A Flight to Sedona by Allan Beiderman

A Flight to Sedona

I consider myself one of the relatively fortunate few that has tasted of the air. Flying may be just a mode of fast transport to the majority of the population, yet if one takes the time to thoroughly soak up the experience, like many things in life, it becomes much more than what it first appears.

As a 380 odd-hour Private Pilot, I have seen a plethora of sights that simply astound the mind. Sunsets that vibrate through the sky with colour, wisps of fog forming over the ocean and abruptly terminating over the beach, thronged with people below on a warm summer day.

For me, and I suspect a large number of pilots, flying is a release. The pressing ground-bound problems that were so all encompassing become monkeys to be blown off of our backs by the relative wind coming at us. It puts the universe in perspective as the everyday life becomes as small as the ground it is rooted on.

I recently graduated from college with a degree in engineering, so a trip to Arizona will probably serve as a last family vacation. It will be nice to spend some family time and to see the sights of the desert, but the one thing that had me exited was the same as always.

Flying.

I fly out of the Northeast corridor of the country, so mountain flying is a bit out of my repertoire. I wanted to rent an aircraft in Scottsdale, and after the usual checkout, fly my dad to Sedona. Unfortunately, my lack of any sort of flying in country with "big rocks", i.e. mountains in it, would preclude the normal three touch and go checkout. High terrain and high temperatures sap lift and power from an aircraft, lengthening takeoffs, landings, and reducing climb rates. All of these are not desired things when there is a bunch of mountains between where you are and where you want to be.

It turned out that the flight would be too expensive to get a mountain checkout and then take my dad up, and the more powerful plane that could handle three people in this sort of terrain was already scheduled. I was not happy with the arrangement, but this was someone else's aircraft, and if he had a strategy on how not to get the airplane all bent up, I was in no position to argue the point. Basically, you could think of the plane I was going to fly as being overbooked, and my dad was the odd man out. Maybe... Definitely next time.

I met with the flight instructor I would make the trip with, Jeff Blanchard, and went over my flight plan. Jeff seemed to be around 28. Later conversation would reveal him to be a fellow mechanical engineer who got a job in the aerospace industry. He works at that three days a week and flight instructs part time during the remainder of the week. I envy him his ability to do this.

I made plenty of initial plans for the trip, going over the different possible routes in my head and trying to image terrain with a significant vertical component to it. Since I am basically a coward at heart, I planned to forestall some of the photogenic grandeur of some better scenery, and planned a route of flight that basically coincided with I-17. I figured if the engine conked out I would at least be near something resembling civilization. The presence of civilization around that part of Arizona is a bit sparse, but it sure beats putting the airplane down in the "Pine Mountain Primitive Area". Ouch.

Now, a flight with a new instructor who is not at all a known quantity is usually met with some trepidation by a pilot. This is also felt by the instructor, who has to gauge the pilots competency against his own. I figured the entire preflight process would afford me an opportunity to show Jeff that I am at least a competent, concerned, and safe pilot, if not Chuck Yeager. It would also allow me to gauge his abilities. Do his views on certain procedures and techniques match mine? Is he one of the ones who like to grab the controls alot, or is he one who gauges your abilities by well placed questions, and then sees if you can back up the talk with proper action in the aircraft. He seems the latter.

The aircraft I am using for the flight will be a 150 horsepower, four seat, Piper Warrior. These are the archtypical low-wing General Aviation aircraft. While there are four seats, the aircraft does not have the ability to load four people in and just go. Careful calculations of baggage, fuel aboard and people weights are necessary not to overload the aircraft. In the high desert this is even more important.

N4544X seems to be a well cared-for ship at first glance. A somewhat quicker than normal preflight (it was 103F outside already) reveals no problems. I board the aircraft with Jeff, and after a quick review of my planned route, decides to forestall I-17 on the way up, and go direct.

"It will save time on the way up there, besides you'll have no trouble finding it (Sedona)."

"I just thought,.... well, I-17 is pretty close,...but...O.K." Such was my intelligent sounding retort. So much for assertiveness...

What the hell, there are pretty good checkpoints along the route as the crow flies route. Besides, he knows the area, so even if my navigational skills with brown under me instead of green should fail, he should be able to point me in the right direction.

The taxi and run-up went flawlessly. As we taxied to Scottsdale's runway 21, we went past three parked MiG-15's or 17's still in their Polish Warsaw Pact paint schemes. If only we knew back 10 years ago that these former terrors of freedom and democracy would end up as some rich guys toy. Go figure.

Takeoff clearance was awhile in coming. There were some Cessnas running closed patterns to practice landings, as well as an inbound Hawker 1000 biz-jet. Once they were clear of the runway, we were off at 10:37 local.

