Night Flight

I broke one of my personal rules yesterday -- "Don't fly over the Alleghenies at night."

Of course this rule has been broken by countless check and charter pilots for decades, but for me it's about leaving as many options open as possible, and at night there just aren't that many options between THS and IHD.

Sure, this stretch of mountains (really a series of ridges) seems almost laughable compared to real mountains (Rockies, Sierra, Andes, etc). But this chain still separates the widely divergent cultures of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia, still causes its own local weather, was the bane of many an airmail, airline, and charter pilot, and still claims the occasional unwary or bit-too-cavalier type.

I had all that in mind (and more) when I launched from Connellsville, at the very foot of the westernmost ridge, on the eastbound leg in the waning hours of a long, hot June day.

Winds were steady from the southwest at 10, skies were generally clear, and I had the promise of some good tailwinds for the planned hour-long flight to Lancaster.

I filed anyway, preferring the added interest that filing gives to a XC flight. I circled once above the airport, climbed to 5000, then 9000, and then settled in for the direct flight. To the north we could see a series of CB marching eastward. The XM on the GPS indicated this line was just south of the PA-NY border, which meant they were at least 120 miles from our route of flight. The HIWAS announcement and later Center Weather Advisory confirmed this. But clouds with tops in the 40s sure looked big -- and close.

The flight passed quickly with the pleasant company of my all too grownup daughter in whose eyes I still see a mischievous 5 year old. Soon, we were on the ramp at LNS and I was unloading her bags and saying a hasty goodbye. The sun was turning orange and daylight would soon be a memory. I filed direct for the return flight, but the clearance sent me to DELRO, then NESTO, adding at least 15 minutes to the expected 1:15 trip.

I took off into the sunset and climbed towards DELRO, trying to avoid looking at the GS panel on the G430. I dutifully followed the routing and switched to NY Center once cleared to 9000. After about 10 minutes Center asked if I was able to proceed Direct to destination.

Me: "I am able and would be very happy to proceed direct!"

NYC: "Then here's a present -- proceed direct..."

I set course and watched the sky turn from orange to light violet. Ahead and to the right was a shelf of clouds. Those directly ahead were below my altitude, those to the right built steadily. Soon, it was dark enough to see them lit up from inside with lightning. I checked HIWAS and the XM and heard another CWA -- that line was still 100 miles and more to the north of my route.

But they sure looked closer.

The violet turned to varying shades of purple. The chatter on Center freq was all airliners now -- I only heard a single Cherokee as he haltingly asked for flight following for a 20 mile hop. NY Center helped him out anyway. I even heard Center say, "Air Force One, Standby."

The clouds starting reaching up, and by now I had 30 degrees correction to maintain heading (257 hdg for 287 track). The headwind computed to 46 knots. I thought about going lower but the winds aloft from 3000-9000 gave no hope of faster groundspeed lower.

Besides, by now the lights of the towns and cities of southeast Pennsylvania were behind me -- those gentle rolling hills, wide fields and pastures, and scattered airports were behind me as well.

I hit Nrst on the handheld and only P and R airports appeared -- small grass fields -- unlit, unfamiliar, and short.

I spent as much time glancing at the EGT, Oil Pressure and temp gauges as the Nav gauges. All remained steady, even though every so often the slightest change in sound would reveal impending doom.

An active imagination is no friend to SEL, Single Pilot IFR at night.

I reminded myself I was a bit too old and experienced to be worrying about scary sounds in the night and to fly the airplane. The monsters retreated to the closet for a while.

The cloud layer beneath soon obscured the few lights below, and so I set the A/P on track and altitude hold, and leaned forward to watch the show on the right.

The line of thunderstorms ran continuous -- on the XM it indicated from Erie, PA to northern NJ. It was spectacular and frightening at the same time. I heard Center advising the heavy iron about intense precip, and the expected requests for diversions.

