by Al Rolland
Preface
This is a story of a handful of formerly-successful, now-retired men (arguably boys) looking for another way to
deplete their finances and desperate for something to do between their golf games, prostate problems, and bouts of
gas. It is a story of courage, perseverance, hope, joy (not much), stubbornness, stupidity, senility, and despair. It is
left to the reader to judge which of these human traits was dominant on this one day. There is no violence, at least
not of the human kind, and no sex. The participants are beyond any interest in this subject.
Bad Day at Goose Bay
Saturday, May 19, 2001 started out as a beautiful day. The sky was crystal clear with not a cloud in sight. The
temperature was mild and most importantly, there was not a hint of a breeze. It was a perfect day for flying on the
shores of Lake Almanor in an area called Goose Bay. Five intrepid radio-control (R/C) pilots, Bill Azevedo, Bruce
Carlson, Kent Huggins, Dick Swift, and Al Rolland were ready to break the surly bonds of earth and guide their trusty
trainers into the heavens. Despite their advanced years these five were not long on flying experience, but their
enthusiasm and spirit were without equal. They were pumped!
A Little History
Azevedo, Carlson, and Huggins were rookie pilots from the previous summer. Each had trained under the tutelage of
Harry Thompson and Ray Schimmel, both having hundreds of hours of R/C flying experience. Someone had
remarked their teaching styles were similar to their golf games. Ray was smooth and patient whereas Harry was
somewhat more demanding and aggressive, occasionally yelling at his student. Each, however, handled an airplane
with consummate skill. I am sure that both would testify that teaching these cantankerous, stubborn old geezers was
no picnic. It is rumored that Schimmel, though outwardly calm, had to move away to escape the frustration.
Dick Swift is an old hand with R/C airplanes. Swift, however, seems more content with building and repairing rather
than flying the airplanes. God knows he had his hands full trying to keep pace with the weekly carnage at the
makeshift Canyon Dam airfield last summer. There were numerous incidents/crashes worthy of documentation, but
the most notable was a semi-soft landing of Huggins’ plane by the instructor near the top of a 100’ pine tree.
Undeterred, Huggins hired a local tree climber to retrieve the damaged, but repairable craft. He would fly again!
Dumb!
Paul Harrison is also a R/C wannabe and a Canyon Dam participant. He ordered a trainer, but after piloting Azevedo’
s plane to its destruction, he went home and told the UPS driver to take his just-delivered plane back from whence it
came. Unfortunately, he later again succumbed to the lure of flight and reordered the airplane. Dumb!
Rolland was present at some of the year 2000 Canyon Dam events but only as an observer. Despite it being obvious
that this was an expensive and seemingly discouraging and frustrating pastime (like golf), he decided that he must be
a participant. Dumb! A hobby shop clerk in LA told him that if you build one of these things, you must expect to crash.
Now why would anyone want to do that? Nevertheless, Rolland had returned to Almanor fresh from completing 1-½
weeks of intensive flight training in Las Vegas. He could takeoff, fly around, do a few aerobatics, and ………. Well, he
hadn’t learned to land, at least with the plane intact. Details!
Day of Infamy
The pilots and their planes arrived at the Goose Bay site at the appointed hour. Cars were parked a safe distance
from the runway, or so it was thought. The airplanes, sparkling in the morning sun, were neatly lined up at the edge
of field. You could almost visualize the pilots standing at attention beside their winged mounts waiting for the
command "Pilots, man your planes". It just didn't get any better than this!
Rolland was the first to get started and decided to taxi around to get the feel of the "tarmac". Unfortunately, this was
no asphalt or concrete runway. Despite Huggins’ superhuman efforts to recreate runway 25L at LAX, the surface was
bumpy and soft with scale-size pot holes. Within a few minutes, Rolland managed to put the nose wheel in a hole
resulting in a splintered propeller. After declining several offers of a new propeller, he returned his plane to the "pits",
at least for the time being. Not so dumb!
Azevedo was next. His airplane, which looked like an entry in a patchwork quilt contest, was ready. Bill, however, was
not up to the takeoff and turned the controls over to the more-experienced Huggins. Huggins had mastered snow
takeoffs and landings this past winter at this same site. He was the picture of confidence as the "Patchwork Quilt"
porpoised down the bumpy runway and almost reluctantly left the ground amid cheers from all. Curiously, it was as if
they had witnessed the unexpected. After 10-15 minutes of satisfactory if somewhat rusty maneuvering by both pilots,
Azevedo again passed the controls to Huggins for what was supposed to be the triumphant return to earth. Azevedo
was not one to shun the spotlight, but today the overriding motivation was to get the damn thing down in one piece.
Huggins seemed to have things under control, but then, on the downwind leg over the lake, the plane suddenly
dipped and dived nose first into the water like a pelican on an unsuspecting fish. Aside from Marilyn Huggins’
utterance "Oh my God (or was it gosh?)", there was a deafening silence. Swift was the first to recover and said, "I’ll go
get my kayak", almost as if he had rehearsed the line. While Azevedo’s plane floated pathetically in Goose Bay,
Huggins could only turn with his hands in the air and glumly look at Bill as if to say "Poop happens".
