Back in the Saddle

When one falls off a horse, the saying goes that you should get right back on. So I rented a plane and hired my CFI, Russ to go up with me, as I wasn’t sure how I would react, post-aborted landing and the death of Isabo. The flight went well. I was back home in the air where I belonged.

For about a month I was very busy filling out paperwork and talking to NTSB , FAA and insurance company. I was mourning the loss of a loved one, and packing up her flight logs to send to the insurance company was saying goodbye all over again. My sleep was riddled with dreams replaying the last flight of me and Isabo.

Eventually it was time to shop for a new plane. I knew what I wanted, but the search still took a lot of time and in this I had a very special friend – Steve Thompson. Steve and I had been friends for several years, and it came as no surprise when he offered to fly me to wherever I might need to go to look at prospective planes. Note. The general rule of thumb is to fly no further than a single tank of fuel to buy a new plane – so I kept my search to WA, OR, CA, ID, and northern UT.

After all the trips and phone calls and email exchanges, I found my new plane – just a 10 minute flight away – at the Olympia (OLM) airport. The minute I saw the plane, I knew he was the one. Negotiations over price and a pre-purchase inspection later, on September 17th 2008 at 10:00 in the morning I agreed to purchase a Cessna 182, to take delivery on Friday the 19th.

Allow me to introduce you, my readers, to Path my beautiful boy.


We've been flying together for over a year now, and I have learned his idiosyncrasies, how he sounds, what he likes. We are becoming one with each other and the air. We've been on one big adventure and I have many more planned.

The Story that Must be Told

I am a murderer. I killed Isabo. My precious Cessna 172 that carried me from student to pilot, on adventures through and into 15 states. Now, well over a year later, the proud owner of a new plane, I still mourn my Isabo.

The story is a common one. Pilot error and overconfidence. My daughter Candace and I had been camping at Grand Coulee Dam (3W7) and our planned trip home included a stop at Lake Wenatchee State (27W). We landed at 11:00, ate lunch, took a few photos and prepared for departure. The runway is dirt, gravel and some grass, 2,573 feet. Elevation 1936. All well within the capabilities of my plane.

But it was at this point that the chain of events started gaining links. One. Its now Noon. Two. temp is upper 80’s. Three. Candace is nervous about non-paved field (this is actually an early link that was forged on arrival as I didn’t stop to think that she had never been with me when landing at a non-paved field so landing and taxi to parking was upsetting to her, thus causing me spend too much time assuring her.) Four. I did not walk the field to pick a take-off direction, just noted a limp sock. Five. I did not practice sterile cockpit so babbled constantly during taxi and take-off roll explaining and reassuring my daughter, when my attention should have been solely on piloting. Six. On takeoff roll our speed was not what I would have liked on the rough ground and I could have aborted then, but kept thinking Isabo would gain speed. Seven. I pulled her up into ground effect at 55 knots and we began to climb – a good two thirds of the runway behind us.

Just before we reached field end I realized our climb out was not going to result in enough height to make it over the trees which now loomed like tall mountains ahead. “Shit. We’re not going to make it.” I made the decision to abort the takeoff, pulled power and literally threw the plane onto the ground which resulted in a lot of loud sound and ended with our hanging upside down from our seatbelts.

We were safely on the ground, completely uninjured. Isabo would never fly again.
Date of her purchase: Sunday July 20th, 2003 at Noon. Time of death: Sunday July 20th, 2008 12:30 pm Exactly five years and just minutes apart.

Those of you who have been in any kind of crash know what is like – the feeling of unreality, the what I should have done differently tape replaying. I still second guess myself, and I believe that is good.

New flying policies are in place. One. No conversation with pilot during pre-flight inspection or run up. Two. Sterile cockpit (no talking at all) during take-off’s and landings. To make sure no backsliding happens I look at photos and have included this story in my Blog as a reminder to myself and maybe to others, that Overconfidence is BAD.

Grey Eagles

Some of you may be familiar with the Experimental Aircraft Association (EAA) and their Young Eagle program. This program is where pilots volunteer their time, skill and aircraft to introduce young people (ages 8-17) to the wonder of flight. I embraced this program and have now flown over 100 missions. That doesn’t include those I’ve taken up who didn’t meet EAA standards for YE flights. As much fun as it is to share aviation with the young, I discovered quite by accident that older folks are as much, or even more fun.

