Tough instrument training in the field
Few would disagree that earning your instrument rating makes you a safer, more competent pilot. The insurance industry certainly agrees. To master the skills and accumulate the experience required by the FARs, you can take regular lessons, facing the possibility of cancellations, scheduling conflicts, and extra cost. Or you can sign up for an accelerated program that puts you through a focused, intense curriculum. There are advantages to both methods.
One of the widely recognized and effective programs combines both methods of training and comes from Field Morey of Middleton, Wisconsin. Since the late 1960s, Morey, a 30,000-hour pilot, instructor, and designated examiner, has taken students on "The Field Morey West Coast IFR Adventure." The idea is simple. Show up with 15 hours of initial IFR training and the basic skills to shoot approaches and your passing written results, and then fly from Wisconsin to California and back over six days. You'll experience weather, a variety of ATC situations, and multiple approaches; see great sights from your own perch; and earn the ticket by gaining real-world IFR experience. The program boasts a 93-percent pass rate and also hosts rated pilots seeking to increase their skills. A surprising number of graduates come back for more to keep those skills sharp.
The program is not cheap, but it is worth the $6,300 entry fee ($500 down, 50 percent of the balance 90 days in advance, and the rest when you arrive for the trip). Morey compares favorably with other IFR accelerated programs.
Morey employs a well-equipped 1985 Cessna Turbo 182RG. Heated prop, leather seats, Bose X ANR headsets, dual King 155 nav/coms, IFR GPS, autopilot, Stormscope, collison avoidance system…the works. The steed is well-prepared for the 4,000-mile test.
My business colleague Jim Rice and I signed up for Morey's West Coast Adventure several years ago with the intent of using it to earn our instrument ratings. At the time, I lived in Texas and Rice in Madison, Wisconsin. Little did I know that two years later I would live a mere five miles from Morey Field.
The airport, in Middleton, Wisconsin, northwest of Madison, is run by Field Morey. Field Morey is the son of the late Howard Morey who was the first manager of the first airport in the Madison area. His son arrived on the day he was awarded the management contract. "He couldn't name me Runway so he picked the best aviation-related name he could and called me Field," said Morey. "I have that original contract right here in my desk." Morey owned the airport until recently when it was acquired by the City of Middleton.
After earning our instrument ratings in the fall of 1999, Rice and I kept our date with Morey for the March 2000 West Coast trip to gain experience with our new privileges. We took off on schedule on Saturday, March 18, into the face of a low-pressure system moving west to east, south of our route. Prior to departure, I pulled up the Weathermation data and gulped: airmets for IFR and icing. Morey quickly told me to read the "scaremets," then to look at pireps to see the real story. Report after report read, "Negative ice."
Lesson Number 1: Read the pireps; look at the reports of actual weather; think for yourself.
Day one saw us in the clag within minutes of takeoff from Morey Field. We were in the northeast sector of a low — which is ideal for instrument meteorological conditions (IMC). As a result, we had low ceilings and snow. Eventually, we did pick up some light rime ice. Morey taught us what to look for regarding potential icing conditions and gave us strategies for getting out of ice.
Lesson Number 2: According to the "4,000-foot rule," a 4,000-foot change in altitude, up or down, gets you out of the ice. Just be sure you're above your minimum en route altitude or minimum obstacle clearance altitude.
Rice shot the GPS Runway 30 approach into Charles City, Iowa. We broke out of the snow and there, almost magically at our feet, was the runway. This was pretty cool stuff.
Next, it was my turn. In midair we changed seats, exercising considerable agility in doing so, and I began to set up for our next destination, Spencer, Iowa. Again, we broke out of the goo with Runway 30 at our feet. My confidence was already going up.
We ended the day in wonderful VFR conditions at Pierre, South Dakota, and discovered that The Prime Rib restaurant at LaMinestra is not to be missed.
Lesson Number 3: Morey knows the good beaneries.
On day two, we started at 6:15 a.m., a routine we would repeat throughout the trip, and were off the ground by 8 a.m. We were westbound to Rapid City, South Dakota, then made a request for "a VFR climb past the monuments" — Mount Rushmore. My schoolbook pictures came alive from 5,000 feet. Rice shot the approach into Sheridan, Wyoming, as the ceiling was getting raggedy and the Rocky Mountains were looming to the west. We changed seats, and almost immediately we were faced with virga and a rotor cloud. The rotor cloud looked like cotton candy.
As a sailplane pilot and CFI, I'd read of these monsters in books, but never experienced one. It certainly looked innocent enough. Morey told me in no uncertain terms to tighten my seat belt, pull the throttle, and get the nose up to slow us to maneuvering speed. I had no sooner done that than, wham, we got banged around like a bean in a can. It only lasted a few seconds, but now I know what a rotor cloud looks like and what it can do.
Lesson Number 4: Cotton candy may taste good, but in the sky it can be treacherous.
We moved along to Billings, Montana, where ATIS was reporting winds from 290 at 27, gusting to 41. Great. The airport is on a bluff and the ridge to the south of the runway can induce some pretty wicked sink on final. Power got us through OK, with a surprisingly smooth touchdown despite the wind.
