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I’ve always liked the Cessna Cardinal. With its sleek, cantilever wing and raked tail, it seemed like a step up from the more pedestrian Skyhawk. There was even a retractable gear version—though whether that was a feature or a bug remains debatable.
By my best recollection, the following event took place in the fall of 1986. If it happened today, with smartphones in every pocket, there’d be video from five angles and a TikTok recap by sunset. But back then, we had no digital record—just memory. And mine assures me I’ll never forget what happened.
It started with a Sunday afternoon phone call. Art, a friend from the nearby airport, told me that John, a local pilot out for a casual flight, had radioed in with a problem. He wasn’t getting the green light to confirm his landing gear was fully extended in his Cessna Cardinal RG. The two main wheels were down, but the nose gear was stuck in the up position.
Since I was the only aircraft mechanic on the field, Art thought I might have some advice. The ink was barely dry on my newly earned Aircraft Maintenance Engineer license, and I had zero experience on that particular airplane. A smarter man would have politely declined the opportunity to be part of a potential accident. I was not that man.
Two thoughts came to mind. First—somewhat selfishly—I was relieved that I had never worked on that aircraft, so I was off the hook for liability. Second, I had absolutely no idea what to do. My limited experience with Cessna retractable gear came from the 337 Skymaster, and it didn’t inspire much confidence.
I needed time to think, so I suggested John try a few steep turns. Maybe some G-loading would help unstick the nose gear. No luck. My next idea was something I had learned as a relatively new pilot: a firm bounce on the runway using the main gear. Still nothing.
While John circled above, we kept talking on the radio.
At that point, it became clear John was going to have to land without the nose wheel. That’s when things got interesting. He asked me to call the local fire department to be on standby. This wasn’t a big city airport, so no foamed runway. But the police arrived, along with fire trucks and an ambulance. Before long, they closed off the roads near the airport, and half the town turned up to watch.
While John circled above, we kept talking on the radio. Even with the odds stacked against us, we realized there were still a couple of cards to play—maybe jokers, but cards nonetheless.
The first bit of luck was a nice, smooth grass runway next to the paved one. That would help soften the landing and reduce damage. Second, there was a strong south wind blowing straight down the runway—great for slowing the airplane’s groundspeed. Both were small but welcome advantages.
Then we came up with one more idea. I had previously worked at a propeller overhaul shop and had seen the damage caused when a spinning prop contacts the runway—turning a precision-machined piece of aluminum into a pretzel. Not to mention the cost of the resulting engine teardown.
So I suggested something no sane pilot wants to hear: shut down the engine on short final and try to stop the propeller with the blades horizontal, parallel to the ground. That way, the prop might clear the runway entirely and be spared.
John was game. On the first attempt, he lined up perfectly, flaps down, engine off—but that helpful south wind turned into a curse. It was clear he wouldn’t make the runway. I was relieved to hear the engine roar back to life as he restarted it and went around.
The second attempt was textbook. John shut down the engine on short final and managed to stop the prop in the ideal position. He touched down smoothly, held the nose off as long as he could, and let it settle gently. The airplane came to rest at what looked like walking speed. A few spectators may have gone home disappointed, but John and I were relieved beyond words.
He climbed out calmly. The police, on the other hand, sprang into action. They staked off the area around the airplane as if it were a crime scene. The officer in charge was apoplectic when I came barreling down the runway on my moped—with my five-year-old son riding shotgun. He finally calmed down when I explained that I was the mechanic who had been in contact with John the entire time. After a few phone calls—including one to Transport Canada—we were cleared to inspect the aircraft.
With a couple of strong backs pushing down on the tail, we raised the nose and found the culprit: the nose wheel had jammed in the wheel well due to a broken torque link bolt. That allowed the shock strut to overextend and trap the wheel. Fortunately, the only real damage was a soup-bowl-sized dent in the bottom cowling—easily repaired.
A few days later, a government accident inspector arrived. After a quick look, he offered his verdict: “Looks like that broken bolt probably came off a piece of farm equipment.” Beyond that, no harm, no foul. He did mention how lucky we were the airplane didn’t tip over completely and flip upside down. That would have resulted in far more than a dent to pound out.
We caught a few other breaks too. That stiff headwind helped. A crosswind would have made things far more difficult. And fuel-injected engines aren’t always quick to restart when hot—thankfully, that wasn’t a problem on John’s go-around.
Most importantly, John kept his cool. A panicked pilot might have tried to stretch that first glide, risking a stall, a spin, and almost certain disaster.
Sometimes, things work out. Still, it’s a pity smartphones weren’t around back then—this would’ve made one heck of a video.
- A Cardinal Problem - June 6, 2025
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