Jonathan Baron
New member
I’ve not posted about Columbia, and some of you on this merry forum know why. How does one describe the grand endeavor that ends…poorly? Well…begin with the adventure.
My ‘Master became our Club’s Air Force One on the Sunday before the event as I flew from Orange, Virginia to Wayne Delp Memorial south of Albany, New York – a mixture of turf and embedded pavement pieces on a gorgeous little hill on the banks of the Hudson river at the foot of those mountains and beautiful country that seldom comes to mind to most people when they hear the words New and York together. It's unlikey they think of the York part and that countryside in England that inspired the name. And, like most airstrips on hills where those invisible air currents can do unpredictable and altogether too interesting things on the approaches, my first approach was high and a go-around…”Nice fly-by,” was how Robert put it later. Such a bucolic end to roughly 345 miles of needle threading between large and self important huge hunks of airspace. Adolph Galland – that splendid Luftwaffe pilot and flight leader from WWII – said, “You can’t defend a block of sky,” but he was wrong and we do. I triggered no defenses and averaged 147 welcome knots enroute. This would be the last time I would see such an impressive sum for several days.
Our President happily awaited me at midfield. Very little personal luggage unlike my massive collection of clothing. Yes it’s a quirk, but I consider tee shirts underwear and shorts undignified. Thus I’d packed a shirt for each of ten days, and actual pants, each to be worn for two days. Tropical weight fabric, of course.
Onward to Albany and cheap gas. Then, to my mind at least, the trip commenced.
I’ll be a bit more brief from here on, saving the complete version for the Newsletter. After landing at Johnstown, famous for a tragic flood, I’d only flown just under six hours but felt trance-like fatigue. They don’t give you a traditional courtesy car in Johnstown. They give you a late model, well equipped minivan which we used to get lost, over and over again until we somehow managed to find food and, later, lodging.
What do aviators do immediately upon entering a hotel room? Let’s say it in unison now: tune to the Weather Channel and inexplicably leave it on for hours. Long gone are the days of mild and vaguely attractive men and women in the studio talking about the weather in various places in the country, with the occasional expert – the too ugly for television guy who’s on camera because he’s an expert – saying expert things. They must choose the ugly guy or nobody would believe him. Oh, the made for television folks are still there but the focus was the current fashion in weather reporting: guys being blown around in violent storms talking with great excitement into microphones reporting more wind noise than words. Super cells marching across the country. And the hail…how big was it? Smashed bits and huge dents marked their vehicles – the proud marks of either courage or insanity – shown on camera with great enthusiasm. To an aviator, though, one thought: yikes!!
The following days deviated distinctly from my printed portions of WAC charts with confident yellow course lines. Yet we were granted the magic corridor between meteorological events that would have attracted the storm crews had we not taken our southerly route. Only downside was that those upper air charts were full of arrows fletched with lines on their tails aimed precisely at our nose. Lebanon, Tennessee for fuel. Fort Smith, Arkansas and RON right on the border of Oklahoma. Across Oklahoma and veering toward the Texas panhandle. Robert noted we were passing over Greg Lucas’ airport and place of business. I said hi to Greg on the UNICOM but he was either not there or not near a radio. Lubbock, Texas for fuel and confusion. Two or three Vikings are based there and the fact that I referred to my ‘Master as a Bellanca…well…more on THAT another time. Over the huge fields filled with abandoned oil wells and ahead the point that marks the end of flat country: Guadalupe Pass and onward to the land of fresh water and fast ducks: windy Demming, New Mexico. DMN for me was a rematch. I’d landed there several years ago, unfamiliar with my Cruisemaster. I wheel landed the thing in a crosswind, used to the powerful rudder of my Luscombe. Veered to the left, applied hard right brake. My right brake is a long bar that can apply far more force than a toe brake. Just managed to keep it from flipping on its nose but I dinged the prop. This bit of taildragger physics would come up again later. I’d spend several nights at their Grand Hotel that had nothing in common with the setting of the famous old motion picture from the 1930s staring Ronald Coleman and Greta Garbo. It was only after my pretty good landing and subsequent exaltation that I informed Robert of why I’d planned on landing at Demming from the start. He can be a nervous fellow.
