I tuned to look at my flight instructor for the day who was sitting at his desk finishing up some paperwork in my folder.

“Hey Butch, are you sure we want to do this?” I said, hoping he would say no.

“What?” he said, as if the question surprised him.

“This weather is really for the birds, and not ones with propellers.”

Butch got up and joined me at the window to survey the situation for himself.

“You check the weather?”

“Yeah, we’re supposed to stay above minimums with gradual improvement this afternoon.” 

“Then we’re going,” he said, as my enthusiasm, or lack thereof, failed to sway any weight. “Go ahead and do the preflight and I’ll be there in a few minutes to help you pull the airplane out of the hangar.

Our airplane for the morning was a brand new Cessna 414A Chancellor, the newest version in the venerable Cessna 400 series airplanes.  This new “A” version had a new wing with integral fuel tanks instead of the old wingtip-style tanks.  This was to be my first experience with this newest model Chancellor.

As I walked into the hangar a brand new Chancellor sat glistening in the first bay.  It was a beautiful, brilliant white with a single blue stripe flowing down the fuselage.  Normally I would have been excited to fly this gorgeous metallic creature, but this morning I was filled with dread.

The Cessna biannual instrument flight check was anything but a walk in the park.  Every six months we had to go out with one of the ATD instructors who would satisfy himself that the pilot was competent to remain on the list of approved IFR rated pilots who could fly company airplanes.  The check flight usually included everything the instructor could think of including engine failures at the most inopportune time, and a variety of single engine approaches.  The routine was sure to make mincemeat of the most competent of the competent. While the flight check was hard enough by itself in VFR conditions, it promised to be a real bear in actual instrument conditions with a howling wind.

New airplanes need to be inspected with an especially sharp eye.  The new-born beauty of the machine with its highly polished paint and its spotless interior belies the fact that gremlins could be lying in ambush.  This one appeared to be perfect.   As hard as tried I could find no reason to cancel the flight.

A few minutes later, Butch and I were taxiing to the end of the runway.  Our clearance was to climb to 4,000 feet when clear of the McConnell AFB control zone and then direct to Hutchinson VOR.  The wind was blowing sheets of rain across the runway rocking the whole airplane in the process.

As I taxied into position at the end of the runway, I set the brakes, turned the directional gyro to the runway heading and, switched the transponder from Standby to the Altitude Reporting position.  The radar display showed blotches of green and yellow as it swept from side to side. As is my habit, I brought the engines up to 20 inches of manifold pressure and checked all the instruments.

“Everything’s green, you ready?” I asked my check-pilot passenger.

“Yep, let’s aviate,” came the response.

I released the brakes and brought the power up to the firewall.  The Chancellor seemed to roared with delight as if being given a chance to prove its airworthiness. Within seconds we broke ground and, just as suddenly, I had my hands full as the winds tried their dead level best to push me off runway centerline.  The combination of the wind playing tricks with my intended flight path and the turbulence really had me questioning my sanity for acquiescing to this flight.

I rolled into a sharp right hand turn to stay out of the Beechcraft landing pattern and pushed the nose over aggressively to keep under 500 feet while in the McConnell  control area.  As I reduced the power to a climb setting we plunged into a cloud bank that wiped out what little visibility we had.

“Twin Cessna 2377 Tango, turn left heading three one zero direct Hutchinson, maintain four thousand.” Hutchinson is only about 40 miles away so as I rolled out on a direct vector to the VOR, I began to prepare myself for the first approach. 

Suddenly, the whole airplane yawed violently to the left.  Butch had cut the left engine. I knew it was going to be a tough couple of hours.

And it was.  We flew practically every approach Hutchinson had landing to the northwest.  We even had to miss one approach when we reached the missed approach point and I saw nothing but grey sky ahead.  Butch rewarded me by pulling an engine midway through the missed approach procedure. 

I struggled with the airplane to fly the missed approach and then to get the engine secured properly, and finally to retrim the airplane to fly in this new configuration.

“OK, let’s ask for the ILS and we’ll fly it with the engine shut down.”  

“Oh man” I thought, “I hope I don’t end up killing us both.”

Butch must have sensed by concern because he turned to me and said, “You’ll be fine. Just carry 25 inches of manifold pressure and do everything else the same as you have been doing it all along.”

Flying the ILS approach with one engine feathered turned out to be a piece of cake.  In spite of everything, the howling winds were blowing right down the runway and the turbulence around Hutchinson had abated, so all I had to do was to fly the approach as I had been trained to do.

We were cleared for a full stop landing as we passed the outer marker.  Butch wanted gear and flaps down on this single engine landing just as if both engines were running.  I found flying the airplane on a single engine approach to be easy.  The airplane handled well and it was substantially less noisy. 

About 400 feet above the ground the runway suddenly appeared before us about a mile out. Butch looked over at me and said, “OK, get your final increment of flaps out and let’s land this thing.”

I did as I was instructed and put the big Cessna twin on the runway pretty well considering the conditions.  A single engine landing turned out to be no big deal.  But the day was not over.

Pulling off the runway, Butch allowed that we’d had enough for one day and it was time to go back home.  I restarted the engine and in short order had us heading back to Wichita preparing for the Beech VOR Alpha approach. 

Cessna field is only about three miles from the Beechcraft factory airport so it was common practice to fly the approach as if we were landing at the Beech factory and then, once we had descended to VFR conditions underneath the cloud deck, to cancel the IFR clearance and request a special VFR clearance to Cessna field.  It could be a demanding approach especially in low visibility conditions, but it could be safely executed by a competent pilot who knew the local area.

This day was going to be especially tricky.  During our 90 minute interlude at Hutchinson, the winds hadn’t abated at all, blowing out of 300 degrees steady at 30 knots with gusts to 45 knots.  And, as luck would have it, the turbulence on the east side of town hadn’t gotten any better either.

As I reached the Final Approach Fix, I reached over to select the gear switch into the down position. The turbulence was fierce and I was holding a 15 degree crab angle into to wind to stay on the approach path.  Small knots of clouds went racing by us and the rain sounded like BB’s hitting the windscreen.

I looked over at Butch who seemed to be looking at something on the ground off to the right side between the fuselage and the engine nacelle.  If he had any concerns, he sure didn’t show it.

In the meantime I was struggling to keep the wings level and our big twin on the approach path when patches of ground began to show through the wind screen.  Actually I sensed the ground more than I saw it as I kept my eyes glued to the instrument panel.

When we finally broke through the bottom of the clouds, the visibility wasn’t all that bad, but the turbulence was getting worse, if anything. 

As I reached the 500 foot level above the ground I cancelled my IFR clearance and asked for, and got, a special VFR clearance to Cessna Field.  I could see the Beechcraft factory ahead and to the right so I knew Cessna had to be a couple of miles to the south and west.  Since I was landing to the North I rolled into a turn to the southwest to line up on the third section line to the south.

In the meantime I glanced over to see what Butch was doing.  With the turbulence and the expected cross wind on final I was hoping, actually expecting, some helpful advice.  Butch seemed to be more interested in a new house that was passing underneath us.

After lining up on the third section line I could faintly make out the water tower on the east side of McConnell AFB, a reassuring sign that Cessna field would soon be in view.  I went through my final GUMPR check list mentally. 

“Gas in on the main tank and the boost pumps are on, Undercarriage…I’ve got three greens ,Mixtures are going to full rich, Props are going full forward. And “R”, radar going to standby.”

Meanwhile the wind was tossing our three and a half ton airplane around like a tree leaf in autumn.  I was having trouble keeping the ship on an even keel.  I could see Cessna field now and in a few seconds I’d be turning a half mile final.

I stole another look at my “quote, unquote” flight instructor.  Butch seemed to have no interest in anything I was doing.  We were passing over the McConnell AFB officers base housing area and Butch seemed to have a great interest in how our military friends lived.  Now I was getting ticked.

But I had no time for anger since it was time to turn to our final approach course and line up with the runway.  The turbulence was reaching the classical definition of moderate to severe as we were being pulled hard against our seat belts and I was definitely having trouble keeping control of the airplane.

As I lined up with the runway it became immediately obvious that we were going to require a huge wind correction angle.  My usual technique for a crosswind landing was to achieve a crab angle that would keep the airplane going down the runway.  Then I would use the rudder to align the longitudinal axis of the airplane with the runway while simultaneously lowering the upwind wing into the wind to stop the drift.   

I wasn’t going to have much time since a half mile final at about 110 knots takes about 20 seconds. As we turned into the wind I saw to my dismay that the nose of the airplane was a good 20 degrees to the left of the runway heading.  My immediate inclination was to pour on the coals and take us over to Mid-Continent where the runways were 100 feet wide and about 10,000 feet long.  Cessna’s runway was 35 feet wide and 3,900 feet long. But my ego wouldn’t allow me that luxury with a Cessna check pilot along for the ride.

I punched the right rudder to align the nose with the runway and began to lower the left wing.  The low altitude turbulence was even worse than it was before.  As the nose came around, it became obvious that I wasn’t going to have enough rudder travel to get the nose where it needed to be for Cessna’s narrow runway.  So, I did the only thing I could think of. I added power to the left engine to help the nose come around and I used the aileron to keep the wing down.  I became aware that I had the ailerons all the way to the left stop, while the rudder was all the way to the right stop.  

“Come on baby stay with me.”  I was praying that the left wing would stay put and that I wouldn’t need any more roll power to the left because, I didn’t have any!!!

To say that I wrestled the airplane onto the runway would be an understatement. As I got close to the ground I started bleeding off the power while working the control yoke to feel for the runway.  On one of the downward transits induced by the turbulence I felt the left wheel touch the runway, so I immediately brought both engines back to idle power.  For the next few seconds I was dancing on the rudders like a drunk walking across a bed of hot coals.

Finally, all three landing gear wheels were down, and I gradually brought the airplane to a stop at the end of the runway.  My heart was racing, and my hands were trembling as I nudged the power up to taxi to the ramp.

In the right seat next to me sat Butch, looking sleepy.  He yawned and looked at me. 

“What?”

I exploded.  “How in the hell can you sit there like that when you know you have a fairly low time pilot who flies maybe 50 hours a year in conditions like this?”

His answer was simplicity itself. “Well, you were doing everything I could do.”

My mouth dropped wide open.  I’m still not sure I heard him right.  I was doing everything he could do???  With a body that felt as if an earthquake was going on at the center of its being, I taxied back to the ramp.

I’ve had nearly 30 years to think about that flight.  At the time I might have had 400 hours total time with perhaps 150 hours in twin engine airplanes.  According to conventional wisdom I hardly had enough time to fly a Cessna 210 solo much less a 400 series Cessna twin.  But Cessna trained its company pilots well, even those of us who didn’t fly airplanes professionally.   I traveled a lot during those days and often in a Cessna twin in all kinds of weather.

