The German’s just tipped their skis over and performed some sort of ballet through the moguls and down the slope. I couldn’t very well cry mommy and slide down on my ass so I tipped my skis down as well. That was a freaking nightmare. I arrived at the bottom checking myself over because I was pretty sure I had lost an arm, a leg, both kidneys, and expected my intestines to be trailing behind me along with most of my gear.
Our DO pulled up next to me. “You ski pretty well for an American,” he said and off he went.
I looked quizzically after him. I didn’t know if he was joking or what because I must have looked like a one-legged goat doing an interpretive dance while falling down a cliff. I remember only touching snow like three times as I ricocheted my way down and looked up at the slope expecting to see a yellow trail marking my route down. “That’ll never happen again,” I remember telling myself as I pushed off to catch up.
Well, that was Saturday and we met at base ops Sunday morning for the trip home. It was overcast with clouds around the mid altitudes. So, a little weather on the way home, no big deal. I received the weather brief for my flight. Another pilot was the designated lead for this leg back to Amarillo. The weather wasn’t great with moderate to severe icing conditions enroute. We were flying trainers at the time so we didn’t have any de-icing or anti-ice capabilities. Oh, and icing sucks if you can’t get rid of it in some form or another. I thought about cancelling the flight but the weather reports for the next couple of days were even worse and the DO wanted to get home. I at least talked him into breaking the flights into 2-ship formations. That provides a little more flexibility.
I was with the original flight lead and the other two formed their own flight. I was not all that fond of our lead and remember him telling me in the crew bus, “Now, I’ll show you the way to truly lead a flight,” making me even fonder of him.
Well, off we went. We were the third 2-ship off the ground and were separated by 15 minute departure times. He asked for clearance and leveled us off at 11,000 feet which was below the cloud deck. Okay, that makes good sense but we burned fuel at a higher rate down that low. Plus, after leveling off, he kept the throttles up. I was snugged up into fingertip but glanced at my rpm to find we were still around 95%; burning fuel like crazy for no reason I could fathom.
The clouds and icing forced us to ask for and receive clearance down to 9,000 feet a short time later. I had the approach charts for Amarillo out and dialed in a secondary frequency for Amarillo approach. The weather was not forecast to be the greatest there either. Normally, we would have fuel to destination, to an alternate, and 45 minutes after reaching the alternate. We had this on leaving but our current fuel burn and altitude took our reserve down considerably. I would switch between our enroute center freq and the approach freq to determine what was going on there. We still had enough fuel to get to our destination, but it was even odds getting anywhere else. I heard a buddy in another flight flying into Amarillo notify approach that he was initial approach fix inbound. A short time later he called final approach fix. Approach came on asking him if he saw the airfield. Apparently the ceiling was pretty low there. The final approach fix is close to the missed approach point — the last point at which you either see the airfield and land or put the throttles up and go around for another try or head somewhere else. “Negative,” he replied back to them.
Oh, this sucks, I thought. I then heard him say, “Missed approach.” Approach came back asking him if he would like another approach. “Negative approach, Cider 34 is diverting.”
I missed his clearance switching back to our freq but knew where he was heading. Then that wonderful radio call, “Amarillo approach on guard, Amarillo is now closed.” Yay for us, I thought. And here Mr. “I’ll show you how to lead a flight” has brought us way low on fuel.
I could see scrambling in the aircraft next to me. After a moment of this, he looked over at me and gave me the hand signal to take the lead. “You have got to be fucking kidding me!!!” I said into my mask without transmitting. Not only had he gotten us into a mess but now expected me to get us out of it. My disgust meter pegged against the upper stop into the red zone.
I took and verified the lead, focusing on where we were. This led to a scrambling on my part. Part of me wanted to separate him off to get his own clearance and fend for himself but that was only a thought. Breaking him off would save fuel on both of our parts but it was obvious his clue bag was empty. I looked at the fuel gauge and damn near had a heart attack. Holy shit! We were damn low. I pulled the throttles back to a more moderate cruise setting after signaling the upcoming change to him. I looked at the clouds right over my head brushing against the top of the canopy. We had flown through some clouds enroute and ice immediately started forming up on our wings. I notified center that we were diverting to Altus and requested a vector direct. “Roger, Otter 39 flight, turn left heading 130.”
I keyed the mic button on the throttle and responded back, “Otter 39 flight, left 130.”
Looking again to the cloud base I could reach out and touch, I knew we had no choice but to climb. We were flat going to run out of gas before reaching Altus if we didn’t and the higher altitude would give us a better fuel rate and increased performance lengthening our range. But there was the icing to think about. Well, a certainty versus a possibility. “DenverCenter, Otter 39 flight requesting flight level 250 (pronounced two five zero).”
The reply came back, “Otter 39 flight, standby, expect flight level 250 in ten minutes.”
Well, that wasn’t going to work, I thought. “DenverCenter, Otter 39 flight declaring a fuel precautionary at this time and requesting flight level 250.”
The military is different from the civilian world in that we could declare a precautionary without having to go to a full-blown emergency. This notifies our control facilities that we were in a situation that wasn’t quite an emergency but could result in one.
“Otter 39 flight, Denver Center, copy precautionary. Climb and maintain flight level 250.”
Yes, we were just bumped up on the priority list. I looked over at the aircraft tucked against my wing and gave the throttle up signal getting a nod back. Moving the throttles up into mil power, I raised the nose. We immediately went into IFR conditions meaning we had only the instruments to guide us as we lost visual reference. Ice immediately gathered on our wings. Not only does this decrease aircraft performance, but interrupts the airflow. Enough disruption and the aircraft ceases its ability to produce lift and turns from a high performance fun machine into a brick.
As we climbed higher, I kept expecting and wanting to break out on top of this. By flight level 180, I realized this may not happen and was questioning my decision. Ice coated the leading edge of our wings but we were still flying. This, incidentally, is a good thing. At flight level 210, the clouds began getting thinner and I could see the sun shrouded in mist above me. The ice stopped increasing and I fully expected to break out on top soon. But as we continued to climb, the sun only became a brighter disk in the sky, however, visibility increased. I leveled out at flight level 250 — that is really 25,000 feet but we use flight level designations beginning at 18,000 feet.