Julie R. Neidlinger: Lone Prairie Flying

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It was very cool.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

Today -- with the long solo cross-country flight finished -- marks the completion of my required solo flying time. It was very cool.

I mean that.

Literally.

No, really.

It was cool. Cold, in fact. So cold that, when I landed in Bismarck, I could barely uncurl my left hand from the yoke. I know I was told to learn to fly with the one hand, and I've read that you should "be one with the machine" or some other Karate Kid-esque mantra...well, I was. Another hour and my hand would have been permanently attached. I could have made a radio announcement that started with "My name is Locutus..."

My hand was frozen in grip, my thumb barely able to click five times at Dickinson for glide slope lights.

I'm looking at my hands, now some three hours later, and my fingertips are red and oddly both hot and cold at the same time. Washing them in any water temperature makes them feel on fire. I know what that is.

Chilblains.

A mild form, of course, but that's what it is. I've had it before, except it was on my feet from when I spent a few months in Australia (oddly, since it was quite hot there) and went barefoot too much on cold floor tile.

Now, I know there is heat of some sort in the plane, and I found the knob without too much trouble shortly after takeoff from Bismarck this morning. I was hesitant to get too carried away turning knobs, lest I launch something unwittingly. I can't say that the knob provided an impressive amount of heat, however, and it wasn't long before my left hand was unmovable and my right foot like a brick of ice on the rudder.

I have to wonder if that is the only source of heat, or if I correctly turned it on. Surely, no.

And I even wore my merino extra-thick wool socks. Go figure. Leave it to sheep to let me down.

I'm telling you, it was chilly up there.

I believe I need to ask my instructor a few questions about the heat and also get my fingerless Thinsulate glove/mittens down here and out of storage back home. I'll add that to my stack of pertinent questions for the next lesson (the question, not the gloves).

For fun, here's a random question from my own test question bank:

1. (Refer to Julie's fingertips.) If an airplane weighs 2300 pounds, at what altitude and angle of attack (except in Alaska), will Julie realize she should have worn a heavier sweater and possibly put her gloves on?

a) While removing the chocks from the front tire prior to banging her head on a strut.
b) 3,500 AGL
c) 1 quart heavy cream heated with 2 cups 55% dark chocolate.¹

¹ My new job may have infiltrated my question bank. It's so hard to properly compartmentalize these days.

Labels: cross country, fake questions, solo, stupidity

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Dense-ity.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

After repeatedly explaining true, absolute, pressure and density altitudes to me over and over, I'm willing to bet my instructor can hardly wait for the end of October. That, in theory, is when I should be done. Thereabouts.

"So, tell me what's pressure altitude?" he would ask, not 30 seconds after he'd told me again after yet another explanation.

"Uhhhh..." Some things I do not grasp.

It was becoming a bit like the stupid fuel vent episode.

We went over it repeatedly. He drew diagrams. He explained. He patiently thought of different ways to explain all of them.

But no.

The day I finally get my pilot's license and get out of his hair will probably be the happiest day of his life.

"....it's, uh...I don't know. I know you just told me. Twice. But I don't know."

"You should look this up in the large textbook. It has pictures."

Sadly, that's what I need.

Labels: lessons, stupidity

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Beulah is hard to pronounce.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

The guy at Grand Forks FSS had a tough time pronouncing "Beulah" -- I can't even phonetically imitate it here for you, the way he mangled it. Repeatedly..So, I will blame him for the awful job I did in going completely off course once we started flying across Lake Sakakawea.

I have a tremendous fear of drowning, which is only topped by a fear of being eaten (either wild animals or cannibals). I think I'll blame that drowning fear for my questionable pilotage skills, too.

For I went greatly off course. Right past Beulah.

My instructor just let me make the mistakes, which is good, since I learn very well from that.

Bummer.

My landings were OK, though. The winds were favorable, so that was nice.

Here are my nav logs and flight plan sheet from the cross-country trip today:

KBIS to KMOT
KMOT to 95D
95D to KBIS
Flight Plan sheet (I made this form to help me in talking to the person on the other end of the phone, making sure I say everything I need to. You can get that form here.)

My instructor organized a handy list of things to do when nearing a destination airport, since the Beulah incident failed to incorporate any of them. I've typed that list up for you here (PDF). He also helped with suggestions on what to do immediately after taking off from an airport on the next leg of the trip, which you can get here (PDF).

