eetrojan
Pattern Altitude
Here’s a more detailed write-up regarding my private checkride. It’s pretty long, so be warned that this probably isn’t all that interesting.
Some Background
I’m 50 years old and the classic case of delayed entry. I started ground school in my late 20’s, at which point my pregnant wife said “no freaking way,” and twenty years later, got back to it. Still married to the love of my life, but boys are now 19 and 15, so it’s a better time.
I started training in January of 2012. That’s some pretty simple math. In other words, I’ve been fumbling along at this for about 24 months. I took a five month hiatus when work got busy, but flying about 3 times a month, I have “amassed” about 80 hours to this point.
My DPE had some scheduling issues with our planned Saturday, and with some apologies, asked if I could do the oral on Friday and the flight portion on Saturday. Without revealing that I wholeheartedly agreed to this “inconvenience” (I figured it would be really nice to split it up, and it was!), I said I could probably make that happen.
Day 1 - The Prep and the Oral Portion
I met the examiner at my flight school on Friday afternoon. We have some things in common. Great guy.
I have prepared a binder that contained, among other things, my knowledge test report and six crispy hundred dollar bills folded inside of a clear sleeve and stapled shut. I handed him the imprisoned money first thing. He truly seemed to enjoy receiving his payment inside of, his words, a “puzzle.” Some of you may gasp at the fact that the ride was $600, but given the amount of time he put in over the two days, I think that he earned it.
The paperwork is a bit of a trudge. He tried to get me to smile by first looking at my knowledge test report, shaking his head in mock disapproval, and asking why I didn’t get a 100 (I got a 95). He then very carefully checked my log book. For example, he made sure that my 3.0 hours of hood time (required) did NOT include any simulator time. He went to the log book row by row, trying to to get a sense of the pace of my training. He noticed the 5-month off time, and he commented on the fact that I just did a dual-flight to Catalina Island, with my instructor, for fun. He counted my night landings (10), and he made sure that each and every one of my solo and XC flights was executed within the valid timeframe of a corresponding CFI endorsement. He made sure I had a current solo endorsement for tomorrow’s checkride, and two endorsements re recent flight preparation and my supposed readiness to take the practical test.
According to him, quite a few applicant’s don’t get past this log book check. Make sure that’s not you.
He then opened the folder from my flight school and confirmed that I actually had a graduation certificate. After that, he pecked at some keys on his computer and prepared to pull up my online IACRA (Integrated Airman Certification and Rating Application). For you future applicant’s, be sure you come prepared with your IACRA username, password, and your so-called FTN (FAA Tracking Number). I had the login info, but I had to scramble around a bit to find my FTN. Evidently, the DPE needs the FTN to even pull up your IACRA. You will need your login info in order to countersign the application.
The DPE discovered that my instructor’s electronic signature was missing from the IACRA, but fortunately, Mark was in the other room working with a multi-engine student. One more pothole avoided.
This particular DPE doesn’t typically work with my school, but the DPE they usually work with is out of pocket for a while, so he’s filling in. He noticed with a smirk that the flight school had “cleansed” my student folder of the red-penned stage check tests he had stumbled on and used with a couple of prior applicants. In other words, to his apparent chagrin, he didn’t have a roadmap to the topics that I may have struggled with during my training checks. Thank you flight school pixies.
The oral, once it got started, lasted about 2-1/2 hours. He was pretty thorough, walking methodically through his written “plan of action” and crossing things off as we went (One of his early checklist items was “Put applicant at ease.” Nice. It was checked.).
Per the stereotype, I noticed that after I answered, he would use details within my answer to ask follow-up questions. “So, Joe, what would you do as you’re approaching Mariposa-Yosemite (KMPI)?” “Well, I’d tune-in the AWOS and check the weather.” “Oh, what’s an AWOS?” “Umm, … it’s an automatic weather observation station.” “Oh, what’s an ASOS?” “Ummm, it’s an automatic …. Ummm, SOMETHING-ELSE observation system. I’d have to look that up to figure out the S. Oh wait, it’s surface” You get the point. Within reason, don’t give more detail than is required.
He covered private pilot privileges and limitations, flight instruments, the pitot-static system, V-speeds, the color-coded limitations on the ASI, required docs in the plane, POH sections, when are winds reported true and when magnetic, VFR minimums, airspace encountered by his flying pen-tip moving around a chart, MOAs, restricted areas, procedures for landing at a Charlie, where you need a mode-c transponder, inspections and logs, crosswinds, hypoxia, CO poisoning, etc., etc.
He carefully went over my navlog and marked-up charts that detailed my flight plan for our hypothetical cross country from John Wayne (KSNA) to Mariposa-Yosemite (KMPI). I had worked out this 260 NM flight with 22 visual checkpoints, supplemented with VORs. He liked that I had numbered the checkpoints on my chart for quick correlation with similarly numbered rows on the navlog. I figured out the wind correction angles (WCAs) earlier in the morning and had final magnetic headings, ETEs, and fuel burns. I had calculated top-of-climbs (TOCs) and a top-of-descent (TOD) and marked my charts accordingly. I had two climbs because I planned to climb to 3,000 and fly northbound under the eastern shelves of the LAX bravo and around its core, and then after I was completely clear to the north, turn north-west and climb to 8,500 to get safely through the Gorman Pass (the “grapevine” to my fellow Californians).
I had worked out take-off and landing distances and he had me walk him through how I did that, using that as an opportunity to grill me about pressure altitude, density altitude, and Koch charts.
All in all, the oral went really well because I was well prepared for it. I didn’t think that was true in advance, but in hindsight, I was probably over-prepared. The advantage of taking 24 months to train is that you have a lot of time between flights to read about flight stuff. I was also fortunate, however, that he didn’t pick any of the topics I’m weak on (special VFR for example).
