Plan To Live

Through the years, my eating habits have changed somewhat, so the hot pizza issue has pretty much faded. Hunger leads to desperation. I try not to get too hungry. But the mental scenario exercise has become a habit, especially in my flying career. And the event that made me a true believer surely was divinely managed.

I was crop dusting for an outfit on the Alabama-Florida border. We operated off a 2,200-foot grass strip oriented north-south. The north end butted up against a county road and housed the loading ramp and offices. The south end (the last 800 feet) was surrounded by 60-foot pine trees. The company had three PWA 1340-powered 650 hp SR2 Thrush aircraft and two full-time pilots (the boss flew the third plane when the workload called for extra lift). The birds were strictly VFR---needle ball, airspeed, whisky compass and altimeter. We had a company Motorola FM radio.

Infestations of voracious bugs or noxious weeds were urgent events that required an immediate and aggressive response so, when needed, we flew nonstop until the fields were covered---dawn till dusk, often for a week or more. Between work surges, we took turns mopping up the sporadic small jobs that popped up during the lull.

July in the Southeast is infamous for haze---haze so thick that often you can only see maybe two miles ahead and, it seems, only straight down. And strong thunderstorms often lurk in that haze. At night, these conditions are IFR.

Our work area ranged north past Andalusia, Alabama, south to I-10, east to Dothan and west to Crestview, Florida. It was this thick late-summer haze that got me thinking about noting landmarks that might help me find the strip. Just east of the strip was Route 331 running north-south from Florala, Alabama to DeFuniak Springs, Florida---a good landmark. But landmarks were sparse in the western quadrants of our area. This was my first season in this area, so almost every sortie in June and through mid-July was over unfamiliar territory.

To navigate, we carried county assessor maps that showed numbered sections of land, each one square mile. Flying was all-daylight, low-altitude, "close-in" VFR point to point (and I mean detailed point to point, as in "head that way about 5 miles till you cross a creek, then you'll see a red barn with a white silo on the north side and a stock pen on the west side of the barn. The farmhouse is north of the barn with a green metal roof. The field is in the SW quadrant of Section Number 526.")

Dispatch would give me a work order consisting of a piece of paper the size of a note pad with a square divided into quadrants (this was the section in which the target field was located). The farmer would draw his field shape and general location on the section.

This worked well, especially when the viz was good. But as the summer matured and the haze got thicker, it took more concentration to find the field and, of course, the way home.

One afternoon in late July, flying home in heavy haze into the low-slung afternoon sun, it occurred to me that at night in these conditions---especially out in the sparse western area---it would be, well, challenging. Divine inspiration suggested to me that I find a landmark out west that was lighted enough to be visible at night and plot an ad hoc emergency "IFR" approach protocol to the strip from that fix.

About four miles southwest of the south (treed) end of the strip stood a 600-foot red-and-white microwave relay tower with the usual cluster of antennas and a red light on top. I decided to set up an approach from the tower to the end of the strip, figuring the tower was the most prominent landmark in the sparse western area. Using the tower as the "Initial Approach Fix," I set up a 500-foot, no-flaps, inbound track, noting a 038˚ magnetic heading and a power setting for an approach speed of 75 knots, so covering the distance to half a mile south of the threshold in three minutes. Then power back to 12 inches MP, fine pitch, flaps, left 45˚ turn to final. This should work. But, really, I thought, it's a long shot that I would ever need it. I felt kind of silly.

Two weeks later, two of us were team spraying a large field 30 miles south-southwest of our strip. Covering the acreage would take nine loads. We worked off a two-lane county road. Our loader truck was a flatbed tractor-trailer fitted with water tanks, fuel tanks, chemical mixing tanks and two Briggs & Stratton-powered pumps for loading chemicals and fuel into the planes.

The loading truck left base before dawn to set up along a county road-cum-landing strip. Gary (the other pilot) and I took off at dawn, each carrying a full load for the first run. Trouble with the loading rig delayed us in filling up for the next two loads, eating up precious daylight. As it turned out, I took the last (ninth load) while Gary headed home. After loading me with chemicals and fuel, the ground rig left for base; I took off to finish the job.

