"Don't you think we'd better get going?" asked Jean.
"I must admit this weather's got me pretty nervous," I replied. "It's IFR all the way to Toronto, with cloud tops way over 12,000 feet. We'd be in the soup the whole way."
"So?" she said with increasing irritation. "You just got your instrument rating, didn't you?"
"Of course, but look up there. See how fast those clouds are moving? And how dark they are?"
She gave no reply.
"The weather at Toronto is only 800 overcast and forecast not to improve all day," I added. "For that matter, the ceiling is between 600 and 800 overcast the whole way."
"So," asked Jean, "are you saying it's not safe to fly today?"
"Well, not exactly....The freezing level is high, so icing shouldn't be a problem. Toronto has an ILS, and there are plenty of good alternate airports along the way. No thunderstorms, either. It's just that...."
"Greg," my wife interrupted. "If it's your professional opinion as a pilot that flying today is not safe, we'll go another time. But if it is safe to go today - well, we've just spent all that money on an instrument rating, so I say let's get going!"
Later I'd recognize the wisdom of this challenge. In fact, I still use it as counsel today. Like every new instrument pilot, I was justifiably nervous about charging off into the clouds without my instructor. But rationally, I had to admit that based on the hard facts presented by flight service, there was no reason why it shouldn't be safe to go, given my newly acquired instrument skills.
So after checking the weather one last time, preflighting the airplane yet again, and convincing myself that all those bathroom trips were from butterflies, not terminal illness, I collected our IFR clearance and we rolled down the runway at little Speedway Airport. Almost immediately we entered the clouds, not to emerge again for two hours and 24 minutes.
Things went pretty smoothly at first, as my flight planning had been thorough and I had a good deal of experience in the club Cessna 182 we were flying. But this airplane had no autopilot, and between the distractions of communicating, timing, and navigating, I often looked up to find us in a momentary bank or having drifted off heading. It seemed as though we were all over the sky, but whenever I looked over at Jean, she was absorbed in her book, and despite the surrounding whiteness she didn't seem to have a care in the world.
"Everything's cool," I kept telling myself. "If I just stay focused we'll arrive in good order."
Periodically the clouds would thin for a moment, and I'd peer downward desperately for a glimpse of terra firma. I never saw it, but well into the flight I did penetrate the haze for a second, only to see...water!
Water! Despite my careful navigation, that could only mean we were way off course - somewhere in the middle of Lake Erie or Lake Huron. I turned to Jean in panic. "I just saw water!"
"So?" Either not seeing my consternation, or ignoring it, she went back to reading her book; I was smart enough to drop the subject. Why had center not told me we were so far off course?
"Cleveland Center, Cessna Five-Victor-Yankee," I radioed tentatively. "Radio check, please."
"Loud and clear, Victor Yankee, how do you read?"
"Loud and clear," I replied. The guy didn't seem concerned, so again I pored over my en route chart, comparing radio navigation position with that calculated on the sectional chart, and countering the rocking and rolling I was causing as I moved my attention around the cockpit.
"Whoa!" I said out loud. Jean jumped. "What?" she said with alarm. "Is something wrong?"
"Oh, ah...no," I replied. "Lake St. Clair. That water was Lake St. Clair, just this little lake just past Detroit. See? We're right on course."
"Fine, but try not to scare me next time," she said with momentary annoyance. She returned to her book, and I to my perilous mission.
Actually, having confirmed that we were on course, I had to admit that this instrument-flying stuff was making pretty good sense to me. Better yet, although I was still working hard, my stomach had calmed down, and panic now threatened only occasionally.
Toronto weather had dropped to 600 overcast and three miles' visibility by the time we arrived, still well above minimums but below forecast and low enough to get the attention of a still-novice instrument pilot. I studied my approach plates, set up the radios, and began preparing myself mentally to avert disaster. For once I even remembered to memorize the missed-approach procedure.
But surprise...the approach was easy. Although far from perfect, those needles stayed on the face of the instrument more or less where they belonged, and we broke out on short final, aligned with the runway. As if by magic, we'd materialized precisely over our destination, not having seen the ground since takeoff. (I preferred to forget the water.) It was like sitting in the hangar for two hours, then opening the door to find Toronto.
Along with the kick of actually arriving at our chosen destination came the realization that despite seemingly constant wanderings, I'd actually done a journeyman's job of navigating the IFR system. Never once had I departed the assigned airway or altitude envelopes. (Or maybe air traffic control was too polite to say anything.)
"How was your flight?" asked my aunt, as she picked us up from the airport.
"It was great!" said Jean. "We were in the clouds the whole way, but it was no big deal, because Greg is an instrument pilot."
"I am very impressed!" said my aunt, with melodrama that might otherwise have been annoying. But I didn't care. I knew I was indeed an instrument pilot, and without Jean's urging I wouldn't have been - not yet, anyway.
My IFR skills and confidence were cemented on the flight home two days later; my logbook showed 2.6 in the clouds, with an ILS to 400 and one mile visibility at Indianapolis International, where we cleared Customs. After we had flown all that way, the weather was too low to reposition the last five miles to our home airport, so we had to leave the airplane and call a friend to pick us up.
But I didn't mind. For the first time I felt like a true all-weather pilot, with a whole new world of flight opened to me. Plenty of IFR adventures still lay ahead, but that single trip stimulated a fascination with instrument flying that has never left me.
Nervous about your first flight in the clouds, as a newly rated IFR pilot? Ask yourself - or have your spouse do it - is it your professional opinion as an instrument pilot that today's flight can be completed safely? If you're not sure, call your trusty instrument instructor for a second opinion.
But then, if everything rational tells you this flight will be no problem, squelch those nagging butterflies, organize your cockpit, collect your clearance, and take off for a new adventure. You'll never be the same again.
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