A Few Words About Trust:
Those who ask us to trust are always selling something.

Even our esteemed flight instructors are selling stuff. Usually for our own good, and based on a long evolution of rules and procedures which have come about from the experience and expense of others. As such, these rules are generally well grounded and proven. But, I would offer a word of caution, based on an old personal fear of mine, and a short story.

Now, for those of you who are ready to claim that I am treading on real thin ice, I truly do understand the reasoning behind the phrase, “TRUST YOUR INSTRUMENTS,” especially when it comes to extracting your butt from an inadvertent entanglement with the darker side of less than ideal visual flight conditions.

I occasionally considered trying to earn an instrument ticket. I thought it would be nice if I were able to at least safely take off in marginal conditions. Problem was, I never considered myself bright enough to do so. Also, I had this haunting fear born out of years of reading accident reports. The fear was that, at a critical time, one or more instruments would fail. Then how would I know WHEN, and WHICH ones were lying to me when I most needed the truth. So, I just kept flying comfortable VFR.


Prologue: Or, how I got lulled into an altered sense of normal.

I had just spent most of a week flying in the Idaho backcountry during one of the worst fire seasons in the western states. It was Friday evening and I was sitting at a small table on the outside deck of a lakeside restaurant in McCall. I was watching Payette Lake calm down from the afternoon winds as the shadows crept across from Brundage Mountain. There were a couple of roundtables of pilots mostly discussing the miserable flying conditions of the past week. It had been some of the worst conditions I had seen.

One could generally tell the visiting pilots as they usually had their animated hands in the air. The seasoned local pilots usually had their hands on their silverware or the glassware. Not necessarily in that order, depending on the events of the day.

I was deep in my own quiet reverie of the evening when I thought I heard my name. I looked over at the other tables and saw one of the older pilots waving a hand in the air.

“Hey Tom, where have you NOT been to in the backcountry?” Shouted the older pilot, with an air of irritability in the tone of his question.

“I have not been much further south than Garden Valley,” I replied, “Why do you ask?”

“Haven’t I heard you claim that a pilot should be able to go almost anywhere with nothing more than a chart, a small plotter, and a watch?” he asked.

“Something like that,” I replied.

“Well,” says the older pilot, “This young pilot here claims that there is only one safe way to fly, and that is to remain above it all with GPS and a cockpit full of new age glass.

“Ask him how he plans to descend through this smoke once he is overhead,” I responded, with little interest in the claims of a newly minted glass panel pilot.

I said, “Tell him there are times when you simply have to get your head out of your glass.”

I was more interested in the calming effect of silently watching the shadows slowly changing to a deep purple.
The older pilot changes his tone slightly and, with a sardonic smile, slowly drawls out a long calculating, “Well.”

I instantly knew I had been had!

The older pilot continued, “Why don’t you take this young fella here down to Graham tomorrow morning?” “You know, using that old fashioned pilotage kinda stuff.”

I knew it was not just a request, but also a challenge. Time to put up, or shut up.

To be contd.

It was just after seven a.m. when we lifted off of McCall’s runway one six. The airport is just over five thousand feet MSL. We pretty much had the sky to ourselves’ as the fire suppression crews could not go up until later. They had to wait for the visibility to clear up down in the canyons. The initial visibility out of McCall was close to four miles, with haze and smoke, lots of smoke. We were flying below a broken layer that would be keeping us under nine thousand.

The valleys in the area where we were headed, to the south and east, were all smoked in. As we climbed though eight thousand feet the morning sun reflected off the smoke and made the valleys look like shining glaciers from a long past ice age. The only visible landmarks were those ragged patterns of the highest ridges sticking up out of the smoke. I had to figure out where we were, and where we were going, by studying the irregular patterns of these higher ridgelines sticking up out of the smoke. I then had to match those patterns on the chart. For once the infamous anomaly of Idaho’s “Haystack” geological patterns were a benefit. We were only able to see the surface below us in a cone of visibility maybe four miles in radius. This flight would turn out to be one of my more intense, purely pilotage, flights to a place where I had never been.