The initial climb went as expected. I had to keep making the conscience effort to keep the nose below the apparent horizon for the proper climb speed, as the apparent horizon was on top of the mountains some miles distant. This would result in too low an airspeed and a consequently lower than expected performance. After sorting the initial climb out, I finally had the chance to look around a bit.

The terrain immediately around the airport and leading to the mountains was flatter and more featureless than I had expected. Also shocking was the sheer visibility I was afforded. There was very little in the way of haze, so mountains 40 miles away were visible before I even had the chance to turn on my initial course. The mountains were as if mere addendums to the terrain. Their rise from the valley floor made it seem as if they were glued on as an afterthought. The mountains were a deeper colour of brown than the tan and green speckled land below. The Scottsdale golf courses were like little man-made oasis', and it was obvious that a few days without mans attentions would result in their little ameboid looking lives being reclaimed by the desert.

A turn on course to the north north-west puts us on our way. The 4800 foot mountain 17 n.m. along our path looms like a fat king, deciding who shall have his audience and who shall be vanquished. By means of detailed flight planning, we would be among the former, with a 1200 foot terrain clearance by the time we got to this first of obstacles.

Carefree, Arizona appears under my right wing. It has a paved strip that acts as the center for a fly-in community. Nothing like going out to the hanger/garage a few steps from your front door and climbing into the plane. Looks like a tough strip though, nestled into a valley near a cliffside.

The terrain starts rising quickly after the airport. A valley 7 miles off to the left contains lower terrain and the Verde river. It is comforting to see some green nearby. Traffic 2:00 low and crossing in front of us, another Cherokee I believe, proves to be no factor. 44X's climb rate has decreased to around 300 fpm. Gusts will vary that between 500 fpm and zero fpm on the vertical speed indicator. A long as the best rate of climb speed, which decreases with increasing altitude, is held, that is the best she can do. Since the desert air, notorious for its strong thermals, is so much calmer than I expected, I sit back and let the plane soak the bumps and enjoy the sights.

Mount Humphrys, a 12,000 odd foot monstrosity, is visible about 100 miles north of our position. I did not expect to be able to see this much. Being a typical east coast aviator, I feel lucky to get 7 hazy miles during the summer, and I planned this flight subconsciously in that fashion. Now, I do not even need all the numbers in front of me. A quick look at the chart shows Sedona is right along a straight line between me and Porky the Rock. All the flight planning is now just back-up to the locative perception of the old Mk. I eyeball. I had already relegated all of the radio navigational aids to mere back-up status.

Yes, I will just come out and say it; I am one of those pilots that will plan out every detail of even routine cross-countries in familiar areas. I will fill up a flight planning form with wind corrections and checkpoints and elapsed times. Until I recently won and electronic flight computer, I sat and spun the old E6B circular slide rules for my planning purposes. I derive more of the enjoyment from self-reliance on my navigational talents than some satellite in the air showing me on a moving map. Takes all of the fun out of it.

The planning says that the end of the climb phase should be around where the ridge that contains Pine Mountain begins. I level off at 8500 over the rocky terrain. The mixture comes back a bit, but the throttle is left fully forward. That should generate about 65 % power at this density altitude. Time to settle in for the cruise portion and mentally switch gears.

Right about then, as the mind expanded further out of the cockpit, I was struck by the thought that all was right with the world. I was where I was supposed to be. Looking back, I realize that the power of the moment. I knew that I was meant to be piloting that aircraft at that time at that place. It was the end of one of lifes specific tasks, of one of its myriad struggles. It was an awe inspiring adrenal releasing realization. As I was over the desert, with Listz's Hungarian Rhapsody jangling in my head watching as my altimeter read 8500', and then watching the mountain drop out to the level valley floor below. Watching myself go from 2000' above the mountain to almost a mile above the valley floor, I was one with the world. My world consisted of myself, the terrain, and the aircraft, but damn it, I knew all of it. The occupation with the tasks at hand did not detract from the moment, to the contrary, it made it more memorable. There is almost an out of body like grin as you realize: You, at least here, in this aerial abode of the soul, are your own master. All that pursued and harried you on the ground is small, insignificant, and base. It has no place in this sanctuary of solitude.

The beauty of that feeling is that I have had it numerous times before when I was flying. Doing the task that G-d put me on his Earth for. I am increasingly realizing that few people have this feeling even once, let alone multiple times. I can realize that I am having these moments as I am having them, and I am able to subconsciencly save them.

I only wish that feeling of inner peace could carry throughout my whole life, but it cannot, so I will fly again. And then, if I ever achieve that all elusive inner peace with myself, I will fly some more. That is what I am meant for. To do anything else is contrary to my nature, an affront to all I hold dear and true.

