Tag Archives: aviation

Remembering Harry Combs

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My thoughts on a great man in aviation who I was privileged to know.
I first met Harry Combs in November 2002, not long after I’d taken over operation of the airport. I’d been subletting his hangar every summer for my helicopter for three years, but had never met him in person up to that point.

Mr. C, as many folks called him, had a home at Rancho de los Caballeros in Wickenburg. He’d arrive in Wickenburg each November as a passenger on a Lear 35 jet — the same jet he’d owned and flown years before. At the Pima Air Museum, there’s a Wright Brothers display that includes a photograph of Mr. C standing beside his Lear with the distinctive Kitty Hawk monument in the distance. Mr. C had sold the jet to a fractional jet company with the stipulation that any time he wanted to fly, that same jet would take him.

Last year, Mr. C would occasionally stop in at the airport terminal to chat. He had many nice things to say about the work I’d done at the airport and it was an honor to receive complements from such an aviation legend.

I recall a conversation I had with Mr. C at the terminal one spring, when he told me about the Wright Flyer reproduction he had commissioned for display at Kitty Hawk. He’d been almost outraged that there was no full-scale reproduction of the plane at the park and had done something about it. “It’s going to cost a lot,” he told me more than once during the conversation. I never asked how much.

Every year, someone would ferry Mr. C’s Bonanza down to Wickenburg, not long after his arrival. At that point, the subletter would be kicked out of his hangar — sometimes with as little as two days’ notice — and his plane would be moved in.

I recall seeing him arrive at the airport with Joyce, his secretary, for a flight in the spring. Mr. C had turned 90 in January and he was a bit unsteady. Joyce looked nervous. We all tried to talk Mr. C out of flying — without insulting him, of course. But Mr. C was stubborn and it appears he knew what he was doing. His takeoff on runway 23 looked smooth as silk, despite the crosswind. After flying around the desert northwest of the airport for a while, I heard Joyce’s voice on the radio, announcing their return. (Mr. C left all radio communications to Joyce.) Mr. C landed smoothly and taxied back to the hangar. Ed and Rob put his plane away. That’s the last time I saw them fly.

Mr. C was 90 when he made that flight. He’d been flying for 75 years, since he was 15 years old. He had witnessed aviation grow from the days when flying was left to daredevils to a time when getting on a plane to go from one point to another is commonplace for anyone. He was a great supporter of aviation and aviation history, the author of a book about the Wright Brothers (Kill Devil Hills), and a contributor to aviation museums.

Mr. C died just after his trip to the 100th anniversary celebration of the Wright Brother’s first flight. He was two months shy of his 91st birthday.

I’ll miss Mr. C, but I’m glad I had a chance to know him.

Not Especially a Good Day

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I have a day.

Well, I shouldn’t complain. It certainly could have been worse.

Trouble began early, when I got an e-mail message from the person I thought wanted to buy the assets of my FBO at Wickenburg. He was trying to get out of the deal. He said he didn’t need me. He said my asking price was outrageous. This coming from a man who practically begged me to sell to him and didn’t even attempt to negotiate the price.

Let’s not go there.

I contacted two people at Robinson Helicopter via e-mail. The first was to try to get my local mechanic in on the September maintenance course. Fully booked, I was told. But there was no one on the waiting list for October. The second was to see if the Robinson Helipad that comes with the purchase of a new R44 would work on my property. It was designed for rooftops, I was told. It wasn’t big enough to eliminate the dust problem I had. I should consider laying down concrete.

Not what I wanted to hear.

I was so worked up over the FBO deal problems that I couldn’t think well enough to write. So instead of knocking off two chapters to my Quicken book revision, I did only one. And that was a no-brainer chapter with very few changes to the text.

That means I’ll have to work on my birthday to get the damn book done on time.

Someone kept e-mailing me all morning at the pilotcharts.com e-mail address, asking me questions about a specific product, shipping, etc. We must have exchanged a dozen messages. I warned him that if he wanted the item shipped today, he’d have to order before 2 PM. The last message from him requested a phone number. The last message from me gave him a fax number. By 2 PM, there was no fax and no order.

What a waste of my time.

My sunglasses, which I’d ordered two months ago, finally arrived. That’s a good thing. My old ones were about to fall apart.

In fact, that’s about the best thing that happened to me all day.

