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| Elma |
New checklist item: If Russell says “the weather is good” that means cancel the flight. 
After over a month of watching the rain go by, the schedule and my schedule and the weather’s schedule aligned today. I originally planned to stay local in the pattern, as ceilings were (slightly) below 3000 feet, and some clouds obscured the hills. Russell said the weather looked pretty good up in the sky though, so I decided to go south to Chehalis.
Right after takeoff I immediately felt overwhelmed. It’s been a month since I’ve flown, I’m in 8ZT which I’m not completely familiar with, and there is constant static in my headset. It’s loud. I have to adjust the squelch, but where is it? I’m trying to divide my scan between outside, flying the airplane, and searching for the squelch. I’m starting to get desperate. I know where it is on 0TP, but not here... Finally I find it. It’s amazing how much more in control I feel without blasting static in my ears.
On the radio, Shelton seems very busy but no activity at Chehalis as I approach. Decent pattern entry, coming in a bit high, I chop the throttle and 8ZT, the heavier beast it is, drops beautifully down to the glideslope. Pilots of Cessna 172s who fly very light aircraft often say landing is hard because really light airplanes don’t descend well.
Anyways, 10 knots headwind makes a perfect landing. Smooth as a bell, down and stopped within 1000 feet. A+, would land again.
I taxi back for takeoff (I’ve started disliking touch-and-goes after reading some of the trouble and lack of training utility they actually have), and I’m off. Now I need two more landings. One I will get on return to Olympia, so where else?
Well, Shelton is an option. It’s busy, which is good for training on traffic management, but bad because I hate traffic management. There’s Toledo, but that seems a bit out of the way. Or how about...
Elma. 2,200 feet long, 40 feet wide (that’s less than half the length and a third the width of Olympia’s runway). Recently resurfaced, it’s called to me like a siren everytime I fly overhead. Besides being a small runway, the Elma airport has no buffer zone (compare Olympia which, on the approach to 17, probably has a full extra runway length of flat area to descend through). At Elam, the trees start right at the end of the runway.
Elma is neither the shortest nor the narrowest runway I have used (that honor goes to Shady Acres, with a mere 1,600 feet usable length and only 20 feet wide, less than the airplane’s wingspan). But that was with my instructor, and I haven’t done a “real” short field landing since. And that particular landing (yes, singular), I just about put the airplane in the grass after a half dozen go-arounds. I’ve never done one alone or since.
Here’s what some other pilots say about Elma:
And another:
I arrive at Elma. The winds, yes, the winds... 10 knot direct crosswind. Pick your poison. Both runways equally bad news. I first set up for an approach for runway 25, but then turn around after reconsidering the exact position of the windsock and come in for runway 7.
First approach, way too high. Go-around. It’s a small airport with an unusually tight approach, so I expected a go-around or three.
Second approach, too fast. Chop the power. Descent profile is good, but airspeed is too high. The Pilot’s Handbook of Aeronautical Knowledge says:
The runway length called for a final approach speed of 60 knots, and I was in the 65 to 70 range. What’s worse, I realize I’m a little high as well. I should go around, but for some reason (stupidity), I don’t. I think, “I can make this.”
So I arrive in ground effect at the runway. Here’s the thing: There are trees at the end of the runway. Immediately. I can see ahead of me trees taller than the airplane. The brain does not want to process “those trees are above me.” At the other airports I’ve used, I haven’t been able to see obstacles when I’m at runway level.
Meanwhile, I’m floating, because of the excess speed. There is a single connecting taxiway half way down the runway. I pass it, still in the air. 1,100 feet remains until the airplane impacts the trees.
For those of you following along at home, that’s about 11 to 15 seconds to impact, depending on exact speed.
Go-around, right? GO THE FUCK AROUND!
On my checkride, I made a mistake on one of my landings. After making the mistake, I made another mistake, one that, in my opinion, was much, much worse: I froze. The examiner dressed me down for that, and she was right to. When seconds matter, you can’t freeze.
