The trip was going to be simple, I thought. My friend Steve would give me a ride from Pal-Waukee Airport PWK (now Chicago Executive) and drop me off at a short grass strip near Rockford (RFD), some 50 miles west, where I’d grab another Cessna 150 and fly it back to PWK.
A couple of short delays later, we were finally ready to leave PWK. I could tell dusk was fast approaching, and since the grass strip had no lights, Steve was becoming uncomfortable about the trip. I knew it was probably the huge trees surrounding the strip that he didn’t like. “Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll drop you at Rockford, OK? The shop can ferry you over to the strip.” I nodded but smiled at his growing reluctance. But then he was a newly minted private pilot with 90 or so hours. I was a flight instructor with almost 1500.
The sun was nearing the horizon when Steve dropped me off at RFD. I began searching the ramp for my five-minute ride to the strip and stopped when I spotted a Tri-Pacer parked nearby. It wasn’t just any airplane, though. This one was … well, rough. I walked over and asked the pilot if he was my ride, and with a big smile, he said, “Sure. I’m Jack, by the way.” I gave the bird a quick once over, raised a skeptical eyebrow, and climbed into the right seat. “Let’s get going,” I said. I knew the approaching darkness wouldn’t be a problem if we wasted no time getting off.
Airborne again, I could see just how beautiful a midwestern sunset could be with the streaks of pink against the now graying sky. It seemed – well – almost peaceful looking. I thought of that old rhyme. “Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailors delight.” It could have been written for pilots, too.
My mind returned to matters of the moment as Jack announced our arrival over the strip. It was still relatively bright looking west, but looking toward the ground, I finally realized how dark it had become. “Ah, Jack. Maybe we should go back to Rockford, and I’ll get someone to drive me back to the strip,” I said. Jack casually waved his hand and assured me he was experienced with this sort of thing. I thought momentarily and decided that sometimes a pilot needs to trust someone with more experience. It seemed to make sense … sort of. Tonight, it was my turn to be the student.
The original plan had been to fly over the top of the strip until someone on the ground turned on their car’s headlights to guide us in. But as I gazed out the window, darkness spotted with an occasional streetlight was all I saw.
Jack smiled at me as he turned base for what I was beginning to believe was an imaginary runway. I smiled back weakly but said nothing. In my head, I began thinking we should call the whole thing off, but then I remembered Jack was more experienced.
Rolling out on the final, we approached closer. I could now see the lights of a car on the ground—but just one car! My eyes quickly moved to the altimeter, and I realized we were about 200 feet AGL. Another quick glance out the window revealed that the silhouettes I saw against the sky were the huge trees that surrounded the field, except now the tops were above us. With just that one set of headlights, my depth perception was nil.
With sweat pouring from my forehead I finally realized if I didn’t do something quickly, Jack and I would be tomorrow’s headlines. Instinctively, my hand grabbed for the throttle. “No,” Jack shouted as he pulled it out to idle. With full flaps, the airplane immediately stopped flying. I was convinced we were about to die.
A few seconds later I realized we weren’t dead. I looked out the window to see if the wheels were still attached. Almost immediately, I returned my gaze inside because I could barely see the wheels of the old Tri-Pacer for the darkness. We rolled to a stop at the end of the runway. Not even waiting for the prop to stop, I jumped out and gave a huge sigh of relief. Somehow we’d survived this insane journey.
That little voice – was it in my head or my gut? It tried to tell me a couple of times this flight was foolish, but I’d refused to listen.
Never again … ever was I going to allow another pilot, experienced or not, put me in a situation that my common sense told me was dangerous. As my career turned out, those situations did happen to me … more than once too.
As Jack and I were walking to the hangar at the grass strip I was still frazzled. I looked over at my companion and asked, “So how many hours have you logged Jack?” He thought for a minute. “Oh let me see. Must be 70 or 75 I think.”
I just stared at him. “How many times have you landed at this strip when it was getting dark like this?”
“This was my second,” Jack said with a big grin. “How’s I do?”
Rob Mark
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Yikes. The only time I ever was dubious of my piloting judgment was on the return leg of a charter flight from White Plains HPN to Nantucket ACK, where I’d dropped off my passenger. taxiing out just after sunset in my Cherokee Arrow IV (T-tail) I noted my fuel was just a teeny-weenie less than I’d expected. I’ll keep the speed down, I thought as the tower cleared me for takeoff.
I climbed to 6500 feet and throttled back a bit and enjoyed the scenery, which I noticed was moving just a teeny bit slower than it should. Headwinds were stronger than expected. Ho hum.
As I passed New Haven HVN, I glanced at the gauges and realized I was still gobbling the 100LL faster than I was comfortable, so I decided a decent would put me in a slower headwind.
Well, as I neared Bridgeport BDR I looked at the gauges again and switched tanks. I was still about 35 miles east of HPN and getting uneasy with my progress. I coulda should woulda stopped at BDR for another 10 galls of 100LL but my boss wouldn’t have appreciated being billed for fuel by another nearby FBO, so I throttled back a bit more–to about 1900 RPM.
A few minutes later HPN tower cleared me to land straight in on 29 instead of the active 34. Did ATC know how precario us my situation was becoming? I mean, I was practically standing still over the dark, high-price terrain of Greenwich, CT? She must have telepathically seen what was happening on her local radar scope.
I put the gear down. Was the drag the wheels produced enough to push me backward? It was the longest final I’d ever encountered in my 3000 hours of unremarkable flying. I swore at myself over and over to never takeoff with anything less than full tanks ever ever ever again!
I could see the threshold approaching–like molasses. Gear check. NO flaps tonight–I didn’t need any more aluminum hanging out in the cool night air.
Pitch up as I idled the throttle and kidded the runway. Tower, knowing who I was, cleared me to take 29 to the end then taxi direct to my FBO. I loved that woman! If my engine had quit now I’d never hear the end of it.
I checked the fuel again after I turned on to the taxiway.
Huh. Wait a minute–where’d all that fuel come from? I still had plenty of fuel. I mean yeah, they were down to a quarter in both tanks. I was never in danger of running dry. But I sure felt stupid all of a sudden. I’d gotten lazy about fuel management and it bit me–gently–in the butt.
*kissed the runway