Mike decided to take a trip to NJ the same week I have to be up at the Grand Canyon. He fully expected me to take the dog, bird, and horses with me. The poor dog would be locked up in the trailer for 13 hours every day, six days straight. (The bird would, too, but heck, he’s used to being locked up.) For some reason, I went along with this. Until I started thinking about it. A good thing: I found a place to board the horses for only $100 for the week. A bad thing: I couldn’t find anyone to take the dog. I didn’t even try to find someone for the bird.

So I have company with me this week at Howard Mesa.

I had to drive to Howard Mesa. If you’ve been reading these blogs, you should know how spoiled I am. I usually fly up here. It’s about 1-1/2 hours by helicopter but 3 hours by car. But I couldn’t very well fit the dog, the bird, and all my gear in the helicopter. So I took Mike’s truck. Now I have three vehicles up here. (Sheesh. It’s almost embarrassing.) The good thing: Mike filled the tank with diesel. Another good thing: because I didn’t drag the horse trailer up here, I didn’t even use up a half tank of fuel. The money I saved on fuel probably paid to board the horses. Yet another good thing: if I get ambitious, I can use the truck to take my bicycle to the airport and get some exercise during lunch breaks this week.

Nah.

It was cloudy up here when I arrived. Cloudy like it might rain. Imagine that. I haven’t seen rain in Arizona in so long, I forgot what it looks like. (It was a good thing it rained in New Jersey when I was there earlier this month. Otherwise, it would have been at least three months since I’d seen rain at all.) But the moon’s out now and I think the clouds are breaking up. I don’t think it’s going to rain.

The darn bird is doing laps in his cage, climbing all over the inside. He’ll do that until I shut off the light. Sounds like a good excuse to call it a day and put this one behind me.

Grand Canyon Airport Tower

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I make a visit to the FAA tower without any loss of life.

Grand Canyon Airport has two control towers. (Well, three, if you count the vacant one.)

One is at Papillon’s heliport. Attached to the building and accessible by its own staircase, it rises four stories above the heliport. It’s a small, simple room with enough space for two “controllers” and two or three visitors. New pilots are encouraged to visit the tower, to get a good idea of how traffic is controlled by Papillon’s tower staff. It’s amazing, really. Not only do the tower folks keep track of all us pilots as we’re flying in and out of the airport, but they manage aircraft loading, arrange flight (and break) schedules, and open and close flight plans with Prescott Flight Service Station. It’s safe to say that Papillon’s tower is the nerve center for the whole operation.

The other tower is the big, FAA tower. It’s an impressive structure, brand new and very tall. I’ve seen lot of control towers, both as a pilot and as a passenger on an airline, and this tower ranks high in the tower hierarchy. It’s at least as big as the one in Phoenix and possibly as tall, a slim white structure with a glassed-in octagon on top.

(The old, vacant tower is one of those four-story structures that were built on many Class Delta airports. Chandler has one just like it. I’ve been in Chandler’s tower and it wasn’t much more impressive than Papillon’s. Grand Canyon Tower’s staff moved out of that building to the new one a few years ago. Now they look at it across the runway and remember the roaches that infested it.)

I’d been wanting to visit the “big tower” — as I call it — for a while. Since starting at Papillon a month ago, I’ve spent at least three hours in Papillon’s tower. I go up there when I’m not schedule to fly so I can watch the wind readings and listen to the other pilots coming and going. But the big tower was different. It was the official air traffic control center for the airport, the final word, authorized by the FAA. And it was so impressive looking from the outside. What was it like inside?

Today, I finished flying early. Most of us did, in fact — the afternoon was pretty dead. Although Papillon doesn’t like to let pilots go home early, I figured I’d ask if I could visit the big tower. After all, I could be back in minutes; all it took was a call. Permission granted from Papillon’s powers-that-be, I called the big tower to see if I could visit.

After 9/11, tower security is generally very tight. In fact, I seriously doubt whether just anyone could get in. But I introduced myself by name and told them I was a Papillon pilot. I asked if I could visit, but only if they weren’t too busy. Gary, the guy on duty, put me on hold, then came back and said yes. “Drive up to the gate and we’ll buzz you in,” he advised me.