After we were done, he prepare a “discontinuance” form that said we would continue the test tomorrow at 2pm. He tells me not to lose this very important form, that I could use it with another DPE if he gets hit by a train, but if he survives, I still have to hand him the original tomorrow in order to continue.
He complimented me on how I did and called my oral a “home run.” Phew.
We’re rolling now. Tomorrow, though, is the actual flying where I’m a very regular guy, maybe even a little behind the curve.
Day 2 - The Flight Portion
The second half of my checkride is set to start on Saturday at 2pm.
It’s early Saturday morning. I got some coffee in me at sunrise and then headed to the airport for an 8am tune-up with my instructor. We did some pattern work to get me in the game for the afternoon. We focused on soft-field takeoffs and short-field landings as those are hot spots for me. They actually went pretty good. I did one go around for a short field that just wasn’t working out. That’s a good frame of mind to be in. We’re done by about 9:30 or so, and now I have about 4 hours to blow before I meet the DPE again.
The LITTLE plane I train in is an LSA with a MTOW of 1320 lbs. It’s fun to fly, but squirrely as hell due to its light weight. Plus, it has the carrying capacity of a Prius . My normal flight instructor is only 150 lbs. However, the DPE and I are both fairly big guys, 230 and 210, respectively. That meant that I had to carefully lighten the fuel load to keep us in the CG envelope during all phases of flight. So, I spent the first hour of my gap time getting the plane ready.
As pre-cleared with my school, I had the ramp guy fill her up to a known level and then use a hand-pump to transfer some fuel into a calibrated gas can. The goal was to have just the right amount of fuel weight for us two fatties. The false accuracy of this endeavor becomes visually apparent as fuel sprayed out of the corrugated hose, onto the ramp, rather than into the graduated gas can. No worries. I just accounted for the precise amount of airborne fuel that I measured with my eyes. I gave the ramp guy a $5 tip in hopes that he might forget about the $35 charge I heard may come my way for the de-fueling service. It probably won’t work, but he deserved a sandwich for all of the fuel he sprayed onto his pants.
My office is close by the airport, so I dropped in and pulled a new DUAT weather report. Saturday presented us with a nearby marine layer, and a bunch of marginal VFR conditions along my planned route. It was pretty hazy, but fortunately or unfortunately, still flyable. I spent the remainder of my gap time looking over my personal “PTS Cheat Sheet” and chair flying the maneuvers that I have squeezed onto this one sheet; steep turns, MCA, landing and approach stalls, take-off stalls, emergency descents, flows, etc. I always do this for exams as my short term memory is good, but my long term memory is … I don’t really remember.
I head over to the flight school, borrow a hood from dispatch, and wait fearfully on the couch. I should have put the hood inside of my bag, but I didn’t. We’ll come back to that.
As 2pm approaches, the DPE arrives. I’m pretty nervous. I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt today in hopes that I still really weigh 210. We sit down at a small table and I return the magic little piece of governmental paper that allows us to continue.
From a psychological point of view, I had a pretty rough start. Remember that hood. That’s the least of it. We car-pooled to the ramp because the examiner doesn’t have a John Wayne pass. Just after we got past the sheriff’s icy stare at the security gate (he was actually smiling, but it sounds better), I realized “oh ****” (did I just say that out loud?), I DON’T have the little binder with the airplane keys.
I then realized that I’m not even certain that I have the hood. I said “oops,” made a U-turn and went back. It only took 2 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to get back. Before I run in, I also double-checked to make sure that the hood was in the car. Nope, forgot that too. Ran in, got the keys, found the hood on the table next to where my flight bag was, and ran back to the car, hiding the hood behind my 210 lb gas-stealing frame. On the way back through the gate, the Sherriff says, “Didn’t I just see you guys.” Smart ass. OK. We’re ready now. Frick.
After we parked, I carefully gathered everything I needed, but no more, because of the weight issues. Keys (!), kneeboard with checklist and navlogs, pens, headset, charts, plotter, E6-B (not sure why I bring this, but always irrationally do), and sunglasses.
I do my walk-around, unlock the canopy, and hang the keys. Pre-flight goes fine. He’s happy with the fuel situation and my explanation of how I had it done. We both strap in and, glancing to my right, it’s almost comical to see how much more space he and I consume compared with me and my normal instructor.
I’m still nervous. I go through the checklists and get her started, listen to the ATIS, and call clearance. Per his instructions, I “lie” to ATC and tell them I want a 330 departure to Yosemite-Mariposa, KMPI. Brake check, taxi to the run-up, confirm she’s running good, and get instructions to taxi to Runway 19L.
The examiner asks for a soft-field takeoff, the kind I fear the most. So, I leave the run-up with one notch of flaps and with the control sticks full back into our respective nads
Because of our direction of departure (330), tower wants me to be on the right runway so they instruct me to “cross 19L at Kilo and hold short 19R.” I confirm, and on the roll, am cleared to take-off of 19R behind a departing 737 and in front of another waiting to turn on the runway from the parallel taxiway. Great.
I roll out to the centerline, give the throttle a few twists to smoothly increase power, and then stupidly shove it in faster than usual. The result, in this light little plane, is left yaw and a quicker and higher than usual nose lift. Fortunately, I managed to use the rudder to get her straight again and the elevator to get the nose back down before he takes over, fly in ground effect, and depart. He calls clear of obstacles, so I retract the notch of flaps and continue. I don’t think it was pretty, but since he didn’t say “do you want to continue,” I have evidently passed my first challenge.
I turn right to 330, and notice that I failed to mark my “Time Off,” this even though I highlighted those words in yellow only an hour ago. Once again, frick. I look at my watch, see that it’s 2:46, and hope to make a save. I say, “departure time was 1 minute ago, so I’m going to write down 45 as soon as I can.”
