Trial by Ice

Author’s Note: While this story happened more than five decades ago, the lessons learned that day are timeless. Also, Trial by Ice is not just another flying story. It is intended to be a flying lesson, but only for those pilots who read it with learning as a mindset. If the reader constantly second guesses me, or criticizes my every move while reading the text, he or she will lose the value of the lessons being offered. So, keep an open mind and concentrate on the mistakes I made, and how I atoned for them, and you will learn an extremely valuable lesson from what happened to me so many years ago.

Also, understand that in 1972, flying was not nearly as sophisticated as it is today. Take into consideration that weather reporting, and the dissemination of these reports to pilots, was not as accurate then as it is now. Another difference is that pilots today are almost never out of radar contact, as I was in the story. Flying a single engine airplane, under IFR, in the clouds, in a non-radar environment and without an autopilot, adds a great deal to the pilot’s work load.

Trial by Ice

I earned my instrument rating when I was 22 years old while attending college in Springfield, Missouri. I tucked the hard-earned temporary certificate into my wallet on the second day of June, 1972. In my mind, I had been well trained and was fully prepared to take on the IFR system. After all, I had just “aced” my checkride. What else was there to know?

In just six months I would reflect on my training and agonize over how inadequately I had been prepared for the real world of instrument flying, which is weather. All of my training had been conducted under the hood during the warm spring months. I had received no training in actual IFR conditions. I was taught how to fly on instruments under the hood, but not how to fly in the weather. There is a tremendous difference, which I would soon discover.

My first inkling of things to come was contained in some advice I received from an older and more experienced pilot. He said “An instrument rating can either save your life, or get you killed.” This little gem of wisdom shook my confidence. I had always been told that an instrument rating could save your life, period. I had never considered the second possibility. How could an instrument rating get you killed? I would soon find out!

There were three significant omissions in my training, and all three concerned weather. First, my instructors failed to mention that if you fly in the clouds when the temperature is below freezing, you will most likely pick up ice. Second, you could pick up ice even though there was no forecast for ice. And finally, if the winds aloft are significantly different from the forecast, the surface weather will probably be significantly different than forecast

To add to the excitement, the years 1971 through 1977, when I was just beginning my career as a professional pilot, would produce some incredible and sometimes record-breaking weather in the Midwest. For example, the Springfield, Missouri Municipal Airport, where I was employed as a flight instructor and charter pilot, was devastated by a highly unusual tornado that struck on December 15, 1971. Who could have guessed a tornado would form in December?

A year later, the Midwest experienced a fierce and totally unforecasted ice storm, the subject of this story, that produced freezing rain that fell continuously for nearly four days.

Orientation Day

During the winter of 1972-73, I was a senior at Southwest Missouri State University (SMSU) in Springfield, Missouri.

During the winter of 1972-73, I was a senior at Southwest Missouri State University (SMSU) in Springfield, Missouri. I was 22 years old, held a commercial pilot’s license, a well-worn flight instructor certificate, and a new and mostly untried instrument rating. My logbook showed over 1,200 hours, but just two hours of in-the-clouds instrument time, the majority of which was accumulated flying in the enroute phase of flight. I was employed as a flight instructor and charter pilot by an FBO on the Springfield Municipal Airport.

On campus, I was a member of the SMSU flying club and the coach of our National Intercollegiate Flying Association team. Our NIFA team of pilots would travel to other colleges and compete in sanctioned competition involving precise navigation, pre-flight inspections, accuracy landings, and simulated bomb drops into a barrel from 100 AGL feet using bean bags as “bombs”.

The normal mode of transportation to and from these meets was two Cessna 150s and one Cessna 172. The 150s were used in competition upon our arrival while the 172 was used to transport the rest of the team’s pilots. Since the 172 was faster, it flew to and from the NIFA meets independently of the two Cessna 150s. This was the situation on Friday, December 1, 1972. With three airplanes, we departed Springfield for Fairfield, Iowa to compete in an NIFA competition against five other schools.

The Cessna 150

Since I was the only instrument rated pilot on the team, and the weather was marginal VFR, I chose to fly the 172, N7358G, up to Fairfield on an IFR flight plan above the clouds at 7,000 feet.

