The Long Road to Giving Back

Public Benefit Flying

I flew my first Angel Flight on July 1, 2026. It was a milestone that was a long time coming.

AOPA (Aviation Owners and Pilots Association) calls this segment of aviation "public benefit flying", which is an apt name. There are many ways that aircraft owners can use their airplanes for the greater good. Examples include flying supplies into areas struck by disaster, ferrying companion animals to new homes across state lines ("The Human Chain: How Dougall Got His Wings"), and transporting medical patients in cases where the journey is a barrier to treatment. The latter is where Angel Flight comes in.

I have been drawn to medical transport flights for as long as I have been aware of them. People suffering from rare or complicated disorders must often travel to treatment centers that specialize in managing their conditions. Sometimes, those medical centers are too far from home for the drive to be reasonable and commercial flights are financially out of reach for the patient. However, general aviation aircraft excel in providing timely regional transport. Several organizations coordinate these services, but one of the best known is Angel Flight, an umbrella organization with multiple regional "wings" operating across the country. Angel Flights are not air ambulance services for emergency transport. Instead, they support qualifying patients with non-urgent, but still important, travel needs who are sufficiently ambulatory to board a light aircraft.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

My first discussion around this kind of flying occurred circa 2005. I was an inexperienced VFR-only pilot that had just become an aircraft owner and I was unprepared when the subject of medical transport flying was raised by my barber. He had been cutting my hair since before I was a pilot, throughout my flight training, and during the process of buying Warrior 481. With clippers in hand, he had listened to stories of my progression over the years. In 2005, his wife needed treatment at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, which was not an easy commute from Kalamazoo, MI. He broached the subject with me while I was sitting in his chair and described how challenging the travel would be for her. "I know that sometimes pilots fly patients in airplanes like yours. Do you think you could fly her in your airplane?"

Moments like these are why the phrase "deer in the headlights" was coined. I was a green aircraft owner with limited cross country experience. Kristy and I had not yet undertaken our foundational "once in a lifetime" (how naive!) flight from South Haven, MI to Fort Myers, FL ("An Aerial Road Trip to Fort Myers or How Kristy Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Airplane"). And it was March in the Great Lakes region, a season fraught with unpredictable weather. I was not routinely conversant with cross country flying and not equipped to manage any significant weather along the way. Even twenty years later and as an experienced instrument rated pilot, making a flight from Kalamazoo, MI to Rochester, MN in March would give me pause. Whether he realized it or not, this was a big ask.

My desire to help was aspirational, but not practical and I realized that it was beyond my capability. There are good reasons why medical transport charities often require their volunteer pilots to hold instrument ratings. I saw such profound dismay in his face when I told him. Though I tried to explain the pitfalls from my perspective as a newbie aircraft owner, I think he was only able to process my refusal to help. His disappointment was so palpable that memory of it still stings twenty years later.

It was the right decision at the time, but I aspired to be better positioned to help someday.

Clipped Wings

In the summer of 2012, I was introduced to the founder of a regional aviation medical transport charity that I will not identify here (the Organization That Shall Not Be Named). We met beneath a scorching sun at the Greatest Show on Turf airshow in Geneseo, NY while World War II aircraft roared overhead. The introduction was made by Ed V, a mutual friend who described me as a proficient pilot and experienced aircraft owner. At this, the fellow's interest was piqued and he squinted at me with a more critical eye. 

"Are you instrument rated?"

I was exactly three lessons into training for my instrument rating and told him so. He reached out to shake my hand and looked me in the eye. "You call me when you have that instrument ticket. We're always looking for good pilots to help our patients get the treatments they need." I was excited by this meeting because it aligned exactly with my aspirations.

Months later, still toiling away on the instrument rating, still occasionally forgetting to start that damn timer on approaches, I asked Ed V how his volunteer medical transport flying was going. Never one to mince words, Ed V practically spat his response.

"Stay away from those guys." He explained that the Organization That Shall Not Be Named frequently put pressure on him to fly missions in weather conditions that he judged unsafe. After butting heads on this point too many times with the very same founder he'd introduced me to, Ed walked away from that organization and ultimately started flying for a regional airline. I knew Ed well and knew that he was someone who liked to help others; he once helped me rescue Warrior 481 after we had to abandon her in Michigan due to weather and came to the rescue again the day Darrell and I had the carburetor fire in Hudson, NY.

Disillusioned and deeply concerned by Ed V's experience, I put my aspirations aside.

Workin' Them Angels

Years passed. My friend Ed C began flying for some of the medical transport charities operating in the northeast, including a pair of Angel Flight wings. Particularly noteworthy to me was that he did not fly for the Organization That Shall Not Be Named and, from what I could see, his experiences appeared to be very positive.

So I asked him about them. It was 2024 and I specifically questioned him about how the organizations operated and their safety cultures. As background for my questioning, I shared the story of the Organization That Shall Not Be Named. Ed C explained that his experiences were not at all like what Ed V described and that there was a tremendous emphasis placed on safety and support for Pilot in Command decision making. Moreover, he validated Ed V's observations by sharing that he once flew with a patient familiar with the Organization That Shall Not Be Named. That patient echoed similar concerns to Ed V.

Over the holidays between 2024 and 2025, I applied to a pair of regional Angel Flight wings. My applications passed muster with both groups and the next step was to provide documentation, including insurance. Because my insurance renews in early March and one of the organizations wanted to be named on my insurance, I waited until I had a new insurance certificate to share.

Before that, March 4, 2025 happened. "You're diabetic. Here, take this drug," said the PA, thus disqualifying me from exercising my existing third class medical certificate for a time ("Warrior 481 Gets a Useful Load Increase"). My biggest project in 2025 was managing the condition, getting off the drug entirely, and switching from a third class medical to BasicMed. Unfortunately, I had gotten it into my head that BasicMed would not qualify me to fly for these organizations and I put the dream aside yet again.

In early 2025, I received a "Hey Chris, whatever happened to you?" query from the coordinator at Angel Flight Northeast. I explained my situation. "I completely understand," the coordinator responded. "I've been down that road myself. But if you're flying on BasicMed, you can absolutely fly for us."

