Go forth and experience as much airspace as you can in a single day, I was told. I gave up on Class A airspace right away, given that the Cessna 182 I was using had no oxygen bottle. Class A begins at 18,000 feet. That left B, C, D, and E within easy flying distance.
Here’s how my day went, without getting too deep into regulations.
Class D. Frederick Municipal Airport in Frederick, Maryland, where AOPA is located, is a Class D airport with a relatively new air traffic control tower. Getting out of the airport on a 21-degree Fahrenheit day was easy, and there was even an “A” involved. I listened to the airport terminal information service (ATIS) recording, called ground control to let them know where I was, confirmed I had listened to the ATIS information, and taxied along Taxiway A to the runway. I was given permission to cross Runway 30, so I repeated that back along with the routing instructions.
Here’s how it went.
Me: “Frederick Ground, November Five-Two-Eight-Mike-Juliet at the south hangar with Charlie.” ATIS information is coded according to the alphabet.
Tower: “November Five-Two-Eight-Mike-Juliet, taxi to Runway 23 via Alpha, cross three zero.” I still looked both ways when I got to Runway 30 but I didn’t stop. After the runup, I called the tower, told them I was ready to depart Runway 23, and I was on my way to Class B—or so I thought.
Class B. There’s all sorts of highly restrictive airspace around the Washington, D.C., area, so I first flew to a fix—a VOR navigation transmitter—that I knew would keep my route away from the bad stuff. Then I called Potomac Approach using a frequency I found on the sectional chart. My initial call to busy controllers is usually just my aircraft registration number, like this: “Potomac Approach, November Five-Two-Eight-Mike-Juliet.” That way the controller can file the N-number in his brain and talk to someone he needs to contact more urgently.
When he called back I give the controller my altitude, position in relation to the VOR, and destination—Martin State Airport, on the other side of Baltimore. It is a Class D airport that lies under the 2,500-foot ring of the upside-down wedding cake that characterizes Class B airspace. I was hoping to hear the magic words, “Cleared into Class B.”
The controller was having none of that. He replied with a special transponder code, a hopeful sign for me, and then told me to remain clear of Class B airspace—a bad sign. The only way to remain clear but still reach Martin State Airport was to dive under the Class B layers. I had studied them in advance and knew my direct route would put me less than a mile from the 1,500-foot ring of the Class B airspace. I descended to 1,400 feet. That way, even if I strayed into the perimeter of the 1,500-foot ring, I would still be beneath Class B. That put me below the tops of the nearest four broadcasting antennas I could see.
After landing I commented to the ground controller that Potomac Approach is none too generous with entry into Class B airspace, and he agreed. Taking off immediately, I watched the airspace on my moving map display; I could increase my altitude as I flew away from first the 2,500-foot ring and then the 3,500-foot ring.
Class D. Once clear of the Martin State airspace, and hearing “Frequency change approved” from the tower controller, I contacted the same Potomac Approach controller who had told me to remain clear of Class B. Again, I told him who I was, where I was, and my altitude—plus my next destination of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. I could have added, “Request flight following,” but he came back with a discrete transponder code, meaning he was offering radar services. He later handed me off to Harrisburg (Pennsylvania) Approach, which directs traffic in the Lancaster area, and that controller stayed with me until I reported Lancaster Airport in sight.
Because the approach controller coordinated with the tower on my behalf, the tower controller knew all about me before I arrived, such as where I was. All that was left for the controller to do was clear me to land, and he generously offered a runway aligned with my route, although another was in use. I used an airport diagram from Jeppesen’s FliteStar flight-planning program to verify what I was seeing out the windscreen. The printouts included all the airport frequencies I would need throughout the day-long hunt for alphabet airspace, and I had circled the important ones so I wouldn’t have to search.
After lunch in the Lancaster terminal, and a visit to the Airways pilot shop—a short taxi from the restaurant—to buy toys for some toddlers I know, I was on my way to Class C airspace. (One toy is a small dog wearing a TSA shirt that says, “Tiny Security Animal.”)
Class C. Class C airspace is a little more uptown than Class D. Lehigh Valley International in Allentown, Pennsylvania, has radar approach controllers right in the tower building. You can’t arrive or leave Allentown without talking to them.
