Sometimes, only a circuitous route works
It's an interesting time to fly. You never quite know what to expect from the weather one day to the next. Wind is a near-constant companion in spring. You'll probably finish off the season proficient in crosswinds whether that had been an objective or not. Fair-weather high-pressure systems don't loiter, and it's a sure bet that on long cross-countries you'll run into poor weather of some sort.
Fair weather to foul and back to fair again was the general forecast for the planned 1,200-nm mid-spring flight. Convective activity was expected in a couple of areas en route. Considering the distance, the forecast could have been a lot worse--promises of widespread areas of thick, icy cloud cover with low ceilings and embedded thunderstorms, for example. My biggest problem appeared to be winds aloft. They were forecast to be on the nose for the entire flight.
The 20-knot velocities anticipated by flight service at my planned altitudes somehow increased to 35 knots by the time I got there. It was shaping up to be a long day.
And it was. Nine hours of flying in a Beech A36 Bonanza interrupted by two fuel stops and enlivened by two weather encounters. Each involved thunderstorms straddling my path. These were easily circumnavigated using a combination of Flight Watch updates, air traffic control advice, and the best avoidance tool, the old reliable Mark I eyeballs. That night the news reported that the biggest cells along my original course had spawned destructive tornadoes.
Nine hours is a long time to spend in the cockpit of an airplane. It doesn't take long for the mind to meld with the radios and filter out the airplane's call sign from all the other chatter on the frequency. A handoff from one controller to another is an event to be savored in an otherwise stimulant-poor environment. Before depressing the push-to-talk switch, I find myself mentally rehearsing my sign-off and check-in as I'm handed off from one controller to the next. Like others I hear on the frequency, I usually try to inject a teeny bit of humanity into what is supposed to be an efficient, colorless, by-the-book exchange of information between pilot and controller. It gives me a little boost to check in with a "Good afternoon," and I hear others who sign off with a "Thanks for your help." Like two strangers exchanging greetings as they pass on the street, a simple salutation offered and returned over the airwaves adds flavor to the brief encounter between pilot and ATC.
A nine-hour day in the air also affords plenty of time to think about the next fuel stop. It reminds me of when I spent summers working construction. Breaks, and especially lunch, were the highlights of the day because they provided relief from the monotony of the work. Fuel stops break up the monotony of long, uneventful flights, so they take on great significance in the mind.
It doesn't take much to make a fuel stop a reasonably pleasant experience: someone to guide you to a parking spot on the ramp; attentive fuel service; fair pricing; clean restrooms; and some sort of food and drink. Nearby restaurants with quick service are always appreciated, but I think that what's really needed in general aviation is a wholesale overhaul of the vending machine industry.
The vending machine moguls probably are unaware of the problem because they ride around in corporate jets eating manicured triangular sandwiches and coiffed fruit platters prepared by professional caterers. I say let them munch overpriced, pasteurized and processed, artificial-cheese-food-stuffed, machine-dispensed bagged snacks for a while. Then we'll see changes.
But these complaints are the product of too long a flight with too little to do. Not so on the return. The flight service station specialist immediately rejected my planned route because of clusters of strong thunderstorm cells lurking all along the course. The radar depiction provided visual confirmation of the specialist's warnings, so Plan B was implemented. This was worked out with the helpful specialist and involved a dash to the south, and then a cut and run to the northeast. The objective was to penetrate a northeast-southwest cold front sweeping across much of the nation. The front was kicking up some very strong storms (it was about 80 degrees south of the front and 48 degrees north of the front), but we had a shot at avoiding the action by taking a somewhat zigzag route.
About an hour into the flight it appeared as though things might fall into place. Then I asked Flight Watch for an update. I check weather a lot while en route. Seems to me the people who staff the in-flight briefing position at FSSs are the most experienced of the facilities' crews. Almost without exception, they take great care to provide a big, complete picture of adverse weather conditions and areas. They suggest possible alternative routes and their information and advice are of inestimable value.
The specialist suggested a turn to the east to skirt strong cells. I had to modify the routing somewhat because of building cumulus clouds.
Listening to the frequency and the convective sigmets being issued and updated, it sounded like the air was exploding with thunderstorms almost everywhere east of the Rockies. Even so, I managed to stay in the clear, although it required a climb to 11,000 feet to top some effluent from the nearby storms.
My zigzag course roughly tracked the Mississippi and Ohio rivers. Just when I thought things were calming down, the controller advised that a tornado had been reported up ahead. I angled away as best I could but was constrained by a huge, angry cell off the left wing. If the path ahead looked too treacherous, my options were to land--the ground was in clear view, and I could see several airports--or reverse course.
I squeezed through the line of building and mature thunderstorms with only the briefest encounter with precip and never having gone IMC. The controller agreed with my assessment of rapidly deteriorating conditions and said I probably would be the last to get through. A Baron approaching the area would have to find a different way.
On the backside of the line the air was calm and the skies benign. Life was good. Spring had asserted itself in all its temperamental fury, and I in my little airplane had respectfully maintained my distance while still making progress in my journey.
Days like that enrich my appreciation of flying. Given the proper equipment and mental attitude, it is possible to make peace with the weather by avoiding the worst of it and yet still get on with the business of safe transportation.
Now, on to summer.
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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