The two Cessna 150s would fly under the clouds in close formation, our team’s signature style of flying. The weather over southwest Missouri was 2,000′ overcast, good visibility with tops reported to be at 6,000′ and clear above. Over northern Missouri and southern Iowa, the weather was mostly clear. At 4pm, eight young college students in three airplanes launched into one of the greatest adventures of our lives, but at the time we didn’t recognize it as such.

My IFR flight plan called for a climb through some 4,000′ of clouds up to a cruise altitude of 7,000 feet. I would be cruising on top in clear skies with a considerable tailwind which would allow us to reach Fairfield nonstop. It was a good plan except for one small detail; the temperature in the clouds was below freezing. I was soon to learn my first lesson about flying IFR in the winter.

With three of my teammates as passengers, I departed Springfield, turned on the carburetor heat and pitot heat and confidently entered the overcast skies. However, climbing through 4,000 feet, rime ice began to accumulate on the windshield and wing leading edges. I had meticulously checked the weather and there had been no forecast for enroute icing. At first, the 172 didn’t seem to be affected too much by the ice. Then, as more ice accumulated, the rate of climb started to decrease.

As we passed through 5,000′, the 172 was obviously struggling, but the tops were only a thousand feet away so I elected to continue to climb. We finally broke out on top into dazzling sunlight carrying about one inch of rime ice.

This particular 172 normally cruised at 120 mph indicated airspeed, but with the ice it would barely do 90 mph and that required full throttle! What had happened? I was to realize much later that I had just enrolled in the “School of Hard Knocks” for instrument pilots. This was the first of many lessons I would learn in the next three days.

After staggering along in the bright sunlight above the clouds for half an hour or so, I noticed that the ice was slowly disappearing. At school, I was completing a minor in physics and recognized the process as “sublimation,” the scientific term for the evaporation of a solid. After two hours, the ice had evaporated so that there was only about a half inch remaining. Our airspeed gradually increased as the ice disappeared.

But the prolonged operation at full throttle and reduced airspeed made a fuel stop at Kirksville, in Northern Missouri a necessity. The ice finally disappeared altogether as we descended into clear skies and above freezing air on our approach to Kirksville. We refueled and resumed our flight, landing in Fairfield without further incident.

There were many lessons to be learned from the ice encounter. For example, you could get ice even though it wasn’t forecast. Also, it takes a lot of horsepower to carry ice, and even a small amount causes a dramatic reduction in climb and cruise performance. Even if you escape the ice, it doesn’t go away. You’ll have to carry it until reaching warmer air or it evaporates. And the most important lesson of all? Flying in the clouds in a single engine airplane when the OAT is below freezing is not a good idea!

It takes a lot of horsepower to carry ice, and even a small amount causes a dramatic reduction in climb and cruise performance.

It was an interesting experience. But unbeknown to me, this was just orientation day in the school of hard knocks. On the return flight, school would resume with a near fatal final exam. In just two days, I would face the greatest test of my entire life. Not only would my flying skills be tested, but the strength of my character as well. To pass the exam would require everything I knew about flying, plus a few things I didn’t even know I knew! But that was still two days away.

The NIFA competition ended Saturday with our team placing 2^nd in the meet. It was now Sunday afternoon, December 3, 1972 and time to get serious about the flight home. The weather enroute was marginal VFR, but flyable for the Cessna 150 pilots. However, at Springfield, Missouri, our final destination, the weather was bad. The hourly sequence report showed Springfield had a ceiling of 100 feet obscured, a visibility of 3/8 mile and fog with a surface temperature of 30 degrees F. Definitely not good enough for the VFR pilots and even though I had an instrument rating, I had decided not to attempt to get into Springfield.

All eight pilots of the SMSU flying team gathered in the FBO office and had a meeting. We looked a little closer at the weather situation and decided that the weather as far as Jefferson City, Missouri was marginal but flyable for the VFR pilots, and certainly no problem for me on an IFR flight plan. Jefferson City was only about 100 miles north of Springfield. We could have friends drive us the rest of the way if needed. The forecast at our arrival time at Jefferson City was for a ceiling of 1,200′ overcast with a visibility of four miles in fog. We decided to fly as far as Jefferson City and make further plans from there.

The two Cessna 150s took off about 45 minutes ahead of me, joined up in the team’s signature tight formation and disappeared into the gloomy skies to the south. They would have to fly beneath a 1,200 foot ceiling dodging radio towers and other obstructions while I would be cruising in the clouds at 4,000′ and safely above the obstructions.

