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.

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.

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!

We Speaka Da Spanish... Sorta

I have been often asked, "What do you do in the off season, when the crops are harvested and the bugs are on vacation?"

Well, one of the things I did to occupy my time and get my mind off of chasing bugs was to ferry aero-planes from one place to another. Say for instance, from a lil ole village in Nebraska to the out-back in the jungles of Panama in Central America.

I happened to be acquainted with a missionary pilot type name Lee German. Lee had been a missionary pilot in the Philippine Islands for some twenty years. He wife became ill and he had to move back to his home in Nebraska. So he was asked by the missionary organization to head up a aviation department. 

Lee immediately went to work on this and established a home base where he collected aircraft of one sort and another, did some repair work on them, and trained young fellows in this type of flying and ferrying airplanes from the base to where ever they were needed. 

He called me about the time my ag-flying season ended in Idaho one day and asked me to accompany him on a trip to deliver a Cessna 185 to a missionary pilot in Panama. The missionary pilot down there with the help of the natives had just completed a new airstrip deep in the heart of the jungles of Panama near the border with Columbia. I decided this would be a useful way to spend my time in the off-season. 

I packed my battered bag and took a flight on the airline down to a commercial airport near Lee’s home base. I had worked with Lee in the construction of his home hangers, etc., and we flew some together so he knew I was a reasonably experienced pilot.

When I arrived Lee laid out his route that we would follow including gas stops, hotel, border crossing stops, and so on. He made sure my passport and visa papers were in order. The Cessna had a belly pod strapped under the fuselage for extra baggage and freight. We filled the plane full of a lot of stuff that the missionary needed but couldn’t get down there in Panama. Then we cast off one fine morning and headed south. 

We got to the Brownsville port of entry too late to clear customs so we had to spend the night and take care of customs the next morning.

Then we pretty much followed the Gulf side coast line all the way to Veracruz, Mexico. Lee had asked me if I could speak Spanish and I told him a little bit. He said he could speak a little too. When we got to Veracruz I called the tower in English. No answer. So I tried out my Spanish. The conversation went something like this:

ME: Torre de Veracruz, es Cessna 5432, 10 millas al norte. Solicitar permiso para entrar en patron de trafico. (Veracruz tower, this is Cessna 5432, 10 miles north. Request permission to enter traffic pattern.)

The tower came back at me with, "Bla de bla de bla de bla, Estan habilitados para entrar entra en trafico."  All I got was that I was cleared to enter traffic pattern.

I fell in line with the other traffic. Lee said, “Did you understand all that?”

“Heck no, but I’m pretty sure we are cleared to enter the pattern.”

We made the downwind leg and turned to the base leg. I heard my number called by the tower and something like, "Blab blab blab, se borran a la tierra, blab blab blab." I was fairly certain he meant, "You are cleared to land."

I made the final turn and Lee said, "I hope they aren’t sending the Federales out to meet us!"

I landed without incident and taxied up to the parking area and a gas truck came out to meet us. I guess no one was interested in my semi-Spanish. The young boy who ran the gas truck looked at our Cessna with the bulging belly pod and said, “Et looks likey et is goin’ to have some sons.” Lee laughed and told him it was definitely pregnant.

We got something to eat and cleared customs. Lee called the tower on the telephone and tried to explain that we had very little Español. I guess one of the tower persons understood a bit of English. Lee said his reply was a mix of the two languages - but mostly it seemed that they were all laughing at us. 

I asked for permission to depart. “Blab blab blab blab, número cuatro, blab blab."

I took that to mean we were number four to take off. We pulled into line and when I heard, "Número 5432 Cessna, se borran para salir (you are cleared to take off)," I poured the coal to it and we took off headed southwest across Mexico to the Pacific coast. Next stop Guatemala City.

As we flew along Lee said, "Roberts, your Spanish is about as sorry as I have ever heard."  

I retorted, "Well it got us in and out of Mexico without being shot or arrested. And by Montezuma’s whiskers, yours is worse than mine."

"Naw, naw, mine is fluent compared to yours," he insisted.

