“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.
Anyway, I flipped the switch to the on position and was blessed to see some life in the radios. Quickly, I turned everything off that did not absolutely need to be on, which included the panic button. I thought I’d save it for when I really needed it. (As if I didn’t need it then.) Somehow I had lost both generators permanently, and I had only minimal battery power left in the old 310. So, there I was at cruise, in very congested airspace over Detroit, in a ghost ship, with a now-reduced fuel supply above a solid undercast with low IFR conditions reported everywhere I could reach-about an hour and a half of flying. As the last of the sun set beneath the clouds, only one activity seemed appropriate: I fished my cookies out of my pocket and ate them while waiting until I thought I was over Toledo.
After droning along for several minutes more, I estimated my flying time to To- ledo had expired, and I should be, at least, in the vicinity. I crossed my fingers and switched the emergency power back on. Transmitting on the Toledo tower frequency, I informed the controller of who I was, where I thought I was and what was happening. He answered that he already knew about me, had me on radar, and asked what my intentions were. Oh great, I thought. I’ll never live this down-if I live through it. I told him I needed to find some VFR airspace if possible, and if not, I needed to land at To- ledo. “Standby,” he said. “Well, not too long,” I fumed. I waited maybe 30 seconds before calling him again, because I had heard nothing. He didn’t respond. I transmitted a few more times with the same results. Recycling the switch and verifying the circuit breakers were on produced nothing either. I worked with it for a few minutes more while continuing on a southerly course; however, I knew I had lost the last bit of hope in the battery. I was on my own. And now it was almost dark with a forecast of claustrophobic blackness very soon.
I began to feel scared. I hadn’t up until then. Funny, the things you think about when you’re scared. I needed to think clearly and quickly. Time was running out, along with my gas and my options. Contrary to everything I had been taught to do in this type of emergency, I reversed course, away from my destination and alternate airports, neither of which I would ever reach, and headed back north. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do when I arrived north, but I was headed there anyway. I don’t know if it was due to curiosity or desperation, but I began to wonder if it was possible to use auxiliary tank fuel without the boost pumps. Like a new blue suit in a room full of white cats, I cautiously moved the right engine fuel selector to the “aux” position. NO, it isn’t possible! The 310 didn’t like doing that. Recovering quickly from the unusual attitude, I continued northbound-curiosity satisfied. There are times when free men simply must accept reality. And the reality that day was: I was never going to be able to find any runway, anywhere, I would exhaust my fuel in an hour or less, I couldn’t see a blessed thing, it was cold and I was alone. It was then that I wished I had found something else to do with my life. I also figured I’d better find something flat, very flat. Water! Lake Erie!
With my mathematical prowess, if I had intelligently utilized algebraic equations and triangulation vector estimates to fix my exact position, I would have ended up putting my finger on the map square in the middle of Kansas. And I didn’t have a Kansas City sectional chart. So, I employed my old standby method-I guessed. Estimating my position to be west of Lake Erie by at least 10 miles, I banked to the east, flew for about five minutes, and then began to descend. With my flashlight glaringly illuminating the instrument panel, I slowly let down through the fog. Within seconds I began collecting rime ice on the windscreen and wings, and, undoubtedly, on the pitot tube. I had to find clear air quickly, because I had no anti-ice protection at all. Too much ice on the machine would spell disaster.
Aware that the elevation of the lake was about 600 feet or so above sea level, I hoped to break out at maybe 1,000. In another few minutes, an increase in blackness density confirmed I was out of the clouds, and the ice, but I couldn’t tell how far above the waves I was. My altimeter indicated about 900 feet, but I had not received an accurate barometric pressure setting in over an hour, and it had been falling when I took off. I recited an old axiom I taught my students: “When flying from a high to a low, look out below.” Relieved to be out of the clouds, I turned the airplane to north, maintaining contact with the clouds, as best I could, just below the demarcation. I needed to stay as high as possible and still see the ground-if I ever found any.
But, at that moment, all I could determine was two differing shades of black ink. After what seemed like an eternity, two faint, bluish streetlights appeared ahead through the mist, although I couldn’t tell how far. With stunning suddenness, they loomed out of the fog on a farmhouse just below me. I could clearly see a tidy, curved brick sidewalk connecting the front porch to the driveway illuminated by the light as I flashed overhead. I was about 200 feet above the ground of Ontario, Canada, headed north at 170 mph (if the airspeed indicator was accurate), with approximately one half to three quarters of a mile visibility – I couldn’t confidently determine it. But, where in Ontario was I? How far east had I gone? I had no way of knowing. Hoping to find Windsor, I turned northwest, tree hopping all the way, praying there weren’t any radio towers taller than 200 feet ahead of me and thanking the Lord that everywhere in that section of Ontario was flat.
In just a few minutes I located Highway 401, the main arterial thoroughfare that connects Windsor and southwest Ontario with Ottawa and eastern Ontario, turned southwest to follow it, and let the trail of hundreds of automobile headlights lead me to a safe haven-Windsor. Almost immediately, I discovered that I was able to climb slightly – maybe 100 feet, and still see the ground as I flew closer to the city.
In just another few minutes, I stumbled upon the airport with its flashing runway approach lights stabbing out into the night. Overcome with excitement, I had never seen anything in my life so bright and beautiful. The sequenced “rabbit” strobes were running just off center of my course, and they had every light on the field turned up as bright as they could be. I shouted in exuberance: “They’re for me. They know I’m coming!” I raced across the field and circled the control tower, receiving an immediate green light to land. I don’t know if he saw my flashlight circling around the tower, but he could hear me. I considered having my future students practice performing turns around a point at 300 feet while hand-cranking the landing gear down. The shorter, VFR runway seemed to be the logical runway to use, because I had no way of knowing if the gear was locked, and I didn’t want to take the chance of it collapsing on the only IFR runway they had.
Rolling out on final, I noticed my flashlight was also quitting on me. I touched down a little fast from having no flaps, but the pavement was long enough. The gear held and I began to breathe again. It was over. I taxied the airplane to the ramp area beneath the tower and shut it down. I thought I heard the engines give a collective sigh of relief after the propellers stopped. In just about one minute a well-mannered young man in a dark police uniform approached the airplane and, with what sounded like a British accent, politely asked me if I was from Pontiac. “Yeah, I’m the one,” I volunteered in my Southern drawl.
“Very good. Your boss is on the phone, and he would like a word with you.” He turned smartly and disappeared into the gloomy darkness. I sat in silence as the gyros spun down, listening to the softness of the misty rain for a while. Funny, the things you think about in the rain.
