Adventures in Brownfield

Long ago and far away I earned my living by flying as a “Cropduster Pilot.” In the fall of 1962, I wound up In Tulsa, Oklahoma after having had a rather bad season of flying. I had about given up earning enough to live on through the winter months.  I had placed an ad in the little flying newspaper called TRADE-A-PLANE to let the crop-dusting world know that I was available as a bug chasing pilot.

Finally, I got a phone call from an ag operator located in Brownfield, Texas. Mr. James Gandy was the fellow's name.  His pilot had quit him and he was desperate to find another one to finish the season. I immediately told him that I would catch the next plane out before the day was out, which I did. When I arrived in the Lubbock airport, he picked me out of a crowd of deplaning people. Having given him no description of myself, I asked him how he knew who I was in that crowd and he grinned and said, "You just looked like a hungry airplane driver."  I laughed and said, "I didn’t know it showed but you are right."

A New Old Plane

Mr. Gandy hustled me into his pickup and we hightailed to Brownfield, about a thirty- or forty-minute drive. He drove directly to his private landing strip and so help me, there was a Stearman spray plane sitting at the loading pit with the engine running. The loading man saw us coming and began pumping chemical into the plane. My usual method if I was going to fly a plane that was new to me, I would first take the plane up and fly it around a bit to familiarize myself with the ship before flying it loaded. James said, "To heck with that. I have farmers lined up and champing at the bit for a spray plane because the bugs are eating their crops up as we speak."

Mr. Gandy was not a pilot himself so he didn’t know that it was good practice to fly the plane a bit before going to work in it.  Anyway, I didn’t argue. I pulled on my crash helmet, buckled myself in and yelled to the ground man to pull the chocks from the wheels. I eased the throttle forward, taxied to the strip. I checked the magnetos, cycled the prop and aimed the ratty old Stearman down the strip. I shoved the throttle open and left mother earth. The plane was sluggish and I had my hands full keeping her in the air.

James had given me directions to the first field to be sprayed, where flagmen were waiting on me. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon when I began and I worked until almost dark. I don’t believe I ever started a job so quickly. The farmers were jumping up and down to get fields sprayed and I needed the money. While working, I familiarized myself with the quirks of the old bird, making a mental note of things that must changed first thing in the morning. I could have filled a page full of notes with things that were wrong with it. But believe it or not, I earned over a hundred dollars before I quit that first evening.

Next morning, I was out at the strip and with tools furnished by Gandy, I did mechanical work on the old worn out plane. There were several farmers on hand as well. To say they were anxious is a huge understatement.  I put in a full day and again flew until visibility was gone.

The next day was a repeat. But come the third day I put my foot down. I told James I was not going to fly the ragged old plane again until several big problems were fixed. James and I and a helper worked until noon to repair what was urgent.  From then on, we would work after dark on the old gal and finally got her flying reasonably well.

Even if it was the worst ag plane I ever had to fly, it was some of the easiest flying otherwise as the fields were very large and had no obstructions of any kind.  In a very short time, I earned enough money to take me through the winter so I didn’t grumble overmuch. Also, James was easy to work with. Several interesting incidents occurred that I recall. 

Not Ready for Solo Flying

One occurrence I thought worth recording was the fact that although James was not a pilot, he bought another airplane, almost by accident. Got it from a friend who knew a friend and the price was dirt cheap. It was a low-wing, two place, open cockpit, nice little Ryan ST Aeroplane with a five-cylinder engine. One day James told me about the plane that he had just bought and wanted me to go get it and fly it back to our strip, which I did. 

He had decided it was time for him to learn to fly. Seeing as how I had an instructors’ license, I would be the instructor, OK?  Right. 

So, one Sunday afternoon I placed him in the front seat and I climbed in the back seat. We took off and I flew around a bit, then let him fly the plane a short while just to get the feel of his new toy. Then I would land and give him instructions as to what we were going to do next.  Because there was no way we could talk to each other in the air, we worked out a number of hand signals so we could communicate while in the air. This went on for a several days until he was able to fly well enough to keep the little ship on an even keel and make turns right and left, climb and descend, etc.

With this bit of experience James, being an impatient sort, begin to pressure me to let him fly solo.  I argued, "James, you are not ready to solo yet."  But he was completely confident he was up to the challenge.

After much arguing I said, "OK, OK, I tell you what, if you can taxi the ship down to the far end of the strip with enough speed to lift the tail off the ground and then stop and turn around and taxi all the way back at the same speed with no problems, I’ll turn you loose."
                 
He was sure he could handle it. He climbed in, took the controls in hand and started down the strip which was lined on each side with three foot tall cotton stalks. As he picked up speed, he pushed the stick forward and lifted the tall wheel off the ground.  From that point on it was a circus. He quickly lost control and swerved out into the cotton. The prop began cutting a path through the three-foot high cotton, slinging cotton stalks and bolls into the air like a huge lawnmower!

After a wild run through the cotton, he finally gained control enough to turn the plane around and get back on the strip. Then the plane went zipping across the strip and plunging into the cotton on the opposite side, making another 180-degree turn. The plane crossed the strip again and plunged back into the cotton on the original side once more.  Finally, he had enough presence of mind to close the throttle. The tail came back to ground and he regained control.

He very slowly taxied back up the strip here I was standing. He shut the engine off and climbed out. Walking up to me with a very determined look on his face, he announced, "I’m going to sell the blankiddy-blank piece of junk," then turned on his heels and stalked off to the office.

He wasn’t kidding. He never set foot in it again and he did sell the cute little Ryan. I guess he thought he was born knowing how to fly an airplane.

