On Instruments: An Approach To Remember

There it is, in my logbook. March 8, 1984. I flew a Cessna 172RG with another AOPA Pilot staffer—then-Executive Editor Steven L. Thompson—from our home field at the Frederick, Maryland, airport (FDK), to Newport News/Williamsburg International Airport (PHF), then known as Patrick Henry Field. There, we visited nearby Langley Air Force Base where, as I recall, we checked out a spin-research program that used a specially modified horizontal stabilizer on a Piper Tomahawk. The presentation must have been interesting, because we didn’t depart on the return flight to Frederick until late in the day.

A preflight check of the weather showed a wintry cold front that was over Ohio early in the day had picked up speed and was now heading for the mid-Atlantic states. The winds aloft had picked up, too—headwinds, of course. Even so, the briefer said we should arrive at Frederick well before the front. But it was not to be. Our groundspeed was hampered by the now fast-moving front’s 30- to 40-knot headwinds.

Worse, the weather was coming down. As we approached Washington-Dulles International’s airspace it seemed as if every controller handoff included a new report of quickly worsening surface conditions.

By the time we passed over the Brooke VOR—about 35 nautical miles south of Dulles, and 65 nautical miles away from Frederick—night had fallen and it was 1,000 feet overcast in blowing snow, with one-quarter-mile visibility and winds gusting to 20 knots. A few minutes later, another handoff, and it’s 500 feet overcast. I turned on the landing light and saw we were in heavy snow. I needed to get on the ground—fast. Frederick had no tower, no weather reporting, and no radar service then—but Dulles was very near, had huge runways, and the best lighting systems, so I asked for the ILS to Runway 1R. Meanwhile, the snow was wet enough that it was accreting on the airplane’s struts—and who knows where else. Another reason for fast action.

I was cleared for the approach, but the clearance came with another weather report: Dulles’ ceiling was 200 feet overcast. Now the heat was on. Here I was, weather at minimums, night, no autopilot, and a panel with only a dual nav/com for guidance. If I had had GPS and a moving-map display, I would have seen agonizingly slow progress while being vectored.

Finally, I reached the outer marker for 1R, and Dulles tower cleared me to land. Down came the gear and flaps, and I proceeded to fly one of the best ILS approaches of my life. Eventually, I saw the sequenced flashing lights and other approach lights, and prepared to land. Then came another twist. It was the tower controller, who up to that time had given me the red-carpet treatment: “Six-Two-Seven-Three-Romeo, go around, there’s a 737 following you on the ILS. Climb to 2,000 feet, right turn 090.”

And like a moron, I did as I was told. I should have just gone ahead and landed. After all, I had been cleared to land. Why not make the 737 do a missed approach? But there was no time for emotion at this point. I was too consumed with flying the airplane and making the best of it while being vectored downwind, then to a heading that would intercept the ILS—again.

Once more I shot another exemplary ILS, if I must say so myself. But approaching minimums I could tell that the ceiling and visibility were worse than the last time. And the runway was now covered in fresh snow.

Landing was a big relief, of course, but braking and steering were certainly no piece of cake. I had to pump the brakes to keep from sliding in the snow—four inches of it! Tower said, “Let us know when you’re off the runway. We can’t see you.” Well, that’s OK, I couldn’t see them either—or any more than maybe 20 yards around me.

I’d been based out of Dulles before, so I knew the taxiways, made a turnoff, and called Tower. “Proceed to southeast parking,” they said, and that’s where we went, going very slowly. (Southeast parking, by the way, is no more. Its place has since been claimed by a huge midfield terminal.)

Once I got to a tiedown spot, the tower made a broadcast: “Attention all aircraft, Dulles airport is closed.” I was the last flight in.

The rest of the story is sort of humorous. Pushing the airplane back and tying it down in the snow; watching the snowfall, then seeing lightning strike a pole in the Dulles parking lot; thunder snow—very rare, except when you have an especially aggressive snow event; waiting for a van from the Page FBO to pick us up—it didn’t come, so we walked there. Somehow we got a rental car. Thompson drove us home, doing a couple of handbrake turns for kicks along the way. Me, I was glad to be in the right seat for a change.

So, see any lessons here? I sure do. A more conservative view of the weather situation? Stay at Newport News? Do a 180 while en route? Get-home-itis? Should have landed out of the first approach? Yep, all that, and probably more.

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