This saga describes the events that lead up to my plane crash as well as some of the eerie and bazaar coincidences before, during and afterwards.

My best friend, Chris Fay, introduced me to flying during my senior year in high school. Chris already had his pilot's license and was looking for a flying buddy. After an introductory flight, I started my lessons in May 1971, just prior to graduating from high school, and continued lessons into the summer months.

My instructor, Roy Shreve, had well over 5000 hours, retired from the Marines as a Helicopter pilot, and just wanted to teach flying, at the young age of 27. He was known as the best instructor. I became his student by the simple luck of the draw - the next student assigned to the next available instructor.

I took to flying like a fish in water. Roy only had to show me a maneuver once and I had it mastered. Flying felt like the most natural sensation. It was as if my body said "Oh, of course, that's how you do it" after Roy would show me a new maneuver. Soon, Roy had taught me all the maneuvers needed for a standard 40 hour license within only 10 hours. At 10 hours of flying, I soloed. One of the fastest times for a pilot to solo. Normally, most students solo after 15 - 20 hours of flying time.

I had also become Roy's star student and he let me know that. For the next few hours of flight time, Roy started teaching me the more advanced instruction for an Instrumentation rating, which normally takes about 100 hours to accomplish. 

I would fly once a week at about 2 hours per flight. It would have been more, but that's all I could afford since I just graduated. The instruction and my abilities at flying were accelerating rapidly. 

Roy would pull some surprise instructions to see how I would handle emergencies. For the engine-on-fire emergency, without any warning, he rolled the plane over into a nose dive. To say the least, I grabbed the bottom of my seat in surprise as my heart hit the roof.

Another surprise emergency procedure was when Roy had me perform an emergency landing right next to the 91 freeway, on a dirt access road, in the Yorba Linda canyon. 

As we were flying back from the Ontario area, without any warning, Roy cut the power back to idle (simulating a failed engine), and asked me what was I going to do next. 

I went through the standard emergency procedures. I located an unused dirt road that I could land on (next to the freeway), without endangering others or myself (power lines), and proceeded to attempt a landing. I thought Roy would give me the throttle back as I descended closer and closer to the freeway. I'm sure the cars next to me thought I was in trouble, but I was well in control. Roy let me touch down, then pushed the throttle back in, and told me to take it back up. Coincidentally, I was using the same plane (N60360) that I would take up next week. And this was my last flight prior to the crash.

I had worked during the summer to make enough money to finish my lessons and get my license before attending college in September. I arrived with $180 in my wallet, ready to pay for the remainder of the instructions needed for my license, after this flight.

I had about 25 hours of flight time and it was time for my first cross-country flight. To qualify as a cross-country flight you need to fly three distinct legs (a triangle), landing at each leg. Roy told me to plot a course to San Diego for the first leg, then Lake Elsinore for the second leg, with the final leg back to Fullerton.

Roy checked out my course and flight plans, and approved them. He had to go to the bathroom before take-off, so he told me to finish up and he'd meet me at the plane.

A few minutes later, Roy showed up at the plane as I finished the pre-flight checks. As we rolled out onto the tarmac towards the runway, Roy told me to open my flight plan. As I pulled out my paperwork, it became obvious to Roy that I didn't know that procedure yet. I thought I radioed all the information to the tower. You are suppose to telephone the information in and then radio to open the plan (saves time speaking over the radio while you taxi for take off).

I told Roy that we'd have to go back so I could phone the information in. Roy said don't worry about it, we're only going to San Diego. About 12:00 noon, we departed. It was a clear, hot day throughout southern California, in the high 90's and 100's. Very typical for hot August weather.

The leg going down to San Diego was pretty uneventful. I kept my map and compass on my lap as I verified each checkpoint along the way. Lindbergh Field in San Diego is a tricky landing. You come in over a hill and have to drop quickly to perform a short field landing. Not too mention you share the runway with the larger and faster jet liners. As my wheels touched down, the tower directed me to immediately vacate the runway. This type of a command does not require a reply, only immediate action. I wasn't even near the taxi-off runway. I immediately pulled onto the apron to the north side of the runway. Within seconds, a 737 came speeding past me on the runway at about 150 mph (as compared to my 75 mph landing).

After a cool drink and short rest stop, we departed for the second leg of the trip. Again, it was pretty uneventful. I would verify the checkpoints, listen in to the anything on the radio, etc. At the Temecula Airport south of Lake Elsinore, we didn't land (which you are suppose to on a cross country flight). Roy had me maintain altitude so we could clear the mountain range just west of Lake Elsinore onto the final leg back to Fullerton. Not landing was a time saving technique Roy was using (or at least that is what I thought), versus having to land, take off and circle the area to gain enough altitude to clear the mountain tops.

Within a few minutes we were passing over the mountain range. It wasn't obvious to me at the time, but I had hiked in these mountain ranges, along the same path we were flying. As we passed over the first mountain top, we entered a long wide valley, probably 1/4 mile wide and 1 mile long. We were about 1000 feet above the mountain tops (per my course plan), plenty of distance in case of emergency - and well within flying regulations. There was only winding one dirt road through this valley - not too many places for an emergency landing as I had performed only the week before.

After a few minutes of flying through the valley, Roy asked to take over the controls. I of course obliged, figuring Roy was going to teach me some new maneuver. Roy started a standard descent into the valley. Soon we were well below the mountain tops, about half way across the valley, and still descending. I was waiting for Roy to start giving me some new lesson. I kept waiting and nothing. Roy was busy looking down at the valley: looking left, looking right, as if looking to find something. Then he said "Isn't this great?". 

My next reaction was that of anger. While I didn't say it out loud, I thought to myself "hey, this is my money paying for plane rental and gas. If you want to joy ride, pay your own way." He was the instructor. I was the student. I bit my tongue, mumbled out a limp "oh yea", and continued to wait.

Unknown to me, Roy had a habit of flying low and chasing animals. While I was in the hospital, a friend that I graduated with came to visit me. He told me that he also had Roy for an instructor when he started flying last year. He told me that on a trip to Catalina Island, Roy also asked to take over the controls. He said that Roy proceeded to fly into the canyons of Catalina, chasing wild boar.

We were getting close to the end of the valley, about 500 feet from the mountain range dead ahead of us. This was like a "T" where we had to make a decision to either turn left or right, or try to climb over the mountain in front of us. Both valley's to the right and left were much smaller. The valley to the left was wider, and pretty open. The valley to the right was much narrower, so much so, that I couldn't see around the corner. What I didn't know was that the valley to the right was a waterfall that I had once hiked to. This stream was the only source of water in the mountain range. It was now the base camp of a Hippie commune.

Our course back to Fullerton was straight ahead of us, so I expected Roy to start climbing out of the valley. To my surprise he started banking to the right.

That is the last thing I remember.

I can only theorize the following occurred based on cockpit data and other observations.