The magnificent drop-off of Pine Mountain leads to the high plateau that seems to be a nozzle for the Verde River that has passed off of my right wing before. Mingus Mountain is ahead and to my left, with Buck Mountain ahead and to my right. Dead ahead about 7 miles is Montezuma, which has a well kept private strip right near the town. Clearly visible are the red rocks of Sedona, about 11 mile past Montezuma.

As you get to the higher elevations, the character of the terrain below changes markedly. The stark browns of the lower elevations are replaced by washes and hillsides peppered with evergreens and pines of all sorts. The terrain of Oak Creek canyon is relatively flat bottomed, like a mesa top, but it is lashed by 500' deep gorges. It has an almost Martian like quality to it. The reds of the cliffsides and the mountains are of stark contrast to the untarnished emerald blue of the sky, the greens and browns of the ground, and even the white smoke of a forest fire off toward Flagstaff.

The airport at Sedona is situated on top of a 500 foot high mesa. It's runway, 3-21 is challenging in other ways. Runway 3 has a 1.8% upslope. This is enough of a rise that unless the winds are relatively strong, all landings are done on runway 3, and takeoffs are done, even with a tailwind on runway 21. This means that the pilot really has to keep his eyes out. He could be landing in one direction, while someone is taking off straight at him!

Listening to the traffic advisory frequency reveals a bunch of fire-fighting helicopters inbound and in the vicinity, and listening to the new AWOS reveals 15-18 knot winds favoring 21.

I have yet to fully trust those new computerized weather stations, so flying over the field confirms it. I will be landing downhill on 21. There is no traffic except an inbound helicopter that should not be a factor, so I break left over the runway to put some distance between me and it to make the standard traffic pattern entry at 5800 feet.

"Sedona Traffic, Warrior 4544X on a 45 entry to a left downwind, 21, Sedona"

Pumps on; mixture, well, up high, so, sorta richer; throttle 2400, fuel to the fullest tank, check the engine instruments. Okedokey.

The turbulence has picked up at these lower altitudes, but the aircraft soaks up most of the serious bumps, just leading to more of an out of phase, impaled whale, roll pitch and yaw. A quick scan reveals no traffic, but that 5400 foot ridge line to the east north east looks alot bigger from up close. Directly along my flight path seems to be a mountain peak that is significantly higher than I am. Man that is one big son of a...

"Sedona Traffic, Warrior 44X left downwind 21 Sedona"

Abeam the runway end, throttle to 1800, first notch of flaps, 80 kts. Seems a bit high, but there is a rock along the final approach path that I do not feel like hitting, so I will keep it up high for now. The runway end is about 30-40 degrees behind me, time to turn base. Second notch of flaps, speed to 75 kts. Come back on the power a bit to dump some altitude. Definitely too high now.

"Sedonatrafficwarrioronaleftbasetofinal 21 Sedona"

As I turn final, bleed to speed to 70 kts indicated, but now I am definitely too high. Power to idle, but I do not want to drop the last notch of flaps fearing lack of climbing ability at high altitude if I should need to go around. I will definitely clear the rock, and I am still too damn high. Slip this bad-boy, full right rudder and enough left aileron to keep on the runway centerline. Gotta bleed off that excess altitude.

Damn, not coming down quick enough, airspeed starting to come up from me suconsciencly trying to push the nose down. Too high...

"I think it is time to go around." What initiative! Duh....

Jeff responds, "Good idea"

Nuts.

Full power, Vx climb around 68 kts. Steady airspeed, positive rate of climb. Second notch of flaps up, then the first and I am climbing away.

"Sedona Traffic, Warrior 44X going around, 21, Sedona." Now everyone on frequency for 100 miles around know I'm not Chuck Yeager.

Climb is better than expected, and the next approach goes flawless. The downslope throws me off a little on judging when to roundout for landing, but I actually manage a nice nose-up near squeaker.

I park the plane and grab me some more photo's, including proof that Grummans can actually operate out of this 4800' high airport. I remember a 103 degree humid day in Philly when I could barely get one up to 3500'. Must be flown only in the early morning or something.

We grabbed some chow. Good food. Slow Service. Moderate tip. While I was on the ground, A baby blue coloured Long-EZ canard landed hot, and used most of the runway with heavy braking to stop. The Learjet that followed him seemed to have an easier time. Go figure.

After a speedy preflight, I jumped in and started the engine. After leaning the mixture to get every last possible bit of power out of the anemic engine, I took the runway.

There is a feeling of mastering the task ahead when the wheels are lined up with the runway stripes. It is a feeling of anticipation, of the subconscience knowledge that you are about to do something that most people only dream of doing, or are too terrified to even consider. And best of all, your knowledge surrounds you like a shield, for that is what you must rely upon for the safe completion of your flight. You are in a media that rewards care and skill with wonders to boggle the mind, and punishes stupid bravado and incompetence with a swift and sure demise. An unforgiving mistress to be sure, but I steal away with her as often as I can.

