Against All Obstacles

Against All Obstacles

by David Fugere

Copyright 2013 David Fugere

Smashwords Edition

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Illustrations by David Fugere

Electronic adaptation by www.StunningBooks.com

Table of Contents

SECRETS REVEALED

THE PROPOSITION

THE WORK BEGINS

DEPARTURE

THE AVANTI CAPER

AN ANGEL

THE VINE COVERED BEACH COTTAGE

A LOST WORLD

ESCAPE INTO HELL

THE RIVER

OTHER HUMANS

THE TEMPLE

CAPTURE

AMAZONIAN HISTORY

THE VILLAGE

SPIRITS OF THE AMAZON

ALONE

THE BROWN RIVER

THE BIG RIVER

HOMEWARD BOUND AT LAST

HOME

OMINOUS WINDS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

SECRETS REVEALED

Now that you asked, I’ll just show you my handiwork. Bert felt his advancing years as he stretched to remove the dusty 16’ blowgun and dart quiver from the garage wall.

Offering the long wooden tube to his grandson he said, Son I’m proud to say that, I built this little beauty myself, many years ago in the South American jungle, and under the supervision of a warrior tribesman. It can kill a human or large animal quietly, with just one of these thin wooden darts. Curare poison is its secret be careful that you don’t scratch yourself, the poison probably still has its effectiveness.

The excitement was unmistakable in Tim’s eyes as he queried his Grandfather.

Granddad, Come on! Give it to me straight. You’re not telling me that you built this blowgun yourself, and then used it for killing in the South American jungle; are you?

Bert replied with pride, "Damn sure did! Son for some time now, I have wanted to share with you some of my experiences, strange situation that happened all those many years ago in that Godforsaken jungle. I have to tell you though son; our discoveries remain unknown to this civilized world; even to this day.

Tim, over the years, you and I have not been able to do as much together as I would have liked. I however, know damn well, that you have spunk, character and are a man of action; it reminds me of myself at your age. Allowing for that, and the fact that you are family to boot, and you have now come of age as a man, I have decided that you will be the first and only person I am going to take into my confidence. I need to do it at this time in my life, before it is too late. I need to share these long-held secrets, that is, ---- if’-in you are interested?"

After lifting his gaze from the bore of the blowgun, Tim eagerly replied, while looking directly in his grandfather’s eyes. Interested, interested! You are damn right! I am sure the hell am interested; how could I not be. While holding Tim’s eyes, Bert interrupted by raising his hand, Bert continued, I am warning you son, this knowledge may alter your life, for good or ill. The truth is that, I have been afraid all these years. Yes, I have to say it, afraid that no one would believe me if I were to tell the truth about where we were, what we saw and what we experienced and what exist to this very day.

Bert laboriously retrieved an aged snakeskin leather bag from its hiding place under the saw-table. He brushed off the aged bag; sawdust boiled off into the air and was lighted by the garage’s window. Smiling while anticipating Tim reaction, he withdrew two smooth, angular stones from the pouch.

Feel these. Just what would you guess they are?

Must be agate or something similar, Tim replied while rolling the marble sized stones in his hand.

Would you believe me if I told you that those are uncut diamonds? That’s right, diamonds still in the rough; just the same today as when we found them all those many years ago.

Tim replied, OK GRANDDAD, you’ve got me, it is indeed, hard to believe, --- just, where in the hell….

Bert interrupted again, while removing a piece of hand-tooled metal from the worn pouch; the metal was 3/16 thick and similar in size and length to a strip of bacon. He handed the gleaming bright metal yellow strip to his grandson, asking, What do you suppose this is?"

Man alive! I know that one. That’s gold! Granddad Bert smiled a knowing smile; slowly he poured gold-colored sand from the pouch onto the metal table-saw top. Bert asked with a huge smile on his face, What about this?

Without waiting for a reply Bert said, You’ve guessed it son, gold-dust!

"But, how…where did…?

Bert again interrupted, and said, Hold your horses’ son! You are exactly right, as a matter of fact, its 24 karat gold, one hundred percent pure. But, before you get too excited, these treasures, and there is a hell of a lot more where they came from, are protected… Protected and concealed by unimaginable obstacles, not the least is the trackless, unforgiving hostile jungle. I have to tell you, there are strange savage societies that are still totally unaffected by civilization, furthermore, human life has no value to them. Therein lies the truth of it and the challenge."

One unbelievable issue is a hostile female society; I know you have heard of the Amazonian myth, well, I am here to tell you it for damn sure is not a myth. It gives me shivers to think of our experiences.

