It's the middle of winter

I know this because it was snowing yesterday, I flew four approaches and considered the day to be so totally unremarkable that I had forgotten about it while I was sitting in the airplane back at base finishing my paperwork.

When another pilot asked me how the weather had been all I could do was manage a blank stare.

Eventually it came back: 5 miles visibility in Aberdeen, easy ILS. 1 ½ mile visibility and snowing in Watertown, easy ILS. 1 mile visibility and snowing in Marshall, easy ILS. 2 mile visibility and snowing at home plate, easy VOR approach. 3.5 hours in the soup. No icing and mostly smooth sailing.

Finally I just shrugged. “I dunno man. It's the middle of winter. I guess it was fine.”

With luck, in six months I will be rusty again, spoiled by warm summer days and an endless string of visual approaches. I can't wait.

A day

0300 wakeup. I never handle those well.

Despite my best efforts, crawling into bed at 9:30 p.m. yielded but a few hours of restless sleep.

Part of the difficulty comes from the natural cycle of things. Friday was a tough day. Four instrument approaches, nasty weather and some learning experiences I may write about as my conscience permits. I am still making sense of them myself.

I went to bed knowing today would be as tough, if not tougher.

Exhausted but wired is no recipe for a good night's sleep and I am finally, predictably deep asleep when the alarm blares. This is never good. I almost always wake up before my alarm and when I don't, it's going to be a tough day.

Shower, half a bowl of cereal and a pot of coffee brewed and poured into my thermos for the trip. The drive to the airport is a snap until I turn through the gates.

My truck will not stop, will not turn. We've been treated to freezing rain all night long and the entire airport is covered. Walking across the ramp without falling becomes a ballet.

This is bad.

I check the taxi-way, walking out nearly to one of the runways. My scheduled 5 a.m. departure is impossible. Simply getting to the runway is a hazard. I think about all the things that can go wrong on the takeoff roll and the decision is made: It's a no go until conditions improve.

Still, it's agonizing. I walk out to check the taxiway every 15 minutes. It is slowly, ever so slowly, starting to thaw.

Nearly three hours late one last check and I decide to give it a shot. The airport is alive now. The tower is open and the crews are finally getting out to inspect the runways and taxiways.

The weather has gotten worse. The winds are stronger, gusting to 18 knots now, and the ceilings are coming down. Oddly, I'm only worried about my time on the ground. Once airborne my craft is in it's element.

Ground operations are the challenge, and it is a significant one.

Engines alive and happy, clearance copied and I tiptoe out. The airplane still slides slightly on the taxiway but it is under control. The ground crews are out checking the runways and Glenn is running the tower like the pro he is. He gets myself and the ground crews in their pickup trucks talking directly.

Glenn is an old hand, he has seen this many times before. He has worked some of the busiest sectors in the country and works our tower now in retirement like a master. He is one of the very best.

Taxiway Charlie is slippery but not too bad. The turn onto Bravo shoots the morning off axis.

Bravo is still a sheet of ice. Throttles to idle, brakes locked and the airplane still moves.

A gust of wind and I start to slide cockeyed.

My grand plan has fallen to pieces and I have done something incredibly stupid.

I am impatient and tempted by the challenge. Stephen Coots aptly described it as “Whiskey to a drunk” in one of my favorite books, The Cannibal Queen

A better pilot wouldn't have taxied out at all and instead gone off to eat breakfast or just said to hell with the whole ordeal and gone home.

Presented with a chance to explore the ragged edge of the possible I can't help it and have talked myself into idiocy.

It is a personality flaw that needs repairing. I have been weak and it's time to own up.

I slide into the general vicinity of the run-up area and manage to get my tail in line with the wind. An uneasy stasis is reached.

My airplane is not moving. As long as I keep the brakes jammed, the throttles pulled fully back and the controls positioned just so we do not slide. Every now and again a gust of wind shifts my position slightly.

This is very, very bad.

Finally, some common sense intrudes on my sleep-deprived brain.

I call Glenn in the tower and tell him that no way, no how, am I moving from my current precarious position until conditions improve, the strip of taxiway in front of me is sanded or I run out of fuel, get cold and walk back to my truck in disgrace.

I do not want to give the wind access to the side of my airplane. I have no idea if I will be able to halt the resulting slide, but doubt that I will.

I have yet to drive an airplane off of a taxiway and am determined that today will not change that.

The standoff between airplane, wind, ice, snowbank and humility continues for 30 tense minutes.

