Dancing with the Devil: Memoirs Of A Pilot

By Dexter Cox

The title of this book was selected directly from a statement made to the author by a representative of the FAA during an informal inquiry into why the author was involved in so many engine failures and equipment malfunction incidents. One of the FAA representatives stated that in the preceding eight months, the author had been involved in more incidents (engine failures and in-flight equipment failures) than all the rest of the pilots in the Rocky Mountain region combined and thought that the author was "dancing with the devil" on a frequent basis, and he was concerned for the author's safety. The author thought that was a unique way of describing his experiences with various types of failures and selected that phrase for the title of the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798886542288

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Dancing with the Devil

Memoirs Of A Pilot

Dexter Cox

Copyright © 2023 Dexter Cox

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88654-220-2 (pbk)

ISBN 979-8-88654-228-8 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

About the Author

Part 1

How It Started

One of the first memories I have as a child is standing outside under a clear sky in late 1943 and pointing up at a formation of aircraft flying over. I felt very excited and was yelling, Look, look! or something to that effect. Being only two and a half at the time, I can't really vouch for the accuracy of that enunciation.

My mother, to whom I was yelling, would be able to clarify what those words were or sounded like if she were still alive. She told me that those were airplanes. It didn't really register with me she was describing what I was looking at and was so excited about; but her having to repeatedly tell me what those things were over time, I finally knew it was airplanes that were fascinating me.

Because of the continued interest I exhibited in airplanes, both my mother and father went to great lengths to acquire books about aircraft. They made certain the books they selected had pictures of the types of aircraft prevalent in the military at that time. They would show me the pictures and read the descriptions provided to me.

My father had been drafted into the Army (even though I had an older brother and sister) in early 1944, and as a result, most of the information about the various aircraft ended up being provided by my mother.

During the remaining years of WWII, the frequency of aircraft flyovers and the amount of aircraft involved was far in excess of what later occurred with just civilian aircraft. Due to that fact, my obvious fascination with any aircraft and the efforts of mostly my mother, by the end of the war, I was able to accurately identify a number of different aircraft types by their silhouettes. I also used engine sounds as a means of identifying general classes of aircraft.

The even steady sound of an unmuffled, horizontally opposed Continental or Lycoming engine found in light civilian and military aircraft. The staccato roar of the Jacobs, Continental, Lycoming, Wright, and Pratt and Whitney single-row radial engines. This signified single-engine fighter types or light and medium twin-engine aircraft and some civilian aircraft. The heavier, constant roar of the multiple-row radials. These were the heavy bombers and some single-engine fighters. The smooth, even sound of the Merlin or Packard inline engines, which were relegated strictly to fighter aircraft, if of United States manufacture.

And then in the years shortly after the war, there was the very distinct buzzing sound of the B-36 with the pusher engine application and finally, the thundering roar of the turbojet.

Consolidated/Vultee B-36

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After the war, my father came home in early 1946. We were all very happy to have him home again. I found out later my mother had been keeping him up to date on my continued obsession with aircraft of all types. As a result, he had already decided on a present for me that was the best he could possibly provide—a ride in an airplane. They didn't tell me at the time and kept it a secret.

On a clear, cold day in January of 1948, my mother and father bundled me up in warm clothes and headed out for a ride in the country. Much to my surprise and delight, we ended up at a small country airport by the name of Sky Ranch. My father took me with him inside a little shack next to a hangar. There, we were met by a young man (I thought he was older than dirt), who introduced himself as the pilot, and asked me if I was ready to go flying.

I was absolutely beside myself. I was so excited I thought I was going to wet my pants. The pilot (who I now realize was probably in his midtwenties) introduced himself to me, saying his name was Paul. He took me by the hand and led me outside and into the hangar and up to what, to me, was the most beautiful airplane in the world. What it actually was, was a well-used Piper J-3 Cub. The weather was CAVU (clear and visibility unlimited) with about three inches of snow covering the ground and no wind. Perfect weather for an initial flight.

Piper J-3 Cub

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My father had bought me a thirty-minute flight for $15. I would have been just as excited if it was only for five minutes. Paul put me in the rear seat of the Cub, strapped me in securely, and then he and another person pushed the Cub out of the hangar and onto a gravel ramp area. He then climbed on board, strapped himself in, fiddled with a few of the controls, communicated with the ground attendant, yelled, Contact! and the ground attendant swung the propeller, the engine fired, and we began to move.

Throughout all this activity, I was totally mesmerized. The hangar could have burned to the ground, or a bomb could have gone off, or an asteroid slammed into the ground, and I don't think I would have noticed. Of course, nothing of that magnitude occurred fortunately.

