Pilotage

That old saw about the skies being populated by two kinds of pilots, those who have landed gear up and those who will — well, I don't buy it. I think it is far more likely that if a pilot is ever going to have a serious problem of his or her own making, it is going to involve fuel, not the landing gear. Starving the engine of fuel, either by flying the tanks dry or not switching from an empty tank to one that has fuel in it, is a stupid reason to have a forced landing, but it is a mighty popular reason.

Fuel is the only critical-to-flight component on the airplane that, in the words of the Coneheads, is consumed in mass quantities. The engine may burn or throw a bit of oil, and the mechanical parts may experience a tiny amount of wear. Fuel, on the other hand, disappears quickly. The chances are minuscule that you'll ever have to make a deadstick landing because of a mechanical problem. But every time you take off, there is a 100 percent chance of the engine's sputtering to a stop if you stay up one second longer than your fuel endurance. A lot of pilots have played chicken with the fuel clock. Every one of them has lost.

On a recent day-long flight from the middle of the country to the southeastern tip, I listened to two separate fuel emergencies. The first occurred at 8:30 in the morning as we approached the Mississippi River eastbound. The pilot of a Beech Baron reported to the Kansas City Center controller that he was declaring a fuel emergency and would enjoy some steering recommendations to the nearest airport. His voice was calm. I figured he was working hard to make it sound that way.

The controller, who also maintained his composure, immediately offered a vector to a general aviation field just over the Illinois border, about 10 miles from the Baron's position. A few long minutes later, the Baron pilot reported the field in sight and switched over to the Unicom frequency. Nothing more was heard from him. A few minutes later we crossed just south of the airport, so I called unicom to make sure the Baron had landed safely. The attendant reported the airplane was parked on the ramp. The K.C. controller thanked me for the report and said he had already telephoned the airport.

Shortly after nightfall, north of Louisville, a second, more serious situation unfolded on the frequency. The pilot of a Beech Sundowner greeted the Indianapolis Center controller with the news that he was lost. He estimated he was somewhere near the NABB VOR but it was off the air (indeed, my FSS briefing included that notam) and he had become disoriented. The pilot added, almost nonchalantly, that he was low on fuel, too. I don't think I would have been as matter-of-fact as that fellow, given his situation: lost at night over sparsely inhabited, forested terrain and low on fuel.

The controller assigned the pilot a squawk code; and when he appeared on her scope, she issued him a vector toward an airport. A few minutes later she reported that the airplane had flown off the scope. The pilot didn't respond; the controller tried again. Finally the pilot called back and was given a southerly vector to bring the airplane back into radar view. That worked; the controller was able to vector the pilot toward an airport, and a few long minutes later the pilot reported it in sight. Happy ending number two for the day.

(The day was not over yet, though. Later that night my casual three-way conversation with an Orlando controller and a Lear 60 pilot came to an abrupt end. The controller quickly signed off with the news that he had to help handle a situation involving a pilot making an instrument approach through clouds with an inoperative alternator. At least there was no mention of low fuel.)

It is easy to criticize a pilot who has a fuel emergency, because it is so ridiculously easy to avoid one: land before the fuel runs low. But before throwing stones, take a look in the mirror. Like former smokers, holier-than-thou fuel evangelists may have acquired their religion the hard way — by having a fuel emergency or two of their own. I'll bet that most pilots have had a fuel-related scare at some point in their flying experience.

I will admit to at least one. It occurred not long after I bought my Cessna Skyhawk. I had made several long flights in the airplane, including a California-to-Maryland adventure to take it to its new home. That experience showed that at higher altitudes — I flew at 11,000 feet and above for most of the trans-continental jaunt — actual fuel consumption matched the performance specifications in the pilot's operating handbook reasonably well.

I got my comeuppance on a trip from Cape Cod to Maryland, flown much of the way at a sightseeing-rich 1,000 feet above the ground. Halfway there I began to squirm. The two little needles on the fuel gauges were plunging toward the big E at an alarming rate. No way, I thought. The book says the engine should be using fuel at the rate of about eight gph. I figured to have just short of five hours of flying before the tanks would run dry, and this trip should take only three hours. About 20 minutes from home I was sweating. The fuel gauges were perilously close to the Empty marks, but I refused to believe them. The engine could not be drinking this much fuel.

I made it, but not without a great deal of anguish. I watched the refueling with obvious interest, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when the meter stopped at 30 gallons. Despite what the gauges were reporting, I had landed with about 45 minutes worth of fuel still aboard. The bad news was the trip revealed that my Skyhawk burns an inordinate amount of fuel at low altitude and high power — some two gallons more an hour than book. I was glad I hadn't planned a four-hour flight, because I would have landed short of my destination — with or without engine power.

I learned three lessons that day: Never believe the fuel gauges (how many times have we been told that?); if you are at all unsure of how much fuel remains in the tanks, land and put in more; and, finally, don't rely on handbook performance figures. Find out for yourself what fuel consumption and true airspeed are in actual conditions, at various altitudes and temperatures. Only then can you make accurate endurance and range estimates.

That approach has served me well in subsequent airplanes, including a Beech Bonanza fitted with tip tanks. The tip tanks add about 38 gallons to the Bonanza's standard 74-gallon fuel capacity, turning it into a true long-range aircraft. However, it takes a lot more care to manage the fuel. The stuff in the tip tanks cannot be used until the left tank has been drawn down. When I do switch to the tips, some of the fuel feeds the engine, some is returned to the left tank. That screws up my timing on the left tank. On top of that, the gauges are woefully inaccurate (but I know better than to give them any credence).

The only way I have been able to develop confidence in the Bonanza's fuel system is with experience: fly the airplane to find out exactly how much fuel it burns at various altitudes and power settings, then carefully time my flights. I've gotten pretty good at betting line attendants exactly how much fuel they will be able to pump into the tanks after long flights. I figure that's a lot more fun than trying to calculate gliding distance with a silent engine and a windmilling prop.