Tag Archives: aviation

Deciding on a Career as a Helicopter Pilot

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I probably can’t give you the answers you want to hear but I can tell you what you need to consider when making this big decision.

Start Here.

A lot of what I’m saying in this blog post can be found in my series about becoming a helicopter pilot: “So You Want to Be a Helicopter Pilot.” Do yourself a favor and read it. You can find the first part here.

And when you’re done with that — and the posts that those posts link to — try reading some of the posts in the Flying topic. Then search this site for keywords like careers, helicopters, flight training, etc. You’ll find lots more to read and learn from.

I’ve written a lot in this blog, especially over the past five years or so, about building a career as a helicopter pilot. With more than 2,400 posts on this site — including more than a few recipes, day-in-the-life stories, and rants that have nothing to do with flying — there’s a lot to wade through to get the information you want. Some folks think it’s a lot easier to just write me an email with specific questions about helicopter pilot careers. Easier for them, perhaps, but not for me. That’s why my Contact page has this section that appears before the contact form:

Career Advice/Pilot Jobs

I cannot provide career advice of any kind, whether you want to be a writer or a helicopter pilot. The posts in this blog have all the advice I’m willing to give the public. If you want my advice read them. There’s a pretty good chance that I’ve covered your question here in a blog post.

The Email Requests Still Come

Despite that, I still get at least two messages a month — using the form on that very page — asking me helicopter pilot career questions. Here’s a typical example; this one arrived yesterday:

Fascinating blog, lots of good perspectives. My son and I are considering this as a career for him, he is 19. We have made calls, visited a few schools, heard the sales pitches, heard the perspective of the job market from the perspective of the CFI’s and schools.

Your post from 2009 was bleak regarding the career prospectives. We get the need for moves required, the dues needed to put it, the cost, etc.

My question to you is, has your perspective changed at all since 2009?

Although the author did not specifically identify the 2009 post he was referring, I assumed he was referring to the most popular (of all time) post on this blog, “The Helicopter Job Market.” But a quick look showed me that that post dated from 2007. Not knowing what he already read makes it a bit difficult to review what I wrote in 2009 and update it. I do get the impression, however, that he just scratched the tip of the iceberg on career-related content here.

So I thought I’d spend this morning pointing him (and others) in the right direction to learn more, much as I did in “Helicopter Career Advice Sought…and Provided,” which was a reply to someone else’s email back in 2009. (That was apparently back before I instituted the “I can’t give you advice” policy on my contact page and may even have prompted me to adopt that policy.)

Important Points

You need to take all the advice I give on this site with a grain of salt. Why? Here are a few reasons:

  • I am not a career counsellor. I have no training in career counseling and refuse to take responsibility for any actions taken by a reader who might consider my blog posts as career advice.
  • I am not an industry insider. I am the owner/operator of a small, single-pilot helicopter charter business. I only had one flying job for another organization and that was a summer job back in 2004. My fingers are not on the pulse of the industry. I chug along in my own little world, running my business in accordance with applicable regulations with absolutely no intention of building my business beyond what I can handle.
  • I did not get to where I am by following the typical pilot career path. I was fortunate in the early 2000s to have a writing career that paid extremely well. That money subsidized my flying business until it became profitable on its own. That’s why, after 13 years as a pilot and over 3,000 hours in helicopters I still don’t have my CFI certificate. Obviously, I can’t provide detailed advice on following a career path that I didn’t follow. I simply took a different path, one that would probably be very difficult for others to follow.
  • I am not an employer. Although I do occasionally hire helicopter operators like myself to assist me in my summer agricultural work, I have never put any pilot on payroll or provided any career training for another pilot. How can I know what employers want?

All that said, I do know a lot of pilots and we do talk a lot about the industry. I have a very good relationship with the FAA. I also have a generous helping of common sense and have heard enough horror stories to form opinions I’m not afraid to share.

Doing Your Homework

One thing that struck me about this message was that it was written by the dad — not the possible future pilot. While this isn’t the first time a parent wrote to me — last time it was a mom — it does raise flags.

Why isn’t the son writing? Who’s doing the research? Who really wants this job? Is the dad pushing his son into a career he might not be interested in? Doesn’t the son care enough about this as a career to do his own research?

I don’t mean to put the author on the defensive and I certainly don’t want an explanation or answers to any of these questions. It just seems to me that when the parent is doing the homework, the kid is missing out on the learning.

And frankly, at 19 years old, the “kid” is old enough to be doing this for himself.

Maybe father and son need to have a good heart-to-heart chat about this? Look into their motivations? See who really wants this to happen?

Because even if the pair decide to move forward in this career, the son won’t get very far if he lacks the motivation or ability to study and learn for himself. This might not be rocket science, but there’s still a ton to know and learn.

Motivation

Motivation is a huge topic all its own.

Back in the mid 2000s, Silver State Helicopters was a quickly growing helicopter training organization. They’d choose a city and start advertising free seminars where you could learn to be a helicopter pilot and be paid $80,000 a year. On the day of the seminar, they’d pack an auditorium with pilot wannabes. On stage, they’d have shiny helicopters and pilots in cool-looking flight suits.

Silver State was selling two things:

  • A cool, awe-inspiring job. After all, what guy wouldn’t want to be a helicopter pilot?
  • A big annual paycheck. $80K a year is certainly enough money to live on — especially when you’re currently struggling on the weekly take-home pay of a part time job.

Of course, Silver State crashed and burned when the economy tanked and kids couldn’t get $70-$80K loans for their flight training. Because the entire organization was built like a Ponzi scheme with tomorrow’s new students paying today’s expenses, the company ran out of money. They closed their doors very suddenly, leaving hundreds of students only partway through the program with nothing to show for it except a huge loan. There are still young people out there trying to dig themselves out of the mess Silver State left them in. I covered Silver State’s impact on the industry in this blog post.

