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.

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!

Don't Meet in the Middle

I was working for Arrow Aviation, east of Lewiston, Idaho, applying dry fertilizer to winter wheat. About 2 miles away on another make-shift air strip two of my friends were doing the same thing for a competitor.

I guess I should change the names to protect the guilty. One friend was Fats Hughes and the other was named Germania Gene.

When flying on dry fertilizer it only takes a few minutes to apply a full load of fertilizer if the field you are fertilizing is close by. So it was this day for my friends. As one pilot was out applying his load to the field, the other one was on the ground being loaded. As soon as the load was pumped into the plane on the ground, the pilot quickly swung the plane around and headed down the strip for a takeoff. Shortly after he was airborne he would head for the field being treated and usually pass the other plane returning for his next load. 

Nothing complicated about this, most crop-dusting crews did this regularly. Generally, you would hit the ground about every 15 or 20 minutes. Very monotonous. Up and down, back and forth, get a load, takeoff, fly it on the field and return for the next load, all day long.

The strip that my friends were working off was located in the middle of a pea field. It had a sizeable hump in the middle so much so that when you started your takeoff run you could not see the opposite end of the strip until you topped this hump. Still, it was a smooth strip and the hump presented no problem to experienced pilots. 

You started your takeoff going up-hill, you topped the hill and started downhill and were soon airborne. Same thing in reverse when landing. It was a steady rhythm. 

For some reason, Fats Hughes had a problem and came back to the strip early. He landed on the down-hill side of the hump. Germania Gene didn’t see Fats land. He received his load, swung around, and poured on the coals to the old Pratt Whitney and went roaring up-hill for his takeoff. 

You guessed it. They met at the top of the hump. 

Fortunately, each was off center of the strip, each was a little to his right. They passed each other and sheared off the upper and lower wings on the left side of both Stearman biplanes. Gene said they passed close enough that he could have reached out and slapped Fats as he went by.

Of course, they filled the air with the debris of chopped up airplane wings. Gene, who was taking off, had up a head of steam as they collided. His plane was going fast and before he could shut it down, it careened around to the left, making an wide circular path out through the pea field, and headed back toward Fat’s plane. 

Fats’s plane slewed around, went off the strip, and quickly came to a stop. Whereupon Fats, seeing the other plane circling and coming back in his direction, bailed out and started running. 

Later he explained, "Well, h***, he made one pass at me and I shore wasn’t gonna sit there and let him make another one." 

Fats was a tobacco-chewing feller and said it was enough to make him swaller his chaw!

Fog vs the Bossman

Back around 1963 or so, I was flying for American Dusting Company of Chickasha, Oklahoma. My unit was based in the town of Pecan Gap Texas. Pecan Gap consisted of a small restaurant, a service station, a feed store and about fifteen private residences. The town was surrounded by thousands of acres of cotton fields. 

My airport was owned and operated by a man named Weldon Briscoe who was also my boss. The landing strip was in the middle of his 160-acre place. Being a carpenter in the off season Briscoe asked me to build a hanger for him, which I did. It was large enough to hanger two planes - both Stearman biplanes that were once military trainers and had been converted to ag aircraft.

For the benefit of the unlearned, commercial aircraft, even crop-duster types, have to be inspected every 100 hours of flying time by a federal authorized mechanic. To get this inspection each time I reached one hundred hours, I had to fly to Chickasha where American had their headquarters and did all the maintenance on the planes.

One morning Boss Briscoe said, "Roberts, your time is up. Take the plane to headquarters and get the danged inspection."  Whereupon I looked all around and observed that there was pretty heavy fog enveloping us. Briscoe allowed that we were located only a few miles from the Red River, and fog forms along the river at this time of year. "If you can take off, you will be out of the fog very shortly since it just hangs along the river area."

The fog wasn’t very thick, I noticed, because I could see the big red ball of the early morning sun through the fog.

So I mounted my trusty steed and, keeping my eye on that big red ball, departed for Oklahoma. Sure enough, I soon came out of the ground-hugging layers of fog and viola! It was a beautiful clear day on top of the fog. 

I continued to climb, thinking if I got high enough I could probably see that the fog was just local. I climbed and climbed and climbed. At ten thousand feet all I could see in all directions was the brilliantly white cottony fog; no holes, no openings anywhere.