"The heck it is! I heard your so-called Spanish when you talked to the tower on the phone. You said, 'We no speaka de Spanish mucho good.' Ha!"

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 Never-Fail Turbo-Prop

Aircraft engines made a radical change with the advent of the turbo-prop engine. The old engines were classified as reciprocating engines, similar to what we have in automobiles. The turbo-prop engine worked completely differently. It had a small turbine as the power generating source, similar to a jet engine, except the turbine turned a propeller. These new engines were smaller, lighter, had more horsepower and were supposedly much more reliable.

We ag-pilots were anxious to try one of these new-fangled engines because with the light weight and extra power we could increase the "payload" and thereby do more work in a given time. Plus we liked that the engines were said to be much less likely to fail.

My first opportunity to fly an ag-plane with this type of power plant came when I hired out to an ag-operator located in the Gulf Coast. It was in rice growing country near the small town of Katy, Texas.  

Before I was cleared to aviate with a turbo-prop at the pointy end of the airplane, the insurance company insisted that I be sent to school so as to know how to handle this here highly complicated and tremenjusly complex apparatus. Even though I had years and years of experience and thousands and thousands of hours flying back and forth over the vegetables, it made no difference to them. 

So they sent me to Hartford, Connecticuty, where the Pratt-Whitney Aircraft Co. had a school for beginners to be learnt about these jet fuel burning engines. I spent a week in classrooms listening to some young, self-important individual spout off, displaying his vast knowledge of turbo-prop aircraft engine. Mostly his talk was giving high praise of the reliability of the PT6-E turbo-prop engine. He assured us that our days of engine failure were over. THIS ENGINE DOES NOT FAIL. IT WILL GO 6000 HRS BETWEEN OVERHAULS. THIS ENGINE DOES NOT FAIL.

I came back to Katy with about the same amount of knowledge that I left with, except I knew that the turbo-prop engine DID NOT FAIL. Yeah, I had that phrase ringing in my ears. Me and my partner went to work and I was enjoying flying with the comforting new knowledge that there would be no more flight interruptions due to engine failure. I had launched myself into the future of ag-aviation feeling safe and secure. 

About the third week and somewhere around 80 hours on the new engine, I was working off a dirt strip surrounded by rice fields - some dry, some flooded. I had a hopper full of liquid fertilizer, about 300 gallons as I recall. I had just broken ground when I noticed that a couple of puffs of smoke came out the exhaust pipe on the left side. 

At the next instant I noted that my engine rpm was decreasing and I could feel the loss of power. I reached the end of the strip and slapped the dump gate lever open and the load was dumped instantaneously. Lighter of wing, I swung the Ag-Cat out to the right with the intention of making a 180-degree turn to the left and landing back on my landing strip. Nothing around me looked favorable for an emergency landing.

The engine continued to lose power (a new word - "unspooling" it was called). About half-way around the turn I realized I wasn’t going to make it. I leveled the wings and prepared to make contact with a newly plowed rice field. I sat it down as smoothly as possible and held the stick back so hard that the tail wheel touched first. As soon as the weight of the Ag-Cat settled on to the main landing gear, the wheels quickly sank into the soft powdery dirt of the recently plowed field. Up came the tail and down went the new engine into the soft dirt and over the plane went on its back. I slammed down hard upside down. Thankfully, the Ag-Cat being a bi-plane, the upper wing held the fuselage off the ground high enough that the cockpit enclosure wasn’t crushed.

It is very disconcerting to find oneself upside down even though strapped securely in the seat. Believe it or not the danged engine was still running. Of course the prop was not turning. The blades were bent back at a 90 degree angle. But since in this particular type engine there was no mechanical connection between the power section and the propeller, the turbine was still going. How strange. 

I had to shut it down. I unbuckled my seat harness and as I had done at other times, fell on my head. I managed to open the exit window/door and wiggle out on to the powdery earth. I wasn’t injured in any way, but my poor engine didn’t fare so well. Black smoke began to issue forth because the oil in the engine was draining into the hot combustion chamber. There wasn’t much chance of a fire,but it did put up a nice plume of black smoke. I had to hand it to the Pratt-Whitney person who said the engine didn’t fail. Even after it had quit producing power, it was still running!

