Frontal flying-then and now

Based on my weather briefing, I planned for an early morning departure. Wichita is smack-dab in the center of the country, it was early June, and the briefer mentioned a good chance of thunderstorm activity along my route to Leesburg, Virginia’s Executive Airport—JYO, then called W09, or Godfrey Field. There was a surface low to the north of Wichita with a northwest-southeast warm front shaping up in the Ohio Valley. You didn’t need to be a genius to know that conditions were ripe. On my way to the delivery center, I noticed that the temperature was an agreeable 65 degrees Fahrenheit—on its way to the high 80s later—the dew point was climbing into the mid 60-degree range, and the wind was steady at 10 knots out of the south, on its way to 20 knots with higher gusts. But skies were clear and at my cruising altitude of 5,000 feet I’d even have a tailwind. Things were looking good—for the near term.

There was a delay, so I didn’t take off until 10 a.m. or so. Just east of Wichita, departure control had me do some S-turns so they could identify me on their radar using a “skin paint” by looking for the returns bouncing off the airframe. It worked, and they tagged me so that controllers could follow me along the rest of the route. That’s how VFR flight following (now called “VFR traffic advisories”) worked with a /X airplane back in the day.

Three hours later I landed at my first stop—the Rolla National Airport (VIH) in Vichy, Missouri. Apart from a few jolts of turbulence from low-level thermals the severe-clear leg to Rolla was uneventful.

Things began to fall apart as I climbed away from Rolla, bound for the next stop—3.5 hours away—at the Cincinnati Municipal Airport/Lunken Field (LUK). A layer of stratocumulus clouds formed high above, and another, low-altitude cumulus cloud layer below went from scattered to broken. I was crossing the front, between layers, and entering the warmer, juicy air rising from the frontal complex’s warm sector.

It didn’t take long for that low layer to become an undercast and start building. If I wanted to avoid it, I’d have to climb, and fast. ATC helped, and up I went, to 6,000, 7,000, 8,000 feet, and yes, 10,000 feet and beyond. Now the job was to weave around some impressive cumulus towers, some of which were turning dark. Then came a broadcast over the VOR receiver’s voice channel—a convective sigmet, with mention of tornadoes, covering a large area of Ohio and Indiana. And, no surprise, I was in the middle of it.

Now I was about 50 nautical miles west of Lunken and needed to descend. With all the clouds, turbulence and updrafts this would be a chore. The only way was to go to idle power, push gently on the control yoke to coax a descent, steer around the buildups, and wait for the altimeter to unwind. Meanwhile, ATC provided vectors in Lunken’s direction. After an eternity I was in clear sky below 2,000-foot cloud bases, cleared to land, and entered the pattern for Lunken’s Runway 21L. Gusty winds were picking up out of the west, and turbulence made for quite a job on final. It was a big crab angle right up to touchdown, and quite a relief to be on the ground.

Then more drama. Yes, I’d beaten the storm system to the airport, but lowering dark clouds, lightning, and 40-knot wind gusts had arrived over a ridge to the west. A ramp worker had mercy on me and directed me to a hangar. Once inside, torrential rain, thunder, and lightning made their appearance as we closed the doors.

Since those times, massive changes have occurred in the ways we learn about aviation weather hazards. Sure, there were convective outlooks and radar summary charts, but these were generally sent via fax. Most weather briefings were done over telephone, which could leave a lot to the imagination. In-person weather briefings were phasing out. Flight Watch came to be the closest thing to real-time weather awareness, and Doppler weather radar had yet to mature. Meteorologists and controllers were stuck with the old WSR-57 radars that were monochromatic, didn’t show precipitation contours well, and didn’t show much in the way of airborne traffic.

Today we have access to a huge range of weather analysis and prediction products, virtually all of which are on the internet. Websites run by the Aviation Weather Center (aviationweather.gov) and Storm Prediction Center (spc.noaa.gov) have loads of information for analysis and prediction, presented in large graphic formats. When SPC meteorologists suspect that a storm complex might develop, they create watches, outlooks, and mesoscale discussions (MDs) to discuss them at length. The National Weather Service’s Weather Prediction Center (wpc.ncep.noaa.gov) forecasts up to two and one-half days ahead and has links to sites for hurricane and even space weather.

Doppler weather radar is now the norm, and the WSR-88D system (radar.weather.gov) shows high-resolution, color products that show precipitation returns in detail. Still other websites, such as GOES Image Viewer (star.nesdis.noaa.gov/goes/index.php) show satellite imagery for visible, infrared, and water vapor channels. ATC centers now have meteorologists on staff, and Center Weather Service Units with Doppler radar displays that let controllers observe and vector aircraft away from suspicious radar signatures.

In-cockpit, datalink weather imagery—via FIS-B or SiriusXM providers—is another important tool that lets pilots see radar returns. This and other weather and radar imagery, including onboard weather radar on higher-end general aviation airplanes, is becoming standard equipment. Integrated weather and flight planning resources are also available on electronic flight bags offered by providers ForeFlight and Garmin, among others. And let’s not forget weather apps, which can turn any smartphone into a full-service source of aviation weather data. Or all the computer-driven forecast models, some of which can forecast for weeks in the future.

But while there’s been a huge increase in the volume, character, and availability of weather information for pilots, some things never change. One is the meteorology of the Midwest. The Gulf of Mexico’s heat, moisture, buoyancy, and southerly winds power their way northward to the nation’s interior on a regular basis and drive nearly all the summertime synoptic weather in the central United States. Another is a semi-permanent low-pressure center that sets up east of the Rockies, usually in Colorado. When the warm, moist air in the Gulf flows north, it’s drawn into the dynamics of that low, creating updrafts, wind shear aloft, and steep lapse rates. Sooner or later the Gulf air runs into a cooler air mass, a frontal boundary is formed, and legendary convection forms during the heat of the day. Flying in or near the central U.S. from April to September? Look for those weather features. They don’t call it Tornado Alley for nothing.

As always, the importance of good judgment is another enduring central element. I’ll be the first to confess that I blew it on that leg to Lunken. I had a bad case of get-there-itis. The convective outlook, prog charts, and TAFs for that day were unequivocal; a long line of thunderstorms was almost certainly in the offing. I could have waited a day. The next mistake was the late start; a 6 a.m. or 7 a.m. departure would have meant I’d have arrived before the buildups even began. Doing a 180-degree turn and landing at Centralia, Illinois, or Evansville, Indiana—or anywhere west of the buildups—would also have been a good idea.

Of course, all these options would have worked well even if I’d had today’s array of cockpit equipment and weather data. But bear in mind that easy, fast access to advanced technology doesn’t automatically inoculate you against bad decision making.

Thomas A. Horne is a former editor at large for AOPA media and the author of Flying America’s Weather.