We had all received a very thorough weather briefing from the FSS. I had even remembered to check the temperature aloft at my cruise altitude. The weather briefer assured me I could expect the temperature at 4,000′ to be around +4 C, well above freezing. The warm air aloft was good news but significant in a way I was too inexperienced to appreciate. I failed to compare the surface temperatures at stations along my route with the temperature aloft. In the school of hard knocks, this would turn out to be one of the hardest knocks of all.

The general prognosis indicated no icing in the clouds, no turbulence and a quartering headwind from the west resulting in a mere five knots of headwind component. All in all, the weather looked perfect for my very first cross country where I would be in actual instrument conditions for the entire flight, including the approach. However, there was one bothersome footnote to our weather briefing. Freezing rain was falling all through northern Arkansas. However, we didn’t see this as a threat since we would be no further south than central Missouri. But then, even Springfield had a “slight chance” of freezing rain in its terminal forecast.

Three SMSU flying team members would be riding along with me as passengers. I chose Phil Shoemaker, a 75-hour Private Pilot to be my copilot. Besides being his instructor, I was personal friends with Phil. He had exceptional skills for his experience level and even though he was not instrument rated, I knew I could count on him in a tight situation. He had been a sniper and a LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) team member while serving with the army in Vietnam. Phil was a cool head under pressure.

I filed my IFR flight plan, received a clearance and took off into the gray winter sky. With eyes glued to the outside air temperature gauge, we entered the clouds at 1,200 feet. Upon level off at 4,000’, I was relieved to note the OAT gauge was showing +3 degrees C. The briefer was right, there would be no icing at our cruise altitude.

Once established on our filed route, Phil checked the weather along our route, conducted a ground speed check and solicited pilot reports. All of these activities provided the following information; there was no enroute icing, our ground speed was 95 mph instead of the planned 120 mph, the hourly sequence reports for all of the airports along our route indicated surface temperatures below freezing, ceilings and visibilities less than VFR, and that Springfield now had freezing drizzle.

The route flown in this by the author in this story. Springfield, Missouri, our original destination, is just below the bottom of the chart.

As we cruised along in the clouds, I mentally analyzed the information. Obviously, the winds aloft were nowhere near forecast. Instead of a gentle breeze out of the west, we had over 20 knots of headwind blowing out of the south. Also, the weather beneath the clouds was now too bad for the Cessna 150 pilots to fly VFR, and the “slight chance” of freezing rain in Springfield had become a reality.

And then something occurred to me that had been obvious since our initial weather briefing in Fairfield. We were flying in a rather well pronounced temperature inversion. It was warmer at 4,000 feet than on the surface at every airport along our route, including Jefferson City. Knowing that a strong temperature inversion in winter is a precursor for freezing rain increased my level of concern. Things were changing rapidly, but I still couldn’t see anything that would prevent us from landing at Jefferson City as planned.

The Final Exam

N7358G today. This was the Cessna 172 that the author flew that day.

The “School of Hard Knocks” was now open and class had begun. Because we only had one VHF radio for communications, it was difficult to get the latest weather reports the moment they were issued. We were using our single radio to communicate with ATC. For this reason, we did not receive the special weather reports being issued that indicated the freezing rain had moved rapidly north and was now falling from the clouds directly beneath us.

Just north of Jefferson City, the Kansas City Center controller cleared us to the Jeff City VOR, which was on the airport, to hold at 4,000 feet. I had been flying on instruments continuously for an hour and a half so I gave the controls to Phil while I took a break. I got out my instrument approach chart and studied the holding pattern and the VOR approach procedure.

A few minutes later, we heard the center controller clear a Trans Missouri Airlines commuter plane for the VOR Runway 30 approach to Jefferson City. Since we were operating in a non-radar ATC environment, we would be in the holding pattern until the Trans Missouri plane landed or executed a missed approach. I was familiar with this company and knew they flew Cessna 206s and the twin engine Cessna 402. We entered the holding pattern over Jeff City, flew two circuits and finally received our approach clearance.

“Cessna 7358 Golf, you are cleared for the VOR Runway Three Zero approach to the Jefferson City Airport, report canceling IFR or missed approach…the Jeff City weather is 700 overcast, visibility one- and one-half miles with light freezing drizzle and fog, temperature two eight, dew point two seven, altimeter 29.69… say your intentions.”

