Lessons Learned: Headwinds, Wishful Thinking And Get-Home-Itis

With my introduction into motherhood, I gave up most of my dual cross-country time to part-time CFIs who were more than willing to work the late shift. Scheduling permitting, I would take a trip from time to time, getting a sitter to stay with my daughter until I got home from the long lesson.

One of the more loyal students I had at the time was working on his commercial cross-country flights, and with a few hours to complete, I agreed to accompany him on a dual cross-country up to the northern woods of Wisconsin. By this time, my daughter was 9 months old and my husband was out of town. Fortunately, a good friend offered to watch my daughter so I could go on this late-afternoon/evening flight.

It was early October, so the days were getting shorter, and in the Midwest, it's no secret that the weather is wildly unpredictable in this seasonably unstable time of year. The forecast for our VFR flight showed a slight headwind on the way home; however, a warm front was predicted to push through overnight ushering in strong winds out of the south---a beautiful fall afternoon for a cross-country by anyone's standards.

After an uneventful 90-minute flight in our G1000-equipped Cessna 172, we landed at 6:30 p.m. in the middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin. My favorite kind of airport, it was uncontrolled and unattended. Entering the Unicom frequency (122.8) into the keypad above the doorknob of the makeshift FBO unlocked the door, and a seating area full of 1960s orange and green furniture greeted those who knew the secret code. Beyond that was a restroom and a refrigerator full of water and cans of various soda flavors with an empty coffee can on the top shelf labeled, "Pop and water: $.50."

A quick bathroom break and a couple of honor system waters later, it was nearing 7:00 p.m., and based on my student's flight planning (which was nearing four hours old), I calculated that we would land around 8:45. Not surprisingly, given the spartan facilities, we didn't have access to a computer with updated weather products and forecasts. And given that we had just come from the same area without issue, we didn't bother to call Flight Service or attempt to get a cell signal long enough to check the updated weather. Over bottled waters we did discuss the possibility of getting fuel, though we decided against it, noting that the self-fueling station was located on the other side of the airport. With enough to fulfill the regulations and then some, we elected to take off without getting fuel, as it would have been a hassle and, selfishly, I didn't want to be late, as I wanted to get home to my daughter.

We departed, and about 20 minutes into the flight, I realized our groundspeed was roughly 25 knots slower than originally planned. I took a quick look at the multifunction display of the G1000 and determined we had nearly three hours of fuel. The fuel range rings confirmed we had enough for legal flight despite our slower-than-planned groundspeed. But the conditions were changing. About 15 minutes later, I noticed our groundspeed had slowed another 10 knots and the fuel range ring was shrinking. Before long, the oblong green dashed rings indicated that our fuel range was less than sufficient to make it home with legal reserves.

I checked and cross-checked the amount of fuel we had onboard versus what we were burning and compared that with our dwindling groundspeed, seemingly out of disbelief and searching for an indication that would otherwise contradict what the G1000 was displaying. Adding to the pressure, our ETA was growing later, now nearing 9:30 p.m.

By then, the sun had gone down and suddenly we had, it dawned on me, a real fuel situation on our hands. Another quick glance at the fuel range rings and I saw, sure enough, that the 0 fuel line on the MFD was just beyond our destination airport. Now the situation was becoming urgent, as we wouldn't land with our legal 45-minute fuel reserves, and at this rate, we would, in fact, barely have enough fuel to make it to the airport.

As I sat there in the right seat staring at the G1000, I struggled with the idea that we soon wouldn't have enough fuel to make it home. At the same time I was waiting, my priorities sorely misplaced, for my student to speak up so I could utilize this as a learning opportunity.

How could I make such a ridiculous mistake? As I questioned our decision-making (honestly, my decision-making), I realized the pressure was on to get home. My daughter, I was sure, was fast asleep at home with a family friend, true, but I couldn't get over the feeling that I was inconveniencing her. And as many "get-home-itis" stories go, I wanted to get home to not only sleep in my own bed, but also to be there for my child.

For a moment, I found myself rationalizing my urge to get home as if there were little voices inside my head telling me that I could make it, perhaps we could get really close to our home airport and then decide.

Then, suddenly, I came to my senses and admitted to myself that I would be putting myself in a situation where we might have one chance to land with no go-arounds. Was this really what my flight instructing career had come down to---taking huge chances? And, at that moment, I stopped those ill-fated thoughts, as if I had taken a pair of industrial-strength bolt cutters to this seemingly growing chain of events. I looked at my student, pointed at the fuel gauge and asked, "What are you going to do?"

A diversion was undoubtedly in our future, and I talked him through the procedures. My student called Chicago Center where he promptly told them we were going to divert to a Class D airport about 30 minutes from our original destination. A diversion is somewhat discomforting, but a diversion at night to an unfamiliar airport that's nestled among the bluffs of the Mississippi River is less than optimal. But it was a lot better than our current alternative, which was the original plan.

We landed at 9:45 p.m., and taxied to an FBO where the tower told us was the only place to get fuel at that time of night. The fueling facility turned out to be a self-fueling station on the northeast side of the airport---rather fitting given our decision to not get fuel at the last self-service fuel station.

After our brief fuel stop, we departed and landed back home uneventfully at 11:00 p.m. A half hour later, I walked in the door of my house to find my friend sleeping on my couch. I insistently apologized; of course, she didn't mind a bit. I checked on my daughter and found her fast asleep in her crib dreaming sweet dreams. I climbed into bed, but soon realized that my adrenaline was at an all-time high. I took a good long while to reflect on what had happened that night.

What exactly happened? In terms of meteorology, the warm front that was forecasted to push through that evening had actually arrived about the time we landed in Wisconsin (six hours ahead of schedule), ushering in a 30-plus-knot headwind out of the south. As we later learned, when my student was talking with Chicago Center about the diversion, the early-arriving front had thrown a wrench in the plans of many other aircraft in the upper Midwest that afternoon/evening. In our particular situation---the unexpected headwind, our decision to not check weather using what limited cell phone reception we had and our decision to not get fuel in Wisconsin along with our desire to get home---was soon reading like a classic textbook example of the infamous aircraft accident chain. It took me several hours to fall asleep that night.

Diversions are unnerving, period. With so many variables associated with straying from a flight plan, the only way to make them easier is to practice them repeatedly. Recognizing my fear of straying from my original flight plan that day, I vowed to never let the anxiety I had associated with diverting get the better of me again, so I started practicing them with my students.

"Get-home-itis" impacts us all a little differently, and much to my surprise, my desire to get home that night was even greater than I had ever experienced before because now I was a parent. It wasn't until a few days later that I realized not only did I want to get home and be there for my daughter, that desire was fueling my justification to continue the flight even though acting on those thoughts would have compromised our safety.

Parenthood has a funny way of changing your life in more ways than ever imaginable, but I never guessed it would influence my in-flight decision-making. Let's go ahead and add that to the long list of items they don't teach you in ground school. As with any risky inflight situations, recognizing the problem of get-home-itis quickly, coming up with a better plan and then executing that plan are what it takes to overcome this insidious hazard to safe flying, and in the process, ensure that our concern for our loved ones translates into sensible in-flight decision-making.

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