It was a foggy mid-week morning when I stopped into the pilot’s lounge at the virtual airport. I was doing some research for an article in our sister publication Aviation Consumer and I needed Wi-Fi access, so I figured I’d tap into the flight school’s system. Karver, recently instrument rated and Kary, a long-time pilot and Civil Air Patrol check pilot, were headed out to get some practice in the clag before the fog was forecast to burn off.
We greeted each other in passing, but then Karver stopped and said to me, “Hey. If the engine quits while we’re out in low IFR, Kary told me that we won’t have much time after we break out of the clouds to select where we’re gonna land and that I should just aim for something soft and cheap. Is she kidding me?”
I did my best impression of a deer in the headlights and responded, “Um, well, not really. But, no matter how much time you have to choose a forced landing spot, there are some rules of thumb to keep in mind to maximize your chances of a surviving. Believe it or not, the little bug-smashers we fly are pretty crashworthy if you touch down right side up, just above stall speed and are wearing a shoulder harness. They’re even better if you have a BRS parachute on the airplane and have gone over the guidelines on its use. I’ve got some stuff on crashworthiness I can pull up and give to you after you fly.”
“Great. I’ll see you then.”
Pulling together the material for Karver turned into an interesting exercise in general aviation risk analysis. I made a bunch of notes.
It’s The Quick Stop
There are things that pilots/aircraft owners can do to increase the chance of survival when everything goes bad and they’ve got to put the airplane down or they lose control during landing—the two highest risk events pilots face that can lead to a survivable ground impact (loss of control in flight, CFIT and VFR into IMC crashes usually result in high-speed, nonsurvivable impacts). I’ll start with a little background.
Since World War II there has been a massive amount of research into what the human body can withstand when in a vehicle during an impact event. In the aviation world, NACA/NASA did extensive full-scale testing of airplanes and occupant restraint systems and were joined by Cessna and Piper when those companies provided airplanes for crash testing. Sophisticated research is continuing, and the results have been progressively incorporated into general aviation aircraft design and design regulations. In general, even many of the 1940-era designs will do a fairly good job of protecting the occupants in a crash sequence if the three cardinal tenants of crash survival are followed: A. The occupants are fully strapped in—shoulder harness and seat belt, B. the speed of the initial impact is minimized (force is a squared function) and C. the airplane has as much space as possible to slow down between the initial impact point and where everything comes to a stop.
Restraining the occupants is step one. The nonsense still sometimes heard about people being “thrown clear” of an airplane in a crash is truly pure nonsense. A human ejected from a vehicle doing 50 MPH doesn’t survive the subsequent impact with the ground, trees or a building. The quick stop destroys internal organs and the aorta.
Keeping the occupant attached to the seat and in the vehicle means that the structure of the airplane can absorb impact loads that otherwise would be transmitted to the fragile human, reducing the G loading on the person. That means each person in the airplane needs to be wearing a seatbelt and shoulder harness—that way the person gets the benefit of the crashworthy design of the structure and is less likely to “flail” and strike some portion of the cockpit during the impact sequence.
Seatbelts alone are not enough. No human is strong enough to brace against a sudden impact of even two or three Gs toward the instrument panel. The body jackknifes over the seatbelt and hits something hard. A head injury means the risk of fatal injury goes way up. It also means that there’s a high risk that the occupant is dazed from even a low-G crash and can’t get it together enough to get out of the airplane quickly, generating a high risk of further injury if there is a fire.
The FAA has been keeping accident data for a long time: It reports that 88% of injuries and 20% of fatalities have been eliminated through the use of shoulder harnesses in general aviation crashes. Shoulder harnesses are as close to a silver bullet for crash survival as there is in aviation.
If the airplane has shoulder harnesses, common sense means wearing them all of the time. The greatest risk of a crash with loads that are survivable if you are strapped in is a forced landing after a power loss or a runway loss of control event. In either of those, things happen so fast that you won’t have time to put on the shoulder harness if you aren’t wearing it. Common sense is to wear the restraint system from before startup to after shutdown.
If your airplane doesn’t have shoulder harnesses, look hard at having them installed. They can be easily installed for most seats on all Cessna singles (they were generally available as optional equipment, even back in the 1940s, so a retrofit is often pretty easy). Aviation Consumer has a library of articles on retrofit shoulder harnesses free to subscribers as well as information on the new airbag seatbelt restraint systems available for retrofit.
