Respect for the fragility of life...

7:42 am 25 July 1970
It’s been more than 55 years since I attended a masonic funeral.
The service was simple, appropriate, and lasted less than half an hour. I don’t remember many details, only the simple urn bearing the remains of the man whose life we were honoring, but etched indelibly on the canvas of my mind was the event that placed me there.
I lay in bed as the first rays of sunlight began to brighten the day when the phone rang. It was Bill Christensen, the senior member of the two-man flagging crew for the local crop-duster.
I was the pimple-faced teenager making up the rest. The instant I heard his voice, I knew precisely how my morning would be spent.
Even so, I was confused. It was late July, and spray season was over. The winter wheat harvest is scheduled to begin next week, just as it does every year in this part of the Colorado Plateau. Not the time to spray weeds; the crop, gold and ripe, had no more to do than await the combine.
I knew of only one field of the later-maturing spring wheat in the county; still green, its harvest wouldn’t come for two and a half months – weeds were still a problem.
The most challenging part of this job were the high-voltage electrical transmission lines that powered this part of the world, running across the field.
Crop-dusters march across a field by aligning each swath with the two-man flagging crew on the ground, waving flags made from old bed sheets fastened to eight-foot poles.
Once the plane lines up, the flaggers quickly step off to the next swath. In the 20-minute training session at the beginning of the season, I was told that if I couldn’t make it out of the path in time, I was to drop flat to the ground.
This happened once or twice that season, and I was covered with a dose of herbicide; that’s why you’ve never seen weeds growing out of my ears. A better alternative than being knocked over by a flying machine. It wasn’t uncommon to see sprigs of wheat stuck to the plane’s landing gear at the end of the day.
The rhythm of the process is a spectacle of beauty. The pilot aligns his path, makes a steep dive to the ground, and levels off about three feet above the ground. Then, at the right moment, he releases the atomized cargo that billows behind and slowly settles on the crop below. Once across the field, the plane rockets upward, makes a U-turn, and repeats the process.
The pilot sprayed this field in north/south swaths, starting on the east, where there were no power lines in its path, saving the real danger for last.
All summer, I’d heard that crop dusters regularly flew beneath power lines. I might finally see it. With the job 80 percent finished, there was no more avoiding the power lines.
Until now, the pilot moved the craft smoothly, confidently, and predictably. After the last swath next to the transmission lines, the pilot, George Endter, a retired Air Force instructor with thousands of hours in the cockpit, began showing signs of nervousness, unease, and hesitation.
Instead of the efficient U-turn at the end of a swath, he took what seemed a sightseeing tour, flying over the field at a safe altitude, passing far to the south, then to the north.
I’m sure it lasted no more than a couple of minutes, but it seemed longer. Finally, the craft assumed a confident attitude, lining up on its southerly path. I was waving my flag about 150 feet from the power line he needed to cross. Would he go above or below?
The plane dropped swiftly and confidently, showing intent to take the low route. I stepped out of its path in time, yet never diverted my eyes from the scene.
I was sure he was low enough, then just before reaching the critical point, the plane appeared to drift up into the lines gently.
Electric arcs, complete with blue sparks shooting in all directions, erupted as the high-voltage lines collided with each other.
The spray-rig, a Piper Super Cub made of painted canvas stretched over a wooden frame, no match for the force that suddenly violated it, crumpled to the ground and burst into an inferno, complete with fireball, black smoke, and radiant heat fueled by gasoline and the diesel-herbicide mixture left in their separate tanks.
In the shock of the moment, I froze, unable to move a muscle until Bill ran to me from behind and shook me into reality, screaming, “Go call an ambulance”.
At that instant, I sprang into action and ran to the farmhouse 200 yards away to call first responders.
Soon, a firetruck, the county sheriff, and first responders arrived on the scene. In no time, the flames consumed every combustible piece of the former craft, leaving a small pile of ash, twisted metal engine parts, mangled piping, and what was left of the pilot.
The burnt body of George Waldemar Endter (1911 – 1970) was carried respectfully away from the scene, still in the position of a pilot seated at his controls, arms forward as if on the yoke and both feet planted firmly on the rudder pedals. The rest was unrecognizable.
I returned home a couple of hours later, walked into the kitchen, and looked up at the electric-powered clock, frozen at 07:42, a date and time I would never forget. I felt as though I had been up for days.
From that day to this, it was the most violent event I’ve witnessed. While it doesn’t come close to what young people see every day in Gaza, Ukraine, or the inner cities of this country, the memory of it remains to this day.
The experience gave me a profound respect for the fragility of life and the risks involved in living it.