Air aviation news- Did you ever wonder what happens to pilots who bust a TFR and find themselves escorted by a military aircraft to the nearest airport?
I found out about 10 years ago, when my wife and I were planning a 1,500 mile cross-country trip in our RV-10 from our home in snowbound, frozen Canada to warm southern Texas.
When I told a local crop duster pilot about our plans, his first words were “watch for TFRs.”
And he should know, because he didn’t watch out for Temporary Flight Restrictions and paid the consequences.
“The Memorial Day weekend of 2013 is forever burned into my memory,” he started his tale. “It started Friday with 1,400 miles, two commercial flights, and a taxi bringing me to a rural Pennsylvania airport late in the evening. Too tired to be picky, I just collapsed onto the old couch in the clubhouse and pulled my flight jacket up to my chin, hoping for some shuteye before dawn’s arrival.”
The glare of the rising sun through the cracked window penetrated my bloodshot eyelids a few hours later. A dusty old pickup rolled up, and what appeared to be the Marlboro man himself crossed the threshold, poured me a cup of strong black coffee from the vintage pot on the counter, and said “plane’s ready to go.” Obviously a man of few words.
After doing the walk-around, I pulled the prop through a number of rotations to clear any hydraulic locks, climbed into the cockpit, put my Garmin 496 on the glare shield, and prepared for a long day ahead hand-flying following the magenta line at 100 knots. After getting the inertia starter up to speed, engaging the starter got the 1823 cubic inch supercharged radial turning.
A cacophony of explosions and smoke settled down into the steady roar appropriate for a 1000 hp rating. Without its usual load of 660 gallons or 4,850 pounds in the hopper, I expected a bumpy ride later in the afternoon, so I was eager to get an early start.
About 45 minutes later, I was in level cruise, the air was smooth, and traffic was non-existent, so I made myself as comfortable as possible in a machine not designed with either cross-country travel or creature comforts as priorities.
A United States military Black Hawk helicopter was a few feet off my wing! As I stared at it in disbelief, the door slid open and a soldier in fatigues held up a large 121.5 sign.
My shaking fingers stabbed at the radio button and I managed a feeble “hello?”
“You have penetrated the Camp David TFR” was the authoritative response. “Turn right heading 350 and land at the airport four miles north.”
Describing me as rattled would be a gross understatement. To this day, I’m convinced that had I been flying a retractable, I would have landed gear up.
The helicopter stayed on my wing until the wheels were rolling, and then I was told to “proceed to the apron.”
As I was marshaled to a spot surrounded by black Suburbans and armed soldiers, the Black Hawk landed a short distance away.
The nightmare deepened as the propeller stopped turning. I was ordered out of the aircraft, and they proceeded to dissect me and the aircraft. Suffice to say that although they were courteous and professional, the search of both was both extensive and intensive.
When I offered that I was just a Canadian minding my own business and unaware of the president’s movements as justification for my error, the reply was that ignorance was no excuse.
The tangled international trail of a Polish aircraft having a canceled United States registration because it was being flown under a temporary permit to its new French Canadian owner was questioned repeatedly from numerous angles by many men in identical black suits.
When they told me to account for every text on my phone in the last 30 days, I had mental lapses on a couple of them, and they were definitely not happy with that.
The crowning moment occurred when the farmer who had purchased the airplane hung up on the agent calling. That did not help!
From his perspective, a weekend call from a person identifying himself as “Agent Johnson from the Secret Service” while he was busy trying to seed his crop seemed like a practical joke. And when he got a second time-wasting call a minute later from a number he didn’t recognize, the logical response was a brusque “quit bothering me” before hanging up again.
That marked a turning point, and over time, the number of guns, soldiers, agents, and Suburbans eased downward. A number of hours later, I was allowed to resume my journey.
The long delay resulted in no possibility of completing the ferry trip in one day, so that was inconvenient.
However, the real hassle commenced after my return with a call from a Transport Canada compliance and enforcement officer.
“What did you do? They are really mad,” he asked. “They want your license suspended and a $10,000 fine.”
My livelihood as a crop-dusting pilot for the upcoming season was on the line.
The new owner of the plane also was being hit with potential suspension of his commercial certificate and a fine. This was serious.
Eventually, a settlement was reached where both of us paid fines but were able to keep our licenses and certificates. It was an expensive, stressful, and very unpleasant.
So…watch out for the TFRs!
The pilot who told me this story is gone now, but his advice lives on. I’ve made at least a dozen trips to the United States in the last 10 years and being aware of TFRs has been at the top of my flight planning every time.
It’s certainly true that bad decisions make good stories, but I’ve also been told to learn from the mistakes of others as I will never live long enough to do them all myself.
And every time I see a TFR on the map, I remember my friend with a smile.
Want to read more about Presidential TFRs? Check out the latest Questions From The Cockpit column here.