Collins Writing Prize Winner: The Day the Sky Went Silent

Editor’s note: This article is the first-place winner in the 2026 Richard Collins Writing Prize for Young Pilots. After reviewing dozens of submissions, our panel of judges selected Kathleen S. Thompson’s story of her first solo cross-country flight—and an unexpected radio failure—as the winning entry. We think you’ll agree it’s a compelling account of a young pilot relying on her training when it mattered most.

The Day the Sky Went Silent

by Kathleen S. Thompson

August 2, 2023, began before the North Dakota sun had fully risen. I remember the stillness of the morning and the excitement within. My alarm went off in my quiet dorm room, but I was already awake. That day was different. I was going on my very first solo cross-country flight.

I was only two months into flight training with forty-five hours in my logbook. The day prior, I had taken and passed my written exam, so everything was fresh in my mind. I had moved through my private pilot training very quickly, and suddenly the milestone that once felt distant was here. My flight plan was simple: leave Grand Forks, fly 71 nautical miles south to Fargo for a touch-and-go, turn directly west to land in Valley City, then return home to Grand Forks. What could go wrong?

The sky that morning was a pilot’s dream. Not a cloud in sight, light winds, and unlimited visibility. Learning to fly in the time of paper charts, I completed every weight and balance calculation and takeoff and landing distance, checked weather, NOTAMs, and fuel requirements. My instructor endorsed me and said, “Have fun! I’ll see you when you get back,” gave me a confident nod, and said goodbye.

When I started up and taxied out alone, the cockpit felt bigger and quieter once again without him. When I took off Runway 35L, the nerves turned into excitement and confidence. The leg to Fargo was smooth and quiet. Fields stretched endlessly below me in perfect squares—after all, that’s really all you see in North Dakota. After timing my checkpoints, I began to rehearse what I would say to the controllers in Fargo. Their towered airspace felt intimidating, but nothing I hadn’t done before. Within a few minutes, I had completed a quick touch-and-go, climbed out, and made an immediate 90-degree turn west toward Valley City.

This leg meant the most to me. My grandparents were waiting for me. They had never seen me fly before. After 20 minutes, I spotted the airport. It is a particularly beautiful airport as it sits up in the middle of a valley surrounded by the North Dakota landscape. Looking out for radio-less crop dusters, I landed and taxied over to the FBO, shut down, opened the door, and stepped into the warm morning air.

My grandparents were smiling and waving. I hugged them tightly. My grandpa handed me a bag of cookies and snapped a photo beside the airplane. Pride radiated from them, and from me. I was no longer just learning to fly. I was becoming a real pilot.

Then something small shifted.

As I climbed back into the airplane, I reached for my phone. Not in the seat next to me. Not on the floor. I searched quickly, then more thoroughly. It had been with me minutes ago when I had my picture taken.

The iconic picture taken by my grandfather right before I departed Valley City, ND—phone in hand.

“There’s no way it’s not in the airplane,” I thought.

Maybe I tossed it in the back seat. Time was ticking, and I had a due-back time. I convinced myself it had to be in the airplane somewhere. I started up and departed Valley City, climbing back toward Grand Forks.

For the first half of the return leg, things were uneventful. The radio was quiet, and it seemed to be a peaceful morning. With one leg left, I relaxed slightly. About 30 miles from Grand Forks, roughly two and a half hours into my solo, I prepared to make a radio call to the UND supervisor of flight, as required, to notify them I would be back shortly.

I switched frequencies.

Silence.

No static. No voices. Nothing.

I tried again. Still nothing.

I checked the volume. Swapped radios. Adjusted the squelch. Verified the frequency. Tried another, then another. I tried the right-seat radio. I called the practice area. Ground. Tower. Dispatch. Line.

Silence.

My stomach dropped as the realization set in for the first time: I was having a real radio communication failure. Panic arrived instantly. My breathing became shallow. My mind froze—but I realized quickly there was no time to panic.

Thanks to my incredible instructor, I knew exactly what to do. Aviate. Navigate. Communicate.

Thanks to my incredible instructor, I knew exactly what to do.

Aviate. Navigate. Communicate.

The airplane was flying perfectly. That was first. I maintained heading and altitude. Then I ran the lost communications checklist. Nothing. The checklist ended with “Call ground” or “Call tower.”

