Once a student can fly straight and level and can turn and maintain altitude, flying a rectangular course or any other ground reference maneuver is relatively simple—unless the wind is blowing. There's no better picture of how the wind pushes airplanes around than a stiff breeze; a big, rectangular patch of earth (best bordered by four neat, concrete, two-lane highways, but perhaps I'm getting picky); and a student pilot ready to wrestle the airplane into flying some straight lines around it.
Before we leave the ground, though, I brief my students on how to handle the wind. Some instructors do this with a piece of paper and a pen. Others rely on that old classroom standby, the chalkboard. Regardless of the medium, they dutifully diagram a rectangle and wind and then fly a miniature stick airplane around the artwork.
I use chalk, too, but I take a more physical approach, especially on windy days. My student and I walk onto the tarmac, where buildings or other obstructions don't muddle the wind and where we can see the windsock; and I draw my rectangle (or other ground reference geometry) on the pavement. Then I play airplane. I hold out my arms, rotate my hands to impersonate the ailerons (re-creating engine noise is optional), and fly around the rectangle, correcting for the wind I can clearly feel on my face, my sides, and my back.
Standing out on the tarmac, I can easily feel what the wind is going to do to the airplane in flight. As I enter the rectangle on the downwind, I can feel the wind at my back, pushing me, accelerating me along my track. As I head into the turn at the corner, it's clear that I'd best crank in the bank and get the turn moving around before the wind pushes me away from my chosen ground reference.
As I head into the first crosswind leg, I can sense the wind on my shoulder and cheek. I instinctively want to turn into it and fly "upwind" a bit to compensate for the way the wind is pushing me away from my desired track. My student watches as I crab my body into the wind, just as a sailor might turn his (or her) boat into the current while crossing a river.
The turn from the crosswind to the upwind leg of my rectangle starts steep in an effort to get my nose around into the wind without drifting away from my corner. Once I roll out, I can feel the wind full in my face. If the wind is brisk, there's no question I need to lower the nose just a bit. (More wind over the wings means more lift, which can result in a slight, nagging climb away from my target altitude.) In addition, I know I'm in for a long leg because the headwind has reduced my ground speed.
Hunching over to physically demonstrate a pitch change makes me look like a stork in the heat of its mating dance, but it's something my students can see and feel. So, at the risk of destroying my reputation as a serious CFI, I do it.
Turning to the next crosswind leg seems to take forever. I don't want to bank steeply because the wind is already pushing me into the rectangle. I start the turn gently as the corner passes my nine o'clock position. By now I know where the wind is from (if I don't after three legs, I have some more work to do), so I keep the turn short, and roll out on the crosswind leg with just enough of my airplane's nose into the wind for the perfect (well, something close) crab angle.
Because I can see the "line" over my left shoulder, I adjust my bank (crab) angle so the wind doesn't push me over it. It doesn't take long before I'm ready to bank, first gently, then steeply as I feel the wind kicking me in the pants, and roll out smartly, back onto the downwind leg.
We may look silly, my student and I, waving our arms like gawky eight-year-olds, the wind tangling our hair as we dance around my chalk rectangle, but it gets the point across. Once I'm sure my student can really feel the wind, we reverse our direction of flight so we aren't locked into just one direction of turn.
To enhance wind awareness, we enter the pattern from different positions—the upwind/crosswind, the downwind/crosswind, and even the upwind. My student doesn't know it yet, but she'll use these skills later when we start to learn airport traffic pattern procedures and elementary landings. The goal today, however, is simply to let her see how the wind will affect her airplane as we play the game.
Before we get in the airplane, we discuss the best altitudes for flying the procedure. The book says a pilot should fly a rectangular pattern close to the ground, between 600 and 1,000 feet above ground level (AGL). I prefer 1,000 feet, just because we fly over some houses no matter where we practice, and I hate to upset our terrestrial neighbors. If we flew over undisputedly rural areas, I'd settle for a nice, traffic pattern-like 800 feet, but I doubt I'll ever be comfortable teaching ground reference maneuvers any lower. I know my trainer's engine is loyal, but why take chances?
Despite our discussion about altitude, I expect my student will struggle to keep the airplane close to 1,000 feet AGL as she flies the rectangle. More than likely she'll gradually climb, especially on the upwind leg, until, from lack of attention, we're up around 1,500 feet, where nothing looks quite the same.
It's tough for a fledgling, especially a pre-solo fledgling, to divide her attention among the myriad details required to perform ground reference maneuvers to practical test standard specifications. You have to look outside and watch your track, but you also have to look inside and keep tabs on your altitude, airspeed, and vertical trend. If she spends too much time looking inside, I'll cover the instruments and insist she develop a gut feeling for what 1,000 feet looks like and what normal cruise rpm/airspeed sounds like. She'll get it right, with enough circuits around the ground track.
Somewhere in our training, perhaps on this lesson, if she's performing well, I start calling the legs "upwind, crosswind, base, and final," which is what they really are. When we return to the airport, we may get lucky, and the tower will ask us to enter the pattern on the downwind leg. That's when I usually see a slight, knowing smile erupt on my student's face. I smile too, because I know she's just beginning to put together the steps for one of the most elaborate dance routines she'll ever learn—landing an airplane.