I had already swept away an inch or two of snow from my ski- equipped Piper Cub's wings and tail and released the tie-down chains that I were frozen in the ice on West Graham Lake, Minnesota. Temperatures had been moderate, just below freezing, so the usual three swings of the prop quickly brought the 90-horsepower Continental to life.
The engine finally warm, I advanced the throttle while turning toward the center of the lake. The PA-11 popped into the air, quickly climbing to 500 feet as I turned southwest toward Worthington. Ten minutes later, the airport passed below, then the town. I descended over Lake Okabena, the landing spot for my commute to work. I opted to land a bit farther out than usual on this windless day. The nose rose in the flare as the skis reached for the snow. Then a sudden, stunning crash preceded a lurch to the left. I instinctively hit the throttle and right rudder as I came back on the stick, ready to cut power and land again if the plane felt wrong, but it flew like a charm.
As I climbed higher, heading immediately for the nearby airport, I glanced out to either side, only to discover my left ski riding up against the wing struts. I learned later that an ice fisherman had removed a block of ice with a chainsaw and had unthinkingly left it atop the ice, a hazard to snowmobiles and aircraft alike. Welded to the lake's frozen face, the ice block was hidden by snow and gray skies. It had slammed the left landing gear to the side, where the slipstream forced it up against the struts.
As I approached the airport, I considered my options. The Cub flew well, the engine seemed normal, and there was no vibration to indicate a prop strike. I could return home, slide it in on the snow- covered lake, call my office, and drive to town. But what if I had an unexpected problem? The broken gear might dig in, causing a cartwheel or perhaps a fire. And my wife probably would not know that I had returned, for as we Cub pilots know, Mr. Piper silenced his Cub by trapping its many decibels inside the cockpit.
As for landing again near the office on Lake Okabena, I'd had enough of that, and I didn't relish the necessity of hiring a guard to restrain the curious who feel compelled to poke and pry.
Landing on the blacktop was the only option and, from what I had read, not one to be feared. But first I wanted to alert the personnel on hand at the Worthington Municipal Airport. Since my portable radio was in the shop for repairs, I had little choice but to fly low past the North Central Airlines office, hoping that they'd be upset enough to come out for a look.
On my first pass, I could see the agent, but he didn't notice me. I climbed out, made a lower pass, and orbited the runway while I waited for the agent to appear. This time he came out, gave a casual glance and a friendly wave — and headed back inside.
About this time I began to regret not filling my tanks. Yes, I still had the bouncing balls in the sight tubes, but thoughts of "how much is usable" began running through my head. I decided to make one more pass, then land on the runway whether the agent woke up or not.
On my third try, flying at full throttle and obnoxiously low, I lured him out again. Making a quick turn, I flew low in front of him, presenting the damaged gear from 50 feet. I could see it in his face when it hit him. He spun around and ran into his office; a few minutes later, the airport operator arrived with the "crash truck" — a baggage truck with a fire extinguisher.
I accepted the wisdom of "keep your head screwed on, don't get distracted, and fly the airplane." With no crosswind to deal with, I pulled the mixture and cut the mags while on high final, then raised the nose to stop the prop. The prop, however, persevered, and since I was reluctant to lift the nose any higher, I gave up and turned final. As I flared over the right half of the runway, the prop finally stopped — just as the right ski touched down. I held the left wing up with aileron and right rudder as long as possible, but it finally fell, the Cub arcing slowly to the left, coming to a stop on the runway centerline.
With the Cub's right-side door pointing upwards, my exit was even more awkward than usual, but I was pleased to find the prop undamaged and the left wing tip's fabric little more than scratched. Even the ski survived intact, but the left landing gear was junk.
While the airport operator rounded up a baggage cart and a stack of sofa cushions to support the left wing, I called my office, asking my assistant to explain the situation to my patients. Then, with a dolly under the right ski and the cushioned baggage cart under the left wing, we towed the Cub to the shop.
In retrospect, I should have landed closer in, parallel to the shore, as I'd always done. The chance of hitting an obstruction would have been almost nil. In less than two weeks, my Cub was whole again, and I enjoyed 10 more years of commuting to my office.
George Erickson, AOPA 1210826, of New Brighton, Minnesota, a retired dentist, is a writer and private pilot with more than 2,000 flight hours. He now owns a Cessna 172 floatplane.
"Never Again" is presented to enhance safety by providing a forum for pilots to learn from others' experiences. Manuscripts should be typewritten, double-spaced, and sent to: Editor, AOPA Pilot, 421 Aviation Way, Frederick, Maryland 21701.
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