As a one-man dealer for Maule Aircraft in the Northeast, I was anxious to get a freshly certificated trigear MXT-7-180 to the Fall Aviation Expo at Laurence G. Hanscom Field in Bedford, Massachusetts. I had hoped to sell it before the long New England winter trapped the Maule in a hangar until the thaw. Flight service had predicted a wonderful day with a more mild, autumnal version of the clearing Montreal Express sweeping the last clouds out over the Atlantic by 8 a.m., 9 at the latest.
Although weather was a little slower to clear than flight service predicted, a student pilot friend and I took off from Manchester (New Hampshire) Airport for Hanscom — which, apparently, hadn't received flight service's word of the clearing just yet. We made it in without much concern. We quickly set up our display under the protective wing of a friendly DC-3 and waited for the sunshine that would bring out throngs of people to the airport for the day.
The day passed slowly, with few prospects in the continuing drizzle and dampness. Not being instrument-rated, I spent most of my time running to the telephone, asking flight service for updates. While pushing forward the time for clearing hour by hour, the specialists assured me that it was on the way. Concord, New Hampshire, situated between Manchester and Laconia, had gone from drab and dreary in the morning to a scattered layer at 3,500 feet. A call to Laconia had confirmed clear and a warm 82 degrees.
At 5 p.m., a fresh ATIS declared Hanscom VFR with a ceiling of 1,500 feet, and it was time to break for home. We headed northbound at 1,000 feet agl. After about 10 minutes of nervously flying in the 4-mile visibility, we were both wondering where all the good weather was and why we hadn't broken into the sunshine. Forced down to about 800 feet agl and leaning forward in our seats, we strained to make out Nashua's Boire Field, but we couldn't see through the dark curtain ahead that extended right down to the ground. It was time for a 180. Unfortunately, the area from which we had just come was also rapidly filling in with low clouds. Now what?
My shirt was getting sticky, my throat parched, and my palms sweaty. The great VFR weather that was just 25 or 30 miles away called to me like Odysseus' sirens. But like ancient mariners, I knew that getting to that warm sunshine could just as easily find us dashed on some rocks or, more likely, in some tall New Hampshire white pines.
Fighting the incipient onset of panic, I remembered that flight service had said the weather was better at Keene, so I followed Route 101, knowing that at this altitude we'd never be able to pick up the Keene VOR. The trouble is, the terrain rises as you go westbound in the southern part of the state. Visibility was down to about 3.5 miles, and we were skimming the ragged bases at 700 feet.
"We're in it now!" my friend exclaimed, his voice high and strained as I blundered us into IMC at our ridiculously low altitude. I jumped on the gauges as best I could and made another 180, which brought us out. The options now were few and desperate. I was tempted to climb up through the clouds and head to Concord, but I had little faith in my then-nonexistent instrument experience. I thought about declaring an emergency but was humiliated by the thought. Finally I considered just finding a place to put the Maule down.
I decided to go for option three, having much more faith in the Maule's abilities to land just about anywhere with a reasonably clear approach and a few hundred feet of halfway-smooth terrain on which to roll out. All I had to do was find the open sandpit that I had seen a few miles back.
But wait! Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a shape on the ground that looked familiar. An airplane wing? It couldn't be. Focusing through the wet windshield and murk of the approaching twilight, I saw several more airplanes parked neatly in a row. We drew closer and made out a black, gravelly strip next to some tall pines. We were amazed at our good fortune. Chopping the power and hanging out the flaps brought us down quickly, neither of us having a clue as to where we were, and not much caring.
Knees shaking, shirts soaked, we were greeted by some parachutists at the Pepperell Airport in Massachusetts. We said little, trying to shake off the adrenaline and panic. Tom and I made plans to pick up the Maule the next day.
I learned many things that day — having more than one good option at your disposal, for example. If you're strictly VFR, you probably ought to think about having two or three good options. Also, despite what is advertised, the weather is what the weather is. No forecast, regardless how glorious, means anything if what you see isn't what you can handle. In addition, the weather doesn't always do what the forecasters say. Phone calls to flight service to ascertain what had occurred led me to believe that the stalling of the front had the weather specialists a little bewildered. Apparently, the low had strengthened offshore and somehow had the audacity to back up, much to the consternation of all of the computer models. Another point to remember: Don't be afraid to declare an emergency. There were probably 40 or 50 controllers at Boston Center, Nashua, and Manchester who would have been more than willing to help us out of my self-inflicted predicament. Use the resources that are available. Finally, get an instrument rating. With it, this would have been a nonevent. Ten or 15 minutes of actual IFR and that would have been it. The instrument ticket expands your options list dramatically and is well worth the initiation.
Jeffrey Newcomb, AOPA 965419, now a 3,000-hour ATP and CFII, is currently a first officer for a national airline.
"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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