Big Bear and back

It finally happened!

After weeks of bad weather and scheduling difficulties, Miss H and I managed a breakfast flight.

What's a "breakfast flight," you ask?

Well, I'll tell you. You and a buddy (or three) hop into an airplane, fly into the next town or the next county or the next state, land, eat breakfast, hop back in the plane and fly home. Lunch flights—or just any flight where the object is to land somewhere cool and eat something tasty—are a well-known phenomenon in aviation, commonly referred to as the "Hundred-Dollar Burger."

We'd been delayed since February, she and I. Intending to fly on the weekend after Valentine's Day, we were forestalled by inclement weather. This pattern repeated itself the next time the both of us got a free day, and the next.

Sunday, March 6. The day was somewhat hazy, and the winds were kicking up in a mischievous fashion. Though dubious about the conditions both at our destination and in-between (mountain flying always gets trickier when there are winds involved), we decided to chance it anyhow. We climbed into battered ol' N42126 and took wing, assaying the winds aloft.

It was surprisingly un-bumpy. The surface winds lifted your hair and sent paper cups scurrying across the tarmac. Once we got a few thousand feet off the ground, however, everything got smoother.

Density altitude was another matter. It was about 75 degrees Fahrenheit. The plane had two grown people in it, and a full load of fuel: roughly 660 pounds in addition to the Cessna 172's empty weight of nearly 1700 pounds. That thing had to work hard, clawing its way from 3,000 to 9,000 feet, fighting the winds and reduced air density all the way. We headed south for about 15 miles before I turned east, paralleling the San Bernardino Mountains, taking a less direct route to give the plane more time to gain altitude.

We managed a decent climb until around 7,500 feet. Then the vertical speed indicator fell to zero and stuck there.

Miss H was sitting next to me, calmly snapping pictures of the mountains outside the passenger window. I stared at the VSI, which refused to budge. Great, what do I do now?

I wanted at least another 1,500 feet of air under us before I'd be satisfied. Big Bear City lies at about 6,700 feet MSL, but there's mountains and ridges all around it. To surmount the rocky hurdles and reach our destination, we needed more altitude, period.

Then, it seemed, the wind shifted. I felt it. We got kicked in the butt by a whump of wind, angling from the rear quarter. The VSI leaped back up to 500 fpm. With a growl, the Cessna began pawing the air again, pulling us higher foot-by-foot.

Timely tailwind, I thought to myself. I had been preparing a short speech for Miss H about why we suddenly couldn't go to Big Bear. Something along the lines of: "Hmm, we seem to be out of air," or "The plane don't wanna climb no more," or perhaps "I guess we're too heavy for this here flyin' machine, darlin'."

I'm quite glad I didn't say that last one.

So we made it to 9,000 feet and, lo and behold, Big Bear hove into view under our starboard wing. I turned north, scanned the runway, made sure of my heading and altitude, and made a radio call to announce my presence.

"Cessna 42126," said a deep male voice (the guy at the FBO). "Big Bear City, winds are 230 at 11 knots, gust 23, visibility clear below twelve-thousand, altimeter three-zero-three-three. I have no report of any traffic."

I could've just proceeded straight-in for Runway 26. Like the FBO dude had said, the winds were blowing off the lake, roughly out of the east at 11 knots, gusting to 23; conditions weren't ideal, but landing on 26 would offset some of the wind. There's some things, however, that the Big Bearians don't want you to fly over. There was a school off the east end of the runway and a housing development just west. Moreover the whole town was a noise abatement area, where pilots are instructed to keep their roaring machines as quiet as possible. So I hung around at 9,000 feet for as long as I could, then reduced power and came down to pattern altitude (about 8,000 feet MSL). I crossed Runway 26 at midfield and joined the downwind leg.

Easier said than done. You remember how I said the winds were blowing off Big Bear Lake at 11, gusting to 23? It was pretty mean for a newly-minted pilot like yours truly. I'd never flown into this airport before, either. Big Bear City Airport (L35) is tricky under the best of circumstances. Tall, stately pine trees reside just off the approach end of Runway 26, west of the airport, grasping at the sky like the claws of a half-rotted forest god. Big Bear Lake is just off the departure end of Runway 26, blue and sparkling, luring unwary pilots into its black-hearted, unfathomable depths.

This means, then, that when flying into Big Bear Airport, you are either approaching/taking off over 50-foot pines or a deep blue lake.

No room for screw-ups, in other words.

Swing too low on your approach to 26 and you'll snag a pine tree with your landing gear. Lose power on takeoff and you'll be sleeping with the fishes.

