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An Excellent Weekend

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And it ain’t over yet.

Flying M Air’s second big weekend of the season started on Friday morning, with a call from a man who wanted to charter the helicopter. The weather was cloudy and it had rained earlier in the morning. Although he wanted to go to Sedona with his daughter, he’d settle for Tucson. He decided to wait and see what the weather was like closer to noon.

When I hung up, I started doing some research on the weather. There’s no weather forecast specifically for Sedona, but I checked Flagstaff and Prescott, which are on either side of Sedona. (Sedona is closer to Flag.) Things in Flag didn’t look good. Clouds, thunderstorms, wind with gust up to 27. It looked like there might be a window of opportunity (so to speak) between 11 AM and about 3 PM. But even that was suspect — a forecast like the one I was reading usually doesn’t hold out. It seemed to me that multiple weather systems were going through the area, west to east, and that anything could happen.

But ceilings were forecast high enough for me to fly. I only need 500 feet AGL to get from point A to Point B — “clear of clouds” is what the weather minimums say for helicopters — and the forecast told of clouds at 2,000 feet AGL. That’s certainly enough room for me to move around beneath them.

Things looked better at Prescott. Higher clouds, earlier clearing, less talk of T-storms and wind gusts. But of course, Sedona is closer to Flag.

I worked for a while on my QuickBooks book, did some e-mail, goofed off on eBay. Then I got a call from Stan, who was back from a trip to Portugal. Stan’s Latte Cafe — my nickname for his hangar and its professional espresso machine — was opening for business in a while. Did I feel like a Latte? I certainly didn’t feel like working. So I hopped in the Honda (which I’d just picked up from a nice detailing that morning) and sped on over to the airport.

I wasted a good hour there, then headed over to my hangar to do some paperwork and collect the camera mount I’d bought for the helicopter. I wasn’t happy with the way the mount attached and had thoughts of going to Benner-Nauman (the local fabrication place) and having a custom piece built. I also had to drive out to Congress to put up some posters for the $25 helicopter rides I planned the next day.

I was just heading out toward Congress when my potential customer called again. I told him what I’d learned about the weather, but added that I’d checked more than two hours ago and the forecast could have changed. He was very interested in Sedona and I was very interested in taking him. He and his daughter, who were from out of town, had driven up I-17 as far as Carefree Highway and he wanted to know whether there was somewhere around there that I could pick them up. I told him about Turf Soaring School, near Carefree Highway, and he said they’d head over there. I told him I’d check the weather again and get ready. If he didn’t hear from me, I’d meet him at 2 PM or sooner.

That began a flurry of activity. Checking weather (which did indeed look better), creating my Part 135 flight plan, filing two flight plans with the FAA (one for each leg of the trip), picking up Alex at work, bringing him home, dressing in something more appropriate for flying customers around, pulling the helicopter out of the hangar, fueling up, preflighting, starting up, warming up, and flying down to Turf.

Turf is about 30 miles from Wickenburg and I made it there in .3 hours. I got there 1:45 PM, set down, cooled down, and shut down. My customer, Tony, and his daughter, Angela, were pleasant people who had already flown many times in R44s. Tony, in fact, was a part owner of one and, with his partner and a flight instructor, operated a small flight school in the Detroit area where he lived. After a quick safety briefing, we climbed aboard. Tony volunteered to sit in back. I didn’t think he’d have enough room back there — he was a pretty big guy — but he later told me that the back seat was very comfortable and had good visibility. (It was his first time in the back; I’ve still never sat in the back of an R44.)

We flew to Sedona via Lake Pleasant and I-17. My passengers found the flight interesting — the terrain was so different from their home. The further north we got, the cloudier it got. We could see rain showers off to our right or left and flew through some rain once right before reaching Sedona. The ceilings were high enough and the air was pretty smooth, considering the look of those low, puffy clouds. Things at Sedona were pretty quiet — it was, after all, a Friday, and clouds tend to scare off most Arizona pleasure pilots. I called the FBO for a taxi as I set down on the helipad and the FBO guy came out in a pickup truck to get my passengers. I walked to the terminal in the light drizzle that was falling. My passengers were already gone when I got there.

