Although my nose dribbled blood, it was in reality my pride that was injured. Both my pride and joy�a Piper Cub�and my personal pride as a pilot were now in need of repair. Fortunately, onlookers taking photos of my Cub upside down on the tundra could not photograph my damaged ego. Or could they?
Weather, engine problems, and poorly performing floats were co-conspirators in the incident. For several weeks, my tachometer had been telling me that the engine was not wrapping up to redline. It was about 100 rpm short, but summer float season was here, and I did not want to miss any of the Alaska flying that I loved most. As rarely happens, it was warm, with little wind during these weeks. The floats on the 125-horsepower Cub were an old fiberglass design that had not been produced in years, probably because they were such poor performers. Considering these facts, I had felt that my takeoffs on the 900-foot pond were about as robust as they had always been. Thus, the rpm loss must have been due to an old tach, atmospheric conditions, or some unknown and insignificant black magic, I rationalized.
But being as chicken as I felt a bush pilot could be, I did consult a local mechanic. Actually, I talked to several mechanics. They worked for charter services, making it impossible for them to do private work. Because it was commercial fishing season, my regular mechanic had, like half the town, gone fishing for the month. I pondered all the hints I was given, even those from fellow non-mechanic pilots to whom I complained. The oil was changed and the oil screen examined for metal. Mags were checked for timing. Compression was checked. Spark plugs and wiring harness were replaced with new ones. The carburetor was rebuilt in Anchorage. And on and on�nothing I did corrected the rpm loss.
At about the same time, my father-in-law flew up from Tennessee to visit. He had neither flown with me nor in a small airplane in the bush. It was a moral imperative that I take him up — at least it was in my mind. Yet I left him on the ground as I tested repair after repair, worried as I was about the rpm problem. But his departure date was approaching, and I decided that I had only been dealing with a case of tach black magic. It was time for me to show my father-in-law the glories of flying in the remote Alaskan wilderness.
On yet another warm, calm summer afternoon we loaded up and taxied into position. After a normal runup, I positioned the airplane as close as I could to the edge of the pond, retracted the water rudder, and started my run. The tach gave its usual 100-rpm-low indication. We lumbered into the air after breaking the water, but then the Cub started back down. It was clear that when the floats touched down again, they would not be on water. The first thing they hit was the only stump within 100 feet. We ended up unhurt but unceremoniously hanging upside down from the seat belts, thoroughly disoriented. As I helped him unfasten his seat belt, he fell on his head — and onto me — sustaining his only injury.
After a call to the FAA, I enlisted the help of a sympathetic friend to haul my broken Cub, piece by piece, to the equivalent of a halfway house for airplanes. The following winter I spent all my time and money to rehab it. After rebuilding the engine — among other things — I was ready for a test flight by early spring. First, of course, I did an engine runup. Now I had a 300-rpm loss�too much black magic for a mortal man to endure.
"Did you check the baffles?" asked my mechanic later that day. A flashlight up the tailpipe illuminated my black magic. The baffle probably had been only warped the previous year, but now it was lying disconnected, obstructing the exhaust outlet. Now the remedy was obvious, and with a new muffler in place, the tach again indicated full rpm. I began to realize that the only black magic affecting instruments and airplanes lies in the interpretation and reaction of the pilot.
Charles D. Layman, a physician in Wasilla, Alaska, owns a Cessna 180 which he operates on skis, floats, and wheels in support of his hunting, fishing, and camping trips. He has accumulated 1,600 flight hours and is instrument and seaplane rated.
"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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