“You push that tip up, and I’ll grab this one.”
Raising myself on my toes, I push the tip of the 9-foot propeller upward; the other end drops into Chuck Wentworth’s reach, and he pulls it through. We repeat the procedure a few times, clearing any residual oil from the cylinders, and then move on to the next propeller. This one is too high up to reach; Chuck mounts a tall ladder to pull it through, then on to the third and the tiptoe method again. While we’re at it, we check the engines — they’re stark naked, not a cowling in sight — for the usual stuff: dangling plug wires, oozing oil and crows.
Chuck folds up the ladder and leans it against the hangar door.
“Want to get up on the wing now?”
We march single file up the aisle. There’s a hatch above the copilot’s seat and a foothold in the bulkhead behind it. He clambers through. By the time I get my head outside, he’s half-sitting, half-lying on the corrugated roof, struggling with the balky cap of the center tank. I begin to climb out but think better of it. The top of the cabin is curved, smooth, and about 12 feet off the ground.
With a dipstick that looks to have been made from a discarded broom handle, Chuck eventually determines that there are about 50 gallons in each of the three tanks. He then struggles back down into the cockpit, like a lookout descending from the rigging.
In the patch of low ceiling that conceals the wing carry-through, he opens an overhead access door. We peer into the opaque depths of the wing. A few feet away, a truss of heavy aluminum angles joined by riveted gussets loses itself among the shadows. Here are the three oval fuel tanks of welded aluminum, a total capacity of 355 gallons. With the proper stopcocks open and the wings more or less level, the fuel quantity can be read from a standpipe; but the dipstick method is more accurate. The fuel system is simple: All tanks feed a single manifold, and the manifold feeds all three engines.
The preflight ends with a walk around. The thick control cables and huge bell cranks are on the outside, so that part is easy. The main impression you have is of acres and acres of corrugated metal, like freshly harrowed farmland. The corrugations stiffen the aluminum skins — the technique was borrowed from Hugo Junkers, who had a low-wing, three-engine airliner of his own. How much they contribute to the Ford Trimotor’s 45 square feet of equivalent flat-plate area — just a quarter of a 747’s — is hard to guess.
Javier Arango, who owns the airplane, has been delayed in Los Angeles by a bad mag. He arrives now, and we prepare to start. Javier stands outside with a fire extinguisher. Chuck starts the center engine first; it has the only generator. A few turns to clear any remaining oil from the cylinders, six seconds of prime, then start cranking, booster coil on, and finally mags. The engine coughs politely a few times like a person preparing to speak, and then settles into a steady lope.
When all three engines are running, I leave the cockpit to choose from among 11 seats in the passenger cabin, and Javier settles into the right pilot’s seat. It’s soothing to watch through the long rectangular windows as the big, not quite round tire turns, the oleo shifts up and down, and the pavement slides past. The takeoff, in contrast, comes with the demonic shriek of six propeller tips slicing into the speed of sound like a Skil saw into sheet metal. I’m already using earplugs; covering my ears with my hands doesn’t help. The sound comes in through your bones.
The big, awkward airplane accelerates rapidly — we’re light, to be sure, but 1,350 horses won’t be denied — and it climbs steeply. The rpm comes back a bit, then some more; takeoff is 2,300, cruise 1,800. For a long time, I can hear Chuck and Javier trying to sync the props — but really, Javier will later tell me, even if you manage to get all three in sync, they won’t stay that way for long. Experimentally, I remove my earplugs. To my surprise, the dominant sound is the strong hiss of wind; the engines add just a low grumble.
After a while, Javier comes back into the cabin, and I take the right seat.
The wheel is a big, black, leather-wrapped thing that makes more than one complete revolution from lock to lock. We’re doing some sort of speed, obviously, but it’s hard to tell how much because the airspeed indicator needle describes lazy circles and, like a broken clock, is right only twice a day. The Trimotor feels stable, though, rumbling along level, steady and hands-off, faithful to its heading and altitude. The ailerons respond to small deflections, but if you want to make a serious turn, you have to lead with rudder and then adjust with aileron. This is no small task — the rudder forces are incredibly heavy, and the pedals feel as if they’re welded in place. Chuck says that with an engine out, you put both feet on the appropriate pedal, push as hard as you can, and call for help.
There’s a YouTube video of a pilot named Harold Johnson doing spins, loops and snap rolls in a Trimotor. He must have had some quadriceps. But once you get over your initial amazement, you realize what a docile, well-behaved airplane this really is. Between 1926 and 1933, a couple hundred were built. They served all over the world, with 100 different airlines and in every conceivable kind of rough work. With big tires, a compliant landing gear, a low wing loading, and props well above the ground, they were gigantic bush airplanes really, but they could get along in genteel company as well. In 1929, the fledgling airline that would eventually become TWA offered, for the equivalent of 4,800 of today’s dollars, a hybrid transcontinental service, with passengers traveling by rail at night and by Trimotor during the day.
They cruised at 100 mph or so — knots hadn’t infected aviation yet — in cool, often smooth air at 10,000 feet, on legs of two or three hours. The airborne portions of the trip added more adventure than speed — the whole crossing still took two days — but they aspired to a sort of condensed version of Pullman car luxury, serving meals in flight and tucking steamer blankets over dozing passengers’ knees.
And they gave passengers something that few airline flights give today. They gave them an experience.
