The early summer Sunday had dawned pleasantly. I unlocked the hangar, pulled out the airplane, and did my preflight. The Maule, equipped with a 220-horsepower Franklin engine, was in fine shape with oil and fuel levels full. The sturdy craft was ready for a day of flying, and so was I — or so I thought.
The owner of the airplane was a friend who had contracted with the local soaring club to provide glider tow services, but his new job interfered with the glider activities. He'd offered me the job of tow pilot. Hungry for the flight time, I eagerly accepted.
As the day wore on we completed 26 glider tows. As I taxied in from the last tow, I heard the gliderport manager yell to me, "Got enough gas to take two more?"
"No problem," I replied. There were no refueling facilities at the gliderport. I would have to fly to a nearby airport for fuel, which would take nearly an hour — all the daylight that remained. Besides, I felt that I knew the Maule well enough by now to gauge the remaining fuel. After all, I'd had a 15-minute checkout and 25 uneventful hours in the ship. I glanced at the fuel gauges. Those needles weren't really resting on the "empty" pegs, were they?
The first tow went without a hitch. On the final takeoff, the Maule, with little fuel on board, broke ground and climbed eagerly, even with a glider in tow. At 200 feet I began a gentle 180-degree turn. Since the gliderport was a one-way strip, the takeoff had been with a vigorous tailwind. My downwind leg was actually into a strong headwind. Abeam the departure runway threshold I had attained pattern altitude. In order to avail myself of every drop of fuel, I switched fuel tanks to the tank that I suspected to be nearly empty. Thirty seconds later, abeam the midfield windsock, the engine abruptly quit.
I'd run fuel tanks dry before, so I calmly switched on the fuel pump and selected the other tank. Then I lowered the nose to maintain flying speed. Suddenly, the prop shuddered to a stop. I checked mixture, throttle, carburetor heat, and magnetos. Then, I felt the glider pop off the towline, and I realized that I had forgotten about the other aircraft.
I turned my attention back to the engine and punched the starter button. It turned over but refused to start. I squinted into the setting sun, realizing that I'd lost sight of the runway. Fearing I would not have enough altitude to reach it, I turned toward the gliderport. The strip swung into view. I had turned too soon. I was now too high on a base leg and the wind was drifting me even closer. If I forced it down, the Maule would run through the fence at the end of the runway, probably sustaining serious damage.
Ground effect and the tailwind stretched my glide to the far end of the runway. I held the airplane low as I approached the fence. At the last moment, I pulled back on the wheel to balloon the Maule up and over. The airplane settled into knee-high wheat on the other side. I began to relax as I realized that I was down without a scratch.
But the tall wheat exerted a tremendous drag on the landing gear. The Maule, with its tail high, came to a stop in only 75 feet. The tailwind started to push the Maule over. "No!" I bellowed, but to no avail. The Maule fell on its back with a sickening crunch.
I hung inverted from the seat belt, my disbelief transforming into anger. Little risk of fire threatened, but I had to evacuate that cockpit. The airplane was severely damaged. I was physically unhurt, but I would have welcomed an injury — I deserved one.
On my recertification ride, the FAA inspector said that I had handled the airplane well. My ability to control the aircraft was not the issue, however. My judgment was the problem.
The first link in this accident chain was overconfidence. I believed that I could handle any situation I might encounter and that my piloting experience could make up for any lack of familiarity with the airplane. The second link was a false sense of urgency. I had to try to make just one more tow. Fuel mismanagement was the third link. I elected to fly knowing that I had minimal fuel. Finally, the off-airport landing in the wheat field resulted from distraction. Had I not attempted to restart the engine at low altitude, kept the runway in sight, and flown a proper approach, a dead-stick landing on the runway would have been a quickly forgotten incident.
Had I taken time to think, "Wait a second, what am I about to do?" the chain could have been broken, and the unfortunate outcome might have been avoided.
This event taught me valuable lessons that I will never forget. Even if I know the tanks are full and I've flown only 15 minutes, I usually check the level visually. The drains could have leaked, someone might have siphoned fuel, my memory could have lapsed, or the gauge may be stuck. Available fuel is the single most important factor under my direct control. I will never again push fuel reserves.
As the old cliche goes, the "superior" pilot is someone who uses his superior judgment to avoid having to use his superior skill. And judgment is always the first link.
Terry Hellickson, AOPA 652969, of Forest Grove, Oregon, is a commercial airplane and glider pilot who owns a Stinson 108-3.
"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.
Related Articles
