have owned many different airplanes during my lifetime but as the years passed I began to look back at the airplanes of the 1920s and 1930s with a great deal of nostalgia, partly because those were the airplanes my dad made history with. Newer airplanes were more efficient in speed and comfort but I would love to have been able to fly more of the planes my dad flew. The early Stinsons, Travel Airs, and Fairchilds seem to have a personality that is not found in modern airplanes and I will never forget the distinct vibration and sound of those old planes, and the way they smelled of adventure and excitement.
I vividly remember riding with my dad in the Fairchild 71, Travel Air 6000, or Cessna Airmaster on floats as we departed Fairbanks on the Chena River, which runs through downtown. At that time, the Chena was the only waterway near Fairbanks for float operations but it was a fairly dicey takeoff location. People would gather on the riverbank when they heard the engines start. It was impressive to watch.
Before starting our takeoff, my dad would taxi upriver to the usual starting point under the Cushman Street bridge. After he turned the plane around and throttled up for the takeoff, it always looked like the propeller was going to hit the bridge as the nose came up before getting on the step (planing on the water). Then it would look like we were not going to make the first turn in the river, which was quite sharp. I always thought the left wing was going to hit the high bank by the Northern Commercial company store during the right turn before reaching the straightaway for the anticipated liftoff. Sometimes if we had a heavy load in the plane, my dad would have to make one more sharp turn to the left on the water. This was always a terrifying experience for me but I never turned down the opportunity. I think it was a safe operation because most pilots knew their airplane’s performance capabilities and they were confident in their abilities, but it was still scary when you were sitting in the cabin during takeoff.
When I was about ten years old I thought I had my big chance to fly an airplane. I had flown with my dad in the Tri-Motor Ford many times but seldom in the cockpit. Usually, my uncle Fritz rode along to function as a mechanic and to help with the loads so I was relegated to a cabin seat. This time, my dad was doing a test hop without Fritz so I happily climbed into the cockpit’s right seat.
The Tri-Motor’s brakes were controlled by a gearshift-type lever between the seats, commonly called a Johnson bar. Pulling the lever straight back applied the brakes to both wheels; moving it to the left or right provided differential braking. Because the brakes were not on the rudder pedals, a pilot needed three hands to control throttles, brakes, and control wheel. So the technique was to use the right hand for the brakes for ground steering and the left hand for the throttles on takeoff until directional control was available with the rudders. When I saw that the control wheel was unattended, I was certain that this was my chance to do the takeoff so I grabbed the wheel. Everything was going fine until the rudders became effective, whereupon my dad transferred his left hand to the wheel and the right hand to the throttles. Then it was time to raise the tail; when he pushed the control wheel forward, it was pulled out of my hands, but not without some effort since I had a firm grip on it. I then realized that I was not going to get checked out in the Ford that day. The fact that I could not reach the rudder pedals did not concern me; they looked like footrests to me.
Somewhere around the early 1940s, I had the opportunity to fly to Anchorage with my dad in a Travel Air 6000A. He had purchased a set of floats from Bob Reeve, founder of Reeve Aleutian Airways, and was taking the Wien chief mechanic, Ernie Hubbard, to install the floats on the plane in Anchorage. Airplanes were still somewhat of a rarity in Alaska at that time so when we arrived, there were only two floatplanes on Lake Spenard—one belonged to Bob Reeve and the other belonged to Art Woodley, founder of Woodley Airways, which later became Pacific Northern Airlines. (Many years later I was driving with my dad in the area and we saw hundreds of floatplanes parked side-by-side all around Lake Spenard and neighboring Lake Hood. Hundreds more were parked on wheels on land. He said, “Never in my wildest dreams would I ever have thought that I would see this many airplanes here.”)