The takeoff was a bit more spritely than I had a right to expect, and soon we were shooting skyward at a relatively brisk 400 feet per minute. I quick juant to the left to clear the approach end of the one-way runway, and then a south-west course home.

Jeff was pointing out privately owned airports that were below us. Some I was able to spot immediately, and one I was never quite sure if I saw it or not. It was flat, brown, and featureless, like the mesa it was on. Jeff was good at spotting things that I did not even consider important below. His quick and ever scanning eyes were a match for his thin, hawk-like visage. It was as if he was to leap of his seat at any moment, sprout wings, and spiral down below for a better look. He was a wealth of information which he pointed out in relatively short, staccato, well aimed bursts. Some instructors turn gabby in the air, and I was always of the opine that most knowledge should be transferred on the ground, since the cockpit is a noisy place that does not like to have your attention snatched away in long spouts of chatter. It is rare and lucky to locate an instructor with the gift of efficient aerial knowledge transfer.

Montezuma passed under and that was my cue to pick up I-17 southward. We were still climbing, and I was aiming towards a notch in the hillside where I-17 wound its way through. Cedar Bench Wilderness area is off my left wing, on the southern side of the notch, and matching terrain is off to the north. Leveling off at 7500' will provide plenty of terrain clearance. As I cruise through the notch, I look down to see the cars about on their ways. It is a steep look, virtually straight down, and a quick look to the left reveals the height of the terrain I was dealing with. If a mountain as sudden and vertical as this existed back near Philadelphia, it would be a storied escape, populated with the wealthys' summer cabins, and other realms of the exclusive. Or, perhaps it would be avoided, realized as strange and out of place and to be left alone as a powerful and lonely act of natures might. But, out here, it is simply correct, and that is best.

I am navigating now strictly by pilotage. I am not worried about my numbers, as it is easy to keep one finger on the map and identify what you are pointing at outside the window. I am getting comfortable navigating out in the desert now. The learning curve is steep, but that's part of the fun. I am finally learning to take advantage of the extra visibility my location and high perch offers, and I enter the pure information intake mode. I am trying to soak up as much about the moment as possible, realizing that one like it shall not happen soon again, but safe in the realization that it will eventually occur. That much is fated. I can sense it.

The Black Canyon stretches out before me. From here, it is roughly 45 miles long, and from the end spills forth the gradual population increase that becomes Phoenix. The 7800' Powers Mountain is off my left as I come up on a small speck of population below me that is Bumble Bee, AZ. The mountain reminds me of the ones I had seen earlier greedily guarding the way to Prescott. Jeff had told me that college town lays beyond those foreboding peaks, but I was unable to see over them, as they were higher than I was.

The entire act of looking up at the ground is relatively new to me. Blairstown, N.J is in a valley, so it is possible to see the terrain rise as you are when taking off west, and Williamsport, P.A. has a monstrosity of a hill guarding it to the south, where, over the years, quite a few aircraft's aluminum structure was reduced to its more elemental nature. But nothing back east compares to the display of earth's power witnessed here. I imagine if the stoic Pilgrims had landed in terrain around here, they would have retreated to the relative safety of mere religious persecution, rather than have this beautiful, but alien terrain frighten the real fear of G-d into them.

Black Canyon City, a grand misnomer if there was ever one, is directly under me. Rock Springs is a little bit further, and Lake Pleasant, with its Bald Eagle Breeding area is plainly visible. It is a little hazier as Phoenix comes closer, but it is still nothing like the heavy gray ooze that envelopes the east coast between late May and early September. Eight miles past Rock Springs is the town of New River, another misnomer. I never even see it, as my sights have shifted off to the end of the mountain range that lies to my left. A turn southeast, along with the beginnings of a descent, and back to Scottdale head me and my two new friends. Both of the sky, and both in their different ways, alive.

Jeff tunes in the air to air frequency, as we are entering an area where student pilots practice their maneuvers, and announces our transition. I follow a set of powerlines with their dirt access road back towards Scottsdale. I just now realize how built up Scottsdale is as I am having trouble eyeing exactly where the runway is. But, I know we are about 6 miles out, so after getting the weather, I announce our intentions and am told to expect a right base entry for runway 21. I spot the tall control tower first, and after that, the 8251 foot long, 75 foot wide ribbon of asphalt. The landing is actually pretty good, as opposed to my all to often played out imitation of a bee hitting a windshield. A fine ending to a fine flight, and an occasion that yet lifts my spirit even now. Best of all, my feet were back on the ground, but I realized that I needn't join them there. Not for too long, anyway.