Learning Experiences

An overlooked fuel selector is the culprit

That Tuesday afternoon in February was warm and partly cloudy with surface winds below 10 knots. Work had been the distraction-to-distraction, problem-to-problem norm that has gone with owning and managing three small businesses for most of my adult life. If I could sneak off by 3 p.m., I could be at the airport by 3:45 and doing the runup by 4:15, allowing me an hour or so to work on steep turns, ground reference maneuvers, and finish up with a few touch and goes.

My instructor had told me to contact a local designated pilot examiner to schedule my private pilot checkride. My instructor said I was ready. I wasn't so sure. I had been cram-training for eight months learning to fly, something I had wanted to do all my life. I had logged more than 68 hours and felt quite competent in certain things, but very inadequate in others. So here I was, trying to finish up my "must do" list in time to get an hour in before it would be too dark to fly. At 3:05, I rushed out the door. When I got into the truck, it needed gas--another five minutes wasted. I could feel my aggravation level rising, but I took a deep breath, and calmed myself. I might have to give up a little time in the air, but at least I would get to fly.

So I rolled into Gladewater Municipal Airport in Gladewater, Texas, at 3:58 p.m. and double-stepped into the flight school office. Lee, the manager, quickly put me into Six One Whiskey, the Piper Warrior in which I had logged most of my time. It needed fuel, but he fueled it while I began the preflight checklist.

It was 4:29 p.m. I had an airplane with both tanks full of fuel, and it had just been started and taxied by the owner. I didn't know where I was on the checklist, but it had been good enough for the aircraft owner, and it was Six One Whiskey after all. I knew this airplane was airworthy. I started up and taxied toward the runway, all the while giving it a moving check over. Oil pressure--good; fuel pressure--good; amps--good; vacuum--good; radio--on frequency; altimeter--set. I got positioned for the runup and everything looked good. It was now 4:40. The rush had made me anxious and out of sorts. I had not followed the usual step-by-step procedure, and I knew it. But I couldn't think of anything that had been neglected.

I put my concerns to rest as I taxied into position on Runway 14 and opened the throttle. A last glance at the gauges reassured me, and I settled my attention down the runway as the airspeed indicator came to life. As I saw 60 knots on the airspeed indicator I was transformed into my flying persona. I pulled back on the yoke and felt all the things I was supposed to feel. The wings pulled themselves upward, the wheels left the ground, and all was right with the world. I pitched for the 79-knot climb attitude, held pressure on the right rudder, and felt Six One Whiskey climb.

There I was, climbing out in the familiar Warrior as I had so many times before, looking forward to working on ground reference maneuvers, but mostly looking forward to just being in the air. Then, about 50 feet off the ground, the engine quit without warning. My mind simply didn't accept that fact, and instead it just demanded that the engine would continue operating. The nose was dropping, the nose was yawing right, the airspeed was decreasing, and the fact that the engine had quit was again delivered to my mind--which again tried to refuse delivery. But an overt act of my subconscious will forced the reality of the situation into my consciousness.

I switched from "fat, dumb, and happy" to survival mode, and started looking for options. I lowered the nose a bit to see if I could get back down on the runway--no way. There was no way I could turn and land on Runway 35, and the other options amounted to choosing which tree across from the airport looked the softest.

Just as I realized my options were nil, the engine started. As unexpectedly as it had quit, it began again. I pulled the nose upward and shifted from a "where shall I crash" mindset to a "what's next" mindset. As an engineer, I was immediately looking for a pattern to base a plan on. I turned slightly to the right in an uncommitted idea of turning downwind to set up for an up-wind approach. I had regained the lost altitude and added a foot or two when the engine quit again. I straightened out and held my breath to see what was next. A few seconds later, it started again. I decided that my best potential for a good outcome would be to make a plan that relied on the engine's intermittent, on-and-off operation.

