Never Again: Mixture mayhem

That had always kept me out of trouble—until the last Saturday in May 2011, when climb performance wasn’t merely sluggish. It would be very nearly true to say that my airplane wouldn’t climb at all.

Acceleration seemed normal during the takeoff roll down Frederick Municipal Airport’s 5,219-foot Runway 23 in Maryland, and we lifted off at the usual 75 mph. But the moment I tried to pitch up, airspeed began to decay. Forget accelerating to the 100-mph VY or even the 90-mph VX. I could barely maintain 80 mph flying straight and level, which quickly bled off every time I tried to gain some altitude. By the time I understood this, I was too far down the runway to land again.

I’d bought the airplane in 2002 as a 101-hour VFR private pilot, intending to use it for personal travel while pursuing my instrument rating. I also expected to trade up to something bigger and faster. Nine years, 1,100 hours, three ratings, and two national financial crises later I still had the Arrow (and still do today), having learned a few painful lessons about the economics of aircraft ownership along the way.

I’d also learned a few things about how that model likes to be treated. Aggressive ground leaning is needed to keep the plugs clean. The marginal climb performance is balanced by the ability to descend like the proverbial Steinway; staying near gliding distance of an airport means conserving altitude as long as possible, and then making a short, steep approach. It would be easy to put it into a field from which it could leave only on the back of a truck—some comfort when evaluating possible emergency landing sites.

Two years earlier, I’d begun making rescue flights as a volunteer for Pilots N Paws. Today’s task was to bring a standard poodle from Huntington, West Virginia, back to Frederick, where Mid-Atlantic Poodle Rescue would place him in foster care.

I was already behind schedule when I arrived at the airport, where the situation wasn’t conducive to expediting my departure. Although the second-busiest airport in Maryland behind Baltimore-Washington International, Frederick wouldn’t get a control tower for another year. Getting an IFR clearance (a necessity in my book for cross-country flights over the mountains) required calling Potomac Tracon on a discrete frequency, and then switching back to CTAF to work your way into the flow. On a holiday weekend graced with clear, warm weather, both were busy. Potomac initially told me to expect a 20-minute delay. I kept burning avgas in the run-up area rather than miss being ready when they were. Meanwhile, a steady mix of transient aircraft, primary students doing touch and goes and practice ILS approaches, made it difficult for anyone to get onto the runway.

Ten minutes after my 20 minutes had passed, Potomac finally asked if I was ready for immediate departure. I affirmed that I was, enriched the mixture, turned on the fuel pump, and switched the transponder to altitude—only to hear the controller say, “November Three-Seven-Tango, stand by just another minute. We’re going to get that King Air out ahead of you.” I pulled back the mixture, shut off the fuel pump, and switched the transponder to standby.

Three minutes later I finally heard, “November Three-Seven-Tango, you’re released for departure. Clearance void if not airborne by one-eight-five-three Zulu, in which case advise intentions no later than one-eight-five-five. Current time is one-eight-five-zero.”

The airplane that had just landed was turning onto the taxiway, and the next was on a mile-and-a-half final. I flipped back to CTAF and announced “Frederick traffic, Arrow departing westbound from Runway Two-Three, Frederick” as I switched the transponder back on and taxied onto the runway, hitting the fuel pump as I crossed the hold-short line. After a rolling turn onto the centerline, I opened the throttle, lifted off, retracted the gear—and couldn’t climb.

Repeatedly raising the nose until airspeed dropped to 70, and then leveling to accelerate, milked out just enough altitude to clear the roof of the warehouse off the departure end. A passenger could have read the data plates on the rooftop air conditioners. There was no hope of turning at that altitude and airspeed, and wooded, rolling hills lay ahead. I started looking for landing spots more inviting than either the quarry or the propane-tank dealership ahead, although I hated to give up while the airplane continued to fly.

The engine was turning its full 2,700 rpm, and the flaps were retracted. On other occasions I’d forgotten to retract the gear, which cut the rate of climb severely but never before to zero. Still, it was worth a glance. The gear switch was Up and the green lights extinguished—and the mixture lever was halfway out. I shoved it forward and the airplane surged into the air. I checked in with Potomac Departure just a couple of minutes later than expected.

What had happened was clear in retrospect. When Potomac postponed my release, I’d leaned the mixture, but not all the way to its usual setting, which is too lean to take full throttle without bogging. Then, in my rush to get out in front of landing traffic, I’d gunned it onto the runway without checking the engine controls. The two mistakes were mirror images. Avoiding either would have prevented the most frightening three minutes I’ve ever had in an airplane.

The lessons are clear enough. Double-check your gauges and power controls before pulling onto the runway—and never rush. In the cockpit, hurry makes worry.

David Jack Kenny is the AOPA Air Safety Institute’s resident statistician. He holds a fixed-wing airline transport pilot certificate with commercial privileges for helicopters.

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