Pilotage

We need better weather information in the cockpit. A lot of work is being done to advance our theoretical understanding of the weather and to improve the ways we observe and forecast the weather. But that information is mostly inaccessible to us once we lift off the runway and no longer can pick up the telephone or turn on the television or computer.

Those are our three primary sources of aviation weather information when we're on the ground. It's a different story aloft. In the cockpit we must rely on inefficient voice communications to get an update on current and forecast weather conditions. If we're fortunate enough to be so equipped, we have help from on-board radar or a Stormscope or Strikefinder lightning detection system. The hot setup is both radar and lightning detection. But radar is off-limits to most single-engine aircraft because of its cost, weight, and complexity (the antenna must be mounted in some fashion on or under the wing), so radar is really the province of high-end singles.

On the other hand, the ability of Stormscopes and Strikefinders to monitor and map lightning discharges and, therefore, thunderstorms has added a dimension to lightplane flying that did not exist before. That about does it for the list of devices that help us assess the weather as we fly. The only other significant advancement that has occurred is AWOS and ASOS, each of which provides a verbal snapshot of current conditions at general aviation airports.

What else is needed? The same thing we can get now at home via computer and modem: graphic and textual weather information displayed on an electronic monitor. How convenient it would be to refer to a screen in the middle of the panel for real-time National Weather Service radar images, satellite photos, maps showing the location of high- and low-pressure areas and fronts, areas of VFR and IFR, and the latest terminal observations and forecasts for airports along the route of flight. No more trying to make sense of complicated, esoteric, and often garbled descriptions Mom harried flight service voices.

Think about how we deal with thunderstorms. From the preflight weather briefing we get the basics on where and when storms are happening or expected. En route, we check with Flight Watch for current radar reports. We ask air traffic control what they are seeing on their radar screens. We listen to what other pilots are doing. And we size up the view over the glareshield. It's a patchwork system that works remarkably well, considering its ad hoc nature. But how much better informed we would be — and how much less congested the frequencies would be — if we had the equivalent of our home computer and modem in the airplane.

The problem of poor in-flight access to comprehensive weather information is magnified on a long flight that covers a lot of ground. The I chances are excellent that whatever is forecast for the route, distance and time will bring changes somewhere along the way. We should be I able to find out quickly and easily exactly what those changes are and where we will encounter them.

Six and a half hours is a long time to spend in a small airplane without stopping, but — thanks to extended-range fuel tanks — six plus 30 was the duration of a flight I made recently. And the weather? Over that span of time anything was possible: fog could come and go; lows could form; fronts could sweep through; and thunderstorms could tower, explode, and die.

Sure enough, the preflight briefing included a ration of convective sigmets in an area I would have to fly through just before reaching my destination. It would be a long time before I would get there, so things could change, but the forecast was for continuing precipitation and the chance of thunderstorms. Also, some rogue cells were being reported close to my route about 90 minutes into the flight. Good and frequent in-flight weather updates would be a necessity.

The first break came about an hour after departure when I contacted flight service to inquire about the well-being of the first set of storms. "Dissipating" was the welcome response. I could see a lone, waning cell off to the east. No deviation required.

The weather, and thus the flight, was tranquil for the first three and a half hours. With a steady autopilot maintaining straight and level, I busied myself with managing the fuel distribution and balance among the four tanks, and with considering my options as dictated by the weather ahead.

Gradually the workload increased. I had to climb a couple of thousand feet to clear some mid-afternoon puffies. One or two were beginning to billow and looked as though they could develop into respectable afternoon boomers. Then I had to pick — my way through an isolated forest of building cumulus clouds spawned by midday thermals in western Tennessee and northern Mississippi.

I was approaching a waypoint and a course change when I asked the air traffic controller for a frequency change to check weather. The Flight Watch specialist answered that I was number three in line. But when he tried to raise the person at the top of the list, he got no answer. In that situation, if you snooze, you lose; I moved into the number two slot. As I eavesdropped on number one's briefing, it became apparent the Flight Watch specialist was nothing if not thorough. A less charitable characterization would be long-winded. Excruciatingly so.

Eventually he got around to me and started in on a description of the weather ahead. In the midst of the verbal treatise I switched back to ATC to request a climb so as to avoid penetrating an inhospitable-looking bank of cloud. I switched back to my Flight Watch adviser. He appeared to have concluded his introductory exposition on existing clouds and precip and was warming up to the subject of alternative courses of action. He never knew I had briefly forsaken him. A few long minutes later I began to worry that ATC might be trying to hand me off, so I hung up on the FSS specialist again. Sure enough, I was given a new frequency and controller. I quickly flipped back to Flight Watch — he hadn't broken stride — thanked him for his time and the information, and said goodbye.

For all his trouble I still didn't have a clear idea of what might be in store. The specialist had described a large area of weather, but he hadn't been especially helpful on the embedded thunderstorm issue. I called another flight service station. That specialist described a 20-mile-wide band of precipitation across my course. I wouldn't be able to outflank it, either. He did note that the precip was not due to any "cells." I was a little unsure of what that meant. Was there or was there not convective activity I needed to know about? His noncommittal tone of voice didn't inspire a lot of confidence. It was fish-or-cut-bait time for me; so based on the "no cell" diagnosis, I pressed on. It was looking gloomy, and light rain was beginning to pepper the windshield, but I still had visual contact with the ground.

I don't care a great deal for flying in cloud when the potential for thunderstorms exists — who does? — but I felt just confident enough in the flight service radar reports to press on. Then I was handed off to another controller who, bless his soul, gave me the best possible news. He even volunteered the information. I was following a Beech 99 about 10 minutes ahead of me, same course and altitude, the controller noted, adding, "He reported light rain and a smooth ride."

We are rooted firmly in the past when it comes to finding out what the weather is doing while we fly. But, like baseball and fuel prices, some things about the past are preferable to their modern iterations. Let's hope pilot reports never succumb to progress, except to elevate their importance. Pireps easily can be the most accurate and useful assessment of actual flight conditions. The one filed by the Beech 99 pilot certainly was that. Following in his tracks, I encountered nothing more than light rain and never lost sight of the ground. It doesn't get much better than that.