Dave was eager for me to share his love of flying. In order to encourage me, he not only offered to teach me to fly, but he also offered to give free lessons to my friends Sandi and Gary Ross. As we went through ground school and flight instruction together, we soon became a nifty little flying club of four.
Dave had the flying bug, and as far as he was concerned, he did not mind spreading the contagion. Dave’s enthusiasm was infectious. He made his classes fun, so much so that we began to believe we could become certified pilots.
From the beginning, our instructor stressed that a safe pilot always flies by the numbers on his altitude indicator. That means to be aware of the plane’s altitude in relationship to the ground. Repeatedly he said, "If the numbers aren’t right, take an alternate course or don't fly the plane.” Good for our instructor; he was teaching his students how to be old pilots rather than bold pilots.
In August of 1972, the Bücher had an engine failure on the way back from an air show in Penticton, BC. He did a dead-stick landing onto a mountain road in the Cascade Mountains near Welcome, Washington. Nonetheless, as he was on rollout, he had to cross a bridge where there wasn’t enough clearance. A reflector caught his lower wingtip and flipped the plane into the air and down on its nose in a ditch. The poor Bücher looked like a crumpled gangly bird as it sat in a heap waiting to be rescued. By looking at this picture, you can see that it was a miracle that Dave had not been hurt. Dave’s quip to the Bellingham Herald was that it felt like he was doing a Lomchevak.
Despite the crash, his story underscored the importance of safety and experience in flying.
Dave had the flying bug, and as far as he was concerned, he did not mind spreading the contagion. Dave’s enthusiasm was infectious. He made his classes fun, so much so that we began to believe we could become certified pilots.
From the beginning, our instructor stressed that a safe pilot always flies by the numbers on his altitude indicator. That means to be aware of the plane’s altitude in relationship to the ground. Repeatedly he said, "If the numbers aren’t right, take an alternate course or don't fly the plane.” Good for our instructor; he was teaching his students how to be old pilots rather than bold pilots.
In August of 1972, the Bücher had an engine failure on the way back from an air show in Penticton, BC. He did a dead-stick landing onto a mountain road in the Cascade Mountains near Welcome, Washington. Nonetheless, as he was on rollout, he had to cross a bridge where there wasn’t enough clearance. A reflector caught his lower wingtip and flipped the plane into the air and down on its nose in a ditch. The poor Bücher looked like a crumpled gangly bird as it sat in a heap waiting to be rescued. By looking at this picture, you can see that it was a miracle that Dave had not been hurt. Dave’s quip to the Bellingham Herald was that it felt like he was doing a Lomchevak.
Despite the crash, his story underscored the importance of safety and experience in flying.
Broken Bird
My First Solo Flight
I never thought I would actually fly solo. I never felt I was ready. One day as we were flying the pattern, Dave was speaking in a flat monotone voice as he repeated his instructions over and over again. We turned on final and did a dead-stick landing with the power off. We always did a dead-stick landing. Dave said reflectively, “You never know when you might lose power.”
Dave assured me one particular day, as I was practicing the flight pattern, that I was ready to solo. Then he added, with his convincing true-blue eyes, “Of course, you don’t have to solo if you don’t feel you’re ready.”
Well, of course I wasn’t ready! In my mind, I would never be ready. Therefore, I took that as a promise, a vow, and a pledge. Then, unexpectedly, after a landing rollout he had me come to a full stop - on the runway. He opened the door and climbed out of the plane. With a shocked look on my face, I said, "What are you doing? You said I didn't have to solo if I didn’t think I was ready."
His lips widened into a big grin as he said to me, “I lied.”
He said not to worry; I would hear him talking me through it as I flew the landing pattern. With my heart pounding, I gingerly took off, climbed to five hundred feet, and made my climbing turn to the left. As I leveled off at one thousand feet, upwind of the runway, I saw him still standing at the intersection looking up at me. Puzzled, I thought to myself, What is he doing standing there on the tarmac? How can I hear him from there? He was going to have to run back to the terminal if he was going to talk me through this on the UNICOM radio. I was thinking, If he doesn’t hurry, I’ll be on final before he gets to the office.
Well, of course, I heard him. I heard him loud and clear. He had repeatedly given the same exact instructions as I practiced my flying skills. His repetitive monotone voice played repeatedly in my head, just as if he were still sitting next to me:
"Slowly push the throttle full in. Use the rudders to head down the centerline of the runway. Pull back on the yoke gently at sixty-five miles per hour. Climb to five hundred feet. Make a climbing turn to the left. Climb to one thousand feet. Level off. Adjust the power setting. Maintain straight and level flight. Abeam the runway numbers; pull back on the carburetor heat. Pull the power off. Re-trim the elevators three turns toward you. Maintain your descending glide speed at seventy-five miles per hour. Make a gentle descending left turn at eight hundred feet. Bring your nose up gently. Hold it off. Hold it off. Wait for the baby to cry. Touch down on the numbers. Add power, and taxi off the runway." ["the baby to cry"... that was the stall horn.]