To make a long involved story shorter, the Pratt-Whitney Co. sent a tech-rep out to collect the engine and take it back to some place in Canada where they analyzed it and pronounced the cause of the engine failure was fuel contamination. Sure, sure. Fuel contamination is the only thing that wasn’t covered in the warranty.

Whatever the cause, it ruined my day and demolished my confidence in turbo-prop engines. My conclusion was that any mechanical contraption can fail PERIOD! 

Someone who saw the plane go down and start smoking called the fire department who then called for ambulances. And along the way a crowd collected of (I'm guessing) newscasters, TV reporters, environmentalists, save-the-whales folks, vegetarians, a couple of couple of local preachers, a pair of politicians, and the county sheriff.

Fortunately, there was a farmhouse nearby. I walked over there and even though I was a bit dirty, they welcomed me in, gave me a cup of coffee and a piece of fresh baked pie, and promised not to tell a soul where I was. I managed to hide out until my boss came looking for me. How he found me, I don’t know. 

Here is a picture of my dead AG-Cat lying on its back with its feet in the air... but as you will notice, I am not in it.

Fast Money

In the cropdusting field, military surplus planes eventually began to be replaced with newly manufactured aircraft that were designed especially for ag-flying. Piper came out with the Pawnee, Cessna Aircraft Co. started producing the Ag-Wagon, Grumman got into the action with its Ag-Cat. The Leland Snow Company developed the Snow Aircraft, later to be called the Thrush. These planes were much more efficient and productive than the old converted military types, but they were expensive and not necessarily as tough as the old military trainer. We still had engine failures from time to time.

I was proud to be sitting in the middle of a brand new Cessna Ag-Wagon one day and it was noon. I usually carried a lunch bag with me and ate in the plane so I didn’t have to stop. This particular day I had eaten my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and was chomping on an apple as I took off of a muddy strip with a load of dry fertilizer to be spread over a wheat field.

I climbed up to about two-hundred feet or so and as I leveled off there was a sudden silence. The only noise I heard was me chomping on the apple. The engine had shut down as if I had turned the switch off. 

I quickly turned to the right toward an open field and at the same time hit the dump lever and pulled full flaps, preparing to land in the mud. It had rained the night before. The field I had chosen was a wheat field that lay up the side of a hill. I hardly got the flaps down when I touch down and my wheels were sinking in the mud. 

Fortunately, I landed going uphill and the hill was steep enough that it kept the plane from going over on its back. But the wheels were hub-cap deep in the mud and I went up the small hill plowing deep tracks. I arrived at the top of the hill and there was a fence. I stomped on the left brake and full left rudder and the plane slewed around just shy of the fence and stopped. 

I was so rattled that I forgot I had opened the dump gate to get rid of the load of fertilizer. The problem was dry fertilizer does not dump out as quickly as a liquid. The stuff was still pouring out of the hopper and when I climbed out of the plane, I saw I had a huge pile of fertilizer beneath the belly. Oh well, at least the plane didn’t end up lying on its back.

My boss had taken off right behind me in another plane and had seen the whole thing. He landed, got in his pickup, and drove up to get me. It turned out that my practically-new engine had shut down because a small shaft in the air intake had broken and fallen out, closing off the engine. Cessna soon changed the design after we filed a Malfunction & Defects report with the FAA.

As I climbed into the boss's pickup truck, he stuffed a hundred dollar bill in my shirt pocket. Surprised I looked questions at him. "That’s for not bending my new airplane," he said. The thought went through my mind, "Hmmm, that’s the fastest money I ever earned... but I don’t believe I want to do it again!"

Rolling Runway

I do not pretend to know why, but it seems to me aviation has always attracted some interesting, peculiar, kooky, dingy, nutty, or brilliant characters - whatever you want to call them. I guess that is the one of the reasons I was attracted myself. I have a list of these folks I've met along the way and thought y'all might enjoy reading about some of their antics.

