The first aircraft I saw was in 1931, when I was 15 years old and plowing the field behind a couple of fine mules. It was an Army trainer flying above Evans Creek, looking for the Oregon town of Medford. Because of cloud ceiling conditions, the plane was flying very low, and it was the talk of the community for quite a while -- Wow! An airplane!
My name is William Edward Brooks, and it has been for 97 years. I was born in Klamath Falls, Ore. My family lived on a cattle ranch in the Langell Valley of southcentral Oregon.
My parents came to Oregon from Kansas and Oklahoma to raise Whiteface cattle. I remember the winter of 1921 brought temperatures to 30 below, and disaster struck. Within thirty days the area ran out of both hay and feed, and the livestock either starved or froze to death. It broke my folks and they moved back to Kansas. Mom read a book by Jack London and, on the strength of that book's influence, we moved back west to Santa Rosa, Calif.
My uncle, Royce Busenbard, homesteaded a productive farm near Roseburg, Oregon in the late 1800s, made a lot of money, and sent his two daughters to college. This was quite an event in those days. My cousins rubbed it in every time they saw me, because I was a poor little farm boy.
I never dreamed that aircraft and flying would be in my life.
An accidental pilot
World War II started, and recruiters were giving tests for pilots and mechanics at the Elk's Club in Medford. All my friends were joining up so I went down to the Armed Forces office. I was pretty good with tools and engines, having grown up on a farm, so thought I'd sign up as a mechanic.
The military was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
I was directed down some stairs and to a room where eight or 10 guys were taking written tests. No one said a word. They just handed me test papers, I sat down, and I finished in two hours. I handed in my paperwork and the Sergeant asked me to wait outside. In an hour we were called back in and I was informed that I'd passed the requirements for Pilot Training, Class 44-I -- I went in the wrong door and took the wrong test!
I had never been in an airplane before. Curtis L. Green, a civilian and my instructor, took me up and we flew a bit before he let me take it from the back seat. When we landed at the end of the second day, he said, "Brooks, I think I can make a pilot out of you," and he did.
Once I carried a load into White Sands, Almagardo, N.M. We landed, unloaded, refueled, were given a burger and coke, then were told to get out and say nothing to anyone about where we were or what we did. I found out later we were hauling parts for the first atomic bombs.
I was discharged in 1947 when the war was over, and went home to Medford to raise my two children and find work. I had my $500 mustering-out pay in my pocket. City lots were selling for $250 each, and I bought two.
As the town grew I started a non-profit air ambulance company called Mercy Flights. We purchased two Twin Beech aircraft for $200 each, and outfitted them for air ambulance work. I flew many rescue missions, as the polio epidemic was in full force. We flew patients to hospitals in San Francisco, Seattle, and even from Mexico. Mercy Flights still operates today.
In 1951 I took my first flight on floats. That year was the 100th anniversary of the chartering of Oregon's largest city, Portland. To commemorate the anniversary, a flight of 67 small aircraft flew from Portland, Ore. to Portland, Maine, and back again. Every aircraft made the entire trip without a hitch.
How little I still knew then that float flying would become an integral part of my life, and that I would own aircraft and float planes.
By the late 1960s, business in Oregon slowed and I knew a pipeline was being planned in Alaska.
In 1973 I built the first condominium complex in Anchorage, a restaurant and a tilt-up concrete air freight terminal building at Anchorage International Airport.
Aviation was booming and vital to the entire state's construction needs. I helped start the Anchorage Air Cargo Association and was its first president. I still attend the meetings from time to time.
Flying the Alcan
Our first airplane here in Alaska was a 1950s Piper PA-18 Super Cub we purchased from Conrad, Montana. We headed north towards Alaska for our first cross-country flight . It was good to have a 3,000 mile emergency landing strip below us -- the Alcan Highway. Landing on a dirt strip during breakup got interesting, and very muddy. We dug out, refueled, remained overnight and left early the next morning while the strip was still frozen. After flying in Alaska for the last 39 years, this place is still teaching me.
About 10 years ago, our flying club decided it would be a good idea to open a flight route, mainly over land, from the U.S. to Tokyo, through Russia. The Alaska Airmen's Association secretary commenced the piles and piles of paperwork and with much perseverance, permission was eventually granted by Moscow.
We had dinner and refueled in Nome. Because Russia has no general aviation community, there was no fuel on that side of the Bering Strait, so I carried three spare 30-gallon gas tanks. We all wanted to be sure we could get back to the U.S.
It was more than 400 miles to Provideniya from Nome. We filed an international flight plan to take us north to Tin City, Alaska, then a ninety-degree turn left to cross the International Date Line between the Diomede Islands. We traveled through three time zones and 21 hours of time difference.
We followed the coastline south 100 miles toward Provideniya, passing a town that looked totally abandoned and crossing over hills before seeing Provideniya's protected harbor and gravel runway.
Provideniya was a military base for over 4,000 men, who protected Russia from the U.S. We were given beds in a good-sized room and one bathroom for eight people, but no toilet paper or toilet seat. They gave us a toilet seat upon check in, for the filthy 30-inch square toilet room.
Once we were checked into our housing, Joe and I were taken to individual rooms for questioning. A soldier stood in one corner with an AK-47. He wore no smile. I was asked many questions: Why are you here? What do you want? Are you CIA? Are you military? How do you make a living? Do you live in government housing? How many families live with you? Do you own an automobile? We see you own an airplane.
I started to sweat. He made it clear he was the "stud duck" and we were not to forget it. We did what we were told and got along okay.
As part of our cargo, I took a dozen Russian-English dictionaries to give away as gifts. When I gave one to their school teacher, she said it was the only gift she had ever been given in her life.
The town was in shambles. Nothing had been repaired. They had one van that was operational. Twice a year the harbor receives a ship with fuel, food, clothing and other provisions. The one store had a blue-denim shirt for sale, and I bought it as a memento. I still wear it occasionally.
In Alaska I have owned a Super Cub, Cessna 180, Cessna 185, and now own two DeHavilland Beavers, one on wheels and one on floats. Flying in Alaska has been a great experience, both for the scenery and the experiences with folks I have met along the way.
In Arizona, one of our Beavers is on wheels in the hangar. We fly it to breakfast on the weekends or to lunch in beautiful places with no snow and good people.
Now, at 97 years old, I am still flying my DeHavilland Beaver on floats. It is tied up at my place on Campbell Lake and has gotten a new engine.
William Brooks is one of nine men and women selected to represent the next class of Alaska Aviation Legends, an annual project that recognizes the pioneers who made Alaska's aviation industry and culture what it is today. For more on the legends, consider attending the Nov. 1 banquet in their honor. More information is available in the Alaska Bush Pilot blog, in the Alaska Dispatch Calendar, and at the Alaska Air Carriers Association website.