It's one of the only times I can remember actually being afraid in the cockpit.

Idaho Flying

I was flying in the mountains of Idaho in Summer 2019, which is one of the prettiest places to fly in the entire US. It was my second trip there and I was flying my 182 along with a very experienced pilot in his 180.

I was flying trail as he was teaching me the geography while we visited some of the strips we had seen on the last trip.

We were going into Johnson Creek (pictured below), probably the most iconic strip in the region. We briefed our flight, though in retrospect I wish I would have briefed it better... you'll soon see why.

Johnson Creek, like most strips in the Idaho mountains, sits in the bottom of the valley in a V-shape, and there can be two to three thousand feet between the mountain tops you are flying over and the actual runway.

This means that once you are over the runway, you have a lot of altitude to lose.

It's not a big deal if you plan for it, but I learned this day that short, high approaches in the mountains don't work.

I was about a mile in trail behind the lead ship and I saw the airport much later than he did. So, I didn't start descending soon enough into our approach (mistake #1).

(For context, we were crossing over the field and entering left traffic that follows the mountain ridge. In the picture above, we were landing the opposite direction the picture was taken, so you can actually see the left downwind, base, and final we used.)

Starting the Approach

So as I cross over mid-field (far too high), my lead ship is in a left base for the runway. I feel very confident in my 182 and short approaches (at sea level) are something I practice frequently.

So at this point, no alarms are going off in my head even though I'm over the runway and have about two to three thousand feel to lose in a relatively tight space (mistake #2).

Keep in mind, Johnson Creek has a field elevation of about 5,000 feet. Add a few thousand feet to that if you are clearing the tops of the mountains en-route to the field.

So, the entire approach and landing sequence is all relatively high. For context, that's normally my cruising altitude in Texas.

Where things start to really deteriorate for me is that when I'm overhead the field, I hear a formation flight of RV's (small, homebuilt, fast aircraft) entering a left downwind.

I'm not really cutting them off (I have the right away anyways), but I did want to be considerate and try to get out of their way quickly (mistake #3).

I decide to make a relatively short approach but still had quite a lot of altitude to lose, and so I deploy my flaps and bring the power back to idle.

The kicker... density altitude

One key factor that I really neglected was the density altitude.

It's one thing to do a short approach at sea level, but we were at 5-10k feet in the mountains in the summer with density altitude adding to that.

Having high density altitude means the air is much thinner, which makes everything worse.

My non-turbocharged engine performs worse.

The wings produce less left.

Your ground speed when landing is faster even with your normal indicated airspeed.

In short, there are fewer air molecules to "do stuff" with.

But high density altitude also makes it harder to slow the airplane down in a descent. There isn't the nice, thick sea level air providing as much air resistance, and I had never experienced it like I was about to.

The Approach I Should Have Never Made

So in my base turn to final, I realize that the airplane is not slowing down like I'm used to with flaps out and power idle.

I even try slipping the airplane to lose some altitude more quickly and get back to a normal approach (mistake #4.... and it's also worth mentioning that in certain airplanes you should not slip with full flaps out, so make sure to look up the model you are flying).

Then on short final, as I realize I can't descend like I need to, and I'm already going way too fast, I have one of the worst feelings a pilot can experience...

I felt like a passenger in my own plane.

Instead of terminating the approach and going around, I press on and commit to the landing, knowing good and well I'm going far too fast (mistake #5).

My lead ship is already on the runway at this point towards the end, and I force the airplane onto the ground, having to use a lot of forward elevator to keep it from flying again.

Once I was able to slow the airplane down, park, and shut off the engine, I closed my eyes and slowly said to myself, "what the hell did I just do."

Shutting the cameras off I immediately delete the memory cards, not wanting to face the fact that I really just scared myself in an area where people can and do get hurt.

Some of you might be thinking "big deal, you were too high and too fast, but you landed alright. It happens." But it's more dramatic than that.

I really could have gotten hurt that day, and I had a brief moment where I didn't feel in control of my own airplane. That is a bad spot to be in, and it was completely my fault.

I frequently read aviation accident reports and try to learn from them.

It is commonly pilot error and decision making and, because of that, I always thought that wouldn't happen to me.

"I don't make dumb decisions. I know how to control my airplane. I'm confident in short field scenarios where a lot of other pilots might not be."

Pride, pride, and more pride...

The scary part of my situation was that none of the small decisions I was making felt dangerous to me, but when they all added up, I was in a bad situation.

Solution #1: I should have called off the approach when I had seen the airport too late and realized I had too much altitude to lose for the planned approach. I would have avoided this whole situation.

Solution #2: I should have given a lot more credit to density altitude and known that my approach would look and feel different than it would at sea level.

Us sea level pilots need to get more practice with high altitude operations, or at the very least, give it all of the respect it deserves.

Solution #3: I should have briefed the approach better and known my available go-around options. I got committed to the approach because I was too scared to fly down the valley and climb out, not knowing what was on the other side.

That was a dumb mistake and one that could have been solved on the ground before I even took off for this flight.

Solution #4: When I was feeling self-inflicted pressure to hurry up for the formation flight behind me, I should have gone around or at the very least known that I had the right away and not feel pressured by them.

Solution #5: When the "oh shit" moment came on short final, I never should have forced the landing. The moment I felt like a passenger should have been like fire alarms blaring in my head to abort the approach and go around. I tuned them out.

The weird thing is that these all seem like very obvious fixes. And it's because they are.

I didn't assume that I would make simple mistakes like this, much less half a dozen of them all within the same few minutes.

Each mistake I made didn't feel like a dangerous move until they all came together at the end.

And I think that's what got my attention the most: that I'm not immune from being in frightening situations, no matter how confident I feel in my airplane.

I really look forward to going back to Johnson Creek and giving it the proper attention and approach that it deserves. It's beautiful, but you have to respect it.

If I could summarize my takeaway for you, it would be this: Never force it.

And even if you fly into a strip that has a point of no return, make sure your position, altitude, and airspeed are perfect before you commit to the go/no-go.

I tried to make it work throughout the approach that should have been aborted very early on, and scared myself a lot more than I ever thought I could.

I hope this makes you a safer pilot.

And when we have mistakes, it's good to remember that there is a lot of freedom and healing when we can face the music and learn from them.

If you have made a flying mistake that you have kept bottled up inside and are afraid to share, I'd encourage you to tell someone.

You could even respond to this email and tell me about it.

I promise it will help begin to transform that experience from a traumatic one to one that is useful to you.

Your fellow left-seater,

Charlie