He also made a cross-country radio script for me, though it didn't stop me from muffing up the first call to Grand Forks Radio. Anyway, here's the script (PDF). The customizable items (your N-number, for example) are in gray.

And of course, there are the five C's if I should get lost doing a cross country:

Climb
Circle
Conserve (lean mixture, reduce power)
Confess (Mnpls. Center, GF Radio)
Comply

"If you talk to some of the old-timers they'll tell you they'd find a town and get down low enough to read the name on the water tower," he said.

Oddly, I've already heard three such stories of a few friends who did that.

Labels: cross country, downloads, lessons, stupidity

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Turn off the oven; she's done.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

I was in WalMart today to pick up a small kitchen timer. Weather permitting, we will fly the first cross-country trip of my training (Bismarck, Dickinson, Hazen, Bismarck). The timer is used in conjunction with the pre-trip planning.

I guess I was in a bit of a daze. I have been, lately.

After waiting in a long line at the checkout to pay for my timer, I realized, moments before being rung up, that I had mistakenly grabbed a digital meat thermometer. It was quite a vicious-looking device.

What, praytell, do I plan on doing with this? I thought to myself. I could think of little aeronautical application for a digital meat thermometer. I turned to the woman at the register and apologized. I left the line and wandered back into the canyons of the Super WalMart to find a timer.

I guess, instead of using my shirt for weather forecasting purposes, I could shove the thermometer in my leg. It has been pretty hot up there in the plane, in this summer heat.

I just think that would be messy, though, and of little help during a cross-country trip.

I got the timer instead.

Labels: humor, lessons, stupidity

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Gems and charms.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

What inquisitive gems did I come up with today? you may be wondering.

So glad you asked.

After hearing my instructor tell me that he felt there was real improvement in my landings today, I, who really disagreed, asked, "Do you really mean that, or are you just trying to keep me from wrapping my car around a light pole in despondency on the way home tonight?"

Blurt.

"Am I going to go down in your personal teaching history as the student who took the longest to learn to land?" I asked a bit later.

"No, no," my instructor said. Then he paused. "Well, at least not yet."

And, also, it was hot and I again have a few shirts I'd like to burn because of sweat. I am so charming.

"So, how'd it go today," one of the guys asked as I was walking out the door.

"Oh, OK," I said.

"Just OK? That must mean good."

I laughed. "No, I think we'd better stick with OK."

OK, all around.

Labels: lessons, stupidity

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Fired.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 1 comments link this post

I should, as a good and proper student, cap off the day's flying lesson with relevant questions relating to what was learned that day in an effort to improve and progress along the path to my private pilot's license. Instead, I blurt out inane things to my flight instructor, such as "have you ever fired a student?'' (because I think I would qualify for that, if it were policy) or "how many students have thrown up in the plane?"

Frankly, I'm one of the most annoying people on the planet, with a penchant for asking non sequitur questions of debatable importance that I often find I know the answer to moments after the words leave my mouth. For example, during a discussion regarding flying over prisons and whether or not it is restricted space, I blurted out "are we allowed to fly over the state prison here?"

The state prison is located a bit north of the airport. It would be mighty challenging to not fly over it. Now I know we've flown over it numerous times, yet somehow the words left my mouth before I could stop them. As soon as I said it, the handy little negative voice in my head said something like "Idiot!" It's as if the movie Napoleon Dynamite is looped in my brain.

My instructor paused momentarily (probably swallowing a number of adjectives and any seeping look of incredulity), maybe blinked once, and said something like "we've flown over it numerous times."

The one really embarrassing question I've managed to rein in so far (though it has almost surfaced more times than I care to admit and is, I am ashamed to say, eating me up inside) is why the pages of the log book are green.

Yes, that will help me land the plane.

"Dad," I said during a discussion on the matter, "I bet he's tired of me. I'm so annoying."

Dad rolled his eyes slightly and shook his head. "He's not tired of you."

I don't know. I'm tired of me, but I'm stuck with the problem.

Julie, you're fired!

Labels: lessons, stupidity

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Multiple answers.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 2 comments link this post

From a page of sample test questions.

There should only be one answer when trying to figure out performance numbers, but, when I get a hold of a pen -- no.

I came up with a few possibilities.

I'm just not sure what I'm doing.

First, there was this. I had the problem. I had the three different pen colors. I wish I had a clue.

So then, I turned to a new page and came up with this. I was doing this in a coffee shop, and it was at this point that I thought I was nearing mythical perfection and ordered something to drink.

