Jim's cool new computer navigator
(with XM weather overlay!), keeping clear of the worst of the storm --
something that was Buck Rogers stuff until just last year. Soon, however, we
were flying toward an immense wall of clouds which -- in our VFR world -- we
would have ducked under. In Jim's IFR world, that wall wasn't even a
factor, and we soon sailed right into that opaque, floating mist -- and into
a world of sh*t.

The turbulence began in earnest, and soon we were alternately floating and
sinking, with several negative/positive Gs at either end. Without a defined
horizon, our inner ears were free to bounce around without reference,
producing that horrible feeling that can only end in air sickness. Soon,
folks were reaching for air-sick bags, and the chatter -- so recently
amiable and happy -- ground to a halt, broken by the occasional and
unmistakable sound of retching.

Popping in and out of clouds, we could see an even darker area ahead, and
Jim asked for -- and received -- permission to deviate 30 degrees to the
south of the build-up. Off the right wing we could see swirling, tornadic
clouds and lightning, and the turbulence became even more intense. (These
storms eventually killed several people on the ground that day.) Combined
with the long-wave ups and downs, we now began to get the tail kicking from
side to side, giving the plane the flight characteristics of a sidewinder.
Looking at the PC in our lap became impossible due to the wild ride. The
retching continued...and soon even Jim was filling a sick sack!

Luckily, my usual cast-iron stomach was little-affected by this, and I was
able, as co-pilot, to monitor systems and keep an eye on Jim. Although I'm
neither IFR certified nor multi-engine rated, I was ready to fly us out of
there if Jim had become incapacitated, as it looked like he might soon be.
I've never seen anyone so sick, and still vertical -- but Jim soldiered on,
answering ATC and making minor heading changes in between spells of violent
illness. It was quite an amazing thing to see.

At last we were away from the storms -- we never got more than a sprinkle on
the windshield -- and the skies cleared ahead, but the turbulence never
abated. In fact, if anything, it grew worse -- but at least we now had a
horizon to orient ourselves with. In those headwinds we were only able to
push around 110 knots, and Hutchinson, Kansas came ever-so-slowly into view.
It was a welcome sight to see, believe me!

As we taxied up to the pumps, everyone heaved a huge sigh of relief. It
felt VERY good to be on the ground, and we all needed a break -- so we went
inside to their excellent, on-field restaurant, hoping for a LIGHT bite to
eat.

Unfortunately, it was Sunday, and the ONLY thing they offered was their
all-you-could-eat Sunday buffet -- a fantastic spread of food. Mary, Tami
and I were the only ones on board who had NOT become airsick, so we were
ready for the buffet, but Jim and our kids were far more reluctant to test
their stomachs. Still, they pecked at some food, were able to get some
sustenance to stay down, and all three admitted to feeling far better when
we were at last ready to depart.

So, back into the skies we soared -- and back into the intense turbulence.
The charts showed the jet stream howling right overhead, and our groundspeed
steadily deteriorated as we ground our way westward. 100 knots...then
80...then 70... Finally, at our lowest point, we recorded a ground speed
of just 54 knots (that's FIFTY FOUR) -- in a twin that normally goes around
160 knots!

Worse, the turbulence never let up. Soon, the sick sacks were out again (we
had bought more in HUT, thankfully), and this time even Mary -- who I've
NEVER seen motion sick before -- was miserably ralphing into the little bag.
Poor Jim soldiered bravely on, but was once again sick multiple times, while
I watched in awe and horror. At several points in the flight I was truly
worried that I'd have to figure out how to land that big sucker, but he was
like a man possessed, determined not to give in even as his
inner-ear-to-brain-to-stomach connections failed him.

Somewhere along the way, it became apparent to us that the altitude hold of
the S-Tec autopilot was "hunting" for altitude in the intense turbulence.
Even though it was probably only going up or down 50 feet, it was the long,
gut-wrenching pull-ups followed by floating negative Gs that was making the
flight nearly unbearable. Jim disengaged the altitude hold and found that,
with practice, he could dampen out the worst of the up/downs. Thus, we
continued on, slightly better off -- but still getting beat up like Woody
Allen in a prize fight with Mike Tyson....

After another hour of this agony, we realized that Albuquerque was simply
out of the question. Looking over our maps (in real life, and on Jim's
nifty computer navigator), we chose Dalhart, Texas as our stop for the
night. Mary and I had been there before on previous flights, and --
although there is absolutely nothing there in the way of entertainment -- we
were more than ready to call it a day as soon as possible.

At last Dalhart crept over the horizon, and their AWOS was reporting a 46
knot gusty wind, 20 degrees off the runway heading. Rotten, but doable --
or so we thought. In this, too, we turned out to be too optimistic.

