MT-3 in flightA Continent and a Half of Fouga Flying:
"How to wish you'd never see an airplane again!"
My mission: To fly one Fouga Magister from Burlington Vermont to Portland Oregon, and to then be whisked to Tyler Texas by airliner thence to fly yet another Fouga back to Burlington. Ferry flying various exotic airplanes has always proven to be an adventure, and this trip was more of an adventure than even had been imagined. The outbound trip is to be accomplished with the proud new owner of my old Fouga who resides in Oregon, and the return flight is to be in my new Fouga, purchased to replace the old one! Outbound I will be conducting flight training for Gordon Jones, the new Fouga owner. He will occupy the front cockpit on all but certain difficult legs, and I will take the rear seat and shout encouragement and advice as required.
MT-3 in flight
The Fouga is a first generation jet trainer, formerly used by the French Air Force and about half of the free world as well. It is sleek, graceful, fully aerobatic, absolutely shrieks like a banshee: No make that a rather large pack of very unhappy banshees, and consumes fuel at a prodigious rate from a tiny fuel tank. In most airplanes fuel consumption is measured in gallons per hour. In this screaming meemie it is more properly gauged in dollars per mile. Dollars as in more than one dollar per mile. But more about this subject later. The bottom line is that after just over one and one half hours after lighting the torch the occupants of said torch SHALL be walking, one way or another, thus giving a whole new meaning to the concept of diverting to an alternate. Of course, the weather is always good while flying across the USA, is it not? We shall see.
DAY ONE:
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First leg: Burlington to Allentown Pennsylvania. Absolutely delightful. Flying at 17,500 feet in bright blue sunshine. The airplane is so smooth that you could balance a dime on the instrument panel, and the twin Turbomeca cash burners emit just a faint whine from a few feet behind my head. There is a bit of wind noise, but all in all a quiet and smooth ride in pressurized comfort. Landing at Allentown we answer the obligatory questions from the tower "What is THAT thing? Who built it? etc., etc.,". Get used to it, the questions NEVER cease. After fueling up (200 gallons, 250 miles, $440, lets see, that is 1.25 miles per gallon, or $1.76 dollars per mile, maybe I SHOULD have bought some BP stock before embarking.) I check weather. Interesting news, a warm front extends directly across our route of flight. No problem, we will just blast on through. Next stop: Zanesville Ohio. Allentown to Zanesville. Because of the weather it is decided that I will fly this leg. Suffice it to say that the leg is uneventful until descending into the destination from about 60 miles out. Our descent takes us through a large cumulous bank and the ice begins to build. I've not had a Fouga in ice before, and have heard some unkind things said about its reaction to such an affront. In about 30 seconds the windscreen is an opaque plate of ice. The Fouga's beautiful semi-laminar flow wing is becoming about as aerodynamic as a refrigerator. Gordon calmly announces that he has a good view of the wing and that he sees ice building fast, 1/2 inch per minute. I say "no kidding, I've got a half inch on the canopy". DOWN we go, into warmer air below. Punching the air brake button on the throttle and pushing the nose down I wind the airspeed up to a bit better than 350 knots and am pleased to see the vertical speed pegged at better than 6000 feet per minute. In a few seconds I am blinking in the bright clear air under the clouds and in a few more moments the ice sheds off the airplane in big chunks. No sweat! In five more minutes we are pulling up to the FBO and asking for a quick top off of Jet-A and into the terminal to check weather. The weather is good to Terra Haute and after extracting the obligatory wad of cash from Gordons now thinning wallet off into the air we go.
