Typical bureaucracy!!!   Neil.


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Subject: Fwd: Letter from an Australian Cattle Station Pilot

You would have to have some sympathy for this poor chap...read on.

I am writing to you because I need your help to get me bloody pilot's
license back. You keep telling me you got all the right contacts.
Well now's your chance to make something happen for me because, mate,
I'm bloody desperate. But first, I'd better tell you what happened
during my last flight review with the CAA Examiner.

On the phone, Ron (that's the CAA d*#"head), seemed a reasonable sort
of a bloke. He politely reminded me of the need to do a flight review
every two years. He even offered to drive out, have a look over my
property and let me operate from my own strip. Naturally I agreed to
that. Anyway, Ron turned up last Wednesday. First up, he said he was
a bit surprised to see the plane on a small strip outside my
homestead, because the "ALA"(Authorized Landing Area), is about a
mile away. I explained that because this strip was so close to the
homestead, it was more convenient than the "ALA," and despite the
power lines crossing about midway down the strip, it's really not a
problem to land and take-off, because at the halfway point down the
strip you're usually still on the ground. For some reason Ron, seemed
nervous. So, although I had done the pre-flight inspection only four
days earlier, I decided to do it all over again.

Because the prick was watching me carefully, I walked around the
plane three times instead of my usual two. My effort was rewarded
because the colour finally returned to Ron's cheeks. In fact, they
went a bright red. In view of Ron's obviously better mood, I told him
I was going to combine the test flight with some farm work, as I had
to deliver three "poddy calves" from the home paddock to the main
herd. After a bit of a chase I finally caught the calves and threw
them into the back of the ol' Cessna 172. We climbed aboard but Ron,
started getting onto me about weight and balance calculations and all
that crap. Of course I knew that sort of thing was a waste of time
because calves, like to move around a bit particularly when they see
themselves 500-feet off the ground! So, it's bloody pointless trying
to secure them as you know. However, I did tell Ron that he shouldn't
worry as I always keep the trim wheel set on neutral to ensure we
remain pretty stable at all stages throughout the flight.

Anyway, I started the engine and cleverly minimized the warm-up time
by tramping hard on the brakes and gunning her to 2,500 RPM. I then
discovered that Ron has very acute hearing, even though he was
wearing a bloody headset. Through all that noise he detected a
metallic rattle and demanded I account for it. Actually it began
about a month ago and was caused by a screwdriver that fell down a
hole in the floor and lodged in the fuel selector mechanism. The
selector can't be moved now, but it doesn't matter because it's
jammed on "All tanks," so I suppose that's Okay. However, as Ron was
obviously a nit-picker, I blamed the noise on vibration from a
stainless steel Thermos flask which I keep in a beaut little possie
between the windshield and the magnetic compass. My explanation
seemed to relax Ron, because he slumped back in the seat and kept
looking up at the cockpit roof. I released the brakes to taxi out,
but unfortunately the plane gave a leap and spun to the right. "Hell"
I thought," not the starboard wheel chock again." The bump jolted Ron
back to full alertness. He looked around just in time to see a rock
thrown by the prop-wash disappear completely through the windscreen
of his brand new Commodore. "Now I'm really in trouble," I thought..
While Ron was busy ranting about his car, I ignored his requirement
that we taxi to the "ALA," and instead took off under the power
lines.

Ron didn't say a word, at least not until the engine started coughing
right at the lift off point, and then he bloody screamed his head
off. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh God!" "Now take it easy Ron," I told him
firmly. "That often happens on take-off and there is a good reason
for it." I explained patiently that I usually run the plane on
standard MOGAS, but one day I accidentally put in a gallon or two of
kerosene. To compensate for the low octane of the kerosene, I
siphoned in a few gallons of super MOGAS and shook the wings up and
down a few times to mix it up. Since then, the engine has been
coughing a bit but in general it works just fine, if you know how to
coax it properly.

Anyway, at this stage Ron seemed to lose all interest in my test
flight. He pulled out some rosary beads, closed his eyes and became
lost in prayer. (I didn't think anyone was a Catholic these days) I
selected some nice music on the HF radio to help him relax.
Meanwhile, I climbed to my normal cruising altitude of 10,500-feet. I
don't normally put in a flight plan or get the weather because, as
you know getting FAX access out here is a friggin' joke and the
weather is always "8/8 blue" anyway.

