KCMI to KPIA to KCMI - 1.5 hrs

In an effort to stay instrument proficient, and as a favor for a friend, I flew to Peoria. My friend was picking up his plane from the local repair shop which, ironically, was fixing what another shop had done to it. Flying with a fellow pilot in the right seat is always a good opportunity to get under the hood and rack up some simulated IFR time. I decided to use this opportunity to shoot an approach at the destination.

The day prior had been a wild one weatherwise. The bulk of the bad weather had been to the north of us, but a little rogue cell popped up west of Champaign and eventually grew to such monstrous proportions it birthed a funnel cloud. My wife got a nice picture of of the evil little cloud as she was trying to hustle our boys into the basement.

The storm system left plenty of sun in its wake, but threw in a healthy dose of heat, humidity and blustery winds as a parting shot. These kind of conditions, while anything but hard IFR, always make for some of the most challenging training flights. The simmering cockpit, constant jostling from turbulence and crazy wind correction angles can quickly get your head spinning when you're under the hood.

A quick aside for those wondering what "the hood" is -

The hood is an IFR training device that looks a little like an overgrown tennis visor. When worn properly it blocks out any outside visual cues, leaving the pilot in command with nothing but a view of the flight instruments. On bright, sunny days the hood makes it possible to simulate IMC (Instrument Meteorological Conditions), otherwise known as clouds/fog/rain etc. Of course, flying alone while wearing the hood is frowned upon, so you take along a qualified spotter pilot to scope out traffic for you.

Today's flight was a quick one. Straight line distance is just 75 nautical miles and we filed direct. Winds at the surface were gusty and variable from the south. The direction of winds at the filed altitude of 4,000 ft were almost perpendicular to our ground track and about 10 knots stronger. Between the heat and winds, I anticipated a very bumpy ride.

We were given 14L as our departure runway. Winds favored runway 22 but the Institute students (or their instructors rather) were taking advantage of the challenging winds to practice crosswind takeoffs and landings on 14L and 14R . This was in the exact opposite direction we were headed, but the crosswind takeoff practice would do me good too.

As anticipated, the heat and humidity made Eight Delta Fox a tad sluggish on initial climbout. She rallied nicely, though, after I got the flaps up and was soon indicating a respectable 700-800 foot per minute climb. Departure had us climb away from the field on runway heading for quite a while. At least until they were satisfied our turn back toward Peoria wouldn't disturb the swarm of student pilots buzzing around the pattern.

Once on course I turned the autopilot on and started briefing the expected approach. We'd just taken off, but Eight Delta Fox can gobble up 75 miles in nothing flat if the winds are right. The XM weather link on the MFD (Multi-Function Display) indicated winds at Peoria favored runway 22, so I selected the corresponding RNAV (GPS) approach. Once I and my right seater were satisfied we knew what was going to happen on arrival, we spent a little time looking out the windows.

Not far past Bloomington, we were handed off to Peoria Approach and I put on the hood. Sure enough, runway 22 was active and we were told to expect vectors for the approach. As we got closer, the controller cleared us direct to the MAROC initial approach fix.  I opted to let the autopilot fly the approach since I rarely do that and I needed the practice punching buttons and turning knobs.

As we descended through 3,000 feet, things started to get bumpy. The autopilot was working hard to stay on course and maintain the programmed rate of descent. A little throttle jockeying was necessary to stabilize airspeed. I was getting a mild case of vertigo too. It's times like these that make it hard to simply go along for the ride and my thumb was hovering over the autopilot disconnect. Still, even with all the gyrations, I have to admit George (the autopilot) was doing a better job than I would have tracking the approach course.

When we made the turn to final at the WEKAR approach fix, the autopilot rolled out with a perfect 20+ degree wind correction angle. Truthfully I could've too since the PFD (Primary Flight Display) has a ground track line that shows my actual direction over the ground vs the heading of the nose, but I doubt I could've held altitude as precisely.

