Flight lesson: Well-timed one-eighty

December in Northeastern Ohio rarely provides perfect VFR conditions, so when the forecast called for a calm and sunny Sunday—at least until late afternoon—I booked my favorite 172. My call to Flight Service that morning confirmed good weather until 4 or 5 p.m.

My wife and I decided on breakfast at an airport 85 miles away, outside of Akron. The plan was to be back at our home airport by 1 p.m. at the latest. I had zero desire to fly in heavy snow, so the three- to four-hour cushion seemed more than adequate.

We flew to our destination near Lake Erie in perfect weather, except for the final few minutes when light snow began to fall. That caught my attention, but not in a big way. Why should it? I had a plan, right? But as someone once said to me “Do you know how to make the gods laugh? Tell them your plans.”

Halfway through breakfast it started snowing—hard. By the time we finished eating, we could not see the end of the runway. I called the FBO at our home airport and talked with the chief CFI. He said “It’s not even snowing here, and skies are clear. Just go up, take a look around, and you should be fine.”

I almost responded with, “That sounds like a bad idea.” But I had earned my private pilot certificate in October, and who the heck was I to challenge the top CFI and the most experienced pilot I knew? I told him we would try as long as visibility improved enough to be VFR.

Within 30 minutes, the snow tapered off considerably. I did a quicker-than-normal preflight, a runup, and headed to the departure end of the runway. I felt more nervous prior to pushing in the throttle than on any previous flight except for my first solo. But, unlike that flight, the voice in my head wouldn’t stop shouting, This is a foolish thing you are doing. I did it anyway.

We flew just a few miles before the Lake Erie snow machine started up again in earnest. I immediately told my wife, “We’re going back.” Visibility was down to a mile or so, but we landed without any problems other than my racing heart.

I called the FBO again and explained I would not be flying back that day. He told us to sit tight while they figured it out. Ten minutes later he called and said they were sending another airplane and CFI to ferry us home. Excellent. Except it wasn’t.

By the time the other airplane arrived, conditions had deteriorated to such an extent the CFI would not go back up. Running out of options, I found a limo service willing to drive us home. Ordinarily a 90-minute trip, it took more than four hours and was one of the most hair-raising rides the three of us ever experienced.

It might have been an incredibly trying day, but it was also the most educational day this low-hours pilot had to that point. I learned that regardless of the experience or certifications of those on whom I depend for advice, as the PIC it is always my responsibility to make informed decisions, and my responsibility to not be intimidated into doing something I believe to be unsafe. While the chief CFI certainly meant well, I should have never agreed to follow his suggestion. I was stupid, but lucky. That inner voice could very well save your life. Listen to it.