Fantastic! I was in! I collected the rest of the required paperwork, did the necessary on-line training, and qualified as a command pilot for Angel Flight Northeast. As part of my welcome to the organization, I received my very own unique callsign for use when transporting a patient, Angel Flight 1096.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

With the airplane unavailable in early 2026 for annual inspection and avionics installation, by March I was working to familiarize myself with the GTN 650 Xi. Is it still called "buttonology" when there are virtually no buttons? Finally, by April, I was ready to engage

Angel Flight Northeast notifies their volunteer pilots of missions in a website portal, providing information about the date and time, origin and destination airports, and total weight (combined for the patient, anyone accompanying the patient, and luggage). When too many missions remain pilotless too long, the organization sends an email prompt to pilots highlighting unmet needs. In more urgent cases, I receive direct texts about missions in search of pilots. While I don't know the specific algorithm used for these direct texts, they seem to target immediate needs for flights with origin or destination airports close to home.

I perused the portal, read the emails, and explored the text messages.  I struggled to find missions of reasonable distance for a Cherokee, within Warrior 481's weight limitations, or at a time that I could accommodate with my schedule. Finally, I found the perfect mission. It was on a Sunday (no work conflict) from Buffalo to Philadelphia. Both airports were in a reasonable operational geography for me and I had landed at both more than once. I bid on the mission and got it.

Once confirmed as pilot for the mission, Angel Flight NE provides an itinerary with all of the details and urges the volunteer pilot to contact the patient to confirm details and build rapport. I was unprepared for the reaction I received when I made that phone call.

When I introduced myself as a volunteer pilot, the prospective passenger interjected aggressively. "Is this one of those little airplanes?" he queried gruffly. Then, before I could answer, "Because if it is, I don't want any part of that. You tell them...you call them and you tell them that I don't want any part of that."

I am not often stunned into silence, but I was in this case. I stammered out some well wishes for him, promised to relay his concerns to Angel Flight, and ended the call. When I shared the fellow's reaction with Angel Flight, they were also taken aback because all new patients are counseled on how the organization works and what types of aircraft are involved. "But we'll talk to him." Within a day, both the outgoing and return missions for that patient disappeared from the portal. I guess he really did not want any part of that.

Undaunted, I found another mission that met the same sorting criteria, applied for it, and received confirmation that I was assigned as the pilot. But when I attempted calling the patient, only a nine digit phone number was provided. When I reported this to Angel Flight, they verified that the same number was in their intake paperwork and reached out to the patient to correct the error.

"Well, here it is," responded the patient by email, "but when I didn't hear anything back from you right away, I scheduled my flight with PALS." PALS is another organization that operates in our region. Angel Flight NE sent "never mind" emails to me and the pilot attached to fly the return leg.

This was not going at all the way I envisioned.

Next, I signed up to pilot a flight on July 1 from Burke Lakefront (BKL) in Cleveland, OH to Essex County Airport (CDW) in Caldwell, NJ. The mission would describe a massive triangle from New York to Ohio to New Jersey. It would be a long day of flying, but I was familiar with both airports and it was scheduled on a day when my work calendar was generally open. I am not fond of cold calling people I do not know and still harbored some residual anxiety from my experience with the "I don't want any part of that" guy, but this patient -- I'll call her RF -- was delightful. She was an experienced Angel Flight flyer, absolutely understood how everything worked, and exercised a sharp sense of humor and optimistic enthusiasm that belied her ongoing battle with a chronic malady.

In the interim, I received an urgent text for a flight from Rochester to Baltimore on Saturday, June 27. I studied up on Baltimore, decided that it was a Bravo I was willing to tackle, and called Angel Flight about taking it. "Oh, sorry, another pilot called a minute before you did." It was Ed C. Small world, eh? For future reference, he gave Baltimore a thumbs up.

In the runup to July 1, I exchanged a few texts with RF. She was trying to manage multiple appointments during her time in Cleveland (our flight together would return her to home) and the schedule was dynamic. I had taken the entire day off as vacation, so I was flexible. My only concern was a late enough arrival at Caldwell that the solo flight home to Sodus would happen at night. I am fully capable of flying in the dark, but doing so significantly reduces options in an emergency. While there are several airports along the direct route to Sodus that would provide an "out" if needed, flying that route at night was not my preference.

Ready To Rock

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Jul 2026	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - BKL (Cleveland, OH)	2.3	3177.8

Warrior 481 powered smoothly through clear air above the haze and clouds in which I'd spent my only 0.1 hour of IMC time that day clearing. Surface temperatures in the mid 90 °F range seemed enough to physically melt the asphalt runway I departed from, but above the haze layer at 8,000 feet, 68 °F air blasted at me through the wide open vents. I brought (and drank) plenty of water to fend off the combined dehydrating effects of heat, elevation, and high cockpit airflow. I took no pictures inbound to Cleveland, the world below was drab and shrouded in haze.

Burke Lakefront Airport, photographed June 12, 2026.

"I hope you have comfortable traveling clothes, it's going to be a hot one," I cautioned RF during one of our text exchanges.

"I sure do!" she responded. As an experienced Angel Flight flyer, I wondered if she had prior experience with Piper Cherokee "air conditioning" (i.e., an open door during ground operations). We would find out.

Inbound, I contemplated the political challenges faced by Burke Lakefront Airport. The unique downtown lakeside facility is under threat from Cleveland's mayor, Justin Bibb, who claims that the facility is unused. My mission that day underscored exactly why Burke Lakefront is important; it is a mere three miles from the Cleveland Clinic.

Despite VFR conditions, I did not get a visual on massive runway 24R until about 12 miles out due to haze. When Cleveland Approach sent me direct to BOGGE to fly the ILS-24R approach, I was ready. I shared the airspace and frequency with multiple other aircraft inbound to Burke Lakefront. 

An airport that nobody uses, eh?

When I arrived on the Signature ramp, I was stunned by how full it was, from multiengine piston twins, turboprops, and light jets to a full on American Airlines airliner (a 737, I think). Inside, the FBO was bustling and the harried woman running the front desk took great care of me despite wearing many hats that afternoon. Because I was there for an Angel Flight mission, she waived all of the fees, including the local government $7 landing fee, and provided a $1/gallon fuel discount. I had plugged my iPad into a brick to recharge and she tucked it safely behind the counter while I ventured into the city for lunch.

