Pilotage

Aviation writer Mark R. Twombly is the father of three sons and a daughter.

Other than wedging a too-big body into a too-small cockpit, or moving a ton or more of lethargic metal with a flimsy towbar, flying does not involve much physical activity. It's a head game. We think, therefore we fly. Mostly we think clearly and fly well. Occasionally we don't, but we almost always get away with it.

Early spring flying in central Pennsylvania and western New York can be an ambitious undertaking. It may rain, sleet, or snow, or you may bask in warm sunshine, all in the same weekend. The only weather constant is change.

The young pilot decided to go to western New York from Maryland for the weekend. The excuse was to visit family, but the motivation was simply to fly.

It was an easy two-hour VFR trip north over the hilly, forested landscape of central Pennsylvania, but the return forecast called for a developing ceiling en route.

He had to be at work Monday morning, no excuses, and looking at the forecast he decided to return a day earlier than planned. The briefing included an airmet for moderate rime and mixed icing in the clouds. The good news was that the bases should be high enough so that a pilot familiar with that part of the world could continue VFR underneath.

Despite his best intentions, he arrived at the airport for the trip home later than planned. Now he was officially in a hurry, which led to a decision to depart quickly VFR and, if necessary, request a pop-up IFR clearance. One concern in the back of his mind: The aging Cessna Skyhawk is IFR equipped and certified with dual nav/coms, but on the flight up, one of the radios proved unreliable.

About 20 miles into the flight, the weather began to deteriorate. Unable to continue visually, he made a 180-degree turn back north, contacted ATC, and requested an IFR clearance southbound. It was granted and he resumed the journey.

The 6,000-foot-msl cruise altitude put him in solid, gloomy instrument meteorological conditions. At least there were no signs of ice accumulation — until he neared the Slate Run VOR. Frost began to cloud the windshield and wing leading edge. The pilot asked for 8,000 feet. The airplane was sluggish in the climb.

The higher altitude was no help. Outside air temperature was well below freezing, and the frost became ice. It was time to do something.

In the climb he had flown between layers, so he asked for a descent to 7,000 feet. It was even worse there. The windshield and wing were icing up quickly now. Decision time again. The pilot scanned the charts for a nearby airport with an instrument approach. State College's ILS was within reach. He asked for and received a descent to 4,000 feet and a vector to intercept the localizer.

The pilot had to firewall the throttle to maintain altitude. The functioning nav receiver was tuned to the ILS frequency, and the Morse code verified that the signal was coming in strong. He was cleared for the approach. Nothing to do now but complete the checklists and fly the needles to the runway.

After a few minutes it was evident that something was wrong. The glideslope was alive, but the localizer needle remained pegged to the left. The pilot tapped on the omni-bearing selector indicator, double-checked the frequency, and fiddled with the tuning knobs, but to no effect.

The controller called to say the airplane had flown through the final approach course. Confused as to his exact position and the reason for the localizer indication problem, and extremely concerned about the quarter-inch or more of ice now stuck to the wings, the pilot declared an emergency.

The controller didn't acknowledge the emergency, and issued a 360-degree turn to intercept the final approach course. He gave the pilot the option to climb, which was not possible given the weight and performance penalty imposed by the ice.

A series of confusing position reports and vectors from ATC followed. The pilot reiterated his predicament to the controller and asked for a heading to the final approach course. After a couple of vectors to the left ending in a heading of 180 degrees, the pilot decided to descend on the glideslope. The controller advised that the airplane was now below radar coverage and signed off with, "Call me when you are on the ground."

Looking down, the pilot could see the lights of a highway. Another 500 feet lower he spotted the airport off to the right. He turned, configured for the landing, and in a few minutes was safely on the ground.

He soon learned he was the latest among several arrivals that had declared an emergency. Earlier in the day an airplane on the approach had crashed short of the runway. All six aboard died. The young pilot rented a car and drove the rest of the way home.

My son called that Sunday evening to tell me the story — his story. His voice told me he knew he had approached the precipice and, with wobbly knees, had peered over the edge. He said in retrospect that he had made several decisions regarding that flight, some good, a few bad. Thankfully, he had gotten away with it.

Being frightened to the core is a tough but effective way to learn. I'm sure that, come Monday, he was feeling the sobering effects of a maximum dose of newfound experience, judgment, and wisdom.