Flight 105

09-10-00

0A7-RMG-NEW

C172M

6.5 solo; 2 landings


[LEG ONE]
"Better weather, but broken layer at 4500 kept me low- got a bit lost following VOR radial near Atlanta; RMG fuel stop"


I awaken while it is still quite dark, and see that the airport is swamped with thick fog. I shrug and go back to sleep, until the alarm clock rouses me at dawn. The fog is still so thick, I can barely see twenty feet in front of me. I might be here awhile, I think... better go call for the weather.

Just then, the manager appears out of the mist with his car.

"Going to McDonald's for breakfast... you hungry?"

I am, and want some hot food, so I climb in. Soon we are cruising along lovely country roads, in fog so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"Don't worry", he tells me, "this'll be gone by ten-thirty. It's like this every morning this time of year."

We return to the field after a decent breakfast, and the briefer seems to agree with my new friend. I break camp and get everything ready. I give 3KK a thorough preflight. A spider has built a beautiful web between the top of the vertical stab and the tip of one horizontal stab; it glistens with dew.

I wait for what seems like forever, then almost precisely when forecast, the fog seems to vanish, revealing a sky very similar to the previous morning back home.

Ten minutes later, I'm climbing out over the green hills towards Rome, Georgia, having decided to stick with my original plan, at least as far as fuel stops go. For some reason, I don't call anyone for Flight Following.

Following an outbound VOR radial as I drone over endless low farm country, I begin to notice the CDI is behaving strangely... I know I'm holding a solid heading, but it's creeping away from the center.

Hmmm... how long have I been following that radial?... Hmmm... maybe I'm getting out of range... never followed one for that long before... let's just look at the chart... hmmm... yes, here we are...there's that little lake, and he road, and... oh, no!!

I haul 3KK into a steep turn, realizing I am just brushing the edge of a controlled airspace for a military field, more than fifteen miles off course!! I consider tuning in the tower frequency, then decide to let them call me later if I've been a bad boy.

Being more careful now, I plot a course to Rome, arriving there a bit behind schedule by the minute hand on my watch.   When I go inside the office to pay for my fuel, I do a double-take, because the clock on the wall seems to be an hour behind my home time. Aha, yes, time zone difference. I must be just over the line... I put it out of my mind. The guy behind the counter asks what my tail number is.

"Seems the FAA has been looking for you..."

Ulp! Is this about the airspace violation? I barely touched it, but... ohboy...  

"Seems you forgot to close your flight plan..."  

I am relieved, but not much. Stupid me- I'd forgotten I'd move into an earlier time zone, and was not thinking "Zulu time", or even Eastern time, but local time... by the clock on the wall of the FBO, I have almost an hour before I have to close my plan. But my clock back home, and my watch, say I'm almost an hour late closing the plan.

"Uh..."

"Don't worry; I'll call them", he tells me.




[LEG TWO]

"Excellent navigation- by Slidell, large buildups dumping rain- lota mist- lightning in clouds- ran under one monster at 2000, to get to clear patch @ NEW- I MADE IT!!"



I am eager to get out of there, and after getting another briefing and filing another plan, I depart Rome at 2:30.

Levelling off for the long leg to New Orleans, I make sure to pick up a controller for Flight Following. As I cross into Alabama, the clouds are at it again- moving closer together and getting lower. In the distance, mostly west, I see huge, narrow buildups towering into the flight levels. I call Flight Watch, and am pleasantly surprised to hear the same lady who gave me my phone briefing. She confirms what I'm seeing, and warns me of slightly worse conditions along my route. In fact, New Orleans is due to get hammered by a storm off the Gulf later in the day.
"But you should arrive well before that", she adds cheerfully.

Over Birmingham, I am lower than when I started, and the clouds keep forcing me lower. Fortunutely, most of the terrain is near sea level here, and I am having no trouble following a course that will keep me away from any tall towers.

The waypoints slip by slowly, and the names tell me what part of the country I am in: Eutaw, Kewanee, Eaton.

About 100 miles from Birmingham, I descend to about 2500, trying to stay out from under weak buildups that are now sprinking 3KK with rain. Soon I lose my controller, then I cannot raise Flight Watch. I can talk to airports nearby, so I know it's not the radio.

Not far from Slidell, which lies about 20 miles north of New Orleans, I realize I have two problems: first, I am unsure of my position, and second, the weather is marginal and getting worse every minute. I pick up Picayune VOR and use the DME to get a fix on a radial. Okay. I can stay on course, jink around anything nasty, and grab another radial from Picayune...the Picayune VOR becomes my lifeline.