Minimize The Speed
Force of impact is a squared function. Doubling the impact speed mean quadrupling the force on the airplane that has to be dissipated. The airplane may have all of the most recent features for absorbing energy as the structure crumbles to protect the occupants, but if the machine is moving at cruise speed at impact, even the most sophisticated crashworthy design becomes irrelevant.
If you have any control over the impact speed, make it count. If you’re dealing with a forced landing following a power loss, strive to touch down as slowly as possible without stalling the airplane. Not stalling is important—if you stall, you lose control of the aircraft and you are likely to set up a high rate of descent and the nose may pitch down sharply, both of which are ugly for surviving the impact. You want to be descending at a gentle rate so that the airplane will roll or slide over the ground and not dig in so that it stops suddenly.
Using full flaps reduces the stall speed as much as possible, so that your touchdown speed is as slow as possible. This is not the place for a reduced-flap landing.
Do your best to touch down with no side load/yaw. The maximum crush space is directly in front of you. If you hit with a side load there is a risk that you’ll smack your head against the side of the cabin or one of the cabin support pillars.
Fly The Airplane All The Way Into The Crash
When you maximize the distance that the airplane has to decelerate, you minimize the G loads on the occupants. The G-Load chart shows the ability of a healthy human to withstand impact G loads straight ahead—toward the instrument panel—if restrained with a seatbelt and shoulder harness. The variables are intensity of the load and duration. If you can spread out the impact so that the maximum load doesn’t exceed 10 Gs the chances of surviving the crash go way up.
That means that you not only touch down at minimum flying speed, but you keep steering the airplane toward where you want it to go—where the hard things aren’t—until it comes to a stop.
That rule applies to the accident that a general aviation pilot is most likely to have—loss of control after touching down on landing. If the crosswind takes you off of the runway, or you groundloop or blow a tire and you’re heading for the weeds, never give up trying to make the airplane go where you want it to go. Don’t be hesitant to put a control to the stop. Keep fighting to make the airplane go where you want it to go to minimize impact forces.
If you groundloop an airplane—the tail comes swinging around uncontrollably—keep the yoke/stick all the way aft. It will reduce the risk that the airplane will flip over and help keep weight on the landing gear, which may help you regain control of the airplane and/or use the brakes to get it stopped before you hit something.
If you get into the situation of having to steer the airplane through a maze of rocks and trees, keep in mind a rule of thumb that works: Look/focus on where you want to go. That’s where the airplane is most likely to go. If you are trying to avoid hitting a tree, don’t look at the tree—you’ll hit it. Look at the path you want to follow. It works with airplanes, cars and taking horses over jumps—you and the vehicle are most like to go where you are looking.
Use the brakes—to the point just short of sliding the tires. If you don’t know where that point is, practice on your next landings. If you’re in a tailwheel airplane, use the brakes firmly, but don’t let the tail come off the ground (you do have the stick full aft, right?). There can be a fine line between maximum braking and nosing over on a tailwheel machine. My review of accident reports over the years indicates that the Aviat Husky with its good brakes and gear geometry is an easy airplane to put on its nose—or back—with heavy braking.
If you have run off of the runway and are trying to get the airplane stopped, make sure that the throttle is at idle—I don’t know how many accidents I’ve looked at where the pilot added power to get airflow over the rudder while trying to control a swerve, lost control and then magnified the intensity of the crash by carrying power throughout the impact sequence. Do everything you can to slow down.
Oh yeah, wait until the airplane actually stops before undoing the restraint system and getting out.
Select The Surface
There has been a great deal written about selecting where you should land in the event of a forced landing. The only thing that I will add is that the numbers for survival in water landings—whether the airplane has fixed or retractable gear—are amazingly good. In over 92%, the occupants are able to get out of the airplane safely. Overall, the survival rate for general aviation ditching events is 88%. That being the case, if you are faced with landing in trees, in a rocky field, on a beach or in the water, don’t rule out landing in the water about 50 feet or so offshore. It may be the best alternative for spreading out the deceleration forces and allowing your passengers to get out uninjured.
