“Roooaarr!………… Whuump!………… Crap!
It was Feb. 11, 1996. I had been in Durham, N.C. on business the last two days. I was a little ahead of schedule so I took the opportunity to visit relatives in Durham.
The weather was beautiful, 60 and sunshine. I planned to depart Person County Airport in Roxboro (KTDF) by 2 p.m., which would put me in Canton, Ohio (KCAK) well ahead of incoming weather and darkness.
My visit was much too enjoyable and my departure didn’t happen till nearly 3 p.m., still enough time to beat the forecast low pressure system complete with low ceilings and heavy/blowing snow. Did I forget to mention possible moderate icing?
My IFR flight plan was still good and I contacted Raleigh-Durham on my climbout. The weather was perfect: blue skies, puffy white clouds and a smooth ride. I was quickly handed off to Washington Center and cleared to my cruise altitude of 12,000 feet. Seneca 53RB was purring like a very happy kitten and everything was in the green.
Leveling at 12K gave me what should have been a subtle but important clue of changing conditions—my ground speed indicator said I had a headwind component of nearly 50 knots—but the blue sky, 20 mile visibility and smooth ride captured my brain and sugarcoated its “caution lobe.”
Now at this altitude and a course of about 340 degrees you would expect some headwind, but my morning (no, I did not update weather; first mistake) briefing called for a headwind of about 20 knots (first clue missed). The mountains were beautiful and as I passed Roanoke off my left wing, the horizon appeared to be a little darker than normal (second clue missed).
My brain began to function in reality mode as I started to feel the first “rumble” which quickly turned to light then moderate turbulence (third clue; they say “third time’s the charm”). I had passed the Hot Springs, Va. mountaintop airport (KHSP) 10 minutes earlier so I was about halfway home.
Time to call Flight Watch and get the present weather, something I should have done before I took off! Relying on weather that was more than five hours old does not paint a picture of a prudent pilot.
The news was not good, but the forecast for my arrival time at KCAK called for marginal VFR. The weather system had intensified and increased its movement from the southwest to the northeast. I checked back in with Washington and was told to contact Clarksburg (W.V.) Approach.
This is when the bad news started. Conditions in Clarksburg were quickly deteriorating with increasing wind and light snow… five minutes later I went IFR as the clouds suddenly engulfed 53 Romeo Bravo.
The missed signs continued to mount. Was that ice forming on the windscreen? Check OAT.
30 degrees F!
Finally I felt the two-by-four beside the head. Pilot heat on; windshield de-ice on; prop de-ice on; no significant wing ice yet, but it was forming. Another five minutes passed, and the icing was still light.
I was crossing into Ohio as the sledgehammer struck. I would swear I watched the temperature drop five degrees in a matter of minutes. Now the Iceman Cometh!
The wings suddenly had what appeared to be at least half an inch, the temp probe in the windscreen had at least that much showing. The boots popped most of the accumulation and the plane was flying well, but I had lost 10 knots airspeed.
The ice literally jumped back on the wings and the window de-icers were showing signs of becoming overwhelmed. At this point I had done so many boneheaded things that I took a deep breath and forgave all my trespasses/stupidity and started to get my act together.
I told Approach my situation and they suggested I talk to Columbus (Ohio) Approach. The airplane was loading up and I needed to get on the ground; Zanesville (KZZV) was the best possibility. I got their weather and it was not good, but it was my best bet.
I no sooner told Columbus of my intentions than I saw my right engine was slowly losing power; time for alternate air.
Surprise! My Seneca II had been upgraded to the Turbo-Plus system which in addition to having the 220 hp engines installed (TSIO-360-KB), also required the alternate air to be disconnected; automatic spring-loaded doors were installed at the air intake on the engines.
The loss of power continued down to a point where at nearly full throttle I could maintain manifold pressure that approximated a feathered engine. I told Columbus I was going to ZZV. They cleared me for any altitude and any approach. Zanesville’s weather was 500/4 with blowing snow.
I had an old Apollo GPS which was not IFR approved but it would take me to the airport in a straight line.
Then the next shoe fell: the left engine was slowly going to sleep. I had plenty of altitude to make it to the airport but there would be no approach unless there was a special “Hail Mary.”
I continued my descent and planned for a landing on Runway 22.
Now—and this is the zinger— both engines were set at nearly full throttle and producing the equivalent of zero thrust. At about four miles from the airport I was in the soup and heavy snow/wind. Not looking good.
I knew I had to hit very short final with enough altitude to make the airport with the gear down… but not so high that I would overshoot. With a 500-foot ceiling and reduced visibility in blowing snow, it was clear my derriere was in a sling.
The guys at the airport told me it was like a miracle: the snow stopped and a big blue hole opened over the airport. Visibility increased to over four miles. At about two to three miles out I broke out to VFR conditions. Unbelievable!
I had plenty of altitude so I dropped the gear and increased my descent. Everything was perfect.
At ¼ mile final, it happened.
ROOAAR! . . . . . WHUMP! . . . . . CRAP!
It happened just that fast. The ice on the air intake for the left engine evidently broke off, and the engine came screaming back to life at near full power. In an instant the plane did a right wing over that must have approached 90 degrees.
At this point I did the only correct thing I had done all day. I grabbed both throttles and slammed them closed, threw full left rudder and aileron and before I could release the ailerons we hit the runway. Level!
It wasn’t pretty and we hit with authority but we were safely down. The single-engine trip to the ramp took what little was left in me.
The guys from the FBO came over to the plane and started to describe what they saw on the landing and the miracle weather change. I asked them to give me a few minutes; I needed to let my “turboed” heart run down.
I did so many stupid things on this flight that I was really embarrassed to confess. That was 17 years ago; I’m 73 now and (I hope!) a whole lot smarter. I’m sharing my story with you now so you can learn from my mistakes.
Bill James is a 5,300-hour single and multi-engine rated pilot with instrument ratings. He lives in Canton, Ohio. Send questions or comments to editor@www.piperflyer.com.
By Jen D
