Alaska winter mornings can reach into a pilot’s soul. This particular morning the sky was crystal clear and the mountains next to the Fort Richardson Army Airfield were especially beautiful. I was an eager student pilot and arrived early at the post flying club to complete plans for my cross-country flight. It would be the one to fulfill the 100-mile requirement.
My instructor endorsed my plan to fly from the Anchorage area to Homer, Alaska, located on the southern tip of the Kenai Peninsula. The trip would require a water crossing over the Turnagain Arm branch of the Cook Inlet. The ocean inlet at my point of crossing would be about 12 miles wide, so I had planned to have plenty of cruising altitude to allow for gliding distance in case of engine problems. A water landing in November in Alaska would likely not be survivable.
All of the club aircraft were out flying. The Cessna 150 I had planned to use was out on a flight, so I settled down to review my plans. After crossing the Arm I would make an intermediate stop at Kenai. Departing Kenai, it would be direct to Homer, and then the long leg home to Fort Rich. This would fulfill the long-leg requirements of the FAA in 1969.
Club rules required members to return early enough from each flight to allow for time to refuel, check oil, and return the airplane to its tiedown spot before the next scheduled flight. The airplane I had scheduled for my flight was running late. I was anxious, then annoyed, and finally aggravated. The preceding flight not only ran beyond time for servicing the airplane, but it ran into my scheduled time as well.
Mercifully I heard the aircraft’s call sign on the tower radio, and I watched it taxi to the fuel pump station. Trying to remain calm, I waited while the aircraft was refueled and returned to the tiedown. I went there and said to leave the tiedowns loose, because I was next and ready to go.
I dropped the flaps, tested the beacon, and began the preflight inspection. Predictably, my checkout was not as thorough as it should have been, because I let myself be rushed by the circumstances. When I reached the engine compartment to check the oil I found it was too low. I gritted my teeth, set the dipstick on the battery box, and sprinted 200 feet to the fuel station to fetch a quart of oil. I unlocked the oil storage box, ran back with oil, and filled the oil reservoir. Quickly closing the cowl, I finished the preflight and taxied for takeoff with tower clearance.
The leg to Kenai offered spectacular Alaska scenery. The southern tip of the Alaskan Range passed the left wing tip, and I saw a herd of Beluga spouts as I crossed the Turnagain Arm. The Kenai tower cleared me to land, and after I shut down I went to the tower to have my logbook signed. I returned to the airplane for a quick walkaround before resuming my trip to Homer. When I came around to the right side, I was panicked to find a two-foot-wide coat of oil streaked from the cowling past the passenger door. I opened the cowl to see what had happened. Unbelievably, the oil cap was gone; oil had been sucked out of the reservoir as I cruised to Kenai. And then I noticed the miracle—the dipstick was still resting on the battery box where I had left it when I hurried to get a fresh quart of oil.
Remarkably I had only lost about a fourth of the quart I put in before I started the trip. It looked like nothing else was wrong, so I cleaned up the airplane and continued with my flight plan. Landing at Homer, I checked the oil situation; there was no change. After a short rest I flew 100 miles back to Fort Richardson. More than seven hours had passed since I left, and the club ramp was silent when I taxied in. I refueled and checked the oil for the last time. The oil level held constant at where it was at Kenai. I sheepishly drove home as I considered what had happened.
The specter of distraction has stayed with me for the past 40 years. It was an early lesson with more to follow, but I learned the importance of remaining calm, paying attention to detail, keeping to the checklists, and to shake off the ever-present assault of distractions.
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