Why helicopter pilots balk when asked to hover at 50 feet.

Last year, I joined a listserve group of professional aerial photographers. These folks, who are based all over the world, have been working at their profession for years. I’m a relative newcomer to the aerial photography scene and arrive as a pilot — not a photographer. (I want to take photos, but it’s tough when my right hand is stuck holding the cyclic during flight.)

I introduced myself and an engaging conversation about flying helicopters ensued. As you can imagine, many of the photographers had worked with helicopters. One of them was even on board during a crash!

One of the photographers in the group told a story about photo flights he’d taken with helicopter flight school instructors. He included this comment:

I was shooting a lot of sailboat races at the time, so where I wanted it turned out to be in a hover at 20 to 50 feet above the water which made some of the instructors nervous. I told them to get over it.

A lot of pilots won’t work in what’s commonly referred to by helicopter pilots as the “deadman’s curve.” All helicopter pilots should know what this is, but here’s a brief explanation for those of you who aren’t familiar with helicopter flight.

The “Deadman’s Curve”

The Height-Velocity diagram in the pilot operating handbook (POH) shows the combinations of airspeed and altitude at which an experienced pilot (or test pilot) should be able to make a safe autorotation in the event of an engine failure.

The diagram shown here is for a Robinson R44 helicopter, but they’re all very similar. The idea is to stay out of the shaded area. Generally speaking, you want either altitude or airspeed — or (preferably) both. Hovering at 20 to 50 feet puts you in the “deadman’s curve” — it’s a combination or airspeed (0 knots) and altitude (20 to 50 feet) at which a safe autorotation is not possible. So if the engine quits, you’re dead.

The height velocity diagram also clearly shows the recommended take-off profile. When a pilot does a “by the book” take-off, this is what he’s doing: picking up into a hover less than 10 feet off the ground and accelerating through 45 knots. Then pitch up slightly and climb out at 60 knots. (You can get an idea of this in my “Shadow Takeoff” video.) Doing a “straight up” take-off like you see in the movies or on television puts the helicopter smack dab in the middle of the deadman’s curve until he’s moving faster than 50 knots or has climbed several hundred feet.

Wondering how the chart is created? With test pilots and helicopters. If you take the Robinson Factory Safety Course, you’ll see videos of the flights they used to build the chart — including one flight that demonstrated what happens when you attempt an autorotation while inside the deadman’s curve.

My Experience with the Deadman’s Curve

I get some photo gigs because I’m willing to operate in certain areas of the deadman’s curve to meet my client’s needs. I’m a single pilot operator so I’m responsible for myself. Other organizations are responsible for their pilots and tell their pilots not to do anything that could be “unsafe.” This is often the situation at flight schools that do photo flights for extra revenue. Those pilots are usually the school’s CFIs, sometimes with only a few hundred hours of flight time. The school makes a rule — no operations under 300 feet — and all the pilots are required to comply.

Operating in the deadman’s curve requires that you have a lot of confidence in your engine and mechanic. The engine failure statistics on Robinson helicopters show that the engine — a Lycoming, after all — is very reliable. And I take meticulous care of my aircraft with two experienced mechanics to do the work. I’m confident in my aircraft. So I take the risk and I get the job.

But I do warn my passengers of the risks inherent in that type of flying. And If a maneuver puts me too close to obstacles or requires me to do something I think is beyond my skill level, I won’t do it. (I don’t have a death wish.)

Get Over It?

“Get over it,” is a pretty funny thing to say to a pilot when requesting (or demanding) that he perform a maneuver he’s not comfortable with or authorized to do.

The pilot who balked at hovering 50 feet off the ground was doing it for safety — his and his client’s. The photographer who told him to “get over it” was unfair to expect the pilot to operate where he was not comfortable. At the same time, the pilot should have clearly stated the limitations of the flight before accepting the job so the photographer wouldn’t expect the pilot to perform maneuvers beyond his normal operating scope.

Unfortunately, more than a few pilots will simply cave in under pressure to please the client. Sometimes this is can be a very bad thing that both the pilot and his client don’t live to regret.

A good pilot will evaluate the risks, make a decision, and stick to it. A pilot who is easily bullied by passengers (or management, for that matter) needs to look for a new career.

Misleading Statements in Popular Fiction

I actually wrote most of this post months ago and mothballed it to finish at a later date. But yesterday, I read something in a novel that made it clear how little the general public understands about helicopter operations.

In the story, the protagonists are passengers on a helicopter that’s running out of fuel. The lead protagonist tells the pilot to lose altitude. His reasoning:

Helicopters sometimes survived engine failures at a few hundred feet. They rarely survived at a few thousand.

The above statement is false. Reverse the facts and you get the correct statement, which I could word like this:

Helicopters rarely survived engine failures at a few hundred feet. They usually survived at a few thousand.

Why the difference? The H-V Diagram is a big part of it. Take a look. If a pilot is flying at 200-300 feet, he’ll have to be moving at at least 50 knots to stay out of the deadman’s curve. The H-V Diagram clearly shows that the higher you are and the faster you go, the farther you are from the deadman’s curve. Altitude and airspeed are two energy management components that can save a pilot’s life in the event of an engine failure.

If you’re operating outside the deadman’s curve, the thing that makes higher altitudes safer is time. If you’re cruising along at 500 feet AGL at 100 knots — a perfectly safe combination of altitude and airspeed, according to the H-V Diagram — you’re going to be on the ground a lot quicker than if you were doing the same speed at 1,500 feet AGL. That’s less time to correct any problems with your autorotation entry, pick a good landing zone, make a Mayday call, brief your passengers, etc. Now imagine cruising at the unlikely altitude of 3,000 feet AGL. In a good gliding helicopter, like my R44 or a Bell LongRanger, you have lots of time to set it up and do it right.

Clearly, higher is better.

There were some other errors in the book as far as the helicopter was concerned, but I’ll save them for another post. (It really does bug me when books, movies, and television send inaccurate messages about how helicopters fly.)

Why Not Get the Facts Straight?

Time passes. I don’t recall when I started writing this post, but I know I didn’t last long with the photographers in that group. They were very full of themselves and highly critical of newcomers. And some of them echoed the same uninformed ideas about the safety of helicopters that I hear everywhere else. Worst of all, they didn’t seem interested in learning the truth.

I wrote a post earlier this month titled “Why Forums Suck” that describes the atmosphere in this particular group. Maybe it’s me, but I simply don’t have patience for people who behave the way some of these guys (and women) did.

And, in case you’re wondering, I e-mailed the author of the book with the errors. I hope he didn’t think I was being rude. But I want him — and anyone else preparing material about helicopters — to get the facts straight before releasing it to the public. In his case, any helicopter pilot could have pointed out the problems I found and reported to him. A few minor changes to the manuscript would have made it accurate without impacting the story one darn bit.

I just wonder if other pilots who read the book were as irked about the errors as I am.

Probably not.

A late afternoon takeoff from the helipad on the west end of Wickenburg Airport’s ramp. On board with me are three wranglers from the local guest ranch — each on their very first helicopter ride. But the shadow steals the show.

Better late than never.

Back in the beginning of March, while my mother-in-law was visiting us from New York, I flew the three of us from Wickenburg to Las Vegas by helicopter.

