Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda: Re-Dun Edition

"Are You on the Right Road?"

Standing boldly at the confluence of I-75 and Dixie Highway in my Michigan hometown, a massive portrait of Jesus confronts commuters with the caption, "Are you on the right road?" The sign is so well-known that it made an appearance in the 1989 documentary Roger & Me, despite that film being set in Flint, MI one county and thirty Interstate minutes north of my childhood home. As a teenager, I was amused by the double meanings it intimated, a superposition of the spiritual as well as the literal considering that it sat at an actual highway crossroads. Sometimes seeing that sign would inspire me to reassess my chosen route home while completely ignoring the ecclesiastical overtones.

Piloting is all about decision making. While it is true that all aviators need to understand the mechanics of flight, the rules of flight (both natural and legislated), and the weather and other factors impacting flight, these are actually the easy parts. It is the decision making that most challenges people. Where to go? When to go? Whether (and weather) to go? How to go? And those decisions are just the ones required to get airborne. Once cruising along on manmade wings, good pilots are constantly reassessing their circumstances, effectively asking themselves, "Am I on the right road?" Prudent consideration and prompt action necessarily bookend the answers to this essential question of flight.

Maybe I'm a slow learner, but it seems to me that improved decision making is a skill that a pilot might spend a lifetime refining. How else can I explain the fact that I am on the verge of attaining 3,000 flight hours, but still occasionally make really poor decisions?

A Finger Lake Points the Way

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
26 May 2025	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - 17NK (Reading Center, NY) - SDC	1.3	2988.8

Seneca Lake

It was a beautiful morning. We zipped through a blue sky along the cobalt glacial scar that is Seneca Lake, Warrior 481 parting a benign atmosphere that hardly stirred. The lake off our left wing pointed the way to Re-Dun Field (NK17), a private airport that disappeared from GPS databases a couple years ago when Garmin adjusted their inclusion criteria for private airfields. Pilotage was the rule of the day for finding Re-Dun. Every Memorial and Labor Day holiday, Re-Dun hosts a pancake breakfast and opens their somewhat unique facility to all.

Re-Dun Field as depicted on the Detroit sectional chart.

Despite being charted as an airport with an unimproved surface (the open circle in the above chart), runway 17-35 at Re-Dun is actually paved. However, the runway is not much wider than the 10 foot wheelbase of a Cherokee. This "sidewalk" is flanked by grass for 30 feet on either side of the centerline. Obviously, such a narrow runway is a novel feature of the airport. Another is the Awe-Ja-Magic automatic pancake making machine, a Rube Goldberg invention of the late Clarence Sebring that fascinates all who come seeking breakfast at Re-Dun.

Accompanying me were Alyssa, who was on the verge of taking her private pilot check ride, and The Bear, who has wanted to see the Awe-Ja-Magic in action for years. It was the first flight to Re-Dun for both. The airplanes of multiple club members were in trail behind us.

Road Hazard

Looking south over Re-Dun.

We were first to arrive over the airport. Absent any chatter on 122.9 MHz, we overflew the field to decide on landing direction. With such calm wind, either direction was feasible and, for me, the choice came down to practicality. Airplane parking and all airport buildings are on the south end of the runway and landing to the south simplifies ground operations and avoids tying up the runway for other arrivals while back-taxiing southward after landing to the north.

As we orbited the field about 500 feet above pattern altitude, we noticed a small aircraft flying low over the middle of the field. (This is captured in the photo above.) "What's he doing?" Alyssa asked.

It was a good question. The other aircraft -- later revealed to be a single seat ultralight --  skimmed low over the middle of the airport, flying slowly westbound without broadcasting any intentions on frequency. We declared for runway 17 and departed the area to the southeast for a descent to pattern altitude and a 45° entry to the downwind.

On a left base leg in the pattern, I spotted the silent ultralight landing to the north (runway 35) on the narrow runway. If it had been on a midfield left crosswind when we spotted it earlier, I was stunned that it could still be airborne and decided that it must be incredibly slow.

As I processed this, I heard Alyssa say, "Go-around." Good instinct. But as we continued watching, the ultralight landed, stopped on the runway, and turned off onto the adjacent grass. "Oh," Alyssa commented, echoing my own internal thoughts. "He's cleared the runway." Now that the ultralight was off the runway, I decided to proceed with the landing rather than go-around.

