Yearly Archives: 2009

FAA Written Exam or "Dare to be Stupid!" – Weird Al Yankovic

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9 November:

Scored an 87%. I did the two practice tests yesterday and scored 88 and 84, so an 87 is about right. I’m happy with it, even though I was hoping to break 90. I didn’t go through all the questions as thoroughly as my fellow student Jim did, so I am sure he’ll kick ass.

I would have done better, but I completely brain cramped on how to use that stupid navigational protractor thingy, and didn’t realize what I had done wrong until I was walking to the car. Then I had a real Home Simpson “Duh’oh!” moment. lol… That cost me about 4-6%. Bummer…

Of course, now I’ll never forget the right way.

The proctor likes to talk, so what actually took about an hour was stretched into 2 and a half. Nice guy, though.

The two practice tests each focused on different knowledge, and this computer test was yet a third. All in all, ’twas a good experience.

Next: Prepare for the solo!

15 November:

It’s Sunday morning and I am lounging about with the doggies et. al. sun beaming down brilliantly on the dampened fall leaves. I haven’t seen the sun here since last week, and it’s a welcome phenomenon. There’s been no flying all week, and I doubt I’ll be able to get in a lesson today at this late of a time.

Yesterday, (“One time at band camp…”) I toured a huge air traffic control facility yesterday morning and it was fascinating. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t let us take photos in the place, so I have nothing to show you.

The facility is brand new, relatively speaking. I don’t think I’ve seen so much technology in one place in a very long time. It was fascinating, overwhelming, and totally cool!

I drove out the day before to make sure I knew how much time it took to get there. That’s an old Army habit — a leader’s recon. Know the route before you need to used it and all that. The facility lies on the grounds of the former Vint Hill Farms Station Army base and many of the old buildings are still there, if you drive well into the property.

So many of the Army installations have closed or transitioned from military control to other agencies either federal, state or, as this one is, commercial developers. So much of the Army flavor is gone, but it’s still there if one is willing to go looking.

I had always wanted to see Vint Hill Farms. When I was in my Army advanced course, one of my fellow students was somehow associated with Vint Hill and he wasn’t allowed to talk much about it. That’s because it used to be a super secret kind of place that regular guys like me didn’t get to see. It’s out in the middle of horse country, too, so the surrounding countryside is gorgeous. Anyway, I tell you this because I did a lot of exploring when I was out doing my recon on Wednesday. Nice area. Would have liked to have been stationed there back when the post was still booming.

Flight Lesson #7 or “That’s the Night That The Lights Went Out in Manassas”

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It was windy. Man, oh man, was it windy. Probably too windy for a student pilot, but I had Chris, my flight instructor, sitting in the right seat making sure that the wings stayed on top and the wheels on the bottom. No sweat.

I looked over the weather about 30 minutes before takeoff on the fancy weather computer that the flight school has. At the time, it wasn’t too windy, but it was about to be in 30 minutes or so. And that’s now. But it’s not windy enough to warrant a “no go”, just something of which to be aware.

Preflight is now pretty easy for me. So is taxiing to the runway. I’m also growing more comfortable with radio calls now. I still get a little flustered if I run into something unexpected. And with the new headsets clamped on each ear, I can actually hear what’s going on. So when the tower cleared me for take off, I revved the engine, taxied out onto the runway and let ‘er rip.

The airspeed indicator is the instrument on the top left of the two rows of instruments called a “six pack.” That’s the one that’s probably most critical on take off and landing. As I roll down the runway, I am learning to keep a close eye on the airspeed indicator and keep the aircraft moving straight and true down the center line. No problem.

Until the Cessna’s wheels left the pavement.

Once reaching the appropriate speed, I pull back on the yoke to rotate for take off. At the very instant the wheels lost contact with the ground, the strong crosswind gusted and blew the airplane to the left abruptly and startled the hell out of me. The runway is 100 feet wide, and I went from the center line (roughly) to flying over the grass in literally the blink of an eye.

Good thing I didn’t blink, ’cause I’d have missed it.

“Whoa! That wasn’t supposed to happen!” I exclaim loudly and try to correct, but the wind doesn’t want any part of it. Finally, I get the airplane back on course, thanks in no small way to Chris’s coaching and encouragement. It’s a little bumpy, but acceptable and we proceed out to the practice area.

