"You just lost your engine. What are you going to do?" With that, the instructor reaches down and pulls the throttle to an idle, simulating an engine failure.
For such a simulation we are typically a couple thousand feet above the ground. There is plenty of time, and always plenty of altitude. There is no stress. I set up a glide and leisurely scan the earth for a suitable landing spot. There is always something - a private airstrip, a field of alfalfa, wheat, soybeans or, worst-case scenario: a cornfield. If all else fails, I am sure to locate a stretch of highway.
I glide toward my emergency destination until the instructor remarks, "That's good enough - you would have made it." We fly away - piece of cake.
I found the experience of a real-world engine failure to be far more, well, intimidating than the simulation.
The wheels left the earth as I climbed skyward. At treetop level, I noticed something perplexing: the airplane seemed to be losing power. I watched as the engine RPMs dropped from 2,400 to 2,300, to 2,200. She was struggling, clawing her way upwards. I felt irritated. Probably the carburetor needed adjustment. I groaned at the inconvenience of having to remove the cowling.
At 300 feet above the earth, the situation worsened. Engine RPMs dropped to an unsettling 1,700. I methodically checked the systems - fuel valves, carburetor, and magnetos - but could find nothing wrong. I banked the airplane back toward the airport. We were flying low and slow; it required great effort to maneuver the stricken bird.
I did not know it, but four feet in front of me, deep within the churning bowels of the engine, a pin the size of my finger was about to fail. It had slipped past the compression caps meant to hold it in place, spun, and worn to the point of shearing. I was not aware of any of this until the finger-sized pin finally let loose.
Barely 400 feet off the ground and flying dangerously close to the speed of stalling, the engine failed. A tremendous boom shook the aircraft, and foul-smelling black smoke filled the cockpit. For a few moments, I could not see forward, until the ink dissipated. RPMs dropped to a rough idle, the engine sounding as though it was ingesting gravel.
At that moment, I was overcome with a super-awareness of my surroundings. I did not panic. Decisions and thoughts that would normally require seconds to process were identified and analyzed almost instantaneously and with incredible clarity:
What do I do now? There is the airport. I must land at the airport. Do I radio for help? Preposterous - there is not a soul on earth who can help me right now. The engine is still running, albeit barely. I cannot climb, but I must maintain altitude. I looked at the airspeed indicator. The Fairchild will stall - i.e. cease to fly and become a brick - at any speed below 50 miles per hour. The indicator read 60 miles per hour. Good - I must maintain 60 miles per hour. Then, the one resounding thought: what the hell is going on?
All of this information was processed and analyzed within seconds, but I could not answer the last question. I scanned the gauges, and then scanned them again. Even as the engine let loose with another series of bangs, every gauge on the dash indicated normal operation. What the hell?
As my mind raced, my body acted out of habit, requiring no conscious input. I traveled parallel along the length of the runway, setting up a landing approach as I was conditioned to do.
A normal approach to a landing in the Fairchild is made from at least 800 feet above the ground, traveling 75 miles per hour. I was not 400 feet up, barely scratching along at 60 miles per hour. In order to make the runway, I would have to execute a low-speed, low-altitude 180-degree turn. The airstrip now behind me, I applied hard left rudder and left stick, rolling the old girl nearly onto her side. Then, I focused on the single most important input at my disposal: my airspeed.
In such a tight bank, any speed above 60 mph meant we were descending too rapidly. I would run out of altitude before I made the runway. Conversely, any speed below 60 mph meant I was approaching stall speed. The airplane would cease to fly and plummet like a rock. Like a hawk I watched that needle. It crept to 62, then 63. I pulled gently back on the stick. The needle stabilized and then fell to 60. Perfect. Even at this extreme attitude, I marveled at the precision of this flying machine - no further inputs were required.
It was also at this moment that I saw something I shall never forget as long as I live. Typically when I fly, I look for my shadow. On a sunny day, it is always there, skimming along, blotting out houses, cars, fields, and roadways - keeping up with my movements and impervious to terrain. Today was no different. Thanks to the midday sun and my horizontal position I could see it, directly beneath the pilot-side window.
The shadow was definitely that of the Fairchild - her arched back, rounded tail, and curved wings. Her landing gear hung deliberately, signature to the design of the airplane. The silhouette was perfect, as though cut from paper.