On very short final, I realized a problem with this strategy. The ultralight taxied along the side of the runway toward parking with such glacial slowness that its speed was probably best measured in geological terms. Worse, it was taxiing too close to the pavement. Although it had "cleared" the runway, it was not far enough off the pavement and still presented a collision hazard considering the Warrior's 35 foot wingspan.

I debated going around for the second time that morning, but worried that accelerating toward the slow moving ultralight might actually be a recipe for disaster if I could not establish a positive rate of climb in time. I cross-controlled the Warrior into a slip to steepen the descent and immediately got on the brakes when we touched down. On the ground, we rapidly caught up to the ultralight.

I brought the Warrior to a near stop off the ultralight's aft starboard quarter, but now we were trapped on the runway by the single seat ship as it crawled toward parking. This was not a comfortable situation as all pilots are trained to vacate runways as soon as possible so as not to pose a hazard to others attempting to land. As far as I could tell, the ultralight pilot was completely unaware of our existence.

Finally, the ultralight turned left and ambled toward available parking. From past experience, I knew that the turf in the parking area (actually a short grass crosswind runway) tended to be thick and the underlying soil soft. Power and momentum are a pilot's friends whenever negotiating this area. I did not want to follow the ultralight too closely because it was taxiing slower than I would need to go, but I also did not want to tie up the runway any longer than necessary. I waited until the ultralight was halfway between the runway and the nearest available parking spots before I throttled up and followed it in.

The turf was softer than usual and the Warrior struggled somewhat. Another pilot watching all of this ran forward and gestured for us to taxi more on the right side of the path where the ground was firmer. As I made this correction, I broadcast to the other airplanes coming in behind me. "The turf is softer than usual, taxi toward the right side."

Stuck

We were managing well enough, but slowly catching up to the ultralight. Just before reaching the parking area, the ultralight stopped altogether -- presumably for the pilot to contemplate his options -- and we caught up to it quickly. As I halted the Warrior behind the ultralight, I felt our wheels sink into the soft turf and uttered a string of expletives under my breath. DAMMIT! Eventually, the ultralight throttled back up, chose a parking spot, and maneuvered into it. He shut down, removed his helmet, and toddled off to breakfast.

Even at full take-off power with full aft elevator, the Warrior would not budge. We were completely stuck. I shut down and encouraged Alyssa and The Bear to get out quickly. In the meantime, Ed had landed in his Archer II and powered around us to the right through the soft turf to parking. Lee in his Piper Colt did similarly. The next arrival was Jamie in his Searey. Rather than go around me to the right, he went left and promptly got himself stuck as well.

Photo by Alyssa.

Ed, his passengers Joe and Randal, and the pilot who originally directed me toward the right side of the grass taxiway ran forward to help move the Warrior. There was no pulling her forward and I suggested that she would be easier to push than pull. That proved to be the case.

Photo by Alyssa.

It was no wonder we could not pull the Warrior forward, the nosewheel was completely dug in.

Thanks to everyone's help, we pushed Warrior 481 out of the way and into a suitable parking spot. I had a flashback to my first fly-in pancake breakfast in 2004 at Torchport when I also got stuck in soft grass and a small army of other pilots came to my aid.

Next, we ran to Jamie's stricken amphibian. The turf was so waterlogged that it actively squelched with each step.

Photo by Alyssa.

As a taildragger, the Searey responded well to pulling and in moments we had Jamie's airplane settled in the parking area. Perhaps not in a way that satisfied my parking OCD, but well enough. Fortunately, no one else got stuck that morning. Once we had everyone gathered together, we proceeded to the breakfast hangar.

A Towering Wonder of the Pancake World

The Awe-Ja-Magic was actively making pancakes that morning and, as usual, the machine had a small army of volunteers watching carefully to ensure proper function. Much like a poorly supervised toddler, things go off the rails messily when the machine gets itself into trouble.

Photo from May 27, 2019.

Photo from May 27, 2019.

Batter is initially metered onto the inner diameter of the griddle. The brilliance of Sebring's Awe-Ja-Magic pancake maker is the rotating griddle and its translation of distance travelled to cooking time. 

Photo from May 27, 2019.

Once pancakes are fully cooked on one side, the Awe-Ja-Magic flips them from the inner diameter to the outer for one more orbit on the circular griddle. When I passed through the kitchen area, I found Alyssa and The Bear already happily taking video of the pancake contraption. Breakfast was delicious and the company was excellent. Over breakfast, someone noted that when Ray arrived in his helicopter, he tried three different parking spots before finding one that he deemed firm enough for landing.

Fuzzy Memories

Focus, Chris. Focus!