One of the good things about the instructors is that they are very flexible in tailoring any given lesson to the needs of the student, while staying faithful to the federally approved course syllabus. Before we left, I told Chris that I wanted to practice under windy conditions some of the maneuvers I had learned in a previous lesson when the winds were nonexistent. No problem there either. There was plenty of wind.

I needed to become more familiar with the landmarks of the practice area so I don’t get lost when I am out there one day all by my lonesome. So we did a little sightseeing as well.

When it was time to go home, I turned the aircraft northeast and headed back toward Manassas. As is the procedure, I called Potomac Center to get clearance to enter the DC Special Flight Rules Area. The controller came back with the anticipated information and then told us that Manassas Tower was out of contact.

Out of contact? How could this be? Weird.

We proceeded toward Manassas anticipating the communications anomaly would be resolved and we’d be on the ground in no time. When we were at the appropriate point, I keyed the radio and said “Manassas Tower, Cessna 35354, 7 miles southwest for the west ramp.”

…

…

(Was that a cricket?)

Nope, not a single cricket at pattern altitude. Manassas Tower was not talking to anyone. So we switched to the Manassas Ground frequency and repeated the call. The controller answered with two words: “Stand by.”

…

…

The next voice we heard on the radio was the controller announcing to anyone who was listening — and there were undoubtedly many — that everything was on hold and that departing planes would have to return to the ramp. He said that they had no radar, no computers, no nothing, except for the one working radio on which he was broadcasting. Then he called us and cleared us to land.

Chris tried calling the school on their assigned frequency, but they didn’t answer either. Strange. Something was going on, but we had no clue what it was.

We proceed in. I made the left hand turn and lined us up on the runway. This time, I had a better time keeping the plane on target. This is in part because Chris had covered three of the six pack which had forced me to look outside the airplane. (Best thing he could have done for me.) The wind was making the airspeed indicator vary quite a bit and I did my best to hold her steady. When I felt as though I was coming in a little low, I added power to adjust my glide slope without having to be prompted. In fact, the whole lesson I was adjusting this and that nudging the plane in the direction I wanted it to go instead of pushing it. I was really feeling the plane this lesson instead of trying to force my will upon it. This was far easier and far less fatiguing.

I get to the runway numbers and pull the engine to idle. At this point, when you are about 5 feet or so off the runway, the pilot is to pull back on the yoke in the attempt to keep the plane flying until the airspeed drops and the plane settles in, which it did with little fanfare.

There you go. A second unassisted landing, and this time in some rather odd conditions:

1. Virtually no help from Manassas Tower.
2. Some serious wind.
3. A smattering of nausea from the motion of the maneuvers.

Once on the ground, we pulled up to the school, parked and walked in to a darkened office space. No wonder no one was there to talk to us when we called — the power was out all across the airport.

I turned in the paperwork and did the post flight critique. It was a terrific lesson in that for the first time, I wasn’t fighting with the airplane to make it fly. I was working WITH the airplane. Huge difference.

I hopped in the Prius and headed out around the end of the runways. As I was going out, it occurred to me that this had been a VERY good day. Not only did I land the plane myself, not only did I work with the plane instead of against it, not only did I make an acceptable approach by eye…

Wait a minute. There are supposed to be lights along the runway which tell you if you’re on the glide slope or not. I don’t remember using them. Odd, because you’re supposed to and they are really, REALLY hard to miss, particularly if you’re a nervous student pilot. But the power was out.

And so were the glide slope indicators.

Wow! I landed COMPLETELY by eyeball this time. Couldn’t rely on the existing navigational aids ‘cause there weren’t any. Double bonus!

So now I have my first aviation tall tale to tell. Next time I tell it, I think I’ll put myself in a bigger airplane. Something like a Gulfstream jet. Or a helicopter. And I’ll say that the winds were just shy of hurricane strength winds. Yeah, that’s the ticket!

But any way you slice it, this was a pivotal lesson. To the credit of my instructors, much of my training came together today.

I like to think of it as One Giant Leap for Dankind.

Flight Lesson #6 or "Look, Ma! No Hands!"

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Two words: Mornings suck.

I usually don’t like to drag myself out of bed early for anything. If it involves standing upright like a good homo sapiens and it’s before 10am, I’ll probably grumble about it. No, I WILL grumble about it. Hell, I didn’t know there was such a thing as a 6 am until I joined the Army. I knew all about 6 “P”m, but what’s the “A”m crap?

