Mountain Flying
As I’ve said many times before the reason I came to Queenstown was for its reputation as a special place to learn to fly, with the mountainous terrain making flying more challenging but also making students better pilots. The airport is surrounded by high ground requiring trips over mountain saddles to the north, east and west.
Most of the PPL training avoids these hazards, and even post-PPL I’m not allowed to fly near the mountains in the club’s aircraft until I have completed special training. It’s what brings many commercial pilots to train at Wakatipu Aero Club; before they can pilot scenic flights to the west coast, they must complete a minimum of fifty hours training in the mountains including how to handle the terrain and learning the routes. No local operator will employ them without that experience.
And so, on my way to 100 hours of flying, I took a series of lessons with Tim and Blair. I’m nowhere near qualified to fly these routes solo but the experience taught me more, much more about flying.
Mountains make flying more difficult. Sure, you hit them but normally that’s easy enough to avoid. More dangerous is the invisible power of the wind. With a 6,000′ mountain towering above you as you fly at 750′ above the valley floor, enormous updrafts and downdrafts can make the aircraft rise and fall beyond the pilot’s control. Get caught in a 1,000 foot per minute downdraft and the plane cannot beat it. “Mother nature always wins”.
The only solution is to turn away to another part of the valley, but that valley may be very, very narrow. At first you’ll think it impossible to turn in that space, but with sufficient bank and the correct speed the aircraft can turn in a very tight radius. In one demonstration, Blair pulled the throttle, dropped all the flap, applied power as soon as we hit 70 and spun us round at a 90 degree angle of bank. Yikes! Bloody good fun, but also a potential life saver.
Life and death are regularly discussed in these lessons, a truth brought home by the death of an Aero Club instructor on a mountain flying lesson during poor weather in December 2003. The accident investigation recently published its conclusions, which were not definite, but whatever the cause it’s a permanent reminder of the hazards of flying in this area. Neil Turner is still well remembered by all at the Aero Club and his death informs all aspects of the mountain flying training.
To maximise safety, we’re taught to fly close to the valley wall, closer than I’d have ever gone without the training. This gives the greatest area in which to complete a 180 degree turn if required. Being in the middle of the valley is the worst place to be as options are more limited. Flying on the windward side of the hill, rather than in the lee of it, reduces the chances of inescapable downdrafts in strong winds.
Aside from navigation, a key part of mountain flying in knowing how and when to cross saddles. At the lowest point of a mountain range, these present special hazards. The valley beyond may be cloudy, the wind may cause a tremendous rate of sink on the approach or exit, and there are limited options if one decides not to cross. Therefore one normally chooses to cross from left to right (depending on the land surrounding it), at a 45 degree angle and at a stable altitude. If any of these factors is missing, turn away. Immediately.
Another challenge is remaining at a constant altitude through variable terrain. It’s easy to lose height and gain speed as the valley floor drops away; conversely, going up a valley one can lose speed and risk stalling as the valley floor rises. The automatic response is to keep the ‘picture’ outside the cockpit the same, whereas it should be changing as the valley changes. This is particularly dangerous if flying up an unfamiliar valley, where opportunities to turn may suddenly be very limited. The solution: “never fly up a valley you haven’t flown down”, plus constantly monitor power and airspeed to catch up and down drafts. Don’t rely on the instruments – they have too much lag in these conditions.
Putting this all together resulted in some memorable lessons. Some were simply beautiful, cruising over mountain passes and below glaciers in pleasant weather. Others were much more challenging, for example going out when winds were 50kts at 5,000′ and getting really, really beaten up by my standards. The aircraft swung from 60 degrees of bank to the right, to 60 degrees to the left. Move the ailerons (a ‘natural’ response) and you just risk stalling the aircraft and falling from the sky; instead, apply sufficient force to the rudder in the opposite direction and the plane will regain balance. Its pretty scary at first, but challenging – and fun – the more one does it.
At one point in that lesson we caught such a bump that I hit the ceiling and knocked my headset clean off. My first reaction was to go for the headset and put it back on, but as Tim rightly pointed out, that’s the last thing I should have done. “Aviate, Navigate, Communicate” is a mantra of flying. Headsets come last, even if they’re flash Bose ones. On another breezy lesson Blair and I approached a saddle and got so knocked that we entered a wing drop stall. Didn’t try that route again in that lesson.Yet drop down a couple of thousand feet and the air can be calm and welcoming. Elsewhere, we spent time following mountain rivers at 500′ or landing on farm strips that have 5,000′ mountain faces at the end rather than a big paddock for a go-around.
Two recent flights will stick in my mind as great memories of flying in Queenstown. On one mountain flying lesson we flew over to Milford Sound. The weather was fine and warm in Queenstown, but heading over the lake and across the first passes the clouds dropped down low and it was a grey, rainy day on the west coast. Descending through rain Tim talked me through (or rather, did) a landing at the airport before heading back up and across the hills home. It’s not possible for me to articulate the beauty of the landscape, nor the satisfaction of flying through it.
My final flight, to hit 100 hours, was from Queenstown, over the Cardrona Saddle and across Lake Wanaka, then over the Haast Pass to Haast itself. I had arranged to take friends but they had to work at the last moment, so I flew solo. I was glad I did; the winds weren’t strong, but there were a fair few bumps on the way and I’m still not confident about what’s ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Across the Lake, and over Makarora, the clouds were down to about 4,500′ and I could see the snow covered tips of mountains, including Mount Aspiring, poking through. With mountains up to 6,000′ shading the valley, and lush untapped forest covering the floor and valley walls, it was like flying through Jurrasic Park. I passed one other aircraft, looking like a small yellow dot within the expanse of green. Planes feel very big when you’re in them, but look very small when set against the enormity of the New Zealand landscape.
The clouds came down further near the coast, before one more turn and the Tasman Sea suddenly appeared before me. The horizon, blue sky and sandy beaches were a welcome, novel sight after months in the mountains. Brought a big smile to my face. Then back through the valley towards Queenstown. At one point near Haast Pass the wind tipped me to a 60 degree angle of bank. Quick, firm application of the rudder returned me level in a couple of seconds but it was an adrenaline-filled moment. Once all was back in order, I had to shout a big ‘yee-hah!’. At least I should be ready for anything the North Downs throw at me.
I’ll miss flying down here, although my wallet will breathe a sigh of relief. If I’m to keep my NZ licence I’ll need to have a biennial flight review with an instructor before September 2007. A good excuse to return to the hills.
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