To the Editor:

On this particular winter afternoon, we are preparing for our return trip from Westfield, Massachusetts to Poestenkill, New York.

Departing on a northwesterly heading, with the cold front behind us, the weather ahead looks very promising. Although the cabin heater of the Cherokee 140 is working well, I am looking forward to getting home and relaxing by a cozy fire.

Our flight plan should have us arriving at Poestenkill just around dark. On board is Doug Coleman, my student, and his brother, Joe, who is occupying the rear seat.

We are engaged in conversation comparing the amount of snow in these hills to that at home in the Hudson Valley. I notice a large snow shower just to the west of Pittsfield, and judging by its speed and intensity, Pittsfield will soon become IFR [instrument flight rules for safe operation in bad weather].

I turn to Doug, “Let’s top it! Go for 8,500 feet.”

Doug complies; however, his brother in the back seat looks a little nervous when I mention the altitude, and he begins asking questions. I inform him that this is a common procedure to follow in this situation.

The only disappointment I have with this flight is that the winds aloft are considerably higher than forecasted and our ground speed is slower than planned. I will soon discover that the snow shower and winds are not the only unexpected conditions.

Approaching 8,250 feet, the instrument lights seem a little dim, so I reach over and adjust the rheostat that controls the intensity of the lights. There is no change.

I then start a meticulous scan of the instrument panel; engine instruments normal, alternator light out. The VOR [a short-range radio navigation system] needle shows little signs of vitality as it lazily centers itself, and the on/off flag fluctuates. I turn up the volume for the VOR frequency; the Morse code identifier for Albany is very weak.

Doug turns to me, “What’s wrong?”

“I think we are losing our electrical system.” I check our outside conditions and notice that we are on top and the sun has now retired for the day.

Doug is doing his best to reassure his brother that all is OK as I turn the navigation portion of the radio off to save power and proceed to contact Albany Approach Control. Although we are not transponder equipped, he might be able to get a primary target on us.

I report my estimated location and altitude along with a brief explanation of our predicament. I receive a faint reply from Albany, “Negative radar contact, be advised, special weather observation, Albany is 2,000 overcast and two miles in snow.”

Under normal circumstances, an instrument approach to Albany would be academic.

I contact Poestenkill on the flight-school frequency. Knowing the radio is getting weaker; I speak in a much louder voice into the microphone.

After turning up the volume control, I hear a weak reply from the ground, “The runway lights are intermittent, and we think we have a short .…”

I lose the rest of the transmission. Realizing I will have little or no assistance from the ground, I set about trying to find a solution using only what we have, “Doug, hold this altitude and heading.”

In my mind, I am visualizing the electrical system; the rotating beacon is all that can be spared to conserve power.

I look at the master switch. It is actually a split switch, red and tan in color. This switch can activate both the battery and the alternator simultaneously or independently.

My next thought is a malfunctioning voltage regulator. If this is the case, I can briefly remove the alternator from the circuit then turn it back on. This might jar the regulator and possibly restore my electrical system. It is worth the try.

I reach over to the alternator switch and place it in the off position, and wait for a brief moment; no difference. This leads me to believe I am on the right track. With that, I return the switch to the on position; the response is immediate and quite unexpected.

A blinding waterfall of sparks flies out from underneath the instrument panel. Coupled with the acoustics of loud crackling sounds, our first reaction is to cover our faces and protect ourselves; however, this is not going to stop this frightening pyrotechnic display.

Covering my face, I place the alternator switch back to the off position. This alone does not stop the fireworks; it is necessary to turn both alternator and battery switches to the off position, thus rendering our electrical system inoperable. We are now in total darkness.

I fumble around to find the pouch near my right ankle for a flashlight, which proves as useless as our electrical system. I now detect an odor, which could be the residue from our pyrotechnics or a resulting fire.

Either way, my concern for fire is making me very uneasy. At this point, I glance outside only to witness another problem.

“Doug! Do you have any cigarettes?” I ask.

“Yeah!”

“Light up a couple, quick!” I respond abruptly.

We have been so preoccupied with our fireworks display that we have inadvertently flown into the clouds.

We are both puffing on cigarettes to keep the tips as bright as possible and with hands steadier than should be, we alternately hold the cigarettes up to different instruments to monitor the aircraft’s performance while we try to climb out of the clouds. Within a few moments, we are back on top again.

My mind is working as fast as my heart is beating. I have no communication capability. The directional gyro is set using the magnetic compass, my only source of navigation, and, considering our electrical problem, its reliability is in question.

Returning to Pittsfield is not my best choice. Night flying, single-engine over the mountains under good conditions is not one of my favorite sports; add to that the possibility of dealing with heavy snow showers and this is not enticing.

Albany is out of the question. Entering controlled airspace under these circumstances unknown to air traffic control and other traffic is pure suicide.

We have plenty of fuel on board, permitting a flight north to Glens Falls or south to Columbia County, the latter sounding more realistic. Either direction, I will be crossing heavily used IFR air space and risk the chance of collision.

The inability of accessing weather conditions for either location makes any decision highly speculative. If we break out of the clouds, ground contact will help with the solution. The odor is still with us and the possibility of fire is still on my mind as my uneasiness continues.

