I pissed twice in a week for mishaps. The first one we landed on a snowy ridge and punched a tree stob through a panel antenna on the belly of the Blackhawk. The panel rung up at 22K, so it was off to the lab.
A couple days later, we were sling-loading a snow cat up onto Eagle Glacier for the US Nordic Team. It was heavy, and we were putting enough power to it that we were leaving contrails as we climbed out from Girdwood. We were accompanied by a chase bird with reporters (yay PR) and because there had been fresh snow, they scooted ahead to test conditions in the LZ. They whited out at 80 feet, so we went around while they attempted to blown the LZ clean. It took us several minutes to orbit the glacial bowl, but when came came around on final, the LZ was still a blob of swirling powder.
We went around again and noticed that the cirque was starting to cloud up. When we were on our downwind, the LZ socked in completely, so the PIC decided we’d put it on the glacier and the ski team could come out and get it. He’d seen some ski trails on the glacier and he’d use that as a visual reference. The copilot, the other crew chief acting as belly man, and I all agreed to the plan. We turned final, identified the visual reference, the pilot started pulling in power to come to a high hover and, blammo, the rotor wash filled with condensation and we were whited out. I slammed my face against the gunner’s window and watched the last sliver of blue sky disappear. I came up on the intercom and stated that I had seen blue sky up and left, blue sky up and left! The pilot said something to the effect of, “fuck this, we’re out.”
Then the pilot hollered, “get rid of it, get rid of it!” and I felt a ‘thunk’. The bird didn’t jump into the air and climb away as I’d subconsciously expected.
In the back, you can’t hear the low rotor rpm alarm.
When he’d pulled power to climb out of the soup, we didn’t have any power to spare and our rotor rpm had dropped to 90% - at 85%, it’s unrecoverable (this is a 20+-year-old memory, don’t quote). In a couple seconds, we’d fallen from 300 feet AGL to 200 when the belly man cut the load; the pilot’s hook release had malfunctioned. The snow cat was on a 110-foot long line, so it went in from about 100 feet - splat!
It took three hours (20 seconds) to climb up out of the clouds, and the glacial bowl looked like it was full of whipped cream, but there wasn’t a cloud anywhere else in the sky. The best we could figure was the dew point was just right that our exhaust contrails had seeded the bowl with condensation that rapidly formed 100% micro-local overcast.
The same tech was working intake at the piss lab when we walked in to give samples and she recognized me; I got a raised eyebrow.
It all happened so fast, and so weirdly slow, that I didn’t have time for the reality of it to sink in. Somewhere in it all, I fleetingly wondered if I’d recognize the moment and be afraid, or if I’d just be looking for the blue sky and, poof, that would be it. Since there was nothing else to do, I just kept my face to the window and looked up and left.
.. will have to revisit Tom Wolfe at his writing.. ‘right stuff comes to mind.. a dry laconic way - very much immersed - ‘included in the ‘telling - said better ? Mark Twain’s fiction sprung from his fact - reality.. his hustle was steamboats - yours - attack helicopters ! What do you call it.. ‘with akin to a wry humour ? Wild Stallions ! 🦎🏴☠️
I pissed twice in a week for mishaps. The first one we landed on a snowy ridge and punched a tree stob through a panel antenna on the belly of the Blackhawk. The panel rung up at 22K, so it was off to the lab.
A couple days later, we were sling-loading a snow cat up onto Eagle Glacier for the US Nordic Team. It was heavy, and we were putting enough power to it that we were leaving contrails as we climbed out from Girdwood. We were accompanied by a chase bird with reporters (yay PR) and because there had been fresh snow, they scooted ahead to test conditions in the LZ. They whited out at 80 feet, so we went around while they attempted to blown the LZ clean. It took us several minutes to orbit the glacial bowl, but when came came around on final, the LZ was still a blob of swirling powder.
We went around again and noticed that the cirque was starting to cloud up. When we were on our downwind, the LZ socked in completely, so the PIC decided we’d put it on the glacier and the ski team could come out and get it. He’d seen some ski trails on the glacier and he’d use that as a visual reference. The copilot, the other crew chief acting as belly man, and I all agreed to the plan. We turned final, identified the visual reference, the pilot started pulling in power to come to a high hover and, blammo, the rotor wash filled with condensation and we were whited out. I slammed my face against the gunner’s window and watched the last sliver of blue sky disappear. I came up on the intercom and stated that I had seen blue sky up and left, blue sky up and left! The pilot said something to the effect of, “fuck this, we’re out.”
Then the pilot hollered, “get rid of it, get rid of it!” and I felt a ‘thunk’. The bird didn’t jump into the air and climb away as I’d subconsciously expected.
In the back, you can’t hear the low rotor rpm alarm.
When he’d pulled power to climb out of the soup, we didn’t have any power to spare and our rotor rpm had dropped to 90% - at 85%, it’s unrecoverable (this is a 20+-year-old memory, don’t quote). In a couple seconds, we’d fallen from 300 feet AGL to 200 when the belly man cut the load; the pilot’s hook release had malfunctioned. The snow cat was on a 110-foot long line, so it went in from about 100 feet - splat!
It took three hours (20 seconds) to climb up out of the clouds, and the glacial bowl looked like it was full of whipped cream, but there wasn’t a cloud anywhere else in the sky. The best we could figure was the dew point was just right that our exhaust contrails had seeded the bowl with condensation that rapidly formed 100% micro-local overcast.
The same tech was working intake at the piss lab when we walked in to give samples and she recognized me; I got a raised eyebrow.
"There are only two kinds of helo pilots: those who've crashed, and those who will."
Glad you made it. Whiteouts and brownouts are "teh suck."
Thanks, me too!
It all happened so fast, and so weirdly slow, that I didn’t have time for the reality of it to sink in. Somewhere in it all, I fleetingly wondered if I’d recognize the moment and be afraid, or if I’d just be looking for the blue sky and, poof, that would be it. Since there was nothing else to do, I just kept my face to the window and looked up and left.
Same-same for myself and people I've talked to.
https://theabjectlesson.substack.com/p/aviation-mishap-story-time-5
.. will have to revisit Tom Wolfe at his writing.. ‘right stuff comes to mind.. a dry laconic way - very much immersed - ‘included in the ‘telling - said better ? Mark Twain’s fiction sprung from his fact - reality.. his hustle was steamboats - yours - attack helicopters ! What do you call it.. ‘with akin to a wry humour ? Wild Stallions ! 🦎🏴☠️