Being able to fly a sophisticated airplane safely in bad weather has nothing to do with the number of hours a pilot has recorded in his/her log book.  It has more to do with how well that pilot has been trained.

When I see the requirements many insurance companies levy today for an airplane like the Chancellor (1,000 hours total time, 500 hours in multi-engine airplanes and 100 hours in type) before they’ll insure a pilot, it makes me wonder. 

Cessna had a great training program.  They took multitudes of low time pilots and allowed them to fly very sophisticated airplanes in serious IFR conditions all over the country every day, and we did it with only two fatalities in the ten years I was with the company.  One was a VFR pilot flying a 172 who tried to fly across an obscured mountain pass and didn’t make it.  The other was a young pilot who attempted a victory roll in a 210 in front of the dealer and his customer at the end of a delivery flight. 

My first checkout in a Cessna airplane was in a 172.  It took three hours for me to convince the check pilot that I knew what I was doing even though I already had nearly 100 hours in a 172. 

My instrument checkout also took a couple of hours and even then I was only allowed to plan a flight when the weather was no lower than a thousand foot ceiling and visibility no less than three miles.  After a year or so, and two or three biannual check flights, my minimums were lowered to 800 and two. Only after several years of flying with Cessna were my minimum planning conditions changed to unlimited. 

Flying sophisticated multi-engine airplanes safely in marginal weather does not require a ton of hours in the left seat.  Instead it requires superior training.  I was lucky enough to have had what I consider to be some of the best training available to a civilian.  Thanks to all my instructor pilots I have had some incredible flying experiences as Pilot in Command that I would not change for anything.

I was a Captain in the Air Force and was stationed at Eglin AFB located in the Florida panhandle.  I was nearing the end of my obligation to Uncle Sam and I knew I wanted to find work in aviation and had decided to upgrade my private pilot certificate with commercial and instrument rating.  The base had a flying club that had several Cessna 150’s, a Cessna 172, and a Cessna 182.   I had joined the club because I could build the number of hours I needed at prices much lower than those prevailing in the outside world.  

I let the airplane roll a few yards and then advanced the throttle.  The engine responded as expected and we were airborne again within a few seconds. 

We were using one of the auxiliary landing fields around Eglin called Field #3.  During WWII it was used to train pilots but since that time had fallen into disuse.  However, the runway was maintained after a fashion and it was good enough for our purposes.  It was kind of like a five thousand foot paved clearing carved out of a pine forest. 

As we passed through three hundred feet my instructor reached over and pulled the power off.   “OK, you’ve just lost the engine.  Where are you going to put this airplane?”  he said while giving me the look of a teacher towards an errant child.

As I looked out the windshield, I could see nothing but a narrow road cut through the pines.  The conventional wisdom, and all of my training to this date had said: “Land Straight Ahead.”  To do otherwise was a sure invitation to disaster.   Indeed many pilots have met their maker in attempts to return to the airport instead of landing straight ahead.

“I guess I’ll try for that road just off to the left.  It’s a bit narrow but it’s better than going into the trees.”

The old man just looked at me and gave me this sly smile.  “Look, you’ve got enough experience now to use the other alternatives available.  Let me show you what I mean.”

With that comment he applied the power and we went back to Field 3 and executed another touch and go.  Passing through three hundred feet he again reduced the power to idle as if we had just had a power failure.  However, instead of landing straight ahead, he sharply banked the airplane into a thirty degree turn to the right. Then he just as sharply rolled the airplane into a forty five degree banked turn to the left.  I was scared half to death as I sat in the left seat and watched the old man whip the airplane around the 210 degree left turn back to the runway.  With a few minor adjustments he lined up with the runway with about fifty feet left to spare, lowered the flaps, and gently set the 172 back on the runway.

He didn’t say another thing until he taxied the airplane to the old ramp area and shut the engine down.  Then he put his arm across the back of my seat and turned to face me. 

“Son,” he said, “It’s stupid to put a perfectly good airplane into the trees when there’s a runway available to put it on.  You’ve got enough experience now that landing straight ahead after takeoff should be your choice only if you are too low to execute a tear drop pattern back to the runway.”

His theory was based upon the fact that landing straight ahead is for poorly trained, or low time pilots.  The teardrop maneuver, when executed by a properly trained pilot, does not necessarily expose one to the peril of stall/spin close to the ground. 

Part of the requirements for a commercial pilot certificate involves steep, low altitude maneuvers.  As a result I had become comfortable with steep maneuvers while close to the ground.   The 180 degree power-off precision landing requirement had taught me a lot about flying the airplane without power while trying to put the airplane within a few feet of a predetermined touchdown spot.  I had come to regard a power off landing as one of the more valuable skills in a pilot’s bag of tricks.  It is also one of the most enjoyable parts of training for a commercial license when a little competition with your instructor is a part of the exercise.

Pylon Eight’s are also particularly valuable.  Not only do they require steep precision maneuvers close to the ground, which gives awe inspiring confidence in your abilities, but they also give rise to some interesting and valuable lessons, in terms of handling low altitude emergency situations.   My instructor used to enjoy giving me an engine out emergency in the middle of a fifty degree bank above a simulated pylon.  The subsequent low altitude maneuvering for the nearest acceptable field or road calls for close attention to airspeed and altitude, and the full use of every aspect of airplane control for a successful outcome.

By the time my instructor gave me the lecture about when I could return to the runway after an engine failure and when I could not, I was fully confident in my own abilities to keep the airplane under control in steep maneuvers close to the ground.  We started the engine and taxied back to the runway.

“OK here’s what we’re going to do,” said the old man while stroking his outrageously long mustache.   “At three hundred feet I’m going to pull the power.  When I do I want you to call out your altitude above the ground and then lower the nose to maintain best glide while turning thirty degree to the right and then rolling immediately two hundred and ten degrees back to the left.  Forty five degree bank should do it.  Just keep your airspeed nailed at best glide.”

I had flown enough with this man to know that he could fly an airplane like he was born in one.  I was more interested than intimidated by the maneuver we were about to perform, because I had always secretly harbored the thought that returning to the runway was often a better choice than landing straight ahead.  Now I was about to learn how this could be done safely.

Passing through three hundred feet the old man reduced the power to idle as he had promised.  I immediately called out the altitude and lowered the nose to maintain the best glide speed.  As I started the roll to the left I was a bit too lackadaisical in the roll rate for his liking.

“Faster, Faster,” he said coaching me.  “Get your roll rate up.  That’s it.  OK Forty Five degrees to the right.  Let’s go.  Keep you speed up and keep the ball centered.”

The big wing completely blocked my view of the runway.  I could do nothing but maintain the bank angle and hope for the best.  I leaned forward as far as I could to catch a glimpse of the runway as soon as possible.  I didn’t need to keep too close watch on the airspeed indicator since I had developed a sense of how fast the airplane was going by the air sounds and other sensory signals.

I caught sight of the runway as it appeared out from behind the wing.  We were low but it was not all that much different from the sight picture I had seen many times before in practicing emergency landings that started from the middle of a pylon eight.  I knew I had the runway made.  With a few last second tweaks, I was lined up with the runway.  The landing was anticlimactic.

My instructor wanted me to call out the altitude because he wanted me to be constantly aware of my altitude above the ground on takeoff.  Below three hundred feet there could be no return to the runway.  Above three hundred feet, all options were open.  He wanted me to be thinking  “Where am I going to put this thing when the engine quits,” as if it were preordained that it could not possibly survive a takeoff and climb to altitude.

Wind plays a critical role in the return scenario.   Any significant wind blowing directly down the runway can spell trouble for even the most experienced pilot.  In a 180 degree turn from upwind to downwind, the airplane has to have time to accelerate two times the rate of whatever the speed of the prevailing wind.  Take for example, a Cessna 172 in a 75 knot climb into a thirty knot wind.  On climb out the ground speed is 45 kts.  However, during the turn the airplane is going to have to accelerate from 45 knots to 105 knots, an increase of 60 kts.  This can be safely accomplished but the pilot is going to have to keep the nose of the airplane down much more than normal to maintain best glide speed.  This means that the altitude required to accomplish the 30/210 turn is going to be greater than a no wind condition.   Furthermore, once the turn is completed the greater ground speed puts the pilot at risk of over running the runway.

The altitude we used for that airplane, wind and sea level conditions was three hundred feet.  It varies for every airplane type, airport altitude, and prevailing wind.  I always tried to determine what that altitude was for any airplane I flew.  Many of the higher performance airplanes require much higher altitudes to return because their glide ratios were closer to that of a rock than anything else.  A fully loaded Cessna 206 taking off into a wind can require a thousand feet of altitude to make it back.

I have always made it a rule to consider a return to the airport only if the headwind component is less than 10 knots.  This is a judgment call of course, but since wind has such an increasingly compounding effect on ground speed at ground contact I have always thought that landing forty five degrees either side of runway heading is probably better than risking a high speed runway excursion.  Strange as it seems, a stiff wind can mean that you’ll be too close to the airport to land under almost any engine out condition.  

Those days with my old Air Force instructor made a lasting impression on me and on the way I fly an airplane.  I have since come to the realization that the commercial ground reference maneuvers were not just a bunch of senseless exercises meant only to satisfy whim of the FAA.  Instead, they taught me how to put an airplane exactly where I wanted it and gave me the confidence in myself to use the whole range of control options available.  Every pilot, regardless of the certificate he or she holds, should be fully capable of making a safe return to the runway once a predetermined altitude has been reached.  It’s your responsibility as Pilot in Command.

It was a dark and dreary evening in Dallas.  We had flown down to Dallas earlier in the day to attend a focus group session our advertising agency had arranged.  It was about 10:00 PM and my two friends and I were anxious to get started back to Wichita.

After the formalities with ground control I was granted an IFR clearance back to Wichita via “Flight Plan Route”.  My plan was to break ground and turn to a heading of 350 degrees, climb to my assigned altitude, and wait for Pioneer VOR to come alive about a hour after takeoff.  It was the fastest way I knew of to get home and, late in the evening Air Traffic Control will usually accommodate off airway routings.

“Twin Cessna 36 Tango cleared for takeoff.  Maintain runway heading, contact approach control on 132.85 when airborne”.

I inched the throttles up and eased the new Cessna twin onto the runway.  When I was aligned with the runway centerline I stopped the airplane and stood on the brakes while I advanced the throttles to 20 inches of manifold pressure.  The 300 hp engines roared to life like the wild horses their power ratings imply.  The whole airplane had the feel of a wild animal ready to be let loose.  When a quick glance at the instruments confirmed the health of the engines  I released the brakes and advanced the throttles to the firewall.

There is something visceral about the takeoff roll in a modern twin engine airplane.  With the engines producing a total of 600 horsepower, the “R” model 310 accelerates down the runway with enthusiasm.  Within seconds we reached Vmc (minimum control speed) and I began to gently nudge our steed into the air.  As we became airborne, I reached over to flip the landing gear switch into the gear-up position.

