My View from the Clouds
by Ken Estes
An aviator's memories of the first 100 years of powered flight
Dear Robert,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. The recent news of your brush with the hereafter has made me keenly aware of my own mortality, all the while bringing back a deluge of memories. Some are best forgotten, yet so many others still bring a smile to my face and lift my soul to the threshold of heaven itself.
If it were not for my diary, many such adventures, or "calamities" as my dear Lucy liked to say, would have been forever lost with the passage of time. Who could have known that such simple scribbles in a tattered old book would bring such joy to one this late in life? We have spent many hours together, and I shall always cherish the times we had, both on and above this spectacular planet of ours.
My latest, and possibly last, adventure at Kitty Hawk, celebrating 100 years of flight, was taxing, yet about as exciting as it can get for an old aviator. Can you believe it? I was guest of honor at my grandson's party. I thought I was going to burn the batteries out on my pacemaker! What a show! I wish you could have been there.
I am looking forward to our reunion when your health improves. Until then, you can busy yourself with some photos and writings from my diary that I am sending along with this letter. I will see you soon, my dear friend. Best regards.
Frederick Mangold
May 17, 1912
It has been almost a week since grandpa arrived from Germany, and I didn't know if I was happy or sad. Grandma died on the boat trip to America, and Grandpa Rudolf was so sad when Ma and Pa fetched him from the train station. He looks so tired and old, but Pa says he is only 46 and is ready to start a new life with us.
I told Grandpa of my interest in the aeroplanes we keep hearing about and how someday I want to fly high above our fields. I even showed him the picture I keep of the Wright brothers' flying machine. Upon hearing this, he called me to his room and took from a satchel a picture of a beautiful aeroplane.
It looked so much like a bird, and I listened as he told me of his ride in this beautiful machine. It is called a Taube, and he said that to fly above the countryside is to leave his sorrows behind and rise to meet the heavens themselves. Though Ma and Pa and I must work the fields for the family, I know someday I will find my way to those heavens.
October 9, 1922
Pa, my brother Vincent, and I have been busy with the harvest. The land has been good to us this year, and Ma, Pa, and Grandpa are in good spirits. I am now 18 years old and have fallen in love with the idea of flight. I have managed to work some of the time in town at Collins' garage. In exchange for my labor, old man Collins has introduced me to his friend who takes me up in his airplane once or twice a month.
He is an honest-to-goodness pilot who goes around landing in farmers' fields and giving people airplane rides. They call it barnstorming, and folks from miles around gather to see these amazing men and their machines. Vincent and I were up with the roosters today, but we were not in the fields. We were on our way to the Millers' place for our next ride. I can't wait until I am behind the stick of my very own flying machine.
December 5, 1931
The calendar still says autumn, but nearly a foot of new snow outside says otherwise. The hour is late, yet as I gaze upon the beautiful face of Lucy, my wife of nearly three years, I am reminded of how lucky I am during these times of uncertainty. Even after ten months we are both still excited about the birth of our first child, James, but the past several years have played havoc with our emotions.
Grandpa has been dead almost two years, and Ma and Pa have been living with us since the bank auctioned off their farm a year ago. Most folks around us have fallen on hard times, yet our faith in God and Lucy's faith in me have sustained us all.
As a machinist for nearly seven years, my skills have carried us through the worst of times. I have now been flying for five of those seven years, although the Jenny that served me so well lies in the river, the victim of my latest foolishness. With little to do during this cold snap, I sit by the fire and marvel at the photos my good friend Robert sent me of our trip to Springfield earlier this year. I'll never forget that day. He assured me that his friend "Granny," as they call him, was working on a new airplane I would not believe—and I was not disappointed.
As we stood in the cool morning air, this new machine, the "Gee Bee," flashed by, rattling my trusty ol' Ford. As this tiny powerhouse faded into the distance, we knew then that we were witness to a new page of aviation history.
