The wind held out and the week of festivities ended; still there had been no flying. I could not remain in New York any longer, as I had accepted an engagement some time before to fly at St. Louis. I was obliged therefore, much to my chagrin, and the disappointment of the crowds, to leave the city without making a flight up the river, although I did make a short flight over Governor's Island.
Mr. Wilbur Wright, however, remained in New York, and during the following week made a magnificent flight up the river from Governor's Island to Grant's Tomb and return, a distance of about twenty miles. This gave the larger part of New York's millions their first glimpse of an aeroplane in flight.
At St. Louis we gave a very successful meet. There were flights by Captain Baldwin, Lincoln Beachey, and Roy Knabenshue, in their dirigible balloons, and myself in my aeroplane. The weather conditions were favourable, and St. Louis turned out enthusiastic throngs to witness the exhibitions.
The Pacific Coast, always progressive and quick to seize upon every innovation, no matter where it may be developed, had been clamoring for some time for an aviation meet. The enterprising citizens of Los Angeles got together and put up a large sum of money to bring out from Europe and the eastern part of the United States, a number of representative aviators for an international meet, the first ever given in this country. Louis Paulhan, one of the most celebrated French aviators, was brought over with a biplane and a monoplane, and there were a number of American entries, including Charles F. Willard and myself. Los Angeles furnished the first opportunity for a real contest in this country between the French and American machines, and these contests aroused immense interest throughout the country.
The importance of the Los Angeles meet to the aviation industry in this country was very great. The favourable climatic conditions gave opportunities for every one to fly in all the events, and the wide publicity given to the achievements of Paulhan and others, especially to the new world's altitude record established by the French aviator, stimulated interest throughout the country. There was cross-country flying such as had not been seen in this country, brilliant exhibitions of altitude flying, and speed contests of the hair-raising variety. Sometimes it takes just such a public demonstration as the Los Angeles meet not only to spread the news of the general progress of mechanical flight, but to show the builders of aeroplanes themselves just what their machines are capable of.
It was at the Los Angeles meet, by the way, that Charles F. Willard coined that apt and picturesque phrase which soon was used the world over in describing air conditions. Willard had made a short flight and on coming down declared the air "was as full of holes as a Swiss cheese." This made a great hit with the newspapermen, who featured it, using it day after day in their stories until it went the rounds of the press of the world. There were special articles written on "holes in the air," and interviews of prominent aviators to determine how it feels to fall into "a hole in the air."
The expression was more picturesque than accurate, for it is not necessary to explain, in this advanced stage of aviation, that there are no "holes" in the atmosphere. If there were a hole in the atmosphere, a clap of thunder would result, caused by the rushing in of the surrounding air to fill the vacuum. The only holes in the air are the streaks that follow a rifle bullet or a flash of lightning. The real cause of the conditions described by Willard, and which has since probably been responsible for the death of several well known aviators, is a swift, downward current of air, rushing in to fill a vacuum that follows a rising current from a heated area. The hot air rises and the cool air rushes down to take its place. An aeroplane striking one of these descending currents drops as if the entire atmospheric support had been suddenly removed, and if it be not high enough, may strike the ground with fatal results to the aviator. Every experienced airman has met these conditions. They are especially noticeable over water, streaks of calm water showing where the up-currents are just starting, and waves or ripples where the down-currents strike the surface.
The representative of the Aero Club of America at the Los Angeles meet was Mr. Cortlandt Field Bishop, of New York, who had been at Rheims the previous summer when I won the Gordon Bennett Cup and who had been of inestimable assistance to me at that time. Mr. Bishop had his oft-expressed wish to fly gratified at Los Angeles. He was taken up by Louis Paulhan several times, and Paulhan also took Mrs. Bishop for her first aerial ride. Great crowds came out at the Los Angeles meet, and they for the first time in the history of aviation in this country expected the aviator to fly and not to fall. Paulhan did some wonderful cross-country flying, and as a climax to the week of aerial wonders, he established a world's altitude record by ascending 4,165 feet. This was regarded as marvellous at that time. Since then the mark has been successively raised by Brookins, Hoxsey, Le Blanc, Beachey, Garros and others. Legagneux now (September, 1912) holds the record at 18,760 feet.
Interest in aviation was keen following the Los Angeles meet and I decided to try for the New York World's ten-thousand-dollar prize, which was still open, for a flight down the Hudson from Albany to New York City. Notwithstanding all the natural obstacles in the way of the accomplishment of the undertaking, the conditions were so fair as to stops, time-limit, etc., and it was so obviously a prize offered to be won, that I considered it worth a serious effort.
I fully realised that the flight was much greater than anything I had yet attempted, and even more difficult than Bleriot's great flight across the English channel from France to England, news of which was still ringing throughout the world, and even greater than the projected flight from London to Manchester, England, and for which a prize of fifty thousand dollars had been offered. Although the course covered about the same distance as the London-Manchester route, there was not the difficulty of landing safely over the English route. The Hudson flight meant one hundred and fifty-two miles over a broad, swift stream, flowing between high hills or rugged mountains the entire distance and with seldom a place to land; it meant a fight against treacherous and varying wind currents rushing out unawares through clefts in the mountains, and possible motor trouble that would land both machine and aviator in the water with not much chance of escape from drowning, even if uninjured in alighting.