Near the top of the list is a fellow I met in Lewiston, Idaho, named Rex Yates.

Rex was what I would classify as an airport bum. I was a youngster when I first became aware of this guy. He was in his early forties, medium height, neither skinny nor fat, and most would say as homely as a mud fence. He had bad teeth which cause him to emit bits of saliva if he talked too fast - which he always did. He also gesticulated vigorously with his arms and hands as he spoke. It was good practice not to stand too close to him, especially if he was excited and talking fast.

The first impression I had was that he was just a slouchily dressed, goofy, blowhard and I tried to avoid him. But if you were an airport nut like myself, this was impossible to do. Sooner or later you would find yourself in the wrong position and being spit on as you were being bombarded and assailed with whatever was on Rex’s mind at the time. Or if there happened to be a group of airport types gathered ‘round discussing any particular aviation subject, Rex would magically appear and insert himself in their midst to hold forth with his opinions, usually spraying everyone with his knowledge and spit.

In spite of the obnoxious presentation of himself and his offensively liberal use of vulgar, obscene, and profane language, I began to sense he was not as stupid as I first thought. In fact, I eventually discovered that he was a veritable walking encyclopedia of aviation lore and the very epitome of aviation enthusiast. Mention any event, incident, or historical happening concerning aviation and he could give you all the particulars. Name the airplane and he could give you the entire history of the ship including its strong points, its weak points, and the flight characteristics. 

Some of his information was from reading (he was an avid reader), some of it stuff he had heard from other pilots and mechanics, but a surprisingly good bit of it was from personal experience. He had owned quite a number of airplanes including Taylorcrafts, Cessnas, Luscombes, Stinsons, Beachcraft Bonanzas, Ercoupe, Aeronca, Bellanca, several different Piper aircraft, and about a dozen of other general aviation fixed-wing types, as well as helicopters, gyrocopters and balloons.

Are you beginning to get the picture? Little by little we became friends. If he was not such an obnoxious character and had gone to the trouble of getting a commercial license, he probably could have made his living as an aviation type. But alas, he usually settled for a very mundane occupation and these lasted just long enough for the employer to find out he was some sort of a nut.

But anyway, he had many many entertaining aviation adventures and here is one of them.

Rolling Runway
When I first met Rex, he owned a Cessna 190. It was in a shop being repaired after a strange encounter. It seems that he and a friend were intending to land at the small landing strip at Orofino, Idaho. The landing strip lay alongside, but not quite parallel to, the main highway. 

His friend was piloting the plane and as usual was in the left-hand seat. As the plane was making the final approach, it crossed over the highway at a slight angle and very low. Unbeknownst to his friend, a cattle truck was speeding down the highway going generally the same direction as the plane. As they crossed paths neither pilot nor truck driver were aware of the other vehicle. 

Consequently, the plane’s landing gear became entangled in the high side-boards, or cattle racks, on the left side of the cattle truck. The truck, being the heavier of the two, more or less took control of the plane’s direction of flight. 

Of course, the pilot was stunned (to put it mildly) when he felt the lurch and heard the noise of the collision. Likewise, the truck driver, being totally taken a-back, could not imagine what was happening until he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw an airplane wing, the engine, and spinning propeller--not to mention he suddenly heard thrashing as that propeller chewed into the cattle racks on the left side of the truck! 

The pilot managed to keep the plane on an even keel by more or less flying alongside and just above the truck as he was dragged down the highway. But as the truck slowed down, the plane lost flying speed and the left wing settled and began skidding along on the wing tip as both vehicles came to a stop. One can imagine the shock and dismay of both the truck driver and the plane occupants when they discovered that they were locked together.

Fortunately, no one was injured, but the plane’s propeller, the left wing, and the landing gear suffered considerable damage. The cattle racks on the truck sustained substantial damage as well. As far as I know neither party was cited for any violations.

This strange collision made national news. Poor Rex became the big looser, having to pay for the major repairs of his plane. He didn’t seem to mind very much though because it gained him a moment of fame. Everyone hearing about it roared with laughter and agreed, “Nobody but Rex Yates could have become involved in such a weird and unbelievable accident.”

