As I practiced and became more proficient in my flying skills, I gradually stretched my wings farther away from my home base in Anacortes.
Dave, always the confident one, assured me that I was ready for the big one—my long, solo cross-country.
Now, let me tell you how a normal cross-country is done, according to the manual. You schedule a three-leg flight in 100-mile segments. You take off from your home base, fly to an airport 100 miles away, then land and take off again to another airport 100 miles away. One more leg of 100 miles gets you back to your home base. Should one always follow that routine from the manual? In hindsight, I would scream, "YES!", but what did I know?
The Ninety-Nines Convention
The Ninety-Nines (99s) is an international organization of women pilots that was organized in 1929. Their name issued from the ninety-nine female pilots who signed the original charter. One of those original charter members was Amelia Earhardt.
For their convention in 1975, Dave was invited to be the airshow talent and keynote speaker at their annual convention in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
Being the planner he was, he devised a three-point plan that would enable me to complete an interesting solo cross-country and provide him with a chase plane to transport his change of clothes, media equipment, plus be his air-taxi from Athol, Idaho, to Coeur d’Alene.
It sounded like a weighty and scary assignment to me. After all, I was just a student pilot with very few flight hours. However, he revved me up and assured me that he had confidence in my abilities. With that, I allowed him to maneuver me into a position of meeting his needs. The truth was, he was relying on the thin threads of my piloting experience. He gave me a pep talk, convinced me to go for the brass ring and be a good sport about it. He was right when he told me it would be an adventure I would never forget—what a salesman!
Isn't that the stuff our lives are made of—a series of adventures and misadventures? We may as well enjoy the ones that have a high potential for success; the other kind comes elbowing into our lives whether we want it to or not. I often need to remind myself of the truthful and sage proverb from the Bible that tells us that we move through life from “strength to strength.” It’s important that we get that right because too many times we dwell on catastrophic expectations.
Dave was already in Idaho with the Bücher, soaking up the admiration of the ladies.
Back home, I straightened my shoulders and filed my flight plan. It led me from Anacortes, Washington, over the Cascade Mountains, across the vast plains of eastern Washington, and finally to a touch down at Henley’s Aerodrome in Athol, Idaho.
Well, that was the plan anyway. The reality was that there was a sudden low-level fog bank that obscured my visibility. It was still VFR (Visual Flight Rules), but it was disconcerting to this novice. I made it as far as the Arlington Airport, just twenty miles away from the Anacortes Airport, as the crow flies. I landed the plane safely and went into the small terminal to mentally regroup. I called Dave and he gave me another pep talk.
I have to make it. Dave is counting on me. I can't just bag the trip, I foolishly thought.
There wasn’t time for me to get rattled, nervous, or confused. All Dave's gear was in my little C150, including his great slides of the Cascade Mountains.
Argh! Why did I agree to go along with his scheme! I thought in exasperation. But I pulled up my quivering chin and headed back out to the plane to give it another big girl try at the first sign of the weather clearing. I taxied out to the runway, pushed the throttle forward, pulled back on the yoke, and started climbing toward the mountains.
Dave assured me that just as soon as I got over the mountains, the weather would clear. The mountains—they ranged upwards of eleven thousand feet. I’d never flown in the mountains; that was a flight course in itself. Had I the training, I would have known that I was to approach them at an angle. Instead, I just headed straight through them.
Once I got away from the local muck, the rest of the trip, up and over the mountains, was strikingly beautiful. I felt like a tiny sparrow winging my way through steep canyons against the backdrop of the magnificent Cascades. My heart bursting with joy at the sight of God's amazing creation, I sang out…
I sing because I'm happy.
I sing because I'm free . . .
For His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me.
I was nearly overwhelmed by the stunning, yet rugged beauty—the snow-capped peaks, the ice-blue cirques, and the aspen valleys—all gave a certain softness to the jagged granite of the Cascade Mountains.
Well, see there, Dave was right, of course. After getting away from the coast, I had clear weather across the plains of eastern Washington.
As soon as I crossed the mountains I started a gradual descent toward the low-lying plains of eastern Washington flying “IFR.” Some pilots know “IFR” to mean Instrument Flight Rules. For novice pilots, such as I, the acronym means "I Follow Railroads!" Their grid work led me safely to my destination, where I ended up gaining some unexpected flying experience.
Mountain Photography
Dave was a master at photographing the Cascade Mountains, also known as the American Alps. He would start his presentations by showing his photos of unique experimental aircraft taken at various fly-ins through the years. In his talks, the Rollei two-by-two-inch slides of chalked and tied-down aircraft progressively rotated to take flight alongside the jagged peaks of the Cascade Mountain Range. His aerial photographs of the Cascades were museum pieces in themselves.
His eye for their massive beauty often took him dangerously close to the rugged snow-capped peaks of Three Fingers, White Horse, and a monolithic dagger named Mount Index.
