After spending four days in central and Southern California, I was ready to get myself and my 1967 Cessna 210G home to Parkside Airpark — near Battle Ground, Washington — from Van Nuys, California.
The trip was delayed by weather for an extra day, but I was able to leave the following morning. Upon reaching my second fuel stop in Red Bluff, California, after sunset, I received a weather update that encouraged me to spend the night rather than overfly mountains in the dark at altitudes above the freezing level. I figured that the storm system would pass overhead that night and I could depart for home with clear skies the next day.
But no such luck — I spent Wednesday and most of Thursday waiting around Red Bluff in rain and wind. It finally cleared up on Thursday a half-hour before sunset; but again, I wanted to fly over the mountains in daylight, so I waited.
On Friday, the weather looked better. I said goodbye to my new friends at the Red Bluff Flight Service Station and performed a careful preflight, including draining the fuel sumps. I didn't see any water in the fuel, although the airplane had now spent five days and nights in driving rainstorms.
As I climbed, the clouds were pushing me higher as I requested 14,000 feet, then 16,000, then Flight Level 180. Oakland Center said FL180 was not available and offered FL200, which is above the 210's service ceiling. Eventually, Center gave me a block altitude from 17,000 feet to FL190.
The 210 crawled to FL190, mostly IFR, but every once in a while, I saw a little blue sky above. The outside air temperature was minus 34 degrees Fahrenheit. I had just been switched over to Seattle Center and was about to ask to leave the frequency to have a chat with Flight Watch, when there was silence.
The engine stopped cold. No sputter, no needle fluctuations — it just stopped.
About then, I realized that this was a very bad situation and I might die. I thought, "Well, that's too bad; I have lots more I want to do before I die." Then I got busy and never thought about any of that again until after landing. I turned the autopilot off; I wasn't sure it would continue to get a good signal from the artificial horizon because of low suction from a windmilling engine. The controller said that the nearest airport was Trinity Center, eight miles away.
I tried everything I could think of to get the engine to run — throttle settings, propeller speeds, mixture, alternate air, fuel tanks, boost pump, and magnetos. Nothing had any impact on engine power. I adjusted the prop control to low pitch, hoping that the prop would windmill fast enough to produce adequate suction. I also turned on the standby vacuum system. As I descended through 8,000 feet, Center told me that I was over Trinity and just to circle there.
During my descent, some other pilots on the frequency suggested checking the mags and alternate air; then someone said maybe a fuel line had frozen and to be ready for a restart if it thaws. By then, I had mentally eliminated the possibility of a restart.
Descending through 3,800 feet, I saw the lakeshore near the airport. The engine coughed. I renewed my efforts to get the engine to run; and sure enough, it would make partial power. I could now maintain altitude at 3,500 feet. The airport elevation was 2,390 feet, but I could not see it. I continued to circle over the lake, still in and out of the clouds.
Then I saw it — I could even read "Trinity Center 122.9" through what looked like solid ice on the runway. Someone on the ground called and told me the runway was covered in slush that was four to six inches deep, but I didn't consider for more than a second going anywhere else. I made a smooth landing on the slush, which sprayed in all directions.
Ultimately, the cause of the problem seems to have been water or ice in the fuel. I believe the water, when it passed through a very cold part of the fuel system plumbing, began to form ice crystals that blocked the flow. The next day, I very carefully drained the sumps again. I got an eighth-ounce of water from each main tank, a quarter-ounce from each reservoir tank, and four ounces from the fuel strainer.
Obviously, I had some things in my favor. I knew the airplane well; I got great support from ATC, other pilots, and people on ground; and cruising at FL190 bought a lot more time and gliding range than I would have had at the 10,000-foot minimum en route altitude.
As much as I realize this incident ended happily, I could have done some things better (I could have left the autopilot on because it would have reduced work load, for example). I also learned that draining sumps is no guarantee of getting water out of the fuel.
Peter van Schoonhoven is a 2,250-hour private pilot with instrument and glider ratings. He also holds an A&P certificate.
"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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