Tales of the Taildraggers

Tailwheel aircraft can be tough to control, but these pilots love flying them.

The U.S. Air Force has an extensive wish list of capabilities for its sixth-generation fighter jets, ranging from directed-energy weapons to advanced, variable-cycle engines. But the most recent addition to the military’s inventory hearkens back to earlier generations, featuring a single propeller and landing gear that’s been considered obsolete for more than half a century.

The OA-1K, which is slated to fly reconnaissance missions and provide close-air support, is based on the design of the venerable Air Tractor cropduster, which first flew in 1973. (See “Agriculture by Air,” Winter 2022.) The OA-1K  possesses not only an internal-combustion engine but also a tailwheel—not the dominant tricycle landing gear design more commonly seen. This could make the OA-1K the first Air Force taildragger to see combat since the formidable Douglas A-1 Skyraider fought in the Vietnam War.

Airplanes equipped with tailwheels are notoriously tricky (some pilots use stronger language) to handle during takeoff and landing, and Air Force aviators accustomed to more stable tricycle-gear airplanes could find the transition challenging. “What this means is that during taxi, takeoff, and landing operations, pilots need to be more cognizant of aircraft alignment and crosswinds,” Lieutenant Colonel Becky Heyse, a spokesperson for Air Force Special Operations Command, told the press.

J.P. Mellor, who flies his vintage T-6 Texan taildragger at airshows, thinks Air Force pilots will benefit from the experience. “Those guys are going to get some good aerodynamic lessons about how airplanes fly, and I think that’s wonderful,” says Mellor, a Rose-Hulman Institute of Technology computer science professor who graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy. “They’ll be able to fly [the taildraggers], but it’s going to demand a lot to fly them well. And those skills will make them better pilots in whatever they fly.”

Flying a tailwheel airplane is the aviation equivalent of driving a car with a manual transmission. And yet, like the antiquated H-pattern gearbox, tailwheel airplanes enjoy fanatically devoted fans who believe that mastering taildraggers improves their stick-and-rudder skills while giving them an enhanced feel and appreciation for the machinery.

Tina Thomas and her husband Steve own Poplar Grove Airport, about an hour northwest of Chicago. With a paved runway and two grass landing strips, they run a large, full-service fixed base operation and a bustling flight school that offers tailwheel instruction. She still regularly flies a pair of taildraggers, a go-anywhere Cessna 180 and a lovely 1929 open cockpit Waco biplane. “The intricacy and challenge of flying a tailwheel aircraft is just plain fun,” she says. “When you fly a tailwheel aircraft, there’s just a lot more going on. You’re aware of the wind. You’re aware of any deviations. You know about the aerodynamics of your aircraft. You’re not a driver anymore. You’re a flier.”

Tail low, nose high

The first airplanes had no landing gear whatsoever. The Wright Flyer was catapulted from a rail, and when the flight was over, it skidded to a stop on the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk, North Carolina. This was an obviously imperfect solution, and several rivals of the Wright brothers fitted their crude airplanes with flimsy bicycle wheels as early as 1906.

By World War I, landing gear had standardized, with two large wheels at the front of the airplane, more or less under the wings, and a small tail skid at the rear of the fuselage. As aviation progressed from grass landing strips to paved runways, tailwheels replaced skids. Most tailwheels were castored—they could swivel 360 degrees. By the 1950s, the tailwheel configuration was so ubiquitous it was considered conventional landing gear.

In fact, it’s impossible to envision a prop-driven warbird without picturing its signature swagger as it roars down the runway—tail low to the ground and nose angled up to the sky, as if straining at a leash. “It’s a great stance,” says Thomas. “The airplane looks like it wants to fly. It’s sitting there saying, ‘I’m ready to go.’ ”

Only a handful of taildraggers are still in production, most of them earmarked for pilots who fly aerobatics and those who need aircraft that can execute short takeoffs and landings. Taildraggers are so rare—and so daunting—that, to fly them, the Federal Aviation Administration asks pilots to earn a so-called endorsement that typically requires a minimum of 10 hours of instruction to demonstrate the requisite proficiency.

“The challenge is physics,” retired airline pilot Ken Morris explains. “In a tricycle-gear airplane with the nosewheel in front, the center of gravity is in front of the main wheels, so if you touch down a little crooked, the laws of physics cause the airplane to try to straighten itself out. Turn that picture around, and you have a tailwheel with the center of gravity behind the main wheels. It’s like trying to push a grocery cart backward. It’ll go two or three feet before it whips around.”

