Running out of options

We pilots are taught to stay away from them. But how close can you get without getting into trouble? That was in my mind when, as a young pilot with a fresh instrument rating, I talked with flight service in New York the Tuesday night before my wife and I were to fly our Beech Sundowner to a Thanksgiving dinner at my sister’s house in Decatur, Illinois.

Flight service: “A system’s developing west of St. Louis that’s going to be trouble in central Illinois by late tomorrow. You may want to head out early.” And the unspoken part, “...and plan to overnight somewhere along the way if necessary.”

That’s what I did. En route were plenty of good airports to spend the night. Indianapolis, Terre Haute, even Champaign-Urbana in Illinois, 40 miles from our destination. Worst case my sister could come pick us up there.

Waking up early, I checked again with flight service, no change. We’d fuel up at Columbus, Ohio (CMH), then make a 2.7-hour flight to Decatur with what the airplane’s manual said was six hours of fuel on board. We’d easily arrive an hour ahead of the big winter system coming. A cozy fire awaited us that night and a family Thanksgiving dinner the next day.

The smooth flight to Columbus was CAVU all the way. Nothing portended a problem, but clouds, snow, and headwinds from then on. Freezing level was well above our 4,000-foot cruise altitude, with the low, flat terrain of the Midwest even permitting cruise at 2,000 feet msl if necessary.

Topped off, I rechecked weather, filed IFR, alternate Terre Haute (HUF), both showing decent VFR but predicted to go IFR as the winter system moved east. ETA Decatur 3:45 p.m. Sunset at 4:42 p.m. We launched. As predicted, an hour later we were in clouds and light snow, but no bumps. Headwinds a bit greater than predicted. Our new ETA: 4 p.m. When’s the big stuff supposed to hit our destination? Not until sometime after 5 p.m.

What if the prediction is wrong? I thought. We’ve got an hour of pad. We’re over Indianapolis. Stop here? Not yet. It’s daylight, easy flying, and Terre Haute is 30 minutes ahead, Decatur an hour. Worst case we arrive at 4:15 p.m. Anything after that, back to Terre Haute. Decision made, we continued.

In those days, only the larger airports like Columbus and Indianapolis had radar. Once you left what was then called a TCA (now Class B), an IFR flight was tracked by ATC with periodic reports from the pilot, called PTATEN: Position, Time, Altitude, Time Expected Next.

It took 40 minutes from Indianapolis to Terre Haute. Headwinds were stronger, otherwise smooth. ETA now 4:20 p.m. My report to ATC: “Six-Zero-Eight-Three November, crossing Terre Haute at 21:40 Zulu, estimate Spinner VOR at 22:20 Zulu.” 4:20 p.m. Decatur time. That’s the initial approach fix, with easily another 15 minutes of maneuvering after that before landing.

But at 4:15 p.m., as we were nearing the initial approach fix, ATC called with, “Eight-Three November, the Decatur Airport has closed due to one-quarter mile visibility and blowing snow. What are your intentions?”

Wow. That was not in my plan. I started a climbing turn east and replied, “Approach, Eight-Three November, what about Champaign?” Now only 30 miles behind us.

“Champaign-Urbana airport is closing, too.”

A pause, then, “OK, Eight-Three November, we’ll head to our alternate, Terre Haute.”

“Understood.”

At least we had a tailwind. Thirty minutes to Terre Haute. Fuel? We started with close to six hours. We were 3.7 hours into the flight. No problem...yet.

Twenty miles out of Terre Haute, Approach transmitted: “Eight-Three November, Terre Haute Airport is closed. What are your intentions?”

Did you ever feel the beginnings of fear in your belly? I had, only once before this, pre-instrument rating, flying under a low overcast off the coast of Florida, wondering how low I was going to have to go until I was past it. I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach, and realized it was fear creeping up my solar plexus. I remember telling it, “Not now, you’re not helpful now. You can come after we’re on the ground.” And it disappeared...until I had safely landed at Saint Augustine. Hearing ATC this time, I noticed that same feeling again. “I’m busy, I’ll deal with you later.”

“Approach, Eight-Three November, what’s Indianapolis got?”

“Indy’s VFR, two thousand and five.”

“I’ll head there, then.”

“Okay, we’ll have you up on radar in a few minutes.”

Whew. I tuned in the Indianapolis VOR and pointed the nose to it. It was 5 p.m., almost dark. I switched on the landing light, revealing the soft snowflakes flying at the windscreen. We’d been in the air for 4.3 hours. The DME read 75 miles, 40 minutes with the tailwind. We’d make it. I always calculate conservatively. I hoped.