I wasn’t too worried though, I figured I would take up a heading to Chickasha and no doubt would leave the fog behind after a bit. As I said, it was a beautiful spring morning and I was enjoying the flight thinking how lucky I was to be flying on such a glorious day. 

I flew for about an hour and very slowly two thing began to crowd into my consciousness. One, the fog was not any local thing at all and two, my fuel gauge was getting nearer and nearer to the empty point. The fuel tank located in the top wing of the biplane directly in the middle of the center-section. The fuel gauge was a glass tube attached to the bottom of the tank directly in front of my eyes. It was placed there for a reason.

This airplane was originally designed for a 225 hp Lycoming engine which consumed about 10 or 12 gallons per hour. The tank held about 46 gallons of fuel which would give one about three and a half hours of flight. But...when the plane was converted to crop-dusting configuration a 450 hp Pratt Whitney engine was added. This engine burned about 20 gallons of fuel per hour of flight, meaning I only had about 30 more minutes of flight before I ran out of fuel. 

Still no sign of the ground anywhere. I became alarmed and began to make desperate plans.

I decided I would have to go down through the fog. I would slow the plane to the slowest speed that it would fly and still have control, and take whatever came, be it good or bad. Just before I did this suddenly I saw a small hole in the white layer below me.

As I circled the hole I could see the ground and there was a strange pattern on the earth. I could not imagine what it was. Whatever it was, I was about to find out. 

I rolled into a tight turn and cut my engine back, beginning a corkscrew descent into this cloudy well of an opening. Nearer and nearer came the ground. When the altimeter showed that I was only about a hundred or so feet above the surface suddenly - I was in the clear. Thank God, there was a clear space between the bottom of the fog and the earth! 

The strange pattern I had seen was a fish hatchery. It was a small lake with dikes running parallel across it, spaced about twenty feet apart. I had not remembered this landmark though I had flown this way several times in the past.

Of course, I rolled out of my tight turn into level flight and stopped my descent. However, I was still as lost as a goose. I took up a heading to the northwest anyway and figured, "At least I can land in a pasture or field."  

Then I suddenly came to a highway. "That is where I will put this flying machine down," I determined. I turned so I was flying along parallel to the pavement, expecting to hear the engine stop any moment. Then up came a sign that said "Duncan 10 miles." This was going to be my first fuel stop. Within minutes I was on the runway and taxing into the gas pit.

I pull up to the fuel pump and shut the engine down. Needless to say I was a bit sweaty. The small airport fuel boy came sauntering out and looked at me and then up at the low ceiling, shook his head and said "What in God’s name are you doing flying in this stuff?" I wondered the same thing.

The gas boy filled my tank and it took 45 1/2 gallons. As I said, the tank was a 46 gallon tank. 

Moral: I was stupid for taking off in the fog no matter what the bossman sez.

Soldiers of Fortune: Downed on the Beach

When I first entered the strange world of agricultural flying, better known as cropdusting, I soon learned that it was peopled with some very odd, interesting and often very peculiar-type pilots. At that time a good many of them were more or less soldiers of fortune, each having his own personal value system. Here is a glimpse of one of them. 

Ken Nighting was a Texan, an ex-military pilot, ex-airline pilot, ex-company pilot, and quite a few other "exes." Before we met he had been flying for an ag-company that, after finishing the season in Texas, flew their planes down to Nicaragua and worked there until that season was over as well.

The first time Ken was to fly his Stearman to Nicaragua, he was to go with two other pilots in their planes. One of these pilots whom I will call Smutch, had made the trip several times before and knew the way. The other pilot whose nick-name was Drunken-Duncan, like Ken, had not made the trip before. Ken and Duncan had no maps, no radio for communication, and since neither had made this trip before, the plan was for them to follow Smutch. 

Sounds like a good plan, right? What could possibly go wrong?

They did just fine until they got into a bit of cloudy weather over lower Mexico. Smutch's plane was a wee bit faster than Ken's and Duncan's and he slowly moved off into the misty haze and left them. As Ken told me, all he knew for sure was that he was somewhere over southern Mexico. 