Zanesville to Terra Haute is another miniature airliner trip. Perfect conditions now that we are on the back of the front. A quick hour and ten minutes (that is $6.29 per minute) later we pull up for (surprise) more fuel. A quick weather check at the conveniently located Flight Service Station and we are off. Strapped into the airplane the left engine is fired up and then...nothing. The right engine starter has packed up and gone home to France, leaving a crowd of bystanders muttering to themselves about those unsafe and unreliable military jets, shouldn't they all be banned anyhow, and how many MONTHS do you think the bloody thing will be sitting on our ramp before the exotic parts arrive. Never fear, says I, we will have parts tomorrow (I hope). Unstrapping from all and sundry parachutes, lap belts, kneeboards, helmets, flight suits, and other items of important pilot stuff I go looking for a mechanic. And I even find one! Three even, and they are smiling! Perchance we will be saved after all. Happiness reigns until I am told that "We the mechanics of the airport DO NOT WORK ON TRANSIENT AIRPLANES"!! I point out that unless they fix our mount that I will soon be a BASED airplane. They however mumble some nonsense about liability and study the toes of their shoes. Off I go in search of tools. Stepping into the rather large pilot lounge where several bored flight instructors are sitting and contemplating how to make a meal for five out of one box of macaroni and cheese (I well remember those lean days myself), I loudly ask in my best pilot in command voice "Whom of you has tools sufficient to fix a JET in your car?". The word JET, the very holy grail of words to a new flight instructor, does the magic. "If I lend you my tools can I TOUCH your airplane?" says one of the hungry instructors. "Better than that I'll give you a ride when we get it running, and even sign your logbook for real JET AIRPLANE dual instruction received, after which British airways will no doubt beat a path to your door to hire you as a captain on the Concorde", says I. Needless to say tools were presented forthwith and sans mechanic the starter is removed and laid aside. After making arrangements for a replacement starter to be FEDEX'ed we ask the FBO for a hotel reservation and perhaps a courtesy car. More toe studying is done by the management and we are informed that courtesy cars are not given to transients. I inquire that if I were based there and had my own car anyway would a courtesy car be available? I am told that no, if I were based there I would have no need for a courtesy car and so they didn't have one. With this mystery clear I ask if there is a taxi, receive an affirmative, and make tracks for a hotel. Feasting at happy hour for the price of a beer (have to be economical, after all there is a FUEL bill to be paid tomorrow), we bed down for the night.
DAY TWO:
The next morning a package arrives at the FBO and a mission is made to scrounge up enough tools to install the starter. Mission accomplished with the help of a mechanic NOT from the FBO (and without being able to find our new found instructor friend to give a ride to), we depart. The weather is getting ugly to our west, so we head southwest to Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. Perhaps this would be a good time to brush up on basic geography. Walnut Ridge Arkansas is NOT on a straight line from Vermont to Oregon. It is in fact as far from a straight line as is possible whilst still remaining in the settled parts of the United States. This however is the only way around a fierce frontal storm system which covers the entire midwest, so after starting BOTH engines (Hurray!!) off the Fouga blasts towards Arkansas.
One detail not yet mentioned: The engines of the Fouga use a special oil, one which is refined only in the UK and even then only when worldwide demand dictates a special production batch. We have started our trip with one and a half gallons of the stuff, the only quantity east of the Mississippi. Fouga owners are jealous of this oil as well, knowing full well that their stock is not easily replaced. We have figured that our supply will be sufficient to make it to Oregon. Straight line, that is. Check the map once again and you will have a good idea of the story line to come.
We make Walnut Ridge with no problems. The midwest is getting plastered with rain and the Rockies are getting the last Blizzard of springtime, but our southern route is still nice. Opening up the canopies we enjoy the warmth of the southern air, it was 45 degrees in Vermont, now it is nearly 80. We are politely assisted by the FBO staff and learn that Walnut Ridge was where the B-17 fleets went to die after they had bombed the Germans into submission. Over 20,000 bombers were cut up and smelted into ingots here, and photographs on the wall show acres of the beasts parked on the airport awaiting their fate. There is still a smelting operation on the airport, scrap aluminum cans now and not a B-17 within hundreds of miles. I am feeling a bit sad about the destruction of these icons of the air war as we return to the airplane, but am immediately brought back to the present as Gordon announces that with our present oil usage we will be lucky to make it to Texas never mind Oregon. I return to the terminal and call the Fouga guru in Burlington, smiling Dean Martin. He tells me that he had sold a Fouga years ago to a museum deep in the heart of Texas, and assures me that if we call there we can scrounge some oil. He will make the introduction and make sure we get what we need. Encouraged, we call the Museum and are told that yes, some oil is to be had, but no, there is no Jet-A there so make sure you get fuel elsewhere before dropping by. I draw a line on the chart to Brownwood Texas and off again we go.
Now, whilst Fouga-ing about, the straight line is the only line, due to fuel requirements. This particular straight line just happened to go directly over Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, timed to coincide with airline arrival time as well. No problem, our radar target is just as big as a 747, anyway we will be at 16,500 feet so no bother to anybody. Coming to within 50 or so miles of DFW, I dial through the frequencies and finding a suitably busy one announce to Dallas Approach that we will be proceeding overhead the field and could we have radar advisories. A busy voice tells us NO WAY, we are much too busy to deal with the likes of you, can't you see that there are airliners flocking like pigeons to the roost here and wouldn't you PLEASE pick some other route? I calmly announce that we are unable due to fuel burn and will be proceeding over the field. I also hint that we would be more than pleased to turn off our transponder and disappear if it would help the traffic situation on the radar scope. Silence from approach control. Two minutes of contemplation by the controller of this offer, and we are given a transponder code and are cheerfully given advisories until we reach Brownwood where we further deplete our now meager oil and fuel money supplies.