Cantankerous Characters

While I am on the subject of flying for James Gandy and company, I might mention that the office of this company was a sort of gathering place for some of Brownfield's strange characters. As an instance, one day we were sitting around not very busy since it was getting close to the end of the season. A pickup pulled up in front of the office and a very big feller came stomping in, walked up in front of James' desk, placed his fists on his hips akimbo and announced in a loud voice, "James, I came here to  whup yore hide!" James looked up at him and said, "Are you serious or just mad?"

"I am serious, and mad too!"

It was sort of funny because James acted as though this was a routine thing and in a matter of fact way said, "Well, if you are serious let's go out back so no one can see us and interfere." The big feller pointed to the door and said, "Be my guest."

They casually walked out back and James said, "Since this is your fight you can throw the first punch."  Whereupon the big guy swung his big fist in a haymaker aimed at James' face. James ducked the fist and caught the big feller with a quick left-handed jab to the chin, which connected with a loud pop and the fight was on. They went at it hook and tong. Trading blows, ducking and dodging, grunting and growling. I could tell right off that this was not James' first fisticuff engagement. 

The big guy swung his oversize fits with a lot of power but just couldn’t seem to connect with a solid blow.  He did land one solid punch and put James on the ground but he was quickly on his feet again and with a hard punch to the belly and a solid blow to the jaw which put the big feller on the ground.  Before the big boy could recover, James kicked him on the side of the head with his boot which seem to stun him and then James kicked him in the crotch which doubled him up in pain. As he tried to get up, James slammed another fierce blow to the temple which put him back on the ground and more or less took most of the fight out of him. He just flopped over on his side and groaned. That was the end of the fight.

They were both breathing heavily. James extended his hand and helped big guy up. He was dazed and his nose was dripping blood and he had several cuts and bruises on his face. James said, "Had enough or shall we continue?"

The big guy grunted and said, in a matter of fact way, "I guess I’m whupped." There was an outdoor faucet and short hose lying close by and James picked it up and washed big guy's face off.  This seemed to revive him and he said, "Maybe I ain’t whupped," and he acted like he wanted to make another go of it but James said, "Naw, Hank you're done.  You might as well go home."
 
Big Guy said, "Yeah, guess you are right," as he crawled into his truck. He then stuck his head out the window and said, "James I want you to know that this ain’t over." James said, "Well, when you think you need some more persuading, I’m ready day or night."  The Big Guy drove off. James turned to me and said, "What's funny is I don’t know what he was ticked off about.  He never said and I didn’t ask."

For all I knew, they were once good friends.

Hammer Head Into the Ground

Another interesting event while I was in Brownfield, I thought I would mention. There were several other crop-dusting operators working in the area and we pilots would usually eat morning and evening meals at the same restaurant. As usual when pilots get together there is a lot of lying and bragging and swapping yarns, etc.  One of the pilots who was called Morse was known for flying low and fast and making very quick turn-arounds at the end of each swath. 

This type of turn was generally known as “Hammer Head” turn. The method was to pull straight up at the end of the swath until the airplane was basically hanging on the prop, and on the ragged edge of a stall the pilot shoves in full rudder and the plane tend to slide sideways until it is headed straight down and plunges earthward until the pilot  pulls back on the stick as the plane pick up enough speed to recover flight but headed in the opposite direction.  If done correctly, it was a very quick way to reverse directions.  Needless to say, it must be done exactly right or bad things happen - like colliding with planet earth, nose first.  I myself could do this but knowing it was cutting things pretty close I seldom did it unless I was showing off.

Well Morse, was quite pleased with himself because he was known for doing this on a regular basis and couldn’t help doing a bit of bragging now and then. Several of us pilots warned him that he was going to make a misstep one of these days and end up on the wrong side of the grass. He would just laugh and make some idiotic statement about his wonderful flying ability.

Sure, enough he was working a field about a half mile from the one I was on and about his second or third pass he drove his nice blue painted plane into the ground at a very acute angle which was almost straight down.  I didn’t actually see him crash but as I made my next pass I saw a small cloud of dust arising from the cotton at the edge of the field, and as I looked closer I saw the blue tail of the plane sticking skyward in the middle of the dust cloud. I pulled up and flew over to the crash site and Morse was climbing out of the wreckage.  He was walking around so I figured he wasn't hurt too bad. Also, there were several ground vehicles racing to him so I continued my work. 

Morse didn’t show up for evening meal and some of the other pilots thought he might be in the hospital.  Next morning, he was at the breakfast table and was complaining of a great deal of soreness here and there on his body. The word got around that the plane was a total loss and Morse was not with us anymore.  Probably fired.

Tales of Forest Service Flying

Some old stories and some new about flying for the Forest Service.

As I've stated in other blogs, my Ag flying season usually ended about mid-July in this neck of the woods, namely north Idaho.  Being well acquainted with most of the commercial pilots, operators and other aviation persons in the area, I could usually expect to be called upon to perform other types of flying if I was available, which I most often was.

Flying for the aviation operators who had contracts with the U.S. Forest Service was often my best offer. Some years it was as a patrol pilot, sometimes as what was generally referred to as a utility pilot, some years as a tanker pilot and some seasons it was a combination of patrol and utility flying.

As a patrol pilot, the planes I flew were usually a Cessna 180, a Cessna 185, a Cessna 206 or a single engine Pilatus Porter. My duties were to fly a specific route each day with a forest service person on board as an observer/radio operator. On his lap he would have a detailed map of the forest including the logging roads, the lookout towers and most important, the locations of the landing strips.