“Love Approach, Twin Cessna 36 Tango is passing one thousand, squawking 2124.”

“Twin Cessna 36 Tango, radar contact, turn right heading 340, climb to and maintain eight thousand, resume your own navigation.”

I was tired so I engaged the autopilot and turned the heading bug to 340.  As the airplane rolled into the turn to our northerly heading we plunged into the bottom of the cloud deck and the lights of Dallas went out. 

The clouds were as thick as they were dark and the lights of the wingtip strobes lit up the space surrounding our airplane like a thousand flash bulbs going off at once.  Since leaving strobe lights in the clouds has been implicated in spatial disorientation, I reached over and turned them out. Suddenly, the darkness was overpowering.

During the climb my friends and I turned our attention to discussing the events of the evening.  Both of my passengers were experienced multi-engine pilots with instrument ratings.  Both of them were good friends and we had flown a lot together in various Cessna airplanes. 

As we climbed to altitude the turbulence began to dissipate and by the time we reached our assigned flight level of eight thousand feet, the turbulence was completely gone.  I trimmed the airplane for level flight and engaged the altitude hold function on the autopilot.  Now there was nothing left to do but to listen for ATC calls and to wait for Pioneer VOR to make itself known on our navigation instruments. 

Since we were on a direct routing, meaning we were off the published airways, ATC seemed to have forgotten about us.  The radios were deathly quiet.  After a half hour or so the conversation in the cabin fell quiet as well.  We were all tired having attended two focus group sessions with our advertising agency. 

We had passed into an area where we were no longer in the clouds.  Instead, we were between layers where the air was glassy smooth….so smooth there was no perceptible movement.  It was like being in another dimension. . . .no light outside the cockpit, no sound other that the sound of the engines and no perceptible movement.  If it weren’t for the sound of the engines we might as well have been sitting in a dark hangar at midnight.  At any moment I expected to see a gremlin running around the wing like in the famous Twilight Zone episode.

“This is weird,” allowed my friend in the right seat. 

“You aren’t kidding,” our back seat passenger added.

I keyed the mic and asked, “Center, Twin Cessna 36 Tango, radio check.” 

“I’ve got you five by five,” came the reassuring reply. 

We all looked at each other, not believing how smooth it was.

As a checked the panel I saw that Pioneer VOR had come alive and was indicating a five degree turn to the left.  Twenty minutes later as we passed over Pioneer I turned to our final heading towards Wichita.

It was time to get prepared for our landing so I called flight service and learned that it was raining in Wichita but the visibility was holding at an acceptable two miles.  Our landing at Cessna field would be tricky but not impossible.

“Twin Cessna 36 Tango, descend to and maintain three thousand, turn left heading 360, vectors for the Beech VOR Alpha approach.”

I released the altitude hold on the autopilot and trimmed the nose down for the descent.  As the airspeed built up the outside air noise increased perceptibly and our ears began feeling the pressure of the lower altitude.

Suddenly the clouds seemed to open wide and the lights of Wichita seemed to pop on in the distance.

“What the heck is that?” said my right seat passenger.

All three of us sat transfixed as we peered out the windshield.  We were all confused by the same strange sight a few miles ahead.  There seemed to be a translucent curtain hanging from the overcast in front of the whole city of Wichita.

“Is that rain?” came the voice from the back.

“Doesn’t look like rain to me.” I said, “but whatever it is, we’re about to find out.”  We were just seconds away from penetrating the curtain at nearly 200 knots indicated airspeed.

As we flew into the curtain our smooth ride came to an abrupt end.  The violence of the turbulence hit us like a brick wall.  We were all pulled hard against our seat belts and loose items flew around the cabin.  We had just flown through the boundary layer of two different air masses, one cold and one warm.  The forces of nature seemed to resent our intrusion and retaliated by tossing us around like a ragdoll.

As quickly as it came, the turbulence subsided into something more manageable.

“Wow!” was all that came out of my mouth.

But the night wasn’t over.  We still had to find Cessna Field after descending to pattern altitude via the Beech VOR Alpha approach procedure. The idea was to fly the approach down to MDA (Minimum Descent Altitude) and then cancel our IFR clearance in favor of a Special VFR clearance to Cessna field.  Ideally, our arrival at MDA would put us at 500 feet above the ground about three miles east of the Cessna runway.  It was a procedure that only an experienced pilot who was very familiar with the local area should even attempt at night, much less in night IFR conditions.

But having lived in the Wichita area for five years and having flown that procedure many times in the past, I was confident in our ability to execute the procedure safely.  My two friends were also Cessna employees and were also very familiar with what we were about to do.

After being cleared for the approach, I flew the procedure as precisely as I knew how with my two instrument rated buddies watching my every move.  The turbulence was light and we were passing through areas of low scud as we passed the final approach fix about 10 miles out. I carefully started the final descent with my eye keeping an every vigilant watch on the altimeter.

When we arrived at MDA, we were clear of the clouds and I could clearly see the lights of the Eastern suburbs of Wichita below.  Wichita approach control approved our request for Special VFR to Cessna Field and wished us a good night. 

Trouble was that none of us could recognize anything on the ground! The recent rain had changed the look of everything with lights reflecting off every small pool of water.  We hadn’t any idea of where we were. 

“Can anybody see Cessna?”

“No, but that’s got to be the turnpike off to the right.”

“It doesn’t look right.”

“Did you turn the runway lights on?”

I reached down and gave three quick clicks on the mic.  “They should be on now.”

This was getting scary.  We were 500 feet above the ground traveling at about 120 knots and didn’t know where we were. Tensions were running high as we all concentrated on finding the Cessna Field runway lights in time to turn a quick, low altitude final.

“I see them, I see them” came an excited voice from the back seat.   “It’s off to your left about 60 degrees.” 

An arm appeared over my left shoulder pointing in the general direction of the runway light.  I took my eyes off the flight instruments long enough to see what my passenger was pointing at.  There off to my left were the unmistakable lights of the runway.

“Jeeze Louise, Thank God,” I thought.

I rolled the airplane into a sharp turn to the left and lined up with the runway about a half mile away.  As soon as the wings were level I could see the landing lights illuminating the runway. Seeing that I had the runway made I selected the third and final segment of flaps and almost immediately passed over the end of the runway about 25 feet high.

The landing was reasonable considering the circumstances and I let the airplane roll out to the end of the runway using medium braking to bring us to a stop.

“That was a bit dicy,” said my co-pilot passenger.

“No kidding,” I said as my shaking hand nudged the throttles up to taxi to the ramp. “I sure didn’t want to have to declare a missed approach after I had already cancelled IFR.”

That flight was many years ago but it remains one of the most memorable flights of my flying career.  The encounter with the hanging veil in front of the city of Wichita was something I had never seen before or since.  It was beautiful and scary at the same time. 

The landing at Cessna field with three highly experienced instrument rated pilots being confused with our position on a dark, rainy night at 500 feet above the ground, gives one reason for pause.  We were prepared. We had the experience both in flying high performance twins and in flying that particular landing approach to Cessna field.  We were never in real danger since we always could have abandoned the approach and flown a more normal instrument approach to Mid Continent Airport on the other side of the city.  But we were, never the less, on the edge of disaster.  Why?

The answer lies in the most dangerous and fatal of all human conditions known to pilots.  It’s called “Get-home-itis.”  It was nearly midnight and we were all very tired.  We all wanted to get on the ground so we could go home and get to bed.  Psychologically we became single minded on flying the approach and getting on the ground as soon as possible.  I hadn’t even considered a missed approach and landing at Mid-Continent and neither had anyone else in the airplane.  Were we in over our heads that night? No, obviously not, but we were on the edge.   My fatigue led me into the potentially fatal trap of not considering the final “what if.”

There was nothing wrong with what I did.  But I failed in what I should have done and didn’t.  I should have planned for a missed approach at Cessna and I did have a loose plan in mind.  But what I didn’t do was to set a firm set of decision rules in my mind before hand about when I would initiate the miss.  Preflight planning includes thinking through all of the “what if’s.” It’s your responsibility as Pilot in Command.

“Negative sir, two seven tango.” 

The sky was pitch black and the rain was getting heavier.  Every few seconds I could see lightning lighting up the surrounding clouds.  All I could see on the ground was a sea of lights that made up the city of Dallas.  Love Field was supposed to be dead ahead about two miles in front of us, but somehow my eyes just couldn’t distinguish a runway.  I could tell from the wide-eyed look on the faces of my three non-pilot passengers that they were becoming frightened. 

It all began in Wichita.  My wife and our next door neighbors had decided to fly to Dallas overnight for a nice dinner and breakfast the next morning at a restaurant noted for elegant breakfasts.  A Cardinal RG from our local flying club was to be our transportation to the big city. 

The weather forecast was pretty typical for mid-September which included a chance for evening thunderstorms in the North Texas region.  Otherwise CAVU prevailed all along our route. 

Our VFR flight plan called for us to parallel Interstate 35 to the East almost straight south.  The winds were light so I computed a time in route of a little over two hours and twenty minutes.  Our takeoff time of 4:30 PM would put us into Dallas after dark but that wouldn’t be a problem.  My main concern was the possibility of thunderstorms. 

I had flown the route from Wichita to Dallas many times in the past.  Most of the time I was in a company twin engine airplane with radar on an IFR flight plan.  I briefly considered filing IFR for this flight but rejected it because my experience with air traffic control told me it was as possible for them to run me into of a thunderstorm as it was to them to keep me clear.  In the past, with the help of on-board radar I had averted flying into one of those monsters more than once by asking for deviations either side of the assigned airway.  It’s not that ATC doesn’t care or would purposely put an unwary pilot in harm’s way, it’s just that their equipment doesn’t always allow them to have up-to-date information regarding the weather. 

Having grown up in Oklahoma and having lived in Kansas I had developed a great respect for the power of even a small thunderstorm.  I elected to stay out of the clouds where I could keep a constant watch on the situation.  I figured the worst case would be a retreat to some small Texas airport to wait it out.  I was determined to stay out of any clouds that might contain a thunderstorm. 

After takeoff from Wichita I climbed to 5,500 feet and set course for Pioneer VOR near Ponca City, Oklahoma.   The air was smooth and my three passengers settled into casual conversation in anticipation of a great evening in Dallas while I took care of keeping the airplane headed in the right direction.  

Past Pioneer I selected a section line and followed it straight south.  I knew if I followed this strategy I’d arrive in the “Big D” area in about two more hours.  It’s impossible to miss Dallas at night.  The glow from all the lights is visible from the Oklahoma side of the border on most nights.  The airplane had an autopilot so I selected a heading of 170° and picked up my navigation chart to follow our progress across the ground. 

