|
Getting your Trinity Audio player ready...
|
I live in Fargo, North Dakota, where winter lasts anywhere from six to thirteen months of the year. (We use a “Frozorian calendar” up here, which has an extra month.)
When I first moved back to Fargo after living elsewhere for quite a while—Fargoans call it “living abroad”—I asked the Fargo airport manager how much it would cost per month to tie down my airplane on the ramp. He looked at me across his desk as if I had asked him, “How long will it take me to drive a car from my side of this desk where I’m sitting over to your side of the desk?” but he answered politely like Fargo people do, saying, “Well, that would be free. But nobody does that.”
So it’s cold here, is what I’m saying. That explained the ice building up rapidly on my wings as I stupidly flew through the clouds at 8,000 feet on April 29. I was flying on an IFR flight plan from Flying Cloud Airport, KFCM (motto: “Wrong Runway Landings R US”. Oh, you scoff, but just go fly there sometime. Better yet, don’t.).
I was flying along at 14,000 feet toward Fargo on an IFR flight plan, fat dumb, and happy. Filing and flying IFR is so much easier than flying VFR, I was thinking. But then it wasn’t.
Flying along at 14,000 feet toward Fargo on an IFR flight plan, fat dumb and happy.
Minneapolis Center said, “Lancair 214DK, descend and maintain 8000 feet.” I thought I have to do that, because he told me to, and did. Turns out I shunta. Shunta, shunta, shunta. I entered the clouds at about 9,000 feet and immediately ice begins to build up on the wings. I didn’t see the wing ice at first because I was busy looking for ice on the windscreen. But there was none. Finally, when I looked left, then right, I saw ice on my wings from wing tip to wing root. Yikes! All white, the edges, and getting whiter.
Suddenly I was William Shatner in The Twilight Zone (heavy on the “shat”) turning to my buddy in the right seat and saying, “Look—at that stuff—on the wings.” He’s not a pilot so he didn’t have the same near-panic as I did. See, the Lancair has this thin, laminar-flow wing that if you get ice on it, well, bye-bye “lifties.” Ice is bad for my little wings, I was told when training, and I thought Ho ho, I’ll never get into icing conditions. Not me!
I keyed the mic and said in what I hoped was a cool pilot voice, “Minneapolis Center, this is Lancair 214DK, I am picking up icing, rapid buildup, request an avoidance vector.” ATC said, “Do you want a vector?” I said, “Yes I’d like to turn left immediately to avoid the icing, 4DK.”
ATC: “Lancair 214DK, you are free to maneuver as needed to avoid the ice. What altitude would you like?” All this as I was in a 45-degree bank doing a 180, looking out the cockpit at my white wings. I said “Stand by one.” Then I looked up and saw a blue hole in the clouds—blue sky! I think I saw the face of God, even. I said, “4DK, request 12,000 feet. I’d like to slip the surly bonds of icing.” No, I didn’t say all that.
Minneapolis center snapped me out of my near panic, which I bet is a lot like real panic. They said in a clear, slow-paced voice, “214DK, you want to climb to avoid the icing?” Well that snapped me out of it. I said, “Center, thank you for asking that— request lower, Lancair 214DK. I’ll go touch God’s face later.” (I may be embellishing here.)
ATC: “4DK, you are free to maneuver as necessary to avoid all those icebergs bobbing about in the North Sea, descend and maintain 5,000, cleared direct Fargo when able. Godspeed.”
I dive down to 5,000 feet like a P-51 chasing a Messerschmitt, boards out, and hey!—I see ground! Clear sky beneath me and around me! Fergus Falls Municipal Airport never look so good. In fact, I had never seen it before, but still. The Minnesota State Mental Hospital used to be in Fergus Falls, I idly thought, thinking about how insane it was that I descended into ice-filled clouds from blue sky, no traffic within a hundred miles of me—just because some guy told me to.
The good news about this little icing scare is that I “got on the instruments, believed the instruments,” when I was doing all that yanking and banking in the clouds. Eventually. I was really trying to get clear of that ice, but didn’t panic and fly by “the seat of my pants,” which kills a pilot now and then. These towering cumulus clouds had little pockets of clear air spaces here and there, so I was going from inside to outside of clouds at 9,000 feet or so.
