Calgary, February 2020
"In my next life, I will climb Mount Everest," I told my wife one morning when I was reading about yet another person who tried to gain fame and money by climbing that overcrowded mountain.
"Do you believe in the afterlife?" she asked.
I do not but I cannot forget what happened to me a long time ago when I was flying my plane to Ephrata, a small town in the US state of Washington.
I had been flying for a long time, since the age of 17 and, in the last 10 years, had been competing in aerobatics. Aerobatic competitions are similar to airshows but, instead of flying for the public, the pilots fly for judges. Each competitor has a slot of about 10 minutes to demonstrate his routine, and the judges on the ground evaluate each maneuver and assign a score. After the pilot finishes his sequence, the scores of the maneuvers are added, and the one with the highest score wins. The airplanes used to perform aerobatics are specifically designed for that kind of flying. They are small, with powerful engines, and are built to be as light as possible. That means there is no equipment for flying in clouds: all flights must be done in good weather with good visibility. Numerous experiments that simulate entering a cloud in aircraft not equipped for instrument flying showed that the pilot would have only about 90 seconds before a crash.
Going back to that flight, the competitions are normally held in small towns, away from large cities, to avoid conflicts with airline traffic, and Ephrata is one of those places. The flight from where I live to that small place in Washington is not that easy because the Rocky Mountains, which reach up to 11,500 feet, are in the way. The normal route in clear weather is to fly to 12,000 feet, admire the high mountains and their shining glaciers, land at Sandpoint, Idaho to clear customs and refuel, and then continue for two more hours over the desert-like flat land to Ephrata. Unfortunately, on the day of my flight, the weather was far from perfect: it was overcast and the mountaintops were hidden in the clouds. It was impossible to cross the mountains directly; the only option was to follow the road that goes through the valleys, up to the pass, and ends on the western side of the mountain range. So, after a long discussion with the airport meteorologist, I decided to give it a try. "I could always return," I thought optimistically. From the airport, the road goes south and then turns west towards the mountains. Threatening clouds were hovering over the valleys and I was flying low, holding onto that road for dear life. Then came the pass with just enough clearance to let me through, and after that it was easy. The mountains were behind me and, in a short time, I landed at Sandpoint. The weather was still bad and heavily overcast, but the rest of the flight was over flat land, so it would not present too much of a problem, or at least that was what I told myself. After about an hour of flying, I saw a fog covering the ground. I hoped it would dissipate shortly, and so I continued flying above it, but the fog remained. In fact, it was getting denser and was ascending, blocking my way forward. Disgusted, I made a 180-degree turn to go back to Sandpoint and then froze with fear. The fog was everywhere and climbing rapidly. I had nowhere to go. For a while, I flew back to Sandpoint, but soon the fog reached me, the outside world disappeared, and I knew I had about 90 seconds until I crashed.
The only possibility was to bail out. I reduced the power to idle and mentally accepted the loss of my airplane, the one that had cost me so much hard work to get. "Goodbye, my friend, we had good times together." Just before I was about to jettison the canopy, I looked around once more and suddenly saw the shape of an aircraft approaching. As the pilot got closer, I could see that he was signalling for me to follow him. "Thank You, God, my Savior," I was thinking. "Heaven itself must have sent you." Then I realized that it was not heaven that sent him, but the good old Federal Aviation Agency. They must have seen me on the radar at the nearby Spokane International Airport and sent someone to rescue me. We flew in a close formation for what felt like a long time, and then the pilot indicated that we should descend. I was imagining the string of the Air Traffic Control instructions as the controller was guiding us to the active runway. And, sure enough, as soon as we got out of the cloud, there it was: a big, beautiful runway right in front of me. The pilot of the rescue aircraft waved goodbye, increased the power, and disappeared back into the clouds.
When the wheels of my plane touched the surface of the runway, I was probably the happiest person on earth. As the plane slowed down, I exited the runway, observed the airport, and received my second shock that day. Instead of seeing the airliners and control tower of Spokane International Airport, where I thought I had just landed, I saw the old abandoned airport of Ephrata. There was no radio navigation equipment, so how did this mysterious pilot know, while flying through clouds, where the runway was? Also, how did he know that this was where I wanted to go? I taxied to the tarmac, parked the plane, and walked to town. As expected, most of my friends and fellow competitors were drinking beer in the only decent restaurant this town had to offer. They were greeting me enthusiastically and asked when I flew in.
"Just a short while ago."
"In this weather? Your airplane is not equipped for instrument flying."
I told them what had happened. There was a long silence, and then somebody asked
"What kind of aircraft was it?"
"It was a blue Bonanza. I recognized it by the typical Bonanza rudder and elevator design."
"I know that airplane," the guy replied. "It belonged to a local doctor. A few years ago, he died in it in a crashed in a bad weather."
Nobody said anything, and I ordered another round of beer.