I turn back to the airport, just in case. It seems so close. I radio unicom and report that I'm experiencing engine trouble. I announce that I will make an emergency landing on Runway 1. I assure myself that airplanes don't just fall out of the sky. Engines rarely quit suddenly and totally. I know that I've got plenty of fuel. I did a thorough preflight and runup. The climb was normal. The problem likely will correct itself at any moment.
At this point I'm down to about 8,000 feet msl and 2,000 feet agl.
Ka-bang! Crunch! The prop stops with the blades horizontal. All is quiet. Every pilot wonders, "How will I react if the engine quits?" Now I am about to find out.
We've all had training in forced landings. I can still hear my instructor demanding, "If the engine quit right now, what would you do?" Later in my training, he would pull the throttle back without warning and yell, "THE ENGINE JUST QUIT!" I knew that I had to fly the airplane, pick a field, troubleshoot, communicate, perform a prelanding check, and set up for a forced landing. But I also knew that he would push the throttle forward and we'd fly safely away.
That was more than 25 years ago. More recently, I'd taken the checkride for a commercial certificate. In the pattern, the examiner said, "I'm going to cut the throttle; you put it down on the 500-foot marker."
Although I'd practiced a little, my club's Cessna 177RG didn't glide as I had expected. On final approach, the examiner reproached me. "You just killed us." I put in the throttle, and we went on to the next phase. Miraculously, I passed.
Months later I purchased a beautiful Super Decathlon. Whenever I had extra time and no particular place to go, I'd practice engine failures in the pattern. Eventually, I could place my bird right on the numbers at full stall under various wind conditions. I was counting on that practice to help me now.
I realize that I've unconsciously been pulling the nose up as if to deny what's happening. That's clearly the wrong thing to do, but somehow it feels right. My brain screams: "Pull yourself out of this denial. This is real. No instructor has pulled the throttle back. The engine has stopped dead!"
I push the nose down to gain airspeed and to avoid stalling. I start to feel a sense of panic. "Get control of that," I tell myself. "There'll be plenty of time to panic later, on the ground." The fear subsides. I become very focused.
By now I'm down to 7,500 feet msl and 1,500 feet above the ground.
Time to get back to basics. I can hear my instructor saying, "Number one, fly the airplane."
"OK," I think. "VX, VY, what's the best glide speed? Hell, don't worry about technical details. Set up for 75 to 80 mph, just like in the pattern." I get control of my airspeed, look toward the runway, make an initial mental calculation, and call unicom.
"I've got total engine failure. I think I can make it to Runway 1. Keep airplanes off the runway and out of the pattern."
I'd heard about pilots who turned back to the airport after an engine failure. They usually didn't make it. I was going to be different. "I can make it. I've just got to be able to make it to the runway." The siren song of Runway 1 is strong. The long strip of asphalt is right there, clearly in front of me. I imagine myself setting up for a straight-in approach and a smooth landing. But now I'm starting to understand that I'm too low. There's no way that I'll reach the runway. In the quiet of my glide, I realize that I haven't tried to troubleshoot the problem. I check the fuel, three-quarters of a tank in each wing. I try the fuel pump and starter. Nothing. I push in the mixture and try again. Nothing.
Now I know that a forced landing is inevitable. "Don't panic," I tell myself. "There'll be time for that later. Think." I look for landing sites. A snow-covered railroad yard spreads out big and inviting; there are no trees anywhere around it. From my summers in the area, however, I know that under the soft snow lurk many tracks, piles of old ties, and miscellaneous junk. It's too far anyway. I won't make it. My altimeter reads 7,000 msl, 1,000 feet agl.
"Number two, pick a landing site," I can hear my instructor saying. OK, the railway yard is out. With forest everywhere below me I spot a huge meadow just over the next set of trees across a highway. But can I make it? Then there's Highway 89. It cuts deeply through the forest, it's not particularly straight, and there's traffic. A small snow-covered opening in the forest lies just below me, about the size of a football field. Some small trees guard one end; dense forest surrounds the far end and sides.
My training reminds me of the danger of having too many emergency options. It can lead to confusion. Pick one you know you can make and go for it. Altitude is running out fast. I commit to the small field below and set up my landing just as if I were entering the pattern on downwind at my home field. There's no changing my mind now.
I call unicom again and state my position. It seems like such normal communication. No sense of panic or doubt. Now I have just one chance to make a perfect landing. Turning onto a short final, I glance at my airspeed?65 mph, and everything looks good. I become intensely focused on making a perfect landing. My mind drifts momentarily. "But what?s under the snow? Rocks, stumps, a fence? Think landing. Focus!"
I want as much room as I can get for the rollout as I'm certain I'll slam into the forest at the far end. This way when I hit I might have reduced my speed to below 30 miles per hour. A survivable crash and maybe not too many serious injuries. I come in as close as possible to the small trees, just skimming their 40-foot tops in a steep descent. Then I imagine my body being pulled from the wreckage of the Decathlon, wreckage that the dense forest has swallowed up.
Still communicating on the unicom frequency, for some reason I start counting down to the touchdown, as if that will help. At least it gives me some sense of security. ?Five, four, three, "What have I forgotten?" Too late now. Focus on the landing, just the landing. "...Two, one."
My last thought is, "Is this how it ends? My life?"
Everything goes white. There is a loud crunching, sliding sound accompanied by a sudden jerking motion. I have no idea what is going to happen next. Will I be bloody; will the airplane slide into the trees, catch fire, and blow up? None of this happens. The airplane just stops, period. All in about 75 feet, maybe less. Then, nothing.
I'm thinking, "Am I alive? Yes." I'm upside down, dangling from the five-point harness, seatbelt, and shoulder strap. "OK, get out immediately. The airplane could catch fire. But I could be badly hurt and not know it. Just get out now. Go!" This is easier said than done. My suspended body weight makes releasing the belts difficult. I finally manage to get them loose and drop to the ceiling on my side. The door is stuck closed. I kick it open and crawl out into the thick, bright snow.
I walk away still not certain what will happen next, or even if I am seriously injured. I glance down and see lots of blood on my hand. I keep walking toward the side road I had seen from the air.
The fast-thinking unicom operator had phoned for a rescue team and relayed my position during my descent. The emergency vehicles and sheriff arrived only minutes after impact. At last I felt a sense of relief. I was shaken up, but my injuries were superficial. I'd survived - and quite well, it turns out.
It had been a beautiful three-point landing. The main gear wheels (the Decathlon is a taildragger) had dug into the snow, causing the airplane to flip over. The vertical fin looked like an accordion, but the snow cushioned much of the impact.
Months later, with FAA examiners present, two mechanics tore down the engine. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the crankcase. I'd heard a lot of stories about how difficult the FAA could be in the event of an accident, how many forms I'd have to fill out, how tough they'd be on me about everything.
Worst of all, I'd always heard that the FAA would try to pin the cause on pilot error. In my case, none of that was true. The FAA representatives were knowledgeable, decent, helpful, and professional in every way. The paperwork was not at all unreasonable. The final report blamed the rod bolt, not the pilot.
What did I forget to do during the emergency? I didn't shut off the fuel or electrical systems. And I could have opened or jettisoned the door. Luckily, those items made no difference in the outcome. Except for flipping over, it was a perfect emergency landing.
What did I learn from all this? Training and practice will save your life. Stay focused, and you'll do your best in an emergency.
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