When I finally figured out how to find the smaller airports in the Stuttgart area I began shamelessly emailing flying clubs asking if I might take a ride in one of their planes. I emailed several glider clubs and one motorflugzeug club. I had only one response, and it was from a very nice fellow who said that he would take me up on Saturday if I had time. I quickly returned to that club’s website and found they were flying a Bölkow and a Robin DR400. I had never heard of the Bölkow, but I knew the Robin to be a fabric and wood airplane of French design. From the photographs I assumed that the flying club was sponsored by Porsche, since the bright red Robin had a prominent Porsche stenciled on the bow.

At the appointed hour I waited outside the institute and Andreas arrived to take me to the airport. On the way he explained that Porsche was just getting out of the airplane engine business after making a hundred or so 911 engines airworthy. The plane we were flying was one of the few Porsche powered airplanes left and after this week it would get a conventional Lycoming power plant because Porsche wanted their hardware back. Andreas was excellent company on the way to the airport and we chatted away about airplanes, airspace and aviators the entire way.

When we arrived at Nabern the Robin was sitting in the sun seemingly covered in children. On closer inspection it was just two rapidly moving youngsters belonging to another club member, Gerd. Before I could go flying the Robin would be used to tow a glider up into the thermals off Teck. This area is one of the world famous glider spots, with yearly appearances in the aviation rags as a competition spot. A key piece of equipment was missing – the tow line for dragging the spindly winged glider aloft. We all (Gerd, Andreas and I) hopped into the airplane for a short trip to Hahnweide where the line might have been stowed. It was a goose chase that not only gave me a great view of Teck but also introduced me to the concept of glider avoidance. They were hanging around the steep slopes of the Swabian Alps like a kettle of vultures. We dodged them on the way there and back and then Andreas and I headed to the Schloss Neuschwanstein.

Neuschwanstein is familiar to anyone who has seen the opening of a Disney movie since Walt copied the castle for his cartoons. It is a wonderfully ornate structure of white stone and blue roofs constructed by mad king Ludwig of Bavaria in the 1850’s. Though the castle was never finished the outside is perfect and the setting, in the steep crags of the foothills of the Alps, is unbelievable.

We flew right to the castle, a journey of some 50 minutes at 220 km/hr. The whole way Andreas and I plotted our position and talked about flying. I had the opportunity to fly the plane a bit on our way back. With the tailwind we were cranking along at 240 km/hr and the plane handled really nicely. I did not try any steep turns, but when we circled the castle Andreas had her right up on her right wing so I could get a look. It was a 60 degree bank and we lost no altitude. Closeness of the cliffs that surround the castle were a real incentive to keep the bank in.

We flew back to Nabern, a grass strip at the edge of the Swabian Alps and Andreas made a very nice landing. At some point during the pizza dinner we enjoyed at the airport Andreas mentioned that he had been taking English lessons with his wife every Monday for 8 years. The lessons surely worked because we had no difficulty in understanding each other. He went on to say that the only reason he emailed me back about flying was that his teacher insisted it was good homework. I was the first native English speaker with whom he had conversed. Not only was his teacher skilled, but I owe her a serious debt for enabling me to get my airplane fix.

Andreas wrote me last night that the Porsche engine is out of the plane and the Lycoming plan is dead. They will sell the DR400 and buy a new plane. It was a real treat to take the Porsche on its last flight and I hope the club gets a new plane soon because I am coming back to Germany in the spring.

The Katana and me.

The flight with Andreas in the Porsche powered DR400 just served to remind me that I really want to FLY an airplane. The club rules (and common sense) prevented Andreas from allowing me much pilot in command time in the Robin. The flight sated my desire to see the world from the air but did little for my need to rock the wings. With my German constantly getting better I found a general aviation club based right at Stuttgart airport. Stuttgart is a pretty good sized class C airport where GA planes share the single runway with the big boys. Seemed like a good place to get the feel of German air traffic.

