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with no change, I suddenly noticed the “idiot light” on the panel and realized what was happening. Now what?
I mean, how could this happen to me on my very first IFR flight? How unfair. Once I accepted the situation, I sur- prisingly got down to business. I was very quickly dealing with a total electrical failure: no radio, no transponder, no HSI, no navigation and no plan. I had clouds below me for as far as I could see, which in clear air was probably 100 miles, but limited fuel. It was decision time. How I dealt with this emergency would obviously affect the lives of all of us on board.
I first had to explain to my very nervous passengers that the loss of electrical power would not affect the engine or control of the aircraft. I would navigate by the “wet” compass and find an airport. I knew we were somewhere south of Lansing, Michigan. Figuring that most of the major roads in the area would be running North-South, my game plan was to initiate a slow descent on an Easterly heading until breaking out below the overcast. The compass would be most accurate on an East-West heading (remember, I just finished my IFR rating), and ceilings should be around 1,000 feet AGL. Before you scream “idiot,” remember this was 1979 and cellphone towers didn’t exist. Though Michigan is not known for its mountains, proceeding north would take me into progressively higher terrain. We began our descent through the clouds. As hoped, we broke out of the clouds about 1,000 feet above ground level.
Again, as hoped, we found a four-lane highway and fol- lowed it north towards Lansing. I eventually found a large airport with a layout consistent with KLAN and began to line up on the longest runway. Finally, some good news, as I saw a bright green light from the tower. I lowered the gear handle, not, of course, expecting green lights and continued the approach. About half a mile from the runway thresh- old, the green light changed to a flashing red light. What now? It finally occurred to me that the landing gear was an ELECTRO-hydraulic system, and the gear never lowered. I aborted the landing and flew away from the airport. Now sweating profusely, I asked the front seat passenger to read the emergency checklist for manually lowering the gear and managed to control the airplane, stay below the clouds all while extending the gear. I returned to the airport, again got a green light, and landed without incident. The field wire was quickly reattached by a mechanic, but we all felt we had enough and returned home.
6 • TWIN & TURBINE / June 2022
What I Learned
• Monitor your systems, and more importantly, know what your normal readings are. A slightly low oil pres- sure may be within normal range but be signaling an impending failure. A discharging battery means a failed alternator.
• Know where the nearest VFR conditions are. In my case, I neglected to brief that and couldn’t ask once I lost all electrical power.
• Don’t ever put yourself and passengers in a position where you must make a blind descent in IMC condi- tions (e.g., Kobe Bryant). Always have an out. The outcome could easily have been tragic with today’s proliferation of towers.
• Knowyoursystems.Iwastotallydistracteddealingwith the total electrical failure and never considered how the gear worked. As a result, I had a second emergency to deal with in getting the gear down while scud running under a low overcast.
• Iftheradiosgetquietforaninordinateamountoftime, query ATC, they will probably appreciate the conversa- tion on a slow day.
Episode #3 – Hypoxia
I used to do some flying freight at night in a twin Cessna 402. The mission that night was from Columbus, Ohio, to Burlington, Vermont, then on to Buffalo, New York, before returning home. It was wintertime, so I’ll let you imagine how the weather was. It didn’t matter; my job was to go anyway. The Cessna 402 was equipped with boots, heated props and alcohol for the windshield. Nonetheless, it was not FIKI certified. It was also unpressurized.
On departing Columbus, I started picking up ice at around 6,000 feet. I queried ATC for a tops report but none was available in my area. I asked for higher, slid my seat back to grab the oxygen cannula from the side pocket. I plugged in the cannula, slid the seat back forward, and passing 13,000 feet went on oxygen. I ended up at FL190 before I was on top of the clouds and out of icing. It was a good 30 minutes later that things started to get weird. It began with a hilari- ous exchange with ATC about changing frequencies. The audacity, I thought, of ATC wanting to change frequency when the one I was on was working just fine. Now, if I could only find the blasted radio...
Having military training, I had been through the altitude chamber numerous times. One of the things you learn from that experience is to recognize your personal symptoms of hypoxia. My primary symptom was that I got “giddy” – everything was suddenly humorous. Now remember, the pulse oximeter had yet to be invented. A dim lightbulb began to glow in the back of my mind. Something wasn’t right. I regained enough wit about me to realize I was hypoxic. In sliding my seat back and forth, I had chopped my cannula in half and was receiving no oxygen. No worries I thought as I reached over to the copilots’ side pocket and grabbed for a cannula – nothing. I hazily reasoned that I was now in trouble. No way, I thought, was I going to descend back down into the icing. I would just find another cannula