Signature Aviation, Burke Lakefront.

Someone tell me daughter that I had an encounter with the ship that "hates" me.

I walked a half mile in the heat for a late lunch/early dinner at the Winking Lizard, but in spite of everything that their website claimed, the restaurant was closed. I did an about face, walked past the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame undergoing renovation, and had lunch at Nuevo Modern Mexican. My chimichanga looked fantastic, but if I'm being honest, it was a little bland.

While eating, I received a text from RF that she had been delayed further in her appointments. I've never had a medical appointment that wrapped up on time and did not expect that she would, either. "No problem! See you when you get here."

Back at the FBO, I recovered my iPad and brick, noting that the brick was starting to swell slightly. Time to stop using that. I checked email while waiting for RF. When I received her "I'm almost there" text, I responded, "Look for the nerd with the Wright Flyer blueprint t-shirt, that will be me." She laughed in response, but it worked and she knew me right off.

Warrior 481 can deliver, but this little guy might have been more capable.

I procured some bottled water for her from the Signature refrigerator and escorted her to the airplane. She seemed tired, which became more apparent when she described a grueling three days of visiting with different doctors in different offices while lugging her baggage from place to place. As I worked the 3D Tetris problem to fit her luggage into the baggage compartment, she marveled. "Oh, you've done that before!"

"A time or two, yes."

Chock & Roll Hall of Fame

I did the preflight inspection of the airplane before her arrival to expedite departure and minimize time in the heat. I explained Piper "air conditioning" and, while she gave me a dubious look, she was game. With baggage packed, seat belts fastened, and passenger briefing done, it was time to crank the engine.

Then I remembered. I had not removed the chocks from the main wheels, something that I normally attend to during preflight. Because I did the preflight early, I had left the airplane chocked.

Don't forget the chocks!

Facepalm. Well, might as well rip the Band-Aid right off.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to remove the wheel chocks and I have to ask you to get out again."

"The what?" responded my non-aviator passenger.

"I'll show you, but I have to ask you to get back out. I'm really sorry." I felt like such a goober. RF gamely extricated herself from the airplane and watched as I smoothly emerged and stepped lightly to the ground. 

"That's what twenty years of experience gets you!" she noted good naturedly, referring to my well practiced exit from the cockpit. With some embarrassment, I pulled the wheel chocks while trying to convince myself that it was not all bad because I discovered the lapse before starting the engine.

Once back in the airplane, RF had her book -- Sally Hepworth's The Things We Keep -- ready to go on her lap. I explained that the choice was hers. If she wanted to chat, we could do that. If she preferred to read, I could isolate her at the audio panel so that she did not have to listen to all the radio chatter. Once again, I noticed how tired she appeared to be and was unsurprised when she took to the idea of some quiet time.

Insert Awkward Call Sign Here

With RF isolated and the engine running, I listened to Burke Lakefront's ATIS before contacting ground. I knew that I was in a positive groove when the initial call up rolled out smoothly and professionally. "Lakefront Ground, Cherokee Two One Four Eight One at Signature with kilo, we have an IFR filed to Caldwell, Charlie Delta Whiskey."

"Cherokee Four Eight One, Lakefront Ground, standby while I look for that." With those words, my heart sank. I'd already blathered my tail number instead of my filed call sign, despite the fact that it was written directly at the top of my kneeboard in a place where I supposedly could not have missed it.

NGF1096

"Apologies, that flight plan will be under Angel Flight One Zero Niner Six." The syllables of the unfamiliar call sign tumbled out with awkward unfamiliarity. In that moment, I was glad that RF was isolated.

Lakefront Ground did not miss a beat, most likely because the strip was sitting directly in front of her. "Angel Flight Ten Ninety-Six, you're cleared to Caldwell as filed, climb and maintain 2,000 feet, expect 7,000 feet one zero minutes after departure..."

Ten Ninety-Six? That sounds way cooler than how I said it. Every controller I talked with, from Cleveland to New York and all points in between called me Ten Ninety-Six. 

I like it.

A Meditative State

 

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Jul 2026	N21481	BKL (Cleveland, OH) - CDW (Caldwell, NJ)	3.4	3181.2

Taxi, run-up, and take off were all perfunctory. I coached RF through latching the door before the engine runup. On departure, Lakefront Tower put us on a heading toward the middle of Lake Erie and we rose skyward, atmospheric haze smudging water and sky into an undifferentiated azure vista. The view was suggestive of being confined within a ball. There were no ships, no clouds, no land, no horizon...just blue. Cleveland Departure took over from Tower, vectored us back toward shore, then cleared us direct to the Stillwater VOR, the only fix in my filed route to Caldwell. As noted in an earlier post, there is a dearth of airways between Cleveland and western New York/Pennsylvania. Going more or less direct was really the only viable way to go.

At 7,000 feet, we skimmed the top of the haze layer sped along by a 25 knot tailwind. In the days leading up to the flight, I worried that some forecast models predicted thunderstorms over Caldwell, but that risk diminished significantly by the day of the flight. I selected RF's position at the audio panel, explained that we were at our cruise altitude, provided an updated ETA into Caldwell, and expressed some relief at the lack of thunderstorms along our trajectory. I pointed out the massive anvil-shaped thunderhead far off of our left wing as an example of what I hoped to avoid that evening. Had I not been so focused on her comfort and this leg of the journey, I might have recognized that the thunderhead was in the direction of Buffalo and likely to impact my flight home that night.

To ensure a smooth ride, I engaged HAL and fell into a routine of monitoring systems, switching fuel tanks every thirty minutes, and making minor power adjustments as needed. We flew past many familiar airports, each having made an impact on my personal aviation story. Despite the familiarity of those landing sites, their order of appearance was definitively unfamiliar because of our eastbound heading. As a New York based pilot, Pennsylvania naturally seems like a state meant to be transited along a north-south axis. Traversing the Keystone state in an orthogonal direction just felt weird.

RF switched between reading and dozing. While she slept, I experienced the same sense of singular responsibility that I once felt when The Bear slept in flight as an infant. 

