The Great Valley Travel Club

A firsthand account of a true story circa 1977. 
Some of the names are changed.

“They are going to be so mad! They’re going to be sooo…mad!!” Captain Schneider kept muttering these words, mostly to himself, but loudly enough for me to be cognizant of the fact that there was a major problem. I was standing in the short pathway between cockpit and cabin, sandwiched between electricals and avionics stacks to either side. I had entered the flight deck, intrigued by our magnificent old flying machine, and also to observe our progress. Ahead of me strapped in the jumpseat was Harold Fordson, glib in the realization that he had no responsibility in this. Forward and to his right sat co-pilot Herman Musser, silent, not willing to attract any of the Captain’s wrath at the moment.

I directed my scan beyond our immediate environment to see Punta Concepcion and the Gulf of California. At our 5:00 o’clock position lay San Ignacio. Ahead, somewhere in the dimming gray blue haze where horizon meets sky was Lands End, Cabo San Lucas, our intended destination. Herein lay our problem. The days’ light was beginning to fade.

Schneider was beside himself. At some point in our slip stream he had made the gruesome discovery that we weren’t going to make it in time. Like an airman skinny on the fuel and trying to convince himself of a successful outcome by checking and re-checking the distance, ground speed, time to go and fuel remaining over and over, Schneider pondered his fate.

Beginning early in the day events had conspired to throw us off track, off schedule. The day had not been kind and now for the slam dunk it was going to be too short. For the pilot in command, the one responsible for the time and distance formulae, the notices to airmen, the aerodrome data, and all the flight planning, the realization set in that our arrival would coincide with the departure of days’ light. San Jose del Cabo International had NO runway lights.

Dick Schneider would once again be called upon to use his power of persuasion and a lot of charm to convince the tour directors, his financial backers and partners as well as the passengers that everything would be fine. It took him longer than usual to compose himself this time but after he had summed up the courage to face reality, convinced that he couldn’t change nature, he asked me to go aft and have Mrs. Quartermaine come up for the bad news.
Actually, this was only a singular event in a long chain of outcomes that became known as the Great Valley Travel Club.

The G.V.T.C. was the dream of a handful of individuals with imagination, important egos and deep pockets. There are so many that have tried and failed at this. Some have tried and succeeded. Their intent was to make a small fortune in the airline business. This would not be too difficult. What you
do is to start with a rather large one.

John Quartermaine, an executive Vice President with the E.J. Gallo winery, and his wife Audrey, would provide the funding. John was self made and romantically involved with aviation, (as were we all). He had his own plane and even had constructed his own replica car from a kit, an MG TD clone.  Audrey Quartermaine would be involved as chief tour guide and social director.

Richard Schneider, Air Force Major retired, was a co-conspirator in the venture. Richard had a most unbelievable ego. He had put on a few pounds since the military but was still in good shape. When ever you saw him at his desk he was either reading an aviation magazine or jawing on the phone with a customer or supplier. He always asserted his position of power or perceived superiority by calling you pal. (“I want you to do this for me, OK pal?”) He also had a patronizing chuckle, which I shall not forget. When he spoke to anyone his ready smile would flash a gold tooth and his arm would brush his sport coat aside just enough for you to get a good look at a service revolver holstered under his left arm pit. He was quite proud of his status as a reserve deputy sheriff, although I think the chief function of his badge was to allow him a hopeful route of escape from a DWI or a speeding ticket. Richard had a business partner, Dick Marsh, who was reluctantly dragged into all of this. Dick had abandoned a career as a CPA/accountant for the glamour and fun of aviation. Richard had cast his military retirement along with Dick’s nest egg savings into an FBO* called Silvair Aviation.

This is where I come in. Silvair was my employer. My function was to sell new and used aircraft. Silvair had a Cessna franchise and my job was to sell 152s, 172s, 177s, 182s, and 210s. This I was modestly successful at but my hidden interest was more in flying then in selling. I took a great interest in the GVTC, the success or failure of which might affect the security of my pay check. There were other employee hopefuls: Ron Thormalan, a flight instructor from Tulsa. Patty, the secretary/bookeeper, divorced with two small kids. One of Patty’s functions was to create cover for Richard when he was out for the afternoon with his mistress. An impossible job for her considering that he went to great pains to actually brag about his affairs. He was attracted to Asian women. I believe he found them easily manipulated.

