The sun had already gone below the horizon as we approached the Laughlin-Bullhead airport. Headwinds had pushed against us, making the trip down the valley to Tehachapi Pass longer than expected. We had the good luck at sunset of flying across the great lake basin where Edwards Air Base lies, which cut almost a half-hour of travel time, but it wasn't nearly enough to get us back on schedule. The blackness of the moonless sky merged with the inkiness of the Arizona desert below. An occasional lighted home on the ground and an occasional star were the only relief from the blackness. "This is truly instrument conditions," Hubby noted as his eyes flicked repeatedly from one round dial to the next. "There's no horizon at all." My mind jumped to the situation we are asked about from time to time, "What happened to JFK, Jr.?" He had been tired after a long day, flying in unrelenting darkness, lost his horizon, and probably didn't realize until too late that his craft was diving into the sea. Our situation was much better, though. The autopilot handled most of the fatiguing effort. We were talking to controllers who were watching our position, and Hubby has years of experience instrument flying in our plane.
We had intended to spend the night at Lake Havasu, but night had caught up with us before reaching our destination. Instead of threading through mountain peaks in the dark to land there, we opted to land in the relatively flat desert town of Bullhead City at the border of Arizona and Nevada. The lights of the town rose from the darkness and in a dark patch to the side, the beacon from the airport beckoned. A voice on the radio announced he was prepared to depart on runway 34 just as Hubby announced we were arriving to the same runway. A few clicks of the microphone button brought up the lights, making a colorful rectangle in the inky hole. Although there was plenty of time for a takeoff, the departing pilot keyed the mike to say he would wait for us to land.
Aircraft lights illuminated the numbers as I crossed the threshold. I rolled out, cleared the runway, taxied toward the FBO looking for a tie-down, and looked up to watch a twin Cessna taking off on the runway we had just vacated. The plane slipped from sight behind a hangar near the departure end of the runway. It just didn't look right. He should have been much higher -- far above the hangar and rising quickly into the moonless sky to clear the rising mountainous terrain ahead. What was he doing in this black night? Hot-dogging to show off? Why would he attempt such a dangerous maneuver in the dark with mountains ahead?
Then the radio came alive, "Twin Cessna coming back." I watched the sky to see the lights of the returning aircraft on the downwind, circling around for a landing. It wasn't to be. Soon, he taxied into sight from the departure end of the runway. Confused, I keyed the mike and inquired, "Twin Cessna, are you OK?" He taxied to a parking spot silently, so we went about our business and shut down.
Inside the FBO, we met the other pilot. At first, he stared unseeingly at the television. Then he began his story. He flew a freight run twice a day between Phoenix and Bullhead City with about ten hours layover between each. This night was to be nearly his last with the company. Because of poor maintenance, he had given two weeks notice nearly four weeks earlier, but then had agreed to stay on until the end of the year. With just three days to go on the commitment, one engine had failed completely on takeoff.
As he pushed both throttles forward, his takeoff roll started normally. Then when his hand touched the lever to bring up the landing gear he heard a pop and felt a shudder as one engine failed. He felt one engine functioning at full throttle pulling him sideways toward the icy Colorado River and the casinos on the far side. Without thought, his hands pulled the power and he guided the craft back to the runway, stopping feet from the sandy desert floor.
This was his second complete engine failure. The next morning, mechanics had the cowling off, tinkered with the engine and ran it up. Then the young pilot became a test pilot/ferry pilot as he winged the questionable aircraft toward Phoenix.
It is a tragedy that young men who long to be pilots save their money to get enough training to get a job flying badly maintained old equipment through the worst weather for a wage that barely pays for food. It turns the dream into a nightmare.
We had intended to spend the night at Lake Havasu, but night had caught up with us before reaching our destination. Instead of threading through mountain peaks in the dark to land there, we opted to land in the relatively flat desert town of Bullhead City at the border of Arizona and Nevada. The lights of the town rose from the darkness and in a dark patch to the side, the beacon from the airport beckoned. A voice on the radio announced he was prepared to depart on runway 34 just as Hubby announced we were arriving to the same runway. A few clicks of the microphone button brought up the lights, making a colorful rectangle in the inky hole. Although there was plenty of time for a takeoff, the departing pilot keyed the mike to say he would wait for us to land.
Aircraft lights illuminated the numbers as I crossed the threshold. I rolled out, cleared the runway, taxied toward the FBO looking for a tie-down, and looked up to watch a twin Cessna taking off on the runway we had just vacated. The plane slipped from sight behind a hangar near the departure end of the runway. It just didn't look right. He should have been much higher -- far above the hangar and rising quickly into the moonless sky to clear the rising mountainous terrain ahead. What was he doing in this black night? Hot-dogging to show off? Why would he attempt such a dangerous maneuver in the dark with mountains ahead?
Then the radio came alive, "Twin Cessna coming back." I watched the sky to see the lights of the returning aircraft on the downwind, circling around for a landing. It wasn't to be. Soon, he taxied into sight from the departure end of the runway. Confused, I keyed the mike and inquired, "Twin Cessna, are you OK?" He taxied to a parking spot silently, so we went about our business and shut down.
Inside the FBO, we met the other pilot. At first, he stared unseeingly at the television. Then he began his story. He flew a freight run twice a day between Phoenix and Bullhead City with about ten hours layover between each. This night was to be nearly his last with the company. Because of poor maintenance, he had given two weeks notice nearly four weeks earlier, but then had agreed to stay on until the end of the year. With just three days to go on the commitment, one engine had failed completely on takeoff.
As he pushed both throttles forward, his takeoff roll started normally. Then when his hand touched the lever to bring up the landing gear he heard a pop and felt a shudder as one engine failed. He felt one engine functioning at full throttle pulling him sideways toward the icy Colorado River and the casinos on the far side. Without thought, his hands pulled the power and he guided the craft back to the runway, stopping feet from the sandy desert floor.
This was his second complete engine failure. The next morning, mechanics had the cowling off, tinkered with the engine and ran it up. Then the young pilot became a test pilot/ferry pilot as he winged the questionable aircraft toward Phoenix.
It is a tragedy that young men who long to be pilots save their money to get enough training to get a job flying badly maintained old equipment through the worst weather for a wage that barely pays for food. It turns the dream into a nightmare.