Later in the flight, once over eastern PA, I could see evidence of three thunderstorms ahead. One north of our trajectory, one south of our trajectory, and one seemingly straight ahead, but dissipating rapidly and not likely to be a factor. When Allentown descended us to 5,000 feet, RF awoke and wanted to chat. I pointed to the clouds and explained where the weather was relative our flight path. 

"I like this." She commented. "The engine sound is almost like white noise." She peered out the window at the passing Earth. "It's all very...meditative." "Meditative" was a lovely word that truly fit the moment.

I asked how she learned about Angel Flight. "A friend. Angel Flight has been such a blessing."

We descended into the damp embrace of heat and haze permeating New Jersey. New York Approach vectored us onto the RNAV-22 approach into Caldwell. I was grateful for this because it meant that I did not need to play the "where's the airport?" game in the haze with RF on board.

On the Air Bound ramp at Essex County Airport in Caldwell, NJ.

The landing was smooth and moments later we were marshalled to parking on the Air Bound Aviation ramp. I needed to wait for fuel because the FBO was fueling the fuel truck when we arrived. I unloaded RF's luggage from the back of the Warrior and escorted her inside where she requested an Uber. While we waited, we chatted further on the topics of being nerds, kids taking after their parents (and also being nerds), and healthcare.

"I have a surgery scheduled next week back in Cleveland," she disclosed. 

I did not want to pry and struggled to parse my next question. "Will it take care of you going forward?"

"Actually, it's to fix a mistake from an earlier surgery."

"Oh," I said, putting as much sympathetic weight into the word as I could. "That's the worst reason for surgery."

RF shrugged. "Doctors are human, too." Then she made a genuinely funny self deprecating joke. I complimented her on keeping a sense of humor in the face of a daunting chronic condition. She nodded.

"You have to. I've seen what happens when you don't." She paused. "It's not good." I knew from experience that she was absolutely right and could only nod quietly in response.

Her phone buzzed, announcing the arrival of her Uber. She thanked me again for the flight and for being flexible, offering that maybe we would fly together again sometime. I took that to mean I had done well by her. It was the most important bit of indirect feedback I received all day. She gathered her things and was gone.

Say! What's that cloud formation in the distance?

Act Three: Solo Again

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 July 2026	N21481	CDW (Caldwell, NJ) - SDC (Sodus, NY)	2.2	3183.4

It was not my intention to make the flight home after dark, but there I was, barreling down Caldwell's  runway 22 at 8:50 pm, about 20 minutes after sunset. The original plan was to be en route home by 6:30 pm, but between RF's morphing schedule, the delays in Cleveland, and the wait for fuel at Caldwell, I either needed to fly home in the dark or stay the night in New Jersey. I had foolishly planned to work the next day and was not prepared to stay the night anywhere.

I listened to the Caldwell ATIS more than once to fully understand that VFR departures to the northwest (like me) were advised to remain at or below 1,500 feet to avoid conflicting with arrivals on Morristown's RNAV-23 approach, which was in use at the time. Though it took me a couple of listens to parse the rapid-fire delivery of the recommendation, I was genuinely impressed with the level of coordination between towers at the airports situated seven miles apart.

Once past the final approach course to Morristown's runway 23, I climbed to 6,500 feet, hand flying in smooth air. Ahead loomed two thunderstorms topped by anvil-shaped heads, still backlit by residual twilight. What followed this sight was an unfortunate cascade of realizations.

I had been so focused on getting RF home safely that I had put very little effort into planning for the  final third flight leg home. I was VFR, not on flight following yet, aloft after sunset, and there was at least one storm cell between me and home. Moreover, a quick review of uplinked weather revealed multiple cells in New York, one of which was likely the thunderhead I saw off the wingtip on departure from Cleveland.

TYYLR was located right between these two well-separated storms.

I switched the autopilot back on and animated the storm depictions in ForeFlight to understand how they were tracking. Everything was generally moving to the southeast. I compared what I saw on the screen versus what towered over the countryside in my windshield. Then, I identified a fix north of Wilkes-Barre (TYYLR) that would carry me between the well-spaced cells and inserted it into the flight plan. As HAL turned the airplane westward toward TYYLR, I contacted Wilkes-Barre for flight following. Apparent against the twilight sky ahead was a layer of clouds at my altitude. I checked ceilings along the route and saw that 4,500 feet would be an adequate cruise altitude for both cloud and terrain clearance, so I descended to remain VFR.

The iPad had worked long and hard that day and was low on battery again. I plugged it into ship's power, which is incapable of actually charging it, but prevents the battery level from dropping. Moments later, the Sentry -- my portable ADS-B weather and traffic receiver -- gave a low battery indication, too. Crap! I spent a brief moment contemplating being adrift at night without any big picture weather guidance. I plugged the Sentry into my slightly convex power bank / brick, the same one that I had decided to retire earlier that day due to swelling, and hoped that it was not so far gone that it posed a fire hazard. After many years of dutiful service, that was the last time I used it before it was safely recycled.

Darkness, weather, battery issues... See how these risks stack right up?

Pyrotechnics

With the plan in place, I perched in the pilot seat and waited and monitored the situation while everything played out painstakingly slowly.

Thunderheads rose on either side with just enough daylight remaining to silhouette their towering profiles. Then there was a flash and an entire towering cumulus cloud was suddenly lit from within, every element of its popcorn texture highlighted in crisp detail. Only lasting a fleeting moment, the flash persists as an afterimage in memory. More instances of lightning followed, sometimes as brilliant but diffuse illumination within the storm itself, sometimes as infinitely thin lightning bolts arcing from the base of the weather to the ground. Resembling cracks in reality, it was a mesmerizing natural display of special effects and I was happy to be observing the entire show from a distance. I have ample experience flying at night or navigating around isolated thunderstorms, but this was the first time I had ever done both simultaneously. Fortunately, all the cells in my path were well isolated.

Before reaching TYYLR, Wilkes-Barre passed me to Binghamton Approach. Unlike the relatively hands-off Wilkes controller, the Binghamton controller actively helped me navigate around the cells using real time radar. While uplinked weather is valuable for developing a strategy, its inherent delay makes it a poor tactical tool. This is where ATC radar and the pilot's own eyes excel. Binghamton provided a series of vectors that I accepted while cross checking with what I saw floating outside above an increasingly darkened world. A cell south of Binghamton was particularly active with lightning, a stunning display rendered on such a vast natural canvas that a nearby local fireworks show was pitifully insignificant by comparison. I gaped at the storm cell as I cruised past at a safe distance, reminded of a scene in a science fiction movie where the plucky heroes surreptitiously fly their tiny ship alongside a massive interstellar leviathan crewed by the bad guys.