Stretching, Bert reached the shelf above the table saw, and removed a large red Life magazine from the pile. With a big puff, he blew off the accumulated dust, a cloud of fine sawdust erupted. As the dust settled, he said, Tim, the whole undertaking started in an airplane just like the one pictured right there on the cover of this Life magazine. That airplane, the Ford Tri-Motor, was an important part of aviation history. I’ll just bet you never knew that your old Granddad flew one of those planes all the way to South America. Well, almost all the way.

Tim mused, "Why three engines on such a small plane?

Bert replied, his blue eyes brightening with enthusiasm that belied his advancing years, "Son, that plane was the powerhouse of its day. The three engines are the very reason why it could carry huge cargo-loads, and in fact, we found out the hard way, she needed every bit of her power and more.

New motors, like those Wright Whirlwind engines on that Ford Tri-Motor gave it amazing power. It’s hard to believe that each one of those radial engines had nine cylinders. That would be three engines producing 300-horsepower each, yes sir! You can bet your britches on that one. That kind of power made the Ford Tri-Motor capable of flying almost anywhere in the world, and she carried huge loads to boot. Well, I want to clarify that, almost anywhere. We needed to have fuel and landing locations along the way, which wasn’t as easy as one might imagine. But, that’s another story I’ll share it with you on another rainy day like this frog-strangler we are experiencing here today. Seems to me, like’n it never quits raining in Oregon. You will find this hard to believe but the Ford Tri-motor remains in commercial use today in some South American countries. For all the years of her service she has been called affectionately, The Flying Goose.

Looking both left and right as if to confirm that no one was within ear shot, Bert continued in a lowered voice, Here is a shocker; I am here to tell you that the legend of El Dorado, the lost city of gold, —is, without the slightest doubt, true. This here gold sheet is, proof positive. Still speaking in a hushed voice Bert continued, I told you this was going to be hard to believe. El Dorado is the very same city that the Spanish have searched centuries to find while losing untold amounts of men in the process. I might add most were lost to the unforgiving jungle. Men-of-fortune the world over for hundreds of years have done their level best to find that city and its gold. They have sent fruitless well-financed contingencies into the trackless jungle they have looked as far north as New Mexico. No one has ever found it—and lived to tell about it, that is.

Tim, this will be just between us chickens, you have to keep it under your hat O.K.? It has been my secret all these years and it is about time I shared it with someone, someone before I depart this earth."

Grandpa, you old fart, you will be here a hell of lot longer.

No one makes it out of here alive, Bert replied with a chuckle, enjoying his own joke and his grandson’s concern.

Bert looked around again to assure their privacy and continued, Let’s see you’re over 21 now and your ears aren’t too delicate for this tale. Never did tell your mother or grandmother the full story. You know how women are; their imaginations would have run amok. They would’ve made Bill and me into some kind of sex fiends, If-in you know what I mean, Bert sat back and smiled relishing the memory of the experiences.

Tim rolled the rough diamonds onto the table-saw, as he would dice; their rough shape clicked across the metal surface, and he asked, Granddad you have got to tell me about the gold and diamonds. Where and how did you discover them?

Bert relaxed, assured of Tim’s interest, he continued, "Sit down a spell; I got a long story to tell you. Bert leaned back while adjusting his pipe with the curved white stem.

Bert Lonestar remained a handsome specimen of a man now in his late 60’s. He stood an erect six feet, had a near full head of steel gray hair, and sported a trim narrow gray mustache. His muscular body, while showing inevitable signs of aging, remained in admirable shape. A modest vertical scar ran from his right cheekbone down his strong jaw line. It remained permanently etched on his face over all these many years since his jungle experience. The scar remained an ever-present reminder of the horror suffered in 1937. The scar however only added to his mystique and manly allure.

Bert stopped to pack his pipe with Prince Albert tobacco from the familiar red tin container; now confident of his grandson’s complete attention he slowly and deliberately said, Tim I’ll start from the beginning, I won’t skip a single detail.

The silence broke by the air draft in the pipes-bowl, the match’s flame raised and lowered into the tobacco as Bert lit the antique pipe. The sweet tobacco smell drifted in ringlets into the rafters while Tim remained on pins and needles. He prodded his grandfather, Come on granddad I am all ears, tell me all about it all

"Tim, it seems like a long time ago now, but you must understand that in the thirties the whole world was obsessed with the new flying machines of the day and all the planes could accomplish. You will remember from your history classes that the Wright brothers flew the first powered airplane in 1903. It is important to understand that powered aviation was then only thirty-four years old in 1937- the year we departed.