My spotter pilot would occasionally give me an update on the sight picture out the front. He said we had a pretty aggressive wind correction angle. I could see that on the PFD but it's always a little more dramatic when you see it out the windscreen. About two miles from the runway I disconnected the autopilot and raised the hood to take a look. Below me was a carpet of trees slowly rising to meet the approach end of the runway. I'd forgotten KPIA sat atop a hill.

A mile from the threshold I dropped full flaps and began the dance of rudder, stick and throttle that accompanies any gusty crosswind landing. I held a little extra airspeed in case the wind suddenly died down and tried to drop me into the trees. As I crossed the runway threshold that extra speed took its time bleeding off and made me work like a madman to hold centerline while I waited for the plane to quit flying. Thankfully I was rewarded for my efforts with a better than average landing.

After taxiing to the ramp and shutting down, my friend collected his plane and I availed myself of the FBO's facilities and free cookies. Soon we were each back in our respective planes and headed out. I was first in line for takeoff. It wasn't long after I'd made my turn toward Champaign and was climbing through 2,000 feet that I heard my friend, who had just left the runway, check onto the Peoria Departure frequency climbing through the same altitude. Show off.

His plane has a 110hp advantage over mine and he was apparently eager to remind me of that fact. I was still clawing my way through 4,000 when he passed me about 2 miles off my right wing. I watched as he slowly pulled away into the haze. As I passed south of Bloomington, Peoria handed both my friend and I off to Champaign at the same time. He hadn't gotten as far ahead of me as I thought.

 Checking in with Champaign I was told to expect the visual for runway 14L. There was a lot of chatter which seemed to indicate the student pilots were still busy honing their skills. The pattern would be just as crowded as I'd left it.

About 4 miles out I started lining up with the runway. I noticed right away that the wind drift was pushing me toward the centerline with little effort of my own. A glance at the wind vector on the PFD indicated winds aloft were directly across my path. Winds at the surface were 190 at 15 knots gusting to 20+.

As the wind pushed me into the centerline of the runway, I started dialing in the wind correction angle to hold it. And I kept dialing. And I kept dialing. Soon I was looking out the left side of the windscreen at the runway. On paper a 50 degree crosswind seemed aggressive but it looked even more so out the front.

I was just about to ask the tower for a wind check when a pilot on the parallel runway did it for me. It appears I wasn't the only one that thought things looked a little hairier than advertised. Tower came back and said winds at that moment were 190 at 18 knots. It really looked like more than that.

As at Peoria, I found myself having to rapidly juggle stick, rudder and throttle to hold glide slope and centerline. As before, my efforts were rewarded with a respectable landing. I sucked up the flaps as soon as the nosewheel touched down. I didn't want a wind gust to get me flying again before I had a chance to slow down.

My friend, whose hangar happens to be next to mine, hadn't been shut down long when I pulled up. He apparently beat me to Champaign by just a few minutes. He hadn't even gotten his hangar door open yet. Guess that 110 hp advantage didn't mean much on such a short trip. I'm sure had we been flying a much greater distance, he would've been buttoned up and sipping tea on his porch by the time I got back.

I can't say this flight was one my favorites, but I did have a sense of accomplishment. I could use more like it.

Trouble with #5

This post was originally started back in February of 2011. I encountered an engine problem that plagued me for most of that year, and resulted in almost two months without the plane once it was diagnosed properly. This is the story of how it all began.


A good chunk of pilot training is spent preparing for in-flight situations most pilots, even if they fly thousands of hours, will never encounter. I'm closing in on 1,000 hours of flying time and have never had an in-flight emergency. Well, there was the time nature called on my lovely wife at 4,500 feet, but that's an entirely different and far more amusing story than I relate here.

I haven't flown a lot this winter. Besides the unusually harsh weather, work has been particularly draining and we welcomed a newborn into the family in January. Finding the weather, time and energy to fly has been tough. Prior to the flight I'm writing about here, I hadn't flown for three weeks or more. On that flight, everything had been fine except for the bitter cold. Engine oil temps never quite broke 130 (normal is around 150). Cylinder head temps stayed below normal as well, but everything was in the green. I flew about an hour without incident.