I could hear my US Air Force instructor pilot’s voice saying, “GET ON THE INSTRUMENTS, BELIEVE THE INSTRUMENTS.” Well, I didn’t do that at first, one time, when I was flying in a little clear space, shaving cream all over my leading edges, and started to try to climb over the next cloud in front of me. Suddenly the Garmin lady’s voice yelled “PUT GEAR DOWN NOW!” I then by golly got on the instruments, saw I was 17 degrees nose high, airspeed falling through 130 knots. Whoa Nelly.
So I recovered. In my Air Force training days we instructor pilots said, for some reason—I think passed down for generations from pilot-to-pilot—“REEEECOVER!” to the student, after we’d put them in an unusual attitude, and give them the controls.
Later, safely on the ground I read an article about how there are six ways pilots get confused in the clouds, seven of which are fatal. They all come from flying “by feel,” and allowing the “tumbled gyros,” or inner ear disturbances, to influence a pilot’s thinking. It’s all in the eyes. That’s why the ADI is so huge and is in the center of the cockpit. Looking at that cures all. Here are the illusions, although I may have made some errors. You decide.
You have your “leans illusion,” or, in Chicago, “da leans,” an illusion which bothers the other person you’re sitting next to, what with shoulder-touching and hogging the armrest and all. Solution: get on the instruments, believe the instruments.
You have your “Coriolis illusion,” which is where a pilot starts believing they’re in the Mafia, part of the Coriolis family. Super deadly. Solution: you pull out your pilot license and read your name over and over. Remember—your name is not Orville or Wilbur—that’s the BACK! Focus! Get on the license, believe the license. A Discover card can work, too.
You have your “graveyard spiral illusion” that’s best gotten out of by—and this has been FAA-tested—playing the song “Monster Mash” backwards at full volume. Singing it backwards works too, but it’s best to have the words written out in, say, black Sharpie on your arm, or a friend’s arm (the LEFT one): “He did the monster mash (The monster mash). It was a graveyard smash.” That way, a pilot can sing “Smash graveyard a was it,” without thinking—just read it. This technique is good for a DUI traffic stop, too, when a cop asks you to count backwards from 100 by twos. Remember: Do NOT start saying, “Smash graveyard a was it.” Use your other arm, the one with numbers and the alphabet backwards on it. Focus!
You have your “somatographic illusion,” which happens when you accelerate quickly. So if somehow I do a catapult shot off a carrier (a “cat shot off the deck”) instead of a normal takeoff and go from zero to 140 KIAS in two seconds, this may well happen, if I’m Jimmy Doolittle.
You have your “elevator illusion,” which can strike out of nowhere when you’re (I’m) in a crowded elevator and nervous and you (sigh… I already) make small talk until I enter into the elevator illusion that other people are listening to my chatter and not mentally putting “foamies” in their ears or a “shiv” in my back.
Finally, you have your “inverted illusion,” which I’ve noticed isn’t, if you’re inverted.
The solution to all these illusions is to “get on the instruments, believe the instruments.”
The solution to icing: “smell” it (visible moisture—clouds—in cold weather), avoid it. If you get into it, descend, where adiabatically speaking, it’s warmer (who knew?). Also, in my case, now I’m ready for icing, and will be thinking “lower is warmer,” and “avoid clouds in winter,” which around here sorta is still “on,” up at altitude.
And finally, those doggone illusions can be so real—so real!—that they can almost be overwhelming, so back to: GET ON THE INSTRUMENTS, BELIEVE THE INSTRUMENTS.
This postpones “touching the face of God” until later.
Amen.
- Icing, the face of God and illusions - August 19, 2024
- A Newbie CFI, Disco Fever, and My Inner Voice - June 21, 2024
- Best FBOs and my personal minimums - January 24, 2024
That’s funny right there, I don’t care who you are! I believe we were at Beale at the same time, Matt, but I don’t recall your name. I was a boomer in the 350th, and I think I was in Stan Eval by the time you got to BAB. I crewed with Marty McGregor for a time, and then Dave Boardman.
I remember those guys, dimly.
Funny is right. I like your writing style.
Best in class!