Not knowing where the next refueling stop was he decided to turn toward the coast, knowing that the lower part of the country was relatively narrow. So he turned eastward and hoped he could find some stretch of beach to land on before he ran out of fuel. He reached the coastline... but no beaches. He turned south along the coast and hoped. All he could see was jungle with no clearings at all. All this time he thought Drunken-Duncan was following him but no... he was not. Drunken-Duncan had too disappeared.

As Ken anxiously watched his fuel gauge creep closer and closer to empty he noticed several miles off shore was what appeared to be some islands. He headed in that direction hoping to find a beach to land on. He reached the islands and spotted a stretch of beach just as his engine quit for lack of fuel. He landed dead-stick and rolled to a stop.

Of course he was very glad to be on the ground in one piece. He hardly got his seat belt unfastened when beside his plane appeared two Indian men and a kid or two. They had come out of the jungle to greet him. They didn’t speak English but fortunately Ken was fluent in Spanish which the Indians spoke as well. They welcomed him to their village and treated him as a special guest.

Ken lived with these sea-fairing Indians for two weeks. He said their main diet was turtle eggs and goat curd cheese. He said he insisted on boiling his eggs but after a while he was eating them as the natives did: open the leathery shell, throw your head back and empty the content into your mouth and swallowed them raw. (gag)

Meantime the two pilots were missed by the company but no one knew where either one was. The company was sending more planes down there a couple of weeks later and the pilots were told to keep an eye out for the missing planes. One of these pilots whom I’ll call Hershel was instructed to fly along the coast because the company figured that was probably the most like route the lost pilots would follow.  

Sure enough, Hershel spotted Ken's plane sitting on the beach of one of the islands. He landed beside the fuel-less plane. Of course Ken was more than happy to see him. Ken looked pretty bad, with two weeks growth of beard and no change of clothes - and he smelled of turtle eggs and cheese. After greeting Ken, Hershel climbed back into his one-seater cropduster and said, "Well at least we know where you are, Ken. I’ll send someone back here to pick you up."

Ken later told me, "I hopped up on the wing walk and shoved my .357 revolver up under Hershel's nose and said, "It's like this Hershel, ole buddy—You ain't leaving here without me." Hershel looked at the pistol and then saw the look in Ken's eye and decided, "Maybe we can toss the seat cushions out and you sit in the seat and I will sit in your lap and fly the plane." 

Thus they made it back to civilization.

It was some three months before they found Drunken-Dunkin. He had found a small village with a small clearing in the jungle and tried to land in it. He wrecked his plane but was not injured, so not to worry. 

Duncan was a very adaptable individual. He liked living with the Indians, especially after taking up with one of the women, and they had plenty of cerveza and frijoles. He decided he liked the simple life, to heck with flying. 

I do not know for sure how it came to pass that Duncan was rescued. I saw Duncan some time later at an ag-meeting, so I know he made it home. Some of the pilots I knew said that the company sent an expedition down there and got him drunk. While he was drunk they tossed him in a vehicle and brought him home. Maybe...who knows? 

With cropdusters, one is never sure and the truth is often stranger than fiction, as they say. I got the story straight from Ken and two other pilots, so am pretty sure it was true.

Shenanigans in the Air

Surprise In A Fishing Boat

Sometimes the urge to play while flying is irresistible, especially on a beautiful day when one is young and feeling frisky. 

Joe Carter and I were flying our Pawnees over the croplands of central Washington around the town of Royal City.  We were spraying potatoes for evil little bugs intent on destroying this good farmer’s crop. We had covered the field with insecticide and were returning with empty hoppers to our airstrip. 

It so happened we had to fly near a lake of very blue water. Mean fellow that he was, Joe flew up close and pointed to the lake and with strange hand signals motioned for me to follow. I knew he was up to some mischief which might prove interesting. I tacked on his left wing and played along.  He flew lower and lower until his wheels were actually touching the smooth surface of the lake.  I had never attempted this but figured if the water would support his airplane it should do the same for mine. 

I was surprised to find the water smooth and solid.  We were actually water skiing along as nice as you please. Fun fun fun! We went sailing by the point of a small peninsula which protruded out into the lake. This bit of land was covered in large trees. As we hurtled by this projection I suddenly realized there was a boat on the opposite side. In the boat were two men who were obviously fishing. Our sudden appearance no doubt was quite startling to these sportsmen.  

