The Long Road to Giving Back

Public Benefit Flying

I flew my first Angel Flight on July 1, 2026. It was a milestone that was a long time coming.

AOPA (Aviation Owners and Pilots Association) calls this segment of aviation "public benefit flying", which is an apt name. There are many ways that aircraft owners can use their airplanes for the greater good. Examples include flying supplies into areas struck by disaster, ferrying companion animals to new homes across state lines ("The Human Chain: How Dougall Got His Wings"), and transporting medical patients in cases where the journey is a barrier to treatment. The latter is where Angel Flight comes in.

I have been drawn to medical transport flights for as long as I have been aware of them. People suffering from rare or complicated disorders must often travel to treatment centers that specialize in managing their conditions. Sometimes, those medical centers are too far from home for the drive to be reasonable and commercial flights are financially out of reach for the patient. However, general aviation aircraft excel in providing timely regional transport. Several organizations coordinate these services, but one of the best known is Angel Flight, an umbrella organization with multiple regional "wings" operating across the country. Angel Flights are not air ambulance services for emergency transport. Instead, they support patients with non-urgent travel needs who are sufficiently ambulatory to board a light aircraft.

Where Angels Fear to Tread

My first discussion around this kind of flying occurred circa 2005. I was an inexperienced VFR-only pilot that had just become an aircraft owner and I was unprepared when the subject of medical transport flying was raised by my barber. He had been cutting my hair since before I was a pilot, throughout my flight training, and during the process of buying Warrior 481. With clippers in hand, he had listened to stories of my progression over the years. In 2005, his wife needed treatment at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN, which was not an easy commute from Kalamazoo, MI. He broached the subject with me while I was sitting in his chair and described how challenging the travel would be for her. "I know that sometimes pilots fly patients in airplanes like yours. Do you think you could fly her in your airplane?"

Moments like these are why the phrase "deer in the headlights" was coined. I was a green aircraft owner with limited cross country experience. Kristy and I had not yet undertaken our foundational "once in a lifetime" (how naive!) flight from South Haven, MI to Fort Myers, FL ("An Aerial Road Trip to Fort Myers or How Kristy Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Airplane"). And it was March in the Great Lakes region, a season fraught with unpredictable weather. I was not routinely conversant with cross country flying and not equipped to manage any significant weather along the way. Even twenty years later and as an experienced instrument rated pilot, making a flight from Kalamazoo, MI to Rochester, MN in March would give me pause. Whether he realized it or not, this was a big ask.

My desire to help was aspirational, but not practical and I realized that it was beyond my capability. There are good reasons why medical transport charities often require their volunteer pilots to hold instrument ratings. I saw such profound dismay in his face when I told him. Though I tried to explain the pitfalls from my perspective as a newbie aircraft owner, I think he was only able to process my refusal to help. His disappointment was so palpable that memory of it still stings twenty years later.

It was the right decision at the time, but I aspired to be better positioned to help someday.

Clipped Wings

In the summer of 2012, I was introduced to the founder of a regional aviation medical transport charity that I will not identify here (the Organization That Shall Not Be Named). We met beneath a scorching sun at the Greatest Show on Turf airshow in Geneseo, NY while World War II aircraft roared overhead. The introduction was made by Ed V, a mutual friend who described me as a proficient pilot and experienced aircraft owner. At this, the fellow's interest was piqued and he squinted at me with a more critical eye. 

"Are you instrument rated?"

I was exactly three lessons into training for my instrument rating and told him so. He reached out to shake my hand and looked me in the eye. "You call me when you have that instrument ticket. We're always looking for good pilots to help our patients get the treatments they need." I was excited by this meeting because it aligned exactly with my aspirations.

Months later, still toiling away on the instrument rating, still occasionally forgetting to start that damn timer on approaches, I asked Ed V how his volunteer medical transport flying was going. Never one to mince words, Ed V practically spat his response.