I ordered fuel, said hello to the few folks I remembered from my back-to-back Sedona flights in late July, and headed over to the restaurant. It was the first time I ever sat inside there. Usually, I sit out on the patio in the shade. But the rain had closed down the patio. I settled down with my book (I’m currently reading The Name of the Rose) and had lunch. Tony would call when they were ready to come back, sometime around 4 PM.

They didn’t last that long. I’d just finished lunch when he called. He said the taxi would take them right to the helicopter, so I hustled up to pay for lunch, pay for fuel (which was actually cheaper than in Wickenburg), and head out to the helicopter.

I had just finished stowing my stuff and checking the oil when my cell phone rang. It was my contact at one of the local guest ranches. She had five people who wanted desperately to go to the Grand Canyon. Could I help? I made a phone call to try to get a second helicopter to take the extra two guests. Then we climbed on board and, after a quick tour of Sedona’s red rocks — looking dramatic but not terribly red in the cloudy weather — headed back to Turf.

After dropping off my passengers (and collecting payment), I flew right back to Wickenburg. It was after 5 PM when I set down on one of the helipads. I was driving home when I started checking messages on my cell phone. My contact at the ranch had called again. So had the guy I’d called to try to get another helicopter. I waited until I got home, then called the guy to get the helicopter story first. Because they’d have to ferry the helicopter from their base of operations (30 minutes from Wickenburg), it would cost my passengers $2,700 for the round trip flight from Wickenburg to the Grand Canyon. Ouch!!! Their hourly rate was $550 (for comparison, I get $395 from Wickenburg and $495 from the Valley but don’t charge for ferry time) and they expected it to take 2.5 hours each way. I charge a flat rate of $995 from Wickenburg to the Grand Canyon and back. So the total, including tax, for both helicopters would be nearly $4,000. For five people. And neither of us were allowed to fly over the canyon (at reasonable altitudes), so the passengers would still have to shell out $75 per person for their tours. Egads.

I called my contact at the ranch and gave her the bad news. She was appalled. I think she realized what a good deal Flying M Air offers passengers. She said she didn’t think the passengers would go for it, but she also said that they were willing to have just 3 passengers go to the canyon. I told her I’d plan on it then and that I’d call her in the morning for the weights and names I needed for my Part 135 manifest.

I called and told the helicopter guy that it was a no-go for him. I also told him that they might want to consider coming up with some kind of industry rate so I could use them in the future. $550 per hour with $550 going right to ferry time is insane.

Then I had to juggle my schedule. The first thing that had to go was the $25 helicopter rides in Congress. It wasn’t a real planned event and no one was really expecting me there. I just thought I’d spend a few hours on the side of the road at the intersection of 71 and 89 with signs up to see how I could do. If I didn’t fly, fine. I had a book to read. And fortunately, I never had an opportunity to put out the posters. But I couldn’t reach my contact by phone because I couldn’t find his phone number in the book. He’s probably still wondering what the hell happened to me.

In the afternoon, I’d been scheduled to help out BC Jeep Tours, the local Jeep tour operator, with a big party they had from the same ranch. I called and asked if Mike could drive instead of me. He’s a better Jeep driver anyway, I told them (and it’s probably true). Cathy said it would be fine and wished me luck on my big charter. Poor Mike was leading a horseback ride in the morning for the Wickenburg Horsemen’s Association. After the ride, he’d have to hurry home with the horses, skipping the lunch they’d planned, so he could be cleaned up, dressed, and in the Jeep at the ranch by 1:30 at the latest.

The next morning, I called my contact at the ranch and got the information I needed about the passengers. If the weights were right (and they weren’t), I’d have a light load. But I never believe weights and assumed they’d weigh more. (Of course, they wound up weighing even more than that, but Zero-Mike-Lima could handle it.) I did all my flight planning and FAA-required stuff, then headed out to the airport.

Stan’s Latte Cafe was open and I joined the crowd there for a latte. Then I preflighted the helicopter, started it up, and flew it over to the fuel island for fuel. Normally, I wouldn’t fly it, but I figured that would be a good way to shorten up the startup time by having the engine pre-warmed before the passengers arrived. The ranch van pulled up to the airport as the fueler was finishing up. I greeted them in the terminal and showed them, on the big chart, where we were going. That’s also when I realized that they were a bit heavier than I’d been told. I was glad I’d taken on less fuel than the flight planning said I could.