I don’t know what bar they were in but the idea was hatched to start an air travel club under FAR part 123.0. The plan was to originate flights from our small base in Modesto to Burbank, in the huge metropolitan area of Los Angeles. Legitimate air service during these years was next to impossible to break into and very expensive**. Since it would be illegal to run scheduled flights without proper authority, GVTC was born. GVTC would be a subterfuge, a loop hole in the rules. Businessmen or leisure travelers would be sold a membership in the club for a minimal fee with an additional fee charged for the round trip excursion to Southern California. Flights would be operated more or less routinely through out the day like a shuttle. Weekends might see vacation junkets to ski resorts or tourist areas. The Quartermaines had the connections and the funding. Schneider had the can do attitude and an enthusiastic group of young people itching to break into the prestigious airline business.

The FBO’s flight instructor pilots would trip all over themselves to fly a large aircraft for this kind of resume experience and could be compensated for very little. Maybe it might just work…

The day came when it was decided to locate an aircraft. Because of his experience and expertise, Richard was given the authorization to research and identify any likely candidates. He promptly gathered up all of his trade-a-plane magazines and brokerage brochures and disappeared. When he returned three days later the deed was done. It all happened much faster then the other principals in the venture would have liked for, in addition to their trust and confidence, they had equipped him with a letter of credit. Without much consultation with them other than by a few phone calls back and forth Richard had come back with an airplane.

It was ancient. Used since 1949 by various Airlines, this Convair (type CV-240-11 c/n 133 ) had seen many years of service before being laid up.  Its once gleaming aluminum skin, was stretched and dimpled between underlying stringers and frames. It was quite tarnished and dull with some corrosion visible on the upper structure of the horizontal stabilizer. The red stripe accent paint on the fuselage was faded to chalk. The interior was in tatters. No problem for Richard Schneider, with an easy restoration, fresh paint and upholstery would hide the age. The challenge would be to convince the partners that the dream could take off.

The beast was huge by today’s standards . Even though there were only seats for about 30 passengers in the cabin, the interior was voluminous with plenty of head, leg, and knee room. You could pass one another in the aisle without making any fancy contortions. The machine was quite modern for its day, offering air-conditioning and cabin pressurization. It sat tall on its landing gear, the 14 foot Hamilton Standard props required a wide arc. The engines, mounted on a straight wing, were compound radial Pratt & Whitney R-2800s that made the nicest mechanical noises when brought to life.

This was the next step. The owners were anxious to see their new plane and Richard to make a good first impression. The Convair sat forlorn on our ramp in late afternoon shade when everyone arrived. They all stood around along with other curious on lookers as Richard attempted to start the mighty engines. Ship’s power consisted of 2 lead acid batteries designed for interior lights, a comm radio and emergency usage only. A light duty ground generator powered by a garden variety lawn tractor was connected to the ground power receptacle for the battery assist. The start procedure required the engine to be “turned through 9 blades”. This would insure that any oil that had accumulated in the lower cylinders would have a chance to escape. (Fluid occupying a given volume, cannot be compressed. A hydraulic lock during start could bend the connecting rods). After the proper number of revolutions the mixture lever would be brought to rich and the magnetos switched on. With some additional juggling of throttle, mixture control, and fuel enrich the Pratt & Whitney’s would snarl and roar into action.

With many turns of the propeller, and few pops and puffs of smoke from the exhaust everything slowed to a halt. With the ground power unit ill-suited for the task at hand and with the ship’s battery now quite flat neither engine would catch.. It was very anti-climatic. There was no joy in Mudville. Everyone was anticipating a show but left with disappointment instead. No one knows what thoughts John Q. and Dick Marsh left with that evening but I can imagine the head holding and hand wringing that must have taken place around dinner tables that night.

