I was a bit apprehensive about starting this particular trip with 395 hours in my logbook. Since so many accidents happen to pilots with fewer than 400 hours, I felt that I was ripe for something to happen; little did I know how ripe I was.
My wife and I departed from the Sulphur (Oklahoma) Municipal Airport headed for Kimball (Nebraska) Municipal Airport. We stopped our Cessna Skylane in Oklahoma City to top off the tanks and update the weather along the route. Scattered thunderstorms were forecast; if it got really bad, the countryside was flat enough to set down almost anywhere. About 2.5 hours out of Oklahoma City, the sun started its descent below the western horizon. I had become a bit tired from dodging thunderstorms and had developed a nagging concern about fuel. I knew that I had enough to make it home with reserves, but for some reason I was concerned. I decided to land at Lakin, Kansas, to recheck my fuel, rest, relieve, and replot. After all, it would be pretty stupid to run out of fuel with so many fueling opportunities along my route. After taxiing to the ramp, I got out my trusty ruler to measure the fuel quantity. I determined that I had 2.5 hours of fuel remaining in the tanks. I replotted my course and determined that I had 1.5 hours to go.
"We have plenty of fuel," I told my wife as we headed back out to the airplane. We strapped in and blasted off into the dark, quiet Kansas night.
Burlington, Colorado, slipped under our wings within a minute of the anticipated time. "One hour to go and we'll be home," I said. We continued on, unaware of what was to happen.
A few minutes later, pointing to the fuel gauges — both resting on Empty — my wife asked, "Do we have enough gas?" I told her that one of the first lessons a pilot learns is not to trust the fuel gauges but that, to make her happy, I would switch the selector from Both to Right and burn off just the right tank. This should get us home, and we would still have the left tank remaining. Since that didn't cause the gauges to register any higher, she still wasn't too happy. Ten minutes later, the old Continental in the nose went from a constant drone to a whoosh, and then silence. I immediately switched to the left tank, and the engine resumed its droning. I called up flight service, explained my predicament, and said that I didn't know how much fuel remained. They attempted to give me a DF steer to the nearest airport. They also instructed me to squawk 7700 and contact Denver Center. I knew that if we landed safely, we were now in trouble because we had declared an emergency, and there would be a mountain of paperwork to wade though before we ever flew again. I contacted Center and told them about my situation. They vectored me to Akron, Colorado, and told me that it was 25 minutes away. About that time the engine went from its smooth drone to silence again. I told Center that this was it; we were going in.
All of my training, experience, and thinking about what I would do in this situation did not prepare me for the feeling of helplessness and discouragement in knowing that I was going to make an off-airport, dead-stick landing at night.
I trimmed for best glide, pulled the prop control back, and turned on the landing light. I might bend some aluminum, but the one thing I absolutely would not do was stall; that would be deadly.
"There's a light right below us," my wife said. I decided that there had to be a road somewhere near it, so I circled around and tried to keep the light in sight through the right window. When I thought that I was about 100 feet above the ground, I leveled out and looked as far ahead as I could, straining to see any kind of landmark. I said to myself, "I'm going to make the best full stall landing I have ever made and keep the nosewheel off the ground until I come to a complete stop." My biggest concern now was the possibility of the airplane's flipping over. The mains touched softly, the stall horn bleeped, and I kept the yoke in my belly. Twenty seconds later the airplane quit rolling in a field. I looked at my wife, she looked at me, and we both asked, "Are you all right?" The answer on both accounts was "yes."
After my legs quit shaking, I got out and surveyed the situation. The smell of fuel permeated the air. A quick look at the wings showed the left gas cap attached to the chain and sitting on top of the wing. Shining my flashlight toward the tail revealed gasoline stains all over the fuselage and empennage.
I had obviously not properly secured the cap at my last stop. I realized that if I had not stopped to check my fuel earlier, I would have made it home.
Lessons learned from this: 1. Fly the aircraft. 2. Always check the fuel caps for security, especially when tired. 3. Even if your passenger isn't certificated, use resource management. If your spouse has a significant amount of time and experience in the right seat, draw upon that person to notice things that you might not, especially at night and especially if you are tired. 4. Always check everything twice, to avoid hearing that deafening silence even once.
Michael Hand, AOPA 851976, of Cheyenne, Wyoming, is an engineer and private pilot who has accumulated 500 hours in 7 years of flying.
"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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