Instead, we taxied out to a large grassy area, where Paul stopped, ran the engine up, and checked a number of things, including exercising all the flight controls. During these checks, he was telling me what he was doing, but I didn't really have the vaguest idea what he was talking about. I was so wide-eyed and awestruck he could have told me he was going to throw me out of the plane as soon as we were airborne, and I wouldn't have been aware of any danger.

Suddenly, the engine roared, and we were hurtling down the grass so fast I thought for sure we were destined for a crash (in actuality, it was more like a lazy mule being forced to move. The J-3 was not endowed with an overabundance of power). The tail of the Cub came up, and within seconds the ground began to fall away. I was airborne! My dreams were coming true.

We slowly climbed up into the clear sky, and I couldn't look in all the directions I wanted to. I wanted to see everything. I wanted to etch the visions into my memory so they would remain crystal clear forever.

The vistas were grand and magnificent. I thought I was able to see forever. In reality, with the weather as it was, visibility was over sixty miles to the horizon if I was looking to the east over the flat farmland. It was only twenty or twenty-five miles to the west due to the Rocky Mountains standing tall in all their grandeur. I could see buildings, cars, trucks, and even people with amazing clarity. The precision of the images was astounding. I began to go into sensory overload. There were things I saw and registered that would be lost to me due simply to the amount of information I was trying to process.

All too soon, Paul announced we were returning to the airfield. We had been airborne for nearly an hour. Paul had graciously extended the flight to give me a little more time in the air. We were gone so much past the thirty minutes my father had paid for that my parents were beginning to worry.

The landing was so smooth I wasn't aware we were so close to the ground until the slight rumble of the wheels on the grass began. The Cub slowed to a walking pace, and we turned toward the hangar. I could see my parents waiting for us to arrive. The mixture of emotions I was dealing with were hard for a child. Exultation, for the fact it had actually happened. Anticipation, for the eagerness to get into the air again. Sadness, due to the fact the ride was over. Eagerness, to be able to tell anyone who would listen what a wonder I had experienced.

My parents might have had some second thoughts about the advisability of giving me that ride when for many months after, all I could talk about was that ride. My brother and sister certainly didn't appreciate my ardor; they already complained about the fact that he gets everything he wants since I was the baby of the family. But the bug had struck, and I was truly bitten. I was going to get back in the air somehow. As it turned out, it would be almost ten years before that happened.

Part 2

The Early Years in Casper, Wyoming

As I got into my early teens, I had not forgot my desire to fly and began to think realistically about how to achieve that goal. I knew, without asking, that my parents were not going to be able to pay for the cost of flying lessons; they were faced with college expenses for both my older siblings before there was any possibility they could help me. So I was going to have to come up with a plan myself.

My parents had moved us from Denver to Casper, Wyoming, a few years back, so that was where my urge to fly would have to come to fruition. I examined and thought through a variety of ways in which to pay for my flying lessons. There were a couple of different ways in which advanced ratings and licenses could possibly be paid for by third parties, but I couldn't find any programs that would defer or take care of the cost for the first license. So that was the initial problem.

As far as advanced licenses were concerned, the first obvious payee would be one of the branches of the US military. They would also be a candidate for even the initial primary training if they would honor a preenlistment guarantee. Problem was, none would agree to a situation wherein if an enlistee failed to meet the standards required for pilot training, whatever those standards were, the enlistment would be void. So if you tried and were rejected for any reason, you were at the mercy of whatever powers were applicable as to what you would be expected to do in the military. The second possibility for a payee for the advanced licenses would be the airlines. They at least would make certain you met their standards for hiring before saying yay or nay.

An interesting footnote, most outside the industry are totally unaware of the fact the airlines had a preemployment test in those days, scored from 0 to 9. If an applicant scored 0–3 or 7–9, they were eliminated from consideration. The lower scores being no longer in contention was understandable; the higher scores also dropped from possible employment was a little harder to understand.

From everything I was led to believe, the high scorers were not hired because they were too independent and wouldn't conform to company policies they thought extraneous or egregious. In other words, they were too smart to blindly go along with something they didn't agree with. Unfortunately, I had a physical handicap that put all those options beyond reach. I had to wear glasses to correct for nearsightedness. The fact my vision was corrected to better than twenty-twenty was totally irrelevant. At that particular time in history, it was the opinion of all those institutions that you had to be Superman in order to be even considered as an applicant.

Regrettably, that mandated any expenditure for flying lessons, primary or advanced, would be my responsibility. So I needed a job, one that would pay a reasonable amount to allow me to pay for the lessons.

In the last portion of my freshman year in high school, I set out to find a job. The first place I went looking was the airport. If I could find a job in the aviation field that would pay me adequately and at the same time be in and around the industry I was looking to be involved with, that would be wonderful. In April, I did find a job at one of the two Fixed Base Operators (FBO) on the airport as a lineman.