I wasn't nervous about the upcoming landing, per se, just concerned. The winds complicated matters. Flying over the runway to join the pattern, I had to crab like nobody's business.

What's crabbing, you ask?

It's how you keep the plane going in the direction you want it to go when the winds are trying to push it sideways.

Like this:

You want to land on the runway, but the wind is coming from the right and pushing the plane to the left. So you turn the plane into the wind, compensating for the push, allowing the plane to remain on runway heading.

Crabbing often unnerves the passengers because, well, the plane is flying sideways, pretty much. Most people don't like the nose to be pointing one direction and the plane going another. Deceptive, you see. But it's my favorite way to deal with crosswinds. Once you get some practice in it's pretty easy to feel how much rudder you need to use to offset the winds. And I don't care which way the nose is pointing as long as the plane's going where I want it to.

To continue: I crabbed like crazy going across the runway, then turned downwind (parallel the runway, going the opposite direction, in preparation for making two more turns and then landing). The wind was really pushing us. I had the throttle pulled almost all the way back at this point. We were still nearly a thousand feet above the runway, though the slope of the hillside beneath us was much closer. I kept a wary eye on the trees as we descended. Our ground speed was still absurd. I turned my base leg early, adding flaps, knowing that the wind would continue to push us west and away from the runway. It worked perfectly. I straightened us out on final approach, and Runway 26 beamed at us over that encroaching forest of pines. They seemed to leer at us from the ground like a swarm of starving zombies. Miss H was cool and collected, as if we were in a car and out for a Sunday drive. She was snapping pictures with a rock-steady hand. I, now suddenly fighting a headwind, cautiously applied some more throttle to get us over the grasping pines.

The radio crackled. It was FBO Dude.

"How's that headwind treating you, Cessna?"

"Not bad," I said, voice as steady as Miss H's shooting-arm. "I had to crab it quite a bit coming over the runway but things have evened out now."

Steady, steady. I added full flaps, and held N42126 on runway heading, adding a little power to get us over the trees, testing the winds with my rudder. It got bumpy about 200 feet off the ground, as the surface winds bounced around the valley floor from all directions. But I held 'er fast. We cleared the trees, and then we were right over the runway. I chopped the power and held the yoke back, trying to get the ship slowed. With the fierce wind off the lake, the thing wouldn't settle. Admittedly I flared high (too high), but I did not want to run out of runway, not with all that wet stuff a few thousand feet ahead of us.

I held it back, held it back, held it back held it back helditbackhelditbackhelditba—

And the wind died.

WHAM!

The Cessna fell out of the air like an ambitious brick. Twenty feet to the floor, bang. We hit the ground but didn't bounce. With a protesting groan and a few creaks, the Cessna straightened straightened and rolled down the runway. Wincing, and making hasty apologies to my passenger, I quickly raised the flaps and began to gingerly apply the brakes. I wanted to get us stopped, quick, before a wayward gust got under those big wings and ballooned us skyward again. I got us slowed and taxied off the runway toward the restaurant.

I fervently hoped nobody had seen that landing.

The FBO guy helpfully guided us to a parking spot. I helped my beloved out of her seat. "Nice job, babe," she said, and I thanked whatever angels lived in heaven for sending me this amazing, beautiful, supportive woman. I chocked the tires, but there were no tie-downs, so I made do with a bungee cord on the tail. I linked arms with Miss H and together we waltzed into the restaurant for a jolly good brunch.

The flight back was a breeze, literally. The hard part was getting up; getting down was nothing at all. We took off over the lake and made a ten-degree turn to the left to avoid flying over the school, as per the directions in the Airport/Facility Directory. We overflew the whole lake, Miss H getting some beautiful shots of the snowy mountains and windswept water.

Then we found a gap in the hills and blew out into the desert air again, heading down into the valley.

Good time for a photo-op!

Soon as we were clear of the peaks I reduced power. We had about 5,000 feet to lose before we could land at Apple Valley. Flying over my house, we texted my parents and tried to get them to come out and wave, but they were at the post office. So we overflew that (I saw the convertible, but couldn't see Mom and Dad). There were a few bumps at low-level, but nothing serious. We made a (somewhat) smoother landing at our good old home base. The winds had only intensified, but at least I avoided making the same mistake twice with my flare.

We taxied, tied down, paid our rental fees, and drove away, quite satisfied. We had a lovely flight, a good meal, an adventurous morning and, best yet, a store of memories to cherish. Miss H had taken no less than 29 crystal-clear photographs; many would sell for money at the proper venue. Let's give the lovely photographer a big hand, folks. Thanks, gorgeous.

We didn't forget to get one final photo together after we'd stepped back into the sun.

The first flight of many!