It is hard to appreciate now how we were affected by this kind of news in the papers of the day. During the 1920’s and 30’s there was a tremendous period of progress in long distance aviation. Daring and adventuresome pilots were commanding front-page news by setting new flying records. Long distance flights were being flown just about everywhere in the world. Aviators were competing with each other to set speed-records; either that or they wanted to be the first to fly to a new destination. They were trying to achieve transcontinental, polar, and transoceanic flight records, doing it first, that was what it was all about. Aircraft builders, engine makers, and oil companies all aided the pilots who were risking their life and limb. They were eager to show the world what the new airplanes were capable of achieving. Every would-be adventurer wanted to share in the imagined fame and fortune. We were caught by the same fever; I am sad to say.

"Charles Lindbergh and his wife set many successful records, as did Wiley Post. It opened up financial doors to them in addition to all the fame and adulation they enjoyed.

Tim chimed in, hoping to prod his grandfather, Yes we’ve all heard about Lindbergh. Granddad, But I sure want to hear about your flight, and how you came onto that gold. Can you move the story along just a little faster?

Ignoring his Grandson’s protestations, Bert continued in his accustomed style, "Yes Sir; There was a little bravado in it all, the pilots wanted the world to know just how brave they could be. Sometimes, I’m sorry to say, some of the outcomes only served to prove that many of the pilots had bigger balls than brains. Even some of the well-financed professional schemes went haywire. Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan went down in the Pacific in 1937, never to be heard of again. The Graf Zeppelin, a lighter than air ship, was consumed in a fire that same year also. Too many would-be record setters suffered the same fate: Some you have heard about, others, neither hide nor hair was ever found of them again. Nineteen thirty-seven was a bad year for aviation.

It was the year of our ill-fated flight launch into what turned out to be the toughest experience of a lifetime, with unbelievable hardships experiences and discoveries

In aviation of those days you have appreciate that things didn’t always pan-out as expected and I’m almost sure that you probably heard that things didn’t really pan out for us; that is, as far as anyone knew. Hair Brained, is what most said about our trip and I need to agree with them now, but there is a lot that those detractors do not know about, all of which you are about to find out.

Some of the low-profile record setting attempts like ours never made the news, especially if not everything worked out. Well, that’s kind of what you might say happened with our record setting flight and why no one read about it in the papers of the day. Oh sure, there was a little write up in the Miami Herald newspaper as we prepared to take off, but that was the sum total of it. I am sorry to say that they didn’t have a lot of good things to say about the looks of our plane or our chances of making it."

Burt mused, more or less talking to himself, as he relived the feelings of the criticism that they endured before their departure and after their departure. One of those Goddamn newspaper fellas described our plane as the Crippled Goose. I’d ring his Goddamn pencil-neck today if I could get hold of that bastard. Oops, just a little slip of the tongue, -- sure you heard worse than that in your day.

Come on Granddad, will you please tell me what happened.

Hold your horses’ son, I’m getting to that. There are dangerous societies that exist in South America today; but I must say there is also a king’s ransom in diamonds and gold if that is what a person is after in life. It will be hard for me to convey to you the wonder of the ancient, abandoned overgrown ruins we discovered and the perverse human protection the ruins possess, even today. Bert paused to measure Tim’s reaction. He continued, not the least of the problems is that the jungle and its hazards must be survived to take advantage of our discoveries; which may or may not be possible for the average white man.

Granddad, you’re making it sound like it’s the South American jungle is a death sentence?

Yup, sure could be if a fella didn’t know what he was about. Since the early 1500’s, white men have been tackling that jungle and almost without exception, the jungle always destroyed the uninitiated. It’s all there in the history books if’n your interested. Huge armed Spanish military contingents have entered the jungle and never returned. Explorers have gone mad trying, and with only a few exceptions they have all come to grief.

Tim interrupted, You mean they were never heard from again.

"That’s right, most of the time white men never returned from where we were forced to travel, we found that out first-hand; however their bones remained as a record of their failure.

Tim I want you to listen up and keep your ears open, what I am about to share with you is important. Forget about gold and diamonds, there is a wealth of knowledge and treasure that exists in things other than gold and diamonds. For example, there exist pharmaceuticals, native treatment developed over centuries that are capable of amazing and unbelievable cures. Plants and animals are there that could feed a hungry world and spiritual insights in how to live in harmony with the world. So, forget about gold and diamonds for a minute and pay attention to what I am about to share with you.

Tim, this tale has got to be our secret, ------sure don’t need Grandma or anyone else hearing any of it. It is just between us chickens, got it?

THE PROPOSITION

Sit back a spell, here’s how it all started. It was in the spring of 1935, a rainy, drizzly day like most days here in Portland. My longtime friend Bill Sterling came to visit me at my cabin on the Willamette River. We had planned a day of sailing in my newly built flattie-sailboat. I had just completed building her and was real anxious to show off my varnished mahogany beauty. We had planned to sail despite the fact the Willamette River was swollen, running fast, and loaded with debris. I came to realize, very soon after his arrival, that Bill was not there to sail but rather to entice me into participating in his latest hair-brained—record setting flight idea.

