The Banjo Pilot

By Barry R. Willis

The Banjo Pilot is the story of Duke Steel, a North Carolina bluegrass banjo player who played banjo with Bill Monroe and the Blue Grass Boys in 1949. He then goes on to start his own band. After a personal tragedy involving a plane accident with his wife on board, he later joins a major airline as a pilot in 1958. After twenty years, he reacquaints himself with the bluegrass community when his daughter brings him back into the world of bluegrass. He teaches a new band how to play the style of bluegrass he learned from Bill Monroe and helps them learn enough to possibly win the band contest. The next week he takes the entire band to an important festival in a private plane. He has another flying incident coming home.

The novel features extensive coverage of flying, bluegrass music and its pioneers, Christianity, tension and excitement, even a love story. This is for the bluegrass music newbie, as well as the veteran historian. It also features loads of excitement for the bush pilot as well as the airline pilot. It is for the Christian as well as the non-Christian.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9781643002941

Book preview

Spring 1958

Scud Running

It was a long day at the concert where Duke Steel and his Pilot Mountain Boys had just finished up an outdoor bluegrass music concert in Bean Blossom, Indiana. It was Sunday. The gospel set the Boys played that afternoon went over very well with the hundreds of attendees. Now it was time to travel home.

Bean Blossom is in the hill country of eastern Indiana. The event was named Brown County Jamboree when Bill Monroe bought it in 1951. Some people still call it the Jamboree, but most folks these days know it as the Bill Monroe Music Park. These were the days before the iconic three-day festivals, which would begin in 1965 in a little town in southern Virginia called Fincastle—at a horse farm actually—in a field littered with horse manure.

Duke Steel’s veteran five-piece band was a great hit with the good folks there in the colorful, green hills of Brown County. They weren’t the headliners for the event, but they were certainly a featured band, highly anticipated because the Pilot Mountain Boys didn’t get up into those parts very often. The five-hundred-mile trip from North Carolina was quite a stretch for the guys in the band. The audience, made up mostly of locals and bluegrass fans from Indiana and neighboring Ohio and Illinois, had heard that these guys from North Carolina were good, so they were anxious to actually hear them and shake and howdy. Maybe buy their album.

The trip from North Carolina to Indiana for the group was long, but the day’s work paid well and the event quite prestigious. It gave them an opportunity to broaden their fan base, sell a few records and, hopefully, end up with a bit of profit for the weekend.

The journey from Mt. Airy might be a considerable distance for the band members, but not for Duke, the banjo player and owner of the band. He flew to these concerts in his Beechcraft Bonanza and usually brought his wife, Sweetie, my mom. This made the journey only a few hours compared to the dangerous all-day trip the rest of the band had to make in a car.

This was a lot of fun for the high school sweethearts. They did everything together and didn’t want to be away from each other, even for a minute. But it was good to get away from home occasionally and leave me, their ten-year-old Lisa, in the care of our family back home. I lived in the old home place with Uncle Gus and, of course, Mom and Dad and Pop (my dad’s father). Uncle Gus was always there to keep me company when the folks were away. We all had a great relationship until the tragic event. I’ll tell you more about that later.

I liked to fly on these trips too, especially to Dad’s concerts, but my fourth grade class had an event that weekend so I couldn’t make it that time.

My mom, Sweetie, loved to go along with her strong, tall, handsome, and wonderful husband on these trips across the Appalachians and all the beautiful scenery which went along with their travels. Mom didn’t know much about the flying part of the journey—leaving that up to her pilot-husband—but she loved to look out the window at the lakes and the hills and rivers. As they’d pass over a city or a lake or a river or other landmark, she tried to help him navigate by unfolding the Sectional Chart and point to it to show him that she was an active participant in the flight … and having fun. Me, I took to flying immediately and eventually made it my profession. I was soloed at age sixteen, and pretty soon, I got certified by the FAA (Federal Aviation Administration, which succeeded the Civil Aeronautics Authority that year) to be a professional flight instructor.

