No pita with this Gyro: Earle Eckel's hidden airport

State Route 57 in Warren County seems like some sort of supernatural entity. No matter how well I think I get to know it, no matter how many times Ivan and I travel its length, subsequent trips always seem to reveal something new.

Or, more accurately, something old.

Just the other day, we were driving the road west of downtown Washington when I looked to the left and saw this:

How could we have missed Eckel's Autogiro Port near the corner of Route 57 and Mill Pond Road? Look a little closer at this seemingly freshly-painted sign, and you can see a claim that this is the first exclusive autogiro airport in America. THAT I would have remembered; we're always happy to find new airfields.

As I discovered with a little research, we'd stumbled upon one of Washington's more accomplished citizens, Earle S. Eckel. Born in 1891, he showed a remarkable combination of entrepreneurship and ingenuity from a very young age. By the time he turned 20, he'd already fulfilled a contract to string telephone wires from Philipsburg to Washington, built a steam engine that both powered his mom's washing machine and heated the wash water, and operated his own mobile movie theater enterprise, among other ventures.

Detailing all of Eckel's enterprises will make for a good future Hidden New Jersey entry, but for now we'll stick with the autogiro port. Long story short, an interest in motorcycles eventually got Eckel into automobile sales and repairs in Washington, and then to gasoline and fuel oil. Petroleum was good to him: in partnership with his brother, he opened a chain of nine service stations, which they sold to the Tidewater Oil Company in 1930. The windfall was substantial, and he used a portion of it to buy his own airplane. Predictably, that led to another business: Eckel Air Service, which offered flying lessons and charter flights from Easton Airport.

Eckel eventually left the airline business when it proved to be less than profitable, but the venture whetted his interest in aviation, particularly when it came to a craft that he could keep on his Mill Pond Road property. He didn't have enough room for an airplane, so he selected the recently-developed Pitcairn autogiro. Sporting both a nose-mounted propeller and a helicopter-type rotor above, it offered the joy of flying at slow speeds with the convenience of shorter takeoffs.

Reflecting his usual enthusiasm for new ventures, Eckel built a well-equipped airfield on his property in 1931, clearing a runway, installing floodlights and erecting a hangar. Two years later he bought a second craft, building another hangar to store it.

Eckel with Tidewater's autogiro Miss Vedol.

According to some accounts, Eckel held the nation's first transport autogiro pilot's license and flew the first airmail from Washington NJ to Newark during National Air Week in 1938. Locally, the autogiro made Eckel a few bucks in towing advertising banners and offering flying lessons, while he often traveled to out-of-state air shows to fly stunts competitively. He found his real success as a pilot for the Tidewater Oil Company, which hired him to fly two multi-state promotional tours for their Veedol motor oil. Estimating that he flew a total of more than 4000 passengers in the autogiro, he told the Schenectady Gazette that "safety is the keynote of the autogiro, these ships being able to land in small patches of level ground far too small for conventional type planes."

Eckel continued to keep his autogiros at the port even after selling the property in 1942, but as his interests turned to other pursuits, the field reverted to its former use as farm fields. Meanwhile, improvements in helicopter technology and the relative costliness of autogiros pretty much sealed their fate in the commercial market. Improved versions of the technology are still available today and are occasionally used for surveillance

As for Eckel, he died in 1978, having lived an interesting and varied life. Today, his former home and gyro port are the basis of the Pleasant Valley Historic District, listed on the National Register of Historic Places. Only a small wooden sign and the bright side of the one remaining hangar indicate anything remarkable about the placid little area where once an adventurous mind took flight.

Newark Airport: the scarcely remembered shutdown

A recent visit to the Great Swamp National Wildlife Refuge in Morris and Somerset Counties led me to think again about how close we came to losing this marvelous natural resource to development. As you might remember from our earlier story, the Refuge is the hard won project of environmentalists who stopped the marshland from becoming a massive regional jetport. Thing is, for as much as people will marvel over the folly of replacing this pristine wilderness with an airport, nobody talks about WHY exactly we needed one there… and why Newark International Airport wasn’t deemed sufficient for the flying public.

When I researched the issue, I discovered a fair amount of discussion about the need for longer runways to accommodate massive jets – seemingly more that Newark might be able to accommodate. I also came upon a seemingly forgotten aspect of the history of EWR, an unfortunate series of events that virtually cried out for a new airfield in the region.

Three fatal accidents over the course of 10 weeks in the early 1950s forced the public and government officials to consider whether large airports and heavily populated areas were good neighbors or a recipe for disaster. A total of 119 people, including several Elizabeth residents in their homes, were killed in unexpected crashes near the airport. (Judy Blume's 2015 novel In the Unlikely Event is set on the backdrop of the tragedies.)

Locating an airport in a congested area wasn’t the planners’ original intent. Today’s Newark Liberty International Airport stands in heavily developed industrial sections of Newark and Elizabeth, bordered by the New Jersey Turnpike and Route 1, but it wasn’t always that way. Most New Jerseyans don’t recognize the area for what it once was: some of the southernmost portion of the Meadowlands. When sited in the late 1920s, the airport was built on damp marshlands in the outskirts of Newark. More than 1.5 million cubic feet of dry fill went into the soggy wetness to prepare it for paving and building, including 7000 Christmas trees and 200 metal safes. Airport operations proceeded without complaint or danger to local residents because, well, few if any people lived there.

With the passage of time, that changed. Normal industrial development, fueled by population shifts during World War II and the Port Authority takeover of Port Newark, brought more businesses into the area. Being close to the airport meant goods could be shipped rapidly, efficiently and more cheaply, so if your business wanted to grow beyond New Jersey, you wanted to be in what was once the swamp. Workers naturally wanted to live closer to their jobs, spurring residential development. Before you knew it, the “out of the way” airport had more neighbors than its architects probably ever imagined, and Newark was the second busiest commercial airfield among many competitors in the area.

The airport’s operations people, however, apparently didn’t recognize the potential dangers of routing aircraft over congested areas. That changed on December 16, 1951, when Newark and Elizabeth fell victim to what was then the second deadliest commercial air disaster in the United States. Fifty-six people died when a C-46 aircraft crashed into the Elizabeth River shortly after takeoff from Newark.