I could only imagine Rex climbing out of his airplane, excited and talking as fast as an auctioneer, and spitting on everyone in the crowd that soon collected as he explained what happened.

Three Mistakes and You're Out - Almost

While flying for the Forest Service, I had another "adventure."

In order to be at the airport one morning, I had to arise before daylight and drive for an hour and a half. I was assigned a different airplane to fly this particular morning. As I recall, it was a Cessna 180, one that I had not flown before. Each airplane, like a car, has its own set of peculiarities. I had flown this type many times, but I checked this airplane over as usual, including a careful "walk around inspection."

After being given my day's assignment, I was introduced to my Forest Service observer partner whom I'll call Ted (name changed to protect the stupid). We climbed aboard. I cranked the engine and taxied out to the active runway. At this point I realized that in my rush to get going that morning I had forgotten my watch. I mentioned it to Ted as I started to return to the hanger. He said, "No problem, I have a very good watch and I’ll keep track of our time."  Reluctantly I agreed, "Well, OK."

Mistake #1.

We took off and headed out over the forest to look for smokes or anything that might indicate a fire. We checked with each lookout tower as we passed. It seemed each one had seen a suspicious looking plume of smoke which turned out to be false alarms such as a patch of lingering fog or dust thrown up by a truck on a logging road. Checking these out, we slowly made our usual route over the dense woods, deep canyons, and high peaks. Altogether, it was a normal, boring day of forest service surveillance.

 We were cruising at a relatively slow airspeed of some 110-120 mph. As the day wore on, I occasionally glanced at the electric fuel gauges and noted we didn’t seem to be burning up the fuel as much as I expected. Oh well, it was probably because of the lower power setting I was using. I casually mentioned this to Ted.  He looked at his watch and said, "Don't worry, we have plenty of time left." I went along with his assessment.

Mistake #2.

He hardly got the words out of his mouth when I spotted a fairly large plume of smoke. I pointed it out to Ted. He said, "Let’s take a look." We were flying at about 7000 above sea level. As I turned toward the smoke, I noticed we were over a large high mountain valley shaped like a big bowl. The smoke was near the middle of it. As we came over the smoke I could see flames flickering at the base of it.

Ted became very busy plotting the position of the fire. He had me circle the fire as he plotted - around and around and around. I again looked at my fuel gauges. We had emptied one tank and were now working on the other one. I said, "It seems to me we have been out here quite awhile." He again quickly looked at his watch and replied, "We got lots of time yet." I went along with his call.

Mistake #3.

He then said, "I need for you to fly lower in order for me to get an intensity reading on the fire." They do this so they can tell the dispatcher how many smoke jumpers to send out.

I throttled back and descended to about five- or six-hundred feet above the forest tree tops, continuing to circle. He then asked, "Can’t you take us down lower?"

I pulled the flaps down and we quickly began to lose altitude. At about the same time the engine of the aircraft went silent.

Then it caught and ran for a moment or two, then went silent again. Needless to say, I was startled and alarmed!  I quickly scanned the panel, including the fuel gauge. It registered that we had about a third of a tank of fuel. So my mind quickly dismissed the thought of fuel starvation and figured it was something else. This took only seconds, during which time the engine continued to burp and quit and burp and quit. I raised the flaps. Suddenly I had full power again for a minute or two. Each time it quit I would rock the wings back and forth and it would run for a bit. This proved to me that I did have a fuel starvation problem. 

During the couple of minutes this happened I did two things. First, I headed for lower ground which was a wide draw in the bottom of the bowl. This draw emptied into a shallow canyon and this canyon emptied into a much deeper canyon. At the same time I was practically yelling at Ted to give the dispatcher our location and tell him we are having engine trouble and could go into the trees at any time. Instead of doing this, he quickly shoved his boom mike up over his forehead and grabbed at the glove box for a barf bag into which he proceeded to empty the contents of his stomach.