Departing Brownwood to our oil stop, only 20 miles away and at a 3200 foot by 50 foot strip (so far we have enjoyed 5000 X 150 foot runways) it is decided that I will be allowed to fly from the front to make the short field. As advertised we are treated to a gallon of oil and a short tour of the collection: a F-86, A-26, Fouga, two T-33's, and some other interesting airplanes. While we are speaking, and in no more than two minutes, the wind shifts 180 degrees exactly, from the north at 20 knots to the south at 30. Remarkable. The folks here tell us that if we have never seen a Texas duststorm we soon shall. We say our good-byes quickly and depart for Midland Texas, with me in the front once again for the short field takeoff.
It is a short leg to Midland, only 150 miles or so. On our right we can see the edge of the storm that we have been skirting all day. We are just about 25 miles south of the southernmost edge of a storm that ranges into Canada and the thunderstorm clouds reach into the high flight levels. It is the gust front of the system which has changed the wind so quickly. We enjoy the view of natures power from a safe distance, and at the appropriate distance dial up Midland ATIS to get the weather. Wind 360 at 25 gusting to 35, visibility 2-3 miles in blowing dust. WOW. Visions of being blown to OZ dance through our heads. Contacting Midland approach we ask for radar vectors to final and are obliged.
Luck follows for some unknown reason and I get one of the best landings of my Fouga career. Probably because the groundspeed at touchdown was around 40 knots or less. Taxiing in the wind is interesting, the gusts are just pounding away at the airplane. We are concerned as to the safety of the airplane on the ramp, having decided to spend the night. I casually inquire as to the availability of a hanger, expecting a fee of $150.00 or so, standard in New Jersey where I come from. I am told that yes, a hanger is available, but that they are sorry that we will have to pay $5.00 for one night. Trying not to shout with excitement we calmly say that this would be fine and see the airplane tucked safely away before checking in at the most horrendous fleabag hotel in all of Texas. The hotel accommodations are more than made up for by the excellent Mexican dinner that we enjoy (and the use of the Courtesy car, even for transients). We head back to the fleabag for a well deserved nights sleep.
DAY THREE:
Day three starts out with breakfast. Gordon orders first and I follow with an order for French Toast and Bacon. Simple, it seems, but this is not to be the case. As we wait we cannot help but notice that even though this is the closest hotel to the airport, we are the only ones here for breakfast. Perhaps the accommodations should have set us up for what commences to follow. After a half hour two plates are presented, one with Gordons food and a second with pancakes and some sort of fried meat unidentifiable by yours truly. Now not to make waves, but I do not LIKE pancakes. I like French toast. If I wanted pancakes I would have ordered them. I politely tell this to the hostess, but indicate that another half hour would be pushing it and perhaps I could have cereal or some other simple food. She runs off without so much as a word and runs back in a minute with one small box of Raisin Bran and a container of milk. I decide not to point out that I loath Raisin Bran and swallow the contents of the box along with my pride. Thus refreshed we proceed to the airport where we find conditions to be 500 foot overcast visibility 1 1/2 miles in fog and drizzle.
Gordon supervises the retrieval of the airplane from the hanger, and I call flight service for weather. The system has moved east and we are in the backside of the front. The bad news is that Midland is not expected to get better for a day. The good news is that 100 miles north the weather is perfect. I file a quick IFR flight plan and we blast off into the fog, once again with me being allowed to fly. We break out into diamond clear blue skies at 7000 feet and enjoy the ride to Roswell New Mexico, an absolutely enormous abandoned air force base where we are treated like kings. The FBO is sumptuous, and neatly decorated with all sorts of interesting aviation memorabilia. There is an international air combat exercise taking place, and across the ramp we enjoy a fine view of USAF F-15's and Marine Corps F-18's being armed to go bomb some obscure corner of nowhere. In addition there are Tornado's from the RAF, F-16's from Holland, and Luftwaffe and Austrian air defense missile teams on site. I wish I could stay and visit the aircrews at the club that evening, but the sun is just getting up and there is no way we can stay for long. Too many miles yet to go.