But then reality sank in. So I went to a new page and emerged with this.

What in the heck am I doing? I thought, getting a bit exasperated. I decided to flesh out my work and add some question marks to my math scribbles, along with a confident note to self stating that I screwed up.

I turned the page, and brought this into existence.

I think the asterisk and hefty footnoted question really help. However, I thought I nailed it.

So the next page contains this, a new problem. Which I think I erred in as well. I noted my concerns. I particularly like the extensive work I show under the 7500' column, summed up by a question mark.

And then, I realized something perhaps crucial, and decided I'd better go back to the previous problem, note a redo two pages ahead, and...

...there was then this.

I stopped there.

I can only take so many varieties.

And, because I believe in overkill, I decided that my finale would be this. Think of it as the same as diagramming a sentence, except with weather. I wasn't going to stammer out a "um, no" when asked by my instructor if I had checked the weather for the day -- no sir. I was prepared.

"Did you check the weather today?"

"Yes. Yes I did. I have red ink all over my hands to prove it."

I go through a lot of pens and paper.

Labels: lessons, stupidity

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Cartoon: Lights would be nice.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Click image to see cartoon.

Pride goeth before a fall.

This cartoon is actually pretty accurate, with very little exaggeration.

Yes, I did indeed forget to check the lights.

Yes, I vowed -- Vowed! -- not to do it again.

Yes, I verbally made note of my skill at turning on the battery.

Yes, I did walk out to check the lights and realized...

...well, you can read the cartoon.

And, oddly enough, I actually did this twice.

-----------------------------------------------

Buy the original ink and marker drawing. I need the money. Flying lessons are expensive.
Materials: Pigment and permanent inks on 9x12 super slick 100 lb. UV protected (archival) paper. Unframed. Signed.
Cost: $20 (plus S&H)

Labels: cartoons, humor, lessons, stupidity

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Montana, the hard way.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 3 comments link this post

I decided to take a little trip to Montana today, with the airplane.

Now, you might think that sounds just fine. What better way to visit the Big Sky than in a vehicle meant to traverse it? But, since the method I chose to travel west was immediately after landing while still careening down the runway, it was really not ideal.

I think, when the flight instructor is yelling "left rudder! left! left!" I need to think "Julie, the other left!"

I had that right rudder pedal mashed to the floor as the grass on the side of the runway loomed before me. Montana, here I come! I can't explain how it was that I thought I was pushing the left rudder pedal. Weirdest thing.

I am a little mortified that I have so much material to fill a blog category entitled "stupidity" and nowhere near enough -- not even a hint! -- to fill something called "genius" or even "evidence of DNA."

I do, however, have opposable thumbs. They even had white knuckles, earlier today.

Labels: humor, landings, lessons, stupidity

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Technical difficulties.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

After sumping the gas tanks, I am to pour the gas back in the tank up atop the wing. Previously, it was disposed of in a different way which allowed me to have my hands free when I checked the fuel level in the tanks.

This hands-free method involved opening the door, climbing up on the strut with one foot, hoisting myself up by grasping through the open door, standing on one tip-toe (that short factor again), reaching up and across the wing to unscrew the cap and, since I can't really see the level, I would stick my finger in and feel it.

This probably looked a little like Ben and Jerry's mythical Chunky Monkey grappling up the side of an otherwise perfectly decent airplane. Gracefulness has never been one of my selling points.

No piece of equipment deserves such disrespect.

So, a collapsible wooden stool is now in use. This should be a simple device to use in comparison with the much more complicated airplane, seeing as how the stool consists of wood, a few metal hinges, and a small wire locking pin.

It is because of this deceptive simplicity that I found myself inwardly cursing yet again as I could not figure out how to unfold the stool.

First one way. Then another. Then I wedged my finger in between two sides just in time to pinch it into oblivion. I wondered if I should look in the baggage compartment for any kind of accompanying literature, such as a Stool Operator's Handbook, or some such equivalent.

"How do you work this thing?" I asked my instructor in exasperation, having absolutely no pride left in my body. I mean, it's a wooden stool.

Wooden. Stool. Julie. Wooden. Stool.

As I was shown how to gently -- key word there, since I am bull-in-china-shop-ish -- pull the pin out and then insert it into the proper locking position, I wondered about a few things.

Like how I ever made it through college, or manage to fill my car with gas without an indexed instructional manual. I've already told you about the cyclopean struggles I had with the time card at work.

