Using Your Noodle
By Sidney Djanogly
When was the last time you practiced a simulated approach to a forced landing? If it’s been a while, you might be a little shy to try one when it’s the only safe way out.
About 18 years ago I was invited to a wedding in Mexico City. My accountant and friend Don had never flown before – in any plane. I mentioned the trip to him and he was excited about coming along after his busy tax season.
Sydney Djanogly is on the left with In Flight columnist Larry Shapiro on the right.
I had flown in Mexico before and knew the hardest part of the flight would be the 11,000-foot mountains surrounding Mexico City. We flew our rented Piper Cherokee from Los Angeles down the Gulf of California to Guadalajara, stopping for fuel in Los Moches and Mazatlan. We had good VFR weather, which is typical for western Mexico.
I filed our flight plan, always a requirement in Mexican airspace, and left Guadalajara for Mexico City about noon. Again, good VFR was forecast, but my previous experiences flying in Mexico taught me the best weather information was whatever I saw off the nose of the plane. Over the mountains about 200 miles west of Mexico City, a towering cumulus began to form. In a matter of minutes, we faced a solid line. We had plenty of fuel so we decided to head back to Guadalajara and wait for better weather, but as we turned around we realized that the storm line had encircled us. The ceiling began to lower. Soon the mountaintops were obscured. We dodged the buildups for a few minutes, but as the turbulence and the hail got worse, I decided I had to get the airplane on the ground right away.
I had been practicing simulated forced landings for about a week before our trip, as part of the commercial pilot training. Without hesitation, I formulated a plan. I picked out a clear spot on the side of a mountain, above the timber line, and flew the Cherokee onto the mountain facing about 45 degrees uphill. At that angle the ground roll was extremely short. We had been lucky to avoid the rocks and we parked the airplane sideways on the hill. We were thankful to be on the ground safely, knew more or less where we were, and were sure to be rescued as soon as our overdue flight plan was noticed by the Mexican authorities.
We were sure that we’d found the most desolate spot on earth, but in just a few minutes, we were approached by about a dozen men on horseback carrying rifles. Had we survived our emergency landing only to be victims of the local banditos? Two things probably spared us from harm. In my Spanish dictionary I found the word for “lost” – Perdido – and the men became our allies. Still they wanted us to give them some of our valuables. They were fascinated by us and the airplane, but mostly by our cargo. We had filled the back seat and the baggage compartment with a load of Manichewitz kosher noodles for the chicken soup at the wedding ceremony. The men began devouring the noodles raw. The noodles and a bottle of tequila were enough to begin a party celebrating our arrival. As word spread, people began arriving from all directions. We had worn light white clothing to stay comfortable in the tropical heat. They thought we were angels sent by God with a strange new kind of food to celebrate the feast of St. Guadaloupe. When the peyote smoking began, we knew it was time to plan a way to get out of there.
In my confused state I asked a silly question – where was the closest telephone. I don’t think there was a telephone for 100 miles but the “tele” part connected and one of the gauchos offered to guide me to the closest telegraph office. I told Don to broadcast mayday on 121.5 if he saw an airplane flying overhead. I left him with the airplane and began a three-hour ride down the hill, through the woods, and eventually arrived at a tiny telegraph station next to the railroad. I wrote a message about our forced landing to the commandante at the Mexico City Airport, loosely translated it into Spanish, and the operator sent it. I felt confident that the authorities would begin our rescue as soon as they received the message. A few minutes later my smile faded as the telegraph replied in Spanish, “This is not company business. This telegraph is only for company business.”
I rode three more hours with my guide back up the hill to the airplane. As we approached in the dark, we beheld the eerie sight of Don locked inside the airplane with the red rotating beacon on, and bonfires raging only feet from the fuel tanks. It’s amazing the airplane didn’t explode. Everyone from miles around had come to see this strange event. Some were praying, some were dancing and others were sampling the kosher noodles for the first time. It took a couple of hours to settle the crowd down and convince them that we should continue the party in the morning. Wet, sore, scared and cold, we shivered our way through the night, wondering if we’d freeze in our sleep.
We awoke to a clear, cool morning and planned our escape. Using the handbook in the PA-28, we calculated the distance necessary for our takeoff roll. We used the numbers for a flat takeoff roll, and figured that the roll downhill would only help matters. We cleared the rocks from our “runway” and placed rock piles on the sides every 100 feet so we could monitor our progress and abort if we needed to. We performed a mini-annual inspection on the airplane and were happy to find no damage. We knew we had only one chance to do it right before we woke the townspeople and the craziness began all over again.
We decided that despite the wedding and the chicken soup we’d get the airplane as light as possible by unloading the rest of the noodles. Don and I said goodbye to one another, just in case our plan ended tragically. We lined up the nosewheel, started the engine, set the flaps for a soft field takeoff and started to roll. The downhill roll acted like a catapult and soon we were flying. Climbing was easy in the smooth, cool morning air. As we passed the pile of noodles atop our mountain home, we realized that we hadn’t taken any pictures of our bizarre stopover. We wished we had pictures, but they weren’t worth going back for. Instead we promised ourselves a hearty breakfast at the Mexico City airport.
As we flew I was glad I had practiced those simulated forced landings. If I hadn’t had the confidence to perform one, we might have gotten eaten up trying to dodge the mountaintops while escaping the thunderstorms. Upon arrival at Mexico City, we proceeded to the commandante’s office to close our flight plan from Guadalajara. If we had depended on the Mexican search and rescue to come after us, we’d still be there. Our flight plan had never made it into their system.