When he was 16, Morris first soloed in a Cessna 140 taildragger he still owns. “It was just another airplane to me,” he says. “It wasn’t until I got to college that I realized what a big deal it was. I let an acquaintance fly it—or try to fly it—and he couldn’t even get it to the runway. I was thinking, ‘My goodness! This guy’s got a license?’ ”

The decline of the taildragger began in the 1950s, when airlines opted for the nosewheel configuration, which they regarded as more stable. The nose-up attitude of a taildragger compromised airflow into jet engines, which made tricycle gear a better solution for high-performance aircraft. The general aviation industry did its part to boost the visibility of nosewheels via small postwar airplanes such as the Beech Bonanza and Piper Tri-Pacer.

Cessna ultimately ended the era of tailwheel dominance when it introduced the entry-level, four-place 172 Skyhawk. A successor to the Cessna 170, the Skyhawk was retrofitted with the Land-O-Matic, a sprung-steel, tricycle landing gear configuration that Cessna billed as the “patented feature that’s revolutionizing flying.” As a full-page advertisement in the July 1956 issue of Flying put it: “Try the airplane that makes flying like driving.” Thanks in part to the Land-O-Matic, the 172 would become the most popular single-engine airplane ever built. And, since it’s the trainer that countless pilots learned to fly in, the Land-O-Matic helped spawn several generations of aviators who consider taildraggers not merely mysterious but positively evil.

Tailwheel devotees insist there’s no black magic involved in flying a taildragger. They argue, in fact, that with a bit of time and instruction, the transition from tricycle landing gear shouldn’t be arduous. The problem, they say, is that the forgiving nature of nosewheel airplanes enables pilots to get away with a sloppy technique that can become perilous while at the controls of a taildragger.

“Think of it like a tricycle versus a bicycle,” says Kelly Jeffries, an American Airlines 737 pilot who also flies a Van’s RV-8 configured with a tailwheel. (She built the RV-8 with her husband, L.D., a retired United Airlines 767 check pilot.) “On a tricycle, you know you’re not going to tip over,” she says. “You can get away with not being as aware or correcting properly and still stay pointed down the runway.”

Some taildraggers are stubbornly unforgiving. Because of its narrow track and top-heavy weight distribution, the Stearman PT-17 is prone to a ground loop—a sudden, uncontrolled turn similar to a spin in a car, where the front end of the airplane essentially switches places with the rear. Aerobatic airplanes such as the Pitts Special can be a handful because one of the design features that makes them so agile in the air—the short distance between wings and empennage (tail section)—makes them skittish on the ground. And the nose-up attitude of a taildragger also makes it difficult to see straight ahead from the cockpit, which can be disconcerting, especially for inexperienced pilots.

Never a dull moment

Landing a tailwheel airplane requires finesse and constant alertness. Because the center of gravity is behind the main wheels, it’s imperative to touch down with the tail directly behind the nose. If not, and if the tail is angled to the left or right of the centerline, the airplane will yaw in that direction when the tailwheel hits and then it will ground loop unless the pilot quickly presses the rudder pedal to bring the tail into alignment.

“You never relax in a tailwheel airplane,” says Jerry “Jive” Kerby, who flew F-15Cs in combat and now runs a company that supplies fighter aircraft for military training. “You’re flying it from the moment it starts moving until the moment it’s back in the chocks.” Over the years, Kerby has logged time in taildraggers ranging from J-3 Cubs to P-51 Mustangs. “In a nosewheel airplane, once I get all three wheels on the ground, I’m pretty much done,” he says. “But if I have somebody with me in the Mustang, I say, ‘Make sure your feet are back when the tail touches because I’m going to be killing some snakes with those rudder pedals.’ ”

Taildragger pilots must also be proficient in the proper way to decelerate. With tricycle landing gear, braking causes the momentum of the airplane to load up on the nosewheel as it comes to a stable, controlled stop. The worst-case scenario is that a pilot tromps too aggressively on the brakes and flat-spots the tires. But in a taildragger, there is no nosewheel to serve as a safety net for a ham-fisted pilot. Instead, braking too hard will cause the airplane to flip onto its nose—or back—faster than you can say, “I’d like to file an insurance claim.”

