"Yeah, that's what I said." I took a deep breath to calm myself. "I'm a student pilot. Minimal instrument training. The Cessna 150 I'm flying is not IFR rated and definitely doesn't have anti-icing gear. Please suggest nearest airport."

"Crap" the controller said. I would later observe air traffic controllers only exhibited a sense of humor when they're worried. "Negative on anything close. What does it look like outside your window." As he was speaking snow began to hit the windshield. Big thick flakes, that grew more frequent as I watched them. I responded, "In the snow now. The storm is converging with me as we speak. Visibility is dropping fast. I had five miles a minute ago, down to about a half mile now. Any chance of getting on top?"

"Not in a 150 Cessna," he said. "This one tops out above 35,000." The 150 Cessna had a maximum ceiling of about 12,000 feet. "Do you have an autopilot?" "Negative," I said. "Not in this thirty year old trainer." "Right. Are you declaring an emergency," he asked. Any pilot in command, which I was even without a pilot's licenses, could declare an in-flight emergency. Doing so would cause the air traffic control system to divert aircraft out of my way and open any runway to my immediate use. It would also be an admission that I had failed. "Negative on the emergency," I said. "But a heading out of this crap would be appreciated." A few minutes later the air traffic controller at Cleveland Center had a plan. "Columbus is showing light snow with a mile visibility on their runway. I've notified Columbus Center of your situation so they're waiting for your call. Contact them on (whatever the radio frequency was) and they'll guide you in. Good Luck."

I changed to the frequency for Columbus center's northern approach. They were ready the moment I called. They'd already calculated my bearing and gave me a course change that would bring me to the Columbus airport. In the short time it took to make the radio call and to change my heading my little airplane had disappeared in the snow. When I looked out either of my side windows I could only see a few feet of the large wing. The rest of the wing was obscured. It was a complete white-out. This officially put me in IFR conditions, which was illegal for any one other than an IFR rated pilot. Following the rules I keyed my mike and said, "Be advised I am in IFR conditions with zero visibility." I was surprised at how calm I sounded. "Roger that," the controller was now a woman. "We won't worry about a VFR pilot flying IFR as long as you don't break anything." That was said tongue and cheek, but the next question was all serious. "Any icing?"

I didn't like this question. I knew icing was a build up of ice on the wing surface and a disruption to air flow over the wing. I knew because I'd read it in the FAA hand book. There was even a picture of what ice on the wing looked like. However, I was flying a high wing Cessna, so I couldn't see the top of the wing. I had no idea how to tell if ice was building up there or not. "No visible icing," I said. "But that doesn't mean much in a high wing airplane. Anyone report of icing?" The controller paused then said, "Yes, but at a higher altitude. You're the only one we have below 10,000. Confirm your altitude is still 6,500." When she said this I remembered that the lower the altitude the warmer the air so the less likelihood of icing. The controller was subtly suggesting I request a lower altitude. "Confirm 6,500, request altitude change to 3,000." My request was immediately approved.

Flying straight and level was difficult for me in these conditions, but a controlled decent was more so. After logging a thousand hours as a pilot, flying that airplane in those conditions would have still been difficult and dangerous for me. As a student pilot with twenty-five hours in my log book it was insane. I didn't think about it then. More than once I glanced at the empty seat to my right as a reminder that I was alone and had to handle this myself. On the radio I sounded calm and under control. I was calm. I should have been terrified, like on that wild ride between Freeport Bahamas and Ft. Lauderdale. Then I was terrified, but now I was relaxed and under control. I've always been amazed at the calm voice exhibited by pilots of doomed planes. You know, the pilot who would calmly report, "We've lost our right wing and are crashing. Should be on the ground any moment. Would you please close my flight plan." I couldn't understand how they could be so calm until this moment. Pilots are calm because its their only option. You panic, you die. So you don't panic. It was a lesson for me: panic is not an option. Panic is a choice.

Though I didn't panic, the flight to Columbus was intense and stressful. The controller kept me updated on the deteriorating condition of the weather at the airport. When I was ten miles out she informed me that Columbus was at zero visibility, making a safe landing impossible. I knew it was bad when she asked my fuel status. I almost laughed when I told her I had just shy of two hours of fuel left. The adage paid off; you can never have too much fuel. If I hadn't topped off in Sandusky I'd be out of fuel in thirty minutes. With nearly two hours of fuel I had more options. Not good options. Every airport within two hundred miles was down to zero visibility. The controller worked hard to find a runway that looked like it might open due to a temporary break in the storm. There were such breaks in the system, the trick was to anticipate when one would move across a runway. With this as a plan I spent more than an hour flying towards a possible airport only to have it go to zero visibility before I reached it.