As we approached the runway, it became apparent that the winds were far
higher than reported -- or at least they were very different aloft.
Fighting to keep the runway in alignment, Jim was slapping the controls back
and forth and jockeying the throttles up and down. Airspeed was all over,
as the gusts hit us from seemingly all sides at once. Worse, from 100 feet
up we could see big tumbleweeds blowing perpendicularly ACROSS the runway,
at a very high rate of speed. This was no 20 degree crosswind, AWOS be
damned. This was an EIGHTY degree crosswind!

Approaching the flare, I quietly suggested that we do a go-round, as the
runway was rapidly slipping out from beneath us. Jim allowed as to how this
was an excellent idea, and cobbed the throttles to the firewall. Soon we
were climbing back into that blue-but-hellish sky, all the while being
tossed around like an ultralight in a hurricane, instead of a twin engine
plane at max gross. It was just incredible.

Wrestling the plane around the pattern, fighting for a stabilized approach
in impossible conditions -- while airsick -- Jim was again like a man
possessed. Wrenching the Aztec onto final approach, he was able to keep the
runway in alignment with nearly full opposite rudder and aileron, and we
ground our way through the ferocious crosswind, just feet above the
runway...

....when a HUGE, sustained gust of wind hit us from the side! With alarming
speed, the runway was blown out from under us as Jim fought to retain
control. With superhuman effort he was able to keep us over the runway, but
actually hit the tail skid ON the runway, followed shortly by the right
main, the left main, and then the nose gear. We had made it, but we knew
right away that something was very wrong.

Instead of rolling down the runway, the plane was doing a boogaloo shimmy,
like a drunk belly dancer. Thinking that we had blown out the nose tire and
fearing a gear collapse, I suggested stopping on the runway. Jim was
already on it, and commented that it wasn't the nose gear, as he couldn't
feel anything amiss in the rudder pedals. We wobbled to a halt on the side
of the runway and held our breath as Jim shut the engines down, waiting for
the inevitable *crunch*...that never came.

Sitting in the suddenly silent cabin, the strength of the wind became even
more apparent -- and it was awesome. The whole plane was being buffeted by
the wind, as if it were a Piper Cub! I was, at first, completely unable to
open the door into the wind -- it simply wouldn't budge. It took an
unbelievable push to get out, and then I was standing in a full-force gale,
unable to wear a hat or even open my eyes! I was never so thankful to be
on the ground, but Jim was quickly under the Aztec, ascertaining the damage:
A broken bolt in the right main landing gear scissors. Without that bolt,
the wheel wobbled like a bad grocery cart caster, and the black squiggly
skid mark behind us bore testimony to the shortness of our landing roll.
We had been very, very lucky -- but I was sure our trip was over before it
had even begun.

Once again, I was wrong...

Soon the FBO manager was on the runway with us, an old gentleman who had
been in the business over 55 years. Completely nonplussed by the situation
and the wind, he calmly determined that it would be possible to insert a
temporary bolt in the scissors so that Jim could taxi up to the shop, where
they would have a look at the gear. Incredibly, we had landed at the ONLY
airport for 300 miles in any direction that was open and had a mechanic on
duty on a Sunday!

He and his mechanic shuttled us off to the FBO, and, wow, did it feel good
to get out of that wind. Jim stayed out with his plane, and helped the
mechanic insert the temporary bolt in the scissors, but was soon taxiing up
to the shop. From a distance I could see him struggling to keep the
ailerons and elevator feathered into the wind, for fear of a gust flipping
that big ol' Piper on its back.

Once in the shop, the mechanic -- a real EAA homebuilder type -- got to
work. He didn't have a Piper bushing for that bolt, but he DID have some
Cessna ones that might be made to work. Firing up his air tools, he was
soon grinding and cutting a part to fit, and we just stood in awe, thankful
for our good fortune. For all this to be happening on a Sunday afternoon,
in the heart of the Bible Belt, was just amazing to me. Heck, most places
in the Bible Belt won't even sell you GAS on a Sunday, let alone repair your
plane!

And fortune continued to smile on us. Dalhart Airport is an old B-29 base,
and is situated well away from town -- and they have no cabs. With six
people and luggage, the courtesy car was out of the question, so the FBO
owner called his wife in from home, and they shuttled all of us to a motel!
I was lucky enough to ride with this grand old woman, who regaled us with
tales of her previous 55 years worth of pilot rescues -- apparently our
experience in Dalhart was far from unique -- and it soon became apparent
that she was going to miss these unrehearsed meetings in the heart of Texas.
After five decades -- and a lost medical -- her husband was selling the FBO,
but you could tell that everything in their lives still revolved around that
wonderful airport in the middle of nowhere. Upon arrival at our
destination she refused to accept gas money, and told us that they'd be back
to fetch us in the morning.