Of course, we were primarily looking for fires in the great back-country of Idaho, Oregon, and sometimes other states of the Northwest. These forested areas were in the custody of the U.S. Forest Service.

There were many look-out towers scattered on strategic peaks in the various forests. As we fly by these towers, we contact them by radio to find out if they have spotted a smoke or other indication of the sightings. Usually it is just an old snag that is smoldering from a lightning strike or possible just dust from a logging road.

Anyways, if we spotted an actual fire, we contacted a base of operations and give the exact location of the fire and particulars such as how large the blaze, the intensity of the blaze, if there is fuel around it, or is it isolated. With this information the people at this forest’s headquarters will then decide what the suppression response is to be - maybe a couple of smoke-jumpers can handle it or maybe a half dozen will be required. Maybe a tanker aircraft can be sent to snuff it out, etc.

One year, the contracting company I worked for put me in a Cessna 206. This 300 hp, six place aircraft had been modified a bit so it could carry two smoke-jumpers and a jump master as I made my patrol circuit. The modifications included the removal of the large rear door on the right side of the fuselage as well as the four rear passenger seats. A small cable was attached on the inside of the fuselage opposite the large rear door to which parachute static lines could be attached. The opposite end of the static line was attached to the rip cord of the jumpers parachute so when he leaped out and fell away from the plane it would pull a handle and deploy the chute. There were a few other modifications as well. 

So now if we spotted a fire or a suspicious smoke while flying my routine route, the jump master, an old experienced smoke jumper, would have a look at the fire or potential fire and decide if a couple of smoke-jumpers could handle it. If not, he reported this to Forest headquarters.

I no longer had to call for another aircraft to come out and take care of the situation. Instead the jump master would have me fly over the target and he would toss out some streamers which were long strips of DayGlo colored cloth which were attached to a small weight.  He would observe the way the streamers drifted and note the time it took them to reach the ground. These streamers were designed to descend at about the same rate as a parachute jumper. He would then make the decision whether or not to deploy the two jumpers. 

If he decided to deploy, he would give me the altitude and direction to fly over the target. I would slow the aircraft to a speed that was appropriate and as we came over the target area, he would give the command, “go!!” and the jumpers bailed out. As soon as the jumpers hit the ground, the jump master would have me roll into a bank and circle the boys and they would give us a signal. In those days we had no radio contact with them so we used signals.

If we received no signal it usually meant something was wrong and we acted accordingly. If the signal was “all is well,” then the jump-master would have me fly over them at about two or three hundred feet altitude above the ground and bring him over the target two more times. Each time he would shove out what appeared to be a large canvas duffel bag that was called a “fire-pack.” This bag contained the necessary equipment, survival gear and food rations the jumpers would need. When this was done, our mission was accomplished and we would generally head back to base. As we did so, the jump master would talk to the base on the radio and give them the exact location and other particulars as to where the fire was and the information that the jumpers were deployed.

As a rule, this system worked very well. We had a hitch only a few times during this fire season. One time after dropping the jumpers I was circling the them as they were descending and the jump master became a bit excited and cursed and said, "One of the boys has a line over!!"  This was a condition when one of the lines that supported the jumper below the parachute had become misplaced over the top of the canopy. It causes the canopy to spill air out of the side and this would increase the speed of descent and the jumper would hit the ground hard - sometimes hard enough to injure him, like a broken leg or even a broken back. Fortunately, on this occasion the jumper was not hurt.

On another instance because of wind currents, a jumper came down in some very tall trees. His chute became entangled with a dead limb. The limb gave way and the jumper fell about forty or fifty feet through the branches and hit the ground hard enough to break a leg. As we circled to see if all was well, no one gave us a signal. We could not see down in the thick trees so we didn’t know exactly what had happen but assumed something was wrong and called base. They soon had a helicopter on the way to pick the boy up.

An interesting little aside - If it was a very windy day with lots of updrafts and downdrafts the jump master would throw out his streamers and decide it was too dangerous to deploy the smoke jumpers. So we would report this to headquarters and then continue on with our surveillance and no one left the plane. On some of these flights we might have some newbies on board. As one might expect, they were usually a bit nervous. If it happened to be one of those windy, bumpy days, out of pure orneriness, the jump-master would throw out his streamers and watch them fall. Then throw out more streamers and watch them with a look of concern, knowing full well he had no intentions of deploying the jumpers he would throw out some more and watch them intently, at which time the new jumpers who were already sweating would usually curse him and sing out, “You son of a____, you aren’t going to kick us out in this kind of wind are you?" At which time the jump-master would grin or chuckle and say, "You boys ain’t skeered are you?" He would look at me and wink and say, "I guess these here boys is too skeered of a little breeze so I guess you will have to take us home."
   
As a utility pilot, I was called upon to do many different types of flying. I hauled forest service personnel to various destinations, such as carrying Forest Service VIPs from our base in Coldwell, Idaho to the Ogden, Utah office or other destinations.  I would transport Forest Service people to strips in the back country on various kinds of business or fly in to pick them up and bring them back to the base. I hauled loads of feed for horse or mules into the outback strips because some Forest Service people use these animals, since there are no roads to these strips. And any number of other similar errands. This was my favorite kind of flying because there was something new almost every day and it was not so monotonous.

As an example, on one occasion I transported some horseshoe farriers into a back-country strip where a forest service ranger lived and used horses and mule regularly as pack animals or to ride. It took most of the day for the farriers to do their work. I had to stay there with nothing to do until they finished. It was interesting to watch them work because some of the mules were five or six years old and had never had shoes on their hooves and they didn’t like the idea of anyone messing with their feet. The farriers knew their business though, and some of the animals they led out to a grove of small trees where they were thrown down, turned upside down and their legs lashed to a tree. In this position it then was easy for the shoes to be nailed on. 

