Honey, I Think We've Lost Our Spark

Expect the Unexpected

By design, $100 hamburger runs rarely involve much adventure beyond the expected aviating. Sometimes, additional adventure -- perhaps "excessive adventure" -- finds you anyway.

Keen(e) to Explore

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
09 Apr 2024	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - RME (Rome, NY) - EEN (Keene, NH) - SDC	5.0	2795.7

Aloft on a rare weekday off from work, I proceeded eastward toward New Hampshire through smooth air devoid of clouds. I set Keene as my destination, finally making good on a months-long goal to try out Mama McDonough's Irish Pub located in the airport terminal. I made a quick stop at Griffiss International (RME) for fuel before proceeding to Keene. At $5.24/gal, they were practically giving their fuel away. (Well, not actually true, but many places are $6+/gal right now.) Aside from some of the typical glitches in communication between air traffic control and other pilots, including my participation in a relay from Syracuse Approach to another aircraft, nothing noteworthy occurred on the outbound flight. Crises are often preceded by the mundane.

Crossing the "Green" Mountains of Vermont

Closer to Keene (more properly, "Dillant-Hopkins", #273), I was surprised by the amount of activity buzzing around the airport. I sequenced myself into the traffic flow for Keene's 6200 foot long runway 2 where multiple aircraft were holding short waiting for airborne traffic to land. One aircraft scooted out while I was on final and, though I was dubious about this choice, the pilot expedited his departure and was airborne well before I touched down.

Keene's terminal is located on the far north ramp, requiring a significant taxi relative to most uncontrolled fields I frequent. Other transient airplanes parked on the ramp indicated that I was not the only Tuesday arrival for lunch.

Mama McDonough's occupies the eastern end of the terminal building that is shared with the local FBO, Monadnock Aviation. Beyond the pub's unassuming entrance, a line of patrons were waiting to be seated. It was obviously a popular place.

As I waited, I noticed that the day's special was buy one / get one burgers. Should have brought a friend. Regardless, I was at an Irish pub and that usually inspires me to order fish and chips.

Two waitresses worked the room. While busy, they were friendly and efficient. From my seat, I had an excellent view of the ramp and the comings and going of piston and turbine aircraft alike. Partway through lunch, a large turbine aircraft taxied onto the ramp and swung its rear end around to point at the little airplane tied down at the opposite end of the row of parked aircraft that included Warrior 481. Caught in jet blast, the small two seater danced and swayed to the extent that its tie down ropes permitted. It was a demonstration of poor manners from the jet crew and I was grateful that it was not my airplane on the receiving end of the jet wash.

My fish and chips were delicious; my Scottish grandmother would have been pleased. When I cut into the lightly breaded deep fried haddock, I found the fish inside to be perfectly cooked and remarkably moist. Onion rings included among the chips were a nice touch. Excellent food, great service, and a view of the airport ramp made for a terrific lunch experience.

When I returned to the ramp, the piston aircraft had completely turned over since my arrival. Not bad business for an airport diner on a Tuesday.

Taxi Slog

The north ramp at Keene was quite a bit more "turbiney" than most uncontrolled airports I visit.

Though I saw no notifications of this in official FAA sources, a sign near the terminal proclaimed runway 2 as the preferred calm wind runway. In resignation, I made the long taxi from the north ramp back to the departure end of runway 2. I have taxied shorter distances at much larger commercial international airports. 

Drafty

Warrior 481's power plant ran up normally and I departed Keene satisfied with another successful visit to a new airport. Climbing northbound off runway 2 with the town of Keene directly below, I turned westbound as soon as I judged myself well positioned to outclimb the foothills of the mountains immediately west of the airport.

It was unusually breezy in the cockpit, but I focused on flying the airplane until I turned on course and pitched the nose down a few degrees to enter a cruise climb. My troubleshooting was brief. The top latch on the door had come undone. My last experience with this was in a rental Cherokee 180 (N3470R) back in Michigan. Reduced static pressure in the slipstream pulled the door outward just enough that I could not engage the latch. I had two options. I could return to Keene and latch it on the ground or I could wait until I leveled off and put the airplane into a slip (fly it slightly sideways) to push the door closed so that I could latch it in flight. I have never tried the latter and had no practical experience with the technique, only that it should work in principle.

Amusingly, I told the story about Seven Zero Romeo's top latch popping open with Kristy on board recently over dinner with friends. I had bragged to that audience that Warrior 481's door has never popped open in flight during twenty years of ownership. While I guess that boast is still true, I had to eat a little crow with Kristy when I returned home and told her about the incident at Keene.

