Even though it was only three o’clock in the late autumn afternoon, the last gray light of day would fade fast before too long, as the sun was blocked by multiple cloud layers. I heard Martin Olson’s voice coming through my headphones calling Nome Radio on 122.2. However, there was something… I don’t know. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something didn’t sound quite right.

Technology has taken a lot of the mystery out of weather forecasting, filling in the gaps with more precise, more accurate and more comprehensive information. Given this embarrassment of riches, it's tempting to simply consume weather reports without thinking about them: "the TAF says it'll be good, so we're going!" That's a dangerous mindset.

Piloting an aircraft requires certain skills. It also requires certain amounts of discipline, situational and self-awareness. Piloting a helicopter requires even more of each of them, mostly because a rotary wing aircraft is flying in an unstable manner, as opposed to the stable flight characteristics of most civil airplanes.

After a near-record setting blizzard the weekend before, the Trenton airport was covered in two feet of snow. After digging out, pilot Greg John headed out for an early morning training flight. The sun rose in the east, painting the high overcast in beautiful shades of orange, yellow and purple. Another beautiful Friday Photo.

I felt I needed to expedite, because there was another Southwest 737 eyeballing me from across the runway, also holding short, and waiting for the little puddle jumper to get out of his way, so they could depart. I rolled out on the runway, and went to full throttle... and with a lot of right aileron and rudder. We lifted off and WHAM, we were 30 degrees to the runway. Yeah, I'd say there was a bit of wind shift!

As usual, I’d been running 30 minutes out of each tank when, about an hour and a half into the flight—you guessed it—the engine quit. Same drill with fuel selector, carb heat and mixture and, again, it started right up. What in the hell was going on this time? Both wing root fuel gauges were pegged at more than three quarters full… but they were even and they weren’t bouncing and I’d learned that was ominous.

I pulled up one of the chairs, recalling the uneventful mission, filling out the paperwork after taking three quick chugs of beer. Soon, I would be over at the O Club, catching up on all the news from my fellow pilots there, whether they be F-4 drivers or Electric Goon (EC-47) ones. Then... CRACKLE – CRACKLE. The little speakers at the radio rack announced an incoming call.