Never Again

It was cold and snowing hard as my sister and I departed IFR from Rochester, Minnesota, on an afternoon flight to Nebraska in my Beech Baron.

After a tense week at the Mayo Clinic with our father and seriously ill mother, Linda and I were tired and anxious to get home in spite of the late hour and lousy weather. Rochester was 600 overcast/one- half mile in blowing snow; a Piper Cheyenne heading west had just called the tops at 8,000 feet and reported minor rime accumulation during climb- out. There were no other pireps or flight precautions along the route except the standard FAA warning for possible icing in the clouds. The Baron had deicing boots.

The ceilings were higher and snow coverage lighter across Iowa and into Nebraska. Grand Island Regional, 15 miles west of our destination airport (Aurora, Nebraska), was marginal VFR; its terminal forecast called for lower ceilings and reduced visibility by early evening — not good, but not bad enough to force a no-go in the trusty 1970 Baron E55. I filed to Aurora with Grand Island as the alternate.

Mentally prepared by the briefing for an easy flight on top, I was surprised to still be in solid IMC after we joined V161 and leveled at 10,000 feet, but the wings were dry, the ride smooth, and the groundspeed better than expected; I chose to stay put. I asked my nonpilot sister to watch the right wing for "frost," then settled back to monitor the gauges and help the black boxes navigate.

As we turned direct to Fort Dodge VOR 20 minutes later, rime began to build steadily on the wings. The windshield was soon glazed over, and I noted that indicated airspeed was down a few knots as the autopilot maintained altitude. I called Center to report the ice and ask for 12,000 feet, hoping to break out into what was left of a winter afternoon's sun before the problem became serious. The Minneapolis controller said to expect a five-minute delay for traffic above; she added that the radar was painting no precip in our area. Before I could acknowledge her transmission, we flew into freezing rain or sleet.

The sudden noise of precipitation pounding the fuselage was almost overwhelming. In a few seconds, clear ice was accumulating everywhere. I had studied and discussed the icing problem thoroughly over the years, but somehow I wasn't quite sure what to do right now. The unfamiliar sound of propeller ice slamming into the nose finally drove me to action.

I activated the prop alcohol (too late?), waited a few seconds for the wing ice to thicken adequately, then inflated the boots for the first time ever in flight. Most of the leading edge ice broke off into the slipstream as expected, but a lot stayed attached farther back, and the IAS went down a few more knots.

I asked Center for 8,000 feet and started down, reasoning that I was at least taking some evasive action while regaining lost airspeed and protecting my underside. I cycled the boots and fed the props more alcohol intermittently on the way down, but if anything, the ice accumulated faster as we descended into slightly warmer air. Linda was very quiet now, correctly assuming that I had my hands full. It was about to get worse.

As we passed through 9,000 feet, I felt a severe vibration and sensed a slight yaw to the left. Logic told me that the left engine was failing, but a quick scan of the gauges only confused me. Manifold pressure and exhaust gas temperature were both down slightly on the left; rpm, oil temperature and pressure, fuel flow, and cylinder head temperature were normal on both sides. What did that mean? Was I really losing my left (critical) engine, or was the problem just loss of prop thrust and balance secondary to uneven ice buildup?

Minor mixture and rpm variation and more prop alcohol didn't help; neither did changing fuel tanks. Only 30 seconds had passed, but the vibration was worse. My sister was terrified, and I knew it was time to do something in spite of the fear and confusion that suddenly gripped me.

I disabled the autopilot, stopped our descent, and concentrated on the flight instruments like never before. Right rudder was definitely required to hold heading, so I rolled 5 degrees to the right and trimmed the pressures away. I was sure now that the left engine was losing power for some reason and decided reluctantly to feather the prop and secure the engine to reduce drag and stop the terrible shaking.

