When a Friend Calls
Aviation and cattle ranching go hand in hand; at least, that is my case. Back then, I owned a '79 Cessna 206, registration YV-1754P—my faithful companion for both hard work at the ranch and personal enjoyment.
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YV-1754P Caracas Airport.
I remember clearly that one day, while at home, I received a call from a great friend, a fellow pilot and rancher from Valencia, who sadly is no longer with us today: the great Bernardo Cosson. Bernardo had his Cessna 337 Skymaster in the shop and urgently needed to get to Arismendi to finalize some business for some cattle he had sold.
At that point in my career, I didn't even know an airstrip existed in Arismendi. I remember asking him a couple of times if he was sure we could land out there. Bernardo, with that unshakeable calmness that defined him, simply replied, “Tranquilo, Ernestico, that place is a 'pistón' (an easy strip).” I gladly told him I would take him; that way, I could also take advantage of the trip to take care of some pending business at my own ranch.
At 7:30 a.m., outside the hangar at Caracas Airport (SVCS), I prepped to head out to Valencia. Those were the romantic days when you would file your flight plan over the radio. I did my run-up at the hold short point, and after checking that everything was within parameters, I started the takeoff roll. It was one of those takeoffs where you can feel the Continental IO-520 engine packing an extra punch, thanks to the cool morning temperature. After a short flight north of Libertador, I landed in Valencia and picked up Bernardo, who was already waiting for me at the Aeroclub. Always friendly and bursting with anecdotes, he climbed aboard, and we set out for Arismendi.
In those days, we flew the old-fashioned way: paper charts in hand, ADF, and VOR; no GPS. We departed Valencia heading south through the Cachinche visual corridor, taking advantage of the early morning hours before the midday sun could trigger the thermal turbulence that takes the joy out of flying.
Ernesto Branger flying to " mata de banco".
After an hour and ten minutes in the air, I began my descent, scanning the horizon for the “pistón” Bernardo kept talking about, but I couldn't see anything resembling a runway. Suddenly, I spotted a small strip of green surrounded by trees, tucked right next to the highway. It looked more like a manga de coleo (a rodeo arena) than an airstrip, but indeed, that was the famous runway.
After overflying the field to evaluate conditions, I established myself on final. I brought the 206 down through 400 feet, fully configured with full flaps and a stable, alive engine, maintaining a precise short-field approach speed and glide path. The plan was to clear the trees and touchdown as short as possible, since the runway was made of Grama Macana (thick savanna grass) and braking was going to be compromised. At the end of the strip, the only thing waiting for us was more trees.
The moment I cleared the last treetop and the mains touched the ground: flaps up and yoke to my chest to put weight on the main gear, maximize braking, and protect the nose wheel. The aircraft came to a stop without issue, but as I taxied slowly to make a 180, the reality of the place hit me like a slap in the face: off to the sides of the strip, resting against the brush, were two wrecked airplanes that had run off the runway.
Bernardo knew the owners. As we taxied past, he started telling me the stories: “That one over there came in too hot, the crosswind on final pushed him out, but fortunately everyone survived. The other one lived to tell the tale too... but further down, there’s one that wasn't so lucky.” With that bitter taste in my mouth, I parked the 206 near the highway. We agreed on a time for the return flight, and each went our separate ways to tend to our business.
Later in the afternoon, I returned to the aircraft for the preflight inspection. After a while, Bernardo appeared, walking with a firm stride and carrying a bread bag where he kept the cash from the cattle sale. “Ernestico, we are ready,” he said with a smile.
As anyone who flies a 206 knows, the person riding shotgun has to enter through the pilot’s door and slide over to their seat. Bernardo was a man of large build, and while making the maneuver, his leg accidentally struck the throttle push-pull control. When I sat in my seat and looked down, I found the throttle lever severely bent.
—Bernardo, look at this. We can't fly with the throttle like this —I told him, concerned.
In an era when phone signal in the plains was nonexistent and we didn't carry cell phones, Bernardo pulled out a pocket knife with pliers and said, “I can fix that real quick.” I stopped him immediately: “Don't wing it, let’s first see how much travel we get, we don't want it to snap right here.”
The lever's travel wouldn't give us one hundred percent, but it was enough to get the two of us out of there. I taxied to the very edge of the threshold, taking advantage of every single inch of available ground, almost burying the tail into the trees. I set one notch of flaps and pushed the throttle as far as the push-pull mechanism allowed. I think it was one of the longest takeoffs of my life. We cleared with just enough room, and as we climbed, I could only think about my poor airplane. Luckily, the rest of the flight back to Valencia was smooth as silk.
Upon landing at the Valencia Aeroclub, I immediately called my mechanic, Ignacio Mujica, from a landline. After explaining the mishap, he told me, “If you are already in Valencia, fly straight to Caracas and we’ll sort it out here.”
I said goodbye to Bernardo. Visibly embarrassed by the incident, he pulled a stack of bills out of the bread bag and handed it to me: “Ernesto, thank you so much for the flight. And don't worry, I’ll take care of this.” I didn't quite understand what he meant at the moment.
I took off for Caracas Airport and landed without further incident just as the sun was setting. Ignacio was already waiting for me at the shop. He grabbed a pair of pliers and tried to straighten the lever with great care, but as if it were made of paper, the metal yielded and snapped completely. The aircraft was officially grounded.
E.Branger next to his 1754p.
I went home exhausted, turning over in my mind how I was going to source the replacement part. When I arrived, I was told that Bernardo had called several times. When I returned his call, the first thing he did was apologize again, only to drop a surprise on me: “Don't worry, Ernestico, I already bought you all three brand-new matching cables: throttle, prop, and mixture.” I insisted it wasn't necessary, but he cut me off right away with that old-school code of honor: “That's what friends are for.”
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