I emailed the club and hooked up with Werner, a designated examiner for the European equivalent of the FAA (the JAA). He agreed to let me fly the club Katana as long as I took him along for the ride. I have flown 8 different planes since starting my license and I really enjoyed the time in the Cessna 150 at Friday Harbor. Since the Katana is also a two seater, but a completely modern one I thought it would be a gas to fly. I was right.

Germany has been enjoying an unseasonable spate of sunny skies and cool, but clear air, so I was really looking forward to seeing the foliage from the air. I arrived early at the airport and found yet another general aviation operation so I grabbed a price list. They told me that with a checkout I could fly any of their planes by myself. This seemed too good to be true, but it certainly sparked an interest. Next time, first the Katana.

Werner and I took off with no mishaps. The ground and tower gave reasonably clear English instructions and I have no doubt I would have done fine on my own. Werner only grabbed the stick once and that was to make a minor course correction for our exit from the class C airspace. I could have done it myself had he been able to give clear instructions, but I think his English lagged too far behind his thinking for him to risk telling me what to do. This problem reared its head on the landings as well. We flew an absolutely gorgeous route that I highly recommend to the Stuttgart visitor. We flew along the Swabian Alps until we hit the Hohenzollern castle. This fairytale number warranted a few circles then we continues on to Ruetlingen. From there we headed west towards the Schwazwald. Whipping the Katana along through the valleys towards the Dönau river was a complete gas. Often the plane was below the level of the surrounding table lands as we slalomed along. At the Dönau we hooked a right and buzzed another couple of castles and a few really nice looking towns. Then we did a one-eighty and headed back towards Neuschwanstein. Well short of there we decided to land at Mengen.

The pattern at Mengen is not close to a normal left traffic rectangle. There are all sorts of jogs and dodges that get slipped in because of noise abatement. Since I could not be told how to fly the pattern in real time this led to the stick being yanked around a bit by Werner. It was really annoying since I was trying to get the feel of setting up the Katana for landing. We did two landings at Mengen so that I woud have three altogether. That allowed Werner to sign my book allowing me to drive Katanas while here. At least I can after I get a JAA license. We paid the tower at Mengen for our landing. Far more surprising than the different tower and ground controllers is the ubiquitous landing fee here. The fee ranges from a few Euros to over a hundred for airports where they do not want general aviation traffic.

Stuttgart is over a hundred bucks for a single engine if it is not based there. The mysteries of the landing fee are still a bit murky to me as the prices Werner quoted were quite different from those mentioned by the FBO. After Mengen we headed back to Stuttgart and again the approach involved enough dodging that I kept getting the stick taken away. My landing was really nice though and did not have a bit of assist from Werner. My evaluation of the Katana is that if you have the money you should buy one over the 150, but since I have no money I will dream of a 150/152 with VFR instrumentation.

A spectacular day flying a really nice plane. When I returned to the lab I was still so giddy that I must have seemed high. My enthusiasm was catching because when I mentioned where I had been to my collaborator he immediately wanted to go flying with me. Hmm I though, perhaps it would be rude to leave Germany without taking my host up for a short spin.

On my way up to Paso Robles to take my flight test I decided to hold the Elph out the little window to circumvent the problem of shooting through scratched plexiglas. A piece of advice: hold very tightly to your camera if you try this. There is a good deal more wind than you might suppose and I nearly lost the camera. That would have been typical.

By way of a short follow up to my previous post on the test: the story of a flight log. My grandfather’s enlistment in the Royal Canadian Flying Corps for the tail end of the First World War was a major source of entertainment for me as a child. There were photos to be examined, letters to be read, and most interesting of all a small yellow book with a leather clasp that contained all his flight data. A log book from the First World War probably only counts as an historical document in my melodramatic mind, but I got a real thrill as I flew up to Paso Robles knowing it was in my pocket. The last time that book left the ground in a single engine airplane, the plane was slow, ungainly, fragile and well armed. I made shooting noises as I flew up. Several planes took damage from my bullets, along with some farm houses and a VOR.

