A Comanche 400 & Ice
Late October in Missouri can be wonderfully good or horribly bad for flying. Sometimes both, in the same day. I was on the way back to Farmington from Little Rock, Arkansas. I had spent the weekend back home and had volunteered to take a customer down to Little Rock for a drop off and immediate return. No pay for it other than a few more hours of flying time. But this was special flying time. I was flying a Comanche 400, a single-engine, 400 horsepower low wing airplane built by Piper. What a performer. It climbed like a homesick angel and glided like a lead sled. The three-bladed prop and the 400 horses really moved that airplane along.
Bad weather was on the way when I left Farmington, a cold front was approaching at a pretty good rate. A few hours later, on takeoff from Little Rock the weather was chilly with a high cloud cover and good visibility. I had filed for a Visual Flight Plan. I planned to stay out of the clouds all the way back. It was fun to fly alone, speeding along about a couple of thousand feet over the highest ground.
Maybe this isn’t such a good idea, I thought, as we approached the southern border of Missouri. The clouds were lowering, getting closer to the ground. I had to slowly reduce altitude to stay out of them. If this situation continued, I would eventually be “scud-running”. Flying beneath the base of the clouds, the scud, and running along the tops of the terrain below. That would work as long as there was maneuvering space between the ground and the “scud”. As that space decreased one had to either bite the bullet and climb into the clouds or continue flight at lower and lower altitudes until the aircraft came to a sudden stop on the side of an unseen hill.
I chose to climb into the clouds. To fulfill legal requirements, I filed a new flight plan with Air Traffic Control as the airplane climbed for a higher altitude. I watched the outside air temperature indicator and saw that it was approaching the freezing point. As I flew in the visible moisture of the clouds, and the temperature dropped to below freezing, ice would begin to form on the airframe.
I had checked the weather at Farmington before taking off from Little Rock. I had been told that the cold front would have passed and to expect high clouds and visibility unrestricted on landing. That knowledge comforted me since I knew I would fly out of this cloudy condition.
Just as expected, as the temperature dropped, ice began to form on the windshield. I knew if it was forming there, it would also be forming on the wings. I looked out the side window to confirm this as I saw a thin layer of ice beginning on the leading edge of the wing. I turned up the windshield defrost to the highest possible setting hoping that would keep the windshield clear of ice. I watched as the ice formed faster than the defrost system could clear it. Within minutes the entire windshield was opaque, and the ice cover began to form along the side windows as well. One last look at the wings confirmed that the ice load was increasing. As the icing spread completely over the side window, I finally lost sight of the leading edges of both wings.
The 400 horses were fuel injected, no carburetor. That eliminated any concern over carburetor icing. The engine would keep turning through anything except running out of fuel or a sudden impact with the ground. My concern grew over the visibility restriction and the added weight of the ice forming on the airplane. Remembering Scotty’s training “FTFA”, or Fly The Fucking Airplane, I changed the pitch of the propeller and heard chunks of ice hitting the airframe as they broke loose from the blades. As long as I could keep the propeller blades clear of ice, they would remain efficient and provide maximum thrust. The problems of the added weight of the ice and the lack of any outside visibility were critical. I couldn’t do anything to stop the formation of ice on the airframe except fly out of the clouds and find some warmer air. “FTFA, fly the fucking airplane. If you’re flyin’ you ain’t die’in.”
I asked ATC if they had any pilot reports about the tops of the clouds. They replied that a pilot reported the tops at eight thousand feet. ATC quickly approved my request to climb to visual conditions on top of the clouds. Even with ice building on the air frame the 400 horses got me to the new altitude quickly. At seven thousand feet I looked out the back seat windows and saw that the airplane was now in the clear, above the clouds. The temperature had dropped further in the climb and there was no way the airframe ice would dissipate at this higher altitude and colder temperature. In fact, the ice on the windshield had thickened during the climb and the defrost system had no effect at all on the windshield.
‘Now how do I get this thing on the ground without being able to see anything.’ I said to himself. “In the meantime, FTFA.”
