worth reading a tribute to real pilot

hihosland · June 1, 2014

sitting recovering from minor surgery and scouring the net I found this

Subject: Dedicated to Frank Crismon (1903-1990)

Dedicated to Frank Crismon (1903-1990)

by Capt. G. C. Kehmeier (United Airlines, Ret.)

I ought to make you buy a ticket to ride this airline!" The chief pilot's

words were scalding. I had just transferred from San Francisco to Denver.

Frank Crismon, my new boss, was giving me a route check between Denver and

Salt Lake City.

"Any man who flies for me will know this route," he continued. "'Fourteen

thousand feet will clear Kings Peak' is not adequate. You had better know

that Kings Peak is exactly 13,498 feet high. Bitter Creek is not 'about

7,000 feet.' It is exactly 7,185 feet, and the identifying code for the

beacon is dash dot dash.

"I'm putting you on probation for one month, and then I'll ride with you

again. If you want to work for me, you had better start studying!"

Wow! He wasn't kidding! For a month, I pored over sectional charts, auto

road maps, Jeppesen approach charts, and topographic quadrangle maps. I

learned the elevation and code for every airway beacon between the West

Coast and Chicago. I learned the frequencies, runway lengths, and approach

procedures for every airport. From city road maps, I plotted the streets

that would funnel me to the various runways at each city.

A month later he was on my trip.

"What is the length of the north-south runway at Milford?" "Fifty-one

fifty."

"How high is Antelope Island?" "Sixty-seven hundred feet."

"If your radio fails on an Ogden-Salt Lake approach, what should you do?"

"Make a right turn to 290 degrees and climb to 13,000 feet."

"What is the elevation of the Upper Red Butte beacon?" "Seventy-three

hundred."

"How high is the Laramie Field?" "Seventy-two fifty."

This lasted for the three hours from Denver to Salt Lake City.

"I'm going to turn you loose on your own. Remember what you have learned. I

don't want to ever have to scrape you off some hillside with a book on your

lap!"

Twenty years later, I was the Captain on a Boeing 720 from San Francisco to

Chicago. We were cruising in the cold, clear air at 37,000 feet.

South of Grand Junction a deep low-pressure area fed moist air upslope into

Denver, causing snow, low ceilings, and restricted visibility. The forecast

for Chicago's O'Hare Field was 200 feet and one-half mile, barely minimums.

Over the Utah-Colorado border, the backbone of the continent showed white in

the noonday sun. I switched on the intercom and gave the passengers the

word.

"We are over Grand Junction at the confluence of the Gunnison and Colorado

Rivers. On our right and a little ahead is the Switzerland of America--the

rugged San Juan Mountains. In 14 minutes we will cross the Continental

Divide west of Denver. We will arrive O'Hare at 3:30 Chicago time."

Over Glenwood Springs, the generator overheat light came on.

"Number 2 won't stay on the bus," the engineer advised.

He placed the essential power selector to number 3. The power failure light

went out for a couple of seconds and then came on again, glowing ominously.

"Smoke is coming out of the main power shield," the engineer yelled.

"Hand me the goggles."

The engineer reached behind the observer's seat, unzipped a small container,

and handed the copilot and me each a pair of ski goggles. The smoke was

getting thick.

I slipped the oxygen mask that is stored above the left side of the pilot's

seat over my nose and mouth. By pressing a button on the control wheel, I

could talk to the copilot and the engineer through the battery-powered

intercom. By flipping a switch, either of us could talk to the passengers.

"Emergency descent!" I closed the thrust levers. The engines that had been

purring quietly like a giant vacuum cleaner since San Francisco spooled down

to a quiet rumble. I established a turn to the left and pulled the speed

brake lever to extend the flight spoilers.

"Gear down. Advise passengers to fasten seat belts and no smoking."

I held the nose forward, and the mountains along the Continental Divide came

up rapidly. The smoke was thinning.

"Bring cabin altitude to 14,000 feet," I ordered.

At 14,000 feet over Fraser, we leveled and retracted the gear and speed

brakes. The engineer opened the ram air switch and the smoke disappeared. We

removed our goggles and masks.

Fuel is vital to the life of a big jet, and electricity is almost as vital.

The artificial horizon and other electronic instruments, with which I

navigated and made approaches through the clouds, were now so much tin and

brass.

All I had left was the altimeter, the airspeed, and the magnetic

compass--simple instruments that guided airplanes 35 years earlier.

"Advise passengers we are making a Denver stop."

"The last Denver weather was 300 feet with visibility one-half mile in heavy

snow. Wind was northeast at 15 knots with gusts to 20," the copilot

volunteered.

"I know. I heard it."

The clouds merged against the mountains above Golden. Boulder was in the

clear. To the northeast, the stratus clouds were thick like the wool on the

back of a Rambouillet buck before shearing.

I dropped the nose and we moved over the red sandstone buildings of the

University of Colorado. We headed southeast and picked up the Denver-Boulder

turnpike.

"We will fly the turnpike to the Broomfield turnoff, then east on Broomfield

Road to Colorado Boulevard, then south to 26th Avenue, then east to Runway

8."

The copilot, a San Francisco reserve, gave me a doubtful look. One doesn't

scud-run to the end of the runway under a 300-foot ceiling in a big jet.