I chose my favorite route for that flight: straight to Lake Havasu City and up the Colorado River all the way to Lake Mead, then west to McCarran Airport. The flight went well, but strong headwinds turned what should have been a 1.8 hour flight into a 2.5 hour flight. (It also made the flight a bit rough in some places.) Mike, sitting in the back, had my old PowerShot camera. Here are a few of the photos he took along the way. I chose the ones where you can see details within the cockpit to put the scenes in perspective. It’s also kind of cool (at least to me) to see the instruments and gauges in the panel.

Here’s Lake Havasu City. That’s London Bridge below us — the real thing, brought over from England in the 1970s. I always start my upriver flights with an overflight of the bridge.

Much farther up the river, we reached Hoover Dam and the bypass bridge, which is still under construction. Hoover Dam, in case you don’t know, holds in Lake Mead. The white line right above water level is about 60 feet tall and marks the high water line. (The water level is way down.) We would have gotten some better photos of the dam and bridge if the area weren’t so darn congested. There was a tour helicopter high over the dam and a pair of military helicopters that would be cutting right between us, less than 500 feet over my head. I didn’t waste much time there.
After crossing the southwest corner of Lake Mead, I headed west toward the city. Here’s a shot as we were getting ready to cross Lake Las Vegas. If you’ve got sharp eyes (or the full-sized photo) you can see the Las Vegas skyline on the horizon on the right side of the photo.

Air Traffic Control at McCarran instructed me to fly toward the Stratosphere when I was still 15 miles out. I wound up flying just south of it — my altitude was below the glassed-in restaurant/ amusement level of the tower. (At the time, I recall wondering what people looking out at us must have been thinking.) I’m particularly fond of this shot because it’s so damn surreal.

We made our approach to McCarran flying down I-15, then descending between Luxor and Mandalay Bay to land on the ramp. I have video of it from my POV.1, but I don’t think it’s all that good. I’ll have to do it again one of these days with the camera mounted in its new position. (More on that another time.)

Two flying jobs in one day.

I spent most of yesterday flying — and that’s not an exaggeration. I was in the cockpit almost nonstop from 8 AM through 5 PM. During that time, the helicopter was on the ground waiting for less than two hours — and most of that time was for either fueling or waiting for passengers.

The Plan

I’d been booked to fly a series of 30-minute tours for a bunch of lawyers in Phoenix for a conference. The woman who made the arrangements started a dialog with me about it at least four months ago, and I admit I didn’t think the job would happen. But about a month and a half ago, she finalized. There would be 21 passengers — that meant 7 individual flights of 30 minutes each. Three and a half hours of flight time. That’s the kind of job you just don’t want to turn down. Best of all, I received payment by check a week before the flight. So I was booked for 12 noon out of Deer Valley Airport in Phoenix.

The day before that flight, I got a phone call from a local video producer. He needed a helicopter to fly a job on the same day. (Why does this always happen? Nothing major for a week or two and then two job possibilities at the same date and time?) I explained that I was only available before 11:30 AM or after 5 PM. He said he’d call back. When he did, he said the morning slot would work best, since the home he needed to video from the air faced east. After a few more phone conversations with him and his camera guy, I was booked for 8:45 AM out of Falcon Field airport in Mesa.

The Photo Shoot

Early yesterday morning, Mike and I were at the airport, pulling the helicopter out and fueling it up for the flight down to Falcon Field.* Mike was coming with me for the Phoenix Tour portion of the day; I needed someone reliable to safely “hot” load and unload my passengers, since shutting down after each flight would be far too time consuming. He wanted to fly with me on the photo shoot, but I would have a cameraman and director onboard and the added weight of a fourth person would have severely restricted my performance. As it turned out, we didn’t have room for him — the cameraman brought all kinds of stuff with him that took up the other seat.

The flight down to Falcon Field was relatively uneventful. We took a route that scouted around the south sides of Deer Valley’s and Scottsdale’s airspace. Normally, I’d fly between Squaw Peak and Camelback, but I wanted to preview the area I’d be flying for the photo shoot. I’d found it on Google Maps; as you can see here in a Google Maps satellite view, it’s on the side of a mountain at the end of a canyon. (I don’t want to identify the house in question or even provide details on where it is. Even though it’s in a gated community, I know there are people who read this blog and have nothing better to do than track down the places I write about.) From there, we continued on to Falcon Field, where I landed on a helipad at the base of the tower and shut down.

The film’s director, Anthony, was already there. He’d been told to meet us at 8:30. We’d been told 8:45. Evidently, the cameraman had been told 9:00. He arrived at 9:15. He’d had some trouble with the camera mount and his gyro. Mike, Anthony, and I chatted while we waited. He told us that the house in question was a rental and the video was for promotional purposes.

The cameraman, Will, arrived with all kinds of equipment. We brought it all out to the helicopter and helped him prepare it. He climbed into a very serious harness with the thickest web straps I’d ever seen. That turned out to be a good thing, since he depended on that to keep him from falling out and he did most of his work with both feet on the skids. (I’m glad he was sitting behind me where I couldn’t see him.) He also had a helicopter pilot helmet, which he said made it possible for him to get his head closer to the camera. The camera was quite large and he put additional equipment on the back seat beside him, as well as on the floor in front of that seat. Anthony sat up front next to me, with a video monitor he could use to see and direct Will’s camera work. Will’s door was off, of course.

Both of them had spent extensive time in a helicopter doing this kind of work, but Mike gave them the safety briefing anyway. Then I started up, warmed up, and took off.

To say the shoot was tricky is an understatement. The house in question was the highest one on the hill, but it was still below the ridge lines nearby. It was also at the end of a canyon. I couldn’t hover for long abeam it because (1) if I got into settling with power, there was no place to escape to, (2) hovering that low would put me too close to neighboring homes, and (3) 10-15 mph winds from the south over the nearest ridge set up nasty turbulence at that level in the canyon. So although I was able to give them plenty of low, slow passes, I had to keep moving, keeping my speed above 20-25 knots so I wouldn’t slip below ETL. I also couldn’t get as low as they wanted.

I should mention the effect they were trying to achieve: Zoom in on a guy on the balcony who is talking to the camera. Make it look as if the camera guy is standing with him — not on a helicopter hovering 200 yards away. Then pull back to reveal the home and mountainside from the helicopter. They called it a “snap.” It sounds like a great shot, but it was nearly impossible to achieve. I don’t know if they expected me to hover out of ground effect 100 feet away from the house in a canyon with neighboring homes nearby in 10-15 mph winds, but I’m not an idiot. While it might be possible for a 10,000 hour pilot who didn’t worry about safety or noise flying a twin-engine turbine, it wasn’t possible for me to do it safely in a loaded R44.

There was some confusion with the actors, too. Anthony did all of his communication by cell phone and text messaging, but apparently there were a lot of lost instructions. I won’t go into details, but some of it would have been funny if they weren’t paying me to watch it from the air. So it didn’t come off exactly as planned. But they assured me that they got plenty to work with. I hope so. We were on point for more than 90 minutes — and I’m sure I’m going to get phone calls on Monday morning.

From there, Anthony wanted to shoot his office, which was near Scottsdale Airport. I asked where it was in relation to the tower. About a half mile northeast. I got permission from the tower to enter their airspace and move into permission. I had to stay low-level to keep away from other traffic, so we were about 300-400 feet up. It turns out, his office is a block away from the taxiway at Scottsdale airport. I reported on point to the the tower and did two circles while Will shot video.