Crossing through 2,500 feet with the foothills now passing beneath my wings, I was considering my options for dealing with the door when the entire airplane began shuddering as though trying to tear itself apart. Thoughts of the door were promptly relegated to the back burner.

Shake, Rattle, and Roll

The only time I had ever observed such rough engine operation was the one time I experienced carburetor icing in the Warrior. Without even thinking about it, I turned on the carb heat and waited a moment, but nothing changed. I pushed the nose down to a level flight attitude and pulled the throttle back. The roughness ceased below 1300 rpm. I pulled the throttle to idle, pushed the nose down to maintain airspeed, and rolled the airplane back toward Keene. In the turn, I noticed that the JPI engine monitor showed zero temperature reading on cylinder #1. This meant that it was not generating any power.

That explains the roughness. Four cylinder engines don't like running on just three.

"Keene traffic, Cherokee Four Eight One is two miles west and returning to the airport with a rough engine." 

A Mooney inbound for the pattern immediately yielded the right of way to me. I glided back to the runway without any difficulty and actually had excess altitude that I needed to bleed off with a massive forward slip prior to touching down. 

Foreflight ground track showing the departure and immediate return to Keene.

At taxi power, the engine ran smoothly and I vacated the runway. Once on a taxiway, I tried to run the engine up again, but the airplane shook violently when I advanced the throttle above 1300 rpm. In taxiing from the terminal to the departure end of runway 2 just a few minutes earlier, I noticed Monadnock Aviation's maintenance hangar on the northeast ramp. I shut down there and called Ray. He was concerned that I had a stuck valve, but we decided that I would consult with the on field mechanics to see what they could discover.

Benchmark for Customer Service

I wandered into the tidy shop and met Tim and Warren of Monadnock Aviation who listened to my story. Warren explained that, before they could look at my plane, I needed to work out an arrangement with management back at the main terminal building. I called over there and was eventually connected with Beth, a Rochester Institute of Technology grad who was in charge. At her prompting, I described the incident again.

"OK. But first, how are you?" she asked.

"I'm fine." My heart rate wasn't even up.

"Pilots react differently to these situations, so I just want to make sure that you're OK."

"Thanks for asking, but I'm OK." It was thoughtful of her to ask. Once that was out of the way, Beth was all business.

"They're pretty busy right now, but they can probably do some troubleshooting. I cannot guarantee that they will be able to fix whatever is wrong today." 

I understood completely. How could she make any promises without knowing what the problem was? Once she verified my understanding, she asked to talk to one of the guys in the shop. I handed my phone over to Warren so that she could speak with him.

After some additional bureaucratic steps, Tim pulled the Warrior into their hangar. He immediately removed the valve cover on cylinder #1 to check for a stuck valve, but as he turned the prop, the valves moved as expected. It was not a valve problem.

Next, Tim pulled the bottom spark plug out of the affected cylinder. "Well, I found a problem," he declared and handed the spark plug to me.

Broken spark plug.

The ceramic insulator near the electrode was in pieces. When he checked the top spark plug in cylinder #1, it was badly fouled. Despite the redundancy of two spark plugs per cylinder, both plugs in the same cylinder had failed in different ways. What are the odds of that?

Tim replaced the broken spark plug and asked if I wanted him to clean up the other one or replace it as well. I suggested cleaning it first. Tim retreated to the rear of the shop to work on the plug. When he returned, he commented, "It makes a spark now, but it's not a great spark. Keep an eye on it, you might want to replace this one, too."

Tim wrapping up the spark plug replacement on cylinder #1.

With the repair complete, I taxied the Warrior to the edge of the ramp and performed a run-up. The engine ran smoothly regardless of whether I ran on both ignition systems or either individual. Tim printed up a log book sticker for me and sent me back to the main terminal to settle my bill. "They don't let me handle any money," he indicated with a shrug. The total came to $160, not bad for some time and materials. My experience with Monadnock Aviation was the exact opposite from my experience at Columbia County Airport in 2012 when I suffered a carb fire and was presented with a four-figure invoice for essentially no real work. Huge thanks to Tim, Warren, and Beth for their prompt, professional assistance. As a friend of mine later summarized about the entire incident, "It was the best worst thing that could have happened."

After paying my bill, I was taxiing back to runway 2 when another aircraft on frequency called me. "Hey, Four Eight One, what happened to your engine?" I explained the dual spark plug failure and thanked the unknown pilot on the other end of the radio for his concern.

