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In Flight USA Articles
Contrails: Oh, The Places You’ll Go
By Steve Weaver
When most pilots consider the hours they have logged in the air, the time usually remains just hours to them. The recorded flights are remembered as a cross-country, as an instrument flight, or as the hour spent learning recovery from unusual attitudes. But as time aloft accumulates, it can also be viewed using other measurements. By the time a student pilot has qualified for his or her private license, he or she has gained a bit of experience and is ready to begin learning to fly the airplane on instruments. He or she has probably spent about a week apart from the surface of the earth. That would be a total of seven 24-hour days spent hanging suspended above the earth or 168 hours total. Later, at the 500-hour milestone, our pilot has been missing from the earth for over two and a half weeks, and on the day he or she logs his or her one thousandth hour, he will have spent a total of more than 41 24-hour days some place other than on the planet where he was born.
Those of us who have flown most of our lives as a profession, rack up a prodigious amount of hours in the air, and the high timers among us have lived aloft literally for years.
Contrails: First Flight
By Steve Weaver
First Flight
Once when I was little and played on the hill,
One wondrous evening, I dream of it still–
Mom called me to dinner, impatient, I knew–
So I lifted my arms up and flapped them and flew.
I lifted my arms up and flapped them, and lo!
I was flying as fast as my short legs could go.
The hill swirled beneath me, all foggy and green;
I lit by the yard fence, and no one had seen.
I told them at dinner, I said, “I can fly.”
They laughed, not believing. I started to cry
And ran from the table, and sobbed, “It is true–
You need not believe me; I flapped and I flew.”
I told them next morning, I told them again–
For years I kept telling; they laughed and I ran–
No one would believe me; I ceased then to tell;
But still I remember, remember it well–
One soft summer evening up there on the knoll,
Before life had harried the reach of my soul,
I stood there in twilight, in childlight, and dew–
And I lifted my arms up and flapped them and flew!
This was written by Southern author and poet Louise McNeil, West Virginia’s Poet Laureate for many years. It was written late in her life and while she was never a pilot or even so far as I know a passenger in a small airplane, she speaks eloquently of the yearning that lives in the breast of all humans, to defy gravity and soar above the earth.
College Time Flights and Buzzes
By Charlie Briggs
To the glee of me and the distress of my fraternity members at Sigma Nu, Kansas state chapter, plus the use of my father’s Luscombe, this really happened. Dad leased “long stem grass” pastures in the Manhattan, Kans. Area, and was there on business, and to see me. Seizing on the opportunity to “get in a little air time,” he agreed to let me take a sightseeing flight of the area.
The year was 1949! I had a fresh new private pilots license and the experience of less than 100 hours of solo time. It is reported that 100 hours is the most dangerous time of a pilot’s career.
Looking back, I believe it. There is little that scares you and much to entice you to “slip the surly bonds” of common sense and do darned fool things. This was one of those things.
Jay Quetnick: Ninety-Two-Year-Old Pilot Renews Medical Certificate To Begin His 75th Year In The Left Seat
By Herb Foreman
Jay Quetnick at the Sky Kitchen Cafe in San Carlos, Calif. (Courtesy of Herb Foreman)I wrote my first article regarding Jay’s career in the air in 1993. He was a sprightly pilot at 70 years of age with 54 years in his logbooks. His first solo was in the wonderful J-3 Cub at the Palo Alto (Calif.) Airport in 1939. Jay was a student at Stanford University and had taken advantage of the Civilian Pilot Training Program and the ROTC. Upon his graduation in 1941, he became a commissioned officer in the U.S. Army, as well. The renewal of his medical will celebrate the beginning of his 75th year in the left seat. Amazing!
Contrails: Busting Sod
By Steve Weaver
Lewis Field in 1969 (Steve Weaver)From my present perch of experience and years I sometimes think about the early days of my flying career and I have to say I often give myself goose bumps with the recollecting. Casting my thoughts back and reliving some of the dumb things I routinely did with airplanes in those halcyon days, I wonder how I could have gotten away with it. I shouldn’t have, you know.
One of the things that give me shivers is recalling the airports that we were flying from during this period. I wonder what in the world I was thinking when I flew the airplanes that I did from the short grass strip that was our runway at Lewis field where we ran the flying school. The strip was 1,600-feet long, with the ends stoutly defined by fence posts and barbed wire, so there were never negotiations available about the boundaries when summer pushed the density altitude up.
Contrails: Escape From Plenty
By Steve Weaver
Autumn in West Virginia. (Steve Weaver)Autumn has worked its way down the slopes of the Appalachians and colored the leaves in the foothills of West Virginia, the place where I was born and where I now spend the six warm months each year. Looking down the bank outside my window into the slow drifting waters of the Buckhannon River I can see flotillas of gaily colored leaves making their way downstream to the place they will come to rest and slowly turn to soil.
It’s said that autumn is a time to reflect and I think that must be so, because I find I do most of my deep (deep being a relative word here) thinking about life in general, and my life in particular, during this time of year.
