Learning Experiences

VFR in the clouds

We all tend to dismiss wisdom passed on as good for others, but not something we need to heed ourselves. This is especially true for pilots. Many of us are an independent lot, often picturing ourselves in Walter Mitty-like situations, chart in hand, scarf in the wind, goggles perched jauntily on our foreheads, flying fiercely and alone through situations that would cause mere mortals to blanch with fear. It is still difficult to pen an admission, but in the spirit of contributing to the pile of often-unheeded advice, I herein admit to an error that could have shortened my flying experience or my life.

According to my logbook, it started as one of those instructor-approved cross-country flights positioned fairly close to my checkride. It was a refreshing spring morning at the Burley, Idaho, airport, and I had a fresh weather briefing in hand (from an on-field Flight Service Station, now largely a thing of the past) that said I would enjoy my flight to Logan, Utah. The briefer mentioned scattered clouds, a very normal condition at that time of the year, but nothing to worry about.

I finished the preflight on the rented Cessna 172 and climbed aboard. Most of the journey was enjoyable and confidence-building. Passing over valleys and mountains in early morning air is simply breathtaking in this part of the world. Perhaps I was lulling myself into the sense of stability, comfort, and familiarity that plagues the unaware. Characteristic of the flight from Burley to Logan direct is a series of these valleys and mountain ridges that might intimidate unless you are lulled into a sense of sameness. Herein arose my problem.

As I approached the Malad VOR, just west of the city of Malad, Idaho, I noticed a smattering of cumulus clouds grouping themselves along the ridge of mountains on the west side of Cache Valley (wherein Logan is located) and directly on my line of flight from Malad to Logan. Two operatives in my pea brain caused my near-catastrophe. The first was that weather is more or less stable; that is, it doesn't change all that quickly. Sure, there were clouds there - but they were not really in my direct flight path and I could easily maintain VFR separation. Wrong! The second operative was a severe case of get-there-itis. I was focused on Logan, which I could almost see from my vantage point. Bad thinking!

The ridge of mountains has a peak at its south end that is somewhat above 9,000 feet (I was flying at 7,500 feet). My course line called for me to fly over the ridge just to the north of the peak. I started to become apprehensive as I approached the ridge because, as impossible as it seemed to me at the time, the clouds were becoming heavier, and the ridge was becoming obscured from view. I turned the airplane slightly south, thinking I would simply fly around the south end of the mountain peak, and then slip safely into Cache Valley through the gap in the ridge. No problem, I thought. I noticed that the clouds seemed to be building upward, so in my infinite student pilot wisdom, I simply put the airplane into a climb to go over the top of these pesky clouds. Imagine my disbelief when I was suddenly and totally in a white-out situation. And I knew I was pretty much heading in the direction of a mountain that I did not have the altitude to clear.

Fortunately, something that my primary flight instructor drilled into me (as well as some textbook learning) suddenly kicked into my befuddled brain. It first said, "Fly the plane" (heard that one before?), and then it said, "one-eighty, one-eighty." I looked at the instruments and was also grateful at that moment for the hood work my instructor had given me. I could see that I was in a climb at about 70 kt, and not banked. I put the nose down and banked the airplane right to start the 180-degree turn. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a break in the clouds - certainly, I concluded, a gift from God at that moment - and I could see the recognizable town of Plymouth, Utah (which is pretty much at the base of the mountain). I decided at that instant to initiate a spiral downward through the hole in the clouds, and did so without any further hesitation. In what seemed like an eternity, I popped out from under the clouds into clear air right over Plymouth at about 2,000 feet agl. I finished the flight and landed without any other challenges (self-induced or otherwise) at the Logan airport.

I still believe it was my best decision in that situation to drop through the clouds as I did. But after the crisis ended, I went to pieces. As I sat in that little Cessna on the ramp in Logan, my teeth started to chatter and my stressed-out body began to shake. Even after I had calmed down and stepped out of the airplane, I distinctly remember being very weak-kneed for a time (Cessna wing struts make good supports in those situations). I flew back to Burley a much wiser and more cautious student pilot.

As I pondered this mistake, I evaluated what I had learned from the experience - there were several lessons. First, I still like living - that's a given. Second, even though I always turn to those self-confession articles, and I have read several books on the subject, I made a series of mistakes that could easily have killed me. I think we can learn a lot from people who have made their mistakes while flying, and I now read those articles with more consideration. Third, weather is really very dynamic. If you are a VFR pilot, and even if you have an instrument rating, you need to be very, very careful. It is amazing that in spite of weather briefings and the numerous other pilot weather aids, weather has its own mind and can change faster than you can utter your clearest expletive.

In addition, I learned a lot about my own limitations, and flying - especially VFR - dictates that one not develop a mindset to always continue on a planned course, regardless of circumstance. On several occasions since this experience, I have disappointed my wife in midflight by turning back when the flying conditions exceeded my perceived capabilities. I think, however, that she recognizes (and appreciates) that I would much rather disappoint than become a statistic.

And last, although I have to confess to tardiness in my response, I am grateful to my instructor who taught me to "fly the airplane first" and gave me time under the hood. Both saved me from an embarrassing situation.

"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.