The first hour passed pleasantly enough.  The engine was running as smoothly as any Lycoming ever ran and the smooth air made my job easy.  There was nothing but farm land below and, with the sun falling ever lower in the western sky, the world took on that gorgeous yellow red tint that characterizes sunset.  

Looking ahead I could see some cloud buildups slightly east of our course and I could begin to make out the beginnings of a cloud layer at a somewhat lower altitude ahead of us.  I wanted to stay below the clouds to avoid the necessity to file IFR so I gave the trim wheel a nudge to begin a descent.  I watched the VSI settle on two hundred feet per minute down, slow enough to keep the others from feeling any discomfort in their ears.  

Ten minutes later, I nudged the trim wheel again to level off at 3,500 feet.  We were coming up on Ardmore, Oklahoma where ground level is a little less than 1,000 feet.  With 2,500 feet of room between us and the ground I wasn’t too concerned about hitting anything.  We were now cruising below a broken layer of clouds and it was beginning to get dark.  I decided it was time to tune in the Love Airport VOR on the number 2 radio, although I knew there wasn’t a chance to get a good signal yet.   On the number one radio I tuned in Ardmore VORTAC.  The instruments informed me we were ten miles south and sure enough, I could see Lake Murray off the left side of the airplane. 

Passing the Red river I was becoming concerned about how dark everything looked to the South.  Our ride was still silky smooth and the visibility was good so I decided to push ahead.  The Love VOR was beginning to come alive.  The Gainesville airport, just ahead, was wide open so I still had a good back door if necessary.  

Five minutes south of Gainesville, the DME on Nav 2 came alive and announced we were 40 miles north.  I was beginning to see flashes of lightning off to the Southeast and the glow of the lights from the Dallas metro area was unmistakable.  

“Dallas approach, Cardinal seven six two seven victor is thirty five north of the Love VOR at three thousand five hundred, squawking twelve hundred with information Bravo, landing at Love.” 

“Roger two seven victor, squawk two four five three ident please.”

 I reached over to the transponder and dialed in the appropriate numbers in the windows and punched the button marked “ident”. 

“Two seven Victor, radar contact thirty two north, descend to and maintain two thousand five hundred.” 

“Leaving three point five for two point five, two seven victor.” 

I trimmed the nose down to get a descent rate of five hundred feet per minute.  We were now over the sea of lights that make up the Dallas metro area and  I began seeing lightning not only to the east but also south and west.  A few drops of rain were beginning to hit the windscreen and I could tell the rain was heavier ahead. 

By now my wife was becoming concerned.  She’d flown enough with me to know when things weren’t looking so good.  “Are we going to be able to make Love Field?” 

“I think so.” I said with all the confidence I could muster.  “The visibility is still pretty good and I can see the buildings downtown.  The airport is between us and those buildings.” 

“Two seven victor, Dallas approach.  You’re ten north of Love Field contact Love tower now on one eighteen point seven. Good night.” 

As I acknowledge the frequency change I started down to pattern altitude.  The rain was beginning to come down much heavier, which began to obscure everything ahead.  The buildings of downtown Dallas disappeared in the veil of rain.  Lightning seemed to be coming from everywhere.  

Patrick, I hope you know what you’re doing.  My inner voice began talking to me. 

Love tower told me to enter left base for landing runway one three.  While the tower told me they had my landing light in sight, I just could not see the airport even though I knew it was very close by.  

“Cardinal two seven victor, we’re going to turn the runway lights up to see if that helps.” 

Suddenly the airport seemed to jump up out of the sea of lights.  I could see the runway off to the left and that I was much too close to land on it.  “Runway in sight. Two seven victor.” 

“Roger sir, Cardinal two seven victor is cleared to land Runway 13.” 

For a moment I was undecided on the best way to get to the runway.  I placed the microphone in its holder, and reduced the power.  A glance at the airspeed showed me I was below gear down speed so I grabbed the gear handle to get the gear in transit for landing.  It was really beginning to rain hard now so it was important to keep the runway in sight.  I was so close the only viable option was to make a 270 turn to the right away from the runway to kill off some altitude and to line up with the runway. 

I was about to start the turn when I noticed that the green light did not come on when the gear stopped moving.  In addition to keeping track of my altitude and heading, configuring the airplane for landing, and keeping sight of the airport, I now had to deal with a landing gear problem.  I started the turn to the right.  My plan had been to tell the tower, but now I had to fly with one hand and try to figure out if the gear was down with the other. 

A glance out the window showed the main gear appearing to be down and locked.  I figured it was just that the green light had burned out.  However, I couldn’t see the nose gear so I couldn’t take the chance that it was the reason for the lack of a positive gear down indication.  To check out the possibility that it was the light I began unscrewing the green light out of its socket with my right hand while flying the airplane with my left. 

“Two seven victor, you’re turning away from the airport!”  There was clear panic in the controller’s voice.  “You’re cleared to land any runway any direction.”  

Man oh man.  How am I supposed to talk to this guy with my hands full of airplane?  I’ve got to get this airplane down, and right now… or else.  He’s just going to have to wait.  Let’s hope it’s just the light. 

It’s not my habit to ignore the tower but in this situation I just didn’t have enough hands.  As quickly as I could I slipped the green light into my shirt pocket, and took the yellow light from it socket and began screwing it into the socket left vacant.  

Watch your altitude.  Watch your altitude!!  Get some power on.  Keep a steady bank angle.  Thirty degrees is just fine. Come on light.  Get in there.  

The yellow light came to life!  The gear was down and locked.  I was turning through what could now be thought of as a turn from right base to final. 

“Love tower, two seven victor is right base for landing runway one three.  Sorry I couldn’t talk to you for a minute there.  I had my hands full working on a landing gear problem.” 

The guys in the tower were not angry at what I’m sure they thought was a pilot who had mistaken other lights for the runway.  They acknowledged my intentions and cleared me to land once again on runway one three. 

We were passing through a heavy rain shower as I lined up on final approach.  However the air was still smooth and a strange sense of calm overcame me as went through the familiar motions on final.  What had been a frantic set of movements only a few seconds ago, settled down into what appeared to be, even to me, calm well-practiced actions.  

The landing was very smooth. . . not one of my best, but very acceptable never-the-less.  The spray kicked up by the tires running through water puddles on the runway was very comforting.  

It was pouring buckets of rain as I taxied to a parking place in front of the FBO.  The guys were kind enough to send the van out to keep us from having to carry all our stuff through the water.  It was that night that I discovered the wonders of a Cessna high wing airplane as we all clamored out of the airplane and stayed reasonably dry while our low wing brethren got drenched.  

I’ve thought about that flight many times through the years.  I pushed it to the edge of the VFR envelope and got myself in a situation where, when things began to go wrong, I could have been in real trouble.  Fortunately, it was just a cockpit light that burned out.  But, because I failed to plan my arrival properly and couldn’t find the runway, I let the airplane get ahead of me for a minute or so which is never acceptable, even for an instant. 

I had become so used to flying twin engine airplanes in IFR conditions that I failed to respect the planning it takes to fly a small airplane in an acceptable manner.  There is a new word for it these days.  I “disrespected” the airplane.  I was intent on a fine dinner in Dallas with my wife and our best friends.  I was instrument rated, but I didn’t even carry my instrument charts with me.  

What I should have done was to pull out the approach charts and configure the navigation radios for an instrument approach.  I should have known where the outer market was.  I didn’t.  I should have been prepared to navigate on my own to the final approach course. I wasn’t.  I should have planned ahead.  I didn’t, and it could have been costly but fortunately for us all but, it wasn’t. 

Through preflight planning includes the landing.  It’s your responsibility as pilot in command.

“Negative seven five sierra, maintain runway heading.” 

Three business associates and I had travelled from Wichita to Denver to attend a trade show at the convention center downtown.  The flight the previous night had been uneventful and we had left the airplane with the local FBO at the old Stapleton Airport.  

Denver is a beautiful city nestled up against the Rocky Mountains.  Looking west the mountains rise from the mile high base to over 14,000 feet in just a few miles.  To the east the Great Plains stretch over 500 miles with nothing but a few trees along the creek beds to break up the seemingly relentless wind.  

Denver’s mile high elevation gently slopes off to the east to elevations near 1,000 feet in Eastern Kansas.  Owing to its unique topographical configuration, a summer afternoon weather forecast almost always includes a chance of locally heavy thunder showers. 

As my friends and I stepped outside the convention center to catch a taxi out to the airport, dark, heavy clouds south and west of the city told me that a departure to Wichita might not be in the cards for an hour or two.  Thunderstorms in the Rocky Mountain region are usually isolated and tend to move quickly.   The rain and the associated electrical displays are often spectacular but have a short life span over any one single spot of the earth. 

When we arrived at the airport, the dark blue-black cloud seemed to be spitting lighting in every direction and it roared with thunder every few seconds.  Large drops of rain were already splattering on everything not under cover.  This was an intense storm and I wondered if we might not be leaving for Wichita at all that evening. 

The flight service people said that the weather from Denver to Wichita would be CAVU once the local thunderstorm passed off to the northeast.   This was a typical summer afternoon storm that was not associated with any larger weather pattern.  I filed a VFR flight plan with an estimated departure time in one hour.  In the meantime there was nothing to do but wait. 

In the meantime the storm was dumping torrents of water on the airport.  My friends and I stood inside the large plate-glass windows of the FBO and watched the display of violence with no small amount of awe.  It was magnificent, but certainly nothing for the pilot who values life and limb to mess with.  

As the minutes passed, the rain began changing its character from the blinding wall of water it had been to something more benign.  Shafts of sunlight began to break through the clouds and gave the airport that liquid yellow look that God must have invented as a sort of reparation for the violence of the storm.  Then, suddenly, the rain stopped. 

We grabbed our bags and headed out to the airplane.  My friends loaded the plane while I conducted the preflight inspection.   Off to the North I could see the storm hadn’t quite cleared the north end of the North South runway.  It looked like a black wall of water that stretched from the ground upwards into space.  My plan was to get an immediate turn to the southeast as soon as possible after we got off the ground to stay clear of the black monster. 

Ground control gave us an immediate clearance to the end of Runway 35 Left.  Now that the storm had passed I could see the airliners pushing back from the gates for departure.  I wanted to get to the runway ahead of those guys because I didn’t want to be the gnat among the eagles competing for airspace.  Gnats lose that contest every time. 

I did my runup in position to taxi onto the runway. 

“Denver Tower, Twin Cessna 7475 Sierra ready for takeoff three five left.” 

“Twin Cessna seven five sierra cleared for takeoff, maintain runway heading, contact departure 132.75.” 

As I taxied the airplane onto the runway center line I could see the black wall of water about a mile off the end of the runway.   Since the runway was nearly two miles long I didn’t think I’d have any problems staying clear of the weather. 