Image from FlightAware showing the path through the weather from Caldwell to Sodus.

"Cherokee Four Eight One, it looks like you can turn back on course to Sodus at your discretion. You're past all the cells," the Binghamton controller broke through my reverie. Hints of a rain shaft highlighted by the lights of a nearby town led me to disagree with his assessment and I continued the westward deviation until I was certain that I was past the weather.

"The tower guys say there's a lot of lighting in that cell," offered the Approach controller, puncturing the fragile silence again. With a sky largely devoid of local traffic, we only had each other and a radio wave connection.

Since he had broken from standard phraseology, I did too in my acknowledgement. "Ahh...yep."

Still at 4,500 feet, I turned direct to Sodus. I never departed visual conditions or experienced any turbulence. Though the cells were very active with lightning, they were well isolated and relatively small. In the end, it was all fine. The real problem with the whole thing was that I had run myself out of options.

Warrior 481 delivered me to a well-lit runway in Sodus. Weather moved out shortly before my arrival and standing water steamed on pavement that was still hot from the heat dome. Parked in front of my hangar, I raised the door and drove my car out to make room for the airplane. I normally only park the car in the hangar when gone overnight, but given the intense heat of the day, I thought it would be better to park beneath the reflective white roof of the hangar and out of the sun. I did not realize at the time that I dodged a bullet. The airport had experienced a power outage and was running on a backup generator when I returned. It ultimately gave up some hours after I left the airport. Without the generator, I would not have been able to raise the hangar door to retrieve my car and would have been stuck at the airport late at night.

The Final Tally

When I reached home around 11:00 pm, I dutifully submitted my mission report. Total Hobbs time for the day was 7.9 hours with 3.4 hours operating under the Angel Flight call sign while RF was on board. From an Angel Flight perspective, all went as well as I had hoped. I was happy to have made a difference for someone and looked forward to the next opportunity to help out.

A big lesson for me was the danger of mission focus. I was so intent on the mission itself that I emphasized flight planning for the first two legs, but spent inadequate attention on the third post-mission leg home. I have the ability to fly at night and I am well experienced in avoiding isolated thunderstorm cells. Nothing ever rose to the level of a harried "there I was" kind of tale and everything worked out fine in the end. It was not that I put myself in an especially precarious position, but rather that I allowed my safety margins to erode. This was the true sin. Had anything gone wrong, my flight profile left few options.

You KRANT Get There from Here

An Effective Congress near DC?

I was invited to Alexandria, VA to participate in a panel discussion at a scientific conference. My role was to provide unscripted remarks in response to the moderator's questions. Because the prior speaker, also a panelist, ran far over his time, the moderator directed most of the questions to me. I think this was her way of making my trip to Alexandria worthwhile. Overall, it was a great conference, I learned some valuable information, and I was fortunate to catch up with some old friends and colleagues that I do not see often because they live in exotic places like New Jersey or Copenhagen, Denmark.

When Getting There (and Back) is Half the Fun

Somewhere over Pennsylvania.

After a morning of flying rides in N32816 at the Williamson Flying Club pancake breakfast, I enjoyed a beautiful flight to our nation's capital in Warrior 481 on the afternoon of Sunday, May 17. She waited patiently for me at the College Park Airport (KCGS) during the conference, just a Metro ride away on the north side of the Washington DC metroplex. College Park lies within the Washington DC Flight Restricted Zone (FRZ or "freeze") created in response to the events of 9/11. As this was my fourth excursion into the FRZ, the procedure was now comfortable and familiar ("Into the Flight Restricted Zone | Part 1, Of PINs and Prop Locks"). 

My original goal was to depart the final afternoon of the conference a little early and explore the reimagined exhibits at the Smithsonian National Air & Space Museum that opened since I was last there with Kristy and The Bear in 2025 ("A Bear's Adventures in the Flight Restricted Zone"). 

However, the weather forecast painted a dire picture for Tuesday evening with thunderstorms and potential tornados along the route. The Rochester area expected a pummeling from 30 knot winds. I've handily managed 30 knot winds at airports set in open fields, but I treat my home airport with caution in high winds because it is surrounded by a canyon of trees that spawn brutal rotors under those conditions.

Though I still departed the conference early, I headed straight home to ensure beating the weather. Air & Space would have to wait for the next trip.

Loosey Goosey

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
19 May 2026	N21481	CGS (College Park, MD) - SDC (Sodus, NY)	2.6	3153.4

To recap, departure from the FRZ requires two steps that differ from ordinary IFR flights. First, a phone call to Washington Center is needed to file a FRZ flight plan using the old FAA format (not ICAO). Electronic filing is not permitted at all. Permission to file that flight plan is granted by providing a PIN that personally identifies the pilot as vetted for flight in the national security airspace of the FRZ. No PIN, no flight plan and, without a FRZ flight plan, there is no flying in the FRZ.

Second, at departure time, a phone call to Potomac Approach is necessary to receive clearance and the transponder code required at all times while airborne in the FRZ and the surrounding Special Flight Rules Area (SFRA or "sifra").

I learned on my first visit to College Park that a direct IFR route to Sodus would not be approved; an airway route was necessary. Through trial and error, I settled on a consistent route between College Park and Sodus: BELTS V265 HAR T445 BEEPS.

Despite the zig-zagging path of airways T445 and V265, this route nonetheless approximates flying direct closely enough that it does not add significant distance or time to the journey. Best of all, it has generally worked bidirectionally, though Potomac Approach has modified the southern end of it in the past.

My favorite route between Sodus (SDC, top) and College Park (CGS, bottom).

With beads of sweat trickling down from my hairline, I made the phone call to Potomac from the cockpit of Warrior 481 while stewing in the unseasonable warmth that had enveloped College Park, MD.

"Warrior 481, I need to put you on a preferred route. Advise ready to copy." This was Potomac's way of telling me that I would not get the route home that I filed. "You are cleared to Sierra Delta Charlie airport via radar vectors, KRANT, V265, Harrisburg (HAR), then as filed..." 

