Aviation From My Rocking Chair: Summer 1973

As can be seen by the heading I have chosen, I want this column to be a mixture of Aviation History, Aircraft Construction, Maintenance, and Musings from my favorite rocking chair. For this last month of a troubled year, I am proposing we tell stories of past and present experiences both flying and fixing we have had. I know full well how these Sea Stories usually go so…there should be some rules: 1) An Air Vehicle must at least be mentioned in the story.

2. Must be in First person (i.e. friends or relatives may be included, but the story is yours.) 3) Must be based on a true story. However it need not be entirely accurate ( no fish will be weighed.) 4) No Surnames allowed and all witnesses will be protected.

3. No Politics!

Since this is my idea, I guess I should be first up, so join me.

It’s late July, 1973. GIB and I are parked on a small hill, next to a dirt crossroad, in rolling grasslands about 10 miles NE of Baker (now Baker City) Oregon. The North leg of the crossroad goes down our little hill and about half a mile away sits the only buildings I can see. They include a lopsided barn and what looks like an abandoned farmhouse except for an old pickup in front and a tended garden in back. Before I get further into my tale, I need to introduce you to my to my service truck I named GIB. He’s a big, white Ford 700 with a large steel box behind the cab for parts and tools. Aft of that is a 1200 gal. JET A fuel tank, and finally, there is a large cage for two 300 gal. water buckets. We have been chasing a Sikorsky S-55T (H-19 with a turbine conversion) all over Utah, Oregon, and Idaho on a USFS fire contract. As most of Y’all remember, there was no GPS, no Smart phones, no PCs, and the only radio communications I had was with the Forest Service ground grid. All of our ground and air navigation was done with Sectionals, USGS Contour maps, and Service station road maps. That’s probably why GIB was big, and white, as we were easily seen from the air.

I had been sitting in the truck’s shadow, trying to stay out of the 89 degree sun for about 2 ½ hours when Rex (our pilot) found us. I refueled the helicopter, fixed a frayed wire on a bucket dump switch, and was released to the motel so we could leave for Thompson Falls, MT the next morning.

I was feeling pretty uncomfortable, being soaked with sweat and now covered with dust from the aircraft landing and taking off, so as I rolled up the fuel hose and put away my tools, I was not a happy camper. I was just about to climb into GIB’s cockpit when I saw an old Chevy pickup come up the road and park in front of me. Out stepped twin 86-year-old farmers and introduced themselves as Tom and John. As we shook hands, John said, “You look like you could use some lemonade. Come on down to the house and rest a little.” I thanked them and climbed into the Chevy for a short ride to their farm.

Sitting under the grape arbor and drinking a tall glass of lemonade, the brothers asked me about the helicopter, and what we had been doing in the area, but soon, the conversation turned to stories of their youth. They were born in Cascade, MT in June of 1887, and loved to play along the banks of the Missouri River. They seemed to delight in each others company and finished each others sentences like an old, married couple.

I had been with the brothers an hour, when I mentioned it was about time for me to return to the motel when Tom (I think) asked if I would like to see the inside of the house. As the sun was still quite high, and my packing wouldn’t take long, I said “sure” and followed them in. The house was very clean with faded white walls. It had two bedrooms, one bath, and a HUGE kitchen and parlor. They had electricity, but every room had at least one oil lamp. In the kitchen, there was a large, white, wood burning porcelain stove with polished nickel trim which I mentioned was just beautiful. John said, “If you like that one, look at this.” He pulled a huge oilskin cover off of a brand new 1928 wood burning stove. It was 7 feet high, royal blue porcelain with polished nickle trim and legs. The grills were oiled and there wasn’t a spot of rust on it. It had been bought for their mother and she died before she could use it. The brothers simply put a cover over it and preserved it.

After the amazing kitchen, the parlor was a lot more subdued. There were two armchairs, a couch, a couple side tables, and a large stone fireplace. It was clean and looked comfortable, but I think the brothers noticed I was getting a little restless…until Tom asked me if I had ever heard of Charlie Russell? Rather stunned I said, “You mean Charles Russell, the western painter?” John said, “Yep, that’s ole’ Charlie. When we were kids playing on the river bank, we would often see him painting there or at his studio in town. Sometimes he would give us sketches or drawings. He seemed to like kids. Don’t know if our mother was aware if how well known he was, but she made us save all those drawings.”

John walked to a side table, lifted a rock and oilcloth cover off of a wooden box, and opened it. I have never been able to fully explain how I felt looking into that box. Inside were scraps of paper, sheets of paper, and a wood shingle, all with sketches, ink drawings, and 2 watercolors. There were studies of cowboys, native Americans, horses, bison and mountains that I was told surround Cascade, all given to twin, young brothers by Charles (Charlie) Russell. Some were signed, some not, but, there was no mistaking the artist. I was instantly aware of two things; that I was looking at a treasure, and if anyone found out about it, my new friends could be in grave danger. As gently as I could I asked the brothers if they had anyone looking in on them and to my relief they said that a nephew in town checked on them weekly. With that, the wonderful gentlemen took me back to GIB, said goodbye, and went back to their farm. What an amazing afternoon. The next morning I packed ol’ GIB, destroyed all my maps and notes from the day before, and headed out for Thompson Falls. That will need to be a story for another day.

Rick