Never Again: Nose to the grindstone

We were flying in a 1971 Cessna 177 Cardinal RG that I owned with two partners. When we made initial contact with San Angelo Approach at Mathis Field, we learned that the airport’s instrument landing system was offline and no instrument approaches were being allowed. That was a surprise, as we hadn’t seen any notices to airmen, but the problem had occurred after we launched. We shrugged and told the control tower our plan to return to Midland.

On final approach to Runway 28 on the first approach, I lowered the gear handle to extend the landing gear and held my finger on the light, as taught, waiting for it to illuminate green, indicating that the gear was down and locked—but the green light never came on. I looked at the mirror mounted below the left wing and noticed, with a slight bit of alarm, that the main landing gear was down and appeared to be in its normal position, but the nose gear was nowhere to be seen.

My flight instructor said, “Well, that’s not good.” I cycled the gear once again with the same result. We declared a missed approach at Midland and headed back to Skywest. My instructor used his cellphone to call our local A&P. The A&P contacted the senior A&P at Skywest, who also came out.

Now on the Skywest CTAF, we did a low-and-slow fly-by so that the assembled ground group could try to ascertain what was going on with the nose gear. They reported back to us that “the nose gear is in its stowed position and not even trying to come down.” They had us try a couple of passes down the runway, bouncing down hard on the mains, trying to dislodge the nose gear in case it was jammed. (Bouncing on landing had never been a problem for me to accomplish). No joy. We also tried pumping the gear down with the emergency manual hand pump. No joy. I had tried recycling the gear several times, as well. No joy. As if we needed another issue, the numerous gear cycling attempts had overheated the gear pump, and so on the last cycle the main landing gear didn’t even appear to be in its complete down position. We hand-pumped it down the final time.

About 45 minutes after our ordeal had begun, our A&P communicated some very scary-sounding words: “Guys, you’re going to have to land with the nose gear up.” My instructor and I discussed how best to accomplish this task. Land on the asphalt? Land on the dirt beside the runway? Land with the main gear up? Main gear down? The senior A&P strongly objected to attempting to land on the dirt. He said he had witnessed that before, and the airplane nose had dug into the dirt, flipping the airplane onto its back. We decided to land on the asphalt with the main landing gear down.

Several neighbors who had been listening on the CTAF had assembled with their fire extinguishers and were instructed to line the runway as best they could. At this point, I privately wondered if having plenty of fuel was a blessing after all. Additionally, a soft touchdown was paramount because we did not know whether both mains were in their locked position.

After reviewing the emergency landing procedure, we agreed that my instructor would land the airplane from the right seat, holding the nose off as long as he could. I would cut the engine power off after being sure that we had the runway made; I would then set the fuel selector to Off; and then I would attempt to align the two-blade prop horizontally, when it came to rest, so that we might potentially avoid a prop strike. Finally, I would open my door just before touchdown, since my instructor would be busy executing his best soft landing. After saying a short prayer, we made our approach and set the airplane down on the runway. All went exactly according to plan except that I never got the prop aligned—the wind milling continued right up until nose impact.

The nose slammed to the ground, frighteningly hard and loud, very soon after the main gear touched down, causing a prop strike. But fortunately there was no fire, and after skidding 159 feet down the runway on the lower cowl, we exited the airplane with no injuries to receive lots of welcomed hugs and handshakes from friends and neighbors.

Upon inspection, the A&P immediately found the problem: a badly fatigued, 39-year-old bellcrank assembly—a small metal piece that pulls the locking mechanism away from the nose gear, so that it can extend. It had broken on the flight.

While we never would have noticed that fatigue on a normal preflight inspection, I did learn and/or solidify in my mind these things: During an emergency don’t forget to fly the airplane safely; evaluate all options and discuss with peers (if you have time); attempt to solve the issue, beginning with the easiest solution first; listen to the geezers; and above all, stay calm.

We had somewhat maintained our senses of humor throughout the event. Later I said to my instructor, “Well, not many people can say they survived an airplane accident together.”

He responded, “That was no accident—we made a calculated decision to land it that way!” I still own and fly the Cardinal today.

Tommy Lent of Horseshoe Bay, Texas, is a 325-hour private pilot working on an instrument rating. He has owned a Cessna 172 and a 177.