My duties involved trying to encourage transient aircraft to come to our facility rather than our competition for fueling, tie-down, or any maintenance required. This encouragement was accomplished by standing out on the ramp area where I was visible to the transient aircraft in my bright-red coveralls and vigorously waving dayglow orange paddles during the day or extended colored flashlights at night.

In addition, I was required to service any aircraft requiring it with fuel and oil, move them in and out of the main hangar and smaller individual T hangars, fully wash aircraft if requested, wash off the belly of oil and exhaust stains of any aircraft requiring it, and do whatever else was asked of me by those above me in the hierarchy.

Alas, our competitor was the gorilla on the field. They were significantly larger, offered more services, had a flashy Follow me vehicle to attract the attention of transient aircraft, and were located exactly opposite of the taxiway used 95 percent of the time for exiting the primary runway, which also was used for 95 percent of all landings. Needless to say, I used up uncounted calories in waving my arms fruitlessly in an attempt to attract business. However, it worked on just enough occasions to keep me endlessly hopeful.

Since I was in high school, I was only able to work in the afternoons and on weekends. It became apparent to me the amount of remuneration I was receiving was not sufficient to cover what I expected my expenses to be. However, I didn't want to leave this job because I really enjoyed being around the industry, and I was definitely learning things that I felt were of value to me. As an example, one fine spring afternoon one of the long-term customers of the company called and asked that his aircraft be removed from the T-hangar he rented, put on the line, fueled up, and made ready for departure.

The normal procedure I had been trained for to accomplish this specific task was to take a tug-and-tow bar to the hangar, hook the tow bar to the aircraft, tow the aircraft from the T-hangars to the flight line, tie it down, and service it. The particular aircraft in question that day was a Ryan Navion. It was a single-engine, tricycle-gear, low-wing monoplane with a sliding canopy covering a four-seat interior.

Although this task was routinely accomplished by a single person, on this particular day, Rudy, the head lineman, said he would come with me to help. While I located the correct tow bar, hooked it to the aircraft tug, and headed over to the T-hangar, he had already walked over to the T-hangar with the key, unlocked the doors, and opened them. As I started to position the tug to engage the tow bar, he told me to stop and said he was just going to taxi the aircraft over to the main hangar.

Ryan Navion

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I was very surprised by that statement and asked if he should really be doing that. He stated, Once you've been trained, it's okay. I do this all the time. He told me to watch the wingtips as he exited the T-hangar, crawled up on the wing, slid back the canopy, got into the cockpit, and started the engine. I dutifully watched to make certain the wingtips cleared the sides of the T-hangar as he exited and started driving back to the main hangar.

The Casper airport was an ex-Army airbase, built in 1942 initially as a training base for B-24 and B-17 bomber squadrons. Toward the end of the war, it was changed to a B-29 training base. It followed the basic design theme of all the multitude of airfields built during the war to accommodate the military effort. A primary runway oriented to the direction of the prevailing wind for the location of the base and several secondary runways in different directions. A large ramp area adjacent to the primary runway and large storage hangars on the perimeter of the ramp opposite the runway. Behind and beyond the runways and hangars, a multitude of buildings built for and designed for whatever need they filled.

Our main hangar was the first of five large hangars adjacent to the ramp proceeding from the southwest to the northeast. Our gorilla competitor inhabited hangars two, three, and four. We had access to hangar 5, which was nearly a mile further down the ramp from our main hangar, one.

To allow for the ability to secure aircraft (tie down), which elected not to be stored in a hangar, there were steel cables fixed permanently to the large concrete ramp area, extending out perpendicular to the face of the hangars toward the runway, to which aircraft were tied down. This was imperative for small aircraft due to the high speed of the prevailing winds in Casper. This description of the layout of the airport pertains to what transpired that day Rudy decided to taxi that Navion. The two rows of T-hangars were built long after the airport became a civilian facility and were southwest of the location of our main facility, hangar one.

On the tie-down cables in front of our hangar, there were four aircraft tied to the first cable, which was the one located farthest to the southwest and toward the T-hangars. As a result, Rudy was forced to taxi further out toward the runway in order to clear those aircraft secured on the tie-down cable before turning back toward the main hangar. The doors on the main hangar were all retracted into the open position. Even though Rudy was not applying any throttle to the Navion, he had reduced the throttle to idle after clearing the T-hangar, given the distance he was required to cover to clear the secured stationary aircraft the Navion was building up considerable speed.

As I cleared the end of the T-hangars and turned toward the main hangar with the tug-and-tow bar, Rudy was clearing the end of the tie-down cable and turning toward the main hangar. I could see that the Navion was going much faster than I felt was safe heading directly into a hangar. As the Navion approached the hangar, I could see Rudy braced as straight as he could against the seat back, desperately trying to slow down what now appeared to be a runaway aircraft. As he disappeared into the hangar, I feared for the worst; but for me that was yet to come. There was the exaggerated roar of the engine as it entered the confines of the hangar, then a shattering noise, then clangs and bangs, and then just a cacophony of noise. Then just as suddenly, there was absolute silence.