We made the right hand turn into the smaller canyon over the waterfall. We would have been about 100 feet above the waterfall and 500 feet below the mountain tops. The sides of this canyon were only about 300 feet (a football field) apart at the top. About 1 mile into this canyon, it appears to be a "box canyon". That means there is no out - you are flying into a dead end. From inside the canyon, the brush made both sides of the canyon appear to meet forming the dead end. There were no roads or valleys for an emergency landing, just mountain trees and shrubbery.

In reality, it wasn't a box canyon. The mountain to the right made half an "S" type of curve, creating a very small opening into the next valley - about 100 feet wide. Wide enough to maneuver through if you knew about it. If you were flying 1000 feet above the mountain, you can see this escape route. Flying inside the canyon, you cannot. From inside the canyon, it's a dead end.

Just to be in any canyon is extremely risky. I don't know when Roy discovered we were in deadly trouble. At our cruising speed, it would have a maximum of 40 seconds to go from the waterfall to the dead end. He (we?) probably figured out the impending disaster with only 30 seconds left before impact.

Since it was a very hot day, over 100 degrees in this area, there wasn't enough time to make a vertical ascent over the mountain tops. At our cruising speed, about 90 mph (132 feet per second) there wasn't enough space between the mountain sides to make a normal U-turn out of danger.

On a normal day, you can ascend vertically at about 500 feet per minute. With the increased heat, thinner air, a vertical ascend would take twice as long. 

We would have needed minutes, not seconds, to escape over the top. 

I can only theorize that Roy did NOT (and could NOT) attempt a vertical escape. As precious seconds whittled away, the only recourse was a maneuver I heard about years later. It is an extreme maneuver that should only be used in extreme cases due to unknown effects on the plane.

The maneuver is to retract to full flaps, and at full power, slam your rudder as hard as possible. In theory, this permits a plane to virtually rotate on it's wing tip, performing a high speed U-turn with the tightest radius possible. You run the risk of ripping the plane apart with this violent type of a maneuver. 
This is NOT a practiced maneuver due to what could happen to the plane. This maneuver is pure theory. What happens in reality under conditions like ours?

In reality, it worked. Unfortunately it only worked half way.

Roy must have waited, or lost time, up to the last few seconds before impacting on the mountain ahead of us to perform the maneuver. While the plane did end up facing 180 degrees from our original course through this canyon, we were still too low or we also lost altitude in the maneuver.

As we were heading north through this canyon, there were two "fingers" of the mountain coming down to the rugged canyon floor. The fingers were perpendicular to the escape path. The first finger was covered in the same brushy vegetation as the rest of the mountain range. The second finger, closer to the end of the canyon, was covered with boulders. The first finger was about 50 feet taller than the finger with the boulders.

Roy's maneuver did execute a U-turn away from the dead end. Our altitude was high enough to clear the finger with boulders, but not high enough to clear the taller first finger.

We slammed into the first finger at a perfect 90 degree angle to the hillside, at about 90 mph. With full flaps, the plane is in a nose down position, even though you can maintain your altitude. The instruments in the cockpit froze at their positions upon impact. The NTSB report showed our velocity, heading, as well as flap angle, etc., which corresponds to this theory.

Based on the NTSB report, the wreckage, and my observations, here's what I believe transpired in those few seconds of impact.

The NTSB report showed that the engine was intact, but the crankshaft had shattered. The propeller was not bent. This would indicate that we hit the hillside at a perfect 90 degree angle. While the engine was stopped by the hillside, the rest of the plane's momentum continued. It's easier to say that the engine was pushed about 1 foot into the cockpit instead of the cockpit continued into the hillside where the engine stopped.

The engine destroyed the cockpit instrumentation cluster, but stopped there. There was not enough momentum left for the plane to push further into the hillside. 

The leading edges of the wing then met the hillside and were crushed flat. The rest of the airplane frame started to buckle and crush into the hillside, like someone had a piece of paper in their hand and started to crush it into a ball.
 

As the frame buckled and crushed up, it rolled somewhat into a ball, with the propeller coming around, still spinning, to be over the cockpit. We know it was still spinning from the opening it sliced through the top of the cockpit. The plane ended up about 1/2 of its original length, in a cup shaped "U", with the cockpit pointing up at one end, and the tail pointing up at the other end.

By now, the momentum had ended and the plane started slid down about 20 feet into the wedge between the two fingers of the mountain. The tail acted like a plow, as it ripped up the vegetation and threw it on top of the wreckage concealing the crash site.

Seconds later, it finally ended. The hillside was silent again, after a few seconds of a thunderous crash and the sound of metal being crumpled up.

So how did I survive?

There was enough speed, momentum and energy for the cockpit to go past the engine into the hillside. We hit so hard, the blood stained hillside dirt was impregnated into the map between my legs. But the engine didn't hit us.

The fuel tanks are in the wings, one on each side. We still had 20 gallons of high octane aviation fuel - extremely combustionable. But the fuel never exploded or caught on fire later. The NTSB crash investigators arrived at the scene a couple of days later. They could still smell the aviation fuel that had leaked and permeated into the hillside.

The propeller ripped the cockpit open, slicing a straight line through the center where our heads would normally be. But it missed us at this moment in time.

Roy died on impact. His internal organs were crushed with no external bleeding. 

So why didn't I join Roy's fate?

Other than divine intervention, there was one difference between us. We were the exact same height (6'), but I out weighed Roy by 30 pounds. He was 150 pounds. I was 180 pounds. This was enough to break my seat belt, and not his. If you calculate the energy of his mass and velocity, it was also the maximum stress rating of the seat belt. Months later, when I viewed what was left of the wreckage at the Long Beach airport, you could see the stretch marks in the fabric of his seat belt. My seat belt also had stretch marks, but had ripped apart halfway up the right belt.

My theory is that I bounced around the cockpit and absorbed the deadly energy. Roy slammed into the instrumentation panel, crushing his organs. Somewhere during this bouncing around, we were either forward or back, allowing us to be missed by the propeller. 
So there I was. In the middle of a mountain range at about 3:00 PM with no flight plan recorded, unconscious, and bleeding badly from various injuries.

We had enough fuel for about 5 hours of flying time (5:00 PM). The flying school normally closed at 6:00 PM, declared us missing, and reported us missing to the FAA. No flight plan. No one knew where were going. Everyone was questioned in the office. Someone thought we headed north (wrong). So the official search was heading in the wrong direction.

By 11:00 PM that night, an official from the FAA called my house and spoke with my mother. She knew something was wrong before the call. They asked if I was home, then if I had called in, and finally gave her the bad news. No where to look. No one to call. Just sit and wait for any news.

And for another coincidence, the Marine base Camp Pendleton near Oceanside performed weekly patrol maneuvers over this mountain range. And these were Marine helicopters (CH-46 Sea Knights), like the ones that Roy used to pilot. Curiously enough, the planes red rotating beacon at the top of the tail, the emergency beacon, was still working. Some time in the early morning, during their patrol, they spotted the wreckage via the emergency beacon. Somehow they determined that since the wreckage was so severe, that no one could have lived, and decided not to stop (due to the rough terrain and nowhere to land). They decided to head back to base, find out what plane had been missing, and return later that day to pick up the bodies.