After another RON (for me at least) at the Grand Hotel we had a short day: a hop to The Big House (they call it by its Spanish name, Casa Grande) and on to the windy private desert strip of Bruce Barton located on an arid plain in Arizona not far from the Nevada border and Las Vegas. Flying across the United States in long hops can feel like a series of journeys to several very different planets. This was a different planet indeed but I won’t get into that now.
After a fuel stop at Jean, Nevada the next morning, Columbia was one hop away. I take the conservative route…Apple Valley, Palmdale, crossing the Tehachapi pass, and up the Central Valley. Ozzie was about to take off below us and was talking to the tower. I thought to call the tower to ask for an altimeter setting to let Ozzie know we were passing over but he would not have recognized our tail number.
Though traveling from east to west our ground speed exceeded 140 knots. The trip to Columbia took just a wee bit over three hours even over the long route. There it was! Right downwind for 17, final flown at 60mph (a wonderful ability of the triple tail), touchdown near center line and then it happened.
The nose went left. This was less a swerve than it was an inexplicable HARD TURN to the left. Full, and I mean FULL right rudder and brake did nothing at all. Left wing hit, and we were whipped into the grass. Puzzled beyond words I looked out my left window. The gear was down and pointing forward. Odd sight, that. It had been a slow landing. Robert and I barely bumped shoulders. I was furious. What the hell could I have done to cause this?
I barely looked at the airplane after I exited the cockpit. There was the expected array of firefighters with no fire to fight, police taking reports, all that. Lots of “Good thing neither of you were hurt,” yeah, yeah, yeah. But WTF happened was the only thought on my mind. 26.9 hours, 11 landings, 20 in the last 30 days, some of them anything but pretty but nothing remotely like a hard left swerve. The crosswind was light…maybe…what…four…maybe five knots and it coming from the right. Gear collapsing forward. Nothing made sense.
The drag strut attachment had snapped. First guy said side loads. I must have screwed something up but I didn’t know what. “They’re gonna say it was ‘cause I’m a cripple,” I said to Russell on the phone, forgetting I should wait awhile before saying something like that to anyone.
But we’d made it and we’d have MANY Bellanca experts on the case. Lots of photos, lots of examinations. Bob Seal noted that one side of the piece that let go showed a pre-existing crack. The other side had sheared off, probably due to 59 years of doing what it does and the surrender of its ally on the other side.
I won’t linger here except for the matter of the FAA. The fellow who showed up the next day said he had some time in taildraggers but quit after he’d ground looped a 170. Ruled an accident due to aileron damage his tone a few days later was accusatory. He wanted me to take a ride…709, I forget the number.
“The photos show a center touchdown, followed by left and right brake tire skid marks turning left.”
“I didn’t apply left brake.”
“How do you explain the skid marks?”
“Left wheel hit the ground and the tire dragged.”
“How do you know that?”
“I didn’t hit the left brake. Had full right rudder in and my heel on the floor.”
“How do you know that?”
“If both brakes had been applied so hard as to create skid marks the airplane would have gone on its nose. It’s a taildragger. The left wheel had to have been on the ground already.”
-Silence-
“Locking up the right brake alone would have made it nose over.” [I didn’t say how I knew that]
“Uh…I’m going to have to look at the airplane again. I’ll get back to you.”
I know the Feds. It won’t matter. I phoned the guy I know at the Richmond, Virginia FSDO. He’s the guy who tested me in January. I said I was sorry if this reflected badly on him. He told me he’d seen the photos. Said he was going to recommend against the I-forget-the-number ride. Won’t matter I said and asked when we could arrange my little ride. It will have to be in my Luscombe but I’ve flown it for twelve years. In my fantasies I hoped for a very windy day and a very nervous examiner other than the guy I know, but those are just the mandatory revenge fantasies that only the Feds can inspire. Never in their thoughts was the fact I’d lost my airplane. The insurance company will total it, I can’t afford to buy it back, and probably another of a limited run of Triple Tails will likely depart the fleet.
It was a wonderful trip – Robert’s first clear across the country. Lots of great stories, few recounted here. God knows it would have truly, truly s*cked if we hadn’t made Columbia. If it had to happen that was the best place for it to happen. Just glad it didn’t happen on takeoff.