Coming south on Colorado Boulevard, we were down to 100 feet above the

highway. Lose it and I would have to pull up into the clouds and fly the

gauges when I had no gauges. Hang onto it and I would get into Stapleton

Field. I picked up the golf course and started a turn to the left.

"Gear down and 30 degrees."

The copilot moved a lever with a little wheel on it. He placed the flap

lever in the 30-degree slot.

I shoved the thrust levers forward.

"Don't let me get less than 150 knots. I'm outside."

I counted the avenues as they slid underneath. . .30th, 29th, and 28th. I

remembered that there was neither a 31st nor a 27th. I picked up 26th. The

snow was slanting out of the northeast. The poplar trees and power lines

showed starkly through the storm. With electrical power gone, we had no

windshield heat. Fortunately, the snow was not sticking.

"Let me know when you see a school on your side and hack my time at

five-second intervals from the east side of the school yard."

Ten seconds.

"There it is. The yard is full of kids. Starting time now!"

Good boy. Smiley faced Holly. From the east side of the school yard, I

counted Kearney, then Krameria, Leydon, Locust. Remember the double lane for

Monaco Parkway. Then Magnolia, Niagara, Newport. Time the speed at 130

knots. Only eight blocks to the end of the runway. Oneida, Olive, Pontiac,

Poplar. From Quebec to Syracuse, the cross streets disappear; figure eight

seconds. Keep 26th Avenue under the right side of the nose.

"Full flaps."

Dead ahead, glowing dimly in the swirling snow, were the three green lights

marking the east end of Runway 8.

We crossed 20 feet above the center green light and touched down in a crab

to the left. I aligned the nose to the runway with the right rudder, dropped

the nose wheel, popped the speed brakes, and brought in reverse thrust.

It took us 10 minutes to find the terminal in the swirling whiteout. We saw

the dim, flashing red light atop the building indicating the field was

closed to all traffic.

A mechanic materialized out of the snow carrying two wands. He waved me into

the gate.

I set the parking brake.

"We have ground power," the engineer advised.

"Cut the engines."

The bagpipe skirl of sound spiraled down to silence.

"My hat is off to you, skipper. I don't know how you ever found this

airport."

"I used to fly for an ornery old chief pilot who made me learn the route," I

replied as I hung up my headset and scratched the top of my head where it

itched.

Frank Crismon passed away at his home in Denver on 25 Jan 1990.

Editor's note: Professionalism, readiness, and knowledge can never be

replaced by all the electronic gadgets in the world. Whether you drive a

truck or a C-17, nothing beats knowing your capabilities and those of your

machine, and knowing where you are at all times. It's hard to come up with

options if you don't know what's going on.

Frank M. Crismon

CAHS Honored in 1991

Click to view the LAUREATES album

Frank Crismon was born in Alberta, Canada on June 8, 1903. Frank had his

first flight in a Curtiss Oriole with an airmail pilot in 1919. Later he

sold tickets for a barnstormer who flew an Eaglerock in Utah.

While attending the University of Utah in the 1920's, he was a member of the

ROTC, which led him to aviation cadet training at March Field, California,

from which he graduated as an Army pilot in 1930. He soloed was in April

1929 in a Consolidated PT-3 trainer. Shortly thereafter he became a bomber

pilot, flying under the direction of Major "Tooey" Spaatz.

In 1933, after his military service, he was hired by Boeing Air Transport

(BAT), a predecessor of United Airlines. He was assigned as the first

instrument flying instructor at the Salt Lake City base. The approach to

Salt Lake City, over the dangerous Wasatch Mountains, was a matter of

considerable concern. As a remedy, Frank helped design and implement a new

radio range monitoring procedure.

By 1932, he had become rated as an ATR, and he had obtained a FAA examiner's

license. In 1942, Frank was made chief pilot of the Rocky Mountain Division

of United Airlines, a position he held until his retirement in 1963. He had

under his direction, over 200 flying officers, all of whom were to be

exposed to his high standards of training and operations. During his tenure,

there were no accidents involving an instrument procedure or terrain. Frank

was instrumental in United Airlines adopting the Jeppesen Airway Manual

Services.

During a particularly bad snowstorm, he used Christmas trees to outline a

runway at Stapleton Airport. Realizing that something had to be done about

snow removal, he led the fight for new and better snow removal equipment.

After an aircraft accident, Frank helped bring state-of-the-art crash

equipment to Stapleton. United Airlines named a DC-8 airliner for him at the

end of his active service, a very rare occurrence. He was a strong supporter

of the Colorado Air National Guard and the United pilots flying for that

organization. For this support, he was made an honorary Colonel in the CANG

and an honorary member of the Minutemen flight demonstration team.

This pioneer airman flew every aircraft type used by United Airlines, from

Boeing 40-Bs to Boeing 720s, without mishaps or accidents. At the time of

his retirement, he had amassed over 20,000 flying hours and had flown Will

Rogers, Presidents Hoover and Eisenhower, Mrs. Roosevelt, General MacArthur,

and many others.

In later years, he and Mrs. Crismon established a memorial scholarship fund

at Western State College to honor their Navy pilot son, Scot, who was killed

during a night carrier landing off the coast of Viet Nam. By 1981, more than

250 students had benefited from this fund. They also aided the funding of

the "F. Scott Crismon Memorial Field" at Western State College, to aid the

sports programs at this school. Crismon (1903-1990)