But the fact that the trees were visible, visible “above” me, ‘broke’ the go-around switch in my brain, and I froze. All I saw was hitting full power and slamming into the trees even faster. I couldn’t see, or wasn’t convinced, that I could outclimb them. (Of course, it’s virtually guaranteed that I could have at that point).
It was about this time when I feel the feeling that pilots newly in training hate. I used to call out “shit!” everytime it happened, but this time I was overjoyed. The feeling? The final loss of lift when the critical angle is reached. I felt it, and I said, “I made it.”
The airplane’s wheels touched firmly onto the narrow pavement and I stepped on those brakes like I’ve never stepped before. Small airplane brakes are hydraulic disc brakes with no anti-lock, so the first thing that happened was a horrible screech as the brakes locked. I let up, and alternated pressure as much as I could without losing control or locking them again. I have never seen an airplane stop so fast.
Here’s about how it broke down, without a measuring tape:
1,100 feet: still in the air, passing midpoint
1,400 feet: touchdown
1,800 feet: stopped
approx. 400 feet remained to the end of the runway. And by end of the runway, I mean the trees.
I rolled into the little turn-around at the end of the runway, opened the window, and just breathed. The engine’s purring idle comforted me a little, and I sat there...
After a few minutes, I was calm enough that I was ready to go. I decided to depart the opposite direction, because the float felt like I had a tailwind, and even if I didn’t, there were less (and shorter) trees right off the 25 departure. Also, I wouldn’t need to taxi all the way back down.
I would call it an uneventful short field takeoff.
What did I learn? I learned what I already knew (on some level):
1. Short field landings are the real deal. If you’re too fast or too high, go around. Keep going around. Or go away. But don’t push it.
2. Don’t freeze. I don’t know how I can “fix” this, but it needs to be fixed.
But with three takeoffs and landings, my currency is renewed. So, who wants an airplane ride?
After over a month of watching the rain go by, the schedule and my schedule and the weather’s schedule aligned today. I originally planned to stay local in the pattern, as ceilings were (slightly) below 3000 feet, and some clouds obscured the hills. Russell said the weather looked pretty good up in the sky though, so I decided to go south to Chehalis.
Right after takeoff I immediately felt overwhelmed. It’s been a month since I’ve flown, I’m in 8ZT which I’m not completely familiar with, and there is constant static in my headset. It’s loud. I have to adjust the squelch, but where is it? I’m trying to divide my scan between outside, flying the airplane, and searching for the squelch. I’m starting to get desperate. I know where it is on 0TP, but not here... Finally I find it. It’s amazing how much more in control I feel without blasting static in my ears.
On the radio, Shelton seems very busy but no activity at Chehalis as I approach. Decent pattern entry, coming in a bit high, I chop the throttle and 8ZT, the heavier beast it is, drops beautifully down to the glideslope. Pilots of Cessna 172s who fly very light aircraft often say landing is hard because really light airplanes don’t descend well.
Anyways, 10 knots headwind makes a perfect landing. Smooth as a bell, down and stopped within 1000 feet. A+, would land again.
I taxi back for takeoff (I’ve started disliking touch-and-goes after reading some of the trouble and lack of training utility they actually have), and I’m off. Now I need two more landings. One I will get on return to Olympia, so where else?
Well, Shelton is an option. It’s busy, which is good for training on traffic management, but bad because I hate traffic management.
There’s Toledo, but that seems a bit out of the way. Or how about...Elma. 2,200 feet long, 40 feet wide (that’s less than half the length and a third the width of Olympia’s runway). Recently resurfaced, it’s called to me like a siren everytime I fly overhead. Besides being a small runway, the Elma airport has no buffer zone (compare Olympia which, on the approach to 17, probably has a full extra runway length of flat area to descend through). At Elam, the trees start right at the end of the runway.
