I recently received the December edition of EAA’s Sport Aviation magazine. As is my custom, I always check out Steve Krog’s “The Classic Instructor” commentary first. His article about density altitude brought back a memory of a long-ago flight.

As a 500-to-600-hour private pilot, I thought I had an understanding of density altitude and its effects on an aircraft’s performance. But that understanding changed on a hot, humid July day in northern Alabama!

In the mid 1990s, a buddy suggested that he, his wife, and I fly to Talladega, Alabama, in my Cessna 172, to attend the July NASCAR race. It sounded like a grand adventure, and I was all for the idea. Our flight from western New York was pretty uneventful until departing from our second fuel stop in northern Alabama. There, without much consideration, I did as I always had and told the fueler to top off the tanks. I was completely unaware of the lesson I would soon learn.

The subsequent takeoff began normally enough—I didn’t necessarily notice if we became airborne a little farther down the runway than normal or not. But once airborne, I slowly became aware that things weren’t going as expected. After liftoff, the climb rate of the 172 was downright anemic to say the least. It was clawing the air trying to climb, but without much success. We were barely climbing, but we weren’t skimming the rooftops either, and at least we weren’t descending.

I also noticed that the airspeed wasn’t increasing. In fact, to achieve whatever climb rate I did have, it was hovering somewhere just above stall. I was working hard, trying to coach the plane to climb by attempting to find the right pitch angle where the wings would produce the best lift, while hopefully at the same time maintaining an airspeed somewhere above stall. The goal was to slowly accelerate in order produce a better climb rate.

About now, there are readers that are wondering, how heavy were they? What was he thinking when he had the tanks topped off?

Obviously, I wasn’t thinking about performance or density altitude. It probably isn’t a newsflash that Alabama in July is hot and humid. But none of that information was considered as part of my planning because the airport elevation was relatively low, probably somewhere between 800 and 1500 feet.

In retrospect, I lacked a true understanding of the whole density altitude topic. I have decided that my lack of understanding stemmed from the fact that when density altitude was discussed during training, it was discussed as being an issue when high, hot, and humid.

Because all my flight training and flying up to this point had been in the east, I thought to myself, “Self, since I am flying in the East and density altitude presents a problem at high elevations (like if I was flying out West), then except for the written test. I don’t need to remember or apply any of this because it won’t affect me here where I fly.”

As I continued to build flying hours and I didn’t experience any issues with density altitude, it just reinforced that thought… until that day in July down in Alabama!

If I had thought about density altitude, here is generic example of what it may have been that day:

So, how/why did my thought processes take me down such an erroneous road?

For what it is worth, here is my take. When learning something new, or when our brains become overwhelmed with information, mine (and possibly yours) tends to “weed out” extraneous information. It decides what information is not important and what information it does consider important.

We then remember what was deemed important and the remaining extraneous information “gets shelved” in the back of our minds somewhere or is discarded completely.

As a result, we end up believing we have an understanding of a subject, procedure, or situation when we don’t. We usually aren’t even aware of the misunderstanding until we get that unexpected wakeup call. Hopefully, one that doesn’t end up resulting in a bad outcome.

As Steve Krog reflected in his article, “In order to protect ourselves from the effects of density altitude, we must first understand what it is and how it impacts flight.” This is true concerning all aspects of our flying. We must ensure that we first understand the subject, procedure, or situation. We must not allow ourselves to settle for what “we think we understand.”

As for that long-ago trip, it added to my experience, it is a great memory, and we had a great weekend. I am not sure my friends even realized that our takeoff was any different than any other. Talladega was as exciting and unpredictable as always, but boy was it low, hot, and humid during the race.

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: [email protected].

