The last leg of a three-week flying vacation started rather slowly in Salem, Oregon. A low ceiling prevented a planned early morning departure. As a 200-hour private pilot approaching my first biennial flight review, I had gained considerable confidence while completing the first two legs of the trip. The 1957 Cessna 172 had taken me from my home in Boulder, Colorado, to Oshkosh for the annual EAA gathering. This was followed by a rambling cross-country flight to Oregon, where I visited friends and family for several days.
Living out of an airplane for several weeks had filled me with the pleasures of camping under a wing. The trip had tested my piloting abilities and made me a more proficient airplane handler. I had even accomplished a solo flight into Oshkosh during the peak arrival period. What lay ahead of me, however, was to be an invaluable lesson in anticipating weather conditions.
By late afternoon, the ceiling at Salem had lifted and become broken. Flight service reported that good VFR weather prevailed below the clouds, but the Cascade Mountains to the east were still obscured. The weather on the other side of the mountains along my route of flight was clear and inviting. I decided to get airborne and at least "take a look." A report from a pilot who had just flown across the Cascades from the east also encouraged me. He reported a clear, smooth ride at 11,000 feet.
I climbed up through a large hole in the broken ceiling and headed east over the cloud layer. The ride was smooth and the scenery absolutely spectacular as the airplane cruised eastward over the mountain range. The tips of several of the higher peaks just topped the solid overcast that covered the entire range. I recognized the mountaintops as friendly reminders of climbing trips during earlier days when I had lived in Oregon.
Within what seemed like only a few minutes, I could see clear sky ahead, just as promised. I had been "over the top" probably no more than 20 minutes, with openings behind me and clear sky ahead, in calm air and beautiful, known surroundings. The Cessna had flown comfortably at 11,500 feet — a good 2,000 feet above the cloud tops and well below the advertised service ceiling of 15,000 feet for the airplane. I spent that night camped out under the airplane at an airport in western Idaho and reflected on the success of my new experience with flying over a cloud deck.
The next morning, I continued the trip eastward. My mind was absorbed by the beautiful landforms that make up the Snake River Plain in southern Idaho. The cold front that lay ahead somewhere in eastern Idaho did not cause me any real concern, because I would be stopping at the FSS in Burley for an updated briefing anyway. As I neared Burley, I could see broken cumulus ahead obscuring the mountain range that runs along Idaho's southeastern border.
The briefer gave me all the information he had on the route from Burley to Rock Springs, Wyoming. There indeed was a cold front somewhere ahead of me and broken clouds along the route I intended to fly. The briefer, though not a pilot, had hunted a lot in the mountains to the east. He assured me that "things tend to break up in the afternoon" — referring, I hoped, to cloud layers and not airplanes.
My optimistic outlook prompted me to give it a try, especially in light of the recent good experience crossing the Oregon Cascades the day before. After all, if it looked bad or even uncertain, I could always turn back to the clear skies of south-central Idaho.
Climbing through the broken puffies around Burley, it became apparent that the route over the southeastern Idaho mountains would be above a brilliant white cumulus cloud deck, with tops around 9,500 feet. I climbed to 11,500 feet and headed east, constantly looking back over my shoulder for the assurance that I could turn back if need be. I couldn't quite see the eastern edge of this cloud layer. For some reason, I felt a little more apprehensive than the earlier flight over the Cascades.
My thoughts were occupied with how I would slip down through the broken layer that was forecast for western Wyoming, once I passed the Idaho mountains. At 11,500 feet, the cloud deck below began to look pretty close — also, ahead it appeared to slope upward. No problem: Ease the throttle forward and climb to 12,500 feet, worrying only about flying at the wrong VFR altitude for the route of flight. I also tried to recall the rules about oxygen and transponders.
It wasn't long before the billowing cloud tops once again appeared close to my altitude. Same response — throttle forward, climb to 13,500 feet, and relax because I was now back at a legitimate VFR altitude. The first results of hypoxia were probably starting to muddle my judgment while making me feel confident and blissfully unaware of my predicament.
The engine started running rough at precisely the same time I realized that the cumulus clouds were rising around me. A quick glance behind me sent a second shiver up my back, because towering cumulus had created a wall that cut off any escape back toward Burley. I was shocked even more to discover that the old Cessna had reached its true service ceiling — it would no longer climb.
On top of a rapidly rising layer of cumulus, with bare-bones private-pilot-check-ride instrument skills and ancient gyro instruments to boot, all combined to inject sufficient adrenaline to counteract any euphoria I was feeling. It was only later that I realized the rising clouds were actually a line of thunderstorms — weather no pilot wants to find himself in, regardless of skill and experience. My immediate realization was that I would soon be in the clouds, over the mountains, with a rough-running engine. I was basically scared.
The phrase repeated over and over again in flight instruction manuals and by instructors blared in my mind: If you get into trouble, "Fly the airplane first!" I pulled on carburetor heat and tweaked the mixture. That smoothed the rough-running engine, but it would only stay that way with full carb heat, which did not leave enough power to climb or even maintain altitude. The tension was mounting rapidly. For no good reason, my mind allowed extraneous thoughts of 180-horsepower conversions and IFR ratings in brief flashes. I was running out of time.
The clouds to the south over the Great Salt Lake appeared to be somewhat lower. I started a gentle, carefully coordinated turn in that direction. If an unplanned descent through the clouds was necessary, I wanted to do it over flat terrain. I also knew that I could get help from the controllers at Salt Lake City, although at the time I was pretty ignorant of the radar assistance that was available to me.
Just after turning toward the Great Salt Lake, I flew over a small hole in the cloud layer through which I could see sunlight on a flat valley floor. In a flash, I gave flight service a pirep (where the presence of mind came from to do this, I'll never know) and started a steep spiral down through the hole. Once below the overcast, I found myself dodging rain squalls, but at least I could see the ground and pick out any number of potential landing sites.
I landed at Tremonton, Utah, and got the airplane tied down just as a tremendous cloudburst let loose. When someone asked where I'd flown in from, I pointed back to the general area of the hole through which I had descended only minutes before — it had become a wall of rain. I had come very close to being engulfed by a rapidly building collection of thunderstorms.
Flying over a cloud deck beyond gliding distance to clear visibility all the way to the ground is unwise, unless the pilot is instrument rated and prepared for an instrument descent. Flying above rapidly developing cumulus clouds that are associated with a cold front, regardless of instrument skills, is sheer folly. My logbook entry for that flight doesn't reveal the significance of the lesson learned. It simply states, "Trementon, stopped by weather." It could easily have been a permanent stop.
Since this incident in 1979, Bob Peterson has obtained an instrument rating and is a flight instructor. He has 2,680 total flight hours, and flies a Cessna 172 and a Piper J-5 Cub Cruiser.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from others' experiences. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