In the email message quoted above, the dad mentioned that he’d talked to the flight schools and CFIs. He didn’t mention what they’d told him. Were they selling Silver State’s dream, too? The glamor job? The big paycheck?

Is that what’s motivating them to explore this as a career?

I’ve said it before and I’ve said it again: if you want to be true to yourself and ensure happiness for the rest of your life, pursue a career doing something you love.

I love to write. After eight years on a career path I was “guided” into by family pressure, I broke out and became a writer. It took a while, but I found a lot of success and a lot of happiness in my work.

After I learned to fly, I realized that I loved to fly. In an effort to do it more often, I pursued flying as a career. Again, it took a while, but I found enough success and a lot of happiness in my work.

If you’re interested in a career as a helicopter pilot, is it because you love to fly? Or is it because you want to make your friends envious? Or pull in the big paychecks the flight schools claim are possible?

And if you haven’t even flown in a helicopter yet, what the hell are you waiting for? You might hate it. Take a demo lesson where you can manipulate the controls beside a CFI and even log the time. (Why not if you’re paying for it, right?) See if it’s right for you.

(This is yet another reason why you should not buy into a “program” with a flight school You might get 20 hours into your training and decide it’s just not right for you.)

And if you want to know what a career as a helicopter pilot is really like, talk to a helicopter pilot. No, not the owner of the flight school or the chief flight instructor there. And no, not a 400-hour CFI who’s paying his dues so he can start being a helicopter pilot elsewhere. I’m talking about real helicopter pilots — the guys and gals who have been doing this stuff for years. Someone who is serious about learning what it’s really like will talk to as many real pilots as he/she can.

And no, posting messages on helicopter pilot forums does not count. Don’t be lazy. Find real local pilots — EMS, ENG, agricultural services, fire suppression, heavy lift, tour, etc. — and talk to them face to face. They will talk to you. If you visit them at their base and they’re not busy, they’re likely to show off their helicopters, too. (Sure beats getting misled by wannabes who are using the Internet to hide their identities and lie about their experience.)

The Helicopter Job Market Today

As far as I can see, the market hasn’t changed that much. Yes, we no longer have the flood of low-time pilots pushed into the job market by Silver State. But we do have young veteran pilots released from the military. So there are still far more low and mid-time pilots than jobs for low and mid-time pilots.

What is “low time”? Anything less than 1,000 hours is widely considered low time. That’s the amount of pilot in command time that most pilots need to get a job as a real (non-CFI) pilot. You usually get that time as a CFI — that’s the normal career path.

Is it possible to get a pilot job with less time? Yes.

WIll it be a good job, one with real career potential and opportunities to learn and practice new skills? Maybe.

Will it pay well? No. (Hell, if they had a big payroll budget, they’d likely use it to obtain more experienced pilots that would keep their insurance costs down.)

Even when you’ve gotten all your certificates, you still need to compete with other brand new pilots to get the CFI job that’ll make it possible to build your first 1,000 hours. Once you get that job, you need to keep it until you have enough time to compete again with other 1,000-hour pilots for your first entry level pilot job. There are no guarantees. Employers — whether they’re flight schools or tour companies or offshore drilling transportation providers — will only choose the candidates they think are best for their organization. The whole time you’re learning and flying and working you need to set yourself apart from the others to prove that you’re the best.

Like many careers, as you work your way up the ladder, building valuable experience and proving over and over that you’ve got the right attitude to get the job done, opportunities will open themselves to you. The more experience you have, the more opportunities will be available. And yes, some of them will come with very nice paychecks.

I have friends in this industry who are constantly being contacted by employers interested in hiring them. One friend recently turned down an offer five times — even after he was offered a $10K signing bonus — and finally signed when they reached an agreement about the contract length, location, and conditions. Why do you think they were so anxious to have him at the controls of their Huey on that fire contract? He has a great reputation as a responsible, safe pilot who takes excellent care of the equipment and always gets the job done.

It would be nice to be in my friend’s shoes, wouldn’t it? But he didn’t get there by luck. He got there through hard work and the right attitude — for more than 20 years.

Being a successful helicopter pilot is not easy. It requires a lot of hard work. It often requires working in less than optimal conditions, doing things you might not want to do. It requires being willing to learn — and even master — new things. You have to have “the right stuff.”

What do you think?

I’m sure this blog post will be seen by plenty of pilots and maybe even some employers who have been in the industry at least five or ten years. What do you see as the current trends? What information can you add to this? Advice?

Please use the comments for this post to share what you know. My information is limited — you can help me round it out for other readers to get more value from what I’ve already said here.

Airport Tower Closures: Reality Check

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March 24, 2013, 11:30 AM Edit: Got the airplane terminology wrong. Thanks to two airplane pilots for correcting me. I’ve edited the text to show the change. Sorry about the confusion. – ML
March 25, 2013, 2:15 AM Edit: Left out the word towers in a sentence.

Come on folks — it’s not as bad as you think.

Falcon Tower
The control tower at Falcon Field Airport in Mesa, AZ is a typical Class Delta airport tower. (This is not one of the towers scheduled for closure.)

I’ve been reading a lot lately about the FAA’s upcoming airport tower closures. A list is out and there are 149 airports on it. The reduction of funding due to the sequester is making it necessary to close these contracted airport towers all over the country.

Most news articles, tweets, and Facebook updates that I’ve read about the closures are full of doom and gloom. Apparently, a lot of people believe that airport towers are required for safety. But as most general aviation pilots can attest, low traffic airports do not need towers.

