Carburator Ice
I woke up from a nightmare in a cold swear. It was surreal. We were just climbing out, just breaking free of the low-lying fog, and there it is, the Phillips LNG tanker. It dawns on me just about the same time as I feel the cold barrel of a gun in the back of my neck.
“Just relax and take your hands off the wheel,” he says, “It’s going to be all right. We’ll take it from here.”
The guy in the front passenger seat seems tense. He begins hyperventilating and points the nose directly for the center of the tanker, muttering, “Allah, Akbar, Allah, Allah.” We are at 2,500 ft. There is no time. My Walther 25mm sits uncomfortably under my left shoulder, why the left? The holster vest only came that one way. I can’t reach it with my right hand and turn around, no way. Can I tag the guy in back through the seat, it’s worth a try. Wait until they are both saying their prayers --- then move fast. I can whack the front seat guy with a backhand; he is in another world. ---
It was early in my eighth year flying charters out of Homer on the lower Cook Inlet. I thought in the beginning, I would keep my beautifully restored 180 out of salt water. That thought lasted less than a week. Much of my business required saltwater operation. It was helpful that I chose the 2960s. The oversize Edo floats slowed me down, but they kept me out of trouble. This may be the most beautiful place on Earth, but it speaks with the energy of the Alaskan Gulf and an Arctic Air Mass. If I’m going to land on ocean water, I want all the floatation I can get.
This was the morning I experienced engine problems on Beluga Lake. It was an early flight of three, not-so-young men, with accents hard to place and behavior that was troubling. They insisted on leaving early. They were vague about their destination, but they wanted to see bears on the Katmai coast, the big Brown Bears, and they wanted to land there too. I needed the flight. We had had an extended period of bad weather. My canceled flights had not been able to wait, so I was ready to fly. I weighed all three of these men and, of course, it added up to more than they had claimed. The added weight posed a bit of a problem; it would limit our fuel and range. We would be confined to just the area between Swikshak River and Cape Douglas, flight time one way, 1 hour and 8 minutes. There would be no time for loitering around. The weather would be good once we got past Nanwalek, but we had coastal fog stopping up Kachemak Bay.
It was cold and wet on the lake. I came down early to pre-flight the aircraft and was surprised to see that my passengers were already there. They were in a hurry to get started. I pretty much ignored them as I went through the pre-flight. I brushed the frost off the wings, and pumped out the floats while they kept pushing to leave. With a burn of 78 pounds an hour, we would have 2 hours and 56 minutes including 30 minutes reserve.
Flying passengers is not like flying alone or with friends and family. The passenger, despite appearances, is a completely unknown quantity. Regulations require a formal briefing including safety procedures and a gentle mandate that the passenger is required to follow the procedures and instructions of the crew. There are certain prohibitions about bear spray, guns, and alcohol. The briefing is usually enough to get to know who your passengers are and establish some kind of rapport.
Not so today, these passengers were impatient about the briefing, and I experienced a growing apprehension. I could not pin down the source of my concern. I am accustomed to many cultures in this business; it was not that. I thought at first they were Russian fishermen, (Old Believers, there are many on the lower peninsula) but the answers to my questions were vague and inconsistent. They were not local. When I asked where they were from, they named places I had never heard of. My contact with them was still limited because I concentrated on the pre-flight until we climbed into the aircraft. I had the tail of the floats on a ramp so we could sit in the cockpit for a few minutes where I asked for name, address and emergency contact information for each passenger. I keep this information on a flight manifest. It is at this time that I complete the safety briefing and make my final decision about the flight.
I was still apprehensive but could find no compelling reason to cancel the flight. The only thing I could put my finger on was their vagueness and eagerness to get going. I looked at the addresses and names but could tell nothing without asking rude questions. At the time, there was not the threat of terrorism that developed later.
Engine start was quick and easy. Idle RPM pulled us easily off the ramp and out of our little cove past the nest of grebes. They are very poor parents. Grebes don't stick with the nest very well, a nest which they insist on building on the flimsiest floating piece of grassy tundra and moss. We taxied out past the nest, which the bird immediately abandoned, leaving the egg exposed. I carried on a conversation about these grebes and their egg in order to occupy the passengers’ minds and establish some communication with them. I liked to orchestrate the passengers’ activity and conversation during the initial part of the flight. I doubt that everybody appreciates this strategy but doing so keeps passengers thinking of other things and the pilot shielded from surprises. Sudden demands during the critical warm-up and takeoff phase of the flight can cause serious lapses. There is no such thing as a sterile cockpit in a small floatplane. The landing phase is critical as well, but by then, the passengers forget their initial fears, and I have a switch on my intercom with which I can isolate my headset and outside communications.