My passengers were three German men. One man spoke English very well and was accompanied by his grown son. The other man didn’t speak English very well at all. But all were friendly and in good spirits. I gave them the safety briefing, speaking slowly and using lots of hand motions to make sure they’d all understand. Then we climbed on board. I started up and took off.

I planned to follow a direct route to the Grand Canyon from Wickenburg. The only way I can make money on this fixed-price flight is to keep the flight time as short as possible. Duats calculated flight time as 1 hour and 16 minutes, but that was based on 110 knots. With my heavy load and the climbs necessary to clear the Weaver Mountains and Mogollon Rim near Williams, I was lucky to get 100 knots. The route took us over Yarnell, between Kirkland Junction and Kirkland, east of Skull Valley, West of Granite Mountain and Prescott, west of Chino Valley and Williams, and west of Valle. In fact, much of the ride was over open high desert — mostly deserted ranchland. I pointed out points of interest as I saw them. The men were generally quiet, but occasionally spoke to each other in German. The man who spoke good English usually told me what they were saying or asked me a question related to what they were saying.

It took about 90 minutes to get to the canyon. It was a beautiful day and the air was smooth — until we got to the airport. Then the wind was variable with some small gusts. The tower cleared me to land along the taxiway — with a quartering tailwind — but I didn’t have any trouble with the landing. I set down on the helipad I used to land at when I flew to work at Papillon two summers ago. I cooled down, shut down, and escorted my passengers to the terminal, where they’d board their 12 PM flight on Grand Canyon Airlines.

They weighed in at the counter and that’s when I learned that the “200-lb man” was really a 240-lb man. So I figured that the total weight I was carrying was about 80 pounds more than the ranch folks had told me. I calculated for 40 pounds more. When I ordered fuel, I had only 15 gallons put on. With the airport at nearly 7,000 feet, I wanted to be as light as possible for departure. It least it wasn’t hot — the ATIS claimed 12¬?F.

While waiting for the flight, my passengers broke out their box lunches and I shared it with them. Sandwiches, cheese, fruit, chips, cookies, and lots of bottled water. One of the photographers I knew from Papillon showed up to take pictures. He remembered me and we spent about 20 minutes chatting about things at Papillon and the pilots I’d known there. Then they started boarding. My passengers got on line for their flight and my photographer friend went to work. I settled back in the sun with my book and a bag of chips.

The flight lasted nearly an hour and when my passengers emerged, they flashed thumbs up. We went back into the terminal so they could look at their picture (which they bought) and use the rest rooms. Then we all climbed back into the helicopter. I fired it up, waited a long time while it warmed up, then called the tower and took off. I had a quick beep from the low rotor RPM horn as we started our takeoff run (rusty pilot technique), but we had plenty of power and were soon climbing over the taxiway and then away from the airport.

The helicopter felt heavy at that altitude and vibrated like the R22 used to when I left Grand Canyon Airport with full fuel on board. I could barely get 90 knots at the allowed power setting of 21 inches of manifold pressure. But we had a tailwind and were making well over 100 knots ground speed. I decided to take my passengers back a different way, over Prescott and down the Hassayampa River. I fully admit this was more for me than for them. Flying in a straight line was downright boring.

We descended over the Mogollon Rim west of Williams and the helicopter immediately felt better. More normal, if you know what I mean. Understand that the vibration at higher altitudes when you’re heavy is perfectly normal. Or at least it was to me. I remember my trip in the R22 when I flew around the Grand Canyon Airspace. I had to cross the Kaibab Plateau, where it was necessary to climb to 9600 feet. Even though it was just me and my gear on board and I only had 3/4 tanks of fuel, that poor helicopter vibrated as if it were going to come apart at the seams. (Okay, so I’m exaggerating.) I felt a lot better when I could descend to a more reasonable altitude and the vibrations went back to their normal levels. The R44, on the other hand, has very few vibrations (compared to the R22) so they’re a lot more noticeable when they occur.