Clearly, there was a lot to be done. The radios were 25 years old and would be replaced. Silvair had an avionics shop so this work was accomplished in house. The latest generation Collins Micro Line was wired and installed and to the credit of our two in house avionics technicians it performed flawlessly. The aforementioned paint and interior work was completed weeks later, off site, by refurbishers in the Sacramento Valley. Upon return, it was a new bird. Gleaming in all over white with bright yellow and orange striping she was christened the “Spirit of Modesto”.

New on the scene were two men: Herman Musser,  Air Force retired, was recruited by Richard Schneider to fly right seat A likable fellow, Herman was quiet and unassuming, and lived in Atwater (Castle Air Force Base). The other gentleman was a different breed of cat. The enterprise found an A & P mechanic knowledgeable with the T-29 (a military version of the Convair-liner). Enter a very large man with a real name but called only by his nickname: Moose. Fitting his character perfectly this guy was totally without culture or manners. With crooked yellowing teeth, the result of his chain smoking no doubt, he drawled four letter expletives in a very low whiskey voice. With a ferocious prejudice he hated pilots. If you made an error in getting in his way he would straight arm you right back out of it. If caught in the cockpit of his airplane he would grab your shirt or ear or what ever was handy and drag you clear. Ex-Air Force from the mid-west or somewhere, he must have taken a lot of grief from pilots during his long career. I guess it was revenge time.

This caused me some concern as I loved to sit in the pilot seat and hanger fly this airplane. The cockpit was all metal with very little plastic, most of it bakelite. Two massive control wheels dominated the instrument panel. Just above the instrument panel glareshield were the narrowest of slits, the windshields, and above those a large panel of switches and circuit breakers. The center console on the floor held large man-size levers for throttle, mixture, and prop RPM, firewall shut off handles, and trim wheels for elevator, aileron, and rudder. A good deal of bare metal was showing as the original gray and black paint had long ago been worn away. The spartan seats were heavy cracked black leather now re-covered with sheep skins. “Boy I sure would like to get my hands on the controls of this baby!” It was hard to concentrate on my regular job description with this aircraft just outside. The airplanes I flew were small single engine jobs. I wanted bigger but I new it would jeopardize my position to let on that I would rather be flying. So I merely observed, and learned.

I would ride along during training flights, careful not to spend to much time away from my desk. Herman or Richard, after pronouncing themselves instructors, would go up with Harold Fordson or Ron Thormalan as trainees and perform stalls, engine out procedures and instrument approaches. Before too long the Spirit of Modesto and the Great Valley Travel Club began to take shape.

After a few membership drives, meetings, sideshows, and gatherings. The GVTC decided they were ready for an introductory flight. The occasion called for a short flight to the Red Baron restaurant on the airport at Livermore. Prospective members, the local press and friends would be invited to go along. I can remember my place in the airplane, window seat just aft of the right wing, because during the taxi out for departure I vividly recall the blood red fluid emanating from the right engine nacelle. That would be hydraulic fluid. Necessary for the operation of such things as flaps and landing gear, it was pukeing from an overflow or pressure relief orifice at a rate bound to exhaust the 15 gallon supply in short order. Not wanting to alarm the other passengers or the flight attendant for that matter, I quietly urged her to inform the crew of my discovery post haste. I watched intently as she made her way forward and was quite relieved when moments later the flow thankfully ceased. Herman would later explain that he was fooling with the cabin pressurization which had been safety wired to off (and now with hindsight, for much good reason!).

In the run-up area the crew advanced the throttles for the routine mag and propeller check. The airframe bucked and strained against locked brakes. Finally, the pre-takeoff checks completed we began our takeoff roll. The vibration and noise was terrific as we lumbered down the runway, established a positive rate of climb, and pointed upward toward beautiful blue sky… Uh oh! Now what! Liquid pouring from the upper outboard surface of the wing. Heavy spray, like surf. It’s ONLY 130 octane aviation gas! The fuel cap had worked its way loose somehow. Most likely it had departed the aircraft completely and was now lying in someone’s backyard. The tank, which was full, was madly siphoning fuel overboard.