One of them made the quick but wrong decision to leap to his feet.  In one hand was his fishing rod, in the other was a bottle; quite possibly an alcoholic beverage.  As he leaped up the boat rocked to the left and then to the right at which time he lost his balance and fell into the water.  The other fellow didn’t jump up but dropped his pole and quickly made a grab for it, coming very near capsizing the boat. Joe and I laughed like to evil little kids. I was glad that we departed as quickly as we appeared.  I am sure there was some foul and abusive language drifting across the waters of the lake.

Sad Ending

That reminds me of my former boss, a big German named Don Schumacher. He came upon a similar situation, but with a very tragic ending. A small pond, two fellows fishing.  Don wasn’t buzzing them, just flying by. 

He noticed of them one had fallen in the water and was thrashing around. Schumacher suddenly realized the man was drowning. He hastily surveyed the situation and decided to land in a nearby alfalfa field. As quickly as possible he put the plane down and made a run for the lake as he shed his shirt and shoes. He dived in to the water but the man was already under water. 

He dragged him out and desperately applied artificial respiration. Don was an ex-marine, a strong swimmer and knew the drill.  But in spite of his best efforts the man was dead. The other man in the boat was an older fellow who did not know how to swim.  Foolishly, they had no floatation gear.  When I landed a bit later, Don was quite beside himself because he failed to save the man. 

The Super Safe Pilot

One other tale.  One of my fellow pilots, whom I will call Jim had attended a state wide ag-pilots meeting. While there, he was awarded a certificate and a impressive medal for his safe flying record.  He had flown some 15 years, if I remember correctly, without an accident.  

Jim loved to laugh and kid folks and he never missed an opportunity to more or less rub it in that now he had a safe flying medal and I had none: neener-neener-neener!

A short time later Jim spayed a field of wheat and somehow struck a fence along the boundary as he entered the field for the last pass. One wing was ripped off. The plane rolled over and hit the ground upside down, skidded along and came to rest inverted.  

Jim wasn’t hurt much but this was one time he was not wearing his crash- helmet. He had on a “gimme” cap so he could pin his safe-flying metal on the front of it. This is the gospel truth. That small pin had cut a little trench across his forehead,starting just above his eyebrows and on up into his hairline.

Needless to say I heard no more about his award. Of course, I couldn't help smirking and kidding him just a wee bit. Heh heh heh.

High Wind

There are times when an agricultural pilot must make instant decisions. Sometimes he makes the right decision and sometimes it is definitely the wrong decision. These quick wrong choices can result in bad stuff happening. Here is an example of a quick wrong decision.

I was working for an ag-operator in the state of Washington. The owner, whom I will call Watkins, was a pilot himself. He would take a hired hand with him in his Cub-type aircraft and fly out to a field that was to be fertilized. He would land in the field if it was not muddy and they would then walk to each end and commence to flag for the planes that were sprinkling the dry fertilizer pellets on the field.

The terrain was not at all level but more like rolling hills and swales. Watkins had parked his plane on top of one of these smooth rolling hills. He walked about 150 yards to his end of the field and began waving his flag. While this operation was going on as planned, suddenly a weather frontal boundary struck. The wind switched to the north and began to blow with increasing velocity. 

Watkins could see his Cub on the next small hill as the wind rocked it, making it bounce rather more than was safe. Watkins dropped his flag and began making tracks to his plane. He was a short man, maybe five foot five or six and a little on the beefy side in weight. As he was running and puffing toward the plane, the wind was rapidly increasing. When he finally reached it, the ship was actually leaving the ground with each big puff. He had set the parking brake before he left so he quickly set the throttle and went to the front of the plane to swing the propeller to start the engine.

The engine started on the first swing and he ran around to the right side of the Cub to climb in. Just as he was climbing in, the wind made a mighty blast and the little plane left the ground. He was half in and half out when he made the quick decision to grab the throttle and open it, hoping it would help stabilize the airborne machine. 

The reverse happened. With the high wind and the thrust of the engine the plane rose straight up vertically and then suddenly fell over on it’s back - kerblam! 

Watkins was thrown out on the wing which was now lying upside down on the ground. Somehow he landed on his feet. Both feet burst through the fabric covering.