How can this be? There was absolutely no forecast for freezing rain this far north! Class had begun for one young and inexperienced instrument pilot. I asked the controller about the Trans Mo pilot who made the approach before me. He replied, laconically “The Cessna who made the approach before you did not report any problems, say your intentions” failing to use the term twin Cessna. I would never have followed a twin engine airplane into icing conditions.

I was too naïve’ and inexperienced to know about the unspoken code of silence that exists among some pilots. Just because he didn’t report a problem didn’t mean he didn’t have a problem. But I didn’t know this. It would be one of many hard knocks I would receive that day.

Also, as I gained experience, I would be compelled to ask what kind of Cessna had just made the approach. I was almost certain it was a Cessna 206, not too different from my 172, but I didn’t confirm it. I learned later that it was Trans-Mo’s twin Cessna 402, fully equipped for flight in icing conditions. I also learned that the pilot had a very difficult time with the ice while flying the approach, but elected not to say anything. Experience is an unforgiving teacher in the school of hard knocks…

I had to make a decision. What would I tell the controller? He was pressuring me for a quick answer, but I was flying on instruments, navigating my way around a holding pattern, and trying to think. This was my very first real instrument cross country flight and I was totally unprepared for the situation.

I quickly succumbed to a combination of wishful reasoning, youth, inexperience, and fatigue. I reasoned incorrectly that “If a Cessna 206 could do it with no problems, then so could I. Obviously, he didn’t have any trouble with the freezing drizzle or he would have said so. Besides, the ceiling and visibility were both well above minimums, so a landing is assured. If it gets too bad, I will simply do what my training manuals say to do in freezing rain which is to climb back up to the warmer air above.” It was a decision I would soon regret…

We transitioned from the holding pattern to the outbound leg of the VOR approach and began a descent to 2,700 feet, the minimum altitude for that leg of the approach. I glanced at the OAT gauge in the upper left corner of the windshield and noticed a balmy +5 degrees Centigrade. I turned on the defroster and directed all cabin heater air to the windshield in an effort to prevent ice from forming. I also made sure the pitot heat and carburetor heat were on.

We were descending into a mystery below. What would it be like? Doubts began to haunt me as I recalled the ice encounter a couple of days ago. That was rime ice, but this will be clear ice, the kind that covers more than just the leading edges.

As we descended through 3,000′ outbound on the approach, more disquieting thoughts entered my mind. I recalled the center controller’s words for reassurance. “The Cessna ahead didn’t report any problems…”, failing to mention that it was a twin Cessna 402, as controllers are required to do. And where’s the freezing level? There must be freezing temperatures below for freezing rain to form. And then we found it.

At precisely 2,900 feet, the outside air temperature plummeted to -2C. There existed an extremely well-defined temperature inversion, the likes of which I had never seen, and haven’t seen since. The cabin quickly became uncomfortably cold. The entire airplane was being coated with clear ice. The windshield was now completely covered with ice and opaque. How would I see to land? I had never thought of that. We had been in the freezing rain for just 15 seconds, but already I knew I wanted out of it, and now!

All pilots have a mental alarm that “speaks” to them when they make a bad decision or are in imminent danger. The alarm is almost like a voice that literally shouts a subconscious warning. Those who “hear” the alarm and heed its warning have a better chance of surviving than those who don’t. My alarm was sounding, and I clearly heard the warning. I had to get out of this ice!

We had descended to 2,700’, just 200’ below the freezing level of the temperature inversion. I acted by shoving the throttle full in and declared a missed approach. I raised the nose and began climbing towards the safety of the warm air above. But during the brief time I had been flying level at 2,700’, the ice accumulation had caused my airspeed fall to just 90 mph. This reduced the amount of airspeed I could convert to rate of climb.

Our Cessna 172 labored under the increasing weight of the clear ice. The ice was simultaneously adding weight while destroying the shape of the wing and stabilizer air foils. Even with full throttle and a best rate of climb speed of 74 mph, we were only climbing at 100 feet per minute. Then my worst fears became reality. The climb stopped altogether at 2,800’, just 100’ below the safety of the inversion boundary!

Still tracking outbound on the VOR approach, I came to the realization that we were not only trapped in the ice, but in serious trouble. We had been in the ice for less than 30 seconds but already had so much ice we couldn’t climb. Flying the procedure turn and the rest of the approach would require a minimum of eight more minutes. To continue the approach was no longer an option. In eight minutes, we would be a pile of bent aluminum in some field short of the runway.