Dad finished his day of music after the band’s last set, then he and Sweetie hurried down to the Bean Blossom airport to get into their little single-engine Bonanza, planning to get home while it was still light. He planned it out just perfectly, he thought.

The newish Bonanza’s brightly-shined aluminum finish was a sight to behold. It was a huge step over the general population of small airplanes, which people normally used. While theirs might be fabric covered and slow, Dad’s Bonanza was all metal, designed with a low wing and sleek features.

This slick Bonanza was modern and definitely distinctive with its V-tail. It was the newest thing since the famed Beech Staggerwing. It was fast, had retractable gear and flaps, adjustable propeller, and was roomy. And it was loaded with the most modern radios that the Lear Corporation made—really neat gadgets to fiddle with. It resembled a WWII fighter aircraft more than other General Aviation aircraft at the time.

Dad’s aluminum projectile glistened on the grass, awaiting its owner; its huge eighty-eight-inch prop was ready to erupt into life and propel it to speeds unaccustomed by most pilots in those days.

A small airplane flying high up in the air on a cloudy day Description generated with very high confidence

This photo found on an early Bonanza brochure

There were cheaper airplanes, less expensive to fly and maintain, but this powerful and sleek beauty was the right price. It was handed down to him by his father, Pop, who used it occasionally. Pop’s health hadn’t been very good recently and he wasn’t using it, so he just turned it over to Dad. It fit into Dad’s band business just fine.

The airport at Bean Blossom wasn’t much more than a grass strip, but it did have a phone there in a little booth which had a direct line to the Civil Aviation Authority’s weather branch, where a pilot could speak to a weather man on the phone to get a briefing for his trip and then file his flight plan with them. These communication stations often weren’t much more than a converted chicken coop or an old, abandoned boxcar with a phone in it, but they worked just fine.

Dad was always careful to file an accurate flight plan and stick with the promised route and time. He wanted to make sure that if something went wrong, the CAA could find them along the path he told them he’d be on. He was a careful pilot, trying to follow all the rules.

They had just enough time to fly back home in the daylight. Pushing the night clock in the hills of Surry County where we live, in the northwestern part of North Carolina, was no place for a Private Pilot—an instrument pilot wannabe—so they hurried to get to the airfield to plan their trip home.

As was their normal relationship with each other, they talked about it a lot.

Sweetie, said Duke with a big grin, Let’s call the weather service and find out what awaits us for our trip home.

The word home has a great ring to it. They loved our friendly abode on Bull Creek, where our family had resided for nearly half a century. It was my comfort zone too. And it was always great to get Mom back into her living room with its wood fireplace and familiar accommodations—and her kitchen. Having to rely on Uncle Gus’ cooking was, well, tolerable but not much more. I loved to have Mom home to do the cooking for the family. I loved her cooking. Perhaps I should learn how to cook someday.

Sweetie, of course, went along with what the handsome pilot-musician-husband suggested, always careful to put him first in their relationship, especially when it came to flying.

Okay, honey. Do you have a dime for the phone booth? she asked.

We don’t need one, responded Duke authoritatively while smiling. The taxpayers have installed this hotline for us. We just pick up the phone, and we’re talking to the weather people. They’ll tell us all we need to know about the weather along our route. They’ll even tell us about equipment outages along the route. You know, like the navigation transmitters we call VORs. You remember seeing those on the Sectional Chart, don’t you?

Sure do. There are a lot of them along our route. You use those to hone in on, don’t you?

"Yup. But mostly, I use those to tune into and to back up my position—er, our position. Because we only travel by daylight hours, I don’t use them for navigating to and from much, but I can pinpoint my plane’s position exactly by using them to cross-reference us and verify our exact position. You know, some of those mountains and lakes look pretty much the same, so it helps tell us exactly where we are. It keeps me busy, and it’s a lot of fun doing it."

"Yes. I’ve seen you do that a lot with your radios. So that’s what you’re doing when you dial in all those frequencies and turn those knobs on your instrument panel?"

Exactly! You got it. You’ve been paying attention, haven’t you?

I have, honey. And I’m glad you taught me how to read some of those symbols on the map.