By now my mind is racing in near panic. I thought, "This is just perfect. We are going into the trees and no one will know where to look for us and this joker is too busy filling up barf bags to tell them."

I was still getting little bursts of power so even though we were losing altitude it wasn’t as fast as with a completely dead engine. I flew out of the draw into the shallow canyon and on out into a very deep canyon which gave me a couple of thousand feet of altitude to work with.

Finally Ted got himself together and called the dispatcher in Grangeville and gave him to understand our emergency. The dispatcher laconically replied, "Well, tell him to land at Moose Creek."

I thought, "You idiot, that is 20 miles away! I’ll be very lucky if I can keep this machine in the air for five miles."

I knew that the canyon I was in emptied into the Selway River canyon and suddenly I remembered that two or three days before I had been flying over the Selway River in this area and had spotted an old abandoned Forest Service landing strip alongside the river. I remembered thinking sometime or other I might need to land on this strip and so I had gone in and landed there just to check it out. (The Lord sure looks out for idiots!)

Very shortly I sailed out into the big, wide Selway canyon, still steadily losing altitude. But by rocking the wings I was getting a short burst of power to extend my glide. I wasn’t exactly sure which way to turn to get to the strip, but was pretty sure it was to my left so turned in that direction. I came around a bend in the river and there it lay--abandoned, overgrown with weeds and small brush, but believe me it was beautiful.

It was one of those one-way strips which meant I had to go down stream past the strip and make a 180 degree turn and land going up stream. I was down to about 400 feet above the river and knew it was going to be close. I nursed my altitude like a miser nurses his money and prayed that I would have enough. As I came abreast of the strip going down stream, my engine fired its last shot. It was dead stick from here on in.

I made the 180 degree turn as carefully as I could and as I rolled out of the turn I remembered there was a small knob of a hill directly at the near end of the strip. At this point I could not see my strip because of this knob-like shoulder off the canyon wall. I wasn’t at all sure I would be able to clear it.

I was flying at half flaps and when I got within a hundred feet of the knob, I grabbed the flap lever and pulled full flaps. This had a slight ballooning effect and lifted me over the knob and there was the beautiful strip directly in front of me. I managed to set down with very little trouble from the weeds and low brush. We rolled to a stop and I sat there for a few moments thanking God for the help.

I looked at Ted and he didn’t seem the least bit excited as if he did this every day of his life. He was talking on the radio to our dispatcher saying, "Yeah, we landed at the old Shearer strip on the Selway. No problem. Yeah the engine quit for some reason, but we made it down OK." He then turned to me and said nonchalantly "What do you suppose is wrong with the engine?"

I dawned on me this clown didn’t have the least clue that we had run out of fuel. Realizing my stupidity could cost our company the Forest Service contract, I muttered, "I don’t know - might be fuel pump."

The word was passed along to my company boss, Frank, back in Grangeville and he said he would be in to pick up Ted and then we would see about getting the plane out. My boss soon appeared coming up the canyon in another plane. He landed, but rolled to a stop at the opposite end of the runway and got out and messed around the plane for a few minutes, making me wonder what he was doing. Finally, he climbed back in his plane and taxied up to where we were and got out.

Frank was not a talkative man. He said a few words to Ted and told him to go head and get into his airplane and he would take him home. Ted did so. As soon as he was out of ear shot, Frank turned to me and growled, "You [expletive deleted], you ran it out of gas. Does the observer know that?"

"I don’t think he has a clue," I replied.

"Good! I am going to take him out of here. I have left some five-gallon cans of gas down at the other end of the strip. After we are gone you can walk down there and get them. If you have any more trouble, call me on our frequency and I will bring a mechanic back with me."

Without further adieu he took off. I managed to pour one of the cans of gas into my ship, then I cranked it up and taxied down to where the other cans were hidden in the weeds. I poured the four remaining cans into my plane and flew home.

Frank never told the Forest Service honchos that one of his pilots was dumb enough to run a plane out of gas over the back country. It would have likely caused him to lose his contract with them.