ForeFlight depiction of my filed route home starting at BELTS.

ForeFlight depiction of the cleared route home starting at KRANT.

As I processed this, I realized that the new route was essentially the same as filed except that it started at KRANT instead of BELTS (see above). KRANT is deeper within the FRZ than College Park, whereas BELTS is just outside.

A zoomed-in view of the FRZ showing where KRANT is located versus Washington DC.

For context, KRANT is only 2.5 miles from the US Capitol building. It is also the southern terminus of the Victor 265 airway and roughly five miles southwest of College Park. Reaching KRANT from College Park would require a turn in the wrong direction on take off, a left turn toward downtown Washington DC instead of a right turn toward home. I have been assigned KRANT while inbound before and, while the photographic opportunities from that point in space are intriguing, I do not realistically believe that I will ever actually fly so close to the inner sanctum within the FRZ.

The controller at Potomac continued. "Which runway are you departing?"

"Three three," I responded.

"Oh, that's perfect!" he said. "On departure from 33, go ahead and turn right to go northbound toward BELTS." He paused for a moment to think. "Oh, I suppose that's basically what you filed, isn't it? Well, go ahead and just do that."

Go ahead and just do that? That seemed like a rather loose instruction for navigating the most critical national security airspace in the United States.

I suggested to him that I could depart VFR to avoid managing IFR release and void times, which he approved. After ending the call, I started the Warrior's engine, added both KRANT and BELTS to the flight plan in the Garmin 650 (just in case), programmed the squawk code into the transponder, double checked that squawk code, then checked the squawk code again. If there was any major mistake that I could make on departure in the FRZ, squawking the wrong code was it. Satisfied that I was ready to go, I taxied to the end of runway 33.

On departure, I was pointed directly at a large construction crane at the University of Maryland. Considering the high heat (90+ °F in May), the not incredibly long runway, and tall trees with an even taller crane off the end of the runway, I treated the departure as a short field high performance take off. Once assured that I was going to clear the construction crane with ease, I eased the flaps out and contacted Potomac while still flying runway heading.

"Warrior 481, radar contact. Turn direct KRANT."

Really!? OK. So much for "just go[ing] ahead" and turning north toward BELTS.

I started a left turn, programmed the navigator to go direct to KRANT, and pointed the nose of Warrior 481 right at the National Mall. My camera was sitting on the passenger seat, all set to go. But it was not to be. Within moments of rolling onto a direct course to KRANT, Potomac called again.

ForeFlight ground track showing the departure from College Park.

"Ah, November 481, go ahead and fly heading 010 toward BELTS." This was 180° in the opposite direction, but would point me toward home. Happy that I programmed both KRANT and BELTS into the navigator, I switched the active waypoint to BELTS, and rolled into a left turn to the north.

Google Earth rendering of my flight path out of College Park.

Effectively, I did a midair pirouette directly above the University of Maryland's SECU Stadium. From just 1,400 feet, that stadium looked absolutely enormous and I wondered how many eyebrows down below were raised by the maneuver. From that point on, the rest of the flight went as planned. Outbound, I gradually exited the tightly controlled airspace, first the FRZ, then the SFRA, then the Bravo. I hand flew the first part of the route and let HAL fly the rest. I had a beautiful flight home. 

Passing a cumulus cloud en route home.

I accumulated about 0.4 hours of time in the clouds and though my route skirted a thunderstorm system to the west, I avoided any inclement weather. In that regard, I made the right choice in departing early. Unfortunately, the severe weather expected at my original arrival time arrived two hours late. I could have visited Air & Space after all. But it is hard to fault a decision that got me home safely.

Although I log every flight electronically, I still appreciate the tactile experience of scrawling entries into a paper logbook (I just started my fourth). To me, a flight is not complete until I have put pen to paper, a consistent ritual since my student days 25 years ago. For this flight, I tried to capture the loosey goosey routing out of College Park in a concise comment.

"KRANT, not KRANT, KRANT, not KRANT." That seemed to sum it up pretty well.

Lesson Learned

Clearly, coordination between the Potomac flight data guy who provided my clearance over the phone and the Potomac Approach controller working my departure was imperfect. I think I managed that situation well by setting up my navigator to be ready for either KRANT or BELTS. I was genuinely surprised not to receive more exacting instructions while inside such sensitive airspace.

I have been assigned KRANT more than once while inbound, but have yet to actually cross it. On reflection, I don't think that crossing KRANT has ever been ATC's intent. Whether I am inbound or outbound, by including KRANT in the clearance, ATC is giving themselves flexibility to have me join (outbound) or depart (inbound) Victor 265 anywhere along that segment between KRANT and BELTS; wherever it best suits them.

The idea of navigating toward a waypoint without ever intending to cross it is a paradigm shift for me and changes the way that I think about IFR navigation in the National Airspace System. That is my primary takeaway from this experience. 

Going forward, I will swap BELTS for KRANT in my filed IFR flight plans to and from College Park, even though I'm pretty certain that I will never actually get there.

Call of the Red-Legged Kittiwake

Even simple flights, in addition to the personal joy they bring, are opportunities for valuable learnings.

Bear Hug

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
24 Apr 2026	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - 7B2 (Northampton, MA)	2.0	3139.3

I crested terrain west of Northampton, MA to behold the Connecticut River meandering through cultivated fields that glowed warmly with golden hour sunlight. Nestled in a bend of the river was the Northampton Airport (7B2, airport #300), an idyllic country landing field near the foundations of the Holyoke range. At 5:45 pm on a Friday evening, I expected to discover an airport in repose. Instead, I was surprised to find three aircraft belonging to the field's active flight school orbiting in the pattern.

I was greeted warmly by FBO staff and assured that my selected parking spot was appropriate for an overnight stay. I always worry about inadvertently parking on someone else's tiedown at new to me airports. Moments later, I saw a familiar blue Impreza arrive in the parking lot. The Bear has never been much of a hugger, but the literal bear hug that I received from my daughter upon seeing her for the first time since January made the whole trip worthwhile.

