Tag Archives: Phoenix

Strangers Know My Name

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And that’s kind of spooky.

The other day, on my flight from Page, AZ (PGA) to Phoenix Deer Valley Airport (DVT), an odd thing happened. I was about 12 miles out, coming down through the mountains near New River on the east side of I-17 when I caught sight of a low-flying aircraft ahead of me. The tiny dot in the distance moved left to right in front of my flight path at about my altitude. When it made a sharp turn, I knew it was a helicopter.

I was tuned into the helicopter air-to-air frequency, 123.025, and keyed my mic. “Helicopter over New River, are you on frequency?”

Nothing. Repeating this call twice also brought no response. In the meantime, it appeared that the helicopter was circling in that area. It couldn’t be a media helicopter; they monitor the helicopter frequency. Who was it, what were they doing, and — most important — did they see me?

I started to climb. That in itself was odd. Normally, when I see traffic in my vicinity, I descend to avoid it. But this guy seemed as if he were looking at something on the ground. As he moved from right to left, I veered off a bit to the right, planning to either pass behind him or into his view if he turned again.

I had the helicopter’s nosecam running and just inspected the video. It reminds me that I was flying into the low-lying winter sun for most of the flight; this clip was from about 11:30 AM. The other helicopter is almost impossible to see because of the wide angle lens exaggerating distances, but as the video progresses, I can clearly the the flash its blades as the sunlight reflects off them at certain bank angles. Here’s a capture from the movie with an inset blowup of one of those flashes; he was 2-3 miles away at this point:

Traffic

He didn’t turn. He continued to the left, eastbound, out of my path of flight. I resumed normal navigation, keeping an eye on him to make sure he didn’t come back. He didn’t. Instead, he began heading south about a mile east of me, slightly higher. I could see from the shape of his helicopter that he wasn’t flying a Robinson or a Hughes. It could have been a JetRanger.

Meanwhile, I was nearing Deer Valley and had listened to the ATIS on my second radio. I was about 7 miles out and ready to call in when another helicopter called in, using the same position report I’d use: “7 miles north.” Unless there was another helicopter right behind me, it had to be the guy I’d been watching. He was going to the north hangars, which is a huge group of hangars on the northeast side of the runways. The tower responded, telling him to report a mile out.

I called in immediately with basically the same call but to the Atlantic ramp, which is on the south side of the runways. I added: “I have the other helicopter in sight.” I was told to report a mile north and expect a midfield crossing at 2,000 feet. The usual.

The tower frequency was unusually quiet, but the controller did talk to one or two other pilots. Then the other helicopter came on. “Helicopter 1-2-3 (I can’t remember its real tail number and wouldn’t use it anyway) is just crossing Carefree Highway.” There was a pause and then he added, “Maria.”

He was talking to me. On the tower frequency. Creepy.

A little surprised, I spoke up, “Helicopter Zero-Mike-Lima has you in sight.” What I later realized is that he still didn’t see me and was trying to get me to tell him where I was in relation to him. I should have added, “I’m at your two o’clock low,” which is where I was, still at least a half mile away. But I was a bit frazzled by a stranger speaking to me directly, by name, on the tower frequency.

Hell, wouldn’t you be?

But was he a stranger? Maybe I did know him. But I couldn’t think of anyone I knew who owned a helicopter like that. If he’d been landing on the south side, it could have been a media or medevac helicopter and then I might know the pilot, but he wasn’t. He was landing at the rental hangars on the north. That meant his helicopter was likely privately owned or he was visiting someone up there. Who was it? Beats me.

A minute or two later, he called again, “Deer Valley Tower, Helicopter 1-2-3 has the red Robbie in sight.”

(Why does it bug me just a tiny bit when other helicopter pilots refer to Robinsons as Robbies?)

Then I was making my call a mile out and getting instructions to cross midfield at 2,000 feet. I was making my spiraling descent on the other side of the runway when the other helicopter reported a mile out and got his instructions to land.

And that was the last I heard from him.

Of course, all this reminds me that the helicopter community is a small world where most folks know most other folks. Of all the helicopter pilots out there, how many are women? Likely 5% or less. Of all the female helicopter pilots, how many are flying red Robinson R44 helicopters in the Phoenix area? Probably just one: me.

And it’s a lot easier to remember the name of the one oddball in the pack than every other pilot out there.

I just wish I knew who was flying the other helicopter.

The Golf Ball Drop

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Good thing I don’t play golf.

Yesterday at about noon, I did another golf ball drop from my helicopter. It was my second ever. The first didn’t come off all that well.

