The forecast was two or more days of quiet, comfortably warm, sunny weather. Perfect for flying. Thanks to my retirement lifestyle that allows impulsive planning, I reserved a plane and charted a course to visit an airport I only saw once long ago while a seasonal employee of a Madeline Island hotel. Along the way, I thought I'd visit some of my favorite airports - Shell Lake, Cable Union, and maybe lunch in Ashland. Once on the island, I planned a hike to the town of La Pointe, maybe enjoy a little dinner and a beer, then set up a tent for an overnight on the field.
Never got there.
That morning in South Saint Paul, while the forecast was still for ceilings 12,000 feet or more with more than 6 miles of visibility, a look out the hangar door said otherwise. It looked like overcast skies with little sign of the expected sun. The local weather station reported clear skies. Huh? By the time I finished the pre-flight inspections and pulled the Archer out of the hangar, that automatic weather observation was modified to a broken layer at 2,500 feet. Looking at the Foreflight App some stations in the area were reporting marginal VFR conditions. How could that be, when all forecasts predicted very sunny and clear skies?
Oh, that irritating (figuratively and in some cases literally) Canadian wildfire smoke. It was confusing the Automatic Terminal Information Services (ATIS) measuring instruments, unable to distinguish it from clouds, I guessed. Choosing to go up and take a peak, the take-off and climb out from the airport confirmed that visibility was fine as long as I didn't climb too high.
By the time I reached Shell Lake, the conditions were as forecast. The landing was effortless in calm winds and plenty of sun. The adjoining lake was placid, and all was quiet on the field as I looked over the bulletin board in the terminal for any new announcements, advertising, or offers of aircraft for sale or hangars for rent. The flight magazines were laid out on the coffee table in perfect rows, and everything was in its place and clean. Obviously well cared for by members of the coffee clutch who were now in their hangars working on varied projects. Reviewing the weather at the planning table I saw that an airport near Cable Union (Cable is too small to have an automatic weather station and ATIS) was reporting calm winds and more than six statute miles of visibility.
One reason I enjoy the challenge of flying is that you can never assume anything, including forecasts or local conditions. Flying over the Cable field, the windsock was vacillating around 120 degrees and flexing its elbow, suggesting more than casual wind gusts. At that airport, a ridge of land follows the same direction as the runway. That ridge was messing with what wind there was, seemingly concentrating it at the runway to leave a pilot guessing. As it turned out, my landing was secure but not pretty, with the wind changing from a headwind to a tailwind and back again as I waited for the plane to settle on the runway. We call the result "floating" or "ballooning," which is a common phenomenon caused by student pilots as they learn how to have patience and judgment during the "flare." I waited it out until the wings finally ran out of lift about four feet above the ground. Not smooth.
Cable Union is a neat airport in that it is going back in time. The terminal is an old log cabin, with solid, oiled tongue and groove paneling, black and white pictures of aircraft and local pilots from the 50s and 60s. A desk still sits among radios and weather instruments where for years a husband and wife, and eventually just the wife greeted visitors and radioed runway conditions to arriving pilots. It really feels like a bush outpost. No services are on the field other than a self-serve fuel pump and the courtesy car standing on the tarmac, which I used to travel to a local restaurant for lunch.
Upon returning for the next leg of the flight, a reading of the gauges at engine start revealed an ammeter stuck at zero. That meant the battery was not getting a charge from the alternator. While the battery can sustain an engine in flight, it can't keep navigation and engine instruments operating very long without a charge from the alternator. Shoot. Now what?
A search of any airports within 30 minutes of Cable showed only one mechanical service center, which is in Cumberland. While I was able to get the phone numbers of the few Aircraft and Powerplant (A&P) mechanics in the area from them, they were unable to help directly since they only worked on Cirrus aircraft. Only one of those phone numbers was answered, with the mechanic saying he was just about the take his wife on a flight to Wisconsin Dells, and besides he was overwhelmed with work already and would not be able to assist any time soon even if I flew to his hangar at a different airport. Why don't you just fly to Cumberland and have those folks help you, he suggested.
Hmmm. I hadn't thought of that. Maybe I could limp my way back to home base if I flew short segments, using just the stored power in the battery. It had enough power to start the engine during my problem-solving analysis, so perhaps charging it using the onboard battery maintainer would provide enough juice to get the 30 minutes to the next airport, or maybe even the hour back to South St. Paul. There were several alternate airports between Cable and home, so options would be many.
For three hours I waited while the trickle charger charged, perusing some of the very old books and magazines scattered throughout the terminal, wondering at the history of it all. The voltmeter on the engine analyzer showed 12.4 volts when I finally started the engine - 0.2 volts more than when I shut it down last. Not much, but we'd see how far we could go on that before reaching 12.0 volts, indicating battery exhaustion, when we'd have to land and shut things down. Perhaps we could make it all the way back, or at least halfway, which was Cumberland. In the meantime, Hayward and Shell Lake were both closer options.
Over Shell Lake it was clear we weren't going any further than Cumberland since we'd already lost 0.2 volts. Upon landing in Cumberland, the voltmeter showed 12.0 volts, flashing red. No way would the battery be charged enough on the trickle charger to get back before dark, and even then not without extreme measures of reducing electrical current draw. After borrowing a power cord from the Cirrus FBO, I plugged the charger in for the night, which I was confident would give us enough power to get us back home.
The Cumberland terminal is a very comfortable place to spend the night, with both a luxury recliner and a couch, and even a shower. Using the very nice courtesy car, dinner was a huge pasta dinner at a very nearby Italian restaurant - all for $15. I love Cumberland (said the Dutchman).
The next morning the voltmeter read 12.8 volts, not fully charged but close. My plan was to leave very early while most general aviation aircraft were still nestled in their hangars and fly "dark" until reaching the Twin Cities airspace. That would conserve electrical energy by leaving all navigation instruments and radios off for the first half of the trip, saving the battery for when they all would be required for safe flight and to meet air traffic regulations in Twin Cities airspace. In the meantime, I still had my independent iPad and Sentry ADS-B receiver, normally redundant, for primary navigation and personal flight tracking during the entire flight.
The battery still had reserve energy when I pushed it back into the safety of the hangar at Fleming Field. While the objective of the flight was unfulfilled, the opportunity to do some problem-solving and manage a safe solution following a significant equipment failure in the middle of nowhere was gratifying.
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