We had a lovely flight. We landed in nearby Glens Falls, had lunch, called old family friends who still run the Woods Lodge, and arranged for someone to meet us at Schroon, since there were no rental cars available. It was a good thing we had because the airport is a 3,150-foot paved strip nestled among the hills, with no fixed-base operator, no buildings, not even a pay phone.
I needed a steep approach to avoid trees at both ends of the runway. I also had to fly closer to the wooded hillsides than I'm accustomed to doing in order to turn any kind of base leg. I made my approach, concentrating intently, and stopped with room to spare. That's when we spotted a Piper Cherokee, nose down and tail feathers up, hidden by trees just off one side of the runway. The accident had occurred in gusty conditions only two hours before we arrived. The only serious harm came to the airplane. The occupants suffered no more than minor bumps and bruises.
It was like old home week as my wife and her friends reminisced. We had a great time, and that night I called flight service for an outlook briefing. That was when I found out that some dark clouds were looming on the horizon. The briefer told me that thunderstorms were expected in the Glens Falls area by 2 p.m. the next day.
As it happened, some thunderstorms came through Schroon Lake and the surrounding area during the night, leaving the sky peaceful and bright the next morning. The standard weather briefing that I got as we prepared to return home portended no bolts from Thor in our area, but there was convective activity moving at 50 knots across our planned route. Also, ceilings were expected to lower as conditions changed from the current high scattered clouds to rain and mist shortly after noon. Widespread IFR was in the offing. If I timed it right, I hoped to be able to fly westward a bit and slip behind the bad stuff as it harrumphed its way east across southern New York and Pennsylvania. Since there wasn't any remote communication outlet at Schroon Lake, I arranged to pick up my IFR flight plan from Albany approach while passing over Glens Falls.
As we were having breakfast in town, I found out that three hours after we had landed, a Cessna 172 had gone off the runway into the trees, and transformed itself into a delta-winged 172-again, bumps and bruises for its occupants. Both airplanes were just as they had been when we took off a few hours later, so my wife was apprehensive as we started the return trip.
When we took off from Schroon just after 1 p.m., the visibility was about 10 statute miles with mist and a 2,500-foot ceiling. We flew over the western border of Lake George, over Interstate 95, then toward Glens Falls, and I picked up my IFR clearance. I was climbing to my assigned altitude of 8,000 feet. The loran was acting up, alternating between a normal on-course display and gibberish. I was concerned, but not worried: The same thing has happened to me almost every time I've flown over Annapolis, Maryland, near home. At around 4,000 feet, now in the soup, Albany approach told me that my transponder return was weak. My number two nav/com display was growing faint. Moments later-fade to black. Uh-oh.
Sure enough, the ammeter was showing a discharge. By this time I was somewhere around 4,500 feet in the middle of the Adirondacks. Luckily, I had a backup battery-powered handheld transceiver with communication and navigation capability, as well as the almost equally critical headset adapter cords. (Have you ever tried shouting into a handheld radio in a noisy cockpit, then planting its speaker against your ear to hear a response?)
The thought of adhering to the federal aviation regulations (FARs) covering two-way radio communications failure in IFR conditions did cross my mind-but not for long. I was legally allowed to continue on the route for which I had been cleared. I'd have plenty of altitude. I'd just have to begin my descent and approach as close as possible to my estimated time of arrival. That would have been the hardest part-if it had been just a communications failure and not a total electrical blackout.
But since home was more than 350 miles away, and I knew that most or all of that would be in instrument meteorological conditions (IMC), the possibility that those eight little batteries and the backup pack might not make it to VFR weather was very real and the consequences could be non-habit-forming.
Not incidentally, I didn't think that my lone handheld would qualify for an impromptu VOR check just then. I also wondered momentarily if I'd forgotten some other FAR covering total electrical failure in IMC. Was there one? (I checked later. There isn't-nor is it in the Aeronautical Information Manual.) Also, convective weather was headed toward the New York City area, and the prospect of blundering into it under conditions of hindered-or non-existent-communications was even scarier. On top of that, we'd landed at Glens Falls on the way up, and I knew there were several miles of relatively flat land all around it. No, the wiser thing would be to head back there, pronto. All this went through my mind in a matter of seconds.
I did a one-eighty and headed back to Glens Falls, 10 or 15 miles almost due north. My plan was to circle and descend slowly back into the skuzzy marginal VFR weather when my VOR's "to" indicator switched to a "from" at Glens Falls, then call air traffic control and explain what was going on. But moments after I was established on a retreating course, and before I could switch from a navigation to a communication frequency, I heard the Burlington, Vermont, flight service station transmitting over the Glens Falls vortac's frequency. If I could hear them, they said, please key my mic for five seconds. The short of it is they gave me a direction finding steer back to Glens Falls. When I arrived, the ceiling was still 2,500 feet. I made an uneventful landing and the rain ended about an hour later.
Being the middle of the Adirondacks on Labor Day, a rental car was still unavailable, so we got to spend another night, although not at a lakeside lodge. We did get a rental car the next day and drove the 400 miles back home. The airplane was fixed by Thursday (bad voltage regulator), and I flew up with someone else and ferried the airplane back home.
Although I knew that both my wife and I would probably miss a few days of work, and the kids might miss some school, I clearly recall the satisfied glow I felt as I turned toward that wet runway at Glens Falls. I knew I'd done the right thing and we would live to fly another day. The conservative response rule-when in doubt pick your most conservative option, and do it now-helped to win the day. Being prepared with a backup nav/com (with fresh batteries and a headset adapter cord) definitely helped to stack the deck in our favor.
And this adventure helped to reinforce other aviation principles-always keep thinking, be attentive to your gut feeling, and use a liberal dose of common sense.
DF Guidance
Direction-finding guidance, also called a DF steer, allows a facility equipped with direction-finding equipment to offer guidance to aircraft that are lost, without navigation capabilities, or in distress. The headings assigned by the controller will lead the aircraft to a predetermined point such as an airport or the DF station.
Direction-finding equipment is available at a variety of FAA facilities, including some flight service stations. A list of these facilities is included in the Airport/Facility Directory. The equipment, which is ground-based, typically consists of a directional antenna and a VHF radio receiver. The receiver displays the magnetic direction of the aircraft from the ground station each time the aircraft makes a radio transmission over the appropriate frequency.
If you are lost or in distress and want DF guidance, contact the nearest flight service station or air traffic control facility. Explain your problem and request a DF steer. If you just want to see how it works, you may request a practice DF steer, which will be provided on a workload-permitting basis.
