AircraftOwner Online

  Saturday, February 7, 2004 was a typical Arizona winter day. Temperatures in the 60s, clear skies, light winds. Mike was working at the airport until 2 pm, when we expected a furniture delivery. The monthly airport barbeque was set up by 11:30 when I decided to take a trip down to the place I planned to do some desert barnstorming the following day.

    A few weeks before, my friend, Janet, and I had done some desert barnstorming in Tristan’s Robinson R44 helicopter, north of Carefree Highway, west of Lake Pleasant where some ATVers had gathered to ride on the trails. We didn’t do very well — we just did one ride for three people — but one of the people told us that there was a big motorcross scheduled for February 8. They told us that if we came back then, we’d be able to do lots of rides.

    I decided to check things out the day before. Since my Robinson R22 helicopter was a heck of a lot cheaper to fly than Tristan’s, I fired it up and headed east.

    Things were really hopping when I got there. The place
was full of trailers and dirt bikes and a huge red and white striped tent had been set up not far from a good landing zone. I set Three-Niner-Lima down and kept an eye out while I shut down. When the blades had stopped, I made my way to the
big tent.

    There was a lot of activity in the area. Dirt bikes rolled by, stirring up clouds of dust. Vendors selling all kinds of dirt bike paraphernalia had set up shop under
canopies alongside the dirt road. There was even a food vendor with a smoker.

    The huge tent was almost empty. Tables had been set up around the perimeter, but there wasn’t much going on at any of them. In the back was a table with two computers and a few guys staring at them. I walked back and introduced myself.

   
   Oddly enough, one of the guys at the computers was one of the three people who’d flown with me a few weeks before. He remembered me and called over someone else who was a decision maker. She was thrilled to see me. She told me she was supposed to call me and had forgotten. She was glad I’d come. Of course I could do rides. She called over another boss person and told him. He was busy but seemed mildly interested. He said he’d announce the rides at the dinner that night. I offered three free rides for a raffle and promised to return the next day with my ground crew.

    It was nearly 1 pm when I returned to Three-Niner-Lima. I’d promised Mike I’d be back by 1:30 so I could go home and await the furniture. I checked the oil, walked around to look for obvious tampering, and climbed aboard. Then I went through my all-too-familiar ritual of starting up.

    I put my headset on, leaving my right ear uncovered. I pushed the mixture full rich. I turned on the master switch. I opened my door and called out “Clear!”, making sure it really was clear. Then I turned the key to start and started the engine. Flicked the Clutch, Strobe, and Alternator switches. Checked to make sure I had good oil pressure and that the starter light was out. The blade started turning. Then I turned on the avionics in the usual order: transponder, radio, GPS.

    “Pop!”

    The sound was new, something I’d never heard before. I distinctly remember saying to myself: “That’s odd. I wonder what that is?” Then I looked at the instrument panel and saw the puff of smoke on the passenger side, right beside the GPS.

    Smoke.

    I cut the throttle, flicked the clutch off, and pulled the mixture. The engine died. I remembered my fire emergency procedures and flicked off all switches, then turned the fuel selector to off. I opened my door and stepped outside, looking anxiously in the cabin I’d just vacated.

    Fortunately, nothing was on fire. The smoke dissipated, leaving an electrical fire smell behind.

    I waited to be sure that nothing was on fire. Then I thought about my situation. Parked out in the desert, about 20 miles from home. Furniture due to arrive in an hour. Mike would be pissed.

    But hell, my helicopter could be on fire! But it wasn’t.

    I remembered my emergency kit, which I kept under my seat. I dug it out. It has a very nice Swiss Army tool in it. With a screwdriver that I could use to open the instrument panel for a peek inside.

    I was unscrewing the panel when a man rode up on his ATV. I told him my situation as I worked. He told me he was an electrician. (How could I get so lucky?) He helped me open the panel. I swung it back and we peered inside. No trace of any problem. No trace of burning, smoke, or anything else. Surprisingly, not even much dust.

    Not satisfied, I decided to remove the panel covering my avionics. We had four screws out when we realized that there would be at least eight screws and we’d need a microscopic allen wrench to get the knob off my radio. That wasn’t a job to do out in the desert. So we closed it back up.

    He asked me if I had a fire extinguisher. I told him I didn’t. He told me he’d get me one and took off on his ATV.

    I called Mike and told him the situation. I couldn’t stand next to the helicopter while I was on the phone. The signal was bad there. I had to walk 20 feet away. I told him what had happen and what I’d done. I told him I planned to start up the ship with the circuit breakers for the avionics pulled. If that worked, I’d fly home. But I wouldn’t have any radios, so he should start making radio calls for me in about 20 minutes, warning area pilots that a helicopter without radios was on its way in.