I call departure, and request 3000. They ask my intended altitude to KMPI. I reply that "I’m on a checkride, so our final altitude will only be 3000," not something like 8500 that would make more sense. Departure authorizes my VFR climb to 3000 and we’re in the clear. The examiner seemed to like that exchange.
I now write “45” in the appropriate spot, add the ETE of 6 to my first checkpoint (Disneyland) to arrive at 51, and keep climbing. Two minutes later, departure instruct me to turn to a heading of 360 (not sure why), so my time-keeping is in jeopardy. A minute or so after that, I am returned to my “own navigation,” so I turn left and point at Disneyland again. As we arrive at Disney, The Examiner asks me what time it is. It’s 6:52, so we’re doing ok I say, the extra minute being due to the vector from departure. I add the ETE of 5 to 52, and get an arrive time of 57 for the next checkpoint, “Colima Road” which crosses diagonally over a low ridge line.
He asks me if I can see my next checkpoint, and I tell him “not yet.” It was a bit hazy, and this checkpoint is tough to distinguish until your almost overhead. He keeps asking if I can see it, and I’m worried that he’s disappointed in my choice. I trust my watch and, sure enough, at about 2:56, I can finally make out the road.
I call the checkpoint and before I have a chance to write down the time, he tells approach that we don't need advisory serves anymore, and then asks me to tell me which radial we’re on relative to SLI VOR. I look it up, tune it in, listen for the ID (hard to make out because it's mixed in with a weather announcement or HIWAS), and then twist the OBS until I center the CDI with a “from” indication – 010.
He then asks me put on the hood. Your controls – my controls – your controls. Hood on. Controls back to me and I’m looking at only the instruments. Fly a heading of 270; now turn right to 180 and climb to 3500; now turn right to 330 and descent to 3000. OK, I just flew a circle.
Unusual attitudes are next. He asks for the controls and tells me to put my head down as if I’m studying my chart. He maneuvers the plane lord knows where, transfers the controls, tells me to look up to the panel and says, “What are you gonna do?” I’m looking at an electronic representation of dirt, so I pull the power to idle, level the wings, and pitch up. I recover quickly. Head down again, followed by some mosquito-like flying on his part, and he gives me the plane again while I’m still under the hood. I see the plane is nose up, and banked right. I push the throttle in (correct response), pull it back in a little moment of indecision (not so good), but immediately put it back in. Pitch forward, wings level. It wasn’t textbook, and I didn’t recover as quickly as the first time, but it seemed to be ok.
By this time, he has me take the hood off and announces that we’re low on fuel and we need to land soon (which, by the way, was true). What are you going to do? I’m at 3,000 feet, over a dumpsite that looks like a terraced hill, so I decided that I’m going to circle right here and figure that out. I also decide not to climb higher because I’m concerned about airspace issues (one of the Bravo shelves has a floor of 4000).
I’m still tuned into SLI, so I determine that we’re still on the 010 radial. I draw the line on my chart and am about to get a crossing line-of-position from another VOR when I spy the GPS’s warmly glowing screen. I ask, “Does my GPS work?” and, surprisingly based on other checkrides that I’ve read about, he says yes.
Awesome. It shows me that El Monte airport (KEMT) is nearby. I press the direct-to button, manage to dial in KEMT with the concentric rotary knob inputs that are anything but intuitive, and am instantly told that it’s on a magnetic course of 278 and about 8 miles away. He wants me to give him a heading (which I can easily read on the GPS, 278), and a time estimate. It was probably on the GPS too, but since we fly at about 90 knots, I can estimate it as 2/3 of the distance. 9 nm would be 6 minutes so 8nm is about 5. He seems satisfied with that. He tells me that when we get to El Monte, he wants me to make a short field landing in the middle of the numbers.
I then prepare to go to KEMT, using the three-step process I have been taught: check weather, check-in, and checklist. I get the ATIS, call El Monte tower with altitude, bearing, and distance, and head toward the airport with instructions to make left traffic for runway 19. Awesome, left traffic, my favorite.
So far, so good, but the problem with El Monte is that it’s hard to find even on a clear day and this was a pretty hazy day. So, as we get closer, I clearly see the letters “KEMT” on the GPS, note that the GPS says I’m now just a few miles away, and stare in disbelief that I cannot find the airport with my own eyes. He asks me, “Do you see the airport?”
I pause for a second, say “no,” and elect to call tower and ask for a vector. Tower tells me that they’re at my 12 o’clock and ask me if I would like to fly over the airport and make right traffic for 19. I respond yes please, keep flying, and am soon rewarded with the sight of an actual runway. I sigh in relief.
I also resign myself to having to make right traffic for a short-field landing. I almost always fly left traffic. I hate right traffic.
As I fly over the field, tower asks me to turn downwind and land #2 behind a Diamond already on the downwind. I spot the Diamond, low and wide, and follow it. The Diamond takes a super long downwind, on a super wide and really low pattern, so I have to bide my time on the downwind before turning base.
Finally, I turn base, turn final, have flaps in, slip a little bit to lose altitude, and actually pull off one of my best short field landings. As I flared before the numbers and pass over them, he starts to count, 1-, touchdown, one hundred feet, “good” he says. Terrific I think, I now have the soft field takeoff and short field landings banked. Don’t screw up the easier stuff and you’re done.
We’re asked to turn off and go to ground by tower, and as we clear the runway, we’re pointing right at the self-service fuel station. I asked ground for taxi to the fuel and then we shut down and replace the 5.7 gallons that we burned so that we can finish the test and get back to John Wayne. Given the relatively small weight difference, he suggests that we put it all in the left wing tank, rather than split it between the tanks. Sounds reasonable to me.
