I love flying international ferry flights. Flying outside the United States and seeing new cultures is always an adventure. Not to mention, none seem to go perfectly, which also adds spice to the whole event. (If you like as-planned, on-schedule flights, don’t become a ferry pilot).
Often, I have a list of fellow pilots who want to go with me on these pop-up international flights and occasionally it works out to take them along. For the particular adventure in this story, Josh Best, who works with me at Casey Aviation, got his ticket punched to join (and his personal commentary can be seen in italics). This recent mission took place in a Piper Meridian from Texas to France. It was in an airplane I was intimately familiar with, and I was excited to fly this trip with Josh. But, like most flights that have trouble, all went well until it didn’t. And when it didn’t go well, it really didn’t go well at all.
Josh: Not only does Joe know this Meridian particularly well, more importantly, he understands the deice systems and their operation. His knowledge was much appreciated in the inclement weather and critical situation we encountered. As an instrument and commercial-rated pilot with 350 hours, I knew the trip was “beyond me” and my current experience. However, I was still very excited about the opportunity, and I knew situations would present themselves for me to grow as a pilot.
Across the Atlantic
It was a September flight, so the North Atlantic had not yet brewed its normal wintertime weather
cocktail of strong winds, low temps, low ceilings and nighttime. But, where there was no ice on the ground, the North Atlantic was brewing what it could aloft, and I was about to receive an object lesson on airframe icing.
This was an eastbound flight, so the amount of limited daylight was going to be even more limited by flying opposite the movement of the sun. We departed Montreal’s Mirabel International Airport (Helibellule is a fantastic FBO) at 6 a.m. in hopes of making Goose Bay (CYYR) by mid-morning. It was then on to one of my favorite stops along the “southern route” of the North Atlantic, the weather-finicky but very beautiful Narsarsuaq, Greenland (BGBW).
After an hour or so on the ground at BGBW, we climbed out in beautiful clear skies, perfect for climbing up the Kiagtuut Glacier leading to the Greenland Icecap. (If you’ve never seen the Greenland Icecap, it should be on your bucket list. The immensity and beauty cannot be captured by a camera). As we came across the eastern coast of Greenland, the sun began to set and soon we were in the pitch dark of night over the North Atlantic. I climbed into the back of the airplane to check on the survival equipment. The PT6 in front of us was humming along smoothly, but another check of equipment seemed prudent.
All was progressing nicely until the descent into Keflavik, Iceland (BIKF). As we passed FL180, we began to notice the building moisture in the low light of the position lights on the wing. The pitot heat was already ON (as it always should be on every pressurized airplane), and we turned on the prop heat – as any pilot should do before entering visible moisture with temperatures below 10 Celsius.
Within about three minutes, we began to notice a faint burning smell. It was not strong, barely a whiff, but it was present. In another minute (or so), the PROP DEICE FAIL caution light illuminated. This is a red light and that caught my attention. The circuit breaker that protects the system had not popped, but with the red light, I was highly suspicious that any electrons were reaching the prop boots. Josh and I looked at each other like Scooby and Shaggy, both thinking, “Ruh roh!”
Josh: “Ruh roh” was correct! I am pretty sure I’m Scooby in this situation. Shaggy voiced his thoughts out loud, and my subsequent thoughts were guided by his actions and words. Retrospectively, I was drained from the late night getting into Mirabel and the early launch that morning. The time change can affect your mental state subtly and discreetly. Honestly, before the red annunciator light went off, I wasn’t thinking about ice except that it did look pretty flying by outside.
I turned off the prop deice and continued the descent. After about three more minutes with the prop deice off, the smell seemed to vanish. I took note.
My senses were on high alert for icing issues, and I turned on the wing ice light to reveal a light coating of white on the leading edge of the wing. There were now large droplets of moisture streaming by, made clear in the strobe light. (If you’ve not seen the dance of wintry weather in a strobe at night, it’s a mesmerizing scene. I think it looks like a nonstop “warp-drive to light speed” experience in Star Wars. Except I’m in a Piper Meridian and not going warp speed).
With the build-up of ice on the wing, I deployed the wing boots. They “poofed” normally, and ice flew off the wing as it should. But then we got a WING DEICE FAIL caution light. This one is amber in color, but it might as well have been red for I knew I was in trouble. Looking out on the wings, the boots were not being sucked back flush with the wing. The system is supposed to use vacuum to suck the boots back in preparation for another deployment (poofing), but it was not happening.
So, now I had no prop deice, no wing deice, and I had a nice layer of North Atlantic moisture to fly through on my way to Keflavik. As I descended through 12,000, the OAT (Outside Air Temperature) was -8 Celsius and we were in the mix – a perfect scenario for lots of ice.
It was now decision time. I can’t go back to Greenland. There’s not an alternate. I must go to Iceland, no options. But, I did have some choices as to how I would handle the ice in the descent…should I recycle the prop deice and risk that burning smell? Should I recycle the surface deice? I looked back to the wing and saw what I believed to be a quarter-inch of rime ice present, with more accumulating. Ugh.
