I Learned About Flying from That: Lost Soul or Guardian Angel?

We were flying VFR, but just barely. Our group included a ­dozen Grand Canyon sightseeing pilots returning from a ­morning trip to the South Rim, an assortment of ­Cessna 206s, 207s and 310s, airplanes loaded with tourists ready for naps and completely unaware of our meandering detours as we sought safe passage. But we were all wide awake, radios alive with chatter, everybody sharing clues about routes around mountain ridges and under the low clouds. After many years of private flying, this was my first professional pilot gig, working with kids about half my age and having a ball. My nighttime job made it a challenge to be an early riser, but the thrill of the job and the smell of airplanes in the morning made it worth the effort. In college, I had studied meteorology to make me a better pilot, but I ended up in the TV weather business. This was my first chance to let someone else pay for the gas.

For the pilots of King Airlines, it had been a good day of flying: a manageable test of flying skills and everyone made it home, passengers ­refreshed and happy. Flying from the high desert airport was always a challenge with high-density altitudes and ridges to cross, not to mention well-fed tourists on board. The tour also included landing on a one-way strip on the South Rim of the canyon or on the airport at Grand Canyon National Park, elevation just over 6,600 feet.

A couple of days later, the weather had improved, and you could see for miles. As we prepped our airplanes for the day’s trip to the canyon, our lead mechanic asked me to try different power settings in cruise to check for slight vibration in a loaner prop. The pilot from the day before had squawked what he figured wasn’t a major problem but wanted someone else to help check it out. Now with passengers loaded and engine running, we were ready to go.

At the time, Henderson Executive ­Airport had one north/south runway that was in bad shape. It was always a relief to lift off and fly away from the bumps.

I pushed hard on the throttle of my 207 that morning, since we were loaded to the max. We would need the downwind leg and a notch of flaps to help in the climb to depart the area. Finally, we reached flying speed, and I eased the big Cessna into the air. As we left the ground, the roughness ­routinely felt in the airplane from the ragged runway didn’t subside. I recalled for an instant a fatal crash of a Navion I’d recently witnessed after the engine quit and the pilot spun in trying make it back to the runway.

My first thought was, “It’s the prop.” We were climbing at the normal, slow rate, engine running fine and oil ­pressure normal, but there was still a definite vibration. Now turning in the crosswind, my mind raced; I had a full load and a long way to go. I told the tower we needed to land. Almost at pattern altitude and abeam the ­touchdown point, I pulled back on the power; if it was a bad prop, there was no need to over-test it.

Confession is good for the soul, so here goes. Turning downwind, I guess subconsciously I wanted to be near that runway. I turned onto the downwind, flying parallel to the runway, but not far enough out and away to make a normal turn onto the base and final for landing. I guess I felt my refuge was the runway, and I didn’t want to stray very far. ­Psychologists could probably explain it, but I was living whatever human trait ­wanted me to stay close to where I ­needed this ship to safely land.

I can tell you now that as I turned that airplane from base to final, I don’t remember thinking about how the load on the wing was increasing by the square of my bank. And I’m sure I wasn’t explaining to myself that the outside wing, in the turn, would be going faster and creating more lift, while the inside wing was ­dropping and would be stalling if it got too slow. But somehow, I knew if I kept tightening that turn and ­increasing the bank, I would stall and probably spin the airplane into the ground.

Without getting too mystical about this, I swear, suddenly, I felt something grab my hand on the control yoke and make me slow the turn. Shallowing the bank was now blowing us through the ­final. I dreaded the thought but figured I might have to make a missed approach and come around for another try. In another instant, as we kept turning, I could see a lot of ­runway still ahead of me. There was plenty of room to turn back and line up on final approach. Instead of a perfect traffic pattern, we were now making a ­landing, a little long, but safely, with what I thought was a broken airplane.

That moment of realization that I was banking too steeply trying to make the runway could have been from instinct developed over 1,000 hours of flying. Good training along the way and a deep respect for airplanes surely helped but, looking back, I know I learned part of the lesson that helped me that day from countless pilots in similar situations before me who had also wanted to stay close to a runway they felt was their pathway to safety. I like to think that maybe one of them had a hand in stopping me from banking my airplane too much and adding insurmountable jeopardy to our flight.