With my fuel down to half an hour they began discussing an emergency landing in zero visibility at Columbus. There because the ground radar was good enough to get me on the runway, a runway that was long and wide, and they had crash trucks with foam. I'd just turned back towards Columbus, thinking how upset my instructor would be if I broke his airplane when the controller called me again. I could tell by her voice that she had good news. An opening in the storm was crossing on a perfect trajectory for Zanesville. To her it looked like I could reach the airport before the opening, but I'd have to hurry. It was a risk because if I missed the opening, or the opening missed the airport like they had been doing, then I'd be out of gas at the wrong place to survive. It was my call. Crash land in Columbus or risk a try for Zanesville. I opted for Zanesville. What sold me was that Zanesville was where I'd originally been headed.

Twenty minutes later my fuel gages both showed empty. I was ten miles out from the airport and still in complete white-out. Zanesville was still in white-out but the radar showed an opening on target. Five miles out my world was still white. At three miles out I saw an open patch of ground but no runway. I decided that I would not lose sight of the ground. If I didn't find the runway I would attempt to land in a frozen field I could now see. Still dangerous, but better than a zero visibility option. Two miles out I spotted the runway. On the radio I reported, "Runway in sight." As soon as I said this my engine died. Amazingly this was something my instructor had trained me for. Without even thinking about it I wiggled my wings and the engine caught again. Both fuel tanks have low points that don't drain if the wings are level. Wiggle the wings and the last of the fuel goes down the hole and into the engine. I wasn't even surprised when it worked.

I did a straight in run, flared then made a perfect landing. I taxied over to the FBO to see two pilots looking at me in awe. When I stopped the plane in front of the FBO the engine died before I could pull the throttle back. The tanks were bone empty. Safely on the ground and in the sudden quiet of the cockpit I called Columbus Center to close my flight plan. The same woman who had stayed with me through the whole flight answered and said, "Thank God," when I told her I was on the ground and hadn't broken anything. She asked about the weather. I looked back at the runway. Snow now covered the runway and in seconds covered my position as well. When I told her this she said it was an impressive bit of flying. Then she asked how many hours I had. I said, "Ah, about twenty-eight now." She asked what I meant. I had to have more than twenty-eight hours. "Oh, I see. I'm a student pilot. I thought you knew. This was my long cross-country." She was quiet for a minute then said, "I am so glad I didn't know that."

The rest of my training was simple. I learned to handle the airplane in those few hours in a way that would have taken months to accomplish. It was also a great confidence builder. After passing my written test I was in final preparation for my FAA check ride. My instructor had explained I had to demonstrate short field landing proficiency by landing the Cessna within 100 feet of the end of the runway. A bold white mark made the spot easy to find. I rented the plane and practiced for two days. It was tough to do but I finally got to the point where I could nail the short field landing every time. The trick was to line up the approach perfectly and have the most optimal altitude coming in. None of the books explained this so I had to figure it out on my own.

During my check ride the examiner had me start with a short field take off, go around then do a short field landing. I lined up the approach perfectly, stuck the landing and came to a complete stop five feet before the 100 foot mark. The examiner had me shut the engine down, then got out and used a tape to measure the distance to the 100 foot mark. When he returned he told me it was ninety-five feet. "That's good, right," I said, more than a little confused. "Good," he said. "I didn't think it was possible. I've been flying for more than forty years and I have never seen anyone stop any tricycle gear Cessna that short. I just don't believe it." Feeling cocky I offered to do it again. We did the rest of the check ride which I easily passed. When we got back to the office my instructor said to the FAA examiner, "Well, how'd he do." The examiner began saying that I was the best student pilot he'd ever tested, but the instructor said, "Don't tell him that. His head is too big as it is." Undaunted the examiner told my instructor about my amazing landing. The instructor looked at me hard and said, "So you're the one that's been burning out my brakes the last few days."

Turns out all you had to do is put the wheels on the ground within 100 feet of the runway's threshold. I didn't have to stop at all. The FAA didn't require you to stop the plane in 100 feet because its impossible to do. Because I thought it was required and didn't know it couldn't be done, I taught myself to do it. For all of my flying career I had the best short field landing skill of any pilot I encountered. I wasn't the best pilot out there, but no one could stop a Cessna in less distance than I.

The examiner signed off on my licenses, making me a licensed pilot. I'll never forget what he said when he handed me the license I'd coveted so much. He said, "Congratulations, you now have a licenses to learn to fly." True words. The first 100 hours after a pilot receives his licenses are the most dangerous. It was for me as well.

*Not sure this is the chapter I needed to read tonight, when I am going to take my first flight lesson tomorrow. Hopefully my luck is much better than dads! 

~Rebecca