Just a few weeks later, on January 22, 1952, a twin-propeller airplane was attempting to land when it crashed into a house at the intersection of South and Williamson Streets in Elizabeth, after nearly hitting Battin High School. Three crew members, 20 passengers and seven people on the ground were killed.

A third accident, on February 11, was the final straw. After losing a propeller on takeoff, a DC-6 crashed, reportedly near an orphanage. Four on the ground died, along with 26 of the 59 passengers and three of the four crew. The Port Authority closed Newark Airport, raising questions as to whether it should ever reopen for commercial traffic. Airlines moved their EWR-based operations to LaGuardia and New York International (now JFK), leading some to wonder whether those carriers would return to Newark… if the airport ever reopened.

Ultimately, the airport was closed to commercial traffic for nine months, with the military using it only for defense-critical operations during daylight hours and good weather. Local mayors called on New Jersey Governor Alfred Driscoll and the state legislature to keep the airport closed and push the Port Authority to seek alternative locations in less populated areas for a new major airport.

Port Authority Executive Director Austin Tobin, however, had other plans. The agency continued its work on a new runway and issued a contract for the construction of an additional passenger terminal, clearly signaling that EWR would be back in business. Meanwhile, aviation ace Eddie Rickenbacker led the National Air Transport Coordinating Committee in developing new flight procedures for the airport. When announced in November 1952, the rules eliminated all takeoffs and landings over the densely populated sections of Elizabeth where the tragic crashes had taken place. Instead, aircraft would be routed over the Kearny Meadows.

Newark Airport reopened on November 15. 1952 and slowly came back to life as operators moved flights back from the other two major regional airfields. However, the concept of an farther-flung airport was still in the minds of some. Land owners in Lakewood, 60 miles south of Newark, offered acreage for a new, modern facility, proposing that a Pinelands-based airport could easily be connected to the Turnpike for easy access to both New York and Philadelphia. The airlines, however, rejected the concept. Much of the appeal of Newark was what had made it so congested in the first place: proximity to industry, people and New York City.

Perhaps the most fitting statement was made by the New York Times in an editorial supporting the reopening of EWR: "It is not possible to remove landing fields to entirely uninhabited areas. To do so would destroy the very value of air transport; it is not possible. The airplane is here to stay…”

Newark continued to grow even as the Port Authority fought for the proposed jetport in the Great Swamp. New terminals were built, airlines added new flights and routes, more people than ever saw the convenience of flying out of EWR instead of JFK or LGA. Thankfully, no additional fatal crashes have occurred in the neighborhoods surrounding the airport, a trend we hope will continue indefinitely.

Contact! and Ahoy! Aviation on the Hackensack River

Substantially industrialized rivers can hold a lot of secrets. Sometimes they're regrettable, in the form of pollution and blight that take decades and millions of dollars to remove. Other times, they reveal a more romantic past, with activities you can barely imagine the area could support today.

We recently got a lead on one of these stories from reader Greg Parson, who commented on our story about New Jersey Aviation Hall of Famer Ed Gorski and the Lincoln Park Airport. Among his reminiscences about Gorski and the field, he mentioned that his uncle, George Lambros, had operated a seaplane base in Little Ferry.

A seaplane base? On the Hackensack River? With our friends from Hackensack Riverkeeper, we'd cruised up the river in August, enjoying the rebirth of the Meadowlands punctuated with occasional stories of past and present commerce on the river, but I couldn't recall hearing anything about aircraft. Had I missed something?

Indeed, when I mentioned it to friends on Facebook, several confirmed that two bases were operational at the location at some point in the past 40 years. One friend even noted that she used to watch the takeoffs when she was growing up in Ridgefield.

Greg kindly got back to me with some additional information, including an address and the observation that the current Little Ferry Seaplane Base is actually across the river from the original Lambros property, which was in Ridgefield Park. The Little Ferry location had once been the home to a famed restaurant called Tracey's Nine Mile House, which apparently served an amazing sliced steak sandwich.

Depending on your perspective, this is either the Hackensack River
or Runway 01-19 of Little Ferry Seaplane Base.

With that information in hand, I took to the web for additional background. While there's not a lot of data out there on George Lambros or his operation, I did discover that the base opened in August, 1947 as an adjunct of sorts to nearby Teterboro Airport. Lambros operated an instructional school and seaplane rental out of the base, using craft like the Grumman Wigeon to certify pilots for water takeoffs and landings. Among those giving the lessons was Springfield resident Kathleen Hilbrandt, who'd received her flight instructor rating after serving in the Women Airforce Service Pilots during World War II.

Lambros didn't have a monopoly on that stretch of the Hackensack, with Mellor-Howard Seaplane Base operating nearby. The Hackensack Riverkeeper himself, Bill Sheehan, also informed us that another seaplane port operated farther upriver, at Carlstadt. Now the site of River Barge Park and Marina, the former Sky Harbor was also a training location for water-heading pilots during World War II.

Look for more recent information about the Little Ferry operation, and you're up for a difficult search, especially if you attempt to find the seaplane base itself. At least two owners have operated the base since Lambros, but I couldn't find the date when it moved across the river from Ridgefield Park to Little Ferry. Several sources, including the Federal Aviation Administration website, list it as an active base, with two operations reported in 2012 (I'm assuming that's one landing and one takeoff, but I could be wrong). However, when Ivan and I visited the site recently, all we could find was a closed restaurant (perhaps the successor to Tracey's), a dock that appears to have seen better days, and no evidence of aircraft whatsoever. To be fair, the area was hit hard by Hurricane Sandy. Across the river, the former site of the Lambros base is occupied by a large industrial building.

Needless to say, we'll be doing a bit more research on this fascinating aspect of the Hackensack River. Meanwhile, if you're in the area and see an amphibious airplane coming in for a landing, let us know!

