Have Time to Spare, Go By Air

That's what my father in law, Iim Marshall used to say when he was flying float planes and Cessna's in northern Minnesota. That axiom held true for me this past weekend.

It started with an invitation from our good wood boat (re)builder Randy Julian (a.k.a. RJ) to get checked out in his recently restored 1969 woody Chris Craft Cutlas Cavalier. Thanks to past business relationships, he's made the boat available to our family to use in the Duluth harbor, so I was anxious to take him up on the offer. That's one of the benefits of flying, right? Hop in the ole Archer and make the just over one hour flight to Duluth, visit RJ, tool around with the boat a bit, hop back in and it's not even a half day gone. But oh, I remembered, daughter Anne and husband Jonathan are going to be at the beach house entertaining visiting friends from Florida, so I could just stop by for a quick lunch, too. Wouldn't want to be discourteous you know.

It occurred to me, as I prepared for the flight early in the morning, that I hadn't had a night flight in quite some time, so as long as I was out, it would be advantageous to hang around Duluth until dusk so I could get my required three take offs and landings at night when I returned. Good plan. I'll just hang around the building or the beach, cleaning and organizing, staying out of the way of the Furst family. Plus there's plenty of biking and walking to be done, and I love hanging around the ships canal to watch the boats come in. This was turning out to be a nice plan for an otherwise idle Saturday.

The forecast called for steamy conditions, so I dressed lightly. Temperatures reaching records in the 90's in the Twin Cities, and the same for Duluth. Unheard of for this time of year. Hopefully it would be characteristically cooler by the lake.

I also decided to practice dead-reckoning (using time and speed to determine position along a course) and old-school map reading to get to my destination.  It felt good to rely on the flying skills used in the bare bones Aeronca Champ years ago, since it was necessary as part of the exercise toignore all the fancy navigation and autopilot equipment in the plane. In a flash, the Superior refinery filled the windscreen, a landmark gateway to Duluth Sky Harbor airport. Curving around the south side of the refinery, avoiding Superior Bong airport, a small cloud hovered over the waters surface in front of downtown Duluth, with wisps fingering their way into Lake Superior. Otherwise known as fog, it gave a clue to the lower temperature of the air adjacent to the lake. That was something to look forward to, as the temperature in the cockpit was already fairly warm.

Landing on the somewhat short runway of this airport situated at the far end of Park Point, the finger of land that is served by Duluth's Aerial Lift Bridge, was a breeze. As the engine wound down, I texted RJ to see if he could pick me up, as the kids were off touring Duluth. I didn't want to hound them, you know. Didn't want to be a bother.

Stepping out of the cockpit was a bit of a slap in the face. The temperature couldn't have been much over 50 degrees - foolishly unexpected on my part, since the potential dichotomy of Duluth's weather is well known. It can be hot an humid over the hill, and cold and windy down by the lake all at the same time. The spread would turn out to be about thirty degrees on this day.

After picking me up, RJ dropped me by the beach house to pick up a coat. Not just a fleece or windbreaker, but a winter coat, since we planned to take the boat into the harbor for a quick sea trial.
RJ had performed miracles on this boat when you compared it to what we saw just a few short weeks ago. "Weather worn wood had been painted and refinished, the whole transom sanded and varnished, the engines outfitted with new belts, hoses, and impellers, and all components put back in order. It was gorgeous. It performed flawlessly as we put the boat through it's paces. All it needs now is a name.

Before

After

The beach house is a short walk from the marina, so I hopped on over to warm up and await its current occupants. If you stood in the sun, but behind a building to block the breeze, it was nice and warm. Very long in the open air, you needed a sweater.

In a short time, the Furst family and friends arrived back from their visit to the Aquarium and lunch in canal park. We enjoyed visiting and talking, and I took a bike ride to visit the storage building we have on the harbor side of the point. Returning, I considered other options to using my time before departing that evening so as not to interfere with the kids and their house guests. As a matter of habit,  I checked the current conditions at the airport.

My surprised reaction, uttered in an expression unfit for granddaughter Grace's ears, got everyones attention. "What's wrong," they asked.

"The METAR (Meteorological Terminal Aviation Routine Weather Report) says Sky Harbor is low IFR," I exclaimed in amazement.

The blank expressions on their faces indicated the need for further explanation.

"Basically, it means Instrument Flight Rules are in effect. And that means ceilings are less than 500 feet and/or visibility is less than 1 mile. And that means I can't fly."

Looking out on the lake, I could see visibility wasn't great, but I could still see Duluth. Behind us, toward the harbor, I could see the grain elevators, suggesting the visibility might still be within minimums. The sun still burned through the haze, so perhaps it was a very local condition that could change quickly, if not for brief periods. I asked Jon to quickly take me to the airport to see if I could get out of here before is got worse. After waiting for a gap in the line of traffic queued up to cross the bridge after not one but two ore boats passed, we found it only got worse. Soon we couldn't see three blocks down the road, and the sun disappeared. It would be the first of three (re)tours of the point Jon would take over the next 12 hours.

After turning back and rejoining the group I asked, "did anyone see that fog roll in?"

"No," was the reply, as everyone else was as surprised as I was.

I called wife Bonnie.

"Not sure if I'm going to make it back tonight," I explained, "the fog surprised me."

"Sure," she said. "Likely excuse. You just want to join Jon in a beer and hang around your beach some more."

"No, really. I'm going to hope it clears off yet tonight, maybe when the temperatures get closer together, then I'll do my night flight," I hoped wishfully.

"Sorry, kids. Your father just wants to chaperone you this weekend," she accused for all to hear.

The fog didn't clear, and the forecast was that it wouldn't clear until late the next morning. Oh well, I guess I'll just have to have that beer, I thought.

That next morning I awoke early to check out the conditions. Riding a bike down to the canal supported the theory of slow dissipation. Check out this video I took of a ship entering the canal. You can barely see the opposite breakwater as the ghost ship arrives with the blast of his fog horn.

Yet when I returned to the quiet house, contemplating breakfast and a shower, I checked the current METAR and it said the sky was clear and the flight category was VFR (Visual Flight Rules). Huh?

Indeed, within the three short miles to the airport the sky cleared and I was free to go. Having suffered the accusations of finding any excuse to hover over the kids to take advantage of my grandfatherly status (and to avoid horse riding with my wife), I needed to leave as soon as possible.

By car, I could have been home by night fall. As it was, the trip back was as quick and smooth as the trip out - just 24 hours later. If you have time to spare, go by air. The night flight will have to wait.

Future Pilot of America