While Swift and Carlson departed the scene for the kayak, Huggins, in an inexplicable burst of optimism, said, "I’m
ready to fly my plane!" There was no seconds to this motion from Azevedo or Rolland, or Mrs. Huggins for that
matter. Undaunted by this lack of encouragement, Huggins readied his plane and began his takeoff roll, if you could
call it that. Actually, it was more like a takeoff plow. The plane struggled through the soft dirt (no longer considered a
tarmac), slowly gaining momentum, and somehow miraculously left the ground. It was exactly at this point that events
again took a turn for the worse. The plane, no more than 5-10 feet off the ground, abruptly rolled to the right and
headed towards Azevedo who was still in shock at the demise of his aircraft. It was as if the airplane god had taken
care of Azevedo’s plane and was now after Bill himself. Fortunately, Bill was able to evade the maroon and black
renegade. Unfortunately, Carlson’s SUV had no such instinct for self-preservation and suffered a mighty blow to the
front fender in the vicinity of the turn signal light. It was now obvious to all that this was not a safe distance from the
runway. The plane, of course, was the worse for wear and looked near death (beyond repair). Someone whispered
the word "kamikaze", but it was not Marilyn. She had already invoked God and was saying no more. She quietly
drifted toward her home softly muttering something about a "guy thing".
Just moments after the crash, Swift and Carlson returned with the kayak and slowly drove by the scene like gawkers
at a freeway accident. Carlson surely saw the remains of Huggins plane, but it is unclear if he realized his SUV had
been involved.
In less than an hour, two airplanes had been seriously damaged if not destroyed. A third had suffered minor damage.
You would think this would have been enough for all to pack it in and return to the hanger. But Bruce Carlson is a
stubborn man. Even the news of his SUV did not thwart his desire to fly. "I’m going to give it try", he said with
conviction.
Carlson’s preparations to fly his freshly rebuilt aircraft were not without incident. While the others were busy doing
bodily harm to their aircraft, Bruce discovered his radio receiver battery was dead and was forced to return to the
factory for a replacement. Then while taxiing, he noted his plane did just the opposite as commanded. On close
inspection, it was apparent all the controls were reversed. One observer suggested immediate grounding of the
Carlson plane and a probe of factory quality control practices. Carlson would have none of this and after correcting
the obvious problems, restarted the plane and proceeded for takeoff. He stubbornly dismissed suggestions to use
the firmer grassy area and chose the same soft and bumpy path as his predecessors. What happened next is the
subject of some speculation whether it was due to natural causes or intervention by man. The plane turned to the left
off the runway and continued the takeoff roll into the crusted dried mud. There was no way the plane could gather
enough speed to get off the ground, but Carlson would not be denied. He slammed the throttle to the wall, pulled
back the stick, and the plane in fact left the ground to the amazement of everyone. The flight, however, was short
lived. The airplane continued its love to go left, and with its wings perpendicular to the ground, cartwheeled into the
Almanor mud, breaking into several pieces. Again, the now familiar stunned silence.
Now there was only one! Dick Swift is a cautious and sometimes reluctant flyer. There was no way he would take to
the air especially after what had transpired. But this grizzled veteran saw an opportunity. All the rookies with their
shiny planes and brash overconfidence had done themselves in. If he could fly and return safely, he would be the
hero of the day and finally receive the recognition he deserved.
Swift’s airplane was not particularly attractive. It looked as if it had first left the factory along with Lindbergh’s or
Earhart’s. Its covering was wrinkled (like the pilots) and the engine was discolored and somewhat grimy. It was
definitely the ugly duckling of the fleet that day, although the Patchwork Quilt was in the running. But it was a survivor!
Swift calmly taxied out to the grassy area and rolled to a successful albeit shaky takeoff. No doubt this was due to the
condition of the runway. He soared high and wide for 15 minutes. He was the envy of all the pilots. There were no
fancy aerobatics or stunts, but it was for the most part a smoothly executed flight even though the old engine
occasionally sounded as if it wanted to give up. But the dreaded landing was yet to come. Swift chose a slightly
downwind lake approach reasoning that this was less risky than the required sharp turn inside the tree line. It looked
real good until the plane was about 10’ off the ground and then it drifted right and seemed like it didn’t want to land.
The plane continued beyond the end of the runway toward the trees with the onlookers holding their breaths and
expecting yet another disaster (and why not?). Swift stayed with it, however, and guided the Ugly Duckling into some
tall grass, dissipating its momentum. He had landed (well OK, come to rest) with only minor nose wheel damage. Swift
was beaming and would have been hoisted on the shoulders of the other pilots had they been 20 years younger.
The jubilation of Swift’s success quickly evaporated as the other pilots recalled their experience and began to literally
pick up the pieces of their winged mounts. Five had come, four had flown (sort of), and three had crashed, big time. It
was unclear whether all the planes would be repaired and all the pilots would return to fly again. In the heat of the
moment, one was heard to say "This is it for me, this is my last flight". Another said, "Let’s wait for Harry to come
back". At least some would be back. It had indeed been a bad day at Goose Bay.