Pilotage

Winter makes no sense. Cold weather can't be justified. What good do plunging temperatures, freezing rain, ice, and snow do for anyone or anything except to line the pockets of hot chocolate providers and home heating oil distributors? The answer is nothing. People, plants, and machinery do not require long months of cold-weather hibernation; they seem to do just fine in year-round sub-tropical warmth. Where would you rather go on a February mini-vacation: Watertown, New York, or Key West, Florida?

Winter — in Watertown and all the towns that experience a true winter with frozen precipitation and oil-congealing temperatures — is a big hassle if you're trying to fly a light airplane. The hassle factor doubles if the airplane is stored in an unheated hangar and you have to resort to engine preheating. There's treble the trouble if the airplane is tied down on the ramp or grass and exposed to the unforgiving elements.

Winter weather is nothing if not active, forceful, and interesting. Deep lows and strong highs aided and abetted by an energetic, undulating jet stream kick off huge, fast-moving fronts. In the calm of the summer, you usually can count on a few days of pleasant high-pressure flying weather after a front moves through. In the gloom of deep winter, the weather is much more changeable. Highs sweep through quickly and usually are marked by steep pressure gradients and, therefore, strong winds on the surface and aloft.

The winter of 1993-1994 already is a memorable one, at least in the East. Storm after storm has marched through the Mid-Atlantic and Northeast. It seems as though we've had endless snow, freezing rain, sleet, and cold rain. Professional pilots who have to fly in this stuff have more than earned their pay this winter.

Outside my window, all things are sheathed in ice. It started out as snow a few weeks ago, but we've since had about every form of precip known. Cessnas are tipped back on their main wheels because of the weight of snow and ice on their horizontal stabilizers. Fortunately, my airplane was due for an oil change, so when it went into the shop hangar, it got a free deicing.

Winter flying in a low-performance single like my Skyhawk usually is a challenge. You have to pick your opportunities carefully. Even if the airplane, ramp, and runway are clear of ice and snow, the winds aloft may be too strong to justify flying. If the headwind component is half or more of your true airspeed, well, what's the point of flying. (Time to spare? Go by air.)

The greatest angst in winter flying is not, however, the winds; it's the potential for encountering airframe ice. One sure way to avoid the problem is to never ascend into a leaden winter overcast. That's just not practical if you expect to get some utility from an airplane; you and it have to be able to fly in inclement weather. But we still are living in the scientific stone age when it comes to the ability to determine with certainty which clouds will ice up an airframe and which won't. The best information available to pilots on icing potential is the real-time observations of kindred souls who are in the thick of things. We're talking pilot reports.

The pilot reports this day were clear on the issue of airframe icing: It existed, although most characterized it as light rime. Also, the tops were reported as fairly low, about 6,000 feet; however, one or two mentioned tops at about 11,000. The information was troubling. The bases of the overcast were below the lowest IFR minimum enroute altitude. If I flew IFR, I would be in the clouds in freezing temperatures. An alternative would be to file IFR and climb through the overcast. But it wouldn't take much ice to seriously impede a Skyhawk's climb performance, and I didn't like the ambiguity about where the clouds topped out. The last thing I wanted was to be droning along in cloud tops where ice was sure to be found. Ceiling and visibility were marginal in the departure area, but according to flight service, things brightened up considerably to the Northeast — my way. I would go VFR.

Flying takes a lot more preparation in the winter. In the days leading up to a planned flight, I spend hours watching weather trends, trying to forecast what things will be like at launch time. If it snows or sleets beforehand, I have to go out to the airport and clear off the airplane. Otherwise, the sun will partially melt the stuff. That night, it refreezes, bonding itself to the skin until you either drag the airplane into a heated hangar or wait until the spring thaw.

My advance work this time paid off — the airplane surfaces were contaminant-free when I was ready to depart. The glutenous engine oil, however, needed some attention in the form of heat. It pays to have a strong battery, too. If the battery falters while trying to start the reluctant engine in cold weather, I have to take off the top cowl to either remove the battery or hook up an auxiliary power source.