"Stay away from those guys." He explained that the Organization That Shall Not Be Named frequently put pressure on him to fly missions in weather conditions that he judged unsafe. After butting heads on this point too many times with the very same founder he'd introduced me to, Ed walked away from that organization and ultimately started flying for a regional airline. I knew Ed well and knew that he was someone who liked to help others; he once helped me rescue Warrior 481 after we had to abandon her in Michigan due to weather and came to the rescue again the day Darrell and I had the carburetor fire in Hudson, NY.

Disillusioned and deeply concerned by Ed V's experience, I put my aspirations aside.

Workin' Them Angels

Years passed. My friend Ed C began flying for some of the medical transport charities operating in the northeast, including a pair of Angel Flight wings. Particularly noteworthy to me was that he did not fly for the Organization That Shall Not Be Named and, from what I could see, his experiences appeared to be very positive.

So I asked him about them. It was 2024 and I specifically questioned him about how the organizations operated and their safety cultures. As background for my questioning, I shared the story of the Organization That Shall Not Be Named. Ed C explained that his experiences were not at all like what Ed V described and that there was a tremendous emphasis placed on safety and support for Pilot in Command decision making. Moreover, he validated Ed V's observations by sharing that he once flew with a patient familiar with the Organization That Shall Not Be Named. That patient echoed similar concerns to Ed V.

Over the holidays between 2024 and 2025, I applied to a pair of regional Angel Flight wings. My applications passed muster with both groups and the next step was to provide documentation, including insurance. Because my insurance renews in early March and one of the organizations wanted to be named on my insurance, I waited until I had a new insurance certificate to share.

Before that, March 4, 2025 happened. "You're diabetic. Here, take this drug," said the PA, thus disqualifying me from exercising my existing third class medical certificate for a time ("Warrior 481 Gets a Useful Load Increase"). My biggest project in 2025 was managing the condition, getting off the drug entirely, and switching from a third class medical to BasicMed. Unfortunately, I had gotten it into my head that BasicMed would not qualify me to fly for these organizations and I put the dream aside yet again.

In early 2025, I received a "Hey Chris, whatever happened to you?" query from the coordinator at Angel Flight Northeast. I explained my situation. "I completely understand," the coordinator responded. "I've been down that road myself. But if you're flying on BasicMed, you can absolutely fly for us."

Fantastic! I was in! I collected the rest of the required paperwork, did the necessary on-line training, and qualified as a command pilot for Angel Flight Northeast. As part of my welcome to the organization, I received my very own unique callsign for use when transporting a patient, Angel Flight 1096.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker

With the airplane unavailable in early 2026 for annual inspection and avionics installation, by March I was working to familiarize myself with the GTN 650 Xi. Is it still called "buttonology" when there are virtually no buttons? Finally, by April, I was ready to engage

Angel Flight Northeast notifies their volunteer pilots of missions in a website portal, providing information about the date and time, origin and destination airports, and total weight (combined for the patient, anyone accompanying the patient, and luggage). When too many missions remain pilotless too long, the organization sends an email prompt to pilots highlighting unmet needs. In more urgent cases, I receive direct texts about missions in search of pilots. While I don't know the specific algorithm used for these direct texts, they seem to target immediate needs for flights with origin or destination airports close to home.

I perused the portal, read the emails, and explored the text messages.  I struggled to find missions of reasonable distance for a Cherokee, within Warrior 481's weight limitations, or at a time that I could accommodate with my schedule. Finally, I found the perfect mission. It was on a Sunday (no work conflict) from Buffalo to Philadelphia. Both airports were in a reasonable operational geography for me and I had landed at both more than once. I bid on the mission and got it.

Once confirmed as pilot for the mission, Angel Flight NE provides an itinerary with all of the details and urges the volunteer pilot to contact the patient to confirm details and build rapport. I was unprepared for the reaction I received when I made that phone call.

When I introduced myself as a volunteer pilot, the prospective passenger interjected aggressively. "Is this one of those little airplanes?" he queried gruffly. Then, before I could answer, "Because if it is, I don't want any part of that. You tell them...you call them and you tell them that I don't want any part of that."

