|WEATHER RULES ALL. Bill Cox ferries the “world’s brightest” Marchetti across the North Atlantic, with a fuel stop in Greenland. |
When I returned to Goose Bay, Labrador, Canada, in early December to complete the delivery of the world’s brightest Marchetti (yellow and red with blue stars, formerly owned by an air show pilot), I was hoping it was cold enough that ice season was pretty much over. It was, but not without a few dying gasps.
A storm was marching across Labrador, so I waited again, the frustrating but never incorrect choice. In the far north, the airplane and the weather don’t care how many trips you’ve made or how many hours you’ve logged. If you can go but decide not to, the result is usually nothing worse than a minor delay. If you shouldn’t go but do anyway…fill in the blank. The weather controls everything, with extremes to minus-40 degrees C and often-vicious blizzard conditions.
As is so often the case on that route, the problem isn’t so much the weather at opposite ends of a leg as it is the weather on the en route portion. The 500 nm of Labrador Sea between Goose Bay and Narsarsuaq is often plagued by ice from late fall through early spring. Unless you plan to buy a house in Goose Bay, you need to find the best weather window before you elect to go for it.
Rod Fifield and his staff at Woodward Aviation had taken good care of the Marchetti during my absence, and it was ready to go when I returned. Goose Bay had run out of avgas in the interim and was fueling airplanes out of barrels, but I had wisely fueled before the break.
I paused two more days to let the warm front pass through, then fired up for the 680 nm hop from Goose Bay to Narsarsuaq. The SF.260 eagerly inhaled the minus-20 degree C air to an initial 5,500 feet, then leaped up to 9,000 feet 100 miles later for the crossing.
Under normal conditions, the SF.260 turns in about 170 knots cruise, but shortly after level off, I punched through some frigid CUs that coated the airplane with frosty white rime and cost me about 10 knots. The good news was the wind was solidly out of the west-northwest at 55 knots, providing a 20-knot tailwind component for my heading.
The plan was to sneak into Narsarsuaq just long enough to refuel, refile and launch for Iceland before the sun went down and I could no longer see the ice cap for the short snow crossing. The direct route to Reykjavik, via 62N 40W and 63N 30W, requires about a 70-mile leg over the narrowing southern cap, already 8,000 feet tall.
Sunset in Narsarsuaq was at 2:48 p.m. local time in early December, so the last three hours of the second leg would be in the dark, always a little disconcerting when you’re flying near icing conditions. Accordingly, I lofted to 11,000 feet after my quick, expensive turn at Narsarsuaq (avgas is $17/gallon). Eleven thousand was about as much as I could take with a standard muff heater that wasn’t nearly up to providing any recognizable heat at the minus-30 degree C temperatures aloft.
Again, the tailwinds were there, pushing the SF.260 to a 200-knot groundspeed. Still, flying IFR at night in the clouds in winter could hardly be called fun. Night can be spooky. There are certain aircraft sounds that can only be heard in the dark, where they’re harder to troubleshoot and often impossible to identify. The engine may love the cold temperatures, but the rest of the airplane and the pilot definitely don’t.
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