The event was at a golf course about 3 miles off the approach end of Phoenix Sky Harbor runways 25 L/R. I’d called the tower the day before to tell them what I’d be up to and make sure it wouldn’t be a problem. (The ATC folks at Sky Harbor tower are great.) At the time of the event, planes were taking off on runway 8 (north side of the airport, farthest runway from where I was) and landing on runways 7 L/R. I was cleared to cross the extended centerline and then let the tower controller know when I was landing, doing the drop (low level), and ready to depart again. The whole time I was flying, I was listening to airliners departing from the runway; I was never told to switch to the south tower frequency.

Golf Course Location

Golf Ball Drop

Hovering over the drop zone.

I did much better at this drop than the last one. The conditions were good. The drop zone was on the driving range for a golf course in Tempe. Although there were some serious wires to the north, there were no obstructions near where I had to drop. That means I didn’t have to climb above any obstructions for the drop (which is what messed me up last time). Winds were light out of the east, so there was no pedal dancing — I was able to point the helicopter’s nose right toward the spectators for the entire flight.

Although I’d originally been told to expect 900-1100 golf balls, we only had about 400 on board. They all fit in a box. We cut three of the box’s four flaps off, leaving the drop guy, who was provided by the client, with a handle he could use to hold the box while dropping. (This was the drop guy’s first time in a helicopter. Too bad it was such a short and boring flight.)

This time, we dropped out of the door behind mine. This made it possible for me to see exactly where the balls were falling. (Duh.)

My instructions were to drop between a big red flag and a smaller red flag at the cup. The folks who ran the show expected the balls to roll down the hill from the big flag toward the cup.

Golf Ball Drop

Dropping golf balls over a driving range in Tempe.

I was in about a 150-foot hover over the drop zone. When it looked as if the balls weren’t going to roll, I hovered sideways, right over the cup. The shower of balls came much closer. I didn’t see any balls go in, but a bunch of them gathered around the cup. One sat right on its lip. There would be a winner but no in-the-cup winner.

Afterwards, I landed and exchanged the ball dropper guy for my ground crew helper, a Black Hawk pilot named Jonathan who’d come along for the ride. Jonathan took the in-flight photos you see here.

Next time, I’m sure I’ll make the hole.

Hitching a Ride in a Helicopter

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Looking back, I realize this was a bit over the top.

I’ve been wanting to blog this story, but a lot of time has gone by and it’s a bit stale in my mind. It is something I want to journalize so I can remember it in years to come. Since that’s mostly what this blog is about, and because a Twitter friend showed some interest in reading it, here it is.

It was April and I was planning to spend a few days down in our Phoenix apartment. I’d already paid for my monthly hangar rental down at Deer Valley Airport (DVT) and figured I’d fly the helicopter down and put it in the hangar in case I got any calls for flights while I was down there.

My faithful Toyota was sitting in the airport parking lot, waiting for me. A true “airport car,” I left it there so I’d have something to drive when I flew in. My to do list for the upcoming month included driving it home and stowing it for the summer, when it wasn’t needed. (No sense in letting the poor thing rot out in the sun.)

I pulled the helicopter out of my Wickenburg hangar with a golf cart I have just for that purpose and parked it on the ramp. I unhooked the tow gear and disconnected the ground handling wheels. I put the golf cart and tow bar away. I parked my Jeep in the hangar, too, and locked it all up. I was good to go.

I did my preflight and climbed on board. A few minutes later, the engine was running and the blades were spinning.

And then my Aux Fuel light came on. The circuit breaker had popped out.

Let me take a moment to explain what this means. A Robinson R44 Raven II is fuel injected. It has two fuel pumps. One is the engine-driven pump which is the primarily means of feeding the engine when the engine is running. The other is the auxiliary fuel pump, an electric pump that’s used to prime the engine and as a back up in the unlikely event that the engine-driven pump fails. It’s a secondary system. If it fails in flight, the helicopter will continue to run.

I have a history with Zero-Mike-Lima’s auxiliary fuel pump dating back to the day after I picked it up at the factory. Back then, I educated myself about the system to troubleshoot a popping circuit breaker problem. My thorough knowledge of the fuel system helped me out on an FAA check ride 2 years later when the circuit breaker popped again. I got the fuel pump replaced right after that incident, when the helicopter was only two years old.

The fuel pump had begun giving me problems a few weeks before — but I didn’t recognize it, at first, as a problem. Circuit breaker had popped during a tour in the Phoenix area. I (incorrectly, it appears) assumed that the front seat passenger had knocked the circuit breaker out with her sandals. Okay, so it was a stupid assumption, but since it didn’t pop again when I pushed it back in, what else could I assume?

