I needed to ferry my Cessna 150 from Morgantown, West Virginia, to its new base and my new home in Columbia, South Carolina. I was a VFR private pilot with 122 hours, mostly in my 150. Plans included a weekend stopover in Charlottesville, Virginia, to take an old friend flying over the Blue Ridge Mountains.
After waiting out the weather one day already, I went to the airport where low ceilings gave way to sun poking through scuddy clouds by 3 p.m. An in-person weather briefing revealed that ceilings were marginal VFR, and winds were strong en route because of a passing cold front. VFR flight was not recommended, but the specialist confided that during his military flying days in Alaska, the weather would have been considered good VFR. Another flight service specialist said not to go.
The owner of the FBO said, "You can make it; just go up on top if it gets tough until you're past the mountains." I knew that my friend in Charlottesville would be busy after that day and unable to go with me at all. Previous plans that we made to fly had been washed out in the past. I also thought about my friends who were putting me up in Morgantown; I didn't want to inconvenience them by staying yet another night.
Finally, at 6 p.m., I made the decision to go. I told my friend that I would arrive in Charlottesville at 7:30 p.m. I determined that I should fly due east toward Cumberland, Maryland, and then turn south-southeast to avoid the highest mountains.
I hurried through my preflight inspection, taxied out, and took off without filing a VFR flight plan. I immediately ignored my resolution to fly by way of Cumberland and set a direct course because of the shorter flying time.
It wasn't long before I began to feel uncomfortable from the strong turbulence rocking my little ship. I was climbing slowly over Preston County, West Virginia, when I decided to take the FBO owner's advice and climb rapidly to 7,000 feet to get above the turbulence. When I applied full power, the engine ran rough. When I reduced power, it ran smoothly again. I immediately thought I had water in the fuel. I hadn't drained the sumps before takeoff because I didn't want to take the time. I remembered recent service reports describing draining the entire fuel system because of water. And it had rained the day before.
By then, I was near Dawson Army Air Field, with larger mountains looming ahead. I considered landing but refrained because it's restricted, and I didn't want to draw the attention. I considered turning back to Morgantown, but irrationally pressed on.
The ridges rose to 3,000, then 4,000, and finally almost 5,000 feet. I had preselected visual checkpoints but had been knocked so far off my mental bearings by the turbulence that I didn't recognize what I was seeing.
As the sun sank behind me, I fumbled for my flashlight. It didn't work until I got the loose bulb tightened in between bumps that were knocking me as much as 50 degrees off heading. Finally I realized that I was still wearing my sunglasses. I had been so preoccupied that I hadn't noticed. I felt that I was alone with the impersonal wrath of nature, which seemed to say, "You shouldn't have come up, and here's why…Pow." It never occurred to me to ask for help. I starkly realized that so many accidents are the result of poor judgment and the accumulation of small errors. I feared I would provide another piece of data to buttress that truth.
I continued being knocked around so severely that I could feel panic momentarily rising. I was trying to stay near the bases of the clouds to put as much room as possible between me and the ridges. I abandoned dead reckoning and tried to tune in the Gordonsville VOR. No response. My single VOR had failed. At that point, it became pure survival. I maintained my cool by concentrating on flying a definite heading and altitude. I knew that if I could go generally southeast and get past the highest mountains, the weather would be better in Virginia. I still felt rising panic at times when I disappeared into scud which, of course, was especially turbulent.
After I passed the highest terrain of the trip, I slipped into a tremendous downdraft on the lee side. I rode it out for what seemed an awfully long time and hung on until I emerged into the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia in full darkness. I heaved a sigh of relief when I could just barely recognize the outline of Massanutten Mountain against the sky. I knew then where I was. I also saw a most beautiful sight: the green-and-white rotating beacon of Shenandoah Valley Airport. As I considered landing there, I began to make out the 3,000-foot crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains against the sky, showing that it was clear of clouds. I decided to press on. I approached Charlottesville, landed, taxied to the FBO, and practically fainted into the arms of my friend.
The next day, I found no water in the tanks. I now am quite sure that it was carburetor ice choking the engine at full power. I never even thought of this possibility at the time and didn't apply carburetor heat.
Several things were wrong about my decision to make this trip. I allowed time pressures and relatively trivial considerations to influence what could have been a life-and-death decision. I failed to get into what I call my "flying head," and I rushed the preflight. The very fact that I was thinking so unclearly and hurriedly should have been a clue to stay on the ground. I didn't file a VFR flight plan or even follow my own plan of flying east, then southeast. I never checked my VOR before flight or made note of the frequencies I might need in an emergency.
I flew too close to the clouds and fought too hard to maintain a definite altitude. I should have just kept the wings level and accepted small altitude changes. I failed to recognize carburetor icing. I had no survival equipment on board even though I launched into the night, in rough weather, over extremely rugged terrain, and in cold (for spring) temperatures.
I have never forgotten that experience. It made me a better pilot. But I shouldn't have put myself in a situation which easily could have killed me. It wasn't a life-and-death decision until I made it one.
Richard diPretoro, AOPA 871524, now lives in Pittsburgh. He is a private pilot who has accumulated 380 hours in 14 years of flying.
"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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