My career involved two activities that put my life on the line. The first one was playing with dynamite: challenging a pack of beavers for placing a damn dam where it shouldn’t have been. The other was flying with Warden Dana Toothaker in the department’s aircraft.
Now don’t misunderstand me. As for the dynamiting, I admit I was about as experienced with explosives as a youngster trying to blow up an anthill with a conveniently placed firecracker. I didn’t have a clue what the results might be, but I knew damn well before I was done I’d make a severe impact upon my intended target.
Flying, or even being around Dana Toothaker, however, was a completely different story. I just never knew what crisis we’d find ourselves in from one minute to the next. But one thing was for sure—I knew there’d be one.
Prior to becoming a pilot, Dana was considered somewhat of a “cowboy warden” by those associated with him. Fortunately for me, his district bordered mine to the south and I got to share some good quality time with the cowboy. His creativity and dedication to the job were second to none.
Back before today’s elaborate snowmobile trail systems where you can cut through the woods from one end of the state to the other, we wardens spent many a winter night trying to catch snowmobilers riding on the roads or operating their unregistered snow machines illegally. Back then, many folks had little, if any, respect for the snowmobile laws that were fairly new on the books.
Driving Dana’s cruiser, I would tow his idling snow machine, anchored upon a tilted trailer, while he sat proudly perched upon the seat bundled up like a penguin in a blizzard, just waiting to see a group of snowmobiles approaching in the distance.
Upon his signal, I’d come to a sudden stop and Dana would launch himself off the trailer in record time, pursuing the snow machines as they passed on by. His efforts resulted in many summonses for violators who might otherwise have easily escaped capture once they recognized the warden’s cruiser.
This is just one example of what working with the “cowboy warden” was like. It was his dedication to the profession that caused my pal, Grover, a highly noted poacher in the area, to seriously despise him. I think Grover knew it would be only a matter of time before Dana would trip him up and his poaching reputation would seriously be dampened.
Riding with Dana behind the wheel in his cruiser was always like riding with Evel Knievel. Dana operated everything at one speed—wide open. I never knew when each ride might be my last, but still I found myself tagging along, completely trusting him.
Dana was promoted to department pilot shortly after I became a warden. He certainly was well qualified, having served as a fixed-wing and a helicopter pilot in Vietnam, where he earned the respect of his superiors and had the honor of flying and escorting Vice President Spiro Agnew during his tour of the war-ravaged country.
One January day in 1972, Dana and I agreed to meet for a flight up over my patrol area. Dana wanted to point out a spot in Unity Plantation where he’d witnessed several dogs roaming around, threatening the deer population. We met at the Unity Pond boat landing in the early afternoon. I watched as the small Piper Cub came sailing warp-factor eight and extremely low over the trees. Quickly he dipped down onto the frozen surface of the pond heading my way.
In a cloud of thick blowing snow, Dana maneuvered the plane to where I was eagerly waiting to climb aboard. I fastened my seat belt and away we went. We shot out across the snow-covered pond in the usual Toothaker mode. A white cloud of blowing snow behind us quickly disappeared as we hurtled straight up into the air, leaving the solid ground far below.
“Let’s check the deer yards out on the Plantation,” Dana shouted. “I’ve seen a pile of deer out there lately.”
“Sounds good to me,” I gulped, swallowing in a futile attempt to recover from the steep climb we’d just made.
The afternoon shadows, though, prevented us from seeing any deer. Dana had another bright idea.
“Let’s fly up over Lyndon Abbott’s house,” he said.
Lyndon was a Maine State Police trooper and a good friend of both of us. He lived nearby in the little town of Clinton. We’d all shared many memorable moments.
“If he’s home we’ll just buzz his house, let him know we’re around,” Dana said with a snicker.
“Okay,” I agreed, as if I really had any say in the matter.
The steady drone of the aircraft’s engine purred away as we charted our course toward Clinton. I saw Lyndon’s house off in the distance and we started our descent—heading straight for it. Lower and lower we glided as the house got bigger and bigger. We were heading on a course much lower than what I figured we should be.
Finally I yelled, “Are you gonna buzz it, Dana, or fly to hell through it?”
Warden John Ford with deer that were killed by dogs.
“I think we can land in that little field behind it,” Dana said with a notable amount of hesitancy. “We’ll go inside for a visit and maybe even a quick cup of coffee.”
