It sounds strange, but it wasn't until I saw that evil, broiling line of smoke that I realized something was seriously wrong.
I had the dying airplane banked onto its side and was executing a low and slow 180-degree turn toward the runway. I was intent on my airspeed - it had to remain at 60 miles per hour. Any faster meant we were descending too rapidly. Any slower, and the aircraft would stall.
I took a microsecond break from monitoring the airspeed indicator to glance out the pilot-side window. The midday sun, coupled with my horizontal attitude placed the shadow of the airplane perfectly in my line of sight. That's when I saw it - a great contrail belching out from the engine and stretching clear to the upper end of the airport. In utter juxtaposition to the drama unfolding, I muttered a simplistic, "Huh - I guess something is wrong."
I noticed something else about my shadow: It was growing larger.
I knew I was descending. The big, heavy, slow Fairchild simply could not execute such a turn with the engine at idle and still maintain altitude. My eyes swept over the Vertical Airspeed Indicator. The gauge read negative 400 feet per minute. This meant I was going to impact the earth in less than 30 seconds, ready or not.
There - the runway was now dead ahead. In one fluid movement, I released left rudder, moved the stick center, and pulled back gently to arrest our descent. The airplane leveled; the engine continued to run at a rough, coughing idle. We had completed the turn and were now on final approach.
Things were moving fast. In my peripheral vision, I caught sight of a power line, treetops, silo and barn roof zipping past beneath the landing gear, followed by a blur of cornrows. Amazing how much faster 60 miles per hour seemed, the closer to the ground I got.
I focused my attention forward. Ahead were a ditch and a barbed-wire fence. Then, my salvation - the runway. All I had to do was coast in for a nice smooth landing, but wait - my heart skipped a beat - we were low. That 180-degree turn, although necessary, had cost too much altitude. I was already easing the stick back, trying to maintain altitude.
The controls were beginning to feel mushy. I could sense the tail starting to drop. As the aircraft began to flare, we lost airspeed geometrically. I glanced at the airspeed indicator, knowing before I looked that it would be low. It read 53 miles per hour. The feel of the controls alone told me that we were about to stall. The Fairchild would flop into the cornfield and slam into the ditch. The runway may as well have been a mile away.
At that moment without thinking, I utilized the only option at my disposal. I reached down, grabbed the throttle, gritted my teeth, and expecting the worst, pushed it full forward.
The engine coughed, sputtered, hesitated, but did precisely what I needed it to do at that nanosecond. The dying machine gave me 200 more RPMs. The burst of power lifted the tail, killing the flair and leveling the airplane. Out of my peripheral and inches beneath the landing gear, I saw end rows, a ditch, and a barbed wire fence shoot past, followed by mowed grass. A split second later, a painted marker indicated that we had made it.
With power to idle, the old girl instantly wallowed. She dipped her tail, having been drug panting and gasping across the finish line. I eased the stick back, feeling for the earth. There - the tailwheel and two mains touched down simultaneously. I had just executed the softest, most beautiful landing of my career. I almost wished that a group of people had been there to witness it.
In one fell swoop, I turned off the fuel valves, engine, electrical system, and leaned the carburetor. Out front, the propeller windmilled roughly to a halt, even as the airplane bounced softly down the runway, powered by nothing more than momentum.
At the opposite threshold I applied slight right rudder. Using the last of her impetus, she turned off the runway and slowed to a standstill.
Absolute silence. Until that moment, I was unaware of how noisy my world had been. I sat in the cockpit, not really sure of what to do next. So, I sat there and analyzed my thoughts.
I felt no emotion, except perfect calm. I was overcome by sense of peace and tranquility, such that I have never known before or since. I reached up to remove my headset. As I placed it on the passenger seat, I noticed it shook in my hand. This, along with a heart beating like a jackhammer in my chest, was the only indication that something traumatic had just transpired.
The Directional Gyro of the airplane whirred to a halt. I cracked open the door. A cool summer breeze kissed my ear and rustled the leaves of an oak tree. A bird sang a heavenly tune. I sat in the airplane for quite some time, just to soak in the serenity.