Rolling down the runway I could see a spray of water being kicked up by the prop blast and the wheels as we raced through the puddles left by the storm.  After about a thousand feet the Cessna twin lifted into the air and, as it did, I switched frequencies to talk to the departure folks.  After the initial contact pleasantries I made my initial request for a turn to the east which was summarily denied. 

To say I was surprised by the denial is an understatement.  Never in all my years of flying had I been denied a request for a heading change due to weather.   I could continue on this heading for perhaps another minute before I’d be getting too close to that black wall for comfort. 

“Ahhh departure seven five sierra needs an IMMEDIATE turn to avoid running into a thunderstorm.”  

I emphasized the word “immediate” in hopes that the controller would recognize the potential seriousness of the situation if my request for an alternate heading was denied. 

“Seven five sierra, maintain runway heading.” came the reply. 

“Say whaaat?” 

I was dumbfounded.   We were passing over the north end of the runway with about 500 feet of altitude and looking directly down the throat of a raging thunderstorm.  I considered my options and fell miserably short of anything favorable.  I did the only thing I thought was reasonable. 

“Ahhh departure, seven five sierra can’t continue on this heading any longer so I’m turning right to a southeast heading.” 

“Seven five sierra, deviation southeast approved, pilots discretion.” 

There was frustration in the controller’s voice but I knew I had to risk the wrath of the FAA in order to live to fly another day.  Continuing on runway heading was simply not an option even if the FAA Administrator himself were giving me the instructions. 

There was a little residual turbulence from the storm but we were not too uncomfortable on the climbout. Most of all it was a safe climbout. 

“Departure, seven five sierra, why didn’t you approve my turn back there when I asked for it?” 

“Ahhh seven five sierra, our information indicated that there was a storm off to the east.” 

The look on my face must have been priceless.  I had all but pleaded with the controller to give me a turn to stay out of weather and the man on the ground wouldn’t give it to me because he had information that must have been out of date.  I had to respond. 

“Listen departure.  You guys are in a dark room down there and can’t see what’s going on.   I’m up here where I’ve got a pretty good view of the situation.  When a pilot asks for an immediate turn, I think you need to listen to him.” 

“Seven five sierra, I understand.  We do the best we can with what we have to work with.” 

The rest of the trip uneventful but this situation is an example of the rights of the pilot in command.   As PIC you are solely responsible for the safety of the flight, not the FAA.  You have the obligation by law to exercise your right as the sole decision maker whenever you deem it necessary to protect you and your passengers from potential harm.  You do not have to follow the instructions of a controller when, if by following those instruction, you put the safety of the flight at risk.  The FAA may ask you to explain your actions afterwards, but if you have acted with prudence, little if anything will come of it. 

However, consider the alternative.  If I had continued on course and flown into IMC conditions on a VFR flight, the FAA would have every right to take me to task.  In this case, not only would I have blundered my way into instrument conditions, but I would have likely encountered turbulence that would have resulted in a true emergency situation.   Obviously, I would rather risk a slap on the hand for being too safe, rather than face the consequences of flying into a thunderstorm. 

Your authority as Pilot in Command is as unlimited as your responsibility for the safety of the flight.   Use it wisely, but decisively.

“Left to zero nine zero, leaving nine thousand for five, three four tango.”

 I reached down to the autopilot, released the altitude hold, and trimmed the nose down.  The air noise in the cockpit immediately grew more intense as the airspeed responded to the descent.  I continued trimming the nose down till the descent registered 500 feet per minute on the instrument panel.  The airspeed settled about midway into the yellow arc and since the air was still smooth, I decided to leave the power at cruise setting.

 The sun always seems so warm on a cold winter day at cruise altitude and this day was no exception.  I had been sitting at nine thousand feet for nearly two hours in the warm sun while a raging snow storm was taking place over Ohio, somewhere below the white puffy clouds that were about one thousand feet below my elevated perch.  It was strangely surrealistic.

 The day had begun in Wichita where the weather was cold with scattered snow showers.  A friend of mine and I were supposed to fly two brand new Cessna 310’s to our distributor in Latrobe, Pennsylvania.  It was one of those typical January days when snow seemingly covered the whole eastern part of the country except the deep South.  A front was approaching the eastern border of Ohio bringing below minimum conditions over the whole state of Ohio.  In advance of the front there was fog.  Pittsburgh was reporting a 1,000 foot ceiling with visibility about one mile in fog.  Farther east, the main airport at Philadelphia was closed with heavy fog.  Strangely, our destination forecast was for 3,500 foot ceilings and five miles visibility.

 My friend and I viewed that forecast with great skepticism, to say the least.  Local conditions can vary significantly in a very few miles, but unless you happen to be very familiar with the area, I’ve always found it wise to view discontinuities in the weather with a great deal of caution. 

 Earlier that morning we stood at the windows of the flight planning room in Wichita looking out at the blowing snow on the runway.  We had decided that since the next forecast was due in twenty minutes it might be wise to delay our departure to get the latest observations.   Since this was to be a simple delivery flight and a return to Wichita via airline that night, thoughts of cancellation weighed heavily on my mind.  There was no pressing reason to get these airplanes to Latrobe that particular weekend, yet someone would have to get them there some day soon. 

 The airplane I was flying had an unusual configuration.  In addition to the main and auxiliary tanks, this airplane had long range tanks installed in both wing lockers which gave me a total fuel capacity in excess of 200 gallons.  This gave me a range of over 1,000 nm with a healthy reserve.  Making Latrobe nonstop would not be a problem.  The airplane also had the “Known Icing” option installed so anything short of severe ice was theoretically within the capabilities of the airplane. 

 The new forecast finally arrived and showed no changes from the previous hour.  As strange as it seemed the forecast for Latrobe remained wide open in spite of the fact that low IFR conditions prevailed nearly everywhere else.

 “What do you think?” I asked my friend.

 Steve took a minute before answering.  “Well the way I see it, we have plenty of fuel.  St. Louis and Indianapolis look reasonable so if Pittsburgh or Latrobe begins to close in before we get there, we can land and evaluate our options at that time.  I say we give it a shot.”

 If there is a colder place on this earth that Wichita in the middle of the winter, I don’t know where it is.  The cold north wind bit at every exposed part of my body as I did the preflight inspection.  I was chilled to the bone as I got into the airplane and secured the door.  I got even colder as I slipped off my gloves and bulky winter coat and slid into the left seat.  The inside of the airplane reminded me of the time when, as a second lieutenant in the Air Force, I was assigned to inventory the frozen food locker.

 I knew the engine start checklist by heart and quickly flipped the proper switches, advanced the mixtures and propeller levers, gave the left engine a long shot of prime, and punched the starter.  The left propeller began to rotate but the engine refused to fire.  Every few seconds it would act like it was going to start but would then go dead.  I didn’t want to overheat the starter so I gave it a rest for a minute or two and tried again.  This time I gave it more prime than I though it could use and tried the starter again.  I kept firing shots of prime as the prop began to rotate once again and suddenly the engine caught on what sounded like three or four cylinders. 

 ”Keep going baby or I’m going to freeze to death!” 

Slowly the other cylinders caught and I breathed a little easier.  The oil pressure grudgingly started showing signs of life. 

 For some reason the other engine roared to life after only a few seconds of cranking. 

“Thank God for small favors”, I thought. 

Gas fired heaters, like the ones in most piston twins, begin circulating warm air within seconds and I was thankful this one worked properly as I toggled the switch and immediately felt the warmth begin to flood into the cockpit.

 I kept the cowl flaps closed as I taxied to the runway to help warm the engines more quickly.  Even though we had to taxi nearly two miles to the end of the runway the oil temperatures were not in the green range when we arrive at the runup area.  After the runup and pre takeoff check list was completed oil pressures and temperatures were only barely nudging the bottom of the green arc. 

 I glanced over at Steve and gave him the thumbs up.  He returned my signal with a nod and a thumbs up.   

 Wichita tower, twin Cessna four niner three four tango is ready one right.”

 “Twin Cessna three four tango cleared for takeoff”

 The snow was blowing directly down the runway as I lined up on the center line but the overcast had lightened up considerably such that blue sky could be barely seen through the wispy clouds of snow and ice flakes.  Reaching center line I applied the brakes, set the DG to runway heading, and advanced the power to 20 inches.  With everything in the green, I released the brakes and slowly advanced the throttles.

 Acceleration was brisk and the airplane seemed to surge into the air as if in thanksgiving for being released from the frozen bondage of earth.  Before departure control could turn me on course I broke out of the thin overcast and into sunny blue skies.  The air was smooth so I turned on the auto pilot and selected heading hold on the autopilot for the climb to my assigned altitude of nine thousand feet.  I began to relax as I heard Steve talking to departure control a few miles behind me.  I was finally beginning to warm up.

 Above the clouds it was a very nice day.  Bright warm sun, smooth air, all was right with the world. I could see the ground through the thin clouds looking cold and barren.  If the weather were to hold at Latrobe this was going to be a piece of cake.

 A couple of hours later as we were passing St. Louis I called flight service to get an update on the weather.  The good news was that Latrobe was still forecast to be VFR on arrival.  However, Pittsburgh was now experiencing heavy snow.  I just couldn’t comprehend how the weather could be so different over a distance of 60 or so miles.  It just didn’t compute.  Indianapolis was reporting 800 and two with light snow so I decided to land there to top off the tanks and to reevaluate the situation.  My friend Steve decided to follow in my footsteps, so to speak.

 I didn’t want to spend too much time on the ground so I asked the line people for a quick turnaround.  Steve got on the phone with our distributor in Latrobe while I checked in with the weather folks and filed new IFR flight plans for each of us.  Nothing much had changed, Pittsburgh was getting clobbered with snow and Latrobe was still VFR.  Steve reported that our friends in Latrobe confirmed the fact that the weather was still VFR but we’d have to hurry if we expected to get there while the weather was still good.

 Our departure from Indianapolis was hurried and the folks at center were kind enough to give us a clearance even though I had only filed our IFR flight plans barely ten minutes prior.  However, now we had enough fuel to go to Latrobe and then retreat all the way to Florida, if need be, to find an airport where the weather was acceptable.  Lots of fuel means lots of options.

 About thirty minutes after takeoff and level again at nine thousand, I saw nothing but clouds underneath.  It was a massive snow storm and most of Ohio was getting clobbered.  The airports at Dayton and Columbus were closed due to snow accumulations on the runways.  I decided that if I was to maximize my options, it would be best to use the fuel in the wing locker tanks as early as possible.

 In spite of the fact that the Cessna 310 is a very simple airplane to fly, it has a very complex fuel system.  In every fuel injected airplane more fuel is fed to the engine than it uses.  The excess fuel is usually pumped back into one of the tanks.  In the 310, this fuel is always routed to the tip tanks, no matter which tank is currently in use.  That’s why the flight manual specifies that the main tanks, the tip tanks, should be selected for a minimum of thirty minutes prior to using either the Aux tanks or transferring fuel from the wing lockers.  If the pilot does not wait the required 30 minutes there may not be enough room in the main tank to accommodate the return fuel from the engine which would result in venting fuel overboard.

