"Navigation was a serious
challenge. This was Amelia’s first long-distance flight, and she
learned how hard it was to navigate (or avigate, as aviators called it
back then) with the inadequate maps of the day and the lack of defined
fields. And it got harder as the populated East gave way to
the less populated Midwest and the more sparsely settled Southwest, and
even harder as cities gave way to featureless towns, towns became
smaller and then became hamlets—just clusters of houses really; and
harder still when the empty spaces between the settlements grew, and
the farms turned into the endless plains of the Southwest. She
learned dead reckoning; she had no choice.
The open
cockpit made it even more challenging. The wind rushing about
made the maps blow around. Amelia resorted to pinning the map she
was using to her knee with a safety pin, but the pinning and unpinning
as she flew off the edge of one map and onto another was never easy and
became difficult when there were other things to do. West of Fort
Worth, Texas, heading for Pecos in bumpy air, she was pumping gas from
the reserve tank and didn’t, momentarily, pin, and suddenly the map of
west Texas blew away. She followed her last compass course
southwest, but then in pursuit of signs of life, and needing gasoline,
she followed cars on a road going northwest, followed the road and the
cars into the purple haze of the setting sun, and finally saw a small
cluster of houses grouped around an oil well, one road running
through. She had to land before darkness fell and rolled right
through town on its one road, its Main Street, to find out she had
flown clear across Texas and was in Hobbs, New Mexico. The
townspeople helped her fold up the wings of the little Avian and move
it to a safe place for the night (an overhelpful cowboy managed to put
his foot through a wing; a piece of tablecloth was glued down over it),
fed her at the Owl Café, found her some gasoline, and gave her a
bed. The next morning she took off down Main Street, with more
help from her new friends, but still without a map, heading southwest
as instructed, looking for the Pecos River and a railroad line, her
markers for the town of Pecos.
It was a
short flight, only a hundred miles. The engine started to sound
rough, but she thought it would work its way through and ignored
it. She set down in Pecos, where she ended up at a Rotary Club
lunch, then took off for El Paso, and then suddenly real trouble—the
engine started kicking up badly—and she had to put down in the desert
amidst the mesquite bushes. Friendly passersby helped her tow her
plane, its wings again folded, down the highway back to Pecos. It
turned out the Hobbs gasoline was bad and had ruined the engine
valves. She remained there for the five days it took the
mechanics to bring the engine back into working order."
Permission for use provided by
the author.
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