I remember one of the animals resisting every attempt. Nevertheless, he got a set of shoes anyway.  He was so put angry when they took the ropes off him, he refused to get up. He lay there making strange mule noises. One of the farriers picked up an empty tin-can. Filling it with water, he then walked over to the protesting mule and lifted up one of his big ears and proceeded to pour it full of water.  I’m here to tell you that mule came up in a big hurry!!! Slinging his head from side to side he gave forth such braying as I had never heard. We all had a big laugh at his antics. At sundown we loaded up and flew back to base.

As a tanker pilot, my job was to fly an aircraft heavily loaded with fire-retardant and drop it on the fires. When I was involved with this type of flying, single engine planes were still in use.  This was considered the most dangerous with good reason. As a tanker pilot one must fly a plane heavily loaded with fire retardant to the fire site. Skimming low over the blazing forest, he drops the load. If the fire happened to be located on a flat meadow in an easy accessed area, it was not so bad. 

However, more often than not it was in a rugged piece of real-estate with deep canyons and steep, heavily forested mountains all around. The air was full of smoke with wicked up and down-drafts causing the plane to buck and pitch enough to rattle your teeth, as all the while you are trying to place the retardant where it will do the most good.  Believe me, it ain’t easy and was quite dangerous. I lost some good friends who were carrying out this work. Of course, this type of tanker planes is not in use anymore, only larger multi-engine type aircraft and planes especially designed are in use now days. It is still dangerous duty and requires a pilot with good judgement and a steady hand and nerves.                               

Midnight Landing

As my readers have already guessed, cropduster types are often not like your average everyday folks.  They don’t seem to easily fit into any category. One pilot I have known like this was Donald Shoemacher.

I met Don shortly after I became a pilot myself.  He was flying for a company in Lewiston, Idaho.  He had served in the U.S. Marine corp during World War II and saw a good deal of combat in the Pacific theater, participating in some very bitter battles. Places like Iwo Jima, and other Japanese-held Islands. During these battles, he decided the Air Force was where he should have been instead of hitting the beaches as a ground pounder.

He made it home in one piece and soon learned to fly. He became a flight instructor, did charter type work and other general aviation flying, as well as bush flying in the outback of Idaho's wilderness areas. 

A good part of the state of Idaho is made up of tall mountains, deep canyons, all covered in big timber and much of it owned and managed by the U.S. forest service. As I have stated in earlier blogs, there are quite a number of landing strips scattered over these mountains and forests, most of them along the rivers and creeks in the bottom of the valleys and canyons. Many of these strips are short and are what is referred to as one-way strips, meaning you can only land going one way and there is no missed approach. Consequently, it requires a good deal of experience to access these little landing fields safely. 

Most of these strips are used and maintain by the Forest Service. They are used to bring in supplies and equipment to Forest Service personnel who are stationed in the outback. There are very few roads to these stations and what roads there are aren't very well maintained because of the rugged country.

One of Schumacher’s duties was to fly into these places with all kinds of stuff like mail, groceries, animal feed, small freight, as well as passengers at times.  Also, if a Forest Service person stationed in the back country was hurt or became ill it was a quick way to get them to a doctor. Because of the position of many of the strips, the weather was definitely a major factor. If the wind was wrong or there was limited visibility because of rain, snow or fog etc., one must use good judgment, extreme caution and extraordinary skilled airmanship to negotiate a landing and take-off at one of these strips. There are times when even an experienced pilot must say "No I ain’t going in there."

Anyway Don became very skilled at flying the out-back. A few of these strips were owned and operated by private individuals such as hunting lodges, summer homes, small ranchers, etc. Don became acquainted with many of the back-country folks and was much like the country mail carrier, he knew them by their first name as well as their family.  You know, as an example, "Well today I've got to go out and take Mrs. Jones a list of groceries."  He would then go into town and buy the beans and tatters and bags of flour and all sorts of other stuff and load it in a four-place plane and haul it into their strip.

One of these isolated customers had a strip near their home deep in Snake river country near the mouth of what was called Hell’s Canyon. Their only contact with the outside world was a very rough narrow dirt road carved out of the wilderness. It was a day’s drive just to get to a paved road. They kept in touch with civilization by two-way radio.

One night around eleven o’clock, the man sent a message to Shoemacher that said he had a medical emergency. His wife had had a heart attack. The man asked if him if he could fly into his strip at night and get her to a doctor. He said he would have bon-fire going at the strip for him.

Now this was a short one-way strip lying in a nook of the fairly broad area of the canyon. The strip lay perpendicular to the Snake river. To land there, one had to fly up the river and round a bend, make a ninety degree turn to the left, and about two hundred yards from the river, make a landing. The approach end of the strip was at least a hundred feet lower than the opposite end. A very tricky bit of maneuvering even in day time. I couldn’t imagine doing this as night.

Don wasn't sure he could even find the strip at night, but said he would give it a try.

According to his report, he took off from the Lewiston airport just before midnight and headed up the Snake river canyon. He could see the river below because of the reflection of a faint moonlight. He stayed directly over the river so as not to collide with the dark slopes rising on each side. Don had flown up the river many times in daytime, so he had a general idea of the area. He knew that the strip he was looking for should appear at a certain time.

