Wisps of clouds had obscured forward visibility at 2,500 feet for the past half-hour. It wasn’t raining but rivulets would randomly streak the windscreen and betray my groundspeed that was otherwise imperceptible with the constant drone of the engine and smooth air. Altitude 2,500 feet ASL (Above Sea Level), speed 100 knots, fuel at 3/4 tank and steady on my heading.
My watch indicated 11:45. On the seat beside me a clipboard held a folded map with a pencil drawn course - ruler straight and marked with circled navigation aids at time intervals. There was a power line cut circled ahead. A break in the reaching, leafless wooden limbs and green of the pine trees exposing a strip of snow covered ground across my flightpath.
Tossing the clipboard back on the seat I found myself engulfed in cloud. Scanning the sky ahead, and with slight forward pressure on the yoke, the Cessna 172 descended through 1,900 feet to find clear visibility at 1,650 feet ASL with the power line clear over the nose. In 10 minutes I’d be approaching Y00, the airport at Oshawa, Ontario Canada.
The radio nobs turned with a satisfying click to 123.7. “Oshawa tower, this is Cessna 172 Golf, November, Bravo joining the downwind leg for runway 30.” The silence of the past forty minutes was broken with a crackle in my headset. “Golf, November, Bravo this is Oshawa tower, please advise at base and final.”
On the downwind leg of the pattern there was clear runway visibility, but it was a struggle to maintain 1,000 feet ASL. “Golf, November, Bravo - this is Oshawa tower - please respond with your current altitude.” Working the yoke to stay below the cloud cover, I had kept a wary eye on my altitude gauge. “Oshawa tower - this is Golf, November, Bravo - current altitude is 800 feet ASL and I am struggling to maintain my VFR (Visual Flight Rules) approach.” Their response was quick - “Golf, November, Bravo - this is Oshawa tower - the current cloud ceiling is 1,800 feet ASL - climb to the patten altitude of 1,000 feet and notify on base.”
Pulling back slightly on the yoke the little Cessna ascended into patches of cloud. With no other traffic chatter on the radio my response was to bank early onto the base leg. Cutting the throttle on final the familiar floating sensation lasted until the engine’s drone quieted and settled into a slight vibration at idle. I lowered the nose to level off at the aircraft’s approach speed. Turning the yoke left with opposite rudder, the little Cessna pivoted into a slip to maintain approach velocity but hasten the descent to my fixed landing point on the runway.
The main gear responded with a shudder through the fuselage at touchdown. Under threatening cloud cover I maneuvered to the flight centre and had my log book stamped. With pre-flight checks done, quickly, I was on the radio to Oshawa ground for runway and departure clearance.
Accelerating under full throttle and easing back on the yoke the nose wheel lifted followed by the main gear at 55 knots. Climbing out of Oshawa, I banked the aircraft onto my flight plan’s compass heading while rapidly approaching the cloud ceiling. “Cessna Golf, November, Bravo - please report your current altitude.” Scanning the horizon for traffic I levelled off flying through wisps of cloud. “Oshawa tower - Golf, November, Bravo - current altitude is 800 feet.”
I crossed my first navigation aid in a lengthening silence with some trepidation. Railway tracks in the snow bordered by forrest were easy to spot and passed under me. At 800 feet my visibility was reduced to broken cloud cover, and I was reluctant to fly much lower. “Fly the plane”, I spoke into my headset, “Scan for traffic, scan the gauges and find your nav aids.”
The nagging feeling that turning back to Oshawa was the prudent action ceased, quickly. “Oshawa traffic, this is Oshawa tower - please be advised we are closed to VFR traffic. IFR traffic only.” I had no training for instrument flight (IFR). Visual flight rules (VFR) required that I maintain visibility at all times. Constant adjustments, back and forth on the yoke, kept the plane below the cloud cover but required more attention than straight and level flight. For increased stretches I lost visual contact ahead of me and with the ground. Scan for air traffic, gauges, nav aids - I repeated.