Because it was such a big group, we made a point of getting a group photo. For some reason, my memories of the event and those who attended have become a little fuzzy.

As in past years, a number of visitors to the airfield included local Mennonite families that crowded around the airplanes. I was reminded of seeing people crowd around Warrior 481 on past visits to the Alton Bay Ice Runway.

Ed's well-dressed Archer II also received plenty of attention. At one point, I watched a young girl pat the wing as though the airplane was a puppy.

Exodus

When it was time to go we monitored the Searey, standing ready to help in case Jamie got stuck again. Fortunately, he had no issues taxiing out and, this time, he kept to the higher, drier side of the taxiway.

From Two Six Romeo, Alicia bade her adoring public a fond adieu.

From the controls of his airplane, Tom contemplated his path away from the soggy parking area.

I was particularly interested in Tom's success in taxiing out as his airplane was probably slightly heavier than mine.

I had a nice opportunity to admire Lee's "Coltish" airplane. During breakfast, Lee apologized for zipping around us while we were stuck in the turf. I thanked him, but no apology was necessary because he had done the right thing. If he had stopped, he would have likely been stuck too.

When it was our turn, some of the others helped me manually turn Warrior 481 around to point directly toward the runway. With The Bear and Alyssa ready to go and the engine idling, I checked my surroundings while simultaneously reaching forward to advance the throttle. 

What I saw stayed my hand. "Ugh, this guy again." From our right, the ultralight crept past on its way to the runway and I resolved to wait until it was no longer a factor before moving. It eventually reached the runway, spent several more minutes fully back taxiing so as not to waste a single foot of asphalt, and promptly went airborne after what appeared to be a ten foot ground roll. 

Power was necessary in the taxi, but we escaped the grass without significant difficulty and launched to the north for the same reason that we landed to the south on arrival: practical expediency. Overall, our mass departure was less fraught with problems than the arrival and no one else got stuck.

Seneca Lake, this time pointing the way home.

Looking toward Penn Yan and the east fork of Keuka Lake.

More clouds moved in since we were aloft earlier in the morning, but the day remained a beautiful one to fly. Once back in the hangar, it was clear that the bottom inch of Warrior 481's wheel pants were painted with mud from where the grass rubbed against them. Getting stuck at Re-Dun was right on the edge of being catastrophic, at least for the wheel pants.

Debrief

When the flight was done, I found myself still annoyed with the ultralight driver for being cartoonishly slow, for choosing not to use a radio (legal, sure, but...), and for obliviously puttering around as though operating the only aircraft in the universe. However, while I think there is some minor validity to my irritation, the ultralight pilot did not actually do anything wrong. The biggest problem of the morning came down to one bad decision of mine: I should have gone around when we first saw the ultralight landing in the opposite direction. This was a branch point that spawned multiple undesirable outcomes that fell into place like dominoes. Had I gone around:

1. I would have avoided the potential conflict on landing. Sure, the ultralight "cleared" the runway before we turned to final approach and that would have been enough at any other airport, but not with Re-Dun's sidewalk of a runway. The ultralight may have been off the pavement, but it was not actually clear of the runway.
2. I would have not been trapped tying up the runway waiting for the ultralight to mosey out of the way. If I had gone around, the ultralight would have probably made it to parking in the time it took me to negotiate the pattern again and land.
3. I would not have needed to stop behind the dithering ultralight partway to parking and sunk in to the soft turf. While the Warrior was OK, I feel terrible about the damage to the turf. It also could have been worse. The surface could have been softer, we could have sank even deeper, and I could have damaged my airplane.

This is why it is important for pilots to constantly and critically assess their circumstances throughout every flight, just like the sign in my hometown prompts southbound drivers to reconsider, "Are you on the right road?" When I chose to continue the landing at Re-Dun Field rather than going around, I chose the wrong road. While it all worked out in the end, there is something to the old axiom: "A superior pilot uses his superior judgment to avoid situations which require the use of his superior skill."

Always Have an Out: The SLD Incident

As the Seasons Turn

Aviators love their soundbite sized axioms.

"Take off is optional, landing is mandatory."

"Aviate, navigate, communicate."

"The most useless things in aviation are altitude above you, runway behind you, and fuel left on the ground."

While they all have their value, my vote for the most useful axiom is "always have an out" that I first learned in the context of mountain flying. Even a supposed milk run is not without need of strategic thinking. Living among the Great Lakes means that the weather risks that I find most concerning cycle with the seasons; icing when it's cold, thunderstorms when it's hot. Warrior 481 does not interrogate high enough flight levels during summer, so the number of days when icing and convection present simultaneous risks are few. However, with the summer of 2025 off to a chilly, grudging start, a cross country flight at the end of May evoked more concerns about icing than thunderstorms.

