Flight Lesson: Lessons learned the hard way

Thirty miles down the road another cloud appeared. This one looked larger, darker, and meaner, but I remember thinking that it couldn’t be that bad because there were hardly any other clouds in the sky. ATC didn’t mention any hazards along the route. Besides, I’d have to request a course deviation, which might add three or four minutes to the flight. But to be on the safe side, I turned on the prop and pitot tube heat just before entering the darkness.

Then it got dicey. Embedded in the cloud was a nasty mix of freezing rain and snow. The words severe, convection, and violence also came to mind. Within a couple minutes the airplane was covered with ice, and it was accumulating quickly. About an inch of ice had formed, including on the windshield. How did I get into this mess? I immediately called Center, announced my situation, and requested a lower altitude and course deviation. I knew there was warmer air below, and the cloud didn’t look that big. Center approved the course change and cleared me to 8,000 feet. That’s when the engine died.

Now the airplane had no power and was covered in ice, and I couldn’t see a thing ahead while violently gliding toward the ground. I told the controller that I had an engine problem and seemed to have lost power. Immediately he came back in that official tone: “Mooney Zero-Eight-Nine, what are your intentions?” I hated that question. I was almost hoping he would tell me what to do. Now the FAA and every airplane in the sector were listening. Without actually declaring an emergency, the best I could come up with was: “I’m trying to get the engine started and I’ve started my descent.” Duh.

Moments later the word aviate came to mind. Instructors were always talking about “aviate, navigate, and communicate.” When you get in a tight situation, your first priority should be to fly the airplane.

I had the airplane under control, but I was still going down and frontal visibility was zero. A “controlled crash” looked like a possibility. I finally broke out of the cloud from hell and was back in VMC. Then I quickly went through the emergency checklist: Switch fuel tanks. Check. Mixture full rich. Check. Emergency boost pump on. Check. Set up a glide speed allowing for the ice, and don’t forget the defroster. OK. Then I pressed that special button on the GPS to locate the nearest airport. Now a slow descending turn to the left, say a “Hail Mary,” and start looking for clues as to why a relatively new engine was not running.

The left fuel gauge on the instrument panel indicated 27 gallons. The one on the right read 22. The outside fuel gauge on the left wing read 27 gallons and the right one read 0. Wait a minute—zero on the right? By the time my panic-stricken brain started to process this bit of information, the engine coughed, sputtered, and fired back to life. I called ATC and said I was back in action.

Eventually the ice melted, and I continued to Antigo, Wisconsin, where I topped off the tanks. The right fuel gauge on the instrument panel was still fixed on 22 gallons. I had trusted the gauges and had run the right tank dry.

I know when you Jedi pilots read this, you’ll probably point out that I should have done this or I should have double-checked that. And how one should never trust fuel gauges and always stay away from those icy springtime build-ups. My friends, you’re right. I should have done all those things—and maybe a few more. But like all of us who happen to be human, I, too, have made a couple of stupid mistakes up there. And I can only view that experience as another valuable lesson learned the hard way.

I hope that my story may help bring additional light on how a series of small errors can lead to one giant screw-up.

By Mike Carroll