When the other pilots doing the fertilizer flew over and saw he wasn’t injured, they burst out in gales of wild laughter. Watkins stood there knee deep in his upside down airplane, shaking his fist at them. He couldn’t hear the laughter but he could see the grins on their faces.

The Thunder God

As a commercial pilot, I've encountered some peculiar happenings that aren’t likely to be experienced by the ground bound. For instance, being caught in stormy weather in an open cockpit.

Once I was flying cross country en route form my maintenance base in Oklahoma to my home base in East Texas. I was caught in a tremendous line of heavy thunder storms. My Stearman was not equipped for flying by instruments. I was strictly VFR (visual flight rules) with only a magnet compass, and that very untrustworthy. I was navigating by landmarks, having flown the route a number of times before. 

As the sky darkened I was forced to fly quite low to stay clear of lowering stormy looking clouds. It began to rain and lightning began to flash. Thunder claps were loud enough that I could hear them over the roar of my Pratt Whitney engine. The rain became heavy to the point that my forward visibility was limited to about a half mile or less. I was a bit worried and was reminded of a poem I had written some years back.

THE THUNDER GOD

The thunder god rears his awesome head
And rumbles his warning dark and dread.
No prudent airman dares to tread
Too near this angered giant.

On convective energy he mounts the sky
‘Till his anvil head is five miles high
With an electric flickering in his evil eye
He mutters and rumbles and threatens - Defiant.

His approach is announced by ominous sound
With throaty booms that shiver the ground.
Menacingly he gathers his storm all ‘round
And the air grows sultry and still.

Scowling and growling, his fury grows.
The heavens darken and creation knows
With malevolent intent he glowers at those
Who would dare to resist his will.

There he sits astride my path,
A meteorological tower of rage and wrath
Nature’s cumulo-psychopath,
Maddened because I’ve invaded his sacred sky

I’m cautious and careful and it has served me well
So I change course and it seems I can tell
As I circumnavigate this flickering hell
Of all men, he hates most those that can fly.

So I am threading my way underneath these angry giants, hunkered down behind the small windshield, hoping to stay dry. It’s a losing battle though - soon I’m sopping wet. The giants are hurling thunderbolts at me but so far they have missed. 

The rain gets heavier with small hail mixed in. If the hail gets larger, I will be forced to land some place like a pasture or a country road. After about an hour I can see my home town and then my home base runway. I put the wheels down ever so gently. Actually I am water skiing until the ship slows down and the tires touch the ground. Sheets of water are sent out each side. I slow down and turn off the runway and taxi into the hanger. My boots are full of water and I am soaked to the bone.

My brother, also a pilot, is in the hanger to greet me. I climb out and he gives me a look of disgust and says, "Brother Dale, I would have thought you had better sense than to be flying in weather like this."

I agreed with him. It was foolish but at least I was home.

Stealth Cropdusters

Many years ago I was employed by an ag-flying company or as some would call it, an agricultural-air application company, based in Oklahoma called "American Dusting Company."  It was quite a large company with dozens of planes and pilots, one of the largest in the U.S. The company divided its planes and pilots up into units of two, three, or more. Each unit had a manager and these units were scattered all over the southwest. The main base and maintenance shop was in Chickasaw, Oklahoma. I became acquainted with many of the pilots during the three years that I flew for American.

Of course all pilots have flying stories: Some true, some true but "embellished," and some out-right LIES. One of the true ones I shall pass along because I thought it very interesting. This story I believe to be authentic because it came to me from several different sources and they all told the same tale.

Back in the middle 20th century there was an outbreak of a certain kind of beetle that infested very large areas of forests of the northeastern states of the U.S. A group of companies got their heads together and made plans to gather up as many ag-planes and pilots as they could lay hands on and get them organized and attack the devilish little creatures that were doing great damage to the forests.

The word went out all across the fruited plains of agricultural America that there was much money to be made by this armada of bug-fighting flyers. American Dusting Company was contacted and agreed to send six of their choice birdmen to join this effort. This detachment was to be led by one of the owners, Mr. Bob Smith (not his real name), who was a former Lt. Colonel in the U.S. Air Force and was still a member of the reserve.