Aftermath

Warrior 481 underwent another successful run-up as I worked through my departure check list. Not forgetting the contemporaneous door issue, I double checked the door latch before throttling up to take the runway.

The engine ran well. The cabin remained free of drafts. I climbed back over foothills of the mountains and ultimately to 6,500 feet for the ride home.

JPI EDM-700 display showing high EGT on cylinder #1.

While the engine ran palpably well, the engine monitor still indicated an issue in cylinder #1. Normally, my exhaust gas temperatures (EGTs) run close to the same value. But EGT on cylinder #1 was running hotter than the others by 170-200 degrees. High EGT usually indicates an inefficient burning of the air/fuel mixture causing a delay in combustion that means less energy is used on the power stroke and more energy is lost through the exhaust valve. EGTs increase during magneto checks for the same reason with each cylinder performing less efficiently on a single spark plug than it normally does on both. Cylinder head temperature (CHT) on #1 was commensurately low.

Tim's comment about the cleaned spark plug not yielding a great spark came back to me. I had that spark plug replaced the next day and in subsequent flights, EGT on #1 has been in line with the others.

So, What Happened?

I am puzzled by the fouled plug. I am very rigorous about leaning my engine, even during taxi, to avoid loading up the plugs with carbon. Did I do so during the long slow taxi from the terminal ramp to the departure end of runway 2 at Keene that day? I could not recall. When I expressed my surprise about the fouling to Tim, he concurred. "Beyond that plug, it looks really clean in there," he noted.

As for the broken spark plug, I only know of two possible root causes for that. Either plugs get dropped / damaged during maintenance and fail later in flight or they experience a detonation event.  Given the successful engine run-up and initial smooth climb away from Keene, it is obvious that the plug failed in flight. I am reasonably certain that no detonation occurred while operating with a full rich mixture in the climb. In real time, I saw no evidence of the whopping temperature spike that would have accompanied detonation and the JPI did not squawk any temperature alerts as it is programmed to do. (And has previously). The most impartial arbiter of what really happened before that cylinder went cold would be temperature data logged by the JPI engine monitor. After multiple download attempts and a consultation with JP Instruments, it appears that the device stopped logging data at some point. I am in the process of working through a fix with JP Instruments, but frustratingly, those data from Keene are lost forever.

Regardless, I put 4.5 hours in local flying on the engine prior to my next trip and observed completely normal operation that provided confidence for the next adventure. In the end, even though it was "buy one / get one burger day" at Mama McDonough's, I am glad that I did not bring a friend with me on the flight to Keene. Sometimes, we get a little more adventure than we need.

The Fateful Call

Twenty years ago today, I bought an airplane. 

The first picture I ever captured of N21481, taken at Three Rivers, Dr. Haines Municipal Airport (KHAI) on 13 March 2004, the day after I flew her home from Guthrie, OK.

My first official act as an aircraft owner was cold calling Dad. "Hi Dad! I'm in Oklahoma and I just bought an airplane." It was a cocky way to blindside him with new information, but I had just conquered Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs as an early 30-something and needed to crow about it. After all, I was now the proud master of a "private aircraft", a beautiful, gleaming, (twenty-six year old) Piper Warrior II, a PA-28-161. (Or, to decode Piper's designation, Piper Aircraft design #28, 160 horsepower, semi-tapered wing.) Compared to the tired, 100 horsepower, 2-seat Cessna I did my training in, this airplane was a veritable beast and it had a great paintjob, too.

Less ostentatious, my first experience as a new aircraft owner was immersion into the glamorous world of rural airport courtesy cars. While Westchester County Airport in metropolitan New York has fancy Mercedes loaner cars, that is definitely not the case out in the sticks. In Guthrie, OK, I was privileged to helm the world's shakiest Ford Taurus from the airport to the local Best Western. "Don't drive it any farther than you want to walk," advised FBO owner Glen Crabtree. He was not kidding. Maintaining that wobbly sedan along a true course was a recipe for repetitive stress injury. But in the end, it served the need, the price was right, and I was grateful that I did not need to hoof it between airport and hotel.

Did you know that Guthrie was the original state capital of Oklahoma? Every local I encountered  boasted of that glorious sliver of time from 1907 to 1910, though little was mentioned about anything of note happening since. Guthrie's replacement as capital by Oklahoma City in a 1910 vote was surely a boon to elementary students everywhere facing that dreaded state capitals quiz.

