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| "Tulsa World," September 9, 1976, via Newspapers.com |
In the 1970s, Kenneth D. Bacon was the presiding judge of the Oklahoma State Court of Appeals. He was also a skilled amateur pilot. In short, he was an intelligent, competent, and extremely level-headed sort, one of the last people you would expect to provide Strange Company material. However, Bacon claimed that on a late-summer day in 1976, he went through an experience that is one of the most peculiar things that I’ve ever read--and if you’ve visited this blog for any length of time, you know that is really going some. I’m not even sure how to characterize his story: A time slip? A ghost tale? A glitch in the matrix? Some secret CIA shenanigans? Or just yet another example of how little we really understand the world around us?
Bacon’s account is so replete with curious little details that I will not attempt to paraphrase. I shall just present his own words, and let you try to figure out what in hell happened here.
I planned a flight from Tulsa, Oklahoma, to Hays, Kansas. I planned to fly west of Wichita to avoid the heavy air traffic in that area, and this would make my journey about a three-hour flight.Although it was early morning with not a cloud in the sky, I phoned Tulsa flight service for a weather briefing, as is my usual practice. Great news; I was told I'd have clear sailing all the way, and the sky would remain cloudless.
I did preflight on my little Starduster II and had wheels up out of Tulsa about nine-thirty A.M. The temperature was already in the upper eighties and going higher when I took off. It was perfect for flying without a shirt on, and this kind of weather was an experience of great pleasure in my little open-cockpit airplane.
I'd been flying for about an hour or so. It was marvelous. I hadn't seen even a wisp of a cloud or another airplane. The whole world was mine. I cruised at an altitude of sixty-five hundred feet, and the Starduster ran like a fine Swiss watch. The variable-pitch propeller I'd installed on the ship was doing its job as intended; higher speed and less vibration. It was pure flying at its best. The little bird trimmed out well, and all I had to do was sit there and enjoy the flight.
I had my head down in the cockpit looking at a flight chart. It apparently had been some time since I glanced up or looked at the sky, because suddenly I felt what appeared to be cold air on my bare back and shoulders. That didn't make any sense. What I saw as I looked around...well, let me explain the temperature. It had dropped instantly at least fifteen or twenty degrees.
That kind of temperature change, where I was flying, and the weather forecast I'd had from flight service, simply does not compute. I looked around in disbelief. A short time before I'd been in a cloudless sky. It was that old 'you could see forever' drill. Now I was surrounded by black clouds that seemed to be churning with great energy and mixing with off-white colors. I was actually shocked at how the weather had changed so quickly, so drastically. I looked down at the ground, and my disbelief mounted, because I saw strong winds hurling up clouds of dust across the fields below and all about me.
Even faster than I can relate what was happening, the clouds were closing around me as swiftly as they had formed, seemingly out of nowhere. No question but that this was more than ‘just clouds.' I was in the midst of a huge thunderstorm, perhaps an entire line or area of such storms, and I didn't cherish the idea at all of finding myself in a hailstorm in my little fabric-covered bird. That can really mess up the airplane, me, and my whole day, and I didn't waste another second in searching for someplace to land, to get on the ground safely.
The clouds came at me from all sides. They were enormous and becoming more violent with every passing minute; I could feel the Starduster taking strong blows from sudden turbulence. Landing as quickly as I could now became my entire world. I looked to the left of the cowling.
Talk about a break! I saw a clear, bright opening in the wall of blackness rushing closer and closer against me. And in the center of that hole, like a miracle, was one of the largest airports and, I might add, one of the most welcome airports I had ever seen. There were very long runways and no obstacles. I was already in my descent, one eye on the boiling clouds and the other on my flight chart, circling down in that hole and at the same time trying to locate that airport on the chart.
Finally, I found something. On the chart I saw an airport layout that resembled the long runways toward which I was flying, still coming down in that tight hole, always keeping the ground in sight. Getting wrapped in boiling clouds was something I could well do without.
The chart read Habit Field. I'd never heard of it, and I was even more surprised to discover the chart didn't indicate any listed radio frequencies for the field. The place was huge. Still circling, I came around in the descending turn and caught sight of a control tower looming high above other buildings. I thought, for Christ's sake, I've got a chart and they've forgotten to print the radio frequencies. Okay; if there isn't a primary freq, I'll go to Unicom. I called to the tower on one twenty-two point eight megahertz. Nothing. I went through the frequencies we use for oddball airports and out-of-the-way places. Still nothing.
The storm--and it was a full-fledged boomer by now--kept getting worse; the clouds were darker and thicker and the winds really gusting. I went down low and buzzed the tower, flying directly alongside so they couldn't possibly miss me. Well, I guess they did miss me the first time so I came around--by now I should have had half that field hopping with my low pass--and buzzed the tower again. Still nothing! I scanned the field for any planes that might be taxiing or on the runways. More nothing. I couldn't see anyone in the tower, I failed to get any light signals, and this was getting pretty stupid with that storm dropping on me, so I decided to land, no matter what, and argue with the FAA later.