What an ATC Tower Does

Air Traffic Control (ATC) towers are responsible for ensuring safe and orderly arrivals and departures of aircraft at an airport. Here’s how it works at a typical Class Delta airport — the kind of airports affected by the tower closures.

Most towered airports have a recording called an Automated Terminal Information System (ATIS) that broadcasts airport information such as weather conditions, runway in use, and any special notices (referred to as Notices to Airmen or NOTAMs). Pilots listen to this recording on a special airport frequency as they approach the airport so they’re already briefed on the most important information they’ll need for landing. The ATIS recording is usually updated hourly, about 5 to 10 minutes before the hour. Each new recording is identified with a letter from the ICAO Spelling Alphabet, or the Pilot’s Alphabet, as I refer to it in this blog post.

Before a pilot reaches the airport’s controlled airspace — usually within 4 to 6 miles of the airport — she calls the tower on the tower frequency. She provides the airport controller with several pieces of information: Aircraft identifier, aircraft location, aircraft intentions, acknowledgement that pilot has heard ATIS recording. A typical radio call from me to the tower at Falcon Field, where I flew just the other day, might sound something like this:

Falcon Tower, Helicopter Six-Three-Zero-Mike-Lima is eight miles north, request landing helipads with Kilo.

An airplane calling in might say something like:

Falcon Tower, Cessna One-Two-Three-Alpha-Bravo is ten miles east, request touch-and-go with Kilo.

Kilo, in both cases, is the identifier of the current ATIS recording.

The tower controller would respond to my call with something like:

Helicopter Six-Three-Zero-Mike-Lima, Falcon Tower, proceed inbound. Report 1 mile north for midfield crossing at nineteen hundred feet.

To the airplane, he might say something like:

Cessna One-Two-Three-Alpha-Bravo, Falcon Tower, enter right downwind for runway four right.

(If you want to see what these instructions mean by looking at a detailed airport diagram, here’s one for you.)

Of course, if the tower controllers were really busy or there was some sort of problem at the airport, the controller could say something like:

Aircraft calling Falcon Tower, remain clear of the class delta airspace.

That means the pilot can’t come into the airspace — which is marked on charts and many GPS models — until the tower clears her in. That happens very seldom.

This is the beginning of the conversation between the air traffic controller in the airport’s tower and the pilot. What follows is a dialog with the tower providing instructions and the pilot acknowledging those instructions and then following them. The controller’s job is to sequence airplane traffic on the airport’s runway(s), making sure there’s enough spacing between them for the various types of landings: touch-and-go, full stop, low approach, etc. In the case of helicopters — which is admittedly what I know best — the tower can either put us into the traffic pattern with the airplanes (which really isn’t a good idea) or keep us out of the airplane flow. The tower clears airplanes to land on the runway and gives permission to helicopters to land in “non-movement” areas.

At the same time all this is going on, the tower’s ground controller is providing instructions to airplanes that are taxiing around the airport, either to or from the runways. Aircraft are given taxi instructions that are sort of like driving directions. Because helicopters seldom talk to towers, I can’t give a perfect example, but instructions from the transient parking area to runway 4R might sound something like this:

Cessna One-Two-Three-Alpha-Romeo, Falcon Ground, taxi to runway four right via Delta. Position and hold Line up and wait at Delta One.

These instructions can get quite complex at some large airports with multiple runways and taxiways.

Position and hold Line up and wait — formerly hold short position and hold — means to move to the indicated position and do not cross the hold line painted on the tarmac. This keeps the airplane off the runway until cleared to take off.

A pilot who is holding short waiting switches to the tower frequency and, when he’s the first plane at the hold line, calls the tower to identify himself. The tower then clears him to get on the runway and depart in the direction he’s already told the ground controller that he wants to go.

Air traffic control for an airport also clears pilots that simply want to fly through the airspace. For example, if I want to fly from Wickenburg to Scottsdale, the most direct route takes me through Deer Valley’s airspace. I’d have to get clearance from the Deer Valley Tower to do so; I’d then be required to follow the tower’s instructions until the controller cut me loose, usually with the phrase “Frequency change approved.” I could then contact Scottsdale’s tower so I could enter that airspace and get permission to land.

A few things to note here:

  • Not all towers have access to radar services. That means they must make visual contact with all aircraft under their control. Even when radar is available, tower controllers make visual contact when aircraft are within their airspace.
  • If radar services are available, tower controllers can ask pilots to Ident. This means pushing a button on the aircraft’s transponder that makes the aircraft’s signal brighter on the radar screen, thus making it easier for the controller to distinguish from other aircraft in crowded airspace. The tower can also ask the pilot to squawk a certain number — this is a 4-digit code temporarily assigned to that aircraft on the radar screen.
  • Some towers have two tower controller frequencies, thus separating the airspace into two separately controlled areas. For example, Deer Valley Airport (DVT) has a north and south tower controller, each contacted on a different frequency. When I fly from the north over the top of the runways to land at the helipads on the south side, I’m told to change frequency from the north controller to the south controller.
  • The tower and ground controllers coordinate with each other, handing off aircraft as necessary.
  • The tower controllers also coordinate with controllers at other nearby airports and with “center” airports. For example, when I fly from Phoenix Gateway (IWA) to Chandler (CHD), the Chandler controller knows I’m coming because the Gateway controller has told him. Similarly, if a corporate jet departs Scottsdale (SDL) on an Instrument Flight Rules (IFR) flight plan, the Scottsdale controller obtains a clearance for that jet from Phoenix Departure or Albuquerque Center.