I am not often stunned into silence, but I was in this case. I stammered out some well wishes for him, promised to relay his concerns to Angel Flight, and ended the call. When I shared the fellow's reaction with Angel Flight, they were also taken aback because all new patients are counseled on how the organization works and what types of aircraft are involved. "But we'll talk to him." Within a day, both the outgoing and return missions for that patient disappeared from the portal. I guess he really did not want any part of that.

Undaunted, I found another mission that met the same sorting criteria, applied for it, and received confirmation that I was assigned as the pilot. But when I attempted calling the patient, only a nine digit phone number was provided. When I reported this to Angel Flight, they verified that the same number was in their intake paperwork and reached out to the patient to correct the error.

"Well, here it is," responded the patient by email, "but when I didn't hear anything back from you right away, I scheduled my flight with PALS." PALS is another organization that operates in our region. Angel Flight NE sent "never mind" emails to me and the pilot attached to fly the return leg.

This was not going at all the way I envisioned.

Next, I signed up to pilot a flight on July 1 from Burke Lakefront (BKL) in Cleveland, OH to Essex County Airport (CDW) in Caldwell, NJ. The mission would describe a massive triangle from New York to Ohio to New Jersey. It would be a long day of flying, but I was familiar with both airports and it was scheduled on a day when my work calendar was generally open. I am not fond of cold calling people I do not know and still harbored some residual anxiety from my experience with the "I don't want any part of that" guy, but this patient -- I'll call her RF -- was delightful. She was an experienced Angel Flight flyer, absolutely understood how everything worked, and exercised a sharp sense of humor and optimistic enthusiasm that belied her ongoing battle with a chronic malady.

In the interim, I received an urgent text for a flight from Rochester to Baltimore on Saturday, June 27. I studied up on Baltimore, decided that it was a Bravo I was willing to tackle, and called Angel Flight about taking it. "Oh, sorry, another pilot called a minute before you did." It was Ed C. Small world, eh? For future reference, he gave Baltimore a thumbs up.

In the runup to July 1, I exchanged a few texts with RF. She was trying to manage multiple appointments during her time in Cleveland (our flight together would return her to home) and the schedule was dynamic. I had taken the entire day off as vacation, so I was flexible. My only concern was a late enough arrival at Caldwell that the solo flight home to Sodus would happen at night. I am fully capable of flying in the dark, but doing so significantly reduces options in an emergency. While there are several airports along the direct route to Sodus that would provide an "out" if needed, flying that route at night was not my preference.

Ready To Rock

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Jul 2026	N21481	SDC (Sodus, NY) - BKL (Cleveland, OH)	XX	XXX

Warrior 481 powered smoothly through clear air above the haze and clouds in which I'd spent my only 0.1 hour of IMC time that day clearing. Surface temperatures in the mid 90 °F range seemed enough to physically melt the asphalt runway I departed from, but above the haze layer at 8,000 feet, 68 °F air blasted at me through the wide open vents. I brought (and drank) plenty of water to fend off the combined dehydrating effects of heat, elevation, and high cockpit airflow. I took no pictures inbound to Cleveland, the world below was drab and shrouded in haze.

Burke Lakefront Airport, photographed June 12, 2026.

"I hope you have comfortable traveling clothes, it's going to be a hot one," I cautioned RF during one of our text exchanges.

"I sure do!" she responded. As an experienced Angel Flight flyer, I wondered if she had prior experience with Piper Cherokee "air conditioning" (i.e., an open door during ground operations). We would find out.

Inbound, I contemplated the political challenges faced by Burke Lakefront Airport. The unique downtown lakeside facility is under threat from Cleveland's mayor, Justin Bibb, who claims that the facility is unused. My mission that day underscored exactly why Burke Lakefront is important; it is a mere three miles from the Cleveland Clinic.

Despite VFR conditions, I did not get a visual on massive runway 24R until about 12 miles out due to haze. When Cleveland Approach sent me direct to BOGGE to fly the ILS-24R approach, I was ready. I shared the airspace and frequency with multiple other aircraft inbound to Burke Lakefront. 