Then we peeled off to shoot someone else’s house just inside Scottsdale’s space. By this time, Scottsdale Tower had cut me loose with a “Frequency change approved,” and I was pretty much free to do what I wanted. Unfortunately, this required some low (300-400 feet), slow flight over a golf course and the folks on the fairway stopped to give us some dirty looks. More phone calls on Monday, I suppose.

We were back at Falcon Field at 11:20, just 10 minutes before I wanted to be out of there. I’d flown 2.2 hobbs hours — more than twice the time we’d originally estimated for the flight. I had to cool down and shut down. Mike put the door back on and we all helped Will get his camera stuff out while he disconnected his harness. There was a lot of hand shaking all around before they left. I got a fuel truck over to top off both tanks, settled my fuel bill, and started up for the flight to Deer Valley.

The Phoenix Tours

We were supposed to be at Deer Valley by 12 noon. We were late, arriving at about 12:10 PM. I hate to be late. Being late tells the person waiting for you that he’s not important. Nothing could be further from the truth, especially in this case. So I sent Mike in while I was shutting down on the east helipad. Fortunately, the client was very understanding. Since I was already fueled, we were ready to go. Our first flight departed Deer Valley at 12:20 PM.

They wanted a tour of Phoenix that would last 30 minutes. Frankly, it would have been easier to come up with a tour that lasted only 15 minutes. Deer Valley is due north of downtown and I could have done a loop down to McDowell, back over their hotel — they were staying at the Biltmore — and back to Deer Valley. But they wanted 30 minutes and I wanted to deliver it. So I came up with a route that included quite a bit of the west side of Phoenix. The highlight out there was Cardinals Stadium, where they played the Super Bowl this past February. Although the roof was closed, the grass field was outside and I was able to explain how they moved it in and out as needed for games. On one flight, the sprinklers were even on. The grass looked perfect from 500 feet up.

Here’s a Google Maps image of the exact route. You can follow this link for an interactive version.

The flight was challenging because I had to pass through three different towered airport airspaces: Deer Valley (Class D), Glendale (Class D), and Phoenix Sky Harbor (Class B). To make things a little easier, on one of the first flights, I told the towers at Glendale and Phoenix that I’d be doing the same thing six more times.

The tower at Sky Harbor was especially friendly. After the third flight through, the controller could no longer hold back his curiosity. “What are you doing, anyway?” he asked as I exited to the north.

“Half-hour tours of Phoenix from Deer Valley Airport,” I replied.

“Sounds like fun. See you later.”

“Ill be back in 35 minutes,” I told him.

Glendale tower’s controller asked me if I was on traffic watch, probably because I was following the Loop-101 south to I-10. The question surprised me, so I just told him no, but didn’t say what I was doing.

My passengers were very nice and very friendly. They’d come from all over the world: New York, Seattle, Portland, San Diego, Sidney, and Shanghai, to name a few cities. I pointed out sights. They asked questions about what we were seeing and how the helicopter works. They all seemed to enjoy the flight. I estimate that about a third of them had never been on a helicopter before. About a third had never been to Phoenix before, either.

On the last flight, I took some video of the entire flight with my POV.1, from departure to landing. Because the sun was low — it was about 4 PM when I took off — the westbound video isn’t very good. And by the time I got faced the other way, there were bugs on the lens. I probably have a few good clips from the video, though. I decided that I want to try repositioning the camera to the front of the helicopter, pointing straight out. Although the video from my side isn’t bad, I usually make a conscious effort to put the best view on the other side, where two people are sitting. So my view isn’t as good as what the passengers see and the video doesn’t represent their flight as well. Need to work on that.

The Flight Home

After the last tour, I didn’t even bother shutting down. We had enough fuel for the flight home — I’d refueled after the fourth flight. Mike escorted the last group to safety and they made their way back into the terminal. He climbed on board and we took off.

We landed at Wickenburg just after 5 PM. When I shut down and checked the Hobbs meter, I realized that I’d flown 7-1/2 hours that day. I was exhausted.

*Flying M Air stock photo by Jon Davison.

Evaluating job opportunities.

Let’s face it: summer in the Phoenix area is brutal, as far as weather is concerned. Temperatures reaching triple digits every day from June through September. Humidity kicking in with the monsoonal rains in July and August. Everything slows down as half the population goes back to the midwest and northwest. Business — especially tourism-related business — dries up.

It’s idiotic to stay in the area if you don’t have to.

How I Spent My Last Four Summers

Back in 2004, I had a summer job as a pilot up at the Grand Canyon. It was a relatively convenient job for me, with a 7 on/7 off schedule that enabled me to go home every other week and work on whatever book projects were on my plate. The Grand Canyon area gets warm in the summer, but it’s nothing like the Phoenix area so it was a good escape from the heat. And the flying I did there was challenging, helping to improve my flying skills and knowledge. In other words, it was a good job experience.

I took the summer of 2005 off from flying. That was the summer I did my “midlife crisis road trip” — 16 days driving around the northwest, looking for a better place to live year-round or in the summer months.

In the spring of 2006, I made contact with another Robinson operator based in Washington State. He introduced me to the world of cherry drying, which looked like a good opportunity. Although he said he might have enough work for both of us, that didn’t pan out. So I stayed home that summer, doing a few flights here and there.

In the spring of 2007, my cherry drying friend was certain that he had work for both of us. With his guidance, I submitted a bid to a grower who showed a definite interest in both of us. In the end, he accepted a bid from a turbine helicopter pilot who promised him stick time in his aircraft. That’s a perk I wasn’t willing or able to throw into my bid package. By then, it was too late to find other work. So I stayed home for most of that summer, too.

Except in June.

Alaska

In June 2007, Mike and I went on vacation in Alaska. We were there for about 10 days, including a 7-day cruise.

Alaska is big and we saw a very small part of it: Anchorage, Denali, Whittier, Seward, Juneau, Ketchikan, Skagway, Icy Straits Point. But we did have time to take two helicopter flights with Alaska’s biggest helicopter tour operator, Temsco. The scenery and type of flying on these two flights made me realize that I’d really like to fly in Alaska.

So that became my goal for the summer of 2008: to get a seasonal job flying in Alaska.

What I Bring to the Employment Equation

My experience is a bit more substantial than “entry level.” I currently have almost 2000 hours of helicopter flight time, most of which has been built doing real commercial flights — that is, flying for hire. I own and operate my own business, so I have insight into the business that few other pilots have. I know how to deal with clients and passengers. I’m also mature enough to make situation-based decisions without worries of peer pressure. I’d like to think that all this gives me an edge over the recently unemployed, 1000+ hour CFIs who flooded into the workforce with the demise of Silver State Helicopters.

At the same time, I expect to be paid based on my experience and the value I bring to the employer. A company more interested in its bottom line than hiring appropriately experienced pilots would likely go for the entry level applicants. And since a company like that may feel the same way about its mechanics and service personnel, it’s likely a company I wouldn’t want to work for anyway.

My Employment Goals

To understand how I evaluate job opportunities, it’s helpful to understand what my personal goals are in finding an employer.

Unlike most people looking for a pilot job, I’m not desperate for a job. I’d like one very much, but I can afford to be a bit picky. I won’t starve if I don’t get a job. It’s more important to get a good “match” with an employer and the job it offers than to collect a paycheck. (That’s not to say I’ll work for free or less than I’m worth.)

With that in mind, I’ve come up with a list of questions that I need to answer during the evaluation process. If the answer to a question is yes, that’s a point in the job’s favor. If the answer is no, that’s a point against it.