My favorite new airplane accessory was a warped mutant of a tow bar, slightly bent with opposite ends twisted out of coplanarity and the prongs reattached by welds resembling the inflamed finger joints of an arthritic. It was a veteran tow bar. A survivor. (Barely.) Prior owner Bill was reticent to admit owning that deviant thing, but it served its purpose for ground handling during stops on the long flight home. After my first solo Warrior landing in Bolivar, MO (M17), I used it to pull the Warrior toward the fuel pump and nearly ran the left wingtip into a chain link fence. It was evidence that high wing pilots who buy low wing airplanes need to process their surroundings in a different way.

"Don't tell anyone I gave you that tow bar!" Bill admonished out of embarrassment. Where I was going, no one had ever heard of him and his secret shame was safe. Until now, I suppose. Surely we are beyond the statute of limitations for embarrassing tow bars. I bought a new one sometime in 2004, but kept Bill's as a trophy of sorts.

N21481's primitive instrument panel with a "high tech" handheld GPS velcroed to the yoke, 01 July 2004. Five of the instruments in this photo are now desk ornaments, but I still have that headset.

When I received the keys from Bill, they were accompanied by a tarnished brass disk embossed with "21481" and a hole punched through it for attachment to a keyring. It obviously predated Bill's ownership of the airplane and I wondered if it was a carryover from the Warrior's time on a flight line when keys to the entire training fleet would have hung together on a pegboard. Decades later, that round tag is still on my keyring.

Year one of ownership was enriched with an abundance of "learning opportunities". These began with the first time I engaged the Warrior's starter as owner. A rapidly diminishing groan came from the Warrior’s snout and the prop lurched through a half-hearted partial arc before stopping. The lessons? Too long with the master switch left on during a pre-purchase inspection can really kill a battery. Also, weak batteries cannot start airplanes. Quinn from Crabtree Aviation helped me jump start the plane, which I ran for a time to restore some oomph to the battery before shutting down at Guthrie's fuel pump. I had never personally fueled an airplane previously because the pumps in Three Rivers, MI (KHAI) were full serve only. It was a morning of many firsts. 

When I was ready to make my escape from balmy Guthrie for much colder Three Rivers, I was relieved that the starter turned the engine over without struggling. With March being one of those "you never know what you're going to get" months in the wintry north, I found myself creeping forward, state to state, VFR only, and hypervigilant of weather conditions. These were days before the proliferation of AWOS/ASOS stations and the advent of ADS-B (FIS-B) weather displayed on a tablet in the cockpit. (A tablet? What's that?) It was only my second time using GPS in an airplane, with credit to Kristy for realizing that it would be a useful cross country navigation tool before the thought occurred to me. That aerial journey home was six times longer than my longest flight to date and was made at the controls of an airplane in which I only had an hour in type. Given my minimal experience at the time, I am not sure if this made me intrepid or stupid beyond the actual fact of a successful outcome.

07 April 2004: Kristy got her first ride in our airplane. Photo by Arjo from Dave's Decathlon.

Knowing how to jump start the plane was a valuable skill, especially the first time Kristy and I flew to Dalton Airport (3DA) in Flushing, MI to visit my in-laws. Giddy to show off my beautiful airplane, I skimmed too quickly through the shut down checklist and left the master switch on over lunch. This reinforced the lesson about weak batteries being unable to start airplanes, but now I was well versed in jump starting the Warrior. Because of this incident, Penny suggested naming the plane "Charger", but the 1970s Chrysler OEM alternator in the plane was as close as I wanted to associate with the Dodge brand. (Appropriately enough, I later learned that the alternator was definitely a bit "dodgy".)

Warrior 481 at Dalton Airport with Terry about to get his first flight, 24 April 2004, photo by Kristy?

Leaving the master switch on is one of those actions accompanied by such mortifying embarrassment that it only happens once. Another comparable example from the "lack of attention to detail" bucket is starting an airplane and attempting to taxi out of a parking spot while still chocked, something that I have also done exactly once. Because it happened on a crowded ramp in front of a popular fly-in restaurant in St Mary's, PA (KOYM), I was guaranteed long lasting shame as a memory aid. Once is enough.

Kristy with Warrior 481 before embarking on our grand adventure to Florida in 2005.

On another flight to Dalton, we (i.e., Kristy) learned empirically that opening a tube of hand lotion at 5,500 feet can result in rapid self-dispensing. Because good science requires reproducibility, we (i.e., Kristy) demonstrated the same phenomenon in 2017 over the Smoky Mountains with a dip tube style water bottle. At least water eventually evaporates. Hand lotion is a messier problem.