Next stop: Gallup, New Mexico. Hot, dusty, and nothing but rocks anywhere. A full time NWS weather observer is stationed here to report that it is hot and dry every hour to somebody who cares somewhere else. I try to solicit some weather data and forecasts, but he refuses to help. "I just tell them what I see, and they tell you what I tell them", he says. I am directed to a phone and upon calling flight service I am told that it is hot and dry in Gallup NM. Thanks a lot.
We strap in, start one engine, and are then accosted by the fueler asking us which one of us would like to get out and pay for the fuel. In our weather briefing fiasco we have forgotten to be relieved of the weight of our cash and sheepishly shut down and go back in to pay. I believe we would have been shot down by the New Mexico Air National Guard had we gotten airborne. Sorry guys, no target practice today. Chastised we re-embark on our next leg, to Saint George, Utah.
The trip to Saint George is spectacular. The terrain changes quickly to classic western desert and after about half way we cross the Grand Canyon. Beautiful and simply inspiring. We pass over the Kiabib forest on the north rim, and admire the scenery. It looks unreal from high altitude. We land at Saint George, and again begin the routine. Gordon arranges for obtaining (and paying for) fuel, and I check weather and flight plan our next leg. Saint George is a Mormon town, and the people here are as friendly as we have ever found anywhere. Bad news from the weather guessers: we are not going anywhere. Another front is moving across the west and although we might make Elko, Nevada we are not going any further than that today. I have been to Elko before and found NOTHING there. I have also had the pleasure of staying once before in Saint George, we decide to spend the night where we are. We are hangered (for free!!), given a car (not a courtesy car, but a rental-billed to the FBO, also free!!), and check into the motel, on the airport property and built on a cliff overlooking the city. The view from the hotel is outstanding and we enjoy our stay. The only catch is that we are becoming concerned with the weather, which looks horrible for the next five days along our route of flight. Trying not to get too upset we get a good meal, walk the local mall, and catch up on our sleep.
DAY FOUR:
Gordon once again gets the airplane out and I huddle with chart and telephone. Decision time, for real. All of the skills of flight planning are called upon. The dilemma: Airports are few and far between out in Nevada. We have not nearly enough fuel to go IFR and have alternate destination fuel if an alternate is required. We need 3 miles and 2000 feet ceilings if we are to not legally require an alternate, and the weather is down below that over the entire area. The mountains are obscured and conditions are just plain lousy. And it is planned to last this way for at least five days. I decide that we will stay VFR, scud run if you will, the weather in Ely, Nevada -125 miles north-is marginal VFR. We can go there and have enough fuel to come back to Saint George. The weather in Elko, another 125 miles north, is also marginal. We will decide in Ely to continue, return, or land. Whatever we decide will be it, there is no margin for error or indecision.
After departure we climb to 16,500 feet and are in clear skies. Up ahead the overcast begins, and we begin descending. First to 15,500, then 14,500, then on down to 13,500. We could stay on top at 16,500, but we need to maintain ground contact. There is some 13,000 foot terrain along our route of flight, and a lot at 11,000. High desert, visibility now down to five miles. Snow showers begin, like columns in a Greek temple, as we skirt around each one. We have a good escape route: Climb! We can always go up and go back to Saint George. As we approach Ely visibility gets even worse. Looking hard out the canopy, THERE, there is the airport. Decision time: Land, get fuel, get some of the sweat dried out of our shirts. Sweat? In an air-conditioned airplane? You bet. Not afraid, never scared, but completely attuned to every wisp of cloud, every snow shower, every nerve alive for 45 minutes that seems like three hours. Hard damn work, that is what it is today. Glad to be on the ground. If we were to continue we would have no escape route, no return to good weather at Saint George. I for one am glad to be back on terra firma.
