That's boondocks Wendover at night. Thankfully we did just one "stop-and-go landing" and then peaced out.
The sun was setting, and the mountains were ablaze like a lunar eclipse, but it wasn’t as peaceful as hoped. I was nearly wetting myself waiting to take off for my first night cross-country flight. By the time I did pre-flight on the Tecnam P-92, the lights were out, the sky was black, and so were the runway lights, in fact. For a new pilot, this was a bit disconcerting. I was shaking in my Danskos. “Did you bring a flashlight?” asked my flight instructor Drew Cater. “Oh you didn’t, well you have a cell phone right?” Hmm, I did but, super, I hadn’t been on one night flight and didn’t realize that, yes, of course, being able to read your flight plan attached to your kneeboard would be ideal. Otherwise, navigating without any tools in blackness while flying over the Salt Lake Flats is like skiing naked—you won’t last that long. Luckily, the landing light was an alternative to a flashlight, but a bit excessive as it illuminated everything including the Great Salt Lake 1,000 feet below. But we were good to go.
Drew keyed the mike, and like magic, the taxiway and runway lights appeared (this allows runways to function only for pilots using the airport and saves on extra electricity and city glare). With the white lights outlining the runway, taking off wasn’t so rough—full throttle and the little Tecnam popped off the ground. We were off. Destination: Wendover, NV, the gambling city in the middle of no where (it might has well have been Santa’s workshop in Finland.) While planning my flight using Visual Flight Rules, I had to pick out some landmarks as reference points. I had a tower beacon and I-80, otherwise it was blackness. There was a slight sliver of moon, and the airplane’s lights reflected off the water oh so briefly until we climbed to 8,500 feet MSL (above sea level, but actually only 4,000 feet above the ground).
About an hour in, Wendover appeared. Where was the airport? No problem, Drew told me to key the mike and voila it lit up and so I set a straight approach and prepared to land for a full-stop. Easier said than done. The runway lights were bright, but not being able to see the cement until 100 feet from the ground is a little freaky. Drew told me to do exactly what I had been doing during daytime landings. Well, I landed three wheels on the ground, so that was promising. “Ready to do 9 more?” Drew asked. “We merged two lessons in one, and have to get those night landings in.” It was 9:15 p.m. already, arg.
So after Drew put me under the “hood,” so I could only fly by instrument, we started to arrive back at Ogden. As I’m listening to the weather on ATIS, I hear: “Mad Dog, grrrrr, grrrrrr, grrrrrr.” Huh? “Oh the Air Force fighter pilots must be on our frequency, and flying at Ogden. You can always tell them since they sound like Darth Vadar and have their own codes.” I announce our intentions, and the Hill Air Force tower gets on: “Tecnam, our fighters can’t key the runway lights, mind putting them on?” Ha, you need us to make the magic happen? You’re welcome. We watched them take off on the runway, their jets ablazing.
And with eyes aburning and a gnarly tailwind turned to frustrating headwind on landing, I zipiddy-do-da-ed through eight landings. At 10:45 p.m., Drew cut the power and I spent my last tired minutes in the plane hoping I wouldn’t die during the “simulated engine failure.” After the last landing, and safe on firm ground, I wasn’t shakin’ in my Danskos anymore, I was ready for more (just after lots of sleep and buying a flashlight).
