One Sunday morning I strode into my flight school office. “Good morning, Bill,” my CFI, Cecilia, said. “Today is looking pretty good so far. What do you have planned?”
“I’ve laid out an inland course to Daggett, Twentynine Palms, Ramona, and back home again. With some luck, I’ll avoid the coastal fog.”
Cecilia reviewed and generally approved my flight plan. "Here’s what I want you to do. At each stop, top off the fuel tanks—don’t trust the gauges—then call in for a weather update and complete the navigation plan for the next leg. Be careful and stay high going into Ramona. It’s hard to find and the area is mountainous.”
I was off on my adventure and the flying couldn’t have been better. After clearing Cajon Pass in the San Bernardino Mountains at 9,000 feet, I began the descent to Daggett. After chatting with the locals and refueling, I headed to Twentynine Palms.
South out of Twentynine Palms, I cruised at 8,500 feet. Far in the distance, a steep scarp rose to become the mountain range east of San Diego. I had seen gossamer cirrus all day, but the clouds over the mountains had a denser, milkier texture.
The clouds were cumulus and the bottoms drove me downward as I proceeded into the mountain range. The air turned turbulent and the Cessna bounced around the sky, making flying and navigating difficult. My altimeter read less than 6,000 feet, lower than the higher peaks.
Rain spattered the windshield. Clouds pressed me uncomfortably close to the surface of a long, narrow lake. I steered the Cessna down a descending canyon that curved gently to the west. Clouds covered most of the sky above and the peaks of the ridges on either side. I checked the San Diego Sectional chart and tried to get a fix on my position. Nothing looked familiar. Cecilia had taught me how to triangulate my position using the radio navigation equipment, but I wasn’t sure I could do it in the turbulence and clouds. I considered my options, and then took a deep breath and pressed the push-to-talk button.
“San Diego Approach, Cessna Six-Eight-One-Four-Five. Request assistance,” I called out as calmly and coolly as I could.
“I am a student pilot on long cross-country. In mountains east of San Diego. Have been driven off course by cumulus. At 4,400 msl and flying 220 magnetic. Am disoriented. Exact position unknown. Request radar vectoring to Ramona.”
The controller gave me a 330 heading. “Negative on three-thirty heading," I said. "Am too low and too many mountains. Can you get me further west to lower elevation before vectoring to Ramona?” The controller amended the heading to 290 and asked, “What is your fuel?”
“Turning to heading two-ninety. Remaining fuel is two hours 10 minutes.” I was happy Cecilia had stressed topping the tanks at each stop. Proceeding west, weather conditions improved. But soon another cloud-covered mountain blocked the way. “Approach, One-Four-Five. Cannot proceed this heading. Request another vector to Ramona.”
“Negative, cannot vector you to Ramona. Do you want vector to Gillespie instead?”
“Affirmative. Vector me to Gillespie.”
“Cessna One-Four-Five, Approach. Look out your left cabin window.” I looked and, to my amazement, Gillespie Airport materialized about a mile to the west. I had flown right by the airport and hadn’t seen it. Within minutes, I touched down, parked, and secured the airplane, closed my flight plan, and called Cecilia from a payphone outside the airport office.
“You did what!” she exclaimed. “Clouds! Rain! Flying down canyons! Didn’t you remember what I taught you? Why didn’t you turn 180 when you hit weather and divert home?”
An accident is a chain of events leading to disaster. My flight that day could have ended in a number of undesirable ways, but it didn’t. I broke the chain by contacting San Diego Approach for radar assistance. After she calmed down, Cecilia agreed that, regardless of my other mistakes, in the end I did the right thing.
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