As I was able to look into the hangar, all I could see initially was sawdust, sawdust everywhere, from the rafters all the way to the floor. As the dust began to settle, I could begin to assess the damage and figure out where the sawdust came from. Inside the hangar at the time of the incident were a Mooney MK20, a Cessna 180, a Cessna 140, a Beechcraft Bonanza, and a Staggerwing Beechcraft.

Mooney MK-20

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The Navion had impacted almost directly into the end of the left wing of the Mooney, which was constructed of wood and fabric. The Navion propeller had chewed through about eight feet of the Mooney's wing before the engine stalled. That's where all the sawdust came from.

Cessna 180

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Cessna 140

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Beechcraft Bonanza

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Beechcraft Staggerwing

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In addition, upon impact, the Navion began pushing the Mooney backward while chewing up its wing. This caused the opposite side of the Mooney to impact both the Cessna 180 and the Staggerwing Beechcraft, causing them both to be pushed into the walls of the hangar. Fortunately, there was no breach of the Mooney's fuel tanks, which could have escalated this incident manyfold.

Rudy was in a nearly catatonic state, muttering over and over, No brakes, no brakes, no brakes… I got up on the wing and tried to ascertain if he was injured in any way; it appeared he was not. I helped him to get out of the cockpit and down to the floor, where his legs just folded up, and he sank to the floor.

I was concerned there might be items left undone in the cockpit since I could hear something running, something electric. I got back up on the wing and looked to see if I could figure out what to do. I had only been there for three and a half weeks and was really not qualified to be poking around in the cockpit of an aircraft, but I certainly didn't think it was safe to leave something running,

I hollered to Rudy to tell him something was still turned on but got no answer. When I looked around, he was gone. I jumped down and went to find him. I found him in the locker room; he had taken off his coveralls and was emptying his locker. I tried to get him to come help me with the Navion, but he refused to talk. Once he got his things together, he walked out of the hangar, got in his car, and drove away despite my entreaties for help. I never saw Rudy again, and no one was ever able to contact him; he just disappeared.

I now had several major problems (as I said, for me the worst was now coming). The owner of the company was gone on a charter flight. The only other pilot was a grizzled old flight instructor that was gone on vacation. The mechanics were gone by truck to pick up some major parts in Salt Lake City, and there was no one else but me. I had an aircraft with something running that was severely damaged. I had three other aircraft that were also damaged, one severely and two not quite so bad.

I figured the Navion was the worst problem and needed to be dealt with before anything else. I scrounged in the owner's office and found a list of tenant owners and phone numbers for them. The owner of the Navion was listed as John McQuire. I needed to advise him of the damage to his aircraft anyway and figured he would know what to do about what was still running in his airplane. I called his office number, but he wasn't in. I asked if they knew how to contact him, and they said yes, but wouldn't give that information to me. So I explained there had been an accident, and his aircraft had been damaged, and if he would please call me as soon as possible.

I tried to locate a number to call the owner. He was supposedly in Ponca City, Oklahoma, on his charter flight but found no contact numbers for him. I then went back to the primary issue I was concerned about, the running system in the Navion. I went back into the hangar and crawled up on the wing and got into the cockpit. After some five minutes of just sitting and not touching anything, just looking and reading switch labels, I found the one labeled Master Switch. It was what I had hoped to find. It was still on as I guessed it might be, so I turned it off and that solved the running system, whatever it was.

I shut the hangar doors, thinking it best not to advertise the carnage inside. Then I went to the office and began trying to track down the other owners of the aircraft involved. I hadn't been in the office more than ten minutes when I heard tires screeching on the tarmac outside as a vehicle slid to a stop. Someone got out of the vehicle and slammed through the door to the office, and I found myself face-to-face with the angriest Irishman I had ever seen. John McQuire had bright-red hair, and his face was as red as a fire engine. He looked as if he was going to explode.

As soon as he saw me, he exploded, I'm going to kill you, you little f——! What the hell did you do to my airplane?

I immediately responded since I hadn't done anything to it. I didn't have a chance to do anything to it. Rudy told me not to tow the Navion. He was going to taxi it over. He then started it up and taxied the aircraft over from the T-hangar. When I was helping him out of the cockpit after the collision, he was saying the brakes didn't work.

That's total b——s——! John shouted. There's absolutely nothing wrong with the brakes! Who the hell told him he could taxi my airplane anyway! Where is that a——? I'll kill him!

I told him that Rudy simply changed his clothes and left without so much as a by-your-leave. I'm here because there is no one else around. I just got stuck with this mess. I'm sure there are probably a lot of other people that should be contacted, but I don't know who they are or how to reach them.