When I passed the test I asked the examiner to sign me off in my grandfather’s log as well as my own. Colin just had the same examiner sign the log for him. Hopefully I will not have to pry the book from his fingers as it is one of my treasured possessions.

This is the class G airspace sketch where the examiner drew the lines and then the clouds and said, “This is class G, label it and give visibility and cloud clearances.” You can see where I am writing things, crossing them out, writing them again. I have no idea. He helped me with pretty much all of it. So if you want to take a ride with someone in Class G airspace and have it really feel like a ride in Class G airspace you should probably pick a different pilot.

It was a great flight up to Paso Robles. A little over two hours in the air. All the things that I love about flying. Dramatic paths cut through the clouds, an entirely different view of the way the weather lies on the land, a view all around the broad circular band of the horizon.

Following my virtual lines in the sky, drawn by the clever technology of radio transmitters and recievers, I scooted up the coast, past Santa Barbara and over the mountain range between the coast and the first part of the desert basin. Paso Robles sits on this plain, between the wet of the coast and the dry of the desert.

Click to continue »

I passed. I now hold a Private Pilot certificate and the United States Government says that I can carry passengers in a small, single engine airplane which lands on terra firma (as opposed to the water).That’s the important thing. The truth is a long story. There’s a story for the way up (I forgot to bring a check, Nick forgot to give me the logs for the plane (but he wrote a check for the examiner, so I forgave him), and I saw a missile launch as I went past Vandenburg Air Force Base.

There’s a story about the check ride, because a strict examiner would not have passed me, but since I have a strict instructor, and the examiner knows the quality of instruction, I was allowed a little more latitude (and altitude) than the FAA specifies.

There’s a story for the way down, because it became my first night solo, included a period where I was totally JFK Jr in greyed-out conditions, and ended with my first solo night landing. I have a really solid instructor for Private Pilot. When I was greyed out I could hear him, “Fly the plane. Don’t look over there, fly the plane. If you need help from Los Angeles Center, they’ll help you, but fly the plane. Fly the plane first.” I flew the plane. Unlike JFK Jr, I looked at my little artificial horizon, with the little plane, and kept it’s wings level, nailed the altitude (7,500 feet above sea level), and followed the radio beacon radial toward Camarillo. Half an hour later, after a lot of instrument staring, the grey faded to black, the night sky started to show up, and the lights on the ground started to glow gold. Then I could see to fly again. It helped that I could ask Point Mogu Approach to check if Santa Monica was clear enough to land (it was), and in general have those people out there on the radio with me in some sense. More tomorrow.

I flew yesterday at 10am. Eventually Adam and I will get around to describing our primary instructor, Bob Delleo. He’s a fairly strict guy and has exacting standards. That’s been, at times, very frustrating (and demoralizing) when taking a lesson, but from my reading it sounds like it makes for a better pilot. Your first instructor’s voice is in your head for a long time, so it should be a really helpful voice. Bob’s is.

So tomorrow I am meant to fly up to Paso Robles (about a ninety minute flight for one hundred sixty-two nautical miles) for my check ride. The same FAA examiner that rode with Adam will ride with me and determine if I can be certificated as a pilot. (Pilot’s are not licensed, they are certificated. Huh.)

I am so nervous I can’t eat. Even yesterday.

The last time I flew with Bob and I was so distracted I screwed up pretty much every maneuver. It was embarrassing. My landings were terrible. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to sign me off to schedule the check ride, he thought he should do some more work with me. I flew the next day and I was fine. I did every landing okay and did the maneuvers. The truth is that I shouldn’t fly if I am nervous or stressed. No one should. There are times that I have gone out to do a little landing work, gotten up, done a landing, decided that my head wasn’t in the plane enough, and taxied back and shut down. That’s the responsible way to fly.