Then I felt a distinct vibration from the engine. At first, I thought we had an engine problem, but soon realized it was not the engine, but the propeller. Ice was forming on the prop causing an imbalance. It was also destroying the propeller’s air foils causing a loss of thrust. This was another reason we couldn’t climb.

Without further hesitation, I declared an emergency with the Kansas City Center controller, stating that I was picking up ice and couldn’t climb. He replied that we were cleared up to 4,000 feet. I responded “That’s the nature of the emergency, we can’t climb!” Then I realized there was nothing he could do for us. There was only one person who could get us out of the trap; the guy in the left seat, the one who got us here in the first place, and he would need a miracle to do it.

I needed a plan, but don’t remember thinking it through. Somehow, from somewhere I had a plan, and I knew what to do. What I needed was more airspeed which I could use to gain altitude. With this in mind, I began an unorthodox maneuver which I had never been taught, never heard of, and had never seen in a training manual.

Still running at full throttle, I abruptly lowered the nose and dove down to 2,200 feet. It was 500’ below the published minimum altitude for my position on the approach, but I was intimately familiar with the terrain here and knew it would not put us in danger. Diving at full throttle, I ran the airspeed up as high as possible. At 2,200’ and 110 mph, I hauled back on the control wheel, putting the straining Cessna into a “zoom” climb, trading airspeed for altitude. It was a desperate attempt to reach 2,900’ and the safety of the warm air above.

But once again, our Cessna 172 ran out of performance at 2,800 feet. We hung in the icy clouds at full throttle, 74 mph, and a vertical speed of zero. I was tempted to pull back on the control wheel and force the Cessna up another hundred feet, but with the ice, I was afraid I would stall, and a stall on instruments with an iced-up airplane was a frightening proposition.

How little 100 feet had seemed before. How many times had I let my altitude wander a hundred feet and thought nothing of it? I couldn’t give up now. I needed 100’, and to get it, I would need more horsepower from the engine. I had spent most of my life working on engines and knew exactly what had to be done.

Once again, I shoved the nose over and dove back to 2,200 feet. This time, as we bottomed out of the dive, I did the unthinkable, something pilots should never do in freezing rain; I turned off the carburetor heat. I also reset the fuel mixture to extract the absolute maximum power from the already straining Lycoming engine.

Carburetor heat reduces an engine’s power by about ten percent. I needed that ten percent and reasoned that in the short time the carburetor heat would be off, we wouldn’t get enough carburetor ice to stop the engine. It was a gamble, but I had to take it. There was one other source of energy I would tap for the impending climb and that was airspeed. This time I wouldn’t limit myself to the best rate of climb speed, but would trade airspeed for altitude until we stalled.

At 2,200’, I once again hauled back on the control wheel and put the 172 into another zoom climb. The carburetor heat was off and the mixture was leaned for maximum power. This would be our final throw of the dice. We would either end up above 2,900’ free of the ice, or I would be recovering from a stall on instruments!

Up we went, trading airspeed for altitude. Passing through 2,800’, the altimeter almost stopped, but finally, at 2,900’ we punched through the inversion layer! The OAT immediately shot up to +5 degrees C. It was raining in the clouds, a beautiful warm rain that carried the ice away in seconds. We were free!

As our Cessna threw off its shackles and began to accelerate, I turned the carburetor heat back on and re-leaned the mixture. We climbed quickly to 4,000’ as I turned back toward the Jefferson City VOR and entered the holding pattern. It was over…or so I thought

The unorthodox maneuver had worked, as had turning off the carburetor heat and converting more airspeed to altitude. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and we had been desperate. As we flew the holding pattern, I realized the airspeed indicator had been showing just 65 mph when we broke through the inversion layer. With so much ice, why hadn’t we stalled? I didn’t know but it might have been due to the angle of attack of the pitot tube that would not let the full force of the relative wind enter the tube. This would mean our actual indicated airspeed would have been much higher that what we saw on the gauge.

I told Phil to ask the center controller for the weather at our filed alternate, Columbia, Missouri which was some 30 miles to the northwest of Jefferson City. The controller replied in his usual laconic manner, “800 overcast, two miles visibility, light freezing drizzle and fog….”