So why the hell did I schedule a flight lesson today for 8 am?

I asked myself this question numerous times as I made my way from my warm, comfortable king-size bed to the car and to the airport. Warm under the covers? Yes. Warm outside? Not even close.

I arrive at the flight school, and meet Chris, my instructor for the day. Unlike my previous attempts at a flight lesson, the day is actually lovely. It’s a clear, calm, chilly morning just perfect for a flight lesson. After a quick check of the weather, I sit down with Chris and he starts briefing me on Flight Lesson 6. Today will be a day for running around the pattern, which means we won’t be leaving the confines of Manassas Airport and we’ll just be practicing take offs and landings. This is good, because it’s precisely the kind of practice I want and need. This kind of practice will help build confidence in my newly budding skills.

I hop in the airplane, get clearance from the tower and taxi to the end of the runway. I had experienced problems taxiing on a number of occasions, but this time it was smooth as silk. I scoot the Cessna down taxiway alpha like I had been doing it for years and park for the pre-take off checks. Once finished, I push the throttle forward and head out on the runway, wait patiently for the plane to speed up enough for the wings to start working, and then lift off smoothly to the south.

Twice I run the pattern, each time getting more comfortable. I actually feel VERY comfortable on the take off and the first three of the four legs which constitute the pattern. But the damned landing still escapes me. I am all over the place, left and right, nose up and nose down and just can’t seem to keep it steady on the center line. So Chris, as is his mission, keeps me from doing something dangerous and assists me through the first two approaches, once of which is a planned go around, and the second of which is an actual full stop landing.

Once on the ground, I ask him to show me what it’s supposed to look like so that I’ll have a better idea of what to do. He says ok, and off we go. Take off number three. I handle it up until the final approach. Once I make the right turn into the glide path for runway 16R, I spout off a hearty “You have the controls,” to which he correctly replies “I have the controls,” and he starts refining the approach.

Damned if he didn’t make it look easy! Smooth as silk. Piece of cake. Easy squeezy lemon peezy!

Ahhhh… so that’s what it’s supposed to look like!

The critique follows, and we decide to do two more landings, one go around and one full stop landing. So off we go for approach number four.

I negotiate the pattern about as well as I have and make the last turn onto final approach. I do my best to dutifully keep the nose down to keep 65 knots, the landing speed, in the airspeed indicator. I’m wobbly. Uncomfortably wobbly. But I make it over the centerline enough to have this count as a decent approach. Certainly it was not really any worse than the other two I did that morning.

Now remember, after the critique, we decided to do two more approaches, one go around and one landing. So here I am yanking back on the yoke trying to keep the airplane from landing fully expecting Chris to tell me to go around.

But he doesn’t.

As the airplane proceeds down the runway bleeding off airspeed, I am doing my best to keep things straight and level, still not my best skill. Eventually, the Cessna settles in with a significant bump, but easily within the acceptable range. I slow the aircraft and make the next safe turn off the runway and park to do the after landing checklist, and ask Chris why we didn’t do the go around.

Chris said “Eh, that was a good enough approach and I thought you should have the landing. By the way, that was all you, you know.”

I blink two or three times.

“All me?” I ask. “You mean…”

“All you. That was an unassisted landing.”

Who knew? I was so busy watching the approach that I had no idea he was sitting there, feet off the pedals and hands off the yoke.

All me.

Unassisted.

I did it. Howzabout that?

The surprise gave way to a feeling of accomplishment which gave way to a confidence I hadn’t felt before. (“Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. ‘Maybe Christmas,’ he thought, ‘doesn’t come from a store.’”)

I did it. I took off, ran the pattern and landed all by myself. (Sorta.)

What a wonderful feeling it is to know that you’ve done something you hadn’t done before. And I am delighted that Chris chose not to tell me in advance, because NOT knowing freed me from concentrating on the “Oh crap, I am doing this all by myself for the first time!” I got to land the plane without the added pressure of the additional goal of a “first.”

Very cool. Very, very cool.

Flight Lesson #5 or "The Saddest Day has Gleams of Light” — Sarah Winnemucca

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7 November:

I know I’ve talked with you briefly about the flying stuff over the last couple of weeks. I had meant to write sooner about my most recent experiences, however, I’ve been consumed with studying for the big FAA written exam on Monday. More on that later. For now, here’s the one I REALLY wanted to write about.

