We take off from New Garden airport on an IFR flight plan in light mist and climb to 6,000 feet where we fly visually for awhile. A deck forms below us by the time we cross the Chesapeake Bay, and the clouds above gradually lower. We are between two white sheets for awhile, and then the sheets begin to merge. For a time before complete whiteout, a bit of dark line is our horizon, and I ask Mark, "When are you switching to instruments?"
"Already have," he says.
Soon, water droplets are walking across the various surfaces of our aircraft. We are in solid soup. The outside air temperature is only a few degrees above freezing. I look at it every few minutes to be sure it doesn't drop, although there are no forecasts of icing along our flight path.
Everything is as it should be. Engine sounds right. Instruments all working fine. Husband alert and functioning well. Kids snuggled under blankets in the back. I occupy myself with continuous planning for the hypothetical emergency. Which airports have instrument approaches? How close are they? Where exactly are we right this second?
Normally my head is swiveling when we cross over Richmond International, but there is no point in that today. We can barely see our own wing tips. We don't get traffic advisories, but we know airplanes are out there because we hear them on the radio. I do not fear them. That would be a waste of emotion. In IMC, if you fly properly, the midair problem is supposed to take care of itself.
I have plenty of other things to think about anyway. An in-flight weather advisory reveals convective sigmets for all of North Carolina, though severe weather is not currently in our path. The front with its storms remains well to our west. Our home airport is reporting ceilings of 900 feet. After checking all airports and advisories in the area Mark finds no reason not to continue on. We will have more than an hour's reserve of fuel. Nevertheless I watch the fuel gauges with suspicion as the needles creep leftward. At one point I frown at Mark and shake my pen accusingly toward the gauges.
"I know," he sighs, "they are notoriously inaccurate."
"That doesn't make me feel any better," I reply.
I wonder just how proficient my husband is in his partial-panel skills. I plan my actions should he become incapacitated. My worry decays into amusement as I consider the simultaneous occurrence of both. At only 60 logged hours, my instrument flying skills are positively infantile, and partial-panel is out of the question. If anything were to happen to him, I would engage the single-axis autopilot.
For a long time the radio is silent. We hear only raindrops against the aircraft and the life-sustaining beat of the engine. The peace is suddenly broken by a frightened voice in our headsets. "Seven-Four-Sierra needs a vector to clear weather."
The controller asks him to clarify. The man repeats, "Seven-Four-Sierra, yes, I need a vector...I need you to get me to clear weather. I'm in a cell of some sort, I've got to get out...where there's less turbulence."
The controller sounds concerned. "Well, sir, I can't do that. I'm showing you're in Level Two weather. I can't see cells."
"Can you get me out of this weather?"
"Sir, you can try heading 220."
"Roger, 220."
I feel a surge of apprehension as I imagine embedded thunderstorms in our path. I have never feared T-storms when flying visually. I can see them. But in IMC, they can ambush you like invisible monsters. The forecast is for storms to stay west of us until later in the afternoon. The other aircraft surely is to the west. I wonder if he'll escape his situation.
My husband flies tirelessly, though he cheats by using the autopilot. "Why does time go so slowly when you're in this stuff?" he asks, not expecting an answer.
"Seven-Four-Sierra...need vectors around weather. I'm at...eight thousand." And still frightened. I wonder if he has kids packed in his back seat. The controller responds much like the last time, and then hands us off to the next frequency. I cannot help but note that N number, changed to protect the innocent, for future perusal of NTSB reports.
On our new frequency I catch another call, "...picking up ice. Can you get us higher? I'd like to try to get out of it." My eyes go again to the OAT. Ten degrees C.
"Climb and maintain Flight Level 240," he is told. Oh, OK, ice up there.
Now it is really solid. It's been solid all along, but now it is more so, if such a thing is possible. We've had brief encounters with light chop, but now there is steady bumping. It is still nothing bothersome. But then, I'm not flying.
"For the first time today, I've got the leans," says Mark. After two hours of looking at the panel, he's getting tired, but I know he can handle it. Still, I sit with sideways eyes, furtively watching the instruments in front of my husband. I am silently critical of any deviation from perfection - as if I could do any better!