This was our first inkling that the freezing rain was already well north of us. In retrospect, the freezing rain didn’t seem to move northward in a line, but rather just started falling over a large area of the Midwest all at once. Then the controller read the hourly sequence reports for some other possible alternates. All of the reports were prefixed with the words “Special Observation”. Kansas City had freezing rain, as did Rolla, St. Louis, and Fort Leonard Wood. To the north, Kirksville had freezing rain and Des Moines had heavy snow with a visibility of ½ mile. Finally, I had Phil ask the controller to find us an alternate within 120 miles that didn’t have freezing rain. A few minutes later came his reply. Quincy, Illinois was the only place he could find. It was about an hour and 20 minutes away. I requested an instrument clearance to Quincy and it was quickly issued

“Cessna 7358 Golf, cleared direct to the Quincy VOR, direct Quincy, climb and maintain 5,000 feet.” After establishing ourselves on a north-northeast heading, I turned the controls over to Phil, who was, as usual, cool under pressure. We were still in a non-radar ATC environment so vectors were out of the question.

I unfolded my enroute chart and hastily plotted a course on a direct line. Phil leveled us off at 5,000 feet. Even though he was not instrument rated and was flying from the right seat and looking across the panel at my flight instruments, he was doing a good job.

But then the rain intensified. It beat on the Plexiglas windshield making a nerve-wracking noise, a noise I had never heard before. It got turbulent, and then very turbulent. I took the controls from Phil and intercepted the outbound Jeff City VOR radial that would take us to the Quincy VOR. I had never flown on instruments in heavy rain and turbulence. I reflected on my training and how totally inadequate it had been. The wings were being rocked into a series of 30-degree banks. The noise of the rain beating on the windshield was unnerving!

But the temperature was holding at a steady +4 degrees C as we rode the boundary of a warm front aloft. After flying for about 30 minutes in heavy weather, it finally let up and we were again flying in smooth, rainy, and thankfully warm clouds. I gave the controls back to Phil. If I had made only one good decision this fateful day, it was choosing Phil as my copilot. He had proven himself in trying times.

I took a few minutes to reflect on what had and what was happening with the weather. There had obviously been a rapid and massive outbreak of freezing rain throughout the Midwest. Something drastic had happened meteorologically that had surprised the weather forecasters, not to mention at least one pilot!

And what about the Cessna 150 pilots? Where were they? What had been the fate of all those NIFA contestants who were winging their way home this gloomy Sunday afternoon? Then my thoughts returned to our own situation. We had enough fuel to reach Quincy with about 45 minutes reserve, so fuel was not a pressing problem. Then a disturbing thought crossed my mind. If the freezing rain was so widespread, how could Quincy not have it? Right then I asked the center controller for the latest Quincy weather…

Trial by Ice

“Quincy special observation at 2207Z…700 overcast, visibility one and one quarter miles, light freezing drizzle, fog, wind 060 at 12 knots, temperature 28, dew point 27, altimeter 29.63, they’re using the ILS to Runway 3.” His words were a shock!

We were about 15 minutes from Quincy. I had about one hour of fuel remaining, which meant I could fly about 100 miles to any possible alternate. I mentally reviewed my options; St. Louis, freezing rain, Kirksville, freezing rain and now the controller says Springfield, Illinois has freezing drizzle. Although Des Moines didn’t have freezing rain, it was too far away. There were no options. Quincy was it. I would a have to fly another instrument approach in freezing rain. But unlike the last one, I didn’t have a choice. I had to land.

We would be making an ILS approach to Runway 3, but since our Cessna wasn’t equipped with a glide slope receiver, it would actually be a localizer only approach. This was significant as it would require us to level off at an MDA of 400 feet above the ground and hold that altitude for nearly 3 minutes. We couldn’t climb after only 15 seconds in the clear icing at Jefferson City. Would we be able to hold our altitude long enough to make it to the end of the runway without stalling?

We were in the midst of a near epic ice storm that was still developing. We needed to be on the ground, and soon. And there was something else to consider, and that was fatigue. I was exhausted after hand flying for nearly three hours on instruments, and having gone through a life-threatening crisis. Somehow, I would have to find the courage to face the ice again. I had to fly another approach in freezing rain without making any mistakes, as there would be no going around for second try.

I mentally analyzed the difficulties we would encounter on the approach. Undoubtedly, clear ice would accumulate rapidly once we penetrated the freezing level. Upon level off at MDA, the airspeed would fall off quickly, even at full throttle. If I lost too much airspeed, I wouldn’t be able to maintain altitude at MDA without stalling. The odds seemed insurmountable. But then, as at Jefferson City, I knew what had to be done.

