The airplane to be delivered was a brand-new Cessna Turbo 210 Centurion. It had a full gyro panel and an autopilot but no other avionics. I had been a pilot for roughly 10 years and had a modest number of cross-country flights. However, all my experience using strictly pilotage and dead reckoning was limited to very short flights. The prospect of flying 600 nautical miles with no avionics whatsoever was a bit intimidating.
I planned the flight by the book. I got all the sectionals I needed and drew a straight line between the departure field and San Antonio. The magnetic heading turned out to be 192 degrees, and the distance was 590 nautical miles. I knew I could plan to fly at a steady 165 knots.
On the appointed Friday afternoon, I went to take delivery of the airplane. The process involved a complete inspection of the airplane to ensure that everything that was supposed to be installed was, in fact, in the aircraft. The delivery pilot also looked at the fit and finish to see if anything was amiss so that the factory could fix it before the airplane left. I also liked to take the airplane for a short test hop before launching on a long cross-country.
The airplane was beautiful. There is no way to describe the excitement of flying a brand-new airplane to its owner. Nearly anything can happen in a new airplane, and I had learned to plan for the best and expect the worst. This airplane seemed perfect.
Sunset in San Antonio was about 7:30 p.m. at that time of year. Since I wanted to be on the ground before dark, I needed to depart no later than 4 p.m. The weather forecast was for benign conditions along the entire route with light winds from the northwest. A 5-degree wind-correction angle would be the only change to the flight plan.
My wife arrived at the appointed hour, and having completed a thorough preflight inspection after the earlier test hop, I fired up the engine and taxied out to the runway. I felt almost lonely not having the safety net of at least one nav/com. After checking the mags and exercising the prop, the impact of what I was about to do hit me with full force. There was absolutely nothing on the center part of the panel but the autopilot control. Intellectually I knew I could do this, but having never actually flown a long cross-country without benefit of navigation radios, I had to admit to some hesitation.
Putting my misgivings aside, I boldly taxied onto the runway centerline. The takeoff and departure produced no surprises. After clearing the control zone, I turned to my computed heading of 197 degrees.
I had decided to use an 8,500-foot cruising altitude, since that gave me the best combination of true airspeed and winds aloft without going over my self-imposed limit of 10,000 feet. I wasn't used to flying much higher than 3,000 or 4,000 feet agl in the Cessna 172s that I typically flew. But the 300 horsepower under the cowling of the Turbo 210 would allow a climb rate of nearly 1,000 feet per minute, which made the higher altitudes more accessible in my mind.
My first concern after turning on heading and tending to the climb checklist was to determine where we were. Even though the sky was crystal clear with little haze, I had already lost sight of Wichita. Without any identifiable landmarks, it suddenly dawned on me that I hadn't the slightest idea where we were.
There wasn't any panic in this revelation since I knew I could always alter course to the west until I came across Interstate 35. Actually, if I wanted to, I could follow I-35 all the way to San Antonio. However, I wanted the experience of navigating along the most direct path by pilotage.
As we leveled off at 8,500 feet and I got the airplane trimmed up for cruise, I looked around at the landscape below and discovered a basic fundamental of navigation. It's more important to know where you are in a macro sense than in a micro sense. From this high perch, I could see I-35 snaking its way south. I could see the oil tanks at Ponca City off to the southeast, and further off to the southwest I could begin to make out the grain silos at Enid.
A quick check of the map showed me that our flight would pass about 10 miles west of Ponca City and 20 miles east of Enid on our way to Oklahoma City. Even though I didn't know our precise location on the ground, I knew from the landmarks around me that we were on the proper course.
About 40 minutes into the flight, we passed over the western edge of Lake Hefner, which is on the west side of Oklahoma City. I had been able to see the lake reflecting the late afternoon sunlight for the past 20 minutes. I had decided to hold my 197-degree heading to give me an indication of the actual winds aloft. The line on the sectional showed that we should have been passing over the eastern side of the lake, which meant that the winds were lighter than forecast. I recomputed my heading and adjusted my course by 3 degrees to a heading of 194 degrees.
The rest of the flight to San Antonio was beautiful. The comfort of knowing where I was made navigation by pilotage easy. My wife, who is not a pilot, joined in and essentially took over the navigation. With the help of our altitude, a little knowledge of the surrounding geography, and the sectionals we had with us, she did all the navigation from the Red River to San Antonio.
In the intervening years, I have come to enjoy navigation by pilotage, and I often use that method rather than flying the airways. Most of the airplanes I have flown had a full complement of avionics, but I didn't use them when the weather was good enough. Usually, I'd turn everything on to make sure it was working, but then I'd climb to altitude and navigate according to the landmarks on the ground.
It almost became a game with me. I'd do my normal preflight planning before takeoff, and then find my way just using the sectionals and my own two eyes. I became good enough with the geography of the western United States that I'd often put the sectionals down and navigate as the pioneers used to do, with reference to rivers, mountains, and anything else I could see. Want to go to Denver from Wichita? Fly west until you see the mountains and turn right. It's almost that simple.
Most of us have come to rely upon modern avionics for navigation, and, yes, GPS is wonderful. But these modern marvels do quit, electrical systems fail, or pilots accidentally transpose a number or identifier. By placing your reliance on these things rather than your own common sense, you place yourself and your passengers at risk. If, on the other hand, you can gain the perspective of navigation by pilotage, you can never be truly lost. It's your responsibility as pilot in command to expect the best but prepare for the worst.
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