I wish he’d said, “We can” rather than “I think we can.” The approaching field looked extremely small to me, but he was the pilot and I trusted his judgment. Like I really had any choice otherwise.
A cluster of large white pine trees standing out like huge skyscrapers in a small city were at one end of the field. At the other end were power lines that ran next to Bellsqueeze Road. There was very little room to spare in between.
I hope to hell he knows what he’s doing, I thought.
We came extremely close to striking those pines as we slowly floated down to earth, eventually touching down in the field, quickly headed for the road.
“Not a problem, John Boy,” Dana loudly boasted as we taxied up to Lyndon’s garage. “This baby could land on a dime and give you nine cents’ change every time.”
Standing outside waiting for us was Lyndon, shaking his head in total disbelief. I knew exactly what he was thinking.
We went inside and had several cups of coffee while shooting the breeze. All the while I wondered, How to hell are we going to get out of here? I didn’t dare ask, though. I seriously thought about begging Lyndon for a ride back to my cruiser, but I’d be damned if I’d show Dana I was a coward.
Finally, Lyndon couldn’t stand it any longer. “Dana, do you really think you can fly out of here?”
“I think so,” said Dana. “I think I can rev the engine, hold the brakes, and once we round that corner, we should have plenty of room to lift off,” he said.
Just hearing about his elaborate plan was good enough reason for me to make yet another bathroom run. I was seriously reconsidering begging Lyndon for that ride home.
The moment of truth finally arrived as Dana and I climbed back into the plane. Dana readied the beast for our flight out of the small field, which we had since dubbed “Abbott’s International.” I secured the lap belt so tight around my waist I could barely breathe.
The engine roared, followed by a huge cloud of snow blowing out behind the plane, and we shot down the narrow strip and up into the air. The trees were getting closer and closer, but it didn’t matter, as we were at a point of no return. The cheeks of my you-know-what were Super-Glued onto the seat of that little aircraft. Nothing short of dynamite would have removed me, except, of course, a violent collision with a non-movable object, such as a huge pine tree.
Suddenly, the little bird shot high into the air, clearing the pine branches by mere inches. I swear I heard the branches hitting the bottom of the skis as we shot on by them.
I could breathe again. Of course, Dana had to make yet one more low-level pass over Lyndon’s house to signal our success before moving on.
“Now I’ll show you where I saw those dogs the other day,” he said, and soon we were banking and circling over Unity Plantation at about 1,500 feet with nothing but thick woods and a frozen bog beneath us.
With little warning, the engine started sputtering and seemed to be shutting down.
I yelled, “What the hell’s going on now, Dana?”
“We’re about out of gas on the right tank, but the left one should be picking up any second,” he said.
Meanwhile, we were rapidly descending and the engine by now was all but completely silent.
I watched the ground coming up to meet us at an alarming rate. It was obvious there was no place to land but into the trees beneath us.
Cough-cough, putt-putt, the engine shook and sputtered, and suddenly it started purring once again. We were climbing back up into the air. I sensed Dana was somewhat relieved. I was reasonably sure I’d just soiled my britches.
One close call for the day was enough, but two was pushing my limit.
“Dana, I think I’m ready to go back to my cruiser,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed just about all of the excitement I can stand for one day.”
Landing safely on frozen Unity Pond, I exited the plane in what could be described as a religious and somewhat papal move. I quickly fell to my knees, kissing and blessing the ground beneath me, glad to be back on solid footing. No Pope John was I, but for the moment I felt I had truly been blessed.
A few weeks later Dana attempted yet another landing at Abbott’s International. This time the conditions were quite different. Instead of the powdery snow when we had landed, a heavy crust covered the field. That caused the plane to travel much faster after it touched down.
Lyndon was in his bathroom shaving. He saw the plane speed by his bathroom window and knew it wasn’t about to stop at the roadway. He watched the wings sheer off the body of the little Piper Cub after it smacked a telephone pole in front of his house.
A stunned Dana was sitting in the fuselage in the middle of the road, looking at the carnage around him. He wasn’t injured, but his ego was slightly damaged, and the plane left the area on a flatbed. Abbott’s International had endured its last flight, and the airstrip was officially closed.
Dana Toothaker, one of a kind, always operated on the edge. And, for whatever the reasons might have been, I often found myself seated right alongside of him.