I was out in the Jeep in a flash, zipping out of Papillon’s parking lot and driving past the terminal building. I went straight where signs advised that “All Traffic Must Turn Left” and passed a sign that said “FAA Control Tower. Authorized Vehicles Only.” Gary had authorized me. The road turned to gravel and I continued along it. Then, through the trees, I could see the tower before me, looming up out of the forest. I noticed for the first time that a low building was attached to it. And the whole thing was surrounded by a very serious looking fence with a electric gate.

A sign on the fence said something like “FAA Control Tower. Accidents or loss of life can result from loss of operations.” Something like that. I can’t remember exactly, but I do remember the phrase “loss of life.” I started wondering if my visit could distract the controllers enough to result in loss of life. I hoped not.

There were three boxes on the driver’s side of the entryway before the gate. One was a mystery box; I have no clue what it was for. Another had a camera that looked right at me, kind of like the robot in Short Circuit. The other was a speaking box with a button on it. I pushed the button and waited. Nothing happened.

I started thinking about making radio calls to the tower that weren’t answered. You know, “Copter 28 would like a Southwest departure with Zulu” followed by a lot of silence. The tower just not noticing your call. You hesitating to repeat it, not wanting to piss off the controller, who had probably heard you but was chewing his lunch or swallowing a mouthful of coffee.

I hesitated, then began to wonder whether the button was more like a mike button. I pushed it again and said, “Hello?”

The gate began to open. I waited until it was open enough for my Jeep to squeeze through, then drove through. I waited on the other side. That’s something you’re supposed to do at those kinds of gates. So that other cars didn’t piggyback in with you. It didn’t matter that I’d just driven a half mile down a dirt road and there was no one behind me. The controller could be watching from up above. And then, the next time I needed a clearance, he’d make me wait, even if he wasn’t having lunch or coffee.

I moved on when the gate closed. I noticed that there was a similar arrangement of boxes at the exit gate and wondered whether that was so that they could lock people in. I reminded myself to be on my best behavior as I drove up the concrete drive to the base of the tower.

The parking lot was paved in concrete and had at least ten parking spots. There was one car there. I parked next to it and got out.

I passed a bicycle leaning up against the side of the building as I walked to the front door. I guess you don’t have to worry about getting your bike stolen when you have a security fence with barbed wire and cameras around your place of business.

At the door was another voice box. I tried the door and found it locked. Then I pushed the button on the voice box. Nothing happened. I wondered again whether the button was a mike button, but before I could try my greeting, the door opened from the inside. Danni, one of the controllers, was there to greet me.

I’d met Danni at breakfast one morning about three weeks before. I’d gotten to Tusayan a half hour early and decided to check out the local Internet café to see if they had a wireless network I could tap into. (They didn’t.) As I ordered my latte, I noticed Marty, who’d been one of my flight instructors in Long Beach, sitting at a table with a woman. Marty had taken a job with Papillon the previous year and had come back for the season. Danni was his friend from the tower.

Danni is a really nice person. The first time she hears your voice on the radio in the morning, she says, “Good morning!” and expects a suitable response. And the last flight of the day will always get a “Have a good night!” Not very FAAish, but very nice. Kind of reminds me that we’re all in it together. We’re tourist babysitters. She helps us with our tourists while dealing with the occasionally Sunday pilot’s adventure of landing at GCN.

Danni gave me a tour of the low building. Lot of office space, a full kitchen, and equipment rooms. Everything brand spanking new and totally underutilized. We rode the elevator up to a floor marked 6 (the elevator can stop at 1, 2, and 6; there are no other numbers), then took a flight of stairs to the top level.

Ever wonder why you can’t take an elevator to the top floor in a control tower? It’s because the elevator shaft would block the view. A control tower is a big open room with windows on all sides. And this one had the best view of the Grand Canyon airport area. You could see for miles in every direction.

The room was surrounded with counter space. There were at least ten chairs, but only one had an occupant. Gary sat in the corner, in front of a laptop. A telephone receiver lay on the counter beside him. It turns out that the telephone receiver was actually a microphone, with a push to talk button between the earpiece and mouthpiece. It was on a very long curly cord, and as we chatted, he carried it around with him, talking into it now and then with his ATC voice.

