Moments later, I saw another opening just below us. This one was considerably smaller than the gap we had climbed through, but the inviting green turf of the farmer's field indicated we were overhead an area of level terrain. A frantic debate began to churn inside of me. The voice of panic grew louder and louder, drowning out the voice of reason until it was the only sound I could hear. "This is your chance! If you don't act now you will never get out of this!" The adrenaline was playing dangerous games with my mind, and I was down in the count. I slowed the aircraft, dropped a few degrees of flap and commenced a steep, descending left turn towards the field. Had I known then that the minimum vectoring altitude at my position was 7,000 feet, I may have thought otherwise. Nevertheless, through 3,000 feet as the clouds began to close in around me, I realized I had made a series of progressively rash and foolish decisions. At 2,500 feet the windows went stark grey. Strike three.