Parked in front of my first hangar in South Haven, 05 April 2004. Nose strut inflation is a little low.

When I first brought the airplane home to her new hangar at the South Haven Area Regional Airport (0D1/KLWA), I was immediately faced with a geometric challenge. I needed to push an airplane with a 35 foot wingspan through an opening that was 40 feet wide. While the numbers certainly indicate that the goal was achievable, perspective can be a funny thing and those wingtips seemed awfully close to the sides of the hangar as I anxiously pushed the airplane inside with Bill's misshapen tow bar. 

Out darn (oil) spot! Soiled hangar floor visible at the South Haven Airport, 25 September 2004.

During that first year of ownership, my mentor Dave encouraged me to take control of my own maintenance and worked with me to accomplish my first oil change. Unlike the Lycoming O-360 in his Super Decathlon, the Warrior's oil pan did not possess a quick drain valve on the right side. These valves allow for clean and easy voiding of used oil from the engine through a hose and into a container. With my airplane apparently lacking such a convenience, we rigged a funnel in the mouth of a jug to catch the oil after removing a plug from the oil pan. This resulted in permanent recoloration of the hangar's concrete floor because the oil pan drained more quickly than the funnel, which overflowed almost immediately. In this case, the funnel was what we chemists call the "rate limiting step". 

To add further insult, while cleaning up the resulting mess, I noticed that there was a quick drain valve installed on the left side of my oil pan. Oil change padawan that I was, I revealed this to my chagrined Jedi Master and we both learned something useful about making assumptions across engine models. Despite crunching over kitty litter on the hangar floor for the next couple of weeks, a discernable localized stain persists to this day. At least all future oil changes went smoothly via the newly discovered quick drain.

When you have friends trained in the art of formation flying, they always want to practice. Whenever our airplanes were in the air together, Dave was always parked off my wing. 22 August 2004.

Another aerial incident emphasized the importance of an instrument scan that goes beyond the basic six pack of primary flight instruments. While flying southbound over the Lake Michigan shoreline with Dave in his Decathlon flying in close formation off my starboard wing, I lost transmitter capability. This was quickly followed by horrific screeching on the intercom and eventual loss of radio reception. Confused and annoyed, I returned to base at South Haven. While grumpily snapping off switches during the shut down flow, I reached for the avionics master switch and noticed for the first time that the ship's ammeter was pegged at zero. This meant that the alternator was no longer providing any current to the electrical system and that everything was powered on borrowed time until the battery gave up. Alternator failure was the natural outcome of my 1970s Chrysler alternator breaking loose from its mounting on the front of the engine and shaking around until its internal components disintegrated. (See? I said it was dodgy.) These kinds of events change a pilot's behavior. How many pilots grab the housing of their alternator to give it a good shake on every preflight? I've been doing that consistently for 20 years as a result of the Alternator Incident. Additionally, though it may be inconveniently placed on the lower right portion of the instrument panel, that ammeter remains in my scan all these years later.

Cell phone photo by Ross W from Dave's Decathlon in formation with Mark in 33P and me in Warrior 481 over South Haven, MI, 30 July 2005. Fun fact: Ross' grandfather Irving had been in aviation for so long that his 1926 pilot certificate was signed by Orville Wright. This photo was taken just nine days after Dave and I were laid off from "UberCo" along with 500 other scientists.

When I first took possession of Warrior 481, it quickly became obvious that my landing skills needed refinement. According to the official Cherokee Warrior II Information Manual, the recommended approach speed with full flaps is 63 knots. However, on the flight home from Guthrie, I made my approach at exactly 63 knots to the Kentland Municipal Airport (50I) in the midst of a windswept Indiana cornfield. When the wheels made contact, the airplane gently went airborne again before settling a second time. It was less of a bounce and more of a skip. "I liked your landing," said the old timer working the airport while grinning toothily. "Both of 'em!" When I reflect on meeting the fellow 20 years ago, all I remember is white hair and teeth.

To my frustration, this kept happening, but only when I was flying solo. Realizing that 63 knots was intended for the airplane at its maximum gross weight, I started backing off on my landing speed when lightly loaded. Eventually, I settled for a fence crossing airspeed of 55 knots when solo, 60 knots when carrying one passenger, and 63 knots when loaded near maximum gross. Given the Warrior's propensity to float at higher approach speeds, these adjustments made my landings softer, shorter, smoother, and more consistent. This was affirmed by a total stranger one day at the Mason County Airport (KLDM) in Ludington, MI. Right after I touched down, a pilot waiting to depart was so moved by the grace of my refined landing technique that he offered this unsolicited commentary on the radio: "That was a really nice short landing for a Warrior!" It wasn't just the rando in Ludington who validated my technique, it has also withstood the scrutiny of many flight instructors over the years.