A small line of cells broke off from the main pack and was marching from Akron, OH towards the Ellwood City VOR -- too close for comfort to my destination. I checked the GS -- 101 Knots, while IAS was 130. A quick check on the E6B showed what sort of headwind I was fighting. 49 knots on the nose. It would be a race, and the opponent had a 49 knot tail wind.

Ugh.

60 miles out Cleveland Center said, "Descend and Maintain 7000."

At 8000 I was skimming the tops of some build-ups that extended southward from the line of cells -- like a train of pretenders wanting to be near the Great Ones. I asked if I could remain at 8 for a bit and was given "pilot's discretion."

I like that phrase....

Near Johnstown -- as expected -- the uplift was done and the clouds dissipated. By now it was fully dark -- only the faintest purple glow on the western horizon. Scattered lights twinkled far, far below -- appearing more distant due to the haze.

Cleveland Center kept working the diversions, and I announced my intention to descend. Down, down, into the enveloping haze and cloud layer, the airplane bouncing a bit, the engine running fine, the gauges doing what I expect them to, the cabin air warming and getting damper, the lights below momentarily disappearing and re-appearing, the flashes of light off to the right continuing...

I switched to map view on the GPS. 20nm zoom doesn't reveal any airports -- 50 nm does. I leave it set there.

I initially request the GPS approach, then amend that -- I'll take the visual and avoid the 10 nm diversion to the IAF.

I start to see familiarity to the pattern of lights. I've flown here often enough at night -- tethered within stumbling engine distance of familiar airports and routes and visual references. Of course I've returned from long cross countries at night before -- but always at the end of flights that start in daylight and end at night. This entire flight was officially "night" -- even though the sky remained luminescent with vestigial light for a while after the sun was far to the west.

I tell myself that familiarity is false comfort -- an unseen tree or power line or crane will wreak as much havoc here as over Sideling Hill or Laurel Ridge.

I set myself to the task at hand and look for the airport. I use the #2 comm to switch on the lights -- a nearly useless gesture this distance from the airport embedded in a sea of lights. Nevertheless, my familiarity helps.

That row of lights there is next to that, so the airport must be -- there!

There's the airport -- green-white beacon, string of blue taxiway lights like glowing sapphires -- is there anything so beautiful as taxi lights at night? REILS, PAPI, runway lights -- all blend in to the surrounding light noise -- but taxiway lights -- they fairly shout OVER HERE! HERE'S THE AIRPORT! COME THIS WAY!

Cleveland switches me to Pitt and I'm only with the friendly Pitt controller long enough for the cancellation and the switch to local.

I line up for the straight in visual. No one else is in the pattern -- this is a mostly VFR field with only the hard-cores or twin drivers up at night or in weather.

There's a stiff crosswind 50 degrees from the left. I haven't down a night x-wind landing in a while so it will be a good refresher. I have about a 10 degree crab on descent and keep it just a little high. This wind will cause the expected downdraft 150 feet from the threshold. Sure enough, there it is -- some power, keep it level, OK, now reduce power, there are the numbers, transition to wing low -- too much, that's better -- see the tire marks? good -- now transition to level 2 feet above the pavement -- hold it off, hold it off, hold it -- adjust for that gust -- straighten it, hold it -- squeak -- slight swerve, maintain crosswind correction -- good -- roll out -- no brakes, roll off the taxiway.

"Traffic, me, Clear of the active, traffic"

I clean up the flaps, cowl flaps, turn off the transponder, #2 comm, the radios, take off the headset. Wow. That feels good. Open the window, take in the warm night air, smell the 100ll, taxi back to the hangar.

As the gyros wind down, and the engine ticks cool, and the hangar light shines on the newly cleaned surface, I look over the airplane once more before closing the hangar door and turning off the light. It's only a machine, and has as much loyalty and concern for me as a Persian cat -- but somehow I have this fleeting sense that we are both happy to be back, and that we took care of each other, and that shared respect ensured our arrival.

But I won't do that again.

Until the next time.