How Low Will You Go?

We all have our personal “comfort zone” for flying in weather. For some, it’s based on experience or lack thereof. For others, it might be the sophistication of the aircraft we are flying. It’s often hard to precisely define it. Much like the federal judge who was once asked to define pornography.

“I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it,” he said.

I had an opportunity to test my comfort zone recently with fellow pilots Larry King and Ladd Sanger of Dallas. Larry needed to take his Citation M2 to Wichita for service, and Ladd’s Citation Mustang was ready to be picked up at the same location.

My job was to coach the two during a quick one-hour flight from KHQZ to KICT on a fine winter morning.

The weather was perfect, with clear skies and light winds as we departed Mesquite. Possible ground fog was forecast for Wichita, but as we departed the Dallas area, the destination remained clear.

Up front, Larry gushed about the capabilities of the M2 as we climbed at well over three thousand feet per minute in the cold air. Ladd was impressed. They traded airplane stories as I hovered behind them, listening to the cockpit speaker.

Thirty minutes out, the ATIS was reporting a few clouds at five hundred feet and visibility of seven miles. Shouldn’t be a problem, I thought. Within minutes, however, that slight chance of fog became a reality. As we descended into Wichita, approach control advised that the RVR (runway visual range) had dropped to six thousand feet. We briefed the approach, the missed instructions, and the alternate of KOKC in clear weather behind us.

“November nine two one x-ray tango, expect vectors for the ILS one right,” said the controller.

The visibility was dropping fast. Wichita has two parallel runways, 1L and 1R. I glanced at my iPad and realized that 1L had a much more capable ALSF-2 approach lighting system and TDZ (touchdown zone) lighting, providing landing minimums of 1800 RVR (runway visual range).

“Hey guys,” I said. How about asking for the left side? We might have a better chance of getting in.” The three of us agreed on the plan. Larry asked for the left side and reconfigured the Garmin G3000 for the approach.

“November nine two one x-ray tango, be advised that a King Air on the right side said they broke out right at minimums.” We entered the tops of the overcast at four hundred feet. Larry focused on the instruments, Ladd took pictures, and I watched intently for the approach lights as the radar altimeter counted down 400, 300, 200.
“I have the approach lights,” I said loudly. “Continue.” Then, “I have the runway.”

“Minimums, Minimums,” yelled Mr. Garmin.

And in the blink of an eye, we were in Wichita. “X-ray tango, let me know when you exit the runway,” said the tower, unable to see us in the fog.

Fly safe.