I was idly searching for references to my Flickr photos on the internet; most of them are from Gail's site, naturally. But then I came across this entry from a blogger in Japan, and laughed out loud. Seeing Hugh's face among all that Kanji script was funny enough, but then I fed the link into Babelfish for a translation.
The headline: "The, the nose it is huge the !"
The caption: "When... with you thought, it was pattern."
Hugh is now officially world-famous! My thanks to the person who posted his photo, and to all his fans out there.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Another weekend flies by...
We wrapped up the weekend at our home base, bucolic Cherry Ridge airport. The weather was still unreasonably great, so I took my mother for a short ride over Lake Wallenpaupack - which was deserted, this early in the season. One sailboat and a lone fisherman were the only human presence on the long lake, not even worth going down for a buzz.
Gail took some more video, including my version of a high-speed pass; I made a low approach at cruise speed and flew down the runway at about 125 m.p.h., which is as fast as I care to go in my 50-year old plane. Then I topped off the tanks and put 02P in the hangar, and went to join Gail and Mom in the airport café for a buffet dinner, before the Cherry Ridge Pilots' Association meeting. This august body meets once a month to discuss matters of import to the pilots based here, such as maintenance and improvements to the runway, fuel costs, et cetera.
When possible, we have a guest speaker at the meetings; Sunday we met Bill Starr, a private pilot who is working as a volunteer copilot on a vintage C-54 transport. The plane, named "Spirit of Freedom", is a 4-engined airliner built in 1945 as a transport for the US military, and one which participated in the historic Berlin Airlift during 1948 and 1949. The interior of the plane has been remodeled as a museum, and tours the country and world to commemorate the event.
Starr gave an abbreviated version of a PowerPoint presentation about the Airlift, and told us about what it's like to fly the vintage machine. When he was finished, Gail prompted me to ask Bill for a copy of his presentation, which he cheerfully shared with us; Gail copied it to her Powerbook, along with all the period videos.
Later at my mother's house we looked over the weekend's flying pictures and video, and enjoyed our increasingly-competitive 3-way Scrabble game. (Read that as, "Mom and I are not getting beaten quite so soundly by Gail lately!) The three of us are also playing online games during the week at The Pixie Pit.
Gail took some more video, including my version of a high-speed pass; I made a low approach at cruise speed and flew down the runway at about 125 m.p.h., which is as fast as I care to go in my 50-year old plane. Then I topped off the tanks and put 02P in the hangar, and went to join Gail and Mom in the airport café for a buffet dinner, before the Cherry Ridge Pilots' Association meeting. This august body meets once a month to discuss matters of import to the pilots based here, such as maintenance and improvements to the runway, fuel costs, et cetera.
When possible, we have a guest speaker at the meetings; Sunday we met Bill Starr, a private pilot who is working as a volunteer copilot on a vintage C-54 transport. The plane, named "Spirit of Freedom", is a 4-engined airliner built in 1945 as a transport for the US military, and one which participated in the historic Berlin Airlift during 1948 and 1949. The interior of the plane has been remodeled as a museum, and tours the country and world to commemorate the event.Starr gave an abbreviated version of a PowerPoint presentation about the Airlift, and told us about what it's like to fly the vintage machine. When he was finished, Gail prompted me to ask Bill for a copy of his presentation, which he cheerfully shared with us; Gail copied it to her Powerbook, along with all the period videos.
Later at my mother's house we looked over the weekend's flying pictures and video, and enjoyed our increasingly-competitive 3-way Scrabble game. (Read that as, "Mom and I are not getting beaten quite so soundly by Gail lately!) The three of us are also playing online games during the week at The Pixie Pit.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Firefly, in a City of Lights
Saturday we slept late and lazed around the house until afternoon, then headed back out to the airport, as the great weather continued to beckon. I suggested heading south; we could look up some 'net friends, and/or visit my old chum Chris. Which is what we did, as it happened; Gail and I had dinner with Chris and his wife Carrie, and their little girl Kyra, who was pleasant company despite being not quite over an earache. We didn't get any other replies to our short-notice invite, so when we left Allentown we decided to go east and have another look at Manhattan from the air - at night!
My flying comrade Dale had recommended the Hudson River flight at night; it's certainly one of the most striking sights in the country, and we arrived at the Verrazano Bridge in less than an hour. Rather than go through Air Traffic Control as we did last time, I descended to below 1,100 feet to scurry under Newark's airspace, and we skimmed low over New Jersey and out across the dark water. (As I checked out all my gauges, to see that our trusty Lycoming engine was ticking away happily.)
The VFR-legal airspace is a narrow layer between 800 and 1,100 feet, and the uprights of the Verrazano bridge reach almost that high. I approached the bridge on an oblique from the southwest, then flew right between the goalposts and turned north towards Manhattan. The water below was dark, but everywhere there were lights; cars, highways, buildings and even the ships on the bay shone like diamonds. As we crossed Governor's Island I slowed the engine, flipped on our landing light and announced our position on the radio, as Gail carefully worked the video camera. (Some stills from the video are in my album here; Gail's journal entry is here.)
Air traffic was light in our immediate area, although helicopters crisscrossed the city and international jet traffic swam far overhead. I was busy keeping an accurate course and watching for traffic, but I still had opportunity to boggle at the massive city on my right wing. At 950 feet, several of the skyscrapers reached higher than we were. Seen from our vantage point, the city was a brilliant crosshatch of lights and glowing towers, with traffic flowing in the streets like molten lava. When we passed downwind of the tallest buildings, we were rocked by some light turbulence, and I held tight to the reins so that Gail could keep filming.
We kept on all the way up the west side of Manhattan, and after a while we crossed the George Washington bridge and passed east of Teterboro. I increased the power again and turned west, and waited until we were clear of the New York airspace before climbing up to 4,500 feet. The night was brilliantly clear, though moonless, and Gail dozed as we droned over the mountains. In 35 minutes we were back over Honesdale, and I circled and keyed my transmitter to turn on the runway lights. (Or what's left of them; many of the marker lights are out, mostly on the east side.) I eased us lower until the landing light picked out the trees, slipped into the dark clearing and touched down.
My flying comrade Dale had recommended the Hudson River flight at night; it's certainly one of the most striking sights in the country, and we arrived at the Verrazano Bridge in less than an hour. Rather than go through Air Traffic Control as we did last time, I descended to below 1,100 feet to scurry under Newark's airspace, and we skimmed low over New Jersey and out across the dark water. (As I checked out all my gauges, to see that our trusty Lycoming engine was ticking away happily.)
The VFR-legal airspace is a narrow layer between 800 and 1,100 feet, and the uprights of the Verrazano bridge reach almost that high. I approached the bridge on an oblique from the southwest, then flew right between the goalposts and turned north towards Manhattan. The water below was dark, but everywhere there were lights; cars, highways, buildings and even the ships on the bay shone like diamonds. As we crossed Governor's Island I slowed the engine, flipped on our landing light and announced our position on the radio, as Gail carefully worked the video camera. (Some stills from the video are in my album here; Gail's journal entry is here.)
Air traffic was light in our immediate area, although helicopters crisscrossed the city and international jet traffic swam far overhead. I was busy keeping an accurate course and watching for traffic, but I still had opportunity to boggle at the massive city on my right wing. At 950 feet, several of the skyscrapers reached higher than we were. Seen from our vantage point, the city was a brilliant crosshatch of lights and glowing towers, with traffic flowing in the streets like molten lava. When we passed downwind of the tallest buildings, we were rocked by some light turbulence, and I held tight to the reins so that Gail could keep filming.
We kept on all the way up the west side of Manhattan, and after a while we crossed the George Washington bridge and passed east of Teterboro. I increased the power again and turned west, and waited until we were clear of the New York airspace before climbing up to 4,500 feet. The night was brilliantly clear, though moonless, and Gail dozed as we droned over the mountains. In 35 minutes we were back over Honesdale, and I circled and keyed my transmitter to turn on the runway lights. (Or what's left of them; many of the marker lights are out, mostly on the east side.) I eased us lower until the landing light picked out the trees, slipped into the dark clearing and touched down.
Weekend plans? Up in the air!
Spring has well and truly sprung here in the northeast - this weekend was beautiful, perfect flying weather. And fly we did...
Our Tri-Pacer had some attention from the mechanic last week, for a weak left magneto (there are two separate ignition systems on the engine, as a backup. Normally both work at the same time, but before takeoff it's standard procedure to run the engine on each side separately to test them.) The mechanical trouble turned out to be minor, and 02P was pronounced fit to fly. Still, I don't like to expose my passengers to unnecessary risk; so I decided to take the plane up for a short solo flight to make sure everything was in order.
Gail wanted to try out my old video camera anyway, so she stayed on the ramp to take pictures of me and the plane in action. The resulting video was neat to see; I've never been able to see myself fly from the outside, or my plane in the air. (Of course, when I'm out on the ramp, I always watch the other guys, and silently rate their landing technique!) The most striking thing was how slowly the plane seems to be moving on landing, and it does land slower than more modern planes. It was built in the grass-strip era, and like its ancestor the Piper Cub it can alight very sedately, at around 50 miles per hour.
