Living at boarding school during the school year, most of my training takes place during holidays, which unfortunately leaves me in a perpetual race against time and weather to try and fit in as much flying as possible. It was the March break, and I had set myself the goal of returning to school a certificated pilot, leaving me a week to finish my cross-countries and squeeze in a few more solo hours. I had scheduled my night cross-country for March 20 and would be flying with one of my instructors, Nate, an experienced Embry-Riddle graduate and pilot with the Maine Air National Guard.
Our flight in a Cessna 172 would take us from Hancock County-Bar Harbor Airport along the coast of Maine to Portland International Jetport. The rugged coastline of Maine is a tourist draw but offers pilots an extra challenge, especially at night. After completing our preflight check, we took off just after 7 p.m., climbing to 6,500 feet.
The flight was going smoothly and I was performing a groundspeed calculation when we heard the first sputter. Nate enriched the mixture and checked for carburetor ice. Having lost significant engine power, we began a divert to Belfast Municipal Airport, which lay directly at our six o’clock. I informed Bangor approach, but in consultation with Nate, did not declare an emergency. I tried to activate the airport lights but was unsuccessful. I took control of the aircraft while Nate tried but he had no success with the lights either. We would have to land in the dark.
Circling around from a midfield crosswind, we established ourselves on a final and prepared for a hard touchdown. It was then that I looked out the left window and saw the runway numbers below and far behind the aircraft. We were already halfway down the runway; we would not be able to land safely. We re-established ourselves on the centerline and, achieving partial power, attempted a go-around. Then came the sound I will never forget: silence. Rolling into a steep right bank, Nate forced the nose down as the stall horn provided an ominous accompaniment to our slow turn toward a road below us.
The road was lined with large telephone poles, with a supporting line strung across to a single pole. The aircraft’s left wing scraped the trees, and Nate dove underneath the power lines, a skilled maneuver but one that gained unwanted airspeed. Our nose now pointed at the left pole, and it was evident that we would not be able to avoid it and land on the road. Nate aimed the airplane between the pole and its guy wire in the hope that the fuselage would go between the two, reducing our speed.
I closed my eyes, although I distinctly remember three of the strongest “impacts” of my life. The first was the wing of the airplane as it hit the pole eight feet from the deck, the second was as the propeller dug into the sidewalk, and the third was as we flipped upside down. Disoriented, I unbuckled my lap belt, landing more or less on my head, and followed Nate out of the door.
As I stood in the middle of now-closed Route 52, looking at what had been the aircraft I first soloed in, I realized I had lost a piece of my own history, while gaining a profound life lesson.
The most significant regret I have is that we did not immediately declare an emergency. As a pilot in training, it is easy to be intimidated by ATC. In reality, controllers are there to assist and perhaps we would have been more successful in turning on the airport lights if we had sought ATC's help in identifying the right frequency. We were lucky to have landed on a road. If we had put down in the trees, it could have been far longer before help reached us without ATC assistance. That could have meant the difference between life and death.
My preflight preparations are now more in-depth than ever before, but perhaps the most important lesson I took away from that night is just how much I still have to learn. It was an ego check. Flying should be fun and stress-free, but we must never forget that disaster can strike at any time and we should always be prepared.
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