Along the way, my passengers showed a keen interest in every rock quarry we passed over or near. I learned that that was their business: making patio blocks out of concrete and rocks. They saw a few antelope just outside of Prescott. We flew around the west side of the airspace because the airport was so busy the controller told us to stay five miles out. Then we passed over the town of Prescott and headed down the Hassayampa River. When we got to the canyon, the man next to me said they were getting their own private tour of a little Grand Canyon.

As we neared Wickenburg, one of the passengers asked if we could fly over the ranch. So I did a fly-by for them. We landed at the airport and the van I’d called for when we were still 8 miles out was waiting to take them back to the ranch. They gathered their belongings, thanked me and paid me, and shook my hand. Nice guys. It was a pleasure to take them.

It’s Sunday morning now and I’m “on call” for the ranch this afternoon. So there might be more flying fun later today. In the meantime, I’ll clean up the helicopter after its two big charters and stay near my cell phone.

Aunt Stella’s Last Flight

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I fly my first ash scattering mission.

I was sitting in Stan’s hangar down in the high-rent district of Wickenburg Airport, enjoying a latte with a bunch of pilots and their wives, when two men and a boy approached us. They were on foot, far from the terminal building, and appeared as if they were on a mission. I wasn’t surprised when they came into the hangar and one of them said, “Maria?”

“That’s me,” I replied, rising. I met them halfway to the table to see what they wanted without disturbing the others.

What they wanted was a pilot who could help them scatter their aunt’s ashes over Vulture Mine. That’s where her husband’s ashes had been scattered, from an airplane, years ago. I asked if they had the permission of the folks who owned Vulture Mine. They told me they didn’t. I told them that I’m sure the owners would say it was okay and that I wasn’t comfortable hovering over private property to scatter ashes without getting the permission. They told me they’d talk to the owners. Then they set up a time for the ceremony: 3 PM that day. And they left.

I rejoined the coffee gang and told them about the assignment. I mentioned that I was heavy on fuel and, because of the time of day and weight of two of the three passengers, I had too much fuel on board. I’d have to siphon some off. Dave offered me his siphon hose and fetched it from his hangar across the way. They we talked about the pilot who had landed very long and very fast in what looked like a King Air and how he must have needed to clean his shorts when he finally got his plane to a stop at the end of the runway.

I went back to my hangar and tried the siphon hose. But I’m a nervous nellie when it comes to sucking gasoline out of a tank, so I went to Stewart Hardware and bought a siphon pump. It was fancier than what I had in mind (which was a hose with a bulb on it) but it did the job. I also bought an 8-foot length of 4″ plastic duct, with the idea of using that to send the ashes on their way, and a long necked oil funnel. I went back to the airport.

The siphon worked fine, although I did manage to get about a pint of fuel on the hangar floor and my right pants leg. 100LL evaporates quickly, so it wasn’t a big deal. I filled my two 5-gallon storage cans and checked my fuel gauges. Much better.

Then I started fooling around with the hose. About an hour later, I had it secured at the vent for the door behind mine — opposite the tail rotor, of course. The vent was completely sealed off with white duct tape and the bottom end of the duct was attached to the skid, right in front of the front leg.

Oh, did I mention that I had to run back to Stewart Hardware for duct tape and wire ties? I did.

Why all this bother? Well, any pilot can tell you stories about ash scatterings and none of the stories are pleasant. Most have the deceased’s ashes coming back into the aircraft or, worse yet, flying around inside the aircraft when the container is opened in preparation for the scattering. I didn’t want these people’s aunt in my hair or my carpet. She deserved better than that. So I had to come up with a solution for getting her out without 1) causing a hazard to the aircraft and 2) getting all over the inside of the aircraft.

I looked at my ductwork design. I started imagining the helicopter in flight, doing 80 knots. I imagined the plastic duct tearing off. I imagined looking very unprofessional in front of my clients.

There had to be a better solution.

I made a phone call to Guidance Helicopters in Prescott to give them my credit card number for a 100-hour inspection I’d had done the week before. “Is John there?” I asked when I was done. I was told he was out on a flight. “Tell him that I called and that I’m doing my first ash scattering mission. Tell him I’d appreciate any advice he has.”

The guy who answered the phone told me what he knew about it. It seems that he was a CFI doing duty on Fridays at the desk. He advised using a paper bag and suggested that I put an M-80 in it so it explodes in the air, scattering the ashes. I hope he wasn’t serious.

