Long shadows cradled snow-frosted trees below as we banked southward toward Scottsdale. Rarely do we find ourselves steering away from home near sunset—night flight in the mountains is serious business.
Our friends John and Marie Discerni have hosted an annual gala at their Scottsdale home for more than 15 years. Our lives rarely cross, so this gathering offers a once-a-year opportunity to catch up with them and other old comrades.
Attending was simple when we lived near Scottsdale. But moving 150 twisted-mountain-road miles away to Flagstaff changed everything, and for more reasons than distance. For although winters in desert Scottsdale are generally benign, enough snow falls in our Northern Arizona mountains to sustain a lively ski resort. More than once we’ve missed the Discernis’ parties because of wintry conditions. Fortunately today was clear, but we faced too many obligations to stay overnight.
I hardly think twice about flying after dark in good weather over flat land, but here in the mountains night cross-countries demand good reasons and great care. In fact, when inviting novice passengers on such flights, I always add the qualifier: “We’ll return after dark, which is beautiful but slightly riskier than daytime flying.” If they hesitate, I don’t take them; it’s a matter of being honest. But tonight would be exceptionally safe for sampling the joys of darkness aloft.
I know this route like the back of my hand, and I was night- and instrument-current, flying an airplane equipped with terrain mapping. We’d follow the time-honored rule of climbing over lights to avoid obstructions. And we’d trail the freeway home; although circuitous, it would guide us over flatter country and offer emergency-landing options. Best of all, upon consulting the lunar calendar I discovered that our friends had unwittingly planned their party for the night of a full moon. While mountains are invisible on a dark night, moonlight illuminates them almost as well as daylight.
Next came the always-bizarre ritual of dressing and packing for frosty Flagstaff and shirtsleeves Scottsdale on the same 45-minute trip. It was 25 degrees Fahrenheit in Flagstaff at takeoff; we’d dine in 50-degree temperatures around the Discernis’ pool, and return home to mercury in the teens. So along with our usual survival gear, we packed winter coats, wool socks, and warm boots to supplement Scottsdale party clothes and sweaters.
After clearing two feet of snow from our hangar and filing flight plans, I arranged to text a friend upon our safe return. With mountain lows forecast in the single digits, it’d be nice to know friends were looking for us in the event of an unplanned landing. Now, with preparations finally complete, our toasty cockpit filled with excitement.
Over mountain snowfields tinted ginger by the dusk, we reminisced about our rich friendship with the Discernis. We’d met 20 years earlier when Marie took a job with Jean, and later teamed up for adventures such as flying from Scottsdale to Page for a Lake Powell boat excursion. Marie had taken flying lessons before we met, and John later qualified as an instrument-rated private pilot. They bought a speedy Cirrus SR22, in which John astonished me with a 90-minute ride from Scottsdale to Las Vegas.
Scottsdale Airport’s runway lights were twinkling when we touched down after sunset. Taxiing in, I marked the locations of ongoing ramp repairs in anticipation of departing unassisted late that night after the tower closed.
I searched in vain for an encouraging glow behind the McDowell Mountains as we walked to the car. Had I misread tonight’s lunar schedule? I wasn’t afraid to fly home in darkness, but it’s definitely more stressful. Nearing the Discernis’ house, however, we noted a dazzling marigold disk cracking black sky from behind a cluster of giant Saguaro cacti like an Arizona tourism postcard. John and Marie greeted us warmly at the front door and ushered us to the party out back.
“Pretty cold tonight,” said a partygoer, buttoning her sweater. Jean and I just smiled knowingly at one another, and chatted contentedly with our friends old and new. By now our travel habits are well-known among the other partygoers, but the usual “You’re flying home to Flagstaff tonight?” discussion was darkened by questions about a recent, highly publicized local crash in which an aircraft took off on a pitch-black night and flew into a mountain.
“We’ll be fine,” I said. Between goodbyes, I recounted our planning to avoid such a fate. Then, back at Scottsdale Airport, I cranked up the engine.
“I’ll turn on the runway lights!” said Jean with glee. Five mic clicks triggered a grand formation of blue and white lights. What pilot ever tires of that small omnipotence, rousing an entire airport though the power of a fingertip?
Our lunar companion bloomed golden overhead as we climbed out of Scottsdale, illuminating the surrounding mountains with an unearthly glow. We wafted home on moonbeams, over faint peaks and pinnacles piercing shimmering sheets of snow. Jean again delightedly activated the runway lights before landing at Flagstaff, and we were in bed before midnight. Sure, night flying requires additional caution and planning, but once you’re on your way—wow!
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