His style was to photograph the mountains below their peaks to capture their massive magnificent grandeur. In awe of their pristine beauty, he would say, “You’ve got to look up at them to capture their majesty and strength. Get up as close as you can, and then let them fill your lens.” Then he would position the plane in a sideslip—an aileron and rudder maneuver that allowed him to angle the plane with one wing tilted down, yet keep flying straight ahead. Next, he would line up the wing strut and the delicate control wires of the Bücher to frame the magnificent subject.
Without a doubt, his slides were an essential part of his presentation, and I didn’t want the Ninety-Nines to miss seeing them.
Dave, always the confident one, assured me that I was ready for the big one—my long, solo cross-country.
Now, let me tell you how a normal cross-country is done, according to the manual. You schedule a three-leg flight in 100-mile segments. You take off from your home base, fly to an airport 100 miles away, then land and take off again to another airport 100 miles away. One more leg of 100 miles gets you back to your home base. Should one always follow that routine from the manual? In hindsight, I would scream, "YES!", but what did I know?
The Ninety-Nines Convention
The Ninety-Nines (99s) is an international organization of women pilots that was organized in 1929. Their name issued from the ninety-nine female pilots who signed the original charter. One of those original charter members was Amelia Earhardt.
For their convention in 1975, Dave was invited to be the airshow talent and keynote speaker at their annual convention in Coeur d'Alene, Idaho.
Being the planner he was, he devised a three-point plan that would enable me to complete an interesting solo cross-country and provide him with a chase plane to transport his change of clothes, media equipment, plus be his air-taxi from Athol, Idaho, to Coeur d’Alene.
It sounded like a weighty and scary assignment to me. After all, I was just a student pilot with very few flight hours. However, he revved me up and assured me that he had confidence in my abilities. With that, I allowed him to maneuver me into a position of meeting his needs. The truth was, he was relying on the thin threads of my piloting experience. He gave me a pep talk, convinced me to go for the brass ring and be a good sport about it. He was right when he told me it would be an adventure I would never forget—what a salesman!
Isn't that the stuff our lives are made of—a series of adventures and misadventures? We may as well enjoy the ones that have a high potential for success; the other kind comes elbowing into our lives whether we want it to or not. I often need to remind myself of the truthful and sage proverb from the Bible that tells us that we move through life from “strength to strength.” It’s important that we get that right because too many times we dwell on catastrophic expectations.
Dave was already in Idaho with the Bücher, soaking up the admiration of the ladies.
Back home, I straightened my shoulders and filed my flight plan. It led me from Anacortes, Washington, over the Cascade Mountains, across the vast plains of eastern Washington, and finally to a touch down at Henley’s Aerodrome in Athol, Idaho.
Well, that was the plan anyway. The reality was that there was a sudden low-level fog bank that obscured my visibility. It was still VFR (Visual Flight Rules), but it was disconcerting to this novice. I made it as far as the Arlington Airport, just twenty miles away from the Anacortes Airport, as the crow flies. I landed the plane safely and went into the small terminal to mentally regroup. I called Dave and he gave me another pep talk.
I have to make it. Dave is counting on me. I can't just bag the trip, I foolishly thought.
There wasn’t time for me to get rattled, nervous, or confused. All Dave's gear was in my little C150, including his great slides of the Cascade Mountains.
Argh! Why did I agree to go along with his scheme! I thought in exasperation. But I pulled up my quivering chin and headed back out to the plane to give it another big girl try at the first sign of the weather clearing. I taxied out to the runway, pushed the throttle forward, pulled back on the yoke, and started climbing toward the mountains.
Dave assured me that just as soon as I got over the mountains, the weather would clear. The mountains—they ranged upwards of eleven thousand feet. I’d never flown in the mountains; that was a flight course in itself. Had I the training, I would have known that I was to approach them at an angle. Instead, I just headed straight through them.
Once I got away from the local muck, the rest of the trip, up and over the mountains, was strikingly beautiful. I felt like a tiny sparrow winging my way through steep canyons against the backdrop of the magnificent Cascades. My heart bursting with joy at the sight of God's amazing creation, I sang out…
I sing because I'm happy.
I sing because I'm free . . .
For His eye is on the sparrow
And I know He watches me.
I was nearly overwhelmed by the stunning, yet rugged beauty—the snow-capped peaks, the ice-blue cirques, and the aspen valleys—all gave a certain softness to the jagged granite of the Cascade Mountains.
Well, see there, Dave was right, of course. After getting away from the coast, I had clear weather across the plains of eastern Washington.
As soon as I crossed the mountains I started a gradual descent toward the low-lying plains of eastern Washington flying “IFR.” Some pilots know “IFR” to mean Instrument Flight Rules. For novice pilots, such as I, the acronym means "I Follow Railroads!" Their grid work led me safely to my destination, where I ended up gaining some unexpected flying experience.
