"This is it . . . It's All Over!"
Story by Denny
Komes of the Exchange Club of Aurora, IL
Forwarded by Kent Catich
There we
were, cruising along at 13,000 feet under solid Instrument Flight Rules (IFR).
Outside we could see nothing but gray. It was broad daylight, 8:30 a.m. and the
sun was shining somewhere. It was July 14,1982, a day I shall never forget.
The wings of the Cessna Skymaster were partially visible, but the nose of the
plane was totally obscured by a thick buildup of ice on the windshield.
Ominously, the wings were beginning to collect ice at an alarming rate.
Never before had any of us experienced such rapid ice build-up on an airplane.
Flying was part of our lifestyle and all of us had experienced the usually
inconsequential ice build-up that often occurs when flying on instruments and
through clouds.
The fact that it was the middle of July had little bearing on our predicament
The temperature drops approximately three degrees per thousand feet of altitude.
At our assigned 13,000 feet, it was about 39 degrees lower than it would be at
sea level.
Chris Lockard, Jim Edwards and I, members of the Exchange Club of Aurora,
Illinois, were on our way home from The National Exchange Club Convention in
Seattle. We had made the flight primarily to support Harold R. Warren, a fellow
club member, then a candidate for national president elect. The plane, a Cessna
Skymaster with push-pull forward and rear engines, belonged to Chris.
The convention was outstanding, and it went off without a hitch. Harold was
elected, and we departed Seattle Airport at 6:00 a.m. on what we thought would
be an uneventful cross-country flight to Illinois.
The climb to our assigned altitude was smooth. As predicted, we soon entered the
overcast and began flying IFR. Chris was instrument rated. Jim. in the copilot
seat LID front, had soloed a few vears back and had frequently flown in private
aircraft. I too was a licensed private pilot. We all had flown many hours and
had considerable knowledge of airplanes—or so we thought! As I dozed in the back
seat, Chris monitored the radio and kept track of things while the autopilot
flew the airplane.
Our early morning check with Flight Service, the government agency that provides
weather information for all aviators, indicated that the weather would be good,
although we would fly through clouds. Besides, it was the middle of July. What
could go wrong?
Two and a half hours later, I awakened to discover the concern over the ice
build-up. At that point, Chris called the Air Route Traffic Control Center and
informed them of our problem. We were told to stand by. We knew that some of the
mountain peaks below us reached 11,500 feet.
Not eager to descend to a lower altitude and risk the possibility of slamming
into one of the peaks, we agreed to stand by. Because we were on an instrument
flight plan, changing our altitude or our course required that the controller
check to make sure that any alteration would not conflict with other aircraft.
By now, about 1/2 inch of ice had accumulated on the plane. Not only did this add
considerable weight, it interfered with the airfoils, altering the wings' lift
capabilities, and reduced the ability of the propellers to efficiently pull the
plane through the air.
Earlier concern gave way to panic when we were suddenly confronted with silence!
Loud, deadly silence. Both engines had stopped. Instinctively, Chris nosed the
plane down to maintain flying speed. Control at this point was impossible.
Burdened with ice, the plane was not responding. We were plummeting downhill and
rolling all over the place. Chris notified the Center of our emergency, and that
we were not going down without a fight.
I've seen the scenario portrayed in movies many times...the plane descending in
a sea of gray. The plane appeared to drift from side to side, like a leaf, out
of control. This is it, I thought, it's all over.
Strange thoughts flashed through my mind: Will I hear the nose hit before I hear
no more? Am I afraid? No. Are others afraid? No. Why? Shouldn't we be? No. There
is no reason to be afraid. It's all over!
And then, the impossible happens!
Simultaneously, or so it seemed, we broke out of the overcast, Chris regained
control, and both engines sputtered to life. We had miraculously missed hitting
the mountain, which loomed a scant 300 feet off our left wing. We were flying
parallel to the side of the mountain range. We don't know why we were spared,
but we were tremendously relieved and glad to be alive. Death had been a
certainty.
We emerged from the blinding cloud cover at 7,000 feet to find ourselves in a
valley. The ground was 500 feet below and the clouds a few-hundred-feet
overhead. We had just fallen through 6,000 feet of clouds totally out of
control. We needed to land to reassess our situation. An attempt to contact the
Center was fruitless. At our low altitude, surrounded by mountains, we could not
be heard.