• Will the job teach me a new skill? Some examples of the skills I’d like to build include more advanced off-airport landings (think glaciers and mining camps), sling loading, and long line work.
• Will the job introduce me to new equipment? Most of my flight time is in Robinson R44 and R22 helicopters, with a bunch of Long Ranger time from my 2004 Grand Canyon gig. I’d like to fly different helicopter models to round out my experience.
• Will the job enable me to build turbine time? Building turbine time is the goal of any pilot who wants to make a living as a pilot. The best jobs are the turbine helicopter pilot jobs. Without turbine experience, these good jobs will always be out of reach. I’m interested in building enough turbine time to one day qualify for work in ENG (electronic news gathering) or EMS (emergency medial services) or a tour job in an incredible place (Kauai comes to mind). And since I’m not getting any younger, I really shouldn’t put off this goal any longer than I need to.
• Is the job in a place I could live happily? I’m not talking about living in paradise here. In general, I have very basic needs for living space: clean, fully functional, relatively quiet, private. I need access to the Internet to do my off-duty writing work. And I need to be able to shop for food and other necessities. I’d also like some recreational opportunities in the area, such as biking, hiking, or fishing.
• Does the job pay enough to cover all my living expenses while away from home and enable me to put some money in the bank? Oddly enough, the pay on some helicopter pilot jobs is so low, it only covers basic living expenses. Pilots do these jobs solely to build time. While I could be tempted to take on another low-paying job to build turbine time, the other factors need to weigh in to guide my decision. In any case, the pay needs to be reasonable.

Why I Won’t Be Working in Alaska This Summer

Unfortunately, I won’t be working in Alaska this summer. I made a few bad decisions early on in the hiring season that cut down on my opportunities.

The main bad decision was the one to chase down an extremely interesting opportunity here in the Lower 48. It was a turbine helicopter pilot job flying either a JetRanger or a LongRanger — either of which would be pretty easy for me because of my experience. The work itself was charter work, flying passengers in different cities all over the country. There was an “on the road” component that sounded kind of fun in a weird trucker sort of way.

At first, the job seemed as if it would take up much of my summer — which, if you recall, was the goal. But as time went on, it became apparent that the job would be year-round and, as contract work, would probably only give me about 6 to 8 weeks of work a year. While that certainly would have fit into my schedule, it wasn’t as much work as I wanted or needed to make it worthwhile. Worse yet, there was overlap with the Alaska tour season, so if I took that job, I wouldn’t be able to work in Alaska, too.

By the time I figured this out, It was too late to touch base with most Alaska tour operators. I’d been waiting for job postings, but because there were so many pilots in the job market, no one was posting tour jobs. The pilots were finding employers on their own, without job postings. The employers didn’t need more applicants — they already had far too many.

I did go to Alaska earlier this month for a job interview. The interview went well and I got an offer. But the job simply wasn’t a good match — using the criteria listed above — so I had to turn it down. And now all the other employers are deep in the hiring process. Interviews are over. By waiting to see those job postings, I locked myself out.

There’s an adage about my screw-up: “He who hesitates is lost.” Believe it or not, I already know that. I’ve seen, over and over, how opportunities fade away when you don’t reach out and grab them promptly.

My failure to explore all opportunities promptly is primarily why I don’t have a job this summer. It makes me want to slap myself on the side of the head repeatedly.

Where I Will Be Working this Summer

I still have options for a summer job, using my own helicopter to get the work done. There won’t be any turbine time, although there might be some new skills learned. There will also be a ton of money — I can make a lot more money with my own ship than as an employee for someone else. And money isn’t a bad thing.

I don’t want to jinx any of these opportunities, so I’ll keep them to myself for a while. Rest assured that when I settle down for my summer employment, you can read about it here.

Well, I finally worked out the kinks in my POV.1 camera. This time, I mounted it to the outside of the helicopter on my door pointing forward, slightly right, and slightly down. I took this video while coming in for a landing on the Terminal 3 helipad at Phoenix Sky Harbor airport (PHX). The helipad is on top of the parking structure beside the tower, between the north and south runways. It was a quiet morning; not much traffic at all

A pickup at the Terminal 3 helipad.

Last week, I had my first passenger pickup at Sky Harbor’s Terminal 3 helipad. This was an unusual gig for several reasons:

• I’d only flown into the Terminal 3 helipad once before, and that was with a flight instructor. I’d asked for the flight so I could learn the approach in case I ever had to do it. A full year went by before I had a call for a pickup there.
• The Terminal 3 helipad is on top of Terminal 3 (hence the name), in an area that’s in the middle of the top level of a parking structure. To reach it, you have to cross one runway (from the north) or two runways (from the south) where commercial airliners are landing and taking off. (The airport diagram below shows its location beside the Control tower in the middle of this busy Class Bravo airport.)
• This particular pickup was at 8 PM. Since it was February, that means it was night.

So I was going to land at a helipad I’d landed on only once before, at the top of a 6-story building, in the middle of busy airport, at night.

The terminal 3 helipad is far more convenient for my passengers than where I usually land on the southwest corner of the airport at one of the FBOs. (I usually use Cutter, but Swift is there, too.) Landing at an FBO requires my passengers to get a free shuttle from their terminal to the FBO. You can’t beat the cost, but the amount of time you wait for the shuttle and then ride it takes away from the convenience of being picked up at Sky Harbor and whisked to your destination. My passengers were arriving via U.S. Airways (formerly America West), which had gates at Terminal 4. They’d still need to take a shuttle to meet me, but at least they didn’t have to go around the airport to do it.

The Flight

My passengers were supposed to land at 8:07 PM. I figured that by the time they got to the gate and retrieved their luggage, it would be at least 8:30. Then at least 15 minutes to get to me. Still, I don’t like to make people wait for me, so I decided to get there by 8:15 PM. That means I needed to start up at Wickenburg Airport by 7:30 or so.

Mike dropped me off. I’d pulled the helicopter out and fueled it up earlier in the day so it was sitting on a helipad, ready to go when we arrived. There was still a little glow to the west where the sun had set. Mike waited until I took off. Our friend Dave pulled up in his Jeep and chatted with him while I warmed up the helicopter. Then I took off, turning on the runway lights as I lifted off. I climbed to 3,000 feet and turned to the southeast where I could see the glow of Phoenix.

My flight path would take me from the darkness of Wickenburg along Route 60 (Grand Avenue) to Bell Road. By then, I’d be in the brightness of the Phoenix area, flying at about 2,000 feet in over its lower elevations. I planned to turn east along Bell Road and follow that to I-17. I’d call Phoenix Tower from the Metro Center Mall at I-17 and Dunlap.

Yes, I follow roads.

The flight worked just as I intended, although I did have to head southeast toward the mall sooner than I expected to avoid Deer Valley’s airspace. It wasn’t worth calling them for the 3 minutes I’d be in their space, so I just avoided it. My GPS made it easy to see where the space was so I didn’t slip in by mistake.

I’d been listening to Phoenix Tower talking to the incoming airliners since I was 20 miles out. I had nothing else to listen to. I’d purposely left my iPod behind so I wouldn’t be distracted by it. I don’t fly at night that often — maybe once or twice a month — and I was nervous about flying into the helipad at night.

