08/22/2009 - "I'm calling you from sunny Rantoul."

After more than 50 hours of practicing, it's time. Today, I embark on my first solo cross-country to Rantoul.

Solo student flights are not permtted out of Midway, so I am required to fly from Midway to Lansing with Tom, then I will drop him off and fly the 65 nautical mile round trip to Rantoul (TIP) by myself. On the way to Lansing, Tom offered a few last pointers... specifically reminding me how to deal with unexpected failures.

"If you lose the alternator, you will lose the turn coordinator, fuel gauges and radios, but the engine will continue to run. Use your backup radio as needed and land at the nearest field. If you lose the vacuum pump, you will lose the attitude indicator and heading indicator, but you will still have the airspeed and altitude indicators, so you won't have any trouble maintaining your airspeed and altitude to find the nearest airport and land. And, if you lose the engine, remember the "A, B, C's"... Airspeed, Best Field, and Checklist. Achieve the best glide airspeed of 65 knots, look for the best field to land in, and once you have a landing site in mind, aim for it and run through the engine failure checklist to try to restart the engine. You'll still have flaps and radios, so contact the emergency frequency on 121.5 and report the engine failure, try to land with full flaps, as much into the wind as possible, and avoid fields with nearby power lines or crops any taller than soybeans. You're ready to go, Eric. Have fun!"

Made a left base for Runway 9, landed perfectly, taxied to the parking area and dropped Tom off. Lansing was actually very busy! As I took off from Runway 9, there was a helicopter in the area coming in for a landing on Runway 36, and other Cessna inbound for Runway 9. I extended my downwind until I climbed above traffic pattern altitude, then turned to the south to begin my journey.

Holding my heading of 205, and planning to climb to 4,500, but by the time I reach 3,200 I can tell that the scattered cumulus clouds directly ahead are much lower than 4,500. By the time I reach 3,700, the clouds seem to be at eye level, and as I draw closer, I decide to descend a little bit to make sure I will be under them. After 10 minutes, I hope that the clouds will allow me to fly higher, but each new bank of clouds is followed by another. 3,200 feet will have to do.

It's so quiet in the airplane by myself. Somewhere in the first 10 minutes of my flight, it dawns on me. I have the privilege of climbing into the sky, gazing down at a world that is bound by roads and sidewalks; traffic lights and fences. I am sailing high above the landlocked cares of frustrated drivers, honking their horns, wishing for an open lane on a congested highway. I'm going to travel 100 miles in the time it takes them to drive home from work. Truthfully, I cannot adequately express what it feels like to take control of an aircraft and fly to faraway places. But I just tried. ;)

Before long, Greater Kankakee Airport (IKK) is directly to the west. I am passing one of my checkpoints, so I mark the time in my navigation log. I estimated arriving at 10:15 am (15:15Z), and the time now is 10:17 am (15:17Z). Only two minutes behind schedule. I tune in to the CTAF to see if I can hear any pilots chatting from down there, but the frequency is silent. And I move on.

Looking at the time. I should be crossing my final checkpoint, the town of Paxton, very soon. Paxton will mark the start of my descent to Rantoul.




I'm scanning the horizon for the town of Paxton, or the airport. I can easily make out I-57, and I'm trying to find a distinctive bend in the highway that will help me identify the town. At last, I spot the town to the west, along with I-57 curving around it. I don't see the airport yet, but I won't descend below 2,200 until I am certain that I see it.

But, I don't. I remember spotting the airport just after seeing the town of Paxton when I made this trip with Tom. I start to wonder if I'm off course, but I can still see I-57, and I know that the town of Rantoul along with the airport is right next to the highway. Five minutes of looking around for the distinctive cross of Runway 9/27 and 18/36. I glance at the clock, and look at my navigation log. And finally, I see what happened.

My mind skipped a checkpoint! The town I saw earlier was the town of Gilman, not the town of Paxton! If I had looked more closely at my navigation log, I would have noticed that I had two more checkpoints to go... not one! I laugh out loud to myself. I guess I descended about 9 miles too early.

