Flying Into Writing: First Photo Flight of the Year
The day began, as many do here in southern California, with a coastal marine layer extending inland a mile or so. I know from experience that conditions just a couple of miles further inland can be dramatically different–often sunny and clear, and 5-10 degrees warmer. The marine layer usually burns off by late morning and often returns late afternoon, so I wasn’t really concerned about my mid-day photo mission up in the Corona area. It’s only about a half hour flight from Palomar (KCRQ), we’d be over the site for 20 minutes or so, then off for lunch; we should be back to Palomar by 2:30 or 3, no problem.
As I was driving south along the 5 freeway in Camp Pendleton, that little voice in my head began to express concern. I was beginning to wonder if the marine layer was going to burn off this day–it was about 10:30 a.m., and I didn’t see any signs of it burning off. In fact, I was in and out of dense fog, and where it wasn’t foggy, there was a very low cloud cover, well below VFR minimums. Yet, looking east up the canyons and between the mountains of Pendleton, I could see clear blue skies beckoning. Palomar is about two miles from the beach, and I figured it stood a good chance of being in the clear. I wasn’t too worried about getting out of Palomar, flying east and into the Temecula Valley, which is often clear. But getting back into Palomar–that began to gnaw at my noggin. I’ve seen the marine layer fill in pretty quickly in the past; then again, I’ve snuck in under the advancing cloud layer. Hmmm…what to do…
My autopilot/lineboy/cupholder du jour was my good friend, Roy. Roy’s got a couple of thousand general aviation hours under his belt, mostly with Civil Air Patrol, and that means he’s been steeped in the safety culture of the Air Force (CAP being an Auxiliary of the USAF). This is reassuring when one is hanging out the window at a thousand feet to photograph a site. And he’s lived here a lot longer than I have, so he’s more familiar with the area and its weather proclivities. He also lives pretty much equidistant from Palomar and Fallbrook Air Park (L18).
Fallbrook is our squadron’s home field, one both and Roy and I are quite familiar with. It’s located about a dozen miles inland on the backside of Camp Pendleton. At 700 feet MSL, it’s often above the low marine layer, and, as an added benefit, the coastal conditions often don’t reach that far back… a plan began to form in my mind.
“Hey Roy, I’m cruising through Pendleton along the coast here in heavy fog; what do you think about me picking you up at L18 and leaving your car there in case we can’t get back into Palomar?”
Roy: “Well, we could do that, but I don’t think it’s going to be an issue––there’s not a cloud in the sky here!”
Well, ok then; I guess we’ll stick with Plan A.
Twenty minutes later, we met at the plane at Palomar, the clouds lingering, but the marine layer was clearly receding. By the time we had preflighted the plane and taxied to the run-up area, the airport was in the clear.
The mission went without a hitch, and before we knew it, we were ready for lunch. I had suggested Flo’s at Chino–I’ve been there twice in the past couple of years, but both times it was closed. I know it’s not exactly haute cuisine, but it’s an institution and one of those places you just have to visit. So far, I haven’t been able to…
Roy had done a lot of his early flying at Corona (KAJO) and had a hankering for a sandwich from the café at his old stomping grounds. I’d done a couple of approaches and a landing or two at Corona for my Commercial checkride, but I don’t recall ever getting out of the plane there, so this would be a new experience for me. I’m always up for going to someplace new, so Corona it was!
Roy’s experience and local knowledge at Corona came in handy as he guided me through the pattern, pointing out entry and turn-point landmarks as we entered a left downwind for runway 25. After an uneventful landing, we found a place to park and headed to the Corona Airport Café. I enjoyed a delicious pastrami sandwich, while Roy ate his sandwich and reminisced about the past. The service was great, and the food was delicious and reasonably priced.
While we refueled, we watched in reverent awe as a beautifully restored Beech Staggerwing departed, its throaty radial rumbling a satisfying growl as its propeller clawed into the air. Gear up, and away it went…
We followed shortly thereafter. Off the ground and in CAVU conditions in the Temescal Valley just south of the airport, all looked good as we headed home. But I knew that good weather on the “backside” of the coastal range is not necessarily a good predictor of the weather along the coast. I asked Roy if he had any “colors” on his Foreflight map––in other words, what’s the weather at Palomar?