Yes! It was a perfectly executed landing, and the baby let out a loud wail. I was on my way to becoming a real pilot. The time had come to C-E-L-E-B-R-A-T-E!
Flight Training in the San Juan Islands, Washington State
It couldn't get any better!
Fortunately, my flight training stage was at sea level over the beautiful San Juan Islands. There in the Pacific Northwest the air was usually cool and crisp. There was no sluggishness. First on my mental checklist was not to let the arresting scenic beauty of the area distract me.
The San Juans are nestled, like an embryo, inside the Olympic Mountain Range in Washington State. They join the Gulf Islands, which lay inside mammoth Vancouver Island in Canada. One tiny island, Cactus Island, has a small set of train tracks guiding a little steam engine around its coastline. On sunny and fair days, the boater or sky-flier can see it chugging along with its cheery engineer tugging the whistle and blowing smoke rings. A few years ago the whole of Cactus Island was for sale for one million dollars—hmm, tempting.
At high tide, there are about 750 islands, and hundreds more surface at low tide. Vigilant marine chart reading is imperative in order to navigate around the hundreds of sub-surface rocks that become islands at low tide. Too often boats go aground by unwary captains.
On any given day one can fly with the eagles. The area of the San Juan Islands is an eagle preserve. There have been times when I’ve counted as many as fifteen eagles sitting in their nests when low ceilings kept them home featherbedding their little ones. Considering their weather wisdom, I probably should have been doing the same.
After I got my pilot’s license, I started adding to my PIC (Pilot in Command) time. The good news was that now I could take passengers with me.
At nine dollars an hour for a Cessna 150, I enjoyed sharing the scenic adventure of the islands with my friends. Once, I invited a friend to fly with me out to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island for lunch. How cool was that? I was proud and she was duly impressed!
On our return to the Bayview Airport, however, I almost had my hair scared straight when on final for a touchdown. Dave, who was more confident of my flying skills than I was, suddenly flew up alongside us in his Bücher and waved with a big glinting smile! That scared me. I would say that was a maverick in action. He certainly heard about it when we both landed, but he just laughed it off and enjoyed the prank.
Dave used the straight coastline of Alexander Beach on Fidalgo Island as a guide when practicing his aerobatic maneuvers; even then, he drew a crowd. People would hear the sound of the Bücher’s engine resonating across the water, and it would draw them out as admiring spectators.
The view is breathtakingly beautiful with the Olympics to the west, the San Juan Islands beneath, and the Cascade Mountain Range to the east. On a clear day, you can see all five of Washington State’s sleeping volcanoes. Looking north, you can see Mount Baker with its steam vents perking. Mid-state is Glacier Peak, looking like the topping on a lemon meringue pie. Mount Rainier, near Seattle, is the volatile sleeping giant that is overdue for its 550-year eruptive cycle. To the east is Mount Adams, stretching with a slough of mudslides. Then, just north of the Oregon border is Mount St. Helens, which at the time had a nearly perfect cone top.
Having such a practice arena provided Dave with contrasting scenery and many different points of reference, not to mention enjoying the spectacular views!
Bonding with Super Glue
As I flew my little Cessna 150 northward, I gathered in a great panoramic view of the sparkling waters of the San Juans and the Canadian Rockies. I knew I was one of the lucky ones living amid the crown jewels of the Northwest. I’ve never taken that beautiful sight for granted. Indeed, I was a happy pilot as I pivoted 360s around a lighthouse and made flowing S turns above Interstate 5.
Sandi and Gary were having as much fun as I was. We cracked the books together, tested, and teased each other incessantly on the ground school material. Being as chicken-hearted as we were, we made sure we were building excellent flight habits. They were just the friends I needed.
Sandi wasn’t necessarily eager to get her wings. She just loved the wild aerobatic rides. Doing aerobatic stunts in the Bücher with Dave at the controls suited her like some of the spicy Mexican dishes she cooked up. I don’t know how you could have made her any happier than by sticking her in an open-cockpit biplane, strapping her inside the fuselage, and then flying a bunch of aerobatic stunts.
Look at the thrilling smile on Sandi's face!
Sandi Ross, High Flight in the Bücher