I inquire of Doug and our passenger, “How are you guys doing? Still with me?”

From the back seat came an unexpected remark from our nervous passenger, “Where did you expect me to be?” I consider his attempt at humor very courageous.

Doug inquires about our next move. I reply, “I am still thinking that one over.”

As Doug fumbles to light another cigarette from the last one I ask, “How are the cigarettes holding out?”

“Almost half a pack left!”

We could be close to Poestenkill; however, the cloud cover and lack of runway lights proves useless. I start searching farther beyond the airplane for something familiar, when suddenly there is a break in the clouds; below I see some lights.

There are a few more wisps of clouds and then a small cluster of lights below us. Looking to the right, in total disbelief, I can see the runway lights at Poestenkill. Under normal circumstances, I would give this hole in the clouds a passing glance, without the slightest thought of actual engagement. Tonight requires a different approach.

I give Doug my cigarette, “Call out the altitudes!”

In one motion I throttle to idle, carb heat on full, rolling into a step right bank, I start spiraling toward the lights. This is a one-in-a-thousand chance; my nerves are definitely working overtime.

Doug’s voice is the only one heard, “Eight thousand. Seven-point five. Seven thousand ….”

Every few seconds, it is necessary to advance the throttle slightly to clear the engine; it is also necessary to clear our ear passages due to the rapid loss of altitude.

The tightness of the turn required to stay within the geographic boundaries of this hole in the clouds produces extra g loading on the airplane. This gradually diminishes as the opening in the cloud enlarges during our descent. After several turns, my reference point disappears; the runway lights go out.

“Damn!”

I recover from the spiral when the altimeter reads 2,000 feet. Without Albany’s altimeter setting, I dare not go lower. With a few scattered streetlights and the help of Doug’s cigarette for orientation, I pick up a westerly heading.

Looking over the nose, I can see more lights; some in the background look fuzzy, indicating approaching snow showers. I can feel my heart pounding, and the perspiration running down my side under my shirt; I must keep some composure.

Looking over the right wing of the airplane, I catch a glimpse of the runway lights flashing on, off, then on again.

“Doug! The lights!”

My only hope is that they stay on for just a few more minutes. I execute an immediate right turn; then full right aileron, left full rudder, throttle closed. I proceed to slip the airplane as much as possible to lose altitude.

For an airplane not noted for good slipping capabilities, I am doing my best to change that. At one point, I think my left foot will protrude through the firewall while counteracting the displacement of opposite aileron.

I have but one shot at the runway. Applying full flap changes the sound of the air passing the fuselage. Gauging by the rumble, I am sure I have lowered the flaps at a higher than normal airspeed.

All eyes are on the approaching runway lights. We all have one common thought: How long will the lights stay on?

I continue the slip until the aircraft approaches the gravel bank that slopes to the threshold of runway 36. At this point, I recover and execute a landing.

The midfield taxiway puts us in position to look through the window of the shop to witness figures darting in and out of the utility room where the main electric panel is located. One figure stops, and with surprised animation, starts pointing out the window while making sounds audible only to those sharing the building.

Some very relieved people approach me as I exit the airplane, and a very interesting conversation takes place.

Several people on the ground had monitored my transmissions with Albany and Poestenkill on a portable receiver, including the brother of my student and their wives. Gary, a part-time instructor, had been engaged in conversation with Craig when I made contact on the flight-school frequency.

Before the evening is through, they are all involved with the ground-based electrical problems and work feverishly to restore power to the runway lights.

The first attempts produce intermittent results, but their final attempt is obvious.

As the conversation continues, Craig opens the cowling, “Pew, something burned.”

I proceed with a brief explanation of the evening’s events for Craig’s benefit when Doug calls my attention to the runway lights. Without explanation, they are again out of service.

As we walk back to the office, there is a barrage of questions, none of which I care to answer. Wearily, I open my desk and withdraw a cigarette pack while gathering my thoughts.

This is the only lighted runway between Pittsfield and Albany, and both locations are IFR due to snow, which was not in the forecast.

At just the right moment, there was one hole in the clouds, which for the most part no one of sound mind would have chosen to enter. Add to this electrical problems with the runway lights, yet they remained on precisely for the duration of the landing.

As I extinguish the match, I hear the voice of one of the wives in the hallway, “You guys got here just in time, and it’s snowing like crazy!”

Tonight, fortune has favored the foolish.

The next morning, I visit Craig in the shop. I am presented with one burned alternator, matching voltage regulator, and one well-done battery. The positive post on the alternator had failed.

When reengaging the alternator to the system, the surge of electricity was so great the components were burned out and actually blew the filament out of the two wing-tip lights. This popped several circuit breakers, and arced through some wiring.

Even the magnetic compass needed recalibration. The radio was unaffected because I had turned it off. It was only a 45 minute flight from Westfield; the last 15 minutes seemed an eternity.

E. A. Chevrette Jr.

Guilderland

Editor’s note: E.A. Chevrette Jr. is the author of the book, “Wings of Fortune: Personal Tales from the ‘Golden Age of General Aviation.’” Three years ago, he was featured in an Enterprise podcast.