From Navy Wildcat to traffic helicopters: the story of Linden Airport

Studied closely, the gritty borders of U.S. Route 1 have a litany of stories to tell, their inspirations lost to progress or the wrecking ball. Like the phragmites reedgrass that grows so well in disturbed soil, the presence of a new strip mall is often a good indicator of something notable that's been replaced.

That, at least, is the case on one stretch of road in Linden. On the western side of Route 1, you'll see a large, fenced-off field; the only indication of the enormity of its previous use is the presence of big mounds of milled rubble. Across several lanes of traffic is a big-box mall and multiplex cinema of recent vintage; tall signs declare it to be Aviation Plaza.

In true 'blink and you'll miss it' fashion, you might notice one of those small square road signs with an airplane on it, the international designation for an airport, with the word "Linden" below it. And a little farther down, on the eastern side of the road, you might see a larger, but still modest sign saying "Linden Airport" at a nondescript intersection. What's an airport doing here, just a few miles down Route 1 from Newark Liberty International Airport?

Linden Airport seen from overhead. The large parking lot
and big-box mall at right were built after 1998,
replacing additional runways and older hangars.

The airfield and the empty field, as it turns out, share a common history. Between 1937 and 2005, that massive lot was home to a General Motors assembly plant where thousands of workers manufactured vehicles under just about every GM nameplate, from Cadillacs to pickup trucks and SUVs. Soon after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, however, the company's sights took to the air, bringing Linden along with it.

In early 1942, GM created the Eastern Aircraft Corporation to take over the production of the Grumman Wildcat fighters for the U.S. Navy. The Linden plant was retooled to produce planes and an airport was quickly built across the highway as a testing and commissioning field. More than 3500 planes rolled off the production line and took to the skies from Linden, built with pride by hundreds of local men and women.

Following the war, GM's Linden Assembly plant resumed production of civilian vehicles and its airport found new life. The Federal government deeded the property to the City of Linden under the condition that it continue operation as an airfield, ready for recommissioning for military use in the event of future war. Since then, advances in defensive technology make that possibility highly unlikely, but as the airport's website notes, "back then it was considered a vital part of our military's strategic industrial reserve plan."

As Newark Airport grew as a regional hub and gained international status, the Linden field became a reliable landing spot for smaller commercial traffic that would ordinarily be dwarfed by passenger and freight jets. Though it lacks a radio tower of its own, New York radio and television news stations continue to count on the now-dubbed KLDJ as home for their traffic helicopters, and hobby pilots can use it as an alternative that's almost as close to Manhattan as Teterboro. The field even hosts occasional events like the Red Bull Air Race, held there in 2010.

For historians, however, ghosts of the World War II era field are virtually impossible to find. Present day Linden Airport bears little resemblance to the World War II-era test field, with only one original landing strip still in existence. The old hangars at the north end of the airfield were torn down in 1998 and replaced by newer structures tucked out of sight from Route 1. The rest of the property is now taken up by the Aviation Plaza shopping center and multiplex theater.

On the positive side, LDJ has fared much better than many of New Jersey's other airfields-turned-retail locations. Unlike South Plainfield's old Hadley Field, aviators can set down at Linden, do some last-minute holiday shopping and quickly return to the skies. It seems that the ratable-seeking Linden city government may have found the best of both worlds: maintaining its original commitment to keep the field operational for perpetuity while increasing the tax base.

Trenton's silent paratroopers, stars of D-Day

A secret corps of paratroopers from New Jersey were instrumental in the Allied victory on D-Day, during World War II. Their story was briefly included in the blockbuster 1962 movie The Longest Day, but no mention was made of their origin.

I discovered this on a visit to the Aviation Hall of Fame in Teterboro, where one of the paratroopers is suspended from the ceiling below a parachute. He’s not human. He’s a rubber decoy.

Developed by the Switlik Parachute Company, 500 para-dummies were attached to parachutes and dropped from airplanes behind enemy lines, intended to distract German troops from the actual dropzones where live paratroopers were landing. If the torrent of descending bogus parachutists wasn’t enough to cause confusion, they were accompanied by special forces personnel who deployed sound recordings of battle noises. The decoys also exploded with the sound of gunfire when they made contact with the ground.

The irony is that the Allies fooled the Germans at their own game. In 1940, the Nazis had tossed straw-filled dummies out of airplanes over the Netherlands, Belgium and Scotland to incite fear in the population. It was the first recorded use of human decoys by an airborne military, setting off a small industry in developing more convincing paradummies.

If you’ve seen The Longest Day, you might remember the highly lifelike (yet smaller) detail of the decoys said to have been used by the Allies. In reality, such detail likely was unnecessary and probably too costly, given the expendability of the dummies. As the war progressed, though, improvements made the decoys’ earthbound fall more convincing to observers from the ground.

Museums in Europe hold a variety of WWII era dummies, including the American-made, British-deployed Ruperts (sack cloth filled with sand or straw), the American prototype Oscar (non-magnetic metal and, ironically, developed with the help of Douglas Fairbanks Jr.) and the PD Pack (rubber) developed by the Navy at Lakehurst. Though the Switlik dummies appear to have been Ruperts, the Aviation Hall of Fame displays what looks to be a PD Pack.

Switlik is still in business, and has been manufacturing in Trenton for over 90 years. While the company stopped producing parachutes after the Vietnam War, the family-owned business continues to make life preservation products for the aviation and marine markets, including life rafts, life vests, and anti-g and anti-exposure suits.

Aviation history on a short runway: Lincoln Park's Ed Gorski

Hidden New Jersey has taken real or virtual visits to a lot of New Jersey airfields and historical aviation sites like Hadley Field in South Plainfield, Doolittle’s Landing in Boonton, Greenwood Lake and even the old passenger terminal at Newark Liberty International Airport. Through those visits and subsequent research, we’ve learned just how common airfields once were in New Jersey communities, and how many we’ve lost to time and real estate development pressures.

Granted, with the increase in commercial air flight, the skies are a lot more crowded than they were in the heyday of these small airstrips, but some aviation fields are still thriving. Some of the key smaller airports, like Teterboro, Morristown, Princeton and Caldwell/Essex County have evolved to handle corporate jets and the like. They’re an alternative to the major airports, especially for bigwigs who can afford to rent a private jet or own a propeller plane of their own.