But since I had that near miss with a Saab 340, I might have to
change me thinking on that. Anyhow, on levelling out, I noticed some
wild camels heading into my improved pasture. I hate bloody camels,
and always carry a loaded 303, clipped inside the door of the Cessna
just in case I see any of the bastards. We were too high to hit them,
but as a matter of principle, I decided to have a go through the open
window. Mate, when I pulled the bloody rifle out, the effect on Ron,
was frigging electric. As I fired the first shot his neck lengthened
by about six inches and his eyes bulged like a rabbit with myxo He
really looked as if he had been jabbed with an electric cattle prod
on full power. In fact, Ron's reaction was so distracting that I lost
concentration for a second and the next shot went straight through
the port tyre. Ron was a bit upset about the shooting (probably one
of those pinko animal lovers I guess) so I decided not to tell him
about our little problem with the tyre.

Shortly afterwards I located the main herd and decided to do my
fighter pilot trick. Ron had gone back to praying when, in one smooth
sequence, I pulled on full flaps, cut the power and started a
sideslip from 10,500-feetdown to 500-feet at 130, knots indicated
(the last time I looked anyway) and the little needle rushed up to
the red area on me ASI. What a buzz, mate! About half way through the
descent I looked back in the cabin to see the calves gracefully
suspended in mid air and mooing like crazy. I was going to comment to
Ron on this unusual sight, but he looked a bit green and had rolled
himself into the fetal position and was screaming' his 'freakin' head
off.

Mate, talk about being in a bloody zoo. You should've been there, it
was so bloody funny! At about 500-feet I leveled out, but for some
reason we kept sinking. When we reached 50-feet, I applied full power
but nothing happened. No noise no nothin'. Then, luckily, I heard me
instructor's voice in me head saying "carb heat, carb heat." So I
pulled carb heat on and that helped quite a lot, with the engine
finally regaining full power. Whew, that was really close, let me
tell you! Then mate, you'll never guess what happened next! As luck
would have it, at that height we flew into a massive dust cloud
caused by the cattle and suddenly went I.F. bloody R, mate.

You would have been really proud of me as I didn't panic once, not
once, but I did make a mental note to consider an instrument rating
as soon as me gyro is repaired (something I've been meaning to do for
a while now). Suddenly Ron's elongated neck and bulging eyes
reappeared. His Mouth opened very wide, but no sound emerged. "Take
it easy," I told him, "we'll be out of this in a minute" Sure enough,
about a minute later we emerged, still straight and level and still
at 50-feet. Admittedly I was surprised to notice that we were upside
down, and I kept thinking to myself, "I hope Ron didn't notice that I
had forgotten to set the QNH when we were taxiing." This minor
tribulation forced me to fly to a nearby valley in which I had to do
a half roll to get upright again. By now the main herd had divided
into two groups leaving a narrow strip between them. "Ah!" I thought,
"there's an omen. We'll land right there." Knowing that the tyre
problem demanded a slow approach, I flew a couple of steep turns with
full flap.

Soon the stall warning horn was blaring so loud in me ear that I cut
it's circuit breaker to shut it up. but by then I knew we were slow
enough anyway. I turned steeply onto a 75-foot final and put her down
with a real thud. Strangely enough, I had always thought you could
only ground loop in a tail dragger but, as usual, I was proved wrong
again! Halfway through our third loop, Ron at last recovered his
sense of humor.

Talk about laugh. I've never seen the likes of it. He couldn't stop.
We finally rolled to a halt and I released the calves, who bolted out
of the aircraft like there was no tomorrow. I then began picking
clumps of dry grass. Between gut wrenching fits of laughter, Ron
asked what I was doing. I explained that we had to stuff the port
tyre with grass so we could fly back to the homestead.

It was then that Ron, really lost the plot and started running away
from the aircraft. Can you believe it? I saw him running off into the
distance, arms flailing in the air and still shrieking with laughter.
I later heard that he had been confined to a psychiatric institution
- poor bugger! Anyhow mate, that's enough about Ron.

The problem is I got this letter from CASA withdrawing, as they put
it, my privileges to fly; until I have undergone a complete pilot
training course again and undertaken another flight proficiency test.
Now I admit that I made a mistake in taxiing over the wheel chock and
not setting the QNH using strip elevation, but I can't see what else
I did that was a so bloody bad that they have to withdraw me flamin'
license.

Can you?

Ralph H.Bell Mud Creek Station