Cloing the loop
Tonight's flying weather had sounded flawless when I collected my preflight briefing, except for one knotty detail. Although our destination's forecast called for clear skies all night, the difference between temperature and dew point was barely 3 degrees Celsius. Strangely, the briefer hadn't even noted it. Maybe it was late enough that the threat of fog had passed, I figured. Still, I'd phoned the Flagstaff tower controller before takeoff from Phoenix. "There's no fog or mist-right now, anyway," he'd reported.
Comforted, Jean and I had launched for home with Sedona as our alternate; although just 20 miles from Flagstaff, it's 2,000 feet lower with very different weather. If that didn't work, we'd return to Phoenix with its assured clear skies.
We were returning home from a trip to Scandinavia-our first overseas vacation since being married. It held special meaning because Jean was once a high school foreign exchange student to Sweden, and she had shared tales of living there ever since.
"What an amazing vacation!" blurted Jean. "I'll never forget the late-night boat trip with Dan at Hagafjarden, when we saw those moose swimming the channel. It was still twilight at 11 p.m.!"
"And getting locked into Norway's �lesund Aquarium grounds when they closed for the night."
"Yeah, luckily that Italian couple found a way out under the fence, or we'd still be there."
Jean's "Swedish parents," Elvy and Roland, had certainly treated us like family during our visit. From their seaside summer house they'd guided us to scenic and historic sites and spoiled us with local delicacies including smoked fish, filmilk, and hard bread with cheese. After exploring the island city of Stockholm with Jean's "Swedish sister" Helena and her husband, Pelle, we fished, boated, and roasted in the sauna at their idyllic summer home on Stockholm's 30,000-island archipelago.
All those folks had recently visited us in the States, but other reunions were more striking. We hadn't seen Jean's Swedish brother, Dan, since our own wedding. A carefree teen back then, he's now a graying and successful businessman. Dan is no stranger to flying; a hot air balloon pilot, he has competed in Europe, Japan, and the United States.
I'd last met sister Inger around the same time as the wedding; Jean and I flew her in a Cessna 182 to Waterloo, Iowa, from Moline, Illinois, where she too was an exchange student. Now a veterinarian, Inger offered rides on her beautiful Icelandic horses.
We saw few light airplanes in the sky, but costly avgas hasn't stopped private flying there. Dan arranged a ride for me in his friend's Piper Cherokee, but unfortunately the weather didn't cooperate.
"Could that be Flagstaff's beacon?" asked Jean, peering ahead. Although we were in sight of the freeway's expected eastward jog, there was no sign of nearby Sedona.
"Maybe, but we should see Sedona's beacon first because we pass right over it. It's really weird up here tonight. " I tuned Sedona's automated weather. "Visibility 10 miles," it said, "sky conditions-missing." Will they ever fix that thing? I wondered, readying my instrument approach charts.
Just then a medical helicopter came on frequency, practicing approaches at Flagstaff. "Can you share weather conditions at Flagstaff?" I asked. "The airport is clear, with no trace of fog," replied the pilot. "We can see all the city lights."
Reassured, Jean offered European licorice remaining from our trip. "When I last opened this bag we were touring Norwegian fjords," she said. "Remember flying Pelle and Helena to Sedona? And Elvy and Roland to Karchner Caverns? So many of our Swedish family have flown with us over the years, that this night flight home somehow closes the loop." (See "Flying Carpet: Swedish Underground," July 2006 AOPA Flight Training.)
For that matter, who'd have guessed that personal flying would play such a role in our Scandinavia trip? Before departing home we'd flown to Prescott to get our international driver's licenses. A two-hour drive each way around Mingus Mountain, Prescott is just 30 minutes by Flying Carpet. We flew to Phoenix to catch our commercial flight to Stockholm. And tonight, having slept on today's return airline journey, we felt rested enough to fly ourselves home.
After a while, just a few miles south of Sedona, we had yet to see the city's lights. Ahead, however, blinked what clearly must be Flagstaff's Pulliam Airport beacon. "Maybe Sedona's lights are blocked by Airport Mesa, " I said.
"I think not," replied Jean, pointing down. "Could those be clouds beneath us?" Sure enough, strands of stratus shrouded the community below. That might have been troubling had not at the same moment, from between mists parted like the Red Sea, the lights of Flagstaff suddenly appeared.
"You were right, Jean, that was the Flagstaff beacon all along." We touched down uneventfully and unloaded our luggage into the car. "So much for worrying," I said. "I guess the forecast was right."
"Maybe," said Jean, munching our last piece of licorice, "but I'm glad we're on the ground. Look. " Ahead, in the small canyon approaching our home, wisps of fog reflected in our headlights.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, Job Hunting for Pilots, and You Can Fly! Visit his Web site.
Related Articles
