Never Again: Night fright

I had been flying about 13 years. After a lot of $100 hamburgers in rented aircraft I had bought my first airplane, a perfectly kept 1957 Piper Tri-Pacer. I flew all over Ontario and Quebec in Canada, up and down Florida and the southeast United States, and to the Bahamas.

I was on an extended stay in Tallahassee in north Florida, from Canada. The Tri-Pacer was registered in Canada and my Canadian license was day VFR only. In Canada, to fly at night requires an additional 15- to 20-hour rating. Before 9/11, it was not difficult to simply bring my aircraft into the United States temporarily and fly on my Canadian license under the terms of its flight rules. At that time, I had about 450 flight hours, of which 250 were in the Tri-Pacer. I have been told that is a dangerous amount of time.

I was by myself on a return flight from a private airport near Fort Myers, Florida, to my home airport, Quincy Municipal (2J9) in Quincy, Florida, about 25 miles northeast of Tallahassee Regional Airport. I planned to stop for fuel in Perry, Florida, about 70 miles south of Quincy.

I launched in late afternoon, giving no thought to what time the sun would set (first bad decision) for the four-hour flight to Quincy with a flight plan filed. The weather was good, the air clear and calm, and this was a flight I had made many times. By the time I reached Perry, the sun was getting low, but I judged that I could make the 45-minute flight home before legal night (second bad decision). Then, having been away from home for several days, I decided to make a quick phone call home to alert my wife of my arrival time (third bad decision). As this was prior to wide cellphone usage, I walked one-quarter mile to a telephone booth—remember those?—and walked the quarter mile back to the airport.

This is the point where many years later, I often wonder where my brain was. One gets so focused on completing the flight as planned that you don’t step outside the box to analyze your situation. Also, being by yourself, there is no one to ask some obvious questions.

The sun seemed to be well above the horizon, but I must have had some worry about daylight. So, as the airport was deserted, everything was closed, and the radio quiet (now comes the fourth and really, really bad decision—I was on the ground with the sun going down and accommodation nearby), I got airborne as quickly as I could by taking off directly from the apron on the taxiway away from the hangars.

Once I was airborne it was surprising how quickly the sun disappeared and darkness appeared. This part of north Florida is all trees and lightly populated. There is one highway with little traffic and a few small communities along the flight track. It is like flying over water at night. I had a small early yoke-mounted GPS with a 2-inch-by-3-inch illuminated screen, but you had to push a button about every two minutes to keep it lit. The aircraft was equipped with instrument lighting, navigation lights, and landing lights; I always carried a sectional with the track drawn and a list of necessary frequencies for the trip. I had a flashlight, but it was out of reach in the back seat as I never flew at night. I also had five hours of instrument time from my flight training, all in a simulator or under the hood.

By now, I knew via the GPS that I was near or past the point of no return and it made more sense to me to push on to Tallahassee Regional (TLH, now Tallahassee International), a well-lit airport with radar service. I thought I was doing reasonably well concentrating on my instrument scan with my head mostly down. Some cloud cover had also appeared, and I descended to stay below it. By this time, I was very aware that I was miles out of my comfort zone and potentially in very deep trouble, never mind the legality of flying at night without a rating. Then came disorientation.

Suddenly, without warning, a series of red lights appeared in front of me. I didn’t know how many, how high, the configuration, how far ahead—nothing, just red lights apparently in my flight path. I banked sharply to the left and kept turning until they were gone. I was completely disoriented and knew that I had to stabilize the airplane, remembering the training mantra “fly the airplane first.” I shakily managed to get stabilized and make a big circle away from whatever it was and got back on course.

Then I began to wonder, what did I see? Did I really see anything—a tower, cars on a road, another airplane? Is that even possible?

I then called Tallahassee Approach, canceled my original flight plan, and requested flight following and vectors to the airport. After a short while, lights began to show up on the ground, which are very helpful telling you which way is up. Tallahassee Approach and Tower delivered me badly rattled and chastened to short final on a beautifully lit runway. I thanked them and am eternally grateful to them.

To this day, years later, I have had many happy hours of flying day VFR, but I still cannot explain what I saw on that day that turned into night. I have looked at my track on the sectional and could not find any lit towers. All I know is that I’m still here and very much wiser about the consequences of careless decisions made without thinking and the need to be aware of things beyond the moment you’re in.AOPA

Douglas Kiefer is a private pilot living in Tallahasee, Florida.