"Not map, Sweetie. Chart. It’s a Sectional Chart put out by the government so we can know where we are." He laughs. Certainly it’s not a criticism but a check to see if she remembered what he taught her earlier about the visual navigation aids that pilots use.

I forgot, admitted smiling Sweetie.

Okay. Let’s call now, and you can listen in. It’ll give you an idea of what’s ahead.

Duke picked up the direct line to the CAA’s weather briefers. He got a briefing then filed his flight plan with the guy on the other end of the phone line.

Did you understand what they were telling us? Duke asked her.

Not really. But I did hear him tell you that there are no equipment outages along our proposed route of flight.

"Excellent! You’re getting the hang of this. He also told us that there’s a possibility that the area around home will get some fog later in the evening after the sun goes down and after the air in the valleys cool off. But that won’t affect us because we’ll be there while the sun is up and the valley air is still warm. The briefer did say that it wouldn’t be a problem for our flight. We’ll be snug in our beds by the time the fog sets in.

Okay. I guess we’re ready to go, he said. Let’s put our luggage way in the back compartment for weight and balance purposes, do the preflight, and we’ll be on our way.

They walked over to the silver and red beast to do the preflight. They verified that they had enough fuel to get home, then Duke walked around the plane with Sweetie and pointed out things he liked to check before he flies: things like air in the tires, oil in the engine, leaks from any location—things like that.

They loaded up the luggage and his banjo and guitar onboard the Bonanza and got settled inside the cockpit. He crawled in first through the only passenger door in the plane, which was on the right side. After he got settled in the pilot seat, she swung her legs over and sat in the right seat. Sweetie latched the door.

The five-hundred-mile flight home would take them over Louisville, then over Richmond and Norton, Virginia, and then cross the Appalachian Mountains and the Blue Ridge, the easternmost mountain chain of the Appalachians, to home. It had been a good time for them at the Brown County Jamboree, but now it was time to go home where I and our family were waiting for them. My school event was complete. It was a show-and-tell for my biology class. I didn’t really care much for cutting up frogs—gave me the creeps.

Darling, said Duke. This will be a neat trip for us. We’ll get home just before dusk, and then we’ll be just in time to have supper with Lisa, Gus, and Pop. Get out your charts and have them ready for us to look at so we can follow our flight plan.

Aye, aye, sir. She loved helping him out even though they both knew he didn’t really need the help. He just invited her help to keep her occupied and keep up the fun quotient.

He turned on the master electrical switch and the lights in the plane came to life. He primed the engine with fuel then started the big engine and activated the generator electrical system. He reached for each of the radios and turned them on. He released the brakes. He lowered his right hand to the throttle and nudged it forward a half inch. The plane began to roll under its own power. They taxied on the grass toward the end of the runway for takeoff.

Duke, honey. Aren’t you forgetting something?

Of course not. He’d completed all the items on the checklist and was ready to pour the coals to it. What could she mean? I don’t need this distraction, he told himself. But I’ll play along with her to see what’s on her mind.

I don’t think so. I think we’re all set to go. What’s up?

You forgot to pray for God’s blessing on this trip.

He felt guilty that he’d forgotten this most-important part of their journey. You’re right, honey. Would you lead us in prayer?

Lord, thank you for a very fun weekend and the safety of our journey so far. It is great to know that you’re with us even though we almost forgot to pray for this last part of our journey. Please continue to be with us as we head toward home to Lisa and Gus and Pop. Keep us safe, and may the journey be safe and smooth and on time and wonderful. And thank you again for bringing this wonderful man into my life. In Jesus’s name we pray. Amen.

Duke responded, Amen. Thanks for reminding me. I just had some other things on my mind.

Of course. I think we’re ready now.

After the oil warmed up into the green range of the oil temperature gauge, he performed the rest of the Preflight checklist. He pushed the mic switch on the yoke and announced his intentions to any other planes in the area. He lined up the plane on the runway and pushed the throttle slowly forward toward full power. The vessel built up speed rapidly. Within a few seconds, he applied enough back pressure on the yoke to point the nose slightly airborne. They slipped the surly bonds of earth so he raised the landing gear. The terrain got smaller below Duke and Sweetie Steel. He pointed the plane southeast toward home.

