It was an August afternoon in 1980 and I had my wife and two business associates in the back of our Cessna 182. We had just spent a successful yet exhausting week at Chicagos McCormick Place for an annual trade show.
We were on our way back to Eugene, Ore., and I had a raging head cold. My wonderful wife had been flying the leg from Iowa to Wyoming, but she elbowed me as we approached Billings, Mon. She said it was IFR ahead and that I needed to take over.
I was sound asleep but rallied to her call. I filed with Salt Lake Center and entered the clouds near Billings.
Understand that we had been in the air for five hours and had emptied our bladders into the onboard containers. In th…