when you see an ultra-light landing on the runway you are back-taxiing on?
We were returning from our long-delayed Christmas flight to Oklahoma on December 31. Our second leg of the day terminated a little before noon at a small airport with cheap self-serve gasoline, Harrison County, KY (0I8).
I was flying and Don was making the radio calls. He announced our approach and a few minutes later, he announced left downwind for runway 29. There was surprisingly little radio traffic that day, and none at Harrison County. “Traffic,” Don said, pointing into the distance toward the right rear. “Looks like an ultra-light.” We kept an eye out for the little bird and landed long without incident. On the way in we had discussed the 1000’ displaced threshold and my decision to decrease taxi time on the runway by touching down further along the 3800’ ft runway than usual. We had been watching for the ultra-light and saw him cross from the left to the right about 500 feet directly over the threshold of 29 as I turned off the runway toward the pumps.
I was thinking it was a good thing he didn’t do that while I was landing. But of course, he wouldn’t. After a quick refueling, bathroom break, briefing, and pretzel we were back into the plane and heading for the taxiway that leads to the runway. “Where’s that ultra-light?” Don asked. We both looked and didn’t see him, so Don announced we were back-taxiing on runway 29. I moved out onto the runway, and for some reason, we kept a lookout for the ultra-light when he suddenly appeared to my left, still about 500 AGL. He kept pace for a little bit, then pulled ahead. “What’s he doing?” I asked. “What’s it look like?” Don answered. “Right downwind,” I thought to myself. When he got to the threshold, he banked and turned. “Right base,” I thought, and pulled my plane, now about 1000 ft. from the threshold, all the way to the left on the runway.
When the ultra-light turned final, facing us, I pulled to a dead stop. In my mind’s eye I saw the little flyer running into my right wing extended across the centerline and getting tossed into my spinning propeller. What should I do? Go into the grass? I already had one main on the gravelly grass. That would swing the tail out onto the runway. Could I get out of the way in time? Pull the mixture and kill the propeller? Then I couldn’t even move the plane out of the way. In my mind’s eye, the pilot of this craft looked a lot like our son David when he was 17 or even when he was 10 and he would just dash off on a lark without any thought of the consequences of his actions. For a moment, I was this kid’s mother and I was about to kill him.
But before I could ponder my options any further, the little craft came to a stop on the runway. He paused for awhile, with neither plane moving, then he taxied off into the grass next to the runup area. I waited a little longer to see what he would do before continuing my taxi to the runup area. It only took a moment to check the engine and depart. As we left, the radio crackled twice, as though someone with a hand-held was trying to tell us something. “Garbled,” Don responded.
We were returning from our long-delayed Christmas flight to Oklahoma on December 31. Our second leg of the day terminated a little before noon at a small airport with cheap self-serve gasoline, Harrison County, KY (0I8).
I was flying and Don was making the radio calls. He announced our approach and a few minutes later, he announced left downwind for runway 29. There was surprisingly little radio traffic that day, and none at Harrison County. “Traffic,” Don said, pointing into the distance toward the right rear. “Looks like an ultra-light.” We kept an eye out for the little bird and landed long without incident. On the way in we had discussed the 1000’ displaced threshold and my decision to decrease taxi time on the runway by touching down further along the 3800’ ft runway than usual. We had been watching for the ultra-light and saw him cross from the left to the right about 500 feet directly over the threshold of 29 as I turned off the runway toward the pumps.
I was thinking it was a good thing he didn’t do that while I was landing. But of course, he wouldn’t. After a quick refueling, bathroom break, briefing, and pretzel we were back into the plane and heading for the taxiway that leads to the runway. “Where’s that ultra-light?” Don asked. We both looked and didn’t see him, so Don announced we were back-taxiing on runway 29. I moved out onto the runway, and for some reason, we kept a lookout for the ultra-light when he suddenly appeared to my left, still about 500 AGL. He kept pace for a little bit, then pulled ahead. “What’s he doing?” I asked. “What’s it look like?” Don answered. “Right downwind,” I thought to myself. When he got to the threshold, he banked and turned. “Right base,” I thought, and pulled my plane, now about 1000 ft. from the threshold, all the way to the left on the runway.
When the ultra-light turned final, facing us, I pulled to a dead stop. In my mind’s eye I saw the little flyer running into my right wing extended across the centerline and getting tossed into my spinning propeller. What should I do? Go into the grass? I already had one main on the gravelly grass. That would swing the tail out onto the runway. Could I get out of the way in time? Pull the mixture and kill the propeller? Then I couldn’t even move the plane out of the way. In my mind’s eye, the pilot of this craft looked a lot like our son David when he was 17 or even when he was 10 and he would just dash off on a lark without any thought of the consequences of his actions. For a moment, I was this kid’s mother and I was about to kill him.
But before I could ponder my options any further, the little craft came to a stop on the runway. He paused for awhile, with neither plane moving, then he taxied off into the grass next to the runup area. I waited a little longer to see what he would do before continuing my taxi to the runup area. It only took a moment to check the engine and depart. As we left, the radio crackled twice, as though someone with a hand-held was trying to tell us something. “Garbled,” Don responded.
Last edited:
.