Cloud cover

I wanted to go beyond flying for lunch by creating routes for fly and fish, fly and golf, fly and hike, and more. So, I overlayed a Catskill Mountains hiking trail map and an Appalachian Trail map over the top of an FAA sectional in search of trailheads near airports. Joseph Y. Resnick Airport (N89) is nestled in the Catskills town of Ellenville, New York. At only 290 feet msl, it runs parallel to the Shawangunk mountain range. The “Gunks” rise straight up for more than 2,000 feet from the perimeter fence. Nearby High Point Mountain is 2,244 feet msl.

On the morning of September 14, 2008, I received a flight service standard briefing while driving the 20 minutes from home to the Morristown, New Jersey, airport (MMU). I preflighted, started up, taxied, and departed in one of my flying club’s five airplanes: a 1972 Cessna 172 Skyhawk. My total time was just more than 300 hours.

The flight north was good VFR flying with few clouds and full visibility. I landed, walked to the planned trailhead, and hiked for a few hours. My friend picked me up in his car and we went into town for that proverbial hamburger. After lunch, he drove me the five minutes back to N89. During the drive, I called flight service on my cellphone, hoping for an updated briefing. But we arrived at the airport while I was still on hold for a briefer, so I hung up the call. I figured my morning briefing should be good enough. I finished my preflight, and with no one in the pattern departed Runway 22 climbing straight out. With the pre-autumn foliage coloring the ridge to my left, I continued a steady climb toward my return altitude of 4,500 for the 56 nautical mile return to Morristown.

Just as the airplane reached level with the top of the ridge, I was rapidly enveloped by clouds blowing over the ridge. I was in instrument meteorological conditions (IMC) before I knew it. When inadvertently entering IMC, the standard advice is to immediately start a slow 180-degree turn back to the airport, but I no longer could see the ridge. I thought that if I had drifted to the east, a blind descent could well turn into the dreaded controlled flight into terrain (CFIT). So, I turned to my eight hours of under the foggles training, reduced power to 2,400 rpm, and continued a steady, 300 feet per minute, straight-out climb. Scanning my instruments, I told myself to not believe my body but to rely on the instruments. I carefully dialed the radio from 122.8 MHz to 121.5 MHz, and listened.

East Coast weather tends to be much wetter than other parts of the country. There is often a layer of cloud coverage where VFR on top is rarely an option. But as I had just been in this airspace less than four hours before, I was surprised by the clouds and expected to pop out back in the blue sky at about 3,500 feet. So, I tapped the mic, stating “Skyhawk November Niner-Zero-Eight-One-Hotel VFR flight is in IMC, need assistance.” A few calming voices replied to tell me to focus on my instruments, squawk a discrete code, and maintain a gradual wings-level climb. I could hear they were clearing my airspace as I anxiously waited to break out on top. ATC gave me a vector toward the Hudson River, about 20 nautical miles away.

I scanned my instruments with a focus on directional gyro, tachometer, level flight, speed, altitude, and especially the vertical speed indicator. The altimeter climbed through 3,500, 4,500, and 5,500. As the minutes passed, the calm voices reassured me to stay focused on the instruments. I was thinking to myself, Gee, this cloud layer was not forecast this morning! How much thicker could it be? As the airplane approached 9,000 feet msl, my worry turned into disbelief. Focus, focus, focus. And I did. At about 9,400 feet msl, the clouds became wispy, and I could see a blue sky above me. I leveled off at 9,500 and soon spotted holes in the clouds above the natural updraft of the Hudson River. I communicated that I was back in VFR conditions, and I was handed off to flight following. The rest of the flight was uneventful. I followed the Hudson south toward the Tappan Zee bridge, descended below New York Class Bravo, and navigated back to MMU. Flight following suspended service and handed me off to Morristown tower.

I picked up the ATIS, and then switched to the tower frequency. I asked Morristown tower for a full-stop landing. Back came the reply over my headphones, “Morristown tower, report right base to Runway Two-Three, and welcome home!” Clearly, word had gotten out.

After landing, taxi, and shutdown at the tie-down area, I was greeted with a welcome committee of fellow club members. They were happy to see me, had heard my report of the situation, and said I had followed my training to a great outcome. There was no request to follow up with the FAA nor any suggestion that once an emergency was declared, I should need to.

During my training, I often wondered what IMC looks like. During one of my three FAA flight tests six years before, I turned to my examiner and said, “I don’t like the visibility, I think we need to cancel the test.” To which he replied, “I was waiting for you to realize that.” We headed back for what was clearly a failed test. Having been inside a cloud that builds slowly and inside one that forms immediately, I no longer have any confusion on what IMC looks like. Ever since then, my personal minimums have kept me out of trouble. I now know that the hike, or the hamburger, can always wait.

Larry Landau is a pilot who flies out of Morristown, New Jersey (MMU) and Denver, Colorado (KAPA).