Trapped Above the Alaskan: Wilderness KLM 867’s Engines Fail at 26,000 Feet

It was just days before Christmas in 1989 when KLM flight 867, a gleaming new Boeing 747-400, sliced through the high winter skies en route from Amsterdam to Tokyo with a stop in Anchorage, Alaska. To the 231 passengers and 14 crew, this was an ordinary long-haul flight—until fate conspired above the Alaskan wilderness to turn it into a harrowing battle between man, machine, and nature’s most violent force. 

For nearly 12 hours, everything went as planned. Captain Karl Van Der Elst, a veteran with over 13,000 flying hours, was at the controls, supported by two sharp young first officers, Imme Visscher and Walter Vuurboom.

Their aircraft was the pride of modern aviation, a computerized marvel that had replaced dozens of old dials with sleek glass cockpit screens, designed to make flying safer than ever before. But even the best technology has its limits, and this morning, nature was waiting with a deadly challenge no one fully understood.

Beneath the frozen expanse of southern Alaska, Mount Redoubt—a volatile volcano—had been rumbling for days, spewing plumes of ash and sulfur high into the sky.

Aviation authorities had warned the KLM crew to keep watch for volcanic activity as they approached Anchorage, especially since the infamous 1982 British Airways volcanic ash incident was still fresh in every pilot’s mind.

The dangers were well-known: ash can destroy jet engines in minutes, turning a flying palace into a gliding brick. But at 26,000 feet, with clouds obscuring the ground and no up-to-date information on the ash plume’s location, it was a deadly guessing game.

As the 747 began its descent, the crew peered ahead into a bank of clouds, not sure if they were entering harmless moisture or a deathtrap of abrasive volcanic particles invisible to radar.

Suddenly, the first officer radioed Anchorage: “Do you have good sight on the ash plume at this time?” The reply was uncertain, and seconds later, the cockpit filled with acrid smoke.

The view outside darkened as the plane entered what looked like just another cloud—but was anything but. It was too late. The pilots yanked on their oxygen masks and frantically called for a left turn, trying to escape the black cloud, and—following their instincts—pushed the throttles to full power, hoping a rapid climb would save them. 

But this move proved catastrophic. In the searing heat of the engines, the volcanic ash melted instantly, turning into glass and choking the turbines to death one after another. Within moments, all four engines failed, and the world’s safest airliner became a silent, powerless glider plummeting towards the snow-covered mountains.

The cockpit went dark as the plane lost electrical power. Emergency batteries flickered to life, but the vital displays and navigation instruments were unreliable. The massive jet began an unstoppable descent. At 13,000 feet, Captain Van Der Elst had tried and failed to restart the engines five, six, seven times. The ash had now solidified and clogged every crucial duct and blade.

Passengers felt the silence and the stomach-dropping plunge as oxygen masks fell and darkness pressed in from outside. The smell of sulfurous ash filtered through the cabin, and a false fire alarm added to the chaos.

For the crew, the nightmare deepened as failed engine restart attempts led to brief, terrifying blackouts of all cockpit instruments, making it seem like even the backup systems were dying.

But nature had one last trick in store. As the engines cooled, the glassy residue inside began to crack and fall away, dislodged by the rush of wind through the engines. On the eighth attempt, engines on the left side of the plane suddenly sputtered to life, buying the crew precious altitude.

Desperate to keep flying, the pilots pushed for more. Finally, as the jet dropped through 11,000 feet—now dangerously close to the Alaskan peaks—all four engines roared back. The jet had fallen more than 15,000 feet in less than ten minutes, and there had been mere seconds left before disaster. But even now, the fight was not over.

The 747’s windshield had been sandblasted opaque by the relentless ash. The leading edges of the wings were damaged, and vital sensors were covered in grit. Still, Anchorage’s controllers guided the blinded jet to a safe landing, ending the ordeal.

When mechanics examined the battered giant, they found over 80 kilograms of ash inside the engines, each of which had to be replaced entirely. 

The windshields and wing edges were ruined, and the final bill for repairs would be the equivalent of $150,000,000 today. Miraculously, not a single passenger or crew member was injured or killed.

In the aftermath, the world’s aviation authorities scrambled to ensure nothing like this could happen again. The International Civil Aviation Organization established nine Volcanic Ash Advisory Centers around the globe, each tasked with monitoring eruptions and issuing warnings to keep airliners far from danger.

New procedures were developed: if pilots ever find themselves in ash, they must immediately reduce engine power to flight idle—keeping the temperature below the melting point of the silicate ash—and execute a 180-degree turn to escape. The KLM crew’s instincts had been wrong, but the lessons learned from their nightmare changed global aviation forever.

But perhaps the most poetic twist came nearly 30 years later, when Walter Vuurboom, the young first officer who had survived the harrowing plunge over Alaska, was given command of that very same 747 on its final retirement flight.

The giant that had once fallen powerless from the sky was brought safely home, flown by a pilot who had faced death and won. The story of KLM flight 867 is a testament to human resilience, technological progress, and the humbling power of nature—a near-disaster that rewrote the rules of aviation and left an indelible mark on everyone who survived it.

If you have ever boarded a flight on a snowy day, passed above mountains, or watched the sky for distant volcanic plumes, remember that your safety comes from the lessons learned in the icy wilds of Alaska, when a miracle and eight desperate engine restart attempts brought 245 lives home for Christmas.