I tuned my transponder to 0400. “Phoenix Tower, helicopter Six-Three-Zero-Mike-Lima is over Metro Center Mall, Sharp Echo with November for landing at the Terminal Three helipad.” This call to the tower identified me and my position, indicated that I was a signatory to the Sharp Echo letter of agreement for helicopter pilots, verified that I’d listened to the airport’s ATIS recording so I knew conditions, and state what I wanted.

The female controller’s voice came back in a moment. “Helicopter Zero-Mike-Lima, squawk zero-four-zero-zero and ident.”

She was telling me to tune my transponder as I already had and press the Ident button. That button makes my radar blip brighter than the others for a short time so she can see which blip I am.

“Zero-Mike-Lima is identing,” I said, pressing the button.

I was still quite a distance from her space, so I continued, now heading southeast. Hopefully, she’d see me and clear me to enter the class bravo airspace. But she didn’t. Instead, she gave some instructions to incoming airliners. I waited about two long minutes, then pressed the Ident button again, convinced that I was flying too low for her to see me.

“Helicopter Zero-Mike-Lima, say position again.”

“Zero-Mike-Lima is about three miles southeast of Metro Center.”

“Helicopter Zero-Mike-Lima, radar contact. Cleared into Class Bravo airspace. Proceed via Sharp Echo to midfield for crossing to Terminal Three helipad. Remain north of Runway Two-Six.” This call verified that the Tower could see me on radar and gave me the all-important clearance into the surface airspace. It also told me how I should proceed inbound: toward the airport, north of midfield.

I confirmed that I’d received the instructions by reading back the most important ones: “Zero-Mike-Lima proceeding. Will remain north of Runway Two-Six.”

I continued on my way, now looking for the airport. I was still at least ten miles out and all I could see were lights. After a while, I could see airplanes coming in for a landing and airplanes departing. I figured the airport had to be between them. My GPS confirmed that, but I really wanted to see where I’d be going.

I also wanted to see the tower. The Terminal Three helipad is less than 100 yards west of the tower. If I could see the tower, I could find the helipad. I wanted to make my approach directly to the helipad to minimize my time over the runway.

I heard the incoming jets talking with the tower as I continued in. One of them was being told to wait in the holding area. The pilot came on the radio and said, “Tower, we have a medical emergency and need to get to the gate immediately.” She cleared him to the gate.

I was three miles out and down to about 1500 feet when I saw the tower quite clearly. I adjusted my course. A moment later, the controller came on the radio again.

“Helicopter Zero-Mike-Lima, do you have that Airbus on short final in sight?”

“Zero-Mike-Lima has the traffic in sight.” How could I not? Two bright headlights were about a quarter mile from the runway end, closing on it quickly.”

“Helicopter Zero-Mike-Lima, cross behind that traffic and cleared to land at the Terminal Three Helipad.”

“Zero-Mike-Lima crossing the runway behind the traffic.”

I adjusted my speed to reach the runway just as the airbus passed by me and began my descent. I was already pretty low, so my descent wasn’t very steep. I crossed the runway with the quickest glance at the landing lights of about five more jets on their way in. I felt my cell phone vibrate and ignored it.

At first, I couldn’t see the helipad. I saw the rooftop parking structure and headed toward it. I was about 50 yards away when I saw the lighted helipad. I glided over to it and set down diagonally in the square, unsure of where my passengers would be coming from. I don’t like to park with the helicopter’s tail rotor facing where people might be walking or waiting.

It wasn’t until later that I saw the tri-colored rotating beacon in the southwest corner of the area that identified a civil aviation helipad. It was the first time I’d ever seen one.

On the Helipad

I cooled down the engine and shut down. A message on my cell phone was from my passengers. They’d landed but couldn’t get to the gate. It turned out that their gate had been handed over to a plane with a medical emergency. (I can’t make this stuff up.)

The terminal 3 helipad is a big, square landing area on top of the building. There’s enough room for one helicopter. If a helicopter is sitting on it, no one else can land on it. For that reason, a helicopter pilot who is parked there cannot leave the area.

Of course, I had my engine shut down and my radio off. If they needed me to move, they’d probably have to get someone out there to tell me. There was a security guy watching me for the first fifteen minutes or so of my wait. But then he got as bored as I did and, able to relocate, did.

I was aware of a few things up there. First, the smell of burning rubber. At first, it was so strong, I thought it was my helicopter. But then I realized it was the smell of the tires of the big planes heating up as they hit the tarmac on landing. The wind was blowing the smell from the south runways right to me. Not long afterward, I started smelling their brakes, too.

I was also aware of how nice the view is from up there. Great view of most runways. Phoenix skyline off to the northwest. The lights of Phoenix’s urban sprawl spread out in every direction around me, punctuated by blackness where rocky mountains rose too steeply to build upon. The antennas atop South Mountain looking like so many floating red lights. A nice breeze blowing kept the air feeling fresh and clean (despite the tire/brake smell).

The helipad is an excellent place to hang out and watch traffic come and go. It was quite entertaining — at least for the first fifteen or twenty minutes. Then it got just plain boring. I spent some time tweeting updates on Twitter and reading what others were writing. The Oscars were on television and most folks seemed tuned into that.

After about 45 minutes, I called my passengers again. They’d retrieved their luggage and were now waiting for the van from the guest ranch they were staying at to come pick it up. I guess I should explain. There’s enough room in my helicopter for them and some small pieces of luggage, but not enough room for them and enough luggage for two people for two weeks. It turned out to be cheaper and easier to have the ranch send a van down for their bags than to book them on another charter carrier. This was also a good idea in case the weather turned bad and I couldn’t come get them at all. They could always take the van to the ranch. Why not just take the van? My client wanted to fly and he didn’t even care that he’d arrive at the ranch before his luggage. (Why can’t I have about 20 clients like that every season?)

I told them to have the van drop them off at Terminal 3 as it was leaving the airport. This would save them the hassle of catching the Inter-terminal shuttle bus. Then we hung up and I went back to waiting.

The Flight Back

My passengers arrived suddenly about 15 minutes later. I greeted them and bundled them on board, seating them both on the left side. I planned fly fly past downtown Phoenix on the way to Wickenburg, to give them a little night tour of the area. I started up and warmed up the engine, listening to the ATIS recording before switching to the tower frequency. I must have timed it just right because when I requested a departure to the northwest past downtown Phoenix, she immediately cleared me across the runway. I saw the landing lights of at least another five jets bearing down on us as I scooted across, climbing.

After clearing the runway area, I turned to the west. The roof on Chase Field was open and there were some lights on in there. Maybe they were doing some kind of maintenance. I didn’t fly close enough to see. I turned north to follow 7th Street past the tall buildings, then headed northwest. I wanted to hook up with Grand Avenue again before we left the brightness of the city. This photo by Jon Davison gives you an idea of what it might have looked like from the back seat.

The flight back was uneventful. As we reached Sun City and left the lights behind us, a sort of haze seemed to fill the cockpit. The first time I’d experienced this phenomena, it had scared me. Now I knew what caused it: my eyes adjusting to the lower light levels. I dimmed the cockpit’s instrument lights even more to prevent reflection on the inside of the bubble. My passengers were awed by the darkness we had to fly through.

Then we could clearly see the line of white that marked route 93: cars returning from Las Vegas on that Sunday night. They’d pass right through Wickenburg. We followed route 60 at an altitude of about 3,000 feet into town. Then I turned along the dark corridor of Sols Wash, keyed the mike button, and brought the airport lights to life. A while later, we were on the ground on one of the two helipads and Mike was driving up to give them a lift to the ranch and bring me home.