I worked full time as an engineer for Sperry Flight Systems, but I also had a part-time job as one of three or four pilots that worked for Professional Aviation at Deer Valley airport in Phoenix, Arizona. In the late 1970s and early 1980s, Professional Aviation had a “traffic watch” contract with radio station KTAR. Their contract was to provide pilots and aircraft for morning and evening traffic reports. KTAR provided the on-air reporter (usually Laurie Fagen). It was a fun job, but it got to be routine after a while.

The routine was broken on February 18, 1980. Phoenix doesn’t get much rain in a typical year. To help with irrigation water for the farms in the valley and flood control, the US government started building a series of four major dams on the Salt and Verde Rivers east of Phoenix from 1905 through 1930. The largest of these is the Theodore Roosevelt Dam. The dam closest to Phoenix on the Salt River is the Stewart Mountain Dam, which forms Saguaro Lake.

All the dams along the Salt River are in a canyon in the Superstition Mountains. The sharp walls of the canyon make it ideal for the construction of dams, and the scenery is spectacular. Whenever we had winter visitors (nobody wanted to come in the summer), I would usually fly them out to this area to see the stunning aerial vistas. Four Peaks, which are north of the canyon, has an elevation of over 7500 feet. The scenery is as spectacular as the Grand Canyon but on a much smaller scale.

In both 1978 and 1979, there was above normal rainfall. Because of the Salt River Project’s charter to store runoff for irrigation purposes, the dams were near capacity in early 1980. A series of storms started on February 13, 1980, and continued that week. More storms were forecast, and the governor was considering a flood evacuation in portions of Phoenix/Maricopa County. Because of their age, there was also concern about the safety of the dams, especially if the heavy release of water from the spillways would undercut the base of the dams.

Because of the concern over the safety of the dams, KTAR was very interested in an aerial report of the situation. They asked Professional Aviation to provide an aircraft and pilot for a flight out to the dams to see the situation firsthand. I felt lucky to have been picked as the pilot. The company also provided an AA-5 for the flight. Usually, we used the AA-1C, so I was glad to have the extra fuel. There was a temporary flight restriction over the Salt River, so I had to contact Phoenix TRACON by telephone and give them my “press credentials,” aircraft tail number, and expected departure time. I felt special that I got to fly over the disaster area when mere mortals could not.

I met Laurie, and we launched from Deer Valley. It was a cloudy day with occasional light showers. I didn’t record the ceiling when we departed, but it was VFR at Deer Valley and Phoenix Sky Harbor. We flew down to Tempe, then upriver to look at the flooding along the Salt River while en route to the first dam, Stewart Mountain. The terrain rises as you go further east, and little by little, we were flying into the ragged cloud bases. The visibility forward decreased gradually, but you could still see the ground. We were able to see Granite Reef, a small diversion dam and the point where the Verde and Salt rivers merge, but continuing further east was becoming a problem. Yet my urge to get the on-air reporter to the news site was strong. After all, that’s what I was getting paid to do.

By this time, we were scud running. I was instrument rated and current but flying an instrument flight plan and scud running is entirely different. I had familiarity with the area and terrain from flying visitors around the area, but usually we were several thousand feet higher than we were on this trip. Remember this was before GPS, before light aircraft terrain warning systems, with basic instrumentation and no autopilot. Initially, it was eyeballs only in lowering visibility and over rising terrain. I knew the canyon would narrow, and I started to have concerns. The proverbial hairs on the back of my neck were starting to stand up. Then I lost sight of the ground below the aircraft and poof, we were engulfed.

For a few seconds after being engulfed, I was still trying to fly visually when I noticed that the heading indicator was slowly moving, indicating we were turning right. I noticed we were also slowly descending. I thought, graveyard spiral. OK, we have to get this situation straightened out. I quit trying to fly visually and transitioned to the instruments exclusively. Straighten the wings, then stop the descent. Things were quickly adding up wrong. I thought to myself, what in the world are you doing here?

Not the kind of terrain for scud running.

