Musings: Fright flight

Throttle up, brakes released, G force pressing me hard into the seat back as the airplane ripped down the runway. The tortured vibrations smoothed as the hangars blurred by. I eased back on the stick and my craft lifted from the ground. A mixture of excitement and hardball focus consumed my senses. Now climbing at 150 mph, I headed toward the practice area.

A tense 10-minute initial ride filled with violent pilot-induced maneuvers convinced me that I never wanted to fly this airplane again. The Cassutt IIIM Formula One race plane was too much for me. But once on the ground, I was unsuccessful in selling it back to its previous owner.

I was now committed to learning to fly it well. I topped off the fuel, took off, and headed east to follow I-70 when the realization hit me: I was halfway across the United States, departing Kansas City, destination Keene, New Hampshire, in a tiny race plane in which I had barely 15 minutes' experience.

At every fuel stop, a crowd gathered as soon as the prop stopped. People wanted to know why there are two control sticks. The longer stick is to control the airplane. The short stick operates the flaperons.

The windshield was covered with ice. I stared, unbelieving at first, refusing to accept what I saw.I refueled at Dunkirk. Stayed the night in Utica. Awoke to see three to four inches of snow on the ground and still lightly falling. The FSS briefer said, “This all clears up by the time you get to Schenectady.” To say the briefer gave bad information would be an understatement. Reaching Schenectady, through the thickening and continuing snowfall—now mixed with rain—I looked for Route 7 that would take me to Bennington, Vermont. My grip on the stick had become so tight I thought I might leave fingerprints on it.

Soon, I arrived over a town that I felt compelled to identify before going farther. Circling the town for several minutes did not provide the answer. This town was in a valley with two eastbound roads leading out of it. The tops of all three small mountains that surrounded the town were obscured by clouds. Choosing the wrong road to follow could lead to another mountain with obscured tops where there may not be enough room to turn around.

Then, a frightening discovery captured my full concentration. The windshield was covered with ice. I stared, unbelieving at first, refusing to accept what I saw.

The fist in my gut gripped harder. The rain had turned to freezing rain. As the droplets hit, spread, and froze, the ice changed the leading edge shape of the airfoils, resulting in reduced lift, reduced thrust, and added weight—a deadly combination for any pilot, especially one of my experience level flying this airplane. Looking out the side windows, I saw both fuel vents and the unheated pitot tube were closing up with collected ice.

Grudgingly, I made the decision to crash-land this beautiful airplane in some field of the town below, hoping someone would come rescue this forlorn pilot. This seemed like a better choice than crashing on a mountainside somewhere and possibly not being found for months. Stomach in knots. Shoulders aching, mouth dry. Hands sweaty, even in this temperature.

I remembered the sage advice of world-famous test pilot Bob Hoover: “Fly the plane as far into the crash as possible” I tried to steel myself for the forthcoming event.

In a circling descent, I frantically searched out the left side for a place to put the airplane down. To my surprise, the Bennington monument came into view. Hallelujah! I’d been saved. I’d been over Bennington the whole time! Remembering that the Bennington airport was just west of the monument, relief flooded over me as I descended into the landing pattern and put that baby down on the wet, lightly snow-covered runway.

The second I touched down, I got another surprise—black ice under the snow. No braking action available. The rudder was my only directional control, and that was useful only as long as I still had speed enough for it to be effective. Good grief, what else can come my way today?

With approximately three-quarters of the runway behind me, the airplane regained some effective braking. I was able to stop before running off the end. I sat there, engine idling, knees knocking while I thanked God that I was safely on the ground, then taxied to the FBO. I rented hangar space for the night, rented a car, and drove the rest of the way home.

I wish I’d taken more care learning about the aircraft’s idiosyncrasies before launching on a long cross-country flight. A more thorough cockpit tour, maintenance records, and a longer familiarization flight would top the list. Cockpit space enough to open a chart and essential flight gear storage would be more thoughtfully considered. Unusable cross-threaded gas caps and a wing tank with a 50/50 mixture of auto gas and leaked-in water forced me to make many fuel stops because I was flying with only the 12-gallon nose tank. I wished I’d fixed those before departing Kansas City.

I was ill-prepared for the challenge of communication using a handheld radio that brought in all the spark-plug noise of an unshielded ignition. Caught in freezing rain, seeing the windshield covered with ice, the pitot tube and gas vents filling up with ice—this was a real nail biter.

But once we got to know each other, I had an absolute ball flying this airplane for the next couple of years.

Sky Storms is a 2,000-hour instrument-rated pilot who lives in Ocala, Florida.