Amelia

Interesting, the regional variations. Flying IFR locally usually adds very little to my trip, unless I need to fly the full approach. But, then, I live in the middle of an east coast swamp. Wash Center cuts me loose 20 miles out, as we have no radar coverage below 2500’. There are no big-city vectors or holds. It’s all RNAV direct. Passing Atlanta, you may as well plan to go way southeast by way of SINCA intersection, and yet over NY and CLT you’re pleasantly vectored right over the major airports at 6000- 8000. In New England, expect amendments no matter what you or your EFB guessed at. Victor airways clearances ziggy-zaggy at machine-gun speed. Ready to copy? Write fast!. The time I flew from NC to the middle of eastern Oregon, and then to the Sacramento-area, a couple of years ago, made me very happy to be rated, equipped and current. Due to extensive fires, the smoke out there was thick, viz was terrible, lots of TFRs, and there were rocks in that murk. Big ones. No rain, no clouds, no ice, just smoke, and mountains. What a comfort to get a pop-up clearance around busy Boise, and then a few days later, nice gentle but real IFR from there to nor-cal. It is good to have options.

We flew coast to coast to coast pre-IFR, and there were a few days we explored the limited charms of teensy farm towns, and very rural no-tell motels with our impatient kids. “Builds character,” we claimed. My favorite co-pilot called and canceled his work schedule a few times. Sorry, y’all. So the cancellations are fewer with the instrument rating and a faster, more capable airplane, but it ain’t perfect. I missed my mom’s funeral because of ice between the ground and heaven. C’est la vie. But the incomparable joy of punching through a drizzly low cloud deck to brilliant sun and a tailwind on top for the next 700 miles is worth the effort to earn the rating.

And then there are days I just have to stay home and read a book. Yeah, I could take off zero-zero, but what happens when there’s no legal alternate within 200 miles? Or the fan quits and I’m climbing through 200 feet in the fog? A couple of days ago, I promised a friend a ride home, but it was solid VLIFR on the entire east coast. Nope. Sorry. He drove.

I file and fly IFR when it’s dicey airspace, like Washington DC area or busy class B, when it’s benign marginal to IFR weather en route, when somebody at the other end is waiting for me, when there’s a low deck and clear above.and at night. It is good to have a hand to hold. I do not file IFR when there’s potential ice at the en route altitudes. When the MEAs are above my pay grade.When the expect clearance advice is 2 hours. (Never mind, then, Boston Center!) When there are scattered summer build-ups along my route. I like to see where I’m going, and avoid bumps where practical.. When I have a passenger who wants to experience the joyous freedom of flight.

I will let you in on a secret: If you are thinking ahead, have your MSC or Mooney-knowledgeable mechanic comply with the Mooney trim service bulletin fix for that unfortunately jammable old M20K jack screw. I don’t remember the number anymore, but it is out there. And it is important. The inexplicably subtle Mooney advice was upgraded some four years ago from a service letter that wasn’t widely disseminated. But thanks to my misadventure and a very persistent Mooniac friend who showed up at the scene of my poor landing, Mooney was encouraged to pay attention. That valued and well-connected new friend also took me for a ride in my next Mooney a year and a half later, and hit the full nose-up trim when he had me otherwise distracted. And demonstrated the perfectly controllable, even so, slow-flight configuration. So, get the kit from Mooney and install it. Meanwhile, if it sticks and you can’t unjam it, fly real slow. Easier on your right-seater, for sure!

Oh, just saw you’re on the other coast. In that case it would boil down to whichever one could work you in the soonest.

I have two favorite mechanics in the area. One is AGL, at MRN, Morganton, NC, a Mooney Service Center, and one is John Sanders, a meticulous A&P/IA currently in Elizabeth City, soon relocating to EDE. Both do superb work, both honorable and reasonable, with accurate time estimates, and call it like they see it. I’d have one of them do the pre-purchase and the other do the next annual, secure that you would get a thorough, expert, and entirely honest job in both cases. Best of luck to you!

Not only that, but with Lynn at AGL (also a Mooney Service Center,) you know who’s actually doing the work, and when it will be finished. One big shop did a prebuy that turned out to be a shoddy job, the resulting annual was a shock, and the reply was a shrug, musta been one of the other mechanics. So much for the reputation.

I’ve had first-hand experience with two out of three, and can enthusiastically recommend AGL in Morganton, NC. Honorable, reasonable, and competent. Not only that, but close to the mountains, so can rent a car and go exploring.

I was thinking the same thing. My scuba diving is mighty tame. Pretty clear, tropical water, nearly always less than 100 feet deep. My flying? Pretty bland.. I am actually content with boredom. I like clear, calm days, long-ish paved runways, Flight-following.. Never, even once, have I considered seeing if they make wingsuits in size XL, short. Y’all please drop by and visit me when they cart me off to the home for wandering old ladies.