Yesterday I climbed into the plane with Bob. I hadn’t flown in a week. Some of the things felt unfamiliar, like the seat position. Well, the slide catch was broken, but I figured it out. The wheel was chocked, which it isn’t normally. Little things to throw me off. But I started to go through my check list and the comfort of the routine brought me back to the plane. I listened to the Automated Terminal Information System (ATIS) and wrote down the weather and stuff I needed. I adjusted my altimeter and called the ground controller to taxi. Now I was in the plane.

We did two landings (a soft field and then a short field) with similar take-offs, and then we flew up to Point Dume and did maneuvers. We flew home over a layer of clouds. It was some of the most dramatic flying I have done. We skimmed in under a high broken layer at eight thousand five hundred feet and a lower layer near twelve hundred feet that was sliding in from the ocean. We dropped over the edge of the lower level, high over the airport, and slipped down into the traffic pattern. It was great. It was everything I wanted flying to be.

I did a soft field landing and Bob helped a little on the throttle at the last moment, which demonstrated how just a little power could really soften that last moment. He said I had flown well and that if I can fly that well for the check ride that I’ll pass without a problem.

Back this morning for some more review of the oral portion of the exam. I know the things about aviation that I need to know, as long as I don’t freeze and blank.

Adam With 777VP

There is nothing more intimidating than following my brother. Whether it was rollerskating down steep hills or leaping off a speeding motorboat to see what it felt like, there is a little sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that is the fear of looking foolish. Especially in comparison. Following his writing is worse than trying to follow his driving. I have not his way with words, but there is a story to tell and I am the older (though less mature) brother.

I have wanted to fly since I can remember wanting things. My grandfather flew planes made of cloth and sticks, with wind whistling through the wires and his hair, goggles spattered with oil and not a radio or direction beacon to guide him.

I built models of plastic and could tell at a glance a Lancaster from a Mitchell, a ME109 from a Mustang. I assembled allied and axis airforces, carefully sliding paper thin decals onto pattered wing surfaces to make the planes take sides.

I read of Ball and Guynemer, Fonck and the Baron Richtofen. I read of the First World War and built the Second. I was not interested in building jets or replicas of my grandfathers planes and less fascinated with the exploits of the Second War and Korea than in the slow, deadly aerial dance of the First War.

Finally, I built working models. Planes that flew. The final one was a three foot model of a sea plane. The whole family watched its first and last flight. It climbed beautifully over our lake and then, as it passed too far out of sight for me to control, it went into a death spiral. It spun down from two hundred feet into our back bay, not broken beyond repair, but broken beyond my desire to fix it. It had flown. I still had not.

Several times I flew in small single engine airplanes, both land and sea, and occasionally from the right seat. There is lots to look at and from my reading I had a pretty good idea what was what, though the workings were a mystery. I checked into learning to fly several times. Each time the amount of money it cost was so far beyond my means that I was not even tempted to go the distance I could afford and then stop. Somehow, without the possibility of finishing it was not worth starting.

Shortly before his fortieth birthday my brother called me as I went into work. His stated plan, to take enough flying lessons to see if it was for him, was a shock. This was my plan, my DREAM. He was going to go try it without me.

I resolved to go with him on the first few flights. It cost nothing to ride along and the intro lesson is a bargain. From a fiscal standpoint this decision was an utter disaster. Sitting in the back seat watching my brother call ground, “Santa Monica Ground Cherokee 777VP at Proteus with Victor,” I knew I was going to spend way more money than my wife and I have. I got my chance in the left seat and was completely hooked. We did nothing special, just left the ground and swooped through the air for an hour, high above the Santa Monica Mountains, through the mild turbulence of the Simi Valley, in for several landings at Camarillo. Nothing special, but it was all I could think about. There was no doubt that I was going to learn to fly, the question was now one of timing and logistics. Already I was thinking of my wife working extra hours, perhaps picking up a third gig, maybe selling the cats. Something would have to be worked out.