17 September 2003: riding back seat with Dave and looking down South Haven's grass runway 14.

With normal landings figured out, the next challenge was landing on South Haven's turf runway 32 that was normally favored by the wind off Lake Michigan. Although 3,260 feet is plenty of length to land a Cherokee, this was complicated by high trees on the approach end and an undesirably gopher infested surface for the latter half of the runway. Flying a steep approach while cranked around sideways in a full forward slip became the norm to get down and stopped before the runway midpoint. Just above the ground, all three axes of flight needed to be fixed before touchdown: wings leveled, rudder used to align the airplane with the runway, and a gentle pull on the elevator to ensure settling the airplane on its main gear. During one instance, we were hosting a cookout at Dave's hangar. I performed this landing maneuver in front of a large audience of other pilots while making all three attitude corrections in one fluid motion and settling to the grass light as a feather. It was pure poetry; all these years later I still remember exactly how that landing felt. Taxiing off the runway to run a gauntlet of witnesses, I was appalled to see Mark hold up a big sign with the number "6" on it. Once he knew that I'd seen it, he laughed and inverted the sign to read "9", then dropped the sign altogether and picked up another that read "10". Behind him, the others held up both hands with all fingers splayed, a perfect 10 from every judge and a welcome confidence boost for a newbie aviator.

The Bear on the controls for the first time. 1 September 2012.

Obviously, more learnings were to come. Increasingly longer cross country flights and the need to manage weather. Achievement of an instrument rating and the need to manage weather in a completely different way. Flying with first an infant, then a toddler ("Me fly in the Daddy airplane?"), and eventually a precocious youngster to whom I regrettably described the function of the Course Deviation Indicator ("Daddy, you're off course again.").

In Cortland, NY, 08 September 2014.

A house is a house and a car is a car, but buying an airplane in 2004 literally changed the course of my life. One new engine and several avionics upgrades later, she is still going strong. I have logged 2571.8 hours at her controls, we have visited 263 airports in 29 states and provinces together, and travelled a total distance of approximately 340,000 statue miles. I have seen many beautiful vistas, enjoyed wonderful adventures, happily shared the experience with others, stayed connected with far flung friends and family, and learned much along the way. It is often said that the cockpit is a poor classroom. While I agree with the sentiment underpinning this, airplanes and aviation are nonetheless excellent teachers.

Stagnation was the main motivation for venturing down the ownership pathway. By the end of 2003, I ran out of worthwhile adventures in the rental aircraft available to me in Three Rivers, MI. I was getting bored and I needed something new to do or else I would have stopped flying altogether. With Dave as a role model and concrete example that it was possible, I bought an airplane 20 years ago and never looked back. 

I guess the strategy worked, because here we are.

Always Have an Out

Stir Crazy

In aviation safety circles, a mental condition colloquially known as "get-there-itis" characterizes a pilot so mission focused, so determined to reach a destination, that they make unsafe decisions. While accidents might result from dangerous weather, poor fuel management, or hastily overlooked maintenance issues, an underlying root cause may be a pilot falling prey to these situations due to a laser focus on completing the mission in spite of circumstances that make flying unwise.

More often than not, winter flying in Upstate New York is contingent on the ceiling. When the Lake Ontario "permacloud" creeps across our region at 1000 feet from November to March, access to the sky can be severely limited. Ceilings are often too low to fly beneath and slowly climbing through a cloud layer of indeterminate thickness in sub-freezing temperatures risks icing. For me personally, this means that winter IFR departures are out of the question unless the cloud layer is so thin that the blue of the sky can be readily discerned through it. In the name of avoiding prolonged periods of time in freezing clouds, I put my instrument rating on a shelf for the winter unless cloud exposure will be minimal.

Because of this, Upstate pilots become antsy as winter weeks pass without any "altitude therapy". This can result in a strong case of "go-flying-itis", a variant of get-there-itis more focused on merely getting into the air rather than trying to actually go someplace. The pilot I watched wreck a Rochester Air Center Skyhawk on a windy winter day at Le Roy in 2009 definitely had go-flying-itis. 

As February 2024 unfolded following a gloomy January, many of us contracted serious cases of go-flying-itis. Much like alcoholism, there is no cure, but the condition can be managed with careful flight planning and disciplined judgement.

