FLYING BY NIGHT

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 4330, 7 September 1937, Page 7

FLYING BY NIGHT

NEW YORK TO GRAND CANYON WHERE LINDBERGH BLAZED THE TRAIL Fully 40 per cent, of the flying in America is done at night, writes Oliver K. Whiting, in ‘ The Listener.’ 1 took the evening plane from Chicago to Kansas City, following the Lindbergh route which crosses to California over the Gaud Canyon and the Boulder dam. It was a marvellous experience. When 1 arrived at the flying ground there wore 10 or 12 giant Douglas planes lined up outside the hangar. Each was separately illuminated by floodlight, and coloured porters were busy loading luggage and mail. The planes, with their neat row of cabin ports aglow with light, look like yachts riding at anchor. They leave on their nightly errands throughout the year, with passengers and freight for the ends of the farthest State. For the workers there it was mere routine —but I found it a thrilling sight. A loud-speaker directed the passengers to their respective ships: “ No. 1 plane will leave in five minutes —New York.” “ No. 2 plane is leaving now—Salt Lake City.” “ No. 3 plane connecting Kansas City and Mexico.” “ No. 4 plane—Los Angeles and San Francisco.” And so these vast liners of the air take off into the silence of the night, and dawn will find them separated by thousands of miles—some in the tropics and some in the Frozen North. Whenever possible, the American likes to address you by name, and I am bound to say it creates a friendly feeling. There was an attractive air hostess awaiting us. “ Good evening, Mr Whiting; I see you have got your camera. Now, if you want to take any night snapshots 1 suggest you sit in the forward seat. Here is an illustrated map of the route; it will show you the points of interest. Oh! And that's the inevitable little packet of chewing gum.” I had scarcely got comfortably settled in my seat when, punctual to the minute, the engines broke into a roar and away we went, luggage, passengers, and mail, eight tons of metal, neat and trim, streaking through the splendour of the evening sky. Once we came down very low indeed, and I could read the illuminated advertisements on the buildings below, but for the most part we flew at a considerable height, and whole cities would become clusters of light, like twinkling jewels, sprinkled on a carpet of midnight blue. Our hostess served a splendid dinner. I was able to write several letters. Behind me two couples were playing bridge. And so we sped on through the night till the lights of Kansas City blinked beneath our wings. The next day I took the morning plane for the Canyon. For about tie first 200 miles we covered a flat tableland. clotted at intervals with lonely cattle ranches and later the derricks of innumerable oil wells. And so at last we reached the Rio Grande. Sometimes you can see herds of buffalo, and we got our first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains; a purple haze fringing the Arizona Desert. From this point on tiie greater part of the population is Indian; we could pick out their quaint little villages scattered -all over the plain. Just outside Winslow is a landmark 1 shall never forget. Here, 2,UU(J years ago a huge meteorite fell, making a circular crater 600 ft deep and almost a mile in diameter; and there it is to-day. We were told it is rich in valuable metals, platinum and so on, and mining operations have been in progress there for several years. 1 had arranged to leave the plane at the desert field of Winslow, and was allowed to hear our pilot’s radio telephone conversation with the airport. “ Hello Winslow. Hello Winslow. We are now flying at B,oooft, 10 miles east. Ceiling unlimited. 1 have passengers for the Grand Canyon, continuing by train. Will be landing in five minutes. What’s your wind and weathei ” “ Winslow calling Sky Chief—wind 10 miles per hour. South-west. Temperature 98. Weather all clear.” Some distance back we had overtaken the transcontinental train. She had left New York three days before us and there she was, crawling along in the heat below. We followed up the line for a few miles and landed alongside the desert halt where she stops to pick up water. In due course her two great engines pulled in sight and, with their warning cattle bells clanking, drew alongside our plane. These spectacular feats of flying go on night and day; across the misty mountain peaks and through the scorching desert sun; past that greatest of man’s engineering works the Bolder Dam, and on over the Rockies and the vast Grand Canyon itself, one of the earth’s most colossal scars in her battle with Nature. But it is all routine work to-day, and anyone may flj where Lindbergh blazed the trail.