Since we had declared an emergency when the engines quit, and we had now
disappeared from their radar, it was important that we immediately contact the
Center. Search parties would be dispatched if we were not soon heard from.
Besides, we did not know where we were. We needed help to find an airport or to
get out of the valley.
Soon, we heard another aircraft contact the Center to tell them that we were
safe. This aircraft continued to relay our messages. Through them we learned
that we were in the Seeley Lake area, Swan Valley, Montana about 50 miles
northeast of Missoula.
"Find us a place to land." The message was relayed to the controller. Our
controller, who by now was becoming our friend, said that there was an airport
with a very short grass runway in the valley. The alternative he said was to fly
through a pass west of us to Missoula where there was a larger airport. We
decided to try for the latter. Without VFR charts (visual flying maps) on board,
we needed specific directions to take us through the maze of mountains. The
controller advised us to follow the blacktop road directly beneath us, south to
the first intersection, a "T" intersection with a gas station on the corner and
turn right.
At this point, without warning, the front engine let out a loud bang, and quit.
Only the rear engine was working as we headed for the narrow opening in the
mountains that led to Missoula. The closer we got, the narrower the pass
appeared. The tops of the mountains still were obscured by clouds.
Another call to the Center, relayed through our kind friend in the sky,
confirmed our fears; the pass becomes narrower the further west we fly.
Being cowards, we pleaded with the controller to "get us out of here and find us
someplace to land." He advised us to turn around and return to the intersection,
then follow the blacktop north. "Look for a sawmill on the right and a lake on
the left," he said. Just ahead, on the right side of the road beyond the
sawmill, was a grass strip with 2,100 feet of sod runway. That is not a whole
lot of space to land at an elevation of 6,500 feet, but in our predicament, it
beat the alternative. Chris made a pass over the airport to make sure that
everything was all right. We landed on the second pass, using all but about two
feet of the runway. We were down.
The controller had contacted the sheriff's department and shortly thereafter we
were greeted by the forest ranger for the region. A gracious host, he loaded us
into his pickup truck and took us to his home where his wife welcomed us with a
fresh pot of coffee and arranged to personally drive us to Missoula.
A few hours later in Missoula, still trying to comprehend what had happened, we
were amazed by another coincidence. The forest ranger who had not only greeted
us, but had provided hospitality and limousine service to Missoula without any
anticipated reward, had earlier that year been honored as Police Officer of the
Year by the Exchange Club of Missoula.
We rushed to the ticket counter at "Missoula International" and asked the clerk:
"If you wanted to be in Chicago this evening, how would you get there?" His
reply: "You can't get there from here." A try at Frontier Airlines produced more
gratifying results. We booked a flight, boarding immediately, for Denver where
we made connections with an American Airlines flight to Chicago. The price of
the tickets could have made a down payment on the airplane, but there were no
complaints. The flights home were anything but calm. We were bounced around by
severe turbulence on the way to Denver. After a two-hour layover, there was no
let-up in the weather. Severe thunderstorms pounded Denver. With lightning
striking the airport surface all around us, we took off for Chicago. But there
were no white knuckles for us. He had His chance a few hours before. We were
sure that we were on two of the most secure airplanes that had ever flown. We
were on our way home, humbler, more appreciative of life. No longer would life
be taken for granted.
Perhaps you, too, have an explanation for our good fortune. I know I do.
EPILOGUE: Chris' airplane remained in Montana and a new engine was installed. It
was later flown to Missoula to have the props overhauled. After many months and
many thousands of dollars, Chris flew the plan back to Illinois. He still owns
the plane and flies it hundreds of hours per year.
The airplane that circled overhead relaying messages to the controller was none
other than one belonging to the State of Montana with the Governor of Montana on
board. Their report of the story appeared in many Montana newspapers.
Unfortunately, the Exchangites did not have the privilege of receiving copies.
The Air Route Traffic Control Center for that area of Montana is located in Salt
Lake City, Utah. Incredibly, the controller who assisted the Exchangites, Lyle
Davis, vacationed in the Seeiey Lake region for three weeks every year to hunt
and to visit his mother-in-law. He was intimately familiar with the area. To say
the least, they were extremely grateful for this eerie coincidence because the
controller had no visual flying charts of the region available to him at the
time.
Where To Now?
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