I was still unconscious as this occurred over my head. Even the noise of the twin bladed helicopters hovering high above me wasn't enough to awaken me from my comatose state.

Unknown to me, my jaw had broken in two places and was split wide apart. My entire face was swollen and black and blue (my parents couldn't even recognize me later). My right ankle was broken and swollen to the size of a grapefruit. There was a six inch gash through the calf of my right leg. The blood had stained my ruby red seat, as well as my white T shirt and blue jean pants. I ended up sitting cross leg style on the backrest of my seat, hunched over, arms dangling, yet upright with gravity (as the plane ended up pointing up to the heavens). My mind was as damaged as my body, as I had total amnesia and shock.

In retrospect, amnesia is very difficult to explain to people. For me, I knew I was me, but if you asked me for my name, I wouldn't have known it. But comically, I wouldn't have cared either. It wouldn't have mattered. This is one of the attributes of amnesia. Your mind only lets you think thoughts that are critical to survival, nothing else. More examples of this during the rest of the story.

It was time to awaken to the first day of my second life.

Non-existence. Never knowing that you have ever been alive or never had any sense of being; No past; No future: Non-existence. That's the only way I can describe the first few moments of conscious awareness, before my eyes even opened. I felt as if I was falling (with no feeling of up or down or sideways) through what I can only crudely put into words as a pitch black hole with no boundaries. I didn't know if I was falling in or out. Then I came into white light, as my eyes opened, along with my mind.

There were dozens of wires and pieces of plastic (the instrumentation panel) strewn all over my lap and on top of me, as I tried to make out the images in front of me. Everything was twisted and bent and crushed in a jungle of aluminum.

Me? Yes me! I thought as my mind searched for an answer to this bizarre nightmare.

My eyes strained to quickly adjust to the barely lit cockpit. It looked like the inside of a wrecked plane. "Plane?", I thought, "Yes, I fly planes". This thought my mind accepted and pondered about, still oblivious to my surroundings. 

At first I thought I was dreaming of a plane crash I might be in one day. So I sat there dreaming, hoping for the dream to soon end by my awakening alarm clock. Amnesia didn't even let me realize that I was sitting on the backrest of the seat. I could only concentrate on the survival thought of the moment. And that thought was flying and being in a crash.

As I kept thinking of flying, I started to remember that I flew out of an airport. I didn't know where it was, just that I had a starting point. As I concentrated more on that thought, for every starting point there has to be an end point. I knew that if I started from an airport, then I would return to that airport. Then it hit me. I never landed back to where I started from.

As a stupid subconscious act, I actually pinched myself to see if I was really awake or this was a nightmare. Nope, this was for real, I thought. I just sat there contemplating that this was real, not remembering how I got there, just that I was there.

I checked myself over and didn't find anything wrong with me. I never saw the blood all over my white T-shirt. I did notice a small rip on my blue jeans that disguised the six-inch gash through my leg, but thought nothing of it.

This is about 10 or 15 minutes of consciousness and I still did not realize what my immediate surroundings consisted of. I still did not realize I was sitting on the backrest, let alone, that I wasn't alone.

"How did I ever get here?" I kept pondering, concentrating on flying and the thoughts it would produce. Then I realized that I was only a student and I had an instructor. Roy was right beside me, inverted at 90 degrees to me, but close enough to have my right leg against the left side of his chest.

Roy was still belted to his seat. His chest was in the horizontal plane, with his head dropped down over the backrest. Even seeing this, my mind still did not let me make the connection that I was inverted. Those thoughts were not critical to my survival. I immediately put my arm on his chest. No body warmth, no movement and very solid to the touch - rigamortis, I thought.

For my second subconscious act, I raised his left arm and released it, signifying that he was indeed dead. In retrospect I can't believe I did this, but I had no thoughts about how to take a pulse. This is all my mind would let me do. "Sorry Roy" was all I could say.

Then all of a sudden, I started getting extremely lethargic, so I went to sleep - on top of Roy's chest. I had no room to lay out, so Roy's chest became my pillow. I felt quite sane if anyone was there to ask me and I didn't think I was in shock, yet his death did not put a crimp on my emotional state. My mind would do whatever was needed to survive. At this point, it needed a place to sleep for awhile.

The next time I awoke, it was full daylight. I experienced a different type of amnesia this time. I knew we still had about a half a tank of gas that could catch on fire at any minute. I frantically tried to get Roy's seat belt off and get him out of the plane. His seat belt was frozen stuck. Then I finally remembered that he was already dead and ceased my misplaced heroic attempt to free him.

Now instincts started to take over. I wanted to radio for help. I knew the battery was probably dead considering how destroyed the cockpit was, but I had to try anyway. Throughout all of this, my mind still did not let me realize that I was sitting on my backrest. My mind refused to let me register this. I started grabbing in front of me where the microphone would be if I was sitting normal. As I groped around all the wires and parts, I finally found the handset. I trailed the cordset so I could find and reset the radio to the emergency frequency. I ended up with the cord's plug and no connection to the radio. I was so upset that I just threw the microphone out to my left. I didn't even realize that it flew out the hole in my windshield. Again, only thoughts pertinent to survival registered in my mind.

My mind wandered back to survival. How do I get back to civilization and tell them that Roy died? That was my goal and my driving force. You could have told me I was on Mars and I would have believed you. I just sat there and listened for awhile. Then in the morning silence, I heard it.

The sound of a stream trickling in the background nearby. I knew this stream would get me out of "here". Where ever "here" was. I instinctively knew a stream would lead me to civilization.

As I started getting to my feet to escape my aluminum coffin, my right foot didn't respond. I looked down and finally realized my right ankle was the size of a large softball. I knew that anything that swollen and didn't hurt had to be a good break versus a compound break. Again, my mind only letting me know what was needed for survival, and nothing else. Again, I never noticed all the blood over me and my seat.

I ended up opening the door, which relative to gravity and the surroundings, opened upwards, not sidewards, and proceeded to eject myself out backwards. I never felt any pain throughout this entire ordeal. I never stopped to ponder why.

I stood up on my one good leg, with the engines exhaust pipe now pointing straight down (instead of sideways) towards my head. And still, with all these clues, my mind wouldn't let me figure out the planes inverted position.

I crawled through the brush in the direction of the streams soothing sound. There I sat just looking at the mountains surrounding me. Wondering where I was and how was I going to get out. Still no clue or association to where I was.

With amnesia, there is no association to any thought. For example, if you were lost in a jungle, you would still have the association of being in a particular country or even on the planet Earth. For my mind, all I saw was all there was in my "universe". I could not associate anything past the mountains in front of me. I knew there was "civilization" out there, I just could not imagine what it looked like. No memory. No association. My "universe" where these mountains.