Danni showed me around. I saw the radar screen, which tends to pick up ghost echoes and isn’t certified for use, but showed several aircraft in the area. I saw the wind reporting screen, which showed different winds for each of the three wind measuring locations on the airport, along with an average wind. The average was necessary because all three readings were different. I saw all kinds of screens that we didn’t really talk much about. I saw a device that printed out strips of paper with NOTAM and flight plan information on them. Danni showed me one for an incoming pilot’s flight plan. We looked at the time the pilot was expected in and realized he was due soon. He called in, got clearance, and landed during my visit.

My technical visit turned into a social call before I could stop it. Gary grew up in Wickenburg and wanted to know if I knew the people he’d grown up with. I didn’t. I’ve only been in Wickenburg since 1997; he left town in the early 80s. But that didn’t stop him from naming everyone he knew and making me come up with names of people I knew. Before long, my planned 15-minute visit to the tower had turned into 30 minutes. I told them I had to go.

Danni escorted me downstairs and outside. She told me to visit again. I promised I would.

Truth vs. Fiction

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How I get another life experience proving that truth is stranger than fiction.

First, the background info.

My company, Flying M Air, is the Fuel Manager at Wickenburg Municipal Airport. This means that I’m required to provide warm bodies to pump fuel into aircraft, sell pilot supplies and refreshments, answer questions, and keep the terminal building presentable. They do other stuff, too, but that isn’t worth going into for the purpose of this tale.

I have a staff of three employees, all of whom are semi-retired with some kind of aviation experience. Gary is a pilot who has thousands of hours of experience in all kinds of airplanes. Jeff is a pilot who is now building his own airplane. Alta is one of only five women in the world qualified to sit in the engineer’s seat on a 747.

Unfortunately, when one or more of these people need time off, the others can’t always fill in. That means I have to work at the airport. Trouble is, when I’m working at the airport, I’m not writing books. When I’m not writing books, I’m not earning a living. So it’s my best interest to find additional warm bodies to keep on staff.

That’s half the background.

Now here’s where it starts getting weird.

Last January (that’s 2004), I get a phone call from the Wickenburg police at 1:30 AM. They tell my half-asleep brain that someone has just called them, reporting that he witnessed three men fueling and then loading C-4 explosives into a C170 (that’s a Cessna taildragger) at the airport. When asked, these three men told the witness that they were flying to Washington to blow up the White House.

I replied to the police that they really didn’t have much to worry about because it would take a Cessna a few days to reach Washington. (Yes, I really did say that. They probably have it on tape somewhere. Remember, I was half asleep.)

The officer started asking questions and I started waking up. The gravity of the situation started to sink in. After 9/11, reports like this at airports are taken very seriously. The police tell me what they’d been told. And I realize that the story didn’t match what I knew to be fact: Namely, that the plane couldn’t have fueled up at 6:30 when the witness claimed because I’d fueled the last plane at 5:30 PM and had locked up everything (including the pumps) at 6 PM when I left for the night. I suggest that perhaps the whole thing is a hoax.

Two more phone calls from the police that night before I’m finally able to get back to sleep.

A few days later, I’m at Macworld Expo in San Francisco, loitering outside the Peachpit Press booth. My cell phone vibrates. It’s the police in Wickenburg again. They tell me that the case has been resolved. That the witness has been charged with submitting a false terrorist report. They tell me the witness’s name, but it doesn’t ring a bell and doesn’t stick. They give me the report number in case I ever want to look at the report. All I hope is that I’m not called as a witness in some trial.

Time goes by. It’s now March. Two of my airport staff members are away at the same time and the third can’t work. I wind up working four days in a row at the airport while my editor anxiously awaits more chapters of my QuickBooks book. Enough is enough. Time to get more warm bodies.

I get a call from a guy named Bob Doe. (That isn’t his real name, but it’ll do.) He says he talked me to me several months ago about a job at the airport but I wasn’t hiring back then. Am I hiring now? Sure, I tell him. Go to the airport and fill out an application.

He comes by the airport while I’m working. He’s in his mid thirties. His resume shows all kinds of airport experience. But he’s working as a stocker in the supermarket. (Actually, he isn’t. But he does have an equally unrelated part-time job.) He’s very enthusiastic and I’m sucked in, desperate for more warm bodies so I can get back to work. I think I notice alcohol on his breath, but I could be imagining it. I tell him to come by the next day for training.

“So I got the job?” Bob says.