 In my case I wanted to use the fuel in the wing lockers because I wanted to make sure the fuel would actually transfer.  If it wouldn’t transfer, I wanted to know as soon as possible.  So, after waiting the required thirty minutes, I flipped the two transfer switches and both lights came on indicating that the fuel transfer pumps were indeed operating. 

 If all goes well the fuel transfers at about the same rate as the engines burn the fuel or perhaps a touch faster.  When the transfer is complete, about 45 minutes later, another set of lights come on, at which time the pilot is supposed to turn off the fuel transfer pumps.  This whole process sounds a lot more complicated than it really is in actual operation if there are two wing locker tanks.  If there is only one locker tank the pilot is required to crossfeed fuel to balance the fuel load in both wings.

 As I turned off the fuel transfer pumps ATC gave me the descent to five thousand feet.  As the airplane settled into a cruising descent I pushed the fuel mixtures up just a bit to compensate for the increasingly dense air.

 As I plunged into the clouds my hitherto smooth ride came to an end.

 “Twin Cessna three four tango, Latrobe is reporting three thousand overcast and five miles.  If you want I can give you a descent to VFR conditions or you can shoot the approach, your choice.”

 “Center, three four tango will take the descent to VFR conditions.”

 “Roger, three four tango is cleared to descend to and maintain three thousand, expedite your descent.”

 I pulled the power back to 21 inches and inched up the mixtures a bit more.  It seemed like the airplane was falling out of the sky with a descent rate well in excess of 1,000 feet per minute.  The turbulence increased the lower I got and with my Jepp book starting to move around in the right seat, I was just about to reduce the airspeed when I broke out of the clouds about five miles west of Latrobe. 

 “Center, twin Cessna three four tango has the airport in sight and is canceling IFR.”

 The ground around Latrobe was covered with snow but, as the forecast had promised, there was a very high ceiling with great visibility underneath.  

 I was very high entering downwind but the tower cleared me for landing anyway.   One thing you never have to worry about in a Cessna twin is losing altitude because the landing gear and flaps can be lowered at very high airspeeds.  When the tower cleared me for landing I reduced the power to 15 inches, and raised the nose just enough to slow the airplane down to gear down airspeed.  The airplane was really falling out of the sky now but all it would take to break the descent would be to raise the nose and to advance the power to 19 inches.

 Turning final with gear and flaps down, I advance the throttles to 19 inches and raised the nose till I saw 120 knots on the airspeed.  The landing was pretty good considering the slam dunk like approach and, as I turned off the runway, I could see the general manager of our distributor waiting for me on the ramp.  He directed me into a parking place in front of their building and waited while I shut the engines down.  As I got out of the airplane I looked up and saw Steve in a very high downwind executing the same slam dunk approach I had done a few minutes prior.

 I’ve had a long time to reflect upon that flight.  The weather was marginal or below minimums over most of the Eastern half of the United States but my friend and I completed the flights without incident.  The key to flying in any kind of weather is a concept I call the back door.  Never, fly anywhere or anytime unless you have a back door to use in the event the front door slams shut.  In this case we were careful to keep lots of fuel in the tanks.  We could have continued to Latrobe without the stop in Indianapolis, but we would have had a bit more than an hour left upon arrival.  That was plenty to satisfy the regulations but not enough, in my mind, to insure a safe flight.

 Through experience I have learned to expect the worst from the weather.  It’s a fact that the weather people are usually quite accurate in their forecasts.  But when they miss their forecast it’s like closing and locking the front door.  If you don’t have a key to the back door, you’re going to be left out in the cold, and when you’re flying that’s a prescription for disaster.  Always know what your options are and if they start closing, put the airplane on the ground at the closest convenient location till you have other options.  It’s your responsibility as pilot in command.

My two passengers and I stood looking at a crack in the exhaust manifold of the airplane we had flown to Albuquerque for a sales meeting.  Our trip to ABQ that morning had started in Wichita, Kansas in a Pressurized Cessna 210.  The trip had been silky smooth and had gone like clockwork.  Since it was to have been a one day trip, none of us had made any provisions for an over night stay.  It was obvious now that we were either going to have to stay the night or get an airline ticket to get home. 

Our Cessna zone manager walked over to the airplane and asked what we intended to do.  When we confessed our lack of ideas, he suggested that we take one of the 182’s that he had in stock on the ramp.  He pointed to a good looking blue Skylane and said he’d get the keys while allowing that one of his sales guys could use it for transportation back to  ABQ the next time someone was in Wichita.

 This wasn’t exactly the way I had things planned.  I had two passengers and a lot of equipment to get back to Wichita.  The temperature was near 100 degrees and the Skylane would be right at gross weight.  With a density altitude near 10,000 feet I was concerned about the climb out.

 One of my passengers was a  long time Cessna dealer from Albuquerque.  Having lived in the area for most of his adult life and having flown every airplane Cessna makes, I figured I could rely upon his judgment relative to the  merits of flying a heavy Skylane on a hot summer afternoon. 

 “Ahhh hell Patrick, the Skylane will fly with just about anything you can pack in it.” He said.  “Don’t worry about it.  We’ll be just fine.”

 They loaded the Skylane while I conducted the preflight inspection.  When I was finished my two passengers were already on board and the equipment was loaded above the window line in the baggage compartment and the left rear seat.  The Skylane just plain looked heavy even though I knew it was within the gross weight limit.

 “You sure about this?” I asked my crusty old friend.

 He nodded and said, “Let’s go.”

 I got in and secured my seat belt.  I went through the engine start check list with great deliberation and anticipation.  I was half in hopes that I’d find something wrong so I’d have an excuse to cancel the flight.  But nothing was wrong.  When the engine roared to life it turned out to be one of the smoothest running Skylane engines I had ever run up against. 

 After getting the requisite clearances from Ground Control.  We taxied to the runup area and performed the pre-takeoff check list.   Everything was perfect.  Despite my qualms I got a “cleared for takeoff” from the tower and pulled onto the runway center line. 

 I stood on the brakes and pushed the throttle to the firewall.  The big Continental six cylinder roared with all the power it could muster at this altitude.  I released the brakes and the airplane started to move, slowly at first but that was to be expected.  Actually, the airplane didn’t accelerate much slower than I would have normally expected at a much lower altitude.  As the airspeed indicator inched past 70 knots, I applied a bit of back pressure on the control yoke and, sure enough,  the Skylane came off the ground. 

 The old man was right, I thought.  This is going to be a piece of cake.

 I was wrong!  The airplane climbed to about fifty feet and didn’t go any further.  I froze the airspeed on the Vy speed.  I thought if I remained patient the climb would resume.  Hold your speed, don’t get excited, I told myself.

 I had waited too long.  It quickly became apparent that there was not enough runway left to put the airplane down, so I had no choice but to make it fly.

 Fortunately, the airport is situated on a high plain with the ground elevation falling off several hundred feet to the West.  Passing the end of the runway the ground started giving us more and more room so that I didn’t have any immediate concern about hitting anything.

 I turned to the old man in the right seat.  “Uhh  Bob.  This is about all the altitude we gonna get.  Got any ideas?”

 “Yeah,” he said.  “Take a slow turn to the right and head for the mountain.” The Sandia Mountains are just east of Albuquerque and rise to an altitude of 9,700 feet above sea level and about 4,400 feet above our altitude.

 “What???  Are you serious?” I said, not believing what had just heard.

 “Sure. It’ll be OK.  Just head for the mountain,” he said, giving the appearance of being totally unconcerned.

 At this point I was out of ideas, and having no other good alternative, I carefully fed in a banked turn to the East.  As we headed back towards higher ground, I saw the rate of climb indicator come to life.  I looked over at my old friend and saw sort of a smug smile come over his face.

 It wasn’t long before it became obvious that a turn back to the North would be necessary to keep from running into the side of the mountain, but not before we had gained approximately twelve hundred feet of altitude in the process.  As I made the turn to the North, my old friend said to go around the North end of the mountain where we’d find another mountain similar to this one, but a bit further to the North and East. 

 “Do the same thing again and we’ll have enough altitude to make it all the way to Wichita.”

 I had the feeling he knew what he was talking about so I executed the same maneuver again and, sure enough, we struggle all the way to 9,500 feet.   This was more than enough altitude to get us to Wichita.

 The rest of the flight was uneventful and I had almost four hours to reflect upon what had just happened.  The old man knew that the combination of a slight wind from the West and the thermals would give us the lift that we needed.   It’s the same principle that sailplane pilots use on almost every flight.  By heading towards the mountain the Skylane in essence became a powered glider.

 Never-the-less, it wasn’t smart.  I had violated several of my own principles.  First, I should have thought about what I was going to do in advance if the airplane did not fly as anticipated.  There were several good alternatives.  The runway was long enough so I could have tested to see if the airplane was going to climb adequately after takeoff and, if not, I could have reduced the power and landed right away.  If I did run out of runway, there is another airport that’s lower in elevation I could have made it to and landed.  I could have done either of these things if I had thought of it in advance and had been prepared.  I didn’t prepare myself properly and I didn’t identify my backdoor in case things went wrong.

 Secondly, I had allowed myself to be seduced into doing something that I wasn’t sure was safe.  In doing so I abdicated the responsibility of pilot in command to the person in the right seat.  That’s always a mistake.  You are either the pilot in command, or you are not.  If you’re sitting in the left seat, you are the pilot in command, unless the guy in the right seat is a CFI and it’s understood by both of you that you are receiving instruction.   When you are the guy in the left seat you should either take the responsibilities of pilot in command and make the tough decisions, or you should let someone else do the flying.  There is no in-between.

Typically we’d climb to five or six thousand feet and trim up the airplane in a cruise configuration.  Then we’d very carefully reduce the throttle, pull back the mixture control, and then feather the prop.  The airplane would always yaw around a bit requiring rudder pressure on the side of the good engine.  After securing the engine we’d do our single engine maneuvers, but always at altitude.

 When it came time to practice single engine landings and failed engines on takeoff, my instructor and almost every other instructor I know use the “zero thrust” method.  The instructor usually will reduce one of the throttles and then will tell the student to go through the procedure verbally.  But, they hardly ever actually shut the engine down.  So by the time I had my new multi-engine rating, I had never landed an airplane with one prop actually feathered. 

 I hadn’t had my multi-engine rating long when I secured a job at Cessna in the marketing research department.  One of the benefits at the time was to be checked out in nearly every airplane you had the certificates and the ratings to fly.  So it wasn’t long before I was given the opportunity to check out in a Cessna 310.