I should also point out two things from the point of view of a pilot:

  • Dealing with air traffic control does add a tiny bit to the pilot’s workload. The pilot must communicate with the tower before entering the airspace, the pilot must follow the tower’s instructions (unless following those instructions is not safe, of course). I know plenty of pilots who would rather fly around a towered airport’s airspace than fly through it — just because they don’t want to talk to a controller. I’ll admit that I’ve done this quite a few times — I even have a winding route through the Phoenix area between Wickenburg and Chandler that avoids all towered airspace along the way.
  • Air traffic control gives many pilots the impression that they are no longer responsible for seeing and avoiding other aircraft. After all, the tower sees all and guides aircraft to avoid each other. But there have been instances where air traffic control has dropped the ball — I experienced one myself years ago — and sometimes this can have tragic consequences.

Low Traffic Airports Don’t Need Towers

As you can probably imagine, the more air traffic coming and going in an airport’s airspace, the busier air traffic controllers are.

A very busy airport like Deer Valley, which has at least two flight schools, several helicopter bases (police and medevac), at least one charter operator, and a bit of traffic from corporate jets, can keep controllers pretty busy. In fact, one of the challenges of flying in and out of Deer Valley is being able to get a call in on the radio — it’s often a steady stream of pilot/controller communication. Indeed, Deer Valley airport was the 25th busiest airport in the country based on aircraft movements in 2010.

Likewise, at an airport that gets very little traffic, the tower staff doesn’t have much to do. And when you consider that there has to be at least two controllers on duty at all times — so one can relieve the other — that’s at least two people getting paid without a lot of work to do.

Although I don’t know every towered airport on the list, the ones I do know don’t get very much traffic at all.

For example, they’re closing four in Arizona:

  • Laughlin/Bullhead City International (IFP) gets very little traffic. It sits across the river from Laughlin, NV in one of the windiest locations I’ve ever flown into. Every time I fly into Laughlin, there’s only one or two pilots in the area — including me.
  • Glendale Municipal (GEU) should get a lot of traffic, but it doesn’t.
  • Phoenix Goodyear (GYR) is home of the Lufthansa training organization and a bunch of mothballed airliners, but it doesn’t get much traffic. Lufthansa pilots in training use other area airports, including Wickenburg, Buckeye, Gila Bend, Lake Havasu City, and Needles — ironically, none of those have a tower.
  • Ryan Field (in Tucson; RYN) is the only one of the three I haven’t flown into, so I can’t comment its traffic. But given the other airports on this list, I have to assume the traffic volume is low.

They’re also closing Southern California Logistics (VCV) in Victorville, CA. I’ve flown over that airport many times and have landed there once. Not much going on. It’s a last stop for many decommissioned airliners; there’s a 747 “chop shop” on the field.

They’re closing Northeast Florida Regional (SGJ) in St. Augustine, FL. That’s the little airport closest to where my mom lives. When she first moved there about 15 years ago, it didn’t even have a tower.

These are just the airports I know. Not very busy. I know plenty of non-towered airports that get more traffic than these.

How Airports without Towers Work

If an airport doesn’t have a tower — and at least 80% of the public airports in the United States don’t have towers — things work a little differently. Without a controller to direct them, pilots are responsible for using the airport in accordance with standard traffic patterns and right-of-way rules they are taught in training.

Some airports have Automated Weather Observation Systems (AWOS) or Automated Surface Observation Systems (ASOS) that broadcast current weather information on a certain frequency. Pilots can tune in to see what the wind, altimeter setting, and NOTAMs are for the airport.

When a pilot gets close to a non-towered airport, she should (but is not required to) make a position report that includes her location and intentions. For example, I might say:

Wickenburg Traffic, helicopter Six-Three-Zero-Mike-Lima is ten miles north, landing Wickenburg.

An airplane pilot might say:

Wickenburg Traffic, Cessna One-Two-Three-Alpha-Bravo is eight miles southeast. We’ll be crossing midfield at five thousand to enter right traffic for Runway Two-Three.

Other pilots in the area would hear that call and respond by making a similar position call. The calls continue as needed at the pilot’s discretion — the more aircraft in the area, the more calls I make just to make sure everyone else knows I’m out there and where I am. Pilots then see and avoid other traffic to land or depart the airport.

It sounds crazy, but it works — remarkably well. In Wickenburg, for example — an airport that gets a lot of pilots in training practicing takeoffs and landings — there might be two or three or even more airplanes in the traffic pattern around the airport, safely landing and departing in an organized manner. No controller.

And this is going on at small general aviation airports all over the country every single day.

What’s even more surprising to many people is that some regional airlines also land at non-towered airports. For example, Horizon operates flights between Seattle and Wenatchee, WA; Wenatchee is non-towered. Great Lakes operates between Phoenix or Denver and Page, AZ; Page is non-towered.

The Reality

My point is this: people unfamiliar with aviation think that a control tower is vital to safe airport operations. In reality, it’s not. Many, many aircraft operate safely at non-towered airports every day.

While the guidance of a tower controller can increase safety by providing instructions that manage air traffic flow, that guidance isn’t needed at all airports. It’s the busy airports — the ones with hundreds of operations every single day — that can truly benefit from air traffic control.

The 149 airport towers on the chopping block this year were apparently judged to be not busy enough.

I guess time will tell. And I’m certain of one thing: if there is any accident at one of these 149 airports after the tower is shut down, we’ll hear about it all over the news.

In the meantime, I’d love to get some feedback from pilots about this. Share your thoughts in the comments from this post.

The Rules about Flying over Wilderness Areas

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My answer to a reader’s question.

ChartA week or two ago, I got an email message from a reader who had read my November 2011 post, “A Few Aerial Views from Today’s Flight.” That post shows off a bunch of photos captured by my helicopter’s “nose cam,” a GoPro Hero2 camera I sometimes use in flight. The photos include views of the Verde and Salt Rivers north and east of Phoenix, including some of the lakes along the rivers. My reader noticed, after consulting some aeronautical charts, that much of the area I’d flown over was designated as wilderness area.