    The man on the ATV returned with a small fire extinguisher. He told me it belonged to the people serving food and made me promise to bring it back. I promised. I also promised to give him a helicopter ride the next day. I studied the instructions on the fire extinguisher and stowed it on the passenger side floor. Then I climbed back on board and he rode away. I pulled out the Pilot Operating Handbook and read the Fire procedures in the Emergency Procedures section, just to make sure I knew them very well.

    I pulled the two avionics circuit breakers and the one for the avionics fan. I figured that if there was a fire in there, the last thing I needed was a fan blowing air on it. Then I went through my startup ritual (see above), skipping the part where I turn on the avionics. The blades were spinning when I realized that I was hearing a rhythmic clicking sound I don’t think I’d ever heard before. Although there was no smoke, the sound spooked me. I turned everything off again.

    Now I was desperate. I wasn’t sure if the helicopter was safe to fly, but I didn’t know what to do. I called Mike again and gave him an update. He started making plans for coming to pick me up. Then I told him I’d call Paul.

    Paul was my mechanic. He’s probably one of the best Robinson Helicopter mechanics out there. Unfortunately, due to a disagreement between me and the company he works for, I’m not allowed to bring my helicopter to him for servicing. I wasn’t very happy about this and neither was he. He told me that if I ever had a problem, I could call him. He even gave me his cell phone number.

    Throughout the past three years or so, I’ve called him about four times. He’s been very helpful. I called him that day. He answered. I told my story. When I got to the part about the smoke, he said what I’d been thinking at the time: “That’s not good.” I was glad we agreed on that point.

    He thought the problem might be in the strobe, which I’d turned on right before the avionics and had turned on the second time I’d started, too. The rhythmic clicking sound could correspond to the charging mechanism. He thought I might be hearing it through my headset. He suggested that I leave the strobe off and give it a try. I thanked him and hung up.

    I called Mike to give him an update. By now, it was almost 1:30. I was
going to be late — if I ever made it at all.

    I climbed aboard again and pulled two more circuit breakers: the strobe
and the intercom (what the heck; who was I going to talk to anyway?). I
started it up. The clicking was gone. There was no smoke. Everything was fine.

    Of course, a ton of stuff wasn’t even turned on.

    I took off cautiously, my eyes straying occasionally to where I’d seen the smoke and the fire extinguisher lying on the floor beyond it. I flew low for two reasons. First, without a radio, I wouldn’t be able to announce my position to anyone. I was far less likely to encounter someone at 400 feet AGL than higher. Second, I wanted to be close to the ground in case I needed to land in a hurry. Let’s face it, the closer you are to the ground, the quicker you’ll get there.

    I also decided not to take the quickest route home, which went across the mostly flat and definitely empty desert. If I had to land, I wanted to land where some people would see me and be able to help — or at least give me a ride
to civilization. So I followed Carefree Highway and, when I reached it,
Grand Avenue.

    My Bose headset, which has excellent noise cancellation features, completely stinks when it isn’t powered up. I’d unplugged it before taking off, so it offered very little sound muffling. The helicopter was very loud and I imagined that every noise was a new one, one that could mean trouble. But there was no trouble. I flew into Wickenburg, flying only about 300 feet above the ground so I’d remain clear of any traffic in the pattern or departing the area. Then I made an approach from the south to the helipad. It was 1:50 PM when I set down.

    Mike was busy fueling helicopters: a Schweitzer 300 and a Robinson R22. I wanted to look at the Schweitzer, but didn’t have time. I hopped in my Jeep and went home. The furniture guys arrived five minutes after I did. Mike arrived ten minutes later.

    On Monday, my local mechanic, Ed, took apart the instrument panel and removed the avionics. The GPS had faint singe marks on it, but when we removed it from its case, its circuits were okay. He reassembled everything and we powered up the avionics stack. No popping noises, no smoke. Everything fully functioning. I hate when that happens.

    Ed thinks there might have been a loose screw or something inside the stack. It hit the GPS case and caused a little short circuit, complete with smoke, but didn’t pop the circuit breaker. Then the helicopter’s vibrations shook the screw into a place where it couldn’t be found. A place where it wouldn’t pop again.

    I flew Three-Niner-Lima — now nicknamed “Smokey” — later that week and didn’t have any problems at all. It went to Prescott for a 100-hour inspection and Cody, the mechanic there, couldn’t find any problems either.

    Ed was probably right. I never saw smoke in the cockpit again.