This morning Homer was wet. The lake was calm, and there was little wind. Overlying clouds darkened the day. The ceiling was okay once above the patchy fog and low-lying scud. The Inlet was wide open. We were the first out but the fog was breaking up and lifting rapidly. The floats were deep in the water as we taxied up the lake—about right for full gross weight maybe a hair more.
The engine galloped more than usual. The O-470 carbureted engine is notoriously cold-blooded, and a long warm-up is the order of the day. I called FSS, Flight Service Station, with my flight plan, and we taxied down to the northeast end of the lake. I pulled on carburetor heat as the RPM dropped, not at all unusual. I have often joked that this model Cessna, with the O-470, has an icemaker for passenger drinks. A few seconds after I pulled the carburetor heat handle, the engine smoothed out and the RPM picked back up to a thousand. Carburetor ice forms well above freezing and over a wide range of temperatures. The peak is around 37 degrees. As I did the pre-flight run-up, the engine coughed and nearly quit again instead of running up to the 1700 RPM at which we check prop, magnetos and carburetor heat. I checked oil temperature and cylinder head temperature. They were rising but were still low, so I elected to taxi around a bit longer with carburetor heat turned on.
The rough engine did not bother my passengers. I assured them the roughness was only due to a cold engine. They were not interested. They just wanted to go, and my apprehension returned. Despite my efforts at orchestration, these guys felt out of control, but they had done nothing overt. I was uneasy having two of the passengers behind me. I taxied a while longer, re-did the run-up, then came back to the northeast end of Beluga, carburetor heat still on just to make sure. Take off procedure is to announce my departure on 123.6, check high RPM, carburetor heat off, water rudders up, clear the path visually and slowly add power, hand on the throttle and throttle lock. (incase you have to let go to do something with the flaps) In doing so, the plane came nicely up on the step, but the engine once again started to cough. I cut power and announced as though I had just received a reprieve from execution that we had a mechanical problem and would have to reschedule. Boy, were they pissed. I never saw them again, but I still wonder who they really were.
I had my aircraft inspector, Mint, come down to the plane and check it out. He pulled the cowling, did a compression check and checked the magnetos. He could find nothing. He is a heavy guy and prone to pomposity. He announced in loud and clarion tones that the problem was obviously carburetor icing, like I was an idiot not to know that, and perhaps I was. I have never experienced that degree of ice formation despite the carburetor heat before or since.
What I believe is that there is a mystic connection between pilot and plane. You take care of an aircraft and love it, and it takes care of you. That aircraft knew that the flight was dangerous. It may have known better than I, but I think my airplane sensed my apprehension, made its own evaluation of these guys, and said, "No way."
It gave me a way out. Now all of that may have been in my subconscious because we all know that airplanes don’t think, but there is magic to love, and there is certainly magic between pilots and aircraft that they love.
On an entirely different level, there were issues of judgment. Safe operation demands routine procedures, which go beyond the regulations and should be thought of as standard operating procedures. In my case, they were unwritten because mine was a one-man operation. The procedures were in my mind, however, and I should not have compromised. To get enough fuel on board for an hours' fuel reserve over Cook Inlet, I had removed the immersion suits and heavier survival gear—still legal, but a compromise of my own SOP. I knew I would probably not have had enough fuel to land on the Swikshak River without getting into my one-hour's fuel reserve unless the flight went perfectly. That’s not the worst of it. When the weight was greater than anticipated, I abandoned my SOP of the one hour’s reserve over the Cook Inlet. (My 135 Flight Standards require only thirty minutes’ reserve.) Furthermore, I knew I was in for an argument over the turn around time and the landing on the river, which would have used more fuel. We were slightly heavy as it was, although we probably burned it off on the water with two run-ups and taxiing around.
There is an old adage about discrepancies. First discrepancy, strike one. Second one, strike two, it is the third discrepancy that gets you. I had two strikes as I taxied out and could see the third ball coming.
It is a good idea to have written procedures, but whether written or in your head, stick to your avowed SOP. I should not have scheduled the flight in the first place, but I was eager to fly. The carburetor ice gave me a way out. And, who knows what these guys were really up to? Today, I might carry a Walther PPK under my right arm, and I definitely would not fly over the Inlet without the immersion suits. As it turns out, I never did violate my one-hour reserve SOP over the Inlet, and I still carry immersion suits in the float lockers.