An airport that nobody uses, eh?

When I arrived on the Signature ramp, I was stunned by how full it was, from multiengine piston twins, turboprops, and light jets to a full on American Airlines airliner (a 737, I think). Inside, the FBO was bustling and the harried woman running the front desk took great care of me despite wearing many hats that afternoon. Because I was there for an Angel Flight mission, she waived all of the fees, including the local government $7 landing fee, and provided a $1/gallon fuel discount. I had plugged my iPad into a brick to recharge and she tucked it safely behind the counter while I ventured into the city for lunch.

Signature Aviation, Burke Lakefront.

Someone tell me daughter that I had an encounter with the ship that "hates" me.

I walked a half mile in the heat for a late lunch/early dinner at the Winking Lizard, but in spite of everything that their website claimed, the restaurant was closed. I did an about face, walked past the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame undergoing renovation, and had lunch at Nuevo Modern Mexican. My chimichanga looked fantastic, but if I'm being honest, it was a little bland.

While eating, I received a text from RF that she had been delayed further in her appointments. I've never had a medical appointment that wrapped up on time and did not expect that she would, either. "No problem! See you when you get here."

Back at the FBO, I recovered my iPad and brick, noting that the brick was starting to swell slightly. Time to stop using that. I checked email while waiting for RF. When I received her "I'm almost there" text, I responded, "Look for the nerd with the Wright Flyer blueprint t-shirt, that will be me." She laughed in response, but it worked and she knew me right off.

Warrior 481 can deliver, but this little guy might have been more capable.

I procured some bottled water for her from the Signature refrigerator and escorted her to the airplane. She seemed tired, which became more obvious when she described a grueling three days of visiting with different doctors in different offices while lugging her baggage from place to place. As I worked the 3D Tetris problem to fit her luggage into the baggage compartment, she marveled. "Oh, you've done that before!"

"A time or two, yes."

Chock & Roll Hall of Fame

I did the preflight inspection of the airplane before her arrival to expedite departure and minimize time in the heat. I explained Piper "air conditioning" and, while she gave me a dubious look, she was game. With baggage packed, seat belts fastened, and passenger briefing done, it was time to crank the engine.

Then I remembered. I had not removed the chocks from the main wheels, something that I normally attend to that during preflight. 

Don't forget the chocks!

Facepalm. Well, might as well rip the Band-Aid right off.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to remove the wheel chocks and I have to ask you to get out again."

"The what?" responded my non-aviator passenger.

"I'll show you, but I have to ask you to get back out. I'm really sorry." I felt like such a goober. RF gamely extricated herself from the airplane and watched as I smoothly emerged and stepped lightly to the ground. 

"That's what twenty years of experience gets you!" she noted good naturedly, referring to my well practiced exit from the cockpit. With some embarrassment, I pulled the wheel chocks while trying to convince myself that it was not all bad because I discovered the lapse before starting the engine.

Once back in the airplane, RF had her book -- Sally Hepworth's The Things We Keep -- ready to go on her lap. I explained that the choice was hers. If she wanted to chat, we could do that. If she preferred to read, I could isolate her at the audio panel so that she did not have to listen to all the radio chatter. Once again, I noticed how tired she appeared to be and was unsurprised when she took to the idea of some quiet time.

Insert Awkward Call Sign Here

With RF isolated and the engine running, I listened to Burke Lakefront's ATIS before contacting ground. I knew that I was in a positive groove when the initial call up rolled out smoothly and professionally. "Lakefront Ground, Cherokee Two One Four Eight One at Signature with kilo, we have an IFR filed to Caldwell, Charlie Delta Whiskey."

"Cherokee Four Eight One, Lakefront Ground, standby while I look for that." With those words, my heart sank. I'd already blathered my tail number instead of my filed call sign, despite the fact that it was written directly at the top of my kneeboard in a place where I supposedly could not have missed it.

