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Note: The day after publishing this quick note, I did a little more research. The key points are noted at the end of this article. The other night I found myself flying west to east along Interstate I-90 through the mountains of western Montana on a moon obscured night. Even though I'm instrument current, and proficient, the forecast aloft called for ice at the MIAs. That meant filing IFR was not a workable option, so I traveled via 'I Follow Roads' under decent VFR conditions. While fighting mountain wave (at least I was pointed 'downstream') and finding myself amazed once again at the blackness of the night under an overcast, I was aware that encountering a cloud lower than the forecast and observed bases was a very real possibility given the sparseness of the weather reporting, and the reality of flying from one microclimate to another. While this meant that I'd have to '180' out of it, I didn't believe it represented such a hazard as to discontinue the flight - as it turned out, I never even got anywhere close to a cloud, at least not one that I could see. Even then, I worked hard to make sure that forward visibility in terms of the distant - and few- ground lights wasn't getting 'fuzzy' as I traveled from one linear segment of my trip to the next. At some point near the town of Drummond I spotted an old Airway Beacon, still operational, flashing it's light as a tangible, and welcoming indication of safety. The airplane I was flying was fully equipped with G1000, a fancy autopilot, plus all the other bells and whistles, but seeing that old beacon flashing steadily was as reassuring to me as it would have been to someone my age over 80 years ago when the system was originally installed. Of course that guy or gal, back in 1935 would have been all bundled up in leather and wool, and blasting along in a fire breathing beast, probably with an open cockpit, at least in those early years. But, now I had to look at my chart, after all, the old beacons here in Montana are still charted, and they should indicate the direction of light, and the corresponding Morse code, right? But where was the Drummond beacon? I couldn't find it on my chart. Is it because I'm running electronic charts on an iPad? Could it be that the mosaic somehow omitted that little blue star with it's directional arrows and Morse code? Or could it be that the FAA has started deleting these 'outdated' NAVAIDs from the chart when they feel showing such a NAVAID would cause clutter? Is there some other reason? Needless to say my workload was low enough that my mind couldn't help but wander a little bit in search of answers to these questions as I continued to scan my engine instruments. Yep, oil pressure is still in the green, she's purring right along. I know they haven't been completely omitted because at least a few beacons are still charted such as on US HWY 12 west of Helena, or near Maudlow north of Bozeman. Where the rest are however is anyone's guess. I suppose I should call a friend who works at MT Aeronautics and get the straight poop, especially since out the window I see blinking lights, but on the chart I see nothing. Bummer. No matter the outcome, I always felt Montana was fortunate to have maintained it's VFR Airway Beacon, a vestige of the old Airmail Routes. Not only was it a conversation starting historical feature, but it still provided very real peace of mind, and served as a relevant navigational cross check for pilots traversing the continental divide. The last part has remained especially true for VFR pilots choosing to fly antiquated or minimally instrumented airplanes after dark, something that the general public doesn't understand is perfectly legal, and when you're diligent, reasonably safe. My hope is that as long as the State of Montana is willing to keep the lights on, that the FAA would be willing to chart them. Authors Note: According to the Montana Division of Aeronautics the last of the remaining Airway Beacons are scheduled to be formally decommissioned by December 31st, 2021 - a mere three weeks after the flight that prompted me to write this post. Idaho Aviation Foundation and MT Div. of Aeronautics are seeking donors and organizations who are willing 'to keep the lights on'. It's unclear how successful this push has been, or will be. For my part, it's definitely the end of an era, and if the lights go out, I'll spend a little more time staring at that GPS. For more information, please visit the MT Div. of Aeronautics: https://www.mdt.mt.gov/aviation/beacons.aspx