Let’s see, seems to me that it must have been April of 1935. Bill was smooth-talker, and he put it to me this way, Bert I have a sure-fire plan. We can set a world record flight that has never ever been even tried before. That statement ---never ever been tried before--- and Bill’s history of crazy schemes should have alerted me to the foolhardiness of his latest plan--." Lordy, Lord, I knew of Bill’s sure-fire plans from the past and the debacles associated with them, with only half of a brain, I should have said, no thank you! Right then and there, on the spot.

Bill while inspecting my new flattie-boat said, There will be a big payoff for us, everything has been worked out; every detail, money, everything, there will be no problems with this one.

What is this, we-stuff got a frog in your pocket? I asked.

Bert, you have just got to listen for a minute, this plan is a sure-fire deal, the money’s there, I have the plane lined up just waiting, and all you have to do is join me. Just picture it, you, and me, the heroes in a big ticker-tape-parade celebrating our successful world-record. I know you have been reading in the newspapers all about the high-ticket treatment the record-setters are getting. Picture it, you will be seated in the ticker-tape-parade waiving to the cheering crowd from your hero’s seat in the back of a big black limousine convertible. Can’t you just see yourself? The throng waiting to shake your hand, the same ones that are stuck here in this work-a-day world they will be welcoming to you as their conquering hero?

Bill continued creating a mental scenario that was almost irresistible. Think about your picture in the newspapers, ---worldwide he added, almost as an afterthought. The world over will just want to know you, and shake your hand. They will be dying to hear about your adventure and the women, the women. Oh-La-La, they will all want to get their hands on you. All the while, he was telling the story; Bill was living and believing the dream himself. And those South American women, Oh, Wow is me, me-O my, they are hot as firecrackers. You will wear yourself out, I guarantee it.

I wanted to believe his cockamamie plan. He hit all the talking points that would be sure to fire me up. At the time, I was tired of my boss, my job; the more he talked the more I could see myself in that ticker-tape-parade. I had become exasperated with waterlogged Portland and my dead-end job in the shipping department of the steel foundry. He was right that it was a work-a-day-world rat race and I was locked into it. But, I have to tell you now; I would soon find out that I should have done less dreaming and more checking on the details of Bill’s surefire plan. The work-a-day-world would come to be absolutely appreciated, and sooner than one might imagine.

Bill pressed on with the sale, Bert, I’ve found the perfect plane it’s got pontoons all ready made for it, and the plane even has snow skis.

My eyes narrowed, What in the hell would we need skis for?

Well we don’t, but it’s just an example of how well equipped the plane is. Bill excitedly exclaimed, We will be the first to fly the length of the South American continent from Florida to Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina.

His plan called for us to land on Lake Fagnano, on pontoons mind you, at the journey’s end. That’s as far south as a person can fly and remain over land on the American continent nearing the South Pole. I really don’t know why I let Bill talk me into this one, considering some of the other scrapes he’d roped me into--- but that’s a story that would take all day. The part Bill did not tell me about the plane was more important than the information he shared. This would be one more nasty little surprise that I would find out about later; but only after, I signed on to his hair-brained-scheme. At the time, I did find myself getting excited, How long will it take? I asked. He knew with that question that the sale had been closed. All he had to do was reel the big suckerfish in.

Bill Sterling was a handsome dog in those days. I’m guessing he was 35 at the time. He was lean, tall with sparkling brown eyes and a full head of dark brown hair. In the city, he wore his Panama hat at a rakish angle. A fine cut of a man and real popular with the women folk, I’ll tell you, real popular, that is for-sure. Believe me, the rogue took every opportunity that presented itself, he was known, far and wide as a real ladies-man.

Bill, among his other accomplishments, was a Stanford University Graduate. Never did know how he graduated, and it seems to me what little I knew about it; that he did more playing than studying. I always suspected that his dad, who was a Stanford alumnus, bought his diploma. Bill was very smart but had about as much common sense as the rest of the Stanford MBA’s I’ve met in my lifetime. I have got to say, that Bill was the bravest and most entertaining guy a fella would ever want to meet. He was a hell of a friend, who risked his life for me many times in the dire situations we got ourselves into. I damn sure did the same for him. It was sort of like the comradeship that develops during wartime when a person’s life is totally dependent on his comrades-in-arms.