It was no problem from McCall to Cascade, after which we followed highway 55 further south until it angled off to the right. We continued straight down into the funnel of two converging ridgelines. We crossed a low ridge at their convergence and continued into the next valley, and crossed a stream at the base of a ridge on our left. I altered our heading slightly left to line up with the small settlement of Crouch, then Garden Valley, and the Garden Valley airport off to the left. From there we followed the road past the private strip of Treasure Gulch, on the way to New Centerville and Idaho City.

I became slightly “displaced” for a short time while following the road east out of Idaho City where suddenly there was a maze of roads going every which direction on the summit of a large logged over area. I reversed course back toward Idaho City to determine which was the correct road out of town and get back on course.
We were down near six thousand and descending into the smoke. We needed to descend in order to keep an intimate, “contact,” view of the road, the walls, and to find the stream that should be coming up soon. According to the chart, the road should cross a creek at the base of the next ridge. It did. The creek should then take us down to its’ confluence with the North Fork of the Boise River. It did. I was feeling fairly confident.

Then, my confidence was rattled a bit as we came around the base of a hill and started generally back north. What shook my confidence was coming across the first of two bridges that were not on the chart. This was just enough to cast a shadow of doubt on my ability to translate the topography onto the geography.

Everything had worked up to that point so I decided to continue following the road. Hopefully the bridges were just too new to be on the chart. The hard test, rapidly approaching, would be if the road matched the chart by making a right turn away from the river at what looked on the chart to be a narrow notch where the river would go on upstream to Graham.

Visibility was down to not much. That, however, did not make a lot of difference in the bottom of the canyon. I just needed to be able to see across the canyon well enough to determine when the minimum required room to turn around was getting close.

“What are you smiling at?” asked the Glass Man tersely with a touch of anxiety.
“Oh, I was just thinking, this place reminds me of a Larry McMurtry title,” I replied.
“Which one is that?” he asked.
“In A Narrow Grave,” I answered.
“Thanks a lot ass hole!” shouted the Glass Man in a higher octave.
Staring at me he asked, “Are you sure you know what the fuck you’re doing?”
Looking straight ahead, I replied, “We will know that answer in a few minutes.”

What I figured was going to be the notch was coming up quickly now. It looked small and black in the dense smoke. It looked more like the dark shadow of doom for my demonstration of pilotage.

I slowed down to my canyon approach speed of seventy and pulled on twenty degrees of flaps. I did this just in case I needed to execute a canyon turn to escape. The slower speed would also give me more time to make a final go, no go, decision as we came up to the notch. I slowed to sixty, then fifty, trimming for hands off level flight. If needed, I could safely slow it down to forty indicated and still make a safe and tighter canyon turn. Before entering the dark notch, I had already planned to turn back downstream if: the road did not sweep to the right, the smoke got too dense, and I concluded that I really did not know where we were. I would then follow the Boise River back down stream until the visibility improved, or we ended up in Boise. But it all worked. The Glass Man impressed. I was relieved.

Now for the short story:

Now for the short story:

It was a dark and smoky afternoon as I started the decent to Winnemucca Nevada. I was already pushing my old preference for at least five miles of visibility. The ASOS was reporting five miles. “Yeah,” I thought, “But in which damned direction.” The sun, now to the southwest, was not helping. At least the air was calm. I had made this flight before, and was comfortable with what I could see on the ground relative to the chart. Yes, I still fly with an open chart.

While the FBO crew topped off the inboard tanks, I grabbed a quick bite, checked the oil level, fuel level, and fuel tank caps for a tight and proper fit. The proper fit is another Winnemucca story.

Things did not look pleasant in the west. I could see some five to six miles to the east, but disturbingly less to west where the smoke was coming from. I decided I had best get started in case I had to turn around and make arrangements for a layover. I did the run-up during the taxi out for runway two zero. Did a 360 at the end of the taxiway looking for any silent traffic. I took off back down the taxiway because it pointed more to the west, and closer to the north end of the first ridge I knew to be out there in the smoke. The highway would also be just off to my right if needed.

