"Always have an out." That's what my roommate and more experienced pilot buddy warned me about flying in instrument meteorological conditions (IMC). It was sage advice when this story took place, 24 years ago.
I had arrived in Pontiac, Michigan, from the Deep South in January to begin a "dream job" of flying on-demand cargo as a charter pilot. It was a quantum leap for a fair-weather (VFR) flight instructor who only flew small aircraft. On this particularly drearisome day in early March, our dispatcher, Earl, received a call at about 4 p.m. from a traffic manager in Lansing to charter an airplane to pick up some widgets in Tennessee and deliver them to the assembly plant in Lansing as soon as possible. I was next out in the pilot rotation, so Earl barked for me to jump into the Cessna 310 and get down to "Hooterville" quick. He said he would file the flight plan while I got the ship ready. Our machines were always preflighted and ready to go, so I climbed in, fired up and began taxiing out to the runway as fast as I could. I did remember to grab some chocolate-chip cookies that Rose, our secretary/receptionist, had baked that morning and dropped them into my jacket vest pocket as I dashed out the back door of the hangar.
I was trying to locate McKenzie, Tennessee, on my chart when the ground controller radioed that he had my clearance ready. I copied it, set the navigation radios, completed the engine run-up and then lined up for takeoff. Through the windshield, I noticed the weather had worsened some in the last hour or so. I knew the barometric pressure had been falling steadily all day, along with the temperature and a soaking light rain. The tower controller said the visibility was half a mile, but I wasn't so sure. He cleared me to go, and I took off into the low soup. I was into the fog almost immediately after leaving the ground. My confidence was gaining altitude just as fast as the airplane was. This was just the type of flying I had longed to do as a young, inexperienced pilot: Low ceilings, low visibilities, single-pilot, fast airplane-you know, a real challenge. I thought I had the world by the tail. I was finally doing some "manly" flying.
As I jerked the gear up, the usually spunky electric landing gear motor seemed to be dragging a little-kind of slow. Next, I conspicuously missed the blinking reply light on the radar transponder. In short order, I realized I had heard nothing from the tower either. I called them, but they didn't answer. Things were starting to go downhill fast. I began analyzing my situation and deduced I had suffered a complete electrical failure. All the electrical devices were inoperative. With disconcertion I continued to fly the airplane on what I knew would be the expected course while climbing to my assigned altitude. But, I could only guess at my position, as I was in solid cloud. A quick assessment produced the following information: I still had all the essential air-driven gyroscopic and static instruments, as well as the magnetic compass. The gear was up, because I felt them bump the belly when they became flush. I had reached VFR conditions on top of a solid undercast at 7,000 feet. I had no electrical components, including fuel boost pumps, which I needed to access the fuel in the auxiliary tanks, no anti-ice devices of any kind, no lights, nor did I have any electrical flight instruments. I did have a flashlight. I just hoped it worked. I reasoned I would probably need it.
Before I took off, Earl radioed to let me know the weather was IFR all the way down to Tennessee and as far west as Chicago, so I figured finding VFR conditions on the fuel I had available to use was not going to be an option. That probability seemed especially cruel too, because I was savoring the final rays of a beautiful, golden sunset before it disappeared beyond the undercast. Level at 7,000 feet and on course to Toledo, I extracted the flight manual from its jacket beneath my seat and began to run the "Electrical Failure" checklist. Methodically checking off every item, I came to the emergency power switch. I don't know what they call it today, but we called it the "Panic Button" then. It was supposed to squeeze the last bit of juice from the battery to enable you to shoot an instrument approach of some type. It's very much akin to the emergency power system in the 737 that I fly today.
