FlightToJouliet

    One early morning, I received a call asking if I could take an IFR flight from Pontiac, Michigan, to Joliet, Indiana, and back. The purpose of the trip was simple: a man needed to take his niece back to her parents in Joliet. He planned to return with me to Pontiac that same evening.

    I agreed to take the flight, and by the time I arrived at the airport, a fellow pilot had already prepared the necessary paperwork. He had filed the documents for an IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) flight to Joliet. We went over the paperwork, discussed the expected weather, and reviewed the flight plan in detail.

    Just before noon, we took off under IFR and gradually climbed to our assigned altitude. By the time we reached the Keller VOR (Very High Frequency Omnidirectional Range station), we had passed through three distinct layers of clouds, each separated by about 1,000 feet of clear unlimited visibility. The only time we were under IFR conditions was while passing through the cloud layers themselves, which were about 500 feet thick.

    The flight remained uneventful until we were about 50 miles from the Joliet/Chicago area. As we got closer, both visibility and air traffic became more challenging. I learned from the radio chatter that the two aircraft ahead were also bound for the same airport.

    As we neared the airport, air traffic control offered the pilots ahead of us the option of a contact approach. This approach relies on the pilots being familiar enough with the area to identify landmarks and maintain visual contact with objects on the ground, allowing them to navigate to the airport on their own. The idea was that they could manage their own approach, but if they lost their way, they could rejoin the air traffic control system for further guidance.

    Both pilots ahead of us accepted the offer but failed to find the airport. When I was asked if I wanted to try a contact approach, I declined. I informed ATC that I was unfamiliar with the area and could use any assistance available. They thanked me and said they would keep a close eye on me.

    We were flying what’s known as an outbound Omni course, which meant we were  following a specific radio signal, or radial, to guide us over the airport as long as we stayed on course. In this case, the Omni station was about six miles from the airport. Navigating with Omni signals requires constant adjustments. When flying inbound, if the instrument needle drifts left of the desired track, you turn the plane to the right to correct it—and vice versa. However, when flying outbound, those corrections are reversed. The closer you get to the station, the more sensitive the adjustments become, making this process trickier near the airport.

    As we crossed over the VOR, I asked the uncle sitting beside me to look out for the airport. I scanned from my side of the plane. It took a bit longer than expected, and I began to worry we might have missed it. But soon enough, he spotted it. I confirmed it was the airport, notified air traffic control, and we were cleared for landing. The rest of the approach was routine.

    The Return Flight: Storms and Lightning After the family had some time to catch up, I headed over to Flight Service for a weather briefing and to file my flight plan back to Pontiac. The forecast wasn’t promising. They advised me to wait about an hour, thinking the weather might improve just enough to let me slip through a break in the front. (This wasn’t exactly the news I wanted, especially considering I was flying a small plane.)

    I notified the brothers of the delay and had the plane refueled while waiting in the pilot’s lounge. During that time, the brother who had flown with me decided to stay in Joliet for a few days, which meant I’d be flying back solo.

    Two hours later, the weather had improved enough for me to take off.

    As soon as I was airborne, the storm system came into full view. There was so much lightning I had to wear sunglasses to cut down the glare from the bright flashes. It was one of those moments when you can’t help but think, “This is going to be a long flight.”

    A few of those flashes triggered memories of Vietnam—where unexpected bursts of light had a very different meaning. But I quickly pushed those thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand.

Air traffic control directed me through gaps in the thunderstorm cells, but it felt like I was flying in an endless night with lightning constantly illuminating the horizon. For the next hour and a half, there was little to do except monitor the instruments and stay alert.

Eventually, I broke through the worst of the weather, and the skies ahead were clear. The remainder of the flight was smooth, though the distance was still considerable. I landed back in Pontiac around 1:00 a.m., tired but relieved to be on the ground.

After parking the plane and turning in the keys, I made my way to the airport lounge. By then, the place was closing up for the night. The only person left was the waiter, who knew the local pilots. He asked, “Just get back?” I nodded and smiled. “Looks like you’re closing up,” I said. He waved it off, “Want your regular drink? We’ll be here for a bit.” I accepted, and that’s how the night ended.