![A close call with experienced by the author shows unpredictable and unforgiving nature of in-flight structural ice phenomenon. [Illustration: Joel Kimmel]](https://flyingmag1.b-cdn.net/wp-content/uploads/sites/2/2025/08/1.6-FLY0825-ILAFFT.jpeg?width=1310&height=1372)
Having flown many thousands of hours in the clouds of the Northeast, I used to believe that I had all the answers in dealing with structural ice. I admit to being very aggressive, flying into conditions that were likely to produce ice in airplanes with and without ice protection. In my experience, ice usually formed rather slowly and that changing altitude by just a couple thousand feet would take care of any icing problems.
My attitude changed one day in early May 2000 when I took off from Utica, New York, for a flight to Nashua, New Hampshire (KASH), in a Piper Seneca I without ice protection. I was alone in the airplane with no baggage. Even with full fuel, I was well below the maximum allowable gross weight and should have been able to climb very well.
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I was on the backside of a cold front, and there were a few cumulus clouds protruding through the low layer. There was no specific mention of icing in the forecast other than the usual phrase about icing in clouds and in precipitation above the freezing level which was at the surface, and the ceiling was 400 feet. The clouds were thin, and the sky was clear above. I could see breaks in the clouds, and I expected to climb through the low overcast and be in the clear very quickly after departure. It was clear all the way from Albany, New York, about 80 miles to the east, to my destination. I was expecting to have a 40-knot tailwind at altitude.
I departed IFR on Runway 27 into a 30-knot surface wind right down the runway and was cleared direct to the Utica VOR, where I could intercept the airway. As I turned toward the southeast, the cabin got dark, and I realized I had found one of those cumulus clouds and was climbing through it.
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I expected to break out of the side of it at any moment as I climbed through 4,000 feet. As I scanned my instruments, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. The VSI needle, which had been comfortably indicating a 1,500 fpm climb, was moving rapidly toward zero. It kept going right past the zero mark and quickly settled on the 1,200 fpm descent mark. A quick scan of the altimeter confirmed that I was no longer climbing but beginning to descend. The airspeed indicator showed that my airspeed was also decaying. I had both engines operating normally at cruise climb power with the props set accordingly.
Since the airplane seemed to be handling normally, I optimistically suspected a pitot-static problem. I already had the pitot heat on due to anticipated flight in clouds above the freezing level. I opened the alternate static source, thinking maybe the static port had iced over. The instrument indications remained about the same.
I lowered the nose to maintain airspeed while simultaneously pushing a large handful of throttles and prop controls forward and pitching for the airspeed to maintain the blue line on the airspeed indicator. The blue line indicates the best single-engine climb speed and is generally considered to be the best airspeed to safely achieve maximum climb even with both engines operating. The increased power and best climb airspeed had very little effect on the airplane’s performance. The power output of the engines appeared to be normal, but I opened both alternate air sources as a precaution.
I finally had time to glance up at the windshield and observed a little ice on the lower portions. The next scan showed that I was descending at 1,500 fpm through 3,500 feet. I was still at full power at best climb airspeed in a relatively light airplane. A glance out the left-side window revealed that there might be some ice on the leading edge, but I couldn’t be sure. I started a turn back in the general vicinity of the airport and advised Griffiss Approach in Rome, New York, that I was having a problem and needed to return.
The strong wind favored Runway 27, but because of the 400-foot ceiling, the controller gave me a vector to intercept the localizer for an ILS approach to Runway 33. He instructed me to descend to 3,000 feet. At about that time I was descending out of about 3,300 feet and coming down now at about 1,100 fpm. I advised him that I would be unable to stop my descent at 3,000 feet. He informed me that the minimum vectoring altitude for my area was 2,600 feet, and he could not guarantee terrain clearance below that altitude.
Fortunately, I grew up in the area and had done extensive flying there, so I knew the terrain reasonably well. I knew where I was and that there were no obstacles or high terrain between my position and the airport. The lower altitude helped the airplane to perform a little better, and the ice had apparently stopped forming, though none of it seemed to be leaving yet. The descent rate was now about 300 fpm while still at full power. That nice tailwind that I was anticipating for my flight to Nashua was now a serious headwind. Approach cleared me and told me to contact Utica Tower. He simply told me to do the best I could with my altitude.
The vectors provided by Griffiss Approach were excellent. I turned inbound and still needed full power to barely maintain the glide slope angle. I also had to deal with a substantial crosswind since I was flying the localizer for Runway 33 and the wind was 30 knots from 270 degrees. Normal procedure calls for extending the landing gear at the outer marker, but I realized that the last thing I needed was more drag. I elected to leave the gear up for now. I broke out of the overcast at about 1,200 feet msl, which put me about 450 feet agl.
I realized for the first time since the ordeal began that I was going to make it to the runway. I accepted the fact that I might be landing gear-up, but I also realized that sliding to a stop on a concrete runway was much better than careening through a farmer’s field or a stand of trees.
As I broke out of the overcast, I was still maintaining blue line airspeed. I had thought about slowing the airplane a little as I got closer to the runway but had decided to maintain the higher airspeed for two reasons. First, the airplane was flying fairly well at that speed and I didn’t want to do anything to change that. Second, I wasn’t sure what the stalling speed was now with all the ice adhering to the wings.
Once I was in the clear and past the runway threshold, I was able to trade some airspeed for lift and begin a level flight down the runway. I grabbed the gear lever and selected the down position. At first, nothing happened, probably because of the ice on the bottom of the airplane.
After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only about five seconds, I heard a noise that is not typical of gear extension in a Seneca, followed by the sound of the gear extending. Finally, the last of the three green gear indicator lights blinked on, indicating a fully extended landing gear. I backed the power off and the tires made contact with the runway about a thousand feet from the landing threshold with plenty of room to stop.
What a relief to be on the ground uninjured and in an undamaged airplane.
There was surprisingly little ice on the windshield, and I was able to taxi to the parking area, although I noticed that substantially more power was needed to taxi than I was accustomed. I maneuvered into a parking space, shut down, and climbed out of the airplane. I was amazed at what I saw. The ice had formed a flat plate about 2 inches in height all along the leading edges of the wings. I later found out that this is an unusual occurrence called an “ice horn.” It not only severely disrupts the airflow but greatly increases the form drag.
As big a problem as the leading-edge ice was, the props were even more startling. The blades were no longer shaped like an airfoil but more closely resembled baseball bats. I was amazed that I was able to develop as much thrust as I had, and immediately understood why it took so much power to taxi to the ramp. Almost none of the ice had come off up to this point.
I learned a valuable lesson about myself and about flying on that day. I had become complacent. I learned that my self-perceived great skill in dealing with structural icing for the preceding 30 years had been laced with a large dose of luck. What really got my attention was that nothing indicated that this flight might encounter serious structural icing. It can be unpredictable and unforgiving.
I have become much more conservative in my fly-or-no-fly decisions when there is a possibility of ice. That event, along with several crashes involving friends and colleagues, led me into my current focus of understanding and applying human factors to aviation safety.
This column first appeared in the August Issue 961 of the FLYING print edition.