NGF1096

"Apologies, that flight plan will be under Angel Flight One Zero Niner Six." The syllables of the unfamiliar call sign tumbled out with awkward unfamiliarity. In that moment, I was glad that RF was isolated.

Lakefront Ground did not miss a beat, most likely because the strip was sitting right there in front of her. "Angel Flight Ten Ninety-Six, you're cleared to Caldwell as filed, climb and maintain 2,000 feet, expect 7,000 feet one zero minutes after departure..."

Ten Ninety-Six? That sounds way cooler than how I said it. Every controller I talked with, from Cleveland to New York and all points in between called me Ten Ninety-Six. 

I like it.

A Meditative State

 

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 Jul 2026	N21481	BKL (Cleveland, OH) - CDW (Caldwell, NJ)	1.9	882.7

Taxi, run-up, and take off were all perfunctory. I coached RF through latching the door before the engine runup. On departure, Lakefront Tower put us on a heading toward the middle of Lake Erie and we rose skyward, atmospheric haze smudging water and sky into an undifferentiated azure vista. The view was suggestive of being confined within a ball. There were no ships, no clouds, no land, no horizon...just blue. Cleveland Departure took over from Tower, vectored us back toward shore, then cleared us direct to the Stillwater VOR, the only fix in my filed route to Caldwell. As noted in an earlier post, there is a dearth of airways between Cleveland and western New York/Pennsylvania. Going more or less direct was really the only viable way to go.

At 7,000 feet, we skimmed the top of the haze layer sped along by a 25 knot tailwind. In the days leading up to the flight, I worried that some forecast models predicted thunderstorms over Caldwell, but that risk diminished significantly by the day of the flight. I selected RF's position at the audio panel, explained that we were at our cruise altitude, provided an updated ETA into Caldwell, and expressed some relief at the lack of thunderstorms along our trajectory. I pointed out the massive anvil-shaped thunderhead far off of our left wing as an example of what I hoped to avoid that evening. Had I not been so focused on her comfort and this leg of the journey, I might have recognized that the thunderhead was in the direction of Buffalo and likely to impact my flight home that night.

To ensure a smooth ride, I engaged HAL and fell into a routine of monitoring systems, switching fuel tanks every thirty minutes, and making minor power adjustments as needed. We flew past many familiar airports, each having made an impact on my personal aviation story. Despite the familiarity of those landing sites, their order of appearance was definitively unfamiliar because of our eastbound heading. As a New York based pilot, Pennsylvania naturally seems like a state meant to be transited along a north-south axis. Traversing the Keystone state in an orthogonal direction just felt weird.

RF switched between reading and dozing. While she slept, I experienced the same sense of singular responsibility that I once felt when The Bear slept in flight as an infant. 

Later in the flight, once over eastern PA, I could see evidence of three thunderstorms ahead. One north of our trajectory, one south of our trajectory, and one seemingly straight ahead, but dissipating rapidly and not likely to be a factor. When Allentown descended us to 5,000 feet, RF awoke and wanted to chat. I pointed to the clouds and explained where the weather was relative our flight path. 

"I like this." She commented. "The engine sound is almost like white noise." She peered out the window at the passing Earth. "It's all very...meditative." "Meditative" was a lovely word that truly fit the moment.

I asked how she learned about Angel Flight. "A friend. Angel Flight has been such a blessing."

We descended into the damp embrace of heat and haze permeating New Jersey. New York Approach vectored us onto the RNAV-22 approach into Caldwell. I was grateful for this because it meant that I did not need to play the "where's the airport?" game in the haze with RF on board.

On the Air Bound ramp at Essex County Airport in Caldwell, NJ.

The landing was smooth and moments later we were marshalled to parking on the Air Bound Aviation ramp. I needed to wait for fuel because the FBO was fueling the fuel truck when we arrived. I unloaded RF's luggage from the back of the Warrior and escorted her inside where she requested an Uber. While we waited, we chatted further on the topics of being nerds, kids taking after their parents (and also being nerds), and healthcare.