Crosswinds add another complication. Although crosswind landings can be troublesome for all types of aircraft—from puddle jumpers to wide-body airliners—the challenges are especially acute in a taildragger. To prevent the airplane from drifting on final approach, the pilot must crab it sideways into the wind. When the taildragger touches down, the pilot must again be quick on the rudder pedals—and ailerons—to prevent the airplane from swapping ends.

Mellor acknowledges that the taildragger design can make life miserable for pilots, but he says, “you get some payoff as well.” Since the tailwheel can swivel, a taildragger can make tight turns, which facilitates maneuvering around crowded airfields and into hangars. The tailwheel landing gear configuration is also lighter and less cumbersome than a tricycle arrangement, which saves weight and reduces drag in flight. Plus, a taildragger’s stance on the ground means it can accommodate a larger propeller. So, all things being equal, a tailwheel airplane will be faster and/or burn less fuel than other designs.

Taildraggers are the overwhelming airplane of choice for backcountry flying, since nosewheels are vulnerable to damage while taking off and landing on what are known generically as “unprepared surfaces.” But a pilot with advanced stick-and-rudder skills can lift the tailwheel off the ground and out of the snow, say, almost immediately after starting a takeoff roll. When landing, it’s also possible, and sometimes preferable, to balance the airplane on the mains and slow down the airplane with the brakes while keeping the tail in the air. Though tricky, this technique improves cockpit visibility, protects the small and less robust tailwheel from damage on rough surfaces, and gives the pilot more aerodynamic control in crosswinds.

These legendary abilities make taildraggers perennial winners in short takeoff and landing (STOL) competitions, where Piper Super Cubs with comically oversized tires almost seem to levitate from rest and stop as if restrained by invisible arresting cables. But these are more than mere party tricks. Their unrivaled ability in executing short takeoffs and landings makes taildraggers ideal for everything from wildlife preserves in Africa to glaciers in Alaska.

Bush pilot Paul Claus has nearly 35,000 hours in his logbook, but only a few hundred of them were accumulated in tricycle gear airplanes. “They’ve got their place, but they’re not even close to being in the game for ski operations, and that’s a lot of the flying we do,” says Claus, whose family owns the Ultima Thule Lodge in one of the most remote wilderness preserves in Alaska. “As a tool to get you into wild country, there’s nothing like a Super Cub. It’s the closest thing there is to strapping on wings.”

Since almost every airplane built before the 1950s was fitted with tailwheels, anybody interested in getting a firsthand taste of aviation history will almost certainly be flying a taildragger. “I hate to say that I love the romance of taildraggers,” says Judy Birchler, who’s been flying them her whole life. “But they take you back to the basics, the early days of flying.”

Now retired after a career as a purchasing agent, Birchler first soloed in her 20s in an Aeronca Chief, one of many small, simple, reasonably affordable airplanes that flooded the market shortly after World War II. Health issues forced her to stop flying for decades, but when she regained her medical certificate, she bought another Aeronca—this one a spunky little Champ. “I was just so overjoyed to be back, not only flying, but flying an old taildragger again, that I started a blog for women taildragger pilots,” she says. “I really wanted to find a few ladies near me that I could have a little fun flying with.”

Birchler named her group Ladies Love Taildraggers. (Members are encouraged to place a pair of outrageous stiletto heels in front of their airplanes when they arrive at fly-ins.) After the group went online, its numbers grew. “I stopped keeping exact track of how many members we have—two or three thousand all over the world,” she says.

Taildraggers clearly aren’t for everybody, and that’s part of their appeal. The very idiosyncrasies that make most pilots shy away from tailwheels are precisely the characteristics that motivate others to embrace them. There may come a day when artificial intelligence renders flesh-and-blood pilots superfluous. But if personal aviation is reduced to nothing more than a form of recreation and the only reason to fly is to savor the joy of flying, then tailwheel airplanes—plainly obsolete and proudly obstreperous—might be more popular than ever. 

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Preston Lerner is a frequent contributor to Air & Space Quarterly. He last wrote about the creator of Microsoft’s Flight Simulator for the Spring 2023 issue.

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This article is from the Spring issue of Air & Space Quarterly, the National Air and Space Museum's signature magazine that explores topics in aviation and space, from the earliest moments of flight to today. Explore the full issue.

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