This is the time of year when we suddenly come upon night flying. The days are shorter, and with the change in time, a lot of those trips that ended in the late afternoon now end in the dark. The FAA addresses this with a simple rule that says you shouldn't fly passengers at night unless, within the preceding 90 days, you have made at least three takeoffs and landings to a full stop in the period between an hour after sunset and an hour before sunrise. This rule is often broken at the beginning of the night- flying season because not many pilots go out and shoot the three landings. It is also broken later in the season because, while most pilots may have the three night landings, not as many have the three night takeoffs.
If the night accident record were dictated by landing problems in the dark, the rule would be great. In actual practice, the quite serious night accident problem has little to do with landings. It is weather related. For those who choose to fly VFR, visual flying becomes difficult in anything other than perfect conditions because you can't see clouds in the dark. Fine, fly IFR. That is good in theory, but in practice, it doesn't work well either.
In doing some research for the AOPA Air Safety Foundation, I kept running up on night IFR accidents. Finally, I pulled both my personal flying records and the accident history of the type airplane I fly, a Cessna P210, and found a clear indication of something that needs practice a lot more than night landings.
In the past five years, I have flown a total of 70 instrument approaches with conditions less than VFR. Of these, 22 were with the ceiling below 500 feet and 48 with the ceiling between 500 and 1,000 feet. How many were at night? One with the ceiling below 500 feet and three with the ceiling between 500 and 1,000 feet — in five years. Yet with three night takeoffs and landings, I am considered current to do anything in the dark that I am certified to do, including flying approaches to minimums.
The sums on this are reflected in the accident history of my type airplane. Twenty percent of the serious accidents happen on instrument approaches. Of those, 80 percent occur on night instrument approaches, most with the ceiling below 500 feet.
This takes me back to the one night approach in five years I flew with the ceiling below 500 feet. It was to Frederick, Maryland, and was before the AWOS was installed there, so I had no idea what the weather might be. It was okay at other stations, but as it turned out, Frederick was zero-zero. I learned that at the decision height. As I flew down the ILS, I thought I was having to work awfully hard to get this done in the dark. When it came time for the missed approach, I came upon what I consider to be the highest work load event possible in the airplane. The transition from descent to climb required intense concentration, and then I had to change approach charts and wound up flying an approach to Baltimore-Washington International that involved DME fixes as step-downs. That wasn't particularly easy.
Maybe you fly more night approaches than I do. Look it up. I think, though, that you'll likely be surprised at your level of inexperience in the dark. The moral, then, is to throw a practice night approach under the hood between each of those three takeoffs and landings. Miss at least one of the approaches, too, and head then for another airport to mix it up a bit.
This is a clear area where some attentive practice can help to manage what is a major risk. Failing that, just stick to doing it in the daytime.
Malibu/Mirage
Because of all the attention it garnered after five airframe failure accidents in the United States and two abroad, the Malibu will be long talked about. The airplane was grounded and restricted, and at one point, the value of the airplanes suffered mightily. It can't be said too many times that there is nothing wrong with the airplane. One of the more complete investigations in aviation history gives it a clean bill of health.
In the accidents that occurred in the United States, there are enough similarities to teach some lessons.
One is that an airplane being approved for flight in icing conditions is, at best, a hollow promise — hollow in the sense that if the pilot does not use the equipment properly, it is worthless. A majority of the domestic Malibu accidents began as the airplane was flying in clouds above the freezing level, where there might well have been ice, and the pitot heat was off. With an iced pitot, the airspeed indicator becomes an altimeter of sorts. If you climb, the indicated airspeed will increase. An airline Boeing 727 was once lost because the crew of three failed to turn the pitot heat on, became disoriented by the airspeed readings, didn't get it sorted out, and lost control of the airplane. Confusion like that can indeed lead to a loss of control, regardless of the experience level of the pilot or pilots flying the airplane. Pitot heaters are relatively inexpensive to maintain, and it is a good idea to have them on anytime the airplane is flying in visible moisture — clouds or precipitation.
In other words, the flip of one little switch could probably have kept the Malibu out of the headlines.
The other possible factor in a couple of the cases was operation near active cumulonimbus cells. In one, the National Transportation Safety Board theorized that the pilot was attempting to penetrate an area of thunderstorms using a WX-10A Stormscope.
Weather avoidance gear is great, but like ice protection, it has to be used properly. Nobody likes a Stormscope better than I do — I've had one since 1976 — but the device simply can't be used for "picking your way through an area of storms." It works great for the gross avoidance of weather, but if you fly the airplane into a thicket of thunderstorms, it may well not show you the way out.
It's too bad the Malibu got tarnished because some pilots made very simple errors. It is clear that pilots flying airplanes with this much capability must have more than cursory knowledge of what every bit of equipment can and can't do.
Pierre
When extolling the virtues of the general aviation airplane and preaching about how it is a vital link, we sometimes forget how true this really is. Go to Pierre (pronounced "Pier"), South Dakota, though, and you will be convinced all over again.
Pierre, population 12,906, is the state capital. It is located in almost the precise center of the state, on the Missouri River. It has commuter airline service, but the main link is with general aviation airplanes. The FBO there, Capital City Air Carrier, has a fleet of nice twins, including a Navajo. It does a big charter business with the state government and others, as well as running one of those down-home and friendly airport operations.
The morning I was leaving Pierre, it was stormy — stormy enough that I decided to wait awhile. There was a lot of traffic moving, though. Except for a Cherokee Six and a Lance, all the airplanes coming and going were twins. One, a Cessna 310 charter from another town in South Dakota, brought some lawyers (you can spot them a mile away) who were doing something to or for the state. The pilot taxied the 310 into the open hangar, so she could unload her passengers in a dry place. The Cherokee Six brought things for the United Parcel Service. The Capital City Navajo left while I was there, taking some folks over to Custer, South Dakota. Most of the flights were operating VFR, which is what pilots in that area prefer. The country is pretty flat, and they just don't go where they can't see.
Airplanes call for ground transportation, and this is handled in Pierre by Ed. His airport limo is a quite fancy small van, and Ed, not a young man, says he only works 12 hours a day. It's three bucks a head to ride with Ed, who meets most incoming airplanes to see if they need transportation. Riding with Ed is worth the price, whether or not you need to go somewhere.
There's no control tower at Pierre, one of a handful of state capitals that don't have a tower. Minneapolis Center handles the airspace. It is a nice place to stop, and it refreshes the appreciation of the value of general aviation.
Traffic
When I was flying over either Nebraska or South Dakota (I can't recall the exact location), without a lot of other traffic around, the controller called and told of another airplane at 11 o'clock, 3 miles, opposite direction. All in my airplane started looking. What's that? A bright streak of smoke? The traffic was an air-show performer, and when he was given as traffic, he let out a shot of smoke. What a neat idea.
Related Articles