Then there are the general aviation fields like Lincoln Park, which have remained largely middle-class in demeanor, with no fancy aircraft or equipment around. Those are the places that really hark back to the days when all a fixed-base operator (FBO) really needed was a wind sock, a level field and someplace to gas up the plane. Standing on the grounds, you can easily imagine that the next plane to land might be piloted by Charles Lindbergh or Wiley Post, returning from a leisurely flight over the Jersey countryside.

Back in the day, one could never know who just might be running the place. She might be an accomplished military pilot like Marjorie Gray, or, in the case of Lincoln Park, Amelia Earhart's mechanic Ed Gorski.

Ed Gorski with Amelia Earhart and mechanic
Bernt Balchen
(photo credit performancedatamanagement.com )

Actually, to simply say that Gorski worked with Earhart is ignoring his much more eventful career, in which he had a hand in the construction or maintenance of several airplanes that would later make history. He was among the first mechanics to work at what would become Teterboro Airport, helping famed aviator Clarence Chamberlin construct surplus World War I airplanes. Later, while working for Atlantic Aircraft Corp., he worked on the plane Commander Byrd flew over the North Pole, and the Fokker Friendship in which Amelia Earhart flew as the first woman to cross the Atlantic by air. He was also on the crew that built the first airplane to fly from an aircraft deck in what was envisioned as ship-to-shore airmail.

Gorski reconnected with Earhart in 1932, as she prepared to become the first woman to pilot an airplane across the Atlantic. Working with another mechanic, he reinforced Earhart's Lockheed Vega to withstand the rigors of the extended flight time and added weight of the extra fuel the craft would be required to carry. To test their handiwork, Gorski and the other mechanic logged several consecutive hours of flight time over the Meadowlands, loading the Vega with sandbags to simulate the weight of the fuel it would require for the crossing. When they were ready to return to the airport, they'd drop the sandbags where Giants Stadium now stands, leading a few observers to believe the marsh was being bombed. Gorski also accompanied Earhart to her departure site in Newfoundland to make any last minute adjustments before her historic flight.

Following his stint with Earhart's Vega, Gorski opened an FBO operation at Teterboro with his new wife Julia. Together they made a living during the depths of the Depression, providing flight lessons, running sight-seeing flights to Hackensack and back, selling airplanes and operating an aerial photography business, among other ventures. After the United States entered World War II, they moved the business to Warwick, NY and continued training pilots until Ed joined the Air Corps. Julia kept the business going as Ed flew in the Pacific theater, though wartime shortages eventually forced her to close up shop.

The Gorskis returned to New Jersey after the war, purchasing the Lincoln Park Airport in 1946. He might not have continued to make aviation history, but in many respects, Ed did much more. From all accounts, he and Julia ran a tight operation with little tolerance for cutting corners or bending the rules. In my research, I found fond remembrances from several former employees and people who'd flown in and out of Lincoln Park, recounting the lessons Ed taught them, and how he made them better, more disciplined pilots. Many mentioned his unassuming nature and their own amazement that this down-to-earth man had worked with so many aviation greats.

Both Ed and Julia were named to the New Jersey Aviation Hall of Fame in the 1970s; Ed as part of the inaugural class which included Lindbergh, Earhart and Chamberlin. While the Gorskis retired in 1979, Lincoln Park Airport continues to attract regular traffic and appears well maintained. Unlike so many of New Jersey's other historic airfields, it seems that Ed Gorski's old field will continue to welcome flyers for quite some time.

Defying gravity and convention: aviator Marjorie Gray

The 1997 Douglass College Alumnae Directory lists Marjorie Gray, class of 1933, as a retired technical editor for Grumman Aerospace Corporation. Nothing in the listing refers to her pioneering achievements as one of America's vanguard of women pilots, except for the designation "LTC." Those three letters stand for "lieutenant colonel," Gray's rank when she retired from the Air Force Reserve in 1972.

Born in New York in 1912, Gray was raised in Cliffside Park. A few years after graduating from the New Jersey College for Women (now Douglass College of Rutgers University), she flew her first solo flight at Nelson Airport in Franklin Lakes. It was a start of a lifelong love of aviation that saw her gain a commercial license and fly 19 types of military aircraft.

Gray was a social worker and air traffic control trainee when famed aviator Jackie Cochran invited her to join the first class of Womens Airforce Service Pilots (WASP). Started in 1942 to relieve the shortage of eligible male pilots not already serving in the military, the WASPs were civilian pilots recruited to transport military aircraft to their points of embarkation during World War II. Participants had to be between the ages of 21 and 35, hold a commercial license and 200-horsepower engine rating, a minimum 500 hours flying time, and cross-country flying experience. Many WASPs had more experience and were more skilled pilots than many of their male counterparts in the Army Air Corps.

Stationed at Newcastle Air Force Base in Delaware, Gray logged over 750 hours flying B-24s, B-25s, B-26s, DC-3s and other aircraft. Though I haven't been able to track down any additional information on her service, it's possible that she served as a flight instructor for the Air Corps, as many of her colleagues were.

Her wartime service alone would be enough to make Gray a notable name in aviation history, but after the WASPs were disbanded in 1944, she continued making aviation history. She returned to New Jersey and became one of the first women in the country to operate a fixed-base operation, or airport services business. Based at Teterboro Airport from 1946 to 1950, Marjorie M. Gray Aero Service offered flying lessons, piloted charter flights and assessed new aviators for licensure as a pilot examiner. No doubt, her customers could rely on her versatility: besides her commercial license, she had earned ratings for seaplane, multiengine and instrument flying.

Gray later joined the Air Force Reserve and worked as a writer and editor for Grumman, Curtis Aviation and Flying Magazine. She was active in the aviation community through leadership positions in the Ninety-Nines, the organization founded by 99 licensed women pilots in 1929 for the mutual support and advancement of aviation. The Womens' International Association of Aeronautics awarded her the Lady Drummond-Hay trophy in 1956 for her many achievements and contributions to the field.