I wanted to climb up the sides of the mountain to the top. The sides were too steep for climbing, let alone crawling in my condition. It really bothered me not knowing where I was, let alone which direction to go to. That left me with only two choices: up stream or down stream. I thought that going down stream would eventually lead to a road or civilization. Going up stream could lead to a viewpoint so I could see where I was and decide from there. Not knowing where I was bothered me enough to take the up stream choice.

After crawling for a few yards, I found a four foot stick which seemed like a good idea to use as a cane to speed up my mobility. This flimsy cellulose cane kept breaking under my weight, but for some strange reason, I kept it with me. Maybe subconsciously for protection - I don't know. I just didn't leave it behind. I decided to try using the streams buoyancy to support my weight to speed up my ascent up the canyon. Unfortunately the stream was never deep enough to swim in, but it was easier than crawling over the rocks and brush along the sides.

My mode of transportation was also the most tiring. It seemed to take forever to advance only a few feet, which it probably did considering my physical condition. My mind still did not let on to the injuries I had received. I discovered that I could go faster if I scooted backwards on my butt pushing with my one good leg. I could only scoot five or six feet then I would have to catch my breath. This was probably due to the loss of blood from the gash through my leg.

After what seemed to be hours, I reached a spot where I noticed a tall rock up on the right side of the stream, the opposite side of the stream from the wreckage. It was a good six feet tall, almost a perfect cylinder - a good observation point I thought.

After crawling up to it and standing next to it, it would still take a good jump with two good legs, let alone one, to make it to its pinnacle. I really wanted to see where I was, so I was determined to take this vantage point. I prepared my jump, going up and down on my one good leg to build up momentum. "One good kick and I could do it", I thought. I missed and slid off of it, coming down on my broken ankle, twisting it to the left 90 degrees from my leg. 

Thanks to either amnesia or shock, or both, it didn't hurt. This wasn't going to stop me from overcoming this obstacle as I leaped a second time and made it. I dragged my body around so I was sitting on top, looking down stream.

I didn't know how long I was going to be out there, so I decided to play doctor. I knew that if I didn't reset it, it could develop problems later. I took a hardy grab on my right calf, then turned my ankle back to its original position. I didn't feel any pain. It actually felt very strange. Like the joint was made of water with a lot of tension to it.

I was now past the survival stage and ready to figure out where I was from my valuable vantage point. My eyes scoured the hillsides, looking for any clues as to my whereabouts. I couldn't even see where the plane crashed (probably hidden under the brush camouflaging it). Nothing but mountains surrounding me and the stream below. Nothing I could use for finding my way back to civilization.

I sat there pondering my next move in "The Thinkers" position (one hand on your leg, the other supporting your chin). Then my right hand slipped back to my rear pants pocket where I keep my wallet (with the $180 in it). The wallet was gone. As those stupid subconscious thoughts wander through my mind, here comes another douse.  All I could think about was that I just got paid, cashed the check, and needed the money to finish my lessons. How stupid.

I sat there, getting all upset that I had crawled all this way, I couldn't see where I was, and on top of that, lost my wallet somewhere back in the brush. I was so upset, I almost couldn't see straight. Then I did see straight. In my fit of rage, I looked across the mountainside and saw a break in the brush. 
It looked like a fire access road. That meant civilization. My eyes followed the indentation in the mountainside around to where it appeared to be about 200 feet above me, and seemed to meet the road around the next mountain curve (I was at the dead end of the canyon). It looked like it was climbing away from the stream if I headed down stream.

The sides of the mountain were still too steep to try to crawl up to the road. I had two choices. I could crawl up stream to the road and flag down the first motorist, or I could go back down stream and try to find my wallet.

This is where living in a "civilized" (materialistic) society would reflect its values. I decided to go back down stream to find my wallet. Back I went. I kept going to the point where I thought I had entered the stream originally from the plane (even though I couldn't see the plane from the stream at any time). Now I'm really upset. Here I've spent all this time back tracking and had not found my wallet. Since I thought I had passed my original entry point, I decided not to waste any more time and continued down stream, in the hopes that the road would eventually meet the stream.

Around the next bend in the stream, on the left side, was this large fairly flat rock, protruding about 3 inches above the stream. My wallet has two folds in it versus most wallets with one fold. Here it is in the center of this huge rock, opened up, sitting on its three edges, as if someone had placed it there for me to find (from the Hippie commune?). I grabbed it and put it down the front of my pants in my underwear, where it could never come loose and fall out again.

Then my thoughts drifted back to survival. I remembered that we were in the middle of a heat spell. After all my crawling around, I should be thirsty, but I wasn't. I knew I had to replenish the water in my system, so I cupped some water in my hands, brought it to my mouth, and as I sucked, the water didn't suck into my mouth. I tried again, but no water. Again, my mind kept me from realizing that my jaw was broken several inches apart (quite the sight I'm sure). My mind wouldn't let me stop to analyze why, it just told me to cup some water and throw it into where my mouth should be.

It was about mid afternoon and now I started thinking about shelter for the night. I was soaked since I was constantly in the stream. How was I going to dry out before nightfall? There was a small pond in front of me with a rock sticking out of the center of it. I crawled over to it to rest and concentrate about shelter.

I was thinking about how long would it take for someone to find me, or me find them. Then I got a strange feeling to look up the hillside to where the road should be. From the stream, I could never see the road, only the break in the brush where the road should be.

Then I saw the front fender of a pink jeep heading up stream. Yes, a pink jeep. I yelled my head off for this savior to stop. And he did. A small older man in his 50's, about 5' 6" tall, kind of puggie, with a blond butch haircut came over to the side of the road and looked down at me. I yelled up that I was in a plane crash, my ankle was busted, and to help me out of the canyon.

To my astonishment, he got into his jeep and left!!! 

I yelled offers of money, my life, anything to get me out from my canyon prison as he drove up stream, out of sight. I could take everything up to this point, but his leaving was the last straw. To me, he was the only person on the planet that could rescue me. I broke out into hysterics. I couldn't believe he was really leaving me.

In retrospect, remember how I must have looked to him. Here's some kid, with a big stick in his hand, all bloodied up, only 1 mile from the Hippie commune. I guess I can't blame him.

I waited on that rock for about an hour in the hopes that he was coming back. I picked up my body and spirits, and plodded on. I thought that maybe someone else might come along that road, so every five feet I advanced, I yelled out "HELP! HELP!" just in case I didn't notice anyone.

I found another small pond with a rock to sit on with some small trees for shade. I went back to pondering what I was going to do about shelter for the night. By now it was probably around 3:00 PM, 24 hours after the crash.

As I started thinking about how to dry myself out. Then I heard the "swooshing" of helicopter blades and looked up to see two big twin bladed green Marine helicopters coming up the valley towards me. These helicopters were sent back from Camp Pendleton to make a positive identification of the plane and bring back the remains. 

