After an evening flight in our Piper Twin Comanche, from Fayetteville, Arkansas, to Little Rock, my son failed to turn off the master switch and I failed to check behind him.
Four days later, I had to deliver a passenger to Memphis. The late-night preflight inspection quickly showed a dead battery. The lineman brought his cables, borrowed my flashlight, removed the panel behind the baggage compartment, and soon both propellers were turning.
Enroute to Memphis, the weather briefing called for a 200-foot ceiling, one-half mile visibility, and very heavy snow. Soon, we were cleared for the ILS approach.
In order to maintain the glideslope, I reduced power. With that reduction of power, the landing lights dimmed. Just then, the glideslope's red flag jumped into view. "Memphis Approach, Zero One Yankee just lost the glideslope," I said.
"No problem — I'll just step you down with altitude information every one-half mile," the controller replied.
With about three inches of snow on the runway, the landing was short, quiet, and eerie. The visibility was now reported as three-eighths of a mile.
I knew I couldn't shut down the engines and expect them to start. I turned the tail toward the terminal, reduced to idle power, and gave my passenger a lecture on walking directly past the tail to the terminal. Visibility is now reported as a quarter mile with a zero ceiling.
Only the glow from the snow-covered runway lights defined the runway edge. Plowing through three or four inches of snow added to the takeoff roll. As I passed through 75 to 80 miles per hour, the snow flew away in clouds and clumps. As soon as I broke ground, I was on the gauges. With a positive rate of climb established, and only 10 feet above the runway, I raised the gear.
After the gear retracted, everything went black: a complete electrical failure. The instrument panel disappeared. My brain whirled. I was scared, but I did not panic.
My mentors had taught me that, for night flight, flashlight at hand: not in the glove box, not in the back seat pocket, not in the flight case, but at hand. They also taught me to position it so that when I picked it up, my thumb was already on the switch. In no more than two seconds, my flashlight illuminated the instrument panel.
I was airborne in a black hole with no radio, no transponder, no navigation ability, no lights inside or out, and no turn-and-bank indicator. I did have the other five flight instruments, three in the pitot-static system plus the attitude and directional gyros.
I climbed to my assigned altitude of 6,000 feet, turned to a heading that would capture the airway, and tried to think how to solve my problems.
I moved the gear switch in such a way as to balance it on the edge between up and down. The electrics came back on, and I continued on toward Little Rock.
About 30 miles from Little Rock, I flew out of the snow with bright stars above and extraordinary visibility. Next, I knew I had to figure out a way to lower the gear at Little Rock. I positioned the switch down. Everything went black again. Back to the trusty flashlight. I balanced the gear switch between up and down again. The lights came back on.
I then went through the emergency gear-extension procedure once, twice, three times. The gear was absolutely locked in the up position. Each time, I pushed with great force on the emergency handle until I thought it was ready to break.
In desperation, I got the unicom operator to call my mechanic and wake him. My mechanic drove to the airport, got on the unicom, and gave me some additional tips.
"Seat back straight up, both feet planted firmly on the rudder pedals, both hands on the emergency gear extender lever, and push with all your might as you trip the gear-down switch," he said. I followed through. Instant success. Three in the green. The landing was uneventful.
Here's the analysis: The whole problem started with the master switch being left on. After four days, the battery was stone dead. I was running directly off the generators and not the battery. It takes eight volts, on that 14-volt system, to close the relay that would cause the battery to charge. That is why the landing lights dimmed on the ILS approach when the throttles were first reduced.
Taxiing and taking off in the deep snow threw snow into the wheel wells. When the gear was retracted, it froze into the packed snow of the wheel wells and prevented complete gear retraction. The gear motor continued to run, or tried to. The resulting electrical load, directly off the generators, caused a temporary electrical failure. Only when I balanced the switch in the intermediate position between up and down would the gear pump stop trying to run. The emergency gear extension lever first had to break loose all of the ice that froze the landing gear to the frame.
I am eternally grateful for superior flight instructors who taught such tips as having a flashlight at hand and positioned for the thumb to be on the switch at first contact. Who would ever think such a little thing would be so important? Perhaps at 10 feet above the runway, with no instrument panel in sight, I only had a few seconds to find a flashlight. At the time, I didn't know about the electrical system requirement for having at least eight volts on the battery before the generators could charge it. And surely, I should have shut the engines down in Memphis, sorted out all of my problems the next morning with a mechanic, and then had a pleasant trip home.
Good judgment comes from experience. But, alas, experience frequently comes from bad judgment.
Jack L. Parnell is an FAA designated examiner in Tennessee who has been flying for 51 years and has accumulated more than 17,000 hours. He is checked out in 108 types of aircraft from Piper Cubs to Beech King Airs.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from others' experiences. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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