The routine begins once again, but with no feeling that we will be leaving anytime soon. Weather lousy ahead, no good now at Elko, no airport within range ahead. Depressed. Stuck in NOWHERE Nevada. Gold mining ghost town, mine closed up and everybody moved away. About when hope had been lost, the pilot of a UPS contract Beech 99 freighter came to our assistance. "Hey", he said, "I just came here from Wendover, Utah. It is just 90 miles northeast, over the mountain on the east side of the range. Weather there is VFR. Follow the highway along the airport here, it goes directly to the other airport. The highway follows a flat path, no high terrain. You will need to cross two mountain passes, but the passes are not high and it will be no sweat. You can always turn back if the passes are blocked and the highway will lead you back. If you make it then you have a clear path to Boise, Idaho, and then to Oregon". We picked his brain for a half hour, and then decided that we would try it. The other local pilots by this time had gathered and the consensus was that this was a safe plan. I would have never considered it, but the local knowledge was appreciated and listened to VERY carefully. Once again, my turn to fly. Departing the visibility was much better, 25 miles or so, but only 500 foot overcast now. Putting the highway squarely under my left shoulder we went. Back and forth, following each bend of the road. Snow showers in the distance, so exhilarating flying at 300 feet AGL at 250 knots. Gordon in the back reading the chart, never taking my eyes from outside to look myself. First one mountain pass, no problem. Only 25 miles to go. Second pass, mountains obscured on either side, but it is like flying through a tunnel of clear air and I can see the far side, and BLUE SKY!! Another minute and the Bonneville salt flats come into view, and then the airport. Another enormous ex-Air Force base, where the Enola Gay practiced before going to Japan with the Atomic Bomb. Landing, joyful, and what a ride. Only 20 minutes and we are here. Upon exiting the airplane, we are beset by a very neatly uniformed (male) flight attendant from a DC-9 charter operation which is based at Wendover. He cheerfully greets us with "Welcome to Bendover!" Knowing the (usually) undeserved reputation of male flight attendants I decide that our stay will be short. A quick turn is requested from the fuelers and flight planning again commences. On the home stretch now. IFR to Boise, but only to get on top and it is VFR there. We get the red carpet treatment in Boise, literally. I take a minute to look at a pair of RAF Canberra jet bombers, now civilian warbirds parked on the ramp. Very glad to be here.
Next stop: Redmond Oregon, where my college roommate Rob Robbins and his wife Sandra live. My buddy is in Antarctica where he works six months each year, but Sandra will meet us at the airport and get a Fouga ride. I fly to Redmond IFR, but with good VFR there for a visual approach. After I give her a ride, we plan for Portland, our final stop. HOME, for Gordon at least. A nice airliner will pick me up there in two days, and I can look down at the Rockies while enjoying my coffee. Problem, Portland is on the rainy side of the Cascade range, our last obstacle. It will be dry and clear to the mountains, but from the peak west it will be fog, drizzle, and occasional heavy rain. I begin contemplating a stay in Redmond, waiting for..? The weather in Portland is ALWAYS the same or so it seems. Drizzle and wet. Gordon, who has been allowing me to do all of the flight planning the whole way, now shows his mettle. "No problem", he says, "We will just fly north over the desert to the Columbia River Gorge, drop down into it and follow it to Portland. The river is at sea level, no obstacles, and the airport is right on the river. We do this all of the time". I am uncertain, after all this seems pretty shaky. Gordon reassures me that he has done this time and time again. I relent, telling him that since he trusted my to take him down that highway to Wendover, I would trust him in his own backyard and would be at his complete mercy. So off we went again, this time it is me in the back scared and unsure. But sure enough, Gordon knew the way and it was perfect. Down the gorge we went, and the contrast from the desert couldn't have been more. It was certainly one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen, waterfalls, pine trees, mountains, and the clouds touching the top of the gorge so as to make it a beautiful 50 mile long magic tunnel through the mountains, emerald green. And so we proceeded until exactly 10 miles from Portland when we found a heavy rain shower blocking our path. Fortunately we were less than two miles from another large airport, Troutdale Oregon, where we landed in rain exactly 10 miles from our final destination.
Gordons son picked us up, delivered us to Gordons truck which was at Portland Airport awaiting our arrival,, and we embarked to Gordons house to review our trip. "Good food tonight!!" says Gordon, "No more of that slop". After resting, calculating fuel burn and cost (you really don't want to know) and making friends with Gordons pet parrot, Spence, we enjoy a fine dinner at Benihana's and repaired after a drink to our beds, tired and sore but alive and well.
DAY FIVE:
Up and out bright and early. I have a 8:00 AM flight to Dallas. Coffee, good-bye to Spence the Parrot , and we are off. Breakfast in the airport terminal and a too quick handshake with Gordon. Settled into my seat, coffee in hand. As the airliner departs I strain to see Gordons house and Troutdale airport before entering the clouds. New friends, new places in my logbook, too little time to enjoy them, and new experiences to remember. THIS is what flying is all about, whether the machine be a Piper Cub or a Jet. It is truly a wonder that we can actually enjoy this freedom. I hope I never forget how special it is.
NEXT: How to enjoy Hypoxia, Ice, and Total Electrical Failure in one easy flight.