June 14, 1940
It's hard to believe the decade has come and gone and how so many lives have been changed by that unforgettable span of years. Our hopes were dashed when my fledgling company succumbed to the chaos of the '30s, yet our life has been full since the birth of our son James a little more than nine years ago.
In '36 my good friend Robert and I decided to join up with Uncle Sam. It was steady work, and with our skills we soon found ourselves dancing among the clouds once again. They must think we know what we are doing, for in spite of ourselves we have both become flight instructors.
Although Robert is assigned to the East Coast, I have been cavorting through the skies of California. It was a new group today, and, as always, the fear and uncertainty of my charges was short-lived. They were born to fly, and although it may take some a bit longer to master their machines, by day's end everyone was wearing a smile.
May 22, 1943
The war wages on, and even though I am not in the heat of battle, some of my closest companions are aloft at this very minute trying to end the horror of the last few years. Our foes are skilled and determined, yet they seem to have met their match in recent battles over the Pacific.
The tenacity and sheer determination of our servicemen and -women to put this hellish game of life and death to an end is having an effect, yet the end of a war never arrives soon enough. We can only pray that someday soon this conflict will give birth to a new day and a lasting peace.
April 1, 1954
Lucy and I received another letter from our son Jim today. Like so many who came before, it was a welcome glimpse into the life of our only child, now half a world away doing what he loves: serving his country. Though few details of his current assignment are revealed, his words reverberate with love of family and country.
Reading between the lines, at times we sense a bit of fear, or perhaps uncertainty, yet in our heart of hearts we know he is in his element. At times he writes of a future as a commercial pilot, yet he writes with the zeal of a lifelong military man who has found his future in service to his country.
Time will chart his destiny. Until then, we welcome his words and share with him his adventures on the other side of the globe.
September 13, 1959
There is nothing like getting a little R&R flying in one of my favorite airplanes. The summer crowds have vanished, the grandkids are back in school, and my friend Robert and I have joined several others from the local flying club for some good, old-fashioned, seat-of-the-pants flying.
He finally received his floatplane ticket, and with the help of a slight chop on the water, he rose from the lake and the cool September breezes carried him skyward. I was already aloft in a trusty J-3 Cub, and for more than an hour we flew above the countryside, drinking in the sights that can be so intoxicating to those who are in love with the miracle of flight. Perhaps I should change my name to "Lucky"!
May 10, 1965
Even though I'm retired from the Air Force, I find my time still full of adventure. Last week Lucy and I joined Robert and his wife for some good, old-fashioned fun. A good timin', corkscrewin', honest-to-goodness barnstormin' kind of a day was had by all, and we weren't just sittin' in the bleachers.
Our dyed-in-the-wool Air Force-captain son James has traded it all for the life of a commercial pilot and part-time barnstormer; fifteen weekends a year he's whippin' up the clouds with some of his buddies, just like his old man used to do.
Better yet, we were all invited for a ride, and one by one we were strapped into that WACO and went for the flights of our lives. Of course some of the aerial contortions were toned down a bit on account of our ages and the fact that a corpse can't pull a ripcord in an emergency, but even then, what a time it was. Heck, I think my dentures landed in downtown Peoria!
The sight of those pilots twisting and turning their machines through the air is a thing of beauty, and it took us back to those days when we first saw that old Jenny at Miller's farm. The airplanes may have changed, but the wonder remains.
November 10, 1976
There was a hint of winter in the air as my brother Vincent and his wife greeted us at the gate of their small farm. We are out seeing America, and for two weeks, until after Thanksgiving, we'll be staying with them.
He still has the old Winnebago that has served him so well for the last five years, but he was ready to trade everything in for a Pinto after the gas crunch of '73. However, the lure of the open road and the comfort you can only get at five miles per gallon changed his mind.
It's good to see him and Betty for the holidays, and we always get a kick out of seeing the Veterans Day air show. So after a good night's rest, the four of us were off for a weekend of food, fun, flying, and more food.
