I flew air medical missions for over 10 years of my long career as a helicopter pilot. Many of those flights pushed the limits of safety, exposing our medical crews to extraordinary danger. Probably the most demanding task in these flights was figuring out a safe route into and out of landing zones far from civilization, quite often late at night.
We worked with firefighters and ambulance drivers by radio to identify the obstacles on our approach. They usually reported them clearly. But on one dark night, that was not the case, and we came very close to flying into some powerlines.
One early morning in spring 1991, I flew our two nurses in a Bell 412 through a string of rain showers to the scene of a bad auto accident. Arriving overhead, we spoke by radio to a firefighter on the ground about the local conditions. The vital question: where were the obstacles?
My fear was high-voltage powerlines. They’re hard to see — especially at night — and they’re deadly. At that point in history, several medevac helicopters had fallen to fatal wire strikes, unseen powerlines ripping through airframes, exploding the fuel and sending them plummeting to the ground in a ball of fiery debris.
“County Fire, Airmed One, good LZ on the highway and it looks clear of obstacles. Can you confirm that?” I said over the radio. A long silence followed. Was he unsure of the surroundings? Then he answered: “Uh, it’s all clear down here, sir.”
His answer was not good. For some reason, he was unsure of the landing zone conditions. The volunteer firefighters in this county had little training in working with helicopters, so he himself was not to blame. But I didn’t have the whole picture and I wasn’t going to land until I did. The nurses chimed in over the intercom that they needed to get on the ground. I didn’t answer. Instead, I came up with a plan.
This 412 had two big searchlights. I could point their beams out in front and downward, right at the landing spot. Two brilliant shafts of light guiding us down the descent path. If anything showed up in the light beams, I could pull up and fly away. They were arc lights, so after I flipped the switches on their 35 million candlepower, beams flooded the highway with an intense glow. I flew back around and lined up for the approach then began a descent right down the light beams, watching our progress through the chin windows. The helicopter shuddered and rattled, reacting to our low speed as we settled toward the highway. Suddenly, horizontal flashes appeared in the light beams. They were long, bright, and metallic. Instantly I knew they were wires. I added power and we climbed away. A chill trickled down my neck as I watched the powerlines slide by right underneath the belly — big, thick strands of steel that would’ve sliced through our helicopter and turned it into a flaming coffin.
“Woody, where are we going?” said Mary, one of the nurses. “We need to get down there. One of the victims is bleeding out.”
“I understand, Mary, but, if you look out the window, you’ll see a big set of powerlines they forgot to tell us about,” I replied, carefully articulating each word to control my shaky voice.
I heard them whispering to each other over the intercom as they looked out and saw the wires. “Thanks for taking care of us, Woody,” Mary said. This time around, I planned to land farther up the road from the towers and fly slowly along the highway, underneath the wires to the landing spot. Suspended several stories above the highway, there was plenty of room for us to pass under the wires then hover to the LZ.
After we were parked on the highway, the nurses climbed out and jogged over to their patients. I sat in the helicopter with rotors turning, my boot holding the door open. The rain had slowed to a steady mist, the rotor wash blowing it outward in a damp cloud. A small man in a firefighter outfit came up to the door. Holding onto his bulky fireman’s hat against the rotor blast, he raised his voice over the noise.
“Hey, sir, how ya doing?” he said, looking up at me with mist and rain spraying in his face. “How come you had to fly around like that instead of just coming in to land?”
Still shaken from our near-death experience I looked down at this man, rainwater soaking his face and dripping off his cheeks onto his overcoat. His volunteer fire company more than likely was underfunded, undertrained and used second-hand equipment, yet here he was in the middle of the night getting soaked to the skin, doing his duty.
I bent down to him so he could hear me better. “There’s a big set of powerlines right back up the highway there, so I had to figure out a different way in.”
He looked past me in the direction I was pointing and saw the wires. His eyebrows shot up and his jaw dropped. He shook his head then looked up at me.
“Sir, I am so sorry. We had some badly hurt people here and needed you guys on the ground. I just didn’t see the wires.”
I put out my hand and he took it in his soggy, gloved hand. “This is a dangerous business, my friend. We can never be too careful.” By then the nurses had returned and were loading the patients. The fireman and I shook hands again, he holding onto mine for an extra moment, his eyes thanking me. Then, he stepped back to give me liftoff hand signals.
For those of us called to land in threatening terrain and marginal weather conditions, we need to stay focused on the hazards around us and be meticulous about identifying them, then plan our arrival and departure accordingly. Using all the assets available, in this case, listening to my inner doubt about the fireman’s input, is the only way we can survive in these demanding environments. Take your time and don’t land until you’re totally happy with the situation.
For more stories from Woody McClendon, check out the latest podcast episode from The Helicopter Podcast with host Halsey Schider.
In his 50-year flying career, Woody McClendon has flown corporate jets across oceans, turboprops and jets on air medical and organ transplant flights, and helicopters in a wide range of roles — from training and demonstration to surveillance and air medical tasks. As a former Boeing flight test engineer, he has brought his technical expertise to bear on a wide variety of operational and mission-related challenges over the years. He has also written articles for a number of aviation trade publications and recently published When the Angel Calls, a timeline of the air medical business from its inception 40 years ago to its present struggles with mission safety while facing pressures to cut expenses.