Only this time, black smoke billowed angrily out from the shadow, forming an evil contrail that ran from the belly, all the way to the upper end of the airport.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
For such a simulation we are typically a couple thousand feet above the ground. There is plenty of time, and always plenty of altitude. There is no stress. I set up a glide and leisurely scan the earth for a suitable landing spot. There is always something - a private airstrip, a field of alfalfa, wheat, soybeans or, worst-case scenario: a cornfield. If all else fails, I am sure to locate a stretch of highway.
I glide toward my emergency destination until the instructor remarks, "That's good enough - you would have made it." We fly away - piece of cake.
I found the experience of a real-world engine failure to be far more, well, intimidating than the simulation.
The wheels left the earth as I climbed skyward. At treetop level, I noticed something perplexing: the airplane seemed to be losing power. I watched as the engine RPMs dropped from 2,400 to 2,300, to 2,200. She was struggling, clawing her way upwards. I felt irritated. Probably the carburetor needed adjustment. I groaned at the inconvenience of having to remove the cowling.
At 300 feet above the earth, the situation worsened. Engine RPMs dropped to an unsettling 1,700. I methodically checked the systems - fuel valves, carburetor, and magnetos - but could find nothing wrong. I banked the airplane back toward the airport. We were flying low and slow; it required great effort to maneuver the stricken bird.
I did not know it, but four feet in front of me, deep within the churning bowels of the engine, a pin the size of my finger was about to fail. It had slipped past the compression caps meant to hold it in place, spun, and worn to the point of shearing. I was not aware of any of this until the finger-sized pin finally let loose.
Barely 400 feet off the ground and flying dangerously close to the speed of stalling, the engine failed. A tremendous boom shook the aircraft, and foul-smelling black smoke filled the cockpit. For a few moments, I could not see forward, until the ink dissipated. RPMs dropped to a rough idle, the engine sounding as though it was ingesting gravel.
At that moment, I was overcome with a super-awareness of my surroundings. I did not panic. Decisions and thoughts that would normally require seconds to process were identified and analyzed almost instantaneously and with incredible clarity:
What do I do now? There is the airport. I must land at the airport. Do I radio for help? Preposterous - there is not a soul on earth who can help me right now. The engine is still running, albeit barely. I cannot climb, but I must maintain altitude. I looked at the airspeed indicator. The Fairchild will stall - i.e. cease to fly and become a brick - at any speed below 50 miles per hour. The indicator read 60 miles per hour. Good - I must maintain 60 miles per hour. Then, the one resounding thought: what the hell is going on?
All of this information was processed and analyzed within seconds, but I could not answer the last question. I scanned the gauges, and then scanned them again. Even as the engine let loose with another series of bangs, every gauge on the dash indicated normal operation. What the hell?
As my mind raced, my body acted out of habit, requiring no conscious input. I traveled parallel along the length of the runway, setting up a landing approach as I was conditioned to do.
A normal approach to a landing in the Fairchild is made from at least 800 feet above the ground, traveling 75 miles per hour. I was not 400 feet up, barely scratching along at 60 miles per hour. In order to make the runway, I would have to execute a low-speed, low-altitude 180-degree turn. The airstrip now behind me, I applied hard left rudder and left stick, rolling the old girl nearly onto her side. Then, I focused on the single most important input at my disposal: my airspeed.
In such a tight bank, any speed above 60 mph meant we were descending too rapidly. I would run out of altitude before I made the runway. Conversely, any speed below 60 mph meant I was approaching stall speed. The airplane would cease to fly and plummet like a rock. Like a hawk I watched that needle. It crept to 62, then 63. I pulled gently back on the stick. The needle stabilized and then fell to 60. Perfect. Even at this extreme attitude, I marveled at the precision of this flying machine - no further inputs were required.
It was also at this moment that I saw something I shall never forget as long as I live. Typically when I fly, I look for my shadow. On a sunny day, it is always there, skimming along, blotting out houses, cars, fields, and roadways - keeping up with my movements and impervious to terrain. Today was no different. Thanks to the midday sun and my horizontal position I could see it, directly beneath the pilot-side window.
The shadow was definitely that of the Fairchild - her arched back, rounded tail, and curved wings. Her landing gear hung deliberately, signature to the design of the airplane. The silhouette was perfect, as though cut from paper.
Only this time, black smoke billowed angrily out from the shadow, forming an evil contrail that ran from the belly, all the way to the upper end of the airport.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
