The June morning dawned clear and crisp as I loaded my wife and two kids into a rented Cessna 172RG for a long-awaited trip to visit friends and family on the East Coast. Taking off from Madison, Wisconsin's, Dane County Regional-Truax Field, I was particularly confident. I had just received my flight instructor ticket the week before and felt ready to take on any challenge that cross-country flying had to offer.
A check of the weather between Madison and my destination, Manassas, Virginia, revealed a slow-moving warm front lying east and west along my proposed route, with a chance of embedded thunderstorms. South of Chicago we picked up heavy rain in clouds and light turbulence. Chicago Center was extremely accommodating in getting us around the heaviest precipitation. We were making turns 10 to 20 degrees left and right, according to the instructions of ATC. This kept us away from any significant weather.
"This is better than weather radar or a Stormscope," I thought. In actuality, it was an assumption I would soon regret.
A week later, it was time to return to Wisconsin. The weather briefing indicated VFR all the way home, with the possibility of scattered thunderstorms in the late afternoon, well after our scheduled arrival in Madison. Our fuel stop on the return trip was Cincinnati Municipal-Lunken Field.
Stepping from the airplane at Lunken, we encountered air that was hot, heavy, and thick with humidity. The fair-weather cumulus clouds were still widely scattered. I couldn't wait to get refueled and climb back to 6,000 feet, where it was cooler. The flight service briefer showed me the latest radar summary, revealing a few small thunderstorms south of Chicago. He assured me that it would be no problem to fly around them. I filed an IFR flight plan. As I was returning to the airplane, I assured myself that I had ATC to guide me around the cells if they were not readily visible.
Climbing toward the northwest, I noted that some of the cumulus clouds were beginning to build, giving that familiar "popcorn" look on the horizon, but they were still few and far between. I asked Indianapolis Center if they were painting any weather ahead for us. They told me basically what the briefer had said — some scattered cells ahead, but they could get me around them as we got closer to Chicago. The clouds began to thicken and the ride became a little rougher. I looked to my left and saw Purdue University Airport pass under us. "I can always go back there if things get unmanageable ahead," I thought.
A few minutes later we were in and out of towering cumulus and holding altitude was beginning to be a problem. Again I asked Indianapolis Center for weather information ahead and for deviations around any significant cells. They turned me over to Chicago Center, which said that they would have some deviations for me as soon as I got closer to Chicago.
At 6,000 feet we entered a cloud that was as black as night inside. The precipitation was heavy enough to force water into the cockpit through the air vents. The turbulence was moderate to heavy, and then a blinding flash of lightning surrounded the airplane. I lowered the gear and throttled back to maneuvering speed. My wife, who was not in love with flying anyway — even under the best of conditions — was wide-eyed and white as a ghost. I assured her that everything would be all right.
Because of the updrafts, we popped out of the side of this cloud at 7,200 feet. I reported to ATC that I was going back down to 6,000; but before I could do so, I was back in another cloud worse than the previous one. There was no turning back to Purdue because of the buildups all around and behind.
"Chicago Center, Cessna Two-Four-Six-Echo-Tango, in heavy precip and turbulence. I need a deviation around this stuff." Center was getting busy now with many other pilots in similar predicaments.
"Deviations are approved," said the controller, and he switched me to another frequency. "It's nice that deviations are approved, but which way do I go to get out of this mess?" I thought.
About that time, I emerged from the side of the cell at 8,000 feet. I bent forward toward the windscreen and looked up above the airplane. It was as though we were in a deep well. The clouds went up as far as I could see, perhaps to 45,000 feet or more. It looked brighter to the southwest, so I turned that way and called Center to tell them what I was doing. They approved my turn, didn't seem to care about my altitude, and informed me of a convective sigmet for severe thunderstorms in the area. When I asked about getting around these cells, the controller said something that I will never forget: "Sir, I'm sorry; my radar doesn't show weather." I was on my own.
The controller said not to deviate too far southwest because he had "dozens of airliners out there holding, waiting for the weather to clear." This was enough for me. From my chart, I knew that the Kankakee (Illinois) Airport was nearby. I requested vectors to land there. On the way down we flew through another cell and broke out of the clouds at about 2,000 feet, right above the airport. I made a visual approach and landed safely.
After a quick check of the weather, I determined that there was no way we were going to Madison that day. The rest of the family appreciated that decision.
That night at a motel in Kankakee, we saw television news reports of devastating tornadoes in Indiana and Illinois that had occurred about the time that we were in the air and about 15 miles east of where we had been. My wife was beside herself and vowed never to fly in a small airplane again. She rented a car and drove to Madison with one of my daughters the next day. The other elected to stay with me. She had a date and calculated that she would arrive home earlier in the airplane with me than in the car with her mother. She had her priorities straight.
On my way home in the airplane the next day, I had a lot of time to reflect on what had happened. While I had coped with the situation and gotten everyone on the ground safely, I realized my stupidity for not making the decision to land sooner and for depending on ATC as my primary source of in-flight weather information. I was lazy. I should have been checking with Flight Watch and listening to the transcribed weather bulletins and other reports instead of counting on ATC for advisories. ATC is there to control traffic, not to be your personal source of en route weather — a lesson that I'll never forget.
Richard Hiner, AOPA 628459, of Columbia, Maryland, is an aviation safety counselor for the Baltimore FSDO. He has logged 2,600 hours in 18 years of flying.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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