Editor’s note: This is the second of two articles on Professor John Cone.

Last week, I discussed my vicarious introduction to John and the agent of that introduction, Keith Droste — an equally impressive gentleman. Droste had been the general manager of the Mayflower Mine from 1962 to 1966.

During the 1940s, Cone had worked at the mine as their principal mining engineer. The joyous conclusion of World War II signaled an end to the military’s insatiable appetite for lead. Unfortunately for the mining-based economy of Park City, the impact was severe. As a result, Cone left the Mayflower Mine.

He accepted a similar position with a coal mining company (the Horse Canyon Mine) in Dragerton, Utah (now called East Carbon City). In 1952, after a near-fatal accident from a rock burst, Cone decided to find a new employment opportunity that fulfilled his dual passions for mining engineering and teaching.

Fate came calling and Cone was hired by the University of Utah as a teacher in their Mining Engineering and Geology Department. He became a full professor, teaching courses in mining methods, mine safety, surveying (underground and surface), mine ventilation, and other disciplines. Over the span of 17 years, he would inspire a generation of future mining engineers.

Two of Professor Cone’s former students shared their recollections with me. Both hailed from Park City. 

James Lee “Jim” Hewitson and Michael Phillip “Mike” Wright both experienced the exceptionalism of John Cone.

Hewitson’s family lineage included three generations of miners. His grandfather, father and three of his older siblings distinguished themselves working in Park City’s mines. After graduating from Park City High School (class of 1965), Hewitson enrolled at the University of Utah to study math and science. Junior year required Hewitson to declare a major. To the applause of his family, he selected mining engineering. He would graduate with honors in 1970, earning a BS degree in mining engineering. He later returned for an MBA in Finance. 

In 1960, the University of Utah awarded Wright his BS degree in geological engineering, followed by a doctorate in geophysics in 1966. Besides being a student of Cone, Wright also worked for him.

Despite a 10-year age difference between Hewitson and Wright, they shared nearly identical descriptions of Professor Cone.

In the university’s mining program, he was a legend, both as an exceptional instructor and leader. He expected and encouraged superior performance. Cone’s classes required thorough preparation. Pop quizzes were frequent and demanding, tests even more so.

Cone could not care less whether one came from privilege or not, he harbored no discrimination — his sole focus was helping his students realize the best that they could be both in the classroom and beyond. He excelled at communication, whether it be writing, speaking or listening. There was never a doubt regarding his expectations.  His teaching style was a unique blend of humor, self-deprecation, inspiration and the sharing of life lessons.

Predictably, students clamored to take his classes. 

Cone’s fingerprints would be on the scale when it came to helping his students and his graduates achieve their first mining jobs. Hewitson and Wright benefited accordingly. Their respective mining careers would prove illustrious, which they attributed decades later to Professor Cone and his demands of exceptionalism. 

The Park City Museum wishes an exceptional education to all of Park City’s students as they head back to school.

Acknowledgements: My appreciation to Marianne Cone, Patrick Cone, Jim Hewitson, and Mike Wright for their generous time and consideration to describe Professor John Cone.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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I never met John Cone directly. He passed away on June 15, 1988, four years before professional responsibilities delivered me to Park City. However, I can say that we did meet vicariously for the first time 25 years ago. This introduction left an indelible impression upon me.

The introduction to Mr. Cone occurred on a beautiful summer day, courtesy of the Park City Museum and their summer historical hiking program.

Our hike that day would explore Glencoe Canyon and the mines associated with that area, in particular the Mayflower and Star of Utah. We rallied at the Mayflower exit off U.S. 40.

Sandra Morrision, then executive director of the Park City Museum, and museum benefactor Hal Compton were our hike leaders. During the course of introductions, Sandra mentioned that one of the hikers, Keith Droste, was intimately familiar with the Mayflower Mine.

I had never met Keith. Understandably at the time, I had no way of knowing that we would ultimately become good friends and that through Keith (and eventually others) I would get to know John Cone.