It was just after 10:00 PM.

This particular flight will be one of those that stays with me for a long time. Not because it was frightening or dangerous or beyond my skill level. It was none of those things. But it was a new experience that offered new and unique challenges. Any time I take on a reasonable challenge and succeed, I learn and become a better person.

And when it’s a flying challenge, I become a better pilot.

Fog in Wickenburg makes for an interesting departure…or two.

On Saturday, I was scheduled to appear at the Buckeye Air Fair in Buckeye, AZ to give helicopter rides. This would be my fourth appearance at this great family event.

The weather on the days leading up to the event was overcast with scattered rain. While rain isn’t too common in the desert, it’s not unheard of. The weather forecast for Saturday was clear with temperatures around 65°F. That’s unseasonably cool, but I’d take it. Winds in Buckeye were forecast at 7 knots from the east shifting to 5 knots from the southwest. Nice.

Fog in Wickenburg?

What the weather forecast didn’t mention was fog. Fog is only slightly more common here than snow. While we can get snow about once every 3 to 5 years, we can get fog once or twice a year. This year’s first encounter with fog was Saturday morning.

I saw it when I woke up at 4 AM. (I’m a naturally early riser; its a curse of middle age.) It was still dark out, but I could barely see the lights from my neighbors’ homes and I couldn’t see the tower normally visible out the back of our house. I’ll fly at night or in rain or in high winds. But I can’t fly in the fog.

I went about my morning routine. The sky brightened. We were in a thick fog. Visibility was about 1/2 mile.

Mike woke up, had breakfast, and fed the horses. By then, it was 7 AM, time to head to the airport. But I still couldn’t see beyond the hills immediately around our house. It was definitely not flying weather.

We packed up a cooler with bottled water, soda, some snacks, and ice. We took the Jeep to the gas station and filled it up — not because we needed it for the event, but because I, as usual, had run it until the Low Fuel light came on. Then we headed over to the airport to load and prepare the helicopter.

The visibility there was the same, if not worse.

I did a good preflight, taking my time. Mike loaded the cooler, paperwork, signs, and other paraphernalia into the back seat area. There was no reason to rush. Even though we were going to be late, I couldn’t take off in the fog.

We towed the helicopter out to the fuel pumps and took on 12 gallons. Fuel is cheaper in Buckeye, so we figured we’d fuel up there. It would also be a good way to support the airport that was hosting the event. (I wound up buying 88.8 gallons of 100LL at Buckeye that day, coming home with full tanks.)

Playing the Waiting Game

Ed, one of my mechanics, came by. He has a classic Taylorcraft Sport airplane and planned to fly it down to Buckeye and put it on display. But he didn’t like the look of the weather, either. He, Mike, and I spent about 30 minutes standing near his hangar, chatting, watching the fog thicken and thin out and thicken again.

A helicopter flew by overhead, completely out of sight above the fog layer. That told me that the fog wasn’t very thick.Helicopters don’t normally make a habit of flying in clouds less than 1,000 feet off the ground. No aircraft does.

I went into the terminal to use the facilities and chat with the FBO guy, Roark. By now, it was 8:15 AM. I was supposed to be in Buckeye at 9 AM. Buckeye was about 40 minutes away by air. I made a few calls to let the people who were waiting on us know that we’d be late. I also called the automated weather observation system for Phoenix Sky Harbor, which is reachable by telephone, and listened to the recording. Visibility 10 miles. Scattered clouds at 1200 feet AGL; overcast at 3000 AGL. In other words, the weather down in Phoenix wasn’t bad at all.

While Roark and I were chatting, an airplane called in, coming from the north. His transmission was difficult to read, but what we eventually understood was that it was clear where he was. He wanted to know what the cloud ceilings were at Wickenburg. The way I saw it, we were in a cloud — ceilings were zero.

When the plane landed at Moreton Field, a dirt strip at a residential airpark three miles north of Wickenburg Municipal, I began to wonder whether the weather might actually be better than it looked. And that’s when I realized that the fog was lifting — I could actually see at least a mile and the dim outlines of the mountains 15 miles to the north were coming through the haze.

Our First Departure

I went out and started up the helicopter. Mike joined me as I was warming it up. We could see the full length of the 6050-foot runway and what lay beyond it when we took off.

At the airport, Roark and Ed were listening for reports. I climbed to just below cloud level — perhaps 400 feet up. When we got to the river, the clouds around us melted away. It was a beautiful, clear, sunny day to the north. I reported all this on the radio.

Unfortunately, we needed to go south. I decided to follow the river and Grand Avenue until we broke out of the fog bank.

It was a tense few minutes. Visibility varied from more than a mile to about 1/4 mile. Every time visibility got low and I considered turning around, it would suddenly open up, giving me confidence about moving forward. I was flying at 2300 MSL — below airport elevation. We could never get more than 300 or 400 feet off the ground because the cloud level was right there. This was scud running, pure and simple.

Then, about 8 miles south of town over Grand Avenue, I suddenly realized that if I continued forward, I’d be in a cloud. I dropped the collective, pulled back on the cyclic, and started a slow, sharp turn. Clouds surrounded us, but I kept sight of the ground. The five seconds it took to make my 180° turn seemed like ten minutes. But then we were flying back the way we’d come.

It wasn’t until I was back in town that I could make another radio report to Wickenburg Airport. I was too low for my signal to reach them through the mountains south of town. We continued north along the river until the cloud bank opened up again. Then I climbed steeply to take a look at the situation from up above.

We got above the cloud tops at 3000 feet. At 3200 feet MSL, the clouds looked like a fluffy blanket of cotton with Vulture Peak, Twin Peaks, and, far to the south, the bulk of the White Tank Mountains sticking out the top. It was absolutely beautiful.

Mike and I briefly discussed flying VFR on top. For those of you who aren’t pilots, this means flying using visual references, but above the clouds. The conditions for this were perfect — there were no other clouds above the ones we were already above, so there was no danger of flying into other clouds. There were ground references in the form of mountains poking through the clouds. But there were two problems with this:

1. I’d never flown VFR on top and wasn’t very comfortable with the idea.
2. If we had an engine failure, we’d have to drop through clouds that might reach all the way to the ground, making it impossible to find a suitable landing spot.

I descended back beneath the clouds. For a few minutes, I thought we might try heading west, but by the time we reached the airport again, I realized that visibility out that way wasn’t much better than at the airport. So we decided to land and wait it out.

Remember, there are old pilots and bold pilots but very few old, bold pilots.

More Waiting

On the ground, there was a man with a Piper Cub who was hoping to leave Wickenburg and fly to Tucson. He was in the same situation as us, since he needed to go south. I told him about the cloud tops and the nice day above them. He had an instrument rating, but his aircraft was not properly equipped for IFR (instrument flight rules) flight. So, like us, he decided to wait.

Time marched on.

I called Phoenix’s AWOS again. Still 10 miles visibility down there. Then I called Brad, who was working ground crew for us at Buckeye. He said it was overcast, but otherwise clear. The event was just starting to get under way, with lots of people coming in. I think he had a hard time believing that the conditions at Wickenburg could be bad enough to keep me on the ground.

At 9:15, I could wait no longer. The sky had brightened considerably and I was sure whatever clouds were left would burn off quickly. I was also sure that the VFR on top route we’d glimpsed would have plenty of holes with views to the ground. So I decided to give it another try.

