Jean recently invited me to travel with her to Las Vegas for a consulting gig. “My meeting is from 8 a.m. until noon,” she said. “We can fly over the night before, go out to dinner, and be home by mid-afternoon.”
“This isn’t what I expected,” she said. “The meeting now lasts until 3:30, but that shouldn’t be any big deal.” But I was slightly more concerned. At that time of year Las Vegas is an hour earlier than Flagstaff, with sunset at 4:15 p.m. By the time Jean got to the airport, darkness would be approaching.
Along many routes that wouldn’t be a particularly big deal, but this would be a moonless night over remote country with few landing sites. What’s more, high terrain west of Flagstaff approaches 10,000 feet, and north of the city lies 12,600-foot Humphreys Peak. I proposed that we stay an extra night.
“Keep in mind that we scheduled home repairs for the following morning,” said Jean. “I set it up months ago. And I have a work project to finish. Could we fly home safely that evening after my meeting?”
I explained that filing instruments along Victor airways would distance us from the terrain, but it meant cruising much of the way at 11,000 feet. With the freezing level forecast at 9,000 feet, even on instruments we’d need to stay clear of clouds to avoid possible icing. Ultimately we decided to fly back after the meeting, but agreed that in case of fatigue or less than perfect weather we’d stay over. But planning was required.
While flying at 11,000 feet doesn’t technically require supplemental oxygen, I didn’t want my mind the least bit foggy dodging mountains at night. Besides, above 5,000 feet night vision is significantly diminished without supplemental oxygen. Clearly it was a no-brainer to preflight, bring, and use our portable oxygen system.
Another reason for both exceptional alertness and to fly Victor airways was that GPS interference testing in Utah and Nevada required us to actively back up GPS navigation with ground-based VOR stations. In addition to steering clear of mountains, any mechanical concerns would dictate deviating south to airports along Interstate 40, so I needed to precisely monitor our position the whole way.
Although Vegas expected balmy temperatures during our visit, we also packed warm clothes and boots—with mostly unattended strips along this route, an unscheduled landing might mean roughing it through nighttime mountain lows in the teens. Finally, I alerted a pilot buddy of our travel schedule and route. Sure, we’d be on a flight plan, but it’s reassuring when trusted friends know where you are.
All that planning felt like overkill when we surfed cloudless skies toward Las Vegas. Although just 90 minutes, this is no dull ride: En route we gazed at the majestic Aubrey and Grand Wash Cliffs, and the western Grand Canyon. We touched down at McCarran International Airport in plenty of time to wander the Strip and enjoy a seafood dinner. The next day I mixed work and sightseeing until mid-afternoon, when I returned to McCarran to preflight the airplane.
When Jean arrived, we took off into a stunning sunset over the Las Vegas Strip, followed by crimson twilight reflecting on Lake Mead and the zigzagging Colorado River. We donned oxygen masks to ruby dusk tinting the Grand Canyon, and climbed in gathering darkness to 11,000 feet over Peach Springs.
Then came uneasy blackness, punctuated only by the distant lights of Kingman and tiny Seligman, Arizona. Connecting them, a pearly string of headlights marked Interstate 40, which gradually meandered in our direction. Prescott briefly sparkled off our right wing before disappearing behind the hulking void of Bill Williams Mountain. By now, however, we were over the little town of Williams and its namesake airport, with the friendly lights of I-40 directing us homeward.
“What’s your minimum vectoring altitude here?” I asked Albuquerque Center, hoping for lower when Flagstaff twinkled ahead.
“You must stay at 11,000 until crossing the Flagstaff VOR or reporting the airport in sight,” said the controller. When I spotted the field, Albuquerque issued a visual approach clearance and referred us to Flagstaff Tower.
“Don’t forget that 8,000-foot-elevation ridge west of the airport,” Jean cautioned, glancing between the altimeter and the windshield. Sure enough, the ridge was invisible in darkness. “Good thing we know the terrain here,” she added.
I leveled at 9,000 until joining the traffic pattern and followed the trusty night-flying rule of descending only over lights. Clear skies offer no assurance of terrain clearance around mountains at night. Over less familiar terrain, we’d have maintained 11,000 feet to the VOR, and flown an instrument approach.
“That was spectacular, but I’m glad to be on the ground,” said Jean after touchdown. Even under the best circumstances, flying is riskier after sundown, and an instrument rating is imperative for traversing remote country in darkness. But with proper caution, planning, and vigilance, nothing is more rewarding than piloting at night.
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