We get back in, re-start, and then I call ground to taxi from fuel to runway 19, and do another run-up near the threshold. He now wants a short-field takeoff. No problem I think. That one I can do with confidence. He also tells me that he wants me to go back to the “dump” to do our maneuvers. He shows me where it is on the map and asks me to figure out how to get there. At first, I tried to estimate the heading, but then I remembered that I could put the plotter between where I am and where I want to go, and then slide it over to a VOR rose to get the magnetic heading. Heading of 170, 7 miles out. Got it. He seemed ok with that.
"El Monte tower, SportStar 907SL, holding short of runway 19, request left crosswind departure." I'm cleared for takeoff. I put in a notch of flaps, apply full power with brakes on, release brakes, and we’re off again. I retract the flaps when we’re “clear” of the obstacle and turn to 170.
The dump is really easy to find. He asks me to climb to 3,000, point the nose at a distant lake, and do my steep turns, starting with a right. I check that the fuel pump is on, gas is good, engine is good, and do some clearing turns. I then get the plane trimmed out, find a visual landmark and note the heading on the HSI (030), bank right to 45 degrees with some coordinated right rudder, pre-emptively pull back a bit on the stick to hold altitude, and dial in a smidge of extra power to hold airspeed. The turn goes “ok”, but I definitely dipped down to the hairy edge of the altitude standard during the turn. Fortunately, I worked at fixing the altitude and it seemed to prevent a fail.
The left turn went good on altitude, but I had a little difficulty holding the bank angle. Again, because I noticed the deviation and proactively got it back to 45, he seemed ok with it.
Next was MCA (minimum controllable airspeed) or “slow flight.” This is also a maneuver that I like. In this plane, Vso (stall speed with flaps extended) is 38 knots at maximum gross weight. I have done MCA maneuvers with my light instructor at 34 or 35 knots, but made a note that today, I’m really at max gross, so 39 or 40 is where I should be. MCA went off without a hitch.
I expected to turn to power-off (landing and approach) stalls and power-on (takeoff) stalls as separate maneuvers. However, while I was in a lightly banked turn at MCA, he asked me to stall the plane and recover. I processed that request and then pulled the power to idle, opened the carb heat, and stalled with the same slight bank. I then relaxed the control stick to break the stall, began flying again, put power to full, closed the carb heat, and began to climb. Thumbs up it seemed.
He then asked for a takeoff stall. During my stage check, I forgot to slow down to Vx before beginning to climb, and I know I have a desire to start extending flaps when I shouldn’t, so I took a moment to collect my thoughts. I then pulled the power back with the carb heat open, slowed to Vx (56), pushed her back to full power with carb heat closed, began to climb Vx with right rudder, and began to pitch back.
This light little plane does NOT like to stall. We were at a pitch attitude that felt like we were on our tail (greater than 25 degrees), and we finally got a little dip. His one comment was, “Anybody who stalls one of these on takeoff is stoooooopid.”
After we recovered, he announced that we were on fire. I told him that I would first turn off the fuel and open the throttle. (right answer). I them started to think about “glide and decide,” but realized I really need to execute an emergency descent to try and put out the fire. I started a slipping descent and got her moving downward at Va (maneuvering speed) and told him that in the smooth air we were in, I would take her to Vno. He seemed good with this, announced that the fire was out, and asked me to level out, which I did.
He then reminded me that because I had turned off the fuel, my prop was stopped, and I needed to make an emergency landing. I looked forward and didn’t see any realistic options, and then remembered that examiners and CFI’s have a habit of putting you directly over your best option. I looked down and behind me and, lo and behold, there was that stair-stepped dump with a couple of magical plateaus. I made a 180 at Vg and began to descend to one of them, and he said, "OK, you lived, go ahead and climb."
He told me that we needed to get back to John Wayne and make a normal landing with a slipping descent on short final to avoid some imaginary jet blast. I had a sense of where we were, but I took a moment to continue circling and make sure. He seemed OK with that decision.
I tuned in the ATIS for John Wayne, used the GPS to confirm my heading, and started back. As I got about 15 miles out, I called approach with the information for John Wayne, and got instructions to head to an inbound checkpoint to the east of John Wayne, namely Mile Square Park.
Normally, Mile Square Park is in your face easy to see, but with today’s haze, it was not visible to me, at all. So, I asked approach for a vector to Mile Square and got one. With a little Examiner prodding, I also “remembered” that I could entered it into the GPS as “VPLMS” which, I also learned on the checkride, stands for Visual Point, Los Angeles, Mile Square.
I was handed off to John Wayne Tower, instructed to fly over and make left traffic for 19L, and setup for my slipping descent on final over the imaginary jet blast. That all went pretty well and, as I was about to touch down for what I thought was the final landing of my test, he announced that there’s a truck on the runway. Tricky one that examiner is.
I started a go-around - full power, carb heat closed, climbing attitude, retract flaps, announce to tower. He asked me to make “really square” corners because my pattern at El Monte sucked (his words, and quite true) and he wanted to confirm that I could actually fly a rectangular pattern. He also asked me to make a soft-field landing.
I flew a rectangle (save for the offsets required at John Wayne) and my final landing, this one for real, was smooth and centered. Plus, I actually remembered to continually pull the stick back to lighten the nose wheel as we completed the roll-out. I turned off the runway with the amazement that I had passed so long as I can safely taxi the plane, get it parked, and turn it off.
I managed to do that…
So, to recap - I forgot the keys to the plane and my hood, nearly blew my very first takeoff (a soft field), couldn’t find my diversionary airport from three miles away, temporarily pulled the throttle when I should have pushed on an unusual attitude, danced on the hairy edge of the altitude limits and bank angle limits during my steep turns, took a little too long to decide to descend when my engine was on fire, and asked ATC for help a time or three, but…. I… still… passed.