“Oh, ya, let me check… Uh-oh… oh crap!”
Well, that’s not reassuring, Roy–would you care to expand on that?
“Foreflight shows Palomar’s gone IFR! Son of a…” his voice trailed off as he reexamined his iPad, hoping for a different report. Maybe if you shake it like an Etch-A-Sketch…
Roy’s a good friend, an excellent pilot, and I absolutely respect his aviation skill and wisdom, and his local knowledge, but part of me just wanted to roll my eyes and say “I told you so!” But I didn’t; I didn’t need to–he knew it, and besides, we were in no imminent danger flying along in clear skies with 40 miles to go, full tanks and plenty of options along the way. Worst case, this would result in an inconvenience, and I’ve long since given up getting worked up about such things – they come with the territory. If you fly, you will experience something unplanned, that’s just the nature of the beast. And the more readily you accept that, the easier things will go for you. Heck, I had just diverted a week before, on New Years’ Eve, into John Wayne Airport (KSNA) because Palomar had gone IFR. You just have to make the safest decision for the situation you find yourself in and deal with it as best you can.
At this point, approaching Lake Elsinore from the north, there was no need to make the go/no-go decision, so we motored on toward our destination. Coastal conditions can be pretty fickle, and a lot could change over the next half hour. If we needed to, we could land at French Valley (F70) or Fallbrook, but for now the plan was to make that decision when we got closer and had a better handle on the situation at Palomar.
I tuned in Palomar’s ATIS, but we were still too far away to receive it. Approaching Fallbrook, it began to come in clearly:
“Palomar Airport information Juliet…wind calm, visibility 4, mist, sky condition: scattered at 400, temperature 11, dew point 11, altimeter 3015, remarks: fog bank west of the runway…”
We looked at each other–well that doesn’t sound so bad… still reporting VFR conditions; the temperature/dew point spread is a bit troubling, but if we can get in ahead of the fog bank, we’ll be okay. We pressed on and began our descent.
We tuned in Palomar tower and reported over Vista, listening as VFR flights in the pattern mixed with business jet traffic on the ILS. All seemed normal. Maybe the Foreflight data was old…
The haze thickened as we descended, but it was still well above VFR minimums. Distant traffic was called out to us, but with the reduced visibility, we couldn’t find it. I could see that this wasn’t going to be an easy VFR approach, so I tuned in the ILS and got set up watch the localizer and glideslope, just in case.
“Cessna 99700, Palomar Tower, turn left to 160 for traffic, let me know when you have the Gulfstream traffic on the ILS.”
“Palomar Tower, 99700 has the traffic.”
“99700, roger, follow him in, you’re number 4, cleared to land runway 24.”
We continued our descent and intercepted the localizer somewhere near CIDRU, about six miles from the field and still mostly in the clear – we couldn’t see the airport, but we still had good visibility around us. The sun shining through the haze created a blinding bright spot right about where the runway was supposed to be, making it that much more difficult to find the airport. I stayed on the instruments while Roy looked for the runway.
Finally, when we were about a mile away, Roy spotted the runway. I had drifted a bit to the right, quickly corrected, and lined up for landing. As we came over the approach end of the runway, I noticed that the fog bank had encroached over the far end of the runway. From the approach end, we could not see the departure end of the runway.
Another decent landing, and once we cleared the runway, we taxied back to our parking spot, enjoying filtered sunshine as we secured the plane, while the fog bank held its position just a couple hundred yards away. It was a little surreal. We made it in safely but, between the impenetrable fog and the magnified brightness of the sun, visibility to the west was very limited––like, maybe a mile. Very MVFR! But looking east, down range of the sun, visibility was easily the four miles advertised.
Lesson here: even when conditions are advertised as VFR, they’re not always what you might expect. This was the second time within two weeks that I experienced very marginal VFR conditions when the ATIS/AWOS reported VFR at the field. Once again, you don’t necessarily get what’s forecast, or even what’s reported; you get what you get and you need to be prepared for it–even in Southern California!
Until next time – fly safe!