Because of Frank and my good buddy Buck Erickson I became "famous" for this little episode. (Not a good kind of fame either!)

Like Buck said, "Roberts, only you and God know how you managed to stay out over the forests of Idaho well beyond the length of time it takes to use up the fuel, land dead stick on an abandoned strip, and never scratch the paint on the plane - WITH a passenger on board as a witness!"

Barnyard Landing

One day I left the landing strip with a full load on board this old battered and beat-up Stearman. I was flying about the average ferry altitude of a couple of hundred feet, headed out to spray a field of cotton. The tired old engine made a muffled cough, backfired and quit cold. 

 Now a loaded Stearman without power has a glide angle like a brick with a feather tied to it. Within 10 or 12 seconds I was on the ground. I didn’t even have time to turn parallel with the furrows. I hit the hard dry dirt doing about 85 mph across the furrows of a newly harvested maize field. Bumpity, bumpity bumptiy, enough to rattle your teeth. It seems that the engine had decided it didn’t like the impure fuel we were using.

Not all my flight interruptions were caused by engine problems though. Sometimes there were other causes. About four days later while flying for the same operator near small town of Brownfield, Texas I took off at dawn and headed for my assigned field when I noticed the tips of my propeller was making little contrail rings. 

It was early fall. We had had a cool air mass move in the night before and this was a warning that temperature and dew-point were getting too close together, but I figured I would at least have time to get my load out. 

I arrived at my field and made several passes across it when fog began to form around me. I thought, "Uh-oh, I had better get this bag of rags on the ground pretty soon."  I pulled up and headed back to the strip, but before I got there I found fog banks closing in on me all around. 

I saw a newly mowed alfalfa field directly in front of me. I quickly decided to put the plane on the ground - and just in time. Before I could bring her to a stop I entered a thick fog bank. I rolled to a stop and I kicked the tail around.

As I peered into the mist I discovered that I had stopped about 15 feet from a small barn or tool shed. I shut the engine down and just as I did so a back door on the shed flew open and a Mexican hired hand stepped out. When he saw me his eyes bugged out and he threw the hoe he was carrying up in the air and lit out like the devil was after him. I had to laugh but can’t say as I blamed him. Who would expect to step out of the barn and suddenly see this big biplane rolling toward you out of the fog?

I was very pleased to be on the ground. Eventually I was able to hitch a ride with a passing farmer and he took me back to my base. 

When I walked in, my bosses eyes got as big as the Mexican’s and he said, "Roberts, this is the second time within week you have returned without you airplane." He was vastly relieved to learn that his plane wasn’t damaged and admitted, "I’m pleased though that you are on the ground and not on top of this pea soup milling around up there looking for some place to land."

Buzzing the Kids

Comical incidents occur in most occupations, with possible exceptions such as brain surgery. Here is one I remember well. 

The cropdusting season finished in late fall. Then I was sent to a large ranch in deep East Texas to do some grass seeding by air. This ranch consisted of several thousands of acres with huge areas covered with mixture of large timber. The owner had decided to have the timber removed in order to make more grass land, thereby supporting larger herds of cattle. 

The method chosen was to have the R.G. Letourneau Company bring in some extremely large machines designed to drive through the timber, pushing it down and crushing it. Then I was to fly over the flattened trees, some as much as four feet thick at the trunk, and sprinkle grass seed over the whole mess. The plan was then to wait until fall when the grass has grown up, matured, and dried. It was then set afire. The dry grass acted as a fusing agent. The ground was thus cleared for next spring’s crop to take over and make for fine grazing. A plumb scientific plan, I suppose.

So I set up shop in the middle of the ranch on a dirt strip with my lil ole Stearman and several truck loads of grass seed. Big chunks of the ranch had already been de-treed so to speak when I arrived. A dirt strip had been graded out for me set to work on the west side of the target pasture. 

I began flinging seed over all the downed timber. Of course there was no place to land - and I mean none - if the old wore-out Lycoming surplus engine decided to stop and rest awhile. Like the ole saw has it, that prop up front is like a fan. If it stops running the pilot will shorenuff start to sweat.