In the distance, to the west, I can see the glow of lightning inside some of the dark clouds. This is a weak front, the wind is negligible and the rain is light, but it's getting crummy, and nothing to play with under VFR. My plan to weave my way along my course is looking hopeless after a few minutes... I know where I am, but the visibilty ahead is worsening, and every mile reveals more ugly clouds muscling into my way, dragging veils of rain and scud with them.
 I don't look behind me, because I am certain it's now just as bad over there. I have no "out." And soon 3KK will be sipping at her fuel reserve.

-Okay, smartass, my inner voice tells me, you've broken your own rules  again... what's the plan?

-I will find Slidell, and I will land there.Then I will kiss the ground.

-Amen, brother...

I call out on the Slidell CTAF... nobody answers. I have turned again, and I am not certain where it lies, although I am sure I am close. I look east, and am horrified to see the ground almost completely obscured in that direction. But I have to turn east a bit now, to avoid getting under a cloud that may be downdrafting... and... look! A runway!

It's Slidell. But I can only see part of the field from here... I hook west around the cloud, hoping to confirm Slidell is safe and then set up a decent approach... more rain, heavier now, spatters 3KK as we go under a gray overhang, now near 2000 feet.
 I can see Slidell, but this could be a scary approach... better move this way first... what weather is coming from the south? Better look...

I look south, and there,in what appears a crystal-clear dome of summer sky, lies Lake Pontchartrain, and beyond it the skyline of "The Big Easy", gleaming like Emerald City!    

I turn south, out of the shadow of the sluggish line of soggy clouds, and get the ATIS broadcast for NEW. Then I call Tower.


"Roger, ThreeKiloKilo; report five miles northeast."


I climb back up to 2500, and start following the three bridges that cross the narrow eastern extremity of the lake.  Glancing west, I see firsthand what is meant by "loss of reference to horizon in hazy conditions", as warned about on the terminal chart for New Orleans: I can barely make out the immense causeway about twelve miles to the west, and the sky and the western area of the lake are exactly the same shade of battleship gray. No horizon of any kind. I turn my eyes back to the city skyline, noting that there are truly immense storm clouds approaching from the south, still miles offshore over the Gulf of Mexico. Fortunately, the miraculous bubble of relatively clear air remains- as I turn west,hugging the north waterfront of the city, I can soon see New Orleans Lakefront Airport basking in dappled sunlight just east of the south end of the causeway.

Tower gives me a long left base for 18L, and boy does that big runway look good! I land long, knowing the GA ramp and fuel pumps are at the far end of the field- my landing, with an increasing crosswind, is not my best, but I feel triumphant. Again, I'd nearly bitten off more weather than I could chew, but I'd handled it well.

As I deplane on the ramp, I am mobbed by a vast horde of "love bugs". Brushing some off my face, I see that they are all mating pairs, flying in tandem. I will find out later that this is the time of their mating frenzy, and they prefer, for some reason, to alight for this activity on surfaces that are light in color, like the Cessna's white fuselage. There seem to be millions of them swarming the plane.  

I'd forgotten to call Stevie Z. from Rome with my ETA, so I dial him on the mobile and say "Hey, man- there's love bugs all over my airplane!!"  He laughs- he now knows that I have arrived safely, and it's time for him to drive up and fetch me.

"Welcome to New Orleans!"    

The wind gusts, and thunder booms from the south, promising mayhem very soon.

I tie down and put the covers on the plane, get her gassed up, then wait over an hour for S. to show up. I try standing on the grass near the entry road for a bit, but in no time, the local insects make themselves known again, this time in the form of a battalion of fire ants, which march up my leg and start biting the hell out of my ankles. I look down and see I have tread on an entrance to the nest.  

I move onto the pavement, cursing as I brush the last of them off me, rub my wounds, and smile. Nothing can completely spoil my mood right now.
I look at the advancing army of gigantic cumuli, noting especially the low-hanging but very dark mass where I've just been, and feel like I've just grown significantly as a pilot. My encounter at Asheville was just the warmup- that last 30 miles into New Orleans was my first real taste of truly marginal VFR conditions; the kind of scenario where pilots get themselves killed.

 I also feel I was certain I'll never, ever do that again.  

By the time S. finally pulls up in his black 1972 Volvo 1800 wagon (which had miraculously made it all the way here from NJ after he and I performed an engine and transmission transplant on it earlier this year), the sun is just going down. Despite the ominous wind, clouds, and thunder, the rain doesn't hit until we are miles away, crossing the bridge into the city proper.

It is almost disappointing- not much worse than what I'd flown through earlier.

After a solid night's sleep, I find myself enjoying a cup of morning coffee on the front porch of Steve's rented house on Eliza Street in Algiers.

Still plenty of low clouds hanging around, and sporadic showers. As I write my latest journal entry, the carillion of the nearby church is playing "Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head".

Now I have a week to relax in this amusing city... before I do it all over again.