Arrival in Dallas was routine, until checking the monitors in the terminal for my connection to Tyler, Texas. CANCELLED. In fact a rather large number of flights are canceled. Inquiring as to why, I am told that baseball sized hail sprang forth from the heavens last night, seriously damaging nearly 70 airliners some of which will be out of sorts for up to two months (!). I am politely told that I can wait the night (at my own expense) or be re-booked on a flight to Houston and then back to Tyler. This choice is accepted and out to the airport train I go to travel two terminals away to a different airline who had the good grace to not have its entire fleet on the ground in Dallas last night. This accomplished I fly to Houston and make an easy connection to Tyler. I make my presence known with the FBO staff here, where I will begin the next morning, and ask for a hotel reservation and taxi. This accomplished I am whisked to a hotel some 30 minutes away on the far side of town. Talking with the driver I ask just what it is that Tyler is famous for and am told that some 80% of the worlds commercial rose crop is grown here. I check into the hotel, walk a half mile for some food, and once again crawl into bed a tired pilot.
DAY SEVEN:
Awaking refreshed from sleeping I jump into the waiting taxi and am taken back to the airport where my new steed awaits. This Fouga is an absolute masterpiece. It was originally a Belgian Air Force airplane and was dispatched to the Congo in 1962 to deal with the rebel unpleasantness there. After two seasons of rocketing the unjust it was returned to Belgium where it spent its career on the "Diable Rouge" (Red Devils) aerobatic display team. After serving in this capacity for ten years it was transferred to Israel for a stint in the desert and was then sold to an importer in the USA. It was then sold to the wealthy owner of a company specializing in the conversion of airliners to head of state airplanes, serving such simple people as various Arab kings and princes as well as other notables to whom gold bathroom fixtures are required in their airplanes. Needless to say, no expense was thought too great in the restoration of this airplane. Unfortunately, the owner of the conversion facility had taken a partner in the Fouga, and this partner had some financial trouble leading to bankruptcy. The airplane was sold to the highest bidder, yours truly. So there, in all of its polished splendor, sat this beauty. No gold fixtures, but very decent nevertheless. Should be a simple trip, no surprises. Guess again.
Tyler weather is 500 overcast, visibility 2 miles, light rain. Not a problem, IFR will be filed and on top of the clouds I go bound for Jackson Mississippi VFR on top at 17,500 feet. Great tailwind, showing 330 knots groundspeed. Pull back the power to cruise, check the gauges, hydraulics look good, cabin pressure 10,000 feet in pressurized comfort. Sitting and relaxing, happy to be eastbound towards home. I will sleep in my own bed tonight! Looking at the chart for the frequency of the Monroe VOR, 117.2. Reaching to the radio I tune that frequency, what was that frequency? Looking back at the chart it takes me a minute to find the VOR again, lets see 117.2 it is. Back to the radio, damn, just cannot seem to get that frequency dialed in. Who cares, anyway. It is too nice here to worry about the frequency, just enjoy the ride......WAIT!! A dimly remembered trip to a high altitude chamber years ago. First symptom of Hypoxia- visual disturbances. Second symptom-memory loss. Third, symptom-euphoria. Lets look at the cabin altitude, AHAH!! 17,500 feet pretty as you please. There is a leak, with the engines at full power enough bleed air was available for pressurization, but at cruise power the leak is winning. "Atlanta Center, Fouga 906DM is descending from 17,500 to 14,000". Atlanta center responds by asking if I am requesting 14,000. No, I am not REQUESTING anything, I am INFORMING you that I am descending, have a pressurization problem, and that is that. No problem from center, descent approved, and I feel a bit better once down where there is some oxygen in the air. Still a bit sleepy, but at least I can read the chart and do simple math. The letdown is through some cloud but the approach is visual, the only flaw is the 25 knot direct crosswind but with the proper application of rudder the nose is kept from straying and the landing comes out just fine. The ramp is deserted save for a Learjet parked outside. I go into the building and find the ramp attendant and give the fuel order. The Lear crew is friendly, and offers to share some charts with me for Atlanta, my next stop. I have planned to be VFR but the weather in Atlanta is not, and I have not packed the entire USA set of approach plates into my small helmet bag. The crew suggests Fulton County Airport in Atlanta, where they are themselves based, as a good next stop and gladly give me Jepps charts to copy. I ask the FBO if they have a copy machine and am told yes, but we ran out of toner three weeks ago. Exasperated, I inquire as to if they will ever get any more toner, and the reply is that they probably will, now that somebody wants to use the copier, that it hadn't been required for the last three weeks! Mississippi, I decide, is not part of the United States after all, obviously it is a province of Mexico or some other nation. The flight crew tells me that I should go over to the local FAA office, a short walk, and make my copies there. I do this, mindful that I am going to the FAA and proclaiming that I am setting forth into the murk with a handful of copies of borrowed charts. The FAA lady is friendly though, and copies in hand I file IFR and after thanking the Lear crew strap in for another.
