Close Call

Logbooks have no pictures, but reading the "remarks" column can sometimes produce images as vivid as a photo album.
Recently, while scanning past entries for flight time over a certain route, I came across the following:
"Near midair, closest call I've had since flying."
The scant space allotted left no room for details, but that abbreviated notation served to bring back that day's events as clearly as if they had happened yesterday.
At that time I owned an 1976 F model Mooney Executive, N6947V.
Aside from providing me with many pleasurable hours of recreational flying, its main function was business transportation.
I kept the Mooney tied down at Centennial, Denver's largest general aviation airport.
Centennial's fuel prices clearly reflected its big-city image, so when practical, I made many of my fuel purchases at nearby Front Range Airport, a smaller general aviation field.
Having returned the evening before from a long cross-country, the last leg of which left the Mooney with a serious thirst, and not wanting to invite condensation, it seemed like a
good time to stop off at Front Range for refueling.
Front Range Airport is located about 20 miles northeast of Centennial and about the same distance east of downtown Denver.
Since it is an uncontrolled field, I generally begin monitoring 123.0, the CTAF, as soon as I clear Centennial's class D airspace.
The frequency is shared by several other fields within radio distance and sometimes becomes a
bit congested.
This being a weekday I did not anticipate much chatter;
however, after listening for a short while it became apparent that the traffic pattern at
Front Range was a little more active than I had expected.
There were three aircraft in the pattern, as well as one or two in the immediate area.
The active was two-six, winds were calm and visibility was pretty much typical Colorado: cloudless, pristine blue sky.
On days like this you can almost see Kansas.

About four miles out I announced my intentions:
"Front Range Traffic, Mooney, six niner four seven Victor is four miles south and will be entering at the forty-five for a left downwind for two-six Front Range."
As I approached the forty-five entry point spacing was good, one aircraft about to turn final, another on the runway and the third on crosswind.
After reporting my position I proceeded with the checklist and preparations for landing.
When I was abeam the numbers, a Seneca checked in and declared that he was at Skipi on the ILS for two-six.
Skipi is the outer market for two-six and is 4.7 Nm from the runway.
Immediately I began scanning the area to the east and directly in front of me for the twin.
I didn't see him but then I guess I really didn't expect to if he was five miles out.
It seemed to me that if I turned base now, I would be on the ground and clear of the runway before the Seneca made his appearance, and besides he was, I assumed, just doing a
practice ILS and surely he would be breaking off and going missed before becoming a factor in the landing phase of my approach.
I informed traffic that I was turning left base for two-six, at the same time banking for the left turn.
Because I was in fairly close, I did not level out the turn and look for traffic as has always been my procedure.
The left base evolved into a one-eighty.
I rolled out lined up on short final.
Power was pulled back;
what little bit of flaps the Mooney had were creating the desired mately 200 feet agl.
The VASI was showing me to be just a little below glide slope, right were I wanted to be.
My plan was to make a short-field arrival and clear the runway at the first exit
Everything looked great, like the makings of another squeaker.
With the David Clarks firmly embracing my head (as they are wont to do), it was quiet in the
cockpit.
Then, as if announced by the great unseen observer Himself, came the fateful message:
"Aircraft on final, there are two of you, one on top of the other."
That's all he said.
Then it was quiet again.
I never knew that such a terse statement like that could have such an impact.

Since l was the one on final and I thought the only one, it really did get my full attention. Looking off my left wing I determined that the warning transmission was made by the Cessna pilot who was turning downwind at the time I entered the pattern.
He was now on downwind adjacent my position.
My immediate impulse was to mash the throttle to the firewall and leave the area.
That idea was quickly aborted;
It seemed imprudent to be making any sudden moves not knowing whether I was the one on top or the one on the bottom.
Next option:
Hold the glide steady and look.
That only lasted a few seconds as I heard the muffled roar of the Seneca's engines, accompanied by a darkening of the Mooney's cabin.
Out my left window I was looking up at the bottom of the Seneca's right wingtip directly over my head!
Moreover, the most disconcerting sight of all was the twin's right wheel about to touch down
on my left wing.
There was no time for me to react-just as well, because I might have reacted adversely.
The Seneca pilot was doing the reacting for both of us by making a full throttled climbing left turn.
Fortunately he had begun this maneuver seconds before or most certainly he would have chopped off a good portion of the Mooney's tail while on his way to clipping the trailing
edge of the left wing.
As he banked to the left and up, his safety pilot and/or instructor, or maybe just plain passenger, was looking back over his shoulder.
I can still today see his wide eyed, sickeningly ashen faced grin.
After the twin peeled away, the approach was quite short since I was no more than 50 feet above the end of two-six.
I had the feeling of being merely a spectator to the events.
I'd had no choice but to stay the course upon learning that two airplanes were about to occupy the same airspace.
I landed.
Actually, I landed about four times in rapid succession, as I recall, and I did not make the first turnoff;
So much for the squeaker.
After clearing the runway I thought about calling the Seneca driver, but I didn't.
What good would it have done?
He probably won't do that trick again anyway.
I thought about calling the Cessna pilot whose radio call surely saved our lives, but I didn't.
I should have, though, as I feel deeply indebted to him.
If the Cessna pilot who made that timely call should read this these years later, I say thank
you, sir.
I am grateful I was not scattered and splattered all over the approach end of two-six.

Robert Brodbeck
Flying, June 1997