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Have you ever been asked this question? “What’s the most dangerous flight you have made?” I have been asked more than once. Typically, the question comes from my non-pilot friends. It seems that many of our non-flying friends still see aviation through the lens of the barnstorming days and assume I frequently fly under bridges or through buildings. Many of the non-flying public view our little GA airplanes as inherently dangerous. They do not necessarily question the risks of passing cars at a closing speed of 110 mph on a two-lane highway, while at least one driver is texting—but I digress.
It is an interesting question, and I always answer it. And I always answer it with the same flight. I will describe that flight later. But first, let’s look at the question from a pilot’s point of view. Technically, you could argue that every flight is “the most dangerous.” The transition time from rotation to, say, 1,000 feet is a zone most pilots do not like to linger in. Frankly, an engine problem during this phase is likely the most dangerous thing a pilot can ever face. But that’s a hard concept to explain to a non-pilot, and I do not think it answers the spirit of the question being asked.
I could give a data-driven answer. I could say that any time the fuel level gets low is my most dangerous flight. Given the number of fuel-starvation accidents caused by a lack of quantity by choice—not necessarily a mechanical problem—this would surprise most non-pilots. But again, I do not think that answers the spirit of the question being posed. Besides, I tanker fuel. Other than when I’m going for a short aerobatic practice flight, I always carry far more fuel than I need. Fuel is simply not a variable I want to worry about.
I could give a different data-based answer. I could say flying in bad weather. Any non-pilot who has flown through a turbulent storm on an airliner would understand that answer. Yet I avoid anything that looks convective by at least 20 miles. I avoid penetrating any fronts unless I have a minimum of 40 miles between convective buildups. I monitor weather in flight and go well around the backside of any developing convective activity.
I also have a zero tolerance for icing. I stay far away from it. I wish I could say I have never encountered ice. When I have, I immediately take action to exit it. I never fly where SLD is forecast. If there is a potential for ice, I want non-freezing temperatures below, a very thin layer of moisture to climb through, and—when possible—some form of anti-ice or de-ice.
I do fly IFR frequently. I am current, and I am proficient. I fly an IPC with an instructor every six months. I fly a lot of simulator time. I always practice to minimums. Yet as I fly, I rarely have to make approach minimums.
As I’ve written before, general aviation gives us the flexibility to shift flight times. Leave earlier or later, and typically you can find better weather. So I can’t offer a frightening tale of weather flying. I try to keep anything with the words weather and flying in the same sentence as vanilla as possible.
If I tell people about my aerobatic flying, they are certain this is where the danger lies. Alas, this too is quite vanilla. I take my aerobatic flying very seriously, and I fly by the adage: altitude, airspeed, knowledge—two of the three are required to complete any maneuver.
I am far from a skilled aerobatic pilot, but I train with professional instructors. I leave myself plenty of altitude to practice, and I fly well within the limitations of my aircraft and my skills. Again, my aerobatics are pretty vanilla. Even when I fly upside down, I just can’t provide the story of danger that question seeks.
So what has been my most dangerous flight? The answer I give is a flight I took in the Cub. I tell this story as an example, but honestly, I have several that fit the model.
I was flying home from Fredericksburg, Texas, to Springdale, Arkansas. A friend suggested staying under the Bravo airspace of DFW to enjoy the view of the Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex. It was stunning to see the city from the air, but it’s not a flight I am likely to repeat.
The flight put me roughly 1,000 feet AGL. While flying along, I was acutely aware that any power loss would yield very little time to make a landing decision. I was constantly looking for large parking lots, high school fields, parks, golf courses—any area that would give my wife and me a chance with minimal risk to bystanders. Let me be frank: there were not many such choices.
Additionally, there was traffic everywhere—and I’m not talking about down on the Texas freeways. I was using VFR flight following, and it seemed I was receiving traffic callouts from ATC every minute or so. I also had in-cockpit traffic displayed, and the screen was littered with little white triangles. At one point, the controller asked me to enter the Bravo, as it would make his job easier. I do not know how often a Cub gets invited into a Bravo, but I obliged, and the traffic alerts calmed down a bit.
So that’s my most dangerous flight. I’ve had several similar ones. All sightseeing in the Cub. Exploring Utah, canyon flying in Idaho, mountain flying in Colorado, even my frequent after-work flights in the backcountry of Arkansas. There is an inherent danger in seeing the country low and slow, as a power loss leaves little time for a solution.
Please know I’m not talking about “buzzing,” nor am I talking about flights where I’m worried about violating any regulations. These are flights where the reward of the natural beauty of our country makes the small, inherent risk of flying at 500–1,000 feet AGL worth taking.
I do try to mitigate the risk. First, I chair-fly power-off scenarios as best as possible. I drill the Bob Hoover philosophy: fly the airplane all the way to the end. Second, I practice slow flight. In any off-airport landing scenario, I want to be slow, wings level, and well clear of a stall/spin. I practice short-field landings to get down and stopped in as little space as possible. Still, make no mistake—there are several flights over Arkansas where a power failure means landing in the trees. Regardless of preparation, in such a situation, there is going to be some luck and a few prayers involved.
Still, I’m not going to stop sightseeing. The beauty of these landscapes is too big of a draw for me. I do not do these flights for monetary reward or praise; however, I do occasionally publish a photo or two to share the experience. I hope you can see what I see in these photos and understand a little how these flights impact me.
My story of a “harrowing” low-and-slow flight over the Arkansas Ozarks rarely quenches the excitement the questioner was hoping for. But that’s fine by me. I hope my flying career will be filled with “dangerous” flights that make other people yawn.
- My Most Dangerous Flight - February 13, 2026
- Friday Photo: Clouds Above - February 6, 2026
- Friday Photo: Spitfire Over St. Louis - December 26, 2025
Gorgeous photos. Enjoyed the article & appreciated your philosophy.