Flying to 'build your envelope'
It's not quite so straightforward, however, to size up the practical limits on what a particular airplane can or cannot do. Some of the factors that combine to define practical limits include climb and cruise performance, the type and sophistication of the avionics and equipment on board and, most important, the skills and abilities of the pilot.
The first airplane I owned was a Cessna 172, and it took some time for me to learn the practical limitations of the airplane/pilot combination. I knew that the 172 could leap high mountains because I had to do so to fetch it from its former home on the West Coast. Climbing to nearly 13,000 feet msl momentarily to top a ridgeline was a struggle and would have been unattainable if the mountain wind and weather were anything but benign. But they were, so I was able to confirm that, given enough time and patience from me, the Cessna was indeed capable of reaching its published service ceiling of 13,100 feet msl.
I eventually equipped the Cessna for flying IFR in the clouds, but a Skyhawk is a Skyhawk--low performance, so you spend more time in the weather with little chance of climbing above it; light wing loading, which means the bumps are pretty bumpy; and, in my case, no weather detection equipment aboard except for the communications radios and my eyes.
These things were on my mind as I planned a flight from the Mid-Atlantic region into western New York, and then east to Cape Cod, Massachusetts. The route had me overflying lots of Pennsylvania and New York hill country and even a short stretch of water. All of my weather sources predicted that I had a small window of opportunity to fly most of the trip VFR. My preference was for a dawn departure, but to take advantage of the VFR window I left the previous evening. That meant the last third of the one-hour, 45-minute leg into western New York would be flown at night. It was more than a fair tradeoff for the VFR weather.
The next morning I awoke to rain showers. A low pressure system that had been languishing in the Midwest had moved farther east faster than forecast. I made matters worse by delaying my departure for business that couldn't be postponed. It was midafternoon by the time I called air traffic control for a clearance to Falmouth Airpark in Falmouth, Massachusetts.
By then, practically all of New York's Southern Tier was blanketed with clouds. Some stations were reporting low ceilings and visibilities with fog. Radar showed patches of moderate precip near Binghamton, along my route. I would have to fly through it. The controller who read me the IFR clearance also delivered a piece of particularly bad news: a just-issued convective sigmet for an area of developing thunderstorms in Massachusetts and Connecticut. I briefly considered turning the airplane around and taxiing back to the ramp, but decided to fly as far as possible.
The winds were light at the surface and aloft, and the air was saturated with moisture. The ground almost disappeared in the murkiness. At least the moderate rain around Binghamton apparently had played itself out, because light precip was all that I encountered.
Eventually I flew out of the leading edge of the weather. The dull gray mist was replaced by good visibility and a view of the Catskills. Even though the flight was only half over, I got a euphoric feeling that the tough part was at my 6 o'clock and receding. But as I neared the Hudson River Valley, energetic-looking cumulus appeared. The New York controller noted an area of weather over the Kingston (New York) VOR and suggested a more easterly heading direct to Bradley, Connecticut. A flash of lightning ahead put teeth in his recommendation, and I dialed in Bradley.
It quickly became apparent I wasn't going to make Bradley. Even though I had not yet reached the area covered by the sigmet, the clouds were building. There was no way I could top them, so I deviated as best I could around them. The controller who had been so helpful in redirecting me had handed me off to the next sector, a busier and less-accommodating one. And unlike his predecessor, this controller was reluctant to discuss the weather as depicted on his scope. The frequency was full of talk of deviations. The clouds closed in. I was in the soup again and getting bounced around pretty good. I requested and received a vector back to Kingston, the nearest airport with an instrument approach.
The storm had moved off the VOR and terminal area, but that flash of lightning I had seen earlier had connected with something. The power was out at the airport. I communicated on a back-up frequency and was able to make a visual approach. While awaiting the restoration of power (so I could refuel), I telephoned flight service.
Thunderstorms were in progress or forming all over central Connecticut and Massachusetts. It had been steamy hot in the region for several weeks, and all of that potential energy was now going kinetic. Higher-performance airplanes with radar or lightning detection devices may have been making it through, but my airplane was unequipped, and I was unwilling. I was facing the prospect of completing the trip in a rental car, but decided to wait it out for the night.
The next morning the terminal observations were better than anticipated. I took off into the clouds, but they weren't convective. West of Providence, the weather broke. The Cape took majestic shape in the windshield across Buzzards Bay.
My brother--himself a pilot--had been awaiting my arrival on the Cape. He needled me for being late, saying that I could have driven the trip and made it the day before. True enough, but I was glad for the experience. One of the fascinating aspects of flying is constructing a personal operating envelope based on the capabilities and limitations of the airplane/pilot combination.
The weather that had bested me cleared for the return a few days later. I flew in severe clear at 1,000 feet agl, with the Connecticut shoreline on the right side of the airplane and Long Island Sound on the left. The sightseeing was unlimited. A little more than three hours after taking off, I was home. I called my brother to tell him about it.
Mark Twombly is a writer and editor who has been flying since 1968. He is a commercial pilot with instrument and multiengine ratings and co-owner of a Piper Aztec.
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