My brother has become quite adept at maneuvering the rolling condo through traffic, and conversation jumped from one thing to another as we barreled down the highway. Their trip to the bicentennial, seven years since landing on the moon, and the Mars landings were just a few topics of discussion as we reminisced in air-conditioned comfort.
On the way home, however, all we talked about was how incredible the day was. Uncle Sam always puts on a great display, and the sight of that beautiful F-4 Phantom made Vincent's day.
December 17, 1983
What a glorious day! The sun rose above the plateau with blinding intensity, splattering the countryside with a rainbow of red, orange, and gold. With southern Utah as his canvas God has once again created a masterpiece, and my son James, his wife, and Lucy and I will be a part of this beauty in short order. We will be celebrating my birthday frolicking in the skies above this beautiful land.
The three of them spent many hours searching for the perfect gift for "Dad." I knew it would be difficult since I am not one for most material things in life, so I dropped a few hints along the way, and today I will become an octogenarian in a most inspirational way: a helicopter tour through the canyonlands.
Although I'm not a stranger to helicopter flight, the idea of literally dipping below the horizon and exploring these desert walls has my heart pounding a little bit faster this morning. A lunch on the riverbank and a small party with loved ones at home should prove to be the perfect reward for 80 years of life on this spectacular planet.
August 9, 1994
The day broke cool and clear, and my grandson was out for some practice. Of course, he wanted to show his dad and grandpa his latest routine, and, as always, we were there at the crack of dawn.
Straining the airplane through a routine that would have seen most pilots coating the canopy with the pancakes they had for breakfast, he mesmerized us with the agility of his aircraft and his sheer skill as an aerobatic pilot.
He has become not only an accomplished aviator, but a spirited entertainer as well, and it showed. Some of his aerial gymnastics left the women gasping for air, yet his dad and I knew that he has what it takes. The smiles on our faces said it all.
October 23, 1999
As I write this, I am once again above the canyons of the great Southwest. Even though a high ceiling obscures the sun, the valley is alive with the warm, vibrant hues of this magnificent land.
My grandson Sean is at the controls of a Gulfstream V, flying for his employer of nearly 13 years, so I know I am in capable hands. No longer able to sit behind the yoke, I realize how lucky I am to still have numerous chances to be an aerial spectator as I travel in such lavish comfort.
It is a pleasure to share my tales of the air with these corporate "bigwigs" who have graciously allowed me to be their guest on so many occasions. To my delight, many of my fellow travelers have recollections of their own adventures in service for Uncle Sam, and many engaging hours have been spent reliving our aerial escapades.
The "right of embellishment," as I call it, has made some of these tales a bit more dramatic, but as I near the ripe old age of 96, I can blame it on my memory.
December 17, 2003
It is a grand spectacle celebrating an invention like no other, with aircraft of all types and thousands of spectators.
Floating over the sands at what seems a snail's pace, the Wright Flyer replica is a thing of beauty. Unusually light breezes have ushered in picture-perfect weather, and the crowds hailing from around the globe are in awe of the sight of this delicate contraption. This is an international event, quite unlike that first flight that was witnessed by so few yet affected so many.
As I sit here, a guest of honor surrounded by friends, family, and well-wishers, I realize how lucky I have been in this last century. To soar above the land, threading my craft through the clouds as I dance above the quilted fields below or marvel at the toy-like shapes beneath my wings, is to feel a freedom like no other.
To let my spirit soar as I rise from the tarmac and find myself in the company of migrating geese is a joy never forgotten. To gaze upon this planet and see beauty in everything below is the wonder of flight.
It is my fondest wish that the budding aviators I see around me will someday share that same excitement I felt my first time aloft. So when the bug bites, and I know it will, they will surely cherish their view from the clouds.
Ken Estes 2813 Centralia St. Lakewood, CA 90712
Transcribed from original scans by AI. Minor OCR errors may remain.
