Cherokee Connections

My logbook declares that I graduated to the mighty Cessna 172 a few days after passing my private checkride, but 10 days after that was my first flight in a Cherokee. 

I can see now that this Warrior—already well worn when I flew it in the late 1980s— was deregistered in 2017. That meant the poor thing survived another 30 years of students like me, learning the sight picture over the nose and discovering how forgiving an oleo-strut landing gear could be. Rest in peace, Zero Four Uniform, wherever you are.

The logbook further notes that many of the flights after that were in Warriors or Archers. I don’t remember details of airplane availability in the flying club, but I do recall enjoying the Pipers more than the one or two 172s we had. I don’t even remember why. Maybe just the difference from the airplanes I’d come up in. Maybe because it felt more grown up, a somehow more serious machine. 

I wouldn’t wander far from Piper’s bread-and-butter airplane. Soon after I went to work for the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association, then editor Dick Collins managed to wrangle a ridiculously well-equipped Warrior out of Piper on some form of leaseback. I don’t know what kind of leverage he had on the CEO or marketing person, but it resulted in a nearly new Warrior available to staff at very reasonable costs.

I would go on to get my instrument rating in that Warrior and fly it as far as Fargo, North Dakota, from Frederick, Maryland. I wouldn’t hesitate to do that today in any number of airplanes, but then the trip felt like a voyage to the far side of the moon. If I recall correctly, it had a very nice two-axis King autopilot. I wasn’t allowed to use it much, thanks to my CFI keeper in the right seat. Oh, well, hand-flying is good for practice.

Somewhere along the line, the Warrior went back to Florida, and I gravitated to high-performance machines, eventually buying a Beech P35 Bonanza—let the fiscal bloodletting begin.

In 2011, I did the unthinkable and paused my flying. Eight and a half years passed without me setting foot in anything smaller than a 737. 

In 2019, the flying bug returned. I found a flight school in Newport, Rhode Island, near where I was living at the time and decided to get back in the game. Many things had changed during my hiatus, some FAA regs, new medical options (as in BasicMed), and the now ubiquitous iPad-based electronic flight bag. (Oh, man. If I’d had those in my formative years!) 

My CFI was patient during the ground work, carefully closing the gap from what I remembered to what was current in terms of procedures. We talked a bit about New England weather, which was totally new to me, and he did his best to test me without overloading me.

As we settled into the cabin, it all came flooding back. The smells—oil and 100LL mixed with moldy carpet and the butt sweat of about a thousand other students. And the sensations—the feel of the yoke, click of the switches, thrum of the O-320.

Much to my relief—and, I suppose, a bit of surprise—the reflex part of flying came back right away. My takeoffs and landings were, if anything, better than the last ones before I stopped—because I again cared to do it right. We completed our refresher, taxied to the fuel pumps. The CFI looked over at me. “Are you sure it’s been that long since you last flew? I never would have known.”

Praise that I accepted in the moment with a smile. But I’m also sure that I gently patted the glareshield of that Cherokee 140 for its kindness. Thanks for having me back.