It was fun for awhile. The Cessna 320 Skyknight and I darted in and out of towering cumulus on an IFR flight over the Rocky Mountains between Denver and Salt Lake City. The strangely shaped tunnels between the cotton pillars were so deep and well defined that they almost gave me a sense of acrophobia. But as the sun set and the tunnels of clear air became narrower and less frequent, I began to notice ice forming on the leading edges of the wings, nacelles, and tip tanks.
Neither the airplane nor my psyche was equipped for icing, and I should have turned around. But it was important for me to complete this flight. My future as a charter pilot might have been at stake.
If I had paid attention to what I now regard as the most important "instrument" in the airplane, I would have avoided having to end the flight with a hazardous emergency landing in Farmington, New Mexico, with more ice than I care to think about. (As one of my early instructors used to say, "ice is only good for cocktails.")
When I was young, bold, and impulsive, I was preparing to depart from the Six-S Ranch near Newhall, California. The runway consisted of a short dirt strip bordered at both ends with tall trees. The 65-horsepower Aeronca Champ had anemic performance and a pilot's operating handbook had not been published for the airplane. One could only guess at the takeoff distance required under a given set of conditions. I was somewhat concerned about the takeoff, but the need to return home in time for my date that evening seemed to be the most compelling factor in my decision to go. Also, nightfall was approaching and the Champ was not equipped with lights.
The airplane was equipped with an "instrument" that cautioned me not to take off from that runway with such a heavy student and such a high ambient temperature. But I ignored its warning and returned home with a small branch entwined in my landing gear.
The gauge to which I refer in each of these instances is not an instrument in the conventional sense, but it can be found aboard almost every airplane. It is not installed at the factory or afterwards. Instead, pilots bring it aboard with them. I am talking about gut instinct, that gnawing feeling in the stomach that warns when we are about to take a chance or chastises while we are doing something risky. It is that almost indescribable, uncomfortable feeling that reminds us when conditions are not as they should be. It is as reliable as any gauge on the panel and rarely misleads.
For the past 25 years, I have been deeply involved in the formal study of aircraft accidents. This has led me to conclude that most of those who fall victim to their own poor judgment have ample time to heed their inner warnings and avoid a confrontation with fate.
Someone for whom I have great respect once advised me that if one has to wonder whether doing something is right or wrong, it probably is wrong.
You can refer to this as common sense, judgment, intelligence, or simply an inner voice that whispers warnings. However you choose to describe this survival instinct, it is something we cannot afford to ignore.
A good friend recently called from Wichita Falls, Texas, to seek advice. She had just landed there after perceiving an en route engine problem that she could neither identify nor describe.
"What should I do?" she asked. "If I return home without my airplane and nothing is found wrong with the engine, everyone will think I'm a sissy. On the other hand, I'm genuinely concerned that something really is wrong."
I asked her what she felt in her gut, what her instincts told her to do. She said that her stomach was churning.
"The answer to your question is simple," I said. "Just pay attention to your tummy."
It doesn't matter that a mechanic later determined that the engine in her Grumman American Yankee was operating normally. What does matter is that she made the right decision, even though this resulted in a much-delayed departure. This and similar stories make me wonder how many pilots ignore their instincts and instead submit to some form of pressure that compels them to continue when conditions are not quite right. In my mind's eye, the safest pilots are those who make the most conservative decisions. They show greater courage than those who take chances, even if the gamblers do complete their flights without incident. Good pilots are sufficiently secure in their convictions to abide by what is in the best interest of safety.
I recall a particularly foggy day at my home airport. Pilots were executing missed approaches with regularity and scattering to alternate airports all over the Los Angeles Basin. One pilot, however, was persistent and made it in when more experienced pilots could not. He might have busted minimums to get home and strutted like a cock in our flight school's lounge. Little did he know that every instructor there viewed him with disdain (although none of us had the courage to say so).
Did this pilot not have an instinctive feeling that signaled his trespass of sanity and regulation? Probably, but he apparently ignored and overrode this dependable "instrument."
I have a gut feeling that many pilots reading this know exactly what I'm talking about.
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