Learning Experiences

A pilot outflies his weather briefing

"Three," I calmly answered, referring to my father, my 13-year-old brother, and myself--barely 20 years old and with fewer than 50 hours of flying time.

I continued toward the airport I had picked out. Each armed with a portable Garmin GPS, my little brother helped me point the Cessna 172 toward the longest runway at Mobile Regional Airport. The approach was pretty good, a touch high--as I wanted it to be. Then I saw a bright spot fly by. There it went--two white strips and a flash of blue. It's really amazing how fast the world can fly by when you're traveling in an airplane, especially with only about 500 feet of visibility at night.

"You're to the right," my little brother said.

I was still completely lost as I thought, What was that light? Had I missed the runway entirely? I had just flown over the intersection of Mobile's two runways and lost my bearings as I strained to see some more lights in the white world enveloping the cockpit. Once again I heard my little brother cut in: "You're to the right, it's to the left."

I finally realized it, turned hard left, and got over the runway just in time to see the end lights coming into view. "I can't do this," I said as I added full power, forgetting why I was landing in this mess in the first place.

The mistake could have been fatal; the airplane shuddered violently as it lost altitude from the attempted go-around. "I've got to do this." I pulled the power back and put the airplane in the hardest slip I had ever done in my life as I landed cross-controlled, jumping on the brakes. The Cessna 172 came screeching to a stop with literally not an inch to spare on the one-and-one-half-mile-long runway. I interrupted the radio chatter discussing where the 172 had crashed with a "safely on the runway" call.

"Do you have any lights on?"

"Yes, all of them." The fog had become so dense that the tower could not see us even with our beacon, taxi, landing, nav, and strobe lights on. I was definitely somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.

We were returning to the Mississippi Gulf Coast on New Year's Eve after a trip to South Carolina to visit some relatives. Shortly out of South Carolina, we ran into a stiff headwind--about 50 knots, in stark contrast to the forecast 25. We decided to dodge the wind with altitude--flying at 1,500 and later 2,500 feet to bring the headwind down to something reasonable. We were planning on stopping in Dothan, Alabama, to rest and refuel. With Dothan still an hour away, I became a bit nervous about our fuel status. The delay from the unexpected headwind had put us a little behind, but we should have had enough fuel to make it.

However, pilots become nervous when fuel gauges begin to show lower than you think they should, and I decided to land at a closer airport in Americus, Georgia. Refueling showed that we still had about as much fuel as I had expected, easily enough to have taken us to Dothan without any problems. The FBO operator at Americus was a wonderful guy, and we spent time talking and swapping stories there. The sun began to set shortly after takeoff, around the time I had originally planned on arriving at our final destination in Mississippi. I didn't quite realize it then, but I had foolishly fallen behind my weather briefing.

We were on the home stretch when I contacted Mobile Approach for continued flight following to Trent Lott International in Pascagoula, Mississippi. Here we could see a little bit of low-lying fog. I contemplated making a 180 and heading back toward the northeast where we had come from, safely putting down at an airport for the night. However, my father suggested we continue; it was only a thin layer of fog, and the visibility looked excellent. Mobile reported five miles' visibility, but we could see for 20 miles easily. The layer of fog was maybe only 50 feet thick, and there was unrestricted visibility above it. My father's suggestion sounded safe, and we would have two hours of fuel after reaching Pascagoula, enough to divert somewhere else for the night if conditions were as bad there as in Mobile.

Conditions deteriorated rapidly, however. Over our destination airport, we could barely see a glow from the lights at traffic pattern altitude. Then things got worse. In the turn from crosswind to downwind, the airplane shuddered a bit, the engine began to lose power, and we lost about 200 feet of altitude as my little brother, a student pilot himself, and I frantically made our cockpit checks, eventually getting the airplane into a full-power climb.

I thought about carburetor icing. But it seemed unlikely; the carburetor heat had been on for too long during that descent to be the culprit. But the exact cause didn't matter at the moment; I no longer trusted the airplane to fly and called up Mobile Approach as I turned toward them, the nearest controlled airport, only 20 miles away. Although Mobile still reported five miles' visibility, it didn't take long before Mobile advised VFR was no longer possible. I requested a special VFR clearance to land, and it was granted.

We couldn't have been more than a few minutes from landing when the special VFR was cancelled. Conditions had deteriorated further and the visibility was now less than a mile. I promptly replied that I felt I had to land at Mobile and explained the situation. That's when I was requested to state the nature of my emergency, and was asked that simple, harmless-sounding question that measures a pilot's responsibility in numbers of lives: "Number of souls aboard?"

We were lucky to be able to land. There were two mistakes that, only by pure chance and luck, were resolved harmlessly. First, I had outrun my weather briefing. When I realized this, I attempted to contact flight service stations en route. However, this wasn't enough. I should have obtained a detailed update at Americus, or landed somewhere else along the way to get one.

I certainly shouldn't have made the second mistake: continuing into an unknown weather situation, especially with the presence of fog. Although fog looks pretty harmless when you're high above it, it can worsen fast. On top of that, even if the fog doesn't get worse, you eventually have to descend through it to land--a situation where, take it from me, no VFR pilot would want to be.

I put our lives in jeopardy because I didn't turn around when I had the chance to do so safely. Mistakes tend to pile on mistakes, and problems tend to get worse, not better, when you don't know what to expect. Never again will I continue a flight when I'm uncertain of the weather or in volatile conditions. And of course, I will trust my own instincts and judgment as pilot in command, and not those of my passengers.

By Christopher Harper

"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.