Back in December 1970, two friends and I decided to leave chilly New England for Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. We loaded up our Piper Cherokee 180 and left Great Barrington (Massachusetts) Airport in the morning. After landing at Raleigh-Durham International, our second stop of the day, I took the opportunity to go to the flight service station to personally check the weather for the remainder of the trip, which would continue into the evening. The briefer said that a front had just passed through and that the rest of the trip should be in the clear with a bright moon above. With that good news, we decided to launch again.
We were given clearance to 8,000 feet. By the time we got up there, it was really dark with heavy rain. I was beginning to think that the briefer may have been mistaken. That was confirmed minutes later when ATC vectored me to the west around some strong thunderstorms. But hope springs eternal and I knew that the moon would pop out any second and the lights of the southeast would spread out before me.
After about the third vector around the storms that weren't supposed to be there, I glanced down at my airspeed indicator and saw that it was indicating only 85 mph. The tachometer read 2,500 rpm. Something was most definitely wrong. I asked Dave to hand me a flashlight so that I could check the wings for ice. I clicked the switch and nothing happened. With the beginnings of a knot forming in my stomach, I asked Dave for the second flashlight — not even a glimmer.
There was enough light from the cockpit lights to illuminate the temperature probe, and sure enough, it was covered with ice. I called Columbia (South Carolina) Approach and was cleared down to 6,000 feet, where I hoped that it would be warmer. Then the cockpit went black. I instinctively reached for the master switch and turned it off. What a fine predicament this was: solid IFR; a heavy load of ice; and now, no electrics. I was glad that one of my passengers smoked because I knew that he'd have matches. He lit one for me and, under the feeble light, I turned off every electric item. I then flicked the master back on. The ammeter was not showing a charge, but I hoped that there was some residual juice left in the battery. With a hopeful heart I powered up Com 1. It worked. I called Columbia and told them our situation.
The controller must have heard the tension in my voice because he declared an emergency for me. A Mooney was near us in the clear between layers down at 1,800 feet. I was cleared down to 1,600 and with match after match being lit, I kept the wings generally level. Finally popping into the clear, I spotted the Mooney's strobes about 5 miles away. I asked the Mooney pilot if I could follow him off his wing tip, explaining that I had many thousands of flying hours and wasn't likely to cause him any difficulty. His answer? "Get off the air."
By this time, Columbia had lost me on radar because of my altitude. So, not only did I not know where we were, the controller didn't either. At that point things were looking pretty grim. Things got more grim when Columbia said that they were below minimums. They checked around and radioed that Sumter (South Carolina) Municipal had a 600-foot ceiling with 3 miles visibility, so we headed there. About 5 minutes later Columbia picked us up on radar again.
We were vectored to Sumter and lined up with the northeast runway. We started down in the clouds, with my passenger lighting matches as fast as needed. At 600 feet, Columbia said that we should see the runway lights. But no matter how hard I stared into the darkness, there was nothing. I initiated a missed approach. I told Columbia that I was coming back and would try a radar approach because fuel was now getting low. Columbia advised that it was still below minimums, with visibility less than a quarter mile. We headed back scared, tired, and with eyes bloodshot from the match smoke.
Then a new voice came over the radio. It was a controller at Shaw Air Force Base who had been monitoring our conversation. He asked if I wanted to try to land at Shaw — which, although it had no better weather, was closer than Columbia.
"Yes," I replied. The Shaw controller vectored me and asked me about fuel. I guesstimated that we had 15 minutes' worth. He began procedures for a PAR (precision approach radar) approach, and I was told not to speak, but only to listen to his instructions. With the matches going again, we went down to 700 feet. I struggled to trust the instruments. Down at 400 feet, I was still in the soup. Suddenly I felt a lurch and I went below the assigned altitude. I looked down out of the corner of my right eye and saw my passenger's hand on the flap handle. He had thought, for some reason, that it was time to raise the flaps. With the controller warning me that I was too low, I snapped them back down.
With things back on track, sort of, and our altitude down to about 200 feet, that most welcome sight swirled out of the mist — high-intensity runway lights leading to a 10,000-foot runway. I told the controller that I had the runway in sight. As I landed, I noticed the rotating lights of at least a dozen fire and crash trucks lined up on either side of the runway.
When we got out, there were two military policemen with M-16s pointed toward us. A car pulled up and a colonel hopped out. The colonel told a maintenance man to climb into the airplane to check to see whether we had been telling the truth about the electrical problem. Strange to say, I was quite thankful when he informed the colonel that things were truly dead. He then checked the tanks and estimated that less than 5 minutes of fuel remained. At this point, the colonel became much friendlier and told us that we were the first civilian airplane to land at Shaw in anyone's memory. He then took us to meet the controller.
The next day we borrowed a few gallons of avgas and, after many thanks, flew in beautiful VFR weather to Sumter to fix the electrical system. The mechanic there said that the old 25-amp generator was completely burned out. When things go bad, they really go bad.
Since then I've learned to take weather briefings with a grain of salt and strived to prepare myself for unforecast weather. And, it's always important to check your equipment before launching into IFR conditions, especially at night. Also, trust those instruments — really!
Stanley Segalla, AOPA 097547, is a commercial pilot who has accumulated more than 18,000 hours since 1952, including thousands of hours performing his Flying Farmer aerobatic routine throughout the Northeast. He owns a Bellanca Super Decathlon and a Piper PA-11 Cub Special.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from the experiences of others. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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