I’d already decided on a bag. I’d sew one up out of fabric. We’d put the ashes in and I’d attach it to the skid. One of the passengers would hold the top closed, using a drawstring. At the right time, he’d pull out the drawsting and push out the bag. The ashes would go out the bag.

I needed to make a bag. So I locked up my hangar and drove to Alco, where I bought some flowery fabric, ribbon, fishing weights, glue remover, and two other things I didn’t need but bought anyway. I went home, took out my sewing machine and ironing board, and sewed up the bag, hand-stitching fishing weights into the top end, out of sight behind a hem. It looked pretty and functional. I drove back to the airport and, while I was on the road, doing about 40 miles per hour, dangled the bag out the window. It whipped around dangerously. I started to realize that the weights might cause more harm than good.

I showed the bag to Ed Taylor, my Wickenburg mechanic. He’d been in on every step of the process and had cut the funnel for me for the original design. Twice. He admired the bag but seemed doubtful about the way it would work. I was already doubtful.

I took the ductwork off the helicopter and cleaned off the duct tape residue with the glue remover. I fiddled around with how the bag would attach to the helicopter. I didn’t like any of the methods.

Plan C began to look like the only obvious solution. A paper bag. Toss it out with the top open and the ashes should scatter. But it couldn’t be any old bag — like Ed’s lunch bag. It had to be a pretty bag. I hopped back in the Jeep and drove to Osco.

By now, of course, the day was more than half gone. It was 2:00 PM and the clients were expected in an hour. I was nervous about the flight, primarily because I wasn’t sure about the solution.

I looked around Osco for a pretty paper bag and came up empty. Then I tried Alco. Bingo. They had a bunch of very pretty little shopping bags, designed for gift giving. I picked one with colorful flowers, paid for it, and started back to the airport. Again.

My cell phone rang. It was John Stonecipher. He told me the best thing to do was to put the ashes in a paper bag, bring the helicopter into an out-of-ground effect hover over the site, and toss out the bag. The bag would open and the ashes would scatter. No danger to the helicopter, no messy remains in your face. Although he hadn’t used this technique, a friend of his had when scattering the remains of a close friend. John was sure that this was the best way.

That made me feel a lot better. I returned to the airport with the bag and waited for my clients.

When they arrived, they were all dressed up as if they’d just come from…well, a funeral. They were quiet, but in good spirits. But they gave me quite a scare when I saw the little trunk one of the held. It looked as if it were alligator skin and it was large enough to contain about six copies of my latest book (720 pages a pop). My bag was not going to be big enough. But then they opened the trunk and there was a much smaller plastic box inside. It looked as if I still had a chance. And when they opened that box, I breathed a sign of relief. Aunt Stella, as they told me her name was, fit into a small plastic bag. She’d certainly fit in the pretty paper bag I’d bought.

We transferred most of Aunt Stella into the paper bag and one of the men held onto her. The rest of Aunt Stella went back into the plastic box and the alligator skin box and was stored in the trunk of the convertible they were driving. We went over to the helicopter, where it was waiting on the ramp. I’d already taken off the door for the seat behind mine. I gave them a safety briefing, described how we were going to release Aunt Stella, and we climbed aboard. The kid — well, all dressed up, he looked like a young man — sat up front because it was his first helicopter ride. The two men sat in back.

We took off and headed south. I pointed out a few sights of interest, but headed straight toward Vulture Mine, climbing the whole time. I wanted us to be at least 1500 feet up when we took care of business. Aunt Stella’s nephew asked me again how to release the ashes and I told him. Then I brought the helicopter into a high hover, one of the men said a few words, and Aunt Stella was launched.

“Oh, shit!” It was the man who’d tossed Aunt Stella out. “It didn’t open.”

I was watching the bag and saw it fall. It did indeed look as if it hadn’t opened, but I was sure it had. There’s no way it couldn’t have. I think the problem was that we were watching a brightly colored bag tumble through the air and the light colored ashes were just not visible. I assured everyone that the bag had opened. Next time, I won’t use such a bright bag. Then the ashes will be more visible as they scatter.

The bag landed right near Vulture Mine.

