Accident Probes

Failure of a single’s engine is something on which primary students spend a lot of training time. In addition to running the emergency checklist and maintaining control of the airplane, looking for and maneuvering to land on a suitable surface are stressed. Managing the energy stored in altitude and airspeed is but one part of this training; properly performing the emergency checklist is another.

When was the last time you cracked open your aircraft’s flight manual or pilot’s operating handbook? You know, the thick book in which you’ll find information on the aircraft’s limitations, equipment, normal and emergency procedures and performance charts? If you’re like most non-commercial pilots flying the same aircraft day in and day out, it’s probably been a while. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. When you first start flying a certain type, spending a quiet evening with its manuals is a good decision. Even through the first several hours, referring to the book is common. But after a few years and several hundred hours, pilots tend to know—without looking at the book—what the aircraft will do under certain conditions. If and when there’s a question—say, the emergency gear-extension procedure, or to ensure the loading is correct—the book is right there to answer the questions.

I’ve done relatively little scud-running over the years. That’s mainly because I earned an instrument rating at about the same time I started using personal airplanes more and more for transportation rather than recreation. It’s difficult to say which came first—the utility an instrument rating affords or the need to use an airplane for personal transportation—but in my case, the two developed at about the same time. My most memorable scud-running flight involved flogging a Skyhawk between Columbus, Ga., and Knoxville, Tenn., one summer afternoon. Writing about it now, I don’t recall the exact reason I determined getting an IFR clearance wasn’t the way to go, but that’s the decision I made. I presume it had something to do with either the airplane or the weather.

Failure of an airplane’s single engine shortly after takeoff is an event all pilots dread. When it happens, we’re low and slow. We lack the potential energy of speed and altitude, have little time to respond and few options. When such a failure happens, it’s natural—in some ways—for a pilot to want to be back on the runway he or she just used. It’s right there—behind us—and seemingly offers several solutions to our problems. One thing the runway has going for it is, well, it’s a runway. We know it’s a perfectly good runway because we just used it. Another attraction is resources: There’s usually a maintenance facility or at least a mechanic who can set things right. If only we can make it back to the runway we just departed, this pesky engine failure will be okay.

One of the biggest challenges with which each aircraft owner must contend is maintenance. The FARs state the owner/operator is the party responsible for ensuring all applicable inspections and maintenance requirements are complied with for continued airworthiness. Typically, the owner/operator lacks certification to perform the required maintenance and inspections necessary for continued airworthiness and engages certificated mechanics and inspectors to perform the require tasks. While the system usually works well, horror stories do arise. Logbooks go missing, what was scheduled to be a week-long annual inspection can turn into a months-long, expensive ordeal.

Part 91 operators have a lot of flexibility in their operations not available to commercial flights conducted under Parts 135 or 121. Whenever persons or property is being carried for compensation, different rules apply. One of them involves minimum weather requirements for takeoff under IFR. The non-commercial Part 91 operator, however, has no such restrictions. We can blast off into any weather conditions we want without needing to meet a visibility minimum or having an alternate airport nearby in case of a problem developing shortly after takeoff. With that flexibility, of course, comes some responsibilities.

We’ve all been there: A personal or professional commitment encourages us to cut a corner or launch when otherwise we might not. The corner could be a mechanical deficiency with the aircraft, failing to obtain a weather briefing or taking off with minimal fuel. The pressure of schedules and commitments tempts us to do things like make a zero-zero instrument takeoff, shoot an approach in conditions below published minimums or stretch our fuel to the breaking point in the face of headwinds and the time it will take to make an en route fuel stop.

The private pilot certificate is often referred to as a license to learn. In many ways, it is: Suddenly, that piece of plastic allows you to go pretty much where you want, when you want. Ideally, the private is a rung in the ladder of experience, leading to other ratings and certificates. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with remaining a VFR-only private pilot, as long as one recognizes and stays within its obvious limitations.

Airframe icing is one characteristic of flying I’ve learned to respect. Over the years, I picked up my share of it, once carrying at least a quarter-inch of the clear kind for another 500 nm or so before it melted on descent for my destination. In the winter, I pay particular attention to Airmets Zulu, along with temperature aloft and cloud forecasts. There have been many occasions when I simply cancelled or rescheduled a trip on learning the freezing level was at the surface or below my desired cruising altitude and visible moisture was about.

Among the three weather phenomena that get my greatest attention, thunderstorms occupy the top two slots (icing gets the third). It’s not that I’m scared of thunderstorms; rather, it’s that I respect them. I’ve been in them—on the ground—and close enough to them in the air that I understand their power and unpredictable nature. One of the last places I want to be is in an airplane in the middle of one. My main tactic when dealing with thunderstorms is to remain in VMC. I’ll enter IMC, but only if I know what’s on the other side, based mostly on my Mk. I, Mod 1 eyeball. When approaching a group of storms, I’ll maneuver the airplane to ensure what I’m looking at is clear sky and not just some sky-colored cloud hiding an angrier one.