I’m now beat, but I’m a licensed pilot. Frick.
Some Background
I’m 50 years old and the classic case of delayed entry. I started ground school in my late 20’s, at which point my pregnant wife said “no freaking way,” and twenty years later, got back to it. Still married to the love of my life, but boys are now 19 and 15, so it’s a better time.
I started training in January of 2012. That’s some pretty simple math. In other words, I’ve been fumbling along at this for about 24 months. I took a five month hiatus when work got busy, but flying about 3 times a month, I have “amassed” about 80 hours to this point.
My DPE had some scheduling issues with our planned Saturday, and with some apologies, asked if I could do the oral on Friday and the flight portion on Saturday. Without revealing that I wholeheartedly agreed to this “inconvenience” (I figured it would be really nice to split it up, and it was!), I said I could probably make that happen.
Day 1 - The Prep and the Oral Portion
I met the examiner at my flight school on Friday afternoon. We have some things in common. Great guy.
I have prepared a binder that contained, among other things, my knowledge test report and six crispy hundred dollar bills folded inside of a clear sleeve and stapled shut. I handed him the imprisoned money first thing. He truly seemed to enjoy receiving his payment inside of, his words, a “puzzle.” Some of you may gasp at the fact that the ride was $600, but given the amount of time he put in over the two days, I think that he earned it.
The paperwork is a bit of a trudge. He tried to get me to smile by first looking at my knowledge test report, shaking his head in mock disapproval, and asking why I didn’t get a 100 (I got a 95). He then very carefully checked my log book. For example, he made sure that my 3.0 hours of hood time (required) did NOT include any simulator time. He went to the log book row by row, trying to to get a sense of the pace of my training. He noticed the 5-month off time, and he commented on the fact that I just did a dual-flight to Catalina Island, with my instructor, for fun. He counted my night landings (10), and he made sure that each and every one of my solo and XC flights was executed within the valid timeframe of a corresponding CFI endorsement. He made sure I had a current solo endorsement for tomorrow’s checkride, and two endorsements re recent flight preparation and my supposed readiness to take the practical test.
According to him, quite a few applicant’s don’t get past this log book check. Make sure that’s not you.
He then opened the folder from my flight school and confirmed that I actually had a graduation certificate. After that, he pecked at some keys on his computer and prepared to pull up my online IACRA (Integrated Airman Certification and Rating Application). For you future applicant’s, be sure you come prepared with your IACRA username, password, and your so-called FTN (FAA Tracking Number). I had the login info, but I had to scramble around a bit to find my FTN. Evidently, the DPE needs the FTN to even pull up your IACRA. You will need your login info in order to countersign the application.
The DPE discovered that my instructor’s electronic signature was missing from the IACRA, but fortunately, Mark was in the other room working with a multi-engine student. One more pothole avoided.
This particular DPE doesn’t typically work with my school, but the DPE they usually work with is out of pocket for a while, so he’s filling in. He noticed with a smirk that the flight school had “cleansed” my student folder of the red-penned stage check tests he had stumbled on and used with a couple of prior applicants. In other words, to his apparent chagrin, he didn’t have a roadmap to the topics that I may have struggled with during my training checks. Thank you flight school pixies.
The oral, once it got started, lasted about 2-1/2 hours. He was pretty thorough, walking methodically through his written “plan of action” and crossing things off as we went (One of his early checklist items was “Put applicant at ease.” Nice. It was checked.).
Per the stereotype, I noticed that after I answered, he would use details within my answer to ask follow-up questions. “So, Joe, what would you do as you’re approaching Mariposa-Yosemite (KMPI)?” “Well, I’d tune-in the AWOS and check the weather.” “Oh, what’s an AWOS?” “Umm, … it’s an automatic weather observation station.” “Oh, what’s an ASOS?” “Ummm, it’s an automatic …. Ummm, SOMETHING-ELSE observation system. I’d have to look that up to figure out the S. Oh wait, it’s surface” You get the point. Within reason, don’t give more detail than is required.
He covered private pilot privileges and limitations, flight instruments, the pitot-static system, V-speeds, the color-coded limitations on the ASI, required docs in the plane, POH sections, when are winds reported true and when magnetic, VFR minimums, airspace encountered by his flying pen-tip moving around a chart, MOAs, restricted areas, procedures for landing at a Charlie, where you need a mode-c transponder, inspections and logs, crosswinds, hypoxia, CO poisoning, etc., etc.
He carefully went over my navlog and marked-up charts that detailed my flight plan for our hypothetical cross country from John Wayne (KSNA) to Mariposa-Yosemite (KMPI). I had worked out this 260 NM flight with 22 visual checkpoints, supplemented with VORs. He liked that I had numbered the checkpoints on my chart for quick correlation with similarly numbered rows on the navlog. I figured out the wind correction angles (WCAs) earlier in the morning and had final magnetic headings, ETEs, and fuel burns. I had calculated top-of-climbs (TOCs) and a top-of-descent (TOD) and marked my charts accordingly. I had two climbs because I planned to climb to 3,000 and fly northbound under the eastern shelves of the LAX bravo and around its core, and then after I was completely clear to the north, turn north-west and climb to 8,500 to get safely through the Gorman Pass (the “grapevine” to my fellow Californians).
I had worked out take-off and landing distances and he had me walk him through how I did that, using that as an opportunity to grill me about pressure altitude, density altitude, and Koch charts.
All in all, the oral went really well because I was well prepared for it. I didn’t think that was true in advance, but in hindsight, I was probably over-prepared. The advantage of taking 24 months to train is that you have a lot of time between flights to read about flight stuff. I was also fortunate, however, that he didn’t pick any of the topics I’m weak on (special VFR for example).