Should you land on a highway/freeway? That’s a judgement call based on a lot of factors, one of which is that your wingspan is longer than a two-lane road is wide, so your wings will probably hit signs, mailboxes, guard rails or whatever is erected along the roadside—and that may pull you into a unyielding ditch at high speed. In addition, powerlines are nearly impossible to see, and they are erected along and across roads. Catching one with the gear or a wingtip is a seriously bad-news event. If you have no choice but to hit lines, take them on the center of the prop.
If there is traffic on the highway you face an ethical question. As a pilot, can you put innocent people on the ground at risk just so you can increase your chances in a forced landing? That’s pretty easy if you’re solo—no. If you have a plane load of passengers? That’s worth doing some thinking about now.
Gear Up Or Down
The debate on this will never end. The commonsense rule is that if you believe that the surface is such that it will catch the landing gear and flip you over right away, leave the gear up. Otherwise, it is probably wise to take advantage of anything that can absorb impact energy before it is transmitted to you—the landing gear. Gear up, you have a fairly rigid structure with only a few inches of crush distance under the seats. The landing gear was designed to absorb energy. In some airplanes, such as the Cessna 208, the gear is designed to absorb loads that occur directly aft and then snap off, reducing the deceleration loads on the occupants.
Assume The Position
Make sure the seat belt and shoulder harness are tight—if you have the time. Lean or curl forward into the shoulder harness to take out any slack. If you have time to put any padding in front of you—throw pillow, coat, blanket, anything—do so.
Turn off the master switch and the fuel prior to touchdown. An electrical short can start a fire. Shutting off the fuel helps minimize the chance that any fire will become severe.
Keep the airplane right side up. That sounds silly, but it is a killer in twins when the pilot can’t make the airplane hold altitude on one engine and gets below VMC before touchdown. The airplane will protect the occupants against some serious G loads when right side up, but not upside down. If you have to make a forced landing in a twin, do what is necessary to avoid a VMC roll.
Whole airframe parachutes have been saving lives for a generation. If the airplane has one, you’ve experienced an engine stoppage that you can’t fix or one of the other emergencies for which the parachute is designed, using it is a no brainer. Pilots and passengers have lived to fly another day because the parachute put the airplane onto the terrain (or water) at an impact speed that was survivable—and that’s the underlying goal of surviving any emergency.
BRS offers retrofits for a number of aircraft. Shoulder harnesses are the silver bullet for crash survival; whole-airplane parachutes may be the platinum one.
The Gear Won’t Come Down
To start with, breathe. Make sure you have the airplane under control and are flying in conditions where you can divert your attention to getting the gear down without running into something or someone or losing control of the airplane.
Pull out the checklist. I’m not kidding. When I look at gear-up landing accidents, in about 10%, the pilot could have extended the gear if he had simply followed the published emergency checklist. (By the way, if you’re flying a retractable-gear airplane, you have practiced emergency gear extension . . .)
If the gear won’t come down, remember that you have an emergency situation but one that is very low risk so long as you don’t do something stupid. In the last 40 years I have tried to find an NTSB report of a gear-up landing of a civilian airplane in the U.S. in which someone was injured or killed. I have not found a single gear-up landing event in which anyone was hurt when the pilot made a normal approach and landing (many pulled the mixture around the time of the flare). Hey, a gear-up landing is such a minor event that it does not even classify a reportable accident—take a look at the NTSB regs on accident definition.
However—and this is a really big however—there have been several fatal accidents where pilots shut down the engine(s) and tried to glide to the runway—and overshot or undershot. The reason? First, an engine out landing is an emergency—trying to solve one emergency by creating another ranks way up there on the stupid scale and may just make you a candidate for a Darwin Award. Second, none of the pilots had practiced engine out glides within the last six months. Third, none of the pilots had ever tried to shut down an engine, stop the prop and glide to a landing. We pilots do pretty well at complicated stuff that we’ve practiced. The first time we try a complicated something we haven’t practiced—especially with some stress in the mix—we don’t do well at all.
The odds of you landing safely gear up are extraordinarily good if you don’t do something other than make a normal landing.