Did you ever meet someone or something who did exactly what they were designed, even destined to do? When my wife Rebecca and I were newlyweds, one of her two dogs, Bear, showed her teeth, growled, and made a move at my lower legs when I sat down at the computer. Little did I know that disturbing her peace and quiet in a makeshift den would be such an affront. Needless to say, Bear and I had a little discussion right then and there, about who could growl at whom. From then on we were good. One thing about Bear is that she was a smarty pants, same with her stable mate 'Old Grandmother'. The trouble with being smart, though, is that you know what you want, and you tend to get it. When you don't, less than desirable traits emerge. Bear, however, got plenty of what she wanted, at least before I met her, and that thing was cows. She'd stare at them, follow them, move them, separate them, and when she needed to she'd bite them. That's right, Bear aka 'Little Baby' was a cow dog, and a damn good one. By the time I met her, she was already in semi-retirement. We'd go for walks, on the ranch, and she'd move cows out of our way. When we had to deal with a bull, she was an extra layer of protection, and of course when we were out in the thickets of a creek bottom, Bear would of course become like all dogs - bear bait - an added level of sensory perception that we humans will never be capable of relying on. She was amazing. That little brain couldn't have weighed more than a half pound, but the mental intensity, and computational power rivaled or even exceeded that of a few humans that I've met. We're pretty sure that if evolutionary biology would have gifted her with better vocal cords, that she would've had plenty of stories to tell and knowledge to pass. Now the funny thing about a working girl is that they know how good they are, and they often can't be bothered with lesser tasks. Unlike most backyard bound heelers (house pets), Bear wasn't fond of a tennis ball, or Frisbee for more than a few minutes. Pretty soon she'd lay down and look at us and say, "give me some cows." This was especially the case when we lived in California, in a suburb, for a two year stint. The only upside to that environment was her age, at 12+, she was about as interested in sleeping, and eating spilled scrambled eggs, as she was in herding cows. California, though, is where Little Baby got her first exposure to airplanes. I decided that while my wife was in school full time, that I would take the old girl flying. Ohhh boy. We had to have another conversation. This time however, it wasn't for trying to bite me, but it was because even after all these years of working around diesel pickup trcks, tractors, horses, chainsaws, and guns, Bear Dog was afraid of airplanes. I honestly don't remember how we figured it out, but I think she was hesitant to even climb in the airplane - intuition? We must have scrapped our plans that first day. Not long after we purchased a set of doggie ear muffs - super cute - and I used some scrap Cordura and tubular webbing to sew her up a custom doggie harness just for the airplane. That's right, it was adjustable, gave her a little freedom of movement to stand up, turn around, lay, curl up, or whatever else she needed to do. Critically, however, it kept her where she belonged, out of the controls. We always took it easy on her Little-Baby-body: slow climbs, slower descents, minimal G forces. Over time she got better at flying. Eventually the frantic shivering happened only while we were walking up to an airplane. Once we got her buckled in and her headset on, she'd calm down and look at us as if to say, "Okaayyy, I guess so." No matter what the adventure though, there was never anything better for her than unloading from an airplane. As soon as the mixture handle was pulled, she'd start writhing so enthusiastically as to shed her muffs with nary a bit of help from our advanced human digits. With the harness unbuckled she was out of the cabin like a lightning bolt. This brings me to a fond memory. Me and Bear, in a Citabria with no functional cabin heat, at 8,000 feet above a stratus layer in January, somewhere over the central valley of California with the sun rising in the windscreen. Air smooth as silk, clouds orange as though they were on fire. For my part, I was of course freezing my butt off, the down jacket wasn't quite doing it. Bear however, when I looked over my left shoulder was out like a light, sleeping contently, and probably thankful to have some cold air, as would any Montanan dealing with mild California. Bear eventually moved onto doggie heaven, but not before moving back to the Montana she loved, and the cows she 'loved to hate', where she lived out her years peacefully without any aggressive interventions from modern medicine. Would I fly with another Bear Dog, or someone like her? Absolutely, old dogs I can learn new tricks. Of all the things we did right, there's one thing I want to do differently, even though we couldn't do it with her: I'd introduce the pup to flight earlier. Bear really was an old dog, it showed in her mannerisms the first time she went flying. It took her a long time to get comfortable with the whole idea. I think a puppy, riding on it's boss' lap from an early age, would transition much better to that environment, especially if someday, it was to ride around in the backseat of a Citabria while napping comfortably above the clouds at dawn.