The plane was running great, and apparently is making a bit more power now that the ignition is timed correctly. So I picked Gail up and we headed out for a flight around the area. We landed at the International airport in Scranton for some oil, then took off again to watch the sunset. Coming back north to Cherry Ridge, we did a touch-and-go landing back at Scranton - then, I had an opportunity to scare myself a bit. Climbing out of Scranton, I reached down to switch fuel tanks; the valve is out of sight next to my left knee, and invisible in the dark cockpit. About 30 seconds later, a most unsettling phenomenon - the engine quit! Bad news, since there's only one... Training kicked in and I pushed the nose down for best glide, and turned back to the runway, still well within gliding range behind us.
I got on the radio and called for an emergency, and was given clearance to land on any runway. I switched back to the left tank and pushed the fuel mixture to full rich, and the engine caught again; I kept on course for the airport until I was satisfied that we had power restored, and could run on either tank; apparently I had overswitched the valve in the dark, and the handle was leaning towards the "off" position. Feeling a bit foolish, I told the controller that we were OK and turned back north for home.
Gail wasn't too shaken up by the incident; unflappable as always. I'm just glad that I reacted as I was supposed to do, and that if had been a more serious problem we would have gotten down safely. And now, one more factoid is programmed into me: grab a flashlight and LOOK at the valve, when flying at night. I'm already in the good habit of only switching tanks near a runway; that little brass valve could always break or jam when you turn it. Healthy pilot paranoia...
We flew again Saturday and Sunday; I'll post separately, more flying stories to come. (They get better than this one!)
Our Tri-Pacer had some attention from the mechanic last week, for a weak left magneto (there are two separate ignition systems on the engine, as a backup. Normally both work at the same time, but before takeoff it's standard procedure to run the engine on each side separately to test them.) The mechanical trouble turned out to be minor, and 02P was pronounced fit to fly. Still, I don't like to expose my passengers to unnecessary risk; so I decided to take the plane up for a short solo flight to make sure everything was in order.
Gail wanted to try out my old video camera anyway, so she stayed on the ramp to take pictures of me and the plane in action. The resulting video was neat to see; I've never been able to see myself fly from the outside, or my plane in the air. (Of course, when I'm out on the ramp, I always watch the other guys, and silently rate their landing technique!) The most striking thing was how slowly the plane seems to be moving on landing, and it does land slower than more modern planes. It was built in the grass-strip era, and like its ancestor the Piper Cub it can alight very sedately, at around 50 miles per hour.
The plane was running great, and apparently is making a bit more power now that the ignition is timed correctly. So I picked Gail up and we headed out for a flight around the area. We landed at the International airport in Scranton for some oil, then took off again to watch the sunset. Coming back north to Cherry Ridge, we did a touch-and-go landing back at Scranton - then, I had an opportunity to scare myself a bit. Climbing out of Scranton, I reached down to switch fuel tanks; the valve is out of sight next to my left knee, and invisible in the dark cockpit. About 30 seconds later, a most unsettling phenomenon - the engine quit! Bad news, since there's only one... Training kicked in and I pushed the nose down for best glide, and turned back to the runway, still well within gliding range behind us.
I got on the radio and called for an emergency, and was given clearance to land on any runway. I switched back to the left tank and pushed the fuel mixture to full rich, and the engine caught again; I kept on course for the airport until I was satisfied that we had power restored, and could run on either tank; apparently I had overswitched the valve in the dark, and the handle was leaning towards the "off" position. Feeling a bit foolish, I told the controller that we were OK and turned back north for home.
Gail wasn't too shaken up by the incident; unflappable as always. I'm just glad that I reacted as I was supposed to do, and that if had been a more serious problem we would have gotten down safely. And now, one more factoid is programmed into me: grab a flashlight and LOOK at the valve, when flying at night. I'm already in the good habit of only switching tanks near a runway; that little brass valve could always break or jam when you turn it. Healthy pilot paranoia...
We flew again Saturday and Sunday; I'll post separately, more flying stories to come. (They get better than this one!)
Monday, April 04, 2005
Friday Five
OK, it's Monday, but I got these from Mick's journal:
1) What's the one movie you've seen more times than any other?
Hard to say, but my hunch is that Casablanca edges out Star Wars by several dozen viewings.
2) If you could turn one book, comic book or other print story into a feature-length movie, what story would you pick and why?
One book that I've always thought would make a great Sci-Fi movie is Ringworld by Larry Niven. With today's CGI, it would be tremendous visually; and it features some great alien-race characters in lead roles, which would be an interesting acting challenge. But hey - we all believed Gollum, right?
My favorite books of all time are Asimov's Foundation series; but some Hollywood vandals destroyed I, Robot. And George Lucas shamelessly harvested a lot of ideas from Foundation for his disastrously dull Star Wars Episodes I-III.
3) Whom would you cast?
Hum - the lead character is Louis Wu, a 200-year-old (but young-looking) human. Described in the book as multiracial, a worldweary guy with a sense of humor - I dunno, Bruce Willis would be fun. There's action in the role, too. How about Samuel L. Jackson as Speaker-to-Animals?
4) What one movie would you like to see "updated for the year 2005"? (IE, a remake)
Gosh, it seems that everything out lately is a remake or sequel; almost always disappointing, with a few notable exceptions. I'm more likely to hope that they don't have a go at one of my favorites, as a vehicle for whatever emaciated hack is hot that week. (Please, please, please - stay away from Casablanca!)
Hey, I thought of one: The Flying Tigers. It's a true story, and a good one. It would be great to see it treated dramatically, without John Wayne's bombastic lurching around.
5) What one movie are you most looking forward to this year?
I'm with Mick - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
1) What's the one movie you've seen more times than any other?
Hard to say, but my hunch is that Casablanca edges out Star Wars by several dozen viewings.
2) If you could turn one book, comic book or other print story into a feature-length movie, what story would you pick and why?
One book that I've always thought would make a great Sci-Fi movie is Ringworld by Larry Niven. With today's CGI, it would be tremendous visually; and it features some great alien-race characters in lead roles, which would be an interesting acting challenge. But hey - we all believed Gollum, right?
My favorite books of all time are Asimov's Foundation series; but some Hollywood vandals destroyed I, Robot. And George Lucas shamelessly harvested a lot of ideas from Foundation for his disastrously dull Star Wars Episodes I-III.
3) Whom would you cast?
Hum - the lead character is Louis Wu, a 200-year-old (but young-looking) human. Described in the book as multiracial, a worldweary guy with a sense of humor - I dunno, Bruce Willis would be fun. There's action in the role, too. How about Samuel L. Jackson as Speaker-to-Animals?
4) What one movie would you like to see "updated for the year 2005"? (IE, a remake)
Gosh, it seems that everything out lately is a remake or sequel; almost always disappointing, with a few notable exceptions. I'm more likely to hope that they don't have a go at one of my favorites, as a vehicle for whatever emaciated hack is hot that week. (Please, please, please - stay away from Casablanca!)
Hey, I thought of one: The Flying Tigers. It's a true story, and a good one. It would be great to see it treated dramatically, without John Wayne's bombastic lurching around.
5) What one movie are you most looking forward to this year?
I'm with Mick - The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
The Perfect (Snow) Storm
Pennsylvania has four distinct seasons, each of approximately 3 months duration. Around here, March generally conforms to the old maxim "in like a lion, out like a lamb" - and was showing every sign of doing just that. Until yesterday...What if a mass of moist air came up from the southwest? What if it chilled down to around the freezing point, right where ice cream keeps the best? What if every area meteorologist mistakenly forecast it as an afternoon rain shower?
What if it descended as a wet blizzard - AT RUSH HOUR?
Here the trailer fades to black for a moment, then the first clip hits for maximum impact - oh, say, a semi truck toppling sideways over an embankment. That scene, and many like it, were part of my drive home from work yesterday. I've been doing the same 15-mile commute since 1997, and I have never seen such a godawful mess on the roads.
The precipitation started as sleet and freezing rain, then changed to
fat, wet snowflakes, falling at the rate of 2 inches an hour. It coated the roads with an inch-thick sheet of ice, overlaid with slush, about the same as driving on axle grease. I left my office at 4:00, stopped at the store for a few items, then set about the grim task of picking my way home - along with ten thousand or so of my fellow commuters. What follows is an exercise in winter motoring survival.
My first choice was Interstate 81, my normal route and the most direct. The traffic report on my favorite FM station is no help: the reporter just made the blanket statement "Every road in the area is awful". Great. I tried anyway, but as I turned up the long ramp to the interstate, I saw a line of parked traffic over a mile long; I wheeled around and headed towards the mid-valley. It took me over thirty minutes just to go around the mall and hospital, about half a mile; in front of me was a logjam of cars, including two ambulances with their lights and sirens going; they were stuck fast, and I hoped there weren't critical patients on board.