Like Lucy Pulling the Football Away from Charlie Brown

For Saturday morning, February 3, four pilots were inspired by a promising forecast and excitedly planned a flight to Keene, New Hampshire. However, a persistent low ceiling scuttled those morning plans. With some patience, I managed to fly solo in the late afternoon on a local sightseeing flight. Though it was not what I originally planned, it was literally a glorious experience and go-flying-itis was safely ameliorated.

Plans for a group flight shifted to Sunday morning, this time with a destination of Lake Placid for brunch at the Big Slide Brewery and Public House. Both the airport and the restaurant are favorites of everyone in the group with one exception. Dave had never been to Lake Placid at all

Sunday morning dawned clear and beautiful at 25°F with lawns, trees and rooflines sparkling with a frosty, crystalline coating. Terminal forecasts and MOS outlook models differed greatly on whether a ceiling would roll in after our planned departure. Forecast discussions suggested that a low, thin cloud layer was expected to slide over central New York from Canada by mid-morning, creating a risk of shutting us out of our home airport on return. While Tom and I texted back and forth that morning, I scrolled through the forecast materials and came to the following conclusions:

1. By all indications, Lake Placid was to remain VFR with a high ceiling all day. Getting back out of Lake Placid and the Adirondack Mountains would not be a problem.
2. I had no concerns flying over a low -- if extensive -- cloud deck to get home because that would carry no icing risk.
3. The cloud layer expected to cover central New York for our return was forecast to create a marginal VFR ceiling at home. However, it was also expected to be thin, icing severity was forecast as trace (FIP, Forecast Icing Product), and there were no icing AIRMETs posted during the timeframe of the round trip flight.

Thus, the primary risk was returning to Sodus with a low overcast. Because I am willing to descend quickly through a thin cloud layer during the winter, an instrument approach into Sodus would be my "out" if the forecast for a marginal VFR ceiling came to pass.

While I felt that I had a suitable Plan B and conditions under which I could safely exercise it, I was on the very edge of a "no go". Variables that would have tipped the decision would have included:

1. If there was a credible threat of an overcast forming above Lake Placid, the combined risks of icing (climbing slowly through freezing clouds of indeterminate thickness) and mountainous terrain would have been unacceptable. I had zero desire to depart Lake Placid under IFR.
2. If the en route clouds were forecast to occupy typical cruise altitudes between 6,000 and 8,000 feet, the icing risk would have been too great owing to exposure time.
3. If the ceiling over Sodus was forecast to be IFR (below 1000 feet), the risk of not successfully completing an approach into our home airport would have been too high. Current minimums on the RNAV-28 are 558 feet AGL since we lost our LPV approaches due to obstructions.
4. If the ceiling over Sodus was forecast to be more than 1,000 feet thick, I would have deemed this to be too much time in the clouds with potential icing risk.
5. If the FIP model predicted more severe icing than "trace", even a brief transition through the clouds may have been unacceptable.

I declared on the group text that I was willing to go and why I found the risks to be acceptable. Tom agreed. Ed, who is not instrument rated, decided that uncertainty around that ceiling was too great and wisely bowed out. And Dave, who is instrument rated but not current, opted to fly with me.

Crystalline

Our two aircraft launched from Sodus at 8:30 am, Dave riding right seat with me in Warrior 481 and Jamie riding with Tom and Alicia in Two Six Romeo. Dave and I have flown together many times over the years, including a memorable trip to Cleveland in 2016 and, more recently, as a regular safety pilot.

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
04 Feb 2024	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - LKP (Lake Placid, NY) - SDC	3.4	2779.3

It was a beautiful morning to fly through smooth, crystal clear air under a vast cerulean dome. Although Lake Placid has been a popular destination for Williamson Flying Club pilots, this was to be Dave's first visit. He was in for a treat and, sure enough, as soon as the Adirondack Mountains were discernible as distant ripples on the horizon, Dave was snapping photos.

Photo by Dave.

Much like my house that morning, the upper elevations of the Adirondacks were frosted white, making them a starkly beautiful sight as they grew in the windscreen. We flew over occasional cloud scrims that partially obscured the ground. With the Saranac Lake ASOS continuously calling out a clear sky in real time, we proceeded above the gauzy layers with confidence that we would not become trapped above them.

Whiteface Mountain in the distance. Photo by Dave.

As we flew closer, I used a chart to show Dave that Lake Placid sits in a bowl defined by the Adirondack High Peaks and how there was a break in the wall to the northwest toward Saranac Lake. I described how we would break off from our direct track to the airport from the southwest in order to circle northward and follow the low terrain into the valley.