As I reached for the left throttle to verify the failure, the other engine abruptly began to miss and vibrate badly. Manifold pressure and rpm dropped on both sides, and the airplane lurched crazily. Panic swept over me in waves, and I suddenly felt very tired and alone. My situational awareness deteriorated almost as fast as our airspeed. I struggled to interpret the panel, level the wings, and keep the airplane flying. I tried frantically to understand what was happening; the panic and confusion led to more delay and inaction.

Instinct and fear of the stall finally took over as the nearly windmilling props bled IAS down to blueline. I shoved all the levers forward (why?), pushed the nose down firmly, and punched the proper buttons on the Northstar loran to get me to the nearest runway.

As the altimeter unwound, I desperately ran the sequence of events through my spinning brain one more time. Suddenly the proverbial light bulb exploded, and the solution hit me with absolute clarity — it had to be induction icing. I cursed my stupidity briefly, then reached for the pedestal levers and selected alternate air; 15 long seconds later, both IO-520s were throbbing smoothly at 2,600 rpm as if nothing had happened. We had power again.

I climbed slowly back to 8,000 feet, turned toward the course, and tried to reassess. We were carrying a significant load of ice in solid IMC, and we had a long way to go in the gathering darkness, but the engines were running well, we had plenty of fuel and isopropyl, and we were headed for better weather or at least higher ceilings. No more ice was accumulating, and airspeed was stable, though well below normal. I explained all this to my sister, then called Center. A new controller expressed concern for our condition and advised that the nearest airport (Austin, Minnesota) was only 25 miles away and ILS equipped, but it was also down to 400/one-half and back the wrong way (toward the ice), so I decided to press on.

We were still level at 8,000 feet in solid IMC an hour later when the stall warning suddenly blared at full intensity. Without even a glance at the panel, I again disarmed the autopilot, shoved the power levers all the way up, and pushed the nose down sharply. The horn continued to blast away, but the airspeed indicator, vertical speed indicator, and altimeter reacted normally to the dive; the engines sounded fine; and there were no signs of impending stall. I called Center one more time and continued on down to 6,000 feet, where it gradually dawned on me that the stall vane must have frozen up. The ice lights did show a little more buildup on the wings and seemed to add credibility to that diagnosis. Feeling like a seasoned veteran now, I calmly pulled the appropriate breaker to kill the aural warning and tracked V138 on into Nebraska with no further excitement.

We broke out between layers just west of Omaha, and I managed to deice part of the lower-left windshield. Because of the ice load, I decided to bypass a familiar nonprecision approach into Aurora in favor of an easy partial-flaps ILS to the longest runway at Grand Island well after dark. As we taxied toward the FBO, I moved the induction levers back to the normal (filtered) position, and both engines began to sputter.

It took an hour to deice the airplane. The intake screens on top of the cowlings were packed with ice and snow; the stall vane was frozen in the up position. The nose, wing roots, and other unprotected areas were covered with more than 2 inches of mixed ice and fresh snow. Both props sported unicorn horns of ice out in front of the spinners; all six blades and various antennas were coated with a thin veneer of clear ice. The Baron appeared none the worse for wear: I stopped to kiss her goodnight (right on the nose) before heading home in a borrowed car.

On the way back to Aurora, my sister expressed great confidence in my judgment and piloting skills, but inside, I knew that the quality, stability, and redundancy engineered into the Baron deserved most of the credit. I relearned several things that day:

1. Never underestimate the dangers of ice, the pull of get-home-itis, or the negative effects of panic and fatigue.
2. Be ready to change your course, altitude, or basic plan if significant icing is encountered, even if it means turning off-airway or back 180 degrees. Be ready to barter with ATC, declare an emergency, or head for visual conditions if they exist.
3. Know your aircraft's systems, including the alternate air system, and emergency (especially engine-out) procedures well.
4. Value your instincts, but put your faith in knowledge, logic, planning, and frequent, meaningful practice.

Burton L. Thomsen, AOPA 884987, is an instrument-rated private pilot with more than 1,400 hours. He now flies a Pitts S-2B.

"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.