Describing her years in aviation as "the best time in my life," Gray accumulated more than 3000 hours in the skies. She died in 2008, at the age of 95.

I discovered Gray's story at Teterboro's Aviation Hall of Fame of New Jersey, into which she was inducted in 1992. Hers is one of many fascinating stories of people with a Garden State connection who've made air and space history locally and worldwide. We'll be returning to some more of those people -- and the Hall of Fame's museum exhibits -- in future Hidden New Jersey stories.

Airmail and basketball shoes: the story of Hadley Field

If you're doing any last minute holiday shopping in South Plainfield this weekend, stop and listen for the very faint sounds of old airplane engines. Today's Hadley Plaza is built atop aviation history: Hadley Field, the departure site of the first night airmail flight.

Back in the early days of flight, government pilots hop-scotched around the United States relaying sacks of mail at speeds that often exceeded those of the usual train routes. Early attempts often ended in plane crashes and delays, but the 1920s saw the introduction of transcontinental airmail service. Before Lindbergh's historic New York to Paris flight, "coast to coast" routes were actually flown in segments, with takeoffs and landings in between to refuel or change planes. Even with delays we'd find unreasonable now, pilots were getting the mail to its destination far more quickly than people had experienced before.

The New York area's air mail was handled on government flights through Long Island's Hazlehurst Airport, later known as Roosevelt Field. The island location, however, proved troublesome: the field was often fogged in, preventing safe take-offs and landings. A safer, more reliable location had to be found within the greater New York metropolitan area, especially if the Post Office were to start offering night service.

John Hadley's South Plainfield farm proved to be an ideal location, with 77 acres of level ground just six miles from New Brunswick's train station. The Post Office leased the land from Hadley on November 1, 1924 and had the field cleared, runways built and radio towers completed by December 15. The following day, all daytime transcontinental mail flights were transferred from Hazlehurst, and James D. Hill successfully piloted the first "New York" to Chicago postal run from Hadley. New Jersey had earned its entry into airmail history.

Preparations for overnight flights took a bit longer. With the addition of powerful floodlights and search beams to the field, Hadley was ready to strike another first. More than 15,000 people flocked to the field on July 1, 1925 to witness the departure of two airmail flights, one piloted by Hill and the other by Dean C. Smith, their first stops slated for Cleveland. Hill made it through without incident, but Smith had troubles from the start. Barely rising 100 feet on takeoff, his plane's engine seized, forcing him to turn back for repairs. Further engine troubles precipitated another emergency landing in Pennsylvania, and an apparent miscalculation in a new plane caused him to run out of gas and crash in a farm field just fifteen minutes outside of Cleveland. Smith survived all three mishaps, but you have to wonder about his luck, to say the least.

Hadley Field's dominance was brief, as Newark Airport opened in 1928 and became the new East Coast airmail hub. Nonetheless, the small airport did valuable service as a Civil Air Patrol station during World War II and later as a test field for experimental planes and helicopters for the Bendix Corporation. Like many small airports today, Hadley also offered a flight school and aircraft rentals to local private pilots for recreational flying.

Those private pilots may or may not have known that they were potentially sharing air space with nuclear missiles. In 1961, Hadley also became the site of one of the Nike batteries that encircled the New York area as the last defense against Soviet attack. Its nuclear-capable Hercules missiles were housed in two magazines staffed first by the Army and then by the New Jersey National Guard until the base closed sometime around 1970.

I'm always curious why some small airports have stayed in business (i.e. Caldwell, Solberg) while others didn't survive. Take away the romance of flight and history, and the classic business reasons apply: investment and local sentiment. According to a 1967 aeronautical chart, Hadley's three runways were still turf, which would have prevented the field from attracting lucrative business from corporate jet operators. Other much-needed upgrades were cost-prohibitive and opposed by local residents, which pretty much sealed the deal.

Hadley closed on November 1, 1968, 44 years after the Post Office originally leased the land. The valuable real estate was sold to a developer who built a shopping mall and office park on the site. I'm not entirely sure of the geography, but it's quite possible that you can buy a leather bomber jacket not far from where Dean Smith unceremoniously concluded his first attempt at nocturnal airmail delivery. Or maybe you can buy Air Jordans from a store built over the old Nike base. A stone memorial commemorates the first overnight mail flight, but that's about all that's left to indicate the airport was ever there.

(If you'd like to read more about New Jersey's aviation history, be sure to check out our stories on Boonton and Jimmy Doolittle's instrument flying, airmail at Greenwood Lake, Millville Army Air Field  and Newark Airport's past. Check out more about the Nike base at Sandy Hook, too.)

Oh, the humanity! Wandering around Lakehurst.

First it was the railroad hub for the Pinelands.

Then it became a popular resort.

Then it was the site of the nation's first international airport and the place where the growth of the passenger airship industry came to a fiery halt.

And now its population has soared, thanks to the host of retirement communities built there over the past 30 years.

Yup, I'm talking about Lakehurst, Ocean County. On one of our rare non-bird-related jaunts, Ivan and I made our way down the Parkway to Route 70, drawn by the lure of another type of flying object. We hadn't registered in advance for a tour at the Naval Air Engineering Station, but I was confident we'd uncover something worthwhile. Any small town that gained international notoriety for a disaster had to have plenty of interesting stuff. Plus, it's in the Pinelands, where the unusual is commonplace for explorers.

Leaving the highway and heading to the compact downtown, we saw that the locals take pride in their connection to the history of the airship. Whether you call them blimps or dirigibles or something else, they're represented in a lot of signage and outdoor artwork around town. Awnings on borough hall proclaim Lakehurst to be the Airship Capital of the World (take that, Friedrichshafen!), and even the local laundromat sports a large painting of a Buddhist-themed airship. Om, the humanity?

That's the south side of the highway. The Naval Air Engineering Station is down a road to the north, obscured by the region's signature pines. Signs warn passers-by about security measures and low-flying aircraft, reminding us that even though it's a historic landmark, the airfield is still an active military base. It's difficult to get a clean photo of the massive airship hangar from the road or a nearby housing development, though the building towers above the scrub pines in the foreground. Disappointing, yes, but we had other destinations to check out.