Fifteen minutes later, handed off to Indianapolis Approach, which uttered the beautiful words, “Squawk Four-Five-One-Two and ident.”

I gratefully complied. Approach confirmed my DME reading: 38 miles to go. Then, “Turn right 20 degrees to intercept ILS Runway 5 Left. For your information, winds aloft at 3,000 feet are reportedly 20 knots from 270 degrees.”

I confirmed the instruction and complied, adding, “Thank you.” The white stuff we’d been in for hours began to feel like a warm blanket.

Twenty minutes to touchdown, much in a descent. I’d burn maybe just four more gallons, out of the 60 we started with. I began to relax.

Fifteen miles out, intercepting the localizer, crossing the initial approach fix, Approach called again: “Eight-Three November, make a left three-sixty to allow a couple jets to slide by you.”

I’d been flying in the soup for more than four hours with only a wing leveler. I’d been turned away from two closed airports and backtracked nearly 150 miles. When would this one go below minimums? I keyed the mic—and lied. “Approach, Eight-Three November, I’ve got about 20 minutes of fuel...”

“Delta 462 and American 340, make a left three-sixty for spacing.” I breathed again. Then, “And Eight-Three November, you’re cleared to land Runway 5 Left.”

I pulled on carb heat and pulled the power back for the descent, almost ready to relax—but the engine started running rough. Almost coughing. With less fuel being pushed into the carburetor, the engine was getting overloaded with snow being sucked into it. I quickly pushed in the throttle, which smoothed things out, but sped us up. I climbed above the glideslope.

I desperately hung on to the glideslope—there was no going around on this approach. An eternity passed...“There it is!” she yelled.

Heavy forward pressure on the yoke and I recaptured it, but we were well above cruise speed. I told my wife, “You’re going to have to watch for the runway, I’ve got to keep this thing on the glideslope. Let me know when you see the runway!” She was an airline flight attendant, at home in airplanes. She smiled assurance, “Got it.” I didn’t have time to smile back.

A minute went by, maybe two, I was switched to the Tower who uttered those sweet words, “You’re cleared to land.” Passing the outer marker the airspeed climbed into the yellow arc. I desperately hung onto the glideslope—there was no going around on this approach. An eternity passed, descending at much higher than cruise speed through a thousand feet, then 800, lower, then 600....

“There it is!” she yelled. I looked up. Sure enough, the beautiful runway was straight ahead. When I knew I could make the field I pulled the power back. I didn’t care if the engine quit, we could land.

But it didn’t quit. We landed and taxied to an FBO for parking. The line attendant piled us into his van and dropped us at the airport hotel. We checked in, and I commented that I wanted to drop our bags and go get a stiff drink or three. My wife agreed. But in the elevator, things changed. I started to shake. She grabbed me and helped me to our room. It was safe now. I collapsed onto the bed and sobbed.

Next day, Thanksgiving, the monster system had passed. It was cold and clear. We fueled up and it took 52 gallons—in a 60-gallon tank, probably 57 usable. We had well under an hour left.

Topped off and rested, we cruised VFR to Decatur, were met by my sister, and had a wonderful Thanksgiving weekend with family.

A week later, back in New York, I recounted the experience to an FAA rep and asked for his opinion. He shocked me with, “You could have shot the approach at either airport, no matter what they told you. Officially closing the airport was just for insurance purposes. You are the pilot and have the right to try and land if you choose. Closing the airport only means if you had shot the approach and crashed, the airport would not be liable.”

But then I thought about how much fuel it would have taken to shoot an approach and miss. Maybe even twice, at Decatur and nearby Champaign? I probably would not have tried again at Terre Haute, now concerned about fuel. Would I have had enough to get back to Indianapolis after two misses? Would I have even made it through the attempted landings?

I’ve thought about that flight for years. And I think, now, had I been told sooner that Decatur was closing, I would have tried to land at Champaign, 40 miles away. My sister would have been happy to come get us. But learning it at the Decatur IAF was too late. By then Champaign was closing too, so I told myself Terre Haute was the next logical choice. When Terre Haute closed ahead of me, I was beginning to run out of options.

Note to self: Always have a lot of options. You may in fact need them one day.

And never let fear get you in the cockpit. Save it for when it’s safe.

Ben Moses is a commercial- and multiengine-rated pilot. He has logged more than 3,000 hours over 55 years of flying. He has owned many airplanes over the years, including two Beech Musketeers, a Piper Arrow II, and a Cessna 182RG.