My logbook records the date, but even if I didn't have it etched in pen, July 23, 1996, remains vivid in my mind. It was day two of our vacation by private airplane. Day one had gone beautifully. My wife and I, after stowing luggage in the back seat of our 1958 Cessna 175, had lifted off from Concord, California, into a perfect summer sky.
After an overnight in Boise, we decided to head for Salmon, Idaho, about 155 miles northeast. It was a clear VFR day. Rapidly we climbed to 5,500 feet in order to clear the first mountain range. I intended to gain an initial altitude of 9,500 feet and would later go to 11,500. As I held the Cessna level at 5,500, I proceeded to follow a standard ritual. For best cruise and economy, I'd learned to lean the engine whenever my altitude exceeded 5,000 feet. Countless times in the 175, I pulled the mixture control knob back just until the engine started to lose power; then always pushed.
On this brilliant morning I pulled the mixture control knob, which reduced the fuel flow, and pushed it forward to obtain full rpm. No rpm increase occurred. Again I pulled the mixture control knob and now pushed it all the way in for fuel rich. My wife and I heard only an unsettling sound-an idling engine. Quickly I repeated the process.
The engine still only idled. I applied carburetor heat, and remembering the valuable adage-fly the airplane first-lowered the nose to maintain glide speed.
Our radio was still set on the tower frequency, so I called, "Boise Tower. Cessna Seven-Three-Two-Five-Mike. We're experiencing an engine problem."
"Cessna Seven-Three-Two-Five-Mike, are you declaring an emergency?"
"Yes, sir."
The controller responded instantly, asking what specifically was the problem, how many passengers were on board, how much fuel we were carrying, and in a genuine attempt to help asked, "Is there any terrain nearby for an emergency landing?"
"In sight, we have only trees and mountains."
The controller then requested our exact position, the number of minutes since we had departed Boise, and our course and altitude, before he asked if we were in "the best potential landing spot."
As I said no, I suddenly noticed a clear area in the bottom of a valley, one surrounded with steep, jagged peaks. "Boise Tower, I've spotted a clearing. We'll try for it."
Throughout this communication, the Cessna kept descending toward the
tops of a dense forest of pine trees. My wife reached behind her for the soft-sided suitcase. Often we'd talked about emergency landings and had agreed that in such a case, she would place one of our softer pieces of luggage between the passenger-side yoke and her body to cushion her for landing.
Boise Tower, however, failed to acknowledge my last message and failed to reply when I called once more. Apparently we had lost contact with the tower because we were below an altitude where they could receive our transmission.
I continued working with the mixture control knob, as my wife positioned the suitcase and the sharply pointed treetops loomed closer. She didn't need to ask, "Do you think we'll make it?" because I was wondering the same thing. How many more minutes would we have to glide before I attempted my first emergency off-airport landing?
I wasn't at all sure that we could reach the clear area, so I took a chance. I closed the fuel supply, yanked on the mixture control knob, tugging it all the way out, and listened as the engine faltered. Next I rammed it all the way in, and we heard the welcome hum of a full-power return. In a microsecond, the nose rose and we began to climb back to our previous altitude.
"Boise Tower," I called, "we have power. All instruments are registering as normal."
No answer. The mountain behind us effectively blocked transmission.
But a friendly voice spoke over the radio. A private pilot in another Cessna had heard me, and she gave her current position as 20 miles north of ours. At an altitude of 7,500 feet, she said, "I'll relay your information to Boise."
As we gained altitude, the engine purred sweetly, and my wife replaced the luggage, the Cessna pilot asked our destination.
"Salmon, Idaho."
"I'm headed there, too, ferrying a group of fishermen, so I'll monitor you on 122.75 for the rest of our flight."
At 6,000 feet I regained contact with Boise and reiterated that we were fine.
This one had a happy ending with a chance to meet the pilot who had so generously assisted us, which is the first thing I gained from this experience. A fraternity exists among private pilots. They share a willingness to help each other and to relate information and experiences.
Additionally, in retrospect, I gained other valuable lessons. I became a believer in knowing my position at all times. Especially in mountain flying, I constantly search the terrain for any emergency landing areas.
I've learned to practice, practice, practice to get the airplane down on a spot I've chosen in case of total power failure. Ever since Idaho, whenever I fly, I pick places that could be landing sites, and I estimate where on that site we might safely land-or at least walk away alive. In practice, I often select a field and judge engine-out gliding distance. As I get closer, I check the landing surface. Have I made the best choice? If possible, I fly low sometimes and simulate an actual emergency landing.
The remainder of our vacation proved trouble free, and although a mechanic never discovered the cause of the mixture-control-knob malfunction, the fact that the unexplained can happen and that one must be ever vigilant perhaps stands out as my most important learning experience.
"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.
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