It was hard to determine precisely where we were, and I knew there was rising terrain ahead. Even if I managed to get to the dam, the cloud deck and terrain would have us sandwiched in. That’s when I capitulated, and I said, “This isn’t going to work out. We’re going to have to give up on seeing the dam today.” Laurie was a trouper and didn’t complain or get spooked by losing sight of the ground. However, I got my second shock of the day when I turned back toward Phoenix: the weather had deteriorated behind us. The visibility was three miles only because I could see glints of sunlight off the floodwater. I knew that by following the water, I would remain clear of the higher terrain. Without those glints of sunlight, it would have been IMC.

The conditions improved as we proceeded back to Phoenix, and I didn’t have to file IFR. We then flew up the Agua Fria River from Phoenix to look at the Waddell Dam and Lake Pleasant. Same result. We couldn’t see the water level behind the dam, but I didn’t wait as long to give up on this attempt. All in all, we were airborne for 2.9 hours.

Looking at the flooded “Valley of the Sun” was fun, but my feeling of being special had completely waned. To this day, I don’t know why I got the assignment over the other pilots. Was it just my time in the barrel, or was it because I was instrument rated and current, or was I the only one dumb enough to take the assignment? I still don’t know. I got us into a case trying to “get the scoop” when it wasn’t prudent. It is a close cousin to “get-home-itis.” We came too close to being the news rather than reporting on the news. I vowed never again to get into this type of situation.

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: [email protected].

Years ago, as a low-time, VFR-only pilot, flying a borrowed Cherokee 140, I invited a coworker along for a flight from Concord, New Hampshire (CON), to Carrabassett, Maine. There is a small, unattended field there, Sugarloaf Regional (B21), into which I had flown before. Another coworker had a camp in the Bigelow Preserve, and we hoped to overfly his camp and take him for a scenic flight over the Flagstaff Lake area.

As the day of the planned flight drew nearer, I could see that the weather might not cooperate, with a scattered cloud layer forecast over that area but with good conditions south and west. On the day of the flight, I decided to launch and see what developed, knowing that I would be above the clouds with plenty of fuel to get to home to CAVU conditions.

Sure enough, as we got closer to Sugarloaf, the cloud layer was filling in below us, and even though there might have been a chance to get through one of the big holes, I was not about to play around like that, especially with the terrain in that area. I was, and still am, a very conservative and safety-conscious pilot (though the rest of the story may suggest otherwise).

We flew around a bit, and then headed for home, deviating a little to the east to avoid some clouds at our altitude. Not wanting the day to be a disappointment for my coworker, I remembered a small airport into which I had previously flown, Limington-Harmon (63B), which has a nice little restaurant on the field. I suggested we stop there for a late breakfast.

Ten miles out I made my first call on the CTAF, followed by another call five miles out. I didn’t hear anyone else on frequency, which wasn’t too odd, as this was a fairly quiet airport. But I double-checked the frequency and made sure my radio was functioning.

We entered the traffic pattern, and on left downwind to runway 29 we saw an area in the grass at the edge of the woods surrounded by yellow caution tape. Huh… wonder what that’s about. We landed and back-taxied, and could now see it was a wrecked plane that was cordoned off. No one around, just the plane. Curious.

We parked down at the approach end of the runway and went into the restaurant. We were sitting at the counter enjoying our breakfast, and the woman serving us was chatting us up. She asked where we were from, and we told her that we had flown in from Concord.

“You landed here?” she said. “The airport is closed! There was an accident here this morning and the FAA is on their way!”

Panic. A barrage of thoughts bombarded my brain all at once: What do I do? What’s going to happen to me? Will I lose my certificate? Maybe I can quickly depart, and no one will know (I quickly rejected that thought). As I sat with my mind racing, the TV behind the counter was showing the local news, with the big story being the accident at the airport. Oh man. How could I have done this?