It looked worse than it was. The loss would eventually stop once the wing angle of attack was reduced and the tank level dropped enough to break the siphon. There really wasn’t anything to be done, except watch. We were in here. It was out there. The events so far didn’t do much for confidence, however. It was rather embarrassing.

****

It was billed as the first flight for the Great Valley Travel Club. The itinerary called for 3 glamorous days and 2 nights at the Hacienda Beach Resort in exotic Baja California Sur. Again, with PR in mind, the journey would be a Fam Trip with the prices set at near cost. With many mailings and flyers 35 people signed up to go on the adventure, myself included. Fun in the sun. With late winter temperatures still quite cold I was looking forward to the get away. I had flown south of the border on my own once already in a Cessna 182 but only as far as Mulege‘. As the crow flies, Lands End was about 900 nm southeast. The air and water there would be delightfully warm.

We were ready! Mother Nature wasn’t. There was fog. So typical of the weather in this part of California you couldn’t see across the street. Valley fog normally dissipates by the end of February but this was kind of a departing gift a last hurrah before spring time. You could smell the heavy moisture in the air. Noises everywhere were muffled by the sound absorbing qualities of the dense tulle fog. If you stood out in it long enough millions of tiny droplets of moisture and dew would condense on your hair and clothing and you would begin to blend in with the damp surroundings. Natures cloaking devise. You felt a sense of security knowing that you could move about in it and no one could see you.

The restriction to visibility would wreak havoc with travel schedules ours included. In order to conduct a safe operation our departure would be delayed. Everyone stood about the terminal building looking outside, looking at each other. There was little to do but stand or sit and drink coffee and gaze outside making guestimates as to whether is was getting any better out there. A few of us knowledgeable pointed out that the FARs mandated a take off visibility minimum of 1/4 mile. This could take several hours. The sun would do its’ work trying to help the ambient temperature escape from the dew point temperature. All we needed was a measly 2 or 3 degree spread. A little bit more breeze couldn’t hurt to whip things up either. The RVR (runway visibility range) was measured and reported at 600 variable 800 feet. We were all convinced that somewhere the sun god was shinning. It would be several hours of waiting before ours began to burn through.
Finally it was time. What a relief. Everyone boarded the Spirit of Modesto through its forward cabin door. It was equipped with an early attempt at self contained, hydraulically operated steps called an airstair door. They were problematic and this one was reduced to manual operation. The “new” WWII surplus GPU (ground power unit) wailed noisily on the ramp toward the back end of the plane somewhere providing cabin lights and recirculated air inside. You had to duck your head slightly through the door way but once inside it was quite spacious. There would be no heat until the engines were started. Everyone found a seat. The new interior was reds maroon and orange. Not my taste exactly but Mrs. Q. had done a reasonably good job.

The best place to sit was in the middle of the cabin aft of the propellers but forward of the engine exhaust. The exhaust pipe was two very large openings on the trailing edge of the wing. Known as augmenter tubes they were 1950’s state of the art technology designed to use Bernoulli’s principle and the venturi effect to decrease the exhaust backpressure and provide some residual thrust utilizing spent cooling airflow from the engine cowling.. The idea served incredibly well but only in augmenting the noise. If you sat in the back you gained the full effect.

The engine starting was the most exciting thing for me to watch. I am always amazed by it. These big radials shake and rumble, spit, cough, pop and belch copious quantities of oily blue smoke when they roar to life. The prop begins to turn very slowly and rhythmically at first a very slight electric whirring audible over the Cabin PA speakers caused by the electronic noise and interference brought about by the zillions of electrons rushing to their doom at the starter motor commutator. The pistons, wrist pins and connecting rods clank and snap on their cold bearing surfaces. The magneto switches are set to both and a fuel pump hums momentarily as the flight crew stabs at the enrichment button. The proper stoichemic ratio is achieved and all 18 cylinders begin to fire intermittently and erradically. The propeller reduction gearbox whines loudly the engine driven hydraulic pumps groan as the machine finds and stabilizes at its idle RPM.