Departing to Fulton, IFR again, relaxed and glad to be putting Mississippi behind. Filed for 10,000 feet. Low enough to be able to breath freely. Visual approach into Fulton and a welcome at an immaculate FBO awaits. Back to civilization again. I am met by a handsome small man in an immaculate flight uniform resplendent with gold epaulets and wings. "That is a FOUGA!", he exclaims in French accented English. "I learned to fly in those machines! How did you ever get one?". It turns out that he is an ex-French Navy pilot who had qualified on aircraft carriers in the Fouga not five years ago. He is giving flight instruction here in the USA and looking for an airline job. He takes instruction seriously as well, judging by his uniform. We chat for a half hour and again I file IFR and taxi out, this time for Roanoke, Virginia. Weather there is 500 over, visibility 1 mile in rain. Again I am filed for 10,000 feet, to keep down where I can breath. I am solid IMC for this entire flight though, not on top like before. The clouds are gray and wet, and I am picking up ice as I pass through various layers. The ice accumulation rate is slow however, and it seems to be coming and going, never more than a half inch at any one time. I am a bit less nervous about the ice as it seems not to affect the flying at all, at least at these speeds. Roanoke is 48 degrees, so I will melt off the accumulation before slowing down for landing. The airplane is nice and stabile, this is the first time I have had to really fly in the clouds for an extended period. I am cleared for the ILS/LDA into Roanoke, and fly it down until seeing the runway lights at about 300 above minimums. Easy airplane to fly approaches in, trim it once and fly with hands on knees and a bit of rudder. Landing is good, light rain, a quick fuel stop andnow it is IFR to Allentown, my destination for tonight. There my wife will meet me with our infant daughter, and I will arrive home the returning hero. Such are the fantasies of a pilot on the road for a week.
Allentown is 4000 scattered, 10 miles in light rain. Dulles, half way there, is about the same. On the first half of my route it is down, 300 foot overcast with rain, etc. I'll be in VFR weather in 45 minutes, home in an hour and fifteen. All is well, cruising at 10,000. Ice starting though, again it comes up to about a half inch and then no more. Cross- check the gauges, FLASH. What was that red flash? All of the warning lights are out. Again a flash, then a flicker, then a steady light. The generator light. Voltage is checked, 24 volts. Battery voltage, not the 28 volts of the generator. Damn. Electrical failure in solid IFR conditions. Wonder how long the battery will last. I inform center that I have a slight inconvenience and will be shutting down some systems. I ask if I can turn off the transponder, since it is an electricity hog. No, comes the reply. That is OK, I'll shut down everything else. ADF radio, Number 2 Comm radio, Standby boost pump, Gyro inverter, Pitot heat. All of the high load items in order to conserve the battery. I know that the weather up north is better, I'll just keep flying and be visual in a half hour. Checking airspeed, now zero. The pitot probe has iced up and I am getting no indication. Pitot heat comes on, airspeed data restored, heat off and I am good for about three minutes before the procedure is repeated. Gyro horizon spins down in about the same period and I re-engage the inverter to spin it up again and then shut it off. "Fouga 906DM change to Washington Center 135.45" says ATC. I acknowledge and switch. "Washington Center, Fouga 906DM is with you level at one zero thousand". says I. No reply. I repeat the call. Washington responds with "Aircraft calling Washington, you are unreadable, if you have another radio please try it". I know it is not a radio problem, and check the voltage. 20 volts and falling. The battery is failing. I am not going to make it to Allentown. The airplane will make it, it needs no power to keep running, but without a radio I will not be able to contact them for landing. I try once again and still no reply from Washington. I reach down and select 7600 code on the transponder, code for lost communications. Washington speaks up right away "Fouga 6DM, your 7600 code is observed. If you have any other difficulties press ident". I do not, since there is really no other problem. "Fouga 6DM you are cleared as previously, maintain 10,000 and ident to acknowledge". I push the ident button which flashes my radar target on the controllers scope. Great: solid clouds, no radio, ice, and soon no pitot heat. I need down now. I have my handheld GPS satellite receiver, and punch up the coordinates for Winchester Virginia, where I have friends who will help me. Surprise! Only thirty miles away, just ahead. One problem, still solid clouds. Then, just there, a bit of ground contact. The forecast is accurate and the clouds are breaking. Ahead, just ahead, a hole three Fouga wingspans wide, and I can see the green fields two miles below. I pull the throttles back to idle, dump out the speed brakes, and