Interesting account! I came closer to dying than at any other time flying in a Mooney M20 on a flight out of Galt, Illinois in the winter in 1977. I filed for 3,000, just barely below the icing level of 4,000 which extended all the way to 12,000, but ATC immediately cleared us to 5,000 because of ORD arrival traffic. We complied and, sure enough, immediately started picking up moderate or heavier rime at 4,000 and above. Started requesting back to 3,000 very soon, but the very busy controller denied the request because of traffic. Within five minutes we had lost almost thirty knots and all visibility out the windshield, even though the throttle was wide open. Soon thereafter, we received clearance back to 3,000, descended, broke out at about 3,000 and diverted to JOT where, after shedding most of the ice and landing, I got out and inspected the airplane. There was one piece of ice still on the tail and it was almost three inches thick. I have often remembered that almost fateful day and learned much, including that there is such a thing as declaring an emergency even if you are traversing the ORD arrival pattern in a puny little plane. By the way, did you ever know Jack Madison from your time at Beale? I flew with him several times at the airline we both later worked for and he was fascinating to listen to as he would describe flying the SR-71.
Nope, I didn’t know Jack. I still don’t know Jack.
Ha!
Looked at the photo of KFCM on Airnav.com. I see what you mean.
I’ve asked for and gotten permission to intercept the glideslope from cruise altitude, 8-10 thousand feet at times and spent minimum time in the clouds. That’s in supposedly deice twin Cessnas.
Those guys at the scopes are safe and warm. If the freezing level is to the ground and the clouds are close to that it’s no place for a plane that isn’t FIKI with lots of excess power.
Sometimes, icing can hit you with little warning, but other times, it’s easily predictable and makes you feel foolish after an encounter. My icing encounter was of the second kind. I filed IFR out of Central Jersey Regional for Potomac Airfield near Washington. I knew what my clearance would be because I’d made that flight several times before. It’s always 6,000 and the routing doesn’t vary that much, you fly over Allentown, PA, then south to Baltimore. There was an overcast at 7,000 and it was above freezing at ground level so I figured I’d be fine. I took off and had barely checked in with ATC and said I was leveling off at 6,000 when the controller cleared me to 8,000 “for traffic”. Well, I had the OAT gauge saying it was barely above freezing and I could see the cloud layer above me although it was hard to judge if I’d be in it at 7,000 like the forecast said. Well, I tried to talk the controller out of that dangerous clearance. I requested vectors at my altitude to go around the traffic and explained that a normal lapse rate would have me in the clouds and certainly below freezing at the assigned altitude. You can’t argue with a New York area controller. He repeated my clearance as if I had said “Say again.”
I revved up the engine to climb power and leveled off at 8,000, in IMC now. I throttled back to a low cruise and checked temperature. Yep, 29. Not good. Luckily the airplane was low wing so I could keep the wings under observation. It took maybe 10 minutes for a thin layer of frost to develop on the tops of the wings. I reported it immediately. The controller grilled me on what type of icing I was seeing, and I said light rime which was about what it looked like. I could tell I wasn’t going to fall out of the sky, I was in nowhere near as immediate a danger as Matt in the original story, but I had the problem that my icing encounter wasn’t getting me any help from ATC. I asked for lower and the controller said he needed me at 8,000 for another 10 miles. Well, a Beechcraft Bonanza covers 10 miles in just a few minutes and I realized I was going to be OK without declaring an emergency. In those days I had limited means of measuring distance and requested that he call my descent. He was fine with that. After returning to 6,000 the frosty white stuff melted off the wings in maybe 15 minutes and no one could have guessed I’d encountered icing when I landed at Potomac.
IIRC NASAs advice on icing paraphrased is something like “Any time you are accumulating ice it IS an emergency”, and “Anti-icing equipment is there to allow you to exit the icing conditions”.
Ice is insidious. Tricky and sneaks up on you, but you handled it well, somewhat by luck when the controller gave you a climb option and then a quick descent option. You got thru it fine, and I’m sure you’ve done it again and again. You can’t live in ND without ice, it’s a given.
I was born in ND, across the state from you. Our paths might have crossed… most likely when I departed the state permanently for the south. I’d rather fight TRWs than ice. I’ll visit you in the summer.