Whiteface Mountain. Photo by Dave.

The view of Whiteface Mountain was stunning as we entered the local area around Lake Placid, the mountain’s frosted upper elevations contrasting sharply with the darker terrain below. I fished around in the back seat for my camera, but it was buried beneath our coats and I was too busy for a lengthy search. Fortunately, Dave captured the scene. When he texted this photo to his wife, her response was, "You look low. I hope you're landing."

Hey! That's me! Photo by Dave.

Pilots like to show off for other pilots and I was pleased to accomplish a smooth landing with Dave as witness. Honestly, I think Dave was too dazzled by the beautiful scenery for my artful landing to make any kind of an impression on him. Rightfully so; this is why the Adirondacks are a year-round favorite destination of mine.

"Rise and Swine"

Two Six Romeo, Dave, Alicia, Tom, and Jamie.

We paused for a quick group photo before walking to Big Slide via the back exit from the airport parking apron.

Photographed 15 February 2020.

Big Slide boasts a seasonal menu of whimsically named dishes (like "Rise and Swine") with locally sourced ingredients. I went the savory route with biscuits and gravy (including buttermilk biscuits from Bake Placid Bakery) while Tom and Dave indulged in the sweetness of lemon blueberry French toast. Alicia's regular French toast and Jamie's Hangover Helper breakfast sandwich rounded out the orders. Reasonably priced, beautifully plated, and delicious as ever, meals at Big Slide never disappoint.

Jamie's ordering of a sandwich caused me and Tom to reminisce about the time he ordered "The Stearman" at the West Wind without reading the menu carefully enough to realize that the massive burger was cradled between two grilled cheese sandwiches instead of a conventional bun. The look of pure terror in Jamie's eyes when that ostentatious burger was placed before him was priceless.

I really enjoyed this morning outing with some of my favorite people. We talked about flying, about trip ideas for 2024, about other personalities around the airport ("What the f*ck is REDACTED thinking?"), and monitored weather conditions back in Sodus as they fluctuated between marginal VFR and VFR during our absence. We debated about departing VFR and picking up a pop-up IFR if needed versus filing IFR from Lake Placid and ultimately decided on the former.

Aptly Named Whiteface

Obligatory shot of Warrior 481 on the ground at Lake Placid.

On departure from Lake Placid, Tom turned directly for home whereas Dave and I banked east to circle Whiteface. Because it was his first visit to the Adirondacks, I wanted him to have the full experience.

Fortunately, by the time we departed, I had located my iPhone and was back to capturing images of the world beyond the Plexiglas.

Seeing a plume of snow billowing from the peak of Whiteface, I was concerned about experiencing turbulence downwind of the peak, but the air remained benign all the way around.

Peak of Whiteface with Lake Placid behind it.

Pop Up

Several miles out from Lake Placid, we overflew a solid overcast consistent with predictions in the forecast discussion. Lake Ontario was obscured entirely and a lump in the otherwise flat cloud deck marked the position of the cooling tower of the nuclear plant in Oswego. Closer to home, with the airport weather reporting marginal VFR, Tom and I separately picked up IFR clearances from Syracuse Approach and requested the RNAV 28 approach to Sodus. As we progressed westward, it was obvious that the ceiling was breaking up and, determined to log an approach no matter what, I went under the hood while Dave served as safety pilot. Even if we managed to miss all the clouds on our way down to the waiting runway, I would still be able to count the approach toward currency. In actuality, we never went IMC. 

It never fails. Whenever I get excited about exercising a well-considered Plan B, conditions work out in a way to render it unnecessary. But in the end, having a backup plan is far more important than needing to execute it. Sometimes a single backup plan is not enough. What if we had returned to a much thicker cloud deck than forecast? We intentionally launched that morning with full fuel, which meant that we returned to Sodus with three hours remaining. This was Plan C, giving ourselves plenty of additional range to find a safer landing site if needed.

Flying is not without its dangers, but by taking well-considered risks and providing ourselves with backup plans to manage reasonable challenges, we can counteract the influences of get-there-itis and go-flying-itis and prudently experience the majesty, fellowship, and wonderful destinations that our airplanes help us experience. This morning was a prime example.

Always leave yourself an out.

Glorious

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
03 Feb 2024	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - ART (Watertown, NY) - SDC	1.9	2775.9

After weeks of low, dreary ceilings, I was able to escape and fly along the Lake Ontario shoreline. This is a case where pictures communicate better than words.