First, however, it was time for lunch. Regular readers know that I'm a diner burger aficionado, and it was time to see where the local contender stood in the pantheon. We'd passed the Lakehurst Diner on the way in, and we had to know: do they have a Hindenburger Deluxe on the menu? Sadly, management had seemingly overlooked this golden opportunity for a local special (well-done cheeseburger with sauerkraut, anyone?), though they offered a "Blimp" steak sandwich. I guess you have to take what you can get.

Following a tasty cheeseburger meal, we returned to the other side of the highway for the highlight of our visit, the Lakehurst Historical Society in tiny Old St. John's Church. It's the only town museum I know that's surrounded by a graveyard, having served as the community's Catholic sanctuary until the congregation outgrew it. Starting in the 1980s, an influx of retirees from Northern New Jersey started coming to the worship regularly, forcing the parish to move first to a community center and then to a newly-constructed church not far away.

Outside, the museum/church is a tidy, picturesque white wooden chapel. Inside, it's an interesting panoply of historic artifacts, juxtaposed with classic Catholic symbols. The Stations of the Cross are still on the walls, hanging above old railroad tools and World War II-era ration stamp books, and there's a painting of Jesus looking over a collection of vintage clothing. The community's first jail cell stands in a corner not far from the entrance to the sanctuary. That would make a novel confessional, don't you think?

We expected to see a few Hindenberg artifacts and maybe something or other on the Jersey Devil, but it turns out that Lakehurst has other notable yet lesser-known claims to distinction. An entire display case is dedicated to the Pine Tree Inn, an expansive Victorian resort that operated from 1898 to 1937. Well-to-do visitors from New York and Philadelphia flocked there from 1898 to 1937 to escape the city and enjoy the quiet beauty of the Pinelands. For much of the hotel's last decade of operation, many of its guests probably got to Lakehurst via the Blue Comet, the Jersey Central Railroad's answer to the Twentieth Century Limited (more on that in an upcoming post). The Historical Society has plenty of information and objects to tell the story of both, and more!

From the earliest days of the area's bog iron and charcoal industries that supplied the Continental Army during the Revolutionary War, to present day, if you're curious about something in Lakehurst, somebody at the Historical Society can probably tell you about it. Just be sure to stop by on Wednesday or Sunday afternoons, when they're open.

Now, to get that airship hangar tour set up....

Step back to World War II at Millville Army Air Field

Given the choice of where to wander in New Jersey, I'll always go for the Delaware Bayshore region. Miles and miles of mostly flat surface brings farmland, small towns and sparsely populated marshlands. Driving is effortless, and it's easy to get lost if you don't know where you're going. Usually I go by instinct, and while I get lost from time to time, I've always found my way back home.

I've been itching to head back down to Cumberland County, but our southern jaunts tend to be dominated by birding at Cape May or Brigantine. With Ivan out of state on a chase, this past weekend was the perfect opportunity for me to get up early and hit the road before the rest of the world had wiped the sleep from its eyes. My goal: reach the end of the Turnpike by 9 a.m. and wander for the bulk of the day.

I was headed for the nether-reaches of the state: the area you really can't reach quickly from the Parkway or the Turnpike. Look at the map and you'll see what I mean. You'll spend a good hour on secondary state highways and then you'll end up in the middle of nowhere. "What exit?" means nothing there. The area is rife with long county roads with hyphenated names that refer to the end points.

Having been there so many times, I was stuck with the dilemma of exactly which spots to highlight. I have a few old favorites I've visited repeatedly. There are other places I've yet to find, though I have a good idea where they might be. In the end, I chose to stick with the familiar and leave the new places to future jaunts.

And, true to fashion, I got lost. I saw a familiar road name and made the turn, only to recall five miles later that it was the same wrong turn I always make. (Note to self: Buckshutem Road = stay on the other road.) While it didn't get me to my intended first stop, it got me someplace equally as interesting.

Millville is known for a bunch of interesting things: glassmaking, a historic village, and the Millville Army Air Field Museum. Contained within a commercial airfield that's still in use, the museum commemorates and celebrates the nation's first defense airport, opened in 1941. More than 10,000 soldiers and civilians, men and women, were stationed at Millville at some point during World War II, and 1500 of them were trained there for advanced air fighting. The museum tells their story while also relating military air history from the later conflicts in Korea and Vietnam.

For such a quiet and out-of-the-way place, the Air Field Museum has a surprising wealth of artifacts and research materials. I first visited about ten years ago and was impressed by the collection of World War II memorabilia, but the collection has grown substantially since then. Students of 20th and 21st century American military engagements can research their interests at the Henry Wyble Historic Research Library and Education Center. Seaplane enthusiasts will be especially interested in the Philadelphia Seaplane Base Museum, which includes artifacts from the early days of flight to the present.

Outside, you're welcome to walk right up to a collection of unrestored mid-century military equipment and aircraft, including a C-23 Sherpa that served the Kwajalein Atoll in the Marshall Islands. Once a year, the museum also hosts the Wheels & Wings Airshow that includes other vintage aircraft and often hosts premier U.S. armed forces aerobatic teams like the Navy Blue Angels and Air Force Thunderbirds. The skies over Millville may no longer buzz with the traffic of military pilots in training, but it still holds an important place in aviation history.

Newark Airport's secret murals, revealed

A while back I posted a piece on Newark Airport's early days and its beautiful Depression-era art deco terminal and administration building, which was restored several years ago. What I didn't mention -- because I didn't know -- was that a key part of the terminal is no longer there. It's at the Newark Museum.

I visited the terminal a few years ago to check out the architecture, and it didn't disappoint. No longer welcoming travelers as a gateway to their flights, the building now houses various law enforcement and public safety agencies, but I was able to walk freely through the lobby and upstairs balcony area. It had all the usual art deco accouterments, but I was stopped short by an abstract-looking mural on the second floor. It felt weirdly modern, though I couldn't place the era.

