When a pilot flying VFR gets into serious trouble, it usually takes one of two forms. The airplane winds up inside clouds or, at night, in a position where the pilot has no reliable visual reference whether in or out of clouds. Then the pilot loses control of the airplane. The second way is for the pilot to retain control of the airplane but collide with terrain or obstacles simply because he couldn't see them in time or at all.
A pilot who makes a plan and then follows the strategy is likely to avoid these two uncomfortable possibilities — uncomfortable because a high percentage of weather-related accidents occur on a pilot's final flight.
Scud running used to be a socially acceptable way to go places, mainly because instrument flying didn't really come to general aviation until the 1950s, so virtually all "weather" flying was done VFR. Maybe it was less dangerous then because we were flying slower airplanes, there were fewer man- made obstructions to get in the way, and there was less regulated airspace to worry about. Still, it was the strategist who got there without scaring himself silly, or worse.
The word strategy is defined as meaning "a plan, method or series of maneuvers...for obtaining a specific goal or result." The goal is to get there if you can but, more importantly, to be around to try again another day if you don't. More than one general has found retreat to be an important strategic element.
The minimums for VFR flying have not changed a lot since the good old days. In uncontrolled airspace, VFR is still legal in the daytime down to a mile visibility as long as you remain clear of clouds and meet the minimum altitude requirements. If part of the strategy is to see where the floor of controlled airspace is 700 feet and where it is 1,200 feet, the strategy is bad. In a fixed-wing airplane, a mile visibility is simply not enough. It takes but 30 seconds to fly a mile in a Cherokee, less in a Skylane, even less in a Bonanza. There is too much stuff sticking up into that low-altitude airspace to chance flying with a mile visibility. Also, the weather condition that would result in a mile visibility would be such that the visibility could be quite variable, down, certainly, to less than a mile in spots. Any surviving scud runner will tell you that even though the general visibility may be a mile, in river or large creek bottoms visibility often goes to zero — right down to the treetops. The real VFR strategist is always looking for no clouds lower than 1,000 feet above the highest obstacle within 5 miles and no less than 3 miles visibility.
VFR strategy is an interesting thing to contemplate because the two primary things that bite tend to come after a plan has gone bad or was not made, and they tend to feed each other. As you fly along trying to stay out of clouds, you may be forced lower and lower, thus creating more exposure to hitting something that isn't seen in time. Or if panic overwhelms as you scoot low across the country and you pull up into the clouds to find a safe altitude, then you are ripe for a loss of control. On the latter, even a lot of instrument training doesn't always help because there are many cases on record of an instrument-rated pilot losing control of an airplane after an unintentional VFR entry into instrument meteorological conditions. Instrument flying apparently doesn't work too well when approached on an impromptu basis.
The important first step is the plan for a flight. Actually, a VFR flight on a marginal day requires far more planning than an IFR flight. I always like to follow things, like roads, if the weather is the least questionable and the flight is VFR. Whoa, you say — if the weather is questionable, you should not fly. True, to some extent, but remember that when we fly VFR we have only weather reports from widely separated stations. There is no way to know what is in-between those stations, so if there is any weather at all, it is questionable for VFR.
To take off on a straight-line cross country when you can't see forever is just not a good idea. To avoid things like hills and towers, you need to know exactly where you are at all times. Also, every airport has a road going by it, and airports are an all-important part of VFR strategy.
I was aloft when the air traffic controller's strike started on August 3, 1981. It was Oshkosh time, and that's where I was headed. My IFR clearance ran out around Cleveland. The controller who was working said there was nobody in the next sector, and all he could do was clear me for an approach to a nearby airport. There, with the IFR string cut, I started making plans to go on VFR. In anticipation, I had procured sectional charts. A westbound road looked like a good deal, and when the visibility increased to 3 miles, I set out, flying down the road, reading town names on water towers. The resolve was to retreat, or find an airport and land if the ground could not be seen clearly over the nose or if we could not stay clear of clouds 1,000 feet above the highest obstacle within a few miles either side of the road. I had checked that minimum altitude out before takeoff.
After some miles, it began to look doubtful, and when I saw an area of rain ahead on the airborne weather radar, I knew the VFR would come to an end at that point. Rain means lower visibility and often means lower clouds — scud. Running with the minimums barely satisfied in dry conditions means that rain is a no-no. So I landed and waited awhile. When the rain moved, I took off, and this time made it through the area of weather and had an uneventful trip on to Oshkosh.
Most pilots fly with excellent electronic navigational equipment. VOR/DME, loran, and GPS are great, but in most cases, VFR in marginal conditions (defined as a ceiling of 3,000 feet and visibility five down to 1,000 and three) is best done "visual" as opposed to what some call "RFR," radio flight rules. It is fine to use the electronic devices, but the most precise VFR is flown with a chart. With your finger running along, it is a paper moving map, your finger serving as the airplane symbol. The chart has the terrain and the obstructions, and the airplane's proximity to these is all-important. Where electronics come in is in using them as backstops. Don't, for example, proceed beyond a certain radial or lat/long unless you can see the menacing terrain feature or obstruction that lies beyond that point. Of course, when the weather is better than marginal, the electronic navigational aids can become primary. At any time, a "nearest airport" feature is worth its weight in gold.
Altering a route during the planning process is often good strategy, especially in hilly or mountainous terrain. Valleys have all sorts of good things in them: towns, airports, roads, railroads, and rivers to follow. Narrow valleys, though, are bad news because if you don't have comfortable turn-around room in a valley, then the stage is set for one of the two serious problems.
