To divert or not to divert

I was familiar with my route and my destination. Most of those flights had been in visual meteorological conditions. Over the previous 19 years, I had accumulated about 1,730 hours of pilot-in-command time, but only about 19 hours of actual instrument time. I was a cautious pilot, flew more than 100 hours a year, and did regular recurrent training.

Until a few miles from my destination, I was on top of a solid undercast with blue sky above. While en route, Flight Watch forecast likely light rain at my destination. There was the possibility of some ice moving in later, but no forecast or pireps for ice.

Descending into the clouds at 5,000 feet msl about 40 miles out, with destination wind from 360 at 18, gusting to 26, seven miles visibility, with few clouds at 800 and 1,300 feet and 2,600 overcast, and about 32 degrees at my altitude, I experienced no ice.

I was setting up for a GPS Runway 36 approach at my destination when Minneapolis Center reported less than a quarter-mile visibility and an indefinite ceiling with snow, so I set up for the ILS Runway 28 instead, thinking that the snow would be intermittent and probably short-lived.

After crossing the initial approach fix and some ways down the glideslope on my descent, there was a big bump of turbulence, and then Traverse City Tower called to tell me that they would transmit continuous wind conditions, which had become a direct crosswind from 350 to 010 at 30 to 33 knots.

I had experienced big crosswinds several times in the past, so I continued onward, concentrating on my instruments and keeping my airplane on the localizer and glideslope. I glanced up and realized that my windshield was covered with ice, and looked at my mirror and leading edges, and realized that they were covered with bumpy, spiky mixed ice. I glanced at the outside air temperature gauge, and thought it said below 0 degrees Fahrenheit, although that didn’t seem to make sense.

I was considering that when I glanced at my graphic engine monitor and saw that cylinder number six exhaust gas temperature had spiked and hadn’t come down with the others. I called tower for current conditions and to my dismay they reported an unchanged quarter-mile with indefinite ceiling with snow.

I glanced up and realized that my windshield was covered with ice, and looked at my mirror and leading edges, and realized that they were covered with bumpy, spiky mixed ice. At this point, with the high EGT and the ice that had accumulated, I decided against a go-around and committed to landing. I didn’t want to take the chance of accumulating more ice, perhaps to the point that the airplane couldn’t fly, especially with a potential engine problem. I flew slightly to the right of the localizer in hopes of seeing the runway out my left window since I couldn’t see out the windshield and kept my airspeed higher than normal because of the icing.

I broke out, seeing the airport fence below and a large field beyond—undoubtedly the airport—within my limited view, and I realized that with the fresh white snow covering everything, I wouldn’t be able to pick out the runway. I saw what appeared to be the outline of a taxiway or runway, realized that it was probably the runway, and decided to land on it. I don’t know if the wings stalled several feet up or if it was wind shear, but I dropped onto the right wheel pretty hard. I couldn’t see the tower or any other buildings.

The FBO checked out my airplane that afternoon. The landing gear had suffered no damage from the hard landing, but they found that one of the number-six spark plugs had shorted out, explaining the high EGT.

Could it have ended badly? Of course. Should I have diverted after Minneapolis Center reported less than a quarter-mile visibility and severe crosswinds? Perhaps. But I felt I was past the point of no return, with my EGT number six spiking, wings icing up, and fearful of going back into perhaps worse icing conditions. Rightly or wrongly, I was committed.

In a perverse sort of way, though, I felt proud of landing without damage or injury in such poor conditions. I knew and trusted my airplane and my instruments, was right on the glideslope and localizer, and never felt any panic or sense that I couldn’t land successfully, even if I landed on a taxiway or on the grass near the runway.

With only seconds to decide whether or not to divert, what would you have done, and when?

Kip Pope retired from flying in 2015 with about 2,200 fun-filled hours, flying for his businesses and for pleasure.