The answer came in a booklet provided nearby, which explained that the mural was one of several sponsored by the Federal Art Project of the Works Progress Administration. Armenian-American painter Arshile Gorky painted ten works for the building and called them "Aviation: Evolution of Forms under Aerodynamic Limitations." Instead of working directly on the plaster walls, Gorky painted on large canvases, a practice regularly used by WPA-sponsored artists. His works remained in view at the airport from their installation in 1937 until the War department took control of the airport in 1942. At that point, they disappeared.

However, they weren't forgotten. In the 1970's, the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey, now operators of the airport, began an inventory of art in the agency's older buildings. While surveying Newark Airport's oldest building for its art deco detailing, a researcher happened to notice a thread dangling from one of the walls and surmised he may have discovered the missing murals. Eventually, through testing the fate of the Gorky works became clear: they'd been obscured by fourteen coats of mundane wall paint that had been slapped up over the years.

Today, two panels of the ten survive and are now hanging on the first floor of the Newark Museum, their vibrant colors restored. I rediscovered them when Ivan and I visited the museum over the summer, and found that the one I'd seen at the airport was a reproduction. To be honest, I had mixed feelings about seeing them at the museum. On one hand, I was rather pleased that I could identify them and knew their provenance. On the other hand, I felt they should be at their original home, EWR circa 1935. There, they felt like a secret treasure only a few of us knew about.

From tabletop to cockpit: Boonton's plastic past

This past weekend's freak snowstorm and follow-up tree damage kept us from making any lengthy road trips, but we found our way to another local town museum, this one run by the Boonton Historical Society. Located in the John Taylor building (no, not that John Taylor) on Main Street, the Boonton Museum contains a timeline of town events to 1903, plus artifacts from the Morris Canal and several fossils found during the construction of the Jersey City Reservoir. There's also a room for changing exhibits, presently housing vintage service uniforms from the armed forces and various scouting and Civil Defense organizations. Pretty cool stuff.

Despite all of that, though, my interest was grabbed most by something in the gift shop - an iconic Boonton relic that didn't even warrant a mention in the historical exhibits. Some of you may remember Boontonware, that miracle hard plastic material from which dishes, bowls and tableware were molded. A mix of Bakelite and formaldehyde, Boontonware is unbreakable and remarkably durable. In fact, my mom still has the dishes and bowls she purchased when I was a young kid. My very first (and for a long time only) memories of Boonton are of visiting the Boontonware store and picking out a cartoon-themed kiddie dining set consisting of a plate, cereal bowl and tumbler. They don't have those at the Boonton Museum, but they have the same design of salad and mixing bowls my mom still uses on a regular basis.

They're still making Boontonware somewhere in Ohio, which is a bit depressing, but, I guess, better than it not being made at all anymore. In checking it out, though, I've learned, though, that Boonton's participation in the early molded plastics industry also set the stage for its role in the electronics industry in the first half of the 20th century.

You'll recall that we recently found out about Jimmy Doolittle's historic instrument-driven flight at the Aircraft Radio Corporation testing field in Boonton. Part of the reason ARC and other radio pioneers located in the town was because they needed molded parts. Think of all of those radio chassis, dials and so forth that needed to be crafted to exact specifications, and it all makes sense. Thomas Edison had a similar process with his inventions: he had people on staff or nearby to design and craft parts for his creations and the machines that would mass produce the successful inventions. No doubt, the radio companies wanted their parts makers to be close by, to make any needed design adjustments quickly and efficiently before the radios went into production.

Did Jimmy Doolittle himself ever use Boontonware? There's no record to prove or disprove, but the U.S. Navy bought plenty of Boonton Molding's virtually indestructible tableware for use on their ships during World War II. In fact, the company coined the Boontonware brand after the war in an attempt to keep sales up after defense contracts expired. In any case, I think we can say with some certainty that Doolittle didn't use the same cartoon bowl I did growing up.

Making aviation history in Boonton

Stir crazy after Hurricane Irene and curious which roads were open, we took a drive last week to find a reasonable place to hike. Pyramid Mountain's trails were closed, and roads to other options were blocked and detoured, so we ended up at Johanson Memorial Fields off Powerville Road in Boonton. The fields offered more of a level stroll than real exercise, but Ivan figured there's always the chance some interesting birds would be around, possibly disrupted by the storm.

We parked near a grove of trees that was still wet from the storm, then walked out to a nearby field. Flat and manicured, there were plenty of ballfields and plenty of young boys were walking around with football gear on. From the level of activity, it was clear there was going to be either a scrimmage or a practice.

We soon came upon a great little playground area marked by a sign that looked like a metal windsock. Hmm... that's odd. Even more interesting, it's labeled "Doolittle's Landing." Could this be the sign of something notable yet obscure? Was there a reason why this area was so flat and bereft of trees?

A nearby commemorative plaque told the story. In the early decades of the 20th century, small airfields dotted New Jersey and other states, even as larger airports like Newark gained prominence as major hubs. Johanson Fields is a remnant of those days, and, in fact, several buildings on the property have the low-slung look of hangars and related airport structures. Starting in 1927, the field became the location and testing center of the Aircraft Radio Corporation (ARC), which was part of the burgeoning instrument flying industry. Up until then, pilots generally used ground landmarks to assess their route, which limited their ability to fly at night or in adverse weather conditions.

That all changed in 1929. Army Air Corps pilot Jimmy Doolittle made history at Boonton by taking off and landing from the ARC field purely by use of radio beacon and transmitter, without looking out of the cockpit.  The work he and the ARC engineers did on that field revolutionized aviation, making it possible for pilots to fly just about any kind of plane in virtually any conditions. Already, airplanes had gotten more advanced than some pilots' abilities to take in how quickly they were moving and in what conditions, and without some kind of assistance, it was likely they'd be unable to fly safely. It would be downright impossible for today's complex global airline industry to exist without the use of onboard instruments. Some might even say that Doolitte's work laid the foundation for eventual space flight.

Beyond Boonton, Doolittle built a formidable reputation as an ace pilot and Medal of Honor recipient in World War II, eventually rising to the rank of general. He also stayed in the forefront of aviation and space technology as a test pilot and, following his retirement, in private industry.

