Yesterday was a long and full day. So I expected to have some difficulty waking early enough for the flight. But I wanted to try to get out before it got too hot, muggy, and hazy, so I set the alarm for 7am.
I was up well before, giving up on getting any extra sleep. I suppose, one day, I'll be sufficiently used to these trips that the excitement doesn't do this to me. But today's not that day.
On the other hand, I could have slept longer. A quick call to the ASOS tells me that my fear was coming true: a 600' ceiling hung over the field at CQX. My window was only a few miles from there, but it did seem kind of murky up in the sky. Still, it has to burn off eventually, so I stayed up and got ready.
After a leisurely morning, we were at the airport by around 9:30. I decided to see these ceilings for myself, esp. as - a few miles away - things seemed pretty clear by this time. But there it was. Light and thin, but broken coverage never the less.
I considered a 500' flight over the low terrain to where the clouds broke up (having knowledge of where there was such a place), but the thought didn't excite me. Someone at the airport pointed out that I'd have no problem passing through that layer at 600' into the clear. But even if I agreed, it still wasn't legal and I'm the type that follows rules unless I've some very good reason to not.
Besides, it wasn't just passing through. I'd hate to run into someone on the missed for the alpha approach while I was in the layer. I'm sure that the fellow would have pointed out how unlikely that was, but I've studied statistics. Expected cost is probability times the cost should the event occur. The probability of a run-in was low, but the cost would be rather high.
It's pretty interesting, though, how people feel comfortable providing advice like this. Actually, it's pretty scary. I'm very comfortable playing the coward at any opportunity, but someone younger or more eager to be seen as brave in front of his wife might have been convinced.
But by 10:30, the issue became moot. The ceiling had broken up into just
a few low lying puffs here and there (with the ASOS reporting "few"). I'd
already filed and preflighted (I may be a coward, but I'm an optimistic one
The wind was a bit strong, gusty, and at a small cross over the runway.
It was bumpy for the first few hundred feet or so, and I worried a bit
about how my wife might not enjoy a two hour bumpathon. But it smoothed
out before 1000', so that was also laid to rest.
I tried to contact Bridgeport FSS on the frequency they gave me, and then
on 122.2. No luck. So I gave up for the moment, and called Cape Approach
for flight following.
After I was with them for a few minutes, I asked for an alternate frequency
for the FSS. I didn't know if the fellow could do that, but asking is cheap.
After a while, he came up with the odd frequency of 122.2. But this time,
it did work. I even filed my second PIREP while activating my flight plan.
I'm no longer so sure about clouds and weather being purely mechanical.
For example, there was a layer that appeared to be hanging out over Otis.
It looked remarkably like the outline for the class D there. Spooky.
Perhaps the air force is working on a new toy?
Aside from the flew clouds I'd left behind (and couldn't see at this time
anyway), and the layer hanging over Otis, everything looked pretty clear
if hazy. There were a lot of boats moving around on the water, and life
just seemed to be pretty good for everyone.
I knew that it was for me.
Just like yesterday, I was flying the legs that I'd computed in the morning
after getting the winds. I know a lot of people think this silly, but I
enjoy it.
But I also had the GPS programmed with the flight plan and I'd intercepted
the 110 radial from PVD. I was then going to intercept a radial from TMU,
and continue my VOR-to-VOR style of flying the coast.
Amy again had the sectional, and was following along with her pilotage.
The visibility was even more hazy than yesterday, plus we were a little lower.
We could get the occasional peek at something to the south, but most of
Long Island remained invisible. I could tell by our location when we were
across the sound from where I grew up, and pointed it out to Amy. She was
unimpressed with the fuzzy nothing to which I directed her attention.
But we'd plenty of New England to watch, so we weren't bored.
We had a headwind, so I decided try something "fancy" and see if I
could get more speed by going higher. So we climbed to all of 6,500.
Perhaps a knot or two more of ground speed, but it did permit me to
spent less gas. I don't actually pay for that, renting wet, but it
makes me feel virtuous to be economically and ecologically sound.
After we passed BDR, I'd a choice. I could try to pass through the class B,
or I could swing north. I could also squeeze under at 2,500, but I prefer to
stay high as long as possible. I was talking to NY approach at that point,
so - even though I'd still some distance to go - I requested the class B
clearance. No problem: cleared at 6,500.
So I continued direct to Lincoln Park.
But the haze seemed to be getting worse, and - maybe - that thicker haze ahead was
actually a cloud in disguise. I couldn't be sure, but I could be a little safer.
so I asked for the clearance to be changed to 4,500. Agreeable people that I'm
finding NY to be, that was not a problem. He did tell me he'd have to descend
me at the Hudson to avoid Newark's final approach course, but I'd want to be
lower around there anyway.
We passed a little south of Westchester, but apparently not so far south
that we were in anyone's departure path. So we just kept going until we
descended over the Hudson.
But at 2500, the heat was taking its toll. First of all, it was noticably
warmer. The Skyhawk lacks air conditioning. But worse: it was bumpy. It
wasn't really too bad, except as compared to the glass-smooth air two thousand
feet higher.
The Caldwell ATIS was ancient, so it gave me no useful information regarding
the runway Lincoln Park might be using. So, relying upon my new friendship,
I asked. I told the controller that the ATIS was ancient, and asked if he'd
any way to discern the weather at Caldwell. I expected he'd have some fancy
tool like a direct feed from the ASOS there, but he replied with "I'll give
them a call".
Finally, what he got back to me was "light and variable". Still no help. And
listening on 122.8 at any altitude or distance is a frustrating exercise.
But I decided to give it a try. Eventually, I heard someone calling some
position and mentioning "Runway 24" and "Lincoln Park". Excellent.
I'd an interesting choice to make at this point, and I'm still not sure I did the
right thing. Previously, I've stayed with flight following until I'd the airport
in sight. But this can be pretty close. I'm a bit more comfortable announcing
on UNICOM for an uncontrolled airport at a greater distance.
I compromised for CQX because I didn't know the area. It caused me to overfly
the field, but I needed to be on the far side anyway for the pattern. At
Lincoln Park, an overflight would put me on the wrong side.
And I do, at least in theory, know the area.
So I cancelled 10 miles out, and switched to UNICOM. But where was
the field? I rarely approach the area from the east. At that point,
I suddenly remembered that this is precisely where I got lost on my
first solo XC flight.
But the airport interrupted my concerns by appearing.
I looked for and found the Beech on downwind as I lined up for the 45. In
sight, and the rest was practically rote. I did notice the windsock at
90 degrees from the runway, which - interesting enough - is what the
ancient ATIS had claimed, as opposed to the "light and variable" from
the controllers phone call.
I'm still trying to figure that one out.
It was a very strange feeling being back. There was something odd
that took me a while to identify: I was disappointed. When I landed
at CQX the day before, I was just excited. But I also had today's
flight awaiting me in the future. Now, I was done. No more flying
trip. I was home.
It just means we need to do it again.
But first things first: I scheduled my instrument checkride for July
26. Next time, I won't have to wait for some pathetic little layer of
fog pretending to be a cloud.