A Targeted Reunion

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
25 May 2025	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - PTK (Waterford, MI) - SDC	5.7	2987.5

The former Clarkston Senior High School (lower left) photographed September 22, 2008.

Inspiration came in the unlikely form of a Facebook post. My former high school, now Clarkston Junior High, was about to undergo significant renovation that involved demolishing portions of the original building starting with its distinctive buttressed Quonset hut gymnasium. On Saturday, May 17, the school would be open for any community members who wanted to walk through one last time.

I can be woefully maudlin about these kinds of things and am a complete sucker for the type of wistful nostalgia that an event like this would inspire. I reached out to Mike and Jeff, members of my high school inner circle, and suggested that we were overdue for a reunion and that the school open house seemed like a great excuse. Both were immediately on board, but the weather was not. I cancelled the flight to my hometown due to a combination of strong winds aloft, surface winds forecast at 20-something knots gusting to 30-something knots, and potential for IFR conditions and icing to boot. Too many strikes. I considered making the drive to Michigan, but commitments on Sunday meant that I needed to drive the 12+ hour round trip in a single day and that held zero appeal for me.

But the idea had taken hold and when Mike and Jeff were available a week later with much improved weather prevailing, I found myself happily winging my way to southeast Michigan on the morning of May 25.

The Well Worn Path

Searching my digital logbook for flights involving my hometown airport of Oakland County International (KPTK, previously Pontiac) returned 48 results. It ranks ninth among my most visited airports, a list also including home bases Three Rivers Municipal, South Haven Area Regional, Le Roy, and Williamson-Sodus. At this point in my life as a pilot, the aerial journey from western New York across Ontario, Canada to southeast Michigan is so deeply ingrained that seeing the sights along that route for the first time in many months is imbued with its own type of nostalgia.

Mike's Champ, Lee's Colt, and Alan's Champ. Chris' Bonanza is climbing away.

I departed the Williamson Sodus Airport just ahead of the taildragger crew (in which Lee's Piper Colt is an honorary taildragger) heading out to breakfast.

Flying westbound toward Rochester at 6,000 feet, I traversed a variety of unique cloudscapes, blasting through them with impunity courtesy of an IFR clearance

An overcast layer deprived Rochester's cityscape of its fullest color potential.

A recent statistic from our local news indicated that the last dry weekend experienced by Rochester occurred in November of the previous year. An absurd volume of water flowing over High Falls on the city's north side added wet testimony to that statistic.

Frederick Douglass / Greater Rochester International Airport.

As I dutifully toed the line that was my instrument clearance, my benefactor at Rochester Approach looked out for me until the handoff to Buffalo Approach roughly halfway between the two cities.

More evidence of excessive rain west of Rochester manifested as a landscape appearing so soggy that I could have mistaken it for coastal Florida.

Grand Island in the Niagara River with Lake Erie in the background.

Spread placidly across acres below was the massive azure battery of the Lewiston Pumped Storage facility.

Canada's Ontario Power Generation Facility loomed high over the Niagara River like the impassive grey battlements of a fortress. Nearby, the Queenston-Lewiston crossing between the United States and Canada spanned the river. In the past, I have reveled in zipping a few thousand feet over this often gridlocked bridge at 140 mph. On May 25, bridge traffic was light and there appeared to be no waiting at customs for entry to Canada. I wondered how much traffic had been affected by recent political rancor between the two historically friendly nations.

Grandeur of Nature

The Seneca Niagara Resort and Casino on the United States side of the river presented as a gaudy, high-tech version of the wooden facade of an Old West saloon: an impressive front elevation hiding a much less impressive structure behind. Aviation easily undermines these architecturally created illusions.

Nothing mankind has constructed can rival the simple and rugged beauty of water tumbling over the Niagara escarpment.

Sometimes, when the light is just right, sharp eyed aviators may be rewarded with an additional treat.

Gaudy structures adjacent to natural wonders is not a problem unique to the United States. The Canadians are guilty, too.

Once over Canada, Tillsonburg Airport passed below, a potential emergency landing spot that I once strongly considered during an emergency that wasn't.

London, Ontario is a rare urban center in the agrarian expanse of southern Ontario and is best known to aviators as the North American home of Diamond Aircraft.

Downtown London, Ontario.