There's some long-range VFR strategy (works for IFR, too) that some pilots often use when flying the western mountains, as many of you will be doing to attend AOPA Expo '92 in Las Vegas, starting October 11. The route that goes across Alamosa, Colorado, and Farmington, New Mexico, is the high route. To fly the trip at a little lower altitude, many pilots choose the route that goes over Albuquerque. Or others fly the lowest route of all over El Paso, Texas; Tucson; and Phoenix. One of the more enjoyable things about a good long VFR trip is planning, and if the charts are studied carefully, there shouldn't be any terrain surprises when you come face-to-face with the minimum safe altitude for enroute flying.
From a weather standpoint, it helps to understand what terrain features and massive urban areas do to weather. When you watch real mountain pilots operate, you see a keen awareness of how circulation affects the formation of clouds as well as how it affects the airplane. Lifting makes clouds, which is why ridges are often obscured or at least have clouds perched atop them when there is enough moisture around to make clouds. The front range of the Rockies is a classic place to find a solid line of cumulus, some of which build into thundershowers or storms and drift off the mountains. Coming upon this on a hot summer afternoon, after heating has caused upslope circulation, is a little like being between the devil and the deep blue sea. Often, it isn't possible to sneak through the cumulus unless you are in a high flier. That means going between the bases of the cumulus and those rugged ridges. The best strategy to use in this situation is to fly early in the day, before the cumulus start developing.
Urban areas tend to emit nasty stuff that reduces the visibility during stable times, with little circulation. Pilots from, say, Kansas, who fly into the northeast megalopolis in the summer always complain about the lousy visibility even on a clear day. It happens in the Los Angeles area, too. Flying in such conditions is the time when I most covet an autopilot. The navigation is demanding because of all the regulated airspace as well as because of obstructions. Then there is all the other VFR traffic compressed into the unregulated airspace. When flying in a clear condition with 3 miles visibility, other airplanes seem to just appear from time to time, and you sure want to see them as soon as they become visible. The good strategy is to let the autopilot (if you have one) fly while you concentrate on navigation and other traffic. If you can get traffic advisories from ATC, fine, but even if they agree to give advisories, they often don't have time to call all the traffic in a busy area, so don't fail to look outside.
Time of day has a strong relationship to strategy. If it is Indian summer, for example, fog often forms right at sunrise and lingers awhile. That suggests being wary of a predawn departure as well as not planning on leaving soon after sunrise. In the storm season, the time of best passage through an area that has been active is often mid-morning, when the storms have spent their energy from the day before and have not yet started building for another onslaught. As always, when considering storms, even weak ones can create poor flying conditions, so what you see is what you get when dealing with them.
Late in the day, marginal weather is likely to get worse. When the sun sets, the Federal Aviation Regulations don't change a lot, but the basic rules of VFR survival sure do.
The most basic element of VFR strategy is found in the first name of the activity, visual. Making a plan to remain visual in the daytime is easy because the basics of seeing are clear. You see, or you don't see. At night, though, you don't often see much, and it is difficult to tell how much you can see. Only artificial light is clearly visible unless there is a nice moon hanging in the sky.
The strategy for night VFR has to be different than by day. Where it might be fine to fly in the daytime from Wichita to Tulsa, with both places reporting 1,500 overcast and 3 miles visibility, it could be lethal at night in the same conditions. Why? Because in the daytime, you could see worse conditions ahead and could turn around if the clouds were lowering or the visibility were dropping. At night, the first clue of worse conditions might be when the strobe lights start illuminating the inside of a cloud. Presto — you're in the midst of one of the big troublemakers with no warning at all.
When night flight is contemplated in areas of high terrain, the VFR plan has to be carefully made because, while the regulators require that things like television towers be lit, the mountains stand in silent and dark majesty at night. More than one has been hit by a pilot who didn't go to the trouble to stake out the high terrain.
These are examples of why the night VFR record is many times worse than the day record.
Most pilots are not willing to completely eschew night VFR because it can be so useful, especially when the days are short. The strategy for night VFR still has to be very conservative. Certainly, clear nights behind cold fronts, especially with a nice moon, are good times to fly, and there is little additional risk when compared with daytime flying as long as a careful plan is made. Clouds are okay, too, as long as the reports and forecasts put all the clouds (including scattered) well above a predetermined minimum safe altitude, the visibility is good, and no precipitation shows on the radar summary. One other element needs to be added: ground lights. Flying on a dark night, whether because of an overcast or no moon, with sparse ground lighting, can be quite difficult. The only real horizon reference can become the artificial one on the panel, and when this becomes the primary reference, the flight is no longer visual.
Where there are a lot of ground lights, a plan is needed to find the airport, and this plan works better if it is made before takeoff. Some small urban-area airports are hard to find in the matrix of lights. Many have minimal runway lighting, and with every hamburger joint in the area spending ten times as much for electricity, the airport can be difficult to identify.
VFR flying is one of the best individual freedoms left in the United States. This freedom thrives in the midst of our national paranoia about cradle-to-grave security and anything bad being somebody else's fault. You can take a basic airplane and fly almost anywhere in the country, independently, with no government help along the way and with the success of the mission based entirely on the individual. As I write this, three Cubs full of AOPA employees, friends, and family are headed for Oshkosh — no radios, at least none that is screwed to the airplane. (Who could resist taking a portable GPS on a trip like that?) To take advantage of this VFR freedom with as little risk as possible, the main requirement is to never ever forget the first name — visual.