begin a tight spiral down to the earth. Washington Center panics. It must be obvious to them that I have lost control of the airplane, or perhaps lost a wing. "906DM, we observe you in a fast descent. Check altitude and heading. Minimum vectoring altitude your vicinity is 5000 feet. Local altimeter is 29.92. If you have lost control or lost engine power push ident immediately". I can hear them, but cannot transmit. The battery is just too weak to talk. I sit silent and keep flying. Still spiraling down and then I am out under the clouds and above the fields at 3500 feet. I make a beeline for Winchester, using the GPS for navigation. "Fouga 6DM we observe you heading for Winchester airport, if your intent is to land push ident". Smart controller, I say to myself, and I push the button. He acknowledges. I select 1200 code on the transponder, the code for visual flight. Washington asks if I am visual, if I am then ident. I do. They say "906DM your 1200 code is observed, your IFR is canceled and frequency change is approved. Please call us as soon as you land". No problem, I'll be happy to. I land at Winchester, make my call, and try to call my wife. Too late, she has already left for the airport to pick me up. Five minutes after my arrival my friend, Steve Beaver, lands in his Baron. He has been picking up the new owner of a recently sold Bucher Jungmann at Dulles airport who will be flying the Bucher back to Texas when the weather clears. I am very happy to meet Steve, explain the situation, and am gladly taken to a hotel for a shower before dinner. We will work on the generator tomorrow, enough airplane fun has been had for today.
One problem remains: My wife, who is waiting for me with our daughter at Allentown Airport expecting me in about ten minutes. She knows the weather is a bit rough, and being a pilot herself knows enough to worry a bit about me when I fly these silly airplanes around the country. The answer presents itself, I call the FBO in Allentown and explain my situation, asking if the receptionist would go into the parking lot and tell my wife that I will not be home tonight and will call later. OK, she says, and I hang up. I call back in ten minutes, and I am told that she is not yet there. Unusual, I think, Helen is always early. I call back in another ten minutes, same response. Worry begins. Ten minutes later same story. And another ten minutes, and then every ten minutes for an hour and a half. By now I am worried sick that some automotive disaster has befallen my wife, and call out the big guns: a phone call to the State Polices of both New Jersey and Pennsylvania. No accidents of any kind have been reported. I make one last call to the airport police in Allentown, and they find my wife in the car in the FBO parking lot. The receptionist didn't make even a proper effort to go outside, and Helen has parked in the corner of the lot so that our daughter can sleep out of the lights. Helen, of course, knows I am overdue and is certain that I have been killed. Our relief is mutual when we find out what has happened. I swear that the next thing I am going to purchase is a cellular phone for her. This trauma resolved, it is out on the town with Steve and Bob Upham, the new Bucher owner from Texas. We dine at a transplanted English pub, enjoy Bass Ale on tap and meat pies, finished with dessert and good conversation. Again back to the hotel for a deserved nights sleep.
DAY EIGHT:
To make a long story short, an entire day is devoted to fixing the inner workings of the generator gearbox. Steve and Bob do great work, and the problem is resolved in time for me to depart IFR to Allentown. The familiar ILS-6 is shot down in the rain and home beckons. One more small detail, no nosewheel green light is to be had. I make a low pass, get a word from the tower that it appears normal, and come in for landing. To make my embarrassment complete, the entire crash rescue apparatus of the airport is scrambled to assist the crippled airplane and with much flashing lights I am chased down the runway where I make the very best landing of my Fouga career. I am followed into the ramp by no less than three fire trucks manned by firemen who look like they would love to use a fire ax to punch a big hole into the Fouga and to then fill it with foam. Disappointed by the fact the I simply have a burned out bulb they retreat, and I am reunited with my wife and daughter. Home at last.
DAY NINE:
Without incident the Fouga departs Allentown, arrives in Burlington Vermont in 70 minutes, whereupon I climb into my car left there ten days before and drive six hours back home. Mission accomplished, a continent and a half of Fouga Flying.
Thus ended the great Fouga trip. Once again lots was learned, lots of fun was had, many new places and interesting people were met. It is the sort of thing that is great fun, it is just that it isn't fun until you are back home reliving it knowing that all's well that ends well.
Home is the Hunter, Home From the Hill, The Sailor Home From the Sea, and the Pilot Home From the Sky.
© Dave Sutton, May 1995
FM-21 at the top of a loop.