I asked if they wanted to circle once, and they said no. So I gave them a little tour of the area. I have a half-hour minimum for flights and this was an opportunity for my youngest passenger to turn a sad day into a positive experience. So we did a modified Grand Tour, returning to the airport about 30 minutes after we’d departed.

My passengers were satisfied, if not happy. They’d honored Aunt Stella’s wishes, to be scattered in the area where her husband’s ashes had been scattered years before. I like to image tiny particles of their remains mingling together right now, on the desert floor.

And, as one of the men said, “We got away cheap. Where else could you bury someone for two hundred bucks?”

The Flying Cowgirl

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I work with a couple of cowboys on a roundup.

The call came over the weekend. A local rancher wanted to know if he could hire me to take him and his son — the cow boss — to look for some stray cattle. I laid down the rules: I can help you look for them, but I can’t move them. No problem, I was assured. We set a date for Tuesday at 6 AM.

I got to the airport at 5:30. I’d left Zero-Mike-Lima out overnight so getting ready for the flight was easy. A quick preflight, remove the pilot door, stow the charts under a seat. The cowboys — Pat and his son Patrick — arrived ten minutes early, but I was ready for them. I gave them a preflight briefing and we decided who would sit where: Patrick beside me and Pat behind me. When I told them I’d stow their hats under the seats, they seemed to pale. “We’ll put them in the truck,” Pat said. Cowboys are very protective of their hats.

I got the whole story from them as I warmed up Zero-Mike-Lima. They’d spent the previous week working on a round up, moving the cattle over to some grazing land near ranch headquarters. This was the OX Ranch (pronounced oh-ex, not ox), which grazes north and south of the Date Creek Mountains, from the town of Congress to Date Creek. Headquarters is on Date Creek, accessible via the unpaved Hillside Road out of Congress. They’d counted up the cattle and thought they might be short some. They knew they were missing three bulls, one of which was crippled. (I think they had another cowboy working on him.) They figured that they could fly the 160,000+ acres of their range and see if they could spot any cattle they’d missed.

We left Wickenburg at about 5:55 AM and headed due north to Congress. Both men commented about the view and how much they could see from the windows. Then, as we flew over the west end of Congress, Patrick started directing me. We were about 200-300 feet up, cruising at around 70-80 knots. Patrick immediately spotted two black heads of cattle. He asked me to circle around so he could see what sex they were and both men agreed they were bulls. (I think it had something to do with the color of their ear tags more than anything dangling in the vicinity of the animals’ back legs.) I continued on a standard search pattern in the area between route 71 and the Date Creek Mountains. Patrick spotted another group of cattle and we circled to get a count: four cows and four calfs. The bulls were obviously doing a good job. A few minutes later, I spotted a bigger group of about a dozen cows and calfs.

Pat, sitting in the back, was thrilled. We’d already found more cattle than they thought they were missing — probably because of all those extra calves.

We kept flying. We saw some more cattle, but they were on the other side of a fence that separates the OX Ranch land from a neighbor’s. By this time, we’d pretty much finished combing the flat area and now needed to search the Date Creek Mountains themselves. It was the north side of the mountains that they were most interested in, and not quite all the way to the top. The Date Creek Mountains aren’t very tall — they rise perhaps 500-1000 feet above the desert floor — but they are very rugged, with huge boulders scattered all over them. We flew along the north side of the ridgeline, passing cattle tanks, windmills, and old mining trails. We didn’t see any more cattle, but we did see some javelina, frightened away by the sound of the helicopter. Then we searched the north slope of the mountains, all the way down to Date Creek. I could see the cattle they’d already rounded up, all penned inside a big field. But no more stray cattle.

Satisfied that we’d found all there was to find, Pat told me to head back to Wickenburg. They could now form a plan to retrieve the cattle we’d found. I imagined them saddling up horses and trailering them out to the Congress area, then mounting up and heading out with their dogs. All the cattle we’d seen were within a few miles of each other, so it probably wouldn’t take more than a day to get them all.

When we landed, Pat told me how pleased he was with what we’d done. In 1.1 hours, we’d accomplished what it would have taken over a week to do on horseback. He assured me that he’d call me again, and asked if I ever did work in Flagstaff, where they had a summer ranch. I told him I wouldn’t be far from there in July and August, at my place at Howard Mesa. I gave him a bunch of cards and told him to tell his friends.