“Just relax and take your hands off the wheel,” he says, “It’s going to be all right. We’ll take it from here.”
The guy in the front passenger seat seems tense. He begins hyperventilating and points the nose directly for the center of the tanker, muttering, “Allah, Akbar, Allah, Allah.” We are at 2,500 ft. There is no time. My Walther 25mm sits uncomfortably under my left shoulder, why the left? The holster vest only came that one way. I can’t reach it with my right hand and turn around, no way. Can I tag the guy in back through the seat, it’s worth a try. Wait until they are both saying their prayers --- then move fast. I can whack the front seat guy with a backhand; he is in another world. ---
It was early in my eighth year flying charters out of Homer on the lower Cook Inlet. I thought in the beginning, I would keep my beautifully restored 180 out of salt water. That thought lasted less than a week. Much of my business required saltwater operation. It was helpful that I chose the 2960s. The oversize Edo floats slowed me down, but they kept me out of trouble. This may be the most beautiful place on Earth, but it speaks with the energy of the Alaskan Gulf and an Arctic Air Mass. If I’m going to land on ocean water, I want all the floatation I can get.
This was the morning I experienced engine problems on Beluga Lake. It was an early flight of three, not-so-young men, with accents hard to place and behavior that was troubling. They insisted on leaving early. They were vague about their destination, but they wanted to see bears on the Katmai coast, the big Brown Bears, and they wanted to land there too. I needed the flight. We had had an extended period of bad weather. My canceled flights had not been able to wait, so I was ready to fly. I weighed all three of these men and, of course, it added up to more than they had claimed. The added weight posed a bit of a problem; it would limit our fuel and range. We would be confined to just the area between Swikshak River and Cape Douglas, flight time one way, 1 hour and 8 minutes. There would be no time for loitering around. The weather would be good once we got past Nanwalek, but we had coastal fog stopping up Kachemak Bay.
It was cold and wet on the lake. I came down early to pre-flight the aircraft and was surprised to see that my passengers were already there. They were in a hurry to get started. I pretty much ignored them as I went through the pre-flight. I brushed the frost off the wings, and pumped out the floats while they kept pushing to leave. With a burn of 78 pounds an hour, we would have 2 hours and 56 minutes including 30 minutes reserve.
Flying passengers is not like flying alone or with friends and family. The passenger, despite appearances, is a completely unknown quantity. Regulations require a formal briefing including safety procedures and a gentle mandate that the passenger is required to follow the procedures and instructions of the crew. There are certain prohibitions about bear spray, guns, and alcohol. The briefing is usually enough to get to know who your passengers are and establish some kind of rapport.
Not so today, these passengers were impatient about the briefing, and I experienced a growing apprehension. I could not pin down the source of my concern. I am accustomed to many cultures in this business; it was not that. I thought at first they were Russian fishermen, (Old Believers, there are many on the lower peninsula) but the answers to my questions were vague and inconsistent. They were not local. When I asked where they were from, they named places I had never heard of. My contact with them was still limited because I concentrated on the pre-flight until we climbed into the aircraft. I had the tail of the floats on a ramp so we could sit in the cockpit for a few minutes where I asked for name, address and emergency contact information for each passenger. I keep this information on a flight manifest. It is at this time that I complete the safety briefing and make my final decision about the flight.
I was still apprehensive but could find no compelling reason to cancel the flight. The only thing I could put my finger on was their vagueness and eagerness to get going. I looked at the addresses and names but could tell nothing without asking rude questions. At the time, there was not the threat of terrorism that developed later.
Engine start was quick and easy. Idle RPM pulled us easily off the ramp and out of our little cove past the nest of grebes. They are very poor parents. Grebes don't stick with the nest very well, a nest which they insist on building on the flimsiest floating piece of grassy tundra and moss. We taxied out past the nest, which the bird immediately abandoned, leaving the egg exposed. I carried on a conversation about these grebes and their egg in order to occupy the passengers’ minds and establish some communication with them. I liked to orchestrate the passengers’ activity and conversation during the initial part of the flight. I doubt that everybody appreciates this strategy but doing so keeps passengers thinking of other things and the pilot shielded from surprises. Sudden demands during the critical warm-up and takeoff phase of the flight can cause serious lapses. There is no such thing as a sterile cockpit in a small floatplane. The landing phase is critical as well, but by then, the passengers forget their initial fears, and I have a switch on my intercom with which I can isolate my headset and outside communications.