Jonathan
My ‘Master became our Club’s Air Force One on the Sunday before the event as I flew from Orange, Virginia to Wayne Delp Memorial south of Albany, New York – a mixture of turf and embedded pavement pieces on a gorgeous little hill on the banks of the Hudson river at the foot of those mountains and beautiful country that seldom comes to mind to most people when they hear the words New and York together. It's unlikey they think of the York part and that countryside in England that inspired the name. And, like most airstrips on hills where those invisible air currents can do unpredictable and altogether too interesting things on the approaches, my first approach was high and a go-around…”Nice fly-by,” was how Robert put it later. Such a bucolic end to roughly 345 miles of needle threading between large and self important huge hunks of airspace. Adolph Galland – that splendid Luftwaffe pilot and flight leader from WWII – said, “You can’t defend a block of sky,” but he was wrong and we do. I triggered no defenses and averaged 147 welcome knots enroute. This would be the last time I would see such an impressive sum for several days.
Our President happily awaited me at midfield. Very little personal luggage unlike my massive collection of clothing. Yes it’s a quirk, but I consider tee shirts underwear and shorts undignified. Thus I’d packed a shirt for each of ten days, and actual pants, each to be worn for two days. Tropical weight fabric, of course.
Onward to Albany and cheap gas. Then, to my mind at least, the trip commenced.
I’ll be a bit more brief from here on, saving the complete version for the Newsletter. After landing at Johnstown, famous for a tragic flood, I’d only flown just under six hours but felt trance-like fatigue. They don’t give you a traditional courtesy car in Johnstown. They give you a late model, well equipped minivan which we used to get lost, over and over again until we somehow managed to find food and, later, lodging.
What do aviators do immediately upon entering a hotel room? Let’s say it in unison now: tune to the Weather Channel and inexplicably leave it on for hours. Long gone are the days of mild and vaguely attractive men and women in the studio talking about the weather in various places in the country, with the occasional expert – the too ugly for television guy who’s on camera because he’s an expert – saying expert things. They must choose the ugly guy or nobody would believe him. Oh, the made for television folks are still there but the focus was the current fashion in weather reporting: guys being blown around in violent storms talking with great excitement into microphones reporting more wind noise than words. Super cells marching across the country. And the hail…how big was it? Smashed bits and huge dents marked their vehicles – the proud marks of either courage or insanity – shown on camera with great enthusiasm. To an aviator, though, one thought: yikes!!
The following days deviated distinctly from my printed portions of WAC charts with confident yellow course lines. Yet we were granted the magic corridor between meteorological events that would have attracted the storm crews had we not taken our southerly route. Only downside was that those upper air charts were full of arrows fletched with lines on their tails aimed precisely at our nose. Lebanon, Tennessee for fuel. Fort Smith, Arkansas and RON right on the border of Oklahoma. Across Oklahoma and veering toward the Texas panhandle. Robert noted we were passing over Greg Lucas’ airport and place of business. I said hi to Greg on the UNICOM but he was either not there or not near a radio. Lubbock, Texas for fuel and confusion. Two or three Vikings are based there and the fact that I referred to my ‘Master as a Bellanca…well…more on THAT another time. Over the huge fields filled with abandoned oil wells and ahead the point that marks the end of flat country: Guadalupe Pass and onward to the land of fresh water and fast ducks: windy Demming, New Mexico. DMN for me was a rematch. I’d landed there several years ago, unfamiliar with my Cruisemaster. I wheel landed the thing in a crosswind, used to the powerful rudder of my Luscombe. Veered to the left, applied hard right brake. My right brake is a long bar that can apply far more force than a toe brake. Just managed to keep it from flipping on its nose but I dinged the prop. This bit of taildragger physics would come up again later. I’d spend several nights at their Grand Hotel that had nothing in common with the setting of the famous old motion picture from the 1930s staring Ronald Coleman and Greta Garbo. It was only after my pretty good landing and subsequent exaltation that I informed Robert of why I’d planned on landing at Demming from the start. He can be a nervous fellow.
