Instrument Training Wheels

Humility is a pilot’s virtue.

The “perfect flight” is elusive. There’s so much to know—and so much we can’t know. A strong pilot community thrives on humility: the willingness to share what worked, what didn’t, and what we learned. Backseat pilots need not apply. This article is for those committed to continuous safety improvement and honest reflection. Pilots understand that life is fleeting, and that the joy of flying lies in the journey—and in the process.

In that spirit, I offer the following case study. I didn’t plan to encounter issues that day, so my notes aren’t as detailed as I’d like. If you spot a few inconsistencies, chalk it up to either author’s embellishment—or plain imperfection.

Background

I’m 55. I earned my Private Pilot Certificate in 2022 in a Cessna 150L. Not long after, I attended a two-day Sling Experimental build seminar at Midwest Sky Sports. I learned a lot about the industry—and what it means to take responsibility as a builder. Before the weekend was over, I had purchased a Sling TSi kit from South Africa. The Build-Assist program was a great fit: a blend of professional oversight and cutting-edge capability.

Before the build seminar was over, I had purchased a Sling TSi kit from South Africa.

Fast forward: Kosmos took its first flight in August 2024, equipped with dual (experimental) Garmin G3X displays, a GTN 650, GMC 507 autopilot, and a G5 backup. She was built for IFR. Whether I was ready for IFR is the subject of this article.

I began instrument training in September 2024, just after my 55th birthday. I had completed the written test the previous April. My instructor and friend, Ed Trautman, was terrific. I thoroughly enjoyed the process. One advantage of earning your instrument rating at age 55 is that most of the “bold” has been replaced by “old.” I was a cautious student—and remain a cautious pilot. That’s not to say some risk isn’t worth taking, but my posture is always about managing risk. I evaluate carefully, consider the outcome, and decide what’s acceptable. Ed made sure those lessons stuck.

After a full year of study and flight training, Doug Stewart of DSFI (1B1), a passionate safety advocate himself, pronounced me fit to pass in April 2025. Another license to learn. And that’s when things got interesting.

The Ice Question

My Sling TSi is not FIKI-certified (Flight Into Known Icing), so Ed and I focused extensively on go/no-go decision-making. Here’s the simple truth: canceling a flight when icing is possible is 100% effective at avoiding icing—and 100% effective at canceling the mission. Therein lies the pilot dilemma: where do you draw the line between the mission and safety?

I’ve experienced two icing encounters since flying the TSi. The first was during a winter training flight with Ed, skimming the bases at 6,000 feet between KSFM and KEEN. I was under the hood. Trace ice developed on the leading edges. I was watching the instruments closely and noted a slight performance change—nothing significant. We descended a little and the ice disappeared.

That experience came in handy later.

The Flight

The second icing event happened in April 2025, on a flight from KEWB (New Bedford, MA) to Y83 (Sandusky, MI), via KBGM. For days prior, I studied the weather through multiple sources: Weather Underground, Windy, MyRadarPro, ForeFlight, Aviation.gov, 1800-WXBRIEF, and more. An AIRMET for icing at 6,000 feet lingered over New Bedford. A large counterclockwise low-pressure system (a Nor’easter of sorts) was slowly moving northeast, but its southwestern quadrant remained over the departure area.

My plan to avoid icing was simple: stay low. I filed to cruise between 2,000 and 4,000 feet MSL, well below the 6,000-foot threat zone. I couldn’t determine cloud tops precisely; one app suggested they were above 15,000 feet. PIREPs in the area were mixed—two for icing and two for turbulence—but none matched my intended altitudes.

I planned to head west through Rhode Island and Connecticut at lower levels. Conditions were forecast to improve across western CT and NY. I built a route using low IFR charts that tracked published MEAs and offered multiple diversion airports. I delayed takeoff until 5 p.m. to allow better weather and ensure a daylight arrival.

The route I filed is shown below, followed by a second picture, constructed after the fact, from the filed and expected routes information found on the Flight tab of Foreflight.  The ATC expected route is further north than my filed route.  I ended up filing a flight plan a bit further north than the route I’d planned earlier in the week (which took me along the Rhode Island and Connecticut shoreline), due to checking the “previously approved routes” tab on Foreflight.  Rhode Island is only an hour’s flight from New York.  Many flight clearances out of Rhode Island head through northern Connecticut and Southern Massachusetts to avoid busy airapce. The charts show some MEAs at 2,000’ and lower, and even though I was heading West, I filed for 3,000’ (since it’d been approved previously.)

