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With a total time of just 157 hours since soloing in 1974, I was excited to begin using my Private “license to learn” certificate for more than local and relatively short duration fun flights. A recent job change and relocation to New York was requiring frequent travel, enabling me to spread my personal wings and utilize small planes for business travel whenever feasible.
Arriving at Long Island’s Republic Airport (KFRG), the lineman was just finishing up preheating the rented Piper PA-28-140 Cherokee “Cruiser” with a Red Dragon type propane heater. The winter of 1981 had been unusually cold and windy, and today was no exception. With the engine preheated as promised, and following a good preflight inspection, the day was starting out on schedule.
The winter of 1981 had been unusually cold and windy, and today was no exception.
Today’s destination was Albany, New York (KALB) where a business meeting was scheduled for 11:00am. The temperatures for the day were forecast to be in the teens, with a frigid wind blowing steadily out of the northwest. Scattered clouds and light snow showers were forecast throughout the region, with unlimited visibilities below the clouds and precipitation. The flight from southern Long Island to KALB was easy to plan, with lots of ground references and a few nearby VOR’s for cross-referencing, including a VOR located on the Albany airport.
The Hudson River would be a primary source of navigation used for this round-trip flight. Loran, GPS, and magenta course lines were only a futuristic dream in 1981. VFR charts, dead reckoning, and use of visual landmarks were needed back then for conducting low-level VFR cross-country flights beneath the clouds.
Much of my 157 hours of flight time, including primary and private pilot training, was flown in rural Utah’s mostly uncontrolled airports. Being a newcomer to flying in crowded and complicated New York airspace, I found communications very intimidating. Understanding fast-talking New York controllers was made even more difficult due to noisy cockpits equipped with only handheld microphones with speakers located in the plane’s headliner. At this early stage of flying, I was listening and learning a lot, including using a VHF scanner at home, but only communicated on the radio when absolutely necessary.
The trip northbound up the Hudson River to Albany was uneventful. The return flight would be a different story.
Reversing the route, I had drawn on the VFR chart, I departed Albany around 4:00pm, proceeded southeast out to the Hudson River, then followed the river southbound. There were more snow showers than encountered during the flight up, but still, plenty of VMC. Approaching the northern suburbs of New York City, the river ahead widened considerably. The updated view included lots of open water with small icebergs floating down the deep channel near the western river shoreline. The Tappan Zee bridge was clearly in view about 10 miles ahead. Unseen, but not too far east of the bridge, I was well aware of the location of KHPN.
Flying at 2,000’ over open water, about a mile west of the river’s eastern shore, the engine suddenly began violently shaking, so much that the instruments were impossible to accurately read. I remember blurting out a loud expletive (sorry Mom), but was not scared so much as in a state of disbelief, quickly thinking I would dial up 121.5, grab the microphone, declare an emergency, and nurse the wounded bird into KHPN.
That plan was soon shattered as the plane slowed and began descending. The needle on the airspeed indicator was swinging back and forth so fast I just averaged it out in the middle to estimate a best glide speed. With partial power still being produced, thankfully it was not descending as quickly as it would be if it quit. Total engine failure and resultant effects to the duration of the glide was a big concern. Instinctively I had started a left turn towards the shoreline and quickly ran through the memorized emergency engine procedures: carb heat (that lever was jammed), mixture, mags, fuel pump on, and switched fuel tanks. Nothing helped.
I found a throttle setting, somewhere between half open and idle, that reduced the vibration. Unfortunately, less vibration did not create any more power, the plane kept descending. Reality hit me like a hammer…this engine is not coming back, now focus on surviving and find a decent place to plant it. As the altitude lessened, details of what was waiting on the ground were coming into view. And it was very ugly. A large steep hill filled the windscreen, with a flat narrow base occupied by train tracks and high-tension wires. Adjacent to the tracks were large rocks and slabs of ice, next to unfrozen river water.
As the left turn continued through north, the view out to the left improved. A narrow band of ice had formed against a peninsula of land, and it appeared to be at least a half a mile long, and probably longer. A very welcome sight, and still within gliding range. Maybe I would actually survive this adventure unscathed.
Open frigid water, trees, wires, train tracks, or a patch of skinny curved ice? The decision to maneuver to land on the ice was a no-brainer, even considering the chance the plane could break through the ice, and sink.