I decided the best course of action was to wait for the FAA to arrive, ‘fess up, and face the consequences. A black car arrived and drove down to the accident site, and we set out walking beside the runway toward it. The walk, while only about half mile, seemed much longer as I pondered my fate. When we got there, there was one man sitting in the car beside the plane (I can’t remember if he was FAA or NTSB). I explained what I had done, half expecting to be slapped in cuffs, but he just shrugged and said, “We didn’t close the airport, the airport owner did. You’ll have to ask him if you can leave.”

We walked back to the airport office, but the owner had apparently left for a bit. We went back to the restaurant, where the woman asked us what we discovered. We updated her and explained that we were going to wait for the owner to return, and request permission to depart. She said, “Well I’m his wife, so I can make that decision. You guys can take off.”  We wasted no time getting out of there.

I spent a lot of time reflecting on my mistake. I hadn’t planned on landing there, so I hadn’t done any of the pre-flight planning I would ordinarily do, which would include checking NOTAMS. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision; the sort of thing you can do on a road trip, but not when flying.

I later discovered that the accident was a fatal one. And I could have caused another fatality, had someone driven or walked onto the runway, knowing that the airport was NOTAMed closed. Never again would I be so cavalier in my decision-making.

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: [email protected].

I was a brand-new Private Pilot, my head was in the sky, eager to build my flying skills, and a perfect opportunity arose. The Barbershop Singing Lancaster, Pennsylvania, chapter needed some help transporting gear to Ocean City, Maryland, and my buddy Bob (always the organizer) we could fly the stuff from Lancaster to an airport closer to the destination.

The proposed load was professional PA equipment: big loudspeakers, mics, amplifiers, stands, cables, etc. Being a former engineering major, I was hesitant about the weight involved, and requested a complete list of every single item, showing all dimensions and weight of each one.

Having no aircraft of my own, my plan was to rent a Cessna 172 and take out the back seat. I would then carefully calculate where every item would have to fit, and the location of the center of mass of each item. The list of items arrived and I drew a layout where the huge loudspeakers and each of the other items had to go. Then I ran the weight and balance calculations, three independent times, to be sure it was right. It came out that with me and Bob in the front seats (both heavyweights back then; no offense, Bob), we would be at full maximum weight and just within the rear CG limit.

I know you must be curious: had I ever flown that make and model of plane before? Well… err… no. Had I ever flown any plane at maximum weight and maximum aft center of gravity? Err… no again. Wait—maybe in the trainer? It was a tiny Tomahawk two-seater, barely enough room for me and my 6 foot 3 inch instructor, and we always had around 10 gallons fuel (I always wondered about that).

But the math said we were OK, and as a former engineer I was very sure of my math. The deal was on, to fly the stuff from Lancaster to the Cambridge, Maryland, airport where others would pick up items and drive the rest of the way.

When the day came, our initial trip to Lancaster in the rental plane was a piece of cake. We were real light and real fast (no back seat), the weather was grand, and I was happy to be adding a new airport to my logbook.

We met the Lancaster guy with all the stuff, and as he handed each piece to me I carefully identified and loaded each item into the plane in exactly the place I had planned. Everything fit perfectly, and I walked away to sign the bill for fuel top-off (the second not so smart idea?), made a final weather check, and soon we were cleared for takeoff.

I knew we were very heavy and would need much more runway than usual to take off, but was really surprised when the nose lifted off before we were even at 40 knots. I pushed the yoke forward and quickly dialed in nose down trim, but it happened again almost immediately—and more down trim went in. We were gaining speed slowly, but it needed a lot more nose down trim, and finally at around 110 knots airspeed we lifted off the runway, at the exact moment I ran out of forward trim. I told my friend Bob to lean forward as far as he could, but “don’t touch the yoke or the pedals”. We were in a very, very slow climb, long out of runway, and I had to keep pushing hard on the yoke to keep the nose down and the airspeed up.

By now I knew something was critically wrong. Foolishly, I pushed on to Cambridge—perhaps because I was very familiar with the airspace, there was ordinarily almost no traffic, and that was where the plane lived.