 I had been checked out in a number of single engine airplanes by Cessna in previous months.  Most of these check outs consisted of a written examination, an oral briefing, and a flight that consisted of stalls, steep turns, landings and takeoffs, and if you were instrument rated, several approaches.  Rarely did the actual flying take more than an hour and a half.  Actually, after the staff got to know you, and how you flew, the check outs grew progressively shorter.

 I really wasn’t expecting a rigorous check out the morning I added the 310 to the list of airplanes I was approved to fly for the company.  My instructor for the day, Nick, was a person who had the reputation of being very cautious, but I had flown with him several times before and we were comfortable with each other in our respective roles.

 Like most check outs it started with a review of the written examination.  It was always taken from the POH and contained questions that took some real digging to answer.  I had done my part of the job well enough and hadn’t missed any of the questions.

 Unlike other check outs Nick began with a one hour discussion about how this twin and every other Cessna twin was to be flown.  He wanted 23 inches of manifold pressure on the approach, 19 inches in the pattern with the first increment of flaps set.  Opposite the point of intended landing he wanted the gear extended and then when all three green lights appeared, I was to begin my turn to base.  On base leg he wanted the second increment of flaps selected and, turning final I could advance the props and the mixtures.  When I had the runway made I was to extend the final increment of flaps and then execute the landing.  If I did it everything right, the descent from downwind to the runway would be accomplished by increasing drag.  I should never have to change the power until I’m over the runway ready for touch down.  Never, was I ever, to allow the airplane to get slow.

 I was skeptical.   Nothing in my experience had prepared me for the “by the numbers” type of flying we would be using during this check out.  Nick said that with few modifications, the procedure would work on any Cessna twin.  I should increase the manifold pressure by two inches for turbocharged airplanes and I should use 24 to 25 inches for the 421.  Otherwise, everything else remained the same.

 The airplane was a beautiful new Cessna 310R.  I had never flown anything with so much stuff on the panel.  I was excited and anxious to get going.

 With 285 ponies on each side the 310 accelerated rapidly.  With Nick’s help I executed the departure procedure from Cessna field and we climbed out to the Northwest. 

 Nick really put me through my paces.  In the air we went through every imaginable maneuver.  We did slow flight, Vmc demonstrations, steep turns in both directions with all engines operative, and with engines on either side feathered.  We even did full stalls. 

 After a while we went to an abandoned Naval Air Station to practice landings and, sure enough, the procedure Nick had outline back at the office worked perfectly.  If I followed the procedure, all I had to do was to begin reducing power coming across the end of the runway while slowing the airplane by increased pitch.  It resulted in a near perfect landing every time.

 As Nick became more confident in my multi-engine skills he began selectively reducing power on an engine on downwind to simulate “zero thrust.”  None of this was new to me.  After a few landings with a simulated engine out, he began simulating the loss of an engine on the takeoff.  Again, nothing was new.  

 After two and a half hours I was getting tired so Nick suggested that we go over to Hutchinson to get lunch.  Hutchinson had a great airport restaurant at the time that was famous for their large servings.   During lunch Nick continued to fill me with the importance of flying the airplane the same way every time. 

 Refreshed after something to eat, we resumed the check out by going back to the old Navy base for more takeoffs and landings.  On arrival I half expected Nick to pull an engine for the landing, but too my surprise he didn’t.  He just indicated we should do a simple touch and go. 

 I was getting really comfortable with the way the 310 flies so the landing and subsequent takeoff went exactly as expected.   Passing three hundred feet on the climb the airplane suddenly yawed to the left.  I knew Nick had pulled an engine but I was surprised when I looked over and he had both hands in his lap.  Confused, I went through the engine shut down procedure and when I got to the fuel supply, I discovered that Nick had turned the fuel off to the left engine while I was preoccupied with the takeoff.

 “OK, let’s take it around for a landing.”

 “You mean like that?”  I said, indicating the feathered prop.

 Nick looked over at me and said, “Look, after today you’re going to be flying this airplane without me.  I’ve got to know that you can do it.”  With that said Nick turned his eyes away and began looking at the scenery as if everything was normal.

 My heart was pounding.  I don’t know that I had ever expected to actually land a multi-engine airplane with one of the props feathered.   I was trained to do it if I had to, but this was just a training flight.  It’s just not done.

 It didn’t take as long to reach pattern altitude as it had taken with a simulated engine shut down.  As a matter of fact I noticed that the airplane was much easier to fly.  As Nick had taught me, I carried two more inches of manifold pressure on the good engine but did everything else exactly the same way, including the use of flaps.  It all worked like clockwork.  On final I looked over at Nick who appeared to be interested in something off to the right side of the runway, not in what I was doing. 

 The landing was perfect.  As I taxied off the runway I asked Nick how he could be so calm with one engine shut down and a low time multi-engine pilot in the left seat. 

 His response was gratifying.  “I wouldn’t have let you try it if I had any doubts.  I just wanted you to have the experience of landing an airplane with one engine actually shut down.  Now you know there is nothing to fear from an engine failure.  The airplane is actually easier to fly with one feathered than with simulated zero thrust.”

 Nick and I flew many times together after that flight.  We became friends, although not close.  It had taken more than three hours of work and practice before he had enough confidence to allow me to go through with an actual single engine landing.  Later when I was taking one of my regular six month instrument proficiency flights, he feathered an engine and had me fly an entire instrument approach under the hood to a full landing.

 I am grateful to my friend and flight instructor Nick.  He had confidence in himself to know when I was ready for the ultimate test.  His confidence gave me confidence in myself that reached far beyond flying airplanes.

It was a beautiful Indian summer evening in Wichita and the sun was still warm as I went through the usual pre-flight routine on the Cardinal RG I had reserved from our flying club.  My wife had gone to Dodge City on a business trip earlier that morning and I had agreed to pick her up at 8:00 PM and fly her back to Wichita.  It’s not a long trip and I would have preferred to have taken one of the club’s Cessna 172’s but they were all booked up with student lessons. 

The RG was brand new having been delivered from the factory across town the month before.  Since the airplane had less than a hundred hours on the airframe I took a close look at every hinge and fitting I could see.  Having assured myself that the airplane was airworthy I grabbed my maps and strapped into the left seat in anticipation of another glorious night of flying. 

The weather could not have been better.  The winds were calm all over the state of Kansas and CAVU prevailed over most of the Great Plains.   It was going to be smooth and the views from the air promised to be nothing short of great.

 My plan was to take an immediate turn to the west after takeoff and follow US Highway 54 to Dodge City.   The field elevation at Dodge City is 1,200 feet higher than Wichita and I wanted to stay low to enjoy the view so I planned to climb to 3,500 feet after takeoff which would put me right at pattern altitude for landing.  It wasn’t a very elegant plan, but it’s all but impossible to get lost on a night cross county to Dodge City if you know anything at all about the geography of the state, and there is almost nothing I could hit above about 50 feet off the ground.

 As I began the takeoff roll the sun was low enough in the sky to give everything the reddish yellow tint we humans find so beautiful in the early evening.  Liquid gold is the way a photographer friend of mine puts it. As soon as the RG lifted off the ground, I moved the gear handle to the up position and was greeted  with the usual growling sound of the motors that stow the gear.   I asked the control tower for a right turn on course which was immediately approved.

 As I knew it would be, the air was absolutely as smooth as glass.  These are the times I think most pilots treasure most.   Even the smallest movement of the control yoke was translated into a movement by the airplane that I could feel.  The only way I can describe it is joy.  It’s nothing short of the reason I started flying in the first place, and it keeps me coming back. 

 It’s not far to Dodge City from Wichita. . . .perhaps an hour.  As the sun sank below the horizon, the earth below me took on a look that changed from yellow-red to bluish-grey.  It wasn’t long before black replaced the brilliant colors that were so evident a few minutes before.  At first, the replacement of black for the bright colors of sunset is a disappointment but it is soon replaced by the glory of lights on the ground in the midst of a total absence of anything else.  Pin points of light explode against a background of nothing.   It is beautiful.

 As darkness replaced light, I found my self flying the airplane with my finger tips.  Before long I realized that there was not to be any moonlight this night to help distinguish objects on the ground.   About twenty minutes out of Dodge City I was completely immersed in a sea of black.  Except for the attitude gyro on the instrument panel there was no way to tell where the horizon might be.  The lights on the ground and the stars above almost seem to blend together as if I was suspended in deep space where up and down has no meaning.  So in reality, I was flying IFR. 

 It’s a very strange feeling to know intellectually that you are in an airplane hurtling through the air mass at 150 knots, but at the same time to have no sensory conformation of that movement.   The combination of the glassy smooth air, the exceptionally dark night, and low altitude over southwestern Kansas together gave me the impression of an airplane sitting on the ground somewhere with the engine running.  I could look straight down and see the security lights at the farms go rushing past, but looking out the front windscreen the impression of motion ceased entirely.

 I knew I was getting close to Dodge City so I tuned in the VOR.  As I suspected the DME showed me I was twenty miles from my destination.  I could see the lights of Dodge City off to the left of the nose of the airplane and I could see the rotating beacon flash every few seconds.  In spite of everything I felt very uncomfortable.  Something was just not right. 

 The airport at Dodge City is somewhat east of the city surrounded by nothing but wheat fields.  The only lights come from the airport itself.  As they came into view I had the very definite impression that the airport had somehow become detached from the ground and was floating around in a sea of black.

“Dodge City unicom, Cardinal N3479 tango, five east for landing.”

 “Cardinal 79 tango, Dodge City unicom, winds are calm, altimeter two niner niner two, no reported traffic.”

 “Roger, I’m supposed to pick up my wife.  Do you have a woman there in the lounge that appears to be waiting for someone?”

 “Yes sir, she’s here.”

 “OK thanks, tell her I’ll be down in about five minutes.”

 The airport was clearly within view but I still couldn’t shake the feeling that it was floating around in the middle of a black ball.  I seemed to have no depth perception at all.  It suddenly came to me that this is the way unwary pilots have flown into the ground while in full view of the airport.  I had always wondered how that could happen but now I could see how easy it would be to blunder into the ground well short of the runway.

 The field elevation at Dodge City is 2,596 feet.  I decided I wanted to be at five hundred feet one mile from the end of the runway on final.  At an 80 knot approach speed a six hundred foot per minute descent would put me about fifty feet above the threshold. 

 As I entered downwind, I was very conscious of my altitude.  I leveled off at 3,400 feet with the runway fully visible off to the left of the airplane.   The impression of a bunch of lights floating in the middle of a black hole was even stronger from this vantage point.   As the end of the runway came opposite the wing tip, I lowered the gear and took note of the time.  Forty five seconds would be required at this speed to put me one mile out.

 As the three green lights winked on confirming that the landing gear was down and locked, I kept a careful watch on the rate of descent and the altimeter.  After forty five seconds I began a ninety degree left turn to base leg.  With no visual cues out of the windscreen the turn to base was a classic instrument training maneuver.  I wanted to level off at 3,100 feet and at about half way through the turn I had to apply power while maintaining a constant turn to the desired 90 degree point. 