Minimal IMC

West of London, scattered clouds at my cruise altitude resulted in roughly thirty minutes of time in instrument meteorological conditions that also caused some unfortunately timed light chop. Timing was unfortunate because I chose that leg of the flight to relieve an over-pressurized bladder. It made an already delicate operation more troublesome than normal.

Scattered clouds continued across the St Clair River and into Michigan.

As I crossed the river, I texted an updated ETA to Mike who planned to meet me at the airport. Availability of loaner cars from Michigan Aviation was more limited than in the past and Mike volunteered to drive me to our gathering.

I-94 headed southwest past Lake St Clair toward Detroit.

Selfridge Air National Guard Base.

Returning Home

Oakland County International / Pontiac was a popular destination that morning. Multiple student pilots were orbiting in a right-handed pattern north of the airport for touch and go's on runway 27R. I was one of four transient airplanes on final for the larger runway 27L and Detroit Approach provided a pair of vectors to delay my arrival until those ahead landed.

Two(ish) mile final for runway 27L at Oakland County International.

"Cherokee 481, taxi Michigan via Charlie, Bravo one, Alpha one," instructed Pontiac Ground. I recited the taxi route back to him, less as a recent directive and more as a standing mantra from years past.

Taxiing onto the Michigan Aviation ramp. Photo by Mike K.

Meanwhile, Mike had just arrived at Michigan Aviation.

"Waiting for someone?" asked a member of the line crew. When Mike provided my tail number, the lineman said, "Oh, he literally just landed."

Parking on the Michigan Aviation ramp. Photo by Mike K.

Lincoln and me while Monte lurks in the background. Photo by Carrie.

From Oakland County International, Mike drove us to Jeff's house where we were re-introduced to his wife Carrie whom I had only met once before. We also met Lincoln and Monte, their Great Danes. Because the dogs' heads were at tabletop level, I noticed that Carrie and Jeff carefully maintained a buffer zone around the perimeter of tables and countertops that was roughly snout-length to prevent either dog from inappropriate grazing.

Me, Jeff, and Mike. Photo by Carrie.

We sat outside on Jeff's deck for hours talking as though no time had separated us at all. Many of my visits to southeast Michigan since 2018 have failed to truly feel like a return home, but this one did and I was so glad that I made the time to go. Mike clearly felt the same way because we stayed so late at Jeff's that he missed a family commitment. (Sorry!) Thanks to Jeff and Carrie for hosting and feeding us!

Mike returned me to the airport seven hours after I first landed. I filed the return flight plan from Mike's car along the way, remembering to file my preferred airway route plus a request to avoid flight over Lake Erie. I was instantly assigned the dreaded HHOWE Four departure that would take me directly across Lake Erie and extend the duration of the return flight, but by the time I had the Warrior's engine fired up, the terrific controllers in Pontiac Tower had already read my request and intervened. "Cleared as filed," said Pontiac Ground.

A Cold Reception

Holding short of runway 27L on taxiway C1 and ready to go.

Pontiac Tower silhouetted in the distance as I waited for IFR release.

They really do try to make it hard to get lost.

Oakland County International seen on departure.

After takeoff, I received a few radar vectors from Detroit Approach before they sent me directly to ADRIE, the entry to my filed airway route home. 

Having flown all over the United States east of the Mississippi, I have come to appreciate how truly unique Oakland County Michigan is with its multitude of small lakes. Sometimes it takes leaving to put the novelty of one's origins into perspective.

I flew past London, Ontario where the sky was dominated by a massive cloud hovering overhead like an invading mothership.

When filing the return flight plan, I debated between cruise altitudes of 5,000 and 7,000 feet. A better tailwind favored the higher cruise altitude, but the lower altitude was below the freezing level. However, cloud bases were forecast to be well above 7,000 feet and without entering the clouds, I did not reasonably expect to encounter icing. In the end, I decided on the higher altitude for improved ground speed reasoning that a descent to 5,000 feet would be my "out" if I needed one.

The offending cloud layer concealed rain.

East of London, Ontario, a cloud layer appeared in my path. Uplinked radar indicated liquid precipitation in the cloud, but the outside air temperature (OAT) was several degrees above freezing (higher than forecast) and so did not cause me any significant concern. I continued onward, switching on the pitot heat before penetrating the cloud just in case.

Within the cloud, I looked toward my wingtips where streaking rain marked the flow of air over the wings, an image I have always found serenely compelling as a real time visualization of the physics holding the airplane aloft.