The only way to defeat the ice was to have maximum airspeed before penetrating the freezing level. I would disregard the 2,200’ crossing altitude at the outer marker published on the approach chart remain at 5,000 feet in the safety of the warm air aloft. I would then dive through the inversion layer, build up airspeed to near red line, level off at MDA and simply trade the excess speed to maintain altitude. I don’t know how I was able to think this through in the fog of fear and fatigue. But in retrospect, I believe it could only have been the result of Divine intervention.

Then I thought about the weather. Except for the freezing drizzle, the weather was not all that bad as the ceiling and visibility were both well above minimums. Also, since we were still operating in a non-radar environment, I would be required to fly the full published approach, including a procedure turn. The whole maneuver would require about 8 minutes and, at times, have us flying away from the airport. It would also require a descent to 2,200 feet before crossing the outer marker. What was the freezing level? I didn’t know.

Then I recognized this as one of those rare situations where doing the right and legal thing could cost us our lives, so I decided to dispense with the procedure turn. Besides, we were still operating under a declared emergency which allows the pilot in command to do anything necessary to mitigate the danger he or she is facing.

About 20 miles southwest of Quincy, we were handed off to the non-radar Quincy Approach Control and issued a clearance for the ILS to Runway 3. The Quincy VOR was situated less than a mile south of the localizer course which would simplify my transition to the ILS.

Disregarding the 2,200’ outer marker altitude, I crossed the VOR at 5,000 feet and picked up a heading that would intercept the localizer about three miles outside the outer marker. I directed all of the cabin air to the windshield, as I had done at Jeff City. This time I knew my forward vision would be blocked by ice. I would probably be forced to land by looking out of the side window. Suddenly, the localizer needle began to move towards the center of the indicator. It was time to lay our cards on the table…

As I turned inbound on the localizer course, I was momentarily gripped by fear. Extremely tired both physically and mentally, I felt a surge of panic well up. Panic would kill us. I could not lose control of myself now since the lives of my passengers depended on me keeping a cool head.

Then, my background as a wrestler began to pay some un-imagined dividends. I had spent years in junior high, high school, and college going one on one with my opponents on the wrestling mats in front of hundreds of spectators. I would call on this experience to give me the mental toughness I would need to control my fear and to think under pressure. Making a conscious decision to deny the fear, I mentally pushed it back from where it had come and concentrated on the task at hand.

At about one mile from the final approach fix, I put the Cessna into a high-speed dive towards the minimum descent altitude of 400 feet AGL. I desperately wanted to get beneath the clouds and at the same time build up excess airspeed.

At 3,000’, we penetrated the freezing level. Clear ice began accumulating rapidly and, as at Jefferson City, the windshield iced over and became opaque. At about 700 feet above the ground, we broke out of the clouds and, out of the side window, I saw the ground for the first time in three hours. I was strongly tempted to transition from flying on instruments to flying visually by looking out of the side window, but that would cause us to drift off the localizer course. With the windshield iced over, the only way to find the end of the runway was to stay precisely on the centerline of the localizer, which had now become our lifeline.

We leveled off at MDA, full throttle, and a red line airspeed of 160 mph. As predicted, we began losing airspeed at an alarming rate and I was forced to trade airspeed to maintain altitude. The clock on the instrument panel was counting off the two minutes and thirty-five seconds needed to fly from the outer marker to the end of the runway.

About two minutes into the approach, the airspeed had fallen to 110 mph, a loss of 50 mph in two minutes, even though the flaps were up and the engine was running at full throttle. Based on the clock and the fact that we were exactly on the localizer centerline, the runway had to be right in front of us. I couldn’t stand it any longer and stole a glance forward. Why I would look forward when I knew the windshield was iced over is still a mystery, but I did, and it resulted in two great revelations.

First, the defroster trick had worked. It had melted a hole in the ice about the size of a softball just above the glareshield, and second, right in the middle of that hole was the runway! We were about 1/2 mile from the threshold. My whole being was filled with joy. But then I heard my mental alarm. Its “voice” was shouting “don’t let up! It’s not over,” so I renewed my concentration on the still tricky task ahead. It would not be easy getting perfectly aligned with the runway threshold by looking through the tiny hole in the ice. I had to keep precisely on the localizer centerline to find the runway threshold.

