My journey into near oblivion began a few days before Christmas, when I decided to fly to Anchorage from northwest Alaska. That morning the temperature was minus 47 degrees Fahrenheit, but I was anxious to see the big city and rendezvous with a special lady friend. Because of the extreme cold, I preheated the Piper Cherokee 140 an extra 90 minutes. This pushed back my departure and meant that I would not reach Anchorage before dark. With my 70 hours of experience and forecasted VFR weather, I wasn't too concerned about arriving in darkness.
For three hours the flight was very smooth and uneventful, with the sky becoming dark after a long twilight. Already feeling tired, I contemplated stopping in McGrath — but a call to flight service convinced me to press on, since VFR conditions at Anchorage were forecast to deteriorate. I was still set on seeing that lady friend.
I called Anchorage Center and the controller verified my position at 11,500 feet. I became very apprehensive about flying among the 13,000-foot peaks with forested valleys that afforded an unlucky pilot little chance of surviving a forced landing. While checking Anchorage weather again, little of the information registered as my apprehension turned to gut-souring nervousness — I had lost sight of the terrain below. Encountering light snow, I decided to descend to 9,500 feet after a quick chart scan told me I was clear of the highest peaks. I hoped to pop magically out of the snow, but upon informing Anchorage of my altitude change, I noticed the Cherokee's beacon reflecting more precipitation.
After shakily telling Anchorage that I could no longer see the ground, I heard the calm voice at the other end respond, "Roger, Two-Six-Kilo, maintain VFR ... be advised you are in a 13,000-foot area."
Up to that point I had not even thought about turning around. Now, upon hearing the alarming news from Center, my first thought was to pull up, and hard. I asked the controller if I was close to hitting a mountain.
"No," came the empathetic reply. "Your course is well clear. I'm just required to inform you, that's all."
I don't remember why I didn't turn around, but negligent eagerness is a likely explanation. Nevertheless I proceeded, tracking the VOR inbound to Anchorage.
I was becoming more distressed by the minute, now flying in IMC above terrain where I had no chance of a safe descent, let alone landing. The airplane entered unusual attitudes every time my scan left the flight instruments. I felt that the instruments must be wrong. With more urgency on the yoke, I nearly lost control two or three times.
About that time, the calm friendly voice at Anchorage asked me whether I was instrument- rated and advised me to plan for an alternate airport, as the Anchorage weather was going down fast. I was not IFR rated but was fast becoming initiated in the rigors of flight in IMC without an autopilot. Looking at the chart and trying to dial an alternate VOR proved too much as I struggled to keep the airplane upright. The DG indicated that I was turning but I didn't believe it. I asked my comrade at Anchorage and he verified that I was turning left as the DG indicated. By now I was wrung out with fatigue, severe anxiety, and perhaps a touch of vertigo as I overcorrected again. The controller, sensing my anxiety and predicament, told me that I was now turning right. Taking deep breaths, I calmed my nerves forcefully and concentrated on the instrument scan.
Finally I gained steady control of the aircraft and asked Anchorage for the nearest airport. He suggested Talkeetna, which had a 4,000-foot overcast. I took it gladly — my lady friend could wait.
The controller told me that I was clear of the big obstructions and could descend at my discretion. Later he propitiously informed me, "Radar contact lost 13 miles southwest of Talkeetna at 3,700 feet ... do you see the airport yet?"
"No." But both the VOR and my advocate told me it was out there. I finally broke out at 3,000 feet. The spectacle of that beautifully lit airport off my nose reminded me that I had been in the clouds a long time. The lights were definitely a sight for sore, tired eyes.
I learned a number of lessons that evening. First, if weather can remotely be a factor at your destination, make sure of your capabilities and don't push them into the darkness. Second, "get- there-itis" is a subtle but powerful mind-altering drug that can mask the best intentions. When in doubt, forget getting there. Third, darkness and precipitation can really mess up your VFR plans in a hurry and, if you're tired and sluggish, watch out. Fourth, we learn as student pilots to turn around at the first sign of bad conditions, but how many of us actually do this? I should have. Fifth, trust your instruments, not your inner ear. And last, remember that you've got capable friends out there at ATC. Use them.
William J. Rother, AOPA 1253774, is currently living in Ankara, Turkey, where he is writing a book about his experiences while flying a Lake amphibian overseas.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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