Warrior 481 did not have an outside air temperature (OAT) gauge when bought I her in 2004. Though it is not a required instrument for VFR (GOOSEACAT) or IFR (GRABCARD) flight, I think one should be mandatory for airplanes flying IFR in the Great Lakes region. I added an OAT probe to my JPI engine analyzer before I started instrument training in 2012. When I added Garmin's flight data computer to my primary flight display in 2021, I received a second OAT probe on the opposite side of the fuselage from the first OAT probe. Sometimes, the two of them actually agree.

This was one of those times. As I scanned my instruments within the murk of the cloud, I noticed that temperatures had plunged from several degrees above freezing to just below freezing on both OAT gauges.

SHIT.

I peered outside again and saw rain striking the wing, running back a few inches, and stopping in clear streaks as though paused in time. However, the illusion of halted time was broken by fresh accumulation of more ice. Time was not freezing, the rain was.

SHIT!

It was my first ever encounter with supercooled large drop (SLD) icing. Unlike rime icing that tends to accumulate on the leading edges of airplane parts like wings, windscreens, probes, and landing gear, SLD is a form of clear icing that accretes quickly farther along the wing chord and rapidly changes the shape of the airfoil. This is considered the most dangerous form of icing for aircraft. At least pitot heat, the Warrior's only form of ice abatement, was already running, so I did not lose airspeed data.

Time for Plan B. I already knew a descent to 5,000 feet would bring me into warmer air and that there was no terrain or obstruction below that would interfere with cruising at the lower altitude. "Toronto Center, Cherokee Four Eight One is picking up ice and needs a descent to 5,000 feet." Always have an out.

"Cherokee Four Eight One, stand by," responded Toronto.

Don't think about it too long, guys. If they were slow to react, I was prepared to declare an emergency that would have given me discretion to violate my clearance; physics has no patience for bureaucracy.

That contingency was unnecessary. "Cherokee Four Eight One, descend and maintain 5,000 feet." Moments into the descent, I passed through the freezing level and watched the clear, elongated warts accumulated on the Warrior's wing skins liquify and vanish. 

With the crisis averted through quick and decisive action, the flight morphed back into the originally planned milk run. Somewhere east of Hamilton, Toronto offered an unsolicited shortcut direct to Sodus.

...and Back Again

Sixteen Mile Pond west of St. Catherines, Ontario.

The Garden City Skyway over the Welland Canal connecting Lakes Erie and Ontario.

Both sets of Niagara Falls.

The American and Bridal Veil Falls at Niagara.

Canadian Horseshoe Falls.

Considering the rushing, churning nature of the Niagara after it tumbles from higher elevation, the outlet to Lake Ontario was remarkably placid that evening.

Rochester's skyline acquired a ruddy hue as the day neared its end.

A warm blush across the instrument panel inspired me to look over my shoulder as I crossed Irondequoit Bay.

The sunset caught my eye as I turned left base for runway 28 at Sodus. I may have been among the earliest aircraft to depart the airport that morning, but was likely the last to return. All was quiet on the field as I taxied to my waiting hangar.

Debrief

I am grateful for the reconnection with my high school friends and for the ability to fly an airplane there and back again in a single day. Weather conditions enabled capturing some magnificent images along the route, familiar as it was. But the SLD encounter was clearly the most novel part of this experience.

It only takes a moment for the routine to morph into an emergency. Professional pilots have described their occupation using variations on "hours of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror". (Another of those common aviation axioms.) While I would not describe the majority of this day's flight as boring by any means -- "calmly rejuvenating" might be a better descriptor -- the brief SLD encounter reinforced the truth of this aviation trope. It also underscores the value of "always have an out". 

Risk assessment drives pilot decision making. No one aims to eliminate risk, because then no one would ever fly or reap the rewards that flight confers. It is an assessment of the risks as well as their mitigations -- the "outs" -- that drive go/no go decisions. In the case of icing risk (which was relatively low, even though it actually happened), an easy out was available. Without that out, the flight would have been cancelled like the one a week earlier. Scenarios with a much lower freezing level, greater likelihood of clouds at my cruise altitude, or significantly higher terrain that made cruise flight below the freezing level unsafe would have all been non-starters. This is why a mantra of "always have an out" is so valuable, not only in flight, but during flight planning.

With all of that said, ice accumulation during the SLD incident was breathtakingly rapid, even though the exposure was brief. Without a ready escape, the situation could have become dire rapidly. With some time elapsed since the incident, I can reflect on it as another example of real world reinforcement of what I've read in textbooks.