Sure enough, as he rounded a bend in the river he saw the bright blaze of the fire that the owner had torched when he heard the plane approaching. Don knew full well that he would get only one shot at the strip and there would be no second chance if he missed. He reached the point of no return, left the river and turned toward the fire. 

He said he could not see the strip but knew it had to be just beyond the big fire so he made his approach directly toward the fire. When he reached a point within about fifty yards from the fire, he could just make out the near end of the strip. He chopped the power and touched down almost in the fire but quickly got on the brakes and rolled to a stop with only about twenty feet of strip left. His friend and wife were there anxiously waiting for him.

Without ceremony they quickly loaded the woman in the plane as soon as it stopped. Don quickly wiped the sweat from his face, swung the ship around and poured the coals to her and took off in the opposite direction that he had come. He related that the takeoff was as tricky as the landing.

He headed for the fire and manage to become airborne before he reached the fire. He said it was like diving into a black hole but manage to pick up the reflection of the river in a few seconds. Don said he stayed low over the middle of the water as he came down river.

He had given instructions to a ground crew to have an ambulance waiting if and when he returned. The woman was conscious during this scary ordeal and survived because she received the necessary medical treatment thanks to a brave and nervy pilot.

Don went on to become a cropduster pilot and eventually owned his own company, Shoemacher's Ag-Air. I flew for his company for some ten years.

Night Flying

Having been an ag-pilot or "cropduster" for many years, I met many different types of pilots and ag-operators. Some good people, some bad, some honest and some dishonest, some smart, some dumb - in other words, much like the general population. 

Then there were the odd ball types that would not fit in any category. It seems to me that this type of flying attracted more than our share of this sort. I would place Shorty Biggers in this group.  When we would go to a café for breakfast, lunch or dinner (supper if you prefer) he always ordered fried chicken.

No bread, no salad, no anything else - just fried chicken. He would clean the bones and then pile them up beside his plate.  A bit odd wouldn’t you say?

Then there was Slick Callahan. I guess he was called Slick because he always wet his hair in the morning and slicked it straight back. Slick was absolutely sure that he was the best ag-pilot that ever climbed in an airplane. Whatever was to be done he could do it better than anyone and no doubt about it. We worked for the same operator in North Idaho for one season and then it struck James that he ought to start his own business. He bought an ag-plane and other equipment and set up shop near a small town in south Idaho.

Night Flying

Now in this area most of the ag-type flying was done at night. That’s right, at night. There was a reason for this insanity. You see most of the crops in this part of the world were "Seed Crops," meaning the crops were raised just for the seeds. Now I am not talking about wheat, rye, barley, or oats, the usual seed crops.  I’m talking turnips, carrots, onions, cabbages, parsnips and other vegetables type crops. To make good seeds the crops had to be pollinated. The best pollinator for this purpose was a creature called a "leaf-cutter" bee. 

These bees like most bees did their beesness during the daylight hours - from first light in the morning until dark-thirty in the evening. The seed-crop farmer had to import these little critters and they were very expensive.  Some said worth a dollar or more each. Consequently, the seed-crop farmers made bee-boards by drilling hundreds of small holes in a 4" X 6" around four feet long, fasten these together and placed them all over his fields as homes for his bees.  Yes sir, he took very good care of his bees and he sure did not want them harmed in anyway, especially by cropduster-types spraying insecticide. 

However, his vegetables had to be sprayed every so often for other types of predatory insects that would attack and devour his precious turnips, carrots, cabbages, onions and other stuff. This posed a problem. So, the solution was to have the ag-type flyers do their insect killing spraying at night when his dang leaf-cutting pollinating little worker bees were all at home and asleep in their cozy little holes in the bee-boards. 

My friend and fellow aviator Slick Callahan (his real name was James) called me one fine day and he sayeth unto me, "Roberts, I need for you to come down here and work for me. The pay is good, the food is excellent, the flying at night is fun, and I’m sure you will like it."

Well gullible and broke that I happened to be at the time, I packed my carpet-bag and appeared at his door forthwith.

James showed me around and introduced me to his ground crew and the CallAir-type aeroplane I would be flying.  The plane was modified somewhat for night flying, such as having large one-million-candle-power light under each wing with the light beam directed straight ahead.  On each wing tip was a smaller light attached at an angle which helped to make a turn at low altitude safer by directing the beam toward the ground. On the control stick in the cockpit was a cluster of switches that controlled theses lights. The forward lights were powerful enough to light up the area in the path of the plane for at least a half mile. 

His ground crew included two female women-types for flagmen, or should I say flagwomen.  These persons carried a strong flashlight and when the pilot was lining up for swath at low altitude they would shine their lights directly at him. It all sounded like it was well planned and might even work.
"You are going to love this type of flying," he repeated over and over. "The air is lots smoother at night. You’ll have the whole sky to yourself. No one to complain about your low flying 'cause they can't see you - heh heh heh. You don’t have to worry about killing someone's bees. Yeah, yer gonna love it."

So, after being briefed on the operation James took me on a tour during the daylight hours of the fields I would be spraying during the following nights. So began my career as a night flying ag-pilot.

Night Flying Newbie

I don’t mind telling that I was a bit nervous as I loaded up my plane and took off into the pitch-black night. First off, I was a stranger to the area and it took me some time just to find the field that I was to spray. As I climbed up to about three or four hundred feet and looked around there were lights everywhere. Every farm house, every chicken house, every barn, every vehicle had lights.

I had to fly around for half an hour looking for those two flag-women with what I thought would be strong lights. Finally, I spotted lights that were blinking on and off and realized it was the women standing at each end of the target field. Their flash lights were not strong at all. They looked like tiny little pin lights. Nevertheless, I lined up on them and swooped into the field for my first swath. As lined up I hit the button that turned on my flood lights.