My first senior citizen passengers were two dear ladies (both over 80) who joined me at Hoquiam field. I happened to be there to promote an event at Chehalis airport planned to honor Rosie the Riveters. I announced that any Rosie who wished to fly; I’d be honored to take. These two stood up as if bravely volunteering for combat. “That would be us. We will go.”

As I do with all first-timers, I explained about planes and what to expect and watched amazed as these two climbed into my 172 as if doing so all their lives. (For those who don’t know, climbing into a plane takes a bit of coordination, and physical ability) As we lifted off they bombarded me with excited questions. “Why are we going toward the ocean when we want to fly over town? Is it safe to fly over water? Oh, my. How high are we?” What a treat is was to comfort and educate these ladies who were ecstatic over every bit of knowledge and changing view. That was 2005.

Last Fall I started my Grey Eagle program with Grant, who at 91 also qualified as my oldest passenger.
As you can see by that smile, Grant enjoyed the flight.

Grey Eagles. I’d like to say that the name is mine, but I borrowed it (with permission) from the man who makes sure my plane remains in the air, Wally.
It is my intention to fulfill the wishes or dreams of people over 70 who have never flown, or did long ago and want to relive those good memories. It is my plan to approach retirement and senior centers, starting this Spring, to present my program. We’ll see how it is received.

In case you’re wondering, why – it’s because I truly do believe that my purpose is to share my passion for flight with as many people as possible. Every time I fly someone’s grandmother or grandfather it’s an honorarium to mine who added so much to my life.

Fly-In

Two little hyphenated words that move me to action. On this, I’m not alone. Pilots love to go to fly-ins. I visit websites to learn about new events, receive email alerts, and plan well in advance those I wish to attend. My first one was in 2003 just after starting flying lessons. I drove in since I had yet to solo and anyway it was held at my home airport, Chehalis (CLS). I practically jumped up and down in excitement at planes coming and going, and parked in rows for visitor admiration. I was proud to be a pilot in training and nervously approached a few pilots, eager to be a member of what appeared to be a very exclusive club. The pilots were welcoming and seemed as eager to share their experiences and aircraft as I was to learn. I immediately felt at home and vowed that someday I would fly to a fly-in and share my aviation excitement and knowledge with visitors walking along the line of planes.

It was May of 2005 when I fulfilled that goal. With a friend, one of those pilots created by Russ, I flew into Concrete (3W5) to attend my first fly-in as a pilot in my own plane. It just couldn’t get any better than that. But it did. The runway was lined with people watching (and grading) the landings and mine was one to be proud of – not always possible under pressure. For several hours I wandered among the other planes, visiting with pilots, taking photos and soaking up aviation at its best. Concrete is a beautifully maintained airport with swaths of mowed grass, landscaped hangars full of collector quality aircraft and cars, and a top-notch pilots lounge. A local group called the Black Jacks awed with their formation flying overhead. I sat under Isabo’s wing, talking to passers-by and there it was, another goal met, another memory to savor.

Since then I’ve been to many fly-ins, some good, others less so, but all an opportunity to meet new friends, learn and share all things aviation. Many events include military aircraft on the ground and demonstration flights. Others offer airshows, beautiful cars, or remote control planes.


The pilots of these remote control aircraft provide impressive shows of their skills and aircraft.

Even a poor hamburger tastes like heaven when eaten while watching a Coast Guard helicopter rescue demo.
This is the State Patrol's Cessna 206 equipped with special aerial camera equipment.

Here I am with a Cessna 195 at Concrete this year. Someday, when I win the lottery, I'll own one of these beautiful birds.

Love Affair with Mountains

Mt. Saint Helens

It was while on The Great Adventure that I stopped fearing mountains. Crossing the Cascades and several sections of the Rockies twice, provided some familiarity.

Mt. Adams

But it was when I attended the Mountain Flying Clinic held out of the Wenatchee (EAT) airport that my obsession with peaks began. M and I flew our Cessna’s over for the 2005 weekend clinic. Me in my172, M in her 206. We were the only women at the event and enjoyed the rare pleasure of watching men line up for a bathroom while we walked right on in. Sweet!
I went up with Al, a CFI and mountain search and rescue pilot. He had a lot to teach me and I paid attention and soaked it up.
“First we are going to get a practical introduction to density altitude”, he announced. “Take off, but you can only use 1800 rpm’s. This will simulate a hot day at high altitude.” It did. Poor Isabo waddled down the runway eating up three-quarters of it before finally finding the air. Lesson clear.
We flew south following the Columbia river, which lies low among rising terrain on both sides. Pointing to the hill/mountain ahead and towering above, Al said, “Can you make it over that hill?” I assured him I could not. He instructed me to turn into a cleft in the hill saying “Well, then. Let’s see.” As we started up, Al instructed on several important facets of flying into rising terrain, ravines and blind canyons.