“Well, I want to see how you do at training,” I reply evasively, trying hard to convince myself that it isn’t alcohol at 11 AM.

Bob leaves and I think about it. I’m not sure about him. I voice my concerns to one of the medivac pilots stationed at the airport. He tells me to go with my gut feeling.

I call one of Bob’s references and learn that he worked there for two months. Human resources tells me they fired him for not showing up for work and not calling. I can’t track down the other recent reference because he didn’t include a phone number. I decide to put off training for another day when Mike, my significant other, will be around to help train him.

The next morning, I call him at 8 AM. I get his answering machine. I tell him not to come in until the next day. At 9 AM a taxi (yes, a taxi — the only one we have in town) rolls up and he gets out. I tell him about the message. He says he never got it. He says he must have been in the shower. I tell him I can’t train him that day. He gets a little nasty, pointing out that he’d taken a cab. I tell him I’ll pay the cab fare. He tries to get me to change my mind and let him stay. I tell him about the reference checks and tell him I need phone numbers for all of his references. I then pay the $14 round trip cab fare and send him on his way.

Bob calls later with phone numbers for two personal references. The other reference I’d tried to contact had gone out of business. (How convenient, I think.) He gives me the name of a supervisor at the other reference. After he hangs up, I leave a message on the supervisor’s voicemail.

The next day, Bob shows up in a cab again. He’s 10 minutes late. He sweeps in like he owns the place and immediately begins leaving the things he brought with him — backpack, coffee mug, etc. — around the terminal. I hand him over to Mike for training; I have a catering order to handle and two helicopter rides to give.

Later, when things calm down, I can see there’s a problem with this guy. He has a superior attitude that just doesn’t fit into our cosy little establishment. He doesn’t give a hoot for the little plane pilots and complains when the only jet we service that morning leaves without giving him a tip. (We don’t get tips in Wickenburg.) His possessions are scattered all over the terminal. And I can tell that even Mike — that deep well of patience — has had it with him.

When I leave to get lunch for Mike and me, I take Bob home (he was scheduled for training until 1 PM). On the way, he tells me how great it feels to be working at an airport again. He wants to know how many hours we’ll be giving him so he can quit one of his part time jobs. (I didn’t realize that he had two jobs.) I tell him I don’t know yet, that I’d have to let him know.

Back at the airport, Mike and I compare notes. We decide that Bob’s warm body just isn’t the right temperature for us. I get Mike to break the news to him on the phone. I write a check for $24 to cover the promised training pay and put it in the mail.

The next day, Mike is at the airport when Bob storms in, looking for me. He tells Mike that he spoke to me that morning and that I said I’d be at the airport at noon. (A blatant lie.) He tries to say that we’re not hiring him because of age discrimination. Mike points out that all of our employees are at least 20 years older than he is. Mike tells him we need someone more interested in the small plane pilots. He doesn’t get it. He keeps going on about how experienced he is dealing with jets. Mike tells him we get 50 small planes in for every jet that lands so that his experience isn’t worth much to us. Bob storms out, slamming the door behind him.

And yes, there was definitely alcohol on his breath.

Today, Mike and I are having lunch at a local restaurant. Bob comes up in conversation. Something triggers a switch in the back of my mind and I recall the January C-4 in a Cessna incident. Suddenly, Bob’s name seems more familiar than it should.

I stop at the police station on my way back to my office.

“Remember that case in January when the guy reported C-4 being loaded into a Cessna to blow up the White House?” I ask a woman behind a grill.

The woman nods with a strange smile on her face.

“Just tell me,” I say. “Was the person who reported it Bob Doe?”

She nods again.

Smoke in the Cockpit!

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How I learn the importance of having a fire extinguisher on board.

Saturday, February 7, 2004 was a typical Arizona winter day. Temperatures in the 60s, clear skies, light winds. Mike was working at the airport until 2 pm, when we expected a furniture delivery. The monthly airport barbeque was set up by 11:30 when I decided to take a trip down to the place I planned to do some desert barnstorming the following day.

A few weeks before, Janet and I had done some desert barnstorming in Tristan’s R44 helicopter, north of Carefree Highway, west of Lake Pleasant where some ATVers had gathered to ride on the trails. We didn’t do very well — we just did one ride for three people — but one of the people told us that there was a big motorcross scheduled for February 8. They told us that if we came back then, we’d be able to do lots of rides.

