Get-there-itis

The man was no spring chicken, and he knew his business. He was, after
all, an airport manager, and a fellow who lived with his plane out on
the farm. His aircraft was a beauty, too -- a fine, straight-tailed
Cessna 182, with a handsome new interior -- and he flew it to work
every day.

In short, he was living the dream, and he had come to get reacquainted
with his wife.

They knew the weather might go south on them while they were with us,
but they were in no hurry -- and our hot tub suites looked mighty fine.
The Stearman Suite seemed to fit their tastes, with its 1930s decor
and that old biplane allure, but mostly it was the fact that the first
floor was better suited to their needs, as the wife suffered with mild
arthritis. Fewer stairs were better.

The first night we recommended a couple of fine restaurants -- one that
overlooked the rapids on the nearby Iowa River seemed best -- and they
had a marvelous time. We got the impression that they, like so many of
our guests, didn't often get a chance to spend much quality time
together, and you could almost see them learning to talk and interact
again as a couple. They were cute, and we enjoyed their company
immensely.

The second morning the clouds moved in, with low scud and 1/2 mile
visibilities. It was far worse than predicted, but they were in no
hurry, so they simply extended a day, and settled in for a longer stay.
No problems...until the phone rang.

It seemed that her mother was in the hospital. No, it wasn't
life-threatening, yet, but with the elderly any hospitalization can be
deadly. And she was alone, with her only daughter far away in Iowa
City, Iowa.

The wife's concern was palpable as she explained their new situation.
Directing them to our pilots lounge weather computer, you could see the
muscles knot in the husband's neck as he furtively checked the TAFs and
prog charts. The news wasn't good. The low crud wasn't predicted to
lift for at least 24 hours, and even then it wasn't going to be pretty.
Iowa City had sunk below even IFR minimums, but that was no matter --
the husband was VFR-only.

The waiting began.

The next day was more of the same. I couldn't even see the trees
across the runway from the inn, meaning that visibility was less than a
mile. The ceiling was an indiscriminate gray smear against the sky.
Gazing upwards gave no sense of distance or depth. We were inside a
cloud, and it wasn't moving any time soon...

Her mother's condition neither worsened nor improved. They extended
another day.

Conditions the next morning were better, but still bad. Visibility
beneath the layer was up to four miles, but the ceiling hovered around
800 feet, with no indication of improvement as the morning wore on.
The weather just wasn't in any hurry to cooperate, and there was
nothing more to be done -- but wait.

At checkout time another couple -- flying an absolutely drop-dead
gorgeous Commander 114 -- needed a ride to their plane. To my surprise,
the other couple started loading their luggage in the van, too, stating
that they were going to go to the airport and "have a look" at the
weather.

Looking up at the sky, and back down at our guests, I didn't know what
to say. It was their choice, of course, but I still felt the need to
mention that things didn't look very good for flying, to which they
grunted in the affirmative. We made small talk during the short drive
to the airport.

After helping them load their 182 -- and offering them a great deal on
a suite if they needed to spend another night -- I had my Commander
pilots alone in the van. Having spent several days with them, too, we
had become fast friends (this husband and wife team -- both pilots --
had stayed in three different theme suites in three days, just for
fun), and I felt comfortable explaining the situation to them.

I knew the other couple was headed south, planning to cross Northern
Missouri -- an area with almost no weather reporting stations. I had
made many flights over that desolate area, and had spent hours sweating
out the unknown weather ahead. With no reporting stations you simply
didn't know what was coming, and the situation could go from bad to
worse very quickly.

Current METARs showed ceilings of 700 to 1100 feet on either side of
that Dead Zone -- but no one knew what was in the "hole". And they
were planning to scud-run right through it, VFR.

I asked the Commander folks if they might perhaps drop a word or two to
our other guests about the dicey weather situation. They promised to
keep any eye on them for me, and I bid them a fond farewell.

Driving back to the hotel, I pondered what I would do in the same
situation. When my Mom was dying, I made two-dozen flights to
Wisconsin, in all sorts of weather -- some of it less than optimal VFR.
When duty calls, you push the envelope a bit. But that route had an
unbroken string of AWOS reporting stations, and it was always possible
to listen ahead to the developing weather situation. These folks would
literally be flying blind into very marginal conditions, and I didn't
know what else to do.

So I did nothing.

Depressed and worried, we listened to the Unicom radio throughout the
day. We heard the Commander folks depart IFR to the west -- next stop,
Rapid City, SD, and then on to Devil's Tower. In vain I waited for our
182 pilot to take off, but hour after hour went by with nothing to
hear. It had begun to rain, and my spirits rose. Surely they wouldn't
depart into *this*, and I'd be soon fetching them back to the hotel...

Around 4 PM, I heard him take Runway 25, and launch into a leaden gray
sky. Conditions were 1000 OVC, visibility 5 miles, and mist. He
departed the area to the south.

Mary and I quickly brought up ADDs Weather, which depicted all weather
reporting stations on a map of the US. Running my mouse over the
little circles, I saw no improvement. 1000 OVC, 900 OVC, a couple of
1500 OVC, with visibility ranging from 3 to 7 miles.

