A Connie departs Anchorage in the winter of 1966 (Rev. Norman Smith photo).
A view out the tail window of a Connie. Courtesy of Steve Harvey
"Connie"
Connie’s the queen of old Flight Sixteen,
Though we fear this is oft a misnomer,
For whenever we spy a cloud in the sky,
Where is she? —She’s "Holding in Homer!"
From wing tip to tip, this beautiful ship
In design is most clean and pure.
We give it the gun and rise toward the sun.
Will we make it? We’re never quite sure!
With billows of smoke the silence is broke
As the plane begins to vibrate.
As the props blast a gale thru the tri-ruddered tail,
And we’re only a half-a-day late!
—T. L. Smith, circa 1967
The PNA logo of the 1950s
Pacific Northern Airlines (PNA)
(Now part of the "How to Get to Kodiak" Article Series) When you live on an island separated by miles of water from the nearest mainland port, and when the water that surrounds your home can be some of the roughest in the world, you develop a hearty appreciation for long-range aircraft. As anyone who traveled the fifteen hundred miles between Seattle and Kodiak on a steamer could testify, a few hours in a rickety plane is far preferable to a week or so of heaving and being heaved through every wave on the Gulf of Alaska. In the postwar years, technology and increasing demand met to provide Kodiak with regular direct flights from Anchorage and Seattle. A new and relatively painless alternative to arduous sea travel was made possible by the utilization of the long runways constructed during the war on the Kodiak Naval Base. Soon, airlines sprang up to serve the needs of Alaska’s booming economy, and Kodiak began to receive regular, scheduled direct flights from Seattle. Kodiak moved about a million miles closer to the rest of the planet. Official PNA photo, courtesy of the Groh Gallery, Mansfield, TX The Lockheed Constellation was the mainstay of a long-defunct outfit known as Pacific Northern Airlines. The "Connie" and PNA were Kodiak’s bridge to Outside (the "Lower 48") and an element of the essential culture of Alaska from the early 1950s until the late ’60s. By then business decisions merged PNA with Western Airlines. Pacific Northern Airlines, "The Alaska Flag Line", was absorbed into Western Airlines, "The Only Way to Fly". Local wags, who had christened PNA as "Practically No Airline" and (due to Kodiak’s notorious weather) "Practically Never Arrives", were left with "Worster Nowlines". Western replaced the venerable "Connies" with Lockheed Electra turboprops, which, besides being devoid of any of the charm and personality of their predecessor craft, were required to cruise at a much slower speed than originally designed so as not to shake apart in midair. After a short run, the Electras passed unlamented, replaced by Boeing 720-B’s and other jet-age marvels. The "only way to fly" ad line became a cruel joke as Western Airlines dropped the Seattle to Kodiak run en route to its own demise. In spite of all the seeming evidence to the contrary, the Connie was one of the safest aircraft to ever fly over Alaskan airspace. In all the years Pacific Northern Airlines flew them across Alaska, no fatal crashes occurred due to mechanical or structural failure, and the one fatal crash in South Eastern was later thought to be caused by navigational error in bad weather. The Connie was deserving of its legendary status; both documented and apocryphal tales of its awesome resilience abounded. Loyd "Woody" Woodward, a retired PNA and Western Airlines pilot from Seattle, served graciously as technical consultant to this article. He stated, "the Connies always took care of me. We had a mechanic on duty in Kodiak and Juneau, but depended on the reliability of the old Connie at the smaller stops along the route (King Salmon, Homer, Cordova, etc.)." Woody Woodward and his World War II mementos, 1992 Woody Woodward began his airline career after World War II. He was a PNA pilot, flying mostly the DC-3 and DC-4, when PNA purchased its first three L-649 Constellations from another airline. He notes, "Flying the Connie was a real step forward. We were introduced to pressurized cabins, reversing propellers and 250 mph cruising speeds (with a tailwind). Those reversing props were really a godsend on icy winter runways!" He shared two incidents that might be of interest to fans of the old plane and PNA. Mr. Woodward described one unfortunate incident aboard a PNA Connie: "In the late winter of 1960 we were flying a night trip from Anchorage to Seattle. We had reached our cruising altitude of 21,000 feet and were reporting over our checkpoint at Middleton Island when a slightly agitated stewardess reported a possible tragedy in the making at the rear of the plane. A passenger had shot himself while in the men’s lavatory. I directed the co-pilot to radio for (emergency) clearance to return to Anchorage, and reluctantly proceeded to the scene of the shooting, dreading the anticipated outcome. The suicidal passenger was lying on his side between the men’s (lavatory) and the passenger cabin. As I was taking his pulse, and trying to look very professional, he handed me a suicide note and mumbled an apology for disrupting the flight! Guess the Good Lord was looking out for our