I almost ripped my shirt off as I put my cane through it to make a flag to wave them down. I started waving my blood soaked shirt back and forth as wildly as I could to get their attention. They came right up the canyon, right overhead, and continued past me. They flew up and down my canyon, then went over to the next canyon, then back over to the other nearby canyon. They were looking for a plane, not a person. I guess the rotating beacon finally died.

As I waived in desperation, that strange feeling to look up the mountainside to the road grabbed my attention. This time it was a dark purple fender that was visible. I screamed my head off for them to stop. A young man (about my age), a young girl (his wife), and a plump lady (her mother), got out and stood on the side just staring at me. I repeated the same plight to them as I did with the first man. They didn't move.

Unknown to me, was that they were debating over helping me. Remember my frightful appearance and the four foot stick in my hand. The mother and wife didn't want the husband going down there with me. They thought I would attack him or something. He said it was obvious that I was in trouble and needed help. He finally talked the women into letting him come down, but only if they could protect him if I attacked him. That translated into them making a pile of stones by the roadside and were going to stone me if I made any aggressive move towards him.

While they were gathering stones, my attention was turned up stream to one of the helicopters hovering where the wreckage should have been. It was about 200 feet away, so I couldn't see what was going on. About this time, the young man had made his way down the mountainside and was trying to help me back up. It was still too steep. He could barely help me up. It was taking forever.

Unknown to either of us, the rescue crew from the helicopter at the wreckage realized there must be someone out there from the blood in my seat. They sent the second helicopter to drop one Marine off at the waterfall and one Marine the next valley to start walking the road looking for me.

The Marine coming up the road from the waterfall met the wife and mother, who pointed out where we were, and of course he came down to help.

To me, all of a sudden this Marine just jumps out of the brush from nowhere. Like an Angel sent from God. I didn't know where he came from and didn't care. Just get me out of here.

Even with two strong men, the hillsides were still too steep to climb out. The Marine radioed to the second helicopter to come in and back up to the hillside for a pick up. These were the types of twin bladed helicopters with a 6' by 6' tailgate at the rear. The closest the pilot could get to us without hitting the mountains, even with the tailgate lowered, still left a 6' span of open air to hurdle across, just like the 6' rock I had missed jumping onto earlier that morning.

The Marine said I could try to jump across the air onto the tailgate, or crawl through the stream down to the valley below the waterfall, a mile or so away. I wanted out of my ordeal. I opted for the jump, remembering that the first time I attempted a jump like this, it met with disaster.

I stood upon a small rock about the size of a footstool. If I missed this jump, it meant falling about 25 feet back down into the stream. I couldn't miss this jump. With the Marine on one side, the young man on the other, and the famous 1 - 2 - 3 count, I kicked and they threw me onto the tailgate. I slammed right on target, landing flat on the tailgate, in the center of it, with my feet dangling off the edge. I dug my fingers into the hinged area for fear of sliding off.

The Marine inside the helicopter grabbed me by the scruff of my neck like a cat grabs her kittens, and dragged me inside the doorway to safety. There were stretchers on each side, so I crawled up on the nearest one. The Marine brought me a canteen of water, and instinctively like a man lost in the desert, I grabbed it and poured water all over my head and into my mouth.

A second Marine brought me a mattress and headphones to muffle out the noise of the jets which propelled me to civilization. I told him that I had found civilization and I was about to take a well deserved sleep.

While I'm asleep, the Marine pilot from the helicopter over the wreckage radioed back that the person in the right seat is dead and the other person is alive. This eventually gets relayed back to my mother, but a bit convoluted.

Some FAA official calls my mother and states that one is dead and one is alive, and they don't know who is which one. How could someone be so irresponsible about something so personal? What if this official did the same thing to Roy's wife (I don't know if they had any kids)? The only way for them to find out, was to come to the Camp Pendleton Hospital and see who survived.

Later that evening as I was wheeled into the base emergency room, I awoke to an excruciating pain coming from my right leg. My right leg was up in a sling with three men in white gowns around it. I knew my ankle was broken and thought they were trying to amputate it. I took a swing at the closest attendant, yelling out "you aren't going to cut my leg off", and decked him. Little did I know they were just cleaning out the six inch gash through my leg. No one came near me after that. Probably thought I was psycho after my ordeal.

A male nurse finally came back awhile later and I started spouting out all the information I could think of. I told him everything in the world from when I was born to that my brother was in the Navy, but nothing about the crash. And in conclusion I remarked, "You'd better call my mom - she might be worried."

Might be worried? What an understatement considering what the FAA official told her. They had been up all night waiting for the phone to bring welcome news, hoping, and praying. From that phone call, it was still 2 hours before they could reach the base emergency room, still not knowing who survived.

As mom and dad walked into the emergency room, right towards me, I started smiling (not knowing my face is several inches apart) in anticipation of a hug. They walked up to me and proceeded to walk away, just like the first guy that I found in the mountain. My heart sunk. They couldn't recognize me since I looked so bad! As they walked away I yelled out "hey mom, it's me".

I don't know if Roy's wife ever showed up. I can only guess that she did and didn't find him. The other eerie coincidence is that this was the base that Roy flew out of only a few years earlier. He flew the same helicopters that rescued me. I didn't know this until many decades later. There was a very strong possibility that the pilots of the helicopters that saved me, also knew Roy personally. 

Maybe Roy had flown in those very mountain ranges in his earlier military career on patrols like the pilots that rescued me. Maybe that's where he got his addiction to chasing animals in the canyons. Maybe that is what lead to his demise. How ironic if the mountains that lured him to his dangerous addiction also lured him to his death.

Or maybe Roy knew what he was doing. Maybe he was trying to surprise me with another emergency maneuver? Maybe he knew the area and had done this before? The waterfall was a well known area. 

And as eerie as this sounds, my father had visited this waterfall one year earlier. The previous year it was also hot. My uncle took my father and a brother to this waterfall (complete with the Hippie commune) to cool off.

My current theory is that Roy had originally descended into the canyon to chase animals, since he was looking all around. I'm guessing that he did NOT know about the dead end canyon and decided to turn right since that would have been more along the direction of going home. After that fateful turn, he would only have had a handful of seconds to decide what to do. There are two bends to the stream, so it would have been difficult to see the last dead end before you were inside that area, about a football field long, or about 3 seconds to decide. That would be barely enough time to drop your flaps and perform the maneuver.

Since I wasn't in the military, I couldn't stay at the base hospital. As soon as I was stable, that same night, I was transported to St. Jude's Hospital in Brea, near home. Just before leaving, my mother went back to retrieve my personal belongings. The marine at the desk gave her my keys and some change, but no wallet. Mom knew I had a wallet. She asked the orderly again if a wallet was recovered. He said my clothes were in a trash can if she wanted to check them. Upon searching, sure enough, there was the wallet with the $180 in it. I'll bet that someone else went through that trash can later that night after rounds.

