The Penn Stohr Airport

"There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old bold pilots."

Don't know who told me that a long time ago, but the idea has been around long enough for me to think on it for at least 65 years.

There seemed to be a little bit of a daredevil in most of the pilots I knew and flew with as a young man. A lot of them are still around, some have died of old age, and some were killed in crashes.

Two of the most careful and experienced pilot I ever flew with in years of soaring skies, were killed together in a Ford Tri-Motor. Penn Stohr and Bob Valance went down during a spraying job near White Sulphur Springs in 1957. Many memories of my mostly great days in the skies with Penn came rushing back last Saturday as the beautiful new four million dollar airstrip at Plains was dedicated to him. Hundreds showed up, driving, flying, riding horses, and walking.

Even the Governor came dropping in with his middle sized black and white dog that goes around shaking hands with everyone. My neighbor Martin Shrock, the Montana Highway Patrolman, Iraq, and New Orleans flood veteran was there to guard the governor. Martin is from Plains and I met his mother who with good reason is very proud of her son. She's not as tall as Martin … but then, not many are as tall as Martin.

Hank Galpin has spent the last few years here in the valley completely rebuilding a Travelaire that Penn used to fly for Johnson Flying Service. I flew with him in that wonderful old Curtis Wright … jumped out of it, dropping cargo, and pushed a few Forest Service Smokejumpers out the door. Wow! The flyin' and jumpin' stories really filled the air last Saturday.

One of the first people I found was Dan Stohr, Penn's oldest son. Dan came in the Smokejumpers when I was there, and he "sorta" hurt his leg on the first jump … because he made two jumps on a broken leg. We talked that over Saturday and Dan was surprised that I would remember that after 54 years. I told him there are some things hard to forget.

Dan's kid brother Penn still makes his living in the air as Flying Director of Operations at the famed Evergreen International Aviation, Inc., at Portland, Oregon. Sister Bettina married a good friend of mine for college days, Bob Burke. I'll be seeing them again this weekend at Homecoming in Missoula.

Penn Stohr started his flying career with an OX5 Swallow back in the 20s. It looked like something Eddy Rickenbacker flew in World War I and Penn had a hay field on his dad's farm for a landing strip. As a little boy at Camas Prairie in the depression thirties, I recall several times when an airplane flew over the homesteaders shack where we lived, and my dad told me, "My friend Penn Stohr is the pilot of that plane."

My personal memories of Penn Stohr always include the vision of him chewing on a cigar butt. Can't remember if I ever saw him light a new cigar … just always had the back end of one. Maybe he had the same cigar butt all the years I knew him. There was a time or two when things got tough enough he bit clear through.

There was one really bad day I spent with Penn. He and I were taking two jumpers to a lightning fire in the Mission Mountains on the Swan River side. The flying service operator from Kalispell who had the fire patrol contract for the area had located the fire early in the morning but Penn and I couldn't it, so we made a landing in over the tree tops at the Condon strip. Got in radio touch with the patrol plane and he said he'd fly back and circle over the fire to show us where it was. By the time we took off and got to the designated area a fierce fire was burning far below us. Red and orange flames were shooting a hundred feet in the air. I said, "Penn, I can't see much detail in either the fire or the ground terrain. Do you suppose we could drop a thousand feet or so?"

Penn's answer was clear, "George! The air is very bad down there, and it looks like the wind is shifting every which way."

In those days, Penn's earlier dare devil flying times were long over and if he didn't want to fly down that canyon, I didn't want to fly down that canyon.

We decided to give it up and take our jumpers back to Missoula.

Later in the day, I was pulling duty on the communications desk at the Jumper Center and learned the bright flames we'd seen were not the lightning fire but rather, the patrol plane. It had crashed and killed the pilot, the air-observer, and an unauthorized passenger, but that's a long story for another day.

It was good to see some of my friends from the olden days last weekend. It was also good to talk about the adventures, excitement, and the good times we had with those who are now gone or couldn't be there.