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Most aspiring pilots face the daunting task of building flight time required for those golden airline careers. Usually, this entails pilots paying their dues at small bottom-feeder companies whose reputations can sometimes be dubious, and whose procedures may raise eyebrows. Like most pilots pining for that illustrious flying job, I decided to leave my cushy federal posting as a meteorologist and jump ship to fly Navajos at a small air courier operation based in Halifax, Nova Scotia (east coast of Canada). I soon realized it was nothing but “bush flying” in Eastern Canada. With the airplanes barely IFR equipped, the weather took top priority on the list of challenges.
The Navajos flown by our small air courier operation based in Halifax were barely IFR equipped.
The company had three runs departing in the wee hours of the morning. One five-airport route entailed flying from Halifax, Nova Scotia, to Moncton, New Brunswick (N.B.) to Chatham, N.B (blessed with a 10,000-foot runway abandoned by the military), then further north to Bathurst, N.B, and Bonaventure, Quebec. The last leg had us resting in sleeping bags at the back of a flight service station in Charlo, N.B., for the day, then backtracking the same route in the evening.
Our five-airport route had us resting in sleeping bags for the day, then backtracking the same route in the evening.
Bathurst only offered an NDB (Non-Directional Beacon) approach, i.e., a non-precision cloud-breaking procedure. Thus, its high break-out limits meant a successful landing in low, crappy weather wasn’t going to happen. Besides, time was crucial in the courier business, so flying a “straight-in scud run approach” proved faster and far more productive than a full-procedure NDB approach. (I can see the smiles of many pilots reading this as they too have been there). The procedure to get into Bathurst, when dubious weather prevailed, entailed a request for special VFR out of Chatham. After takeoff, we would head north, flying low to catch sight of the railway tracks leading us into Bathurst. IFR meant “I Follow Railroads” – classic “scud running.”
When flying this route in VFR conditions during my first officer days, I noticed that a new highway originated from Chatham and appeared to head to Bathurst. I decided that when I was captain, I would fly low to follow the highway instead of using the tried and tested railroad technique, which made more sense…so I thought.
Getting my captain’s seat came fast, and sure enough, the weather came down in New Brunswick during the first week after having my fourth stripe. While following the usual procedure, we requested special VFR out of Chatham; however, the 600 foot overcast cloud deck quickly turned to 200 feet overcast over the hills to the north. I told my first officer we would take the highway into Bathurst because it was the first recognizable landmark while frantically scanning the terrain in murky conditions.
Less than 200 feet above the deck, we were precariously skirting the bases over the highway at 180 knots with car license plates easily readable. I didn’t realize two things: first, the new road wasn’t completed and it quickly ran into the old highway. Second, the old highway had very tall communication towers along the roadside and luckily, my first officer knew about the towers.
Suddenly, he yelled, “Tower!” It was a dreadful sickening feeling, flying ever so close to the tower with the supporting guy wires clearly visible. The tower pulsed strobe lights, meaning it poked menacingly into the sky to at least 500 feet unseen in the daunting gloom. Farther down the road, we narrowly navigated around two more smaller communication towers. We did make it into Bathurst and finally to our last stop, but the lesson learned proved insurmountable. My first officer, still a good friend, brings it up as one of those “there we were stories.”
Hearing the first officer yell “Tower!” was a dreadful sickening feeling.
I’ve been teaching weather to ‘wannabe pilots’ for years, and I usually end my last class with my brush-with-death story. I tell the class that they should always set limits for themselves and if things start going to hell in a handbasket – get out of there! Also, adhere to the procedures set out by the company. Even if they seem a little different and questionable, they tend to be tried and tested.
I highly suggest the book Fate is the Hunter by Ernest Gann. His memoir of aviation alludes to the elusiveness of luck as anyone’s fate is partly contrived by the individual. Luckily for me, fate was on my side that day.
Three years ago I received an email with horrific news. About 15 years ago, I signed a book for a father who worked for my airline that had a young son pining for the skies. The father would read my book’s anecdotes to his son. Eventually, the son became a pilot. At age 21, and with another young aspiring pilot in a Cessna 150, they tragically hit power lines in Les Cedres, Quebec, while flying at dangerously low altitudes during a night flight near the airport. Both were killed. The power line towers topped at 130 feet while the wires they hit were even lower to the ground. I dedicated book number four, This Is Your Captain Speaking, to them. “I dedicate this book to two aspiring pilots, {names withheld}, both tragically killed while chasing their dreams February 2020.” The parents of the young men will never be the same.
In his book, Ernest Gann frequently queried why it was the others, and not him, when disaster lurked. I thank my lucky stars fate was with me that scud running day and continued throughout my aviation career as I encountered challenges. This incident happened over 35 years ago and I now reminisce about it nonchalantly. Time has withered the fact of how close we came to catastrophe. You, too, will have your close-call stories. Be safe, everyone, and may all your flights always have fate on your side.