It soon became evident that this was not going to be fun. Climbing into the sun, the smoke, and the heat, was not my idea of a pleasant way to spend a Sunday afternoon. I listened in on every frequency I could find. I was looking for some form of reassurance. None of what I heard was very comforting. I kept climbing to my, “go take a look,” VFR cruising altitude of eight five. At eight five I could still see the highway in front of me. I could see it better when looking down, and still better when glancing back away from the sun. I still had an acceptable back door. This encouraged me to go on up another two thousand feet where it would at least be a few degrees cooler. At ten five I leveled off, re-trimmed, and put on the oxygen since my favorite Daytron instrument was indicating a density altitude over twelve thousand. I could no longer see the highway in front of me. I could barely make it out below me. It was still reasonably visible behind me.

I had spent a good portion of the climb flying the panel for practice, just in case. I had become unexpectedly comfortable with it. (Complacent?) At least I was not in the bottom of an Idaho canyon. Problem was, if I did get off course, it would be nice to have all the “insurance” altitude I could get. There were some tall mountains lurking in all this smoke as well as further on towards Carson City, and the east side of the Sierras. Occasionally I would glance up and the sky would tempt me upwards with the appearance of better looking visibility. It would be nice if I could just get on top of this shit and have some semblance of a real horizon.

I departed ten five for twelve five.

At twelve five I once again leveled off, trimmed for level flight, and took a hard look around. The sky still looked more inviting higher up. Radio chatter made it clear that the smoke was not going to clear up enough to make it worth going any higher. There was no longer any visible ground in front of me. The only thing I could see in front of me was the arc of the prop in the sun. Occasionally I could make out vague Rorschach splotches of darker color slipping away below me. It was no longer advisable to turn my head much any more. The visibility behind me was now down to not much anyway. I had allowed myself to become insidiously sucked beyond the point of not much reason to return.


What to do?

Well, the air was calm, and I found myself to be calmer than I would have expected under these circumstances. It seemed to me that it would almost be more dangerous to turn around with those mountains hiding in the smoke. If it’s working, don’t fix it!

So, there I was, at a VFR cruising altitude of twelve five, in conditions that had essentially dissolved into IMC. I monitored Reno Approach on one radio. My transponder told them where I was. I worked at keeping DME checks on my distance relative to the Reno Approach radio traffic. It was PIC decision time.


Rationalization:

It was not likely that there was anyone else dumb enough to be out here at this altitude, in these conditions. The PIREPS implied that if I could just stay straight and level for another hour or so, conditions were supposed to improve over Carson City, just south of Reno. I was coming up on the 270 degree radial from Lovelock VOR. It would now take about the same time to continue on to Carson City as to turn back to Winnemucca. And, I would not need to turn and descend, just hold it steady.

Then it happened! It was not obvious at first. I thought the problem was just my bifocal lenses causing some optical distortion of the reference lines of the artificial horizon while scanning the panel. But NOO, the damned artificial horizon was rolling over on me indicating a nose down attitude. Oh shit! I sucked a deep breath through my teeth and came near to panic for a second as I flashed back over the horror stories I had heard and read.

It was becoming difficult to hang onto my confidence. My brain never quit working on the problem, but the cold knots of doubt never quit grinding in my stomach either. Then my old climbing adage I used to teach in Yosemite came back to me, “There has to be an answer better than death, and it has to be within arms reach.”

“TRUST YOUR INSTRUMENTS” was my first impulse and I almost upset a stable flying airplane by doing so. STOP! First, hands off, feet off, gut check, butt check, brain check, hold your head steady, close your eyes for a few seconds, and LISTEN.

It was in those dark seconds that Doubt sneered its’ ugly question, “Now, dumb-ass, when you open your eyes, which instruments do you TRUST?”

I recalled that I just might not be bright enough to do this. Just how deep in this shit am I? Trust be damned, I need to KNOW, and I need to KNOW quick! There was no sound of a change in airspeed, I opened my eyes and went back to the old needle, ball, and airspeed. They looked good and stable. It only took some small attitude changes to verify that the artificial horizon was the only instrument lying to me. That little test, and the vacuum gauge, implied that the vacuum pump, thus the directional gyro, were still good. I certainly was not interested in having to add any possible compass turns into the mess. I also did not want to move my head enough to turn around to get an instrument cover out of my flight bag so I just worked on ignoring the damned thing. Focus on what works!