Sweetie settled back for the three-hour-long flight home, charts in hand. This flying thing sure beat the five-hundred-mile trip by roads, which the rest of the band must navigate by car to get home.

Having that 165 horsepower at his disposal was awesome; a pilot could feel invincible. Indeed, that’s why the planes were called doctor killers. They were modern, fast, and capable—and addicting. But the problem was that those professionals, such as doctors or engineers who could afford these toys, might have many things on their minds other than flying when they took the controls. They considered themselves rather invincible because they could buy anything they wanted. Often their caution level was not up to their stick-and-rudder skill level.

It’s not that Bonanzas were difficult to fly—it’s simply that the full-time concentration needed for this job sometimes took a backseat to other matters they might have on their minds. They might have learned that old axiom, "There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots, but the feeling of self-assuredness and ego often clouded such cautionary judgment—the kind that would keep a superior pilot out of situations which would require his superior skills," as the saying goes. So they took chances—and they didn’t even know it. Sometimes this axiom applied to other professions too.

One of these extraneous thoughts that should not affect the judgment of a pilot was get-home-itis, but it often did. Getting home as planned became the most important thought, trumping the caution that flying absolutely required. Someone once said, Aviation, like the sea, is terribly unforgiving of any carelessness or neglect.

The overwhelming urge to get home must take a backseat to the inherent dangers that flying possesses. They tried to teach you this in flight school but, as you might suspect, some lessons were not learned as well as others.

So here they were, a private pilot and his passenger, slipping southeast toward home, trying to get back home to relax after a long weekend. If a flying danger presented itself, there was a strong possibility that it would be entirely unexpected. Then the thought process might become akin to get on the ground as soon as I can. But to Duke, that emergency which may present itself never had before, so why should it affect what they’re doing now? He had flown this country for years and knew it well. So what could possibly go wrong? It never had before. It’s a snap.

Pushing weather to get home was the biggest danger, according to the statistics. Those clouds obscuring the terrain below, scud, could be unpredictable and deadly. But the airfield was almost always clear of clouds, so there was really no problem, right?

Of course, our hero didn’t consider himself a dangerous pilot. He tried to follow all the rules and be attentive to everything that flying required. Sweetie knew this could be a difficult task and supported him in every way.

In a few hours, shadows would make their presence known in the valleys near Mt. Airy on the sun’s way to nightfall. Their estimated time of arrival would still be during daylight hours—about the same time as the long shadows were to set in, slightly before the demise of the sun’s warmth. The airport had no lights on the field, so it was imperative that they reached this destination before dusk. But there was no need to think about that now; he had planned everything carefully.

After a couple hours of smooth flying, they approached the northern border of North Carolina. Looking ahead as he was about to leave southern Virginia, he saw some clouds among the mountains. The way the fog was hugging the ground was causing him to shift his seat position a bit higher. A bit of tension set in. In addition to the ground-hugging fog, occasionally a cloud would appear in his path, forcing him to deviate around it.

Duke knew that shadows amongst the bags of moisture could actually help contrast the clouds from each other. While this made it a bit easier to determine where one cloud ended and another began, what he didn’t think about was that flying too closely to these puffy, vaporous, semi-transparencies could get a pilot in trouble. There might be a mountain behind the cloud. But he had done this before, so he was comfortable with his skills. He had a lot of confidence for a VFR (flying by visual reference to the ground) pilot. Perhaps too much confidence? Sweetie didn’t think so. She liked a guy in charge. She liked her man.

Duke sometimes wore rose-colored glasses. These could further accentuate the contrast between clouds even more. They worked well by enabling him to fly under visual flight rules with even more capability (this means into more marginal weather conditions) than he ever had because he could now see the cloud separations better. What might happen, though, was that if the person took those glasses off, he might find himself flying in worse visibility than he anticipated, possibly into the realm of illegality or danger.

