An attitude indicator (also called an artificial horizon) is a primary flight instrument used in aircraft.
There are moments in time, like the sudden glimmer of an orange twilight sun reflecting off the sheet metal of our aircraft’s nose, that remain etched in my memory. We were kings of the air, carving a path through valleys and over endless, towering peaks. These weren’t valleys of granite and stone, but canyons among the heavens. Thousands of fluffy white, sometimes gray, monoliths stood suspended in space, as if perched on columns of air. Each cumulus cloud swept past us on the left and right as we pierced the occasional mist. Atop these rolling clouds, whose might was framed against the golden sky, my dreams had finally met reality, and I felt right at home.
It calls to me to this day. A few steps closer to heaven in some ways, while turbulent in others. Passing above most storms is a simple act of climbing through them. Beneath us is where they belong—angry and gray, leaving only a bumpy ride as we soar above their terrible wake.
Above it all, I wish I could stay. But forever is a long time.
Inside the nose of our aircraft, the radar sweeps left and right, up and down, painting the air ahead. Red and yellow smears appear on the scope, each indicating areas to avoid. Green is just rain or snow and mostly harmless. But red means danger. Severe turbulence. I turn ten degrees left to avoid the worst of it, but a bit of turbulence is inevitable.
Time to descend. Our destination nears. Down we go into the squall. Towering cumulus clouds looming on either side. Into the misty canyons we dive. Visibility drops suddenly to zero as our wingtip strobes light the night, reflecting off the mist and casting rhythmic flashes across the flight deck. Total trust in my training and instrumentation is required now. Vertigo is common, and relying on our instruments over feelings is critical. I Cross-check constantly to ensure everything is functioning as designed. I feel like we’re turning, but we’re not. Trust the gauges, especially the attitude indicator. These instruments are all we have to keep us upright when blinded by the fog.
Lightning flashes, briefly illuminating the flight deck even more, and the gray world beyond. Windshield wipers click steadily as heavy rain streaks across the windscreen during our descent. I can hear the thunder rolling in the distance.
Line up the needles. The proper glideslope forms a Cross that must be kept centered. Too high and we’ll overshoot the airport. Too low and we’ll hit the ground. Keep that Cross centered, and it will guide us home. Despite all the grayness and the rain, with my anticipation soaring, the runway lights finally appear through the fog. A beacon of hope. At first dim, then brightening with time. We break out at 500 feet with the runway centerline in sight. A most welcome greeting for this wayward traveler.
Permission to land was granted. The control tower has spoken.
Lights. Gear. Pressurization. Props full forward. Condition levers. Flaps. Landing checklist complete. Twelve-knot crosswind. Shifting winds. Compensate. Line up. Ten feet to go. A slight wobble. Throttles to idle. Floating. Raise the nose just a tad. Touchdown and we are home. I gently apply the brakes and taxi to safety amid the squall.
As we walked to the headquarters beneath a gray sky, I didn’t need an umbrella because I was smiling in the rain.
“For You have been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shade from the heat; for the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall.” Isaiah 25:4