It seemed like an eternity of focusing on nothing but the damned panel, and twisting radio knobs, before I could begin to discern some semblance of detail below me. Finally, just as I heard Reno Approach say, “Traffic no longer a factor.” I actually saw the commuter airline reported by Reno Approach, well above, and at my two o’clock. In a short while I was over Carson City, Spooner Summit, Lake Tahoe, and home.

Epilogue:
Turns out the artificial horizon had ground up a set of bearings.
It also turned out that I really could survive my worst fear of flying.

I still agree with the hood training instructions to, TRUST YOUR INSTRUMENTS, as they are more reliable that your inner ear, most of the time. My old problem stemmed from the fact that no one ever explained to me how to tell when, and which instrument, if any, was going south on me, and what to do about it. All I had ever been told was to, “TRUST YOUR INSTRUMENTS!”

Maybe the courage to risk failing at an instrument course would have fixed that.

Trim

Trimtab I really enjoyed those stories. Well written. I could visualize what you were seeing...or not seeing.

I'm retired from wiland fire fighting. Well, semi retired. The FS still calls me back in the summer to help out. I need to fly fairly often...mostly in helicopters but fixed wing once in a while...to do my job. When I was young and bullit proof It didn't bother me to fly through the smoke. Now the first thing I tell my pilots after they brief me is, "I don't want to fly through the smoke. I don't mind the thin smoke where you can maintain visual with the ground, It's the thick stuff I don't like". Once in a while they will do it anyhow. I remind them with "DON'T FLY THROUGH THE SMOKE WITH ME ON BOARD AGAIN".

Trimtab wrote:I never considered myself bright enough to do so.

Time to re-consider Trimtab. Anyone who writes that well, and fly's with that thought process, is already an instrument pilot. You just haven't had the training yet. Great story, thanks for sharing.

Trimtab,
I enjoyed the reading as well. Got an hour of hard IFR in my M5210C yesterday. It always takes me a little time to dust off the raw data , no auto pilot , IFR flying skills, when it has been a while. Loosing the attitude indicator would be no fun at all. You can feel real good about getting yourself out of the situation you were in!

*Note to self: do some partial panel hoodwork once in a while!

Trim, I loved your stories. And I just lost my vac pump this week, so can understand. However, I also have been flying with a 696 set up with a combo panel above the map screen. I really think a guy could get along with that only as long as it works. It seems to be very responsive, etc.

...but I have had that go south twice now. Taking it out of the plane and powering it up at the house seems to fix it. Anybody else have issues with their 696? This is my second one. Factory replaced the first one because of other problems.

Very good story dude That "go take a look" stuff has scared the crap out of me before as well I think the old men have it right, fly the plane, work the problem, fly the plane, keep thinking, fly the plane if you keep flying the plane long enough the situation will change and you may be able to fly out of it. If worse comes to worse you will crash with less fuel on board

Good story, of how NOT to fly in smoke. And, a good reminder at the beginning of a new fire season.

Flying in smoke can be really tough. Often times, as you noted, you look up from the low level smoke, and that crystal clear blue sky looks like it's just another 500 feet up.....I too have been in smoke at 12,500 with that clear blue "bait" just above, seemingly, wishing I hadn't. I've had to transition from VFR to IFR several times in smoke, never in weather.

I've been stooging along in two mile visibility in smoke, only to have to turn around, and find that looking the opposite direction in that same patch of air, I couldn't see 1/8 mile.

Smoke can be really sneaky in many ways, so be careful out there, and thanks for the story....it is an excellent reminder to us all at this start of a new summer flying season.

MTV

Great writing.

Smoke is sneaky. In my long flying career {3 seasons now ha ha} I have got to fly in more smoke than I would like. Here in the NW it is a fact of life. I can see the ground, the blue sky but no horizon. I ask myself how far can I see, I know not much. Last summer I couldn't see my landing strip till I was 3.5 from it.

I try to avoid those days.

Cheers...Rob