I was looking for a kidney shaped lake and found one shaped like a bent index finger. The kidney lake should have passed under the shadow of my wing 5 minutes ago. While flying blind in cloud, or with an unintentional turn of the yoke while ascending or descending, I had drifted off course. From that error, or series of errors, every minute that passed at 100 knots of ground speed had compounded the effect. Correcting to fly directly over a navigation aid that appeared to port or starboard of a current heading is common VFR practice. The kidney lake would not be appearing, I had missed it and failed to properly manage the time component of my flight plan. The carefully drawn course on my map, the consideration of wind direction and speed, fuel burn, and the circled navigation aids at specific intervals was useless. Funny, there was no pulling over to review the map or approach a fellow traveller, map in hand, to ask for directions. I had fuel, but couldn’t fly indefinitely. At 900 feet ASL I moved the Cessna into a shallow bank to circle the finger lake and searched the map for its location.
The lake was distinctive. I found it on the third lap and noted an airport called Stanhope Municipal on a compass heading of 014 degrees from the finger’s tip. On the fourth lap I banked sharply onto the heading and flew. I hoped the airport was open and the runway plowed. On the ground I’d assess the weather and figure out a new flight plan to YQA, Muskoka. A plan was progress.
Stanhope below me was shocking. The sky on 014 degrees was clearing at 850 feet ASL, but I had it in my head that I’d be circling a few more lakes to find it. The runway was a single, unplowed strip with random patches of snow. Flying the length of it at 500 feet ASL the depth of the snow was indiscernible; that worried me. Without the proper airport radio frequency I constantly scanned the skies for aircraft in the pattern. Driven by a need to put my feet on the ground the Cessna slipped onto final, throttle back and full flaps while keeping the speed bouncing off the stall warning. This was thrilling, F.E. Pott’s flying. I focused on the runway with his short field landing procedure from his Guide to Bush Flying in my head.
The wheels touched the ground right on the numbers with a shudder as the main landing gear reacted to the friction of the ground. Flaps up with the yoke full back, I worked the rudder and brakes to keep straight and scrub off speed. The first patch of snow hit my right, main gear. It was heavy and wet and pulled at the little Cessna requiring left rudder and brake to keep the aircraft heading straight. The left wheel caught the edge of another patch just as the front wheel touched down. I added measured right rudder to counter the pull - fighting the urge to add too much input given the additional control of the front wheel. Through three more patches the Cessna swerved and lurched while I worked the controls towards the a building to the left of the runways end. It was clad in white aluminum siding with a heavy blanket of snow on the roof.
“Is this Stanhope Municipal?” The building was clean with large maps on the wall, black rubber winter mats on the linoleum floor and flight magazines on a rack under the front desk. A grey mustached man drinking a cup of coffee looked up. “I take it this is not where you’re supposed to be.” Banging the snow off my wet converse shoes at a suitable spot on the mat I couldn’t help but smile. “I had trouble maintaining VFR flight with the low cloud ceiling in Oshawa and ended up a bit off-course. This is my first cross-country solo, and I need to come up with new flight plan to Muskoka.”
That got me a chuckle. “My names Charles. You’re welcome to use the desk in the corner and feel free to ask me any questions. The cloud cover is set to clear. Oh, and give your instructor a call and let him know your situation.”
My phone call to Barrie earned me another chuckle. The cloud ceiling was breaking above my pre-flight with new pencil lines on the map on the clipboard beside me. Takeoff was as thrilling as the landing. Under full throttle and holding the brakes the airplane was dancing and eager. Releasing the brakes the Cessna surged forward as I worked through the snow patches yanking at the landing gear by inputing rudder. With the nose wheel lifting the plane felt eager for flight and adding small degrees of flap I coaxed it off the runway and into ground effect. Holding altitude to build speed the lever on the dash removed degrees of flaps in increments as the aircraft approached climb speed. At 1,200 feet ASL I had clear visibility as the Cessna banked onto its course to Muskoka.
The landing gear touched down in Barrie without additional drama. Driving home, reliving the course correction through cloud cover and the landing and takeoff at Stanhope I felt an undeniable sense of excitement and pride. But, at the age of 18 I had had enough close calls and done enough dumb things to feel sheepish about the errors I had made. A sign of maturity - I guess.
Upon reflection in the weeks that followed, the self-discovery that endured gave an introverted, shy kid confidence and greatly expanded my self-assessment of my capabilities and limitations. I had stayed calm and persevered in a stressful situation and reacted decisively to control a number of variables. I had followed and adapted learned procedures and controlled a tri-gear Cessna down a rough airstrip using instinct and a large set of Cojones (hey, insights at 18). I learned I liked the sense of accomplishment, the chaos, and the discomfort.