Approaching Cambridge, I called on the radio to ask for help from an instructor or anyone, but no one answered. I brought her on down, but as we crossed the approach end of the runway I realized we were much too high and way too fast to ever get down and stopped before going off into the marsh. I aborted the landing, and now I had to somehow climb again, very slowly and carefully, just to clear the terrain and not smack into grass, trees, sailboat masts, etc.

At full power we were inching up, just missing the big stuff, and it seemed like it took 20 minutes coming back around in a very large very low circle, with arms now weakening. This time, at full speed, I planted the wheels right onto the runway at the numbers, cut the throttle, and braked like hell. When we finally got stopped, we had 30 feet left of the 3000 foot runway.

After shutdown ,I was out pulling shredded tall grass out of the wheel pants when the owner came out of his repair shop, apologized for not answering the call, and asked what the problem was. He half listened, and then replied, “no problem—just do a normal landing.”

That would have been sure disaster. I’d like to think that I wouldn’t have followed that advice anyway, based on my understanding of the problem, the feel of the controls, and the plane’s behavior.

But the math was right—wasn’t it??

Investigating together, Bob and I discovered that after I left to pay the bill, the guy had either miscounted or just threw in an extra professional mic stand, the kind with a gigantic, heavy, round foot. When I was busy signing the fuel ticket he slipped the heavy base into the only place left, the worst possible—the hat rack!

Recalculating, I found we were more than 6 inches beyond the aft limit and around 40 pounds over gross. I believe that if my friend Bob and I were not as heavy as we were at that time, then once aloft the legendary farm would have been ours.

Thank you, Great Spirit! Thank you too, ever so Great Bob (again, no offense)!

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: [email protected].

Like all pilots, I don’t like to talk about the stupid things I did in the early days of my flying career. I have filed this one (along with a few others) in the file that says “never again.” A big lesson was learned that night, and I made myself a promise to never again make low passes in an aircraft.

I was flying out of Homestead AFB, Florida, in 1961. I called home to check on some medical tests my other had back in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Dad told me Mom was scheduled for thyroid surgery the following Friday afternoon. I went to the office of my commanding officer (CO), the 823th Photo Recon Flight Squadron Commander Lt. Col. Monty Monahan, a great pilot with whom I had flown with, and asked permission to take off that Friday, and take a T-34 to McGhee-Tyson AFB, in Knoxville. Lt. Col. Monty Monahan was the best CO I served under while in the United States Air Force. Any person under his command would walk through hot coals barefoot if he asked them to. He was that type of commander to his men.

I had a date with my girlfriend, Lenore “Spook” (I gave her the nickname because she was always spooked at the slightest noise) on Saturday. Spook lived by the pier on South Beach in Miami, across from the famous Joe’s Stone Crab Restaurant. I told her I was going home to check on my mother and that I would be back Sunday night. I would make a low pass over the pier at about 8pm and would flash my two landing lights so she would know it was me. I would then drive up to see her about 10pm.

I signed out a T-34A, #5518A, stowed my B-4 bag in the back seat, secured it, and took off for Knoxville at about 9am. The flight to Knoxville was routine, just a few puffy cumulous clouds at 3000 feet but smooth above the haze layer with visibility of 50 miles or more. As I got to the Tennessee/Georgia state line, the weather started to deteriorate fast. At Cleveland, Tennessee, I encountered some heavy rain and light snow, as I started my approach for Knoxville.

I dropped down to 5000 feet, when Approach told me the weather at McGhee-Tyson was 500 overcast and 2 miles visibility. They asked me if I would accept a GCA approach as they needed some practice. Overseas, that was all we flew, and l accepted with a grin. GCA brought me right over the threshold of runway 22 (it is runway 23 now) at about 20 feet, and I landed.