To really understand Bill, a person would have to say that he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He didn’t much worry about anything, nor did he think out the consequences of his actions. I loved Bill’s sense of humor and his ability to appreciate the irony in tough situations

His parents’ money allowed him to wander the four corners of the world, seeking adventure and romance. In his travels, Bill had already been to many of the Central and South American countries, as well as well as other continents. If the truth were to be known, I was jealous of Bill’s independent life style, and his parent’s money, which made it all possible.

Bill was the type of person that quickly learned the details, language, and culture of the societies that he was exposed to. This knowledge became very useful in the adversity we got ourselves into.

He had studied Tai Kwon Do karate in Korea and even acquired a black belt; which was no easy task in those days. He really was not very welcome in Korea while seeking the knowledge he was after. Their resistance and the language barrier didn’t stop Bill. He probably was the first white man to earn a black belt from Korea. Bill tutored me when it was possible, but I really didn’t make much progress due to the constant changes in my life. The karate that I did learn under Bill’s tutelage gave me lots of confidence, even if it wasn’t deserved.

It was after Bill’s aborted attempt to climb Mount Everest that he conceived of the record-setting American continent brainstorm. Bill, I am sure, must have been reading about some of the record making flights being attempted. During that period, stories of flights were in the newspapers every week it seemed. I am sure that Bill lived the dream of himself becoming the center of all that adulation and especially the women attention that the publicity would bring.

When Bill approached me in Portland with the record attempt idea, I had not seen the sun for over 90 days. A change in my life was sorely needed. Without doing a lot of thinking, it appeared as though this trip would be my opportunity to make changes in my life. I saw the flight as my chance to escape my humdrum work-existence and Portland’s miserable weather.

Bill had been flying his own light plane back in California for many years; it was a gift from his father. That’s quite a story in itself; Bill Sr. had flown a Sopwith Camel during the First World War. The Camel was regarded, during its era, as the best airplane ever designed. It’s hard to believe but the Camel was credited with a wartime almost 1300 German aircraft kills. Unbelievable as it sounds, it’s true. Certainly, it was the most successful airplane of any war. Bill Sr. had become a very famous and decorated pilot by wars end, and you might have read about him in your history books.

After the war, Bill’s father managed to find and rescue the very plane that he flew during the Great War. Bill Sr. found her in quite a state of disrepair sitting in a barn in Coventry England. He found it only after a long search. His dad dismantled the plane and had it shipped to his home in Carmel California. It took him nearly five years and a-lot of money to get her back in flying shape.

Now retired, Bill Sr. restored the plane to its original glory. Exact in every detail, including the fuselage-mounted guns that shot live bullets through the turning propeller. This created no end of concern for other pilots of the day especially when Bill Jr. began flying the plane. The laws regarding machine guns picked up support; all as a result of Bill Jr. escapades. You might say he single-handedly created the necessity to have a machine-gun law enacted.

You can just imagine Bill Jr. gunning down rabbits and old car bodies with the twin-mounted machine guns. As crazy as he appeared to be, other pilots would not dare cross him for concern of getting shot out of the air. I know Bill and I am sure he wouldn’t have done anything like that, but they didn’t.

Bill and I knew each other from our Barnstorming days. He was flying his father’s Camel biplane with guns and all. No one could make him take them off because he had been grandfathered in, all prior to the new law forbidding it. He did firing demonstrations at the air-shows, and it was a great crowd thriller, he killed many an old car and horse-drawn wagon put out for the purpose. There’s a kill, he would muse as he painted a rabbit or car body on the fuselage. Bill really enjoyed the humor in that sort of thing. What worried the other pilots was the airplane painted on his kill display? He would not comment on it, I am sure he put it there just to keep everyone guessing. Well anyhow, it had its effect on other pilots when ever Wild-Man-Bill was in the air.

Bill and I met in Sentinel Butte, North Dakota. I am sure that the town didn’t have more than a 100 people living in or near it. Farmers mostly made up the population. It was like all the other hick towns in the mid-west of that era and one of the smallest I might add. I have got to tell you, those farmers sure liked to see an airplane fly; I guess nothing much else ever happened in their town.

As an example, one of the most exciting things that ever happened in Sentinel Butte was this: on a hot summer day, it gets to be a 110 there routinely; a roving prostitute shows up, the whole town woke up and started buzzing. You wouldn’t believe it; the wives ran down town and rounded up their husbands. They grabbed them by the ear and pulled them right out of the bar or off the bench in front of the general store. I’m guessin they didn’t have much faith in their men... don’t rightly know why. Men can generally be trusted, can’t they Tim?

With a broad smile Tim said, Seems to me most men can be trusted most the time, will you please get on with the story?