I didn't bother checking the wind sock. I didn't need to. The winds were so strong now that dust and tumbleweeds scoured the ground. All I had to do was fly into that mess, and the Starduster settled easily.
When I sat the little bird down, holding the stick full back and taxiing slowly because of the increasing winds, I noticed immediately tall weeds growing out of cracks in the runway. That was tough to understand; I wondered why the people who ran this place were so neglectful in maintaining such a large airport. As I rolled to a stop, I pointed the nose of my bird directly toward the tower, making every exaggerated movement of control surfaces the wind allowed. Still no light! This was really crazy.
I added power to taxi up to the front of the tower and killed the switches. I'd nosed the plane into the wind, and as soon as the propeller stopped turning, I scrambled out, bringing my own chocks with me, and secured the plane. Now I could find out what was going on and get the Starduster tied down.
I looked up at the huge tower again, and the sense of 'something wrong' really hit me. One large pane of glass in the tower was broken out. The place had to be filled with dust and debris. Then I saw a door, banging open and shut in the wind, slamming back and forth with a great racket.
Not a soul stirred. I began to wonder if all this was real. Nothing was right and everything was wrong. And the feeling became stronger and stronger. Not because of any imagination, but because of what I kept running into.
I noticed a riding lawn mower sitting up on some blocks. Alongside the mower was an open box of tools where someone had obviously been working on that mower. Alongside the toolbox was a thermos bottle and a cup half-filled with dust-covered coffee.
Everything looked as if the entire place had been busy and then, suddenly, absolutely abruptly, everything stopped right in the middle of whatever was going on at the field.
I kept walking, looking about me. I whistled shrilly several times, and all I got back was the wind gusting and roaring. So I shouted. I did this for several minutes as I walked along. No answer, and still I couldn't see a soul moving. Or not moving, for that matter. I walked by several large hangars. I remember shaking my head in wonder; the hangar doors were either fully or partly open.
Everything was covered with dirt as if this field had been abandoned--as close to instantly as you can get--several years ago.
I continued to yell and whistle as I approached each building. Still nothing! I couldn't find a human being, a dog, a cat; nothing. Ever get the feeling you're somewhere between Here and There? A sort of limbo. Well, I sure had it now. The hair on the back of my neck felt as if it were standing straight up, and the sense of wrongness kept increasing steadily.
I walked along a row of airplanes and vehicles, everything covered heavily with dust. I looked everywhere for signs, something that would identify this place out of nowhere. Nothing. I went back to my airplane and started the other way, and finally I saw an abandoned pickup truck with the name 'Hangover Mining Company' painted on the side. The windows were down in the truck. I walked up to a row of other vehicles, all with windows down, and all filled with dust. I heard a banging sound; it was the open door of an airplane slamming back and forth. The sense of eeriness grew stronger as I went along.
Although now, when I look back on it and review the feelings I was going through, it seems kind of funny. You can laugh at yourself when it's all over. But it certainly wasn't funny at that time. Everything I was used to in an airport was foreign. It was alien. A strange airport, strange weather, strange feelings, and the large tumbleweeds bouncing and rolling along didn't help any. I remember thinking of a movie I'd seen as a child. In that film a pilot was flying cross-country and for some reason was forced onto a strange airport where no one could be found. Dishes were still on tables and windows were open. The movie ended when an atomic bomb was dropped on the town immediately nearby, which had actually been set up to test the effects of a nuclear explosion on an average town.
By now I was headed back to the Starduster, and I recall I was wondering, 'Surely, I haven't landed in some place, in Kansas, where they're going to drop a damn bomb!' Sure, it's humorous now, but at the time it was mighty heavy on my mind.
And then, just as crazy as was this crazy storm that came boiling into this area, it never did rain! The clouds rushed low overhead, and the wind howled, and it should have been pouring, but everything remained bone dry.
That was it. I didn't want to stay any longer at that airport. No way! Every instinct I had was telling me to leave and to leave immediately. I looked up, and the weather was just as crazy as it was before. That rolling sky wasn't getting any worse, and if I judged my weather correctly, it also wasn't getting any better. It was as if the weather situation was ‘locked in.’
To the devil with this place; I pulled the chocks, stowed them in the airplane, and fired up. As I taxied out, I went through strong emotions about taking off. No matter how weird this place was, I was on the ground. If I took off, it could be into some pretty nasty weather. I weighed both choices; the alternative to flight was to remain here in this airfield of incredible improbabilities.
I took off.
I stayed beneath the thick cloud cover; the storm above me remained constant, clouds swirling and boiling about as though from a heavy oil fire. It was a short flight to the town of Lyons, Kansas, and I wasted no time in getting down to the airport runway. As I blew in from the terrible-looking sky, an attendant ran out from the operations shack to chock and secure my plane.