My brother had also come home, from Blytheille AFB, Arkansas. He was flying the B-52G and had just made aircraft commander. He picked me up at the airport and we went straight to the hospital, so we could be there when Mom came out of recovery. She was surprised to see both her sons there; she had no idea we were coming.

All went well for Mom and on Sunday I called Spook to told her I would pass over the pier at 8pm. She said she and Johnny (her 8-year old little brother) would be on the pier with flashlights to return my flashes and let me know they saw me.

At Jacksonville, Florida, I cancelled my flight plan and dropped down about ¾ mile off shore and about 50 feet off the water, so I could make my pass on the pier and not be detected. Around West Palm Beach it was dark, and the lights reflecting off the ocean were beautiful. Weather was clear, with good visibility and a smooth ride.

I passed over Fort Lauderdale by Normandy Shores off Collins Blvd and could see the red light on top of the end of the South Beach pier. I rolled the aircraft, passing over the pier inverted, and flashed my landing lights. As I looked at the pier upside-down I could see two faint flashes of light from their flashlights. I was about 100 feet above the pier and started my roll back to level flight. After rolling back to level flight I looked back over my right shoulder, started my climb to 2000 feet to turn my IFF on and call Homestead AFB to make a jet two approach to the base.

How can you miss traffic like that?

Just as I turned my head around, right in front of my windshield was a big sign that said “COPPERTONE” in red letters. I shoved the control stick forward with a -3G drop that threw me against my shoulder harness. I leveled off at 500 feet and looked back: I could see the Coppertone sign on the other side of the Goodyear Blimp N4C, outlined against the lights of Miami Beach. He had his navigation lights out and all that was on was the slow flashing Coppertone sign lighting up in the dark night sky. I climbed on up to approach altitude and landed at Homestead AFB and figured my flying days were over.

I didn’t dare tell anybody about what happened and waited for Lt. Col. Monahan to call me into his office and kill me. A week passed and no one said anything, so the following weekend I went up to the blimp base on MacArthur Causeway and asked for the chief pilot of the blimp based there. I told him I was on the beach last Sunday night about 8pm when I saw an aircraft fly close to their blimp. He called a couple of his pilots in and asked them if they knew anything about it. The pilot who was flying it that night at 8pm said he didn’t see anything.

Thank God no one was hurt or saw what happened. I made a promise to myself: never pull a stupid low flying stunt like that again unless I was flying an air show and everyone knew where everyone was. Not even to do a buzz job after that…

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: [email protected].

If you watch any of the TV crime shows (my wife’s favorite is NCIS, in case you were wondering), they talk about BOLOs. It took me a while, but I finally got that this means “Be on the lookout.” This is a government agency’s terminology to alert their community to be alert to a person or situation that is important to monitor or address.

For us pilots, we can use this same intentional alertness to observe and influence our flying and specifically our choices. During a recent long day of flying I had a chance to experience aviation’s version of completion bias—the drive to complete a flight—also known as get-home-itis. I learned a great deal from it and want to share the experience. First the set up and then we’ll unpack what I did right and wrong.

That day’s mission was to retrieve an airplane three states away. It was a four hour flight just to get to the pick-up point. We made an early start to the day because the weather was forecast to steadily degrade in the area we were flying toward as a front approached. Traditional summer convection was possible in the afternoon for the return trip but no fronts or lines of storms between us and home. The flight out was smooth with great ceilings and visibilities until we were within about 20 miles of the destination. By the time we got to the end of our first leg, steady rain had started and convective activity was about 100 miles further west. Needless to say, it was in our best interest not waste time on the ground getting turned around.

I was out of the airplane as the prop stopped turning. I realized quickly that Murphy was firmly in charge when I couldn’t find the airplane keys and that the airplane needed gas as the rain got steadily heavier. The line crew was fueling the plane by the time I found the keys and began the pre-flight. My rain coat saved me from a real soaking. Thank you North Face!