According to Siri, , GA flying makes nobody’s top 10. Now base-jumping, wingsuit flying, hang-gliding, sky diving, motocross racing, mountain climbing, heli-skiing, ski-jumping, etc,, make lots of them. Even SCUBA diving usually Is on the list. Is that consoling?

I had a 1980 231 for years. One time on preflight, I noticed a small tan spot on the lower right cowling, and asked the local mechanic to look. He did, rubbed at it, shrugged, and wished me a good trip. Told him I had done enough ironing in my youth to know scorch when I saw it. Well, it was 4:30 on a Friday afternoon. Who could blame him? I wanted to go, he said it was nothing, and so I went. on departure I noticed a strong odor of fingernail polish. Hot polish. Through 500 feet, smoke in the cockpit, and there was a loss of power. I struggled around to land, having claimed the busy little airport for my very own. Taxied to the Mx hangar to find a 14” smoking, dripping hole where my tan spot had been. Exhaust pipe had fallen apart. Oopsie. Seems even hypochondriacs get sick sometimes. Oh, and did you check the SB for jammed stab trim? ‘Nother long story. Known issue for 231s, I learned the fun way. Easy fix.

Oh, this brings back uncomfortable memories. I, too, had a 1980 231. Loved it. On preflight once, I noticed a nickel-size tan spot on the right lower cowling, called the mechanic over to reassure me before my trip. He looked, wet his thumb to wipe the dirt off to no effect, and told me not to worry about it, I thanked him, said my index of suspicion was high, because I’d done enough ironing to know scorched when I saw it. He verbally patted me on my pointy head and sent me on my way. On lift off, smelled burning nail polish. Then through 500 feet a notable loss in power, cockpit filled with acrid smoke. I claimed the airport for my very own, struggled around to land, and returned to the maintenance hangar. Turned out a cracked exhaust pipe had fallen apart, and burned a head-sized hole in the cowling. Oops. Sometimes hypochondriacs are really sick. He didn’t charge me for the repair. one other thing: make sure you get the Service Bulletin fix for jammed stab trim accomplished.

Only 15 years, Wildstreak? That is sad. (I bought my pretty M20S/R a few years ago as a 70th birthday present to me, after a year of sensibly doing without, and grinding my teeth at insulting airline absurdities.) And count my many blessings every time my excellent and unflappable spouse fastens his seatbelt beside me, headed to see distant grandchildren, grand sights on the other side of this vast continent, or just a grand $200 hamburger on a pretty day. Someday I will be too old, but not yet, I hope. I look at my friend, Bob, still flying his friends into the Idaho wilderness for breakfast. He is over 85, and his shiny Cessna 182B is also a bit long in the tooth, but to watch him settle onto a deep mountain canyon goat track, many miles from the nearest road head, smooth as you please, gives me great comfort for my own future.

When we bought our first airplane, a C172, I got my CFI to take the left seat, and teach a Rob to fly it and land it from his customary seat on the right. He had had some long-ago flight training (in a T-28!) as a Navy Flight Surgeon, so it wasn’t completely new to him, but a practical lesson in right-seat flying, as well as some basic radio work with me, seemed to build confidence. I never persuaded him to actually land a Mooney.. He thinks they’re too slippery. But he has paid enough attention over the years that I’m pretty confident he would walk away from his landing if I were to check out in flight.

Oh, yeah. About boating and safety and spousal passions My husband didn’t share my youthful passion for racing one- design sailboats. He found cruising sailboats a lot of work and boring. And there was the motion-sickness thing. So he decided to build a boat from scratch, a 50x16’ houseboat. (Meanwhile, we had our Mooney) I am not a huge fan of motor boating, but I helped build, learned coastal nav and cookery afloat. Sixteen years later, almost finished, just a little window trim left, that lovely, quirky, hand-crafted work of art, which had given us a decade of fun, was overwhelmed by a freak Albemarle Sound storm and we and our cat were rescued from our poor sinking boat by the Coast Guard’s very finest. We are still grieving, a month later. But even a beautiful 50’ houseboat with 3-foot freeboard isn’t “safe.” Life isn’t safe. An old friend, age 103, was crossing the street to his downtown law office one morning, when he was hit by a city bus. The driver was looking the other way as he pulled away from the stop. Another a youngish airline captain here, dropped dead from a coronary the day after passing his latest Class I physical. He was strolling across the ramp on a pretty afternoon, about to take his daughter for a Cub ride. Life isn’t guaranteed. You might as well live it, every day of it. Share what you can, but don’t give up something truly important to assuage somebody else’s neurotic fear. She needs to be glad he didn’t come home with a passion for Harley riding, deep cave diving, extreme mountain-climbing or collecting flashy young blondes, this last being particularly dangerous. Sounds like a sensible passion, being pursued with good care, planning, and training. She’d be wise to do accept it as a worthy endeavor, and think about either joining in, at least to some degree, or finding a challenging hobby of her own. Not horses, though. One end bites, I hear, and the other end kicks.

