A saga of smoke, carb ice, and a stuck key
I arrived at Everett-Stewart Airport at 7 a.m. Cessna N69191 sat alone on the ramp all topped off and ready to depart for her new home. A call to Flight Service revealed VFR weather conditions throughout the day with visibility occasionally dropping to five miles in haze; a scattered cloud layer at 5,000 feet; and a chance of isolated thunderstorms popping up in the afternoon. I interrogated the briefer about thunderstorms and haze. At that time I had never flown within 100 miles of a dark cloud, much less a thunderstorm. When all my questions were answered, I checked notams and filed a VFR flight plan.
By 9 a.m. I was ready to go. I had recently purchased a flight bag and stocked it with enough sectional charts to navigate VFR anywhere in the free world, as well as every flight gadget that I could afford. I had neatly organized the contents of the bag and strapped it into the right seat so that I could quickly reach anything I needed. Within minutes the engine roared to life, and I was on the way.
My route would take me west of Memphis, Tennessee, then VOR-hopping through Arkansas to Shreveport, Louisiana; then on to David Wayne Hooks Memorial Airport in Houston. The weather was as forecast with Memphis reporting 7 miles� visibility. I had requested VFR traffic advisories and was vectored around the Memphis Class B airspace. I felt like a true professional reading back my instructions to the same controller who was also vectoring a FedEx heavy to final.
About two hours into the flight, I noticed a slight odor. It resembled that of a paper factory. I was at 4,500 feet over Arkansas receiving the occasional traffic advisory from Little Rock Approach. The odor grew stronger, and I began to look for the source, which I assumed was a factory somewhere below. Suddenly, the low-voltage light illuminated. Although this was unusual, I was not alarmed. According to the operator's manual, a simple toggle of the master switch should remedy the situation. Negative. A huge puff of white smoke rose from beneath the instrument panel. The puff was followed by a steady flow of white smoke. Now I was alarmed.
My first reaction was, to be honest, panic. I closed the cabin air vent, where the smoke appeared to be coming from. I opened the wing root vents and rocked the wings, trying to locate any smoke or fire on the exterior of the aircraft. No smoke outside, but what I really wanted to do now was land this airplane.
"Little Rock Approach, Cessna Six-Nine-One-Nine-One, I have a low-voltage light and smoke in the cockpit, request vectors to nearest airport, over."
Little Rock quickly responded with, "Cessna One-Nine-One, turn left heading 165, Pine Bluff is off your nose six miles, report airfield in sight." Then, "Cessna One-Nine-One, are you declaring an emergency?"
Now the smoke had cleared, but the low-voltage light was still on. I also made another amazing discovery - the airplane was still flying as if everything was normal. I started to imagine what events I would set in place if I declared an emergency. This would certainly mean a talk with the FAA! What if they couldn't find anything wrong with the airplane after I landed? After all, there was no smoke now. I declined the emergency request.
At this point, I received a radio call that I will never forget. "Cessna One-Nine-One, how many souls do you have on board?"
It's not enough that my confidence level has taken a nosedive; this guy already wants to order the body bags! I responded with a determined "Just me." I told myself to "just fly the airplane" as I made the descent.
I called Little Rock Approach with the airfield in sight. No answer. I tried again; no answer. After several attempts, I switched to the Pine Bluff CTAF and entered the pattern. While on downwind I saw several emergency vehicles traveling through town. Just as my wheels made contact with Runway 35, two fire engines, an ambulance, and a crash truck drove onto the ramp. I was instructed to shut down on the runway.
Soon after I had convinced the paramedics and firefighters that I was OK, the airport manager informed me that a lineman was on the way to retrieve my crippled bird. While we were waiting, two well-dressed gentleman approached from the FBO. They walked directly to me and asked if I was the pilot of the airplane. I answered in the affirmative. "Hello, I'm Jack, and this is Bill, we're with the FAA, and would like to ask you a few questions."
Talk about a situation going from bad to worse! A feeling of impending doom came over me. I figured that I had just made my last flight. My certificate was probably the newest these two had ever seen, and I was sure it was about to be revoked. I introduced myself and stuttered through my explanation.
"Relax," Jack said as I reached for my wallet, which contained the crisp new certificate. "We just wanted to make sure you were OK, that's all," Bill stated.