We were on our way. Everyone settled into a routine. Some folks read or talked as best they could above the din. A good card game went on up front. Others dozed off in the bright warming sunlight reflecting from the solid white fog bank below and pouring in through the port side windows. Pretty soon the light would be shifting over to the right side. From a window seat over the wing you couldn’t see the ground track to well but you could gaze at the glistening little streams of black oil slowly sneak past inspection cover seems and cowling latches and then get pressed hard against the outer skin, trapped there by the high pressure slipstream as it tried to snake aft. The vibration would loosen a zeuss fastener or two and it would pop up and dance about in its socket threatening to abandon ship. You would wonder how many of the others would still be doing their intended jobs by missions end.

A fruit basket snack and sandwiches were served by Mrs. Q and a helpful passenger volunteer playing the role of flight attendant. This was the life. I can’t understand why people complain about airline food so. Hunger makes pretty good sauce besides what restaurant could possibly offer this kind of view of the world. All too soon we left our lofty perch for our planned gas stop at Lindbergh field in San Diego. The glide path approaches steeply between tall downtown buildings and traverses low over a multi-storied parking garage just before crossing the 405 and the touchdown zone of Runway 27.

Unbeknownst to us in the cabin, our stay here would be rather lengthy. Enroute a little red light on the control panel had illuminated. The #2 generator had given up and dropped off line. It would not re-set. We remote parked the aircraft at a secondary FBO that looked suspiciously like a place where old airplanes go to and don’t leave from right away. The seagulls orbiting overhead seemed like vultures.

Have no fear Moose was here. Our ride along mechanic had even brought a few spares with him. The fresh generator and tools were retrieved from the cargo hold. He borrowed a step ladder from the locals and got right to work. The rest of us stood around bewildered but getting used to the slow progress of our GVTC airline. We waited inside a dilapidated old hanger office and lined up for the soft drink machine and restroom.

Looking across the airfield you could see the rows of once proud manufacturing buildings that belonged to General Dynamic’s Convair Division. Aircraft manufacturing had ceased in the early 1960s with the demise of the Convair 880 and last ditch effort 990. These sleek jet transports were supposed to carry Convair into the Jet Age competing against the likes of the Boeing 707 and Douglas DC-8. They never met their design objectives and performance goals, using too much fuel and at too slow a cruise speed. It was the costliest product collapse in history eclipsing even the Ford Edsel. I wondered if the “Spirit of Modesto” Convair 240 had been built there.

Moose worked feverishly, atop his step ladder. The upper half disappeared up inside the open wheel well at the back of the engine firewall, all you could make out was his thick soled shoes and baggy coveralls legs. With the job complete and all of the tools and miscellaneous bits and pieces accounted for the engine was runup and tested. Good to go.

Back in business we were once again on our merry way. We were soon well into Mexico but not soon enough. The mechanical delay had cost 2 hours. When you also summed the weather predicament that we had experienced earlier we were way behind. This is what Richard Schneider had discovered late that afternoon from the cockpit. It just wasn’t going to work out. We couldn’t get there from here. The day was used up. What were they going to do now? The Hacienda in Los Cabos was expecting us. They had our deposits. What would become of the passengers? Technically the GVTC was responsible for their welfare and well being. It could get messy. It could be expensive. Maybe this air travel club business wouldn’t be so much fun after all.

Mrs. Q and the other club officers huddled with Schneider and Musser in the cockpit and considered the immediate options. It would be completely dark soon. The best course of action would be to land short in La Paz B.C. They had lights. Down we went skirting a few puffy white ones on the way. It was dark by the time we landed at the Generalisimo T… Airport International. A large and modern airport by Mexican standards it was largely deserted save for a few rifle toting customs officials with ammo belts crisscrossing chests Rambo style. (The military is always visible in Mexico.) Not too many flights operating at night in Baja; we had the baggage claim and immigration to ourselves.