29 October:

I had been trying to get into a flight lesson with our ground school instructor, Brad, and finally was able to schedule one which DIDN’T wind up getting canceled. I was scheduled for 5:00 pm on Thursday, October 29th. Around 1:00 that afternoon, my cell phone rang and it was from Dulles Aviation, the company who runs the training program. Knowing that the weather was questionable, I was fully expecting to hear that no one was flying, and that we’d have to reschedule. However, luck was with me, and Brad had called to see if I could be there any earlier. Since my boss had already told me that I could take whatever time off I needed to finish my training, I told Brad that I’d be there as soon after 4 as I could be.

So I took off from work around 2:30 and headed down the Capital Beltway to I-66 toward Manassas Airport, happy as the proverbial clam.

That was until I saw the clouds to the west.

The ceilings were pretty low, and it looked as though the chance of actually getting aloft was waning. But as I grew closer to Manassas, I could see brilliant sunshine behind the clouds to the west. This gave me some hope that I’d make it up today.

About 2 miles shy of the exit, there was an auto accident, so I was delayed and finally wound up at Dulles Aviation around 4:20-ish. Brad was ready to go, so we dashed out to the airplane, did the preflight and proceeded to the end of runway 34L for takeoff.

I gently shoved the throttle in to full causing the 160 horsepower engine to roar to life pusing me back against the seat. It’s kind of like the experience of flooring the accelerator in your car, but it noisier and you’re wearing headphones. But it’s the same thing. I pulled back on the yoke and the Cessna 172 cheerfully responded by lifting the nose upward beginning it’s take off climb leaving runway 34L behind me where it was supposed to be.

The dark clouds were well above us, but menacing nonetheless. If you’ve traveled in an airliner in cloudy weather, you have experienced it. You can see the bottom of the cloud layer above you with wisps of grey cloud stuff occasionally hanging down and passing closely overhead.

I climbed up to about 2300 feet, and the cloud layer was so close! I felt as though if I opened the window and stuck my hand up, I could touch them. But they were still dark and menacing. Clouds often spell disaster for pilots who fail to heed the warnings of the instructors to stay the hell away from clouds. Being prudent, we hung below them by the requisite 500 feet proceeding southwest toward the practice area.

Ahead of me I could see the edge of the cloud cover and the welcoming sunshine to the west just beyond. As we flew toward the west, the edge appeared to move toward me faster and faster, though we were flying at the same speed the whole way. As I approached the very edge, I could see the sun streaming down from above and illuminating the darkened landscape below.

I lived in Alaska for five years. I drove part of the way up, electing to take the ferry from Seattle to Haines, Alaska. But I drove down all the way five years later. I saw some amazing scenery in Alaska and western Canada. In fact, in all my travels, only that part of the world has shown me such inspirational majesty and breathtaking beauty as Alaska. Hands down. Bar none. The last time I got to experience Alaska in that fashion was in 1990

As the little Cessna cleared the edge of the clouds, I was treated to a sight far more majestic and far more beautiful and far more inspiring. I can’t describe it except to say that it would be something like an insect crawling out from under a very short table into direct sunlight. But that doesn’t do this scene any justice.

The beauty of it was literally breathtaking. And the once ultimate beauty of Alaska was demoted to the mere penultimate, replaced with the view as I emerged from under the clouds.

It was a feeling unlike any other I have ever experienced. It was unique in my experience.

It was magnificent!

And it made all of the angst I had been feeling about flying vanish just as the gray sky vanished behind me leaving me in the glory of the late afternoon sun.

Yep. It’s different now. That view and the genuinely fun lesson with Brad that followed made all of the previous weeks of worry worth it.

Now I know why people want to do this. It’s because of moments like that one.

Stage Three Written Exam or "You Can Lead a Boy to Flight School, but You Can’t Make Him Think. – Anon."

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I think I mentioned Jim, my classmate, at the start of this. Jim and I have much in common. Jim is a computer geek. So am I. Jim drives a hybrid. So do I. And, of course, Jim has a similar budding interest in aviation.

Jim and I have always worked together on some of the more tough classroom problems, often sharing little tips we’ve learned from our flight instructors and comparing answers, which is encouraged. We find ourselves asking each other questions and providing answers when one of us is stuck.