This reader, who asked to remain anonymous and not be quoted verbatim, was wondering about “bending” rules. Although he mentioned the June 2012 wire strike helicopter crash in the Verde River area, he wasn’t interested in the safety aspects of maintaining a high enough altitude to clear obstacles. He was interested in my interpretation of the rule about flying at least 2,000 feet above wilderness areas.

The “Rule”

Before I interpret the rule, it’s a good idea to know exactly what the rule is and where it can be found.

It’s interesting to note that a search for “wilderness” and “2,000 feet” in the Federal Aviation Regulations (FARs) does not provide any guidance related to operations over charted wilderness areas. The FARs are the rules pilots are required to comply with.

A search of the Aeronautics Information Manual (AIM) for “wilderness” results in “Part 7-4-6: Flights Over Charted U.S. Wildlife Refuges, Parks, and Forest Service Areas.” Paragraph b pertains to this topic:

b. Pilots are requested to maintain a minimum altitude of 2,000 feet above the surface of the following: National Parks, Monuments, Seashores, Lakeshores, Recreation Areas and Scenic Riverways administered by the National Park Service, National Wildlife Refuges, Big Game Refuges, Game Ranges and Wildlife Ranges administered by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, and Wilderness and Primitive areas administered by the U.S. Forest Service.

A note adds this:

FAA Advisory Circular AC 91-36, Visual Flight Rules (VFR) Flight Over Noise-Sensitive Areas, defines the surface of a national park area (including parks, forests, primitive areas, wilderness areas, recreational areas, national seashores, national monuments, national lakeshores, and national wildlife refuge and range areas) as: the highest terrain within 2,000 feet laterally of the route of flight, or the upper-most rim of a canyon or valley.

First Glance Interpretation

At first glance, the “rule” seems pretty straightforward: you’re supposed to fly at least 2,000 feet above the ground in any charted wilderness area, etc.

User's Guide ImageCharts, by the way, make it very easy to identify these areas. They’re normally surrounded by a blue line that has dots on the inside of the area. This entry from the Aeronautical Chart User’s Guide shows what to look for. And this chart excerpt from the Phoenix terminal area chart (TAC) illustrates how two areas look on an actual chart: The Hells Canyon Wilderness area (left) and Lake Pleasant Bald Eagle Breeding Area (right):

Wilderness Examples

The Advisory Circular note goes a bit further to explain that the lowest point in the wilderness area that you should consider when setting your altitude is the highest point 2,000 feet from your aircraft in any direction. So if you’re flying over a 1,000 foot deep canyon and the canyon is only 1,500 feet wide, you should be 2,000 feet above the canyon walls — not 2,000 feet over the bottom of the canyon.

It’s important to note that a requirement like this is extremely difficult for helicopter pilots to deal with, primarily because helicopters normally operate 500 to 1,000 feet above the ground. We seldom fly 2,000 feet above anything — that’s nosebleed territory for us. That’s also where small planes might be operating — and we’re trained to stay away from them. So when you ask a helicopter pilot to fly 2,000 feet above the ground, we’re not going to like it.

But Is It A Rule?

But the real question should be, is this really a rule? Something that must be followed? Something that could get you in trouble with the FAA if you ignore it?

I can offer two arguments for why pilots are not required to fly 2,000 feet above charted wilderness areas:

  • The “rule” is not included in the FARs, which are the regulations governing flight in the U.S. Instead, it’s described in the AIM, which is informational in nature.
  • The language of the “rule” says that “Pilots are requested to maintain a minimum altitude of 2,000 feet above the surface…” Surely you can’t confuse a “request” with a “requirement.”

Before I go any further, I want to point out paragraph c of the same AIM part (7-4-6):

Federal statues prohibit certain types of flight activity and/or provide altitude restrictions over designated U.S. Wildlife Refuges, Parks, and Forest Service Areas. These designated areas, for example: Boundary Waters Canoe Wilderness Areas, Minnesota; Haleakala National Park, Hawaii; Yosemite National Park, California; and Grand Canyon National Park, Arizona, are charted on Sectional Charts.

Note the use of the word “prohibit” in this paragraph. With a little bit of effort, you can find the rules for these areas in the FARs or Special Federal Aviation Regulations (SFARs). For example, FAR 93 Subpart U and SFAR 50-2 govern special regulations over Grand Canyon National Park. In the case of Yosemite the rule is printed right on the chart:

Yosemite on Chart

In case you can’t read it:

Public Law 100-91 prohibits flight of VFR helicopters or fixed-wing aircraft below 2000 feet above the surface of Yosemite National Park. “Surface” refers to the highest terrain within the park within 2000 feet laterally of the route of flight or within the uppermost rim of the Yosemite Valley.

Pretty clear, no?

My point is, don’t get the idea that a pilot can ignore charted wilderness areas. That simply isn’t true. You need to know whether an area has its own special flight regulations before even considering “breaking” the 2,000-foot “rule.”

What’s Right?

Now you know my interpretation. But I didn’t get this on my own. It was pointed out to me by my primary flight instructor years ago. Pilots who take the time to look up and read the “rules” can make their own conclusions.

The reader who queried me about this obviously realized from the photos I shared on my blog post that I must have been flying lower than 2,000 feet above the ground in a charted wilderness area. Denying I did so when there’s photographic evidence to the contrary would be dishonest, insulting to my readers, and a waste of time.

But is it right to fly low over these areas? Because it’s not a regulation in most wilderness areas, it becomes an ethical decision on the part of the pilot.

First, consider why charted wilderness areas exist. The government is protecting these areas, for whatever reason. Usually, it’s because they don’t want aircraft noise to interfere with wildlife — especially wildlife breeding and habitat maintenance. Sometimes its because they want “natural” areas to be kept quiet for visitors trying to enjoy the beauty of nature in peace.

