Whole lotta shakin' goin' on

She was recreating there near Donnelly (U84) and had one of our yellow lab dogs with her. I had our other lab and the gear for a much-anticipated camping trip. I had 52 gallons on board, and because it was a hot summer day, it took a while to get to my cruising altitude of 7,500 feet. I reduced the power to cruise and texted my wife to see if she wanted to meet me at the Donnelly airstrip instead.

I was waiting to get a text back from my wife when suddenly and without warning, the engine started running extremely rough and the airplane began shaking violently. I immediately turned right toward the Garden Valley airstrip (U88), the closest field, and I reduced power to subdue the vibration. I was over some rough terrain and realized that I would have to cross two mountain ridges to get to Garden Valley, so I decided on a 180-degree turn to head to Emmett (S78), about 20 miles away. When the vibration became manageable, I texted my wife, “Vibration; going back.”

I had not been on flight following, so I contacted Big Sky Approach and informed them of my issue. The controller gave me a squawk code, and I continued flying toward Emmett. The engine was still running rough, but no anomalies showed up on the EGT/CHT scanner, so I thought the vibration damper on my long Hartzell propeller had come loose. I couldn’t maintain altitude at that power setting and was descending at about 250 feet per minute, but I calculated I would still have about 500 feet of altitude when I reached Emmett.

The controller stated “Emmett, 12 o’clock six miles” when all hell broke loose. The 170B shook violently for about five seconds, and I saw parts departing the airplane on the left front side before the prop stopped, and it suddenly became quiet. I was now flying a glider. I told the controller that the engine had failed and I would try to land in a pasture. I shut off the master and fuel and concentrated on flying the airplane. I pulled the prop knob to coarse pitch, but that didn’t help my glide.

I had been looking at potential off-airport landing sites as I descended out of the mountains, but nothing looked good. I was just coming out of the mountains and a pasture that appeared to be about 500 feet long and a half-mile away looked like my only hope. I turned toward it.

I set up for best glide speed and inspected the pasture more closely. I could see power lines on the far side, but there was a dirt road on the right side that was longer than the pasture itself and had no other obstructions nearby except a combine and a barn at the end of the road. I instructed my dog to get in the back and focused on flying.

I thought: This is going to work out. I can turn base just before the power lines, parallel them, and then turn final and pull full flaps for a three-point landing on the road with a couple hundred feet to spare.

Just then, my dog jumped back into the front seat. I pulled off my headset and yelled for him to get in the back. He obeyed, but I had now flown past the power lines—it looked like my only hope was to go under them. Pulling up to go over the lines would probably stall the airplane, and hitting the lines would also be disastrous.

I pulled in full flaps and focused on the field. I landed in a two-point attitude just under the lines at about 65 knots. I dumped the flaps, braked hard, and steered right toward the road, thinking this would be my best option. I reached the road, crossing the furrows at about a 45-degree angle. Once my right wheel was on the road, I realized there was insufficient distance to stop before I’d hit the combine, so I turned left and angled across the furrows. It was going to be close, but I just might stop before I hit the metal fence at the edge of the pasture. I was skidding with both brakes locked and full aft elevator, but the end of the field was coming up fast. I thought: Keep the airplane from hitting the fence and flipping or you’re toast. My biggest fear now was a post-crash fire.

But I was still going too fast to stop before I hit the fence. Maybe a purposeful ground loop could save the day. I let off on the right brake, turned the aileron to the right, and intentionally ground looped. The maneuver worked, and I ended up facing away from the fence with about 30 feet to spare. I sat in the airplane for a few seconds thinking, “That was close!” The dog jumped back into the front seat and didn’t seem to mind the rough landing.

I got out, and my dog gladly followed. I walked over to the side of the airplane and there, sitting in the blown-out cowling, was the number 3 cylinder with no piston inside of it. The connecting rod was still there but was deformed from hitting the crankcase. The cowling door was missing, too. I walked around to the other side of the airplane just as a guy came speeding up on a four-wheeler. He was a member of the local volunteer fire department and his daughter had seen my landing under the power lines.

As an A&P mechanic, I wanted to know what caused the engine failure. The inside of the blown cylinder showed no signs of abnormal wear, so I suspected the wrist pin and/or piston had failed. I returned to the accident site later and used my GPS to re-track my final flight path, hoping to find some of the parts. I didn’t find any, but fresh boot tracks suggested a souvenir hunter had beaten me to the site.

I have some advice for anyone who is unfortunate enough to experience a similar failure. First, know your airplane’s V-speeds, and fly the airplane regardless of anything else that is happening. Take immediate action and don’t hesitate to let someone know you are in danger. Better to have flight following all the time it’s available, too.

Second, don’t be afraid to take aggressive action. I knew flying under those wires was going to make for a rough landing, but hitting them would have meant near certain death. Hard braking and intentional ground looping also kept me from being a statistic.

Lastly, keep your pets in the back. We now have a net to keep our pets from getting to the front of the airplane. Had my dog not jumped back in the front seat, I’m convinced my dead-stick landing would’ve been uneventful.

Kurt Becker is a retired wildlife biologist. He and his wife are both pilots and enjoy flying their Cessna 170B on wheels and Cessna 180 on floats in the Pacific Northwest and Alaska.