In olden times, we didn't video much--the technology wasn't available, beyond 8 mm movie cameras or big clunky video cameras which took 2 men and a boy to lift. But memories can be indelible. Here's a night approach I made into old Denver Stapleton, probably in 1983 or so. I'll try to describe it so that you can "see" it with your mind--much like the old "theater of the mind" radio shows like Dragnet, The Green Hornet, and The Shadow (man, does all that date me!).
I was flying a friend's over-equipped Mooney 231 from Laramie to Denver to pick him up. It had been raining off and on most of the day--a warmish rain for winter time. The cloud deck at Laramie started at about 800' AGL. Before I climbed into the soup, since it was winter, I turned on the pitot heat and hot prop, and periodically I turned on the ice-light to look at the leading edges. But no ice was forming. The temp was just warm enough that the airplane was getting wet, but not iced.
The flight down to the Denver area was uneventful, except that I couldn't see the lights of Fort Collins, Longmont, or even Denver--the clouds were so full of moisture. Denver Approach offered me vectors to final for the north-south runway (not sure of its numbers now), but I asked for the full approach, in order to have time to set up for it. Approach reminded me that it would take longer that way, but I said that's what I wanted to do.
Incidentally, this airplane was fully equipped and capable of coupled approaches. Not only did it have the latest King flight director/autopilot, but it had color radar, radar altimeter, everything you could imagine could be stuffed into a Mooney panel--even a "Flite Phone". But I was hand-flying it, not trusting the autopilot to do its thing.
The route of flight took me south directly over downtown Denver, but none of the city lights showed through the muck. It was truly like flying inside a black hole. As I crossed the IAF and started into the procedure turn, I slowed to 110 knots, which was my usual approach speed. As I came out of the procedure turn and lined up on the localizer, I kept thinking to myself, "get ready to go missed". At the IAF, just as the glideslope centered and the outer marker lit up, I dropped the gear and the first notch of flaps and started sliding down the ILS. At 110 knots, the Mooney was as solid as a rock. Halfway down the approach, I did a final GUMPS check, flattened the prop, and watched as I came closer to the MDA. The radar altimeter came alive and its pointer moved closer and closer to the 200' minimum. At 50' above the MDA, 250' AGL, I started to push in the throttle to go missed.
Suddenly I broke into the relative clear just below the cloud deck. It was a sight to behold. The rabbit leading up to the approach end, the VASIs showing their red and white that proved I was on target, the centerline lights going off into the distance, the edge lights on either side of the wide runway--it was like that climactic scene from The High and the Mighty! Sploosh, I touched down gently on the wet runway.
As I taxied in the light rain, I felt that elation that comes from doing something right--a truly good nearly textbook approach. I walked into the Combs-Gates terminal to find my friend on the phone, trying to arrange a rental car--he was sure I wouldn't be able to get in.
The flight home was totally anti-climactic. It remained low IFR until about halfway home, the clouds started lifting, and by the time we got to Laramie, I didn't even have to shoot an approach.
I don't think that "picture" of seeing the lights as I broke out will ever leave my mind, it was so spectacular. In all these years, I have a lot of memories like that. I wish the technology existed that I could put those memories on video so I could share them with everyone. Such memories are truly why we fly.
Cary