But I bought Three-Niner-Lima a present from the Robinson Helicopter Company: its very own fire extinguisher.
- Maria Langer

A Few “Heavy Iron” Procedures for the Light Aircraft Pilot

A Bonanza crashed at a nearby airport. Witnesses said the engine failed at an altitude of 75’ to 300’ and the pilot attempted to turn back to the airport. He did not make it. Both occupants died.

    The NTSB released the transcript of the US Air flight that crashed on takeoff at Lexington, Kentucky. Much was made of the pilots’ chatter about irrelevant information while the crew lined up on the wrong runway. That accident also revealed that there were not as many controllers working as there should have been, and the one controller who was working was not watching the doomed flight.

    “Sully” ditched in the Hudson, rather than trying to put it on dry land. How many of us, in our own aircraft, would have made the almost-instantaneous decision that we could not save our aircraft from damage, and that we were going to “get wet”?

    Some airline procedures, if properly and habitually used by private pilots, would allow those who fly with us to testify in court as to our habitual use of enhanced safety procedures beyond those that are required by regulation if we are ever involved in an aircraft crash. This could spare us, our families and our Estates, a great deal of humiliation and expense.

    These are a few suggestions:

Pre-takeoff briefing

On most professional flights, the pilot flying will brief the crew-members on the procedures that will be used for departure. Even if you have to say it out loud to yourself, this is a great habit to get into. “We have been cleared for takeoff on Runway 05. On the takeoff roll, if any instrument goes into the red, or changes suddenly in any way, I want you to tell me immediately. I will rotate at 85 knots and climb out at 120 knots. If we have not reached climb speed, I will abort the takeoff on the runway. Below 300’, I will land straight ahead, even if I go off the end of the runway. I will not make any turns. If we are above 300’, I will hold 106 knots, best glide, and attempt to land on I-95 with the traffic. Above 1,500’, I will determine whether it is safe to attempt to land back at the airport or at another landing area within our glide radius.

    This forces the pilot to think about a rejected takeoff or an engine failure at low altitude. We probably all know someone who tried to turn back to the airport at too low an altitude following an engine failure, and didn’t make it. Saying what you intend to do before you take the active can help you avoid the compulsion to try it too.

Sterile cockpit

Professional crews do not discuss any matters not concerned with the flight from engine start until 10,000’. Similarly, once the aircraft has been cleared to descend for approach to landing, until engine stop, the professional crew discusses only issues related to the present and upcoming phases of flight. Those of us who fly light aircraft can modify this rule so that, until established on initial cruise altitude and heading, no one says anything that the crew can hear unless it is directly related to a safety of flight item in the current or pending phase of the flight. Similarly, once the flight has been cleared to descend for landing, the passengers and crew should confine themselves to safety-of-flight items only. Many of us know pilots who chatter from engine start to shut down. How many radio calls were missed? How many checklist items were never checked?

Fly the airplane

Most of us learned this one in primary flight training. But it is vital, even in a small aircraft, to make sure that someone is always in command, and that someone is always actually flying the aircraft.

Use the system, but don’t depend on it

Whether flying IFR or VFR with radar advisories (flight following), use the system. Having people on the ground that know who you are, where you are going, and what you are doing, is a good thing. If the advisories become burdensome, cancel services and navigate on your own. Don’t become complacent. When you are advised unexpectedly, “Radar Service terminated, Resume own Navigation, Squawk VFR”, can you continue your flight without straying into restricted airspace? GPS and moving maps have made this easier than it used to be, but it is no less important.

Double check the controllers

Unless given an “immediate” instruction, there is usually time to make sure that the instruction makes sense. Controllers are human, and sometimes they make mistakes. If cleared onto a runway, look down the final approach course to see if someone is being landed on top of you. Look down the runway to see that the last guy is clear and no one is trying to cross the active. In flight, if an instruction doesn’t make sense, ask the question. Don’t blindly follow the instruction if that voice in your head is telling you that something is not right. Once cleared to land, check to see that the landing runway, and all crossing taxiways and runways, really is clear.

In an emergency, the insurance company owns the aircraft

If an airline crew is forced to land off airport, or on the airport with damage, the crew shouldn’t care about is whether the aircraft is going to get damaged. The crew is thinking: “how can I save my life and the lives of my passengers and crew?” Light aircraft owners often feel that the aircraft is a part of their family. We don’t want to see it get hurt, and we try to save it. The moment the engine quits, the fire breaks out, or something else extreme happens, think: “The insurance company owns this airplane now. I am going to sacrifice THEIR airplane as much as I need to in order to keep us alive.”

By applying these and other “big aircraft” concepts to your normal, habitual procedures, there is less of a risk of you being the one held responsible at trial, and your flying will be much safer.