Yeah, you're right, he agreed. There are a lot of people to be notified. I'll take care of that in a bit, but where the hell is Roy?

He wanted to know the whereabouts of the owner; his use of his first name jogged my memory that I had seen his name on some of the office paperwork while looking for contact numbers. He left yesterday on a charter to Ponca City. I don't have any idea when he's due back, I told him.

Well, that's just f—— great! he growled. What was he flying? he asked.

I think he must be in the 210. It's not in the hangar, but I was not here when he left, I stated.

Cessna 210

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I'll see if I can locate him later. Now I want to see my airplane. With that, he headed into the hangar with me trailing behind.

As soon as he saw his Navion still entangled in the remains of the Mooney, he exploded again. If I ever find that little SOB, he raged, I will skin him alive and hang him out to dry.

The visible damage to his Navion was limited to the propeller, which was seriously eroded and bent, and the engine cowling, where it had come in contact with the remains of the Mooney's wing being thrown about by the rotating propeller. His Navion had been maintained in pristine condition by John. He had obviously not spared the dollars when it came to care and maintenance, so it was a real tragedy to see the results of this accident. He was visibly distressed by what he was looking at. He crawled up on the wing to get into the cockpit.

While he was situating himself in the cockpit seat, I explained to him that I had found the master switch and shut it off due to the running electrical device. I also let him know that I first tried to reach him to explain my concern and how deal with it before I did it on my own. I told him I was worried about an electrical device continuously running when I had no idea what it was or what it might eventually do. He allowed as how that was the right thing to do under the circumstances. He turned on the master switch and immediately turned off the electrical unit that was running. It was an electric fuel pump. He then checked the brakes and stated emphatically, There's not a damn thing wrong with the brakes.

At that time, several other things happened almost simultaneously; the owner of the Staggerwing Beechcraft showed up, the phone began ringing off the hook, and Roy landed and taxied up to the hangar. When Roy came into the hangar and found out what had transpired in his absence, he was in a state of shock. He was immediately confronted by an irate Irishman with a befuddled Staggerwing owner standing next in line and the owner of the Mooney on the telephone demanding answers.

Fortunately for me, after relaying the basic facts of what had taken place to Roy and what I had done to that point, I was able to fade into the background; after all, I was only a fourteen-year-old who shouldn't have been involved in the first place.

After the dust finally settled (pardon the pun), a number of facts came to light. The Navion suffered minor structural damage but required a complete engine overhaul due to the manner in which it was stopped, and the propeller had to be scrapped because of the damage caused by the collision. The Mooney was written off as a total loss. The Cessna 180 and the Staggerwing Beechcraft both suffered minor damage to various parts of their airframes. It was determined the brakes on the Navion were in perfect working order. The mechanics asserted that Rudy had been taxiing various aircraft around the ramp for some time, although they were all Cessnas. Roy was totally unaware of Rudy's actions, and the mechanics assumed Roy must have given Rudy permission to taxi aircraft rather than tow them; they simply didn't believe Rudy would be so brazen as to do it without authorization.

The real problem that ultimately caused this accident was Rudy. He had taken it on himself to start taxiing aircraft around the ramp without permission or training. He knew how to start and stop the engines based on helping the mechanics at various times and also learned how the brakes worked as well but only on Cessnas. The brakes on all Cessna aircraft were operated by rotating the rudder pedals forward with your feet allowing the brake to be activated. The harder you rotated the top of the pedals forward, the harder the brakes were applied.

When I witnessed Rudy in the Navion, it was apparent from the position of his body as he disappeared into the hangar that he was pressing as hard as he possibly could on those rudder pedals in an attempt to stop. There was only one difficulty with that; the brakes on the Navion are not activated by the rudder pedals as they are on Cessna aircraft. In fact, the brakes have absolutely no connection to the rudder pedals on the Navion at all. Instead, they are operated by hand with a handle in the center of the instrument panel accessible to either front seat occupant.

Rudy, having never before taxied the Navion or been in it when someone else taxied it or having ever heard a description of how the brakes on a Navion worked, made an assumption that all aircraft were the same; it could have cost him his life. It did cause a serious incident. As for me, I learned a number of things from this escapade that I carried forward with me in my career.

First, never assume that systems, basic or advanced, on different aircraft are the same or operate in a similar fashion. Be certain to fully understand how each system operates and what it is used for. Not understanding how a system operates is a recipe for disaster when a situation arises that requires the use of that system to operate safely.

Second, lack of knowledge can, and most often does, result in panic when the need to operate a system is required. And panic renders an individual unable to think clearly about what is happening or what to do about it, the results of which can be deadly.

Rudy could have prevented any accident from occurring if he had been thinking straight, but he obviously was panic-stricken. As soon as he realized he had no brakes (as far as he knew), he should have shut down the engine, and the aircraft would have immediately began slowing down. Then if he had room, he could have turned away from the hangar and eventually stopped. Even if he waited too long and didn't have enough room to turn away, the amount of damage done would have been significantly reduced with the engine shut down.