Our Second Departure

While I warmed up the helicopter again, we heard radio calls from pilots coming into Wickenburg from the north. Some of them were on their way to Buckeye and, like us, were concerned about the cloud cover. They’d decided to stop in Wickenburg and wait it out.

The Cub guy had decided, like us, to go for it. He taxied down to the end of Runway 23 to depart. We took off, climbed out about 300 feet, and turned to the south. At first, I planned to follow Vulture Mine Road under the clouds. But when we saw how the clouds came down to the road level just south of Rancho de los Caballeros, I changed my plan. Instead, I made a 1300 FPM climb at about 60 knots right through the biggest hole I saw in the clouds. We popped out the top into the sunshine, will all the nearby mountain peaks clearly in view. Seeing the huge White Tank Mountains, which weren’t far from our destination, helped convince me that a VFR on top route would be okay.

I punched Buckeye into my GPS, adjusted our course, leveled off at 4000 feet MSL, and accelerated to 110 knots.

Mike took this excellent shot of Vulture Peak as we flew by it.

The cloud tops were about 500 feet below us as we moved south. There were plenty of big holes in the clouds offering clear views of the desert below us.

We reached the edge of the fog bank about 20 miles south of Wickenburg. I made a radio call to the Cub pilot to let him know the clouds stopped there. He was still on frequency and thanked me for the report. We descended to my usual altitude of 600 feet AGL and continued on our way with the low clouds behind us.

By the time we got to Buckeye, there were a few clouds scattered in a hazy sky. A cloud bank remained to the west and to the north through most of the day. But by the time we returned to Wickenburg much later that afternoon, the low clouds were gone.

At the Best in the Desert/BlueWater Parker 425.

I spent this past Saturday doing one of the things I really love to do: chasing racecars with a helicopter.

The venue was the Best in the Desert Racing Association’s BlueWater Resort & Casino Parker 425, which featured highly modified trucks, cars, and buggies racing on a 140+ mile dirt track through the desert. My client was a television producer who videos these events from multiple cameras and turns them in TV shows. For this event, they had a total of 15 cameras, includibut thingsng one in my helicopter and several in the trucks out on the course.

I flew the helicopter with the cameraman, Fred, and my husband, Mike, working as a spotter, on board. Fred sat behind me with his door off. Mike sat beside me.

We started before dawn at the Parker Airport. I started up at 7 sharp and was warmed up and ready to fly by 7:15. The police escort was leading the 300+ participant vehicles to the starting line on Route 95 in downtown Parker when we began circling about 500 feet overhead. Fred had a list of 15 targets he needed to video. The first one was the 15th truck in line at the start. Racers were released 30 seconds apart. When our first target was released, the fun began.

I chased the car down the paved road and onto the dirt track, descending as I left the downtown area. Soon, we were racing beside it just 70 feet up on the long straightaway that heads due east. Mike kept an eye out for wires, calling them out as he saw them. My attention was split between the truck, the wires, and the track in front of me. I worked the cyclic and collective hard, climbing, descending, slowing, speeding up. Both arms and legs worked automatically to make the helicopter do what I needed it to do. Spectators below me went by in a blur. The track made a 90 degree turn to the left and I paused at the inside of the curve just long enough to pivot so Fred could keep the camera on the target. Then down the short straightaway to the edge of a steep drop with high wires on one side. The truck descended the hill while I climbed over the wires. I met the truck on the other side and we raced together through a tree-filled dry wash.

“Okay, peel off,” Fred instructed.

I turned away from the target and followed the road back. Now we had to find the next target. All we had were numbers — we didn’t know much about how the vehicle looked, other than what class it was in. I had to fly low enough to see them. The first one of us to see a number, called it out. We got the next target halfway back to town. I lowered the collective to slow down and made a sharp 180 degree turn. Then I was on that truck, following it to the wires and into the wash.

We repeated this process about seven or eight times, each time picking up our target a little farther away on the track and ending a little farther down the track. I got to know exactly where all the wires were. Sometimes, I’d look down in time to see a spectator wave up at us or snap a photo. I think there were more photos taken of us that day than of any one racer.

This went on for over an hour.

Then, suddenly we could no longer find any of the targets we needed to video. That started a search up and down the track, flying low enough to read the numbers. Every once in a while, Fred would pick out a “trophy truck” or a vehicle driven by someone well-known, and ask me to follow it. I’d follow as closely as I dared, putting Fred close to the action. Inside the helicopter, through our noise-reduced headsets, we could sometimes hear the engines of the racers below us or the sirens of the vehicles preparing to pass. We watched one driver slip off the track and race along beside it, scattering spectators who had been standing too close. We shot some video of a modified Hummer flying through the air after a particularly bad bump.

I suppose I should mention here that I wasn’t the only helicopter at the event. There were at least five others: 2 R44s, an Astar, a Eurocopter, and a Bell Jet Ranger. In most cases, they’d been hired to follow a specific race vehicle or team. Once they left the area, they didn’t come back for a while. So keeping an eye out for aircraft wasn’t a serious issue.

After two hours, we headed back to the airport. I shut down and placed a fuel order. Then we drove over to the BlueWater Casino for breakfast. Fred met with some of the folks he works with to see how many vehicles on his list were still in the race. Each vehicle had a transponder and satellite communications device so it could be tracked from headquarters at the Casino. According to Fred, fewer than 50% of the vehicles finish the race. Most of them break. And if you saw the track, you’d understand why.

With an updated list, we headed out again just before noon. We were expecting one of the target vehicles in the pit area, so we stayed nearby. There was a “serpentine” area just east of the airport, with winding, bumpy tracks in a big field surrounded by spectators. I think there was about 5 miles of road there, and it was so twisty that even from the air, I had trouble figuring out the route. We spent about 15 minutes there, filming the action of vehicles skidding around the sandy curves, throwing dust high up into the air. At some point, I realized that I was probably putting on a better show for the spectators than the cars and trucks were.

We spotted a target vehicle as he was leaving the pits and took off after him. More chasing at low level, avoiding wires, slowing when the truck slowed, speeding up when it speeded up. We peeled off and continued down the track, looking for more targets. That’s when we started seeing the breakdowns. Trucks and cars and buggies on the side of the road with parts peeled off of them and drivers bent over their innards. One team was changing a tire. Another was taking the hood off the car. We saw a fender alongside the track. Later, we saw a prone driver with his companion performing CPR. (The rumor I heard was the driver suffered a heart attack or stroke while driving and died on the race course. I have not been able to confirm this yet.)

Desperate to find one last vehicle on Fred’s list and looking for exciting footage, we followed the entire 140-mile course. It stretched from Parker through the empty desert as far east as Cunningham Pass (north of Wenden) and around Planet Peak (near the Bill Williams River) to the northwest. This much-reduced map gives you an idea of the distance — I’ve highlighted the track in light red so it’s easier to see.

Much of the course was pretty boring from my point of view — lots of long, straight stretches. In one area, the road ran alongside a set of high tension power lines, making it tough to get low enough to see car numbers. But things got interesting on the last 4 or so miles, when the track headed into the mountains south of the Bill Williams River. Fred got some excellent footage of a car winding its way down a narrow canyon. I had to stay high — there wasn’t enough room for me to fly alongside it. But when the canyon opened, I dropped down so he could get some close-up shots.

After trying a few more times to find the missing buggy — we were in touch by radio with the satellite tracking people — we headed back to the airport and I shut down.