It would be hard to like flying if I had to locate the sick sacks before every flight. My husband swears by “sea bands” to forestall his motion sickness. They live on the right yoke when he isn’t wearing them. I also open the vents, keep mints and ginger candy aboard, cold bottled water, a pretty view out there, and ask my passengers to help keep an eye out for traffic. Keeps their minds off their troubles. The traditional meds are in my flight bag, but useless if queasiness has already developed. And I do not talk about it. My granddaughter is fine flying with me unless her mama is along, and starts solicitously mentioning tummy troubles.

I’m one of the lucky ones My husband doesn’t really share my passion, but he supports it, is a calm and informed passenger, and appreciates the capability of this Mooney. We can leave our coastal NC home after breakfast and have lunch in StLouis with the world’s best grandsons. Match that, scheduled carriers! I agree with the advice about calm flights, fine destinations, especially ones that little airplanes excel at, far from the big crowds, with no-pressure or worrisome deadlines. Don’t know if it helps to gloat over no TSA insulting excesses or the glories of escaping COVID indignities, but meeting your spouse rested and relaxed hours after your arrival at Idyllic Destination, , when spouse got bumped from her flight, or dealt with hours of crazy traffic, couldn’t hurt. Lots of pretty photos are good ammo, too. Maybe sign up for Angel Flight, Veterans’ Airlift, Pilots n Paws and other charity flights, tax deductible flying, experience, and unimpeachable excuse. Join some flying groups like CAP or Internet social flying groups and go to events, meet up with other pilots. If spouse won’t come, wave a cheery goodbye and have a fun story or two when you get home. Good luck!

Yes, they have to be able-bodied, but Ive been known to stretch that a little. I find that fbo line crew are generally more than willing to lend a hand or two. I’ve flown very elderly , barely ambulatory folk, a portly woman with a broken leg in a cast, and a tiny 15-year-old who was headed home from her third set of bone grafts. She would, when all her many surgeries wer3 completed, be 4’9” she proudly told me. The lineman lifted her out of her child-size wheel chair, gently put her on the wing, carefully not bumping her stainless appliances freshly pinned through leg bones. They then folded the chair and stuffed it in the baggage hatch.All of these not very ambulatory people understood the complexities of entering and exiting a Mooney. Mostly, they ooched up the wing backward, and scooted their bottoms onto the right seat, swiveling around to face forward. Exiting was the reverse of that process. I found lowering full flaps made it much easier for them.The patients and I carefully reviewed the process beforehand, and arranged for help at both ends of the flights. The very old passengers, stiff with arthritis or the remnants of strokes, have been some of my favorites. My neighbor’s grandpa confided he had “flown a little in the war,” (WWII, in Europe) and wondered if he still had what it took. He certainly did. He spent the rest of his nursing home days bragging about his wonderful Mooney flight. And the old woman, snowy hair and twinkly eyes, who hadn’t flown in a little plane since she was a little girl, when all she wanted for her 7th birthday was a barnstormer ride around her town. It was all she wanted for her 87th birthday, too. She took the controls shortly after takeoff, flew us unerringly to Ocracoke for lunch, and all the way home, a rapt smile on her lined face. An elderly blind Angel Flight passenger going to a rehab facility, had no trouble climbing up on the wing. I had the line guy help put his foot on the step, and guide his other foot onto the wing. I reached over and led his hand inside to the strap, and he was fine after that, swinging himself in like a pro. He listened intently to the sound of the engine, confessed he was a mechanic in his early years, and asked penetrating questions about the power plant. He couldn’t see, but there wasn’t a thing wrong with his ears or brain! if we had encountered an (erm) unexpected landing, it might have complicated things, but these passengers and I were willing to take the small risk.

Most of my AF pax seem to live far from an airport with scheduled carriers. Often they’re cancer patients, severely immunocompromised, for whom a big aluminum tube ride would be ill-advised. Some are carrying a load of medical devices, pumps, O2, etc, that can’t be transported in the airline cheap seats. And some simply can not afford to pay for airline trips to the monthly follow-up appointments hundreds of miles from home. It is, I’m told, a blessing to these dear ones, to be whisked from home to little airport, directly to the ramp and waiting Mooney, to suburban airport to big hospital, bypassing all the delays, TSA intrusiveness, and crowds. It is hard enough to be fighting for your life. It shouldn’t be harder than it has to be. I’m lucky and thankful to fly, and Angel Flight has been a rewarding excuse to do that. So many of my passengers have shared my pleasure in skimming over puffy clouds, my astonishment at a smooth landing. And they are gracious and understanding when weather beyond my chicken level forces a cancellation.