I look up from my sectional, and there's Paxton! The I-57 curve around the town is unmistakeable.

Well, I continue to hold 2,200 feet, because I am so close to Rantoul that attempting to climb again would be silly. It takes a few extra minutes to see the field because I am lower than I would have liked, but my altitude is safe for the area, so all I have to do is find the field. And then, at last... there she is.






According to the AWOS, the wind is still blowing gently from the north, so I tune the CTAF and report five miles north of the field along with my intention to enter the pattern on a right downwind for Runway 36. No one responds, and I don't see any other aircraft in the area. I'm going to remain vigilant in case an aircraft is buzzing around down there without calling in, but once again, it seems that I have the airport all to myself.

Good speed control and use of flaps. Touchdown is smooth, and right on the centerline. A gentle use of the brakes to slow down, and I begin to look to the left side of the runway for an exit. I can see a closed taxiway with barricades in front of it and several vehicles parked behind the barricade. There is plenty of room for me to pull off the runway and turn around, so I do so. And as I apply brake pressure to come to a full stop, I smile. My first solo leg. Complete.

Reaching into my shirt pocket; flipping open my phone; giving Tom a call.

"Hey, Tom! I'm calling you from sunny Rantoul!"

"Great job!" Tom congratulates me. "See you back here in about 45 minutes!"

Cleaning up the airplane; flaps retract, carb heat off. On the CTAF, I announce a backtaxi on Runway 36 for a departure to the north. Takeoff and climbout are normal, and I'm on my way home.

The return trip is uneventful. My cruise altitude is 3,500, and I decide to hold 3,400, following Tom's suggestion to fly at an altitude slightly higher or lower than the typical VFR altitude of 3,500 to ensure that if another VFR plane comes along at 3,500 I will easily be able to stay separated. The various banks of cumulus clouds continue to linger around the high 3,000's, so my altitude of 3,400 is perfect.

I consistently keep my eye out for other traffic, but I decide to use this long flight back home as an opportunity to become more familiar with the attitude indicator. In addition to judging my attitude by looking over the nose, along the cowling, along the windowsill and out to the wings, I periodically glance at the attitude indicator to see how my pitch affects my altitude. It doesn't take much nose-up attitude for the plane to climb 50-100 feet per minute. I am beginning to see that the attitude indicator offers a much more precise indication of the plane's pitch than I can interpret by looking over the nose, and if I concentrate on keeping the dot at the center of the horizon, I can easily correct altitude errors before they get out of control. The wind jostles me around a little bit, but I am pretty successful at holding the altitude of 3,400.

The attitude indicator is my new best friend.



Taking note of each checkpoint as I pass it; steadily closing in on Lansing. Reaching my final checkpoint: the I-57 curve to the southwest along with the racetrack (pictured at left). I look ahead at the horizon, and without a doubt, I can see Lansing. I've checked the AWOS, and the wind is still blowing gently from the north. I'm going to make straight in for Runway 36.

Carb heat on, gently descending to 2,100, and I reach the extended centerline of Runway 36 just as I finish descending. I roll out on a long final, and I realize that I am very nicely established on a good glidepath. Flaps 10, keeping the airspeed at 80, and reporting a long final for Runway 36 on the CTAF. No one responds. Again, I have the airport all to myself.


60 seconds later. I add 10 more degrees of flaps, hold the airspeed at 70 knots. The runway looks great, and I report short final on the CTAF. Throttle to idle, flaps full. Pitching the nose down, holding 65 knots. Closing in on the runway now. I pull back the control wheel steadily, and I round out. A little bit of left rudder pressure to point the nose down the centerline, and I pull back the control wheel to flare. Nose up, increasing drag, decreasing lift, and the wheels settle to the ground. It's a pretty long taxi back to the ramp, and I enjoy it. I pull up to Runway 9/27 on taxiway G, and snap a quick picture of the taxiway sign. I report crossing the runway on the CTAF and continue taxi. I approach the ramp, and I can see Tom waiting for me. Sadly, it is time for my first solo flight to end.