It was time to start slowing to approach speed for landing and I was just reaching for the flap handle when I was struck by a thought. Lowering full flaps meant slowing to the full flap extension speed. What was the stall speed with this much ice? I didn’t know, so right then I decided to leave the flaps up and hold 110 mph all the way to touchdown. I reasoned that it flies at 110 mph, so why be a test pilot for Cessna now? We had over 6,000 feet of runway, so stopping wouldn’t be a problem.

I reduced power and began a slow, cautious descent to the concrete surface of Runway 3. As we approached the threshold, the visual angle through the hole in the ice caused me to lose sight of the runway. I transitioned to looking sideways but it was very difficult to fly this way. I quickly realized I couldn’t see well enough to land so I opened the side window and stuck my face out as far as possible. This allowed me to see ahead at a 45-degree angle, still not straight ahead but much better than before.

As we crossed the runway threshold at 110 mph, I pulled the throttle back to idle fully expecting the Cessna to float with the flaps up and so much airspeed but instead, it immediately began to sink! I pulled back on the elevator control to check our descent but the airplane was so heavy with ice, I couldn’t raise the nose up to the normal landing attitude. With almost full aft elevator and the nose level, we hit the runway hard on all three landing gear and bounced five to seven feet back into the air. Then, the 172 thumped down again, but this time for good.

Post Script

The most valuable lesson I learned from the “School of Hard Knocks” had nothing to do with weather or instrument flying. The “trial by ice” was a lesson in the awesome responsibility that comes from occupying the left seat of an airplane, regardless of its size. It also taught me to recognize those rare and unusual emergency situations when going by the book is not safe, and when deviating from standard operating procedures or the Federal Air Regulations is not only warranted, but imperative.

During a declared emergency, the pilot in command must not hesitate to take any action necessary to save his airplane and passengers from disaster, even if it is not in the book, even if it goes against common practice, and even if it violates the Federal Air Regulations.

Who would ever think that turning off the carburetor heat in freezing rain, descending 500′ below the minimum altitude on a segment of an instrument approach, crossing the final approach fix nearly 3,000 feet too high, or not flying a procedure turn, would all be the right things to do? The pilot in command must intuitively know when to do it by the book…and when to “dance.”

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Joel Turpin

Joel Turpin began his flying career in 1966 by soloing in a Piper J-3 Cub as a 16 year old high school student. He subsequently obtained his Private Pilot license as a high school senior in 1967. Joel then earned his Commercial license and CFI in 1969 as a 19 year old college student, and has been a current and active pilot and flight instructor since then.

His professional credentials include 5 years as captain, training officer, and chief pilot for a commuter airline where he flew the DC-3, Beech 18, and Beech 99 in scheduled passenger operations, and 6 years as Director of Training for both FlightSafety International and Simuflite’s King Air Division. In addition, Joel flew the King Air 200 as a corporate pilot for 2 years in the DFW area.

Turpin was subsequently hired by United Airlines in 1986 where he flew the Boeing 727, 737, 757 and 767 in both domestic and international operations including 100 oceanic crossings, and several equator crossings. Turpin retired in 2015 at age 65 and currently has some 30,000 hours in his log book.

He is currently employed as captain and chief pilot flying the Pilatus PC-12NG for a company in Pennsylvania. Joel has been a current and active flight instructor since 1970 and teaches instrument flying in a variety of single engine airplanes. Turpin also writes technical articles and conducts seminars for general aviation pilots with an emphasis on instrument flying and airplane systems. In addition, Turpin also writes flying stories based on his personal experiences as a pilot.

In 2016, Joel Turpin earned the FAA Wright Brothers Master Pilot Award for 50 years of flying accident and violation free, and for his contribution to aviation safety for all those years. His professional qualifications include:Airline Transport Pilot License, Certified Flight Instructor with Instrument and Multi-engine ratings, Turbojet Flight Engineer, Advanced Ground Instructor, Type Ratings in the DC-3, B-737, B757 and B-767, and the FAA’s Wright Brothers Master Pilot Award.

He currently lives in Punta Gorda, Florida with his wife, who is a United Airlines flight attendant. While Joel has had an amazing career in aviation spanning over six decades, he still considers himself to be just a general aviation pilot who got lucky.

Latest posts by Joel Turpin (see all)

• Trial by Ice - May 5, 2025
• Six Brave Souls - February 5, 2025
• High-Tech One Upmanship - December 18, 2024