UngaWunga wrote:Oh I'm not looking to copy anyone. I'm curious to see how your limits have evolved. Thanks
When you've been flying for a long time, evolution just occurs. Sometimes individual events cause spurts in the evolution process. I've been trying to think of specific events in my flying "career" which caused those spurts, and I've come up with a few stand-outs:
When I passed my private checkride, I had no experience with crosswinds--there's almost no wind in the Anchorage area in the middle of the winter (usually), and I packed my initial training beginning the end of November 72 through my checkride in early February 73. Each of my crosswind landings was awful in the brutal winds of about 4-6 knots on the day of my checkride. But as soon as I moved to Laramie in May 73, it was obvious I had to learn crosswinds--4-6 knots wasn't even a breeze, as 25 knot winds were normal. One day my new instructor called to say that "today is a good day to learn crosswinds." I asked the winds: "25G30, straight down 21." "How's that going to teach me crosswinds?" "We're not using 21; we're using 12 and 30." I had a lot of trepidation on my drive to the airport, because I knew that the maximum demonstrated crosswind capability of a 172 was only 17 knots. Long story short, after something like a dozen landings and take offs, half on 12 and half on 30, I learned crosswinds. I also learned that "maximum demonstrated crosswind capability" is not a limitation, although it's a good guideline for most pilots.
I earned my commercial certificate before my instrument rating; in those days, the VA required it in that order, on the theory that many might stop at the IR, and the VA was paying for people to learn a trade, i.e., commercial pilot. That no one would hire a non-IR commercial pilot for 135 work didn't matter. So after I earned my commercial, I did a lot of volunteer flying for the local Sheriff's office, with the SO paying the rental fee. One day the Sheriff and I transported a prisoner from Laramie to Sheridan, WY. It was a clear blue day when we left, but soon after passing Casper, an undercast formed. About 30 miles out from Sheridan, I called the FSS there (that was before consolidation of FSSs by the FAA) and was told that Sheridan had low clouds as far as they could see, but they could get me an approach clearance. I had no instrument charts of any kind, and I had no idea how to make an instrument approach. As we flew closer to Sheridan, I found a "sucker hole" and made a descending spiral down through it, only to find that the visibility below the clouds was barely VFR. The next 10 minutes were high pucker factor, and I was so relieved to get on the ground. After the prisoner was picked up, the Sheriff and I went to lunch, and by the time we were ready to go back, the weather had cleared so that it was an easy flight back--but I started my instrument training the following weekend. I had learned that a VFR pilot does not belong above the clouds, period.
I had earned both my CFI and CFII and was doing some SE charter flying for the FBO. One of the other pilots called me and asked if I could accompany him to Denver, as he'd never been in there before, to pick up a passenger. On the way back, he totally flubbed the final approach by turning on the landing light in light ground fog and panicked when he suddenly couldn't see, yanking back on the yoke. I took over, recovered the airplane, shut off the light, and landed. Our passenger, who was also a pilot, was impressed enough that he called me later that week and asked me if I would regularly fly him, only in his airplane and not in the FBO's airplanes. His was an overly equipped Mooney 231, and I jumped at the chance. My pay? I could use the airplane any time I wanted, just put gas in it, as long as I could be available every Friday night and Sunday night, to pick him up in Denver and return him there, for his weekly commute to New York. After a few months, I was totally comfortable, in fact cocky, in that airplane, flying it in all sorts of weather. That lead to 2 events:
>On the way to Durango to visit my Sis, we were at 12,000' in the clouds, -10 to -20F temp but no icing on the wings, just north of Pueblo, when suddenly the MP started winding down. Because the autopilot was trying to maintain altitude, the airspeed was dropping quickly. I kicked off the autopilot to keep it flying, changed tanks, etc. to try to get the engine going again, but to no avail. So I declared an emergency and asked for vectors to Pueblo. The weather there was at minimums, so the likelihood of a successful landing was low. Suddenly I recalled that the Mooney's alternate air door had a control hidden under the panel above my right knee, I reached down and pulled it, and the engine came to life. We continued on to Durango, and on landing, discovered that the cowl immediately behind the prop was coated in a thick layer of ice--the air intake was completely blocked. Later that day, I flew to Albuquerque to pick up my cousin, the blockage occurred again, but this time I knew what to do. I learned that fuel injection isn't a cure for intake icing, and that the lack of ice on the leading edges doesn't mean it isn't forming somewhere else.
>The Mooney's owner called me to ask me to take the airplane to Fort Collins for its annual. He neglected to tell me it was already out of annual. While doing the preflight, I discovered that the steering rod to the nose gear had been broken loose by ham-handed towing. But instead of scrubbing the flight, in my cocky approach to things, I decided to fly it anyway. Apparently in the process of retracting or extending the gear, it jammed in a left turn, so that when I touched down at Fort Collins, it departed the runway headed for a snow berm. I firewalled it and barely cleared the snow berm (scraped a belly antenna off) and stalled into the soft snow behind the berm. Total damage to the airplane was minimal. For that escapade, my certificate was suspended for 45 days. I learned so many lessons that day that it's hard to count.
Just after I bought my current airplane some 11+ years ago, I was doing commercial maneuvers northeast of Fort Collins. I had just completed a descending spiral to do low level maneuvers, when I noticed that the oil pressure was going down. Thinking I had overheated the engine with the maneuvers and remembering that I had an appointment to keep anyway, I headed back to the airport at reduced power at about 1000' AGL. Suddenly the prop sped up, indicating that the governor had lost oil pressure. I pulled back the throttle to get the rpm down when suddenly there was a horrible clanking and the whole airplane started shaking. I pulled all the knobs back, and smoke filled the cockpit. I set up for a downwind to land on the road I had just crossed, dropped 20 flaps, then saw that the power poles were so close to the road that I'd likely clip them. I looked to the right, but that field looked rough. I looked to the left, that field looked OK, but now I was much lower and had to cross that power line. I turned toward the field, but it didn't look like I could get over the power line. So I raised the flaps again, dropped the nose to gain speed, popped up over the power line, dropped the nose and full flaps, and landed. I learned that everything my first instructor some 31 years earlier had taught me about emergency engine out landings came back. Whenever I would chastise him for wasting my money and our time on those things, he would say, "Someday you'll thank me, Cary." I learned that he was absolutely right.
So those are some of the sudden spikes in my evolution as a pilot. There were more--we all have events which suddenly increase our knowledge. Most of the time, we just get better and better at what we're doing. As we become more proficient, our limits can be set at different levels. But we never can stop learning.
Now that I'm getting older and slower, I've gone back on some of my previous limits. I know, for instance, that I'm not as proficient an instrument pilot as I once was, although I'm current, and I still fly in the clouds. None of my flying requires that I do it, though, so I won't fly in weather that once I had no hesitancy to fly in. I still have no problems with significant crosswinds, but I won't even think about taking the slightest chance with any icing. Flying is too much fun, and I enjoy it too much, to take chances that I won't be able to do it. The last thing I want my epitaph to say is "he died doing what he loved to do".
Cary