OK, once again, (sigh) dear Michael (steingar) has to be reeled in. in my experience, the medical care in small towns can be superior. Small hospitals are very likely, these days, to be affiliated with or owned by big medical teaching facilities, with specialist staff showing up for weekly local office appointments. Those double-distilled hotshots are as close as a phone call or a webcam. There’s a helipad right out back, lighted and paved for emergency transfers, 20 smooth minutes to University Hospital Center. The local staff are very accessible, well-trained, board-certified, know their patients well, in an established relationship, and speak English as a first language. Aviation content: the nearest Angel Flight-able airport is unlikely to be more than a half hour away. Two of our ER docs commute here by Mooney and Bonanza, barely ten rural minutes from the hospital they serve.. Compare and contrast with Saint Megahospital in a six-block cluster of mid-city high-rises.It may be a 25 minute hike from the parking garage! Small town superiority case in point: I had a sudden bad bellyache one long ago night in a very little town. My sleepy family doc listened to my complaint, called the local general surgeon at 12:30am, asked him to meet us at the tiny hospital ER. The anesthetist and on call surgery crew were notified. Knife drop was at 1:10 am. And within an hour I was thus cured of a rare and life-threatening ailment, before the big city ER would have even taken my temperature. Love my benighted and unfashionable backwater, both for easy, affordable, convenient flying and for excellent healthcare. Best of all worlds. View’s not bad, either.

Angel Flight is my favorite charity flying. Young Eagles are great fun, but there’s the silly and insulting EAA’s insistence that olunteer pilots must be told every year how not to molest three boisterous nine-year-olds during a 12-minute flight in busy airspace. Hardly seems worth my considerable time and expense to be treated like a suspected creep.. Pilos ‘n’ Paws seems a disorganized zoo, with no oversight or effective guidance. Ride requesters don’t have a clue of what information is needed and what is not. And what requests are reasonable and practical. So many are not. (No, Ma’am, I can’t fly your terminally ill “sweet old man” pooch halfway across the continent to a no-kill shelter...somewhere, not sure where, but it’s near Texas. No, 600 pounds of uncrated adult Great Danes and their pups aren’t going to work out for me. . Really sorry, but no.Again this week., ... That leaves me with Angel Flight. They are pros, knowledgeable, flexible, and well-organized. The patients are educated and prepared, and ever so grateful. They’re often enthusiastic passengers, loving the ride. And getting them to medical expertise, or home again, really makes a huge difference to somebody whose life so needs a little joy. so, yeah. If you have a. Mooney, and experience, and in some areas a current instrument ticket, you’ll be welcomed with open arms.

I’m on the mid Atlantic coast. Any destination east of the Mississippi is a one tank trip in my 20S+.. We aren’t spring chickens, so a four-hour ride tests our comfort level, and we are happy to take a break, borrow a crew car for lunch, and stretch our legs. Yes, even with two of us, off-peak hub-to-hub trips may be cheaper. But we are nowhere near a hub, nor are most of our destinations. And with airline overbooking antics, scheduling miseries and TSA abusiveness, I don’t care whether it’s cheaper or not! I rarely if ever spend less time door to door going 121, unless I’m headed to the other coast. One frequent route of mine is from my rural N.C. home to STL. Usually takes just under 4 Screaming Eagle hours westbound. The CG insisted on buying me an airline ticket to a training conference. It took from 5am to 11 pm door to door by airline. Ugh! I love the GA scenery, the technical challenge, the flexibility, — and my seat assignment. The guy next to me never hogs the armrest. If you love the process, and owning a high performance bird is feasible, the decision is easy. Find a good Mooney. Buy it. Fly the heck out of it. Probably doesn’t make economic sense for me, but my Mooney makes me happy. They’re right, you know: if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Some things are priceless.

Oh, I had to go look. Apparently nothing for women, alas. The crew neck, standard baggy shape and elbow-length short sleeves don’t tempt me, though the graphics are very nice. So long as I’m wishfully thinking, a sleek long-body (Eagle or Ovation) silhouette would be even nicer from my perspective.

I’m short, so my seat is usually in the forward detent. Kneeboards never worked for me, as my knees have always been under the panel. Being left-handed doesn’t help, either! I’m not willing to give up any window space, or reach across a passenger to adjust or reprogram.. My iPadMini solution, then, is a Ram-mount clamped to the yoke, with an X-back clip, oriented horizontally, leaving plenty of room for my hands.. The X-back keeps the iPad from overheating, too, easy to aim the knee-level fresh air vent at it.. I don’t find it obstructs anything I need in my normal scan. It is, therefore, close and convenient for pinching, zooming, and copying clearance amendments.