Graveyard Spiral

by Captain Wayne (Rusty) Baker

In August of 1974 I took a check ride and obtained my commercial pilot license, which meant that I could be paid to fly. I thought that I was a really hot stick. Yet again, I was disappointed when no one thought to take my picture for the newspaper. Now, as I write this, it seems silly to me that I didn’t simply remind them, saying something like, “Hey, I want my picture taken for the paper!” But back then, I was too stubborn and chose instead to allow myself to feel slighted and go around carrying a chip on my shoulder.

I had my commercial pilot license , working toward my instrument rating but was not yet ready to fly as pilot in command under Instrument Flight Rules  when one day the call came in for a single engine charter flight to Sikeston, Missouri. My boss, Earl Smith, let me take the trip, knowing I needed to build time. It was good for him, too. Using me on this particular flight would free up the other pilots for anything else that might come up.

I was tasked with taking an engine block for a tractor to Sikeston, Missouri and waiting while the cylinders were re-bored. The flight down was uneventful. I always took a certain amount of pride whenever people would note and comment on the fact that I was a commercial pilot at such a young age. And it was true. I was young. Only twenty years of age, and I didn’t look even that. Twenty, a commercial pilot, and married to the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. Like me, Marsha was also twenty, and she nearly became a young widow that day.

After waiting a few hours at the fixed base operation at the Sikeston airport, it was time for me to go back to Olney. A low overcast had moved in, and with it a bit of fog, but I was not concerned. My plan was to stay beneath the clouds and maintain visual reference to the ground. It would require constant vigilance and attention to navigation in order to avoid towers and maintain my course, but I was confident in my ability.  

I taxied out to the end of the runway, did an engine run-up and took off. In a matter of seconds, I was in the clouds. I had grossly misjudged the cloud bases. They were no more than two hundred feet above the ground, way too low to attempt to scud run beneath them.

I engaged the autopilot and evaluated my choices: I could attempt to climb through the clouds – a maneuver that I believed myself capable of, even though I did not have an instrument rating, but it was not legal for me to do it. It also carried with it an element of danger. What if I couldn’t get on top of the clouds? What if I picked up ice? What would I do when I got to Olney, and it was time to let down in the clouds to try to find the airport? At least then I would be on my home turf, looking for my home airport. The only other option available to me was to descend immediately while I still knew where I was and land at Sikeston.

That was what I chose to do. I turned the heading bug back toward the airport, and the autopilot brought the plane around while I fumbled to tune in the ADF (Automatic Direction Finder) to the non-directional beacon located on the field. Fortunately for me, I remembered that the frequency was the same as that of the Olney-Noble airport: 272. I was still in the clouds, in a turning descent, looking out the left side window in hopes of seeing the ground.

Although the autopilot was on, my left hand was on the control yoke. Suddenly, I became aware that the autopilot and I were engaged in a contest of strength. I knew that the airport was to my left. Yet, the autopilot was trying to turn right. Something was very wrong, but I was too disoriented to realize what was happening. I stopped everything else and began evaluating.

 I could hear the engine RPMs increasing, and a quick look at the instrument panel showed me that the airspeed was approaching redline and the airplane was in a steep bank with a rate of descent that was pegged out on the vertical speed indicator. I can still hear in my mind the sound of the air flowing over the windows at the dangerously high airspeed. I was in what pilots refer to as a “graveyard spiral”.

In my urgency to find the airport I had failed to maintain a good instrument scan and had over-ridden the autopilot without even realizing it. I was only seconds from death when I realized the problem and took action to correct it. As I tell you all this, it sounds like I calmly analyzed the situation and took appropriate action. Not so. I was totally disoriented. That’s how I got myself into the situation. Had I not had the autopilot on, had it not been fighting me for control of the airplane with enough force to get my attention – like the hand of God slapping me in the face – I would have crashed. My story would have ended right there in a smoking hole in the ground in some foggy cow pasture in Missouri. Never to go home to my young wife. Never to be a father. Or a grandfather.

Years later, the movie TOP GUN came out. Remember the scene in which one of the crew on the aircraft carrier said, “Maverick’s re-engaging, Sir!”? Well, it was kind of like that.

I pulled the throttle back and allowed the autopilot to level the wings, then gently pulled the nose up to arrest the rate of descent just as I popped out of the clouds. Not very high above the ground. I then paid closer attention to flying the airplane. I remember Earl once saying that a pilot’s three priorities, in order of importance were: Aviate, navigate, communicate.

There was no one to talk to who could help me, so that just left the first two. Fly the airplane and find the airport. I followed the ADF pointer to the Sikeston non-directional beacon. Visibility was so poor that I was right on top of the airport by the time I found it. I turned right and entered the downwind leg barely more than a hundred feet off the ground. As I had been taught in my primary training, I applied carburetor heat briefly. Noting no indication of carburetor ice, I returned the selector to the off position. I put out a notch of flaps and reduced power a bit, then turned base leg. On base, I added another notch of flaps and reduced the power a little more. I was going to make it! Turning final approach, I added the third notch of flaps and brought the power all the way back to idle. I made a beautiful landing. As the nose wheel touched the runway, the prop stopped turning. The engine had quit!

The airplane rolled out and I turned off at the first taxiway. Then I restarted the engine and taxied to the ramp. Apparently, there was no buildup of carburetor ice when the engine was at cruise RPM when I checked it on downwind leg, but as power was reduced during my final approach, the engine cooled enough that carburetor did ice up, causing engine failure at idle power. The prop had been windmilling while the airplane was still gliding in the air but stopped when I landed. Had I needed to make a go around, or add power to make it to the runway, I would not have been able to do it.

I tied the Cherokee down on the ramp and took a cab to the local Holiday Inn. I spent my first night away from my bride in a hotel with no change of clothes, no toothbrush, and very little cash. None of that mattered. I was just thankful to be alive. I went down to the hotel bar and reflected on the day’s events over a bourbon and Coke. It occurred to me that many pilots who died trying to scud run have been buried a few days later on a bright, sunny day. I flew home the next morning in better weather.

I learned a lot about knowing and accepting my limitations. I would like to be able to tell you that from that moment on, I never took any unnecessary risks. But even though I admitted my limitations to myself, it would be much later before I would learn to do so with others. Before I would learn to say ‘No’. But right then, I was still new enough that even though I knew I was pushing my luck, I would still do it anyway because I lacked the courage to refuse to do what my employers – EVERY employer I ever flew for – expected of me. (Everyone talks a good game regarding safety, but in reality, it’s “Safety Third”. They expect you to go. Get the job done. On time.) But we make progress in small steps. The fact that I had now learned to accept my limitations made me more situationally aware. More cautious. Most of the time, anyway.

Not long after that, I did complete my instrument training. I went to Carbondale for the check ride and passed. You guessed it, once again no one thought to take my picture, and yet again I chose to say nothing and continue to be pissed about it. I still had a lot of growing up to do.