After the lineman had warmed the engine, I had him direct some hot air on the tiedown rings, so I could unravel the frozen knots. We have to supply our own tiedown ropes here at Frederick (Maryland) Municipal Airport, and after watching the snow plows scrape off every rope on the airport not attached to an airplane, I've made it a winter preflight check-list item to stow my ropes in the baggage area and take them with me whenever I leave for more than a daytrip.

The weather stayed marginal — ceilings at about 2,200 and 5 miles visibility in very light snowshowers — farther to the northeast than flight service had forecast, but it was flyable. The chatter on Flight Watch was about light to moderate icing and varying cloud tops. I was happy with my decision. The weather eventually began to lift, and I finished off the flight to eastern Massachusetts in sunshine.

The next morning, I awoke to find 13 inches of snow on the ground — and on my poor, cold, and lonely airplane. I wasn't due to fly again for a few days, but I went to the airport to dig out my airplane. Like two other Skyhawks at the small field, it rested on its tail. The huge layer of snow on tail and wings looked like rising bread dough. The runway had not yet been plowed, and no fuel was being pumped, but I was assured things would be up and running by the time I was planning to leave. Flying into and out of small airports in the winter poses some special concerns. On arrival, you might not be able to get a unicom report on runway and wind conditions. The airport can be slow to dig out of a snowstorm — you might not be able to land or depart according to your schedule. And don't count on there being a heated hangar available to tuck your airplane into. When shoveling out, be sure to clear all the snow from around the tires and for several feet in front of the airplane, so you'll be able to taxi when the time comes.

I got lucky and was able to leave on schedule between weather systems. A cold front was advancing westward across the country, and the winds aloft were blowing mightily from the southwest. What normally is a three-hour nonstop flight turned into an interminable 4.5-hour trip with fuel stop. Groundspeeds were in the 70-knot class. I could have flown lower and picked up about 10 knots, but there was headbanger rock-and-roll turbulence down low. I much preferred the slower but smoother air on high.

My plan was to drop off a couple of passengers, refuel, then head south to home base, arriving just after dark. The world-class headwinds stopped that plan in its tracks. I landed at the intermediate stop in one of the strongest crosswinds I've ever had to tackle, and no one was home at the FBO; I couldn't get fuel. Darkness was at hand, and I had to admit to myself that the fight had gone out of me anyhow. I stayed the night.

A restful sleep restored my energy and resolve. A glance heavenward drained it all in an instant. The sky was obscured by low, gray, icy-looking cloud. VFR was out of the question. IFR was questionable. Few pireps were available to confirm or deny the forecasts. The lineman cheerfully put my airplane in a big heated hangar to thaw. Another truth of winter flying was reinforced: Respect thy line person. He or she has a miserable job in the winter, and the ones who do it well and with a smile are special people. Treat them well.

While the ice melted off the wings, he preheated the engine. While he did that, I listened for the report promised by the pilot of the Saratoga who had just departed for Florida. It came, and it was good news: a thin layer, just a trace of ice on the climb, and clear above.

By the time I was ready to roll, the clouds were breaking up. I got my clearance and flew through the barest wisp of a cloud on my way to 6,000 feet.

The undercast thickened as I flew south. Soon I was skimming just above the tops. Before I could ask for higher, the New York Center controller who was responsible for my blip asked if I would like to go to 7,000; he had heard from a pilot ahead of me that I could expect ice at 6,000. A bit farther on, the controller volunteered an amendment to my routing. "Would you like direct Frederick?" he asked. Yes, and thank you for your very good service.

Nearing Frederick, I was cleared to 5,000 feet, which put me in the clouds. The Skyhawk began to accumulate a bit of rime, so I asked for lower. It took a few minutes to get that approved, and by then, the ice was past the trace stage. I broke out at 4,000, but the ice didn't come off until reaching pattern altitude.

I patted the Skyhawk on its warm nose after it was snugged back into its customary parking spot. A job well done. It had been an arduous, adventuresome, frustrating, interesting, challenging 10 hours of flying, spread over several days. Lightplane flying in the winter is good, honest, hard work, a reminder of how easy we have it in warm weather. I'm ready for more, though. Heck, I'm even considering a little vacation trip to Watertown this month.