At last moving away from the mall, I had to choose between the local Route 11 which runs along the river, and Route 315 which parallels I-81 and leads to the turnpike. Still no help from the radio; after five tries I get a cellphone call through to tell Gail not to wait for dinner. I briefly considered checking into a nearby freeway motel, while there were still rooms to be had; but hell, I'm a northerner - I resolved to push on. I chose 315, since in four miles it would reach a junction with the PA Turnpike and I-81; the 'pike is generally better-maintained than the Interstates, so I would have at least two choices.
315 rises and falls over the hills like a rollercoaster, was slick as Teflon, and bumper-to-bumper. Snow was falling at whiteout-rate. At every uphill stretch, we lost a few more vehicles - first, someone in a New Bug gave up. Then a two-wheel-drive pickup with an empty bed could go no farther. A new Lexus slid off the right shoulder - don't those things have traction control? Then the damnedest one, a big brand-new semi rig going the other direction. The trucker was sliding left and right, desperately trying to keep moving; then he dropped the outboard wheels over the shoulder, and the whole truck toppled sideways into the ditch like an oak. I boggled, wondering why he didn't prudently park his rig in the center and wait it out, as many of the other drivers did.
Amazingly, my little front-drive Ford Focus wagon continued to scrabble up the hills. It took almost exactly an hour to go those four miles. When I reached the highway exchange I saw that traffic was stopped going southbound, but creeping steadily north on 81. I joined the parade and made good progress, although at anything over 25 m.p.h. the car began fishtailing in the heavy ice and slush - the median and shoulders were littered with vehicles driven by the less prudent. I didn't see anyone stranded or injured, though; those who ditched were being picked up by the next vehicle along. I also didn't see any snowplows or PennDOT trucks!
Eventually I arrived at my exit and stood at the bottom of my hill, the last steep half-mile to my abode. There is another way to reach my neighborhood by circling around Lake Scranton, but it too was a stopped line of cars, so I shifted into low gear and pointed the Focus upslope. Following a minivan, we weaved around two more mired vehicles, and I managed to make it to my block! With a grin I skidded askew into my garage and switched off the ignition.
At ten-to-seven. Two hours and fifty minutes, for a drive that takes 20 minutes on a dry day. Phew! I've had some tough commutes, but this one deserves a folk song.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Beware the Ides of March
"I knew I should have listened to Artemidorus. Cassius is watching me like a hawk, and Brutus says I scratched his new Portia. And I can't decide to have roast chicken for lunch, or just a salad. If only I could combine them somehow..."- Julius Caesar
Well, the ides of March are here, and I believe there are forces conspiring against me too. Gail and I had a nice weekend, watched the St. Pat's parade downtown and went for a short flight Saturday. Sunday evening things started to fall apart, though, starting with me. Hungry after our walk around Lake Scranton, I dipped into a dish of very old hard candy, and broke a tooth. No pain, since I had had a root canal on that one; but a sharp kick in the checkbook, as I will have to get a porcelain crown. Damn. This on top of car, garage and fridge repairs over the last few weeks.
And yesterday my mother went in for a minor surgery. So I took the day off from work to take her to the hospital and get her checked in, and Gail and I and my mother's friend Dave waited there until she was out of surgery. I slipped out for an hour to get my tooth looked at, since I had a dentist appointment scheduled anyway. I'm happy to report that the surgery went well and that Mom is recovering; today I'm at work trying to chip away at the backlog of projects on my desk.
Tonight I will be on the treadmill again - race up to my mother's place to feed her cat, swing by the hospital, then go home and change into my uniform for the CAP meeting. I'll have to wear my dress blues, because we are having a change of command ceremony; my squadron commander is stepping down after six years due to career considerations. Who's the lucky stiff to take his place on the hot-seat?
Yes, that's right, me. I have successfully fended off two previous attempts to install me as a squadron commander, but this time there is no escaping it. (Gads, didn't Caesar refuse the crown three times? This metaphor is getting scary.) I'll take the reins and do my best to keep the squadron running, but it's just awful timing what with everything else I'm trying to juggle. I expect to do a lot of delegating! Hopefully the officers won't slip me the shiv straight away; ambition should be made of sterner stuff, indeed.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Enter the Haggis!
Last night, Gail and I went to see a concert at the Scranton Cultural Center: Enter the Haggis*, a Celtic/Rock/Bluegrass fusion band. It was a last-minute decision, but tickets were available and inexpensive. It was a great show! The band played in the ballroom rather than the theatre, so seating was informal - around tables with refreshments available. (Bubbly, brewed refreshments - it is St. Pat's weekend, after all.)
Gail stayed up late to post the pictures and write about the show, I fell asleep - TGIF!
* Haggis is a Scottish dish consisting of a mixture of the minced heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep or calf mixed with suet, onions, oatmeal, and seasonings and boiled in the stomach of the slaughtered animal. This is considered by Scots to be not only a proud tradition, but actually edible.
Gail stayed up late to post the pictures and write about the show, I fell asleep - TGIF!
* Haggis is a Scottish dish consisting of a mixture of the minced heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep or calf mixed with suet, onions, oatmeal, and seasonings and boiled in the stomach of the slaughtered animal. This is considered by Scots to be not only a proud tradition, but actually edible.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Hugh the Cat
I've had Hugh since he was a newborn kitten, just a handful of snoozing fur. I got him from a farmer friend of mine in the springtime; his mother was a little black barn cat, and his father was a "travelin' man". Despite having a tiny mother, Hugh grew to over 18 musclebound pounds.
In his salad days he was quite an athlete - he could snatch a flying toy mouse out of the air, four feet off the ground, in a vertical 360. Nowadays he's not so quick and lithe, although he's still playful for his age. He's sprained his back a few times, his right ear is withered from an old injury, and to my chagrin he has become incontinent - he pees in his sleep. This has resulted in his being evicted from our new bed, poor chap.
He has always been friendly and social, with everyone except toddlers and dogs. All his life he has followed me around the house like my shadow, and still parks himself on my person for naps at every opportunity. In every way, a most agreeable little companion.
Gail and Hugh have been getting to know each other, over the past few months. It's going well so far; it's a novelty for him to have someone around during the day to complain to when he's hungry (always) and to allow him a foray outside to blink at the sun, when the weather is fair. (He's declawed in the front, so I can't let him run free; he couldn't fight a fully-armed cat, if the need arose.) I'm glad to report that Gail likes him too, and has been kind and patient with the old bean.
He has certainly never been photographed so much! And Gail has really been able to capture his personality; Her Flickr album of his pictures is hilarious, and has drawn many comments; he is easily the most popular subject among my photos too. Last night Gail posted a photo of Hugh sitting at the table, looking at her Powerbook; within hours someone posted this picture of their cat, watching Hugh's picture on their laptop! Gail and I were in stitches.
In his salad days he was quite an athlete - he could snatch a flying toy mouse out of the air, four feet off the ground, in a vertical 360. Nowadays he's not so quick and lithe, although he's still playful for his age. He's sprained his back a few times, his right ear is withered from an old injury, and to my chagrin he has become incontinent - he pees in his sleep. This has resulted in his being evicted from our new bed, poor chap.
He has always been friendly and social, with everyone except toddlers and dogs. All his life he has followed me around the house like my shadow, and still parks himself on my person for naps at every opportunity. In every way, a most agreeable little companion.
Gail and Hugh have been getting to know each other, over the past few months. It's going well so far; it's a novelty for him to have someone around during the day to complain to when he's hungry (always) and to allow him a foray outside to blink at the sun, when the weather is fair. (He's declawed in the front, so I can't let him run free; he couldn't fight a fully-armed cat, if the need arose.) I'm glad to report that Gail likes him too, and has been kind and patient with the old bean.
He has certainly never been photographed so much! And Gail has really been able to capture his personality; Her Flickr album of his pictures is hilarious, and has drawn many comments; he is easily the most popular subject among my photos too. Last night Gail posted a photo of Hugh sitting at the table, looking at her Powerbook; within hours someone posted this picture of their cat, watching Hugh's picture on their laptop! Gail and I were in stitches.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Man's Quest for Wings
When the skies turned up clear and blue Saturday morning, Gail and I knew we were going flying. But where to, today? I had been telling her about the places that small-plane pilots congregate; airports with good restaurants! One of my favorite stops in past seasons had been the "Wild Wings Cafe" at the airport in Reading, Pennsylvania. They had over a dozen varieties of chicken wings, and offered a five-way sampler... mmm! Reading is a nice short jaunt, around eighty miles from here; about a 45-minute flight.
So after chipping the plane out of the hangar (another big snowfall had blanketed Cherry Ridge) we were soon aloft and turning southwest. Gail filmed my takeoffs and landings; I can't sweep it under the rug if I bounce one now, she's got evidence! The day was perfect for flying, the air was calm and far warmer than our last trip to upstate New York.
Cleared to land at Reading, and as it turned out I didn't bounce this one. Rather good, actually. As we slowed and rolled out towards the taxiway, the tower controller called and said "Nice paint job, zero-two papa. Looks good." The sunny day was showing the garish colors of my plane to good effect; I enjoy it, it's fun to have something other than white-with-a-stripe. But then he called again with bad news - the Cafe had closed last fall, what were our intentions? Drat. Well, not a total loss; I turned around on the taxiway (try that in a Learjet!) and obtained clearance to cross the runway to the north end of the field. There, in the airport's older hangars, is the Mid-Atlantic Air Museum. They have a nice collection of vintage aircraft, including a few WWII birds and some classic airliners from the 1950s. We parked 02P on the vast ramp, tied her down and wandered over to the static displays.
