Most of the past two decades, I have flown multi-engine and turbine aircraft, rarely flying anything with just one engine. There are reasons for this. For one, my personal airplane for three decades has two engines, plus my professional flying has almost exclusively been in turboprop or jet aircraft. But, with the onset of the COVID-19 limiting the use of the personal twin for distant travel and the concomitant but unrelated aviation insurance availability problem, I decided I should simplify my flying life and again try out single-engine airplanes.
Remembering back to a prior time, I recalled the fun I had flying taildragger airplanes of all kinds, but Cessna 180’s and 185’s in particular. At one time, I owned a C185 on floats and periodically put it back on wheels and flew it to the Idaho backcountry just for the fun of it. So, while still keeping my Cessna 340, I recently started looking for a Cessna 180 or 185. It was a rather discouraging experience. I found these airplanes are now highly valued by their owners, with a sort of cult following, making a good one hard to find and much more expensive than I remembered.
My definition of a “good one” was it had to have less than 3,000 or so hours total time, all logbooks, no damage history, a factory float kit, and ideally the Continental 550 engine upgrade, plus Garmin avionics. Since they stopped making them in 1981, these airplanes have become as rare as “hen’s teeth.” I found many of them had been used commercially with very high-time airframes and usually a history of one or two ground loops or other damage. Others were flown on floats on saltwater and had corrosion issues. Finally, after looking for several months, a good one showed up – not in Controller or ASO, but surprisingly in an ad on Facebook that my grandson Philip forwarded to me. Oddly enough, it belonged most of its life to a doctor of my past acquaintance and was based in nice, dry, sunny Nevada. I had my grandson make an immediate offer for me subject to inspection, which the seller accepted.
Unfortunately, the seller had re-located the airplane from Nevada to an isolated part of Alaska, so the inspection part would not be easy. But, as it turned out, Mike Rhoads, an old family friend, had a friend who was an expert C180 mechanic who just happened to be in his motor home on a fishing vacation in that part of Alaska. Mike called him, and he agreed to leave the salmon alone for a day and inspect the airplane. A couple of days later, he sent me a ream of photos and a very positive report on the airplane’s condition. Again, lucky for me, Mike and Philip had great enthusiasm for ferrying it down to Washington along the coastal route over the following week, with the only mishap being one flat tire.
Finally, with the airplane at KBVS, I got a chance to see my new Cessna for the first time and try out my old tailwheel skills. The airplane was as advertised, but the tailwheel tryout was a very ego-bruising experience.
First of all, with the tail on the ground and the nose in the air, I could not see anything beyond the engine cowl. After years of sitting in Lears, Citations and twin Cessnas, where the nose drops away to a clear view of the runway ahead, I was spoiled. So, I cranked up the seat to its limit. This helped, but I still could not see over the nose worth a darn. I then got a floatation cushion from my boat, which is about three inches thick. I sat with my headset touching the headliner, but I could see just over the engine. Forty years ago, when I was frequently flying this type of airplane, I probably would have just made S -turns, looked out the side window, and not worried about it. But, with thousands of hours in nosewheel aircraft (and perhaps the aging process), my level of acceptance for poor forward visibility was not the same. So, head bumping against the headliner, and a blue boat cushion on my seat, is my new norm.
The next thing I noticed was the airplane had a directional mind all of its own. When power was added, it caused an immediate 90 degree left turn. Quite different than the jets I fly that obediently go exactly where they are pointed. This airplane seemed worse than most, probably because its original 230 horsepower engine was replaced by a Continental 550, putting out a bit over 300 horsepower – a huge increase in power. Due to the extra P-factor and torque (both of which were on the very edges of my aeronautical memory), the airplane really was like a cantankerous child heading its own way down the sidewalk and into the street. I tried adding power slowly, but it still did the same thing, only at a more gradual pace. You learn this tendency is counteracted by leading with the right rudder, but how much input is initially a guessing game. Too much, and you go off the runway on the right. Too little, and the airplane heads for the runway lights on the left. Now, having a CFI’s intellectual knowledge of the how and does not really help much as the control inputs need to be done by neuromotor reflex. Like flying a helicopter, that can only be learned with practice.