I’d enjoyed the assignment and look forward to doing it again.

A Birthday Flight

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I take a 90-year-old woman, her 88-year-old brother, and her son on a helicopter tour.

I’ve been getting a lot of calls lately from people in Scottsdale, interested in helicopter tours. There’s a charter company down there named Westcor Aviation (associated with the Westcor malls and other real estate ventures) and my very first flight instructor, Paul, works for them as a pilot. They occasionally get calls from people who want to charter a helicopter and get “sticker shock” when they hear the rate: $1,500 per hour. So when asked to recommend other operators in the area, Westcor has begun recommending me, along with the others.

Doing flights out of Scottsdale isn’t exactly good for me. I ask $495 per hour for flights originating in the valley, with a one-hour minimum. But I don’t charge people for the amount of time it takes me to get from Wickenburg to the valley and back again. So I don’t really make much money on these flights. But they’re good experience and they do help pay for the helicopter. And they give me an excuse to fly.

I did one of these flights on Sunday. I’d gotten a call during the week and made arrangements with someone named Brad to fly his grandmother on a tour of the area for her 90th birthday. He’d fill the other two seats, too, and he’d make sure the total weight was below 650 for the three passengers. I just had to meet him at Scottsdale Airport at 10:00 AM.

This worked out well for Mike and I. Mike had gotten Greyhawk Members Club tickets to see the FBR US Open in Scottsdale, which wasn’t far from the airport. The tickets got us entrance to the event as well as entrance to hospitality tents scattered around the course. We could eat and watch the golfing from comfortable, shaded seats — all for free. We figured we’d head over to the course when my flight was finished.

We arrived at Scottsdale Airport about 40 minutes early and got a great parking spot right out in front of the terminal. We went into the restaurant for some weak coffee and a bite to eat and I spent some time reviewing the Phoenix Terminal Area Chart to see where I could take them. At 9:50, I headed out to the lobby to wait for my passengers. There were three young people there and one of them approached me. It was Brad.

I looked at him and his two companions. “I thought you said it was for your grandmother.”

“She’s on her way,” he said.

I tried to review the route I’d planned with him, hoping it would meet his approval. He didn’t seem to care. “She wants to see the Superstition Mountains,” he said.

I wanted to take her up the Salt River, which would take us near the Superstitions but not over them. I didn’t want to fly over or around the Superstitions. It’s rocky, dangerous terrain and I didn’t think it would make for an interesting or comfortable one-hour flight, given the wind conditions and the descending clouds out that way.

“She doesn’t know she’s doing this,” he added.

A while later, his grandmother arrived. With about twenty other people. She was a petite 90-year-old woman. They escorted her up to the window where she could see Zero-Mike-Lima parked on the ramp. “That’s your birthday present,” someone told her.

She was thrilled. They quickly sorted out who would be flying with her: her brother, who I can accurately describe as a little old man, and her son, who was considerably larger. I don’t think their total weight even reached 500 pounds. I escorted them outside to the security door and told them that only one person could accompany us through the gate to take photos. Out at the helicopter, I gave them the safety briefing. I put the birthday girl in the front, her brother behind her, and her son behind me. As I warmed up Zero-Mike-Lima, my passenger’s entourage watched from behind the glass partition.

We departed to the southwest to remain west of Runway 21. Although the controller told me he’d call my turn to the east, he was so busy with other traffic that I was clear of his airspace before he had a chance to. I passed north of Camelback, then headed east toward the Salt River. I skirted the north edge of Falcon Field’s airspace, then continued up the Salt River Canyon.

The desert was absolutely beautiful. I’d never seen it so green. And all the lakes we flew over — Saguaro, Canyon, Apache — were completely filled with water. The sunlight through the low clouds made a patchwork of shade over the entire scene, illuminating some hillsides and rock formations and shadowing others. The Superstitions were clearly visible, just below the clouds, to the south of us, so my passengers got to see what they wanted to, and so much more.

About 0.6 hours out, I made the turn to come back, using my GPS to give me a more direct route. The goal was to make the flight exactly 1.0 hours. Soon we were heading toward Fountain Hills. I looked at the clock on my instrument panel. It was nearly 11 AM. Is it possible that I’d overfly Fountain Hills just as they turned on the fountain? It was. We were still about three miles out when the water started to rise. It was an added bonus for my passengers to see it from the air.