The ramp was almost deserted, although the airport was fairly busy with transient traffic. But as we approached a museum guide came out with a small tour group; an Amish family, of all things. A husband and wife and a bunch of kids, all dressed in the characteristic style of the Pennsylvania Dutch. (Since one of the tenets of their way of life is a rejection of the modern world and its technology, it was rather incongruous to encounter them here -- boggling curiously at sleek silver airliners!) We gave in to curiosity too, presumably with less shame, and began exploring the old birds mellowing in the sun.
Airplanes are real expressions of engineering, and an opportunity to examine them closely reveals many interesting details. The materials and structures, and the shapes of things dictated by flowing air; and the added visual excitement of the weathering and age on these old machines, and the colorful paint schemes both military and civilian. So Gail and I both started photographing in earnest, tucking away the sights in the memory cards of our cameras.
Eventually we toured the inside of the big main hangar, for a nominal fee, and looked at the work progressing in the restoration shop. They are restoring a very rare WWII aircraft, a P-61 "Black Widow"; the first radar-equipped night fighter, which was built in small numbers near the end of the war. It's an enormous plane for a fighter, twin-engined and the size of a medium bomber. Their job really amounts to remanufacturing, since all they had to start with was a weathered wreck; but when complete it will be the only flying example in the world. The rest of the hangar houses some smaller static displays and the other flying aircraft of the collection, including the same B-25 "Mitchell" bomber that I got a ride in when I was 14.
We maintained our tradition of getting kicked out of museums at closing time, and wandered over to the stage set for the WWII reenactment that takes place every June. It's a clever plywood replica of a bombed-out French village, complete with tacked-on German signs and many other details. Gail found unique perspectives all over the ville faux, especially where the sun and weather had worked on the various surfaces. And while we were outside we saw a unique sight - hundreds, likely thousands, of geese were migrating overhead! In long, undulating lines and vees they were crossing from south to north, heading back to their Canadian summer homes. Apparently the Reading airport is right on their migratory route, something I filed away for the flight back home. I managed a few interesting views with my powerful zoom lens, and Gail caught some nice formations.
Eventually, in hunger, I had to pull Gail away and back to the plane; I decided that the best course would be to fly back home by nightfall and have dinner back north. The flight back was slightly longer, with a light headwind, but we were treated to a handsome sunset just five minutes from home. I actually watched the last sliver of sun disappear over the mountains and wink out.
Driving back home, we stopped at an Irish pub and restaurant: "Molly Maguires" tucked away in the timelost hamlet of Olyphant, PA. (If you ever get the urge to shoot a period film set in a mid-1960s small town, this is your place. Call me for directions.) The menu there is long, pages and pages, and includes many traditional Irish dishes. We finally got our chicken wings, and lots of other things combining potatoes, onions, butter, sausage and beer in various combinations; we ate until we were sated, and well beyond. (*burp*)
So after chipping the plane out of the hangar (another big snowfall had blanketed Cherry Ridge) we were soon aloft and turning southwest. Gail filmed my takeoffs and landings; I can't sweep it under the rug if I bounce one now, she's got evidence! The day was perfect for flying, the air was calm and far warmer than our last trip to upstate New York.
Cleared to land at Reading, and as it turned out I didn't bounce this one. Rather good, actually. As we slowed and rolled out towards the taxiway, the tower controller called and said "Nice paint job, zero-two papa. Looks good." The sunny day was showing the garish colors of my plane to good effect; I enjoy it, it's fun to have something other than white-with-a-stripe. But then he called again with bad news - the Cafe had closed last fall, what were our intentions? Drat. Well, not a total loss; I turned around on the taxiway (try that in a Learjet!) and obtained clearance to cross the runway to the north end of the field. There, in the airport's older hangars, is the Mid-Atlantic Air Museum. They have a nice collection of vintage aircraft, including a few WWII birds and some classic airliners from the 1950s. We parked 02P on the vast ramp, tied her down and wandered over to the static displays.
The ramp was almost deserted, although the airport was fairly busy with transient traffic. But as we approached a museum guide came out with a small tour group; an Amish family, of all things. A husband and wife and a bunch of kids, all dressed in the characteristic style of the Pennsylvania Dutch. (Since one of the tenets of their way of life is a rejection of the modern world and its technology, it was rather incongruous to encounter them here -- boggling curiously at sleek silver airliners!) We gave in to curiosity too, presumably with less shame, and began exploring the old birds mellowing in the sun.
Airplanes are real expressions of engineering, and an opportunity to examine them closely reveals many interesting details. The materials and structures, and the shapes of things dictated by flowing air; and the added visual excitement of the weathering and age on these old machines, and the colorful paint schemes both military and civilian. So Gail and I both started photographing in earnest, tucking away the sights in the memory cards of our cameras.
Eventually we toured the inside of the big main hangar, for a nominal fee, and looked at the work progressing in the restoration shop. They are restoring a very rare WWII aircraft, a P-61 "Black Widow"; the first radar-equipped night fighter, which was built in small numbers near the end of the war. It's an enormous plane for a fighter, twin-engined and the size of a medium bomber. Their job really amounts to remanufacturing, since all they had to start with was a weathered wreck; but when complete it will be the only flying example in the world. The rest of the hangar houses some smaller static displays and the other flying aircraft of the collection, including the same B-25 "Mitchell" bomber that I got a ride in when I was 14.
We maintained our tradition of getting kicked out of museums at closing time, and wandered over to the stage set for the WWII reenactment that takes place every June. It's a clever plywood replica of a bombed-out French village, complete with tacked-on German signs and many other details. Gail found unique perspectives all over the ville faux, especially where the sun and weather had worked on the various surfaces. And while we were outside we saw a unique sight - hundreds, likely thousands, of geese were migrating overhead! In long, undulating lines and vees they were crossing from south to north, heading back to their Canadian summer homes. Apparently the Reading airport is right on their migratory route, something I filed away for the flight back home. I managed a few interesting views with my powerful zoom lens, and Gail caught some nice formations.
Eventually, in hunger, I had to pull Gail away and back to the plane; I decided that the best course would be to fly back home by nightfall and have dinner back north. The flight back was slightly longer, with a light headwind, but we were treated to a handsome sunset just five minutes from home. I actually watched the last sliver of sun disappear over the mountains and wink out.
Driving back home, we stopped at an Irish pub and restaurant: "Molly Maguires" tucked away in the timelost hamlet of Olyphant, PA. (If you ever get the urge to shoot a period film set in a mid-1960s small town, this is your place. Call me for directions.) The menu there is long, pages and pages, and includes many traditional Irish dishes. We finally got our chicken wings, and lots of other things combining potatoes, onions, butter, sausage and beer in various combinations; we ate until we were sated, and well beyond. (*burp*)
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
Test your knowledge of me, Dave
This morning's distraction comes from Tanya, who posted this make-your-own-quiz link.
Not having anything to do other than work, I took Tanya's test and made my own. Take my quiz! And then check out the scoreboard!
Not having anything to do other than work, I took Tanya's test and made my own. Take my quiz! And then check out the scoreboard!
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Trip to Corning
The group of pilots at my home airport, the Cherry Ridge Pilot's Association, planned a fly-out for yesterday. Fly-outs are trips where several members in the group will all fly to the same place together, timing their arrival to coincide, despite the different performance of their planes. It serves as a social function, and a way to enjoy the hobby (obsession) of flying light aircraft.
Yesterday was to have been to Alton Bay, New Hampshire to land on an ice runway on a frozen lake. But when word came that the runway was unsuitable for landing, it was changed to Corning, New York; another area club was flying there, too. There is a warplane museum on the airport at Elmira-Corning, and the group planned on lunch and a tour of the restoration hangar.
I pitched the idea to Gail, but with a different attraction in mind; the Corning Museum of Glass. I'd been there many years ago, and since then it has been totally remodeled and doubled in size. It's sort of a hidden treasure in upstate New York, filled with beautiful art, antiquities and science. Lured by my promise of wondrous things to photograph, she liked the idea.
We arrived at the hangar a bit late to catch the others for lunch; most of them fly later-model planes that can outpace the Tri-Pacer by a few knots, so we would have had to leave sooner to meet them at noon. But we were going our own way anyway. The weather was mostly clear, but cold, with temps aloft of -18C. We took off into partly-cloudy skies and turned into the stiff headwinds from the northwest.
Even with the heater going full blast, it was slightly cold in the cabin. The walls and doors of this old plane are just two layers of thin synthetic fabric; and far from being pressurized, it leaks air around the windows and doors. As I checked that the outside air temp was in fact below zero (-20C), I recalled the flight home from Nashville, Tennessee when it was almost 100F. Temps in the cabin on that day were over 120 degrees (48C)! I have truly been to the extremes of temperature now... I hope. The GPS estimated 1:03 as our travel time to Elmira/Corning, and Gail got cozy next to me and fell asleep for a bit, once the turbulence died down.