After we were done, he prepare a “discontinuance” form that said we would continue the test tomorrow at 2pm. He tells me not to lose this very important form, that I could use it with another DPE if he gets hit by a train, but if he survives, I still have to hand him the original tomorrow in order to continue.
He complimented me on how I did and called my oral a “home run.” Phew.
We’re rolling now. Tomorrow, though, is the actual flying where I’m a very regular guy, maybe even a little behind the curve.
Day 2 - The Flight Portion
The second half of my checkride is set to start on Saturday at 2pm.
It’s early Saturday morning. I got some coffee in me at sunrise and then headed to the airport for an 8am tune-up with my instructor. We did some pattern work to get me in the game for the afternoon. We focused on soft-field takeoffs and short-field landings as those are hot spots for me. They actually went pretty good. I did one go around for a short field that just wasn’t working out. That’s a good frame of mind to be in. We’re done by about 9:30 or so, and now I have about 4 hours to blow before I meet the DPE again.
The LITTLE plane I train in is an LSA with a MTOW of 1320 lbs. It’s fun to fly, but squirrely as hell due to its light weight. Plus, it has the carrying capacity of a Prius . My normal flight instructor is only 150 lbs. However, the DPE and I are both fairly big guys, 230 and 210, respectively. That meant that I had to carefully lighten the fuel load to keep us in the CG envelope during all phases of flight. So, I spent the first hour of my gap time getting the plane ready.
As pre-cleared with my school, I had the ramp guy fill her up to a known level and then use a hand-pump to transfer some fuel into a calibrated gas can. The goal was to have just the right amount of fuel weight for us two fatties. The false accuracy of this endeavor becomes visually apparent as fuel sprayed out of the corrugated hose, onto the ramp, rather than into the graduated gas can. No worries. I just accounted for the precise amount of airborne fuel that I measured with my eyes. I gave the ramp guy a $5 tip in hopes that he might forget about the $35 charge I heard may come my way for the de-fueling service. It probably won’t work, but he deserved a sandwich for all of the fuel he sprayed onto his pants.
My office is close by the airport, so I dropped in and pulled a new DUAT weather report. Saturday presented us with a nearby marine layer, and a bunch of marginal VFR conditions along my planned route. It was pretty hazy, but fortunately or unfortunately, still flyable. I spent the remainder of my gap time looking over my personal “PTS Cheat Sheet” and chair flying the maneuvers that I have squeezed onto this one sheet; steep turns, MCA, landing and approach stalls, take-off stalls, emergency descents, flows, etc. I always do this for exams as my short term memory is good, but my long term memory is … I don’t really remember.
I head over to the flight school, borrow a hood from dispatch, and wait fearfully on the couch. I should have put the hood inside of my bag, but I didn’t. We’ll come back to that.
As 2pm approaches, the DPE arrives. I’m pretty nervous. I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt today in hopes that I still really weigh 210. We sit down at a small table and I return the magic little piece of governmental paper that allows us to continue.
From a psychological point of view, I had a pretty rough start. Remember that hood. That’s the least of it. We car-pooled to the ramp because the examiner doesn’t have a John Wayne pass. Just after we got past the sheriff’s icy stare at the security gate (he was actually smiling, but it sounds better), I realized “oh ****” (did I just say that out loud?), I DON’T have the little binder with the airplane keys.
I then realized that I’m not even certain that I have the hood. I said “oops,” made a U-turn and went back. It only took 2 minutes, but it seemed like an eternity to get back. Before I run in, I also double-checked to make sure that the hood was in the car. Nope, forgot that too. Ran in, got the keys, found the hood on the table next to where my flight bag was, and ran back to the car, hiding the hood behind my 210 lb gas-stealing frame. On the way back through the gate, the Sherriff says, “Didn’t I just see you guys.” Smart ass. OK. We’re ready now. Frick.After we parked, I carefully gathered everything I needed, but no more, because of the weight issues. Keys (!), kneeboard with checklist and navlogs, pens, headset, charts, plotter, E6-B (not sure why I bring this, but always irrationally do), and sunglasses.
I do my walk-around, unlock the canopy, and hang the keys. Pre-flight goes fine. He’s happy with the fuel situation and my explanation of how I had it done. We both strap in and, glancing to my right, it’s almost comical to see how much more space he and I consume compared with me and my normal instructor.
I’m still nervous. I go through the checklists and get her started, listen to the ATIS, and call clearance. Per his instructions, I “lie” to ATC and tell them I want a 330 departure to Yosemite-Mariposa, KMPI. Brake check, taxi to the run-up, confirm she’s running good, and get instructions to taxi to Runway 19L.
The examiner asks for a soft-field takeoff, the kind I fear the most. So, I leave the run-up with one notch of flaps and with the control sticks full back into our respective nads
Because of our direction of departure (330), tower wants me to be on the right runway so they instruct me to “cross 19L at Kilo and hold short 19R.” I confirm, and on the roll, am cleared to take-off of 19R behind a departing 737 and in front of another waiting to turn on the runway from the parallel taxiway. Great.
I roll out to the centerline, give the throttle a few twists to smoothly increase power, and then stupidly shove it in faster than usual. The result, in this light little plane, is left yaw and a quicker and higher than usual nose lift. Fortunately, I managed to use the rudder to get her straight again and the elevator to get the nose back down before he takes over, fly in ground effect, and depart. He calls clear of obstacles, so I retract the notch of flaps and continue. I don’t think it was pretty, but since he didn’t say “do you want to continue,” I have evidently passed my first challenge.
I turn right to 330, and notice that I failed to mark my “Time Off,” this even though I highlighted those words in yellow only an hour ago. Once again, frick. I look at my watch, see that it’s 2:46, and hope to make a save. I say, “departure time was 1 minute ago, so I’m going to write down 45 as soon as I can.”