So, it was off to our tiny-but-serviceable room. Man, I hadn't even been
flying, and I was completely wiped out! My back hurt from constantly
fighting to stay upright in my seat, and -- although I hadn't gotten sick --
my head was pounding and my stomach wasn't right. It had been a truly
awful day -- in fact, the worst flight of our lives -- but, we had made it.

Now it was time to relax and have a little fun. Jim and Tami ordered pizza
for delivery to the motel, while Mary and I went in search of beer. (We have
our priorities...) After consulting the desk staff, we set off into the
howling sand storm (it was impossible to open your eyes, even with glasses!)
to the nearest convenience store -- which turned out to be just beyond the
Pizza Hut, which was delivering the pizza to us at the motel! We found
this to be hilarious, for some reason, and ran back with our beer and snacks
like a couple of teenagers. Living through an experience like that days'
sure makes everyday life all the sweeter, for some reason.

The nice part about motion sickness is that it's gone as quickly as it hits.
Everyone chowed down on pizza, breadsticks, and beer, and we had a nice
post-flight dinner. And, other than the trains that chugged by every hour
on the hour throughout the night, we had a nice stay. (Mary and I, after
years of experience, wear ear plugs in every hotel we stay at. I only heard
the trains once, vaguely -- but poor Jim and Tami were kept up all night...)

Next morning the FBO owner was there at 7 AM sharp to pick us up, as well as
another fellow pilot who had spent two days in Dalhart after flying his
brand new Maule in from the East Coast. (He had spent the first night
sleeping in the Maule out on the ramp, after arriving in the middle of the
night.) Again, we were awed by our hosts friendly hospitality, and again
they would take no money. We finally pressed some cash into their hands,
with the admonition that they "put the money in the church plate." This,
they agreed to do -- and I have no doubt that they did it.

With some trepidation, I'm sure, Jim stepped up to pay the fuel and repair
bill. After all, they had us over a barrel, and could literally have
charged almost anything -- what, after all, could we do about it? What
would repairing a twin's landing gear on a Sunday afternoon cost at YOUR
airport?

$98 bucks. That's all it was -- $98. For everything they had done for us!
I was, once again, awed and thankful. If we had to break something on this
trip, we surely had chosen the right place to do it. With many thanks and
fond memories (despite it all), we departed Dalhart. Thankfully, overnight
the winds had diminished to normal magnitude and the ride was smooth and
sure. Best of all, the landing gear rolled straight and true, and we were
very happy to see those three green lights as we soared westward once again.

With extra sick sacks on board (just in case), we soon saw snow-covered high
country on the horizon. As we flew over the upsloping foothills, it was
evident that the previous day's weather had dumped a prodigious amount of
snow on the area. Landing in St. John's, Arizona, for gas and a potty
break, the FBO manager (who was also the fire chief) grumbled about having
to plow 15 inches of snow that had fallen in the last couple of days -- this
after it had been in the 70s last week! And I thought Iowa had crazy
weather...

Then, it was off once again into the high density altitude. With St.
John's sitting over a mile high, the Aztec rolled a bit longer than normal,
but -- even at max gross -- those two 250 hp Lycoming IO-540s effortlessly
pulled us skyward. That thick, high-lift wing may not be particularly
fast, but it sure can haul!

Soon, New Mexico -- yesterdays intended destination -- was sliding beneath
us. Santa Fe looked lovely as we droned ever Westward, and within a couple
of hours, the Grand Canyon was sliding down our starboard side, a bit too
far away for us to get a good look. Unused to such strictly controlled
airway flying, I asked Jim if we could request a diversion to the north, so
that we might see the Canyon better. Had I been flying under VFR rules, we
simply would have gone and had a look-see at the canyon, but Jim didn't
think that ATC would take kindly to that kind of request, so we busied
ourselves with trying to catch glimpses from afar...

Then, at last, Las Vegas! In seemingly the middle of no where, in possibly
the most inhospitable place on earth, huge buildings with lush, green
gardens and swimming pools all around squatted incongruously in the middle
of the desert. Ringed by mountains, Vegas looked like a mirage from above,
and Henderson Field lay stretched out before us, rolled out like a wonderful
concrete carpet that beckoned us to land.

So, we did. The week had begun!

See pictures of the trip he

www.alexisparkinn.com/2006_flight_to_vegas.htm

Next, the flight home -- and maybe Jim can post about his experience
obtaining his multi-engine instrument instructor rating while we were in
Vegas? (He did all that while the rest of us sitting at poolside, drinking
silly drinks with umbrellas stuck in them -- poor guy! :-)
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"