I took an unexpected vacation from flight training in the wake of the September 11, 2001 attacks. September 26 is my first time back in the cramped cabin of 27U. Though good visibility VFR, the weather conditions are not inspiring. Cold drizzle leaks from a high overcast cloud layer, covering everything with a pervasive dampness. I have my first experience with actual carburetor icing then, as the little Continental begins to lose power while taxing to the runway. Weather reports show that conditions are better to the west, so we decide to fly from our home airport of Three Rivers, Michigan to nearby Dowagiac.

Poor, poor 27U... Photo by Scott Savett, sometime well after my first solo.

Soon, we are on short final for runway 27 at Dowagiac. With airspeed pegged at 60 knots, the large runway fills the windscreen as it has many times in the previous weeks.  As the perspective flattens, I level the nose and wait for the inevitable sinking sensation. When it comes, I counter with backpressure on the yoke. With a bit more sink, I increase the pressure. 27U continues its descent without ballooning. As the stall horn begins to blare like the bleating of a wounded animal, I continue to pull the yoke toward my chest. With a gentle bump, we are rolling nose high down the runway. In my excitement, I relax back pressure on the controls and the nosewheel contacts the runway with a maladroit thump.

"That would have been perfect, but you relaxed your grip. Let's try it again," Bill says. With flaps retracting and throttle wide open, I direct 27U to lumber skyward and back into Dowagiac's right-handed traffic pattern.

On the second time around, I manage a repeat performance. Almost. This time, I consciously hold the yoke back as I roll out. The nosewheel finally kisses the runway as the little airplane slows to a near stop.  "Perfect. Do it again." I don't need to be told twice and around we go a couple more times.

"Huh?"

Later accounts from Bill revealed that I articulated these concerns with a concise, "huh?".

With my brain still spinning in neutral, I bring 27U back to the departure end of runway 27, swing around, and stop. After Bill exits the aircraft, I simply stare at the empty right seat for a moment. Suddenly, itty bitty 27U feels big, empty, and a little scary.

Bill strolls clear of the pavement and waves.  I open the throttle. The airplane is more sprightly than usual and lunges forward, reaching rotation speed far sooner than I expect. With little coaxing from me, 27U leaps into the air and climbs with unbounded enthusiasm. Intellectually, I am aware that the airplane should have better performance with only one person on board, but I am grossly unprepared for this level of performance.  I reach pattern altitude rapidly, aggressively pulling back on the throttle and leveling the nose to reign-in the Cessna.

Once on downwind, my brain catches up to the airplane and the pace of events slows enough for me to consciously realize that I am soloing an airplane. I am awash in a curious mixture of euphoria and panic. Reaching midfield, I mechanically pull the carburetor heat knob.  This triggers a realization that, alone or not, I have flown 27U enough to know what I am doing. The apprehension flees and I simply fly the airplane as I have been taught to do.

On short final, I can see Bill standing to the left of the runway in front of the PAPI (visual glide slope indicator lights). I float over the runway threshold at idle, propeller windmilling.  I pass Bill in an instant.  With the stall horn wailing at peak intensity, I land without hardly a bump.  I come to a complete stop, back-taxi to the start of the runway, and do it again. The second landing is by far my best that day.

As I prepare for the third and final trip around the pattern, the rain begins. It is a gentle rain and does nothing to impact visibility. Dusk is near and the sun has settled itself on the horizon, beneath the protective overcast.  It peers at me under the cloud deck with blinding rays. I start rolling for my third take-off while pointed directly at the blazing fireball. Airspeed rises to meet 60 knots and pitching the airplane skyward brings relief to my eyes.

Upon turning downwind, I witness a rainbow taking shape in the light rain. Not the half-circle familiar to the earthbound observer, but a prismatic ring suspended in the sky. My course is directed through the center of the ring, as though it is a gateway officially welcoming me to pilothood.  It will remain, for many years, the most memorable sight of my time at the controls of an airplane.

Abeam the numbers, the usual mechanics take over. Flaps at 10°, throttle to 1800 RPM, pitch to 70 knots, make a radio call. During my base turn, I add 20° flaps, pitch to 65 and call again. Turning onto final, I lock in 30° flaps and establish the proper landing pitch.

Gray Obscurity

Five hundred feet above the ground, I complete the turn to final approach.  The world seems to simultaneously burst and fade. The sun is setting in truly spectacular fashion and I am now pointed directly at it.  Runway and airport vanish into gray obscurity, fading relative to the setting sun perched directly at the top of my instrument panel.  I cannot see the runway or read any of my instruments.  Suppressing panic, I look around and see the world beyond my side windows continue to scroll past, my over-saturated vision rendering everything in shades of gray.

There is not much time.  I think about aborting the landing in hopes that the sun will further set in the time it takes to negotiate the pattern again. But then something else catches my eye. Despite intense backlighting, lights from the PAPI are still visible.  A mental picture from previous landings appears in my head - an image of the PAPI sitting left of the runway. I decide to continue the descent while steering to the right of those lights and using the view out the side windows to keep myself on course.  I know the field - the runway sits in a clearing surrounded by grass that often doubles as taxiway. There are no overhead wires. I also know that the sun will slip further below the horizon as I lose altitude because I was able to see well enough during take-off. But how low will I need to go before I can see forward again?

A seeming eternity passes as I continue to sink at an unknown velocity toward a runway that I cannot see. Finally, a few tens of feet above the ground, the horizon hides enough of the sun that my vision is restored. The instrument panel and the runway snap into crisp reality once again. I find that I am flying parallel to, but not over, the runway. I had underestimated the spacing between the PAPI and the nearest runway edge. I quickly correct, bringing the Cessna over the pavement. I pull the throttle and execute a surprisingly perfect, full stall landing.

Taxiing back to the departure end of the runway, my heart pounds in my chest.  I cannot help but  wonder what Bill will say to me when I rejoin him. Something like, "what the hell was that?" comes to mind.  To my surprise, he says nothing about it all, but merely climbs in, secures the door, and buckles his seatbelt.  "Let's go home," he decrees.

We launch from Dowagiac, the airplane losing its prior enthusiasm now that it is faced with carrying two passengers again. We are still climbing to a suitable cruising altitude when Bill looks at me and says in his quirky way, "well, I was beginning to wonder if you were going to land on the runway that time."

"I couldn't SEE it," I complain. 

"Yeah, I thought so. It happens."  We talk through my decision process and about other actions I might have taken. Afterward, Bill validates my choice by commenting, "well done." We leave Dowagiac behind, thus concluding my most memorable flying lesson.

From time to time, I pass near the Dowagiac airport and drop in for a nostalgic circuit or two around the pattern. Every time I do, I become a first time solo student again. I have yet to see another rainbow, but my landings there are always better than the ones anywhere else.