My wife arrived at the airport just before sunset. I called the San Angelo flight service station and received a standard weather briefing. The forecast was for a high ceiling and steady northwest winds of 10 to 20 knots. After calling my dad and telling him when we would arrive, I filed my flight plan, loaded my wife, bags, and dog into the airplane, and took off. Soon after opening my flight plan and being handed off to Houston Center for flight following, we leveled off and watched one of the most beautiful natural sights in the world - a West Texas sunset.
About 30 minutes into the flight it was dark. The sky was clear below 12,000 feet. There was haze on the horizon, but the visibility was greater than 10 miles. The moon had not yet risen as we settled back for the remainder of the flight. As usual, I scanned my instruments and gauges. After adjusting the mixture, prop, and power settings, I tuned into the next VOR station and gave a pilot report.
Going through these procedures always seemed to make the trip go faster. As a VFR-only pilot, I would, for a minute at a time, practice flying on instruments alone, quickly looking up to check how I was doing. I thought to myself that I didn't really need these instruments, since I knew every mile of this trip by heart.
Headwinds developed along the way, and as we flew over the city of San Angelo, I called flight service and asked them to extend my flight plan by 15 minutes, just in case the winds did not die down. The folks there were very accommodating, and in their slow Texas drawl asked how the dog was doing.
This is the part of the trip where I normally give myself a pat on the back for being such a safe pilot. I followed every procedure my instructor, a salty ex-Navy carrier pilot, had taught me. He spent a lot of time grilling me on night flight procedures, such as crosswind landings without the use of landing lights. Through constant practice, I learned to enjoy the special environment of night flying, and I even preferred it when the weather permitted.
My instructor was a cautious pilot and a good example. His rules included never taking chances with the weather and always allowing for the unexpected. He often joked that the only time a pilot can have too much fuel on board is when the airplane is on fire. "Above all," he told me repeatedly, "it is very important to have a way out of any situation." That was the rule I was about to violate.
The constant hum of the engine lulled my mind to thoughts about various events in my life. I thought about how I was following in the footsteps of my father, who had been a pilot during World War II. I always kept pictures of his Mitchell B-25 on my office desk. I wanted be like him and have a multiengine rating and an instrument ticket someday.
Suddenly, I snapped out of my daydream. As I stared out the windshield, I was shocked to see that it was pitch black in front of me. There was no horizon in any direction. It was extremely disorienting. By this time San Angelo was far behind me. I looked around and saw isolated mercury vapor lamps on the ground illuminating sparse barns and farmhouses. But they were miles apart and looked like tiny fires floating in a sea of black ink.
The area between San Angelo and Big Spring is practically desert, and these lights gave no indication of where the ground was. I could see the dull glow of Big Spring's city lights about 70 nm ahead. But in the haze, the horizon blurred into the high overcast of stratus clouds. There were no stars, no moon, no lights, and worst of all no horizon.
For all practical purposes, I was in instrument meteorological conditions (IMC) and facing headwinds that had started to pick up.
Carefully, I made a shallow left turn and looked back in the direction of San Angelo. By this time, it too was a blur of light. I looked to the east where Abilene should be. I couldn't see anything in that direction.
A wave of panic came over me. My neck tensed up, and my hands started sweating profusely. The fear in my mind and the feeling in my gut made me think that I was banking to the right in a nosedown attitude. I looked at my instruments. According to them, I was still on course in straight-and-level flight. Thinking back, I remembered that I only had two and one-half hours dual instruction under the hood. Why didn't I take more instrument training?
Since I was closer to Big Spring Airport than to any other, I decided to continue on my original course. I quickly switched on the wing-leveler autopilot. At least with that tool I wouldn't inadvertently bank too steeply.
OK, I thought. Just keep the instruments aligned toward your course and hold your altitude.
The next 20 minutes seemed like 20 hours. Carefully, I scanned the attitude indicator, altimeter, and airspeed indicator. Between scans I looked at each engine gauge. All the indicators were in the green.
Although I was nervously adjusting the trim to hold my altitude, the airplane was basically flying itself. I relaxed a bit and thought, This instrument flying stuff is a piece of cake.
Then a voice boomed in my head reminding me that I wasn't intercepting a fix, flying an approach, or entering a holding pattern. I was only flying straight and level. That realization brought back the panic.
"How much longer?" my wife asked. Her smile seemed a bit forced, and I wondered if she had picked up on my anxiety.
"Just a few minutes more and we'll see the airport," I replied, trying to sound calm. How could she ask such a thing when I am at the limit of my ability to fly? I thought. I tried to compute our arrival time while keeping a watchful eye on the instruments, but it proved too taxing for me.
Now I felt that I was really in trouble. I thought I would surely stall the airplane. I could imagine the next day's headline: VFR Pilot Strays Into IMC-Kills Self, Wife, Dog.
"Where the hell is the airport?" I mumbled to myself, hoping my wife wouldn't hear. I felt a light wave of dizziness come over me. Oh man, I thought. Don't let vertigo set in. I tried to relax. Just fly the airplane, I told myself. Airspeed is OK. Altitude is holding steady. I'm still tracking the VOR as planned. My eyes were glued to the panel. The minutes ticked by at a snail's pace as I asked myself, Where is my way out of this situation?
At about this time I realized that I had been so intensely focused on the panel that I hadn't noticed the lights of a small town behind my left wing.
"Holy cow! It's Sterling City," I shouted. My wife flashed me a curious look. I looked ahead and saw a cluster of red lights blinking at 12 o'clock. I knew that those radio towers were only five miles southeast of the airport. Emerging from the haze to the right of the towers were the bright lights of Big Spring. "Yeeeeeeee haaaaa!" I yelled. I was never so happy to see civilization in all my life. I switched off the autopilot and started the descent. Five minutes later I saw the rotating beacon of the airport. I called flight service, reported that I had the field in sight, and cancelled my flight plan.
When I reached the towers, I announced my position over the common traffic advisory frequency, clicked the mic five times, and watched the runway lights come to life. What joy to see that 7,000-foot runway.
My airspeed indicator read 100 kt, but I seemed to be traveling very quickly. As I turned base, I realized how windy it was. I had to crab sharply to stay on track. The airplane seemed to stand still when I turned final. Again I panicked, thinking that I was about to stall.
"I haven't come all this way to crash on final approach," I said out loud.
I looked down at the panel. The instruments had been right so far, so I trusted them now as I lined up with the centerline and watched the airspeed indicator. The touchdown was smooth, and I taxied toward the headlights of my dad's waiting car.
As the propeller spun to a stop, I looked once more at the instrument panel. I will never take those instruments for granted again, I thought.
After we loaded into my dad's car, he said, "I got pretty scared. Here I was on the ground, in total darkness, trying to find the ramp and wondering how on earth you were going to find the airport, never mind make a safe landing."
I couldn't muster the courage to confess about the turmoil I had just been through. I had inadvertently been forced to fly on instruments for nearly 20 minutes. I was physically and mentally exhausted.
I reflected on how the situation had crept up on me. I had been so confident that this would be a routine flight. I didn't even consider the lack of ground references at night in the desert. But I knew I didn't want to go through this again. The day after we returned home, I started working on the instrument rating.
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