I occasionally flew through some of the higher tops of clouds. I knew the ice load on the airplane was increasing every time that happened because I could feel the performance slightly decreasing as the weight of the airplane increased. The cockpit heater was on full blast, and it was uncomfortably hot in the airplane. I hoped that some of the heat would impact the iced-up windows, but I knew it was unlikely, a very long shot at best.
Thirty miles from Farmington I dialed in the commercial radio station located a few miles off the end of the runway. Reception was good and the Automatic Direction Finder (ADF) needles locked in on the station. Using them I could keep track of what bearing I was on relative to the station. I turned the aircraft heading a few degrees to the left to compensate for a slight cross wind at my altitude. I would maintain this heading until I crossed over the radio station and began my privately published, and illegal, non-precision approach. The only way I had left to get on the ground safely. There wasn’t enough fuel on board to make it to St. Louis and a Ground Controlled Approach (GCA) at Lambert Field.
As I approached Farmington, the cloud cover beneath me dissipated and I could see the ground through the back cockpit windows. However, that didn’t help me with forward visibility. Even though I was now clear of clouds I could see absolutely nothing in front of me.
I called Farmington Airport on the radio and was both surprised and comforted to hear Scotty’s voice reply with the altimeter setting and wind direction. Another thing Scotty had talked about was, when you’re in trouble in an airplane, “confess”. Nobody can help you if you don’t confess that you have a problem. I “confessed” to Scotty.
“Hmmm…,” Scotty said. “I’m just here for the weekend myself and was just waitin’ around to see you when you landed. This is a new one on me Pat. Yer in an airplane flyin’ along in clear weather and you cain’t see out the windshield cause it’s all iced up. Temperature on the ground is below freezing so there’s no chance of flyin around and trying to melt it off.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I replied.
“You got enough gas to fly on up to St. Louis and get a radar-controlled approach to a lot bigger runway and a professional crash crew?”
“No, whatever I’m gonna do, I’m gonna have to do it here. Remember that training episode you gave me where I had to open the vent window to close the cockpit door? Well, I can open that window and get a little bit of forward visibility through it over the wing.”
“Kin you see good enough to land the airplane if you kin even see the runway?”
“I’m going to try. Call the radio station and ask them to keep the carrier beam on. It’s getting close to sunset, and they’ll have to go off the air soon.”
“Sure. I’ll get right on that.”
“In the meantime, I’ll try to make a non-precision approach off the radio station. We practiced that enough so maybe I can get close enough to the airport so I can spot some landmarks and line up on the runway through the vent window.”
“You keep callin’ and lettin’ me know where you are on the approach. Ain’t nobody around but me but I’ll get some fire extinguishers on the pickup truck and be ready for you to land anywhere on the airport grounds. I think yer only gonna have time for one approach before it gets too durned dark. Then I don’t know what we’re gonna do.”
“That’s why I want to make sure that carrier beam stays on the air. Without that my goose is cooked.”
A few minutes later I called in on the radio, “I’m over the radio station now, proceeding outbound.”
“Roger that,” Scotty replied. “The radio station said they’d keep the carrier beam on until I called’em back. I’m gonna be off the radio after you call in over the station inbound. I’ll be on the truck with the fire extinguishers. You be careful now, my friend.”
“Let’s hope I don’t need you and the truck. You’re sure the runway lights are on, full bright?”
“They’re on and full bright!”
A few minutes later I called in, “Procedure turn outbound.”
“Roger that,” replied Scotty.
Exactly two minutes later I called again, “Procedure turn inbound.”
Roger that.”
One minute later I made another call. “Over the station and inbound to the runway. Beginning my descent. Landing gear is down. I’m only using the takeoff flap setting. I’m not sure how heavy this thing is.”
The lack of response from Scotty assured me he was in the truck, with the fire extinguishers, on the way to the end of the runway.
Even though the approach was a homemade training aid for pilots it was accurate enough so that at 600 feet above the ground they could take off the “hood”, look out the windshield and see how they were lined up for landing on the runway. At that altitude they would have about half a mile to continue the descent and land.
With my airplane covered in ice I would have to fly the airplane all the way to the ground with only a fraction of desired forward visibility. Without the vent window I would have no forward visibility at all. I could only make frequent and quick peaks through the tiny vent window to spot visual cues that would take me to a landing on the runway. I quickened my scan of the instrument panel. My scan now became unorthodox, to include the look through the vent. I recognized the houses on Tenth Street at the edge of the airport boundary.