Mountain Photography
Dave was a master at photographing the Cascade Mountains, also known as the American Alps. He would start his presentations by showing his photos of unique experimental aircraft taken at various fly-ins through the years. In his talks, the Rollei two-by-two-inch slides of chalked and tied-down aircraft progressively rotated to take flight alongside the jagged peaks of the Cascade Mountain Range. His aerial photographs of the Cascades were museum pieces in themselves.
His eye for their massive beauty often took him dangerously close to the rugged snow-capped peaks of Three Fingers, White Horse, and a monolithic dagger named Mount Index.
His style was to photograph the mountains below their peaks to capture their massive magnificent grandeur. In awe of their pristine beauty, he would say, “You’ve got to look up at them to capture their majesty and strength. Get up as close as you can, and then let them fill your lens.” Then he would position the plane in a sideslip—an aileron and rudder maneuver that allowed him to angle the plane with one wing tilted down, yet keep flying straight ahead. Next, he would line up the wing strut and the delicate control wires of the Bücher to frame the magnificent subject.
Without a doubt, his slides were an essential part of his presentation, and I didn’t want the Ninety-Nines to miss seeing them.
Barnstorming at Henley's Aerodrome, Athol, Idaho
When I entered Idaho's air space, I made a brief stop in Coeur d'Alene to refuel my little Cessna 150, and then I followed my compass north for the short distance to Henley’s Aerodrome.
I climbed to 10,000 feet as I made my approach. I knew Dave would be finishing his aerobatic performance, and I didn’t want to get in his way. I thought, the higher I climb, the better. Athol's altitude was 2,500 feet. So to say the least, at 10,000 feet I was clear of his staging area.
Dave was just finishing his routine and had punctuated it with a dramatic Lomchevak when I spotted him. The Lomchevak never fails to thrill the audience. As the plane tumbles through the sky, apparently out of control, it looks like it’s going to be the end for pilot and plane. However, a plane, by its very design, is going to fly. As it picks up airspeed, it will recover from the dive. Dave always said, “You just better make sure you’re flying by the numbers and that you've got enough altitude.” That statement was like a mantra for him.
At my altitude waaay up in the sky, I watched his finale from a new perspective. I was above him. That made his relationship to the ground look even closer.
After he landed, I radioed the UNICOM at Henley’s and said I'd make my landing approach as soon as I lost some altitude. My lofty 10,000-foot spectator perch became one of the jokes of the day. Seems I overdid it a smidgen. Well, I didn’t know how high the top of his loops would be, so I was not taking any chances!
In planning for my trip, Dave cautioned that if I wasn’t going to touch-down by the first third of the runway at Henley’s, to re-trim and go around for another try at it.
Never having flown at an high-altitude airport before, I was not aware of the extra airspeed I had picked up as I turned on to final approach. I not only wasn’t going to be down by the first third of the runway, I wasn’t going to be down by the last third! I re-trimmed, added power, and shot up and off the south end of the runway for another go-around.
My next approach was lower and slower. My airspeed and rate of descent were just right.
Then, without warning, two other airplanes headed straight for me! It looked like it was going to be a head-on collision!
I was stunned to see a Tiger Moth and a J-3 Cub waggle their wings in greeting as they crisscrossed right in front of me! I was far too serious for their antics. Startled and scared witless, my legs started jumping up and off the rudder pedals—I was literally doing the St. Vitus’ dance. Knees knocking and feet jumping, I re-trimmed, goosed the power, and shot out of there for a second heart pounding time.
As I started climbing, I looked down and saw what must have been 700 lady flyers looking up at me. A rattled and frustrated flight student, though I was, I was too nervous to be embarrassed.
My next approach was long, low, and slow. It gave me time to get a grip and make my own butterflies fly in formation.
Finally, I got the plane on the ground. I beamed a sweaty smile when the 99s gave me an enthusiastic applause. The landing was one of my best—third time’s a charm!
Henley’s was a place where a lot of sky mavericks and barnstormers jockeyed around. It’s a carnival of home-built airplanes and early vintage aircraft. The legendary stars of aviation often hung out there and reminisced about the good old days of barnstorming, dogfights, and near misses.
One of those stars was a lady named Gladys Buroker, who gave me my first tail-dragger lesson in her J-3 Cub. Gladys was into it all—hot air ballooning, wing walking, and skydiving. In 1932, she paid just $2 an hour for flight time, and after four hours of instruction, she started flying like a bird! She was also one of the first women to teach flight instruction to World War II air cadets.
That modest but gutsy woman was an inspiration. Her influence brought the 99s to Henley’s for its annual convention. It was my honor to have been in the same atmosphere with such a renowned aviation star.
