During one of my air medical tours, I experienced an inadvertent entry into instrument meteorological conditions (IIMC). While I managed the situation with ease, it underscored the head-in-the-sand mentality among many pilots I flew with — and in the helicopter community at large.
I joined a company operating a Bell 412 in a small Midwestern town. The terrain was flat with much of it covered in forest. The region had plenty of weather — thunderstorms and humidity in the summer, and heavy snow in the winter.
Upon arriving at the base, our lead pilot trained me in the 412. I spent hours studying its fuel and electrical systems through Bell’s manuals. Having flown the Bell 222, Learjets, and King Airs, I was already familiar with autopilots and advanced navigation systems that were standard in the 412.
I mentioned the helicopter’s dual-channel, four-axis autopilot and flight director system to my instructor. He curtly replied that they were never used as a matter of policy. That surprised me, but I nodded. I knew I’d eventually test them myself.
After I was cleared for daytime duty, we received a call for a patient transfer about 80 miles (130 kilometers) away. Conditions were clear and calm — ideal for getting comfortable in the 412. On the way back, having settled into the aircraft’s handling, I decided to try the autopilot.
First, I engaged the stability augmentation system (SAS) to assist my control. Then, I selected the heading mode (HDG) and altitude hold (ALT), releasing the controls. I made a few turns using the turn knob, then beeped the nose up in a gentle climb. The system worked flawlessly.
After landing, I asked our maintenance technician if the autopilot had any issues. He shook his head. The lead pilot had instructed him not to bother checking it since no one used it. When I asked fellow pilots about it, they echoed the same sentiment: they’d been told it could cause loss of control.
Months later, around 3 a.m., I was flying to an accident scene. The night was humid with a damp haze. On the return flight, I flew at about 1,500 feet (457 meters) above ground level (AGL) when the haze thickened from below. The ground was completely dark. We had 20 minutes left to the hospital, but the visibility was worsening.
I climbed to 2,000 ft. (610 m), staying above the haze, but it soon formed a solid layer beneath us. I needed a plan. I engaged the autopilot, selecting HDG and ALT. The town’s airport, just a few miles from the hospital, had an instrument landing system (ILS). We carried instrument approach charts — part of the vague hope that pilots might survive an IIMC event and successfully navigate an approach.
Other than our annual 0.3-hour “instrument time” with foggles, our program lacked real instrument training. Many pilots in those days didn’t even have instrument ratings. But I knew my plan would get us home safely. I found the ILS procedure for the local airport and called approach control.
“Approach, helicopter Seven-Eight Lima Golf. We’d like the ILS to Runway One-Nine at County Municipal.”
“Seven-Eight Lima, are you VFR?”
“Yes, sir, but it’s pretty hazy. We need the guidance.”
“Seven-Eight Lima, roger. Descend and maintain 2,000. Turn right heading one-six-zero. You’re cleared for the ILS One-Nine at County Municipal. Maintain VFR.”
I set the frequency and inbound course, and armed the autopilot’s approach mode. As we approached, I heard the nurses whispering.
“Guys, it’s too hazy to find the hospital. We’ll land at the airport, and an ambulance will meet you. I’m calling dispatch now,” I said.
“Are we going to be OK?” one asked.
“Of course. We’ll be safely on the ramp and you’ll be at the hospital maybe five minutes later than if we flew straight in.”
“But it’s so cloudy. How will you find the airport?”
“I’m navigating with our radios. There’s no issue here.”
Silence. I’d flown air medical long enough to know how to handle flight nurse anxieties.
Ten minutes later, we hovered onto the ramp beside the waiting ambulance. As it departed with the crew and patient, I stood alone in the quiet morning, contemplating my situation. How was I going to smooth this over with the lead pilot?
If I gave him an explanation he could pass to superiors to avoid an investigation, he’d let it go. He accepted my account of using the VOR, not bothering to check the weather. If he had, he’d have seen the indefinite ceiling and half-mile visibility. But by morning, it was clear skies.
I considered explaining how the autopilot helped me complete a safe, routine flight. But I knew he’d likely discipline me for “unsafe flying” — as if scud running at 200 ft. (60 m) in dense haze would’ve been the better option.
Everyone soon forgot that night. I left the program a year later when it merged with another. Until writing this column, I had never shared this story.
Looking back, it’s shocking that, by the late 20th century, airliners had autoland capabilities, yet helicopter pilots operated as if it were the 1940s. Many accidents resulted from pilots getting caught in weather and losing control.
Fast-forward to 2020 and the Kobe Bryant crash. That helicopter had the same autopilot as my 412. The pilot, an instrument-rated instructor, could have simply engaged HDG and ALT. Within minutes, they would’ve climbed into clear skies. But the mindset I encountered in air medical persisted.
The lesson here? Pilots and employers must embrace the technology available to them. How much training would it take for operators of Bell 412s, Sikorsky S-76s, and similarly equipped helicopters to teach pilots basic autopilot use? Just enough to save their lives.
If your helicopter has an autopilot, learn to use it. It takes about 15 minutes, and one day, it could save your life.
I’ve voiced my frustrations to friends and colleagues. They agree in theory, yet most operators still haven’t updated training programs to incorporate autopilot procedures.
Thankfully, more air medical helicopters are being retrofitted with autopilots. With that, fewer pilots will fear them, and fewer will lack the instrument skills to survive. Hopefully, we’ll soon look back on these outdated attitudes as unfortunate relics of the past.
For more stories from Woody McClendon, check out this podcast episode from The Helicopter Podcast with host Halsey Schider.
In his 50-year flying career, Woody McClendon has flown corporate jets across oceans, turboprops and jets on air medical and organ transplant flights, and helicopters in a wide range of roles — from training and demonstration to surveillance and air medical tasks. As a former Boeing flight test engineer, he has brought his technical expertise to bear on a wide variety of operational and mission-related challenges over the years. He has also written articles for a number of aviation trade publications and recently published When the Angel Calls, a timeline of the air medical business from its inception 40 years ago to its present struggles with mission safety while facing pressures to cut expenses.
