Flying Foggy Five Miles

            For some weeks now, I've wanted my mechanic, "Bone," to fix a few little things in the Scissortail. The HSI does not "slave up" to the magnetic compass, the VOR radio needs a new battery, the right strut is leaking, and while he's in there, replace the battery to the ELT, if needed. But recent stormy weather and strong winds, seemingly unending, have kept me on the ground, and the Scissortail safe and dry inside Hangar 84, portside strut lopsided.
            Today, though, we had an opportunity to fly from Kickapoo to Municipal Airport, only five miles apart, to take the Scissortail to Bone, one of the world's greatest airplane mechanics. The ceiling above held at 4500 feet above the ground, and all I needed was 2400 feet. So MyMrMallory agreed to fly in the right seat with me into Municipal Airport.
            The flight seemed to proceed as expected in every way. I took off on runway 17 for a southwest heading over Lake Wichita, and then northwest, around the television towers and clear of Shepard Air Force Base's Class D airspace until their tower gave me permission to enter. At 1600 feet above the lake, I radioed the tower.
            "Good morning, Shepard. Cherokee Four Seven Romeo over Lake Wichita with information Delta inbound for 15."
            Tower's response, "Four Seven Romeo maintain clear of Class Delta airspace," indicated that while the tower acknowledged us, they had greater concerns at the moment, undoubtedly consisting of the wing returning from a two-hour training period over the Military Operations Area to the north. So we knew we'd fly for a while before they allowed us to land, which we often do while the tower fits us in with other traffic, both military fighters and commercial airlines arriving from the D/FW area. No biggy, as Meda would say, and we flew at 120 mph over the lake, around the towers, and north to the VOR.
            Two unexpected things occurred once we passed the VOR. Tower asked us to fly seven miles to the north, which would put us in Oklahoma, but still not of any concern. But the T-38's were streaming in to runways 15L and 15R, both on either side of runway 15C (15 Center), and between which we intended to land. MyMrMallory and I would frequently glance in the direction of the Air Force Base, looking for the runway, parallel to our heading, but we could not see it with the increasing fog.
           Looking ahead at the low clouds, the sun at my right penetrating through them, I said to MyMrMallory, "I hope that this is the nuttiest thing I do in my airplane."
           The fighters, unable to see through the low clouds, arrived on instruments. One of the fighters had experienced difficulty finding his intended runway, in spite the aide of computerized instruments and the tower's instructions. Finally, the clouds became thin enough for him to see the runway almost underneath him, and he radioed the tower to say he would land while he had the runway in sight. This put us next in line to land in the center runway, so tower instructed us to change our heading southward for a five-mile final into 15C.
           The position of the sun, though, reflected on the fog and mist before us, and we could not see more than a dark wall over where we knew lay Shepard Air Force Base. We chose not to land there, and to return to our original point of departure.
           "You tell them," I said, "because I don't know how to say it."
           "Turn left," said MyMrMallory, "and return to Kickapoo, if we can make it back."
           As I turned left, tower came on the radio.
           "Negative, Four Seven Romeo! Maintain one eight zero heading." The tone, urgent, made me realize that, indeed, turning our aircraft left would put us into the path of arriving fighters into runway 15L. Interestingly, though I felt then a high level of anxiety, I felt no fear, for I knew we would all work our way out this situation, and Golly was I too busy flying to feel fear. It seems, I've noted many times, imperative to talk, to be chatty on the radio, stating your position and intention at every turn, and to explain to the tower to whom you've given yourself and your aircraft, your situation. At this point, MyMrMallory took over the radio and told tower that we could not see the runway at five miles and that we would return to our point of origin.
           "Four Seven Romeo head for two one zero," the tower told us, and further instructed us that once out of their airspace, Class D, to remain clear of it.
            Over the VOR on our return, we began to wonder if we would have to land on runway 13 at Wichita Valley, for the fog and cloud cover seemed to descend and darken over the city and the area of our intended airport. But yonder the tall towers I could see the white, round roof of MSU's coliseum, always a welcome sight, so I turned the Scissortail toward it.
             MyMrMallory asked me to ascend from 1600 feet to 1800 feet to clear the towers, and just to remind me of the quality of the radars employed by the Air Force and of their constant vigilance, just barely before ascending 100 feet, tower radioed us.
             "Four Seven Romeo verify your intentions to land at Kickapoo!" MyMrMallory replied affirmative, and that we had Kickapoo in sight.
             Sometimes I cannot tell whether towers feel any emotion about saying good-bye to airplanes they've guided along the way. I wondered today if our tower felt relieved that our little aircraft left its airspace, and consternation about our little aircraft having made a fuss in the middle of all those jets.
             Now past the towers and heading toward the landing strip at which I've landed so many times, joyfully, I resumed control of the radio to announce my position to the local traffic, which, for the conditions, seemed fairly busy. The odd flyer in the Eagle who landed on the 17 from the right, rather from the left, took off as we approached at one mile. We could see him and watched him carefully, lest he do again something unpredictable that would jeopardize our safety. As I flew mid-field above pattern altitude to loop around and enter the downwind at an angle, I spotted a Mooney sitting on the run-up area, silent on his radios, and remained there, silent also on its engine, waiting, perhaps for clearance from tower, a long wait on such a cloudy day, when likely tower diverted aircraft away from bad weather.
             In my pilot's log book, I wrote point six as my time (forty-eight minutes) -- the time it took me to fly five miles north, and five miles south.