Fuel use ran higher than expected for the 3.3-hour flight from Spokane to Redmond, the first fuel stop. After refueling, I checked to be sure that the tanks were full and went through the entire preflight checklist before taking off at about noon.
My flight plan had changed so many times that day as I dodged thunderstorms that I gave up amending it with flight service and opted for flight following instead. About 45 minutes into the flight at 7,500 feet, the controller advised me that I was no longer being picked up on radar over central Oregon. I was told to squawk 1200 on the transponder and that radar service was terminated. When I checked in with flight watch, the weather specialist confirmed that reaching my next planned stop in Reno would be iffy because of the unstable weather. But, he said, making it to Lakeview on the California border should be no problem. With moderately clear, if somewhat turbulent, VFR conditions ahead, I turned the VOR to the Lakeview station.
After about a half-hour, the sudden flickering of the navcom display caught my eye. I tried to raise flight watch; no response. Dialing the emergency frequency of 121.5 MHz likewise got no response, and then the digital display went black. I turned it off and on, looking for the familiar orange numbers-nothing. Looking around to get my bearings, I found myself over Summer Lake, still about 60 miles north of Lakeview, which lay beyond an unfamiliar mountain range that I could see just ahead.
Just as I was beginning to realize that I no longer had a functioning VOR, I noticed the unmistakable sound of something winding down-the gyro in the electric turn coordinator. I looked at the rest of the instruments. My heart raced upon seeing both fuel gauges reading below empty. Remembering the unusually high fuel use on the last leg and struggling not to panic, I was suddenly grateful that I had performed the acrobatic exercise of climbing on top of a golf cart at the Redmond fuel stop to peer inside the fuel tanks. I had verified that the tanks were full and replaced the caps myself. I knew there was no way I could have gone through 38 gallons of fuel in the hour since I had departed Redmond. Then the realization dawned on me-I did not have a radio failure. I had a complete failure of the electrical system. Even the battery was drained.
Aha. An electrical failure. I know this part, I thought. On a memorable evening two months before, my instructor had turned off the master switch while I was making a night landing at Truckee, California, to make the point that not only could the airplane fly without electricity, it could also land without it-in the dark, in the mountains. Been there, done that.
As my heart rate came under control, his lesson came back to me. What runs on electricity that you no longer have? Fuel gauges. Lights. Radios. VOR. Beacon. Flaps. Transponder. Turn coordinator. Land at your first opportunity to do so safely. Above all, don't panic.
I tried not to think too hard about the fact that no one could see or hear me, that I couldn't ask what to do, that no flight plan was filed, that I was off flight following, that the transponder wasn't transmitting, and that there was an unfamiliar mountain range ahead and I had nothing but a sectional chart to guide me. Instead, I tried to think about the fact that it was daylight, that I had nearly full fuel tanks, and that the airplane was flying perfectly.
I pulled out the emergency checklist to see what do to when the electricity fails and was somehow comforted to see no electrical failures listed among engine failures, fires, carburetor icing, and spins. Acknowledging the possibility of a short circuit, I read the short list of what to do in case of an electrical fire. It felt reassuring to have an organized list to follow, so I didn't have to wonder what I might be forgetting.
Going over every item in the preflight checklist for the third time, still sure that an oversight on my part had caused this malfunction, I noticed that the circuit breaker for the beacon had popped. I pushed it back in. Nothing else seemed amiss. Then I set the transponder to 7600, the squawk code for communications failure. Even though I knew that it was not transmitting, the act of changing the transponder somehow made me feel better.
Checking the sectional for the nearest airport, I found one 20 miles ahead. Relief turned to dismay when I read in the Airport/Facility Directory that it was unattended. Despite the nearly overwhelming temptation to land and collect my thoughts, I realized that the engine probably would not start again, and there would be no one to help.
I was comforted by the thought that the sleeping bag and walk-away kit I had stowed in the back meant that I could weather any storms after I landed, but that didn't solve the problem of how to get a malfunctioning electrical system working again. And the airplane is flying, I kept reminding myself. I could almost hear my instructor: "Keep everything normal-everything the same." Meanwhile, feeling invisible and vulnerable, I was scanning the skies for other aircraft more diligently than I ever had in 102 hours of flying.
So I pulled out a muffin that I had brought as a snack and contemplated the situation. Eating may seem like a strange thing to do under the circumstances, but brain food seemed like a good idea. Inspecting the sectional in three-second increments, still nervous about unseen aircraft, I could see that if I followed the road below, it would lead me through the mountains ahead and directly to Lakeview. Having landed at Lakeview once before, coming from the opposite direction, I knew that I could find the airport and that it would have services. The major weather system was still to the east and headed north, according to the last transmission from flight watch. Flying into the valley between the 7,500-foot peaks reduced the turbulence in the air and in my head.
Upon locating Lakeview a long hour later, I flew over the airport to confirm the wind direction-still a strong headwind-and to see whether there was other traffic in sight. Thankfully there was none. The 5,300-foot runway was sufficient for a no-flap landing, even at an altitude of 4,729 ft.
When I landed, I found an aircraft mechanic who showed me where the alternator circuit breaker had popped, probably as the result of a short in the electrical system that would have to be checked when I got the airplane home. He recharged the drained battery overnight, told me what to do if it failed again, and, despite my protests, said that the airplane was safe to fly the last two-hour leg home. "You're OK at 100 hours," he said. "You're still asking questions. It's at 150 to 200 hours that pilots think they know everything. And, by the way," he asked, "how are you at pilotage?" I laughed and asked him how he thought I had made it there.
My first telephone call was to my instructor in Truckee-partly to get his thoughts, partly to hear a familiar voice. He thought an alternator failure of some kind was likely and had me check to be sure both the alternator and battery sides of the master switch had been turned on; they had. Still a little wired, I told him gratefully that my primary thoughts in the last hour had been of his excellent instruction. After all, his many simulated emergencies, constant questioning of aircraft systems and procedures, guidance on pilotage in the mountains, and emphasis on safety and common sense were all essential to the happy outcome.
I was also greatly relieved that the malfunction was not caused by any oversight on my part. When I asked the mechanic what I might have done differently, he suggested that turning off the master switch might have conserved enough battery power to run the radios when I was close to landing. As it was, leaving the master switch on with a possible short may have rendered the voltage regulator inoperable. At this writing, the cause of the short is still unknown.
In hindsight, I am most grateful for the many simulated emergencies that I so dreaded during training. Following a highway through 7,500-foot mountains with a dead battery seemed to be a far lesser challenge. And although I get a few smiles about the 20 pounds of gear that I carry on cross-country flights, just knowing that I could manage on the ground in an emergency was a comfort. I was also grateful for the recent communications from flight following and flight watch. Cheap insurance, my instructor would say. Use it.
Was having no electrical system really an emergency? Not if you consider that there are still airplanes flying with no electrical systems at all. Perhaps emergencies are in the eye of the beholder.
The most lasting effect of the event has been the confidence that comes with knowing that I will be able to keep my head if another in-flight situation happens. Pilot panic surely increases the number of preventable accidents, and until it happens you just don't know how you will respond. Now I know, which will make all the difference if there's a next time that I'm flying and the lights go out.
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