We're getting close to home now. I mentally check off the locations of all the towers in our area, decide none are in our path, and conclude that the controller is unlikely to descend us into any of them.
The children wake up. They are cranky and hungry. They have unplugged their headsets, and their voices sound faint and distant over the sound of the engine as they fight over a can of nuts. They know to keep us completely out of it. "Sterile cockpit" applies anytime we are in the soup.
Repeated weather checks have reassured us that conditions are steady and ceilings are not dropping. No one is going missed - a good sign, but the fact that our alternate is reporting a bit lower than originally forecast concerns me, and has me looking for additional alternates in the other direction. I am also irritated at the "notoriously inaccurate" fuel gauges. Though they don't read empty, they look awfully low to me. I have visions of fumbling around the whole state in this mess with rapidly dwindling reserves.
Mark requests the ILS to Runway 3 and is told to fly to JURLY intersection and hold as published at 4,000 feet. My bladder sends me a message of protest. Mark eases back the throttle and adjusts the trim. I watch the airspeed indicator as he mumbles, "I'm slowing this thing down." Translation: "I ain't gonna do no hold." We proceed toward JURLY listening to the airplane ahead of us receive his clearance for the approach.
Presently, the controller returns to us. "Three-Yankee-November, fly heading 180, descend and maintain 3,000, expect vectors to ILS." Fantastic! No hold.
"Three-Yankee-November, fly heading 210." We do so...and do so...and do so. I watch the GPS as the Johnston County Airport moves farther and farther behind the little airplane. I hear Mark softly say, "any time now...."
And then the final vector. Yes! Fly heading 310, descend to 1,800, and soon the localizer needle awakens. We're cleared for the ILS. Mark turns, enters the cone, and nails the needles as I begin the runway watch.
Now we have changing forms of clouds like layered pudding and soon patches of ground appear below us, but nothing straight ahead. I glance at the altimeter and peer over the nose. Fifteen hundred feet. Glance, peer. One thousand. If we don't see the runway at 348 we go missed. Damn! Where is it? My eyes stay ahead in the soup now, searching.
"It should be slightly to the left," Mark says.
There is ground ahead. I'm starting to see buildings but no runway. Familiar ground. Tempting ground. Ground I have flown over countless times. It rushes under me, telling me the airport is right there. But no runway. I now feel the pull of the desire to land. I know how pilots must be lured by the glimpses, by fuel issues, by the bladder, and by simple fatigue. I have memorized the missed approach procedure, as I know Mark has, but I do not want him to execute it. How many pilots have come to grief after being seduced to descend below minimums by the desire to land?
We are now at 700 feet. From vacuous nothing, lights materialize. Runway lights! Nothing could please me more. Shortly after, the asphalt follows. Two white and two red VASIs. Perfect. Mark goes visual and makes an ordinary landing.
After refueling the airplane we find that we had an hour and a quarter remaining, just as Mark had calculated.
So what did this student learn about IMC flying? I learned that when in clouds, you are in moisture, which requires that you be aware of the possibility of icing. I learned that no outside visibility means much more than just the task of keeping the airplane right side up. It also means you are completely dependent on ATC to keep you away from other airplanes. You can help them by keeping your altimeter set properly, making sure your transponder and other equipment are in working order, and flying right.
Situational awareness is always necessary, but in IMC it rockets to hypercritical importance, if for no other reason than the fact that you cannot see what you are about to fly into. It is up to you not to let ATC vector you into a mountain.
I learned the importance of knowing your airplane, its fuel burn, and its gauges. Mark knew almost exactly what he was burning based on his experience, and he knew the gauges' quirks. A misunderstanding of the fuel situation could lead a pilot to make a bad decision, such as descending below minimums.
I learned how critically important it is to gather updated weather information en route when in widespread clouds or near severe weather.
Perhaps the most impressive lesson I learned was that when in IMC pilots are vulnerable to all the same human factors that challenge them when VFR. Fatigue, hunger, and the call of nature, to name a few - and these worsen toward the end of the flight, when fuel is lowest and flying skills likely to be in high demanding.
Mark and I were quiet on the drive home, but the children chattered nonstop. Margaret talked about waking up to find that we were still in the clouds. "It was boring," she whined, "nothing but clouds."
Mark and I looked at each other and smiled.
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