I was returning to Columbus, Georgia, from a Thanksgiving trip to Asheville, North Carolina, with my wife and 9-year-old daughter. The Cessna 172 that I rented from a flight school was a strictly VFR machine and rather beat up from heavy flight training. The article " Wx Watch: A Bad Day in November" (February 1995 Pilot) and another (" Wx Watch: Wall-to-Wall IMC," September 2003 Pilot) told of three accidents that happened on the same November day in 1994 as our fateful flight, two of them fatal. All three involved IFR-equipped aircraft. We were the other family up there that day.
Cold-air damming isn't a rare phenomenon. Every autumn, a handful of these situations occur along the East Coast, as described in these articles. The weather in Asheville was 4,500 feet overcast and Columbus had in its forecast a 2,500-foot ceiling. My plan was to fly VFR with flight following to Greenville, South Carolina, and Athens, Georgia, skirt around Atlanta's Class B airspace to the southeast, and descend as the ceiling became lower. I was not totally comfortable with this situation, but the briefer did not say "VFR not recommended," and I figured that I could always turn around if things did not work out.
I started flying in 1968 and became a certificated flight instructor. Back then, an instrument rating was not required to instruct, and I'd never obtained one. Because of work and family, 20 years passed without my flying. At age 54 I decided to get back into aviation. It didn't take long before I realized that I needed to be instrument-rated. This decision turned out to be the best one I ever made.
The front tire on the old Cessna 172 needed a little air; otherwise, everything checked out fine before we left Asheville. Around Greenville, a thin layer developed below. I decided to continue. Things got tighter near Athens. Atlanta Center told me that Columbus was below 400-foot minimums and closed to VFR traffic.
BAM! We were in it — my wife beside me and my young daughter asleep in the backseat. The VOR receiver would not work on the Athens VOR frequency, so I used a bearing from my handheld nav/com. We were in the clouds. I had no glideslope receiver — and no place to go. The passenger door, although closed, wouldn't close all the way, leaving a crack big enough to see daylight. Water drops from somewhere hit my wife in the face. We were in IFR weather using dead reckoning for navigation for a while. My wife had taken an AOPA Air Safety Foundation Pinch-Hitter® course for nonpilots and was holding the sectional and helping me.
I told Atlanta to convert our flight to IFR and change our destination to Macon, Georgia. I don't know if the crash in Atlanta and the two others in the area referred to in later articles had already happened, but by the tone of the Atlanta controller's voice, I felt he was relieved to get rid of us. Macon Approach took over and vectored us to Macon's Middle Georgia Regional Airport. I asked my wife to find the Macon approach plate in my Jeppesen manual that I kept in my bag. She told me later that she was not really worried until I tore the plate out of the book that she always saw me carefully put replacements in each month.
I put the Macon ILS Runway 5 approach plate on a clothespin that was held to the yoke with Velcro. Macon reported 200-foot overcast and one-half-mile visibility. I thought about declaring an emergency, but then, thinking that Macon could only help get me to localizer minimums, I did not ask for help. When Macon cleared me for the approach to Runway 5, my idea was to keep the localizer centered, descend as quickly as possible, see the ground, level off, and proceed to the runway. I remembered from a previous flight there that the approach to Runway 5 was over level pasture before the runway. The localizer worked and I don't remember being nervous — just busy.
What I thought was a rapid descent turned out to be right on the mark. We broke out about 200 feet, exactly in line with the runway. The tower asked me where I broke out, and I responded, "Right at minimums," although I was not sure.
When I called the flight service station (FSS) from the FBO I was asked to come over there, but I didn't. I thought they would want to see the airplane. We rented a car to get back to Columbus.
Every Christmas since 1994 I've sent a card, a thank you, and a current picture of my now 19-year-old daughter to the flight service station, signed, "A Bad Day in November '94." Last year, curiosity finally got the best of someone at the Macon FSS. When he called and I told him the details, he said, "You should've signed, 'A Good Day in November '94!'"
Maybe my story will help some pilot make better "got to go" decisions than I did.
Ken Rysedorph, AOPA 1211353, is an instrument-rated commercial pilot with about 1,000 hours.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701; or sent via e-mail to [email protected].
An original "Never Again" story is published each month on AOPA Online ( www.aopa.org/pilot/never_again/).
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