By the time we got to Elmira, the cloud cover was solid just above us at 4500 feet. It must be a quiet town, as the controller cleared us to land when we were eight miles out. At the small-aircraft base we found that two of the three courtesy cars were out (probably with my mates from home!) and the third had a sick transmission. So we had to bite the bullet and rent a Hertz to get to the museum, but at least we had a good car for the day.
The museum was great - full of amazing things, bigger, and beautifully redesigned. Gail took a volume of photos, her account of the day is here. (Her photos were up Saturday night, she stayed up late posting them.) We stayed all afternoon and only left when the museum closed; we will definitely be back to see the things we missed. We had a great full supper at an Italian place in old Corning.
On the way back to the airport, I was shifting back into pilot-mode, mentally checking off my concerns about the cold, the dark and the weather. I called the Flight Service Station and got a loquacious controller, who advised me to file a flight plan, and warned me of approaching snow on the radar. It seemed to be getting bad to the northwest, moving in quickly with the prevailing wind; but our destination was still clear below 6,000 feet with 10-mile visibility. I decided that the best course was to leave immediately - conditions were still good to depart Elmira, and the bad weather moving in would likely last two days.
We bundled up and took off, and I was able to get to 3,500 feet with no trouble. We were flying in light snow, which concerned me a bit; I occasionally flicked on the landing light to look for any buildup of snow or ice on the plane. But visibility improved, with occasional patches of bright moonlight; and we were being pushed by a powerful tailwind. The GPS unit showed us covering ground at almost 140 m.p.h., thirty more than 02P can fly in still air. Gail slept and I flew as the villages of rural New York and then Pennsylvania passed below us.
In only forty minutes we were descending into Cherry Ridge, happy to see that the runway lights are all working now. (Thanks, Rick!) It was warmer than in New York, but only in a relative sense! We have our routine down; to minimize our exposure to the cold, Gail jumped out and pulled the car out of the tin hangar while I postflighted the plane and pushed it inside.
Yesterday was to have been to Alton Bay, New Hampshire to land on an ice runway on a frozen lake. But when word came that the runway was unsuitable for landing, it was changed to Corning, New York; another area club was flying there, too. There is a warplane museum on the airport at Elmira-Corning, and the group planned on lunch and a tour of the restoration hangar.
I pitched the idea to Gail, but with a different attraction in mind; the Corning Museum of Glass. I'd been there many years ago, and since then it has been totally remodeled and doubled in size. It's sort of a hidden treasure in upstate New York, filled with beautiful art, antiquities and science. Lured by my promise of wondrous things to photograph, she liked the idea.
We arrived at the hangar a bit late to catch the others for lunch; most of them fly later-model planes that can outpace the Tri-Pacer by a few knots, so we would have had to leave sooner to meet them at noon. But we were going our own way anyway. The weather was mostly clear, but cold, with temps aloft of -18C. We took off into partly-cloudy skies and turned into the stiff headwinds from the northwest.
Even with the heater going full blast, it was slightly cold in the cabin. The walls and doors of this old plane are just two layers of thin synthetic fabric; and far from being pressurized, it leaks air around the windows and doors. As I checked that the outside air temp was in fact below zero (-20C), I recalled the flight home from Nashville, Tennessee when it was almost 100F. Temps in the cabin on that day were over 120 degrees (48C)! I have truly been to the extremes of temperature now... I hope. The GPS estimated 1:03 as our travel time to Elmira/Corning, and Gail got cozy next to me and fell asleep for a bit, once the turbulence died down.
By the time we got to Elmira, the cloud cover was solid just above us at 4500 feet. It must be a quiet town, as the controller cleared us to land when we were eight miles out. At the small-aircraft base we found that two of the three courtesy cars were out (probably with my mates from home!) and the third had a sick transmission. So we had to bite the bullet and rent a Hertz to get to the museum, but at least we had a good car for the day.
The museum was great - full of amazing things, bigger, and beautifully redesigned. Gail took a volume of photos, her account of the day is here. (Her photos were up Saturday night, she stayed up late posting them.) We stayed all afternoon and only left when the museum closed; we will definitely be back to see the things we missed. We had a great full supper at an Italian place in old Corning.
On the way back to the airport, I was shifting back into pilot-mode, mentally checking off my concerns about the cold, the dark and the weather. I called the Flight Service Station and got a loquacious controller, who advised me to file a flight plan, and warned me of approaching snow on the radar. It seemed to be getting bad to the northwest, moving in quickly with the prevailing wind; but our destination was still clear below 6,000 feet with 10-mile visibility. I decided that the best course was to leave immediately - conditions were still good to depart Elmira, and the bad weather moving in would likely last two days.
We bundled up and took off, and I was able to get to 3,500 feet with no trouble. We were flying in light snow, which concerned me a bit; I occasionally flicked on the landing light to look for any buildup of snow or ice on the plane. But visibility improved, with occasional patches of bright moonlight; and we were being pushed by a powerful tailwind. The GPS unit showed us covering ground at almost 140 m.p.h., thirty more than 02P can fly in still air. Gail slept and I flew as the villages of rural New York and then Pennsylvania passed below us.
In only forty minutes we were descending into Cherry Ridge, happy to see that the runway lights are all working now. (Thanks, Rick!) It was warmer than in New York, but only in a relative sense! We have our routine down; to minimize our exposure to the cold, Gail jumped out and pulled the car out of the tin hangar while I postflighted the plane and pushed it inside.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Fielding Airlines, Flight 001
Since Gail has been flying with me for a while, and taking a lot on faith, I thought I would set out to answer some questions about myself and my plane; things that I may take for granted, and have been unintentionally keeping to myself.
The plane is a 1954 Piper Tri-Pacer. I bought it in September of 2003, and flew it home from Nashville, Tennessee, in a series of adventurous flights; I was learning the quirks of the old plane on the way home, and I only had a few hours in Tri-Pacers. Compared to a brand-new four-seat plane, it's cramped and noisy, and the view is obstructed by bracing struts and wires. But it's only about 15-20 miles per hour slower, uses two-thirds the fuel, and cost a tenth of the purchase price.
The Tri-Pacer is the last of a long line of Piper aircraft that began with the famous Cub. The Cub was a two-seat lightplane with 65 horsepower, and was built in the thousands from the late 1930s. It was rugged, easy to fly and performed well on its limited power. After World War II, there was a boom in general aviation, and the Cub family began to grow in power, comfort and capability. In succeeding models the engine power was increased and the fuselage widened to accommodate four seats; with the additional performance available, the long Cub wings were shortened by three feet on either side to a total of 29 feet span. This became the "short wing" Piper family, of which the Pacer was the most powerful.
The Pacer family already had an innovation for pilots of that era, landing flaps, which were never needed on the slower long-wing Pipers. In 1951, with the increased availability of paved runways, another feature was introduced; a nosewheel. Until then, only large transport aircraft had used "tricycle" gear - all light planes had tailwheels, suited to rough fields but more challenging to take off and land. Old pilots scoffed at the "training wheel", but the new "Tri-Pacer" was a sales success, and production of the Pacer ended the next year. Piper went on to sell over nine thousand trike-geared planes over the next ten years; almost three thousand are still flying.
Like the Cubs, the Tri-Pacer was made of a frame of welded steel tubing, with sealed fabric stretched and stitched over the body and wings. It was a rugged, labor-intensive style of construction that was used on nearly every plane since the Lindbergh era. In 1961, to compete with the increasing challenge from Cessna, Piper introduced the Cherokee series. Like its rival, the Cherokee was made in an entirely new way - all metal, folded and riveted aluminum. The sleek new Cherokee could be manufactured much easier - it had only half as many parts!
My "Tripe", N1502P, has very little in common with the plane that rolled out of Lock Haven, PA back in the Buddy Holly era - other than a tail number. The paperwork for every repair and service ever done to the plane is recorded in a little stack of logbooks, going back to 1954. In the late 1950's it flipped over on landing, with only slight damage - testament to the rugged steel-tube structure. One wing was replaced at that time. Over the years it has been repaired and slightly modernized, and it's been modified many times in response to AD's - Airworthiness Directives, which come from the FAA and carry the force of law. (Want to give an aircraft owner nightmares? Whisper "Ay Dee" in his ear. They can cost thousands of dollars, and the plane is grounded until they are complied with!) The 4-cylinder Lycoming engine is nearly identical to brand-new engines; it has been completely overhauled twice, and at the last rebuild in 1998 nearly every moving part of the engine was replaced.
In the 1980s, 02P was modified with stronger wings and a heavy-duty electrical system to carry a lighted advertising sign under its belly; today, the sign has been removed. And the tough fabric covering has been replaced twice, most recently in 1992, with a synthetic fabric and plasticized coating which is far more durable than the original cotton cloth.
Even though 50 years old, it still has to pass current Federal standards for airworthiness. I am required to have it inspected every year - and the process is nothing like an auto inspection. It spends at least a week being taken apart and scrutinized by aircraft mechanics, who must sign off on everything with their name and certificate number. Parts are X-rayed, oil is chemically analyzed, and many components are replaced based on their age, not condition.
