Never Again: Run dry

I had a few dollars in my pocket, and I owned a 1947 Piper PA–12 Super Cruiser. I had a month before work started so I decided to load up a box of tools, some clothes, and survival gear and fly my Super Cruiser to Alaska.

I bought N3155M in December 1981. It was a three-place airplane with a stick, tailwheel, heel brakes, and no flaps. Fabric-covered, it was powered by a 108-horsepower Lycoming O-235. A Narco Mk 12 nav/com was it as far as avionics.

I was instrument-rated and held a commercial pilot certificate, but my hours were in “Spam cans” so I flew around in the winds of Texas until I knew how to slip, and how to deal with crosswinds, and how to keep the tail behind the nose on the ground. I had logged 82.3 hours in 55 Mike when I set out for Alaska.

The PA–12 can tank up to 38 gallons of fuel, a huge load for an engine that uses six gallons an hour in cruise. Although I had installed a simple exhaust gas temperature gauge, I leaned by pulling the mixture back until the engine got rough, then pushing it forward until the engine got smooth. This consistently yielded a fuel burn of 5.8 gallons an hour. Even with a one-hour fuel reserve, I figured I had enough fuel for five and a half hours of flying.

On June 1 I touched down at the Soldotna Airport (PASX). Total flight time en route was 50 hours; average fuel consumption, 5.8 gallons per hour. Forty-nine days later I ran that Super Cruiser out of gas and set it down in swampy grass of the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge. I was flying from Girdwood (AQY) back to Soldotna.

Before I took off, I totaled up the hours flown since my last fill up—4.6—and multiplied that by 5.8. I got approximately 26 gallons. I told myself there was enough remaining to make the 63-mile trip.

Just after I crossed into the refuge, the engine quit. Switching tanks didn’t help. I was at 3,500 feet, so I had time to contact Anchorage Approach and give them cross bearings off the Anchorage and Kenai VORs.

Off the left wing was what looked like a grassy meadow. I slowed and aligned and gently touched down. I was congratulating myself until the mains sank into watery grasses and stopped. I felt 55 Mike gently somersault over the mains and go over onto its back. It was very quiet. I collected my thoughts, braced myself, released the seat belt, opened the door, and stepped out into the watery muskeg.

I took the battery out and turned it right side up as I said to myself, “How could I be so stupid?”

Within minutes, the Fish and Game helicopter picked me up and took me in to Soldotna. Later I fielded a call from Jim Michelangelo of the NTSB. He asked if I had suffered from “fuel exhaustion.” “That’s a nice way of putting it,” I replied. He chuckled and told me it was classified as an incident.

I later realized that I had neglected to factor in the higher fuel consumption during the six takeoffs I had made on that fuel load. Dumb and costly.

A few days later I was flown back to a nearby lake. A friend and I hiked to the airplane and in a couple of days had it back on its feet. I then went to Anchorage where I hired a helicopter to pick it up and deliver it to the Anchorage ramp.

The helo pilot gave me $1 and said, “You have to agree to take $1 for your airplane. I don’t think there will be any problem, but if things get dicey and I have to drop it, it’s your loss.” I agreed. The lift was successful, I bought my airplane back, and soon it was flying again.

I sold 55 Mike; it’s still in Alaska. I left in 1992 and have logged more than 1,000 hours since that day in 1983. From that day to this, I make it a point to always know how much fuel is in my tanks.

Steve Ells is a freelance aviation writer, pilot, and A&P mechanic based in Paso Robles, California.