by beaky » Wed Jun 18, 2008 8:28 pm
Flight 53, part 2
I am whole again, equal parts trepidation and confidence, as I take stock of the situation.
It seems I have not considered the wind properly, and what little there is has blown me off course. The CDI is "on the wall" to the left; I bank immediately to re-intercept, feeling foolish for having ignored the CDI, even as my dark companion mutters about scanning the sky properly instead of staring at the needle.
After a few more minutes of blundering about, I realize where we are: very close to the Mahwah Sheraton, which I've
often used as a reference point when flying to and from N07 for maneuvering practice. 4N1 lies further west- southwest, in fact.
I have to turn some more... glancing at my watch, I see that I'm a good 10 minutes behind schedule. Ugh.
I'm now monitoring the 4N1 CTAF, and I climb a bit to try to pick out the field's plateau from amongst the green hills,
and to allow proper clearance above TPA in case I happen to fly right over it.
Slowly, the terrain begins to look familiar... then I spot the runway. I hear at least 3 other pilots in the pattern, but I can't see them yet.
I need to get closer... but there is some controversy over which runway is in use, so I wait, circling back, remaining high.
Finally the lady on the Unicom mic in the shop says "Guys, there's no wind down here. Just use whatever one you like."
So one more continues his approach for 06; the others opt for 24.
As it turns out, I am in a fair position to approach for 24, entering the left downwind from the south. I could make right traffic for 06 easily,
but there's a Cherokee just entering the midfield point, headed for 24.
-But where is he? and what about that guy who just called "over the dam"? Which dam? where is he?
"Shut up and let me look," my confident side growls. Pleased to have found the airport after straying off-course, he is feeling his oats...
ready for anything.
Ah, there's the Piper, a toy airplane gliding smoothly northeast over the wooded hills.
I'm over a few small lakes nestled in the hills, which look like puddles amongst moss-covered stones. I check off the left wing again as I move farther southwest...
and the runway is gone from sight, behind the ridge.
"That other guy must be over Wanaque Reservoir...", I theorize.
-Stop staring at the chart!! no instructor to scan for you...
I decide to gradually turn around in a shallow bank, keeping a sharp eye out for him.
I glance down inside the turn, and I'm right over a runway. It's Edgewood, a private airport about 4 miles south of 4N1.
Whoops. It's easy to forget you're doing 90-plus knots sometimes, up there among drifting clouds...
"Well, at least I know how to enter the pattern from here," I remind my inner fussbudget. He's strangely quiet now, but I feel his presence.
I swing 23F more to the east; still no sign of the second arrival coming from the southeast. I press on, but he does not appear. I make a textbook entry to downwind, getting a hair too close but correcting immediately. The Cherokee is now one leg ahead, sliding down final for 24 as I turn base.
Good. I can keep an eye on him easily now.
-You're too low...
I realize this as I turn to final, rolling out within acceptable distance of the centerline. Definitely a bit low.
"Sure- sort of. But my airspeed is stable, and there's loads of power left... watch."
I goose the throttle a hair too much, and the Skyhawk balloons, putting me above my intended glideslope. Bad.
But I am not out of tricks, and I also know to just wait, to see how she'll sink.
She's sinking too rapidly now...but I have another notch of flaps left. With 30 degrees of flap now, I let 23F lift her nose a bit, then guide it back down carefully for what must be my final configuration if I am to avoid going around. Adjust power, some trim, and... there.
Headed for the numbers now... speed wavering between 65 and 70. Perfect. VSI: 400... I'm high but approaching steeply,
yet sinking slowly. Just as I cross the edge of the field, the VASI tells me I am now on track. Ease back to flatten out
a tiny bit; speed is still good; look at the far end... flare...
The landing is a bit bouncy- picked up some speed somehow- but straight and sure, just a hair off-center.
I hold the nosewheel up as long as I can, exiting on the first taxiway after the intersection with the defunct runway.
Almost finished...
"Greenwood Lake, Cessna Two Three Fox clearing Two Four, Greenwood Lake."
Checklist. Flaps, carb heat, transponder to SBY, landing light... let's roll it- the Hobbs tolls for thee!
There are quite a few itinerant planes here on the ramp, and I know many eyes are watching as I swing the Cessna
around to park. They were also watching me turn what should have been a sweet short-field approach into a real
student-style sleigh ride in the flare...oh well; can't undo what's done.
Satisfied that I'm parked reasonably well, I shut down and pause for a moment before stepping onto terra firma again.
I'm a little sweaty, but not shaky. My emotions defy description- in the last 45 minutes I seem to have run
the gamut. I feel wrung, out, having thus been cleansed... sort of like after a workout, but not quite so...
more like after sex. Yes, that's it...
