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| Lone Star Skies | Jul '08 |
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| By J Carpenter |
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Pilots love summers because flying weather improves. They hunker down in the dark winter months, dreaming of warmer weather, when they can fly their families to exotic vacation spots in the mountains or by the sea. However, dreams can become nightmares when bad weather occurs, no matter what the season. Here's a tale about how I learned to park my pride and gain valuable new flying skills.
At a flight safety seminar a while back, the speaker, a certified flight instructor, asked for a show of hands of instrument-rated pilots. Seeing my hand in the air, he asked me to stand.
"Are you IFR current?" The instructor wanted to know if I was legally up to date on the required tasks to fly using instrument flight rules set forth by the Federal Aviation Administration.
"Why yes, I am." My chest was bulging with pride as I answered, addressing the audience as much as the speaker. "I've remained current since the day I obtained my IFR rating."
"Ah, but are you instrument proficient?" he retorted.
A long, uncomfortable silence fell across the room as I tried to figure out where he was going with this line of questioning. I told him I was proficient enough to get from point A to point B, without mishap, for the past 15 years. Pilots have strong egos and to imply that one's flying skills might not be up to snuff was like asking a Texan, "What is the largest state in the Union?" You just don't ask Texans that sort of thing without an ensuing verbal altercation.
The CFI pushed the point further by asking several questions about emergency procedures during flight in the clouds and instrument meteorological conditions. My first responses were adequate, but in less than a minute, I was stuttering and mumbling under my breath. Feelings of anxiety came rushing to my mind, similar to taking a fifth grade history test (for which I had not studied). What started out as friendly dialogue was turning into a modern-day Spanish Inquisition.
I sat down, or rather was shot down, flames trailing behind the tattered wings of my bruised ego. The speaker was right though. I knew that my perceived flying abilities were probably of less value than my practical ones. I decided to find a good instructor and enroll in a series of IFR proficiency classes. This decision would prove to ensure the safety of my wife, dog and myself.
I can sum up in two short stories examples of my pilot proficiency, before the ensuing lessons and after I had completed several of them.
Story one: Before I began the IFR proficiency program, I planned a trip from Austin to Lubbock. The travel time is about two and a half hours in my Grumman Tiger. I checked the weather on TV, viewed several aviation websites and called the San Angelo flight service station for a formal briefing. The forecast was for visual meteorological conditions, meaning nice weather. I filed an IFR flight plan, for safety reasons, even though the weather was clear. At the airport, I performed a thorough preflight inspection of "Two Five Bravo," packed the wife and dog into the plane then and called FSS again for a last minute update.
"You're 'gonna have good weather," the briefer's voice cracked over my mobile phone speaker. "All is clear from Austin to Lubbock." His West Texas drawl was comforting, somehow.
We took off in clear skies and headed northwest. I noticed clouds building ahead over the hill country, but hey, they said the weather was good . . . right? To make a long story short, we found ourselves in the middle of fast-building cumulonimbus clouds just east of San Angelo. Soon, I was battling turbulent winds in solid clouds. I knew we were in trouble when a bolt of lightning flashed 100 yards off the nose of the aircraft. I remembered the words of my initial flight instructor, "There are two groups of people one should never trust—politicians and weather forecasters." As it turns out, he was right about the latter.
I called air traffic control to request a diversion to anywhere with clear weather. Unfortunately, the radar back at Houston Center is inadequate to see what was going on out in the deserts of West Texas.
"You're cleared to do whatever you want," replied the controller. "There's no other traffic in your area." That wasn't surprising. What other fool would be flying in these restless skies?
I banked the plane to the south, where I last saw clear skies. I struggled to keep the plane in level flight and maintain my altitude, but that became impossible. The realization hit home right away that I am not instrument proficient for this type of weather. Disorientation crept in, and feelings of panic leaped to high levels. This was not fun.
We finally broke out of the ugly clouds, and with a long diversion leg to the west, circumvented the bad storms building rapidly off my right wing. What had started as a routine flight turned out to be life threatening. The thought became clear of how vulnerable I was to emergency situations in IMC. Reservations were made for IFR refresher lessons immediately after landing in Lubbock.
Most instrument rated pilots find their flying skills rust up rather quickly without constant practice. My skills were no exception. I always logged the necessary six approaches in six months, as required by the FAA, but little more than that.
I enrolled at ProMark Aviation in Burnet, Texas, which has a popular program called IFR Constant Proficiency. Two items became apparent after beginning the lessons; I had forgotten many techniques necessary to fly safely in IMC, and I discovered new skills that were never taught in my initial IFR training.
"You're working at this too hard," said Ken Wittekiend, owner of ProMark. I was jockeying with the power and trim in my plane while shooting approaches, trying to stay centered with the FAA terminal procedures. The foggles I wore steamed up from my nervous sweating.
"We need to start over and figure out the proper power configurations for your plane," he said in a calm, reassuring voice.
Wittekiend found the proper power settings for my plane to cruise, descend and climb at 120 knots airspeed, without ever having to adjust the trim wheel. The experiment took about 20 minutes. This simple technique reduced my workload by half, which in turn afforded more time to communicate with ATC and navigate the plane. Wittekiend also taught emergency techniques to help get me out of trouble. Over time, tensions fell as my confidence level rose.
Story two: As fate would have it, the weather was IMC all the way home to Austin, this time from Big Spring. My wife, dog and I were flying again in inclement weather. Light rain was falling, but there was no convective activity. Waves of precipitation washed the plane for approximately one-third of the flight. I flew for more than two hours, seldom seeing the sky or the ground; however, I felt confident, applying my newly learned skills. We broke out of the clouds on final approach to Austin Bergstrom International Airport. Before taking the lessons, I would've been soaked in sweat and nervous. This day, my nerves were calm, and I even had an appetite for lunch as we put the plane away in the hangar.
The weather had not been turbulent, just soupy, which would've been enough to delay my "go, no-go" decision with my old skill proficiency. Presently, I feel confident to fly hard IMC, provided there are no observed storms in the route of flight and the landing site is at or above my personal minimums at the expected time of arrival (plus or minus one hour). I'm continuing my instrument proficiency lessons and regularly fly under the hood with safety pilots to keep my skills honed.
The moral of the story is this: we all are students discovering something new with each flight. Pilots should drop the ego thing and take instrument refresher lessons to rid their brains of rust, no matter their perceived proficiency levels. Then continue practice with a safety pilot. Remember, rust never sleeps. It has to be constantly swept away, less something evil reaches out and bites you, such as the unpredictable Texas weather.
Fly safe.
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