Gladys wasn't the only famous aviatrix in the 99s. As I mentioned above, one of the founding members was Amelia Earhart. You may remember her, she was the one who was lost in the Pacific during her notable attempt to fly around the world in 1937. Some say she was a WWII spy and was executed by the Japanese, others postured that she ran out of fuel, still others said she abandoned the bright lights and settled into island life. It will always be one of life's mysteries.
Today, hundreds of women challenge each other to strive for excellence in flying all types of aircraft, including jets, helicopters, and spacecraft. Like their male counterparts, they have a blast doing what they enjoy most—flying. Their fly-in chapter meetings and air races keep them busy as they coruscate like comets in the sky.
The 99s are committed to generously volunteering their skills and planes for lifesaving search and rescue missions.
As for Dave, the airshow star, he was in hot water, and lots of it. At the banquet that evening, the 99s had plenty of fodder for some high, hot, and heavy roasting of my flight instructor.
The night of the 99s' banquet, I met many women who had flown through the most challenging circumstances. They were trying to encourage me and give me all the quick tips they could, knowing I had to fly my little bird back to the West Coast.
Henley's Aerodrome - Barnstorming in Athol, Idaho
At the close of the eventful weekend, the weather over the Spokane Basin was stable and clear. However, as I approached the Cascades, there was a lot of weather building up over the mountains from the Pacific coast. The storm clouds became giant towers and looked ready to rumble. I did know enough not to be suckered into flying under those dark threatening clouds. Falling for that trap could lead me into a box canyon that had nothing for me but a terminal crash up along side one of those magnificent mountain walls.
The top of the clouds looked to be a couple thousand feet above the rugged mountain peaks, so I decided to shoot across the top. I’d be flying high where the oxygen thins out, but not for long. As I climbed to a higher and higher altitude, I started getting positively euphoric! I thought that flying at 11,000 feet for a short time would not deprive me of too much oxygen, but I did begin to get a little light-headed.
As the weather started clearing and I started to descend, I was thrilled to see the incredible beauty around me—the snow-capped peaks, the alpine meadows, and the glacial lakes that looked like shimmering turquoise jewels.
My cares floated away. Choruses of song began to resound from my cockpit. Up in the sky, the humming drone of my engine and I contentedly harmonized as I dramatically sang out a few snippets of great Italian arias. Suddenly my reverie was cut short and my attention snapped back into focus when I saw another aircraft shoot by my undercarriage. "Hello, earth to Katy. Pay attention!"
With my wits back under control, I was pulled like a magnet as I descended toward the expansive San Juan Islands before me. From my eagle's vantage point, they looked like great grassy stepping-stones in a beautiful blue pond.
I aimed the nose of my little plane toward Fidalgo Island and picked up some extra airspeed as I started my long descent. I was relieved and happy to know that my touchdown in Anacortes would be within the hour. I would be home safe and ready to write another interesting entry in my logbook.
As a mama, I could hardly wait to hug my toddler and tell him about my harrowing experience.
A few days later, after completing my training, I took the check ride for my private pilot certificate. Keith Allen, an FAA check pilot, gave me his seal of approval. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and said that I was safe enough to take his grandmother flying.
The top of the clouds looked to be a couple thousand feet above the rugged mountain peaks, so I decided to shoot across the top. I’d be flying high where the oxygen thins out, but not for long. As I climbed to a higher and higher altitude, I started getting positively euphoric! I thought that flying at 11,000 feet for a short time would not deprive me of too much oxygen, but I did begin to get a little light-headed.
As the weather started clearing and I started to descend, I was thrilled to see the incredible beauty around me—the snow-capped peaks, the alpine meadows, and the glacial lakes that looked like shimmering turquoise jewels.
My cares floated away. Choruses of song began to resound from my cockpit. Up in the sky, the humming drone of my engine and I contentedly harmonized as I dramatically sang out a few snippets of great Italian arias. Suddenly my reverie was cut short and my attention snapped back into focus when I saw another aircraft shoot by my undercarriage. "Hello, earth to Katy. Pay attention!"
With my wits back under control, I was pulled like a magnet as I descended toward the expansive San Juan Islands before me. From my eagle's vantage point, they looked like great grassy stepping-stones in a beautiful blue pond.
I aimed the nose of my little plane toward Fidalgo Island and picked up some extra airspeed as I started my long descent. I was relieved and happy to know that my touchdown in Anacortes would be within the hour. I would be home safe and ready to write another interesting entry in my logbook.
As a mama, I could hardly wait to hug my toddler and tell him about my harrowing experience.
A few days later, after completing my training, I took the check ride for my private pilot certificate. Keith Allen, an FAA check pilot, gave me his seal of approval. He shook my hand, congratulated me, and said that I was safe enough to take his grandmother flying.
Several of Dave Rahm’s excellent geological slides are available for viewing at the following website. http://earthweb.ess.washington.edu/EPIC/Collections/rahm.htm.