I live in Fargo, North Dakota, where winter lasts anywhere from six to 13 months of the year. When I first moved back to Fargo after living elsewhere for quite a while—Fargoans call it “living abroad”—I asked the Fargo airport manager how much it would cost per month to tie down my airplane on his ramp. He looked at me as if I had told him I just flew in from the Moon, but he answered politely, like Fargo people do, saying, “Well, that would be free. But nobody does that.”
So it’s cold here, which explains the ice building up rapidly on my wings as I stupidly flew through the clouds at 8000 feet in late April. I was on an IFR flight plan from Flying Cloud Airport, KFCM. (Motto: “Wrong Runway Landings ‘R’ Us.” You scoff, but go there sometime.) I was at 14,000 feet, fat, dumb and happy. But then I wasn’t. Minneapolis Center said, “Lancair 214DK, descend and maintain 8000 feet.” I thought, “I have to do that, because he told me to,” and did. Turns out I shunta.
