by Russell Still

I was visiting friends in Murphy, North Carolina several years back. It's a gorgeous area, nestled in a valley in the Great Smokey Mountains. The airport is wedged between two high ridges with mountains a few miles off each end, directly on the centerline. It's one of those airports where you spiral for altitude if your ride lacks a healthy climb performance.

I had stayed over Christmas, and arrived at the Andrews-Murphy airport around 9 a.m. on the 26th for my flight back to Atlanta. My Cessna 182 had been on preheat all night so it was ready to go except for a significant layer of frost across the tops of anything metal - the entire airplane. Although the morning sky was fully bright, the sun had not yet climbed above the southeastern mountains. There was no way I was going to get that frost off until the sun came into view and melted it.

By 10 a.m. the sun had finally crested and I turned the airplane tail first in its direction. This put the most sunlight across the tops of the wings and tail.

Within 30 minutes, the outer half of the wings and all of the tail surface was covered in slush. An icey job, but I was able to sling it off with my bare hand. That only left frost on the inboard halves of the wings. With some repositioning of the aircraft, I was able melt the crust from the trailing edges and flaps. That left just a crystal covering on the area above the fuel tanks. Because the avgas inside was still very cold, the frost above stubbornly clung to life. I surveyed the runway.

The launch pad at Andrews-Murphy runs roughly east-west and is 5,500 feet long. A mountain stands up off the departure end, oh, something less than four miles out, I think. Not a problem for 182. Possibly a problem for one frosted up, however. I looked at the airplane.

My Skylane, a trusted mount for several years, climbs very well. I operate it out of a 2,300 foot grass strip without problems. I could take off and land three times on a mile long stretch of paved runway. Under normal conditions, that is. I looked at the airport's main building.

On the roof was a bright piece of blue plastic tarp. Probably a roof repair in progress. It would be easy to see on a takeoff roll and marked the approximate halfway mark on the runway. I made my decision to depart.

On the runway, with the tail hanging out over the threshold lights, I put in the throttle and held the brakes. It took about two seconds to develop full power. As my feet lifted from the pedals, I quickly eyed that blue tarp. If I didn't have this airplane in the air by that point, I would abort the takeoff.

The Skylane trundled down the pavement, picking up speed. I watched the needle rotate. Sixty knots, seventy knots. Seventy-five knots. The airplane was still on the ground. I might be able to pull it up into ground effect, but what a huge problem I'd have if I got there with no climb ability. That mountain was dead ahead. And there was the tarp, abeam my right wingtip. A glance at the airspeed indicator showed us passing eighty knots and still on the ground. I immediately pulled the power and lightly pumped the brakes.

A Cessna going eighty knots on the ground will sure roll a lot further than I thought. As the runway end raced toward me, I stood on the brakes harder. Just enough pressure so that the tires didn't skid. The airplane came to a stop on the departure end numbers. No smoking rubber, no swerving off the centerline, but it did eat up the entire length of runway.

By the time I taxied back and shut the engine down, the sun was higher. In less than fifteen minutes, the frost over the fuel tanks had turned to liquid and dripped away on its own to the rear.

Now this little experiment was conducted safely and it did have a good ending. It graphically showed the effects of even a small amount of frost when maximum performance is required. But it also showed me that I could be a victim of go-itis, even if I rationalized carefully controlled conditions and a firm backup plan.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised about the effects of the frost. A couple of years earlier I had experienced a much closer call.

Much of the southeast is covered with several species of pine trees. The one thing these all have in common is that they expel pollen in the spring in huge amounts. Giant wafting clouds of yellow blow from these trees like the water slung from a Labrador Retriever after a swim. It's a huge mess and it's everywhere.

I have since built a hangar, but at that time, my airplane was tied down on the ramp. I was off on a trip down to the Kennedy Space Center to do some research and there was my airplane, covered with sticky yellow pollen. I remember looking it over and figured, "Eh, that'll blow off." Not.

I put in the power at the end of our grass runway. The manifold pressure came up and I released. Using the short-soft technique that is common to grass pilots, I got the airplane up into ground effect. And there it stayed. Scarcely a thousand feet in front of me, a group of offending pine trees stood erect, branches locked in a show of solidarity. I could almost see them sneering in defiance as I screamed toward them. The stall horn blared as I eased up the nose.

I'll tell you now that I did clear those trees, but not by much. It reminded me of a story I heard Chuck Yeager tell. He once clipped a tree in a P-51 coming in on final. After landing, his crew chief grumbled as he looked at the damage.

"Must have been a bird strike," Chuck offered.

The crew chief looked at him squarely. "Yeah, and I guess he was carrying a nest."

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