It's a fun plane to fly. The instruments and radios have been modernized, although it lacks a few items to be capable of blind-flying. It is more challenging to fly than newer planes, which have a lot of built-in aerodynamic tricks to make them tame and stable. It needs to be flown; let go of the controls, and 02P will wander off in random directions of her own choosing. But the controls respond instantly; I can only compare it to the difference between a bread truck and a little MG sportscar.
As Gail will find out - it's my hope that she will start learning to fly on the old kite, and log the time officially once I'm an instructor. It will be good to have a second pilot aboard, and she might just enjoy it as much as I do. (And if she can fly 02P, she can fly anything!)
The plane is a 1954 Piper Tri-Pacer. I bought it in September of 2003, and flew it home from Nashville, Tennessee, in a series of adventurous flights; I was learning the quirks of the old plane on the way home, and I only had a few hours in Tri-Pacers. Compared to a brand-new four-seat plane, it's cramped and noisy, and the view is obstructed by bracing struts and wires. But it's only about 15-20 miles per hour slower, uses two-thirds the fuel, and cost a tenth of the purchase price.
The Tri-Pacer is the last of a long line of Piper aircraft that began with the famous Cub. The Cub was a two-seat lightplane with 65 horsepower, and was built in the thousands from the late 1930s. It was rugged, easy to fly and performed well on its limited power. After World War II, there was a boom in general aviation, and the Cub family began to grow in power, comfort and capability. In succeeding models the engine power was increased and the fuselage widened to accommodate four seats; with the additional performance available, the long Cub wings were shortened by three feet on either side to a total of 29 feet span. This became the "short wing" Piper family, of which the Pacer was the most powerful.
The Pacer family already had an innovation for pilots of that era, landing flaps, which were never needed on the slower long-wing Pipers. In 1951, with the increased availability of paved runways, another feature was introduced; a nosewheel. Until then, only large transport aircraft had used "tricycle" gear - all light planes had tailwheels, suited to rough fields but more challenging to take off and land. Old pilots scoffed at the "training wheel", but the new "Tri-Pacer" was a sales success, and production of the Pacer ended the next year. Piper went on to sell over nine thousand trike-geared planes over the next ten years; almost three thousand are still flying.
Like the Cubs, the Tri-Pacer was made of a frame of welded steel tubing, with sealed fabric stretched and stitched over the body and wings. It was a rugged, labor-intensive style of construction that was used on nearly every plane since the Lindbergh era. In 1961, to compete with the increasing challenge from Cessna, Piper introduced the Cherokee series. Like its rival, the Cherokee was made in an entirely new way - all metal, folded and riveted aluminum. The sleek new Cherokee could be manufactured much easier - it had only half as many parts!
My "Tripe", N1502P, has very little in common with the plane that rolled out of Lock Haven, PA back in the Buddy Holly era - other than a tail number. The paperwork for every repair and service ever done to the plane is recorded in a little stack of logbooks, going back to 1954. In the late 1950's it flipped over on landing, with only slight damage - testament to the rugged steel-tube structure. One wing was replaced at that time. Over the years it has been repaired and slightly modernized, and it's been modified many times in response to AD's - Airworthiness Directives, which come from the FAA and carry the force of law. (Want to give an aircraft owner nightmares? Whisper "Ay Dee" in his ear. They can cost thousands of dollars, and the plane is grounded until they are complied with!) The 4-cylinder Lycoming engine is nearly identical to brand-new engines; it has been completely overhauled twice, and at the last rebuild in 1998 nearly every moving part of the engine was replaced.
In the 1980s, 02P was modified with stronger wings and a heavy-duty electrical system to carry a lighted advertising sign under its belly; today, the sign has been removed. And the tough fabric covering has been replaced twice, most recently in 1992, with a synthetic fabric and plasticized coating which is far more durable than the original cotton cloth.
Even though 50 years old, it still has to pass current Federal standards for airworthiness. I am required to have it inspected every year - and the process is nothing like an auto inspection. It spends at least a week being taken apart and scrutinized by aircraft mechanics, who must sign off on everything with their name and certificate number. Parts are X-rayed, oil is chemically analyzed, and many components are replaced based on their age, not condition.
It's a fun plane to fly. The instruments and radios have been modernized, although it lacks a few items to be capable of blind-flying. It is more challenging to fly than newer planes, which have a lot of built-in aerodynamic tricks to make them tame and stable. It needs to be flown; let go of the controls, and 02P will wander off in random directions of her own choosing. But the controls respond instantly; I can only compare it to the difference between a bread truck and a little MG sportscar.
As Gail will find out - it's my hope that she will start learning to fly on the old kite, and log the time officially once I'm an instructor. It will be good to have a second pilot aboard, and she might just enjoy it as much as I do. (And if she can fly 02P, she can fly anything!)
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Test (tube) pilots
Friday night, Gail and I went over to Montage Mountain to go snow tubing. (See Gail's account at Snowtubing Postmortem). It's just 4 miles from our house; kind of smallish for a ski slope, but very convenient to have nearby. We haven't skied in a while, and I had never snow tubed - so we figured our marked lack of experience would be entertaining.If you've never been, the idea is to travel down a snowy incline after the manner of a sled, riding on an inflated truck tire tube.
Since the tube is round, it has no particular stem or stern, and will travel freely in any direction.
Since it is elastic and filled with air, it will transmit shocks from the irregular terrain to the rider, so as to eject said rider in a random direction.
Since it is smooth on the bottom, the coefficient of friction over the packed, icy snow on the ramp is quite low and provides a startling terminal velocity.
In short, great fun. Unlike skiing, where instruction is available and encouraged, anyone can go out and tube with no lessons or safety briefings of any kind. In this state we bought our lift passes and went up the hill.
There is a cable tow to pull you up the hill; a little awkward to mount and dismount the tube, and it made me feel a little lazy. Our first time up, confronted with the steep ramps before us, we cautiously seated ourselves on the tubes and let go. (You can ride upright, prone, or any weird position you like; again, no instructions!)
Off we went into the frigid night air - picking up speed fast. With my feet in front, I put my boots down to brake a little; instantly I was showered in the face with a spray of ice from my feet. OK, that's better; what I can't see can't hurt me, right? Spinning around, bouncing along faster...
Rather than teach the patrons to stop, the management found it expedient to simply stretch a broad net across the slope, to catch anyone who would otherwise shoot off the ramp and continue on down to the Interstate. It caught me; a moment later, it caught Gail, in grand fashion. She hit hard, so hard that the tube shot straight up and came down on her! But we were laughing, damp but undamaged, and we got in line for another try.
On my third run I switched to prone position, going down headfirst on my belly; the best way for speed and visibility. You have a modicum of control by dragging your toes on one side or the other, or both at once to slow down. Each time we went down, I got a little more confident, and a little faster, once I knew how much stopping power I had. Gail switched to headfirst, too.
It was getting colder, and we took a break to warm ourselves by the bonfire with some hot chocolate. When we resumed, the line was much shorter, so our runs came closer together. I noticed that the braking action was wearing the polish off the front of my leather boots! But by now I was hooked, and bent on raw speed. I could be almost airborne by the second steep section, really moving, and still stop in a shower of ice at the bottom.
We managed to squeeze in ten runs before the lift closed at 10:00, so we figured we got our money's worth from the lift pass. We were chilled to the bone, but it was a blast; we cranked up the car heater and headed down the mountain. Back home, we thawed ourselves with a hot shower, and settled in for a movie; but I was spent, and was asleep before the first hour.
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Countdown from ten
From Katy, through Gail; a fun little listing game about yourself. If you play, post it or send it along.TEN random things about me:
1. Both my thumbs are double-jointed
2. I can swim like a fish
3. My vision is slowly improving
4. I have a streak of white hair at my temple; it's a birthmark
5. I'm a fair cook
6. Ridden in police cruisers, twice
7. I have perfect pitch
8. Once hired a sumo wrestler
9. I'm absent-minded
10. If you have a game console, you've probably seen my artwork
NINE places I want to visit:
1. The North Pole (seriously!)
2. Rome
3. Moorish Spain
4. Easter Island
5. Nepal
6. Moscow (Russia - I've been to Moscow, PA)
7. Hawaii
8. Paris
9. Argentina
EIGHT things I want to do before I die:
1. Get my CFI rating
2. Build a wooden sailboat
3. Skydive
4. Find someone alive on a SAR mission
5. Hang glide (I've done it, but I want to do it more!)
6. Learn to make music, somehow
7. Fly a DC-3
8. Blow out 100 candles *hee*
SEVEN ways to win my heart:
1. Be different
2. Have integrity
3. Hold my hand
4. Find the joy in life
5. Care about others, and animals
6. Enjoy flying
7. Chili dogs
SIX things I believe in:
1. Myself
2. Bernoulli's principle
3. Science and the natural world
4. Simplicity
5. Patience
6. Love conquers all
FIVE things I'm afraid of:
1. Disease
2. Cockpit fires
3. Losing my keys
4. Low overcasts
5. Heartbreak
FOUR of my favorite items in my bedroom:
1. Gail
2. Book "Song of the Sky" by Guy Murchie
3. Hugh - although he's banished from the new bed!
4. The new bed
THREE things I do almost every day:
1. Read
2. Spoil my cat
3. Daydream
TWO things I'm trying not to do right now:
1. Worry
2. Crash
ONE person I want to see right now:
1. Dan
Monday, February 07, 2005
Gail and Dave Take Manhattan (Again) (From the Air)
We slept in after our late arrival from Philadelphia, but the warm clear weather was persisting, so we couldn't pass up another great flying day. I had told Gail about flying around Manhattan, and we figured that today would be the perfect day. Breakfast (brunch!) consumed and cameras freshly recharged, we lit out for the airport.First order of business; chip away at the snow and ice that had the hangar door stuck fast. We both had half-destroyed our feet and shoes kicking at the ice when I saw Rick, the airport owner nearby; he quickly came by with his tractor and auger and helped clear the snow. Soon the Tri-Pacer stood brightly in the sun, and we folded ourselves in and took off. The trip across Pennsylvania and New Jersey took about 50 minutes; as the landscape below us changed from frozen lakes and trees to dense suburbs, I was carefully preparing myself for the navigational challenge.