After another RON (for me at least) at the Grand Hotel we had a short day: a hop to The Big House (they call it by its Spanish name, Casa Grande) and on to the windy private desert strip of Bruce Barton located on an arid plain in Arizona not far from the Nevada border and Las Vegas. Flying across the United States in long hops can feel like a series of journeys to several very different planets. This was a different planet indeed but I won’t get into that now.
After a fuel stop at Jean, Nevada the next morning, Columbia was one hop away. I take the conservative route…Apple Valley, Palmdale, crossing the Tehachapi pass, and up the Central Valley. Ozzie was about to take off below us and was talking to the tower. I thought to call the tower to ask for an altimeter setting to let Ozzie know we were passing over but he would not have recognized our tail number.
Though traveling from east to west our ground speed exceeded 140 knots. The trip to Columbia took just a wee bit over three hours even over the long route. There it was! Right downwind for 17, final flown at 60mph (a wonderful ability of the triple tail), touchdown near center line and then it happened.
The nose went left. This was less a swerve than it was an inexplicable HARD TURN to the left. Full, and I mean FULL right rudder and brake did nothing at all. Left wing hit, and we were whipped into the grass. Puzzled beyond words I looked out my left window. The gear was down and pointing forward. Odd sight, that. It had been a slow landing. Robert and I barely bumped shoulders. I was furious. What the hell could I have done to cause this?
I barely looked at the airplane after I exited the cockpit. There was the expected array of firefighters with no fire to fight, police taking reports, all that. Lots of “Good thing neither of you were hurt,” yeah, yeah, yeah. But WTF happened was the only thought on my mind. 26.9 hours, 11 landings, 20 in the last 30 days, some of them anything but pretty but nothing remotely like a hard left swerve. The crosswind was light…maybe…what…four…maybe five knots and it coming from the right. Gear collapsing forward. Nothing made sense.
The drag strut attachment had snapped. First guy said side loads. I must have screwed something up but I didn’t know what. “They’re gonna say it was ‘cause I’m a cripple,” I said to Russell on the phone, forgetting I should wait awhile before saying something like that to anyone.
But we’d made it and we’d have MANY Bellanca experts on the case. Lots of photos, lots of examinations. Bob Seal noted that one side of the piece that let go showed a pre-existing crack. The other side had sheared off, probably due to 59 years of doing what it does and the surrender of its ally on the other side.
I won’t linger here except for the matter of the FAA. The fellow who showed up the next day said he had some time in taildraggers but quit after he’d ground looped a 170. Ruled an accident due to aileron damage his tone a few days later was accusatory. He wanted me to take a ride…709, I forget the number.
“The photos show a center touchdown, followed by left and right brake tire skid marks turning left.”
“I didn’t apply left brake.”
“How do you explain the skid marks?”
“Left wheel hit the ground and the tire dragged.”
“How do you know that?”
“I didn’t hit the left brake. Had full right rudder in and my heel on the floor.”
“How do you know that?”
“If both brakes had been applied so hard as to create skid marks the airplane would have gone on its nose. It’s a taildragger. The left wheel had to have been on the ground already.”
-Silence-
“Locking up the right brake alone would have made it nose over.” [I didn’t say how I knew that]
“Uh…I’m going to have to look at the airplane again. I’ll get back to you.”
I know the Feds. It won’t matter. I phoned the guy I know at the Richmond, Virginia FSDO. He’s the guy who tested me in January. I said I was sorry if this reflected badly on him. He told me he’d seen the photos. Said he was going to recommend against the I-forget-the-number ride. Won’t matter I said and asked when we could arrange my little ride. It will have to be in my Luscombe but I’ve flown it for twelve years. In my fantasies I hoped for a very windy day and a very nervous examiner other than the guy I know, but those are just the mandatory revenge fantasies that only the Feds can inspire. Never in their thoughts was the fact I’d lost my airplane. The insurance company will total it, I can’t afford to buy it back, and probably another of a limited run of Triple Tails will likely depart the fleet.
It was a wonderful trip – Robert’s first clear across the country. Lots of great stories, few recounted here. God knows it would have truly, truly s*cked if we hadn’t made Columbia. If it had to happen that was the best place for it to happen. Just glad it didn’t happen on takeoff.
Jonathan
