Forty Years Ago...

I don't remember dates. Never have. I can tell you what year my kids were born and when our wedding anniversary is, but that's about it. I can sort of figure out sort of when something happened by approximately how old our children were, but that's all.

Then there's our Son Sean. Part of his autism spectrum is an uncanny memory for dates and how old he was when things happened. Today he commented on the phone that it had been forty years since the plane crash on our ranch airstrip when he was in the fourth grade. Then proceeded to ask all kinds of questions about what had happened.

Forry had a series of airplanes during our younger years. He started out with a Cherokee 180; had a workhorse Cherokee Six that we traveled back and forth to Baja with the kids; and later had a twin-engine Aztec.

We had returned from a trip to Mexico with the Aztec (we were going to Colombia with our Claassen friends, but that trip's another story)  and landed back at the FBO (Fixed Base Operator) in Spokane. Forry had been griping to the guys in Spokane that we had bought the plane from that he thought the brakes were not as good as they should be, but they kept telling him it was a much heavier airplane then he was used to...

Forry had not landed the Aztec at the ranch airstrip since he had bought it. The plan was for Joe, the FBO operator and flight instructor, to bring the plane down to the ranch. Then Forry and Joe would make some short field touch-and-goes on the ranch strip, then he would take Joe back to Spokane and then bring the plane back home. Joe hadn't been an FBO operator for long and was in the midst of the biggest airplane sale he'd yet had. His wife said later that he also hadn't been feeling real well that morning.

Forry drove the pickup to the middle of the strip by the trees when we heard Joe fly over while I watched from across the creek by the house. Joe came in a bit hot; realized the plane wasn't braking as quickly as he thought it should; trying steering it up the hillside a bit to slow it; then put power to the engines and attempted to go around. Unfortunately, he didn't have enough runway left and smacked into the ditch at the end of the runway.

Forry came tearing back down the runway in the pickup and I came across the creek at the same time. We tried to open the cockpit door, but it was locked from the inside. We could hear Joe mumbling inside and knew he was alive. Forry managed to get his finger-tips into the crack at the top of the door and literally yanked the door off (you've heard of adrenaline rushes!).  We managed to get his seatbelt unfastened and drug him out of the airplane onto the wing and then onto the ground. As we hit the ground, the aircraft exploded.

Joe broke his arm; he had burns on his legs where his acrylic pants had melted from the burning gas and several wounds on his face where he had smashed into the instrument panel (Aztecs did not have shoulder harnesses, just seat belts). He recovered well and actually gave Forry the flight test for his instrument rating a year or so later.

I credit -- or blame -- that plane crash for my involvement in politics. I made such a stink about the delay in getting an ambulance out to the ranch (we actually hauled Joe into the hospital in Ritzville in the back of the Deputy Sheriff's station wagon) that I ended up running for a hospital district board commissioner's seat at the next election...