Our disposition was still far from settled. In other words; now what? The directors brain stormed and came up with the idea of a bus or cabs. This thought actually took hold as some were convinced that the idea had merit. It would have been foolhardy to set off down the road. Ranking right up there with Lettermen’s top 10 list of things not to try in Mexico is the water and driving at night. The roads are narrow not well marked and completely unlit. The major danger, however, is from wild burros and grazing cattle that wonder on to them. There are not many fence lines to keep them off as they forage for scarce water and food. Can you imagine what a Mexican taxi cab is like? They are shot out and worn out before they find their way down here. I figured a bunch of them let loose on such a journey would probably run out of gas somewhere in the dark desert. Either that or an unscrupulous driver might suddenly raise his fare somewhere mid stream. I let it be known that I was having no part of it and would be staying in La Paz with the crew. The plan eventually was dismissed, fortunately.

After some hurried phone calls accommodations were arranged for us all at the El Presidente hotel. What a relief. A place with availability and a quite nice and modern too. Mrs. Q signed over a mass of travelers checks and we wandered off to change for dinner. Totally in character, Moose had his little attaché case with the liquor bottles and shot glasses inside and was offering a snort to anyone who passed by his hospitality. Everyone eventually made it to the restaurant and cantina and we had a marvelous well earned fiesta. I turned in early. I can only hope that the pilots did the same. We were to launch once again early next morning for our elusive destination…

Hahhhh! We finally made it. Blue sky, sunshine, and warm ocean breezes combined to make our journey seem more worthwhile. The Mexican stereotype of “maybe manana” was alive and well and clearly evident from the moment that we had crossed the border. The hectic pace that we left behind was replaced by a feeling of complete relaxation. We enjoyed sport fishing and swimming. Our beachfront cabañas were convenient to the sand and surf which is where I spent most of my time. Another popular pastime was eating and drinking, with the emphasis on drinking. The late afternoon (earlier for some) started with poolside cervesas and margaritas followed eventually by shots of tequila with lime. Dinner time rolled around and everyone happy and pink from the sun would congregate in the hotel dinning room for fresh catch seafood and a Mexican feast. The mariachis would stroll and play Guadalajara, Guantanamera and other popular gringo requests. More margaritas and piña coladas and finally the place would be pretty loud and raucous.

Schneider and his bunch were particularly experienced at this and could drink with the best of them. One of their greatest errors in judgment was to carry on like this in public and in full view of the other passengers, especially on the eve of departure. In fact the evening degenerated into some pretty outrageous drunken name calling and hurling of funny insults clear across the room propagated primarily by pilots and other Silvair personnel present. This was all perpetuated and thought funny by many others of our inebriated group. But, I know that the silent majority was aghast at the spectacle. Many later complained about the pilots drinking and more still probably vowed not to give the Great Valley Travel Club another chance.

By the time our mini-holiday was over most of us were ready to go home. The return trip was uneventful save for a momentary fright during the customs stop over in San Diego. As we touched down and during the landing roll out Captain Schneider brought the mighty engines into reverse. Actually, the propeller blades are brought toward a negative blade angle by the prop governor and the engine’s throttle is then reopened to provide reverse thrust. This is accomplished through a complicated dance with levers, cams, and mechanical linkages to the power plants. The old Convair’s were not rigged properly. When the mighty engines began to roar into reverse the left one crapped out, belched and spat before it slowed to a stop. In mock defiance it torched a huge flame out the tail pipe which had the effect of illuminating the gawking faces of the passengers seated on that side of the aircraft. Reverse was quickly aborted and the right engine, which continued to rumble on, saw us safely to the gate.

Epilogue

Time past and I eventually left Silvair, the GVTC, the “Spirit of Modesto” and moved on. There were several much shorter junkets attempted to publicize the airline and recruit travel club members, the details of which are unknown. Eventually semi-regular runs were scheduled and established between Modesto and Burbank. The passenger loads never fulfilled expectations or matched business break-even expenses. The maiden voyage to Mexico, however, will always standout in my mind as the first and last great hurrah of the Great Valley Travel Club.