"Mechanical wrenching was my specialty. The barnstorming pilots and wing walkers went from town to town making money by taking farmers for rides in the old planes and putting on small air shows. There was a diverse collection of old salvaged planes flying. It was normal to use a farmer’s field or a dirt road as a runway. The town’s folks would flock to see the plane after Bill or one of the pilots buzzed the town a couple of times. Bill would find his empty field to land the plane and start offering rides, for a price of course. Yes sir, the townspeople would pay real good money to fly in an airplane in those days. Farmers, grandmothers, young, and old, they all wanted to fly and tell everyone that they had been brave enough to fly in one of the new-fangled flying ships; made of wood and canvas.

Whoo! Those were the days, I’ll tell you, those were the days, not a care in the world. On hot summer nights, we would sleep under an airplane’s wing in whatever farmers-field we might happen to be in, no fancy motels for us.

We might meet other planes by chance then decide to fly to a randomly chosen town or state; or we might just sit around talking airplane talk or tell lies in the town’s bar. When we felt it was time to leave, we sometimes flipped a coin to determine if we would fly north or south, it really didn’t matter. No schedules, no wife to assign a person tasks all the livelong day, yes sir, those were the days.

When Bill conceived of the world-record setting attempt, he considered it a lucky stroke to find the only Ford Tri-motor ever designed to fly with pontoons, wheels, or skis. The Royal Canadian Air Force had purchased the plane when new. It was resold in 1933 to a Mom and Pop airline for $35,000 that is, if’n my memory serves me correctly.

The surprise that awaited me In Canada when we arrived was this; Bill really didn’t have all the money in place. It wasn’t that he was lying, he just had a plan; so in his mind he considered that the money was there, that is just the way Bill’s mind worked. Bill Jr. had been going through his father’s money like, shit through a tinhorn. At that point, Bill’s dad wasn’t holding still for any more of Bill’s record setting attempts especially after his father had bankrolled the Everest climb debacle. Bill Sr. had now arrived at the end of his finical rope with Bill Jr. escapades.

Here is the wringer. Bill had found the plane all right; but wait till you hear this? What Bill didn’t tell me was, that, the damn Tri-motor had been wrecked! And, guess what else? We were the ones who had to rebuild the Goddamn thing, with help of course, before proceeding with our world record attempt. Get This! That damaged plane sitting in airport’s yard was the plane that was going to be our transportation while flying the length of the American continent.

That was only one example of Bill’s surprises that popped up, but only after I had quit my job, signed on and was in Canada. The fact of the matter was that, there wasn’t ever enough money or a real plan to acquire the needed money to fix the airplane properly. Our record setting attempt was to be done on what you could best be described as, on a worn shoestring.

Here’s the real story of the planes history. The plane, after its purchase from the military was being used to fly commercially from Vancouver to Whitehorse Canada. It carried mail passengers and freight. And a great job it did and would have continued to do so for many more years if it hadn’t been for an unfortunate accident.

Well, this is where we got lucky, in a strange way, you might say, the small airline got unlucky. On March 1935, Sergeant Davis, a Hurricane fighters pilot trainee on his first solo flight, ---- What does he do? The trainee crashed into the parked Tri-motor. The Hurricane’s impact tore off the Tri-Motor’s right wing; and inflicts an amazing amount of damage. Son you’ll be glad to hear that all though the Hurricane cartwheeled and burned, the pilot escaped with only minor injuries. That is, until the commander got his hands on the jerk.

So there we were in the airplane junkyard to pick up our world-record setting Tri-Motor airplane. You can just imagine how I felt at that point. I had already quit my job and I foolishly felt like it was too late to back out. Just the first of many of Bill’s little surprises! At the time, I could only sit down on the running board of an old Hupmobile, with my head in my hands I moaned, Bill for Christ’s Sake! You didn’t tell me that we were gong to have to rebuild this pile of cow-shit airplane!

Bill replied with his ever-present smile, Let’s look on the bright side Bert, the price is right, I know you’ll agree with that, and you’ll be glad to hear, I’ve already found the original mechanics that built her, they are ready to start work on her it will be a snap, you will see.

Where do the mechanics live? I asked without looking up from my seated position, still with my head in my hands.

Bill replied with his customary up-beat style, Detroit, but don’t worry, I got it all figured out.

Detroit, I yelled snapping my head up to glare at him, please Bill, I hope you’re not telling me we are going to take the plane to Detroit in the middle of winter, you are not telling me that, are you Bill? he just smiled with his winning smile.

THE WORK BEGINS

The next surprise that Bill had for me was that he had also purchased a Junker Model-A truck and a dilapidated trailer from a junkyard. His plan was to tow that wrecked airplane all the way to Detroit. Now get this, we first we had to fix the pickup and trailer in the freezing cold before we decommissioned the plane. In the days and weeks that followed, I fitfully grew to believe that the plan was possible and somehow it was doable, well anyhow I threw myself into the project, I mistakenly thought it was too late to do anything else.