I call departure, and request 3000. They ask my intended altitude to KMPI. I reply that "I’m on a checkride, so our final altitude will only be 3000," not something like 8500 that would make more sense. Departure authorizes my VFR climb to 3000 and we’re in the clear. The examiner seemed to like that exchange.
I now write “45” in the appropriate spot, add the ETE of 6 to my first checkpoint (Disneyland) to arrive at 51, and keep climbing. Two minutes later, departure instruct me to turn to a heading of 360 (not sure why), so my time-keeping is in jeopardy. A minute or so after that, I am returned to my “own navigation,” so I turn left and point at Disneyland again. As we arrive at Disney, The Examiner asks me what time it is. It’s 6:52, so we’re doing ok I say, the extra minute being due to the vector from departure. I add the ETE of 5 to 52, and get an arrive time of 57 for the next checkpoint, “Colima Road” which crosses diagonally over a low ridge line.
He asks me if I can see my next checkpoint, and I tell him “not yet.” It was a bit hazy, and this checkpoint is tough to distinguish until your almost overhead. He keeps asking if I can see it, and I’m worried that he’s disappointed in my choice. I trust my watch and, sure enough, at about 2:56, I can finally make out the road.
I call the checkpoint and before I have a chance to write down the time, he tells approach that we don't need advisory serves anymore, and then asks me to tell me which radial we’re on relative to SLI VOR. I look it up, tune it in, listen for the ID (hard to make out because it's mixed in with a weather announcement or HIWAS), and then twist the OBS until I center the CDI with a “from” indication – 010.
He then asks me put on the hood. Your controls – my controls – your controls. Hood on. Controls back to me and I’m looking at only the instruments. Fly a heading of 270; now turn right to 180 and climb to 3500; now turn right to 330 and descent to 3000. OK, I just flew a circle.
Unusual attitudes are next. He asks for the controls and tells me to put my head down as if I’m studying my chart. He maneuvers the plane lord knows where, transfers the controls, tells me to look up to the panel and says, “What are you gonna do?” I’m looking at an electronic representation of dirt, so I pull the power to idle, level the wings, and pitch up. I recover quickly. Head down again, followed by some mosquito-like flying on his part, and he gives me the plane again while I’m still under the hood. I see the plane is nose up, and banked right. I push the throttle in (correct response), pull it back in a little moment of indecision (not so good), but immediately put it back in. Pitch forward, wings level. It wasn’t textbook, and I didn’t recover as quickly as the first time, but it seemed to be ok.
By this time, he has me take the hood off and announces that we’re low on fuel and we need to land soon (which, by the way, was true). What are you going to do? I’m at 3,000 feet, over a dumpsite that looks like a terraced hill, so I decided that I’m going to circle right here and figure that out. I also decide not to climb higher because I’m concerned about airspace issues (one of the Bravo shelves has a floor of 4000).
I’m still tuned into SLI, so I determine that we’re still on the 010 radial. I draw the line on my chart and am about to get a crossing line-of-position from another VOR when I spy the GPS’s warmly glowing screen. I ask, “Does my GPS work?” and, surprisingly based on other checkrides that I’ve read about, he says yes.
Awesome. It shows me that El Monte airport (KEMT) is nearby. I press the direct-to button, manage to dial in KEMT with the concentric rotary knob inputs that are anything but intuitive, and am instantly told that it’s on a magnetic course of 278 and about 8 miles away. He wants me to give him a heading (which I can easily read on the GPS, 278), and a time estimate. It was probably on the GPS too, but since we fly at about 90 knots, I can estimate it as 2/3 of the distance. 9 nm would be 6 minutes so 8nm is about 5. He seems satisfied with that. He tells me that when we get to El Monte, he wants me to make a short field landing in the middle of the numbers.
I then prepare to go to KEMT, using the three-step process I have been taught: check weather, check-in, and checklist. I get the ATIS, call El Monte tower with altitude, bearing, and distance, and head toward the airport with instructions to make left traffic for runway 19. Awesome, left traffic, my favorite.
So far, so good, but the problem with El Monte is that it’s hard to find even on a clear day and this was a pretty hazy day. So, as we get closer, I clearly see the letters “KEMT” on the GPS, note that the GPS says I’m now just a few miles away, and stare in disbelief that I cannot find the airport with my own eyes. He asks me, “Do you see the airport?”
I pause for a second, say “no,” and elect to call tower and ask for a vector. Tower tells me that they’re at my 12 o’clock and ask me if I would like to fly over the airport and make right traffic for 19. I respond yes please, keep flying, and am soon rewarded with the sight of an actual runway. I sigh in relief.
I also resign myself to having to make right traffic for a short-field landing. I almost always fly left traffic. I hate right traffic.
As I fly over the field, tower asks me to turn downwind and land #2 behind a Diamond already on the downwind. I spot the Diamond, low and wide, and follow it. The Diamond takes a super long downwind, on a super wide and really low pattern, so I have to bide my time on the downwind before turning base.
Finally, I turn base, turn final, have flaps in, slip a little bit to lose altitude, and actually pull off one of my best short field landings. As I flared before the numbers and pass over them, he starts to count, 1-, touchdown, one hundred feet, “good” he says. Terrific I think, I now have the soft field takeoff and short field landings banked. Don’t screw up the easier stuff and you’re done.
We’re asked to turn off and go to ground by tower, and as we clear the runway, we’re pointing right at the self-service fuel station. I asked ground for taxi to the fuel and then we shut down and replace the 5.7 gallons that we burned so that we can finish the test and get back to John Wayne. Given the relatively small weight difference, he suggests that we put it all in the left wing tank, rather than split it between the tanks. Sounds reasonable to me.