You also increase the odds of a good result if you land on pavement rather than grass. NASA full-scale crash tests in the early 1970s showed that a touchdown on grass or dirt with some degree of descent rate—such as after a stall—would stop the airplane in a matter of inches as the ground gave a little and then formed a crater or berm and brought the airplane to a sudden stop. The same impact on pavement turned into a long slide and was survivable. So, if you do err on a gear-up landing and stall the airplane a few feet above the ground, it won’t be a big deal on pavement but you could be the first injury or death in a gear-up landing if you try it on an unpaved surface.
The Wrap Up
I pulled my notes together and went over to refill and start the coffee maker. A few moments later, Karver and Kary walked into the room pretty pumped up after their flight. They’d had a chance to shoot a couple of approaches to minimums before the clouds broke up. After Karver poured himself a cup of coffee, he saw that I was still in the lounge and had some paper in front of me. “Hey, Dude, did you really get some stuff on forced landings?” He looked a little surprised as he walked toward me.
I gestured at the papers, “Sure, it’s right here. And it turns out that it boils down to using shoulder harnesses, touching down as slowly as possible without stalling, flying the airplane all the way into the crash . . .”
Rick Durden is a CFII and holds an ATP with type ratings in the Douglas DC-3 and Cessna Citation. He is the author of The Thinking Pilot’s Flight Manual or, How to Survive Flying Little Airplanes and Have a Ball Doing It, Vols. 1 & 2.
Now that I could see the airplane, I was pretty sure that It was an Aviat Husky. The down-to-your-shoelaces fog that I’d driven through to the airport was beginning to lose its battle with the sun. When I got out of my car 20 minutes ago, the fog had been the absolute master of the airport. I could hear a slow-moving airplane up above, seemingly standing sentinel over the invisible airport. Muted engine and prop noise in my ears, I went into one of the FBO’s big hangars to help set up for the huckleberry pancake breakfast fly-in.
Now, after 20 minutes of setting up chairs and tables and hearing the big propane griddles fire up, I stepped outside wondering if the weather would cooperate so pilots could fly in. I saw that there were great, uneven rents opening and closing in the fog. The trees on the other side of the runway would appear and then disappear as the fog and sun contested control over the airport. As I watched, patches of painfully bright blue sky appeared and widened. That’s when I was finally able to see the patient early responder to the lure of a fly-in breakfast. It was a Husky; its squared-off wingtips and smoothly rounded tail surfaces made clear. The power was pulled back to lowest cruise, the prop being barely hushed around. I could visualize the pilot—he or she had set manifold pressure and prop RPM at or near the bottom the green arcs, using minimal fuel and keeping the airplane as quiet as possible out of respect for those living near the airport and wishing to sleep to a reasonable hour on this Saturday.
The aviation lawyer in me smiled—I won’t have to defend this pilot from an FAA action—he or she obviously knew the regs. The airplane was in airspace requiring only one-mile visibility and that it stay clear of clouds. Above the diminishing fog, the visibility is undoubtedly unlimited and it would easy to remain out of the clouds and simply wait for the fog to break up. In the meantime, I can imagine the spectacular view the pilot has of mountain peaks in all directions, stark in the clear air, thousands of feet above the clouds huddled around their bases.
It’s still 30 minutes before the official start of the fly-in breakfast, but I need to get back inside to my assigned job because we’re certain to get people who arrive early, ready to eat. Our EAA Chapter, 757, of Bonners Ferry, Idaho, puts on its huckleberry pancake breakfast at the Boundary County Airport not just once a year—as is the case most places—but five times, on the last Saturday of May, June, July, August and September. It’s a big deal—and people from all around the area, not just pilots, look forward to it.
A Good News Aviation Fix
Walking back into the hangar, I looked at the faces of the teenagers and adults busy getting ready. Everyone was in a good mood. I needed an aviation good news fix. Badly.
I’d spent the previous evening in the Pilot’s Lounge at the virtual airport listening to the ADS-B procrastinators bemoan that now that they’d found the equipment they wanted for compliance with the January 1, 2020, mandate the radio shops were backed up and they couldn’t get the boxes installed in time; the usual complainers were in full voice about fuel prices and the cost of maintenance and how regulations were killing aviation and nobody wants to learn to fly and pilots are dying out and on, and on, and on.