Now these lights were definitely powerful. They lit things up for at least a half mile which was about the length of the field. I made my first pass pulled up at the end of the field, clicked off my flood lights, clicked on the right-hand wingtip light as I turned forty-five degrees to the right. 

I could see the ground on the right side just fine. I rolled to the left to make my turnaround as I clicked off the right-hand light and clicked on the left-hand tip light.  Bringing the plane around I saw my flagwomen flashing their lights at me. I lined up and clicked off the wingtip light and clicked on my flood lights. I made another pass and then repeated the operation until this field was covered with a coating of insecticide and by George, I didn’t kill any of the danged leaf-cutters.

As I made the last swath and headed back to the strip I could not find it. I wandered around in the darkness thinking, "Slick, ma frien, I'm not enjoying this here night flying very much."

Finally, I spotted the strip with the help of the loading crewman. He flashed his truck lights on and off till I noticed him. After a few trips I began to feel slightly more confident and soon fell into the usual routine familiar to all ag-pilots.  Back and forth, to and fro, up and down. I worked for about eight hours and headed back to the home base which I had a bit of trouble finding among all those blasted lights. 

One other item I need to mention was the fact that I had a CB radio in the cockpit and was in contact with my boss who was driving around in his pickup talking to farmers and hustling up business. This was the time of the advent of CB (Citizens Band) radio when radio contact with common folks was a novel thing, especially between truckers and other types who were always chattering away in their peculiar lingo. It was "Hey, good buddy what's yer twenty?  Have we got a clear shot with no smoky bears to worry about? Are yew my front door or back door? I’m nearing Denver town, good buddy. Jabber jabber jabber."

Bossman James had picked up this stupid lingo and it was, "How’s it goin' good buddy? What’s yer twenty, good buddy.  I’ll see you at the strip good buddy. Etc etc." James was a talker and talk he did to the point I want to tell him to "Shut the h--- up, Good buddy!!"  But he was my boss, so I didn't.

Night Flying Problems

Anyways, I eventually I was able to find my way around at night and was beginning to get comfortable in the CallAir, but I found I could not sleep during the day. Most every evening I went to work very sleepy. Not good. 

I also found that I could not see power lines very well at night. I would be down in the field with an altitude of three or four feet, doing about one hundred and twenty miles per hour approaching a power line at the opposite end of the field. It was danged difficult to tell just when to pull up to clear the line. One time I would pull up convinced I was close enough only to find I was still some distance from the power line. The next time I would pull up and just miss hitting the line by  inches. A real heart stopper.  Actually I could see the lines alright because they were shiny reflecting my flood lights but my depth perception was not very consistent. NOT GOOD.

Another problem I encountered that was not only irksome but dangerous - I felt I needed to go out to the fields that I was to spray and look them over in the day time noting any and all obstructions such as trees, posts, power lines telephone lines etc. Then at night I was familiar with the location and there would not be any last-minute surprises. After I had been on the job for a few weeks I would be working a field that I had surveyed in daylight hours. Bossman James would be on the ground visiting with the owner of the field. He would call me on the radio and say, "Hey good buddy, the farmer is here with me and has decided he would have you do another field nearby while you were here." Which would be fine in day time, but I had not looked that field over the day before. I didn't like to fall into a field that I had not had a chance to look over and I had complained to him several times about this.  He assured me he would always let me know if there were any obstructions. 

Another irritation was a mechanical one. On occasion when I would be entering a field I would click the button on my stick to turn on the flood lights and the blasted lights didn’t come on. It was like diving into a black pit expecting it to be lit up and I was totally blind. My reaction was to quickly pull up while frantically punching the danged button. The lights usually came on after a half dozen tries.  But in those few seconds of blindness at low altitude all sorts of things could happen and all of them bad. The same goes for the wingtip lights. Especially scary on a cloudy night with no moon or starlight and no visual horizon.

When I got back to the landing strip I would heatedly express my opinion of the lights switches. James would work the electrical gadgets over and it would work fine for a while but then it would happen again.

I was getting weary of these adrenaline rushes and began to talk about quitting this insane aviation stuff at night.  James would talk me out of it, saying, "Aw, you will get used to it and you will like it better than daylight flying."

Night Flying Adventure

Then one night I was working a field and good buddy James put me in another nearby patch of vegetables. He said, "The only obstruction is an electrical line running down the east side fence and a cattle feeder pen at the south end, but it is not very close."

"O.K.," I growled, "but I don’t like it."

I decide I would start to work on the east side next to the fence and the power line and that way I would be working further away with each pass. I made my first pass going north just fine. Pulled up and turned around came back into the field going south toward the feeder pens. About half way across the field my eye caught the glint of a power line directly over me, running the same direction as I was going. I saw that the line going down the east side did not go straight down that side but after a few yards along that side it angled across the corner of the field and went into the middle of the feeder pens. I suddenly realized I had gone under that wire on my first pass without even seeing it!!!

 Now I was under it going the same direction. In a fraction of a second, I knew if I pulled up I would become entangled with that wire and it would drag me down into those pens. I was too low to the ground to bank to either side without the wing tip hitting the ground.  My only chance was to hit the rudder hard and make a skidding change of direction to the right side, which I did. 

The feeder pens were coming up fast as I stood up on the rudder pedal and hoped to high heaven that I would pass out from under the wire with room to pull up over the feeder pens. Around the perimeter of the pens were several tall poles with lights on them. In a flash I got out from under the wire and missed the feeder pen fence and sailed between the tall poles missing the overhead wire, the fence and the poles just by inches. 