During the hike, we learned that Keith Droste had been the general manager of the Mayflower Mine from 1962 to 1966. This operation had been a joint venture between New Park Mining Company (owner of the Mayflower Mine) and Hecla (an international mining conglomerate). The joint venture was consummated in 1961 based upon the recommendations of Hecla’s due diligence group, managed by Keith. Keith’s analysis of the New Park property had commenced in 1959.

The mixing of talent from both companies, combined with Hecla’s financial and engineering prowess, unleashed the Mayflower Mine’s glory years. Keith’s description of the mine during its heyday proved spellbinding.

An intriguing aspect of the time-traveling conversation involved the collaboration (circa 1966) of Professor John Cone, Keith, and others to create a unique classroom experience at the Mayflower. When referring to Professor Cone, Keith conveyed the utmost respect — it was palpable from his tone and body language. 

In the 1940s, John had been New Park’s lead mining engineer. During his tenure, John persuaded the owners to upgrade the mine despite capital limitations.

In collaboration with his colleagues, particularly Frederick Alan “Bud” Kuhlman, they designed and installed a modern hoist. The new lift would allow the main shaft to exceed 3,500 feet in depth. No other Park City mine came close to this depth with a single shaft. This achievement was duly noted in Keith’s report and recommendation to from the joint venture. 

After four hours the hike wrapped up. Keith and I exchanged contact information. Should the opportunity present itself, I wanted to learn more about Keith, Professor Cone, and the Mayflower Mine. What I learned, so shall you in part two next week.

The Park City Museum wishes the best to all of Park City’s students as they head back to their own unique classroom experiences.

Acknowledgements: This article owes its existence to Marianne Cone, Patrick Cone, Keith Droste, Jim Hewitson, and Mike Wright.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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In 1949 Judd and Beth Flinders purchased a 900-acre dairy farm in the Kimball Junction area of Park City. It featured one of the largest barns in the state — regionally referred to as the “Big Red Barn.” Archie and Annie Carter sold the property to them, including 60 dairy cows. The Flinders grasped the economic potential of the ranch. They envisioned (over time) developing a series of interrelated businesses on the property. In today’s parlance the couple would be referred to as “serial” entrepreneurs. 

Judd entrusted ranch operations to his three teenage sons: Leland, Melvin and Jerran. Their younger siblings, Thomas and Elizabeth, would join them in due time. The family had some farming experience, having owned property in Millcreek where they raised pigs, horses, cows, chickens and vegetables.

When questions and/or issues presented themselves, the brothers relied on the kindness and generosity of their neighbors — in particular the Tree and Bitner families. They, too, owned sprawling and successful ranches adjoining the Flinders property. 

In the late 1940s there were approximately 16 dairy farms in the greater Park City area. Dairy farming is hard work. Milking begins at 4 a.m. The process consumes over two hours, including cleanup, sterilization and moving the cows to pasture. Milking commenced again at 4 p.m., wrapping up before 7 p.m. or so. For the Flinders children, a quick dinner and schoolwork followed. The cycle continued 365 days a year regardless of weather conditions. And of course, there were the frequent and welcomed inspections by the Board of Health. 

Judd managed the books for all the family’s businesses. “Brilliant” best described his financial acumen. The family would eventually develop nine separate sources of income; every decision was predicated on making money. Several years after purchasing the dairy farm, Judd determined that raising beef cattle was financially superior to dairy farming. Being the consummate numbers guy, Judd decided to make the transition. He worked with Dave Grossman (a notable cattle dealer) to auction off the dairy cows and purchase beef cattle. The Flinders would amass a herd exceeding 250 head. 

Unencumbered by dairy operations, Judd pondered how best to leverage the “Big Red Barn” to begin another business. Never one confined by expectations, Judd’s next venture was novel even by Park City standards. This new business would achieve regional popularity, fame and longevity. This is the story of how square dancing came to Park City. 

In 1950 Judd applied for a license to operate a dance hall and confectionery business. The County Commissioners approved his application in March 1950. At the time square dancing was popular in Salt Lake City but less so in Park City. This would soon change. 

The author thanks the surviving Flinders siblings (Lelend, Melvin, Jerran, and Elizabeth), and Scott Smith for sharing their memories of square dancing at their “Big Red Barn.”