"What are you, a fighter pilot?" "Where's your ejection seat?" "Are you planning to crash?" "I can understand wearing the helmet in a cub, but why do you need it in the Cessna?" These are some of the questions I get asked, with large doses of sarcasm, from time to time in the lower 48 states. In Alaska however, it's a much different story. Up there people know the reality of traveling by light airplane, and they see a friend with a helmet on and give a quite nod of respect. For all the joy and pleasure in aviation, some of the things we do for work or fun in a flying machine is about as safe as riding a motorcycle. We tell ourselves otherwise, but the data speaks for itself. Part of this reality is based on what I refer to as 'Novelty Flying' vs. 'Utility Flying'. 'Novelty Flying' is what people do on a nice calm Saturday morning in the springtime because they love aviation, and they have the money to partake in it. There's nothing wrong with this. 'Utility Flying' however is a totally different beast. Utility flying means that if we don't get into that small backcountry strip this afternoon, the lodge doesn't get it's next round of clients, and the ones currently there will miss their flights back to the big city they live in. It means accepting that MEDEVAC trip at 2am in bad weather. It means the realities of staying focused while delivering load after load of Diet-Coke, Mountain Dew, and Potato Chips onto a gravel strip, covered in patchy ice, with flat light, and a light crosswind, somewhere in Western Alaska, over the span of an eight hour day. Utility Flying is work, and when accomplished in light piston singles or single engine helicopters, it's hazardous. For those of us that do this type of flying, we sometimes have to say goodbye to old friends or new acquaintances. Let me say that it's no fun at all to attend the funeral of a good friend during the prime of his life. I don't mean to suggest that flying is terribly dangerous, in many ways, if a pilot has good judgement it's still a far more efficient, and safer means of transportation that driving. Mechanical failures are rare, controlled flight into terrain does sometimes feel like an epidemic. Because of this, I think that we should take relevant precautions. If you live in the Rocky Mountains, along the fjords, or near the deep tree covered slopes of the Appalachians, it's hard to beat a good lightweight helmet, and a survival vest. If you live in an urban part of the country, you could probably skip the vest, but that helmet is worth it's weight in gold - trust me, especially if you have to stick your experimental onto a freeway during rush hour. Not convinced? Try renewing your medical with a head injury. A positive element, is that in cold winter weather the helmet is warmer. In turbulence it gives bump protection (I've cracked the vinyl in a 182 with my helmet while towing a glider), and around rotor or prop wash the ability to drop the visor and keep sand or snow out of your eyes is invaluable. I've said these things many times to many friends, and have been fortunate to have smart people mentoring me along the way. Eventually my wife convinced me to write a book on the topic called Aviation Survival: A Practical Guide to Surmounting Crash and Post Crash Perils. It's basically a reference to help sort through the myriad of available options. You'll find it on Amazon in eBook format. I plan to release an updated version in 2022. If you have any interest in learning more about protecting yourself and your passengers in an aircraft accident, or addressing the threats that follow in a survival event, then this is the book for you. My expectation is the $9.95 you'll spend will probably save you some heartache at some point, if you're shopping for gear, it will save you some money by helping you make the right selections, and if nothing else, it'll prove an interesting read over a cup of coffee beside the wood stove.