“Fly close to one side”, he urged. “No, get way over, close.” Feeling like the wing was already about to scrape rock I hesitated, so taking the controls he demonstrated getting in next to terrain. Whoa. That close. It turned out that a 172 didn’t have the power to make it over directly, but there were solutions. Al instructed on flying with 10 degrees of flaps, thus keeping it slow so turns in tight spaces could be made while avoiding getting too steep and stalling the wing. I learned how to seek the uplift from rising air above sun drenched rocks, how to approach a ridge, how to avoid downdrafts and how to avoid flying into mountains my plane could not surmount or canyons too narrow to turn around in. The challenge was exhilarating, resulting in my earning a lot of respect for mountains, while increasing my comfort with flying among them.

Sawtooth range, Redfish Lake, Idaho

Later in the year, I flew over to McCall Idaho for their fly-in and mountain flying clinics. Here I learned about landing on high mountain strips.

Mountains became and still are, my friends. When I’ve had a bad day, I go and play with my friends, soaring along their sides, skimming their trees, exploring their hidden places. And always, taking pictures of their beauty so during times when I cannot fly, I can relive the peace they bring.

The Great Adventure - Part 3 - Homeward

With our final member, Clay, arriving on Sunday we readied for a dawn departure.
Monday the 14th. First leg a short hop to Michigan City (MGC) in Indiana. M took off, made a good-bye pass over the field and I lifted Isabo off behind her. We coordinated as best we could, discovering that the hand held radio in the Hawker provided less than ideal communications between planes. We lost touch prior to reach MGC but heard M entering the pattern. As I entered downwind, I noted the Hawker on the runway and then that it was in an unusual attitude. “Clay, the plane is on the ground nose down! She’s crashed!” I blurted.

With Clay beside himself with worry, I immediately called the emergency frequency declaring a plane down on the runway and then carefully made one of my best short field landings ever, coming to a stop a few yards from the downed plane. By this time M was out, and we saw with relief that she was unharmed. Unfortunately the same could not be said for the Hawker Fury – she was done flying for the foreseeable future. Her right main landing gear had failed just after touchdown, collapsing so the nose and prop dove into the runway.

Al, our Watervliet host, arrived with friends to help. They drug the Hawker to parking, removed her wings and loaded her into a big rental truck. Clay made the decision to drive home while M and I flew Isabo. This was a sad chapter in the trip, basically bringing it to an end, at least as planned.

The Great Adventure -Part 2 - Days at Watervliet

Our host, Al, at Watervliet, is well known around the flying community, eager to help and inspires action in others. He provided an SUV for our use and helped us settle in at the Paw Paw Motel in Coloma Michigan, just a few miles from the field.

The rest of the week M worked with a local aircraft mechanic getting the Hawker ready for her flight west. The plane had been in storage for several years so systems needed to be checked, minor repairs made. Rain arrived on Wednesday, continuing through Thursday and Friday, often at torrential levels. M test flew the Hawker during patches of clearing with rooster tails streaming behind as she taxied for takeoff.

Friday afternoon I went to check on Isabo and found her up to her wheel pants in swamped grass and her cargo area had visible standing water! I panicked – here was my precious girl full of water – her rugs soaked. The guys hustled around and found hangar space. I spent hours sopping up water and trying to suck rugs dry with a shop vac. Unbolted the rear seat to get the carpet out and was thrilled that rear and front were separate sections. The front was dry. No moisture into the avionics. It took the next two days, and a Laundromat dryer before the rugs were dry.

I was not aware of this, and I don’t believe M was either, but the Hawker Fury getting back in the air was a big event locally. People came from all over the area, including one man and his son who drove clear from Chicago hoping to watch her fly. There was a nearly constant stream of visitors. They would hang around talking with each other, offering advice and celebrating when the Hawker took to the air. It was all so very festive, that pouring rain didn’t dampen spirits.