Our day ended at Missoula, Montana. The VOR approach from the southeast was the order of the day, complete with intermittent IMC and a DME arc. After I turned onto the final approach course, I wondered aloud why ATC had not handed me off to the tower. Morey pointed to the granite walls on both sides of us. "They're watching you to make sure you're established so you don't become part of the granite like three other guys have done."
A snow shower was in progress over the field as I arrived at the minimum descent altitude (MDA). I couldn't find the runway. The tower called: "Four-One-Tango, say intentions." I finally saw the runway; I was right over it. "Can I slip this thing?" I asked Morey. "Sure," he said, "you used to fly towplanes, didn't you?" I told the tower, "I'm going to land," and proceeded to get the upwind wing down, with opposite rudder. We touched down on the first half of the 9,500-foot runway. Looking back at what Ie had successfully flown through, I was feeling more and more competent.
Lesson Number 5: Be on course and listen to ATC, particularly in the land of granite. And know your options in advance.
The beer at The Depot that night was well-deserved and the steamed clams were awesome.
On day three Rice did the Kona Two departure procedure (DP) out of Missoula, flying up the valley to 7,600 feet before turning on course. It was our first DP. The snow-covered mountains were majestic. The sky was VFR with some high clouds.
We went on. Rice shot the dogleg VOR 26 approach into Lewiston, Idaho, under the hood, nailing the numbers. At the final approach fix, he dropped the gear and set up for a well-controlled rate of descent right down to MDA. We were each getting more and more comfortable with this great airplane.
Sitting in the backseat, I was watching Rice and preparing for my turn in the left seat. I asked Morey which approach he wanted to shoot at Yakima, Washington. "Oh, let's see. How 'bout the VOR for 27, the complicated one." Great. I pulled the plate. There were more numbers and course lines than a schematic for a silicone chip — and another dogleg. This would be interesting. A few minutes of scanning the plate and I was ready.
We swapped seats. As I shot the approach I began to realize that all that data, while important, was no cause for intimidation. We broke out at the MDA exactly where we were supposed to be. Yes.
Soon after leaving Yakima we entered volcano land. Mount Rainier was off to the right, Mount Hood to the left, and Mount Adams and Mount St. Helens straight ahead. Morey requested a VFR deviation to tour Mount St. Helens, and tour we did. Morey gave us a spectacular up-close-and-personal look at the great mountain.
Every minute we were learning. Whether it was setting up for the approach, working ATC, looking over the shoulder of the guy in front as he was about to forget a key element of the approach, or just listening to Morey's advice, we absorbed everything like sponges.
We were pretty pooped as I did the GPS approach into Medford, Oregon, at the end of the day. Morey had thrown me a simulated emergency earlier, and the controller vectored us to the wrong initial approach fix (IAF) at Medford. We were busy trying to figure things out when we found ourselves on the approach. Just then, the controller 'fessed up. He apologized, quipping that maybe after 18 years he might be getting a bit rusty. "That's OK," I said, "we've had a quite a day ourselves." The camaraderie with ATC throughout the trip was incredible. Any mic fright quickly melts away as you learn what information controllers need to do their jobs and their willingness to help. Good people, those controllers.
Lesson Number 6: Expect the unexpected. Always.
We spent the night in Ashland, Oregon, a wonderfully laid-back, picturesque town north of the California border. Alex's Restaurant was worth the tough day.
Day four had us off to California. I started the day with the approach to Crescent City. En route, I got set up. I tuned in my nav frequencies, identified them, tuned in my radio frequencies, and reviewed the steps I would take as I reached the VOR and turned outbound on the localizer. I was feeling pretty confident by this point in the trip and looked at this as just another approach. Boy, was I wrong. I hit the VOR, turned outbound, and flipped over to the localizer frequency. I started to track the needle and simultaneously identify the station. In no time at all, nothing made sense. All my preplanning was goo.
I was tracking the needle, but the direction I was flying wasn't making sense. I was out over the ocean and feeling like I had a head full of Elmer's glue. "I give up," I said. "I'm not going down, I'm going back to the VOR to reestablish myself." I was on my way to Japan. I had flipped to the localizer needle too soon. Outbound, it is in reverse sensing. I made procedural errors and interpretative errors. I was humble again. I have vowed to stay that way.
We reshot the approach, did the missed, and then headed to Arcata, California, as the alternate. After me, Rice had his opportunity to learn with the LOC 15 approach to Ukiah. We were tracking to the IAF at Kearn LOM and Rice had done a good job of setting up for the approach. I was impressed. He then recited his intended steps upon reaching Kearn. "At Kearn, I'm going to turn right, intercept the localizer, drop the gear, and look for the MDA at 1,720 feet," he said. Morey turned his head halfway around to me and raised an eyebrow with a very mischievous look. We both saw it coming.
Soon, Rice realized he would never be able to descend from 7,000 to 1,720 feet in the space of five miles without tearing the wings off the plane. He had failed to fly the procedure turn and use it to lose altitude. Rice and I were now the same height: about two inches tall.