How do you feel about preserving quiet in these areas? Is it important to you? If you were on the ground, how would you feel if a helicopter or plane buzzed by at 500 or 1,000 feet? Would it bother you? How do you think it affects the people on the ground? People camping, fishing, hiking, meditating?

As the person who contacted me pointed out, when he flew in the area, he didn’t see a person for miles. So who would he be bothering?

The one thing I can say with certainty is this: If pilots typically “busted a wilderness area” by flying low through it and enough people on the ground noticed and complained about it, it’s far more likely that the government will respond by establishing a real rule to prevent it. Yes, at one time people were allowed to fly low-level through the Grand Canyon and Yosemite valley. But when enough complaints came in, regulations were written to make such activity illegal.

Would you want to see that happen with all the wilderness areas on the charts?

I know I wouldn’t.

Early Morning Helicopter Flight: Wenatchee, WA to Hillsboro, OR

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There are some things you really wish you could share.

The panic started on Friday. That’s when I checked my helicopter’s log books and realized that instead of 14 flight hours until a required 100-hour maintenance, I had under 5 hours. Once that 5 hours expired, if I flew for hire — even for cherry drying flights conducted under FAR Part 91 — I risked the possibility of having my Part 135 certificate put on hold (or worse) and losing insurance coverage for my helicopter due to my failure to follow the manufacturer’s maintenance schedule.

I did not want that to happen.

I started working the phones. First, I asked my mechanic to come up from Phoenix. I got a “maybe,” which really wasn’t good enough. I talked to a number of other operators about using their mechanics but kept running into a problem with the required drug testing program. Finally, I called the folks at Hillsboro Aviation — which happens to be the dealer that sold me my helicopter back in 2005 — and talked to John. He said that if I could get it in to him when they opened at 8 AM on Tuesday morning, there was a chance that they could have it ready by day’s end.

The weather, of course, was of vital importance. I was in Wenatchee for cherry drying season; if there was any possibility of rain, I could not leave. I did have two other pilots on duty to cover my contracts, though, so unless it rained everywhere at once, they could handle it. And fortunately, the forecast had 0% chance of rain for the upcoming week.

I packed a light bag on Monday night: some spare clothes and toiletries (in case an overnight stay was required), dog food and a dish for Penny the Tiny Dog, and my log books. And on Tuesday morning, at 5:30 AM, I preflighted, packed up the helicopter, set up the GoPro Hero 2 “nosecam,” secured Penny in the front passenger seat so she couldn’t get into the controls, started up, and took off.

Foreflight Route
My direct route, on Foreflight.

My goal was to complete the flight as quickly as possible — that meant a direct route across the Cascade Mountains. My flight path would take me over Mission Ridge, across I-90 west of Ellensburg, and into the Cascades south of Mt. Rainier and north of Mt. Adams. Along the way I’d have to climb to just over 7,000 feet, fly over miles of remote wilderness area, and pass right by Mt. St. Helens. The whole flight was 159 nautical miles (183 statute miles) and would take just over 90 minutes.

I’d flown over the Cascades — or tried to — about a dozen times in the past five years. Weather had almost always been an issue. On several occasions, low clouds in the mountain passes at I-90, Route 2, or Route 12 made it impossible to get through. Other times, I had to do some serious scud-running, darting from one clear area to the next to find my way across. Still other times, I was forced to fly above a cloud layer until I found a “hole” in the clouds where I could slip back underneath on the other side of the mountains. I can only remember one time when scattered clouds were high enough to make the flight as pleasant as it should be.

The weird thing about the Cascades is that you can’t see what the cloud cover is like there until you’re airborne and have cleared the mountains south of Wenatchee. The clouds don’t show up on radar or weather reports unless it’s raining. So you might have a perfectly beautiful day in Washington’s Columbia River basin but the Cascade Mountains could be completely socked in with thick clouds. It’s actually like that more often than not — at least in my experience.

So despite the fact that it was a beautiful day, I was a bit concerned about the weather.

Until I passed over Mission Ridge, just south of Wenatchee. I immediately saw Mt. Rainier and Mt. Adams in the distance. Seeing these two mountains — the whole mountains, not just the tops poking up through clouds — was a very good sign.

Penny immediately curled up on her blanket on the front passenger seat and went to sleep. This really surprised me. It was the first time she’d been in a helicopter and she seemed completely unconcerned about it. I guess that was a good sign, too.

And so began one of the most beautiful flights I’d ever had the pleasure of doing in my helicopter.

Mission Ridge
The top of Mission Ridge and beyond.

I crossed Mission Ridge, which was glowing almost orange in the first light of day and headed southwest along the straight line my GPS indicated to Hillsboro, OR. I drank in the scenery spread out before me: the windmill-studded valley around Ellensburg, the rolling pine forests cut with stream and river beds, the snowcapped granite ridges. At one point, I had Mt. Rainier off my right shoulder, Mt. Adams and Mt. Hood to my left, and Mt. St. Helens right in front of me. I felt like a tiny speck suspended in the air, the only person in the world able to see just what I was seeing. I felt small but all-seeing at the same time.

When I first caught sight of a fog-filled valley at the base of Mt. Rainier I began to realize that weather might still be an issue. Soon, I was flying from one pine-covered ridge to the next, over what looked like a sea of white foam. No VFR pilot likes to lose sight of the ground and I admit that I flew with some fear. An engine failure would leave me nowhere safe to land — if I tried to land in one of the valleys, I’d likely hit the ground before I saw it through the fog.

But the beauty of what was around me somehow made it okay. I thought to myself, if this is my time to go, what better place and way to end my life? Doing what I love — flying through amazing scenery — what else could anyone ask for? And then all the fear was gone and I was left once again to enjoy my surroundings.

