There I was, a half-hour past sunset on a moonless night, returning to a remote airstrip from a spray run in a field 25 minutes away. Dusk had quickly turned into darkness. Navigation was no problem because you could see forever, lights from small towns’ acting like beacons in an otherwise stark, featureless landscape. Getting close to the airstrip wasn’t a problem, but sometimes, being close doesn’t cut the mustard.
At least I could count on the single but powerful landing light. But the gods of aviation don’t take kindly to poor decision making – why was I spraying in marginal lighting conditions – and about ten miles back from where I thought would line up with the runway centerline, I lowered the landing light and switched it on. To my intense surprise and dismay, I found it was inoperative. Recycling the switch didn’t cure the situation.
So, there was the challenge: landing without lights on a very dark night on a dark green grass airstrip that I was unfamiliar with bordered by dark green wheat fields on both sides. However, there weren’t a lot of viable options, as my well-lit paved home strip was over an hour away and I didn’t have sufficient fuel to make the trip. My original plan was to refuel at the remote strip and then head home.
I remember two very distinct thoughts during the round out. Where was that darned runway anyway? It is impossible to see in the inky blackness distinctly. And briefly, recalling from a lecture long ago on how the eyes perceive in low light conditions, should I turn my head to let the rods handle the image-making, as the cones had now slipped into second-place functionality? It was another one of those moments where I wished I had listened a bit more during the lecture on how our eyes cope with various light conditions.
At any rate, I was first-time lucky and set down with a bit of a thump, but nonetheless, I was safe and secure on terra firma. I would characterize the taxing back to the loading area as gingerly at best, as I was still struggling to perceive the border between the grass runway and the wheatfields.
Once I had the aircraft shut down and secured at the parking area and my blood pressure returned to some sense of normalcy, I had time to reflect on what could have been a much more serious outcome. The first question, of course, was why I had pushed the boundaries of spraying.
The simple answer was that I had made a poor judgment call. I had almost finished the field and wanted to get it done that day (now rapidly turning into night) fully realizing that the last few runs would be flown in borderline darkness. The one big item missing on my briefly concocted operations plan was the ‘oops factor’, i.e. that which will happen when the gremlins of aviation find one pressing the limits of operations.
At the center of the many issues was the fact that the landing light didn’t work. I couldn’t remember the last time I used it or checked it out on the ground. Pre-flight checks are made for this purpose: to ensure that simple items are not missed, which could become very complex in short order if overlooked.
The next item for review was my rigid stance on the need to finish spraying a field in marginal conditions. I remember that the weather for the next few days would prohibit operations, which was undoubtedly part of my decision-making process. Whether it is operating in wind or temperature or lighting conditions that should have been prohibitive, that a version of get-home-itis superseded safety margin, what I refer to as get-it-done-itis, that dangerous inclination to continue working, all the while overriding logic and just plain good sense.
There are many statistics available online highlighting the many accidents caused by pilots continuing to a destination or trying to complete a job at all costs. The basis is the self-imposed pressure to get the job done, which becomes the determining factor in the incident or accident. Lurking just behind that lurks the specter of fatigue, that ever-present danger that enters the fray at the worst possible time.
We’ve all been there when our good judgment gets the heave-ho. Armchair quarterbacks can offer sage but baseless advice on what you should have done. However, decision-making is a very complex exercise, where the diagnosis and situational awareness can be compromised when made in an office moving at over 100 mph in a risky environment, most often done under critical time pressures.
Back to the central issue of landing in the darkness. My ad hoc safety report noted that when I checked the landing light the next day, it didn’t work then either. Cause? A simple popped circuit breaker that, once reset, fixed the problem. My preflight check hadn’t noticed the errant C/B, as it wasn’t as comprehensive and complete as possible.
Another issue was the landing area itself. It was great for daytime work where visibility wasn’t a problem, but not so good for night work of any kind. I had not considered that a factor when flying to remote locations from my home base. However, the next day, I got the owner to invest in highly reflective portable runway markers that were visible even on a very dark night. It is just one more piece of the puzzle that goes into making operations safe and effective.
It goes without saying that if you are an ag aviator, you may have been and most likely will be presented with issues such as this one, where the need to get the job done will move from the bottom of the list of priorities – well behind safety and effectiveness – to first place. Hopefully, you’ll take a second look, correctly reassess the situation, and put that strong urge to continue in its proper place back where it belongs.