sick passenger. The chief Flight Surgeon for the (Elmendorf) Air Force base at Anchorage was on board and he had his medical bag with him. I returned to the cockpit and spent the next thirty minutes of the flight back to Anchorage relaying messages between the Flight Surgeon and medical personnel on the ground. This story did have a happy ending. The medics had the patient in the operating room for twelve hours. He spent the next six weeks recuperating and, believe it or not, flew south to Seattle on a PNA Connie a few days after he got out of the hospital!" The changes in airline regulations (indeed, the whole aviation industry) have been drastic since the Connie graced Alaskan airspace. Woody notes that "in those days there were no restrictions as to carrying firearms on board an aircraft. During hunting season we often had enough weapons on board to outfit a small army. Times do change!" In reality the above shooting incident was more serious than his narrative would indicate. The suicidal passenger had used a .357 magnum pistol with deadly firepower, but had only loaded it with .38 wad cutter loads. When the bullet exited the victim’s body, it had lost enough velocity that it didn’t penetrate the skin of the aircraft, where it might have caused a sudden loss of cabin pressure, precipitating an even worse tragedy. Or maybe the old Connie was too tough to shoot? On another flight, in 1967, at the twilight of the Connie’s illustrious career in Alaska, Woody Woodward was in command of Flight 16, Anchorage to Kodiak. As they passed over Ushagat Island, he spotted four fires (in that rain-soaked region, such an event means only one thing: they were signal fires indicating distress). He contacted the Coast Guard, who sent out a Search and Rescue aircraft to investigate. As it happened, two fishermen had set the fires after their vessel had run aground and swamped in a storm two days earlier. The men had set the fires as a desperate effort to attract attention after all attempts at radio communication failed. Mr. Woodward’s effort may have saved some lives. As Coast Guard Rear Admiral F. V. Helmer noted, "The distress calls of the stricken fishermen had not been heard by anyone. The pilot’s alertness and promptness in reporting this sighting made it possible to effect the rescue of these men while they were still in a good state of health and able to survive their ordeal." Or maybe the old Connie thought it was an angel? The last PNA logo, circa 1967 In spite of fascinating stories like these, the era of PNA and the Connies was one of those times that do not seem memorable or remarkable until they have past. When the Connies faded into history, much of the charm and personality of air travel in and out of Alaska went with them. The journey was a story in itself, unlike the faceless sameness of today’s air travel. When a person embarked on a flight from Stateside to Kodiak in the 1950’s, there was still a distinct sense that you were going from the known to the unknown, from the citified and predictable to the wild and untamed. When the city lights of Seattle and Victoria passed from view, you might as well have been going to the moon. For those born and raised in Alaska, however, a Connie flight meant either a trip Outside (like Dorothy stepping into Oz) or a comforting flight back to the familiar surroundings of home. In either case, the plane flight could be as memorable an adventure as whatever awaited you when you landed. Passengers boarding a Connie in Kodiak, 1962. The author is the medium-sized kid next to his older sister. Come along on a typical PNA flight from Kodiak to Seattle in the late 1950s and we’ll see if we can catch some of the elusive ambiance, across the years and miles. As we board the Constellation, up long, shaky aluminum steps bolted to the bed of a pickup truck, the unmistakable smell of stale cigarette smoke, vague engine fumes and pungent germicide spray greets our noses. It reeks, but it beats the stench of the Greyhound that you once took to Portland. We take our seats on faded, saggy upholstery, which still sports the TWA logo of the plane’s previous owner. We hope that PNA has saved that money and invested it in good mechanics. After we belt ourselves in, adjusting the knuckle-pinching "aircraft style" lap harnesses which are thick enough to tow a station wagon, we attempt to look out the windows. We notice that the cracked, yellowing Plexiglas portholes usually, but not always, line up with the rows of seats. Our porthole lines up nicely with the right wing, just behind the engines. We can forget about having a quiet flight. The Connie taxis away from the terminal and turns toward the end of the runway, at the foot of Barometer Mountain. Then, with its elegant triune tail practically across the base road, the captain revs up all four engines to fifty percent of max power, for a routine but unnerving magneto check. Besides, it’s always better to catch a problem before committing 107,000 pounds of gross weight to the sky. It is as though the Connie is a huge songbird that has to go through its scales a couple of times before taking flight. From the passengers’ perspective, we have all noise and no go, and everything shudders. The