In addition, allowing a collision to occur with the engine running without restraint magnified the possibility of a truly serious accident by thousands of times. Had a fuel tank been breached with a hot, running engine in close proximity, that hangar and everything in it could have been consumed in a fire ball. I vowed then and there to mentally prepare myself as best I could to never, ever allow myself to panic in an aircraft. Little did I know that my resolve would soon be tested.

It became painfully obvious that the amount of money I was making working part time as a lineman was never going to be sufficient to cover all the expenses I expected to encounter. I needed to make more money, but I absolutely didn't want to quit the lineman's job I had. I loved being around and involved in the aviation industry. As luck would have it, I found a solution right on the airport. A solution, it turned out, that had perils of its own.

Of the over five thousand plus acres of ground covered by the airport, some two thousand plus acres of those were grounds surrounding and between the actual runways, where there could obviously be no obstructions like buildings. Those two thousand plus acres were leased to a local company that planted and harvested alfalfa in that acreage. On the very back corner of the airport was a facility that consumed all the alfalfa harvested: an alfalfa mill. It dehydrated the alfalfa, turned it into green flour by running it through a hammer mill, mixed it with steam, and pressed the mixture through large steel dies to make pellets. Depending on the die in use, they could be pellets for rabbits or chickens or larger ones for cattle, horses, or sheep. And I heard they might be hiring.

In a unique way, the job opportunity at the alfalfa plant presented an interesting possibility; they were only open and operating during the summer. When fall came around, they had to shut the plant down for lack of product. Alfalfa simply doesn't grow in the winter, especially like the winters in Wyoming.

I talked at length with Roy about what I was thinking, and he agreed to go along with it. If I could get a job at the alfalfa plant, I would work there during the summer until they closed for the winter. Then when I went back to school in the fall, I could come back and work my part-time schedule as a lineman at the FBO.

With that agreement in hand, I went to the plant to see if they were hiring. The plant manager said he only had an opening on the sacking crew, but looking at me, he allowed as how he didn't think I was physically capable of doing the job. When I inquired as to what specifically he was concerned about, he stated, We bag the product in one-hundred-pound bags, and the crew has to close the bag, then load and stack the bags up to twelve high in the warehouse and up to eight high in the railroad cars that the product is shipped out on. You don't look like you could physically handle that job for any length of time, if at all.

I could understand now where he was coming from. At fifteen years old, I was four feet eight inches tall and weighed ninety-eight pounds. I had to talk a good story to get hired. I told him he was underestimating my capability and that he really should at least give me a try. I told him I was very reliable and loyal to an employer and would never be a slacker, and I was stronger than I looked. I asked him to give me one week, and after that week if he thought I wasn't working out, I would leave with no fuss. He thought for a bit and then agreed. He told me to report in at 7:00 a.m. the first day of June; that was five weeks away.

The work schedule was seven days a week, twelve hours a day. That meant forty-four hours of time and a half every week. Now I was making some real progress toward my goal if I could get by that trial period.

After about three weeks, I watched the tractors preparing the fields for planting and then the slow appearance of the first crop of alfalfa. On the appointed day, I showed up about thirty minutes early, anxious to find out if I had found a viable option for my plan. The plant manager took me into the sacking room and introduced me to an old Indian. The manager told me to just call him chief (I never did find out his real name) and that he had been in charge of the sacking crew since the plant opened, and he would show me everything I needed to know.

Chief wasted no time after the manager left in showing me how things worked and what was expected of me. The process was semiautomated in that there was a large bin that incorporated a scale and that accepted one hundred pounds of product from the storage silo before shutting off the product supply. At the bottom of the bin was a rack to which I had to attach a burlap bag and then pull a lever to release the one hundred pounds of product into the bag. Resetting that lever automatically triggered the release of another one hundred pounds of product supply into the weighing bin. Once that process was complete, I had to remove (read, drag) the bag from the rack, put another empty bag on the rack for loading, and close the existing bag to prepare it for storage.

At that time, the closing of the burlap bags was accomplished manually. I'm certain there was most likely an automated process available somewhere to do that job, but this facility didn't have it. So the manual closing was accomplished by sewing the bag shut with a very large needle and heavy string. Chief gave me some very good pointers on the best way to sew the bags shut to make sure they were secure and didn't leak any product.

Once the bag was secured, I had to load it on a two-wheel dolly, on which I had to stack at least five bags before taking them into the warehouse. In the warehouse, I faced my toughest challenge; the bags were stacked twelve high, and there was no way to get to the top without carrying the bags. The stacking was accomplished by layering the bags; each row was one bag higher than the row in front of it, allowing us to use the bags already in place as a staircase. But you had to carry the bag. Trying to drag it up a stair-cased set of bags to a height of twelve bags would have been almost impossible.