The planes to be sent were PT 17 Stearmans converted to ag-plane configuration, including a 450 hp Pratt Whitney engine. I might also add that none were equipped with a full panel of flight instruments, just the bare bones of a primary panel which had a magnetic compass, an altimeter, an airspeed indicator and engine instruments such as RPM gauge, manifold pressure gauge, oil pressure gauge and possibly a engine temperature gauge. If you were lucky some of these still worked. At cruise speed the Pratt Whitney burned around 20 gallons an hour and the gas tank held 46 gallons, which gave approximately two hours of safe flying between refills.

Plans were made, routes were selected, bags were packed, and one fine morning the intrepid gaggle of beetle battlers left Chickasaw for the great state of Maine. Oh, did I mention - the planes had no radios for communication. All would be following their fearless leader Mr. Bob. Oh, and did I also mention - the planes had no running lights or any other kind of lights either.

Of course many fuel stops were made along the way which made for slow progress across the country. Nevertheless they made their way without mishap to the state of Maine where weather began to be a factor. It was getting late in the day and the overcast was getting lower and lower. Their next gas stop was a small town airport. The pilots began to get uneasy because dark was fast approaching. Eventually the only way they could see each other was by keeping in sight of the long blue blaze of flame from the exhaust pipe. Of course they were over strange country and one could not even see their maps. They were just following Mr. Bob, who was reading his map by flash light.

Then when it seemed that disaster was steadily gaining on them they saw some very strong lights on the horizon. As they got nearer they could make out that it was runway lights at an airport. Each pilot was thinking, "I don’t care what Mr. Bob or any of the other pilots do, I am going to land at this airport, come hell or high water."

And so they did.

One by one, Mr. Bob and all the pilots landed on the big, wide, long runway and breathed a sigh of relief as they taxied into a tie-down area on one side of the field. It seemed there was a airport terminal on one side and what appeared to be a military base on the other side. Anyway, they all got out of their planes and were laughing and congratulating themselves on their good fortune as they strolled inside the terminal building.

When they entered the building the clerks behind the desk looked at them in surprise and then all hell broke loose, as one pilot told me later. A clerk picked up a telephone and they noticed he was wearing an Air Force uniform. 

Within minutes a military vehicle pulled up to the door and half a dozen soldiers with submachine guns came charging into the room. They were quickly hustled into an adjoining room, searched and told to stand against a wall. Of course this was all a big surprise and they could not imagine what was going on. Mr. Bob approached the officer in charge of the soldiers and demanded an explanation. When the officer heard that Mr. Bob was a reserve officer in Air Force his attitude immediately changed.

The officer explained that this was a SAC (Strategic Air Command) base and on this night they were on a practice high alert. Suddenly it all came clear. This group of cropdusters had inadvertently stumbled in to a bad situation. The base was on alert and yet six low-flying aircraft with no lights had managed to land unseen on the base. They were flying too low for the radar to pick them up. They had taxied in the dark to a tie-down area, parked their planes and entered the terminal - all totally unseen until the a clerk saw them and wondered what the sam hill was going on.

The men at the base knew that General Curtis Lemay, who was the overall commander of the Strategic Air Command, many times did such things as this to test the base’s security operations. They were sure this was another of those tests.

It took a lot of explaining but finally the officer in charge of security became convinced that it was just a weird happenstance. However, he knew that if the story got out that a flight of six airplanes had snuck into his base without detection, his job would be on the line. His main aim was to prevent this. 

Consequently he had the unlucky cropdusters placed in a military truck and escorted under guard to a hotel where they spent the night. No one was allowed to talk to them. The next morning they were returned to the airbase and their planes were fueled. The officer in charge said, "Now, you boys get in your planes and get the h--- out of here and DO NOT SAY A WORD ABOUT THIS TO ANYONE OR I WILL HAVE YOU UP ON MORE CHARGES THAN YOU CAN POSSIBLY IMAGINE."

The American Dusting company pilots did as ordered and that was pretty much the end of the story, as far as the Air Force was concerned. The pilots proceeded on to New Brunswick and fought blister rust beetles until the outbreak was under control.

But there's no way a story like that can be kept completely secret. One of the pilots in this group was a friend I knew well and he was the first to tell me, under a request of secrecy of course. I've honored his request and changed the names to protect the "guilty."

Wires

When aerial crop dusting and spraying first began to be widely accepted by farmers, there were no airplanes designed for this purpose. Consequently the earlier cropdusting airplanes were highly modified planes designed for other purposes such as passenger ships, cargo ships, training planes, mail carriers, and military planes etc.