Who'd have thought that the small town of Boonton could have had such an impact on air travel? From what I can gather from research, the field may have been active as recently as the 1990's, but for now, the only regular takeoffs and landings are small radio-controlled aircraft and the birds passing through or inhabiting the trees surrounding the park. The evening we were there, Ivan observed a group of nighthawks apparently on a leg of their southward fall migration. Not quite Jimmy Doolittle, but one has to wonder at the internal instruments that guide birds to their winter locations.

Greenwood Lake Airport: not quite history, but nearby

I'm always amused by the international road signs that point the direction to airports in remote areas. Usually, they depict a silhouette of a jet and are supplemented by a small sign showing the name of the airfield in question. Mostly, the fields are essentially airstrips with a bit of tarmac, a wind sock and a small office, and maybe a snack bar or restaurant. One or two might have a long enough runway to serve as a last-chance landing spot for a smaller passenger jet, but nothing along the lines of an airbus.

We saw one of these signs on our recent travels through mine country in the northwest portion of the state, and the accompanying name raised my enthusiasm level. "Greenwood Lake Airport!" I exclaimed. "That's where the first air mail was sent from!" Or something like that. Naturally, we had to check it out.

Following the road signs, we found our way to a small airstrip with a couple dozen small planes tied down on the tarmac, plus a small restaurant and office which has a 'Rent a Wreck' banner up. Oh, and the fuselage and wings of a Lockheed Constellation emerging from the building. It looked promising, but we couldn't find any markers or signs telling the story. Perhaps someone inside would know. 

Well, I was wrong on both counts, as we found out from an employee inside, and from subsequent research. It wasn't the first airmail, nor was it from the airport itself. Rather, it was in 1936 that a stamp collector and American Rocket Society member named F.W. Kessler combined his passions to form the Rocket Airplane Corporation of America. He wanted to fly mail from New York into New Jersey by rocket plane, and he chose to attempt it from the shores of Greenwood Lake. While he found a way to sell inflated postage for 6000 letters to cover the cost of his experiment, it didn't quite work. Instead, the rocket tore the plane's wings loose before it reached its intended destination. As one observer was heard to say, "a husky man could have heaved that ship across the state line."

According to the airport employee, photos and the story of the launch are preserved at the West Milford A&P; we checked later and couldn't find the store, let alone the photos.

That's not to say there's nothing of interest at Greenwood Lake Airport. The partial Lockheed is open and available for a quick view. While they've taken the seats out in favor of high-top cocktail tables, the airport has installed several informative signs that relate the history of the Constellation model, including its storied history as Eisenhower's plane of choice. The cockpit is also still intact, complete with pilots' jackets draped across the seat backs. You can also step outside the forward door to a deck overlooking the runway, which could be a lot of fun if pilots are practicing their touch-and-gos.

According to their website, the airport will also host an airshow in late August, complete with World War II historians and 40's-era reenactors. No word on whether anyone will try to recreate the rocket mail experiment, but for airplane enthusiasts, it could be a lot of fun.

The history and romance of Newark Airport (yes, you read that right)

For some cockeyed reason, I still enjoy flying. Even when I'm crammed in like a sardine on one of those huge buses with wings, the little kid in me can't help but grin when I look down from the skies and see the earth in miniature. Taxi-ing around the tarmac, I'm drawn to the most mundane inner workings of a busy airport. I wonder whether those guys who guide the planes to the jetways get a secret thrill at edging huge aircraft into their parking spots just minutes after they've crossed the continent or the Atlantic.

That's not to say I enjoy the process of getting to the plane, or dealing with nasty people or any of that. I love the concept of flight, and the romance of it. When I can block out the garbage, I can mentally drift away to a time and place when air travel was still kind of exotic and people wore nice clothes to get on the plane. Don't get me started about prop planes -- make me climb up into the cabin on a drop-down staircase, and I know I'm itching for an adventure.Despite myself, I get nostalgic at some of the older airports. Lindbergh Field (a.k.a. SAN, San Diego) looks nothing like its past but was the home field, of sorts, to the Spirit of St. Louis. The couple of times I flew into Washington National (DCA, now Reagan) I half expected to see Jimmy Stewart as Mr. Smith, striding purposefully down the corridor.

Now, Newark (EWR) that was a glamorous airport. Once the East Coast terminus of the Air Mail, it was the busiest landing strip in the United States for a time in the late '20s and early '30s. It eventually had a beautiful WPA-style terminal and administration building with an observation deck where you could watch the planes take off and land. And it was a regular stop for the pioneers of aviation as they traveled to other places. Names of fallen flyers like Earhart and Post are memorialized by some of the access roads within the airport fences.

Needless to say, the airport's gotten a lot bigger over the years, and virtually all of the vestiges of its early glory have been obscured. Unless you know where to look, that is. Nestled in the north corner of the airport, not far from Route 1, that 1930's style terminal still stands, having been moved from its original spot and restored to most of its former glory. It now houses the Port Authority Police and some other security, but interestingly enough, it's still open to visitation. Step inside, and marvel at the art deco style architecture and trim that brings the early age of passenger flight to life. You can very easily imagine checking in for your flight and then walking directly outside to the moveable stairs to your airplane.

And, there's more. Years ago, as my plane taxied to its gate at Terminal A, I gazed down at the tarmac to see the word LINDY in bold yellow letters outlined in black. Charles Lindbergh had taken off and landed at Newark many times, so I assumed that history-minded airport workers had painted his name on the pavement. For whatever reason, perhaps the tradition still persists. In airport parlance, these markers are known as hard stops.

What I never noticed was the other tribute. If you take a close look at this photo, pulling the image up so you can see what's beyond the bottom edge of the original frame, you'll see two lighter strips of pavement, with planes parked on them. On the right one, you'll see "LINDY," clear as day; another is obscured by the plane parked above it. On the left, you'll see the name "AMELIA" painted twice, for Amelia Earhart. While her aviation skills are still in dispute, it's pretty neat to think that someone's keeping the faith.