Electrical Failure

Posted: February 22, 2011

by Clark Holden

It was about 5:00 p.m. in November, 1987. My wife, Isobel, and I were returning to Brantford from Montreal’s Saint Hubert Airport in our Cessna 182 CG-PKL. On arrival at the airport we had found PKL covered quite heavily in snow, although we had asked the FBO ahead of time to have it cleaned. We departed about an hour later than planned because of the time spent removing the snow and ice from the aircraft. The weather forecast for the entire route called for ceilings of 800 feet and cloud tops of 4000 feet.

We were cleared to 8000 feet and everything went smoothly until around 4:30 p.m., by whichtime we were somewhere between Trenton and Toronto, when I noticed my artificial horizon showing fairly steep turns to the left and right when we clearly were flying flat and level. The directional gyro was also swinging gently back and forth through a large number of degrees. Ever since I have subscribed to Flying Magazine, the first two articles I read each month, and always have read, are “I Learned About Flying From That” and “Aftermath”. Just two or three months before the Montreal trip, there appeared in “I Learned About Flying From That”, an article written by a former US navy pilot who was flying a Mooney at 10,500 feet in cloud when he suddenly lost control and tumbled through thousands of feet until he fell out the bottom of the cloud about a thousand feet above the ground and was able to recover the aircraft by reference to lights on the ground. He learned, after landing, that his vacuum pump (which drives the artificial horizon and directional gyro) had failed. As a result of reading that article, I immediately assumed the same had happened to me, which turned out to be the case. Fortunately, for me, I was above the cloud, not in it, and had visual reference to the cloud tops.

At this point I was “talking” to Toronto Centre. I informed the air traffic controller of the problem and what I thought was the reason for the failure. I realized that I would have to be “talked” down through the clouds. The controller suggested I might want to go to Trenton since it was closer and there was probably less traffic there. Toronto called Trenton and made arrangements, then gave me the frequency to use. When I called Trenton, two controllers were waiting to assist me. I was still at 8000 feet and it was starting to get dark, although there was a bright moon which was shining on the tops of the clouds. The controller to whom I was speaking told me they would vector me to make an approach at Trenton and they would talk me down.

My 1974 Cessna 182 has a small Electric Turn Coordinator (artificial horizon) at the lower left of the instrument panel, which is difficult to use because of its location. The first controller, a male, vectored me out over Lake Ontario a considerable distance south of the airport. I wondered at the time why he took me so far south but later realized he was positioning me so that I would be in the right place at the right altitude for a landing at the airport. How they calculated this for a
Cessna 182 in a matter of minutes when they deal mainly with jet aircraft is still a mystery to me. In any event, they eventually (it seemed like hours) turned me to a northerly heading and told me I was lined up with the active runway. At this point, I was still 4000 feet above the clouds in twilight and many miles from the airport. He “steered” me by telling me to turn a little to the left or right and for descent, a little up or down (I had no way of steering accurately since I had no directional gyro). He did not give me any altitude instructions, presumably because he didn’t want to divert my attention to the altimeter when in the clouds. By the time I had descended to the tops of the clouds, I was feeling comfortable with that type of instruction. I let him know, at his request, when I was about to enter the clouds. At that point, a female controller took over and used exactly the same method to talk me down through the cloud layer. Strange as it may seem, it was not an uncomfortable feeling by that time since we had “practiced” all the way down from 8000 feet to 4000 feet. During this part of the descent (in cloud) and virtually in darkness, my eyes were glued to the Electric Turn Coordinator (which as I mentioned earlier is not located in a comfortable position), while following their instructions. My wife was listening to the instructions and conversation on her headset and informed me when we were well clear of the cloud. When we broke through at 800 feet, we were perfectly lined up with the active runway and at the perfect distance from it to make a normal VFR landing, by this time in darkness.

When we landed, the runway was lined on each side with fire trucks, ambulances and many other vehicles and people. Ground control then guided us to a parking area where two engineers came to help us out of the aircraft and to discuss with me what I thought caused the problem. They agreed that I was probably right in my assumption. I was then told that the base commander wished to speak with me by telephone, which made me a little nervous. He was very welcoming and asked if I was satisfied with the way the controllers talked me down and asked if I would mind critiquing them. I then spoke with both of them and, of course, thanked them. There was nothing to critique. They could not have done a better job.

We were driven by a soldier to a nearby motel to spend the night. They tied the aircraft down and welcomed us the next morning for a VFR departure to Brantford. I can’t say that reading that article in Flying magazine saved our lives but it certainly helped to have enough knowledge to recognize the problem immediately and take action. I never fail to learn something from those articles and many others that I read.