While above Reading Regional Airport I decided to call Allentown Approach—might as well get radar services as soon as possible. I prefaced my registration number with “Skylane,” adding location (Reading), altitude, and destination. The Allentown controller said I was not in his airspace, but told me to stand by and he would call. All I had to do was wait. He was planning how best to fit me into a traffic flow that included a military Lockheed C-130 Hercules transport making practice takeoffs and landings. Eventually he gave me vectors, a series of headings, to keep me west of the airport until he could sneak me in after a C-130 takeoff.
Asked by the Allentown tower controller where I wanted to park, I said I would be taking off again, and that’s when he caught me unprepared. I had pulled off the runway, crossed the runway hold line, and stopped to contact ground control. Once the ground controller cleared me to taxi back to the departure end of the runway, and once my aircraft had started to move, he rattled off a departure frequency, transponder code, heading, and altitude restriction. My pen was in the flight bag. I actually “read back” the information correctly using my very short-term memory, hurriedly setting the assigned frequency in my second radio as a reminder since I couldn’t write it down. Entering those numbers caused me to forget the transponder code. Just as he told me “Readback correct,” I responded sheepishly, “Could you repeat the transponder code?” He did. No big deal. Took less than 10 seconds.
At Class C airports, you don’t decline radar services on the way in—and especially not outbound. You can’t say, “That’s very kind of you, but, gosh, I’m just bushed, and I’d rather not be burdened with all that airliney stuff today.” The controller will give you a heading, something like, “Maintain runway heading.” There will be an assigned altitude, a departure frequency, and transponder code.
A Piper Saratoga landed and while that airplane was still on the runway I was told to “line up and wait.” Once cleared for takeoff, I climbed to 3,000 feet and leveled off to wait for the tower to hand me off to the departure controller, who would clear me to my cruising altitude of 4,500 feet. Instead, here came that C-130 behind me. The tower controller kept me on his frequency, asking me to turn 30 degrees to the right to allow the C-130 to safely pass. Then I was transferred to the departure controller, who—after asking for my on-course heading—cleared me to my cruising altitude and my on-course heading. Departing any airport, be ready to report that on-course heading. I was asked for it at Martin State, Lancaster, and Allentown.
Flight following was in effect. Twenty miles down the road a controller told me he didn’t have time to coordinate a handoff, or transfer, to the next controller, and gave me a frequency to try for further advisories. He advised me to wait “six miles” before trying, and the next controller resumed flight following. I had added a “C,” and it was time for an "E."
Class E. If you are learning to fly at a nontowered airport, chances are you are in Class E airspace. Obviously there’s no tower or radar controller acting as overlord. I already had B, sort of, and lots of D, followed by C—so it seemed fitting to stop at Carroll County Regional Airport in Westminster, Maryland, on the way home.
At nontowered airports we private pilots get to try our hand at managing air traffic, and frankly I think we do a great job. I like to be at pattern altitude several miles before arriving, and provide plenty of warning to those already in the pattern. I monitored traffic starting at 20 miles out and made a first call about my location and intentions while still 15 miles from the airport—something I might not do at my home airport. I called at 10 and then five miles, including my altitude. Close in, I didn’t bother with my registration number but instead used my color and type of aircraft: “White Skylane.”
Leaving Carroll County Airport, it was back to Frederick and my third visit of the day to Class D. There is no radar and it is still up to the pilots to see and avoid. In my case, I was two miles ahead of an airplane that didn’t always answer radio calls. The controller asked me for a radio check and returned to calling the aircraft behind me, trying to get a clear picture of our spacing. He had to ask at least three times for the location of the other aircraft, telling him I had reported as being five miles out and asking his location. By the time the controller got an answer, I was 3.8 miles out. I began S turns, raising a wing first on one side, then the other, to spot the other aircraft.
Returning to the parking ramp there was a jam-up of three aircraft—one trying to get out of the same area I was entering and another being pushed into a hangar. What we needed was a ramp controller for congested groundspace.
Plus: Rusty on airspace? Take the Air Safety Institute online course.