actual takeoff is smoother by far, with the exception of the massive thrust that shoves everyone back into their seat cushions. Snow-capped mountains and the shimmering waters of Old Woman’s Bay streak by, and the magnificent machine is on its way! PNA brochure montage from the mid-1950s As the sleek, humpbacked fuselage and distinctive three-pronged tail of the Constellation strain toward the sky, you notice the wide, straight wings with rounded tips which bounce and jiggle, and continue to behave like a well-used diving board throughout the flight. The landing gear whines back into its place with a resounding but reassuring CLUNK. As the plane strains toward cruising altitude, the intercom cracks to life and pleasantries are exchanged about this island or that mountain, and three dozen cigarettes light up at once. The "Fasten Seat Belt" sign goes out. The pressurization system strains through all the cigarette smoke, and one soon notices that 21,000 feet is not nearly high enough to avoid the turbulence of the storms below. It is finally dinnertime. We retrieve our heavy, solid tray tables from the pouch in front of us and struggle briefly to get the sharp prongs to line up with the small holes in the armrest. Thus prepared, we wait while the stewardesses (yes, that’s the operative word) clatter and crash around for awhile in the constantly rattling closet of a galley. At last, trays with misshapen covered plates and metal silverware wrapped in genuine PNA linen napkins are laid before us, and although our nostrils can’t identify the aroma, we dig in; travel invariably makes one hungry. Uncovering one of the plates reveals lettuce salad with cherry tomatoes and annoyingly orange French dressing. The larger lid hides a mysterious, meatlike creation smothered in viscous brown gravy. "Salisbury steak," someone remarks, optimistically. A super hard dinner roll comes deluxe with a pat of real Washington Dairigold butter. A final container reveals a dry spice cake with translucent white frosting, partly melted by the steam from the successfully heated entree. Airline cuisine is an inexact science, but considerably more advanced than what many of the weary fishermen on board have endured for months. The rattle of silverware and trays and the smell of cool, wet, lemony Handi-Wipes indicates that the meal is over. A patch of turbulence and the fact that each magazine in the front rack has been read cover to cover prompts us to look out the window at the bobbing wings. We begin to analyze the engine sounds nervously as the sunset fades below. The distinctive pop-pop-pop sound of the propeller gears superimposes itself upon the throaty roar of four aging radial engines. But it is not until night falls outside that the real show begins, for at night the engines spew blue fire from ported exhausts, interspersed by frequent, random yellow-orange flames. Passengers unfamiliar with this phenomenon are glued to the portholes, hypnotized with intense curiosity, like the famous episode of the Twilight Zone. Five and a half hours being what they are, the time comes when we must go and visit the lavatory. Sitting in the cramped, dimly-lit closet in the tail, one becomes acutely aware of every air molecule outside, for the tail section, like some sainted grandmother crossing herself, pitches and yaws up and down, side to side even in the calmest weather. The tail and wings continue their motion for the entire flight, like some patient mallard migrating south for the winter. On the trip back to our seats we resemble tightrope walkers in an earthquake, invariably grabbing the backs of the seats to regain our balance. Safely back in our seats we begin to suspect that our Connie is actually alive, and that the random pops and heaves are the respiration and digestion processes of some massive aerial beast. As the plane circles above the bright lights of Seattle, we dismiss all such nonsense, settling snugly in our seats while the loud thud of the extending landing gear reminds us that we will soon be on land again. After the plane wearily groans to a stop, our carry-ons are collected and we are back on the solid runway asphalt, we stifle a desire to wave good bye to the old bird, and half suspect that it just might wave back. The roar of the engines and the bob and weave of the floorboards will linger in our senses for days. The subtle memories of our journeying will last a lifetime.
Written by Timothy Smith, web author. See the About Me page for more information. Always feel free to send me comments, suggestions or corrected information about this article or any of the articles on this site. (Write to: Tanignak@aol.com) This article and website is © 2005 Timothy L. Smith, Tanignak Productions, 14282 Tuolumne Court, Fontana, California, 92336 (909) 428 3472. Images unless otherwise listed are from the collection of Rev. Norman L. Smith or the Timothy L. Smith collection. This material may be used for non-commercial purposes, with attribution. Please email me with any specific requests. You are welcome to link to this site. Link to How to Get to Kodiak Index Page Link to Evangel Index Page Link to Online Articles Page Back to tanignak.com Home Ouzinkie Articles Index Page
