I took an unexpected vacation from flight training in the wake of the September 11, 2001 attacks. September 26 was my first time back in the cramped cabin of 27U. Though good visibility VFR, the weather conditions that day were not inspiring. Cold drizzle leaked from a high overcast cloud layer, covering everything with a pervasive dampness. I had my first experience with actual carburetor icing then, as the little Continental began to lose power while taxing to the runway. Weather reports showed that conditions were better to the west, so we decided 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 were on short final for Dowagiac. With airspeed pegged at 60 KIAS, the large runway filled the windscreen. Noting a subtle flattening of the perspective, I leveled the nose and waited for the inevitable sinking sensation. When it came, I countered with backpressure on the yoke. With a bit more sink, I increased the pressure. 27U continued its descent without ballooning. As the stall horn began to blare like the bleating of a wounded animal, I continued to pull the yoke toward my chest. With a gentle bump, we were rolling nose high down the runway. In my excitement, I relaxed back pressure on the controls and the nosewheel contacted the runway with a maladroit thump.

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

On the second time around, I managed a repeat performance. Almost. This time, I consciously held the yoke back as I rolled out. The nosewheel finally kissed the runway as the little airplane slowed to a near stop.  "Perfect. Do it again." I didn't need to be told twice and around we went a couple more times.

With my brain still spinning in neutral, I brought 27U back to the departure end of runway 27, swung around, and stopped. Bill exited the aircraft, probably giving me some word of encouragement that I no longer remember. For a moment, I simply stared at the empty right seat. Suddenly, itty bitty 27U felt big and empty.

Once Bill cleared the pavement and waved, I opened the throttle. The airplane was more sprightly than usual and reached rotation speed far sooner than I expected. With little coaxing from me, 27U leapt into the air and climbed with unbounded enthusiasm. I was expecting the airplane to perform better without the weight of the instructor, but I was unprepared for the difference. I reached pattern altitude rapidly, aggressively pulling back on the throttle and leveling the nose to reign-in the Cessna.

Once on downwind, the pace of events slowed down enough for me to consciously realize that I was soloing an airplane. I felt a curious mixture of euphoria and panic. Reaching midfield, I mechanically pulled the carburetor heat knob.  This motion triggered a realization that, alone or not, I had flown 27U enough to know what I was doing. The apprehension fled and I simply flew the airplane.

On short final, I could see Bill standing to the left of the runway in front of the PAPI. I floated over the runway threshold at idle, propeller windmilling.  I passed Bill in an instant.  With the stall horn wailing at peak intensity, I landed without hardly a bump.  I came to a complete stop, back-taxied to the start of the runway, and did it again. The second landing was by far my best that day.

As I prepared for the third and final trip around the pattern, the rain began. It was a gentle rain and did nothing to impact visibility. Dusk was near and the sun had settled itself on the horizon, peering at me under the cloud deck with its blinding rays. I started rolling for my third take-off while pointed directly at the blazing fireball. Relief came to my eyes when the airspeed rose to meet 60 KIAS and I pitched skyward.

Upon turning downwind, I witnessed a rainbow taking shape in the light rain. Not the half-circle familiar to the earthbound observer, but a prismatic hoop suspended in the sky. My course was pointed at the center of the hoop, as though it was a gateway officially welcoming me to pilothood.

Abeam the numbers, the usual mechanics took over. Flaps at 10°, throttle to 1800 RPM, pitch to 70 knots, radio call. During my base turn, I added 20° flaps, pitched to 65 and called again. Turning onto final, I locked in 30° flaps and established the proper landing pitch. As I completed my turn to the final approach path, the world seemed to simultaneously burst and fade. The sun was setting in truly spectacular fashion.  The runway and airport vanished into gray obscurity, fading relative to the setting sun that sat perched over the runway and directly at the top of my instrument panel.  I couldn't see the runway or read any of my instruments. 

Suppressing panic, I looked to the left and right and could still see the landscape moving past the side windows. I thought about aborting the landing in hopes that the sun would change position slightly in the time it would take to negotiate the pattern again. But then something else caught my eye. Despite intense backlighting, lights from the PAPI were still visible. A mental picture from previous landings appeared in my head - an image of the PAPI sitting left of the runway. I decided to continue the descent while steering to the right of those lights. I knew the field - the runway sat in a clearing surrounded by grass that often doubled as taxiway. There were no overhead wires. I also knew that the sun would slip further below the horizon as I lost altitude because I had been able to see well enough during take-off. But how low would I need to go before I could see again?

A seeming eternity passed as I continued to sink at an unknown velocity toward a runway that I could not see. Finally, a few tens of feet above the ground, the horizon hid enough of the sun that my vision was restored. The instrument panel and the runway snapped into crisp reality once again. I was flying parallel to, but not over, the runway. I had underestimated the spacing between the PAPI and the nearest runway edge. I quickly corrected, bringing the Cessna over the pavement. I pulled the throttle and executed a surprisingly gentle, full stall landing.

Taxiing back to the departure end of the runway, my heart still pounding in my chest, I wondered what Bill would have to say. Something like, "what the hell was that?" came to mind. He didn't say anything at first, but merely climbed in, secured the door, and buckled his seatbelt while decreeing, "Let's go home."

We launched from Dowagiac, the airplane losing its prior enthusiasm once faced with carrying two passengers again. We were climbing to a suitable cruising altitude when Bill finally looked at me and said 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 complained. 

"Yeah, I thought so. It happens."  We talked through my decision process and about other actions I might have taken. Afterward, Bill validated my choice by commenting, "well done." We left 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 at my home airport.