I felt like saying something like "I'm not stupid!" but I think the prosecution has already rested its case on that one.

Speaking of cars, I'm finding that I periodically struggle with an inability to compartmentalize. I call it "knowledge bleed", and it is very similar to what happened back in May when I started to learn to play the guitar. Then, I began confusing my guitar fingerings with my violin fingerings, creating general musical havoc.

Tonight, at the stoplight at the intersection of the Bismarck Expressway and Washington, as I was turning to go back to where I live, I found myself with both feet on the pedals about to attempt to make the right turn as if they were rudder pedals. That could have been an interesting visual as I jammed the accelerator down on the bottom and tapped at the top.

I can only imagine the fun places that this new problem is going to take me. Jail and the hospital mainly come to mind.

Labels: humor, stupidity

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I think I might throw up.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

Just because a person leaves Nicaragua doesn't mean Nicaragua leaves that person. That's the preface to saying that that was how I found myself, last week, dying.

I probably wasn't dying, but I wished I were. I'm not going to go into detail, since those details are the kind my friend Molly specializes in. I'm not generally a sickly person. I never get sick. This was a new experience for me.

So, after imagining all the ways I could end my misery, my family arrived in town.

(Possibly some kind of connection there.)

I had mentioned to my dad that I would be flying that evening (this was before I knew my internal organs were going to go to war with each other). I gave him directions to the location of where he could meet me after flying, and meet my instructor. I figured he could catch one of my meteor-like landings, shake his head, and use it as ammunition the next time I was annoying him while he was trying to watch the History Channel.

"But don't bring the whole family there," I had said in an email. I didn't want my sister and her family, and my brother and his family, and my mom (who is delightfully inquisitive and never goes anywhere without a camera) there. This was not to be unkind to them, but merely a matter of self-preservation. I have a quota on how many people I allow to see me perform dastardly deeds.

I mentioned to my instructor that my dad might be there when we got back.

"Maybe your dad would like to go up with you when we are done," he said.

Um...

I certainly wouldn't have gone flying had I known internal things would take such a down turn, for I thought I had beat the monster earlier in the day. As it was, at this point, I'm performing internal triage on my "Nicaragua won't let you go!" churnings, and trying to find a place for the "dad is going to see you implode!" churnings. There's only so much room inside for all that activity.

"Um, I don't know about that," I said. I mean, my landings suck. Books could be written about them, and they would be heavy on adjectives such as bone-crunching, bouncing, and horrifying.

"I'll let you think about it," he said.

Sure. I'll add that to the list of things I'm already thinking about, like trying to remember that throttle in makes things go faster and throttle out does the opposite, or nose down trim up and vice versa.

So, after some "fabulous" landings and go-arounds at the Mandan airport, which probably permanently emotionally scarred any young birds who were watching and will keep them on the ground indefinitely, we get back to the building and I see my kindly mother waving from the window having just shot off her camera.

That's just swell.

Kind of like what my stomach was doing.

Dear God in heaven, have some compassion.

The plane is stopped and turned off, and I decide to take dad up. "But just one traffic pattern. Please don't let me look bad," I say to my instructor as we walk away from the airplane toward the building.

It is not easy to keep me from looking bad, in any setting. I'm probably not paying enough for that kind of image control.

Inside we go, me leaving my booster seat* out in the plane.

"Hey, where's your booster seat?!" my brother Jerry, who is quite tall, hollers out two feet inside the door. Yes, my brother and his family and both my parents were there. It was a really special time.

I won't bore you with all the internal squalls, both mental and stomach-related, but I will say that I was very appreciative of how my instructor conversed with my dad while I white-knuckled my way through the pattern and landing; my instructor very subtly suggested things on the controls without verbalizing them into the headset so that my father never realized he was sitting in the back of an airplane piloted by the human equivalent of a smoked ham.

When we got back, dad inquired as to whether I landed the airplane, or whether my instructor did. I can understand his curiosity, seeing as how we didn't break apart at the end of the runway. Frankly, I was pretty curious myself. I don't remember it.

As I staggered back into the building and everyone was congenial and normal, I muttered something stellar to my instructor like "I think I about threw up" and "I need a drink of water."

Afterwards, since mom wanted to see where I lived, probably to take a photo of my badly made bed as proof of failure of due diligence, she rode with me down the road while the rest went back to their hotel. I didn't get past two stoplights before I pulled off and made her drive.