This is the first post of a series that will highlight the independent local spirits that have made and continue to make a positive impact on the aviation industry in Southwest Montana. Most users of the airspace system - airline passengers - will never get the opportunity to meet the often strong headed 'Davids' who are risking their bacon, to tee off with the shareholder funded 'Goliaths' who increasingly dominate the world of general aviation. It's a world that once was rich with 'mom and pop' operations. These mom and pop businesses maintained a high level of let's call it, 'amateur-professionalism', they did it for love and for money, and in most cases they did it well. Even now, amidst high odds, a new crop of these amateur-professionals is establishing a foothold and building their own legacy. We hope this series will provide a window into their world. Earlier in 2021 while much of the developed world was still spinning in confusion, trying to assess the economic fallout of real and perceived threats, Gabe Chandler was closing on a transaction with the former owner of Yellowstone Air Service. An FBO that has served the communities of Livingston and Big Timber Montana for a number of decades. Ask anyone who's flown here for a while and they'll tell you all about it. Gabe decided last year (like many of us) that it was time to leave his role as an executive at an Oklahoma Oil Field Logistics company in order to pursue his passion. Now, he's building a different kind of business and revitalizing an airport that has largely been in the shadows for most of recent history. Especially if compared to the bursting at the seams Bozeman Airport, where wave after wave of hangar development seems to keep materializing and IFR release times are a very real problem. Consider that when asked, a lot of people still don't even know that Livingston has an airport. Moreover, an airport that is easily capable of supporting some of the most high performing business jets currently produced. Not only is it capable, it has enough elbow room to functionally support them and the traditional piston powered fleet. Gabe's vision doesn't stop at selling fuel though, as he sits in an easy chair strategically place by the large windows in the airport building, he has a tendency to look over at Sheep Mountain and the Crazies, while he talks about building a community. He makes some statements, and he asks a lot of questions. He wonders why the pilots and small airplanes left (they used to be here), and more importantly, he's making a plan to get them back. Enter his whole philosophy, which conveniently is also his business tagline, "Where the wind blows but the service doesn't." The wind is no stranger to anyone who lives in, or frequents the Livingston area. The National Weather Service will tell you that it's consistently the windiest airport in the lower 48 states - at least of those that have an operating weather station. Books have been written about Livingston's wind, the local chamber of commerce embraces it because if they didn't laugh they'd have to cry. Personally, I like to think that the wind helps 'blow the trash out'. Gabe, wisely has embraced that wind, and he's finding that his tagline is a great conversation starter, and more importantly it's an accurate advertisement for the culture he's developing. Going forward, Yellowstone Air Service will continue to support the people of Livingston, Big Timber, and the rural communities that surround them in Park and Sweetgrass Counties. Already they've taken the important step of installing self-serve fuel at the Livingston Airport, so pilots can stop and get fuel at their leisure, no matter the time of day or night. He's opened up a few airplanes for rental to students and local pilots. Gabe envisions a time in the near future where his efforts at plowing drifted snow are appreciated by an increasing number of local pilots with a similar zest for the idea of taking flight in a place deemed by many to be too inhospitable. Next time you're at the Livingston airport, stop by, say hello, and don't forget to scratch Lady's ears (Gabe's dog), she'll love it.

The short answer is: It depends ​ The long answer is rich in variables: -Do you prefer to grab the bull by the horns, to work a little here or there, or to procrastinate and cram at the last minute? -Do you believe that more expense always means higher quality, or do you believe that cheaper always means good value? -Are you introspective in the face of criticism? While we all do our best, we often encounter difficult phases, learning plateaus, and tend to uncover sometimes long hidden personal attributes that need to be addressed. -Why are you even reading this website? Is someone (like your parent) asking you to do it, or are you truly engaged and excited about this idea? -Are you OK with meeting the requirements or are you interested in being the best that your experience and abilities allow? -Have you factored in the unseen costs of your journey such as the hours spent driving back and forth? The cost of gas in your car, and the inevitable coffee shop visits with study materials in hand? ​ Now that you've read this far, I've seen students obtain a private pilot certificate (license) at zero cost to them through scholarship or family contribution. It's also not out of the question to spend $10-12,000 at commercialized flight school where the training is impersonal and the instructors goal is 'time building' or financial throughput for the investors. ​ For a motivated student of average ability and frequency of flying, 1-2 lessons per week, in 2021 terms, a private pilot certificate can usually be obtained for between $5,000 and $8,000 dollars. ​ Call to learn more.