On this flight, the weather was warmer and the start up, run up and take off were all uneventful. I didn't notice anything amiss until shortly after I called departure. The engine seemed just a tick off; as if it was vibrating a little more than normal. Even then I wasn't sure if what I sensed was more imagined than real. I glanced at the EGTs (Exhaust Gas Temps) and CHTs (Cylinder Head Temps). All appeared as it should. I chalked my vague sense of unease up to my three weeks away from the cockpit. That changed about 30 seconds later.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the #5 cylinder's temp starting to outpace its contemporaries. Not terribly unusual since cylinder temps frequently change during climbout. Only they usually do so while staying comfortably in the green. #5 was well above the others and headed into yellow territory . A pop up message appeared on my PFD (Primary Flight Display) and MFD (Multi Function Display) suggesting I "Check CHT Temps". A needless suggestion considering my attention was now riveted to them.

As #5's CHT climbed into the red, a chill went down my spine. I started a turn back toward the airport and mashed the transmit button, "Approach, Cirrus 218 delta fox is returning to the field. I've got a hot cylinder and some mild vibration." Now, a transmission such as this does not constitute the declaration of an emergency. There is fairly specific phraseology a pilot must use to declare an emergency. It gives him sequencing priority over every other flight in the area. It also grants the pilot discretion to deviate from FAA regulations and ATC instructions as he sees fit to escape danger. But with great freedom comes great responsibility.

Harsh administrative action awaits any pilot that disrupts the conduct of other flights by declaring an emergency that is later deemed by authorities to have been no emergency at all. While this was certainly the biggest in-flight problem I'd ever encountered, and the adrenaline was definitely flowing, I wasn't ready to utter the magic words. The engine was still running and I was in complete control of the plane. I just needed to get on the ground as soon as I could while those conditions prevailed.

During the turn back to the field I backed off the throttle a bit and started a descent. The combination of the lower power setting and extra airflow from the speed I picked up seemed to agree with the overheated cylinder. It started coming back down into the yellow. I reduced power further and the engine ran smoother with the #5 cylinder head temp eventually returning to green. Not much into the green, but green none the less.

The pattern was busy when I returned. Between the numerous radio calls, the adrenaline in my bloodstream and my obsession with the CHT indicator I found myself working harder than normal to keep up with events. My turns in the pattern were kind of sloppy and I wound up high on final. Looking back, the steeper approach would have come in handy if the engine actually had failed on final. But I can't, with a clean conscience, say that was part of my plan. It just worked out that way.

After landing, I scheduled an appointment with the local FBO and thought about all that had happened. As uncomfortable as the whole situation was, it was a valuable learning experience and I tried to glean all I could from it. The obvious lesson was, "Fly the plane". In all the aerial emergencies I'd read about, in particular those with happy endings, the protagonist always says the one thing that saved their life was remembering to fly the plane.

To the non-pilot, that seems obvious. But when the adrenaline starts flowing and your sense of well being seems tenuous, it's easy to fixate on the threat and forget the fundamentals. Every student pilot is taught on day one of their training that the order of business in any cockpit, be it a single-engine Cessna or a Boeing 747, is 1.) aviate, 2.) navigate, 3.) communicate. The order is inviolable and does not change whether everything's fine or going to hell in a hand basket. You always fly the plane first. In this instance it took me a lot longer to remember that than I would like to admit.

The other big lesson was don't come down till you absolute have too. The engine was running rough, but it was running. Oil pressure was fine. Strangely enough, so were exhaust gas temps. I am happy to say that I did make the conscious decision to hold altitude as long as I could before getting over the airport. Altitude equals options. Unfortunately, once I did get over the airport, I was still paying too much attention to the cylinder head temps and got sloppy in the pattern. I had the airport made. I should have focused entirely on the approach to landing. Even if the engine had conked, I would have had no trouble making a runway without it. I should've just . . . all together now . . . flown the plane.

Next time, and I pray there won't be one, I will remember this day. It was a relatively cheap lesson on the merits of focusing on the fundamentals when things go bad. A lesson I find helps outside the airplane too.