"Just one question," he added. "Did you declare an emergency?" "No, sir!" I replied. Bill then explained that the approach controller had attempted to contact me several times without success (probably because of the low-voltage situation, distance and altitude, or both). When I did not answer, the controller assumed the worst and basically declared an emergency for me.
Within an hour the maintenance personnel at Pine Bluff had fixed the problem. An electrical cable that connects the alternator to the battery had broken at the harness and fallen on the exhaust manifold. The smoke came from the melting cable insulation. The low-voltage light illuminated because the alternator couldn't charge the battery.
I felt ashamed that I had caused such a fiasco over what seemed to be a minor problem. I sheepishly offered an apology to the FAA inspectors who had stuck around for the diagnosis. To my surprise, they weren't upset at all. They congratulated me on a job well done, shook my hand, and wished me a safe voyage for the rest of the flight, never once asking to see my pilot certificate, medical, or aircraft logbooks.
I learned several lessons from the experience:
- Never hesitate to request assistance when the safety of the flight becomes doubtful. The Aeronautical Information Manual (6-1-2b) states this very clearly. Delay has caused accidents and cost lives. Safety is not a luxury! Take action.
- FAA personnel are not always the horrible, ticket-shredding monsters they are often perceived to be. Knowledge (of the regulations) is power.
The cable was replaced and aircraft logbooks duly noted, and after another thorough preflight, topping off the fuel tanks, and a check on the weather, I was on my way again - now two hours behind schedule.
I was somewhat nervous as I climbed to altitude. What will happen next? Over the next few hours this hyperawareness gradually transformed to a small degree of overconfidence. After all, I had just piloted a burning aircraft back to Mother Earth safe and sound. Well, it wasn't actually burning, but it sounds better than smoking. I continued on course deviating only to circumnavigate a few dark clouds that brought my test pilot ego back down to the 145-hour level.
At 5 p.m. local time with only 25 nm to go and two hours before my airline flight was to depart Houston Hobby, I found myself once again the victim of bad luck. The tachometer, which had been holding a steady 2,250 rpm, suddenly dropped to 1,900 rpm. Now what? The throttle wasn't creeping, the magnetos were on Both, and the mixture was set properly. I vaguely remembered my flight instructor saying something about a loss of engine power caused by carburetor ice. The application of carb heat resulted in ad additional loss of power. Again, according to my wise CFI, this additional loss should be expected - followed by an increase in rpm as the ice melts away. After waiting what seemed to be hours without success, I turned off the carb heat and started looking for a place to land.
Out the right door at approximately five miles, I saw an airfield and turned toward it. I called Houston Approach and notified them of my intention to cancel VFR flight following and land at Montgomery County Airport in Conroe. When the controller asked if there was a problem, I recalled the events set in place by my last "I want to land now" conversation with a controller only a couple of hours ago.
I casually replied, "Ahh - I just need to take a break." One welcome party a day is plenty.
I decided to check the mags. Key switch to the left mag and bingo! The engine coughed and sputtered. This, in my opinion, was good news and bad news. Good news - I found the problem. Bad news - the Cessna had only one good magneto. When I tried to switch to the good mag before the engine died completely, my luck dropped to a new low - the key was stuck!
Just as the little Lycoming fell silent, I managed to manipulate the key to the left. Of course, with all the adrenaline I was producing, the key went past the Right mag position to Off. Another burst of adrenaline, and I was back to the Both position. All the while the aircraft's attitude resembled that of a drunken aerobatics performer. I opted to leave the mag switch on Both and concentrate on flying the airplane, which I landed uneventfully.
I did miss my airline flight and was forced to stay overnight in Houston. I did not have a change of clothes or shaving kit among the gee-whiz pilot toys in my flight bag, so I had to purchase some personal hygiene items at a convenience store near the hotel. I resolved to always pack an overnight bag for lengthy cross-country trips. You never know where you may end up thanks to weather or mechanical problems. A major credit card may also prove beneficial in these situations.
The next afternoon I boarded a DC-10. During the flight I reflected on the previous day's events and came to a few conclusions. First, I began to question my decision to become a pilot, and second, I definitely needed to re-evaluate my so-called friendship with Jeff. Seven years and 1,600 flight hours later, I am still flying, and Jeff is still one of my closest friends. The lessons learned on that relentless cross-country have never been forgotten.
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