With The Bear's expert assistance, we dressed Warrior 481 in her pajamas for the night before driving to Mount Holyoke College, just seventeen minutes south. I enjoyed the unfamiliar reversal, me as a passenger with The Bear at the wheel. Five months of driving in Massachusetts had transformed her confidence as a driver. As we ate in the dining hall, The Bear handed me an iPad filled with images from a recent dance recital that she photographed as a paid gig. She was proud of them and justifiably so. She has developed a wonderful eye for photography.

In Recognition of a Hectic Week

Rhode Island State House during my Providence walkabout on the morning of April 23.

Neither Kristy nor I were able to attend most of the orchestra concerts during her first year of college until this final one, Symphonic Possibilities. Even so, Kristy had work obligations that evening which meant that I made solo use of the airplane to expedite the journey. At the end of a hectic week, I was acutely aware of carrying accumulated fatigue.

On Tuesday, a colleague and I worked a half day before flying the Warrior to Providence, RI for a conference that I had been invited to chair. As chair, I was "on" for two days straight, including a late night reception on Wednesday. I managed to explore a few miles of Providence on foot Thursday morning and was charmed enough by the city that I am considering excuses to return and explore further. Once the Thursday sessions concluded, we returned to Atlantic Aviation-PVD, incidentally the only FBO that has ever charged me an hourly parking fee, and flew the Warrior back to Sodus. Friday began with an early start back at work, but I departed two hours early and flew to Massachusetts for my meeting with The Bear. I effectively tread back over the same territory as the day before, just in reverse and on a slightly divergent heading. An orchestra concert was just the kind of pause that I needed to rejuvenate at week's end.

After dinner, The Bear and I parted while she prepared for the concert. Solo, I walked the campus to compensate for the excessive amount of sitting I did over the preceding three days. Mount Holyoke's campus is truly lovely and the upper half of the Mary Lyon Hall clock tower was particularly striking when painted crimson by the setting sun. The Bear boasted that a publication (I forget which one) had named Mount Holyoke among the most beautiful campuses in the country. I agreed, but cautioned that Indiana would be tough competition in that category.

The Red-Legged Kittiwake

Mount Holyoke's orchestra performs in the campus chapel. It's a lovely space with a rather "live" sound for orchestra reminiscent of some European church venues The Bear played on tour in 2022 and 2024. It also has the most uncomfortable pews I've ever experienced and my back was upset with me by the time the two hour concert concluded. That pew ensured that I did not doze, which was quite likely its original intent.

The Bear and her soul piercing gaze with the Mount Holyoke Orchestra. Photo by V.

During intermission, I was greeted by The Bear's roommate, V, who expertly wielded The Bear's camera to photograph the concert. She described one of her shots as The Bear "looking directly into my soul." There was no mistaking that one when The Bear shared the photo later.

Composer and director acknowledging their love for the oboe. Photo by V.

That evening's program included a world premiere student composition entitled Hymn to the Third Death. Thematically focused on conservation of endangered bird species, the composer described for us how she used different instrumentation to give voice to individual birds. For the atmospheric first movement, she prominently featured the oboe to represent the red-legged kittiwake.

"We love you, oboe!" she exclaimed, turning around to look at The Bear. The director, Tian, also spun around, fixated on The Bear, and waved enthusiastically, a delightful moment that V captured perfectly from the chapel's choir loft.

Into the Soup

 

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
24 Apr 2026	N21481	7B2 (Northampton, MA) - SDC (Sodus, NY)	2.3	3141.6

I slept well that night, the kind of deep, unbroken sleep enhanced by exhaustion. I rose refreshed at my usual time and set about flight planning. I expected rain and low ceilings at home, but was satisfied that the air temperature aloft would remain high enough to avert any icing risk. Before I departed for Massachusetts, forecasts for my return suggested low IFR conditions after 11:00 am that could shut me out of Sodus. However, that morning's revised predictions called for higher ceilings and removed the time urgency for departure. Even so, I optimistically filed an IFR flight plan home with an 8:00 am departure time.

Waiting outside of "Blanche".

I departed the hotel in Chicopee, stopping to top off the gas in The Bear's car before meeting her at Blanchard Hall (nicknamed "Blanche" by the students) for breakfast. It was an early start and, clearly, most students were still asleep. We enjoyed a substantially less crowded and quieter meal than dinner the evening prior. For her part, The Bear was game to meet for an early breakfast, but warned that it would be in her pajama pants. That seemed like a fine compromise to me.

Back at the Northampton Airport, I checked in at the FBO and offered to pay the overnight tie down fee. "Nah, don't worry about it," responded the young woman working the counter. Outside, I paused to contemplate a little wooden airplane that was just big enough. Following my gaze, the Bear knew what I was thinking before I even asked it. She is such a good sport.

For a moment, I thought I was at Re-Dun.

There is nothing quite like a professionally striped sidewalk. The Bear helped me with the Warrior's canopy cover and we stood at the airplane talking for a long time, neither of us wanting to end the conversation. When I saw that it was nearly 9:00 am, I realized that I needed to go.

Runway 14 at Northampton points directly at the Holyoke range. Kristy and I hiked one of those peaks with The Bear on parent's weekend last October. To the right is Mount Holyoke itself, for which the college is named. Barely visible is the Summit House, the final destination for MHC students on Mountain Day each fall. I wish my employer had Mountain Day. I suppose we would need to find a mountain, first. Not many of those in Rochester.

I was airborne at 9:00 am. Though the river valley no longer glowed in golden hour light, I was sure to photograph the airport's surroundings before turning westbound on course and picking up an IFR clearance with Bradley Approach. Despite the fact that I was out in the sticks, I was surprised to receive a full route clearance, albeit a simple one.

"Cherokee 481, cleared to destination via Albany, Syracuse, direct."

It seems like whenever I file an airway route, I get cleared direct and whenever I file direct, I am assigned an airway route.

The Connecticut River, the Northampton Airport, Northampton, and Mount Tom.

As I passed over the idyllic little airport, student activity was already beginning to stir on the surface.

The first 1.3 hours of flight were lovely with blue skies above and occasional scattered clouds below my 6,000 foot cruise altitude.

Albany, NY.

"Corruption's such an old song that we can sing along in harmony
And nowhere is it stronger than in Albany." - Hamilton

I took notice of the Albany skyline for the first time, seeing a curious array of four identical skyscrapers aligned in a row. I noticed them earlier that week on the eastbound flight to Providence because they stood out from quite a distance against the backdrop of the Berkshire Mountains.

