Flight Lesson: Running on empty

I scheduled my final solo cross-country flight to Helena, Montana, where I would take the medical flight test to earn a statement of demonstrated ability for a vision issue. And while there, why not take the knowledge test?

The evening before the trip, I went to prep the Cessna 150. I watched the lineman pump 19.5 gallons into what I thought were the standard 18-gallon tanks and said I didn’t know this 150 had the optional 24-gallon long-range tanks. The kid replied, “It sure does.”

The next morning, after a scenic flight through the Flathead and Swan valleys, I completed the flight test, which included two simulated engine failures. On the first, I was way too high. For the second, I picked a bigger field but didn’t see the irrigation ditch that bisected it. I cleared the ditch and the examiner told me to head back to the airport.

It was close to noon when we finished. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, so I raided the vending machine, then finished the three-hour knowledge test.

The fuel calculations for the return trip were close, but OK for standard tanks. I reasoned the long-range tanks would leave a generous reserve.

I was mentally exhausted: from the trip, the flight test, the written exam, from not having eaten anything healthy for several hours, and not drinking enough water. I simply did not want any more challenges, even something as simple as topping off the tanks. Instead, I searched the documentation and placards in the airplane for information about the optional tanks. I found nothing there but more stress. I made the fateful decision to believe what I had seen the night before and head back without refueling.

I watched fuel levels in both tanks fall to a quarter full and then the left tank sinking to empty. Then, the engine stopped. I looked for a place to set down.

As luck would have it I was almost over the 2,500-foot grass strip of the Ferndale County airfield. The little Cessna cleared the trees by at least 200 feet and going 10 knots faster than it should have been. I hit the flaps and pushed the airplane down onto grass about halfway down the field, still going fast enough to fly. The airplane bounced twice and finally slid to a stop just short of the fence.

I tried the engine and was surprised when it started. Nobody was at Poorman Aviation, but someone at the neighboring house told me a fellow up the field with a gas pump might be able to help. I explained to him that I was low on fuel and asked if I could buy a few gallons.

“I thought I heard you coming in kinda quietly,” he said. “If you have enough gas left, taxi on down and we’ll put some more in.” He put in 10 gallons, and as I prepared to leave I was sure I saw a grin on his face. I then made the world’s worst short-field takeoff and flew the last 25 miles to Glacier.

I learned a lot about flying that day: about how profoundly stress and fatigue affect one’s abilities and judgment, about not trying to cram too much into a single flying day, about the necessity to factor in multiple takeoffs and climbs when calculating fuel reserves, and more. But most of all I learned all those principles don’t make a lot of difference if your airplane has no fuel or if the pilot is running on empty.