Finally, the ground crews arrive and the truck driver gives me a big grin as he pulls in front and lets loose a massive spray of sand. His co-worker is treating the runway with ice melt.

I hold position for a few more minutes until the crews are clear of the runway. Finally, I gingerly release the brakes and give it a try.

The sand has done it's job. I can control my airplane again.

The takeoff is a non-event. The runway is in fine shape.

Two hours and 30 minutes later I am climbing out from Sault Ste. Marie after my first missed approach in years. It is not a pretty sight but it works out well.

I don't bother holding in hopes the weather will improve. There is an airport 5 minutes away and I had decided more than an hour prior that should I miss, as appeared likely, I'd head directly to Chippewa County with an ILS almost directly into the wind and close enough that it would be an easy trip for the courier waiting for my cargo.

The ILS is unremarkable and I am finally on the ground, 8 hours and 10 minutes after my alarm prodded me out of bed. I had expected to be home by now, instead I am only half-way.

The trip back is more of the same. The same strong temperature inversion that has made life so tricky for pilots in a five-state area for the past week is there. At the surface it is a chilly 26 degrees F. At altitude, only 5,000 feet above the ground, it is a relatively balmy 47 degrees F.

This is good in one regard: Icing hasn't been a problem at our modest cruise altitudes, but it has trapped a layer of cold, ice, low-ceilings and low visibilities below.

The result has been 11 instrument approaches for me in only three days of flying this past week. Most have been what would normally be classified as “low IFR,” although “low” is a relative term and perhaps only half have been close to the legal minimums.

I would rather it have stayed frigid. The cold is tough enough, but I'd rather deal with it and bask in a series of easy visual approaches than be warm but suffer through low ceilings and “maybe, maybe not” moments.

On the phone half-asleep and frozen on the Chippewa County airport ramp I relate the day's goings on to our director of operations.

He is a good man and looks out for his pilots. In turn, I try to give him no reason to cause him heartburn.

“Look on the bright side, you'll never be as sharp as you are right now” comes the voice through my cellphone.

He is right, of course. He has done this for years.

Looking back on the morning's string of poor decisions I decide the trick is staying sharp but not cutting myself.

Christmas Eve

The talking heads have been yakking for days about this morning. A “complex” storm has been headed our way and the predictions have been dire.

At 0515 I trudge through the snow, hop into my truck and head for the airport. It is challenging going in the darkness and the irony of going flying in weather I can barely drive through is not lost on me.

I would much rather stay on the ground today but it is not to be.

The forecasts for the day's destinations are not good but good enough.

The crews at home base have been out plowing the runways so I can leave. They do a good job most days, which leads to a bit of an internal conflict: I'd rather they not have cleared the airport at all this morning, so I couldn't leave but am thankful for their dedication on those nights when I return in a snowstorm to a freshly plowed runway.

All fired up, clearance copied and I taxi out gingerly. Everything is plowed, but below the snow lie sheets of ice. I jockey the throttles to stay straight, add a touch extra power to the outboard engine to help make the turns.

It is pure madness. The taxiways are so slick I can't increase power to do a proper run-up without sliding forward. The runway, I can only assume, is just as slippery.

A quick check of the magnetos at low power will have to suffice then, lest I attempt one at the normal 1,700 RPM and slide off into a snow bank. They are all functioning, the props appear to feather normally and all the temperatures are finally in the green.

An abort on the runway, a possibility always top of mind in an old piston-twin freighter, is sure to end badly. Getting stopped by the end probably isn't going to happen. I mitigate this by telling myself that the snow banks are still soft so hitting one probably won't hurt too much or do significant damage to the airplane.

There are places we fly into routinely where an abort is sure to be far more catastrophic, even on a good weather day. The level of risk then is still slightly lower than I've accepted on a routine basis.

Seat belts snugged tightly I slither out onto the runway, which is indeed at least as slippery as the taxiways, line up carefully, take a deep breath and go for it.

Power up slowly and every ounce of concentration to keep the airplane pointed perfectly straight ahead. A modified soft-field technique gets the 310 into the air quickly, where I have full control.

I do love these airplanes.

Cleaned up and climbing through the snowstorm I relax. The worst bit is over for now.

At 6,000 feet I am between layers, having picked up only a trace of ice on the climb out. Life is good and the flight down to Sioux Falls is routine.