20 JUN 1978 – The brilliant afternoon sun was beginning to set. Captain Musser and First Officer Harold Fordson observed the bold shades of orange and yellows and realized that they had put in a very long day as they had seen the very same display but as day break about 13 hours prior. One could easily wonder about what a normal 9 to 5 would be like or get angry over having to put in so many hours but the awe inspiring sight always seemed to negate those feelings. They felt like airline pilots, even after the very long day in Burbank sitting and waiting for the return run home.

It was then when number 2 began to behave erradically. Was it an ignition problem? A fuel mixture adjustment? Fordson and Musser looked at each other briefly as the engine surged in and out. Without much coordination or direction they began flipping switches on fuel booster pumps and independently selected magnetos left and right and then back to both in an attempt to smooth the balking machine. In the brief span of a few more seconds it went away completely never to revive. The windmilling propeller continued to buzz with incredible drag as its mated power plant spun lifeless in mad pursuit. The main wing tank was quite dry the carburetor bowl starved for fuel.
This, Musser and Fordson had trouble comprehending. The gauge indicated adequate tankage. The old gauge had lied. The Convair established a long gradual glide the Number 1 providing seemingly enough time to get everything sorted out. It would have been good procedure and safe practice to secure the failed engine land as soon as practical and face the music but instead the crew decided to attempt to “re-light” the dead engine.

It was either in haste or confusion or ignorance but when Musser reached up to the overhead panel for the big red levers that manage the fuel distribution and crossfeed between tanks that an error occurred. The idea was to restore fuel to number 2. But then number 1 sputtered and conked out. It got real quite in the cockpit only the airflow rushing outside at 140 knots and the minds of the pilots screaming and shouting internally trying to make sense of what was happening. The aircraft descended like a brick and Musser and Fordson faced a new sense of urgency as the aircraft would need to be configured for an emergency crash landing. Thank God there was light remaining. The area was hurriedly scanned for a suitable landing sight. The plane was banked left then right as terrain and wind direction were analyzed. Luckily the area was flat and mostly agricultural. There! Over there. That might work. No, a farmhouse or structure of some sort. Too many damn power lines! The ground was rushing to meet them fast. A judgment would need to be made quick. There could be no second chance.

The aircraft settled into a cornfield, wheels down, in a textbook perfect dead stick landing. In this the crew performed marvelously. There were no injuries the airplane was basically upright and standing tall on its landing gear. The flight crew and the 3 or 4 revenue passengers walked away after feeling the swoosh of the grim reaper’s scythe and with a great story for the grandchildren. The NTSB would later determine that the right wing did in fact contain adequate reserve fuel suitable to sustain both engines as the flight crew had suspected. But due to pilot error, the crossfeed had been mismanaged, the healthy engine inadvertently joined with the wing tank that was bone dry. [RH Boost Pump inop.]

For many years afterward the “Spirit of Modesto”  N280P sat in that cornfield proud after a long career. A monument. Richard Schneider in a last chance bid to salvage his reputation and the dream of many others tried to convince the local authorities, the FAA, the investors, creditors and insurers of a wild scheme to allow him to lighten the old airplane as much as possible, hard pack 3/4 miles of the field into a strip and fly it out. He was defeated by a stubborn farmer who owned the land, more intent on the value of his remaining undamaged crop then some vague promises of reparations later from a fast talker from the world of aviation.

2000 – The farmer acquiesces and donates the old relic to volunteers who dismantle and, after many man hours restore, it for static display in Atwater, California. More reveal on the Spirit of Modesto Convair

* An FBO (fixed base operation) is like a general store at the airport. It offers the flying public: pilot supplies, flight instruction, plane rentals, charter, aircraft sales and maintenance. Most are Mom and Pop businesses. They are a carry over from the barnstorming days…

** Today there are many new start up airlines with names like: Morris Air, Reno Air, Kiwi, ValueJet, Leisure Air, Carnival and Sun Country, all thanks to deregulation…