I'm flying my Mooney 201 at 11,000 feet, just south of Medford, Oregon, en route from Seattle to my home in the San Francisco Bay area. I'm on top of a stratus layer, the air is calm, and the engine is purring like a kitten. I've spent a lot of time on this route, much of it IFR.
The preflight weather briefing predicted no major weather systems and the same conditions that I'm experiencing. But as I proceed southbound toward the Siskayou Mountains that span the California-Oregon border, the tops of the clouds begin to rise. To avoid icing, I request and am assigned a cruise altitude of 13,000 feet. As I'm passing Fort Jones, the tops are still rising, and I climb to 15,000 feet, where the outside air temperature (OAT) is minus 16 degrees Celsius.
The tops continue on up, and I'm nearing the service ceiling for the Mooney, with the OAT still in the icing zone. Since conditions are beginning to differ significantly from my weather briefing, I contact the nearest flight service station (FSS) for an update. There are few reporting stations in this mountainous area, and FSS reports nothing remarkable. The center controller, as well, says that there have been no complaints from the few other pilots in the area and that he isn't depicting any weather.
At this altitude, I ask for and am cleared direct to my home field. As I roll out on the new heading, the engine begins to run rough. Engine rpm jumps wildly and EGT goes off the top of the scale. I run through the checklist — mixture, fuel pump, switch tanks, check magnetos — but nothing helps. I ask center for vectors to the nearest airport and am offered the choice of Trinity Center or Redding Municipal, both of which are in northern California. I opt for Redding, given the more-friendly terrain surrounding it and the multiple IFR approaches that serve it. I notice that the fuel flow gauge is not changing with the oscillating engine speed and is reading about 30 percent lower than it should be. Considering this and the high EGT reading, I conclude that I have ice in the fuel system and need to reduce power to correspond to the fuel flow. At about 2,150 rpm (and maximum manifold pressure for that altitude), the engine smoothes out.
I've already lost 1,200 feet of altitude and continue to descend slowly. I calculate that if the engine can remain at this power setting for at least 10 more minutes, I'll be able to clear the mountains and land at Redding with some margin. Also, I'm hopeful that as I descend into warmer air, the ice in the fuel system will melt.
Twenty miles from Redding, it's still solid IFR, when suddenly all around me there is a blinding flash, followed within seconds by hail and severe turbulence with updrafts and downdrafts that peg the vertical speed indicator. I call center and request a course reversal to take me out of the thunderstorm. They immediately grant my request for a 180 and reply that they have no weather on their radar. Still solid IFR but out of the turbulence and hail, I try to formulate a plan. I have no weather avoidance equipment on board but resolve to buy something when I get home. I'm headed back into the mountains and away from Redding, still at reduced power in a slow descent. If there's a cell between me and Redding, perhaps I can circumnavigate the storm by flying a 60-degree arc and then turn inbound. If I don't make Redding, at least I'll be over flatter terrain.
At about 11,000 feet and still losing altitude, I proceed toward Redding. In about two minutes I'm back in a cell. No hail this time, but with severe icing (about half an inch in a minute) and turbulence. My hands are full keeping the airplane right side up, in a reasonable pitch attitude, and alternatively avoiding the stall and VNE. I ask center for another 180, and the reply is, "heading at pilot's discretion." Out of cell number two (or was it the same one?), I try another arc.
At about 9,500 feet, with the OAT just below freezing, I notice that the fuel flow and EGT are back to normal, and I can now increase power to maintain altitude at maneuvering speed. The airframe ice has gone, the engine is running normally, and I take a moment to catch my breath. I'm cleared for a backcourse localizer approach into Redding. Because of updrafts I have trouble maintaining the descent profile and break out 3,000 feet over the airport — too high to land. Straight ahead about 20 miles, I can see Red Bluff Municipal Airport, where the skies are clear — I'll land there.
My landing at Red Bluff is without incident. I perform a post-landing runup, and everything checks out normal. I then call my mechanic, who agrees that it was a fuel icing problem and concludes that it's safe for me to fly home for him to inspect the engine.
Following a thorough inspection, my mechanic informs me that all is normal and suggests that I use Prist as a fuel additive for winter high-altitude flights.
Now I must fight another battle, which began in the middle of my sleepless night. Quit flying or not? I go for a run, which is when I do my best thinking. After a couple of miles, I am back at the hangar. There is only one acceptable answer — get back on the horse and go flying again. During that runup and takeoff, I feel as if it's my first solo again. I spend the next hour doing basic air work. Rolling out of the fourth steep turn, I feel my confidence returning.
With the passage of time and subsequent flights I've regained the sense of calm while flying that I had before that bad day — but with the knowledge that what I learned about flying from that experience is not nearly as important as what I learned about myself.
Robert E. Fishman, AOPA 940552, a mechanical engineer and an instrument-rated private pilot with more than 1,700 hours, lives in Mill Valley, California.
"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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