Elma is neither the shortest nor the narrowest runway I have used (that honor goes to Shady Acres, with a mere 1,600 feet usable length and only 20 feet wide, less than the airplane’s wingspan). But that was with my instructor, and I haven’t done a “real” short field landing since. And that particular landing (yes, singular), I just about put the airplane in the grass after a half dozen go-arounds. I’ve never done one alone or since.
Here’s what some other pilots say about Elma:
Stay on the centerline on approach to runway 7. Trees are very close to the runway edges.
And another:
As mentioned by others, runway 7 was pretty tight due to the trees.
I arrive at Elma. The winds, yes, the winds... 10 knot direct crosswind. Pick your poison. Both runways equally bad news. I first set up for an approach for runway 25, but then turn around after reconsidering the exact position of the windsock and come in for runway 7.
First approach, way too high. Go-around. It’s a small airport with an unusually tight approach, so I expected a go-around or three.
Second approach, too fast. Chop the power. Descent profile is good, but airspeed is too high. The Pilot’s Handbook of Aeronautical Knowledge says:
A 10 percent excess landing speed would cause at least a 21 percent increase in landing distance.
The runway length called for a final approach speed of 60 knots, and I was in the 65 to 70 range. What’s worse, I realize I’m a little high as well. I should go around, but for some reason (stupidity), I don’t. I think, “I can make this.”
So I arrive in ground effect at the runway. Here’s the thing: There are trees at the end of the runway. Immediately. I can see ahead of me trees taller than the airplane. The brain does not want to process “those trees are above me.” At the other airports I’ve used, I haven’t been able to see obstacles when I’m at runway level.
Meanwhile, I’m floating, because of the excess speed. There is a single connecting taxiway half way down the runway. I pass it, still in the air. 1,100 feet remains until the airplane impacts the trees.
For those of you following along at home, that’s about 11 to 15 seconds to impact, depending on exact speed.
Go-around, right? GO THE FUCK AROUND!
On my checkride, I made a mistake on one of my landings. After making the mistake, I made another mistake, one that, in my opinion, was much, much worse: I froze. The examiner dressed me down for that, and she was right to. When seconds matter, you can’t freeze.
But the fact that the trees were visible, visible “above” me, ‘broke’ the go-around switch in my brain, and I froze. All I saw was hitting full power and slamming into the trees even faster. I couldn’t see, or wasn’t convinced, that I could outclimb them. (Of course, it’s virtually guaranteed that I could have at that point).
It was about this time when I feel the feeling that pilots newly in training hate. I used to call out “shit!” everytime it happened, but this time I was overjoyed. The feeling? The final loss of lift when the critical angle is reached. I felt it, and I said, “I made it.”
The airplane’s wheels touched firmly onto the narrow pavement and I stepped on those brakes like I’ve never stepped before. Small airplane brakes are hydraulic disc brakes with no anti-lock, so the first thing that happened was a horrible screech as the brakes locked. I let up, and alternated pressure as much as I could without losing control or locking them again. I have never seen an airplane stop so fast.
Here’s about how it broke down, without a measuring tape:
1,100 feet: still in the air, passing midpoint
1,400 feet: touchdown
1,800 feet: stopped
approx. 400 feet remained to the end of the runway. And by end of the runway, I mean the trees.
I rolled into the little turn-around at the end of the runway, opened the window, and just breathed. The engine’s purring idle comforted me a little, and I sat there...
After a few minutes, I was calm enough that I was ready to go. I decided to depart the opposite direction, because the float felt like I had a tailwind, and even if I didn’t, there were less (and shorter) trees right off the 25 departure. Also, I wouldn’t need to taxi all the way back down.
I would call it an uneventful short field takeoff.
What did I learn? I learned what I already knew (on some level):
1. Short field landings are the real deal. If you’re too fast or too high, go around. Keep going around. Or go away. But don’t push it.
2. Don’t freeze. I don’t know how I can “fix” this, but it needs to be fixed.
But with three takeoffs and landings, my currency is renewed. So, who wants an airplane ride?
