Pilotage

I should have realized the flight was going downhill when the well-defined ceiling and good visibility underneath suddenly turned into an amorphous, soggy, impenetrable mass of cloud that sunk very nearly to the tops of the spring-green hills.

This was unexpected problem number two so far. The first occurred soon after engine start. A twist of the power knob on the number-one nav radio elicited no reaction. The display remained dark. The omni-bearing selector showed signs of life, which meant the nav receiver was at work forwarding some sort of information to the nav head, but the display was dead.

A review of the situation was in order. Every other piece of equipment in the panel was working, including a second VOR receiver and indicator and a GPS. I was still capable of navigating electronically to my destination. The weather was forecast to be VFR. An overcast prevailed over much of the route, but the ceiling was reported and forecast to be plenty high with good clear air pushing me along underneath. Assessment: Go for it.

All went as predicted until sliding past State College, Pennsylvania, just to the west of my northerly route. Seventy years ago, pilots flying Jennys filled with mail sacks flew over this part of the world on their slow way west. Hilly, sparsely populated central Pennsylvania was known as "Hell's Kitchen" to these brave pilots because of the region's unpredictable, often nasty weather. I've logged many trips over the area; I should have known better than to trust an optimistic spring forecast with weather already present.

No problem, though. I executed a 180-degree turn while still in the clear, backtracked a bit, and then started circling. New York Center answered my request for an IFR clearance to Wellsville, New York, by issuing a transponder code. When I was properly identified on the controller's screen, he cleared me to climb and proceed to ELZ.

A cruise-climb in the Skyhawk is a leisurely affair under the best of circumstances. Level at 6,000 feet, the Cessna still was in cloud and remained so for the 30-minute trek to the destination VOR.

The earlier problems in the flight had been dealt with. Everything was under control. It was time to brief myself for the instrument approach to come. Following the advice of an instructor I once had, I reviewed the approach chart beginning with the type of approach, field elevation, expected initial approach procedure, altitudes, headings, frequencies, missed approach sequence, and so on.

With that done and still a few miles to go, I began to think ambitiously. As I was to realize later, this was the mistake that led to the third and most serious problem of the flight.

Normally, when I know I'll have to fly an instrument approach into Wellsville, I ask well in advance for vectors to the final approach course. It's an easier and far quicker method than executing the full procedure, which begins with crossing the VOR a mile south of the airport, then turning east to overfly the locator outer marker before flying the localizer course outbound.

Today was different. I was cocky. Fly the full procedure, I told myself. It'll be good practice, especially because I had just one nav radio.

Getting an accurate read of the surface weather at Wellsville can be difficult. The two nearest reporting airports are about 40 miles distant, one to the west, the other to the east. Usually the weather is markedly different at each. Wellsville has a certified weather observer on staff during the day, but I was having trouble raising anyone on unicom. By interpolating the latest terminal observations from the area, I figured Wellsville's ceiling should be at least several hundred feet above the minimum required to complete the approach. "Great," I thought, "low enough to be challenging but high enough to add a margin of safety."

Then I began raising the stakes. The transition from the VOR to the locator outer marker, which is the initial approach fix, is but a 4- mile leg. I began to do the mental calculations: "At the Skyhawk's 90-knot groundspeed, it should take, uh, lemme see...hmmmm...2 minutes 40 seconds to cover that 4 miles." I set my electronic wristwatch on the stopwatch mode, then doubt began to creep in. "Did I do that right?" Recomputing..."Yep, that's correct, 2 minutes 40 seconds."

Of course, the exercise was a waste of precious time. There was no need to time that segment of the approach. Ground-based navaids define its beginning and end points. I was just trying to impress myself.

Meanwhile, the Skyhawk was about to cross the VOR, I had not been able to make contact with unicom for an airport advisory, and when I went to start my stopwatch, I discovered it got impatient with me and cycled back to the normal time-of-day display.

Suddenly my cool was blown. I made a sloppy turn east to intercept the published radial that is supposed to lead me to the LOM. Unicom answered. Listening to the airport advisory consumed my concentration, and my heading wandered. The needle on the CDI was languishing in a corner of the display. For some reason, my brain wouldn't let go of the timing issue, and I kept trying to call up the stopwatch display.

All of this fumbling and bumbling had a predictable effect on my flying: I missed the LOM — flew to one side of it. The swinging needle on the ADF card told the story: I got close, but close doesn't count in the clouds. A little 4-mile segment, one turn to get on course, and just 100 feet of altitude to lose, and I blew it. "Well, it's still early in the game," I reassured myself. "I'll salvage this thing yet." The airport appeared briefly through a break in the clouds below. At least I knew it wasn't socked in.

I could see that I was passing north of the LOM, so I turned the OBS to the outbound heading — the reciprocal of the runway heading — and turned slightly southeast to intercept the outbound course.

Moments later, I began to think things didn't look right. The position of the CDI needle said I was south of the localizer course, but I didn't see how that was possible. The ADF needle, now pointing towards the rear, told me I still was north of course, which confused the issue even more.

This is when your mind can become your worst enemy by locking up, focusing on one instrument and refusing to admit information from other sources. I was still nearly 2,000 feet above the ground, in level flight with a good idea of my approximate position, so the situation was confusing and frustrating, not perilous. Even so I felt a wisp of that cold, clammy air that blows in with the realization that you're lost.

Then it hit me: The nav radio was still tuned to the VOR. I had neglected to switch over to the localizer frequency. The CDI was showing that the Skyhawk was north of the selected radial, not south of the outbound approach course. When I dialed in the localizer frequency, the needle swapped sides. Order, logic, and discipline returned to the cockpit. The approach was completed without another hitch.

On the drive down the hill from the airport into town, I mentally flew the approach again. It was clear then where I had goofed, how I had become confused. I had tried to do too much at a critical time, had failed to stick to the flying and the fundamentals, and had refused to believe what was staring me in the face.

I had one strike against me from the beginning: the blank nav display. At the very least, an extra application of wariness, caution, skepticism — whatever you care to call it — should have been applied to the flight once I decided to go ahead with it. It was also clear that the entire episode would never have happened if I hadn't been so cock-sure of myself when I started the approach.

After dinner that night, I turned down the dessert. I was having humble pie instead.