I never would have been able to do the job if not for Chief. He was probably in his mid to late sixties as best as I could tell, had a huge pot belly, and had been working in that sacking room for six years. In that time, he had figured out the best and most efficient way to deal with the unwieldy one-hundred-pound bags. He showed me how to use leverage with my legs, knees, and back to move and lift the bags. Without him teaching me that technique, I doubt I would have been able to finish that first twelve-hour day. Instead, I was able to handle the job without too much difficulty. Even at my best, which came much later, I was only able to match Chief's output, never to best it. After my one-week trial, I was hired on permanently.

Once or twice every week, a locomotive would deliver two to three box cars to the siding adjacent to the plant. When that happened, the sacking crew had to remove the bags from the warehouse and load the box cars for shipment.

For the next three years, I spent my summer vacations from school working twelve hours a day, seven days a week at the plant. And during the school year, I was back working part time at the FBO. That first summer and winter, I grew six inches and gained twenty-five pounds. In the next two years, I grew another nine inches and gained another thirty-five pounds.

Working in the sacking room for that first summer was the dirtiest job I ever had. The pulverized, dried alfalfa was impossible to totally contain; it permeated everything—my eyes, my ears, my nose and my clothes. After a day at the plant, I was green from head to foot. By the end of the summer, I was ready to get back to the FBO and my job as a lineman.

During that winter of my sophomore year, I wanted to start my flying lessons with my newfound wealth from the alfalfa plant. So in early October, I scheduled my first lesson with Walter Harrison, that grizzled old flight instructor that worked for the company and, as it turned out, the only flight instructor in Casper at that time.

I was fifteen years old at the time, the minimum age required for a student license. I figured by the time I turned sixteen the following spring and the minimum age for a private license, I should be close to completing all the requirements to allow me to take the test for the private license. One of which was a minimum of forty hours of accumulated flight time, which would consume about $1,400 of my newfound wealth.

Although I had seen Walter around the facility, I had never really had a chance to talk with him or get to know him. I only knew that he didn't have a large clientele; in fact, I had only seen two different students in the time I had been there. So on the day of my first lesson, I was basically dealing with a stranger.

When I met with him for my lesson, he told me in a gruff, gravelly voice we would be using the Cessna 140—a conventional gear (tail dragger), high-wing, single-engine, two-passenger aircraft—as our trainer. He took me out on the ramp where the 140 was tied down. He untied it and went through the process of the preflight inspection, showing me the things I needed to look at. Check the fuel, drain the sumps looking for water or any possible contamination, check the oil and check the condition and movement of all flight controls, check the tires for inflation and condition, and finally check the general overall condition of the aircraft. He told me to get into the left seat but not to touch anything until he told me to.

This particular 140 was not equipped with any type of a radio, so he pointed out it was necessary to call the control tower to advise them of our intentions prior to the flight, which he had already done. So after he started the engine, he turned the 140 to face the tower and flashed the landing light on and off several times. In less than a minute, the controllers in the tower turned on a green signal light and pointed it directly at us. He told me this was our authorization to taxi to the active runway but not for takeoff.

As we started to taxi, he explained the tower controllers had told him which runway to use when he had called them, and he then showed me how he was controlling our speed and direction as we moved along. When we reached the active runway, we stopped well short on the taxiway, and he began to run up the engine and check the magnetos, explaining what he was looking for as he did so. Then he checked the movement of all the flight controls and set the trim for takeoff, adjusted several instruments in the cockpit, checked the fuel selector valve, and explained again what he was doing and why. All this time, I had to lean toward him to hear exactly what he was saying. His voice was very low and hard to hear.

He again turned toward the control tower and flashed the landing light several times. This time, we had a red light beamed at us. He stated the obvious, that we were not cleared to do anything at that moment.

A few minutes later, an Aero Commander 680, belonging to Pacific Power and Light, touched down smoothly on the runway and then cleared at the center taxiway. As soon as it was clear, the control tower beamed the green light at us, clearing us for takeoff.

Walter turned the 140, taxied onto the runway, lined up with the centerline, and applied full power. I watched closely as he manipulated the rudder pedals to keep us straight, let the tail lift off naturally, and then smoothly lift the 140 into the air at a speed of about seventy knots. We exited the traffic pattern to the north and climbed to about nine thousand feet. He leveled the 140 off, pointed out the relationship of the artificial horizon to the actual horizon and the relationship of the directional gyro to the magnetic compass, and told me to take the control wheel.

As he talked, he would have his head turned away from me, looking out of his side window. I couldn't hear and understand clearly what he was saying to me due to the noise of the engine and the wind. I asked him if he could please speak a little louder because I couldn't hear him very well. Imagine my complete surprise when he yanked the control wheel away from me and began throwing the 140 through a series of violent maneuvers and yelling at me as loud as he could, Can you hear me now? Can you?