Of course, the Federal Aviation Regulations prohibited this kind of operation so close to these clouds—but who’s to know? It’s just him and his judgment against the elements. And he must get home anyway he can. The gigs were important, but getting home to me, their daughter, and Uncle Gus, and Pop was even more important at that time. In any case, he mustn’t show any weakness to Sweetie. Mustn’t lose face. Always show confidence.

The weatherman told them that once they crossed the Appalachians, they’d be in good weather. There would be some moisture in the area due to the blessed life-giving rains which seemed to come every day this time of the year, but that wouldn’t affect them at their ETA (estimated time of arrival). Even though the terrain around the Mt. Airy airport was a bit hilly, fog wasn’t expected until much later that evening. That’s what he kept recalling from the briefing.

As they got closer to their home airport, they started their descent. Descending from over the Appalachians and the Blue Ridge, they approached the area around the Mt. Airy airport, but it was not in sight. It was obscured by a fog layer.

Duke asked himself out loud, How could the weatherman have been so wrong? The fog is not supposed to be here! We should be seeing the airport!

His head was on a swivel, looking for any semblance of the field. Sweetie sensed that she should be more proactive in flight activities so she started looking outside too. Maybe looking outside while pointing to objects on the chart would help Duke dismiss any worries about her feeling helpless. But she mustn’t let on that she understood any kind of danger. Might make him nervous. She trusted him and knew this was the time he must concentrate. She knew when to keep quiet and just observe. In the past, when she would ask questions, they would be asked either before or after the flight, but not during it. She knew that flying was a rather foreign subject, which he had trouble learning, but he took it seriously and was able to become a qualified pilot. It was certainly a foreign science to her, so she feared that a simple question might be inane and just trigger interpersonal conflict. She remained silent. Sweetie had always been a bit curious about flying but did little more than observe when he flew the plane. She was careful not to infringe upon his skill set.

The airport was on the other side of town but couldn’t be seen due to these low clouds. Looking up and down into the various valleys, searching for the airport, he saw nothing but farmland, mountaintops, trees, and fog.

Fog was nothing more than low clouds, he learned in basic flying ground school. And since he now saw a bunch of it close to the ground, this portion of his training had really proved effective in understanding what it was and how it was formed. But the urge to get home—onto the ground—was the only thought that now traversed his calculating mind.

Fuel was getting a little low, reducing options—nothing drastic yet, though. Using his left-brain characteristics of logic and reasoning, he began measuring what he should do next. Sure couldn’t rely on his right brain—the emotional side of his brain—now. It was becoming severely suppressed now due to the logic process taking over—just thinking and figuring how to get out of a potentially-dangerous situation.

Approaching the area where he approximated his home airport, he descended toward the hilltops to look for some asphalt. The weather briefing he’d received only a couple hours ago didn’t tell him about the possibility of the valley becoming socked in so much and so early. It had become a dangerous place to be. And it happened so fast!

Darn that weatherman!

No sooner did he descend into the valley where he estimated the airport was, due to the clouds behind him and above him getting solidified, he was getting socked in and the trees were getting bigger in the windshield.

Duke had read about such things in his training—about getting caught between cloud layers—and even trained to fly strictly by reference to instruments in the airplane if the ground disappeared, but he never really thought he’d ever have to use such training, especially since it’s illegal for a VFR pilot to fly strictly by reference to the plane’s instruments. That instrument training was just something the Certified Flight Instructor had to include into the Private Pilot certificate curriculum, right? He had passed the written test and shown the CAA Inspector he could do it. But he never thought he would have to use these skills. Neither, for that matter, did the CFI.

Clouds moved in, and he couldn’t get out of the valley. There was no airport below him, so he couldn’t land. And he didn’t recognize the hills as a place he’d seen before. The mountains looked so very different than their valleys below.

Duke’s mind was racing, searching for the correct decision. What could he do now?

Okay, I’ve got a few choices, he said to himself. I can fly low over the tree tops to the next valley. Hopefully I won’t hit a stag (a tall dead tree) on the way. Those things can reach up for my plane and catch my wing before I have a chance to turn away from it. I can climb, but even if I reached the top of the clouds, would I know where I