At Sioux Falls the weather is marginal VFR. That is the good news. The bad news, and there is always bad news, is that they are down to one runway with a 20-knot crosswind and braking action reported as “Poor.”

In other words it's the same slippery mess I left an hour or so ago at home base, only with more wind.

The landing is an adventure and I fishtail down the runway as I gingerly try to get stopped while not getting blown off the side by the wind.

The taxiways are ramps are literal sheets of ice. Just getting from the runway to the ramp takes serious concentration.

My freight is quickly loaded and a few minutes later I am on my way, tiptoeing back out to the runway.

Like most pilots I have a particular personality defect, which is an overwhelming desire to get the job done and today it is in play.

Taxiing out I contemplate calling it a day. The runway conditions, in conjunction with the crosswind (now up to 23 knots) are on the ragged edge of doable.

It is my decision. My company will back me fully should I decide it's simply too dangerous to attempt a takeoff in these conditions. There is hot coffee close by, satellite television, comfortable chairs and a nice crew car with which to go fetch breakfast.

Still, gnawing at me is the thought that it can be done and done safely.

I come up with a plan I like.

The runway is wide and it is long.

Instead of carefully lining up on the center line I will start my takeoff run from the far downwind edge of the runway. By angling across the runway, into the wind, I will reduce the crosswind component somewhat.

By keeping more power on the downwind engine I will gain an advantage as well. By then, I should have sufficient airspeed that my flight controls will be effective, negating the lack of friction between my tires and the runway itself and allowing me to maintain control. It is, in effect, flying the airplane while still on the ground.

All that's left is to lift off as soon as possible and hope both engines keep turning.

I have emptied my bag of tricks.

It works, although not without more sliding and slipping than I would have liked.

Gear up, cleaned up, power set and climbing out. A deep breath and a decision is made: I will not try that ever again.

I have a done a dumb thing and gotten away with it. I am angry at having talked myself into it, grateful that I now know my limit and haven't broken an airplane in the process of finding it.

The final outbound stop is routine. The runway is dry and the weather better than expected.

At breakfast I talk with the company to relate the morning's experiences and give them my command decision: Under no circumstances will I return to Sioux Falls as scheduled later that evening unless they open a runway that is pointed into the wind.

A flurry of phone calls follow throughout the day, a plan is hatched, changed, re-worked, extended and folded, stapled, torn up and hatched again. Finally, Sioux Falls opens the sheet of ice that is pointed into the wind, which is good enough for me.

The second time into Sioux Falls isn't quite as bad as the first. The runway is still a sheet of ice but it is, thankfully, almost directly into the wind and the landing is uneventful. Taxiing, incredibly, is even more difficult than it had been in the morning.

We load up quickly in the wind and I tiptoe back out and blast off into the snow.

The weather has been getting worse and the ceiling at home base is approaching minimums for the approach that faces into the wind. It is still well above the minimums for the ILS approach, but that approach would mean landing with a direct tailwind and the breaking action is still poor.

Another plan is hatched. I will fly the approach that faces into the wind. If I go missed I'll divert to Saint Paul, leave the airplane there and call my wife for a ride home.

The weather grants a reprieve and I catch sight of the runway nearly three miles out. Slowed down as much as I dare I do my best to drive the airplane through the snow covering the runway in hopes of finding something solid for the tires to grab onto.

It doesn't work nearly as well as I'd hoped and I slide helplessly past my assigned turnoff.

Finally, the airplane is slowed enough that I can take the second-to-last taxiway. Creeping along I envy my co-worker in our Caravan as he lands and throws the prop into reverse, stopping quickly in a shower of snow and ice.

Finally, parked and the strain from the day is over. While our cars warm up the few pilots from our company working this late replay the day. The flying, incredibly, wasn't as bad as we had expected that morning but ground operations were far, far worse.

It has been a day of learning.

Blue Moon on my nose

It is the last day of the year and I don't want it to end.

Finally, the weather is beautiful. The past few weeks were exercises in low approaches, scary slick runways and taxiways and flying around the Midwest covered in ice.

It has been an interesting year. My logbook tells only part of the story: 1,905.6 hours, 448.4 of which were accumulated in 2009.

Out of that 448.4, 111.5 were at night, 99.4 were in instrument conditions and 63 flights ended in an instrument approach. I made 332 landings. Such is the life of a part-time freight pilot.

I never went missed on an approach, although I came close several times. I held exactly once, for exactly one turn around the pattern. The hold wasn't pretty but I'm sure I would have figured it out after a few more trips around the hold.