I leveled off shaking so badly I could hardly keep my feet on the rudder pedals. My heart was pounding hard. I thought I could hear it over the roar of the engine. I shut off the spray boom, headed toward the home base and called my boss.  “HEY GOOD BUDDIE, I AM HEADED FOR THE HOME STRIP AND I WANT YOU TO BE THERE WITH MY FINAL PAYCHECK IN YOUR GOOD BUDDIE HAND."

James happened to see the whole thing and it scared him too. When he arrived back at the base he took one look at me and didn’t even try to talk me out of quitting 'cause he was afraid if he said anything he might get punched in his good buddie chops.

So ended my night flying career. I just wasn't cut out fer 'at sort of flyin'. And seeing as to how I had to sleep sometime I just as soon it be at night.

Alaska Adventure: Part 2

Alaska is very different from the lower states, obviously. First off, it is a huge piece of real estate. One can fly hundreds of miles and see no sign of civilization, but you will see some of the most spectacular scenery to be found anywhere on earth. A land of high mountain ranges, some snowcapped year-round. Mount McKinley is among them, being the highest peak in North America at 20,320 feet. One feels so terribly lonely, almost as though on another planet.

 The thought kept rumbling around in the back of my mind that if I had an engine failure and went down in this vast timber covered country it would swallow me up without a hiccup and no one would ever find me.

Of course, as always when flying over such places, the engine goes on “automatic rough” and my ears are keenly tuned to detect the slightest variation of sound.

As I explained earlier I was hired to apply seed and fertilizer to sections on the Winter Trail. It had been rubbed raw by the Alaska pipe line consortium as they were building a very large pipeline from Valdez to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska.

My boss, a youngish fellow named Ken Frazer, had gotten permission for me to use sections of the new road being built along the Trail for my landing strips. This route would take me many many miles up and over the mountains of the Brooks mountain range and on across the North Slope.

All I had to do was watch out for vehicles also using the road. And other critters such as arctic fox, mountain sheep, caribou herds, grizzle bears, road building crews and their equipment, low flying freight and passenger aircraft, as well as a few bush pilots.

I also found that I must keep an eye out for EPA inspectors strutting around letting us know that they were keeping a close watch on our activities. These turkeys were the worst of the lot. As an example, one morning, I was fueling my aircraft which entailed pumping aircraft grade gasoline from barrels into my fuel tank with a hand-pump. To make sure my fuel hose was clear I ran about a pint of gasoline through the hose and on to ground or road base, as it were. The god-like EPA inspector spied me doing this and officiously marched up and gave me to understand that spilling fuel on the ground was a federal offence because it contaminated the EN-VIRO-MENT. At first I thought he was kidding. I soon found that he was dead serious.

Our conversation went something like this:

"Young man, if you spill any more fuel on this ground I will write you up for a huge fine."

"Well now, do you really think a pint of gasoline is going to contaminate the EN-VIRO-MENT?"

"It damn sure does. Nature didn’t intend for that gasoline to be on top of the ground, not even a pint."

"Now wait a minute, Mr. Grand Federal EPA representative, don’t you think I am part of nature?"

He glared at me, a surprised look on his officious face and snapped, "You know it ain’t natural for that gasoline to be on top of the ground."

"Great-scot! Nature didn’t intend for this pipeline to be here either, or this road or these camps or any of this traffic and you are concerned about a pint of fuel? You do realize if we weren’t here you wouldn’t have a job. Not only that, my big fat friend, but I am part of nature and this specimen of nature thinks it is better to fuel your airplane with a clean hose. I run some fuel through it so as to remove any dirt and debris and if I got that stuff in my plane’s fuel tank I might crash and really mess up the environment with aircraft parts and my blood, guts and other body parts."

He couldn't think of a rebuttal but I didn't think he liked to be called fat. He puffed up like a big toad frog and gave me a good cussing and said, "If you do that again I will have you removed from this operation."

Anyway, I never saw him again and I continued to clean my hose the same way. In fact I chuckled as I ran a couple of pints through the hose just see if the sky would fall.

We moved on up the trail and were within about 50 miles of Prudhoe Bay when the weather turned sour on us, It began to snow and blow and the camp supervisor of the camp where we were staying came to us and said, "You boys had better leave before it gets any worse."

I got in my plane and headed for the pass through the Brooks Range. I didn't get far up the route. The cloud ceiling got lower and lower until there was no room to fly under it. I turned back and tried another pass. It too was closed by clouds.

I returned to the camp. where I was staying. The camp supervisor soon appeared at my room and gave me to understand that he was shipping me out anyway. He said in a very strong British/South African accent, "We need your beds for other workers. You will be leaving."

I explained that my aircraft did not have the necessary instruments to fly on instruments alone.

"Makes no difference, you will have to leave your aircraft in our custody and board the next commercial passenger plane that makes a daily run, landing at this camp each day. You can come back retrieve your aircraft when the weather permits... which may be next spring."

The weather was so bad with very low ceilings and it was nearly dark and gloomy. I was pretty sure no pilot in his right mind would be making a landing in a passenger airline type aircraft at this little airport which was located in the bottom of a large canyons. How wrong I was. A short time later I hear the engines of an approaching aircraft. I looked up the canyon, which was pretty much a tunnel about two hundred yards in width with rock walls on each side and a ragged cloudy ceiling of about two or three hundred feet. As I watched, a twin-engine turbo-prop Fairchild 24 burst out of the cloudy ceiling, flaps deployed, gear down and in seconds made a touchdown like he did this every day... which he did.

