The moonless October evening was dark and unseasonably cold. As I drove up to the hangar, I could see my instrument student preflighting his 1967 Piper Cherokee 180. He was meticulous about maintenance and had even spent the money to rearrange the flight instruments to the standard "T" configuration so that scanning the panel would be easier.
This evening's instrument training flight would take us to a larger airport nearby that had several types of instrument approaches. In a few minutes, we were strapped in and running through the checklist. Flights with this student were becoming a well-practiced routine; we were putting the polish on the instrument training, and tonight's flight would be one of the last before his checkride.
The taxi and runup were uneventful. The student was a great cockpit secretary and had all of the necessary charts and approach plates for the flight neatly folded and placed within easy reach. With everything completed, we began our takeoff.
There are several items that I check on the takeoff roll as a matter of habit: rpm, oil pressure, oil temperature, and the ammeter. All systems were in the green, and the airspeed was coming alive. The engine sound and the airplane's acceleration seemed normal. We rotated and began a normal climb. Several seconds later, the engine coughed and began to vibrate severely.
The sudden change in engine sound caused me to immediately sit up straight in the seat. Most of the 3,000-foot runway was behind us. I glanced to the right, looking for the tree line that parallels the runway. I could see enough in the dark to know that the wings were below the treetops. The student jerked himself forward in his seat, staring straight ahead into the blackness, looking for another set of trees that stood in front of us. I took control of the aircraft and pushed the nose over, as the airspeed was now dropping below the best-angle-of-climb speed. The vertical speed indicator was not showing any perceptible climb.
Momentarily, we seemed suspended in the dark sky. A shot of adrenaline fueled my pounding heart and racing mind. Looking right, I could see the last of the runway lights slip behind us. The trees on either side of the runway were ominous silhouettes that confirmed our only choice was now straight ahead. The landing light searched the darkness but did little to help us identify what was in front of us. The engine was pounding a sick rhythm. Several more seconds passed. We were maintaining altitude but at a very slow airspeed. We needed to clear a line of trees just ahead of us to be able to reach a cornfield adjacent to the airport.
I sized up the emergency. The airplane would fly, but how much longer the engine would produce power was not known. If we cleared the trees ahead of us, we would have to choose between landing in a dark cornfield or attempting to fly around the pattern and land.
My mind went to the engine-failure checklist. The first item that came to mind was fuel. I switched tanks and confirmed that the electric fuel pump was on. This produced no change in engine condition. I considered applying carburetor heat but decided that we were too low and slow to do anything that would decrease what engine power we had. The only thing we could do for now was fly the airplane and hope to clear the tree line.
Looking out the side window, I watched us clear the foliage by several feet. A quarter-mile and 20 degrees to the right was a large dark spot on the ground identifying the cornfield. Do we land in the cornfield at night or attempt the go-around? We had just enough airspeed to remain airborne at 100 feet. While the engine still sounded terrible, it had not gotten any worse — we would attempt a go-around.
The first attempt at a turn caused me to second-guess the decision. The moment I banked the airplane, the loss of lift caused us to sink slightly. The flight conditions were not the best — we were in forced slow flight at a very low altitude, and the dark October night didn't offer any horizon. By using a maximum of 5 degrees of bank, we were able to hold altitude in a turn. Throughout the ordeal, the airspeed indicator was bouncing at the bottom of the green arc, and the vertical speed indicator was only a needle's width above zero. The downwind portion of the traffic pattern seemed to last forever. The plan was to not give up any altitude until we were sure that we would make the runway.
The VASI lights were bright red on our abbreviated final, indicating that the airplane was well below the normal approach path. As we passed the three green lights that indicated we were over the threshold, I reduced what was left of the power. We landed and made the first turn-off. When we were clear of the runway, I reached over and rocked the magneto switch a click to the left and the engine quit.
Later it was determined that the left magneto had failed and was "sparking over," causing the rough engine. The mechanic said that he had never seen an ignition system fail in that manner. The airplane was repaired and returned to service, and the student successfully passed his instrument checkride several weeks later.
Reflecting on that flight reaffirmed several basic lessons: First, it is important to make a decision quickly. This is difficult when adrenaline is flowing by the quart, and particularly without having all of the information and time that you need. Second, fly the airplane first. This partial engine failure could have been a much bigger problem if instincts hadn't taken over. Pushing the nose over to maintain flying speed was a reaction from years of practice. Third, practice is what creates instincts. Making every flight a training flight may seem trite; however, maintaining flying speed and banking in slow flight are part of practice.
Really difficult situations in aviation are rare occurrences. Most pilots will never have to face a partial engine failure at night just after takeoff. However, practicing and applying the basics are the best defenses we have for things that can go wrong at the worst possible time.
Jim Giordano, AOPA 965538, of Livonia, Michigan, is a part-time CFI with more than 1,500 hours.
"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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