Aside from my early descent into Rantoul, the flight was perfect. My descent wasn't unsafe; just inefficient. In the future, I will prevent early or late descents by relying on additional landmarks to verify my position, and I will remember to use VORs as a backup to my navigation. Every flight teaches me something new.

And now it's time for the true test: long solo cross-country.

- Airman Eric

07/20/2009 - "I see the town! We'll be there in a few..."

I've had three lessons since my botched landing at Midway, or as I'll refer to it, my "Midway Mistake." Simply put, I'm making small gains and rebuilding confidence in my landings, but I've reached a plateau. Every time I get something right, something else goes wrong. If I manage to get my airspeed pegged on final and I'm all proud of myself, I suddenly realize that I've turned base too soon and I'm too high. So I concentrate on pegging my altitude just before turning base, but then I wind up turning final too soon, and I'm too high again!

Still fixating on one detail while another detail gets away from me. Need to build up my ability to multitask.

On the bright side, I am finally improving my rudder pressure consistency. On my climbouts, I am consistently applying the correct amount of right rudder pressure, and the turn coordinator ball is centered. This makes my climbouts more stable and more efficient. Of course, I still wrestle with the correct amount of rudder pressure to point the plane's nose down the centerline on final. I am certainly improving, but I'm not quite there yet.

Today, we're taking a break from endless go-arounds to work on a new skill. It's time for my first cross-country!

"Cross-country" doesn't mean that I'm flying across the entire country; it just means that I am departing from one airport and travelling to another one. Before earning my Private Pilot certificate, I will be required to fly a long solo cross-country flight totalling 150 nautical miles, including three takeoffs and landings at a towered field. Today we'll be developing my cross-country skills by taking a trip from Lansing to Rantoul Airport, pictured above.

Every cross-country begins with a flight plan. I'm going to use a VFR sectional to plan my route to Rantoul; it's essentially a map of airport locations and communication freqencies, along with navaids and obvious landmarks that pilots can use to find their way around. First, I use a plotter to draw a line on the sectional between my departure airport and arrival airport, and measure the distance between the two airports to be 75 nautical miles. Correcting my course and ground speed for the forecast winds, I'm going to be holding a heading of 210, and it will take about 45 minutes to reach Rantoul. I'll be climbing to an altitude of 4,500 feet on the way there, and we'll cruise at 3,500 feet on the way back. These altitudes are chosen based on standard VFR cruise altitude rules.

The next step of the flight plan is to pick checkpoints; several groups of specific landmarks that I will use to verify my progress on the route. Tom explained that I must pick easily identifiable landmarks that are next to each other, such as a highway that crosses a road and some railroad tracks along next to a smokestack. Assuming that I am on course, it should be pretty easy to verify when I am overflying this specific checkpoint, at which point I will note the time and guesstimate whether or not I am keeping up with my schedule.

Departing from Lansing, climbing above traffic pattern altitude, turning left to my heading of 210. I've never flown above 3,300 feet or so, and as I climbed past 4,000, the quality of air was remarkable. Cool, sweet smelling, and just slightly misty. At 4,500 feet, we're cruising at an altitude where air pollution can scarcely reach. I was very surprised by how quickly we reached our first checkpoint: an interchange between I-57 and a major east/west road, along with two nearby horse racing tracks and a sizeable radio tower. I marked the time in my cross-country log, and noted that we are have arrived at this checkpoint 3 minutes late when compared to what I predicted. It turns out that I failed to include the time it would take to climb to our cruise altitude; obviously the plane flies a little slower over the ground when a good amount of the thrust is being used to climb.

About 30 minutes into our flight, we were very close to my next checkpoint. Tom, as always, is checking on my thought process and making sure that I'm paying attention to my flight plan.

"So, what is your next checkpoint?" Tom asks.