This morning Homer was wet. The lake was calm, and there was little wind. Overlying clouds darkened the day. The ceiling was okay once above the patchy fog and low-lying scud. The Inlet was wide open. We were the first out but the fog was breaking up and lifting rapidly. The floats were deep in the water as we taxied up the lake—about right for full gross weight maybe a hair more.
The engine galloped more than usual. The O-470 carbureted engine is notoriously cold-blooded, and a long warm-up is the order of the day. I called FSS, Flight Service Station, with my flight plan, and we taxied down to the northeast end of the lake. I pulled on carburetor heat as the RPM dropped, not at all unusual. I have often joked that this model Cessna, with the O-470, has an icemaker for passenger drinks. A few seconds after I pulled the carburetor heat handle, the engine smoothed out and the RPM picked back up to a thousand. Carburetor ice forms well above freezing and over a wide range of temperatures. The peak is around 37 degrees. As I did the pre-flight run-up, the engine coughed and nearly quit again instead of running up to the 1700 RPM at which we check prop, magnetos and carburetor heat. I checked oil temperature and cylinder head temperature. They were rising but were still low, so I elected to taxi around a bit longer with carburetor heat turned on.
The rough engine did not bother my passengers. I assured them the roughness was only due to a cold engine. They were not interested. They just wanted to go, and my apprehension returned. Despite my efforts at orchestration, these guys felt out of control, but they had done nothing overt. I was uneasy having two of the passengers behind me. I taxied a while longer, re-did the run-up, then came back to the northeast end of Beluga, carburetor heat still on just to make sure. Take off procedure is to announce my departure on 123.6, check high RPM, carburetor heat off, water rudders up, clear the path visually and slowly add power, hand on the throttle and throttle lock. (incase you have to let go to do something with the flaps) In doing so, the plane came nicely up on the step, but the engine once again started to cough. I cut power and announced as though I had just received a reprieve from execution that we had a mechanical problem and would have to reschedule. Boy, were they pissed. I never saw them again, but I still wonder who they really were.
I had my aircraft inspector, Mint, come down to the plane and check it out. He pulled the cowling, did a compression check and checked the magnetos. He could find nothing. He is a heavy guy and prone to pomposity. He announced in loud and clarion tones that the problem was obviously carburetor icing, like I was an idiot not to know that, and perhaps I was. I have never experienced that degree of ice formation despite the carburetor heat before or since.
What I believe is that there is a mystic connection between pilot and plane. You take care of an aircraft and love it, and it takes care of you. That aircraft knew that the flight was dangerous. It may have known better than I, but I think my airplane sensed my apprehension, made its own evaluation of these guys, and said, "No way."
It gave me a way out. Now all of that may have been in my subconscious because we all know that airplanes don’t think, but there is magic to love, and there is certainly magic between pilots and aircraft that they love.
On an entirely different level, there were issues of judgment. Safe operation demands routine procedures, which go beyond the regulations and should be thought of as standard operating procedures. In my case, they were unwritten because mine was a one-man operation. The procedures were in my mind, however, and I should not have compromised. To get enough fuel on board for an hours' fuel reserve over Cook Inlet, I had removed the immersion suits and heavier survival gear—still legal, but a compromise of my own SOP. I knew I would probably not have had enough fuel to land on the Swikshak River without getting into my one-hour's fuel reserve unless the flight went perfectly. That’s not the worst of it. When the weight was greater than anticipated, I abandoned my SOP of the one hour’s reserve over the Cook Inlet. (My 135 Flight Standards require only thirty minutes’ reserve.) Furthermore, I knew I was in for an argument over the turn around time and the landing on the river, which would have used more fuel. We were slightly heavy as it was, although we probably burned it off on the water with two run-ups and taxiing around.
There is an old adage about discrepancies. First discrepancy, strike one. Second one, strike two, it is the third discrepancy that gets you. I had two strikes as I taxied out and could see the third ball coming.
It is a good idea to have written procedures, but whether written or in your head, stick to your avowed SOP. I should not have scheduled the flight in the first place, but I was eager to fly. The carburetor ice gave me a way out. And, who knows what these guys were really up to? Today, I might carry a Walther PPK under my right arm, and I definitely would not fly over the Inlet without the immersion suits. As it turns out, I never did violate my one-hour reserve SOP over the Inlet, and I still carry immersion suits in the float lockers.
posted by Clancy Hughes | 2/05/2007 11:42:00 AM
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