I couldn’t take it any longer. I wanted to be with people who thought flying was pretty cool and fun and who were doing something to help some of the scores of kids who want to learn to fly make that dream of flight come true.
I knew the perfect place. That was why I was setting up chairs and tables and watching two of our EAA Chapter’s leaders, Kambiz Kamiab and Gene Andrews, discuss the consistency of the pancake batter they were creating using a power drill mixing arrangement. The huckleberries—the state fruit of Idaho—had been added and they wanted to make sure that the first batch of pancakes would be just right.
I wanted to be with people who came early to set up and stayed late to clean up a pancake breakfast that existed to raise scholarship money for kids to learn to fly. The right place to be was in this hangar so thick with enthusiasm for flying and people who want to fly that it seemed to ooze out the windows. I wanted to see what airplanes would fly in and talk with pilots and those who wanted to be pilots and those who just wanted to come and pay their seven dollars for breakfast because that would help kids in the community learn to fly.
EAA Chapter 757 has been putting on multiple huckleberry pancake breakfasts for longer than most of the members have been members. It’s become a community tradition that is pushed in the local newspapers and on banners in town.
It’s All For Aviation Scholarships
A restaurant hard by the airport, the Three Mile Store and Café, and two local grocery stores, Safeway and Super 1, donate all of the food. The FBO, Northern Air, opens up one of its big hangars, clears out the airplanes and invites everyone inside. Every cent of the money raised goes to the Chapter 757’s scholarship fund. Every cent. That means that the Chapter will give something north of $7,500 in scholarship money at the end of this season—mostly to local high school kids who want to learn to fly.
Before coming to the Bonners Ferry EAA breakfasts, I was used to seeing fly-in breakfasts dominated by the over the hill gang. Not here. Half of the people working the food line and clean up are high school age—they’re the ones who have received scholarships or are seeking them. They want to be around airplanes and airplane people. Their enthusiasm is contagious.
By the 8:00 am start time we’ve already served 20 meals of eggs, sausage and huckleberry pancakes. Around here if you aren’t early for a meeting or appointment, you’re late. There is a line of another 20 waiting. The hangar door has been opened and the fog has surrendered to the sun, so everyone can watch airplanes and make appropriate OOH and AAHH noises as landings are greased or well, um, you know. One of the kids has noticed that the picnic tables outside are still wet from yesterday’s rain, has dashed in, found some paper towels and dried off the tables and benches. They are immediately snapped up, best seats in the house.
Time To Enjoy The Airplanes
At 9:00 there is a lull in arrivals, so I take a short break and walk out to the ramp. I see the Husky with its large, backcountry tires, on one of the tiedowns. His patience with the fog was rewarded. There’s a line at the fuel pump. Northern Air does its best to keep its fuel prices among the lowest in the area, an extra incentive for pilots to come to breakfast. Three glistening Lake Amphibians have arrived in a group, the pilots and passengers are chatting animatedly as they push their airplanes forward for their turn at the pumps. A friend of mine parks his Steen Skybolt close to the hangar and instantly attracts a crowd. Kids are excitedly showing their parents the different airplanes on the ramp. I hear snatches of conversations ... “This is a Cessna 172; I’ll be taking my lessons in this one once I’m done with ground school ...” “That’s a RV-8, it’s so awesome ...” "That tailwheel Cessna 150 has a straight tail and Omnivision; I didn’t know any of those were made ...”
I went back inside and gave the first-string pancake chef a breather. Things started slowing down shortly after 10:00, a half hour before the official end of the breakfast, so I was tasked to start cleaning off tables and folding up chairs that were no longer needed. About 10:15 it was decided to shut down the griddles as there was no one in line. Naturally, one family came hurrying in at 10:35, apologetic at being late and asking if they could still get breakfast. Kambiz and Gene, old hands at this, had cooked just a little extra, so the full plates were handed to the latecomers amid smiles all around.
As I folded up and carried tables into the storage room, I listened to the sound of airplanes taxiing out and departing for the flight home and thought about what had just transpired. Around 200 people had eaten their fill of huckleberry pancakes while totally immersed in an aviation experience. About $1,400 was raised—and EAA Chapter 757 will give the money to help some kids who want to learn to fly more than anything in the world. To me, that’s an incredibly good thing.