I decided to check things out the day before. Since my helicopter is a heck of a lot cheaper to fly than Tristan’s, I fired it up and headed east.

Things were really hopping when I got there. The place was full of trailers and dirt bikes and a huge red and white striped tent had been set up not far from a good landing zone. I set Three-Niner-Lima down and kept an eye out while I shut down. When the blades had stopped, I made my way to the big tent.

There was a lot of activity in the area. Dirt bikes rolled by, stirring up clouds of dust. Vendors selling all kinds of dirt bike paraphernalia had set up shop under canopies alongside the dirt road. There was even a food vendor with a smoker.

The huge tent was almost empty. Tables had been set up around the perimeter, but there wasn’t much going on at any of them. In the back was a table with two computers and a few guys staring at them. I walked back and introduced myself.

Oddly enough, one of the guys at the computers was one of the three people who’d flown with me a few weeks before. He remembered me and called over someone else who was a decision maker. She was thrilled to see me. She told me she was supposed to call me and had forgotten. She was glad I’d come. Of course I could do rides. She called over another boss person and told him. He was busy but seemed mildly interested. He said he’d announce the rides at the dinner that night. I offered three free rides for a raffle and promised to return the next day with my ground crew.

It was nearly 1 pm when I returned to Three-Niner-Lima. I’d promised Mike I’d be back by 1:30 so I could go home and await the furniture. I checked the oil, walked around to look for obvious tampering, and climbed aboard. Then I went through my all-too-familiar ritual of starting up.

I put my headset on, leaving my right ear uncovered. I pushed the mixture full rich. I turned on the master switch. I opened my door and called out “Clear!”, making sure it really was clear. Then I turned the key to start and started the engine. Flicked the Clutch, Strobe, and Alternator switches. Checked to make sure I had good oil pressure and that the starter light was out. The blade started turning. Then I turned on the avionics in the usual order: transponder, radio, GPS.

“Pop!”

The sound was new, something I’d never heard before. I distinctly remember saying “That’s odd,” to myself. “I wonder what that is?” Then I looked at the instrument panel and saw the puff of smoke on the passenger side, right beside the GPS.

Smoke.

I cut the throttle, flicked the clutch off, and pulled the mixture. The engine died. I remembered my fire emergency procedures and flicked off all switches, then turned the fuel selector to off. I opened my door and stepped outside, looking anxiously in the cabin I’d just vacated.

Fortunately, nothing was on fire. The smoke dissipated, leaving an electical fire smell behind.

I waited to be sure that nothing was on fire. Then I thought about my situation. Parked out in the desert, about 20 miles from home. Furniture due to arrive in an hour. Mike would be pissed.

But hell, my helicopter could be on fire!

But it wasn’t.

I remembered my emergency kit, which I kept under my seat. I dug it out. It has a very nice Swiss Army tool in it. With a screwdriver that I could use to open the instrument panel for a peek inside.

I was unscrewing the panel when a man rode up on his ATV. I told him my situation as I worked. He told me he was an electrician. (How could I get so lucky?) He helped me open the panel. I swung it back and we peered inside. No trace of any problem. No trace of burning, smoke, or anything else. Surprisingly, not even much dust.

Not satisfied, I decided to remove the panel covering my avionics. We had four screws out when we realized that there would be at least eight screws and we’d need a microscopic allen wrench to get the knob off my radio. That wasn’t a job to do out in the desert. So we closed it back up.

He asked me if I had a fire extinguisher. I told him I didn’t. He told me he’d get me one and took off on his ATV.

I called Mike and told him the situation. I couldn’t stand next to the helicopter while I was on the phone. The signal was bad there. I had to walk 20 feet away. I told him what had happen and what I’d done. I told him I planned to start up the ship with the circuit breakers for the avionics pulled. If that worked, I’d fly home. But I wouldn’t have any radios, so he should start making radio calls for me in about 20 minutes, warning area pilots that a helicopter without radios was on its way in.

The man on the ATV returned with a small fire extinguisher. He told me it belonged to the people serving food and made me promise to bring it back. I promised. I also promised to give him a helicopter ride the next day. I studied the instructions on the fire extinguisher and stowed it on the passenger side floor. Then I climbed back on board and he rode away. I pulled out the Pilot Operating Handbook and read the Fire procedures in the Emergency Procedures section, just to make sure I knew them very well.