"I have a surgery scheduled next week back in Cleveland," she disclosed. 

I did not want to pry and struggled to parse my next question. "Will it take care of you going forward?"

"Actually, it's to fix a mistake from an earlier surgery."

"Oh," I said, putting as much sympathetic weight into the word as I could. "That's the worst reason for surgery."

RF shrugged. "Doctors are human, too." Then she made a genuinely funny self deprecating joke. I complimented her on keeping a sense of humor in the face of a daunting chronic condition. She nodded.

"You have to. I've seen what happens when you don't." She paused. "It's not good." I knew from experience that she was absolutely right and could only nod quietly in response.

Her phone buzzed, announcing the arrival of her Uber. She thanked me again for the flight and for being flexible, offering that maybe we would fly together again sometime. I took that to mean I had done well by her. It was the most important bit of indirect feedback I received all day. She gathered her things and was gone.

Say! What's that cloud formation in the distance?

Act Three: Solo Again

Date	Aircraft	Route of Flight	Time (hrs)	Total (hrs)
01 July 2026	N21481	CDW (Caldwell, NJ) - SDC (Sodus, NY)	1.9	882.7

It was not my intention to make the flight home after dark, but there I was, barreling down Caldwell's  runway 22 at 8:50 pm, about 20 minutes after sunset. The original plan was to be en route home by 6:30 pm, but between RF's morphing schedule, the delays in Cleveland, and the wait for fuel at Caldwell, I either needed to fly home in the dark or stay the night in New Jersey. I had foolishly planned to work the next day and was not prepared to stay the night anywhere.

I listened to the Caldwell ATIS more than once to fully understand that VFR departures to the northwest (like me) were advised to remain at or below 1,500 feet to avoid conflicting with arrivals on Morristown's RNAV-23 approach, which was in use at the time. Though it took me a couple of listens to parse the rapid-fire delivery of the recommendation, I was genuinely impressed with the level of coordination between towers at the airports situated seven miles apart.

Once past the final approach course to Morristown's runway 23, I climbed to 6,500 feet, hand flying in smooth air. Ahead loomed two thunderstorms topped by anvil-shaped heads, still backlit by residual twilight. What followed this sight was an unfortunate cascade of realizations.

I had been so focused on getting RF home safely that I had put very little effort into planning for the  final third flight leg home. I was VFR, not on flight following yet, aloft after sunset, and there was at least one storm cell between me and home. Moreover, a quick review of uplinked weather revealed multiple cells in New York, one of which was likely the thunderhead I saw off the wingtip on departure from Cleveland.

TYYLR was located right between these two well-separated storms.

I switched the autopilot back on and animated the storm depictions in ForeFlight to understand how they were tracking. Everything was generally moving to the southeast. I compared what I saw on the screen versus what towered over the countryside in my windshield. Then, I identified a fix north of Wilkes-Barre (TYYLR) that would carry me between the well-spaced cells and inserted it into the flight plan. As HAL turned the airplane westward toward TYYLR, I contacted Wilkes-Barre for flight following. Apparent against the twilight sky ahead was a layer of clouds at my altitude. I checked ceilings along the route and saw that 4,500 feet would be an adequate cruise altitude for both cloud and terrain clearance, so I descended to remain VFR.

The iPad had worked long and hard that day and was low on battery again. I plugged it into ship's power, which is incapable of actually charging it, but prevents the battery level from dropping. Moments later, the Sentry -- my portable ADS-B weather and traffic receiver -- gave a low battery indication, too. Crap! I spent a brief moment contemplating being adrift at night without any big picture weather guidance. I plugged the Sentry into my slightly convex power bank / brick, the same one that I had decided to retire earlier that day due to swelling, and hoped that it was not so far gone that it posed a fire hazard. After many years of dutiful service, that was the last time I used it before it was safely recycled.

Darkness, weather, battery issues... See how these risks stack right up?