He had a look of complete astonishment on his face. A little Starduster II doesn't often come whizzing in through boiling clouds and a terrible sky. 'Where'd you come from?' he asked, disbelief still showing on his face.
I told him what I'd been through, and that I'd landed at this crazy airport that showed on my chart as Habit Field.
The man actually recoiled. I mean, physically recoiled. 'You really didn't land there, did you?' he asked, his mouth agape.
I told him that was exactly what I'd done. 'But so what?' I finished, and again I thought, Christ, I've broken some terrible federal rule.
He looked at me, shaking his head. 'Mister,' he said slowly, his face reflecting all sorts of terrible inner thoughts, 'no one lands there. There are some mighty strange goings-on there.'
This was getting downright ridiculous. 'You're not making much sense,' I said to him, as easily as I could, because the man was acting real spooked. 'Why doesn't anyone land there?' He stared at me and then just started walking away. Never asked if I needed fuel or anything. Just started walking. 'No one lands there,' he repeated, and he was gone.
I waited in the local operator's office for several hours. Slowly but steadily the sky cleared. Other pilots showed up at the office, and I refueled the Starduster to continue my trip. As I usually do, I walked around my airplane for a thorough preflight check. Everything appeared normal. That was to be expected. The little ship hadn't really been out of my sight for more than a few minutes at a time. But the appearance of normal did not set right with me. I had a strong feeling, an eerie sensation, that something was not right. I completed the preflight, and then started it all over again. This time I went by the book, giving the Starduster every detail of the strict military preflight I had been taught.
I stopped when I got to the tail wheel. I stared at it in complete disbelief. I noticed immediately, on this second go-round, a wire sticking all the way through the tire. Bear in mind that the six-inch tire of the Starduster is two inches thick and made of solid, very hard rubber. I doubt that you could drive a nail through it, or even shoot a bullet all the way through. It's that hard and tough.
But somehow a very thin piece of soft, flexible wire had been driven completely through the tire. And it was driven through the tire sideways.
Now I checked out this thing from every possible angle and with the people most experienced with this type of equipment. They brought in a tire expert, a top mechanic and aircraft inspector, to examine the tire. He turned it this way and that, examined it as closely as he could, held up the tire to me and said, 'This, sir, is flatly impossible.'
Impossible or not, I told him, there it is. 'You're holding it right in your hand. You're looking at it. It's happened. Now what?’
He shook his head. 'I don't care what I'm seeing or you're seeing, and I'm touching it, and I've examined it from every angle possible, and I tell you again, sir, it is impossible.'
A number of other mechanics and pilots examined the tire, shaking their heads in disbelief. They took pictures of the tire and that soft wire was driven completely through the hard rubber. To this day, years later, following every lead I could to discover how it happened, everyone agrees on only one thing. It's a physical impossibility. But the photographs speak for themselves.
Anyway, impossible or not, I was stranded in Lyons, Kansas, overnight. The next morning someone flew in a replacement tail wheel, and I went on my way without any further problems.
I could have let the entire affair go, but curiosity's a powerful thing, and I don't like loose ends lying around. I called a pilot friend who worked at the Tulsa newspaper, the World, and discovered he already knew, generally, that something strange had happened regarding my flight. He sent some reporters to my office to take photographs of the tail wheel and get down the details of that airport-that-shouldn't-be. When they completed their interview, they got hot on the story. After a lot of futile attempts, they finally got a telephone call through to Habit Field. The reporter called me back to relate his conversation with the person to whom he'd spoken. The reporter had asked what sort of place Habit Field was.
'Wal, it's a tumbleweed,' was the answer.
‘What's that? What do you mean by tumbleweed?
‘Tumbleweeds,' was the strange reply. 'This here's an old military base.’
‘But--’
‘It's in private hands. That's all you needs to know' and the 'tumbleweed' hung up, and they never could get him back on the phone.
Several times I started to return to that field, to that Hangover Mining Company, or whatever it was on an 'old military base,' and I was going to take cameras and friends with me. But each time, for various reasons, something stopped me, and we never did get to go back there.
From what I understand now it's as if that place I visited never existed. I've heard it's called Sunflower Field. Everything I saw there is supposed to be gone. Some say it wasn't ever there! But now according to what other pilots have told me, Sunflower Field is used as a glider airport and for parachute instruction and skydiving. That is one very big damn airport for gliding and jumping! But it's a bit comforting to hear the airport is functional and being used, if--and this is still a very big if--it was the same airport where I landed.
However, no matter what happens at that field, or doesn't happen, I guess I'll never know when and how that flexible wire was driven through that solid tail wheel of my airplane. I guess I'll never know. The hair on the back of my neck still rises when I think about that day and how the impossible did happen.
How--and why.