When it comes to study habits, however, we differ drastically. I’ve recounted my lack of discipline when it comes to all things academic, so I won’t repeat myself here. Suffice it to say that Jim is the polar opposite. He always comes to class prepared with questions, and engages in discussion with the instructor, Brad, regularly.

As we did for the two previous written tests, just before we scored them, we compared answers. That consisted of casually comparing the dots on his mark sense form to the dots on mine. Usually, they were damned near exact. Tonight, however, my dots were in different places.

Lots of different places.

Most of the first column of 25 questions were identical. I think there was perhaps one different. But the second column looked substantially different. I started counting where my dots were different and got discouraged and stopped after I counted three. Since Jim is such a genuinely outstanding student and more likely to provide the correct answer, I was really sweating my final results of the exam.

Upon viewing our papers together, we began whispering back and forth to each other things like “This was a hard test!” or “I struggled with a few of the (fill in the blank) questions,” achieving unanimous consensus that this test was NOT a cake walk.

At 7pm sharp, Brad started the class and we finished the chapter on weather graphics that we’d skipped over some weeks back. But of course, the time eventually came for us to score our tests.

It works like this: Brad has the answer sheet and reads out the question and its associated answer. If we get it wrong, we’re to mark it as incorrect on the mark sense form and fill in the correct answer. That way, we can go back and resolve the particular problem. The final percentage gets recorded on the top of the form and that grade is transferred to the official record. (“This is going to go on you permanent record, young man!”) So Brad starts:

“Number one is B.”

“Number two is C.”

… and so on and so forth.

Et ceterahhh, et ceterahhh, et ceterahhh.

I started to sweat as I reach the tenth dot. “OK,” I thought to myself, “at least I got the first ten right.”

Brad continued revealing the answers to the test like a seasoned game show host, one by one, through the teens and on to the twenties. I hold my breath with each pronouncement of the correct answer, waiting for a discrepancy in Brad’s answer and mine.

“Twenty one is A.”

“Twenty two is C.”

(I should note to anyone using the Jeppesen course materials that these answers are NOT the real answers to the Stage III Written Exam. Just so you know.)

“Twenty three is C.”

“Twenty four is A.”

Holy crap! I’ve gotten to 24 and I still haven’t let the red pen touch paper.

“Twenty five is A.”

Amazing! I didn’t think I had done all that well, but here I am with half the answers and all of them are correct! Yeah, that second column has got to suck big time.

You may remember that this was a take-home, open book test. I did it last night spreading out on the king-sized bed about 7:30 last night figuring it would go fairly quickly.

Not so fast, Kemosabe!

Some of these questions were particularly tedious, requiring actual problem solving skills and the use of complex and unfamiliar navigation instruments. I worked on one problem for about 40 minutes before I gave up and moved on. This was a poor exhibition of my rusty test taking skills, and I won’t make that mistake on the real written exam. By about midnight, I had actually answered all the questions to the best of my ability. But as I reviewed the answers one last time, I realized that for many of the more complex questions, I couldn’t easily recreate the process. So I went back and did the more complex ones again, showing my work in my notebook so that I’d be able to review my logic. I finally hit the sack about 1:15 am and was up for work at 7.

Today, I reviewed the questions during my lunch hour, foregoing the usual daily lunch with the boss. So I genuinely put quite a bit of time into the test, confirming my suspicion that I was WAY under prepared.

Back to question 26.

Brad called the rest of the second column from 26 to 50. (Actually, it was more like calling Bingo than a game show host.) I wound up marking just three questions I had answered incorrectly, all of them in just one subject area. (Radio navigation, if you must know.) Doing the arithmetic, i discovered much to my surprise and delight that I scored a whopping 94%. Whodathunkit? For a guy with crappy study habits, I did OK.

The next big step is the FAA written exam. It’s a computer-based, multiple-guess test not unlike the written tests in ground school. They offer the student a random sample of 60 questions from the question bank of 900 questions, all of which are listed in one of my textbooks. So now the task is to go though all 900 questions over the next week or so, answer and understand the answer for each and every one of the 900. Most of the questions are just ones you have to know. So there will be a lot of rote memorization over the next couple of weeks.

Jim did well, too, though I haven’t a clue what his score was. And really it doesn’t matter, because I still think he has a fluency with the material that I have yet to achieve. Regardless, I’ve been delighted to have Jim’s acquaintance these last eight weeks. He’s not only been a good classmate, but a good friend as well.

Jim solos on Saturday. I hope I am not too far behind.