 As I rolled the airplane level, the floating airport came into full view out the left window.  My concentration level was as intense as any actual instrument approach I had ever flown. 

 “OK now,” I thought, “let’s get the second increment of flaps down and begin to turn final.”  

 I was talking to myself all the way down final.  “Nice and easy.  Watch your altitude.  Rate of descent is a little low, get some power off.  Easy now, not too much.  Altitude is 2,950.”  

 About a quarter of a mile out the landing lights began to illuminate the runway and my depth perception returned.  I had the runway made so I lowered the final increment of flaps and watched as the runway grew larger in my field of vision.

 The landing was very smooth, one of those once in a hundred when the wheels just start rolling with no perceivable shock or bump indicating a reunion with mother earth.  As I taxied off the runway my senses were saturated and my emotions were a confusion of joy and fright. 

 It was a quick turnaround.  No sooner had the prop stopped turning when the right door opened and my wife climbed in.  The return trip to Wichita was made at a much higher altitude where momentary lapses of concentration were not as likely to produce tragedy.   Passing through 5,000 feet the unmistakable glow of the lights of Wichita could be seen in the distance defining the horizon. 

It was a flight I have never forgotten even though the intervening years have dulled so many others.  It taught me several valuable lessons that have served me well.  First, flying on a dark night is no different from flying in the clouds and in many ways it is more dangerous.  When you’re actually flying IFR you must comply with a very ridge set of regulations and procedures designed to result in a safe outcome.  Flying at night, VFR, does not provide for the loss of sensory input that can suddenly overwhelm the inexperienced.  

I made up my mind that night that flying cross country at night deserved the same respect as flying IMC.   Ever since then I have followed the same procedures as I would if were actually IFR.  I usually don’t file an actual IFR flight plan, but I do pay attention to the minimum safe obstruction clearance altitudes and the minimum sector altitudes.  I also use the IFR approach paths to the runway environment.    I don’t fly the procedure turns or the DME arcs, but I am careful to stay within the airspace limits.  That may sound like overkill, but too many pilots have met their maker by running into the terrain at night. 

Second, I learned that altitude is the pilot’s best friend at night.  I have found that spatial orientation tends to improve with altitude.  It also gives you time in the event the engine decides to take a nap.  I like to have at least 4,000 feet above the highest obstruction.  It does take a bit longer to climb, but I think the extra three or four minutes is time well spent in terms of keeping clear of potential unanticipated collisions with the ground, and in terms of giving you a greater range of alternatives should you need to find a place to land. 

Last, I learned that good landings are the result of good preparation.  In this case I had already flown the approach in my minds eye before I did it for real.  Advance preparation for every phase of the flight is a requirement for the truly safe pilot.  Before takeoff, take a few minutes to think through what you’re going to be doing and how you’re going to do it.  What altitude?  What power setting?  What happens if . . . ???  Then, once in flight do it like you planned it.  The fastest way for any pilot, experienced or not, to get into trouble is to “kick the tires, light the fires, and go.”  If you concentrate on what you’re doing good things will come your way, especially when you are the pilot in command.

 I was tired and the weather in Wichita had been getting progressively worse all day.  The ATIS gave the current observation as 300 obscured with one half mile visibility and fog.  I was tired from flying all day and wasn’t looking forward to yet another low approach.     

 The day began in Oakland, California where the weather was overcast with drizzling rain from a cold front extending from western Montana to just south of San Francisco.  Heavy icing was reported across the Sierras with IFR conditions extending as far east as St. Louis  Even though the Cessna 340 I was flying had “Flight into Known Icing” equipment I had been advised by the folks in the local area that this was not a front to penetrate in a light twin.  Their advice was to take the southern route over central Arizona, Albuquerque, Dalhart, direct Wichita.  That meant nearly eight hours enroute but having always believed in the old saying “there are no old and bold pilots…”, I reluctantly filed for the southern route with a planned fuel stop in Prescott, Arizona.

 The takeoff went smoothly and as the gear locked in place, the rain began falling heavily sounding like BB’s hitting the wind screen.  But with the engines singing their usual song of good health and with only one soul on board the airplane gave me a spirited climb to my assigned cruising altitude.  The clouds were dark grey, but shortly after leveling off and trimming for cruise, the rain became lighter and the clouds started turning to a very light grey.  It wasn’t long before the grey haze gave way to silky smooth blue skies.

 At Prescott I learned the forecast for Wichita had changed.  Earlier in the morning the forecast had been for 1,000 foot ceilings with 2 miles visibility.  The forecast for Tulsa, my planned alternate, had called for 2,000 and five.  Now the Wichita forecast was for an 800 foot ceiling and one mile visibility.  Tulsa had also changed with a forecast now calling for 1,000 and three.  Obviously the front was moving a lot faster than expected and was picking up moisture support from the Gulf of Mexico.  Experience had taught me that when the weather forecasts start trending downward, the trend rarely reverses itself.  I figured the worst news was yet to come and that I’d better get to Wichita as fast as possible if I wanted to get home tonight.

 Airborne once again there were no clues the weather was about to close in.  The flight across Arizona, and New Mexico was as beautiful as I have ever experienced in my forty years of flying.  At my assigned altitude at Flight Level 210 I could see the Grand Canyon to the North and Meteor Crater just over the nose.  Over central New Mexico I began to get my first clue of what was to come.  A dark bluish black haze began to form in the northern skies. 

 Passing Albuquerque, Flight Service confirmed my suspicions about the trend in the weather at Wichita. The amended forecast was now expecting a ceiling of 600 feet with one mile visibility at the time of my arrival in the Wichita area.  Even worse, the forecast at Tulsa was now calling for 800 feet and 2 miles visibility.  The deterioration was worse than I expected, and I knew that if it continued to deteriorate at this rate, I could miss the approach at Wichita and arrive at Tulsa with the twin terrors of minimum fuel and minimum weather conditions.  This was a situation I knew made old widows out of young women, so I listened to the broad yellow stripe up my back and landed at Dalhart for more fuel.

 Back in the air after a half hour I settled back for what I now knew would be a very low approach at Wichita.  The Dalhart Flight Service Station had given me another amended forecast for Wichita, a ceiling of 400 obscured with 3/4 mile visibility.  Worse yet there had been freezing rain in the area and the runway was covered with a sheet of ice. Tulsa had fallen below IFR alternate minimums so my new alternate was Denver where conditions were improving now that the front had past.  While the forecast did not include anything other than light rime icing on the approach, I took some comfort in the fact that I had the deice equipment to handle all but the worst.

 ”Twin Cessna Three Four Echo, Wichita Approach, if you want we can hold you high out of the ice for a while or we can give you a descent now.  Your choice.”

 I chose to start my descent.  I wanted to build up enough ice on the boots to break off just before the outer marker.  I didn’t want to run the risk a getting ice on the wings I couldn’t break off.

 Wichita approach cleared me to an altitude of three thousand, and gave me a left turn to a heading of zero one zero, vectors for the ILS 19 Right approach.  I released the altitude hold, trimmed the nose down, and turned the heading bug to 010.  After eight hours of flying I was very tired so I figured I’d let the autopilot fly  the approach.

 Almost as soon as I entered the clouds the ice began to build. It was light, but instead of building uniformly on the leading edge of the wing it formed with what looked like little slivers about the size of a pencil lead building up in 90 degree angles to the rounded leading edges of the wings. 

 ”Twin Cessna Three Four Echo, turn right one four zero, cleared for the one nine right approach, altimeter two niner eight niner contact tower 118.6 at the outer marker.” 

 As the directional gyro centered on a heading of one four zero, I saw the localizer needle come alive so I adjusted the heading bug further right to one nine zero to capture the IlS.  I engaged the Nav and Altitude Hold functions on the autopilot to set up for the approach. 

 As I toggled the switch for the deice boots I watched with dismay as the boots expanded but the ice stayed firmly attached to the boots.  The Cessna 340 is not known for its ability to carry a lot of ice so I inched the throttles ahead to carry an additional 20 knots down final to compensate for the disturbed air flow across the wings.

 The blue flashing light and the beeping of the marker beacon were my cue to lower the landing gear.  As the three green lights winked on, the autopilot captured the glideslope.  I made my obligatory call to the tower while keeping one hand on the throttles and the other loosely around the control wheel.  My left thumb hovered over the autopilot disconnect button, ready for any miscue.

 Passing though 600 feet AGL there was no sign of a break in the clouds and I began to consider the possibility of a missed approach.  At 400 feet AGL I saw the localizer needle inch to the right while the airplane began a curious slow bank to the left.  I hesitated wondering if it wasn’t just a short term abnormality.   

 Suddenly the airplane began a rapid roll to the left.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out I’d soon be digging a hole in the ground just outside the middle marker if I didn’t do something fast.  I clicked the autopilot off with the thumb release and tried to reverse the roll.  Fortunately, the airplane responded as expected and I continued rolling past the upright position into a shallow bank to the right.  Having ended up left and somewhat below the glide path, I applied back pressure to regain the glide slope.

 They say that God loves children and fools and that night I learned that at the age of 38, I was one of the two.  As I glanced out the windscreen, I saw the winking of the strobe lights leading the way to the runway.  I gently lowered the left wing to line up with the runway and watched the ILS needles come to rest, once more, in the center of the ball.

 Crossing the runway threshold, I began leveling the airplane above the runway with back pressure and bleeding off the power for a landing.   I got the surprise of my life when the nose suddenly pitched up and the airplane fell out of the air and onto the ice covered runway below.  As I lowered the nose wheel to the runway, I thanked God for the twenty knots I had added earlier as the airplane had just stalled at 100 knots, about two feet above the pavement. 

 It took every inch of the runway to stop as the ice made the breaking action near nil.  After taxing to an open tiedown, a feeling of relief flooded through my body.   My hands shook from relieved tension as I completed the shut down check list, and listened to the line boys’ comments about the ice on the wings. 

 After nearly 1,500 miles I had come very close to putting an airplane into the ground in the last half mile of my flight.  I had two opportunities, but with training and luck, I had survived to fly again.  

Once it was over and I had a chance to think about it, I came to the conclusion there were a few things I would do differently in the future.  First, it’s not smart to fly a sophisticated twin for eight hours alone and then attempt a landing in near minimum conditions.  Whether we like to admit it or it or not, the work load in a light twin during an IFR approach is as heavy as a jet airliner, especially when things start going wrong.  

Even though I had been well trained I had been lucky, so I vowed to never fly “heavy IFR” without a copilot, and in the intervening years I never have.  Second, I learned not to trust all the sophisticated equipment that makes our flying so much easier.  I have hand-flown every approach ever since, tired or not, with a copilot.  I may some day attempt another coupled approach….but then I may not either.