Prior to the Second World War there was very little aerial application of dust and chemicals to crops. A cropduster pilot had the whole sky pretty much to himself since all other aircraft were scarce and flying high above the earth. His greatest concerns were to keep his ship on an even keel on the proper heading, maintaining his altitude of a few feet above the crop, keeping his propeller turning in the right directions and being careful not to collide with obstacles on the ground. 

These obstacles came in all shapes and sizes: trees, posts, buildings, farm equipment, towers of various kinds, vehicles, and last but not least, telephone and electrical lines and poles. In the earlier days these power and telephone lines were not so plentiful, so were of little concern. As time passed, the cropdusting planes became bigger and better and more numerous and so did the power lines. That is the subject of my present dissertation.

Wire Hazards
By the time I entered the scene these blasted lines were everywhere. Along the roads, highways, railroads, canals and fields of croplands. Some fields were bordered on all sides with these wires and many times they ran across the field at various angles. 

The size or thickness of these wires varied - a thin telephone wire the diameter of a pencil lead to huge cables with a diameter of an inch or more. Also there were brace-cables often called guy wires attached to the power line poles and towers. The size or thickness of these was usually about a half inch or so - strong enough lift a truck or tractor.

I believe that lines were the ag pilot’s most pervasive headache. One of the first things a new ag pilot had to learn was how to fly along, around, amongst and under these devilish and sometime lethal wires. A field that had multiple wires across was generally referred to by ag pilots as a wire-orchard. No matter how large an overhead cable might be, ag pilots called them “wires.”

I lost several friends and a brother because of an encounter with these wretched wires. My first mishap involving a wire happened in a cotton field in East Texas. I was still young but had two seasons under my belt and up to now had no wire problems. So I felt I was a fine ag pilot. 

I was flying a newly rebuilt Stearman with a 450 hp. Pratt-Whitney up front. It had been a long day beginning at first light and now the sun had dropped below the horizon. I was spraying bug control chemical on a field of cotton, making my runs across the field going north and south, back and forth. A power line ran across the south end of the field leaving me just enough space to fly under it. Beginning on the east side I worked my way, swath by swath across the field until I only lacked about five or six more swath to finish the field. It was getting close to dusky-dark and I was hurrying to finish the field before it got too dark to see.

I was flying south and approaching the power line that I had been flying under with no problem. When I reached a point too close to pull up and go over the line I suddenly spotted ahead of me -directly in my flight path - two old fence post protruding about two feet above the cotton. It was too late to pull up and go over the line but I didn’t want to hit those sturdy looking posts. I had a split second to make up my mind. I lifted the plane up about two feet above the posts and Wham! My upper wing struck the lower power line. 

In a flash the line broke first at the nearest pole on my right and the loose end in a fraction of a second wrapped itself around the N strut between the upper and lower wings on the right side - and hung on. It stretched the line on the left side till it too broke. That end of the broken wire on the left side then whipped completely around the rear of the plane and then came forward striking the back of my crash-helmet. Sounding like a rifle shot, it whipped on forward smashing my windshield. 

All that happened in the blink of an eye. I pulled up quickly. Looking the plane over I saw nothing was damaged except the shattered windshield. I was carrying a length of wire tied fast to the right-hand N strut and draped over the rear of the fuselage just ahead of the vertical rudder fin. 

I headed for the base and landed in the dim light just before dark. It had been a long hard day with a hair raising ending. I pulled into the hanger and shut the Pratt-Whitney down. Leaning back with a sigh I finally relaxed. I thanked the Lord for his protection. If that wire had struck my helmet three inches lower it would have taken my head off.

My boss, Mr. Weldon Briscoe, walked out and saw the prop spinner was messed up and a long piece of power line draped around the plane. I figured I was about to get a real chewing out because after all it was a new airplane. He looked at me and then the windshield and made a sort of whistling sound through his teeth. I could tell he wasn’t all that pleased but all he said was, "Son, you cut it pretty darn close. Just don’t make a habit of it. Next time you may not be so lucky."

During my 35 years of chasing the bugs I tore down enough wire that one of my employers said with a worried look on his face. "Roberts I do believe you are going to run the power companies out of wire if you don’t hang yourself first."