In the December 2015 issue (“Career Pilot: Introduction to Icing”), I related a story about an unexpected encounter with icing on an IFR training flight that, decades later, still shapes my approach to icing. I related that icing encounters in low-powered, draggy trainers such as the Cessna 172 I was flying—which had no ice protection beyond a heated pitot tube—can be flirting with disaster if you don’t leave yourself an out or two.
As I moved on to bigger airplanes with better equipment, I opened myself up to more and more icing exposure. I flew Beechcraft Barons with varying levels of icing defense and known-ice-approved Piper Navajos. Along the way came more lessons about icing and small airplanes.
One such encounter occurred while flying my family’s Baron from Teterboro, New Jersey, back to Maryland near Washington, D.C. It was a great lesson in IFR flying in the Northeast. Despite filing to fly at an altitude below the clouds and freezing level, I was cleared to fly at an altitude in the soup and above the freezing level. I pleaded my case with clearance delivery for the lower altitude but was told that if I wanted to get out of New York’s airspace IFR, it had to be at 6,000 feet. So I launched.
Sure enough, the icing came. Our Baron has propeller anti-ice and a heated pitot tube—far from known-ice approved. But the prop anti-ice was doing its job, giving me access to a lot of power should I need it to climb out of icing. My strategy at the first encounter with ice is to figure out a way to get out of it. Multiple requests for higher or lower altitudes were met with “Unable” from ATC. I reported that I had light icing as well, so I wasn’t holding back any secrets.
As I plowed on, the airplane became loaded with enough ice that indicated airspeed was more than 20 knots slower than normal. I was doing everything I could to minimize the effects of the ice, including using the highest rpm for the props, which thankfully stayed clean. I also cycled the control column occasionally to keep the ice buildup on the elevator horns from restricting movement.
My ongoing requests for higher or lower still weren’t being granted. Finally, sounding a little exasperated, I made a final plea for a different altitude, offering to take “any turn necessary” to make it happen. I think my emphasis and seriousness made the controller realize that my next call was going to be prefaced with “declaring an emergency.” With that, I was granted a turn way off course—and a climb to 8,000 feet. The ice stopped accumulating and I made it home.
When I related this story to a sage older aviator, he asked, “Why didn’t you just say you wanted to land at [any number of airports that were ahead of me]?” He was right. There were numerous airports all around me to let down and land. I got so focused on the mission that I forgot the simple, big-picture solution. Things were clearly not going as planned. All I had to do was tell the controller I want to land at Trenton, for example. Once I broke out on the descent I would even have the option to cancel IFR and go VFR, weather permitting. If the clouds and visibility were too low, I could simply continue the IFR approach and land.
Of course, I felt stupid for not even thinking of this. I was flying defensively, using every tactic in the book to fight the icing onslaught—when I should have been flying offensively by looking for a place to land. Once entrenched “in the system” on an IFR flight, pilots have a strong tendency to stick with the IFR clearance. After all, when the weather’s crummy, you have to be IFR, right?
Not really, actually. You simply have to weigh the options: Would you rather scud run a cross-country flight over benign terrain or deal with the vagaries of ice in an airplane that’s not fully equipped to handle it? Neither is an attractive option. My original plan to fly below the freezing level and above the minimum en route altitude would have worked in almost any other region of the country. But this experience reinforces the point that IFR flying in the Northeast is anything but predictable—and entirely inflexible. Food for thought just in case you thought you could outsmart the weather and “the system.”
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