I was able to hold an altitude just above the treetops as I turned slowly to the right. As soon as I was on a downwind course, I turned my attention to the emergency engine failure procedure. I immediately reached down to the fuel selector valve and as I grasped it, I realized it was not locked into position. I flipped it over to the other tank nevertheless, and the engine kept running...and running...and running. I set a climb at VY, clawing for every foot of altitude I could get while I had a running engine. Then I would turn back to the runway at a point as close as possible to leave me with enough runway on which to land and stop.

The engine kept running. I kept climbing. I looked across the airport and saw Dave, the jump school pilot, running down the drive toward the FBO, with Lee right behind him. They had heard the Cherokee's engine failures. I kept looking over my shoulder at the runway and back at the altimeter trying to decide when I should make my move. Over the river at the end of Runway 14...a little farther, a little higher, then it was time!

I cut the throttle to idle and entered a steep right descending turn. I felt the choke factor welling up in my throat as I came around. I had to plan as if there would be no engine power available if a go-around was needed. About two-thirds through the turn I could see that I was going to be way too high. I pushed hard rudder to set up a slip, but nothing acted right. I tried again, and still nothing felt right. Then I remembered the flaps. I glanced at the airspeed and applied full flaps.

Now the airplane slipped, and I pushed it for all I could get. I was already crowding the end of the runway and was still 300 feet in the air. I threw the nose down steep with full left rudder balanced by heavy opposite aileron. I was coming down like a rock, and within a couple of seconds my descent angle showed me that I should make the runway in enough time to get stopped safely, still on pavement if I did everything right. I knew I needed to wait until the last moment to come out of the slip or I would float past the runway.

When I could dare no more, I exited the slip and aimed the airplane's nose down the runway. Since I was still coming in too fast, I decided I would have to fly her onto the ground and brake from there. I threw the nose down at the runway hard and then flared hard to make a nice carrier landing, planting the main gear firmly, but when I braked and pulled back on the yoke I was back up in the air again. I would have to float off some speed.

I held off at about five feet waiting for Six One Whiskey to show some willingness to descend. I floated and waited, watching runway slip by. Finally I planted the main gear down again and bore down on the brakes. I heard them lock up for a second before I could think to let off. But then I had it. I braked hard, listening to the wheels chirp without allowing them to lock up again. And then I stopped with at least 50 feet of runway to spare.

Waves of relief flowed through me as I taxied over to the fuel pumps where Dave and Lee were standing. I shut down the airplane and couldn't get out of it fast enough. I was wide-eyed and breathing deeply while Lee and Dave assessed the main gear tires. Each tire had a flat spot about three inches around, but that seemed to be the extent of the damage.

A comprehensive check revealed that nothing mechanical was wrong with the airplane, engine, or fuel system. I had neglected to physically check the fuel selector's position before takeoff, and it had been slightly out of position, allowing only partial fuel flow. At engine idle and taxi speeds this was more than enough to provide fuel to the carburetor for operation. When the throttle was opened full, the demand for fuel exceeded what could pass through, and the engine ran until the fuel in the carburetor bowl had been burned. Then the engine would quit while the fuel system pumped enough fuel into the carburetor for the engine to restart, and the process would begin again.

What have I learned from all of this? Fuel selectors will forever be checked and re-checked before I fly an airplane. More important, the need to adherence to a complete preflight checklist is burned into my consciousness. The fact that I had just witnessed both tanks being filled to the top gave me the false sense of security that I did not need to check the fuel selector because it didn't matter which tank it was on.

Three weeks later I took my checkride. I am now a private pilot working toward my multiengine rating. I hope and believe I have a new respect for the realities of the possible problems that can arise in an airplane, and the potential for the human mind to "lock up."

"Learning Experiences" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for students and pilots to learn from the experiences of others. It is intended to provoke thought and discussion, acknowledging that actions taken by the authors were not necessarily the best choices under the circumstances. We encourage you to discuss any questions you have about a particular scenario with your flight instructor.

By Cory Miller