Well, as far as everyone was concerned that Tri-motor plane was done for, and to make a long story short, we did pick the plane up for a song. It was considered a total loss by everyone, but Bill; eventually he got me believe that we could get her flying again. Well this is how the whole project started and how we came to acquire the Tin Goose. WZ was what we affectionately called her. She got that handle WZ because of her factory designation was GCYWZ. So everyone that knew of her always referred to her as old WZ, or the, Tin Goose as all Tri-Motor’s were affectionately known.

Yes sir, we towed old WZ right back to Detroit where she had been made. That truck trip, in the dead of winter, is a real story I’ve got to share with you some day. We don’t have time enough to go into the details of the time spent in the ditches during blizzards, mechanical breakdowns, numerous repairs of everything including the trailer and car clutch along the way; you’ve got to believe me, it was no cakewalk.

Well we linked up in Detroit with Ken Williams and Buzz Rogers, Bill was correct with this one, they were some of the very men that were responsible for building the Goose in the first place. They worked with us nights after a full day at the Ford Motor Company. Old WZ was put back together just like Humpty-Dumpy, but in this case we got that bird back together and flying, almost as good as new, you might say. The engines fortunately weren’t hurt a bit. As far as everyone in the rest of the world knew, that Tri-Motor was junked out in Canada. Yes sir, after more than a year of hard work we got that Goose in flying condition and took off in her for Miami Florida, the very next day.

No one in Florida had ever seen a Ford Tri-motor, at least one looking like old WZ did. She really was not a pretty site with hundreds of dents in her corrugated skin and pontoons. Her true history was our secret. The white house-paint finish didn’t enhance her appearance, but I must say she flew to Florida without a hitch all the same. She flew like a striped goose, just as pretty as you please. Her maximum speed like all Tri-motor’s was 152 miles per hour and her cruising speed was 122 M.P.H., the house paint didn’t slow her down a bit.

At this point in our adventure, I assumed that Bill had the logistics of the record attempt figured out; everything planned seemed doable on the surface. I must say though, way in the back of my mind a little voice was saying, To good to be true. This is not the way things usually work with Bill at the helm. In hindsight, I know now that I should have studied the details of the flight plan, such as the planes loaded carrying capability, fuel consumption, and his navigation plans. Bill was a good pilot but he was known for winging things, I guess you understand my drift.

Sure, our Tin Goose rattled and made a hell of lot of noise, maybe more than any other Tri-motor ever built. I got to admit, it has been said, Flying in the Tri-motor sounds like a person was flying in a tin garbage can. Nevertheless, in her time and even today she remains one of the most effective durable airplanes ever designed with an enviable record of accomplishments.

Our flight was planned to be accomplished in nine legs, a total of 5,500 miles of flying; WELL ANYHOW that’s the way Bill had it figured. I’ve got to tell you that neither of us had fully understood the magnitude of the distances and geographical unknowns that the flight would entail. Who could have known of the weather conditions in countries where no records had ever been kept?

Bill managed to line up the Gilmore Oil Company as one of our sponsors. They were to have fuel ready for us at pre-arranged locations. The Gilmore people sure enough had no idea of what they were getting into. You can just imagine trying to supply fuel by sea, river, in uncharted jungles, and mountain terrain. I sure-enough, didn’t know it at the time, but most refueling locations had never been mapped. Our first destination was Guantanamo Bay Cuba, a distance of 569 miles with a compass heading that was to be 143 degrees, and I’ll never forget that first two legs of our trip, it’s burned in my memory, that’s all the flying there was to be. Our first leg would carry us between Jamaica and Haiti. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Well I’m here to tell you, that there were more self-inflicted unforeseen dangers to this trip than one could imagine, even more than a person have could conceived of, in his wildest dreams.

DEPARTURE

The day finally came when we were scheduled to depart. That would be March of 1937. I’ll never forget it. War was being waged in Europe, and the world remained in the grips of the depression but we were too busy to notice. We had spent the previous weeks buying all the provisions for the trip. Bill had smooth talked his father into bankrolling the operation. I am sure his dad feared not doing it out of concern for son’s safety.

There were hundreds of little details and construction tasks to make that plane ready for the expedition. Tanks, for water and fuel had to be built, we worked on mechanical projects during the nighttime-hours. Almost every day was spent driving around in an old Packard purchasing parts and supplies. On the eve of departure-day, I asked Bill, Are you sure that you have a handle on flying loads, fuel consumption, and the likes of that?