My phone…still missing.

Now I was approaching Class D airspace at Grand Forks without radios and without a phone. I began circling outside the Delta, buying myself time and deciding what I should do.

I evaluated my options. Divert to Mayville, an untowered field nearby—but I had no radios and no phone. My only thought was: if I landed there with no communications, would anyone be there to help me?

I was such a new student pilot that this possibility had never once crossed my mind, and I was scared.

Continuing to Grand Forks meant entering towered airspace without establishing communication. But I knew the procedures. I had flown them every day.

I made my decision.

I dialed 7600 into the transponder—the universal code indicating a radio failure. This was beyond anything I thought I would ever have to do in my lifetime.

Seven.
Six.
Zero.
Zero.

About eight miles out, scanning the horizon, I saw it.

A bright, clear green beam coming from the Grand Forks control tower.

Steady green.

As inexperienced as I was, the FAA written exam I had taken the day prior forced me to learn the light gun signals. I was relieved to know I was cleared to land.

I began to fly the normal arrival procedure: flying over a group of ponds at 2,500 feet, then to the easy-to-spot neighborhood at 2,100 feet, followed by the left downwind to prepare to land.

Relief flooded through me quickly. I finally knew they had received my signal. After all, I was now in controlled airspace—in silence.

I entered the left downwind for Runway 35L, flying the same procedures as I had been taught. As I was about to turn base, something unexpected happened.

I could hear the tower clearly.

“If you can hear us, you are cleared to land.”

I could hear them—but they still couldn’t hear me.

I landed smoothly, taxied clear of the runway, and back to the ramp. Later, I would learn they had assumed I was an instructor based on how calmly and precisely I handled the situation.

As I shut down on the ramp, the weight of the last thirty minutes finally started to set in. As I filled out the discrepancy sheet, I could barely remember what had just happened. All I could do was be thankful the situation ended well.

I walked into the flight operations building. Before I even reached the door, I saw my instructor running down the sidewalk toward me.

“Are you okay? What just happened?”

That question almost broke me. The adrenaline that had carried me through the emergency dissolved instantly.

I told him what had happened.

Soon, I was telling the story to the chief flight instructor as well. To my surprise, they weren’t concerned—they were proud.

“That was a textbook radio comm failure that you did,” they said. The tower had reported the same.

But there was one lingering issue.

My phone.

Using my instructor’s phone, we tracked it—to the ramp at Valley City.

I had left it there.

The next day, we flew back to retrieve it. My grandfather had found it and brought it inside the FBO.

There was just one small complication.

I had run over it with the airplane.

The screen was shattered beyond recognition.

It was a humbling and comical ending to an otherwise life-changing experience. But beneath the humor and chaos was something far more significant.

That day taught me what no regular, day-to-day training flight could.

I learned that panic is powerful—but discipline and trust in your training are stronger. Fear will try to shut you down, but discipline will overcome it. Checklists exist for a reason, and preparation is not optional.

Most importantly, it taught me that confidence in aviation does not mean the absence of fear or nervousness. It means the ability to continue and aviate despite it.

Now a flight instructor, I am strangely grateful that this happened so early in my flying career. I learned, at 45 hours, what it feels like to manage a real emergency alone—learning that I can rely on my training and that composure is a skill built through intention, not personality.

The silence in my headset that morning could have defined me by fear. Instead, it defined me by growth and confidence.

Every time I hear the chatter of busy Grand Forks airspace on my working radio, I remember the day it went silent—and the day I realized I was becoming not just someone who flies, but a pilot shaped by adversity and forged by experience.

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Kathleen Thompson

Kathleen is a senior at the University of North Dakota’s John D. Odegard School of Aerospace Sciences, pursuing dual degrees in Commercial Aviation and Aviation Safety & Operations. She was first introduced to flying through glider lessons, sparking the passion that launched her aviation career. She holds Commercial single- and multi-engine privileges and a Flight Instructor Certificate. Kathleen serves as Vice President and competitor on the UND Aerobatic Team and won an individual national title in 2025. In her free time, she is also an accomplished pianist and organist. She aspires to become a major airline captain while mentoring future pilots.

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