Spenard Lake was linked to Lake Hood by a recently built canal. Both lakes were limited in size and the new canal provided a longer takeoff area, enabling airplanes to take off with heavier loads. We landed alongside the canal on a new landing strip. Ernie installed the floats on the plane and then it was hoisted into the canal and we prepared for takeoff. Try as he might, my dad could not get the Travel Air on the step; he just didn’t have enough power. Bob Reeve offered to lend him a longer propeller, more suitable for float operations. That did the trick and we were on our way to Fairbanks. I remember that my dad had to work the rudders all the way to Fairbanks because the floats caused quite a bit of instability around the yaw axis. After arriving in Fairbanks, Ernie added a fixed rudder under the rear of the fuselage, which was a big help. On each one of these trips with my dad, I watched him handle the controls, saw the results, and learned a little bit more.
When I was around twelve years old, I was convinced that I had it all figured out and longed for the chance to fly. My dad rented a Piper J-3 Cub at Weeks Field in Fairbanks and this became my first opportunity to do a takeoff in an airplane. I was anxious to demonstrate my flying ability to my dad as he sat behind me. I managed to get it into the air, probably with some help that I was not aware of. I flew around for a while and then it came time to make a landing. I managed to get lined up with the runway and thought this would be the easy part; however, the ground came up much faster than I expected and it was a jarring experience. The airplane was fine but my confidence was severely damaged. I learned then that my dad’s approach to teaching was to sit quietly and do nothing to help me unless he thought that intervention was needed to avoid bending the airplane. One time when I was about fifteen years old, we rented a surplus Boeing Stearman at Paine Field in Everett, Washington. I thought my takeoff was going well until I felt the rudder pedals moving rapidly to avert a ground loop. I had no idea that I was about to lose control.
My experience in the Piper Cub set my confidence back for a while and gave me a lot to think about, but it didn’t affect my desire to learn to fly. I wanted to be a pilot like my father. His fame as an aviation pioneer was well recognized but for me and Richard, his talents as a father dominated our admiration. He always tried to help me achieve my dreams, whatever they were. I was immensely fortunate, also, to have my younger brother, Richard, who was as anxious as I was to follow in our father’s footsteps. We shared our love of flying throughout our lives. In addition to being an exceptional pilot, Richard’s vision and analytical talent have always amazed me.
FLYING IN ALASKA WAS ALWAYS A DANGEROUS AND difficult business. My father had left Alaska in the fall of 1924 because winter operations were not possible with the airplanes available at that time. When he returned for the summer season in 1925, he brought his brother Ralph with him. He taught Ralph to fly and they worked closely together for the next several years. In 1929, Ben Eielson, a pilot who had gained fame when he flew Sir Hubert Wilkins across the Arctic from Point Barrow to Spitsbergen, Norway, offered to buy Wien Alaska Airways. He represented a company that planned to create an air transportation system throughout Alaska. My father saw a chance to explore other opportunities so he accepted the offer and he and my mother headed for Minnesota for my birth. En route to Minnesota, they heard that my father’s dear friend and fellow Alaskan pilot Russell Merrill, for whom I am named, had disappeared flying out of Anchorage. Not long after that, Ben Eielson died when his plane crashed on a flight to Siberia. This was in the same Hamilton airplane that my dad flew on a similar mission earlier in the spring to retrieve furs from a different icebound vessel. Then an even bigger blow: While in Minnesota, they received word that his brother Ralph had died in a crash of an experimental diesel-powered Bellanca in Kotzebue.
When we returned to Fairbanks, my father’s younger brother, Sig, came with us. Sig and my dad flew home in my dad’s new Stinson while my mother and I took the train to Seattle, the Alaska Steamship to Seward, and then the train to Fairbanks.
My uncle Sig learned to fly in Alaska. He built up his time for his commercial license in a Buhl “Bull” Pup, which was powered by a three-cylinder Szekely engine of 45 hp. He became known for his pioneering flights in the Alaskan Arctic and was revered by the Native people there for his dependability, work ethic, and the services he provided to them. He was responsible for convincing the nomadic Eskimos who followed the caribou herds for food on the North Slope to settle in Anaktuvuk Pass so he could better