Within 3 weeks after I'd received my Private Pilot License, the opportunity arose for me to make a run to Gulf Shores, Alabama, to pick up my dad and bring him home from a vacation. Having done all my pre-ticket training in a Cessna 150 and 152, I got checked out on a 172 just before the trip so I could take someone with me and have more speed to boot. I was scheduled to leave around 7 am, and the flight was going to take just under 2 hours.
The sky was low overcast on the morning of the trip. The Weather Channel was reporting a ceiling of 900 feet with visibility of 5 miles. After checking in with DUAT, it looked like the clouds would be breaking up about 40 miles to the south. I was hell-bent to make the trip, so I decided I could "scud-run" under the ceiling for a little while then I would be home free. Never mind the fact I had never flown low except while taking off or landing.
The unfortunate soul who accompanied me was Jim McKenzie, who has since flown a vast majority of my total hours along with me. I called the trip a go, and began the taxi out onto runway 22 requesting Special VFR clearance to take off (I had never done that before, either). Clearance was granted after the controller checked in with Birmingham, AL, and I was on my way.
"Remain clear of clouds...." Those orders from the tower echoed in my brain as I climbed out to 500 feet before turning about 40 degrees to the south for a direct course to Jack Edwards airfield. I tried to stay about this altitude, because those clouds sure didn't look like they were at 900 feet. Once I got about 10 miles south of the field, I began to think about turning around. The problem was the clouds were getting lower, and forward visibility was dangerously low.
About 15 miles to the south of Tuscaloosa is an archeologically significant town called Moundville, so named because of the huge mounds contructed there long ago by native Americans. The course to Gulf Shores takes one directly over the park that houses these mounds. Quite suddenly, they popped into view; they seemed rather ominous, and I was sure if I stood on the wingtip and jumped off I would land on both feet without hurting myself. "Those mounds are awfully close," Jim observed. I irritably noted his perception of the obvious, and wondered when those cursed clouds would start breaking up.
Another 15 minutes passed, and the situation was worsening. No precipitation, but there was condensation on the struts as we teased a few low clouds. It was the middle of summer, so I wasn't worried, but I didn't like it. Jim, again pretending he was Einstein, noted the condensation aloud. He was busily studying the Atlanta sectional chart for terrain notations, and stated that based on his calculation of our position there was a 1500' tower "somewhere up ahead." The altimeter showed if we found that tower the hard way, we'd probably hit it right in the center.
I went through the regs in my head, the fact that we weren't on any radar, we weren't in direct radio contact with anyone, and we weren't in anyone's airspace. After deciding for sure that to go back would be even worse (I had no idea how I'd find the airport in this mess), I announced to Jim, "We're going up," and shoved the throttle all the way in.
The plane (my favorite 172 until my dad got his own) entered the clouds, and immediately I felt trapped. After a second of claustrophia, I glued my eyes to the instruments and managed to control myself enough to maintain straight and level flight. About 45 seconds and 1000' later, we broke through the top of the clouds to clear blue sky above and a solid, level blanket of clouds below. It was truly one of the most beautiful sights I had witnessed.
We continued for another 30 or 45 minutes, climbing to stay above the rising cloud layer. The ceiling was finally breaking up, and the holes below kept getting larger and larger. Once I was able to positively identify my location by ground reference instead of VOR signals, I decided to dive back down below the clouds before I reached the service ceiling of the plane.
Spotting a good-sized hole, I pulled the throttle back to idle and carb. heat to full on. My steep dive had the airspeed indicator tickling the yellow arc, but I kept it within reason. We leveled out at 2500' and continued to our destination without incident (except that I landed with a tailwind, duh).
With a clear sky overhead now, I decided to be safe and call Flight Service for a quick weather update. Takeoff not recommended, he said, because of a severe thunderstorm over Mobile Bay (about 10 miles away) heading straight for us. The storm should pass in an hour. No way, I said. I'm leaving right now and that storm will be a memory, all the while looking out the window and seeing the storm in question a barely-comfortable distance away.
The 3 of us hopped in the plane, and I was airborne with a storm closing in. As we turned to our return heading, we went through a brief misting -- we'd just missed the front end. Fortunately, the rest of the trip went fine. Except for one final hurrah.
As I got within about 10 miles of Tuscaloosa, I began trying to bring up the tower on the radio. TCL Tower is 126.3; TCL Ground is 121.8. In my infinite wisdom, I switched to 126.8, a non-existent frequecy for all intents and purposes. Frustrated with tower's apparent deafness, I started a slow decent and kept checking in every 20 seconds with no response. I was still at 3000' when I was flying directly over the field; I dared not decend lower until I knew someone could see me. Then I looked at the panel, double-checked the chart, and realized my mistake.
After finally getting tower on the radio, I landed with no problems. I got out of the plane and marvelled at how much the sky had cleared since I took off that morning. And I vowed I'd never scud-run again.