Hanging it up

Greased that one in, said my little voice proudly. Not all that bad for a man in his ninth decade; and the little tremors in my left hand are hardly noticeable, they didn’t bother the landing a bit; hardly.

So, I was pretty happy and smiling internally while giving my ego a needed and a well-deserved attaboy. It was a wonderful clear 65-degree Fahrenheit day at the Merlin Airport in the Rogue Valley in southwestern Oregon. Nearly perfect with only a slight, maybe two-knot right crosswind component on Runway 31; it barely moved the windsock.

A few minutes later, on downwind at 90 knots, when just parallel to the numbers, I reduced the power to idle, trimmed the nose, and grabbed the carburetor heat. It was all in just one smooth coordinated motion that I had done hundreds of times. Pretty slick, I thought. My little Cessna was at 1,000 feet agl and slowing down; I was looking for 80 knots so I could drop 20 degrees of flaps.

OK, that seems about right. As I reached to the right to lower the electric flap control, a Piper Cherokee was making a straight-in, but not a word on unicom. I wondered why he hadn’t announced; he obviously should have heard me and should have said something. I thought, pretty poor radio procedure, and decided to mention it, although I would wait until he was clear of the runway.

Then, as I was announcing my turn to base, I noticed my radio was not tuned to unicom. Oops, my bad, I thought, and then realized I had just completed two touch-and-go cycles with my radio tuned off frequency.

Crap, was the singular comment of my little internal voice, and I quickly tuned the radio properly and re-announced my turn to base, this time a little sheepishly. But, OK, I thought, No harm, no foul, hoping the gods of flight hadn’t noticed my little radio faux pas. Now I was a little high, damn distractions, so, when just starting to turn final the little voice suggested that I should pay more attention to my checklist. No problem, but stop bugging me. I’ve been here and done this a hundred times. Right now, I have an airplane to land, I’ll work on the checklist thingy later.

But then both unexpectedly and quite sternly, my little voice spoke up again, this time with a bit more volume: You’re 80 years old and getting more than just a little forgetful, stop trying to build your ego and put this silver bird on the numbers one last time, and then just park it. Do it now, flyboy, before you hurt yourself.

Grudgingly I set up to do as the little voice suggested, and although it was not a hot day, a few beads of sweat appeared on my forehead as the airplane seemed to float forever, much farther down the runway than I planned. It was a bit bumpy, and as I turned left when taxiing off the runway toward my hangar, I reached over to the right to raise the flaps and noticed I had never put them down. This was not good. As I arrived at the hangar, the dreaded little voice continued, and this time I pretty much knew what was coming: Listen up, flyboy, push that master switch to off and pull the mixture. Pack it in, mister, it’s about time.

Five minutes later when closing the hangar door for what sadly turned out to be the very last time, I realized I had just experienced that “Bob Hoover” moment; that moment of truth. Tough decision for sure, but once made, it was final and absolutely the right thing to do.

Clint Eastwood famously said in one of his Dirty Harry adventures: “A man’s got to know his limitations.” And my personal treatise that I conjured some years ago: “A cowboy should endeavor to leave his last gunfight standing up.” And so, with all due respect to a few who say losing a little gray matter to old age is no reason to quit flying, for me, it’s reason enough, and I did pack it in with very few regrets. I have never dented either of my silver birds, nor any of my passengers, although I did send a fairly large raptor to bird heaven one windy Saturday in Fairbanks, Alaska.

Although I am now without a silver bird, I remain a pilot with appropriate knowledge and skills. I will visit my airport friends and will likely fly again because of a younger friend who has offered the right seat for occasional flying club outings. True, just as a passenger, but still, I think it will satisfy. Sad? Maybe, but I find there exists a bright side, a small reward for simply making it through a few hundred hours aviating the heavens and returning to Earth unharmed. With three fingers of Glenfiddich and just two small ice cubes, I have magically morphed from an active pilot to now a “pilot Emeritus,” a “philosopher of flight” with a sage-like base of experience and knowledge that will likely grow as I further age.

Aviation opened the third and final dimension of spatial freedom that until the past hundred years or so was known only to our feathered friends. I guess that’s about it. I guess that’s why flying small airplanes in the clear heavens above was so precious and leaves such profound memories. So, thanks again to the gods of flight for all the wonderful hours in the sky, it has been fun.

Wayne Pinger flew in Alaska for 24 years and is the author of Angel’s Alaska trilogy. [email protected]