It was a cold, ugly January day at our club's gliderport near Waynesville, Ohio. I was a new private pilot working on a glider rating. Although there were few takers that day, conditions were acceptable to bang out some training flights. The temperature dropped steadily all day, and by early afternoon activity at the club had slowed to a crawl. It was time to call it a day. I decided to log a solo flight and land long upon my return, stopping the glider at the midfield turnoff so that we wouldn't have to walk the glider down to the hangar.
I was strapped into our venerable Schweizer 2-33, when a slight drizzle began. "Not ideal," I thought. But there I was, ready to go, with the towplane fired up and in position. I didn't consider that had it been raining five minutes earlier, I wouldn't have been sitting in the glider.
On my tow up to 3,000 feet agl, I noticed that the droplets running back along the canopy were acting in accordance with the yaw string to indicate the quality of my coordination. I decided to explore this phenomenon a bit. After dropping off tow I was trying some slips and skids, when I noticed that the flow was no longer reacting to my purposely uncoordinated flight. The drops were freezing. "Ice, freezing rain," I thought. Now this was something to be concerned about. My body responded with an adrenaline surge. I had the presence of mind to get down — now!
By design, a glider does not like to lose altitude. I also had to consider my distance from the airport. Entering the pattern with excess energy would be as much of a problem as entering too low. I decided to get over the field and enter the pattern a little high so that I would have enough airspeed to make up for any decreased wing efficiency because of the ice, which continued to accumulate as I flew on. I was impressed with its rate of growth on the canopy. Soon I lost all forward visibility and could not see the yaw string attached to the variometer probe. I looked up at the rear cockpit string taped to the canopy just above my head. It would be usable, perhaps, but it was wet and possibly rigid.
Bringing my attention forward again, I wondered if the pitot-static system was being affected. What effect would the ice blockage have? I scanned the instruments again. Airspeed wasn't zero. Did that mean that it was working? Even if I knew what was blocked, I could do nothing to fix the erroneous indications. I'd use what I knew was accurate — the view out the side of the canopy, the sound of the slipstream, and the feel of the stick.
At midfield on downwind, I was pleased to find that the spoilers opened easily. I reminded myself to fly a good pattern and land long. I'd give myself some room for error. After my turn to base, I looked out the left side of the canopy while the approach end of the field slid by. When I was turning onto final, a difference in slipstream noise registered in my mind. I watched my intended touchdown point drop from sight as the airplane rolled right. I felt the sickening sensation of the nose dipping down. The spin entry caught me totally off guard. "So this is how it will end," I thought.
To my surprise, the glider responded easily to my recovery inputs. The familiar sound and feel of the ship returned. With a newfound clarity of mind, I quickly took stock of my predicament. Any confounding emotions at this point were shoved aside in favor of pure survival instinct.
I was now turned to a heading of 45 degrees for my westbound landing. From memory I imagined the forward view. Because I was set up for a long landing, I had enough altitude to attempt the 135-degree left turn onto final. The bank increased until I felt a slight tail buffet — just like thermaling. But I tried to rush the turn with too much rudder and a skid resulted. I felt a mush and a quick yaw to the left. This time the left wing dropped and I quickly and aggressively recovered. I now found myself heading south. I came to the conclusion that I wasn't going to get away with turning. I was now down to about 150 feet agl and committed to landing straight ahead. In front of me was a road perpendicular to my flightpath and a plowed field beyond it. By this time the ice on the canopy was starting to break up. I touched down lightly in the field and rolled out straight ahead. After getting out, I saw that the glider skin did not match the ice-encrusted mental image I had fostered. There was very little ice at all. Most was on the nose and canopy.
The rest of my crew pulled up to the edge of the field, looking a little shaken. I later learned that they had witnessed my lumbering maneuvers on final. They saw the nose dip as the glider disappeared behind the trees standing between their line of sight and my flight path.
As I recall that day, I'm sure that the problem started when I decided to launch on the flight. Since then, my go/no-go decisions are based purely on safety. If I'm uncomfortable with flight conditions for any reason, I remind myself to ignore extraneous factors. I had also failed to properly fly the airplane and was fortunate enough to live through it. Perhaps my desire to see ahead led me to cross the controls and enter a forward slip. The high adverse yaw characteristic of gliders probably worked to increase the slip leading to the first spin entry. These days, the more stress I feel, the more concentration I afford to the basics of flying the airplane.
Eric E. Geiselman, AOPA 982772, of Dayton, Ohio, is a commercial pilot and CFI who flies out of the Caesar Creek Soaring Club and Waynesville Airport.
"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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