On another flight a week or so later, it happened again. That’s when I realized the pump was acting up again and would likely need replacement soon. Fortunately, I still had the old one. I did some checking around and learned that the manufacturer could rebuild it for about 60% of the cost of a new one. Since saving $600 on a like-new part sounded like a good idea to me, I sent it off to be rebuilt and kept my eye on the situation.

Well, the situation came to a head that day on the ramp at Wickenburg. As I sat there, blades spinning, looking at that warning light, a few thoughts went through my mind:

  • If I flew down to Deer Valley, there was no one there to fix the fuel pump. If it completely failed, the helicopter would be stuck there.
  • If I left the helicopter in Wickenburg, my mechanic there could replace the fuel pump when the rebuilt one arrived. After all, he’d replaced the last one.
  • I really didn’t want to drive down to Phoenix. I already had a car there and my husband, Mike, already had two cars down there. Besides, it was a long drive.

I knew what I should do. I cut the throttle, flicked the Clutch switch off, and shut down.

While I was doing this, a helicopter flew in to the airport and landed at the fuel island. It was a MD helicopter that looked like a 500. I didn’t know who it belonged to, so it wasn’t someone local. That meant when the pilot was done fueling, he’d likely leave. It was late in the day. Maybe he’d go home. He was flying a helicopter. There are lots of helicopters based at Scottsdale, which is near Deer Valley. Maybe Deer Valley was on the way home for him. Maybe he could drop me off.

This gives you an idea of the way I think. I have a problem, I immediately consider all kinds of options — including wacky ones — as a solution.

Could I ask a perfect stranger to fly me to Deer Valley Airport in his helicopter?

Nah.

My blades slowed to a stop. I got out and looked at that helicopter by the fuel island.

Why not?

I walked over to the pilot, who was now out, messing with the hose. He was about my age — maybe a bit older — and looked friendly and easy-going in jeans and a casual shirt. He reminded me a bit of the two Hughes 500 pilots who lived in Wickenburg. Regular guys who just happened to own turbine helicopters.

After the usual, “Hi, how are you doing?” greeting, I asked, “Where are you based?”

“Stellar,” he replied. Stellar Air Park was a private residential/commercial airport in Chandler, south of Phoenix. Wickenburg was north of Phoenix. This was looking promising.

“You’re not going home from here, are you?”

“Well, I was just out tooling around the desert. Why? What do you need?”

I explained my situation.

Before I could ask for a lift, he said “Sure, I can drop you off at Deer Valley.”

“That would be great. I just need to put the helicopter away.”

I hurried back to my hangar and fetched my tow gear. Ten minutes later, the helicopter and tow gear was all put away again and the hangar was locked. I left my Jeep parked on the ramp outside my hangar door. I got to the helicopter at the fuel island just as the pilot finished fueling.

We introduced ourselves and he told me to hop in.

I climbed on board. It really was a climb. 500s have long legs. I maneuvered into the passenger seat with the cyclic stick between my knees and stowed my small bag behind me. He climbed in the other side.

The aircraft’s panel looked brand new, with glass cockpit instrumentation. I said something idiotic like, “Great panel. Did you have it redone?”

“No. The helicopter is new.”

That’s when I realized it wasn’t the same model as the Hughes 500s my friends flew. Theirs dated from the 1970s.

“It’s not a 500?” I asked.

MD 500f

This wasn’t the helicopter I flew in, but this is the same model. Photo from the MDHelicopters Web site.

“No. It’s a 530.”

I sat back as he started up. First, the rapid click-click-click of the igniter. Then the woosh as the jet fuel lit. Then the familiar whine as the jet engine spun up and the blades picked up speed over our heads. If there’s one thing I like about turbine helicopters, it’s the sound of the engine startup and the smell of burning JetA.

The flight to Deer Valley was uneventful. We talked about mutual friends — he knew one of my Hughes 500 pilot friends in Wickenburg and had heard of the other. We talked about places to fly. He was also an airplane pilot and had already flown much of the state — and then some. There was no place new I could suggest.

He offered to let me fly but I turned him down.

He was smooth on the controls and had the same low-flying habit the rest of us desert explorers have. (Once we know where the wires are, it’s not uncommon for us to cruise just a couple hundred feet over the empty desert floor.) He told me he’d never flown into Deer Valley, so I filled him in on what I usually do and where I park. He came in from the north, crossed over the top as instructed by the tower, and set down on one of the two helipads in front of the terminal. I grabbed my bag from the back, thanked him several times, and climbed out. He lifted off just as I got to the terminal gate.

It wasn’t until later that I gave the whole thing some serious thought. Did this qualify as hitchhiking? If so, what would my mother say?