Cascades Ridge
Flying across this ridge was the highlight of my flight.

I also felt more than a bit of sadness. There’s no way I can describe the amazing beauty of the remote wilderness that was around me for more than half of that flight. And yet there I was, enjoying it alone, unable to share it with anyone. Although I think my soon-to-be ex-husband would have enjoyed the flight, he was not with me and never would be again. I felt a surge of loneliness that I’ve never felt before. It ached to experience such an incredible flight alone, unable to share it firsthand with someone else who might appreciate it as much as I did.

I can’t begin to say how glad I am that the GoPro was rigged up and running for the whole flight. At least I have some video to share.

Mountain Lake
Yale Lake near Cougar, WA, just southeast of Mt. St. Helens.

As I descended down the southeast slope of Mt. St. Helens, leaving the Cascades behind me, I crossed over a small lake with a scattering of clouds at my level. As I glided through them and back into civilization, I felt as if the magical part of the flight was over. Indeed, the rest of the flight was rather routine, passing over rolling hills, farmland, highways, and rivers. A marine layer hung low over the Portland area and I squeezed under it, called the tower at Hillsboro Airport, and landed on the ramp at my destination. It was about 7:30 AM.

Penny at the Beach
Penny at the beach. She seems to like sand almost as much as grass.

The folks at Hillsboro Aviation were great. Although they didn’t finish up that day, the helicopter was ready to go at 9:30 AM the next morning. Penny and I had spent the night in Rockaway Beach, where Penny got to run through the sand and tease the other beach walkers with her antics.

We left Hillsboro at around 11 AM on Wednesday. It was a cloudless day — even the valley fog was gone. But the harsh midday light washed away much of the beauty of the scenery; the GoPro video from the return flight isn’t much to look at. We were back on the ground at our base in Wenatchee Heights before 1 PM, ready for another 100 hours of flight.

Transponders for Dummies

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Get the facts straight.

One of the podcasts I listen to on my morning walk is called Stuff You Should Know. Produced by the folks responsible for the How Stuff Works website, Stuff You Should Know is a pretty thorough discussion of a specific topic by two hosts, Josh and Chuck, who base their discussion on a website article and some of their own research. It’s a great way to learn new things when you’re stuck doing something mindless — like walking, driving, flying, etc. So far, I’ve learned about revenge, diamonds, Atlantis, social security numbers, air traffic control (ATC), and bullfighting. You can find its RSS feed here.

The April 24, 2012 episode of the podcast was titled “How Air Traffic Control Works.” It was based on a How Stuff Works article of the same name by Dr. Craig Freudenrich. The article was very detailed; the podcast was based on that article and several other articles on How Stuff Works.

As a pilot, I know quite a bit about air traffic control — but not everything. The article (and podcast) was mostly concerned with ATC as it relates to airliners. After all, that’s how most people interact with aviation. But I’m involved with general aviation (as opposed to airline aviation or military aviation). And, as a helicopter pilot, I don’t interact with ATC nearly as much as, say, an instrument rated pilot flying a King Air from Phoenix to Seattle.

So I was hoping that I could learn something new. And I did.

But I also heard the podcasters misinforming listeners about transponders (among a few other things). And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s when an informational article or podcast or video — or anything else — includes errors. So I thought I’d set things straight.

What Is a Transponder?

Garmin Transponder
This is the Garmin 330 Transponder I have in my helicopter.

A transponder is a part of an aircraft’s avionics. It assists air traffic control by making it easier for ATC radar to “see” an aircraft. It basically sends out a signal that says “Here I am!” ATC radar can pick up this signal, along with any additional information encoded within it, to plot the aircraft as a “blip” on the radar display and differentiate it from other aircraft.

Transponders include a feature that enables the pilot to send a specific “squawk” code. Normally, in VFR (visual flight rules) flight, an aircraft’s transponder is set to send the code 1200 — in fact, this code is used so often that many transponder models — including mine — have a VFR button the pilot can press to quickly enter that code.

IFR (instrument flight rules) flights are assigned a discreet discrete squawk code. This code is used by ATC to identify that particular aircraft. Sometimes, when operating within tower-controlled airspace, ATC will assign a discreet discrete code to a VFR flight. Or perhaps a specific code is used by signatories to a letter of agreement between ATC and pilots — for example, 0400 is used by Sharp Alpha signatories in the Phoenix class bravo airspace.

Most transponders are equipped with automatic altitude reporting features, which is known as Mode C. Indeed, Mode C transponders are required within 30 miles of a class Bravo airport — think major airports like the kinds most airlines serve — and in a bunch of other places detailed in Part 4-1-20 of the Aeronautical Information Manual (AIM), “Transponder Operation.” (This, by the way, is an excellent resource for learning more about transponders in general.) Mode C transponders interface with an aircraft’s altimeter to get the altitude of the aircraft and send that information to ATC.

Garmin 420 GPS
My Mode S transponder interfaces with my Garmin 420 GPS to show traffic when information is available. I blogged about this here.

A Mode S transponder, which is what I have on my helicopter, is also capable of two-way communication with ATC radar. In certain radar coverage areas — primarily near Class Bravo and Class Charlie airspaces — a Mode S transponder receives traffic information from ATC. This information can then be plotted on compatible GPS equipment to create a simple traffic information system (TIS).

There are some other things about transponders that are interesting, including the fact that there are special squawk codes a pilot can use in certain emergency situations. And although the transponders were turned off on the 9/11 airliners, that didn’t make them invisible; it just made it impossible for ATC to definitively identify what they were.