Luckily, with 300 horsepower mounted on a 1,800-pound airframe and a bunch of STOL mods on the wing, the airplane got into the air before I could get too far astray or do damage to the runway lights. But as soon as liftoff occurred, another funny thing happened. The airplane immediately went into a 30-degree bank to the left, all on its own. This happened because the torque from the clockwise turning engine, which was being absorbed by the left landing gear being solidly on the ground, was now suddenly free to rotate the airplane about its longitudinal axis in the opposite direction. After many tries, I get this under control by rolling in a fair amount of right aileron upon liftoff. Of course, that also requires fairly substantial right rudder input to keep the airplane coordinated – lots of stuff to do.
Once in the air, climbing around 65 seemed slow to the point of being foolhardy compared to the 160 knots I am used to in a Lear. But the airplane was happy with it, climbing at 1,500 or so feet per minute. Doing some slow flight and stalls seemed pretty docile, so I returned to try my luck at landing. Accustomed to much higher approach speeds, I somewhat gingerly set up the approach at 75 knots. But when nearing the runway, I was floating for what seemed like forever and somewhat up and down because I was overcontrolling in pitch. The landing turned into a series of bounces until slow enough that the wing would no longer keep the airplane in the air.
This happened to me repeatedly for several days until I finally figured out I must be doing something wrong. So, I looked up some old Missionary Aviation Fellowship (MAF) directions I had stashed away on how to properly land these big Cessna taildraggers. The MAF directions say get set up at 500 feet on final with full flaps, power at 14 inches, with the airplane trimmed to be hands-free at the absurdly low airspeed of 60 knots.
Control the approach to the landing spot by adjusting power, keeping the pitch slightly positive. As you pass over the threshold, gradually pull the power off and flair slightly. Sure enough, this worked every time, with only an occasional slight bounce. After a dozen fairly good landings, my seriously deflated ego was slowly being restored.
But then there was the problem of directional control as the airplane decelerates on the runway. Unlike the twins and turbines I fly that all have nosewheels, a tailwheel’s center of gravity is aft of the main gear. If deceleration and braking occur in anything but a straight ahead direction, that center of gravity wants to swap places with the nose of the airplane. Landing with one foot even slightly on one brake is also bad as the airplane immediately heads toward that side and the center of gravity just encourages that further. Some very quick rudder work is required to prevent heading into the grass. Even with my best effort, my first 10 landings must have looked pretty hazardous to anyone watching. And this with a twin and turbine pilot who prides himself in staying on the white line all the time until the exit markings are reached.
With the airplane slowed down to what seemed a safe, fast walking speed, but still on the runway, I then gave attention to such things as raising the flaps and turning off the pulse lights. The flaps are controlled by a long handle located on the floor, and you have to look down to see what you are doing – a big mistake. I quickly found out the best thing to do is not touch anything until well off the runway and completely stopped. Anything less than being very disciplined about this will have you heading into the weeds. Even a slight puff of crosswind will grab the large vertical stabilizer and start turning the airplane while your attention is diverted.
Taxing back to the hangar also requires much attention compared to those easy jets and piston twins. Even with my feet delicately doing a dance on the rudder pedals, some wobbling along the yellow line occurred (if I had been in a car, the police might have stopped me as a possible drunk driver). But, once I reached the tiedown spot, I finally got to show off by recalling how locking one wheel casters the tailwheel, which causes the airplane to do a very nice in-place 90-degree turn, with it all lined up with the parking spot – not possible in one of those nosewheels. I see the line crew looking at me appreciatively as I shut the engine down. My ego continues to recover.
Getting out of the airplane I think to myself, “I can do this.” But it is a lot harder than I remember. Maybe I should just go back to twins and turbines. Or possibly when I put it on amphibious floats in a couple of months, it will be easier. I will let you know.