The airspace we were flying into is the busiest in the world, bar none. To fly over New York City takes you into the triangle between Newark, LaGuardia and Kennedy airports - plus the helicopter traffic over Manhattan and the exec jet traffic into Teterboro. But there is a mousehole in all of this; the "VFR corridor", a narrow strip of airspace from the water up to 1100 feet over the Hudson River, which is reserved for small aircraft to safely transit this congested area. If it were not for this imaginary tunnel, small planes would have to fly miles out of their way to travel up and down the coast; and too, it affords one of the most spectacular views possible of Manhattan.
I planned on flying to a point south of Newark airspace and requesting a transit from south to north; this way, the city would be on our right, and Gail would get the best photos and views on her side, with the afternoon sun behind us. I boggled at the air traffic; jumbo jets lumbered back and forth above us, helicopters swarmed below. I was "handed" quickly and efficiently from one air traffic controller to the next, and I have to say that I got sterling service from all of them. We were given vectors to steer us safely through Newark's airspace, and our little 50-year-old plane carried us along through the 21st century traffic, at a stately 100 m.p.h.
We joined the banks of the Hudson River just north of the Verrazano bridge, and passed Liberty Island on the right; oops, Gail was on the wrong side for that one, but she reached over my shoulder and managed to snap a few frames of the Statue of Liberty. Crossing the harbor to the southern tip of Manhattan, I lined up on the east bank of the river. We were cruising only a few hundred feet above the highest towers, right over the docks; and we immediately noticed the gaping hole in the forest of skyscrapers that is Ground Zero. Gail was shooting every moment, and got a lot of amazing pictures. We passed a quarter-mile from the spire of the Empire State Building, where we had stood and photographed the city just nine days ago. (We were flying at 1500 feet; the spire of the ESB is at 1515'!)
We passed over the USS Intrepid, the aircraft carrier that is now moored on the Hudson as a floating museum; I resisted the urge to cut the power and circle in for a deck landing. As we continued north, we looked over Central Park and midtown as we headed towards the George Washington Bridge. Gail and I have crossed the GW many times on our trips to and from JFK; now we crossed it perpendicularly, a thousand feet up. Time for a few more photos, Columbia University and Harlem, and finally we were north of Teterboro, with open airspace to our west. I climbed and banked left, and poked at the GPS (ah, thank you GPS!) to set a course for Greenwood Lake airport in New Jersey.
Gail's morning coffee was making itself felt - too urgently for the long trip home, so I picked that airport as the first easy washroom-stop stop west of Teterboro. It turned out to be a neat place to visit, though - as I turned final, and Gail was recording my landing on video, I saw an unusual sight; a 1950s-vintage Lockheed Constellation parked on the ramp, towering over the gaggle of small planes parked around it. We parked and Gail dashed off as I took some snaps of the old airliner; its flying days over, it is permanently grounded now, but being restored as a static display and as office space for the airport and the flight school. We stepped inside to see the big cabin of the Connie, now with the seats removed and newly carpeted and furnished. What a neat place to have your ground lessons, in a classic old prop-liner! Not to mention the hundred or so bird families that were happily nesting in the undersides and engines of the plane.
Nature's call answered, we took off again and flew back the 45 miles to Cherry Ridge. We refueled and stowed 02P in her hangar and went back to town, famished, for a ten-thousand-calorie seafood dinner at Cooper's with my mother. Gail and I are looking at Cooper's as possible caterers for the wedding; but it was also her first look at the restaurant, which is huge and rambling and stuffed to the gunwales (literally - it's shaped like a ship!) with nautical tchotzkes and historic artifacts.
Gail and Dave Take Philadelphia
Since Gail and I spent the week cooped up at home and work, respectively, we traveled down to Philadelphia on Saturday to enjoy the nearest big city and the beautiful weather. Gail, who has been Many Places, had never been to Philly; and I hadn't been downtown in a long time. We considered flying down, but it's a leisurely two-hour drive from Scranton, and it's tricky to park the plane downtown.
We parked the car next to the Bourse Building, the first mercantile exchange in the U.S., opened in 1895 and now a food court. (!) That's not unusual in Philly; so many of the buildings are historic. Philadelphia has been a major city for over 300 years, and if you paid attention during your grade school history, you will know that it was the first capital of the United States, and the city in which the Declaration of Independence was signed.
We were a block from Independence Hall, home of the First Continental Congress, and near the plaza which is home to the Liberty Bell. But the weather was too nice to stand in queues, besides which I didn't want to lose another pocketknife going through security. (Even to walk by the Liberty Bell, you have to go through a metal detector and be searched. I imagined the ghosts of Franklin and Jefferson, shaking their heads at the current paranoiac state of life in the birthplace of American freedom.)
But we were both armed with our digicams and up for a good walk, so we headed uptown towards City Hall, grey and historic, built in 1874. Today the larger skyscrapers tower over it, but it has a commanding place in the center of the city; it can be seen for dozens of blocks in every direction. All along the way we photographed other bits of historic Philly, then decided to head to the waterfront for sunset.
We dropped down to the subway level to take a train downtown. The SEPTA stations are gray and utilitarian; very grim and dirty. I misread the directions on a token vending machine, and mistakenly purchased $20 worth! Oh well, I thought, we'll save them for another visit. But a few stops later we were down to Second Street, near Christ Church and the pedestrian bridge to Penn's Landing on the Delaware River. We noted that there were quite a few inviting restaurants in Old Town, and walked out over the bridge.
The biggest landmark in view was the Ben Franklin bridge, stretching over the broad Delaware to Camden, New Jersey. Huge container ships and barges ply the Delaware down here, and farther south are the immense dockyards and the Naval shipyard. Penn's Landing is a public park along the west side of the river, with several historic ships on display and a maritime museum. We took in the setting sun and photographed everything and each other, before our growling stomachs led us back towards the city.
Back in Old Town, we stopped and read menus in the windows of a lot of inviting restaurants, with many world cuisines; Afghan, Cuban, Indian, and others. But since it was Gail's first visit, we decided to find some "real" Philadelphia cheese steak sandwiches. We did, at a nice little grill (Steve's?) where we stuffed ourselves on some very authentic cheesesteaks, plus jalapeno poppers and crab fries.
On the way back to the Bourse, we passed a street guitar player; he caught my attention and began a fun little game. He played the opening chords of songs, first Hendrix tunes and then other hits from the sixties and seventies. Most were just a little early for me - very early for Gail - but I pulled out a few of them, and recognized all of the songs. Grand Funk Railroad, Bob Dylan, Iron Butterfly - groovy, man! Solid! I wanted to tip something into his bag, but I had very little change - but I did have all those damn subway tokens! He said that he rides the tubes, so they would be of use to him; I gave him most of my pocketful, saving only a few for our next trip.
On the way home, the hum of the car and the complex carbs of the giant cheesesteak put Gail to sleep quickly, and she dozed as I drove back to Scranton. A disappointing weekend for Eagles fans, but a good one for us.
We parked the car next to the Bourse Building, the first mercantile exchange in the U.S., opened in 1895 and now a food court. (!) That's not unusual in Philly; so many of the buildings are historic. Philadelphia has been a major city for over 300 years, and if you paid attention during your grade school history, you will know that it was the first capital of the United States, and the city in which the Declaration of Independence was signed.
We were a block from Independence Hall, home of the First Continental Congress, and near the plaza which is home to the Liberty Bell. But the weather was too nice to stand in queues, besides which I didn't want to lose another pocketknife going through security. (Even to walk by the Liberty Bell, you have to go through a metal detector and be searched. I imagined the ghosts of Franklin and Jefferson, shaking their heads at the current paranoiac state of life in the birthplace of American freedom.)