It takes a lot for me to turn the wheel over to my mother, who is known for square corners and rolling the very Jeep I now drive into the ditch not 20 yards from the driveway, but I was seriously sick.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?! Strike me with lightning! I thought. Pure agony, not to mention still being a nervous wreck with the shakes from having my excellent-pilot father ride with me. "Drive faster!" I hollered at my mom.

Yes, that's right, I hollered at my mom. That's the kind of daughter I am.

In the end, I was OK. (Pun intended.)

Dad and I talked airplane stuff later that evening at their hotel, and that was actually pretty cool. It was totally worth it, despite finding myself curled up on in my rented room on my bed later, my feet and leg muscles cramping up from severe dehydration, slurping down Pedialyte.

Oh, the personal glories in life.

* Because I am so short, I had a problem seeing over the dash and reaching the rudder pedals. So, I bought an "elevator cushion" which, despite the kind terminology, is really like a high chair for short people. The extra padding comes in handy for when I attempt to land, however.

Labels: dad, humor, lessons, stupidity

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Ten degrees decapitation.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 0 comments link this post

During the preflight check, in which I do many stupid things which I attribute to the fact that I'm a huge dork, I tend to smack my head on the flaps.

Normally, since I'm short, I could probably do a waltz beneath the wings and not worry about it. However, once I put in ten degrees of flaps, the problem begins. I walk into the edge of the flap and smack my forehead.

Bam!

@$*!?!&!!

And then, coming back the other way....

Bam!

&@#!$&!!!

And then, one more time as I pass beneath the wing...

Bam!

!%@?$#!!@

Oh, what the heck. Do it again! And I do.

Bam!

What the @!?$!! is wrong with me? I shriek inwardly.

"Ow. That must have hurt," my instructor might say.

On so many levels, I'd like to say. On so many levels. "Oh, I'm used to it by now."

I should, at some point, remember that I am going to hit my head on a hard piece of metal, but no. If I were a Klingon (and I'll have the forehead of one, if I don't start remembering to duck), I would bring dishonor to my family just by getting out of bed.*

* And now that I've made a Star Trek reference, my dork status is sealed.

Labels: humor, lessons, stupidity

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I swear I'm not stupid.

written by Julie R. Neidlinger 7 comments link this post

I think it took about five minutes into the initial conversation with the instructor before I blurted something grown-up and professional like "I'm not stupid. Really."

Here is where Shakespeare and Hamlet comes in, about ladies who protest too much.

I mean, really, I'm not stupid.

I know lots of meaningless trivia which sometimes causes my sister Janet to call me on the phone and ask me random questions for a crossword puzzle she's doing at work, or to settle a debate with her co-workers. I've astonished (and frightened, probably) fellow postal workers when the crossword clue had everyone stumped and I walked into the break room and hollered it out ("Hey, Julie, can you finish this clue? ''Twas brillig and the...'?" "Easy," I said. "It's the opening line from Carroll's Jabberwocky. ''Twas brillig and the slithy toves.")

But, to get a sample of how well I learn things, I can tell you honestly that I've been slogging through the FAR/AIM in an attempt to grasp pertinent information. What I've managed to pull away from it can be found in section 91.19, where I noticed that "marijuana" was spelled with an "h" instead of a "j."

Yeah.

So you can imagine how it's going.

During elementary and high school, when we took tests that covered everything from math to reading to being able to grasp patterns and correct analogies, I always bogged down on the spatial section. The rest was easy, but the spatial problems killed me. This section contained a crazy geometric figure, and then four similar figures tipped at different angles. We were supposed to choose the one that matched the original. I always found myself sliding low in my chair, glancing about, and then turning my test booklet in all directions to try to find the match.

Those test creators were fascists.

Spatial stuff messes with my head.

I also can't estimate.

But I'm not stupid.

I swear.

I found out a few years ago that my classmates would get into my locker during their study hall and steal my geometry and algebra II homework, and copy it. I have to cling to the fading memory of that previous intellectual prowess as I realize that I again can't remember that the little tube poking off the bottom of the wing is called the "fuel vent."

I'm just "smart" at things that won't apply much to flying.

Did you know, for example, that Niagara Falls has moved about seven miles upstream from its original location over time, due to erosion? I also can tell you about the interesting connection between British Petroleum (BP), Iran, the CIA, and Teddy Roosevelt's grandson, who was sadly named Kermit.

And also, that the feds spell it "marihuana" now.

None of this, however, puts a plane in the air and brings it down in one recognizable piece.

Labels: humor, lessons, stupidity