" 'No' is an answer, too." That's what my mom used to say years ago, when I argued unsuccessfully for the car on Saturday night. Needless to say, I hated those words that sometimes quashed my plans — like every teenager, I lived for the day when no one could tell me "no."
As a pilot, however, that homespun saying still haunts me occasionally, when I'm forced to cancel an important flight. Like kids requesting the car for a hot date, we pilots want to hear, "Yes, you can fly" anytime big plans are involved. But when it comes to piloting airplanes, sometimes the proper answer is, "No, you can't go." We must be prepared to accept that if we're to live long and fly safely.
I knew even before opening my chart that flying from Phoenix to St. George, Utah, would be a great adventure. After all, how many other trips involve crossing the Grand Canyon? Then there was the mission. My wife, Jean, was meeting our sister-in-law to attend tennis camp. It's always exciting when flying benefits others in the family. My assignment was to deliver Jean on Sunday, then return to pick her up on Wednesday.
On Sunday morning we departed on schedule into clear skies. Soon we found ourselves gazing down upon Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University's west campus at Prescott, then at old Highway 66 passing through tiny Seligman, Arizona. But the best was yet to come — crossing the "big ditch" — the Grand Canyon. Long before arriving there, I programmed GPS coordinates for the crossing while Jean flew the airplane.
Navigating the Grand Canyon special flight rules area can be challenging, given its complex airspace restrictions; I knew from past experience not to wait until getting there to figure it out. Overflights below 14,500 feet must follow VFR corridors between irregularly shaped "flight free zones." The corridors do not align with VOR radials, nor are they easily identified using physical landmarks pictured on the Grand Canyon aeronautical chart. (This chart is issued irregularly; pilots should consult flight service to ensure they have the latest edition.)
I also knew the importance of focusing all eyes outside the cockpit in the vicinity of the canyon, because of heavy air tour traffic crisscrossing the area. Although tour pilots announce their positions on published advisory frequencies, the landmarks they report are largely unfamiliar to transient pilots. And with radar coverage limited here, air traffic control cannot be depended upon to keep you clear of traffic or restricted airspace.
Fortunately, human bureaucrats doodling with airspace on a paper chart cannot tarnish the grandeur of the Grand Canyon, especially when viewed from an airplane. Having skimmed low for miles across treeless plateau, we crossed a band of pine forest, then rocketed without warning over the edge of the Earth. Surely I'm not the first pilot to suffer a twinge of fear, watching flat land so suddenly cascade from beneath him.
Over the void itself, striated jumbles of pink, orange, and green stretched as far as our eyes could see, camouflaging the canyon's true shape and dimensions. Only after the Colorado River revealed itself far below could we comprehend the bottom. Then orange rock climbed quickly back up to meet us on the other side. Eight minutes may sound short on a two-hour flight, but when crossing this place it seemed like eternity.
Soon afterward we reached St. George, nestled green among southern Utah's massive red and yellow buttes and spires. A single north/south runway perches above town on a mesa — reminding one of an aircraft carrier, except that unlike vessels the mesa can't be directed into prevailing winds. As a result, crosswinds assail the runway much of the time.
We spent a leisurely few hours sunning among flowers and ripening strawberries at the tennis resort pool; then I waved goodbye and braved a stiff crosswind departing for home. The canyon offered all-new vistas southbound, with an added tinge of orange as sunset approached.
"How lucky I am," I thought on the way home, "getting to do this again on Wednesday." Just the prospect kept me fired up for the next two days. In anticipation, I prepared my camera for some serious shooting over the Grand Canyon and scheduled a business visit to the Dixie State College flight-training department at St. George.
All seemed rosy until Wednesday morning, when I awoke to an unexpected challenge. Flying weather is usually beautiful in the sunny Southwest, but on this day a powerful cold front straddled the Utah/Arizona border, accompanied by strong winds. Not the sort of thing that you like to hear when planning a trip over one of the world's deepest canyons.
To complicate matters, the weather sounded potentially nasty but not bad enough for a definite no-go. (Like Mom saying "maybe" on granting the car for Saturday night.) Although light at the time of my call, surface winds along my route were forecast by afternoon to gust from the northwest at 28 knots — potentially challenging, but not beyond my capability. However, a few more knots or a shift in direction could make landing at St. George impossible, given the north/south runway.
A similar dilemma applied to winds aloft. If correctly forecast at 25 knots, they would make for a rough but manageable ride, given the terrain along my route. But winds much stronger than that could mean severe turbulence — downright dangerous.
Also of concern was the slight possibility of low clouds and precipitation. Although St. George was expected to remain clear, forecasters called for occasional mountain obscuration by ceilings and rain only 50 miles north — not very far away, in meteorological terms. Out East one might file IFR if that happened, but here that would be impossible because of minimum en route altitudes above the freezing level.