Dad drove back while mom went with me in the ambulance to the hospital. The ambulance ride was uneventful until 1 hour away from the hospital. I started burning up for some unknown reason. That was enough to get the siren and flashing light show. In case you ever need an ambulance, carry cash. Since my folks rushed out to get me without any money other than what they carried, my wallet came in handy. The bill - $180 coincidentally.

My stay in the hospital could have only been for a day or two, but it was for two weeks. They plastered my leg and wired my jaw back together, but there was something else. I was bleeding through the ears from a small crack in my skull. They kept me there for two weeks for observation in case anything serious developed from the crack.

After a couple of days, the NTSB investigators arrived to get my statement. Up to this point, no one had asked me about the crash. Everyone else was probably too busy putting me back together again. As soon as the investigator asked "what happened" the story you just read popped back into my mind. My amnesia was now gone.

A couple of weeks after being released from the hospital, I went to see the couple and mother that had helped me out. I thanked them and we exchanged stories. I found it quite amusing that the women were ready to stone me to death if I tried anything. I had survived slamming into a mountain at 90 mph, escaped a propeller blade from slicing my head open, didn't catch on fire, and ironically could have been stoned to death after all that.

They were able to add more about the mysterious man in the pink jeep. Since they were the first eye witness, they were asked to stay and fill out reports and questions from the Marine investigator. While they were waiting, a pink jeep with the man that fit the description I gave him drove by them. He didn't stop. Nothing. I guess he lives in the valley on the other side of the dead end. I wonder if he ever stopped for anyone else crying out for help after that?

The story doesn't end here. More eerie and bazarre coincidences continued.

I had my jaw unwired just before starting college at Loyola University in Los Angeles. My leg was still in a cast, but a month later, it was taken off. To get my leg back in shape, I decided to enroll in the universities CREW program. I had enrolled in the Air Force ROTC program to become not only a pilot, but an astronaut. My degree was to be in Physics, so being a pilot would be a shoe in for becoming an astronaut.

In less than 3 months, I was able to walk enough (with a slight limp still) to see if the crash had left any emotional scars that I was unaware of. In October, I decided to try my first flight since the crash at nearby Santa Monica airport. 

The runway at Santa Monica is over 1 mile long; long enough to land a Cessna twice, maybe three times. It took me the entire runway to land. While I didn't think the crash had any mental affects on me, it did. My hands just wouldn't let me get close to the ground. My mind had to fight my hands for control. After several more take offs and landings, my mind won and landing came as easily to me as it had when I first soloed.

Flying on jet planes was a different story. This I didn't expect at all. Years later, on my first jet plane ride we hit a pocket of dead air. This is when you feel a plane drop about 20 - 50 feet or so and your stomach starts to rise to meet your heart. Well my heart did all the rising. I had experienced this sensation dozens of times when I was flying, but never felt the instantaneous fear of crashing. After several flights I soon realized that I didn't trust anyone else as the pilot except myself. This mental scar took decades to get over. I never told anyone this until after I was able to overcome my mental block. How can you explain a pilot that is afraid of other pilots, let alone a future astronaut?

A year later I went back to the crash site to see if I could remember anything after banking to start the turn up the box canyon. I was alone, but took my rifle with me just in case. No, I didn't see any pink jeeps, but wished I did.

While walking along the stream, re-tracing my crawling, I stepped on what I thought was a flat rock. Unfortunately, it wasn't, and I fell on my left ankle, breaking it. Here I was again. At the bottom of a mountain, where the sides are too steep to crawl up, with a broken ankle. How stupid! I didn't even drop a rope down from my truck when I came down the side. I was on my own again. I emptied the rifle out and used it as a cane. It took me quite a while, but this time, I managed to hobble up the side and into my truck. I paid for my stupidity by having to shift with my left leg in order to drive back home to the same hospital that set my right ankle and later to see my same doctor (you can imagine what he said).

I continued my education and in 1973 won a 2 year Air Force ROTC scholarship for my last 2 years at Loyola. I had to pass a flight physical for the scholarship. I randomly picked a doctor in a nearby town; Dr. Schaffer in Redondo Beach. I knew if I told the doctor about the crack in my skull that my prospects for being a pilot and eventually an astronaut would leak away like the blood out my ear. He was also a pilot, so he was very understanding. I told him everything but the part about the crack in the skull. Through the CREW workouts, I had gained enough mobility on my ankle to pass the flight physical. I thought I had pulled off a fast one on Uncle Sam.

The year I graduated (1975) was also the year the Vietnam War ended. To our surprise, the Air Force bluntly announced that since pilots weren't dying anymore, they didn't need us (a surplus of pilots now). The Air Force gave us the choice of either waiting a few years for the surplus to evaporate, or go in doing anything else other than flying for four years.

I was a pilot. I wasn't going to do anything else. How could I become an astronaut without flying? I decided to wait. I waited for 2 years and then the Air Force said the waiting was over. They gave me the choice of 90 days or 4 years doing anything but flying. At this point I was pretty upset. I decided why even go in at all. 
I had my medical records from the crash that showed the crack in my head. I decided to bail out on a medical discharge and sent them the truth that I had hidden so well.

The Air Force refused my medical discharge. The last choice was 90 days of service and then to restart a life without the possibility of becoming an astronaut. I requested to be a teacher and was assigned to March Air Force Base in Riverside (only 10 miles from the crash site). They decided to make me an Executive Officer (the General's Gopher) instead. All of my abilities impressed the General to such an extent, that the General immediately offered me a position as navigator (that is considered the back seat to a pilot). 

Every time he offered it, my response was the same. "I'm a pilot, not a navigator!" As my 90 days were ending, the General proudly proclaimed that he had gotten me my pilot's slot. All I had to do was pass the flight physical.

I had forgotten that I sent in the medical records of the crack in my skull. While I'm being examined, the doctor didn't miss them in my file. I failed my flight physical. Another act of stupidity. Or maybe this wasn't my destiny. What if I had been on the Shuttle Colombia and ended up as fish bait? We'll never know.

And of course my life would have been drastically different if the crash had not have occurred. I would not have been in the CREW program (all the friends and experiences which would guide my future). I would probably not have married my wife, let alone had the children I do have. I would have gone to Texas to start pilots training, then onto some Air Base some where, and hopefully onto NASA to fulfill my childhood dream of being an astronaut.

In researching for this story, other eerie and coincidental events were uncovered.

In 1973, the NTSB returned my possessions from the wreckage, that included the map that was in my lap. Oddly enough, my hand computer, log book and other items were not destroyed, only blood stained. Strangely enough, the blood stained map was intact, except for one small area that had disintegrated - the spot where we had crashed!

What are the odds of being in another plane crash? The odds would calculate at close to infinity. I should be considered the safest person to fly with.

On May 24, 1979, I was on American Airlines Flight 191 from Chicago to Los Angeles and nothing happened. 