Nevertheless, all went well and after a couple of days I had worked my way across half of the acreage. I was monotonously flying back and forth three swaths, and land for the next load, three swaths and land, three swaths and land.

One morning I noticed an old sort of dilapidated farm house sitting back in the timber on the north side of the pasture I was working. At first I thought it was abandoned. But as I worked, each swath brought me closer to the old house and I noticed it had a rail-type fence around it and there were children playing in the yard. I remembered it was a non-school day so they were at home. 

As I got closer I noticed that the kids were up on the fence waving at me as I went by. It must have been a large family or, for all I know, more than one family because there were about ten kids of all sizes from three year-olds to a couple of girls that looked to be teenagers. It reminded me of my own childhood. If a plane flew by fairly low we children would wave at it and sometime the pilot would see us and wobble his wings to answer the greeting. This was a great thrill for me as a kid so I returned the wave to the kids with a wing waggle.

As each swath took me closer it became obvious that the next pass would take me directly over the house and kids on the fence. I decide I would give the kids a little extra thrill. I had been maintaining about thirty-five to forty feet of altitude and as I approached the house on the pass that would take me over them, I tipped the nose of the plane down a bit and opened the throttle for a good buzz job.

When those kids saw the plane coming down toward them there was a scene of pure bedlam. They came off that fence and went in all directions like a flushed flock of quail.

Some flew under the porch, some went up a nearby tree, some sailed around the house, some went in the screen door. One of the older girls grabbed a small child in each hand and headed for that same screen door but it slammed before she got there and she ran smack into it with the kids in hand.

I had no idea that it would cause such a panic, but it was a hilarious explosion of kids and I burst out laughing. On my next pass believe it or not every last one of them was back on the fence waving and laughing. I gave them a big wing waggle and an arm wave and headed back to the strip. I love kids. I guess that is the reason I have five of my own.

Who Needs Gas to Land A Plane?

I was flying an old worn-out Stearman, applying dry fertilizer to wheat fields. The fuel gauge was stuck but the boss said, "I will keep track of your loads and after every fourth load you fly, I will gas the plane."

Fine. No problem. I worked all day and finished the job. One of my flagmen, a fellow name Rex Yates, wanted a ride back to our home base in the fertilizer hopper of my plane. 

These hoppers were large enough that a man could sit in them comfortably. Rex was a talker and if you were standing too close in front of him while he was spewing out words right and left, right side up, some crossways and some upside down you would probably get spit on. He had a hot date that night and it was some 45 minutes back to the base by pickup truck. He wanted to get there faster, so he climbed in the hopper of my ship and sang out, "Take me to the airport, big guy, and don’t spare the horses. I'm in a hurry."

I gave him a nod and poured the coals to the Pratt Whitney and we headed home. When I made the final turn at the home airport, the engine went silent. Out of gas. 

The boss had obviously gotten distracted and had not refilled the gas tank and I was not watching that closely and assumed he had done so. No harm was done because I was only about 200 feet from the approach end of the runway and easily made it with room to spare. I greased it on so smooth there wasn’t even the slightest bump. 

Before the plane stopped rolling the lid to the hopper popped open. Rex was letting me hear from him. He was looking daggers at me and spit all over my wind shield as he hurled all kinds of invective, cursings and nasty expletives at me. 

"I had no idea you were going to run the blinking blanking plane out of gas! Any idiot knows they won’t run without fuel! You blink-de-blanking fool pilot! It is your responsibility to be sure you have enough gas to git where you are going before you leave the ground! Especially if you have passengers on board!! Idiot fool pilots anyway! You could have crashed landed in some trees or some other bad place and I didn’t even have a seat belt! I’ll never ride with you again!" 

He was still cursing and spitting as we walked to the hanger to tell the line boy to go gas the airplane so I could drive it to the hanger. "I ought to punch you in the nose and by golly if you weren’t bigger than I am I would. Everybody sez you are a good pilot but as far as I am concerned you ain’t worth a damn!"

"Oh calm down, Rex," I offered. "Think about that hot date tonight."