- Flirting with the tropopause - October 16, 2023
- Fate was on my side – a lesson in scud running - March 22, 2023
Great read, Doug! I grew up in Southern California and learned to fly at Van Nuys airport in the San Fernando Valley back in the ’70s. Radio and TV towers were rarely addressed by flight instructors as they were neatly bunched on the tops of the highest mountains surrounding Los Angeles (Mt. Wilson) and Orange County (Saddleback Peak). Heck, our Cessna 150 and Cherokee 140 trainers could barely fly high enough to reach those towers. Fast forward to the late ’90s when my wife, our dogs, and I would fly our plane to the Midwest five or six times a year to visit her family in rural Minnesota where she was born and raised. There were certainly no mountains to worry about once east of the Rockies. It wasn’t until my first inadvertent/inattentive too close encounter with one of those towers, on a severe clear day, that I gained a new found and healthy respect for sectional charts (now Foreflight and TAWS). We now live in Minnesota and I fly a Premier Jet based at KANE (Anoka County airport) just north of MSP. Typical IFR routing from the south is vectoring directly over MSP and, when clear of the airline traffic and with ANE in sight, a clearance for the visual approach. However, that clearance is always given after answering the approach controller’s query as to whether I am familiar with the three Shoreview Towers that rise 1400′ above the terrain between MSP and ANE. I wonder if Midwest primary students are as unknowingly ignorant of mountains as I was of towers. I think not, those mountains are way easier to spot.
Flying out of KSGS, I’ve scooted around those behemoths plenty of times, always keeping a sharp eye on them.
Hi JR. I flew over your area yesterday. The Fleming Field airport looks like a neat place to fly out of. But I don’t think I can get a B787 in there. :) Thanks for the comment.
Hi Pat. Thank you for this. I agree with you about knowing the whereabouts of towers. Southern California? I am on a LAX layover (Manhattan Beach) and will soon fly over your mentioned mountains. (I’ll be watching a new hire land the B787 for the first time in Toronto). I’ll see if I can spot KANE. Again thanks for the great in-depth comments.
I can remember two incidents, both, I believe, were Pt 91 “0-0” departures.
“There, but for the grace of God, go I”
I learned the specifics of one, at Long Beach, from the man that drove the “follow-me” truck out to the runway center line. The aircraft impacted a Natural Gas Storage Tank off the end and to the right of the runway.
The other was a departure from Fullerton that hit the radio tower off to the left of the runway. I do not recall the weather for that incident.
I give credit for my not duplicating these experiences to good flight instructors, including Rod Machado from whom I received my IFR training.
Marc. Part 91 (zero -zero) conditions? The grace of God is definitely required. You had the iconic Rod Machado as an instructor? No wonder you can recount some great stories. Thanks for the comments. Captain Doug
Scud running on floats in Southeast Alaska meant being right down on the water sometimes. I once had a near mid air collision with one of the Alaska Marine Highway’s ferry boats in a narrow area when the rain turned to snow. Another time I rounded Point Retreat near Juneau and found myself right in the middle of a huge fishing fleet. I immediately landed and began step taxiing doing a 180 and beating my own retreat back to Juneau.
Joe. I bet you could write a book on scud running in Alaska. You float guys are amazing. I shot a CAT III approach into Vancouver once, only to see float planes scud running up and down the coast. When I am on a layover in Vancouver, the hotel gives us rooms overlooking the float plane operation. I watch the operation with total respect.
Great story, Doug! I flew fixed and rotary wing aircraft for a company out of Saint John, NB (you can guess which one) and experienced all which you describe. It was a great time, but not without its moments!
John
John. I bet the company name rhymed with Irving Oil. LOL. I too have ‘moments’ of flying into CYSJ. One of the foggiest airports on the east coast.
I once flew 250 miles scud running across Kansas. Maybe 1000 feet if that. Trust me, it was quite scary. Looking back, what i should have done was to fly up to a east -west road, and followed that. Instead of going GPS direct. As I came across a tower, I went around them, due to the guy wires. Then I got back on course. I didn’t need the whole seat, because I was sitting on the edge of it. I promise I will NEVER repeat that experiance. It felt like if I had went any lower, I would have taken the spots off the cows with the propellar.
Karrpilot. I bet you indeed flew on the edge of your seat! 250 miles of scud running? That sounds like you may have set a record. Glad you are still around to recount your story. :)
I recently finished ‘Fate is the Hunter’ , recommended by the Author of ‘Finding Carla’. ( every pilot requiring a survival kit should read it)
My story was far more tragic and detailed in ‘into the Abyss’, by Carol Shaben. Glad that you made it through.
Erik! I just Googled Finding Carla. What a horrific story! Into the Abyss? The author, Carol Shaben studied at Kings College in my hometown, Halifax. I have two books to buy! My article is quickly revealing books that have been written and books that should be written. I am glad you ‘made it through, also.”
Capt Morris:
Thoroughly enjoyed your article. Also a book you will enjoy, assuming you haven’t read it is: “North Star over My Shoulder,” by Bob Buck. Like Fate is the Hunter, it describes the aviation adventures of the famous airline pilot, Bob Buck. One of his passions, like yours, is meteorology. His circumpolar flight in a 707 (long before GPS) is amazing.
Regards,
Jack Morris (no relation that I know of)
Hi Jack. Now in from London, Heathrow. I have two editions of Robert Buck’s iconic Weather Flying. It sounds like North Star Over My Shoulder is a great read too. I have written a parallel to Robert Buck’s weather book, Pilot Weather Wisdom, but it has yet to get airborne. Thanks, Jack. (I have a nephew, Jack Morris).