Flight Lesson: Cresting the summit

I took off from my local FBO in Auburn, Washington (S50), just south of Seattle. My goal was to cruise around and see the sights. The aircraft was a Piper Warrior PA–28-161. The departure runway was 16. As I climbed out of the pattern, an attractive target beckoned just ahead: Mount Rainier.

I held the airspeed at best rate of climb until I was at about 8,000 feet, then adjusted to cruise. As I approached the north side of the mountain I felt dwarfed by its imposing mass. I flew at a safe distance and inspected the snowfields and glaciers. It looked inhospitable, with vertical cliffs, blue ice, sparse vegetation, and lots of snow. Suddenly there was something new. The noise of my powerful 180-horsepower engine disturbed the snow, and an avalanche tumbled down the tan-colored pyroclastic cliffs. It appeared to move in slow motion, billowing clouds of snow, possibly a mile long and hundreds of feet wide. I hoped nobody was climbing that side of the mountain.

I was flying to the east now, circling Rainier in a clockwise direction, unconsciously pulling on the yoke, wary of the imposing terrain below: immense sharp-edged boulders amid towering dark green fir trees, and dazzling bright snow where the blue ice underneath would occasionally peep through. As I rounded the southeast side of Rainier, I had reached the airplane’s maximum altitude of about 11,000 feet. There was not enough power to climb any higher.

On the southwest slope of Rainier I felt some turbulence, then an enormous updraft. Without thinking, I put the airplane into a tight right turn to take advantage of this sudden lift. I glanced at my rate-of-climb indicator and was astonished: It was pegged at more than 2,000 feet per minute! After one complete turn when I was pointed at Rainier again, I could see the mountain descending before me. I had never been in such a strong updraft. I was even with the summit (14,400 feet) and was still rapidly ascending. I tried to remember the rules on oxygen use—something about 12,500 feet—but in the excitement I threw caution to the wind, so to speak.

I was well above the summit now. It doesn’t take a genius to predict my next move. Yes, I turned toward the summit and flew directly over the top. I was concerned about hypoxia, so I acutely monitored my vision and reasoning skills. There was no tunnel vision and I seemed to be thinking accurately, if not prudently. I was also concerned about what I would find on the downwind side of the mountain—would I get caught in a vicious, possibly fatal downdraft? I saw the caldera, a neat circle, offset from the center. I took a quick glance at the altimeter: 15,800.

It took perhaps a minute to cross the top, then I shoved the airplane into a steep dive. I did not want to test my oxygen deprivation skills any longer than necessary. Within minutes I was below 12,500 and making a beeline back to home base. There was no sign of the dreaded downdraft.

In 20 minutes I was back on the ground and recorded my solo flight in my logbook with a Hobbs time of 1.1 hours.

Over the ensuing years, I have had plenty of time to ponder this feat. It was certainly a brash and ill-advised adventure. I have reviewed FAR 91.211, “Supplemental Oxygen”: required for pilots above 14,000 and for flights above 12,500 if they exceed 30 minutes. I was above 14,000 for about two minutes.

Now that I’m an old and not-so-bold pilot, I can only be grateful that my high-altitude adventure did not turn into disaster. And I am decidedly less impulsive—not just when I fly, but with life in general.