A cold November wind swept the early-morning runways at the Burlington (Vermont) International Airport. As I moved through the pre-flight inspection, my mind turned to the upcoming flight: east over the 4,000- foot mountain range to Montpelier, then on to Kennebunk VOR and into Portland (Maine) International Jetport for a 9 a.m. appointment.
According to the flight-service briefer, there was a measured ceiling of 3,500 feet. A Boeing 727 that crossed the ridge 30 minutes earlier had reported the tops at 7,200 feet, with a trace of rime ice at 6,000. I had been teaching instrument flying for about two years and had developed a healthy respect for ice. I was relieved to hear that the first airplane over the mountains that morning had encountered nothing significant.
At 6:30 a.m., I fired up the Cessna 172. At the hold line of Runway 33 I performed the engine run-up and pre-takeoff check that I had taught to scores of students. Everything looked good, but I still fished out the checklist to confirm my beliefs. My routine scan stopped short when I came to the pitot heat. Oops. First lesson of the day. I flipped on the switch, feeling a little foolish, thankful that I didn't have a student sitting next to me. As it turned out, those extra 20 seconds may have saved my life that morning.
As I climbed through 1,000 feet on the runway heading, the tower handed me off to departure. I was cleared to climb to 9,000 feet, and since there was so little traffic, direct to the Kennebunk VOR — this would save me 20 minutes on the trip. Since I would be off the airways for most of the flight, I would have to triangulate with Montpelier VOR to keep track of my exact position. I decided, however, to defer that task until I was on top and in the clear.
As I entered the clouds at 3,500 feet, I was handed off to Boston Center and settled back to enjoy the flight. Nothing to do now but level off at 9,000 feet and do a little radio navigation to Kennebunk — piece of cake.
Passing through 6,000 feet, I saw the trace of rime ice on my wing struts. I had been expecting it and felt no concern. Now I was at 6,500 feet, less than 1,000 feet to the sunlight, when I suddenly slammed into a solid wall of freezing rain. Instantly my airplane was encased in a thick, deadly cocoon of clear ice.
"Wait a minute," I thought. "This isn't supposed to be here." The added weight of the ice was too much for the little Skyhawk, and even with full power and the nose pointing high, I began to sink at 500 feet per minute toward the mountaintops just 2,500 feet below me. The ice on the propeller caused a constant vibration which impaired my ability to detect an imminent stall. The airspeed was rapidly bleeding off. I maintained the best-angle-of-climb speed (VY) plus 15 knots in an attempt to slow my descent without precipitating a wing stall. Thank God for that pitot heat.
Time to take stock. There was no way to maintain altitude. I was going down. I couldn't see outside, and I wasn't even sure of where I was. I knew I was somewhere north of Barre-Montpelier, Vermont's, Knapp State Airport, but I had no idea if I was east or west of the ridge. I had to get to Montpelier, and I needed the help of radar. Maintaining the razor's edge of airspeed I needed, I keyed the mike.
"Center!" I said in a voice I hadn't used since I was seven. "Zero Tango Alpha has severe icing. Request vectors Montpelier."
"Roger, Tango Alpha," said the controller. "Cleared for the ILS approach into Montpelier."
"That's all she wrote," I thought. It would take me 15 minutes to find the initial approach fix, and by that time it would be all over. "Unable," I said.
"Roger, Tango Alpha," he replied. "Then turn to a heading of 240, vectors to the airport."
"That's it," I thought. "He understands." I had heard that center controllers were the best in the FAA, and now I believe it.
"And continue your descent," he said. I felt a spark of hope. He wouldn't have told me to continue the descent unless there was air beneath me. Better yet, he had turned me to the southwest toward Montpelier, which meant that I was east of the airport and therefore past the high ridge. Maybe, just maybe, I'd break out of the clouds before I ran into a mountain. I drifted down and down through the gray unknown to 5,000 and then to 4,000 feet. Everything was quiet. Even the chatter on the radio stilled as every pilot on the frequency waited to hear the outcome.
Three thousand feet. I could feel the hills around Montpelier reaching up to meet me. Just as the tension became unbearable, I broke out of the clouds into the most beautiful Vermont morning I had ever seen. And right there below me was the Montpelier airport.
"Center," I said, "I have Montpelier visually, and I can take it from here."
"Roger, Tango Alpha," he said. "Cleared for the visual, frequency change approved." "So long," I said. "And, Center — thank you."
The gang in the hangar at Montpelier had been listening to the radio, and there was a reception committee waiting for me as I taxied onto the ramp. They all stood around clucking while I chipped huge chunks of clear ice from the leading edge of the wings.
A week later I was lecturing one of my students. "Always use your check list; turn on the pitot heat when flying into clouds; always keep track of exactly where you are; and never, never be the first small airplane over the ridge on a cold, cloudy morning." "Why not?" asked my student.
"Let me tell you a story," I said.
John Hanagan of Summerland Key, Florida, is a retired professor of philosophy and a CFII with more than 3,000 flight hours.
"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.
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