Pyrotechnics

With the plan in place, I perched in the pilot seat and waited and monitored the situation while everything played out painstakingly slowly.

Thunderheads rose on either side with just enough daylight remaining to silhouette their towering profiles. Then there was a flash and an entire towering cumulus cloud was suddenly lit from within, every element of its popcorn texture highlighted in crisp detail. Only lasting a fleeting moment, the flash persists as an afterimage in memory. More instances of lightning followed, sometimes as brilliant but diffuse illumination within the storm itself, sometimes as infinitely thin lightning bolts arcing from the base of the weather to the ground. Resembling cracks in reality, it was a mesmerizing natural display of special effects and I was happy to be observing the entire show from a distance. I have ample experience flying at night or navigating around isolated thunderstorms, but this was the first time I had ever done both simultaneously. Fortunately, all the cells in my path were well isolated.

Before reaching TYYLR, Wilkes-Barre passed me to Binghamton Approach. Unlike the relatively hands-off Wilkes controller, the Binghamton controller actively helped me navigate around the cells using real time radar. While uplinked weather is valuable for developing a strategy, its inherent delay makes it a poor tactical tool. This is where ATC radar and the pilot's own eyes excel. Binghamton provided a series of vectors that I accepted while cross checking with what I saw floating outside above an increasingly darkened world. A cell south of Binghamton was particularly active with lightning, a stunning display rendered on such a vast natural canvas that a nearby local fireworks show was pitifully insignificant by comparison. I gaped at the storm cell as I cruised past at a safe distance, reminded of a scene in a science fiction movie where the plucky heroes surreptitiously fly their tiny ship alongside a massive interstellar leviathan crewed by the bad guys.

Image from FlightAware showing the path through the weather from Caldwell to Sodus.

"Cherokee Four Eight One, it looks like you can turn back on course to Sodus at your discretion. You're past all the cells," the Binghamton controller broke through my reverie. Hints of a rain shaft highlighted by the lights of a nearby town led me to disagree with his assessment and I continued the westward deviation until I was certain that I was past the weather.

"The tower guys say there's a lot of lighting in that cell," offered the Approach controller, puncturing the fragile silence again. With a sky largely devoid of local traffic, we only had each other.

Since he had broken from standard phraseology, I did too in my acknowledgement. "Ahh...yep."

Still at 4,500 feet, I turned direct to Sodus. I never departed visual conditions or experienced any turbulence. Though the cells were very active with lightning, they were well isolated and relatively small. In the end, it was all fine. The real problem with the whole thing was that I had run myself out of options.

Warrior 481 delivered me to a well-lit runway in Sodus. Weather moved out shortly before my arrival and standing water steamed on pavement that was still hot from the heat dome. Parked in front of my hangar, I raised the door and drove my car out to make room for the airplane. I normally only park the car in the hangar when gone overnight, but given the intense heat of the day, I thought it would be better to park beneath the reflective white roof of the hangar and out of the sun. I did not realize at the time that I dodged a bullet. The airport had experienced a power outage and was running on a backup generator when I returned. It ultimately gave up some hours after I left the airport. Without the generator, I would not have been able to raise the hangar door to retrieve my car and would have been stuck at the airport late at night.

The Final Tally

When I reached home around 11:00 pm, I dutifully submitted my mission report. Total Hobbs time for the day was 7.9 hours with 3.4 hours operating under the Angel Flight call sign while RF was on board. From an Angel Flight perspective, all went as well as I had hoped. I was happy to have made a difference for someone and looked forward to the next opportunity to help out.

A big lesson for me was the danger of mission focus. I was so intent on the mission itself that I emphasized flight planning for the first two legs, but spent inadequate attention on the third post-mission leg home. I have the ability to fly at night and I am well experienced in avoiding isolated thunderstorm cells. Nothing ever rose to the level of a harried "there I was" kind of tale and everything worked out fine in the end. It was not that I put myself in an especially precarious position, but rather that I allowed my safety margins to erode. This was the true sin. Had anything gone wrong, my flight profile left few options.