I pulled the two avionics circuit breakers and the one for the avionics fan. I figured that if there was a fire in there, the last thing I needed was a fan blowing air on it. Then I went through my startup ritual (see above), skipping the part where I turn on the avionics. The blades were spinning when I realized that I was hearing a rhythmic clicking sound I don’t think I’d ever heard before. Although there was no smoke, the sound spooked me. I turned everything off again.

Now I was desperate. I wasn’t sure if the helicopter was safe to fly, but I didn’t know what to do. I called MIke again and gave him an update. He started making plans for coming to pick me up. Then I told him I’d call Paul Mansfield.

Paul Mansfield was my mechanic. He’s probably one of the best Robinson Helicopter mechanics out there. Unfortunately, due to a disagreement between me and the company he works for, I’m not allowed to bring my helicopter to him for servicing. I wasn’t very happy about this and neither was he. He told me that if I ever had a problem, I could call him. He even gave me his cell phone number.

Throughout the past three years or so, I’ve called him about four times. He’s been very helpful. I called him that day. He answered. I told my story. When I got to the part about the smoke, he said what I’d been thinking at the time: “That’s not good.” I was glad we agreed on that point.

He thought the problem might be in the strobe, which I’d turned on right before the avionics and had turned on the second time I’d started, too. The rhythmic clicking sound could correspond to the charging mechanism. He thought I might be hearing it through my headset. He suggested that I leave the strobe off and give it a try. I thanked him and hung up.

I called Mike to give him an update. By now, it was almost 1:30. I was going to be late — if I ever made it at all.

I climbed aboard again and pulled two more circuit breakers: the strobe and the intercom (what the heck; who was I going to talk to anyway?). I started it up. The clicking was gone. There was no smoke. Everything was fine.

Of course, a ton of stuff wasn’t even turned on.

I took off cautiously, my eyes straying occasionally to where I’d seen the smoke and the fire extinguisher lying on the floor beyond it. I flew low for two reasons. First, without a radio, I wouldn’t be able to announce my position to anyone. I was far less likely to encounter someone at 400 feet AGL than higher. Second, I wanted to be close to the ground in case I needed to land in a hurry. Let’s face it, the closer you are to the ground, the quicker you’ll get there.

I also decided not to take the quickest route home, which went across the mostly flat and definitely empty desert. If I had to land, I wanted to land where some people would see me and be able to help — or at least give me a ride to civilization. So I followed Carefree Highway and, when I reached it, Grand Avenue.

My Bose headset, which has excellent noise cancellation features, completely stinks when it isn’t powered up. I’d unplugged it before taking off, so it offered very little sound muffling. The helicopter was very loud and I imagined that every noise was a new one, one that could mean trouble. But there was no trouble. I flew into Wickenburg, flying only about 300 feet above the ground so I’d remain clear of any traffic in the pattern or departing the area. Then I made an approach from the south to the helipad. It was 1:50 PM when I set down.

Mike was busy fueling helicopters: a Schweitzer 300 and a Robinson R22. I wanted to look at the Schweitzer, but didn’t have time. I hopped in my Jeep and went home. The furniture guys arrived five minutes after I did. Mike arrived ten minutes later.

On Monday, my local mechanic, Ed, took apart the instrument panel and removed the avionics. The GPS had faint singe marks on it, but when we removed it from its case, its circuits were okay. He reassembled everything and we powered up the avionics stack. No popping noises, no smoke. Everything fully functioning.

I hate when that happens.

Ed thinks there might have been a loose screw or something inside the stack. It hit the GPS case and caused a little short circuit, complete with smoke, but didn’t pop the circuit breaker. Then the helicopter’s vibrations shook the screw into a place where it couldn’t be found. A place where it wouldn’t pop again.

I hope Ed is right and that there’s no more smoke in my cockpit.

Since then, I’ve flown more than 6 hours in Three-Niner-Lima — now nicknamed “Smokey” — and haven’t had any problems at all. It went to Prescott for a 100-hour inspection and Cody, the mechanic there, couldn’t find any problems either.

But I bought Three-Niner-Lima a present from the Robinson Helicopter Company: its very own fire extinguisher.