A few days ago in such a state, I started pondering how the business of selling airplanes has changed in the last dozen years or so and about how completely my life has changed during the same period.
Contrails
Living Without Wheels
By Steve Weaver
Instructor Russ Weaver (no relation, Billie Sue Nester, student, Steve Weaver and friend David Austin. (Courtesy of Steve Weaver)Stopped at a traffic light this week, I noticed the car in front of me sported a license plate holder that proclaimed that the owner’s other car was an airplane. I thought back to a time when I could have used a license holder that said “My other airplane is an airplane,” but then I wouldn’t have had a car to attach it to.
There have probably been other aviation zealots, who have owned two airplanes without owning a car, but I’ve never met another one and it was a strange set of circumstances that caused me to be in such a position.
Using Your Noodle
When was the last time you practiced a simulated approach to a forced landing? If it’s been a while, you might be a little shy to try one when it’s the only safe way out.
Editorial: Good Old Days
By Ed Downs
A recent conversation with friend and fellow writer, Steve Weaver, sparked some memories and brought to mind a safety issue that has heads spinning in the magical world of FAA training gurus. As “old” pilots often do, we reminisced about the days when basic skills and common sense were considered “high technology.” Today’s version of “high technology” has progressed in the manner one might expect when having crossed into a new millennium, but some are concerned about that progression.
This writer turned back the mental clock and joined Steve in remembering how simple, and potentially frightening, the “good old days” really were. My “good old days” began in the mid 1950s. The flight school I flew with sold a “student pilot course” which included 12 hours of dual instruction in a Champ, and a 20-hour ground school. The cost was $175, including materials. The idea was that you were “issued” your student pilot certificate (solo and cross country endorsement) at the conclusion of the 12-hour program. After this, you were welcome to rent their Champs and go flying. Whether or not you decided to get a private certificate so you could carry passengers was optional. There were no multiple endorsements, no 90-day “solo sign offs,” or multitude of authorizations. The Champ had only a wind-driven generator that spun fast enough to recharge a battery if flying at about 10 mph above cruising speed, meaning the battery was constantly going dead! The low frequency radio could transmit on only one frequency and you tuned the receiver like a Motorola console radio out of the 1930s. There was no starter or workable nav system. With 12 gallons of fuel, all-important in-flight decisions had to be made in about two and half hours, or the “in flight” part of the trip came to an abrupt end. Drawing lines on big, 25 cent, sectional charts was the order of the day, with a whiskey compass and E-6B your only navigation tools. Knowing where you were and having alternatives in mind were essential, as even a mild wind could greatly affect your flight.
Contrails
Flying With the Newly Dead
By Steve Weaver
I don’t know, but when I look back at the almost 50 years I’ve spent in aviation, it seems to me that my career didn’t unfold as it really should have. Rather than the orderly, planned and supervised tempering of my peers, my progression into and through the various aviation endeavors always seemed to happen in spasmodic bursts that often left me with Alice in Wonderland-like bewilderment. Looking around at my next role, as a flight instructor, or a survey pilot or whatever new phase I found myself in, I found myself totally clueless about how to properly proceed.
For one thing, I had no real mentors, other than the odd instructors that popped up at vital times, and then were gone. I was a restless student pilot with my own airplane, and by keeping it at small, out of the way strips I managed to stay under the radar for about 300 hours of dangerous wandering before settling down enough to get my private license. Adding the commercial license seemed like a natural thing to do since my logbook was fat with hours, and when the examiner told me I flew well enough to pass the flight instructor’s exam I decided to get that rating too.
Falling in love with a Cassutt
Steve Weaver in the early 70s with his speedy Cassutt. (Courtesy of Steve Weaver)By Steve Weaver
In the summer of 1974 I was operating a Flying Service in the northern part of West Virginia. My days were full to overflowing as I jumped between management duties and flying, managing the bustling FBO when I could and flying when I was needed to fill-in for the other pilots.
The charter business was booming at that time and many of my days (and nights) were spent flying businessmen and freight all over the Eastern part of the US in the Navajo, the Seneca and the Aztecs that we operated for hire. During one such trip to a small airport in the Eastern section of Pennsylvania, an ad on the office bulletin board caught my eye.
“For Sale, 1937 J-2 Cub”, the sign said. I owned a 1939 J-3 at the time, but I’d always been curious about the earlier Cubs that used the 40 horse power Continental engines. I inquired about it from the lady running the little airport, and she stated that it had been her deceased husband’s airplane and she wanted to sell it to make room in the hangar.
The 104th Aircraft Recovery Squadron
By Steve Weaver
I was driving the other day and I spotted a small airplane, mounted on a trailer and being towed down the interstate. I was wondering what sad occasion had brought it to such a low state and I fell to thinking about my old friend Willie Mason and the “104th Aircraft Recovery Squadron.”
Willie came into my life in the late 60s as a flying student, while I was teaching flying and running a small country airport. Something between us clicked and in the process of teaching him about flying we became great friends. Through the next few years he taught me about the art of the small adventure.