I climbed aboard, the plane was quickly turned around and we took off and within seconds we plunged back into the cloudy ceiling. In a very short time we broke out on top of the dirty scud in time to see a beautiful Alaskan sunset.

From that, I came to understand the skill and nerve of Alaskan pilots. My hat's off to the likes of them.

My return to the lower 48 was uneventful. So ends my little story of ag-flying above the Arctic Circle.

Photograph by Dale in 1974

Alaska Adventure: Part 1

I was sitting there eating a peanut butter sandwich when the phone rang.

"Dale, this be Shoemacher."

"Yes, boss what’s up?"

"How would you like to go to Alaska?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, it being the first of September, our season is over so I thought you might be interested in a different sort of flying job."

"Can you supply more specifics?"

"Oh, heck yes, I am full of specifics," he chortled. "The person they wants has to be around 6 feet tall, weigh about 175 pounds, have good sanitary habits and steely nerves, be fearless, brave, and good looking, and also (by the way) he needs to know how to fly."

"Well, them specifics fit me to a tee, I reckon. Especially the good-looking part. What does it pay?" I asked.

"The figure they gave me was that the feller would need a tow-sack in which to carry the money home."

That got my undivided attention.

After I got all the (real) specifics I packed my ole travel-weary suitcase and next day took a commercial airline flight to Sea-Tac airport in Seattle Washington. From there I took another flight to Anchorage Alaska. There I met a young feller I will call Sourdough John, who represented a company called New Era Reclamation. These folks were under contract with a consortium of pipeline building companies that were in the process of building a pipeline from Valdez to Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. This company had been wrangling with the EPA for years and finally received permission to proceed.

But to gain this permission the EPA had specifics to be met. The most important one was that after the pipeline was installed, all the terrain had to be put back to its original condition. That is what New Era Reclamation was contracted to do.

Well Sourdough John and I took a commercial flight to Fairbanks, Alaska which is where I was to pick up the ag-plane that I was going to fly - a Cessna Agwagon. The Agwagon was an airplane built specifically for ag-flying work: dusting, spraying, etc.

Upon reaching Fairbanks I was introduced to several men employed by New Era Reclamation and was given a more detailed explanation of what was underway and what was expected of me. They gave me a history to date on the overall plan.

It was something like this: The first step was to build camps for workers along the proposed route of the pipeline. These were placed at intervals of about 75 miles and each camp was to accommodate around 300 to 400 workers. Keep in mind that there was no road or railway along the route. The building supplies had to be hauled in on huge trucks during the winter months when the ground was frozen solid enough to support them without damaging the tundra. 

They called the route the "Winter Trail."  At most of the camps there was a fairly good landing strip for aircraft.

The problem arose when spring came and the Winter Trail began to thaw. The cargo trucks should have stopped, but some continued up the trail and in a few places the tundra was damaged. To reclaim these damaged places New Era Reclamation hired me to fly arctic grass seed and then come back over the places with fertilizer. That brought me up to date.

I started at the Yukon River and worked my way northward. I used the newly graveled roadways as my landing strips. The seed and fertilizer had been stockpiled along the way at strategic points. My loading crew was Eskimo and Indians. They thought the whole thing was a joke and took far too much time loading the plane. Back in the lower 48 states a two-man crew could load the plane in about 5-10 minutes. These four-man turkeys took at least 35-40 minutes and sometimes longer.

It was a very interesting experience. I was not the only plane in the area. There were large two- and four-engine planes flying in and out of the camp strips carrying freight, passengers and mail. 

I had radio contact with the ground stations as well as the planes. It was funny sometimes - I could hear the conversation between the ground station and say, a large freight hauling plane. The ground station would caution the large plane to be aware of an EGGWAGON working the area roads. This usually caused a gabble of conversation amongst them. Or a response like, "What the heck is he doing down there?" 

I would usually pipe up and say, "I am flinging fertilizer on the road in places that you despoilers have messed up. I do this so the EPA won’t shut you down again." 

This usually brought a response like, "Carry on, buddy." I do believe I was the first ag-pilot to ply my trade this far north.

I'll write some more of my Alaska adventures in my next blog. 

Dale and his (slow) loading crew

The Nefarious Pea-Killer

Many farmers had fields of peas alongside a field of wheat. They were always nervous when an ag-plane was spraying the wheat for weeds because the chemicals that were used to kill weeds in the wheat would also kill peas. If the wind happened to be blowing from the wheat field toward the pea field, the drifting over-spray could do a lot of damage to the peas.

One day my friend Buck Erickson was spraying a wheat field with a chemical, carbine, that would kill wild oats. Now carbine will not harm peas. The wheat field that Buck was spraying lay alongside a field of peas. The farmer who owned the pea field, thinking that Buck was applying the common weed killer called 24D, became concerned that the overspray would drift over on his peas.

Mr. Farmer ran out into his field of peas and began trying to wave Buck off. Of course, Buck paid him no mind because he knew the carbine wasn’t going to harm the peas. In desperation, the farmer ran back to his house to call the headquarters of the spray company that Buck worked for to tell them to stop him.

By sheer coincidence Buck accidently struck the telephone line which ran to the farmer’s house, cutting it down. The farmer was so enraged that he jumped in his pickup and raced to the airport to blast the company.  

He stormed into the office and yelled that not only he could not wave the blanky-de-blank pilot off but the blanky-de-blank pilot cut his phone line down so he couldn’t call the office to stop him!