What the Stuff You Should Know Guys Said

There’s no transcript available for the podcast, so I had to create one for the part that irked me. It was related to when the transponder is turned on and what the transponder is/does.

At 22:55, Josh has just described how the tower controller hands off the airplane to a departure controller.

Chuck: All right, so now we’re in the air, we are enroute. And you have to, if you’re a pilot, activate your transponder, which will basically make you the little blip on the radar. Very important thing to do.

Josh: Yeah.

Chuck: That’s how they can follow you as you move across the country. Or around the world.

Josh: [laughter]

Chuck: Right?

Josh: You are covering all bases on this episode.

Chuck: Well, the little blip is going to obviously represent your plane and it’s going to have your flight number, your altitude, your airspeed, and your destination.

Josh: Uh-huh.

Chuck: And, uh, so where are we now?

Josh: It’s also how they find you if you go plummeting into the ocean or the earth.

Chuck: Sure. Is that the black box?

Josh: Uh, I think that’s probably a part of the transponder.

Chuck: Okay. Yeah.

Then they continue talking about what TRACON does.

What’s Wrong

There are a few things wrong with this.

First, a pilot usually turns on the aircraft’s transponder when he (or she, of course) powers up the rest of the avionics, including the radio. On my helicopter, in fact, the transponder turns itself on automatically when I turn on the “Master Battery” switch, which provides electrical power to the helicopter before I even start it.

Part 4-1-20 of the Aeronautical Information Manual (AIM), “Transponder Operation,” states:

3. Civil and military transponders should be turned to the “on” or normal altitude reporting position prior to moving on the airport surface to ensure the aircraft is visible to ATC surveillance systems. IN ALL CASES, WHILE IN CONTROLLED AIRSPACE EACH PILOT OPERATING AN AIRCRAFT EQUIPPED WITH AN OPERABLE ATC TRANSPONDER MAINTAINED IN ACCORDANCE WITH 14 CFR SECTION 91.413 MUST OPERATE THE TRANSPONDER, INCLUDING MODE C IF INSTALLED, ON THE APPROPRIATE CODE OR AS ASSIGNED BY ATC. IN CLASS G AIRSPACE, THE TRANSPONDER SHOULD BE OPERATING WHILE AIRBORNE UNLESS OTHERWISE REQUESTED BY ATC.

(The FAA used those caps; I didn’t. I guess they wanted to shout about it.)

So the FAA says to turn on the transponder before you move the aircraft and keep it turned on during flight. The pilot does not wait until the flight is turned over to departure control to turn it on. It’s already on. In fact, it’s one of the ways ground control can track the airliner as it taxis between the runway and the gate.

Note: I was fortunate enough to be able to visit the Phoenix TRACON and tower back March 2012. I got to see the radar screens and their blips firsthand. It’s interesting to note that there are no windows in the TRACON facility. It’s a dark room filled with computer screens. If you’ve seen the movie Pushing Tin, which was mentioned in the podcast, you’ll get the idea.

So although the podcast guys made a big deal over the fact that ground controllers are only one of two kinds of controllers that can use binoculars, the reality is that only ground controllers and tower controllers have windows to look out of. They’re the only ones close enough to the airplanes they guide to actually see them.

To say that activating the transponder “makes you the little blip on the radar” is misleading. Radar does not need a transponder to see aircraft traffic. After all, do you think fighter planes use transponders when they’re out on patrol or attack? If a transponder was required to put an aircraft on radar, there would be no need for stealth technology. Instead, radar works by bouncing radio waves off objects. It doesn’t need a transponder signal. The transponder simply makes it easier for ATC radar equipment to find targets and provides additional information to ATC.

While it’s true that a radar blip might include an airliner’s flight number, this information is not sent by the transponder. The transponder sends the discrete squawk code assigned to the airplane from its flight plan. The ATC computer equipment looks up the code in the flight plan database and provides the information from the flight plan on the blip.

Josh is partially right when he says that the blip is how they find you if you crash. The transponder helps keep the aircraft on radar. Radar tracks where you are. But there comes a point — especially in remote or mountainous terrain — when radar coverage is limited. If you are flying too low, you can literally fly “below the radar” and not be tracked. Helicopter pilots commonly fly this low — that’s why its so difficult to get flight following in certain areas. An airliner should never be that low, but if it’s having trouble, it may disappear off radar before an actual crash. So although a transponder and the resulting radar blip can help locate a downed aircraft, it doesn’t guarantee that it’ll be found. Think about Steve Fossett. His plane likely had a transponder, yet he wasn’t found for well over a year after his crash.

Chuck and Josh are completely wrong when they suggest that the black box is part of the transponder. It’s not. They’re two completely separate devices. The transponder sends live information to ATC as an aircraft moves around on the ground and in the sky. Most aircraft have them. The black box is a virtually indestructible device that records data during an aircraft’s operation and stores it in the event of a mishap. Only aircraft providing certain air transportation services have them. For example, although I have a transponder on my helicopter, I don’t have a black box.

It’s interesting to me that the guys got this so wrong when the How Stuff Works website actually has an article called “How Black Boxes Work.” Maybe they should have read it?

Other Things

In listening again to parts of the podcast — mostly to find the passage quoted above — I heard other things that weren’t quite right. That bugs me. It calls into question the rest of the podcast — the stuff I don’t already know for sure. It also calls into question other podcasts that these guys do. How factual are they?

When I’m listening to a podcast titled “Stuff You Should Know,” I expect it to be factual, not conjectural. If these guys are guessing about something, they should make it clearer that it’s a guess. To state that a pilot activates a transponder after the aircraft is enroute and handed off to departure control is an incorrect statement of fact. To say “I think” a transponder is part of the black box helps identify it as conjecture or a guess, but is there really any place for guesses in a podcast like this?

Or am I expecting too much?