We passed over San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge, and then picked up vectors for the VOR approach into Palo Alto. Morey obliged my request to fly past the Moffett Field airship hangars, a subject of special interest to me as a lighter-than-air historian. I asked if I could take the hood off to see the huge structure that housed the U.S.S. Macon back in 1935.
Lesson Number 7: The localizer tracks in reverse when outbound. Don't flip to the localizer too early. Know when to call off the approach. No approach is simple. Overconfidence can kill.
Day five and we're in Los Angeles. This was a busy day. Every time I've looked at a sectional or en route chart of the L.A. Basin, my eyes have rolled into the back of my head. I learned that with a little reading, and an understanding of how the system is structured, it really isn't that bad. But, you do have to have your eyes and ears open.
Under all that high-altitude stuff is a well-organized Socal (Southern California) Approach Control that tracks you as you fly within the Basin. The routes are all predesigned and available in the Jepp or NACO (National Aeronautical Charting Office, formerly NOS) books. Mystery solved.
That morning, while talking to the briefer, I told him about our trip, training, and plans for the day, which included an approach at Hawthorne, right next to Los Angeles International. "That's where I am," he said. "Stop in." So we did.
Steve Reitz was working the En Route Flight Advisory Service (flight watch) desk. He invited us behind the counter and showed us around. He had heard of Morey's West Coast trips and talked with other students in years past. He gave us a briefing, and showed us his many screens while simultaneously responding to calls from en route traffic seeking weather info. The visit demystified the folks behind the mic. Good people, those FSS specialists.
Before long, we were off to Sedona, Arizona, over the pass and the high desert. We had some intermittent IMC and ATC warnings of ice, but we found none.
Lesson Number 854: Spend time on the ground researching your routes; use all resources available to you. Paint a picture in your mind of the route you're going to fly.
On day six I flew the departure procedure out of beautiful Sedona Airport for a flight to the Grand Canyon. After shooting the ILS for Runway 3, we went VFR to Monument Valley. Incredible. I contacted flight service and filed an IFR plan for Telluride, Colorado, the first time I had air filed. After that it was on to Blanding, Utah, which was reporting 500-foot ceilings. We couldn't raise ATC out here in the boonies to get our clearance for the approach into Blanding, so we skipped it and headed for Telluride. We picked up our clearance as we got closer.
On the takeoff at Telluride, Morey demonstrated the power a nonturbocharged airplane would develop at this altitude (9,085 feet). We would not have gotten off the runway.
For the trip over to Pueblo, Colorado, we went up to 15,500 feet and donned the oxygen masks. No big deal, but a good lesson in having the proper tools to suit the situation.
Lesson Number 903: Turbocharging gives you lots of alternatives. Oxygen is a good thing too.
Between Pueblo and Lincoln, Nebraska, Rice was at the helm. We quickly picked up some ice as we ran into the back of a low coming up from the south, spreading a warm front ahead of us. It was clear ice, and it immediately affected our airspeed. We had lost 30 knots, and the airspeed was sinking fast. While Rice's and my eyeballs were about to pop out, Morey noted that the pitot tube's freezing over had caused a big part of the drop. But he wouldn't let Rice turn on the heat. The airspeed indicator quickly dropped to zero. Then, he had Rice turn it on. Morey wanted us to see how long it would take to become effective. Those 90 seconds were an eternity.
Lesson Number 910: Pitot heat is there for a reason.
Back in the clear, but still carrying the ice, Morey told Rice to do a stall to see how the performance had degraded. Again, Rice's eyeballs almost came out of his head. "Go ahead," said Morey. Sure enough, we had lost 30 knots. If we didn't lose the ice, we would have to add 30 knots to our approach speed.
In the backseat, I was thinking, "I'm glad Morey is here."
On our last day we blasted off from Lincoln, the city where Charles Lindbergh learned to fly. We had two and one-half miles' visibility and 800-foot ceilings. In no time we were VFR on top, bathed in sunlight.
The day before, on the VOR approach into Goodland, Kansas, I was under the hood, established on the final approach course, and feeling good about my preparation when Morey said to Rice in the backseat, "Looks good to me, Jim. I wonder what he forgot?" Great. My heart sank as my pulse went up. Then Morey said, "I don't see any approach lights." I had forgotten to activate the pilot-controlled lighting. So, to make sure it was stuck in my brain, it would be the order of the day for my last approach into Ankeny, Iowa. I will not forget those seven clicks again!
Jim shot the VOR approach back into our home base at Morey Field. We descended into the clouds at 5,500 feet. He was vectored by the friendly ATC guys at Madison and popped out at 3,200 feet with the airport in sight. Cool!
Throughout the trip, we learned, we stayed on schedule; Morey was a taskmaster but made it fun. We saw the United States in a way few others get to experience.
This program is worth the price of admission. You get solid, real-world training from one of the gurus of IFR, and the tour of the United States is pretty good, too.
Chris Fenger, AOPA 748302, is a 900-hour instrument-rated private pilot. He flies a 1965 Beechcraft Debonair.
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