And then there was that big hole in Northern Missouri.

I'm not a religious man, but I said more than one silent prayer for
that poor man, as he struggled to address the conflicting needs of an
ill mother-in-law while trying to keep her daughter alive.
For days after they departed, I watched the FAA's accident website,
expecting the worst. Thankfully, nothing ever appeared, and I suspect
they survived, literally on a wing and a prayer.

In my mind's eye, I flew that flight with him, knowing what straining
to see out the wind screen is like, struggling to make out landmarks
below, all the while hoping that the horizon ahead continues to recede
apace. It's an awful situation, and not one that we normally face by
choice.

I guess he was just lucky that day.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

Driving back to the hotel, I pondered what I would do in the same
situation. When my Mom was dying, I made two-dozen flights to
Wisconsin, in all sorts of weather -- some of it less than optimal VFR.
When duty calls, you push the envelope a bit. [...]

Around 4 PM, I heard him take Runway 25, and launch into a leaden gray
sky. Conditions were 1000 OVC, visibility 5 miles, and mist. He
departed the area to the south. [...]

... as he struggled to address the conflicting needs of an
ill mother-in-law while trying to keep her daughter alive.
For days after they departed, I watched the FAA's accident website,
expecting the worst. Thankfully, nothing ever appeared, and I suspect
they survived, literally on a wing and a prayer.

It's a tough situation to be in, on either end of it. Some things are not worth the risk, and some things are. "Pilot in command" is a big responsibility. You can't make the call for another, unless they really appear to not be able to make a reasoned call in the first place. At least the area is relatively flat, and visibility was relatively good under the scud. Stakes were high all around (though as always it could be argued that a commercial flight, or a rental car, would have been safer and gotten them there more quickly than waiting for the weather)

Jose
--
There are more ways to skin a cat than there are cats.
for Email, make the obvious change in the address.

It's a tough situation to be in, on either end of it. Some things are not worth the risk, and some things are. "Pilot in command" is a big responsibility. You can't make the call for another, unless they really appear to not be able to make a reasoned call in the first place. At least the area is relatively flat, and visibility was relatively good under the scud. Stakes were high all around (though as always it could be argued that a commercial flight, or a rental car, would have been safer and gotten them there more quickly than waiting for the weather)

These folks discussed all options, and decided to wait it out. There
are no commercial flights to where they were headed, and rental cars
were priced out of sight.

The fellow had a tough nut to crack, and he apparently chose well.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

The fellow had a tough nut to crack, and he apparently chose well.

That's what it's about. "Pilot in command".

Jose
--
There are more ways to skin a cat than there are cats.
for Email, make the obvious change in the address.

On Mon, 18 Sep 2006 04:29:21 -0700, Jay Honeck wrote:

he apparently chose well

A successful outcome is not proof of a wise choice.

- Andrew

Jay Honeck wrote:
The man was no spring chicken, and he knew his business. He was, after
all, an airport manager, and a fellow who lived with his plane out on
the farm. His aircraft was a beauty, too -- a fine, straight-tailed
Cessna 182, with a handsome new interior -- and he flew it to work
every day.

In short, he was living the dream, and he had come to get reacquainted
with his wife.

They knew the weather might go south on them while they were with us,
but they were in no hurry -- and our hot tub suites looked mighty fine.
The Stearman Suite seemed to fit their tastes, with its 1930s decor
and that old biplane allure, but mostly it was the fact that the first
floor was better suited to their needs, as the wife suffered with mild
arthritis. Fewer stairs were better.

Jay,

I'm glad to hear that all ended well. This has to be about the best
description I've seen recently as to why pilots who travel away from
home should consider an instrument rating. Conditions like this are
trivial for an instrument rated pilot, but potentially life-threatening
for a VFR pilot.


Matt

Your concern kept is Guardian Angle awake..

You have his reservation information.. send him a "glad you visited with us
card" and hopes that all is well with his wife's mother. You look forward to
another of their visits.

BT

"Jay Honeck" wrote in message
oups.com...
The man was no spring chicken, and he knew his business. He was, after
all, an airport manager, and a fellow who lived with his plane out on
the farm. His aircraft was a beauty, too -- a fine, straight-tailed
Cessna 182, with a handsome new interior -- and he flew it to work
every day.

In short, he was living the dream, and he had come to get reacquainted
with his wife.

They knew the weather might go south on them while they were with us,
but they were in no hurry -- and our hot tub suites looked mighty fine.
The Stearman Suite seemed to fit their tastes, with its 1930s decor
and that old biplane allure, but mostly it was the fact that the first
floor was better suited to their needs, as the wife suffered with mild
arthritis. Fewer stairs were better.

The first night we recommended a couple of fine restaurants -- one that
overlooked the rapids on the nearby Iowa River seemed best -- and they
had a marvelous time. We got the impression that they, like so many of
our guests, didn't often get a chance to spend much quality time
together, and you could almost see them learning to talk and interact
again as a couple. They were cute, and we enjoyed their company
immensely.