Through six hundred feet.
Down to five hundred feet, then four hundred feet.
At three hundred feet I began to fear I had missed further visual aids as nothing looked familiar in the fading light of dusk. It must be airport property since it was nothing but a grass field. I hoped it was the field surrounding the paved and lighted runway.
Heavy with ice, I had decided not to use full flaps and a slower landing speed. With ice on the wings, I wasn’t sure that there would be adequate airflow over them to produce the lift I needed for a normal landing speed. I figured that an extra ten miles an hour over the takeoff, flap setting speed would be adequate to stay in the air. Would the indicated airspeed even be accurate? The airplanes sounds seemed to be about right.
In my mind I quickly thanked Scotty for teaching me how to fly the airplane by listening to the sounds at various speeds and configurations. In order to see better I kicked in more right rudder. As the airplane’s nose shifted slightly to the right, I could see a bit more detail through the vent window. The runway lights on the right side of the runway flashed into view. I had to skid airplane left to get between the runway edge lights and as I did so, at well under a hundred feet of altitude, I felt a slight shudder as the airplane neared stalling speed. No advance warning because the stall-warning indicator had iced over; frozen into the incorrect, safe flight zone. I lowered the nose, added power while forcing the airplane into alignment with the runway. I touched down heavily. The airplane was far too heavy to even bounce. I reduced engine power to idle while maintaining directional control down the runway with rudder pedals and braking; my only reference was the row of lights on the left side of the runway that I could see through the small vent window. After I brought the airplane to a stop on the runway, I finally exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I made a one hundred eighty degree turn at the end and taxied back to the exit point in front of the small administration office.
“Scotty I can’t see a thing outside. Are there any airplanes on the ramp?”
“No just taxi on in and shut’er down.”
Grateful to be on the ground in one piece, I stopped the airplane in the middle of the parking ramp and killed the engine. After completing the brief shut down procedure, I turned off the battery switch and reached up to open the overhead latch on the Piper Comanche’s door. It was locked in the closed position, heavily coated with airframe ice. I gently pounded on the inside, at the top of the door, to no avail. The latch wouldn’t move. I powered up the battery switch and called in on the radio.
“Scotty can you come out and help me get out of this thing? The door’s iced shut.”
“Sure thing. I just thought you was takin’ care of bidniz.”
As Scotty approached the airplane, I could hear him through the vent window. “Oh my God! How in the world did you get on the ground with this load of ice? I ain’t never seen nuthin’ like it. You was serious. You cain’t see anything out front of this thing.”
“Ah, I know that Scotty. Can you knock loose some ice and get the door open? I can’t seem to do it from inside.”
There was no deicing fluid at the airport and pouring water on the door would only freeze the door shut more solidly as the evening temperature continued to drop. It took Scotty nearly twenty minutes of gentle pounding around the door to loosen the ice enough so that we could open it.
We manhandled the airplane into the hangar. Once the big, sliding doors were closed, Scotty turned on an overhead heater that would bring the temperature inside the hangar back above the freezing level. We stood in the hangar for a few minutes and watched the ice slowly begin to melt off the airplane.
Scotty turned to me and said, “You know you are one lucky son of a bitch dontcha?”
“Yeah. If I was a cat that would have used up a couple of lives.”
“Feel like goin’ somewhere’s for a drink?”
“I sure do. I gotta beam down some. Sure you have the time Scotty?”
“First round’s on me.”
I paused for a moment beside the airplane. I reached out and caressed the slowly melting ice on the leading edge of the wing.
I muttered softly, “Thank you sweetheart. You really saved my ass on this one. I can’t thank you enough.”
Scotty, at the hangar office door said. “What’cha say Pat? I didn’t hear yuh.”
“Nothing Scotty. Just talking to myself.”
“I don’t doubt that my friend. I’d be having a full blast conversation with myself if I’d just gone through that.”
This episode would begin a lifetime feeling that I quietly nursed. The suspicion that airplanes, maybe even complex machinery in general, had personalities that you could subconsciously relate to. A thought I mostly kept to myself through the decades of flying to come.