We approached Scottsdale Airport from the west. Fortunately, the controller wasn’t nearly as busy as he’d been when we left and we had no trouble approaching the airport, crossing the runway, and landing right where we’d begun.

My passengers were very pleased with the flight. I was too.

And when the woman’s daughter handed me a check, a little voice in the back of my head reminded me, “And they pay you to do great stuff like this, too.”

Getting Closer

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I have my first official FAA inspection as part of the Part 135 Certification Process.

An FAA inspector from the Scottsdale FSDO came up to visit me in my hangar yesterday. His name is Jim and he’d been up once before, just to introduce himself, when he was passing through on his way to Scottsdale from another airport.

Jim formally inspected my helicopter for compliance with the equipment requirements of Part 135. He came into the hangar, looked over the helicopter from the outside, and poked his head into the cockpit, for a good whiff of that new helicopter smell and a look at the instruments. He spent a considerable amount of time reading the fine print on the fire extinguisher, so he knew exactly what kind it was.

Next, he looked at the Hobbs Book I keep in the helicopter. The book has several sections.

One section lists aircraft time flown, by date. I use the same pages to record revenue, expenses, and fuel and oil added for each flight. I’m trying hard to keep a good record of my direct costs and revenues for this helicopter in an effort to improve my business.

Another section lists upcoming maintenance items by hours due and/or date due. Jim suspected that I may have left out some ADs, but when I checked with Ed later on, the page was correct and complete. I also learned that the annual inspection date is based on the Airworthiness Certificate date for a new aircraft. That means I don’t need an annual until next January (rather than December). AN extra month to keep that money in my pocket. But Jim suggested that I have every 100 hour inspection signed off as an Annual so I don’t get stuck doing an annual only 20 or 50 hours after the previous 100 hour inspection. Makes sense to me.

Another section of the Hobbs book provides a form for listing squawks. A “squawk” is a potential problem with an aircraft that must be resolved before the aircraft can be flown. For example, suppose I find a leak in my gearbox when doing my preflight. I’d write it up and make sure Ed looked at it and took care of it and signed off on it before I flew. Jim liked the form I’d come up with, which was based on a form I found on the Atlanta FSDO’s Web site.

Another section of the Hobbs book is my pilot duty log, a document I’m required to keep for the FAA. My “duty time” is limited by law and the record clearly indicates how many hours I’ve flown to ensure that I don’t fly too much. Not likely in Wickenburg.

The last section of the book has financial stuff: a folder for receipts, calculations of prices with tax (for easier billing), etc.

Next, Jim checked out the documents I store in my new cabinet, including the Maintenance Manual and Log Books. He went through all log book pages — there wasn’t much there in such a new helicopter — and pointed out a recurring item he though I’d omitted from the upcoming maintenance page. (I hadn’t; it was there.) I think he was pleased to see a copy of the 2005 FARs on the shelf, too.

Finished with the official stuff, we chatted about aviation-related things in general. I showed him my new sign and told him I was waiting for certification to hang it up because it includes the word “Charter.” He told me a funny story about a new Stinson pilot he knew years ago who made a Mayday call to the tower at an airport while she was still on the ground. (I tried telling the story to Chris later on (he owns a Stinson) and I mangled it. Some jokes I can tell, others I can’t. This one I obviously couldn’t tell.) Then we shook hands and he left for the long drive back to Scottsdale.

According to Bill, who is in charge of the certification process for me, we’re getting much closer. There are a few things I need to fix in my compliance statement and my MEL needs a lot of work. He has to come up and do a base inspection. I think that means he’ll be coming up to the hangar to make sure I have all my pilot records in order. (Too bad Jim couldn’t do that. But it wasn’t his department.) I also need a check ride with Bill, who was just signed off for R44s. (It’s scary that I’ll have more time in an R44 than my check pilot.) Then the paperwork can be wrapped up. The only thing I still need to do is my drug/alcohol program, and that’s in the works.

If things keep moving along, there’s a good chance I’ll have the certification done by month-end, or at least the end of the first week in February. And then I can hang that new sign.