Before I finally did climb out, I checked the flight timer. From the moment the engine first let loose to the time I shut it off on landing - less than two minutes.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
I had the dying airplane banked onto its side and was executing a low and slow 180-degree turn toward the runway. I was intent on my airspeed - it had to remain at 60 miles per hour. Any faster meant we were descending too rapidly. Any slower, and the aircraft would stall.
I took a microsecond break from monitoring the airspeed indicator to glance out the pilot-side window. The midday sun, coupled with my horizontal attitude placed the shadow of the airplane perfectly in my line of sight. That's when I saw it - a great contrail belching out from the engine and stretching clear to the upper end of the airport. In utter juxtaposition to the drama unfolding, I muttered a simplistic, "Huh - I guess something is wrong."
I noticed something else about my shadow: It was growing larger.
I knew I was descending. The big, heavy, slow Fairchild simply could not execute such a turn with the engine at idle and still maintain altitude. My eyes swept over the Vertical Airspeed Indicator. The gauge read negative 400 feet per minute. This meant I was going to impact the earth in less than 30 seconds, ready or not.
There - the runway was now dead ahead. In one fluid movement, I released left rudder, moved the stick center, and pulled back gently to arrest our descent. The airplane leveled; the engine continued to run at a rough, coughing idle. We had completed the turn and were now on final approach.
Things were moving fast. In my peripheral vision, I caught sight of a power line, treetops, silo and barn roof zipping past beneath the landing gear, followed by a blur of cornrows. Amazing how much faster 60 miles per hour seemed, the closer to the ground I got.
I focused my attention forward. Ahead were a ditch and a barbed-wire fence. Then, my salvation - the runway. All I had to do was coast in for a nice smooth landing, but wait - my heart skipped a beat - we were low. That 180-degree turn, although necessary, had cost too much altitude. I was already easing the stick back, trying to maintain altitude.
The controls were beginning to feel mushy. I could sense the tail starting to drop. As the aircraft began to flare, we lost airspeed geometrically. I glanced at the airspeed indicator, knowing before I looked that it would be low. It read 53 miles per hour. The feel of the controls alone told me that we were about to stall. The Fairchild would flop into the cornfield and slam into the ditch. The runway may as well have been a mile away.
At that moment without thinking, I utilized the only option at my disposal. I reached down, grabbed the throttle, gritted my teeth, and expecting the worst, pushed it full forward.
The engine coughed, sputtered, hesitated, but did precisely what I needed it to do at that nanosecond. The dying machine gave me 200 more RPMs. The burst of power lifted the tail, killing the flair and leveling the airplane. Out of my peripheral and inches beneath the landing gear, I saw end rows, a ditch, and a barbed wire fence shoot past, followed by mowed grass. A split second later, a painted marker indicated that we had made it.
With power to idle, the old girl instantly wallowed. She dipped her tail, having been drug panting and gasping across the finish line. I eased the stick back, feeling for the earth. There - the tailwheel and two mains touched down simultaneously. I had just executed the softest, most beautiful landing of my career. I almost wished that a group of people had been there to witness it.
In one fell swoop, I turned off the fuel valves, engine, electrical system, and leaned the carburetor. Out front, the propeller windmilled roughly to a halt, even as the airplane bounced softly down the runway, powered by nothing more than momentum.
At the opposite threshold I applied slight right rudder. Using the last of her impetus, she turned off the runway and slowed to a standstill.
Absolute silence. Until that moment, I was unaware of how noisy my world had been. I sat in the cockpit, not really sure of what to do next. So, I sat there and analyzed my thoughts.
I felt no emotion, except perfect calm. I was overcome by sense of peace and tranquility, such that I have never known before or since. I reached up to remove my headset. As I placed it on the passenger seat, I noticed it shook in my hand. This, along with a heart beating like a jackhammer in my chest, was the only indication that something traumatic had just transpired.
The Directional Gyro of the airplane whirred to a halt. I cracked open the door. A cool summer breeze kissed my ear and rustled the leaves of an oak tree. A bird sang a heavenly tune. I sat in the airplane for quite some time, just to soak in the serenity.
Before I finally did climb out, I checked the flight timer. From the moment the engine first let loose to the time I shut it off on landing - less than two minutes.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