Later, walking out to my car, under a brilliant, now cloudless, sky, I couldn’t help but think—I don’t have a silver bullet to save aviation at the grassroots level. I don’t think that there is one. I think that creating a future for general aviation means those of us who care for it have to find ways, large and small, to keep building up general aviation. We have to build general aviation a brick at a time, so that it becomes a solid structure created by many hands that will last long after we’re gone. Today, at a fly-in breakfast organized by some passionate pilots and run by those pilots and the kids who have received, or hope to receive, aviation scholarships, I think several bricks were cemented firmly into the foundation.
Rick Durden holds an ATP with type ratings in the Douglas DC-3 and Cessna Citation, is a CFII and the author of The Thinking Pilot’s Flight Manual or, How to Survive Flying Little Airplanes and Have a Ball Doing It, Vols. 1 & 2.
I’d stepped into the pilot’s lounge at the virtual airport after finishing up with my last student of the day. I didn’t think anyone was still in the building and I wanted to make sure the coffee maker was off—it has a tendency to create enough smoke to fog the room by morning if left unattended. There’s supposed to be an automatic shutoff but I can’t help but suspect that it has developed a personality and gets upset at being ignored and retaliates when people leave of an evening.
The switch for the caffeine dispenser was firmly in the off position, so I started to turn toward the door, intending to head home. As I did so, I noticed that there was a copy of Last Plane Out, John Ball’s novel of aviators, personal integrity and what it means to have a passion for flight that defines one’s life, lying on the table nearby. I’d been deeply moved by the book when I’d read it as a teenager. Ball’s pilots were people who were a cut above ordinary because of their commitment to the highest standards in practicing their craft, readiness for—and ability to handle—the unexpected, an instant willingness to help others and a refreshing humility in their carriage. They had pride in their skills, without hubris, and the visceral understanding that no matter how much they knew, there was always so much more to learn. I grabbed the book and sat down to reread some of my favorite parts.
An hour later it was dark outside, and I was still engrossed in the book. I looked up at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. Karver came through the door and said, “Hey, how you doin’?”
“Great. What brings you here so late?”
“I just landed, put the plane away, saw your car in the lot and came in here looking for you.”
“Oh, man, what did I do this time?”
“I was hoping to talk to you about flying into AirVenture. I read that painful column you wrote after a friend of yours was killed in a crash just short of the airport on the Fisk arrival and you were furious at the stupid pilot stuff you’d seen that year. I’ve printed out the NOTAM for Oshkosh, read it, underlined and highlighted stuff; I’ve read just about everything I can find on flying in and watched a boatload of YouTube videos. But I’ve still got questions.”
“Karver, I think you’re doing all the right things. I’m not sure I can add anything to what you’ve done.”
“Look, you’ve flown into Oshkosh for over 45 years, right?”
“Something like that, but I missed a few years.”
“Yeah, so what do you think is really important about flying in?”
That stopped me for a moment. Karver is in his early 20s. He’s had his private ticket for something over six months, has already gotten a tailwheel checkout and is one of those poor schmucks who has lost is soul to flying. He reads everything he can, and I think I learn more from him when we talk than he does from me. As I thought, something came to me.
Pilots and Drivers
“I think flying into Oshkosh is where pilots are separated from airplane drivers.”
Karver looked puzzled, “What do you mean? I’ve got a tee shirt that says ‘Airplane Driver.’”
“Yeah, I guess the old insult has faded with time. When I was learning to fly, the worst thing you could say about a pilot was that he ‘drove’ an airplane. It meant that the person thought in only two dimensions, not three, had no pride in turning a collection of aluminum and rivets into a living, flying entity, probably couldn’t fly both straight and level at the same time and when he approached an airplane at its tiedown, the airplane hung its head in shame at having to put up with the ham-fisted machinations of the uncaring human that was about to turn the ignition key.
To me, Oshkosh is aviation’s Mecca. True pilots fly to Oshkosh. They make pilgrimages to Oshkosh. Hundreds of pilots save for years just to be able to afford to fly in one time. Think of what you’ve done already to prepare—you’re not making a $100 hamburger flight. You’re going to fly into the busiest airport in the world. You recognize the seriousness of the endeavor. That’s what pilots do.
