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1990: A Stormy Diversion
Pepsi Skywriter, Travel Air D4D, (Smithsonian Photo by Eric Long).
I first landed in Miles City, Montana, in 1990 while flying the original 1929 Pepsi-Cola Travel Air—a classic skywriting biplane, now hanging in the Udvar-Hazy Smithsonian Museum. Thunderstorms forced me to divert that afternoon, and when I shut down the nine-cylinder Jacobs engine, the field was empty and eerily quiet.
A storm was closing in fast. I spotted a large, weathered wooden hangar from the 1920s—complete with dirt floors and an antique fire engine inside. I managed to sneak in, slide the doors open just wide enough to tuck in the wings, then close them just as the storm hit. I remember thinking, this plane has probably been here before in a previous life.
The storm raged on. Certain I was in for a tornado; I climbed into the fire engine’s cab for safety and eventually dozed off. By the time the weather cleared, it was too late to continue on to Boise.
The FBO had a pay phone hanging on the porch and a short list of local hotels. One came and picked me up. For fun, I checked into a historic room—no electricity, no running water, just a pitcher on the nightstand and a bathroom down the hall. I cleaned up and went downstairs to the saloon, where I had one of the best steaks of my life and shared a meal with an old cowboy.
He told me he was in his 80s and had to drive to Boise the next day to finalize a divorce. I told him how weather had brought me to Miles City, and he confessed he’d never been in an airplane. I said I was taking off at sunrise and if he was there, I’d give him a ride.
Sure enough, the next morning, he was waiting by the hangar. Together we rolled out the Travel Air—her name was Nancy, though I don’t know why—and I made room in the front seat for him. It was a cool, calm morning as the sun rose over the high plains. We flew over his ranch and over the town a few times before landing. We shook hands and promised to keep in touch.
I never imagined what would happen two years later at this same airport.
1992: Back in Miles City
Flying for the Red Baron Aerobatic Team.
Two years later, I returned—this time in tight Diamond formation with the Red Baron Squadron, heading west for a promotional weekend in Boise, Idaho. It was my second year with the team, and we were flying open cockpit biplanes under blue skies and calm winds.
As we approached Miles City, Lead shifted us to a right echelon for landing. One by one, we broke left and touched down, then taxied up to the single fuel pump like a herd of thirsty wild horses. Local pilots watched from the porch, enjoying their Saturday afternoon at the airport.
At towered fields, we followed strict protocol for taxi and departure, but out west, things were a little more casual. Everyone knew the routine. We rarely needed the radio. Lead signaled us to mount up, and we went through our start-up checks. Number Four would usually initiate a group check-in: “Red Baron check.” Then came the replies: “Two, Three, Four…”
We taxied faster than usual that day. Tailwheel aircraft require “S” turns to see ahead, so each of us weaved left and right, momentarily losing sight of the plane in front. We figured Lead planned to enter the runway without stopping, as he’d already announced our departure.
Then things went wrong.
The Incident
Lead suddenly hit the brakes, stopping just short of the runway. Two was in his blind spot. I was weaving the opposite direction and saw it unfold—too fast to react.
Their props collided. The violent sound of two Hamilton Standard propellers tearing each other apart filled the air. The forward momentum pushed the planes together. The props chewed through fabric and wood. Pieces rained down like confetti.
I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting them. My tailwheel lifted—I was about to tip onto my back. I released the brakes just long enough for the tail to drop, then had to brake again immediately. The tail came up a second time, but this time I held the brakes and prayed.
Finally, I stopped. Then I realized: it wasn’t over.
Marv—Number Four—was behind me. I was in his blind spot. He was still rolling toward my cockpit. I slammed the throttle forward so I could veer off into the grass, but the engine coughed and hesitated. There was nothing else I could do.
Marv hit his brakes hard. His tailwheel came off the ground too. We locked eyes for what felt like minutes. Time stood still. He pumped the brakes—his tail dropped—and the worst was avoided. We both shut down our engines. I sat there in silence, trying to process what just happened.
Marv, a retired fighter pilot and one of my dad’s best friends, walked up to my cockpit. He placed his hands on the edge and looked me in the eyes. “Your dad would’ve killed me if I just killed you.” I nodded. “Let’s taxi back to the pumps.”
Full Circle
All the local pilots had heard the collision and were now gathered on the ramp, unsure what to do. Miraculously, both Lead and Number Two were uninjured, though we lost two airplanes that day.
That night, I brought them to the same old hotel. We ate dinner in the same saloon. I booked the same room. I learned that the old cowboy had passed.
The next day in Boise, I led the two-ship formation for the promotional event. The sky was calm. The air was clear.
Miles City had brought me storms, strangers, and near disaster—but it also left me with memories I’ll carry forever.
- Storms, Strangers, and a Near Miss in Miles City - June 18, 2025
- Lost over Russia in an aerobatic airplane - April 15, 2019
- Flying a Pitts Special over the Amazon - May 16, 2018
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