By the time I covered the acreage and turned for home, the sun was setting. It was hazy. I was over very rural land with few lights and no roads north of I-10 and well east of Route 331. Fuel remaining suggested a straight heading home. Within five minutes of turning north for home, with the haze and darkness and sparse cultural lighting, the view out the windshield was black. I was flying partial panel in a plane meant for seat-of-the-pants VFR close-contact visual operations. I climbed to 700 feet AGL and held the heading home on the lazily swaying whiskey compass, splitting the difference between swings left and right of course with mental Kentucky windage.

Intense concentration, eyes darting from clock to clock scattered across two corner-mounted instrument panels, kept me busy. I called base on the Motorola and told them I was about 20 minutes out. They advised me a thunderstorm was imminent, moving in from the west, and that they were putting the trucks out for me. (The strip had no lighting, so our solution was to put one pickup at each end of the runway, headlights pointing in the direction of landing and taillights on with flashers.)

By now, the view out the windows was inky-black, with an occasional tease from a lone light on the ground. I had to find the microwave tower. If a storm was approaching from the west, the storm skirt was probably blowing me east a bit. All things considered (including the accuracy of my dancing compass), I altered my heading slightly west, expecting to pick up the tower lights somewhere on the left side of my windscreen. My "backstop" was Route 331 to the east. It might have enough traffic on it to be visible---long shot. If I couldn't acquire the tower in 10 minutes or so, I'd turn east and hope to see the county road, a hope hanging on traffic volume. Slim chance for much traffic, as it was near bedtime in farm country.

The intensity of my predicament kept a steady beat on the edge of my awareness, threatening to break in and take over---it was palpable and persistent---unlike the quick shot of adrenaline one gets with a close call on a near-miss or hitting a fence post with the wingtip---over and done with and resolved, only generating echoes of fear with "what-if" scenarios after the event has come and gone. I had to sit in this one as it unfolded minute by minute and avoid future-tripping. I was getting hungry for the ground. It wanted to make me desperate. It wanted me to burn the roof of my mouth. My internal dialogue was: One step at a time. Find the tower. Fly your approach from there. Set the number---12 inches at 75 knots with flaps gives you about a 700 fpm descent rate. Trust your dry runs (all both of them) to hold true.

And, then, there it was---right in front of me---that little red light: THE TOWER! I approached and overflew the tower, making a left descending turn to 500 feet AGL so I could approach the tower from the west, give the compass time to settle down, set power and airspeed, and find my 38˚ heading to the field. As I entered the turn, it got gusty and turbulent; the sky opened up as the radio crackled and the dispatcher told me it was raining buckets at the field. I told her I would be there in three minutes, and she confirmed the trucks were out, lights flashing.

Those three minutes lasted a year. I was at 500 feet AGL, 75 knots, no flaps---totally consumed looking for the red flashing lights. There! In the upper-left-hand side of the windshield two flashing red lights---but I need to see four---where is the other truck? Which end of the runway is it? And, then, the second set popped into sight, below and to the right of the first set. Good. Power back to 12 inches, flaps, hold 75 knots, and turn left; line up the lights---far-end lights on top, approach lights on bottom; keep them lined up, they're your beacon. As I descend, the two sets of lights converge. It's like flying through a waterfall. I'm just holding what I have; I can't see anything out the windscreen except the four flashing red lights, stacked two on two and in line. Then I can see the approach end truck. Its headlights show a bit of turf. I'm below the trees and lined up. I start the flare and feel the soft pillow of ground effect gently push back. The truck lights at the far end disappear as this beautiful iron-headed maiden squats to land. I'm on the ground. It's squishy-wet. Taxi speed. On a Thrush, the tailwheel is locked when the stick is aft of forward, so I let go the stick; it flops forward with a clunk, unlocking the tailwheel. I taxi to the loading pad, shut the airplane down and open the side window to get out. It's raining so hard that I step off the wing into two inches of water. It's coming down faster than it can run off. Who cares, I MADE it. My left leg is shaking at 120 Hz on its own and won't quit. Miller Time.

From that day on, I became a habitual Prepper. I don't feel silly about it. My hobby is playing "what would I do" scenarios beyond those associated with basic flight training. Every area has its own weather and geography, every airport, its unique surroundings. I imagine how these variables can converge to make me hungry to get down and make a plan. If I fly the same route routinely, I study every mile---imagining I know where to go if I have to get down.

I beat the hunger before it can become desperation.

Lou Churchville is a commercial pilot, writer and marketing communications professional. He holds single and multi-engine land, instrument, glider and Certified Flight Instructor ratings.