The Great Lakes pilot I met the day before at Liberal, Jim Reeves, bought me breakfast and drove me to the airport. There is a community of pilots, and especially biplane pilots, who share such extraordinary experiences that we tend to assume we are each other's long lost friends. We go out of our way to help each other, and just because we fly with an extra pair of wings. Strange, but true.
Tucumcari winds were calm in the early morning and I was anxious to get back into the sky to enjoy some smooth air flying. Jim took some photos of the Waco, and I taxied out for a picture perfect takeoff, heading straight out to US Route 66 and then picking up a heading to Albuquerque New Mexico, about 180 miles to the west.
The flight was delightful. The air was 70 degrees and smooth as silk, the sun was at my back, the landscape was inspiring.
Halfway there, my TCAD (Traffic Collision Avoidance Detection) device signaled aircraft in the immediate vicinity and I located the two Cessnas a thousand feet up and crossing my path from a 7 o'clock position. I tuned the radio to 122.75 to monitor any plane to plane conversations and picked up one of the pilots telling the other: "Hey Joe, there's a bi-wing just below you." Well, things can get a bit boring on a long flight in the middle of nowhere, so I joined in on their conversation: "This is Waco biplane Two Five Zero Yankee Mike... the bi-wing of which you speak... where you guys headed?"
The conversation of the next few minutes revealed that these two planes were on their way to Utah for some fishing. These guys make an annual pilgrimage from their homes in Texas to a remote mountain stream to hang their hooks in the water and get away from it all. We talked a little about fishing, a lot about the Waco (which they suggested would be a fair trade for their two Cessnas!), and a good bit about flying. After a few minutes, the conversation slowed, we drifted out of sight, and got back to the business of flying and navigating.
As my flight progressed, the land rose up to meet me. The elevation of my destination in Albuquerque was 5800 feet, and Tucumcari was only 4063 feet. The rise was gradual and kept me in a long slow climb all the way. Eventually, the mountains to the east of Albuquerque forced me to 8500 feet, and I slipped through a pass with rocks rising another thousand feet to my right. The city itself lay 3000 feet below and I started downhill, monitored by Air Traffic Controllers at Albuquerque Approach, for a final destination of Double Eagle airfield on the west side of the city.
Radio communications with Double Eagle seemed a bit weak and garbled, and I had trouble making out the traffic advisories, the winds and the runway in use. I called a couple of times, but still couldn't get a clear transmission from them. I partly assumed that it was my difficulty in picking up the local accent. What I didn't hear was the part about the non-standard right hand traffic pattern, and I found myself going the wrong way for entering a downwind. When I switched my Argus 7000 Moving Map to the info page for Double Eagle, and it revealed the right hand pattern, I called Double Eagle to confirm, and got a very garbled reply of "Affirmative". Radios still did not sound right, but for now I was too busy to think about it. I had to deal with getting re-oriented to the proper traffic flow, looking for traffic in the pattern, setting up for landing, etc.
The density altitude here at Double Eagle was going to be a challenge. Because the air is so thin at 5800 feet, and since the air is even thinner at 85 degrees, the plane would be flying a lot faster across the ground for a given airspeed. The airspeed for landing must remain the same, but I would be going much faster than normal (at sea level on a cool day) when I touch down, it would take much longer to stop the plane, and therefore I would be subject to the negative effects of crosswinds and gusts, and any go-around would eat up a lot more runway to get airborne again. Just more stuff to be thinking about on final approach.
So then, here I am on final approach, with all this extra stuff rolling around in my mind, along with all the normal stuff like keeping the plane perfectly on the centerline, watching airspeed, scoping out the traffic entering and leaving the runway, traffic in the pattern, filtering out unimportant radio transmissions, dealing with descent rate, engine RPM, and a bunch of other stuff...... and FLASH! The Waco's entire instrument panel goes dead! And then it lights up again, the instruments wiggle and then drop dead again.
Hey, guys, this is not the time to be doing this to me! This is final approach! I'm busy here!
The radios are dead. No circuit breakers are popped. What's going on? I make a mental note that I better get the plane on the ground right away, and on the first try because I won't have any radios to signal a go-around or subsequent traffic advisories. The thought of fire (!) crossed my mind, but I was too busy to get totally wierded out about that.
The landing was.... well, let's just say "effective". The plane got on the ground. Period. It was not necessarily pretty. But not really ugly either. I taxied to the terminal in silence, trying my best to figure out what the problem was. As I approach the fuel pumps, out comes the typical contingent of about 10 or so local pilots and spectators who just have to get a closer look at such an awesome airplane (and the guy who just made that ... landing?).
The local mechanics started taking the plane apart almost immediately, and the first thing we found was that the batteries were completely bone dry! Boiled dry from the heat of too much voltage being sent their way by a regulator not doing its job. I reflect on how lucky I was that my loss of electrics didn't occur fifteen minutes sooner when I was negotiating the pass into Albuquerque airspace and talking with Air Traffic Controllers and trying to locate the Double Eagle Airport with my Moving Map. It could have been a lot different!
We locate two new batteries, charge them, install them, and button up the cowlings. A call to the Waco factory indicates that the regulator must be set to 28.5 volts maximum, and that there is just no way to do this on the ground. It is an iterative process of test-flying the Waco, noticing the voltage output on the panel mounted voltmeter (at flying RPM), landing for a ground adjustment, then flight-testing again, etc. We try to shorten the process by doing some adjustments on the ground, and finally set the regulator to its lowest possible output. But I still have to fly to get final diagnostics.
By this time, we are into the late afternoon. This is the time of the day for thunderstorms, and all around us there are big cumulus towers building up into dark skies. A rainshower is moving just north of the runway, in the downwind leg of the approach. I'm not really looking forward to playing Test Pilot, but it's got to be done. This is Friday, if we determine that the regulator is bad, we need to order another one ASAP from the factory for Saturday morning delivery, otherwise I'll be here for another three days.
The windsock is jumping all over the place. First it sticks straight out, and straight across the runway, then falls limp, then turns around for a tailwind on takeoff, then whips around again the other way. The locals say that this windsock is real light, that the winds really aren't that bad, that a "real pilot" wouldn't be scared of these winds. I'm thinking maybe I'm not a "real pilot". I sit there at the end of the runway for a long time studying the windsock, the rainshower, the nearby cumulus, thinking again about my level of experience, dismissing completely the remarks of the locals about "real pilots", and trying to come to a rational decision about going flying in this mess.
The windsock drops to limp. I jam the throttle to full forward, and take off. But it takes like what seems to be a VERY long time before the plane lifts off, due to the increased density altitude at what must now be 95 degrees air temperature. Ever so slowly, the Waco climbs out. I accelerate to maximum cruise speed, and a look at the volt meter shows a completely unacceptable output of 30.5 volts. My work here is done, so I head back to the airport for the big job.... landing in this mixed bag of turbulent air. I was as lucky on the landing as I was on the takeoff. The windsock was whipping all around on final approach, and then graciously dropped to limp on my touchdown. Thank you!
The Waco factory would UPS a new regulator for delivery tomorrow. I would go take a shower and think about what a lucky day I had.