My wife and I had logged our minimum required time at the family Christmas gathering and were eager to return home. The flight from a dirt strip north of Marysville, California, to the old Santa Rosa Air Center would take just under an hour in our Cessna 170.
I telephoned the Red Bluff Flight Service Station for a check on the weather. In my eager state, it sounded like one of those conservative reports after which the briefer makes recommendations like "it might be best to wait a few hours," or simply, "VFR flight is not recommended." Well, I knew better. I had flown the route scores of times, and the weather had a consistent habit of turning out better than forecast.
But a twinge of doubt grabbed me as we climbed aboard the 170. I had let my IFR currency lapse — so instrument flight wouldn't be an option on this trip. As I prepared to start the engine, I reviewed a mental rule of thumb that had helped me in the past. "I can turn around if it looks bad ahead," I told myself. Soon I felt my earlier certitude return, expressing it with a confident "Clear!"
Visibility under the clouds was good as we headed southwest. I decided to maintain 2,000 feet initially, but necessity soon required 1,000, then 500 feet. I decided to play it safe, and we landed at the Yolo County Airport and waited. After a few hours, I called flight service and noticed sunlight breaking through. I decided to try for Napa under the clouds. If we could get past Napa, I knew it would be a routine flight to Santa Rosa.
From above Fairfield we could see the low mountains just east of the Napa County Airport. The ceiling dipped there, with one opening between hills into the airport and another a couple of miles to the north.
Napa was busy. When I called the tower, I was asked to circle to the northeast for five minutes and call back. As we waited, the other opening kept looking better. I rationalized its benefits — I could avoid the busy tower and the hassle of waiting, plus I thought I knew a way through the hills into Napa Valley. I decided to try the shortcut.
I didn't see this one coming. I expected the warning flags to wave in time for a safe retreat, but my little mental rule kept me going with tunnel vision. "I can turn around if it looks bad ahead," I thought. We passed through one little valley, then another. But something inside prodded me to wonder if it hadn't been three little valleys we'd passed — and what turns had I made since waiting at Napa? Something was amiss. As my attention returned to flying, it was as though my eyes were open for the first time in several minutes. Ahead lay a semicircle of completely obscured hilltops. Taking this as my cue to reverse direction, I started a one-eighty to the right and told my wife we'd have to go back to Napa.
After making two three-sixties, I realized that every possible exit from the valley was obscured by clouds. I didn't even know where we had entered.
I couldn't decide whether to make an emergency landing or risk an instrument approach into Napa. The 170 had new instruments and one radio — but only a venturi for vacuum and a hole where the transponder was to be installed the next week. In addition to my instrument currency lapse, I had no approach plates aboard. A landing in the pasture below looked less than promising, but how would I fare making an approach in instrument meteorological conditions?
My wife suggested that we call for help. Using my sectional chart, I verified that we could safely climb out of the valley. I was glad to have a plan, and dialing in Oakland Center answered an inner call to action.
But our radio couldn't transmit out of that valley, even though we could hear the controller. On the third call (with an increased sense of urgency), we got a response from an Air Force helicopter pilot who kindly offered his services as a relay. Now the task of getting a clearance was simple — except for one small point. For our own safety, it was essential that I be honest with our controller. I spoke through a thick lump in my throat when I transmitted, "Please advise Center I'm rated but not current and have no publications."
I received a clearance to enter the overcast, with vectors to a VOR approach into Napa. A simple "thank you for your help" sent via radio to our helicopter friend paid poor service to the appreciation I felt as we left that valley behind.
So where were we? I threw an estimate at Oakland: "Approximately 10 miles north of Napa." I must have been imprecise, because it took the controller more than five minutes to find us on his scope. That rectangular hole in the instrument panel wasn't helping us a bit.
The cards were stacked against this being a textbook approach. My instrument rust conspired with the recently upgraded panel to destroy my cockpit efficiency and exaggerate my tendency to overcontrol.
It took two attempts to complete the approach, neither of which was worth writing home about. I hope it will never again feel that good to break out of the clouds with the destination dead ahead.
After we had taxied off the active runway, a voice over the radio said the Center area manager wanted me to give him a call once I'd tied down. This I could deal with — still grateful that we'd made it back in one piece.
No reprimand was in store. The manager just wanted my address so that he could send me a copy of an "atta boy" report to the helicopter pilot about what they termed a successful "assist."
Looking back, I see why offering lip service to safety rules is not enough. Never again will I bet my life on a rule of thumb without having a concrete plan to back it up. And if I make any presuppositions about the weather, they had better be on the conservative side. I found flying an approach without publications to be more disconcerting than I had ever imagined. They are now standard equipment in my cockpit on every flight.
John B. Palmerlee, AOPA 1081754, holds a commercial pilot certificate, an instrument rating, and an A&P certificate and has accumulated more than 1,100 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.
Related Articles