Josh: A little fear crept in at the thought of the cold North Atlantic water, at night, and with inclement weather. It was comparable to being on the couch as a kid watching “Nightmare on Elm Street” – wishing it to end knowing I wasn’t going to sleep well. But then, there was relief knowing we were continuing to fly and work through the situation: “Aviate, Navigate, Communicate.”
I decided to turn on the prop deice one more time. Bad decision? You decide, but I did not like the idea of making the descent in potential moderate ice without the props being clear of ice. When I pushed the prop deice switch, the PROP DEICE FAIL Caution Light illuminated instantly, and there was a 20 amp draw on the amp gauge. The faint smell returned. The only thing I want burning in an airplane is my desire to fly, so I turned off the prop deice and didn’t turn it on again this flight. A fire in flight is the greatest risk I can concoct in my aviation mind. I was going to have to figure out how to make it to Iceland without prop deice.
I recycled the wing boots and nothing happened. No ice flew off the airplane. The boots were “poofed” and were not going to be able to help rid the wings of ice. This was going to be an interesting descent.
I called Reykjavik Control and asked about the weather at Keflavik. As it turned out, the weather was 1,800 OVC and the temperature was 4 Celsius. That was good news. Icing usually happens in a reasonably thin layer, and I planned to descend through to a lower altitude quickly. Reykjavik Control gave me a descent to 3,000 MSL and I increased the airspeed to 165+ KIAS, well above the minimum icing speed of 130 KIAS for the Piper Meridian. I then commanded a 2,500 FPM descent and dove down through the clouds.
My eyes were on the flight instruments, but I probably looked like a wander lost chameleon as I seemed to keep one of my eyes on the illuminated wing and the other on the panel. More ice built up on the wings, but the mighty Meridian never showed any bad in-flight manners.
Finally, when I descended through 4,000 MSL, all of the ice flew off the airplane within seconds. I must have hit a warm layer and the high speed caused tremendous shedding. As the ice flew off the airplane, so did my worries. Within a few minutes, the long runway and incredible LED airport lighting at BIKF came into view, giving me complete comfort that all my icing worries were gone for this flight. The landing was uneventful. We were both happy to end the long day of flying.
Josh: It’s funny, but the longest part of the trip was those three minutes descending into Keflavik. Yet, they were also the most beneficial for me as a pilot. There is a reason why you see businesses use an “apprentice” type model to teach newcomers the ropes. Icing will not be as nerve-racking the next time it happens. I will be ahead of the plane instead of behind it.
Post-Flight Analysis
A maintenance investigation showed there was a small short in one of the prop boots that caused a small burnt area on the boot. There was probably a little bit of smoke that entered the engine inlet, went through compression, and was tapped at the P3 bleed air line, which then entered the cabin as air for pressurization. It was probably good that I didn’t turn the prop heat on in-flight more than I did for I’d have risked sending electrons to an electrical short. What about the surface deice? We could not find a problem. It worked perfectly on the next flight. Sometimes mechanical devices can throw you a curveball.
So, did I handle that situation right? Well, we landed at Keflavik safely, so it could be argued that I did. But, as with all armchair opportunities, there were certainly things I could have done better. The biggest lesson learned (or confirmed) is that I should have tested the equipment better beforehand. Of course, I checked the system back in Texas and sporadically along the way, but I think I should have flown with the icing systems operating for longer periods as I flew closer to civilization and a potential maintenance facility. Had I known about the faint smell, I could have remained in Goose Bay to get the system fixed.
If I have one overarching lesson from this experience, it would be that icing exacerbates any bad situation. It complicates things. Yes, the Meridian is FIKI-equipped, but if you lose any one aspect of the FIKI system, the airplane will not be ready for an icing scenario. Ice can turn a seemingly easy flight into a disaster if you are not prepared. I tell my clients, “Never hang out in ice.” Why? When you are in ice, you never know the amount of accumulation you might develop. Things can rapidly go from good to terrible.
In an icing discussion, there’s more to mention. Concerning flaps in ice, less is better. I made a good choice by not deploying flaps while in ice. And by keeping the airspeed up. There’s probably a “minimum icing speed” listed for your airplane, and this number is one you should have memorized. If you are in ice, your wing will stall at a lesser angle of attack than normal because of the disrupted airflow. And your stall warning vane will not work at all, even if you have stall warning heat on. With ice, make sure you fly at a higher airspeed and do not make abrupt flight control inputs.
What’s the most important “takeaway” I hope you get from my Iceland icing discussion? It is this: What happened to me at the 65 degrees of north latitude will have a strong potential to happen to you at the 27th thru 49th latitude soon. The wintery weather is moving towards us. Now is probably the right time to start flying with the icing systems on to ensure your system will be ready when you summon the electrons. Plan, prepare and mentally commit that you will not let an icing potential catch you off guard. Commit now that you’ll avoid moderate icing, that you’ll never fly in freezing precipitation, and that you’ll turn on pitot heat on every flight.