He flippantly replied, Does a bear shit in the woods? Now, I ask myself why did I accept that kind of an answer and why did I not check those issues out for myself.

The weather had been beautiful, though it was freezing or near freezing every night as we slept in that cold metal airplane. Everyone thinks Florida is always warm. Well I got news for them! The weather forecaster had declared cold but clear weather. That meant that we could plan our departure the next day.

There we were the next day, loading WZ in the predawn darkness. We were using the estuary behind the Miami Airport. The situation was a clear example of how out of control things can get. The root of the problem was that we were still underfinanced and understaffed. Other record-setters had large money backers and a knowledgeable staff. Bill and I were the sum total of the operation’s staff.

Not all was going well as we loaded old WZ with the provisions for the trip. We noticed the pontoons sank lower and lower in the water. In all the excitement, we had neglected to sleep, which only contributed to our foggy thinking. Sleep had not even been attempted on the eve of departure day, which would come to have its own problematic consequences. We calculated that she weighed about sixteen thousand pounds; that is plane, fuel survival-gear; in other-words, that was her all-up weight.

There were many inept volunteers trying to help us in every way possible. Most of them had not been invited to do so. I am sorry to say that we had not exercised any leadership in crowd control. Had we chased the throng away, the proper decisions might have been made in peace and quiet. The crowd and a reporter shouting questions only added to the confusion created by the predawn darkness. I have got to tell you that most of the time the plane’s preparation seemed more like a circus than record setting attempt.

At last, everything was loaded and we considered ourselves ready to depart, we all strained to push her in to deep water. Guess what? The pontoons were now stuck in on the mud bottom. They just keep sinking further as we all strained to move her into deeper water.

It had now become painfully clear that we would not be able to get airborne with the load we had packed on board. In fact, the plane would not float on the pontoons. Bill for Christ-Sake I bellowed, I thought you had this load calculated-out, she won’t even float; for Christ Sakes?

With his signature smile he said, Seems to me that we must have forgot to weigh something, all we have to do is lighten her up, No Problem!

Over the previous several days, our growing team of volunteer helpers and sightseers had become increasingly negative about our chances of success.

That pencil-dick-bastard reporter said so in the paper, the very day before departure. That reporter and his article only added to the negativity of the now expanded crowd that the unwelcome publicity brought. The crowd began to express their concerns more vocally as our problems increased. They pressed in closer yelling statements like, It will be the end of you young fellas if you go ahead with this hair-brined-scheme. Planes weren’t meant to take off from water anyhow!

An older gray bearded guy yelled, You idiots are looking to wind up in the drink, adding his voice to the chorus of dire predictions. All this unsolicited advice only added to our frustration level. What we should have done in retrospect was to stop right there, get some rest and try the next day. All this criticism took its cumulative toll on our decision making process.

Bill we got to lighten this Goddamn thing up! I yelled.

Bill replied over the growing chorus of our volunteers. Looks to me like we could put her on a diet alright, The helpers pulled the plane back to shore while wading and grumbling.

As the weight reduction work progressed, negative feelings only increased as the horde talked among themselves. A gray-bearded overweight son-of-a-bitch said while sticking his head in the plane’s hatch, What’s the matter with you lame brains, can’t you see this damn thing will never get off the water? I grabbed a wrench and slammed a wooden box next to his head, while looking him straight in the eye. Thinking he would receive the next blow to the head, he quickly disappeared.

We unloaded the plane almost right down to the bare bulkheads. I was inside the cabin hull doing the unloading and then the reloading. I had help from a volunteer in a New York Yanks ball cap never did know his name but that guy was helpful and didn’t have a negative word to say. Bill was outside making the decisions about what went back into the plane and what stayed behind.

You’ve got to believe me, Tim, I must have been half-asleep, and I did not notice that Bill hadn’t loaded even one piece of the survival gear back into the plane, no guns no nothing. Mind you, he didn’t even ask me. He just decided to leave the Goddamn survival gear on shore. I spent a hell of lot of time putting all that gear together. I still get mad today, just thinking about it. —Now, how do you like those apples? This issue got to be a really sticky point later in the trip, for sure, --- you bet, ---- it did for sure. It was hard then to appreciate the awesome consequences of that casual decision and what it would come to mean to us in the months to come.

After reloading, the volunteers pushed us into deep water again, cheering erupted, it was now apparent that she was floating anyhow, not like she was supposed-to, mind-you but, I’ve here to tell you, she floated.

I got to hand it to some members of our team of volunteers; they were wading waist deep or deeper in that cold pre-dawn alligator infested water. While assisting many continued, some nicely some critically begging and imploring us not to try a take off. It was still apparent to all that the airplane remained severely overloaded. Others thought we were slightly touched in the head. In most vociferous