On the positive side, at this time of morning everywhere within 100 miles of my route was reporting clear skies and light winds. There seemed to be no risk in taking off, providing I was prepared to land or turn around if the weather deteriorated. The bigger issue was how bad it might become later on, and how quickly. Jean would not be ready to leave St. George until 4 p.m.
One other yellow flag arose when I queried the briefer about weather beyond my immediate route. It turned out that surface winds at Las Vegas, 125 miles west of St. George, were forecast to exceed 40 knots by afternoon. Worse yet, at this time of morning they were already gusting to 37.
"Why do you think Las Vegas winds are so much worse than everywhere else?" I asked the briefer.
"Probably due to local terrain," he replied. That answer was only marginally fulfilling. Since most area airports have only automated weather-reporting equipment, I decided to cover my bases by phoning the flight department at Dixie State College. Sometimes additional insights can be had from a real human observer looking out the window.
"Winds are currently light and variable here at St. George," said the dispatcher. "Just keep in mind that we sometimes get very strong crosswinds here, due to the north/south runway. Winds of 35 knots are not uncommon. Numerous aircraft have run off the runway in crosswinds over the past year or so, including a Learjet. So don't take any chances. If winds pick up I recommend you land 30 miles away at Colorado City — more runways there."
Given the unpredictable weather situation, I telephoned Jean, who was distinctly unenthused at the possibility of riding a ground shuttle several hours to Las Vegas for an airline flight home.
"But it's beautiful here!" she said. Since the weather appeared flyable this morning, but could go either way in the afternoon, we agreed I should make the trip up. We could always stay overnight if conditions deteriorated. So I filled my emergency canteens (always carried over the desert), packed my overnight bag, and drove to the airport.
Even then, I debated whether to phone for one last weather update. Should I hurry on my way before conditions deteriorated? Or call again to identify any developing trends?
Among the challenges of flying in this part of the country are the great distances between airports. Not only are there few landing options in case of weather or mechanical difficulties, but weather reporting is severely limited. On this trip I would fly some 250 nautical miles each way but cross only two paved airports, Prescott and Seligman, of which only Prescott reports weather.
"Can't hurt to get a quick update," I decided. But some guy was using the pay phone on the ramp. I tossed my gear into the airplane, then upon further reflection drove to the FBO and called for weather from there. The forecast was unchanged; there were no sigmets or airmets, and St. George winds remained relatively light. There were no pilot reports either, but that could mean anything — either everyone was experiencing a smooth ride or no one was flying at all. In short, there was nothing new to update the standard flight service briefing.
Desperately seeking comfort with my departure decision, I selectively requested surface winds for airports across a three-state region. Winds had picked up at Cedar City, 40 miles northeast of St. George, but were still within reason. Las Vegas, however, was even worse than before, with winds now gusting over 40 knots and turbulence reported by airliners.
"How about Grand Canyon Airport?" I asked. Fifty miles east of my route, that facility had earlier reported winds light and variable.
"Whoa!" said the briefer. "Grand Canyon Airport now reports winds from the northwest, gusting to 37." That certainly got my attention; high morning winds were not localized at Las Vegas after all.
"What's more," he added, with a note of surprise, "Grand Canyon Tower reports standing lenticular clouds to the northwest." Mountain pilots know that "lennies" form in the lee of high terrain as a result of very strong winds aloft. Such clouds indicate the likelihood of severe turbulence, along with possible downdrafts exceeding the climb capability of light aircraft. Their reported location, northwest of Grand Canyon Airport, suggested they would affect the "big ditch" not far from where I'd be crossing.
I now had the answer I needed, even if it wasn't the one I wanted to hear. "No" is an answer, too, I thought. Some days one simply is not destined to fly.
I left a message for Jean at St. George, advising her to reserve an airline seat home to Phoenix, where I'd be waiting to pick her up. Then I returned my carefully prepared camera to its case and canceled my appointment at Dixie State College.
Finding myself back at the airplane with bags packed and nowhere to go, I listlessly polished bugs from the wing. Running through my mind, as I scrubbed, were images of myself negotiating severe turbulence over the Grand Canyon in a Cessna 182. Those might truly have been the longest eight or 10 minutes of my life. Realistically, I knew that I'd have checked weather along the way, learned of the situation, and returned home. Yet at the same time, all risk had been averted when I made that additional phone call, then probed and probed until I had the information I needed to make a proper decision.
This was a day to be proud of my piloting, I decided, even though I'd never left the ground. And "no" in this case was much different than getting turned down for the car on a long-ago Saturday night. Since flying would have to wait until another day, a small reward seemed in order. After polishing off the bugs, I stopped on my way home to indulge in that most extravagant of consolation treats — an iced caramel cappuccino. Not quite as delicious as flying across the Grand Canyon, I know, but on this particular day it seemed like a darned good alternative. Best of all, no one was around to tell me "no."
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. He is the author of The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots and writes the "Flying Carpet" column for AOPA Flight Training magazine.
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