But we were both armed with our digicams and up for a good walk, so we headed uptown towards City Hall, grey and historic, built in 1874. Today the larger skyscrapers tower over it, but it has a commanding place in the center of the city; it can be seen for dozens of blocks in every direction. All along the way we photographed other bits of historic Philly, then decided to head to the waterfront for sunset.We dropped down to the subway level to take a train downtown. The SEPTA stations are gray and utilitarian; very grim and dirty. I misread the directions on a token vending machine, and mistakenly purchased $20 worth! Oh well, I thought, we'll save them for another visit. But a few stops later we were down to Second Street, near Christ Church and the pedestrian bridge to Penn's Landing on the Delaware River. We noted that there were quite a few inviting restaurants in Old Town, and walked out over the bridge.
The biggest landmark in view was the Ben Franklin bridge, stretching over the broad Delaware to Camden, New Jersey. Huge container ships and barges ply the Delaware down here, and farther south are the immense dockyards and the Naval shipyard. Penn's Landing is a public park along the west side of the river, with several historic ships on display and a maritime museum. We took in the setting sun and photographed everything and each other, before our growling stomachs led us back towards the city.Back in Old Town, we stopped and read menus in the windows of a lot of inviting restaurants, with many world cuisines; Afghan, Cuban, Indian, and others. But since it was Gail's first visit, we decided to find some "real" Philadelphia cheese steak sandwiches. We did, at a nice little grill (Steve's?) where we stuffed ourselves on some very authentic cheesesteaks, plus jalapeno poppers and crab fries.
On the way back to the Bourse, we passed a street guitar player; he caught my attention and began a fun little game. He played the opening chords of songs, first Hendrix tunes and then other hits from the sixties and seventies. Most were just a little early for me - very early for Gail - but I pulled out a few of them, and recognized all of the songs. Grand Funk Railroad, Bob Dylan, Iron Butterfly - groovy, man! Solid! I wanted to tip something into his bag, but I had very little change - but I did have all those damn subway tokens! He said that he rides the tubes, so they would be of use to him; I gave him most of my pocketful, saving only a few for our next trip.
On the way home, the hum of the car and the complex carbs of the giant cheesesteak put Gail to sleep quickly, and she dozed as I drove back to Scranton. A disappointing weekend for Eagles fans, but a good one for us.
Friday, February 04, 2005
A new approach
My small home airstrip, Cherry Ridge Airport (N30) near Honesdale, PA, has a new published instrument approach procedure! The new plate came out in the most recent update, and shows the GPS approach to runway 36, landing to the north.This means that instrument-rated pilots with appropriate GPS units can make a blind approach to landing, in conditions down to a 700-foot overcast. This is a useful thing for our little hole in the trees. The approach guides you from the initial approach fix, an imaginary point in the air called "TALLI", to the final fix, "AYUKU" over Lake Wallenpaupack.
So, as Ron quipped in his email, "TALLI-ho!" 13 miles to home...
Historic photos
I have scanned and posted a few pictures from an envelope full of photos I found in the estate of a friend-of-a-friend, a WWII veteran who passed away several years ago. They show his experiences in the Pacific theatre: his trip across, including an attack on his ship by Japanese aircraft; his base, a B-24 bomber group, from the air and from the ground; and a few faded Kodachrome shots of the jungle and a boat trip around the atoll.Also of interest to an aviation buff are some pictures of a few downed Japanese aircraft on the base. The U.S. never had very good intelligence on the Japanese aircraft industry until late in the war, so any intact specimens were studied carefully and a matter of security; a blackboard in one of the shots is marked "confidential". Since the actual model designations were not known, each Japanese type was given a codename - the best known being "Zeke" for the Nakajima Zero fighter. Some of these photos show the cockpit of a G4M "Betty" bomber, and a crashlanded D4Y "Judy" naval torpedo bomber.
I've been trying to date the photos, and locate the base. The fact that the bombers are B-24s suggests that it was before the introduction of the larger B-29s in the latter part of 1944; and the nose turret and unpainted finish marks them as late-production models. The tails have horizontal stripes, which may be a clue as to the unit. Also in the aerial photo is a P-47 "Thunderbolt" fighter; these were replaced by Mustangs later in the war, although this lone example may be a holdout.
The D4Y "Judy" type was introduced in 1943, and was rare for a Japanese aircraft in having a liquid-cooled engine; later versions were equipped with the rounder, blunter air-cooled radial engines that were more easily produced and maintained. This example had the liquid-cooled engine, very similar in design to the German inverted-vee Daimler-Benz. So my best guess for this little date-puzzle is sometime between 1943 and 1944.
There are two other items in the packet that are more personal, and serious, than mere historic interest and planespotting. One is a black-and-white negative of a woman and a small child on a tricycle; possibly his family back home. I will try to make a positive print of this one. The other is a murky picture of a cave entrance, strewn with damaged gear, and showing the bodies of several Japanese soldiers who were presumably killed when the island base was captured. I won't post that one, out of respect for those soldiers and their families.
Spiders: A rebuttal
Upon reading Socar's journal entry of today, A Spiderless Tomorrow, I felt compelled to offer a few words (Ha! Right, Dave.) on behalf of the spiders.
Many among us are guilty of spider persecution, or at least are horrified and frightened by them. Not me. For I know many wondrous things about the eight-legged, and the myriad little ways they are gainfully employed. Not like the insects, who are in the main a bunch of overbreeding freeloaders and ne'er-do-wells.
As Socar pointed out, they may well see us as the invaders. Spider history goes back 400 million years, to the Devonian period; we are a bunch of altered apes who came on the scene in the last 70,000 years. All spiders are predators, and the main item in most spider diets is insects. Their scientific class, Arachnida, is named for the Greek tapestry weaver Arachne, who was turned into a spider by the goddess Athena. So right off the bat they have a literary air. Unlike insects, they have lungs, and their blood - haemolymph - is slightly bluish in colour. True nobility.
They are clever little creatures. They live underwater, at the top of Mt. Everest, on six continents - and it's likely that a few have packed off to Antarctica with the human crazies that work down there. Scientists have been trying to synthesize a material like spider silk for years; it's at least five times as strong as steel, twice as elastic as nylon, waterproof and stretchable. And yet for spiders, it's child's play - baby spiders can make perfect webs shortly after hatching.
Fear of them, by humans, is largely unjustified. Any spider smaller than about 1/4" (8 mm) in body length cannot break human skin with their tiny fangs, and most spider species are smaller than this. Even the larger species will only bite humans if they are pressed into close contact. That said, there are a few species in Australia (legendary for its huge, poisonous versions of everything) that have very toxic venom.
Before you take after one with your shoe, consider their usefulness. They are sentinels against the insect population; our world would be awash in insects without a dominant predator. A few spiders in your house can and will consume hundreds of mosquitos, cockroaches, ants and other pests. By curtailing mosquito populations, they form an important link in world disease control; in the same way they save hundreds of tons of crops each year from harmful insects.
So, while I do not advocate living in a roomful of them - nor do I myself - at least consider a more peaceful coexistence. When you see a web in some remote corner of your home, remember that the occupant may well be doing you a service, and give her* a break.
*Male spiders do not build webs.
Many among us are guilty of spider persecution, or at least are horrified and frightened by them. Not me. For I know many wondrous things about the eight-legged, and the myriad little ways they are gainfully employed. Not like the insects, who are in the main a bunch of overbreeding freeloaders and ne'er-do-wells.As Socar pointed out, they may well see us as the invaders. Spider history goes back 400 million years, to the Devonian period; we are a bunch of altered apes who came on the scene in the last 70,000 years. All spiders are predators, and the main item in most spider diets is insects. Their scientific class, Arachnida, is named for the Greek tapestry weaver Arachne, who was turned into a spider by the goddess Athena. So right off the bat they have a literary air. Unlike insects, they have lungs, and their blood - haemolymph - is slightly bluish in colour. True nobility.
They are clever little creatures. They live underwater, at the top of Mt. Everest, on six continents - and it's likely that a few have packed off to Antarctica with the human crazies that work down there. Scientists have been trying to synthesize a material like spider silk for years; it's at least five times as strong as steel, twice as elastic as nylon, waterproof and stretchable. And yet for spiders, it's child's play - baby spiders can make perfect webs shortly after hatching.
Fear of them, by humans, is largely unjustified. Any spider smaller than about 1/4" (8 mm) in body length cannot break human skin with their tiny fangs, and most spider species are smaller than this. Even the larger species will only bite humans if they are pressed into close contact. That said, there are a few species in Australia (legendary for its huge, poisonous versions of everything) that have very toxic venom.
Before you take after one with your shoe, consider their usefulness. They are sentinels against the insect population; our world would be awash in insects without a dominant predator. A few spiders in your house can and will consume hundreds of mosquitos, cockroaches, ants and other pests. By curtailing mosquito populations, they form an important link in world disease control; in the same way they save hundreds of tons of crops each year from harmful insects.
So, while I do not advocate living in a roomful of them - nor do I myself - at least consider a more peaceful coexistence. When you see a web in some remote corner of your home, remember that the occupant may well be doing you a service, and give her* a break.
*Male spiders do not build webs.
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