arrival on the Chena River, right about where Ladd Field (now Fort Wainwright) was later built. This was just a few days before Post and Rogers were killed when their plane crashed near Point Barrow. My father ended up getting involved in this piece of history as he made a historic flight, racing against another pilot, to deliver the first photographs of the crash to the news outlets in Seattle. After flying all night, my father got to Seattle first, beating the other pilot by two hours.
Howard Hughes arrived in Fairbanks in 1938 on his record-setting flight around the world. At the time, his stop in Fairbanks did not have much significance for me other than the fact that I was impressed by his big, beautiful airplane. But now when I look back at the memory, I realize that I witnessed a historic flight by a famous pilot. I then remember some Japanese pilots arriving in 1937 in a Mitsubishi G3M bomber, supposedly on a goodwill trip. I heard a bystander say that they were probably there to survey Alaska. It didn’t mean anything to me then, but it’s funny how you remember these things years later.
MY PARENTS NEVER ENCOURAGED ME TO BE A pilot. I suppose my dad recognized that my enthusiasm was obvious. I don’t think my mother wanted me to be a pilot but she never discouraged me. She had lived through times when my dad had been overdue for weeks and she hadn’t known if she would ever see him again.
I was so fortunate to have been able to experience the thrill of flight at an early age. Though I preferred to fly with my dad, I jumped at the chance to fly with anyone who would take me. But I remember coming home, excited to tell my dad about a great flight I had with someone else, only to be scolded about flying with someone he didn’t know. Not everyone was as safety conscious as he was and he wanted to be sure I flew only with people whose flying abilities he trusted.
When people talk about the good old days, believe me, they really were the good old days. I have owned many different airplanes during my lifetime but as the years passed I began to look back at the airplanes of the 1920s and 1930s with a great deal of nostalgia, partly because those were the airplanes my dad made history with. Newer airplanes were more efficient in speed and comfort but I would love to have been able to fly more of the planes my dad flew. The early Stinsons, Travel Airs, and Fairchilds seem to have a personality that is not found in modern airplanes and I will never forget the distinct vibration and sound of those old planes, and the way they smelled of adventure and excitement.
I vividly remember riding with my dad in the Fairchild 71, Travel Air 6000, or Cessna Airmaster on floats as we departed Fairbanks on the Chena River, which runs through downtown. At that time, the Chena was the only waterway near Fairbanks for float operations but it was a fairly dicey takeoff location. People would gather on the riverbank when they heard the engines start. It was impressive to watch.
Before starting our takeoff, my dad would taxi upriver to the usual starting point under the Cushman Street bridge. After he turned the plane around and throttled up for the takeoff, it always looked like the propeller was going to hit the bridge as the nose came up before getting on the step (planing on the water). Then it would look like we were not going to make the first turn in the river, which was quite sharp. I always thought the left wing was going to hit the high bank by the Northern Commercial company store during the right turn before reaching the straightaway for the anticipated liftoff. Sometimes if we had a heavy load in the plane, my dad would have to make one more sharp turn to the left on the water. This was always a terrifying experience for me but I never turned down the opportunity. I think it was a safe operation because most pilots knew their airplane’s performance capabilities and they were confident in their abilities, but it was still scary when you were sitting in the cabin during takeoff.
When I was about ten years old I thought I had my big chance to fly an airplane. I had flown with my dad in the Tri-Motor Ford many times but seldom in the cockpit. Usually, my uncle Fritz rode along to function as a mechanic and to help with the loads so I was relegated to a cabin seat. This time, my dad was doing a test hop without Fritz so I happily climbed into the cockpit’s right seat.
The Tri-Motor’s brakes were controlled by a gearshift-type lever between the seats, commonly called a Johnson bar. Pulling the lever straight back applied the brakes to both wheels; moving it to the left or right provided differential braking. Because the brakes were not on the rudder pedals, a pilot needed three hands to control throttles, brakes, and control wheel. So the technique was to use the right hand for the brakes for ground steering and the left hand for the throttles on takeoff until directional control was available with the rudders. When I saw that the control wheel was unattended, I was certain that this was my chance to do the takeoff so I grabbed the wheel. Everything was going fine until the rudders became effective, whereupon my dad transferred his left hand to the wheel and the right hand to the throttles. Then it was time to raise the tail; when he pushed the control wheel forward, it was pulled out of my hands, but not without some effort since I had a firm grip on it. I then realized that I was not going to get checked out in the Ford that day. The fact that I could not reach the rudder pedals did not concern me; they looked like footrests to me.
Somewhere around the early 1940s, I had the opportunity to fly to Anchorage with my dad in a Travel Air 6000A. He had purchased a set of floats from Bob Reeve, founder of Reeve Aleutian Airways, and was taking the Wien chief mechanic, Ernie Hubbard, to install the floats on the plane in Anchorage. Airplanes were still somewhat of a rarity in Alaska at that time so when we arrived, there were only two floatplanes on Lake Spenard—one belonged to Bob Reeve and the other belonged to Art Woodley, founder of Woodley Airways, which later became Pacific Northern Airlines. (Many years later I was driving with my dad in the area and we saw hundreds of floatplanes parked side-by-side all around Lake Spenard and neighboring Lake Hood. Hundreds more were parked on wheels on land. He said, “Never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought that I would see this many airplanes here.”)
Spenard Lake was linked to Lake Hood by a recently built canal. Both lakes were limited in size and the new canal provided a longer takeoff area, enabling airplanes to take off with heavier loads. We landed alongside the canal on a new landing strip. Ernie installed the floats on the plane and then it was hoisted into the canal and we prepared for takeoff. Try as he might, my dad could not get the Travel Air on the step; he just didn’t have enough power. Bob Reeve offered to lend him a longer propeller, more suitable for float operations. That did the trick and we were on our way to Fairbanks. I remember that my dad had to work the rudders all the way to Fairbanks because the floats caused quite a bit of instability around the yaw axis. After arriving in Fairbanks, Ernie added a fixed rudder under the rear of the fuselage, which was a big help. On each one of these trips with my dad, I watched him handle the controls, saw the results, and learned a little bit more.
When I was around twelve years old, I was convinced that I had it all figured out and longed for the chance to fly. My dad rented a Piper J-3 Cub at Weeks Field in Fairbanks and this became my first opportunity to do a takeoff in an airplane. I was anxious to demonstrate my flying ability to my dad as he sat behind me. I managed to get it into the air, probably with some help that I was not aware of. I flew around for a while and then it came time to make a landing. I managed to get lined up with the runway and thought this would be the easy part; however, the ground came up much faster than I expected and it was a jarring experience. The airplane was fine but my confidence was severely damaged. I learned then that my dad’s approach to teaching was to sit quietly and do nothing to help me unless he thought that intervention was needed to avoid bending the airplane. One time when I was about fifteen years old, we rented a surplus Boeing Stearman at Paine Field in Everett, Washington. I thought my takeoff was going well until I felt the rudder pedals moving rapidly to avert a ground loop. I had no idea that I was about to lose control.
My experience in the Piper Cub set my confidence back for a while and gave me a lot to think about, but it didn’t affect my desire to learn to fly. I wanted to be a pilot like my father. His fame as an aviation pioneer was well recognized but for me and Richard, his talents as a father dominated our admiration. He always tried to help me achieve my dreams, whatever they were. I was immensely fortunate, also, to have my younger brother, Richard, who
