On a hot Texas summer evening, my sole intention was to practice night landings in my Piper Archer. I am a 45-year-old mom and a low-time pilot, having just earned my private pilot certificate several months ago.
As I taxied to Runway 14 at Pearland Regional Airport (LVJ), I had a standoff with opposing traffic on a narrow section of taxiway. I pulled onto a small paved area to let him pass. This necessitated a push-back and restart. Then, immediately after my announcement and crossing Runway 14 at Delta, a helicopter made a call that he was landing on the departure end of Runway 14. In the dark it appeared he was heading right for me on the taxiway. I stopped to make sure his call matched his intentions. At the hold-short line, when I attempted to set the heading indicator, I discovered the magnetic compass light was out. I turned on the red cabin light, set the heading indicator, and proceeded with the runup. I did my final checks, pushed the mixture rich, and was ready to roll. Or so I thought.
I no longer had panel lights. Still at the hold-short line, I switched the transponder to standby, turned the fuel pump off, leaned the mixture, and began to troubleshoot. Apparently I had inadvertently dimmed the panel lights. I throttled up, rolled down the runway, and rotated. From that point on, things were far from usual. I wasn’t able to climb above 300 feet before the stall light flickered and then became a steady glow. At night that red light is bold, and at a low altitude it is a terrifying sight. My heart rate rapidly increased. I wanted desperately to pull back on the yoke. But I could hear my instructor’s voice in my head, saying Better get the nose down. I immediately pushed the nose down, but the light kept flickering. I scanned my gauges. Nothing was obvious. What was happening?
I flew farther out on the upwind leg attempting to build airspeed. After struggling to 400 feet and with the engine apparently running fine at that point, I turned crosswind, thinking I’m sure there have been worse things than remaining in the traffic pattern at 400 feet. As I turned downwind, the airspeed began to increase, so I initiated a shallow climb. By midfield I was at 800 feet. I finally reached pattern altitude abeam the numbers, and it was time to descend. I pulled the throttle to idle, and the engine sputtered. Ugh!
Now what? I put on the carb heat. That didn’t solve the problem, so I immediately turned base for a short final approach. Now I was high, so I slipped the airplane while turning final. I could sense the feeling of speed as I got closer to the ground, but perception and perspective can play tricks on an inexperienced night flier. I glanced at the airspeed, and I was indeed going too fast. In the fog of anxiety, I had neglected to add flaps.
Already a quarter of the way down the runway and uncertain about the landing roll needed at that speed, the float I might encounter if I added flaps, and the distance to hold it off, I pushed the throttle full forward. With the engine still working, I decided a go-around would be better than an extremely botched landing in a slight crosswind. This time the airplane climbed normally, but the engine sounds worsened while turning crosswind. The oil pressure had dropped into the yellow arc, and I smelled a faint whiff of burning oil.
I focused on flying the airplane and making a normal landing, which I did. Upon making my call that I was clear of Runway 14, I cleaned up the airplane. Flaps up: check. Transponder to standby: check. Fuel pump off: check. Mixture lean: already done!
It wasn’t until 4 a.m. that I realized what had happened. Suddenly I could see, clear as day, the red mixture knob in the lean position. With all the distractions prior to takeoff, I had gotten out of my routine. I didn’t look at my few “after cleared onto runway” checklist items again before the takeoff roll. I had forgotten to put the mixture full rich and therefore was starving the airplane.
The moral of this story is akin to Santa Claus. Make a list and check it twice. Heck, check it three times.
Plus: Hear a Real Pilot Story about an engine loss at night over the Pennsylvania mountains.
Illustration by Sarah Hanson
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