Experiencing That Shaky Feeling

One second, my wife, Dawn, and I were enjoying our lofty morning view of the hundred miles of mountainous Canadian wilderness stretching out before us with our Stinson 108’s Franklin engine purring steadily along as we crossed the slender ribbon of water that marked the end of roaded civilization. The next second, the purr abruptly devolved to a ragged staccato, the tachometer dropped several hundred rpm, and the rugged hinterlands of British Columbia took on a Gaussian blur as the vibration of the engine shook the entire airframe and hence my eyeballs. 

“Dawn, we have an engine problem. Look for potential places to land.” I was already turning back to Lake Babine’s western shoreline, with its scattered sleepy villages and scraggly network of dirt roads.

My steely-nerved wife, God bless her, started calmly pointing out gravely beaches and straight bits of logging road while I did the usual troubleshooting, to no avail. Alas, none of the proffered landing spots looked terribly appealing, and a check of the charts confirmed no actual runways within 50 miles.

I glanced wistfully to the west, where we had just come from the large airport and attractive valley town of Smithers (CYYD). We were maintaining altitude—only just—on our five remaining cylinders, but a foreboding tableau of trees, swamps, and high terrain precluded a return to Smithers. Instead, I turned south, where lower terrain and a paved highway beckoned, and silently willed the shaking engine to just keep running.

Our grand adventure of flying our airplane from Seattle to Alaska had just taken a dramatic and dismaying turn, only two days in. 

We’d been over similarly remote areas the previous day. I’d already demonstrated my faith in the engine. And then I doubled down by planning a direct flight from Smithers to MacKenzie (CYZY) instead of the safer-but-much-longer route via Highways 16 and 97. Which, of course, is how we found ourselves 50 miles from the nearest airport, down a cylinder, dragging a shaking, ailing airplane toward safe harbor.  

Things could’ve been worse.

The Central Babine Lake Highway, once we joined it, proved a godsend: wide, level, paved, blessedly clear of trees and power lines, with miles-long straight stretches on which you could land a 747. In fact, it was so good that I wondered if I wasn’t being negligent by not simply landing on the road. But I also knew from the previous day that it joins the Yellowhead Highway 30 miles south in a wide populated valley, with plenty of landable fields around.

If the engine held on that far, I reasoned, it would likely continue to do so for the last 15 miles to an airport. There were two to choose from: Houston (CAM5), slightly closer but upwind over less accommodating terrain, and Burns Lake (CYPZ), larger and downwind over flatter terrain. I picked the latter option. 

To my surprise, I was able to raise Pacific Radio (Kamloops FIC, the Canadian version of FSS) almost immediately despite the high terrain between us and the RCO. They had radar coverage on us via Vancouver Centre at a much lower altitude than I would have guessed. There wasn’t much they could do other than read out the weather at Burns Lake, but it was nice to have someone looking out for us.

I only learned later that Dawn, calm until then, had a bit of an internal meltdown upon hearing me transmit “N40128 declaring an emergency”—but she kept her discomfiture silent. I continued talking out loud to myself, and her, throughout the event, annunciating what I was seeing, debating options, vocalizing decisions and actions. A cockpit GoPro caught it all, making for interesting later viewing. 

Thankfully, the five remaining cylinders kept running all the way to Burns Lake, where my nice landing nevertheless resulted in a fierce shimmy when the tailwheel threw a chain link. I got it under control, taxied back, and shut down with a silent sigh of relief. I called Kamloops on the phone to let them know we were OK, then opened up the cowling. Sure enough, the No. 5 cylinder was much cooler to the touch than the others. 

The next week could merit its own column. Suffice it to say that Burns Lake wasn’t the ideal place to get mechanical assistance with an antique Franklin engine. But it had the considerable advantage of a friendly airport manager, a nice FBO with a comfortable apartment and crew car for rent, and a busy but helpful air taxi operator who lent tools and advice.

The culprit proved to be a broken rocker arm (a weak point on early Franklins, which had stamped rocker arms; later examples were forged). But thankfully it broke in such a way that caused no damage to the valve, pushrod or lifter. Incredibly, we were able to source a replacement part in Smithers, and a mechanic drove the 90 miles to Burns Lake on a Sunday to install it.

After a successful test run and flight, we ferried the plane to Smithers so the mechanic could give the engine a more thorough going-over on Monday morning. In the meantime, weather moved in and stranded us several more days. We didn’t mind too badly. Smithers has more going for it than Burns Lake.

Besides, we already knew we’d be heading home rather than continuing to Alaska.

Dawn had lost faith in the engine, and honestly so had I. If there was any further trouble, help was going to be increasingly hard to come by until Anchorage. And, in the course of sourcing the rocker arm, we’d unexpectedly ended up acquiring an entire spare Franklin 150, recently removed from another Stinson 108 being upgraded for a floatplane conversion.

So, once the weather cleared and we had the mechanic’s sign-off, I pointed the Stinson’s nose back south, sticking scrupulously to the highways and listening intently to the engine’s purr. A week later Dawn and our dog Piper drove our pickup truck back into Canada, I jumpseated to Smithers after a work trip, and we loaded up the spare Franklin and made a three-day camping, hiking, and bear-spotting adventure on the drive home.

After all the planning and all the anticipation, I’m disappointed that our Alaska trip ended the way it did. But all things considered, we were pretty fortunate. I learned a lot from the experience—including about Canadian operations—and will be better prepared for mechanical contingencies next time around.

My goal now is to put another hundred hours on the engine by next summer, rebuilding our trust in it. The more time I spend in the North Country, the more I fall in love with it. I’m really looking forward to summer 2025 and our next Stinson trip to Alaska. 

This column first appeared in the November Issue 952 of the FLYING print edition.