Aviation journalist Mark R. Twombly is the co-owner of a Piper Twin Comanche.
By most measures, December is an unsettled, unpredictable month. It's filled with extremes — the emotionally pressurized ups and downs that characterize the holiday season, and the atmospherically pressurized highs and lows that define the weather. December is the month when daylight recedes, cold fronts advance, winds aloft increase, and temperatures plummet.
Given the uncertainties of the weather, much less the emotions, December isn't the ideal month to schedule a long cross-country trip with a reluctant flier as passenger. Then again, we don't always get to pick and choose our ideal itinerary, especially for business missions.
The mission this December was traveling to and from New Orleans for the National Business Aviation Association (NBAA) annual meeting and convention. NBAA was supposed to have its convention in mid-September in The Big Easy, but following the terrorist attacks of September 11 the association's board voted to cancel the event. Later, after consulting with member companies and convention exhibitors, NBAA rescheduled the convention for mid-December, still in New Orleans.
It was a courageous decision considering that some of the biggest hitters in the business aviation world, including Cessna, Bombardier, Gulfstream, Raytheon, and Honeywell, said that they would not participate as exhibitors. They claimed they had already spent plenty on the original canceled show preparing their typically lavish, large exhibits and parties. NBAA officials were predicting the rescheduled event would be much smaller but no less important, largely because of the current intense interest in flight department security issues.
I had work to do there, as did my wife. We could have used public transportation to travel to and from New Orleans, probably at absurdly low advance-reservation fares. These days, however, it's easier to rationalize trading fire-sale airline ticket prices for the convenience, security, and pleasure of flying yourself. I had absolutely no trouble embracing that rationale, to the extent that I was able to convince my wife, too.
Our convention-related responsibilities required us to be in New Orleans from Monday through Thursday, so we planned to arrive on Sunday and leave the following Friday. Specific arrival and departure times didn't matter, only the days.
That allowed for maximum flexibility in when we flew, which was important. Normally it pays for Florida-based pilots to rise and fly early, before the daily bumper crop of thermals sprout, creating invisible, uncomfortable speed bumps that flower into towering cumulus higher up. Jarring thermals and long-legged cumulus aren't as much of a problem in Florida's more stable winter air, but frequent fast-moving cold fronts take up the slack.
On the days leading up to our planned departure, I had an additional twist of the weather to consider. Someone forgot to tell Olga that the hurricane season officially ended on November 30. Olga was the last hurricane of 2001. She formed in November and wandered around harmlessly in the vacant Atlantic seemingly forever. In early December, well past her bedtime, she headed west across the northern Florida peninsula and into the Gulf of Mexico. The forecast called for the remnants of a cold front to push what was left of Olga back east toward the Florida Panhandle. The aging, but still feisty, storm also eliminated any consideration of a GPS-direct flight across the Gulf of Mexico, a route that would shave anywhere from 30 to 45 minutes off our flight time depending on how much Gulf we were willing to fly across.
Meanwhile, the morning radar showed that the supposedly weakening cold front had spawned some isolated weather in the eastern Panhandle area, right in the path of our over-land route. It looked like it would dissipate through the day, however, so we were in no hurry to launch. Good timing is the key to avoiding the worst of dynamic weather, and our clock was spot-on that day. I flew my flight-plan route for the first hour, then asked for a westerly deviation to avoid some looming buildups associated with the weak frontal activity. Olga, still agitating off in the Gulf to the southwest, wasn't a factor. The Jacksonville controller cheerfully agreed, then agreed to my follow-up proposal for direct routing to Marianna, Florida, northwest of Tallahassee, where we planned to land to refuel.
Marianna Municipal's triangular runway layout and wide-open spaces far from any urban area give it the look of a World War II-era military training field. Sure enough, a plaque at the entrance to the FBO tells the story of some 6,600 American and British advanced pilot cadets who trained in everything from T-6s to T-37s by the time the base closed in 1960.
A look at the radar in the flight-planning room showed no precipitation for the remainder of the trip westward to New Orleans. A thin undercast persisted until just east of the field, and as darkness descended on the Crescent City I was cleared for the visual approach to Runway 36 Left.
It's pretty quiet in New Orleans in mid-December. Few conventioneers or tourists are in town because of the impending holidays, so the city was appreciative of the unexpected business from the rescheduled convention. Two things in particular impressed me about New Orleans, a city I've been to many times on convention rounds. First, the cabbies are the best to be found — friendly, informed, and good street pilots. Our first driver had National Public Radio dialed in, and he talked expertly about the station's programming. On the trip back to the airport, the driver refused to let detours and missed turns spoil his good nature, saying that in the wake of September 11 everyone has to learn to take things in stride. The second was that New Orleans takes Mardi Gras seriously. The bleachers were already going up along St. Charles Avenue for spectators
to watch the glittering parades that will culminate on Fat Tuesday, February 12. That's party planning.
The sun hid behind fog and clouds during almost our entire stay in the city. A strong front that was supposed to blow through mid-week stalled in eastern Texas, then began to move as the week waned. Those of us who flew ourselves to the convention compared notes on the forecast and what each of us might face on our respective flights home.
I called flight service late on Thursday and was told that if I could leave in the next two minutes I might avoid the cold- front passage. If not, the briefer advised, I should consider hangaring the airplane for the night. I took the advice, and although the front turned out to be less violent than expected, the $32.50 I paid for a night's storage was cheap insurance.
The weather came and went during the night, which meant we probably would have to deal with it again on the flight home. Fortunately, the forecast called for the southern portion of the front to weaken as the day progressed. As on the flight up, patience appeared to be the operative virtue for starting back.
We lifted off of Lakefront's 36 Right just before noon, and an hour later caught up with the front. It was a mere shell of its former self — pencil thin, with isolated cells that could barely make 25,000 feet. I spotted an area where the clouds sagged lower, and after negotiating a course change with the Eglin Approach controller, aimed toward it. We topped the front at 11,000 feet msl, and gazed at fair weather beyond.
Gainesville and a late-lunch visit with middle son Ian made for a convenient and enjoyable rest stop. All that remained was a one-hour-and-15-minute leg home, which I managed to stretch to an hour and a half with a deviation to the southwest for a post-sunset coastal tour. It was a peaceful, easy end to the trip.