I picked up my clearance and departed into solid IMC for the first 30 miles and then spent the rest of the trip deviating around build-ups. It was getting pretty hot out there and the cumulus clouds were steadily building. By the time I was an hour from my landing in the DC area, I was hot and tired after seven hours in the cockpit.

As I got closer to my destination, Martin State Airport in Baltimore (MTN), I started seeing areas of precipitation from the ADS-B Nexrad display. Two primary areas, one very close to Joint Base Andrews (formerly known as Andrews Air Force Base) and one near Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall airport (BWI). The cell over BWI was headed northeast toward my destination but MTN was solid VFR and I thought I could get in before the weather, based on judging the updates of the Nexrad images and the general look at build-ups through the windshield.

The MTN ATIS was telling arrivals to expect a visual approach to runway 15. Potomac Approach cleared me to arrive from the northwest, as I would have expected. Then Potomac told me to plan the LOC 15 at MTN and began to vector me toward the final approach course.

I could see build-ups off to the southeast of my position and started to watch the conditions, carefully comparing the ADS-B with the conditions out the window. Everything still looked good, though the BWI cell was now closer to MTN and another had now developed northeast of the airport. There was lots of VFR in between these.

Just as I was about to intercept the localizer, it started to get pretty bumpy and I was seeing more cloud—although I was still in visual conditions. I did not have a visual on the airport and I was starting to get rain on the windshield. As quickly as the rain started it intensified a great deal, started to darken and I immediately broke off the approach and told Potomac I wanted to divert back in the direction I came (toward good VFR) and land at Carrol County Airport (DMW) about 32 NM northwest, to allow the weather to clear. See the flight track below:

In retrospect I made good choices and bad choices. Let’s look at a few of each.

Good choices:

• I topped off my fuel before my takeoff so I had plenty of gas and had monitored/managed my fuel burn effectively.
• I asked ATC for altitudes to largely remain in visual conditions as I got closer to weather at the end of the trip to allow continuous visual assessment and reduce my single pilot IFR workload.
• I was well equipped to be able to monitor weather with ADS-B tools and used the gear to maintain my situational awareness throughout the flight.
• I broke off the approach and diverted when the weather started to get worse while still in visual conditions and didn’t resume until the weather was well clear.

Bad choices:

• I allowed myself to get too close to a cell. Recommendations are at least 20 miles. I was much closer as the cell little grew across the final approach course.
• Weather is dynamic and was changing right in front of me and I was not reacting fast enough. I should have been reminding myself that what I’m seeing is changing in ways I might not necessarily totally observe.
• I was fatigued. I should have eaten on the ground between the flights as opposed to just snacking on the way home. I was likely dehydrated as well. Your brain and body need nutrients to serve you well—especially making good decisions.
• I allowed completion bias to cloud my judgement. When I finally diverted I was less than 9 miles from the runway threshold. I allowed the “I am almost home” to really distract me and I procrastinated.

As I have learned from mentors and tell my students, we want to be “lifelong learners” when it comes to flying and everything we want to be good at! So what did I learn for my next long trip?

• During the trip I should ask myself, “how am I feeling and how is my flying?”
• Watch the weather carefully and more holistically. Imagine what I while do if it’s worse than forecast so I’m already planning my next move. It’s less about reacting and more about planning if completion is doubtful.
• Be “spring loaded” to divert quickly.
• Remember the impact of bad choices in the cockpit on the ones who care about me (and you). Think carefully about the risks I am taking on in every phase and condition of flight. Most of us have friends and family who also are hurt if something happens to us.

I am thankful to learn from this experience and share it with the Air Facts family. Be on the lookout in your own flying for areas where you could have made better decisions and think through how you would choose in the future should something similar occur.

Editor’s Note: This article is from our series called “I Can’t Believe I Did That,” where pilots ‘fess up about mistakes they’ve made but lived to tell about. If you have a story to tell, email us at: [email protected].