Between Albany and Syracuse, the first herald of weather materialized below, becoming progressively denser as I continued westbound. The overcast thickened as well, followed by the occasional streaks of individual raindrops on the windscreen, soon joined by many more, until I found myself watching the hypnotic flow of rain sluicing over the wings' upper camber. I remained in total IMC and rain for the final 0.8 hour of the flight home.

I entered the rain east of Syracuse. From FlightAware.

Superiority Complex

At my home airport, the automated weather observation system (AWOS) dutifully reported a consistent cloud ceiling of 3,000 to 3,200 feet above ground level (AGL). Based on this, I expected that Rochester would descend me below the deck (the minimum vectoring altitude near Sodus is 2,000 feet) where I could fly a standard VFR traffic pattern to land. No instrument approach necessary.

However, despite constant reassurances of VFR weather from the Sodus AWOS, Rochester was reporting IFR conditions with ceilings closer to 800 feet. Runway 4 was in use by landing traffic at Rochester, but the glideslope equipment was out of service. This meant that the ILS (instrument landing system) lacked vertical guidance that morning and could not guide aircraft quite as low below the clouds as usual. Rochester ATC was actively seeking alternatives.

"Brickyard 123," called Rochester Approach to an inbound airliner. "Are you LPV capable?" LPV (localizer performance with vertical guidance) is essentially the GPS-equivalent to an ILS. It's the gold standard of GPS based instrument approaches. Warrior 481 has been LPV capable since I first upgraded to the GNS 430W navigator in 2012.

"Negative," responded the airliner. That pilot promptly requested delay vectors while the flight crew figured out the best way to get into Rochester.

Better than some airliners, evidently. Photographed the prior evening en route to Northampton.

Ooo! Ooo! Mr. Kotter! I can! But I had no interest in landing at Rochester except as an alternate if the weather was too low at Sodus. Given the AWOS broadcasts, I did not anticipate that to be the case.

"SkyWest 456," responded Rochester Approach to another airliner checking on. "Are you LPV capable?"

"Negative," responded the Skywest pilot.

How is it that my Cherokee is better equipped than a bunch of these airliners?

"November 481," called Rochester. "Say approach request at Sodus." With a stiff wind out of the northeast, I requested the RNAV-10 approach starting at ZIKED. My thinking was that if I could fly the procedure on my own from an initial approach fix (IAF), ATC would not have to vector me to final while juggling a bunch of airliners at Rochester with reduced ability to navigate below the weather.

"November 481, expect that," responded the controller. With a few taps on the face of the GTN 650, the approach procedure was ready to go.

Can't Get There from Here

"November 481, I can't clear you to ZIKED. Can you accept vectors?" I can always accept vectors, but I was puzzled by this response. Why could the controller not clear me to ZIKED?  And why would he choose to vector me onto the final approach into Sodus when he already had his hands full at Rochester?

Flabbergasted, I accepted vectors to final.

Rochester assigned a descent to 2,600 feet and began issuing headings. First slightly to the southwest to widen me out from the airport, then to bring me around. Despite the AWOS claiming a 3,000 foot  ceiling, I was still engulfed in the clouds at 2,600' (roughly 2,200' AGL).

"November 481, fly heading 010," Rochester instructed. They were turning me perpendicular to the final approach course, which meant that I would receive one more vector before being cleared to intercept the final approach course. That final vector came sooner than expected.

ForeFlight ground track of the approach into Sodus.

While only partway through the turn to 010°, Rochester called back and blurted out the rest of the clearance. "Aaaaand, 481, go ahead and keep the turn going to 070, intercept the final approach course, cleared for the RNAV-10 approach at Sodus." To my ear, the controller's patter seemed to speed up as he delivered this instruction, from "conversational" to something approaching "auctioneer". It was as though talking faster would somehow increase the Warrior's rate of turn.

Flying on autopilot (literally, not mentally), I rolled the heading bug to 070° and punched the APR button to capture the final approach segment. I was too close to the final (hence the controller's hasty delivery) and overshot slightly (visible in the above track), but HAL smoothly rolled the airplane into a successful intercept. I crossed the final approach fix (FAF) just as I established on final, pulled the throttle back to achieve a 90 knot, 500 foot per minute descent, and locked in 10° of flaps.

Well past the final approach fix, I was still engulfed in the clouds and wondered if I would need to abort and fly the much advertised LPV approach into Rochester that morning. But I broke out at 900 feet above the ground, deactivated the autopilot, and made a smooth touchdown on runway 10 in steady rain.

I guess I needed to fly that instrument approach after all! On its dedicated frequency, the nearsighted AWOS continued to blather on about a 3,000 foot ceiling.

Why?

Overall, the 5.3 hour round trip flight to Northampton was an overwhelming success. It was my 300th unique airport, I reunited with The Bear, enjoyed a wonderful orchestra concert, and logged additional real world IMC experience with the GTN 650 Xi. But two lingering questions still nagged at me.

1. Is my little airplane really better equipped for LPV approaches than many airliners?

2. Why could the controller not clear me to ZIKED and why would he choose to vector me when he clearly had his hands full at the main airport?

I reached out to a friend and supervising air traffic controller at Rochester for answers. As it turned out, he was on duty that morning and remembered the scenario well.

Yes, he confirmed, many of the airliners that come into Rochester do not have WAAS GPS receivers and are not LPV capable. As strange as it sounds, my Warrior can fly low LPV approaches that an inbound Delta A321 might not be able to manage.

Further, he explained that my tight downwind to the airport meant that a turn at ZIKED would have exceeded 90°. (In terms of heading change, not bank angle!) ATC is prohibited from clearing aircraft direct to a fix on an RNAV approach where such a turn is required. He commented that they could have provided a short vector to the southwest, then cleared me to ZIKED, but the controller chose to vector me the rest of the way instead. Alternatively, they could have cleared me to GOYER for the procedure turn, but because it adds workload and flight time for pilots, they tend to assign that only if a pilot requests it. 

In the end, the flight entailed all of those wonderful things already mentioned (The Bear! Concert! Experience!) but included valuable learning, too!