Learning Experiences

Unfamiliar airport provides solo excitement

As a year-long student pilot I could hardly wait to set out on my third cross-country solo flight on that beautiful late summer day in 1990. Back then, I was a self-supporting college student, and flying was not something I could really afford. But it was something I desperately wanted to do. So, although my financial resources were already stretched, I learned to develop an appreciation for ramen noodles so that I could take one flight lesson every week.

The reward provided by being in an airplane once a week made the financial strain bearable. I remember how I would wait for my weekend flight lesson with great anticipation. I remember the happiness I experienced while driving to the airport; the awe and pleasure of being in the airplane and flying above it all; and, yes, even the drive home when I would go over everything I had learned--and incidentally note how flying had made me a much better and safer driver.

As a goal-oriented individual by nature, however, I was getting very frustrated by the fact that I did not yet have a private pilot certificate. Moreover, I had come to resent the fact that the infrequency of my lessons was affecting my skill development. Although I had just more than 50 hours of flight time, which under most circumstances would seem like enough to get the certificate, the fact that those hours were accumulated over a year-long period meant that I needed additional hours just to maintain proficiency. I was chomping at the bit, and this third solo cross-country would complete all of my prerequisites for the practical test.

So, when I awoke that morning and got a standard weather briefing indicating that the wind was calm and the sky was blue, I was thrilled. I picked a destination and threw together a flight plan. I jumped in the car and drove to the airport.

It was a glorious New England summer day, with temperatures in the low 80s. Given the fact that the weather was so beautiful, the FBO was desolate. Everyone had gone flying, including my usual instructor, from whom I had been hoping to get a sign-off for my cross-country. Undaunted by the paucity of instructors, I picked up the keys, walked out to the ramp, and began the preflight.

My steed was a Beechcraft Sundowner, in which I had 35 hours. I thoroughly enjoyed the preflight. All I needed was that signoff. Then it happened, a lucky break. An airplane taxied in, and an instructor with whom I had a passing familiarity got out. With my flight plan in hand, I practically ran up to him, blurted out a synopsis of my situation, and asked him for the signoff. He briefly glanced at the plan and signed my logbook. I was going flying.

I started up, taxied out, and got a clearance from the tower. At this stage, I was an expert. I lined up on the runway, stood on the brakes, and applied full throttle. Flying was a piece of cake. I lifted my toes from the brakes, applied right rudder, and the 7,000-foot asphalt runway of my home airport fell beneath me. I climbed to 6,500 feet, trimmed the airplane, leaned the mixture, and sat back and enjoyed the ride in the company of my E6B, chart, and timer. All of my checkpoints arrived on time, and the few cumulus clouds below gave me a deep desire to complete an instrument rating when the private checkride was behind me. To fly above the clouds is truly an act of airmanship, I told myself.

Then, at the predetermined point I opened up the checklist, performed the necessary tasks, and initiated a descent. For my destination airport, I had chosen a nontowered field with one runway, 9/27. I had never been to this airport, and I chose it simply because it was sufficiently far away from my home airport to meet the FAA's solo cross-country requirements. I announced my position on the common traffic advisory frequency and maintained an altitude of 1,000 feet above pattern elevation so that I could overfly and take a look at the runway alignment and windsock in order to set myself up for the approach to the appropriate runway.

There were no airplanes in the pattern, and none on the runway. The windsock was limp, and I chose Runway 27 for landing. I turned out, initiated a descent, and entered the pattern at a 45-degree angle. Just one thing bothered me: The runway seemed much shorter and narrower than the runways to which I had become accustomed throughout my flight training. Indeed, I now know that the runway was just slightly longer than 2,000 feet, and it was 60 feet wide. Compare that to the 7,000-foot-by-150-foot runway at my home airport! I felt that landing was going to be a problem.

Despite recognizing that I was in trouble, I continued the approach, turned base and then final, and slowed to the optimal approach speed. I knew I did not have too much runway to play with. Then, I guess I was on short final when I noticed that there were tall trees on both the approach and departure ends of the runway. I realized that with my skill level and lack of short field experience, continuing the approach would have been practically suicidal. But I did not even think about aborting the landing and executing a go-around. Instead, I stupidly let my desire to complete the prerequisites for my certificate blind me to the risk associated with landing at an airport that pushed my neophyte skills to their limit.

I idled the engine, put in the last notch of flaps, and came right in only feet above the trees. Once the trees were cleared, I lowered the nose and slammed the aircraft onto the surface as quickly as I could manage.

When the aircraft was on the ground, I jammed on the brakes and raised the flaps--and prayed as the trees at the departure end seemed to hurtle toward me. As the wheels skidded their way through the gravel surface, I was convinced that in seconds I would be a dead man. Finally, thankfully, the airplane came to a stop. Sweating profusely, breathing rapidly, and cursing myself for my own stupidity, I sat there for a few seconds before I could regain enough control to taxi the aircraft from the runway. I was so close to the end that I barely had enough room to turn the airplane.

I learned many things from that flight. Obviously, in concrete terms, I needed to practice short-field landings. But, I learned to actively read the Airport/Facility Directory before flying to a particular destination. By "actively read" I mean that I pay significant attention to it and compare what I see in it to my abilities. Simply looking at the A/FD does not suffice. Further, when I am on final approach I always expect to execute a go-around. There is never any reason to attempt to land an aircraft when the safe outcome of the landing is in doubt. Under such circumstances, a go-around is mandatory.

"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.