The green circle in the second pic represents the potential icing area.  The system was spinning counterclockwise (green arrows) and moving Northeast (orange arrow).

The Clearance Conflict

I arrived at the airport in rain, with 600–1000 foot overcast. Preflight complete, I called for my clearance. That’s when things got interesting.

Tower advised that my filed route was “non-standard” and couldn’t be approved. I explained that my aircraft wasn’t equipped for icing and I had filed a low-altitude route accordingly.

Tower: “There are no PIREPs for icing.”

Me: “If I fly this route and do encounter ice, ATC may have an emergency on their hands.”

My choice was clear: 1) reject the new routing and stay on the ground, or 2) accept the northerly route and climb as directed, relying on my prep and real-time monitoring.

I accepted the route—with caution.

Takeoff on runway 05, left turn northwest, initial climb to 2,000’. Soon I was handed to Departure, who cleared me to 4,000’. All good. Light rain. OAT 46°F. No ice.

Then came the next call: “Climb to 6,000 feet.”

That was the danger zone. I requested to remain at 4,000’. Denied—due to traffic.

Into the Clouds

A picture of the trace(?)-ice development. The symbols and color differences are part of the paint job. This is about an 18” span of the leading edge.

I began the climb. At 5,200’, I saw ice forming. I immediately called ATC. I admit—I felt guilty for “complaining.” Then reminded myself: this is what I should do.

To their credit, ATC responded instantly. “Descend to 4,000.” I complied, the ice shed quickly, and we continued.

Minutes later, another request: climb to 6,000’. I reminded them of the icing. Still, they pressed. We were moving west—away from the system. I accepted, warning them again I’d report any problems.

At 5,300’, the trace returned. I called it in again.

ATC immediately began querying other aircraft. (Note to IFR students: if ATC doesn’t do this, you can request PIREPs proactively.)

One nearby aircraft reported tops around 7,000’. That changed the equation. I had built this aircraft with a turbocharged Rotax 915is—so I had power in reserve. I reasoned that a short climb might get me on top. I’d seen this level of ice before; performance was minimally affected.

Breaking Out

This pic shows the icing level as I exited the clouds. I’d describe the accumulation as ‘chunky’. That’s not one of the official terms I’d learned during my studies.

The climb was steady but careful—gentle pitch to limit surface exposure. At 7,000’, I broke out into sunshine. The ice melted almost instantly.

The rest of the flight was smooth and uneventful.

Reflections and Lessons

After the flight, I asked myself: Was I just lucky? Did I rationalize my decision too well?

It’s a hard call. There were unknowns. But I also:

• Planned extensively for multiple outcomes.

• Used a wide range of tools and apps.

• Built backup routes with safe MEAs and alternate airports.

• Communicated openly and immediately with ATC.

• Reacted quickly to changing conditions.

• Stayed engaged—and humble.

Five Takeaways

1. Preparation is everything. There’s no such thing as over-preparing. I’ll add Skew-T Log-P analysis to my toolbox next time for better cloud top planning.

2. Have layered plans. A, B, C, D. Know what you’ll do when things go wrong—because they might.

3. Speak up. I communicated throughout the flight. I never waited to see if things would get worse—I reported immediately.

4. Lead the team. The pilot is the final authority. ATC, fellow pilots, and instructors are part of the team—but we have to lead. Props to Ed Trautman and Doug Stewart, who instilled “process-oriented safety” (POS—in the good way) into my training.

5. Ask about MVAs. Minimum Vectoring Altitudes can matter—a note to self for future flights.

Final Thoughts

Humility is a pilot’s virtue. We must be honest—especially with ourselves. I’ve talked to pilots who wouldn’t have flown that day. I’ve talked to others who understood and supported my decision-making.

What’s clear is this: I lived to tell the story. That alone isn’t proof I was right—but it gives me a chance to reflect, share, and help others learn.

Fly safe.

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Chris Yalanis

Chris lives in Newport, Rhode, Island with his wife Laura. Their three passenger children, Nick, Anna and Katie, copilot and slowly the require less dollars than his flying obsession. Chris is a retired Air Force LtCol with advanced degrees in Philosophy and Business/Accounting. He is in his 22nd year as a Private Wealth Managing Director, advising clients on their investments, retirement, and business assets. He is an active golfer, runner, and Court Tennis & Squash racketeer. He flies as often as possible!

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