Coyotes and Checkrides

Back when I was in elementary school, I would often ask my teachers for outlandish requests to be granted, even if I knew they had little chance of generating more than just a simple laugh. For instance, I'd always suggest that our class would be better served if we went outside and played kickball rather than learn about, say, the European Renaissance. Since I never actually expected these ludicrous petitions to be taken seriously, I became accustomed to the many excuses offered up. But the one I never heard was, "We can't do that because there are coyotes on the runway." Today, while flying the first leg on my odyssey across the oil fields of west Texas, I was monitoring the control tower frequency of a nearby airport, and that was the reason given for runway closure. As it turns out, Air Traffic Control wasn't lying; there were in fact coyotes on the runway. I didn't land at that airport today, and neither did the plane several miles ahead of me. But it would have made for an interesting approach. One can only hope that the carrion the coyotes were feeding on wasn't the remnants of a downed student pilot.

I've flown just under fifty hours now, and finally had my first experience with fear and uncertainty. The other day, on a solo flight to the southeast, I encountered a wall of low clouds, around 2100 feet up. Protocol for this type of scenario depends on many things, but for a student pilot, M.O. is to basically avoid clouds at any cost. The unknown levels of turbulence associated with low clouds, coupled with the light weight of the Cessna, can make for some interesting moments. Since I was only a few miles away from my destination, and the weather in all directions appeared the same, I made the decision to continue on course at a reduced altitude. In all my training flights with the CFI, we'd never flown this close to clouds before. As I gripped the yoke and nervously watched the altimeter hold steady at 1,800 feet, my mind naturally gravitated towards worst-case scenarios: blown engine, wind shear, lightning strikes...I kept a close eye on the clouds above, and glanced at my instrument panel. Everything still normal. Checked the radio for weather updates and the recordings reported good conditions. Suddenly, my aircraft jolted to the left, as though someone had lifted the wing and tossed it aside. Now my heart was racing. Wind? I knew it couldn't be much else; I'd thoroughly checked the forecast and the radar was barren. Another gust, this one less powerful, but of greater duration, rocked me again. In all my previous flights, I'd never felt this type of turbulence. By brain kept shouting at me to remain calm and stay focused, but my heart pounded like it wanted to jump out of the airplane and run for safety. Thoughts of a frantic CFI pacing back and forth back in the hangar flooded my mind. I glanced at the GPS, showing me to be 7 miles north of Corsicana, where I intended to land. I'll make it. The safety of the flight wasn't really in question, just my psyche. After all, this was new to me. Descending another 150 feet brought slightly better air, and after a few more bursts, I was finally free and found smooth air. The airstrip was soon in sight, and, after easing in to a prolonged final, my heart resumed normal beating, my hands stopped sweating, and I made an easy landing, taxied back across the tarmac, and breathed one huge sigh of relief. It's funny looking back on it now, a few days removed, and it really doesn't seem too bad. I stand firm in the decisions that I made, I made the appropriate corrections, and I kept flying the aircraft. Recounting the story to the CFI a few hours later, he affirmed what I'd done and assured me that turbulence like that is a part of aviation; how to deal with it is part of what makes a successful pilot.

The checkride is coming. I can feel its inevitability like the dentist about to tell you he's located a cavity. Fear of the unknown serves as the perpetual motivator; the study sessions are focused on finding out what I do NOT know. Paranoia sets in when I cannot immediately spout off the dimensions of a Class C airspace. The thought of botching a maneuver brings me nightmares not felt since Pizza Hut discontinued their lunch buffet. The terror of flunking the most important test of my new career is maddening. I'm even spending time with PHAK again, and I swore I'd never go back. I've watched 7 minutes of sports in the last month. The bi-polar vacillation between confidence and despair is enough to rouse me out of bed at 6 AM and whip open the textbooks. When will it end? I'm on the schedule for Tuesday, a week from today. Passing means I'll have my private pilot's license, be almost 30% done with flight school, and have roughly two weeks to decompress before tackling the instrument stage. Failure means I'll have just wasted $400 and be the proud owner of a black check mark on my flight record for the rest of my life. In the high stakes world of aviation, it doesn't get any bigger than checkrides-unless you are a coyote, in which case, you make your own rules.

PB&J Sandwiches Consumed (to date): 40