It's as common as it is avoidable, so much so that it's earned an official acronym: CFIT. Controlled Flight into Terrain. Translation: Inattentive dumb-ass at the controls.
Shawn Perry, a 39-year-old pilot and father, had planned to drive from Safford, Ariz., to Apache Junction, Ariz., to pick up his three children.
Russel Hardy, Perry's boss at a Safford-based aviation company, suggested a different plan, according to a relative — it would be faster and easier to fly.
Joseph Hardwick, 22, another employee, was engaged to be married next month. A mechanic, he didn't normally fly as a crew member. But this time he was aboard.
The group flew to Falcon Field in Mesa, Ariz., and picked up the children: Morgan, 9, Logan, 8, and Luke, 6.
Then the plane took off again, headed back for Thanksgiving. But the six aboard never made it home to Safford.
About 15 minutes after departing Wednesday evening, the twin-engine plane crashed into the side of the Superstition Mountains, sparking a fireball visible for miles and killing all six on board.
Oh, those damned, sneaky mountains, lying in wait to spring in front of innocent and unsuspecting pilots!
I always worry a little when flying into or out of Falcon Field (FFZ) at night, but the terrain is clearly marked on several maps and the easiest way to miss it is to stay over the lighted city — and perhaps to do a turn or two around the traffic pattern — until I have the altitude necessary to miss the unlighted rocky bits. If weather or traffic are uncooperative with ‘visual separation’, I can also follow the official ‘Departure Procedure’ for which there is a dirt-cheap government map complete with both an accurate drawing and a thorough textual description. This does imply filing an instrument flight plan, but I simply remind myself: You're flying around mountains, man; use the resources at hand! (But seriously: Duh. And these guys knew the area!)
Listen: I don't begrudge a guy's decision, when flying alone, to charge off unprepared into the wild blue yonder. If he wants to go out like Scott Crossfield or the geezers in ‘Second-Hand Lions’, then bully for him and I'll assume that he's paid more than his share of taxes and has thus fully paid for the mop-up of his smoking hole. (But I'll keep my distance from his foolish cowboy self.) But if he takes innocent children with him into his new crater, I will find that son-of-a-bitch in hell with my sleeves rolled up.