Waypoints

AOPA Pilot Editor in Chief Thomas B. Haines has been flying GA since he was a teenager.

One of the magnificent things about general aviation flight is that no two flights are ever quite the same. No matter how many times you fly a particular route, you can always learn something new or see the world from a different perspective. Cloud conditions, time of day, season, the condition of the air, the type of aircraft, or a different flying companion combine in countless ways to make each flight a rich and unique experience — well worth the trouble to note a few extra details in the "comments" column of the logbook.

I've flown into Wichita many times to visit various manufacturers or just stop en route home to the East Coast from the West Coast. Two trips stand out because of the weather phenomena experienced.

Kansas is no stranger to wind. In fact, the entire Midwest seems to endure a near constant blast of wind that those of us from the coasts find, well, noticeable. The locals seem unbothered by the gales. There's an uncharted line somewhere around the Indiana-Illinois border where you know you've entered the Midwest because the airports don't use ropes for tiedowns. They use chains — big ones, just a few gauge short of log chains. The first time I landed at New Century Aircenter in Olathe, Kansas (the airport had a different name back in those days), I thought it odd that chains lay at each tiedown spot. I understood later that night when the sustained winds climbed to 22 knots. I was glad the airplane was chained down.

Last spring in Wichita I landed in the strongest winds I've ever encountered. Flying to Wichita I'd been clawing my way into unceasing headwinds of 40 knots or so. When I was finally in range of the ATIS at Wichita Mid-Continent I learned the surface winds were 27 knots gusting to 35. Toto, don the log chain!

Fortunately the wind was right down Runway 19L. Lined up on final and using normal approach power, the airplane seemed to stop. The GPS showed a ground speed of about 60 knots. I cranked in some more power to keep the controller from growling about me hanging around too long in his busy airspace. When I touched down, the airplane rolled to a stop almost instantly. It took significant power to taxi down the runway to the turnoff. The line attendant motioned me to a parking spot into the wind — good thing. Before even attempting to open the door, I made sure every chart and loose piece of paper was stowed. It took a good shove of the door just to get out of the cockpit.

The turmoil continued the next afternoon when I was ready for takeoff. Even with full power the airplane hesitated on the runway before lethargically trundling down the pavement. But almost as soon as we were moving the Bonanza leaped skyward and we were climbing seemingly straight up. I enjoyed a 40-knot tailwind en route to Wisconsin.

While windy, the ride that day was smooth. An earlier flight into Wichita earned a notation in my logbook for being among the most turbulent — at least briefly. I'd flown all day from Southern California. The goal had been to make it nonstop from the fuel stop in Page, Arizona, to Wichita. But with the headwind — (yes, a headwind while eastbound; sometimes I think I'm cursed) — I stopped in Liberal, Kansas, for fuel, about 170 nm short of Wichita. It was just getting dark as we took off from Liberal into the most spectacularly clear air you can imagine. We could almost see Wichita as soon as we climbed to altitude. We could also see a big isolated thunderstorm that had been banging around southeastern Kansas all afternoon. Flight service had reported that it was just east of Wichita. What a spectacular sight it was. From a hundred miles away, we could see it lighting up the night. En route calls to FSS and air traffic confirmed that the thunderstorm was east of Wichita and moving slowly southeast.

The storm was about 30 miles southeast of the city by the time we arrived, and we were landing on the west side of town. As the controller vectored us for a high, tight downwind for Runway 1L we looked down on the entire airport complex. It was a welcome sight that clear night. Suddenly, I felt a thud and immediately the airplane rolled hard right. As I countered with opposite aileron, the airplane snapped on its own hard left. For a second, I was convinced we were going to roll completely over, but just that fast we were upright in smooth air once again. As I was getting my wits back, ATC called in a frenzy. They had reports of wind shear and were switching everyone to Runway 19L. The harried controller vectored me across the center of the field for a left downwind to 19L and we landed without further incident, but the shear — apparently a disturbance from the pesky thunderstorm — certainly made its mark in my memory and logbook.

Temperature extremes also earn a star in the "comments" column. The greatest temperature spread I've flown %cross during one day was 94 degrees Fahrenheit. I took off from Frederick, Maryland, where it was minus 18 degrees and landed later that day in Vero Beach, Florida, at a balmy 76 degrees. The steed that day was our Good as New 172 sweepstakes airplane. The 1993 sweepstakes was the first of our fix-up projects. The 1974 Cessna 172 had undergone a year's worth of refurbishment. As manager of the project, my assignment was to fly the pretty gray, red, and white airplane to Florida where it was to be delivered to its winner, a dentist in Fort Pierce.

The forecast for that mid-January day called for extremely cold temperatures, as we had experienced for a couple of days. Here, just south of the Mason-Dixon line, we go many winters without ever seeing zero degrees Fahrenheit. Going below zero is something to really take notice of. The day before departure, I had the 172 put into a heated hangar. I arrived early in the morning to find the temperature outside at minus 18, the coldest I have ever seen in my 15 years of living in Maryland. I was dressed for an Arctic expedition, knowing that if the airplane went down somewhere, I wouldn't survive long without the proper gear. Fortunately, as is often the case during such cold spells, the air was clear and calm. It was a lovely day — for polar bears.

I carefully preflighted the airplane in the hangar. I then climbed aboard and had the line crew tow me outside. The little Lycoming started right up and I was away. Minutes later I was cruising serenely over the crystallized countryside, glad for the heavy boots and gloves. The anemic heater couldn't keep up with the frigid conditions. By North Carolina, though, I was shedding layers. By the fuel stop in Charleston, South Carolina, I was down to a light jacket and glad to get rid of the boots.

When I landed in Vero Beach a few hours later, the ATIS reported 76 muggy degrees. I traded my long underwear for Bermuda shorts.

That same Florida trip accounted for my smokiest flight ever. Before cleaning up the airplane for delivery, I used it to fly to a couple of assignments throughout the state. Photographer Mike Fizer met me in Vero Beach and we flew the 172 to Venice on Florida's west coast for a story on aerobatics. It was just getting dark as we left Vero Beach. As we crossed the state, I noticed how hazy it seemed and we smelled wood smoke in the cockpit. We soon saw brush fires below. It seemed as if someone had decorated all of central Florida with giant candles. I flipped on the landing light to see how dense the smoke was. It wasn't until we landed at Venice that I realized what I had done. Oily smoke residue coated all of the leading edges, wheel pants, and antennas.

The once-pristine airplane, that had needed only minor detailing before delivery to its winner, now needed a major cleaning. At least the clean up was in shirtsleeves in sunny Florida rather than the frozen Northeast.

Weather extremes — only one way that every GA flight is different from another.

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