When all hell breaks loose at 2,700 feet

By Yves A. Didier

I know you’ve heard this one before: “The most dangerous part of flying is the drive to the airport.”

Really? Whether or not that is actually true and statistically proven is debatable, of course. Numbers don’t lie, sure, but statistics can be deceiving, or shall we say “interpreted” very differently.

Another often expressed opinion is how unlikely it is that you will ever experience an engine failure in flight.

Why?

Legacy engines may be basic in design, but they are generally over-engineered, built to high standards, and — as long as you don’t skimp on maintenance or take shortcuts — manufactured to last.

And last they do, with safety always being paramount.

Sounds great and comforting until you personally experience otherwise, most likely when you least expect it.

The planes I owned in the past were always old or, if you want to be kind, “vintage.”

A friend of mine flies a decked out Aerostar. It’s awesome. It also guzzles fuel like there’s no tomorrow. That’s not me.

Not having won the lottery yet, much sexier Cirrus or late model Cessna singles with the latest Garmin 1000s, air conditioning, and all the other bells and whistles are simply not in my budget. My humble wings were always what was doable on a working man’s salary.

That said, I am not naïve and I understand that the likelihood of an engine failure is more likely with a powerplant that has already been overhauled two or even three times over those last 40 or 50 years.

And yet, based on the above gospel on GA engine safety and the small chance of experiencing a major problem while airborne, I was not prepared when things went wrong. Or was I?

Whether you just started flying recently or already have decades of PIC time under your belt, the one thing most of us have in common is to constantly question ourselves and play those “what if…” mind games.

Here’s an idea, though: How about doing that when your feet are solidly planted on the ground and not while massaging the rudder pedals at 5,000 feet.

Just ask Jeffrey. We had taken off from Brackett Field (KPOC) in La Verne, California, and completed our climb out of the traffic pattern.

While my friend is not a certificated pilot, he has taken flying lessons in the past, so I didn’t hesitate entrusting him with the controls of my Cherokee 140 for a quick minute. Then, however, in typical Jeffrey fashion, all hell broke loose. (Just kidding, it was not his fault at all).

Barely two or three minutes after he had taken the yoke, the plane started shaking violently. As in like nothing I ever experienced before — and I was in the 1994 Northridge earthquake’s epicenter, so I know a thing or two about violent shaking.

“I have the plane,” I shouted, and for the first time ever Jeffrey seemed relieved to relinquish control back to me.

Trying to make sense of things, I found myself petrified and in total disbelief. Whatever happened to “You will most likely never experience a catastrophic engine failure in flight?” This was not right! And yet, here I was, desperately trying to control my plane.

But first: Aviate, communicate, navigate. Or was it aviate, navigate, communicate? Screw it, how about just flying the plane for now? (By the way, it’s the second one: Aviate, navigate, communicate).

Fumbling around with the mixture, checking the mags, and adjusting the throttle did not make things better. The oil temperature looked normal too, yet something was seriously wrong. But what?

By now, sweat was dripping down my face and running down my spine. What was the best glide speed again?

Then, suddenly, something amazing happened. Cops and military folks refer to it as “muscle memory” — when the “you know what” hits the fan, you simply act the way you’ve trained or what you mentally prepared for, without even thinking much about it.

Once you realize that your plane is going down unless you take immediate action, you will be very motivated to put it somewhere, anywhere, in a controlled fashion.

Luckily, we had reached 2,700 feet when things began to go south, and luckily I was familiar with the area. San Gabriel Valley Airport (KEMT) in El Monte was just a few miles to our left, and I figured that unless the engine seized before we got close, we had a fighting chance to make it to the field.

With the airport in sight, I radioed the tower and advised them of our predicament. ATC immediately cleared me to “land any runway” so I didn’t even have to declare an emergency.

My pattern entry was steep, very steep, (don’t you hate giving up altitude when flying with a dying engine?) but the subsequent landing felt like my best one ever.

Lessons learned

There’s nothing $5,000 can’t fix in the GA universe, as long as the problem does not go beyond a swallowed exhaust valve that is dancing around on top of your #3 cylinder’s piston at 1800 rpm, about to crack it wide open.

Never underestimate metal fatigue in an old engine, no matter if or when the powerplant was overhauled before.

The A&P who subsequently replaced my 140’s cylinder and piston actually heard us long before seeing us on final as the engine was making “loud, clanking sounds in the air.” He guessed that my 950 SMOH Lycoming might have lasted perhaps another 45 seconds before seizing altogether.

I no longer think about possible in-flight scenarios based on “IF something bad happens, then…”. Instead, it’s now “WHEN this or that happens, then…”.

Call me cynical, but looking at it that way may just give you an edge when all hell breaks loose when you are flying.