We’d flown a total of 5.0 hours. The sky had clouded up and lighting wasn’t as good as it had been earlier in the day. Although we’d planned a third flight for the finishers, Fred decided to skip it.

It had been a great day. Not only did I do a lot of flying, but it was the kind of flying I really love to do — challenging, exciting, and with a goal other than going from point A to point B.

Why can’t all my gigs be like this one?

Note: If you were at the 2008 Parker 425 in February and have photos or video footage of a plain red helicopter (no stripe) flying with the cars, please let me know. I’d love to show them off with this post or elsewhere on this site.

7 PM Update: Fred sent me a link to the promo they created for the show. There are lots of aerial shots taken from my helicopter. In one shot, you can even see my shadow. Check it out.

February 6, 2008 Update: Fred sent me a new link with a longer version of the same video. The last few seconds are pretty amazing.

February 7, 2008 Update: I added a few photos Mike took during the flight to give a better idea of what was going on at Parker. Am hoping to get a link to some video showing me in action. Stay tuned.

And keeping very busy.

My cell phone started ringing on Saturday and it didn’t stop. By Sunday afternoon, I was booked with a Grand Canyon day trip (from Phoenix Sky Harbor) on Monday, a one-hour Phoenix Tour from Scottsdale on Tuesday morning, and a 1-hour charter from Wickenburg on Wednesday. On Monday afternoon, while I was at the Grand Canyon with my passengers, the Phoenix tour turned into another Grand Canyon Charter. I turned down four Grand Canyon day trips and two Sedona day trips from the Phoenix area for Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday because I was already booked. I couldn’t keep up with the messages that came in while I was airborne on Monday and Tuesday and on Tuesday morning, while at the Grand Canyon, I had to shut my phone off because my battery was nearly dead.

Why all the sudden interest in helicopter day trips and charters?

The bowl game that was held in Glendale on Monday night. Don’t ask me which Bowl game it was — I don’t follow football. I only know who played (Florida Gators and Ohio State) and who won (Florida) because my Monday passengers were Gators fans and my Tuesday passengers were disappointed Ohio fans.

Like so many Phoenix area businesses, I feasted on the influx of big budget tourists, folks who think nothing of dropping $2K for a day’s entertainment. In the case of the Grand Canyon day trips, both parties wanted to get to and see the Grand Canyon but had limited time for the visit. They simply didn’t want to make the 4-hour (each way) car ride from Phoenix. So they hired me to take them by helicopter — 1-1/2 hour from Scottsdale (each way) and 1-3/4 hour from Sky Harbor.

Yesterday’s group didn’t have much time to spend at the canyon. We left Sky Harbor at 9 AM and arrived at Grand Canyon Airport barely in time for them to hop on a Papillon helicopter for a canyon overflight. Afterwards, we had an hour before we had to leave the Grand Canyon to get them back to the Phoenix area in time for their pre-game parties. They spent about 3/4 of that in Papillon’s gift shop. We did have time for a quick burger at Susy’s restaurant at Prescott Airport. I think they enjoyed that meal at a typical airport restaurant almost as much as the rest of their day. Of course, they probably enjoyed the game a lot more, since their team won.

Today’s group is just a father and his 10-year-old son who are here from Ohio for the game. They spent Sunday at Sedona and decided to fly with me to Grand Canyon for the day. I set them up with a Papillon tour and they got bumped up and upgraded to fly with Grand Canyon Helicopters (Papillon’s sister company), which flies much nicer equipment (EC130s). Although they were supposed to be on the short tour, they were put on the long tour and they apparently loved every minute of it. (What’s not to like?) We took the Xantera “taxi” to the park and I set them loose in front of El Tovar so they could walk the rim and have lunch on their own.

Now, at 1:30 PM, I’m sitting in the upper lounge (hotel guests only!), trying to produce something for my blog. There’s no wireless Internet here — and that’s a good thing. After all, I ‘m less than 300 feet from the rim of the canyon and shouldn’t even be looking at a computer. I’m meeting my passengers right outside at 3 PM for the return flight. I’ll have them back in Scottsdale by 5 PM and I’ll be shutting down on the ramp in Wickenburg before 6.

Yesterday’s flight was the first time I flew to the Grand Canyon from downtown Phoenix. It isn’t a particularly interesting flight. Not if you do a straight line, anyway. So I take little side trips. The highlight was probably the red rocks tour of Sedona about an hour into the flight. I flew my passengers past the airport and over town, then headed up the canyon where the tour operators there take their passengers. Near the end of the canyon, I pulled up, climbing at about 1,000 feet per minute to get over the edge of the Mongollon Rim. My front seat passenger was nervous, but he did okay. Then more relatively uninteresting stuff to the canyon. On the way back, I took them west of Bill Williams Mountain with a stop in Prescott, then down the east side of the Bradshaws. I showed them the ruins on Indian Mesa on Lake Pleasant before heading into Phoenix.

Cutter Aviation, my FBO of choice at Sky Harbor, was a complete mob scene when I got there at around 3PM. Jets and other large aircraft were coming in for the game — last-minute folks who hadn’t come days before to enjoy the weekend. My helicopter was an insignificant speck on the ramp among all the jets. They started leading me to parking in a “Follow Me” car, then just drove away, leaving me to set down wherever I wanted to. I found a spot in the corner of their ramp with the Swift FBO jets parked behind me. I was only planning on being there for a few minutes, so I didn’t think it mattered too much where I parked. I escorted my passengers into the terminal there, pocketed a generous tip, said goodbye, and placed my fuel order for 20 gallons. The next guy asked for 1,680 gallons. It took a long time to fuel me, probably because the idiot with the truck was trying to fit it all in one tank. Meanwhile, big planes kept coming in and the FBO person in charge was getting more and more nervous by the minute. There were at least 50 people — pilots, national guard guys, police, limo drivers — you name it — in the Cutter terminal. The place was crazed and I wanted out. It was a pleasure to get clearance from Sky Harbor tower to follow the “river bottom” and head northwest once I’d passed Central Avenue. I logged 4.3 hours yesterday, which is more than I budget for those flights. Not a loss, but certainly not the kind of hourly rate I like to earn. My fault. I charged them my north valley rate; I should have charged for south valley, which is $200 more. The tip helped.

Today, I flew my passengers from Scottsdale, which is a shorter flight. We went past Jerome instead of Sedona on our way up. I’ll overfly Sedona with a Red Rocks tour on the way back. Scottsdale was also full of jets this morning, but I expect most of them to be gone by the time we return. At least I hope so.

It’s been nice visiting the GC these past two days. I got a chance to chat with a few old friends from Papillon yesterday: Tiny, who is now a lead pilot (he started the same season I did in 2004); Mark D, who wasn’t particularly chatty; Chuck R, who seemed embarrassed to see me; Borden, who is also friends with our good friends Elizabeth and Matt; and Evelyn. I was hoping to talk to Brenda about HAI, but she didn’t seem to be in. Today, I ran into Tom (who once rescued Mike and I from Indians — long story) at GC Helicopters, where he’s a pilot.

I had lunch at El Tovar today. It feels good to sit down and relax. Things are pretty quiet here and, if I had more time, I would have attempted a nap. Last night I had trouble staying awake until 8 PM — I was so exhausted. I’ll probably sleep well again tonight.

But the good news is, Flying M Air could shut down for the rest of the month and still be in good financial shape.

As for my blog…it’s being neglected. But I’ll get back to it soon.