Solo cross-country comes up six minutes short
Weather briefing completed and flight plan reviewed with Scott, I set off on a calm and reasonably clear morning for Barnes. The first and second checkpoints arrived right on schedule, but as I approached Torrington, Connecticut, the third checkpoint--Mountain Meadow Airport--was nowhere in sight (see "Insights: The Trap," October 2005 AOPA Flight Training). Now, if the set of towers I was looking at were indeed what I'd identified on the sectional, I wasn't too far off and with a quick 360 I should be able to spot my checkpoint. No such luck.
OK, maybe it was right under my nose and I just missed it; the Hartford skyline was in the right place, so I decided to continue on course and look for my next checkpoint. Barkhamsted Reservoir soon came into view but, my confidence shaken, I was unsure that I was going to cross it in the right place. And, since I was right on the edge of the Class C airspace surrounding Bradley International Airport in Windsor Locks, Connecticut, I was now getting worried about violating their airspace. Time to communicate.
"Bradley Approach, Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two." Lots of traffic on the Bradley Approach frequency but not in response to me. "Bradley Approach, Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two." Still no response. "Bradley Approach, Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, student pilot, looking for a little help."
That did it! "Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, go ahead."
"Bradley Approach, Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two on a solo cross-country to Barnes. I've missed a checkpoint and am concerned about violating your airspace."
"Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, squawk three-two-one-four and ident." It wasn't long before I heard, "Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, your position looks good, suggest a 060 heading and contact Barnes on 118.9." I banked the few degrees I needed to pick up my 060 heading and there was Barnes, right where they said it would be. I switched to the tower frequency. (It's bothered me ever since that in my relief and haste to get back on track I never thanked Bradley Approach for bailing me out, so if any Bradley folks are reading this, a belated but heartfelt thanks!)
As directed, I reported right downwind to Runway 20 and learned that something bigger and faster was right behind me; could I make a short approach? This is the time that the sensible student pilot who can count the short approaches he's made at his home airport on the fingers of one hand says, "Student pilot, would prefer to fly the full pattern." I said, "Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, short approach." I was lined up on Runway 20 at about the same time as the wheels touched the runway, but I greased the landing and taxied to a quiet spot with a good view to get ready for the trip to Stewart.
Departing Barnes, I contacted Bradley Approach for VFR traffic advisories, tuned in the Pawling VOR that was right on my route, and was on my way to Stewart. Haze was starting to limit visibility to five or six miles, and while it wasn't what I'd have liked it was manageable. Not long into the flight Bradley Approach handed me off to New York Approach, so I tuned in the new frequency and announced my presence. No response.
I tried again. No response. Again. Nothing. I tuned Bradley again to let them know nobody was home in New York. No response from Bradley! Figuring they'd respond eventually, I tuned New York's frequency once again, double-checked my track to the Pawling VOR, and continued on, announcing my presence every few minutes. Finally, after what seemed like hours, New York responded and told me to report when Stewart was in sight.
As I flew on, visibility remained at the edges of my comfort level, so I experienced some delight as the VOR indicator flipped from to to from and the Harlem Valley Psychiatric Center, a checkpoint in the town where I had taught years ago, appeared off the wing. Dutchess County Airport appeared shortly thereafter; my track was right, but as I approached the Hudson River, Stewart still was not in sight. My call to New York Approach to inform them of this got a kindly suggestion that I call again when I could see Stewart. Finally, as I reached the western bank of the Hudson, Stewart appeared, New York Approach handed me off to the tower, and the tower directed to me enter a right base for Runway 27. All was well until I turned final.
Just about to touch down on the runway before me was a DC-9. Wake turbulence! Now, the reality is that on Stewart's 11,800-foot runway I could not only have flown above the DC-9's glide path and landed beyond its touchdown point, I could have landed beyond the point at which it had taxied off the runway, come to a complete stop, and taken off again. But my inexperience was running the show today. "Stewart Tower, Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, student pilot, should I be concerned about wake turbulence landing behind that jet?" "Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, if you'd like to do a 360 and them come in, that's OK." I did the 360.
I landed uneventfully and taxied to an FBO's parking area to check things out for the flight back to Danbury. All in order, I started the engine and reached to key the microphone. Another DC-9 was taxiing toward the hold-short line at Runway 27. Well, it couldn't hurt to top off the tanks before the last leg of the flight. I cut the engine, signaled to the attendant for fuel, and watched the DC-9 take off.
Fully fueled, my flight plan extended to compensate for all my stalling, I started the engine, got a clearance to taxi, and headed for Runway 27. As I did so, from the Air National Guard hangar area just ahead rolled an enormous C-5 Galaxy on its way to 27. I'm not sure exactly what I said as I called the tower but I think it went something like, "Do I have to take off after that?" Without benefit of the radio I'm sure I could hear laughter from both the C-5's cockpit and the tower but through my headphones came only, "Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, are you ready to go?"
"Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two affirmative," I replied.
"Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, turn left on A-5 in front of the C-5 and clear for takeoff."
I turned in front of the C-5--an experience something akin to slipping a canoe under the bow of the Queen Mary II--lined up on the centerline, applied full power, and began my climb to 500 feet below pattern altitude where I would make my turn back to the east. The radio came to life with, "Cessna Six-Seven-Three-Two-Two, make your turn. Faster traffic behind." I turned!
I crossed the Hudson and headed back to Danbury Municipal Airport on a route that was familiar. I glanced back to check for that C-5 and continued on. Landing at Danbury, I closed my flight plan and added 2.8 hours to my logbook. (For more insights on planning a solo cross-country, see "It's What You Know," p. 50.)
Months earlier another flight instructor had told me, "When you fly your cross-countries, take your time. You've got to get a total of five hours, so build it up, don't rush things when you don't have to." Of course, when I looked at the time for my first solo cross-country, the number was 2.1! I would now have to fly another entire cross-country to pick up six minutes. That was OK, though. Flying, after all, is the objective.
"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.
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