What the numbers don't reflect is the fun, the boredom, the uncertainty.

I am getting both better and worse as a pilot. Better because of the experience gained flying a light twin-engine airplane around the upper Midwest in some of the worst weather known to man. Worse because familiarity breeds complacency and this is not the job for the complacent.

I am ashamed to admit it, but I have not looked at a checklist in months. So far, I've remained disciplined with my flows, callouts for speeds and altitudes and approach briefings but even that is a struggle. More than once I've departed with the boost pumps off or forgotten to shut the pitot heat off after landing.

Oddly, I've also become far more cautious. Where a year ago I'd blindly choose the closest runway with almost flagrant disregard to the actual winds I've become far more picky, particularly with any form of contamination on the runway.

I've worked far harder to get out of icing conditions immediately where in the past I was comfortable waiting a while to see what happened. Interestingly, I'd say the end results have been about the same either way.

A side-effect has been that flying is, some days, less fun. Even on the worst weather days a year ago I was having fun. Now, it's somehow more serious.

All of which brings us to tonight.

It is a blue moon. The second full-moon of the month and New Year's Eve for good measure.

I've left Fargo, Aberdeen, Watertown and Marshall behind. Ahead is home and on my nose is a full moon. It is stunningly beautiful and I am smitten.

I live for these moments.

I really do have the best job in the world.

Circle-to-land

The weather and I have arrived at the same point in time and space, something I was trying to avoid.

Off my left wing, through the snow I can make out the runways of Mitchell, SD.

Barely.

My brain is struggling to reconcile two voices.

One, obviously uncomfortable, is telling me that the situation is nuts and I need to go find better weather.

The other, coldly rational, is telling me that my airspeed and altitude are good, that the airplane is still well under my control, that we have the required visibility, that the people who designed the approach knew what they were doing and that I can continue.

Against all my preferences and desires I have elected to attempt a circle-to-land approach at Mitchell in what is quickly approaching the legal minimums of 500-foot ceilings and 1-mile visibility.

The ILS approach, which is nearly straight into the wind, is out of service today. In fact the entire runway that points into the 20-knot wind is closed.

It's days like these when we earn our pay. I'm paid to be able to fly approaches safely to minimums. I'm also paid to know when doing so isn't a good idea.

There are no co-pilots with which to discuss options. No dispatchers to text message in flight. It is the same for every pilot at our company. Once we are airborne the decisions are ours and ours alone.

In return, the company backs us without question. If we elect to not attempt an approach that's fine with the people who sign our checks. It is a good system and as a result of that trust we are each usually willing to at least try in all but the most terrible of conditions.

Typically, I avoid circling approaches like the plague in anything less than decent VFR conditions. The risk factor of maneuvering 500 or so feet off the ground in low visibility is outside of my personal comfort zone.

Today, I am down to two options: Circle or divert.

The weather when I began the approach was reported as favorable but I am well aware that what I have been seeing out my window is worse than what is coming through on the automated weather, which is a few minutes old.

I decide to continue.

At the minimum descent altitude I still cannot see the airport, although I do have ground contact. I level off and pour on the power to maintain airspeed.

According to the automated weather report, which is perhaps 10 minutes old, I should be able to see the airport by now. I can't.

I have done everything I could to get here ahead of the weather but we have arrived at the same time instead.

I am on course and the GPS shows me 2-miles from the airport. Still nothing.

I prepare to go missed and am thinking of pushing the throttles forward even further when I catch a glimpse of the runway. My eyes dart to the GPS. 1.5 miles. Ok, it's still above minimums.

Continue.

Turning base the turbulence increases and I estimate the visibility at a mile, perhaps slightly more.

The two voices in my head argue. The rational voice recalculates, perhaps going missed is the play after all.

I can see the middle of the runway, barely, through the snow. It is a mile long and I am at least a half-mile from the threshold so I still have enough visibility to be legal.

Continue. I think.

On final the tough part is over. The PAPIs show me on the glide path and I relax slightly.

I am holding a significant crab angle into the wind but I can see the far end of the runway, barely. Good enough then.

Full flaps on short final and I chop the throttles. It is snowing sideways and I forgo style points and try to drive the airplane onto the runway like a hammer hitting a nail. Hard on the brakes and we squirrel our way to a stop, darting left then right as the tires grip then slip and the wind pushes then releases.

Taxiing in to the ramp both voices agree: Neither wants to try something similar again.