As an AirLifeLine pilot, I thoroughly enjoy flying patients to and from places for medical care. On one such trip I took a 4-year-old patient and her father to the Cincinnati Municipal Lunken Field from my home base at the Manassas (Virginia) Regional Airport. Our return trip was to be a three-hour flight in a rented Cessna 172RG. The weather was 3,000 feet overcast at Lunken, dropping to about 1,000 feet at Manassas.
We left Lunken in the late afternoon, and it soon became dark. I adjusted the cockpit lights accordingly. As I tweaked the elevator trim wheel on one occasion, I noticed that the instrument lights got brighter for a second or two. I assumed that the brightening was caused by a loose wire's being jostled by the motion of the trim wheel. Since the cockpit light rheostats are close to the trim wheel, I ignored it.
The undercast was slowly rising to meet us, so I asked for a higher altitude. As I adjusted the rudder trim after the climb, I again saw the lights get brighter briefly and again wrote it off to a loose wire.
During my last several trips I had been regularly updating what I called my escape route — where I would land if I had an emergency. I would open the Jeppesen book to the selected airport and tune in its ATIS. On this flight, I added a new twist to my planning — a handheld GPS. By keeping the cursor on the selected airport, I always knew its bearing and range. The airplane was also equipped with an IFR-capable GPS.
At the time of the electrical hiccups, the chosen airport was the Benedum Airport in Clarksburg, West Virginia, which was well above minimums for ILS and GPS approaches. About 30 minutes after I first saw the lights brighten, they got bright and stayed that way. I looked down at the ammeter, which was pegged at a full charge. I turned the alternator on and off several times, hoping to clear the problem.
On the third cycle, a puff of smoke and a shower of sparks erupted from behind the panel. I turned toward Clarksburg, now about 20 miles away, started a descent, and called approach.
"Mayday, mayday, mayday, Lifeguard Cessna Four-Eight-Five-Seven-Victor. We have an electrical fire; we'll need a descent into Clarksburg."
The controller cleared me to 5,000 feet and asked if my ILS receiver was working. I intended to keep my transmissions to a minimum. After all, I might not be able to land at Clarksburg, and I wanted to keep the battery charged to power the ILS receiver. He vectored me toward Clarksburg.
Just before we entered the clouds, another shower of sparks erupted from behind the panel, so I turned off the master switch and utilized the small flashlight hanging from a chain around my neck. I kept the airplane on a northerly heading using rudder only, because my hands were busy with the flashlight and setting up the radios for the ILS.
By the time I got Clarksburg set in the handheld GPS we were in the clouds, and I was wandering 30 degrees on either side of my assigned heading. Suddenly, I remembered my passenger, gave him another flashlight, and asked him to shine it on the panel. This freed up one of my hands and allowed me to use my smaller flashlight to read the approach chart.
Occasionally during the descent, I turned the battery back on to get a new heading from the controller. On one occasion, the controller told me that a departing aircraft had reported the ceiling at about 1,100 feet agl. He suggested a visual approach. I'd been planning on an ILS, but I wasn't flying too precisely, so a visual approach had some appeal.
Once I reached 2,500 feet, I again turned on the battery and called the controller. He asked repeatedly if I had ground contact beneath me, and I repeatedly told him that I did not. Four miles from the field, I conducted a prelanding checklist and was able to lower the gear with battery power.
When I broke out of the clouds I saw bright lights at 11 o'clock, where the controller and the GPS said the airport should be. I wasn't sure that it was the airport I was looking at, seeing no runway lights, rotating beacon, or approach lights. I descended slowly to 500 feet agl without positively identifying the field. Eventually, the GPS confirmed that the airport was behind me, as did the controller. Once I surrendered the navigation task to the controller, I had allowed myself to lose situational awareness — despite having two GPS receivers. I turned to the right and saw the runway lights. On short final, I thanked the controller for his help and made a normal landing.
There are some important lessons that I took away from this flight.
Land first, fix it later. At the first sign of an electrical malfunction, I should have landed. Waiting for the smoke and sparks to make the decision for me was stupid. I had a stable situation until I started troubleshooting it. As I learned later, the voltage regulator had failed, sending too much charge to the batteryæwhich was indicated by the pegged ammeter. Coincidentally, the alternator circuit breaker did not trip to protect the rest of the electrical system.
Fly the airplane. While fiddling with the avionics, I allowed my heading and altitude to wander.
Navigate. Once I had allowed the controller to vector me, I essentially stopped navigating. Had I lost communications at that point, I would have spent several precious seconds flying around at night, in clouds, over mountains, while determining my position.
It pays to be prepared. I would have been more scared had I not carried two flashlights, extra batteries, and a handheld GPS receiver. It pays to play "what-if" scenarios through your mind during those hours of boredom.
Get help wherever you can. The Clarksburg Approach controller made a great copilot. He took over navigation and terrain clearance, though probably more than I should have allowed him to. Your passengers can help, too; they can pump the gear, hold a flashlight, fold a chart, and more.
Martin Gomez, AOPA 830204, an engineer from Fairfax, Virginia, is a 675-hour commercial pilot.
"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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