“I think that’s the most important thing a pilot can do—recognize and respect the seriousness of flying into OSH during AirVenture and act appropriately.
“I think that means being determined to have your game at its highest level from the moment you’re 50 miles from Ripon on the arrival all the way through when you’re 50 miles out on the departure. To me that means having taken a flight review within the last month or so and being truly able to hold 90 KIAS within plus or minus five knots (and knowing the power setting you’ll need) as well as altitude within plus or minus 50 feet while tracking directly over a set of railroad tracks. That’s an objective standard. If you can’t fly to that level of precision, either practice until you can or don’t fly in to OSH. It seems to me that part of respecting the seriousness of flying into OSH is having the maturity and judgment to honestly evaluate yourself and say that as much as you want to fly in this year, you aren’t going to.
“I think it means knowing the NOTAM cold and having made and thought all the way through alternative plans for what you’re going to do if the airport closes or the weather comes down and you have to divert.
“I think it means planning the flight so that the leg into OSH is no longer than 1.5 or 2 hours so that you and your pax aren’t dealing with biological pressures that will adversely affect your ability to do the pilot and judgment thing that you’re going to need to do.
“I think it means little things such as respecting weight and balance because you may have to maneuver your airplane dramatically right now and over gross or out of C.G. may mean you can’t do it. It means making sure that you are comfortable flying a tight, right-hand pattern and landing on a spot. It means prepping your passengers for sterile cockpit, how to look for traffic and how to tell you about it. Oh, and it means learning that when taxiing on grass—as you’ll do at OSH—you need to hold the yoke all the way aft to maximize prop clearance and minimize the chance of dinging your prop.
“I think it means tamping down the greedy, game-the-system behavior we’re encouraged to have in today’s world and being ready to show consideration for other pilots and airplanes. A little courtesy goes a long way on the Fisk arrival. I keep thinking of the powerful southern lawyer I worked with years ago who was invariably a gentleman while doing his absolute utmost to win his case. He taught me that courtesy should never be misinterpreted as weakness. As pilots, the courtesy we show to another aircraft in coordinating an arrival may just keep all involved alive. After all, when we’re in flight, we’re playing for keeps—being a jerk can have fatal consequences.
“I think it means recognizing that the world is watching when we fly into OSH and we have an obligation beyond just ourselves to arrive not only safely, but with some degree of élan.
“Karver, I feel strongly about flying into Oshkosh. If a pilot doesn’t have respect for what it involves, he or she should absolutely not be doing it. I have nothing but contempt for anyone who would try it without reading and being prepared to follow the NOTAM—I firmly believe that they have caused fatal accidents because they cost air time as ATC tried to sort them out and that triggered a reaction elsewhere that could have been stopped had the frequency not been tied up.
“Every one of us who flies in to OSH is on stage. Our errors are shouted to the world. We’ve had years where there were so many accidents that there was pressure to make radical changes to the arrival procedures that would reduce them to one airplane every few minutes. We have the most liberal general aviation regulations in the world—and there are those who would like to see them far more restrictive. A few crashes at OSH could go a long way toward making that happen. I firmly believe that one inconsiderate pilot could ruin what we have at AirVenture.
“We are pilots. Because of what we have learned and are able to do, we have come to know the glory of the sky. We make up a tiny fraction of one percent of the population. That sets us apart in many ways—one of which is a duty to recognize how fragile the privilege of flying ourselves can be, and to do our utmost to do nothing that would potentially ruin it for others. I think we have an obligation to demonstrate at the epicenter of the world for aviation passion—Oshkosh—that we take the process of flying into that hallowed place seriously. I think we have an obligation to show the world that we are pilots, not some lesser being.
“Karver, I wish I could go with you to AirVenture this year. You’re committed to doing your best and I know you will fly the Fisk arrival like a pro. I wish I could be sitting next to you when you hear that ultimate accolade a pilot can receive—after you fly that tight pattern, land on the colored dot and as you angle off the runway onto the grass the controller says, ‘Nice job. Welcome to Oshkosh.’”
Rick Durden is a CFII, holds an ATP with type ratings in the Douglas DC-3 and Cessna Citation and is the author of The Thinking Pilot’s Flight Manual or, How to Survive Flying Little Airplanes and Have a Ball Doing It, Vols. 1 & 2.