These maneuvers—a stall, a spin, some zero G maneuvers, and steep dives with sharp pullups—were so unexpected that they made me nauseous. He finally stopped and said, Lesson over! and turned back to the airport.

After we landed, he told me Maybe next time you'll pay closer attention and walked away. I began to understand why he didn't have very many students. I knew right then I would not be able to continue with Walter as my instructor.

As it turned out, the other students of his had been complaining vociferously about the treatment he was dealing out; as a result, he was terminated about two weeks after my experience. The problem that generated was there was no other flight instructor available.

Right after January 1, Roy announced he had hired another flight instructor who would be starting February 1. I waited anxiously for his arrival. I was eager to get on with my flight training.

On February 1, Larry Kincaid, our new flight instructor and charter pilot, showed up for work. He appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties and was very pleasant and easy to talk with. He laid out his plans for expanding the training of students he planned to implement and indicated he was ready to start scheduling immediately. I scheduled my first hour of instruction with Larry for the following week. Larry was very laid-back in his instructional techniques. He never got excited about anything said or done by a student. But he was very thorough and explicit in his explanations of what he wanted you to do or to correct something you were doing incorrectly.

I really enjoyed the time I spent with him and made good progress over the next month, according to Larry. During my seventh hour of dual instruction, Larry had me practicing crosswind takeoffs and landings. After executing four touch-and-go landings, Larry told me to make the next one a full stop, which I did. He then told me to taxi back for another take off.

When we got back to the takeoff position, he said, Stop the plane and let me out. I want you to make three takeoffs and landings, make your third a full stop and come back to pick me up. Remember to keep an eye on the tower for the lights authorizing your movements. Remember what you've learned, and just do as you've been doing, and you'll be fine. With that, he got out of the aircraft and walked away.

Was I nervous as I was starting my first solo flight? Yes. Was I excited? Definitely, but I was also confident that I had been taught well and understood everything I was supposed to do.

I made my three takeoffs and landings without incident, with Larry standing at the approach end of the runway watching my approaches, touchdowns, and subsequent takeoffs with an eye toward evaluation of my performance. After the last landing, I taxied back and picked up Larry and returned to the hangar.

After shutting down the aircraft and making certain it was secured, I went into the hangar for my postflight briefing. Larry asked if I had experienced any problems or had any concerns. I said that I had none. He said, I didn't think you would. Now I want you to accumulate about eight to ten hours of practice on all your maneuvers and your takeoffs and landings before we start on your cross-country planning. Keep me posted on what you're doing, and find me if you have any problems or questions.

I started flying my solo flights the next week. I got two flights in before they told me the 140 was due an engine overhaul and would be down for about a month. I had accumulated a total of 9.4 hours of flight time to that point with 2.1 hours of solo time.

So it was in early April before I was able to arrange for my third solo flight. It was a beautiful spring day, temperature in the midseventies, and virtually no wind. I called the tower and explained I was going out for a training flight, that I would be gone about an hour and would be departing the airport traffic pattern to the north.

The controllers advised me to make an intersection departure on runway 35, to make a straight out departure to the training area, and to enter right downwind for runway 21 when returning. I then went out to the 140, did my preflight inspections, climbed in and started the engine, turned toward the tower, and flashed the landing light.

The controllers flashed the green light, authorizing my taxi to runway 35. I taxied to the runway, holding well clear, and made my run-up and preflight checks. Everything checked out fine, so I turned to face the tower, flashed my landing light, and immediately got the green light in return authorizing my takeoff clearance.

I pulled onto the runway, lined up with the center line, and made my takeoff run. I lifted off at the normal speed and started climbing directly northbound. As I passed over the departure end of the runway, I had achieved about 250–300 feet in altitude and was looking forward to my afternoon flight when the engine suddenly quit.

It didn't sputter. It didn't surge. It didn't slowly lose power. It didn't partially lose power. It just quit completely and suddenly, like I had switched off the magnetos. I was faced with my very first real-time emergency, a complete engine failure in a single-engine aircraft. There was only one option and no question in my mind as to that option—an emergency landing. At that altitude, in close proximity to the ground there was only one choice, land straight ahead or no more than five to ten degrees either side of straight ahead.

There was a slight rise in the terrain just off the departure end of the runway, which I had just cleared, and now the ground was gently sloping away from me, giving me a bit more room to reach any possible landing sites. There was really only one choice; ahead and slightly to my left was a horse pasture that was about 250 yards wide and four hundred yards long, and that's where I was going.

I had immediately established a normal power-off glide angle when the engine failed to give me the maximum forward distance that I might need for the situation I was in. However, I felt that glide angle would cause me to hit (should say touch down, not hit) the pasture