In an attempt to add some experience to an otherwise dull aviation résumé, I wangled a part-time job flying an old Cessna 320 Skyknight throughout the western United States. "Part-time" became many hours of flying — all single pilot — mostly at night.
As a young pilot, the physical realities of being awake for more than 18 hours, being on the upside of a bout with the flu, and spending a day flight instructing were ignored. Youthful self-assurance was my copilot.
My briefer spoke with an uninterested mumble about the low-pressure trough running from northern California through Oregon and into eastern Washington. He added that the system was forecast to remain stationary until midmorning, and that the weather along my route of flight would remain clear, with light northerly winds.
I filed a VFR flight plan direct from California's Santa Monica Municipal Airport to Friedman Memorial Airport in Hailey, Idaho (Sun Valley) — a three-hour route with which I was familiar.
As I departed a few minutes after 2 a.m., the lights of Los Angeles faded as the Palmdale and then Tonapah VORs came and went. Plodding along at 11,500 feet, pointing at the North Star, over mountainous terrain with no navigation signals, caused me no more concern than the slight headache that I was developing. Boredom accompanied the passing time as my beacon, Polaris, and the surrounding star scenery began to dim, then blur. Oh well, just keep pointing north.
More time passed before I became aware of the gradually forming wispy cloud tops reflecting my strobe lights. Still not concerned with what I assumed was a localized condition, I began a gradual climb. And my headache continued to worsen.
Leveling off at 13,500 feet, I flew steadily north for perhaps 30 minutes. Slowly the foreboding that had been shunted by lack of oxygen began to take hold. My throbbing, fading brain began to squirm and say "Wake up, Fergy, you should be receiving the Elko (Nevada) VOR [now Bullion VOR] by now." Oblivious to the worsening weather, however, I flew steadily north.
Based on my last known groundspeed of 190 knots, I made a muddled calculation that I was near Elko. After repeated calls to Salt Lake Center, I received a response. At the same instant, the Elko VOR and DME came alive — 65 miles ahead. The groundspeed readout said 110 knots. I realized that the weather system had not stalled over Oregon and Washington. Instead, it had moved rapidly across my route of flight and I had been droning along, oblivious to the onset of strong headwinds. While trying to formulate a plan, any plan, I was forced still higher. I leveled, finally, at 17,500 feet.
Even in my state of hypoxia, I was not about to descend into certain icing, especially in a light twin with no deice capability whatsoever. Prodding myself to think, I determined that I had enough fuel to reach Elko, make the approach, and have about 30 minutes of fuel remaining.
Salt Lake Center then gave me some bad news: "Twin Cessna Six-Eight-Tango, the weather at Elko is indefinite ceiling two hundred, visibility one mile in freezing drizzle and fog. Advise your intentions."
With a slurred and bungled attempt to conceal the fear in my voice, I queried for the weather at Twin Falls.
"Six-Eight-Tango, Twin Falls is not reporting; however, the weather at Burley is one thousand overcast, visibility two in freezing rain. Their conditions are deteriorating. Advise intentions."
"Center, Six-Eight-Tango is heading for Twin Falls. My fuel state is critical. I'm requesting a VOR approach." (Back then, there was no ILS at Twin Falls.)
"Maintain your present heading. When receiving, you're cleared direct Twin Falls. Maintain one-seven thousand. When you're over the VOR, you're cleared for the VOR Runway two-five approach. Good luck, sir."
The near certainty of running out of fuel blunted my desire to reach for my only safe haven. There was no other option and the door was closed behind me. I labored over fuel calculations and kept coming up short. I dug out the flight manual and made the appropriate power adjustments for "best range." I turned the fuel selectors back to the auxiliaries and waited for each engine to sputter before switching back to the mains. I was thinking in terms of pints, even drops, of whatever minute amount of fuel I might save.
All fuel gauges were indicating zero as I approached Twin Falls. Entering a crude holding pattern over the VOR, the delicacies of procedure took a back seat as I lowered the gear and flaps, went to high RPM, and dove.
As the altimeter spiraled downward through 15,000 feet, ice began to form on the windshield. Then, instantly, the clear window billowed into a lumpy, opaque sheet. Using my flashlight, I glanced at the wing leading edges and nacelles, then quickly looked away. There was ice everywhere.
Rain and sleet were pummeling the airplane as I caught glimpses of snowy Idaho farmland reflecting the lights of scattered farmhouses. My attempt to level at minimums immediately revealed that my airplane was now an irregular mass of metal and ice that was trembling on the verge of a stall, even at full power. With no choice, I began trading altitude for airspeed.
When I thought I should see the runway, I remembered that I was staring at the backside of an ice-covered windshield. Yawing slightly to the right, I spotted Twin Falls' concrete sanctuary.
Slipping and skidding while shuddering in the throes of a stall, the 320 made an abrupt arrival on the snowy sod overrun well short of the runway. The landing was hard, but I was down and I was safe. Coasting to a stop, I just sat there on the runway contemplating my good fortune, amazed that both engines were still running.
As I carefully taxied up to the fuel pit, the grizzled old attendant did a double take at the spectacle before him. I crawled out and immediately saw why: Huge broken icicles were hanging almost to the ground from the still-extended flaps. The landing gear had grown into massive globs of ice. The antennas on the top and bottom of the fuselage were misshapen and grotesque. The leading edge of the vertical stabilizer had at least six inches of a protruding granular-and-glazed mixture. Both propellers had layers of ice up to three inches thick, extending two-thirds of the way out from the hubs.
The 320 had a fuel capacity of 140 gallons. I just stood there in the sleet and the rain staring numbly as the meter finally stopped — on 138.7 gallons.
"Pushin' it a bit, aren't you, sonny?" muttered the old man as he handed me the receipt.
Obviously, the whole experience could have been avoided had I simply refused the flight in the first place. But the necessity of some other harrowing event to blunt my youthful overconfidence would have remained. No supplemental oxygen and my physical condition were the two evils of the flight. Hypoxia, amplified by my weariness, had raised its ugly head long before the weather problems began. Hence, the simple thought of turning around never entered my fogged brain. The inaccurate weather forecast can be used only as the catalyst of my folly and not as an excuse.
Chuck Ferguson, AOPA 1334650, of Orange, California, is an ATP and CFI employed as a corporate pilot. He owns a Cessna Cardinal.
"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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