Flight Lesson: Let there be a light…please

Every page of my logbook tells the story of my growth in aviation. So when the time came for the last entry on the last page of my first Jeppesen Professional Pilot Logbook, it was fitting that it was an instructional flight. I was working with a flight instructor candidate, Bill, a competent pilot with good instructional knowledge who was having some trouble adapting to the T-tailed Piper Arrow. Being one of the few complex aircraft in a rental fleet locally, it got a lot of use—and sometimes abuse—but I never had any reason to feel unsafe in it.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, we met for a training flight to practice traffic pattern operations, landings, and takeoffs. After a routine preflight and runup, we got clearance from the tower and took off into Oakland, California’s traffic pattern

On the climb, we retracted the landing gear, observing the familiar three green lights transform into a single amber. Abeam midfield on the downwind leg, Bill actuated the lever to extend the gear, and the three greens returned. Following a normal landing, we climbed upwind again and cycled the gear upward.

Again, midfield downwind, Bill pushed the lever down. We heard and felt the rumble of the power pack and thud of the gear locking into place, but only two of the three green lights illuminated. He cycled the lever again and—still—the left main wheel bulb did not light. I reached down to adjust the light’s brightness by turning the bulb socket, but the light remained cold.

Turning base, Bill advised the tower of our situation. “Have you checked the dimmer?” the controller asked.

A collective sigh filled the cockpit. “Yes, sir. First thing we tried,” Bill replied. “Can you tell if our gear is down and locked?”

“All three appear to be fully down, but I can’t confirm they’re locked.”

Another voice broke squelch: “Hey, I hear y’all in that Arrow are having gear trouble. Say, have you checked the light brightness?” said another pilot flying.

I laughed. “Yup. First thing we checked.”

Bill radioed to the tower, “We are going to land, full stop, on the next pattern.”

We got clearance, but the controller asked: “Would you like us to roll the fire trucks?” Bill said yes without hesitation.

We slowed and descended, wedging the single door ajar—just in case. We heard and felt the familiar chirp-chirp of the wheels kissing pavement, and cleared off the runway, with two airport crash/rescue trucks following closely behind.

We shut down on the ramp and were greeted by an airport staffer, who collected our contact info in case of any questions. Our postflight inspection revealed nothing unusual, but we wrote up the squawk, grounded the airplane, and debriefed. I was proud of Bill, who was calm and collected in the face of the unexpected, and of myself—for not taking over the flight despite the desire to.

The culprit was later discovered: The wiring harness for the light had become disconnected. No amount of troubleshooting aloft could have remedied it.

And so I closed out my logbook with my first real in-flight emergency. Fortunately, I haven’t endured another one since. But I still hold my breath every time I extend the landing gear.