"The town of Momence, with I-57 bending around it," I respond.

Squinting into the distance. I can see I-57, and I'm looking for the town. Suddenly...

"I see it!" I say. "Do you?"

"I think I do," Tom said, pointing into the distance at a far-away huddled group of buildings and vegetation. "I see the town of Momence. How long until we get there?"

Tom has a good sense of humor, and he loves wordplay. So I threw this one at him:

"We'll be there in a few Momence."

Big laughs. ;)

Within 10 more minutes, I reached my next checkpoint: the town of Paxton. At this point, I'm pretty much following I-57 to Rantoul. It was very easy to pick out the town because I-57 curved around it, but I had a tough time finding Paxton Regional Airport. Just when I was ready to give up scanning for the airport, I suddenly spotted it! Tucked in between several farmer's fields I could see the thin strip of asphalt that is Runway 18/36. Blink and you'll miss it!

My checkpoint over Paxton also represented the start of my descent into Rantoul. Carb heat on, throttle back to 2,100 RPMs, descending to 2,200 feet, which is traffic pattern altitude at Rantoul plus 500 feet. And looking ahead into the distance, at last, we saw the field! Tuned in the AWOS, and the automated weather service is reporting light winds from the west. Tom reminded me to overfly the field and try to get a look at the windsock to verify the wind. Yup, the sock is showing wind from the west, and the sock is barely inflated, indicated light winds. We'll be landing on Runway 27.

Called on the CTAF, reported entering 45 degrees to the left downwind for Runway 27. Didn't hear any traffic at the airport, but remained vigilant for other aircraft. I was a little late turning my downwind for Runway 27, and was cutting my pattern a little close. Once again, I'm wrestling with the traffic pattern and landing. Decided to swing out a little further to ensure that I wouldn't be too high on final, as has been my custom.

Abeam the threshold; 10 degrees of flaps, 80 knots. I've got the airspeed pegged. Turn to base looks good, and I glance out of the left window to see the runway coming closer. I looked straight down at the ground to gauge my speed, then back up to the runway to plan my turn onto the extended centerline. In the past, I've repeatedly made this turn too early, and I didn't want to make that mistake again.

I resisted my initial impulse to turn to final, and continued on base for 2 more seconds. Began the turn, and as the runway appeared, I could see that I was going to roll out perfectly.

"Nice turn to final!" congratulated Tom.

I was determined to avoid my next common error: pulling the throttle to idle too late. I pull the throttle back now, pitch for 65 knots, and within a few seconds the plane's nose is steadily pointing further and further down the runway. Full flaps. Aiming for the numbers.

"This looks good," coaxed Tom. "We're going to land just fine."

Passed over the numbers at about 20 feet. Began the roundout, and the flare for landing. Sinking... gently... not much rudder correction needed, just a little bit of right rudder to point the nose down the centerline. Plenty of runway left. Stall horn sounds, but I'm about five feet above the ground, so I keep the nose-up attitude steady... sinking further... and...

Touchdown! One of my best landings ever!

I am so thankful to Tom for suggesting that we do the cross country today instead of mercilessly doing those landings without much improvement. The change of pace was a perfect way to get my mind out of its rut and get me back on course. And for the first time in more than a week, I landed, and without any of the heebie-jeebies!

Taxied off to the side, took a moment to do checklists and think about my route home. Rest of the ride uneventful. Saw a little bit of light precipitation on the way back from Rantoul, and Tom decided to divert to Midway just in case the precipitation should increase. I saw Bult, then Lansing, and I was able to find my way back to the airport. And with a smooth landing on 4L at Midway, the lesson drew to a close.

Cross-country is a ton of fun. Obviously, the purpose of earning one's private pilot license is so that one can actually go somewhere... Today, I finished my first trip over 50 miles, and I got to smell the sweet air at 4,500 feet.

The landing at Rantoul felt very good; I'm finally getting a feel for the entry into the traffic pattern.

The journey continues.

- Airman Eric