On the next days same departure from Chicago, the same DC-10 lost three engine bolts, crashed, and all 273 on board perished, at the same time as my crash, about 3:04 PM. 

In 1980, my wife (Terry) and I moved to the South Bay (Lawndale) to be closer to my job at Hughes Aircraft Company in Westchester. We were already enrolled in an HMO (Health Maintenance Organization) for our medical coverage. Terry went through the eligible doctors under this HMO in this new area and picked out Dr. Schaffer in Redondo Beach - the same doctor that gave my flight physical only 7 years before. Terry did not know that he was my flight doctor in 1972.

In 1986, the building that Aviation Unlimited occupied (the company I started my flying lessons with) was bought by the Orange County Fire Department. They turned the facility into a helicopter water drop and rescue unit. Sorry, not the same type of helicopter that rescued me, but still eerie.

In 1990, a new road was created through the area of the crash site. The dirt road is now the Killen (of all the names) Road, or on some older maps, the Main Divide Truck Trail.  20 miles down this road is the parking area for the waterfall.

In 1991, the tail number N60360 was re-assigned to a Beechcraft A36 six seater Bonanza owned and operated by William A. "Doc" Thompson out of the Potomac Airfield (about 10 miles south of DC). Doc used to commute between a number of hospitals in his Bonanza, leaving cars at various airfields near the hospitals. Evidently, Doc cared more about his patients than his own safety. He did not have an Instrument rating, but did fly in the worst of weather. 

In 1994, Doc Thompson was flying to St Mary's hospital and was trying to get into a small, short, grass strip (1500 feet long). He apparently missed the grass airfield in the low dense clouds and fog, and hit a well known antenna tower off the end of its runway. There wasn't much left of him or the aircraft as he died on impact. What are the odds in two planes with the same tail number having two fatal crashes? This is the ONLY time when this has happened.

In 1995, I was transferred to the Fullerton plant. When I started flying back in 1971, the route I would take to the Fullerton airport would take me past the same Hughes Aircraft Company facility in Fullerton (1 mile from the airport). I started driving a different route to the facility, along Chapman Avenue.

In 1995, a Piper aircraft was flying from Big Bear into the Fullerton Airport during very low visibility (instrument rating required). The pilot was too low and hit an apartment on Chapman, crashed into the street and died on impact. I normally drive by this exact spot on my way to work every day. The crash occurred 30 minutes before I usually drive by.

In 1998, an Anita Shreve (it is unknown if she is related, but Roy's wife was also named Anita Shreve) wrote a book entitled "The Pilot's Wife". The story is about the wife of a pilot who dies mysteriously (in a jet liner not a Cessna) and the questions that arise from the mysterious crash (no similarity to my crash at all).  The book made Oprahs top 4 best sellers for 1999.  I tried contacting Anita Shreve, but she did not respond to my mail.  The book was made into a movie that aired on CBS in April 2002.  They would have been in the middle of filming when I wrote to Anita Shreve.

In 2000, after 20 years in the defense part of the industry I was transferred to the air traffic control division. The program I started working on is for the FAA. It is called WAAS (Wide Area Augmentation System). Basically, it allows planes to land via satellite to within 20 feet of any point. Ironically, my task is to certify this system to be safe for aviation use. No one knows about my plane crash. Who would have a more unique prospectus on safety? 

And a future spin off of this program could be an enhancement that could be used to create a detection system to warn pilots that they were getting dangerously close to a mountain. Was this my destiny?

So what other strange and bazarre coincidences will occur as time ticks forward?

PS: The NTSB reference number is LAX 72-L010

My current job in WAAS performing safety analysis prompted me to take another look at the crash site. From the satellite photos, I expected the site to be a few miles from Ortega Hwy near Lake Elsinore. We stopped at the Ranger station just before turning on the newly paved road (Killen Trail). I wanted to find out how long ago they paved this new road. I walked right by (and didn't notice) a huge sign of the area that showed the waterfall. The waterfall (now called Tenaja Falls) is my landmark to find the crash site.

In the old days (or at least 30 years ago), there was a dirt road to the waterfall. It took like an hour and a half to reach it by the old dirt road, but the nice thing was that the dirt road went right over the waterfall (cement wash out) and continued up the canyon to the crash site, making access to the site real easy. When I was there 28 years ago (the last time I was there) I knew this same road came out somewhere on Ortega Hwy, but never checked into it any further. When I saw the satellite photo, I assumed this new road was how the old dirt road came out to Ortega Hwy. A short cut!

Was I wrong!

As we started down this new road, I told Terry that I may be completely off as it reminded me of the old dirt road. There were housing developments, antenna towers, and other things that weren't there 30 years ago, but it still looked familiar. I shrugged it off and continued.

Five miles later (further than I estimated by the satellite map), we were not only not in the right mountain range, but it wasn't looking familiar at all. Ten miles later the same thing. Around each bend, I'd see another mountain range and want to check it just in case. Somehow I'd blown it and couldn't find the waterfall. I asked Terry if she wanted to give up and go back. She said she was game if I wanted to continue, so we went another 5 miles (total of 15 miles).

We came upon a small parking area, with poles stopping cars from going down a dirt path - definitely not a road. I looked up the canyon and told Terry if there was a road here (or a waterfall), I'd think this was the canyon. No road or waterfall, so we kept going. By the time we ticked off a total of 20 miles I gave up. I said let's go another mile or so and see if this comes out to a main road instead of going back. And of course, way out here in the middle of no where, on a Friday afternoon, I didn't expect to see anyone, and we hadn't, since passing the houses 10 miles back. Around the next bend was a family heading our way.

We stopped them and asked if the road came to a main street that we could get back to town on. They said it's 5 more miles. Then they asked us how far was it to the waterfall! I said we missed it and could they take us to it. So we followed them back to that parking area. You could only see the waterfall if you where standing on the right spot (due to the trees having grown so high in 30 years).

As we're walking up this path (I could not tell that it was really a road) we find out that they live 5 blocks from us. What a coincidence! As I'm telling them we're going to walk past the waterfall to try and find my crash site, I got a bigger surprise. The girl said she thought there was something back there, since last year an old guy and his kids (in their 20's) came walking down to the waterfall from up the canyon. I asked her to describe the older man. Her description fit the blonde haired man from the pink jeep!!!!!!!!! This is the guy that DIDN'T stop to help me 30 years ago. He was still alive and living back there. Coincidences seem to run high. (Later I found out his name is Bob Frazier – but could not locate him).

As soon as we got to the top of the waterfall I knew this was the place by the cement crossing over the waterfall. The crash site is about 1 mile up the canyon. The old dirt road was gone, over grown and now called the Tenaja Falls Trail. If you cut back the overgrowth, you could find the side burms of the old dirt road. I expected large trees out of small twigs, but never thought the road would be gone. That paved road we were on was the original old dirt road. 30 years did make a big difference.