We get back in, re-start, and then I call ground to taxi from fuel to runway 19, and do another run-up near the threshold. He now wants a short-field takeoff. No problem I think. That one I can do with confidence. He also tells me that he wants me to go back to the “dump” to do our maneuvers. He shows me where it is on the map and asks me to figure out how to get there. At first, I tried to estimate the heading, but then I remembered that I could put the plotter between where I am and where I want to go, and then slide it over to a VOR rose to get the magnetic heading. Heading of 170, 7 miles out. Got it. He seemed ok with that.
"El Monte tower, SportStar 907SL, holding short of runway 19, request left crosswind departure." I'm cleared for takeoff. I put in a notch of flaps, apply full power with brakes on, release brakes, and we’re off again. I retract the flaps when we’re “clear” of the obstacle and turn to 170.
The dump is really easy to find. He asks me to climb to 3,000, point the nose at a distant lake, and do my steep turns, starting with a right. I check that the fuel pump is on, gas is good, engine is good, and do some clearing turns. I then get the plane trimmed out, find a visual landmark and note the heading on the HSI (030), bank right to 45 degrees with some coordinated right rudder, pre-emptively pull back a bit on the stick to hold altitude, and dial in a smidge of extra power to hold airspeed. The turn goes “ok”, but I definitely dipped down to the hairy edge of the altitude standard during the turn. Fortunately, I worked at fixing the altitude and it seemed to prevent a fail.
The left turn went good on altitude, but I had a little difficulty holding the bank angle. Again, because I noticed the deviation and proactively got it back to 45, he seemed ok with it.
Next was MCA (minimum controllable airspeed) or “slow flight.” This is also a maneuver that I like. In this plane, Vso (stall speed with flaps extended) is 38 knots at maximum gross weight. I have done MCA maneuvers with my light instructor at 34 or 35 knots, but made a note that today, I’m really at max gross, so 39 or 40 is where I should be. MCA went off without a hitch.
I expected to turn to power-off (landing and approach) stalls and power-on (takeoff) stalls as separate maneuvers. However, while I was in a lightly banked turn at MCA, he asked me to stall the plane and recover. I processed that request and then pulled the power to idle, opened the carb heat, and stalled with the same slight bank. I then relaxed the control stick to break the stall, began flying again, put power to full, closed the carb heat, and began to climb. Thumbs up it seemed.
He then asked for a takeoff stall. During my stage check, I forgot to slow down to Vx before beginning to climb, and I know I have a desire to start extending flaps when I shouldn’t, so I took a moment to collect my thoughts. I then pulled the power back with the carb heat open, slowed to Vx (56), pushed her back to full power with carb heat closed, began to climb Vx with right rudder, and began to pitch back.
This light little plane does NOT like to stall. We were at a pitch attitude that felt like we were on our tail (greater than 25 degrees), and we finally got a little dip. His one comment was, “Anybody who stalls one of these on takeoff is stoooooopid.”
After we recovered, he announced that we were on fire. I told him that I would first turn off the fuel and open the throttle. (right answer). I them started to think about “glide and decide,” but realized I really need to execute an emergency descent to try and put out the fire. I started a slipping descent and got her moving downward at Va (maneuvering speed) and told him that in the smooth air we were in, I would take her to Vno. He seemed good with this, announced that the fire was out, and asked me to level out, which I did.
He then reminded me that because I had turned off the fuel, my prop was stopped, and I needed to make an emergency landing. I looked forward and didn’t see any realistic options, and then remembered that examiners and CFI’s have a habit of putting you directly over your best option. I looked down and behind me and, lo and behold, there was that stair-stepped dump with a couple of magical plateaus. I made a 180 at Vg and began to descend to one of them, and he said, "OK, you lived, go ahead and climb."
He told me that we needed to get back to John Wayne and make a normal landing with a slipping descent on short final to avoid some imaginary jet blast. I had a sense of where we were, but I took a moment to continue circling and make sure. He seemed OK with that decision.
I tuned in the ATIS for John Wayne, used the GPS to confirm my heading, and started back. As I got about 15 miles out, I called approach with the information for John Wayne, and got instructions to head to an inbound checkpoint to the east of John Wayne, namely Mile Square Park.
Normally, Mile Square Park is in your face easy to see, but with today’s haze, it was not visible to me, at all. So, I asked approach for a vector to Mile Square and got one. With a little Examiner prodding, I also “remembered” that I could entered it into the GPS as “VPLMS” which, I also learned on the checkride, stands for Visual Point, Los Angeles, Mile Square.
I was handed off to John Wayne Tower, instructed to fly over and make left traffic for 19L, and setup for my slipping descent on final over the imaginary jet blast. That all went pretty well and, as I was about to touch down for what I thought was the final landing of my test, he announced that there’s a truck on the runway. Tricky one that examiner is.
I started a go-around - full power, carb heat closed, climbing attitude, retract flaps, announce to tower. He asked me to make “really square” corners because my pattern at El Monte sucked (his words, and quite true) and he wanted to confirm that I could actually fly a rectangular pattern. He also asked me to make a soft-field landing.
I flew a rectangle (save for the offsets required at John Wayne) and my final landing, this one for real, was smooth and centered. Plus, I actually remembered to continually pull the stick back to lighten the nose wheel as we completed the roll-out. I turned off the runway with the amazement that I had passed so long as I can safely taxi the plane, get it parked, and turn it off.
I managed to do that…
So, to recap - I forgot the keys to the plane and my hood, nearly blew my very first takeoff (a soft field), couldn’t find my diversionary airport from three miles away, temporarily pulled the throttle when I should have pushed on an unusual attitude, danced on the hairy edge of the altitude limits and bank angle limits during my steep turns, took a little too long to decide to descend when my engine was on fire, and asked ATC for help a time or three, but…. I… still… passed.
I’m now beat, but I’m a licensed pilot. Frick.