Attempting to radio a Mayday call never crossed my mind during the emergency. “Aviate & Navigate” never made it as far as “Communicate” (yet). The priority was surviving.
I swung around to the left on a modified semi-circular high base to final while the ice patch was easily within reach, reduced power to idle, and the propeller instantly stopped. Beginning the flare, I remembered to lower the flaps. A big yank on the old Piper’s manual flap lever made for a fast deployment to full, which ballooned the plane a little, and then it began settling onto the ice. It turned out to be a real smooth landing—I didn’t even realize it was down until needing rudder inputs to keep the rollout straight. I gently angled the plane towards the shoreline and discovered it was relatively easy to time the rollout to allow the right wingtip to brush up against the shore, just as the plane came to a stop.
Not knowing if the ice would hold, I quickly exited, ran down the top of the wing, jumped down onto land, and turned around. I discovered the ice was solid all the way down to rocks on the bottom of the riverbed. The impromptu runway was so smooth you could have played ice hockey. Wearing a business suit with overcoat and dress shoes, and looking down the icy shoreline, I quickly determined it was too far, windy and cold to hike towards civilization. I climbed back into the plane, out of the wind, and fulfilled the last (Communicate) of the famous aviation axiom by transmitting in the blind on guard frequency. The call was quickly answered by a Learjet who relayed the plane’s position, and my predicament to ATC. About 25 minutes later, two police officers were slipping and sliding along the ice, soon followed by a reporter who clearly was annoyed there was no damage, injured or dead people (tough luck).
The news clipping from the event—the reporter was clearly annoyed there was no damage, injured or dead people (tough luck).
My apologies, but this story is not over yet. I was taken by the police to a telephone at a nearby Croton State Park facility where I was able to inform the flight school of what happened, then my wife. I learned she was just beginning to receive phone calls from reporters. Apparently the “crash” was being reported by multiple news outlets (must have been a slow news day), and included the mention of my name and hometown.
The flight school loaned a Piper Archer to a couple of FAA inspectors. They promptly flew themselves up to KHPN, rented a car, drove out to the State Park, then were accompanied out to the plane to help determine why the plane was now parked on a river. The first thing the inspectors did was check for fuel (plenty). Then one of them proceeded to start up the engine (came to life flawlessly). They proceeded to explain to me (the new pilot) about the insidious dangers of carburetor ice. My impression was that much of this investigation was now already completed, and apparently, I was the leading suspect of the crime.
I explained the carb ice lever was jammed, and the weather (in my humble low-time pilot opinion) was not conducive to carb ice, which they quickly reminded me the carb ice lever is working fine, and implied I probably did not use it. The inspectors were kind enough to fly me back to KFRG, which was greatly appreciated.
The next day I was asked by the flight school to provide a detailed written explanation of the incident, and a time was agreed upon for me to deliver the report and answer any questions. A few days later we met, and I quickly learned of my innocence, obtaining complete vindication!
Apparently, the day after my engine failure, the chief pilot and a mechanic from the flight school inspected the engine, and found nothing wrong. They proceeded to fly the plane off the river ice, circled up to 7,500’, then started back to KFRG. Near KHPN, the engine suddenly started violently shaking, and the plane could not hold altitude. An emergency was declared and they landed. The FAA immediately grounded the plane.
As it turned out, water was somehow leaking into the SCAT tube located between the air filter and carburetor. Apparently, blowing snow on the ramp entered the cowling, and melted during the frequent Red Dragon preheat sessions, forming a thin piece of ice on a low section within the SCAT tube. The ice eventually broke free (lucky me) and was sucked onto the carburetor, cutting off most of the engine’s air supply, while also jamming the carb heat actuator. When the engine was not running, the ice fell back down and refroze, only to repeat the cycle during the very next flight. The mechanic said the distinctive wire spiral shape of the SCAT tube’s inner surface was actually imprinted onto the bottom surface of the ice.
This early “license to learn” experience taught me even more respect for the seriousness of flying, Murphy’s Law, and prioritizing strategies for survival.
- No Power, No Time: A Glide Toward Shore - May 9, 2025
- My Near Death Experience - April 29, 2024
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