Up the path we went. There was even a large (3' by 6') boulder in the middle of the road. I wonder if it was put there purposely to stop vehicles or just feel down the mountain. We're now 15 minutes from the crash site. Only near the crash site could you tell that this path was a road.

It was eye opening to walk the canyon. It gave me a different prospectus of what might have happened. I have a second theory now. As you walk up the canyon, it goes fairly straight for almost a mile after the waterfall. Then the mountain on the right projects out into the middle of the canyon, making the pass through it not only tight, but you can't see what's on the other side. The other side is the canyon that appears to be a dead end that we crashed into. This other side is more circular in nature, about a football field or so across. And the canyon floor is rising up as you go up the canyon. At the waterfall, it's about 300' from the canyon floor to the mountain top. At the dead end, it's about half that.

Here's my latest theory. The spot where the mountain projects out into the middle of the canyon is very tight as far as flying goes, too tight. Barely enough room for a plane to fly through safely. Not too mention being blinded from seeing around it to what ever is on the other side. That's the part that really bothers me, you can't see around it. I just can't see anyone taking that high of a risk. Not even Roy trying to chase anything in the canyon or even showing off for the Hippies, or maybe trying to see some girls naked (very popular there) or something.

I'm wondering if he did this with other students and knew exactly what the canyon was like. I'm wondering if this was another surprise emergency test. Could he have gone through this narrow opening and then gave me back control and said "what are you going to do now?", like he did a few times in the past. You have about 3 - 5 seconds to make a decision before it's too late. There would definitely be no time to gain enough altitude to escape. You HAVE to make an emergency maneuver to escape, if escape is even possible. There's a couple more reasons why I think this:

Our flight plan wasn't exactly directly back to Fullerton, it was actually to El Toro, then to Fullerton. That didn't' surprise me as you never fly directly from point to point, you go from navigational aid to navigational aid. Our flight path put us directly into the first canyon that lead up to the waterfall, without any change whatsoever. Roy could have had me plot directly back to Fullerton, but he didn't, he had me plot to El Toro. Coincidental? If he had flown in this canyon with other students, he would have known to use this route instead of a direct line back to Fullerton.

A couple of weeks before the crash, he taught me what is called a Power 720 - another emergency maneuver. That's when you make the tightest steepest turn possible (without any damage to the plane). It's a 30 degree angle at full power (hence the Power part of the name). It's called a 720 since you make 2 full 360 degree circle turns. The trick is maintaining your altitude. It's very difficult to do. You know you maintain your altitude when you come around the first time to your starting point. If you haven't changed altitude by more than 20 feet, you'll feel your own prop wash when you run into that rough air. It only took me the second time to master it and feel my prop wash.

That dead end canyon could be a place to perform a Power 720 (just to turn around, not do the entire 2 circles - I would hope). You only practice this at over 5,000 of clear vertical air space due to losing altitude. You definitely don't practice this with 100 feet of vertical air space. It's pretty tight, but I think you could turn around with a Power 720 type of maneuver.

Now I'm wondering if we were actually banked when we crashed. I lost my FAA report that showed the gauges (which would have our bank angle) so we'll never know unless my memory ever comes back.

So the mystery of what really happened lives after all…

For the 30th anniversary I decided to go back and try to find one last piece of the wreckage.  In reviewing my old 8mm tapes (converting them to VHS) from 1972 (my first trip back to the site), I noticed that a piece of the front fiberglass wheel fender (red and white) was still at the crash site.  My daughter CJ was also interested in the expedition, so off we went 30 years later.

This time I came as prepared as possible.  300' of climbing rope and an extra 50' of rope and bucket to haul the fender up the steep mountain side, video camera, water, extra clothes (poison ivy) etc.  Didn't want any broken ankles this time.

We had left early and I even brought satellite photos to come in the back way through the valley to the north.  We stopped at the store on Ortega Hwy and tried to find the short bald guy with the pink Jeep (Bob Frazier).  They didn't know where he lived, but gave us a general description in the same direction we were heading.  We gave up on trying to find his house and proceeded to the valley for the shortcut into the canyon.

The valley was bought by the Girl Scouts and was converted into a rural campground.  The gate was open, the campground empty, so we followed the satellite maps to the end of the valley.  Just before the last turn to go into the canyon, the dirt road was completely washed out.  As we tried to find a place to park and walk it (we would only be 1/4 mile from the crash site) we were busted by the park attendant.  I explained what we were doing.  They were expecting girl scouts that afternoon so we had to leave.  If there wasn't anything planned he would have let us cross the property.

So it was back to the long way (Killen Road) like in 2000.  So on the way back, one more try to find Bob Frazier's house.  The area was farm and horse property - not too many folks outside.  We found one nice lady (about my age) that not only remembered the crash, but gave us directions to Frazier's farm.  His farm is located on the mountain top right above the Girl Scout valley (makes sense).  The gate was locked.  I left another message asking him to contact me.  Ironically enough, the only paper I had was an extra copy of the newspaper clippings about the plane crash.  Again, since then I have received no contact from the owner of the pink jeep.

Back out Killen road 20 miles to the parking area and the 2 mile hike back to the crash site.  I found the same spot to climb down as in 1972.  After repelling down 300' of rope, we came up short and it was too steep to climb down (don't know how I did it in 1972).  The extra 50' of rope was enough as we were 20' from river with a steep bolder to slide down.  And worst, it meant sliding down a huge patch of poison ivy (at least we were prepared for it with long clothes to cover any exposed areas - which also meant hotter attire).  Finally we were back in the stream.

Those 30 years really helped the undergrowth flourish.  Now I wish I had brought a machete to cut through the mini forest that the stream had become.  The weeds were taller than me!  I'd have to karate kick the weed-trees down and make a path for CJ to follow.  We had left early so we could be hiking in the cool morning.  With taking the long way, it was quite hot out.  Combine the heat, with the effort to make a path through the stream, and I was getting pooped real fast.

By the time we made the 200 foot trek to the area below the crash site, I was ready to retrieve the remaining wreckage and go home.  We looked high and low, went 100 feet more down stream in case the river carried the fender further.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  By this point I'm exhausted with a return trip pending.  It was time to call it quits and give up.  CJ wanted to climb up the side of the mountain to the actual impact point.  Remarkably enough, after 30 years, it is still a dirt area. 

I don't recall it being so steep, but the last time I was here was 29 years ago.  I had no energy left to re-visit the impact point, so I let CJ climb up to curb her curiosity.  A restful 20 minutes later, CJ came down and we dragged ourselves back to the car.  It was a full day making the trek, the sun was setting and it was now close to 6:00 as we reached the car.  A forest ranger was re-seeding an area near the car as we approached.

We kinda surprised him.  He didn't expect to see anyone out here this late.  We talked a bit and  found out what happened to the fender.  There was a blazing forest fire in 1990.  The ranger said it was so hot in the canyon, it would have melted aluminum, let alone fiberglass.  So the mountain claimed the last of the plane.