The second morning the clouds moved in, with low scud and 1/2 mile
visibilities. It was far worse than predicted, but they were in no
hurry, so they simply extended a day, and settled in for a longer stay.
No problems...until the phone rang.

It seemed that her mother was in the hospital. No, it wasn't
life-threatening, yet, but with the elderly any hospitalization can be
deadly. And she was alone, with her only daughter far away in Iowa
City, Iowa.

The wife's concern was palpable as she explained their new situation.
Directing them to our pilots lounge weather computer, you could see the
muscles knot in the husband's neck as he furtively checked the TAFs and
prog charts. The news wasn't good. The low crud wasn't predicted to
lift for at least 24 hours, and even then it wasn't going to be pretty.
Iowa City had sunk below even IFR minimums, but that was no matter --
the husband was VFR-only.

The waiting began.

The next day was more of the same. I couldn't even see the trees
across the runway from the inn, meaning that visibility was less than a
mile. The ceiling was an indiscriminate gray smear against the sky.
Gazing upwards gave no sense of distance or depth. We were inside a
cloud, and it wasn't moving any time soon...

Her mother's condition neither worsened nor improved. They extended
another day.

Conditions the next morning were better, but still bad. Visibility
beneath the layer was up to four miles, but the ceiling hovered around
800 feet, with no indication of improvement as the morning wore on.
The weather just wasn't in any hurry to cooperate, and there was
nothing more to be done -- but wait.

At checkout time another couple -- flying an absolutely drop-dead
gorgeous Commander 114 -- needed a ride to their plane. To my surprise,
the other couple started loading their luggage in the van, too, stating
that they were going to go to the airport and "have a look" at the
weather.

Looking up at the sky, and back down at our guests, I didn't know what
to say. It was their choice, of course, but I still felt the need to
mention that things didn't look very good for flying, to which they
grunted in the affirmative. We made small talk during the short drive
to the airport.

After helping them load their 182 -- and offering them a great deal on
a suite if they needed to spend another night -- I had my Commander
pilots alone in the van. Having spent several days with them, too, we
had become fast friends (this husband and wife team -- both pilots --
had stayed in three different theme suites in three days, just for
fun), and I felt comfortable explaining the situation to them.

I knew the other couple was headed south, planning to cross Northern
Missouri -- an area with almost no weather reporting stations. I had
made many flights over that desolate area, and had spent hours sweating
out the unknown weather ahead. With no reporting stations you simply
didn't know what was coming, and the situation could go from bad to
worse very quickly.

Current METARs showed ceilings of 700 to 1100 feet on either side of
that Dead Zone -- but no one knew what was in the "hole". And they
were planning to scud-run right through it, VFR.

I asked the Commander folks if they might perhaps drop a word or two to
our other guests about the dicey weather situation. They promised to
keep any eye on them for me, and I bid them a fond farewell.

Driving back to the hotel, I pondered what I would do in the same
situation. When my Mom was dying, I made two-dozen flights to
Wisconsin, in all sorts of weather -- some of it less than optimal VFR.
When duty calls, you push the envelope a bit. But that route had an
unbroken string of AWOS reporting stations, and it was always possible
to listen ahead to the developing weather situation. These folks would
literally be flying blind into very marginal conditions, and I didn't
know what else to do.

So I did nothing.

Depressed and worried, we listened to the Unicom radio throughout the
day. We heard the Commander folks depart IFR to the west -- next stop,
Rapid City, SD, and then on to Devil's Tower. In vain I waited for our
182 pilot to take off, but hour after hour went by with nothing to
hear. It had begun to rain, and my spirits rose. Surely they wouldn't
depart into *this*, and I'd be soon fetching them back to the hotel...

Around 4 PM, I heard him take Runway 25, and launch into a leaden gray
sky. Conditions were 1000 OVC, visibility 5 miles, and mist. He
departed the area to the south.

Mary and I quickly brought up ADDs Weather, which depicted all weather
reporting stations on a map of the US. Running my mouse over the
little circles, I saw no improvement. 1000 OVC, 900 OVC, a couple of
1500 OVC, with visibility ranging from 3 to 7 miles.

And then there was that big hole in Northern Missouri.

I'm not a religious man, but I said more than one silent prayer for
that poor man, as he struggled to address the conflicting needs of an
ill mother-in-law while trying to keep her daughter alive.
For days after they departed, I watched the FAA's accident website,
expecting the worst. Thankfully, nothing ever appeared, and I suspect
they survived, literally on a wing and a prayer.

In my mind's eye, I flew that flight with him, knowing what straining
to see out the wind screen is like, struggling to make out landmarks
below, all the while hoping that the horizon ahead continues to recede
apace. It's an awful situation, and not one that we normally face by
choice.

I guess he was just lucky that day.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

All that time they were waiting around for the weather to improve
he could have been studying for an instrument rating. :^o

Jay Honeck wrote:

...and I suspect they survived, literally on a wing and a prayer.


Great narration Jay. I'd however have used 'hope' than 'suspect'

Ramapriya

Jay Honeck wrote:
The man was no spring chicken, and he knew his business.

(...)

I guess he was just lucky that day.

Another excellent narration by Jay.

When is the book coming out?

-jav