It's obvious that I've spent too much money already today to buy that lapboard, but I do have enough for
a beverage. I walk self-consciously into the office, passing the grounded Constellation brooding in its resting
place near the main building, and help myself to a bottle of water from the fridge.
I feel a little detached physically, and despite having just flown myself here, I feel more out-of-place here at 4N1 than ever before.
There's a slim, pretty lady behind the counter. Near the cash register there is a table-top mic.
Ah, so this is Ms. Unicom. Or more likely Mrs. Unicom. Not sure. But as she takes my dollar for the water and gives me a sunny smile back, free of charge,
I decide she's Mrs. Unicom, probably got a couple of almost grown-up kids, and likes to go flying, snuggled against lucky Mr. Unicom, or perhaps she prefers to do the flying while he frets.
Whatever- she makes me feel welcome, so I have a seat outside and smoke a cigarette while re-hydrating.
Terrible that I've taken up that habit again, but that cigarette is very reassuring at this moment...
Once finished, I decide to mount the wooden steps into the Connie's cabin to do a little window-shopping in the
pilot shop cleverly hidden inside.
Again, I am struck by my conflicting emotions: I pause to consider one huge engine, long still, with its bulbous spinner and wicked blades, and I feel a tiny twinge of fear.
"That damn book..." I tell myself, "You're not scared of airplanes; no way. Just some crazy hangar tales...got you spooked..."
I start climbing again. This is a big airplane. Inside the belly of the beast, I look over the selection of
lapboards. I see one I want, but have to leave without it this time. Not enough money.
Sighing over my poverty, I head back to the Cessna. It's getting late- somebody might soon be waiting for it back at TEB.
The sock is fairly limp, but it's now facing north... so 06 it is.
After my runup, and having taxiied way down to the very end of the runway, I investigate the matter of the camera,
and decide it's not worth the trouble. No distractions now...
-Hah! I told you!!
My answer to that? An outstanding takeoff. No pictures to prove it, but it doesn't matter. I remember it.
My plan now is to turn south, grab a radial on the TEB VOR, and do some MCA and stalls on the way home.
But.
I've forgotten to put on my sunglasses. They're in the flight bag... as I rummage with eyes outside, I suddenly notice there are index cards flying everywhere- my flash cards- I forgot to secure them with the rubber band!
Now there are a dozen or so loose, some settling to the floor, some still whirling in the air currents from the vents as 23F bounces along.
"Hmmm... should I bother picking them up?"
-No! Heck no!! Concentrate on flying... but... oh no, what if C. is on the ramp when we arrive, and he sees you picking them up after we park...
"Good point. That would be embarassing. But I'm worried about them blowing around up here... I could get a paper cut on my eyeball, or something!"
-Ooookaayyy... now you sound like me, says my nervous twin, now not so nervous.Just pick them up, one at a time. Carefully.
"Yeah. Easy. She's trimmed, and the air is pretty smooth..."
-Yes. Do it. Quickly.
Eventually, I gather them all, and I stuff them in the bag, looking outside and at the panel as much as I can in the process.
I decide to forget about the sunglasses.
Now I'm off the radial again... I turn left to intercept, and there's another plane, climbing northbound. He saw me first, and is banking away.
-Good going, hotshot... and by the way, we seem to be lost again...
"No we're not; there's Lincoln Park."
I climb a bit and turn east, away from N07. Time enough, nopw, for some practice maneuvers.
First, MCA... soon I have 23F delicately poised in slow flight; full flaps, at about 60 knots.
Descending a bit... a little more power... good. Now a turn. Caught up in the pleasure of this work, I forget the
tiny mental notations required for precision, just working on the feel of yawing at this speed with
full control. There's a noticeable improvement in my MCA handling at this moment... very satisfying.
From the mushing cruise, I decide to go straight into a stall. Power back a little, pitch up- the ASI drops immediately to 40.
I recover early, not really stalled... no good.
OK; how about with power off? This time I get a decent break. Better.Good recovery, also.
For some reason, I decide not to try any departure stalls...instead, I yank 23F into a steep turn, looking first but not bothering to note my heading or even pick a reference point. After completing the 360, I realize I never did any clearing turns.
It seems that the more carefree Me, free from the tyrannical gaze of The Instructor, has taken over completely... and he no longer can hear the steady whine of the other Me.
But enough of this. The Hobbs, man... the damn Hobbs meter. Who was this Hobbs, and what
kind of man was he? Obviously not a renter...damn him.
Past an hour now- better get that radial again, and mosey home.
Next-Flight 52, part 3: A new way home to Teterboro