Stay tuned for part two of the story next week.

The Park City Museum is hosting a lecture titled “The Deserts of the Wests: Then and Now” given by Jim Cornett, retired Director of Natural Sciences at the Desert Museum in Palm Springs, California, on August 7 from 5-6 p.m. at their Education and Collections Center located at 2079 Sidewinder Drive.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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John Edward “Jack” Inman, who was born in Great Britain, wanted an opportunity to be judged based upon his talent. He resented the confinements associated with a class-based society. For him, regardless of one’s social status, you were born in a cage, and your life’s potential was thus determined — for better or for worse. His father, Jackson Inman, was born in a “laborer’s” cage. Therefore, irrespective of his natural abilities, he would toil under difficult circumstances with limited prospects for betterment. Such destiny was confirmed by his work at the Sedgewick Gunpowder Company of Kendal England.

Jack intended to break this bondage. His success, his measure as a person, should depend solely on him. He was confident in his intellectual, emotional and physical capabilities. His limited schooling confirmed an aptitude for math and mechanical “functionality.” Jack simply needed a more level playing field upon which to showcase his talents. Then, as now, only one country offered such a promise. No matter the obstacles, he intended to emigrate to the land of opportunity, the land of freedom. Such were Jack’s musings from the windswept deck as the port of Liverpool faded into the horizon. His pursuit of the American Dream had begun.

In April 1913 Jack booked third-class passage on the Cunard Liner RMS Caronia. The ship would depart Liverpool at the end of the month bound for New York City (Ellis Island).  Depending on the weather, the RMS Caronia would dock at Ellis Island on or about Sunday, May 4, 1913. He would join millions of others seeking a better life for themselves. The family farewell events proved heart-wrenching. Jack assured his parents that he would return for a visit when circumstances allowed. But he was not looking back; he welcomed the opportunities and challenges that awaited — whatever they proved to be.

Ellis Island immigration records note that John Edward Inman was admitted to the United States of America on May 4, 1913. He was 24 years old and single. His last place of residence: Leece, England. What the records can’t convey was the fact that, for the first time in his life, Jack was free from the stifling class oppressions of Great Britain.

Soon after arriving in New York City he traveled to “the greatest silver/lead mining camp in Utah,” Park City. Jack’s sponsorship was arranged by his friend Mr. Simpson. Jack secured employment at the Silver King Coalition Mine Company. At this time, the Silver King dominated the Park City mining district. For example, in 1915 from February to April, 46% of all ore produced came from the Silver King — 11.5 tons. The next closest mine, the Daly West, extracted 4.5 tons. The company employed 400 men working three shifts seven days a week. Flush with cash, they invested in the latest technology — most notably the famed Silver King Aerial Tramway. After 12 years of operation, the gravity-operated conveyance remained one of the industry’s most advanced.

Jack distinguished himself as “one of the Silver King’s well-known” miners. His American Dream was becoming a reality. As the winter of 1914-15 began its inevitable but lingering transition to spring, Jack decided it was time to visit his parents, as he missed them dearly.

Jack’s journey to visit home will be covered in part two of “The American Dream Torpedoed.”

Acknowledgements: For this four-part series, the authors wish to thank Robert Hunt, Gary Kimbal, Erik Larson (and his best-selling book “Dead Wake”), Steve Leatham and Mark Schmitt for their invaluable contributions to this series.

The Park City Museum will host a lecture titled “The Lusitania Disaster Touches Park City” given by David Nicholas and Stuart Stanek on Wednesday, May 8 from 5 -6 p.m. at their Education and Collections Center located at 2079 Sidewinder Drive.

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On December 17, 1903, on a remote windswept beach, mankind glimpsed the possibility of controlled flight — a dream that had proved elusive since 1782 when the Montgolfier Brothers took to the heavens in a hot air balloon. By 1905 the Wright Brothers introduced their third-generation flying machine — the Wright Flyer III. It was the first practical fixed-wing aircraft in human history. Aviation “fever” soon swept the country — Utah included. 

By 1870 Salt Lake City had established itself as the most important transportation hub in the intermountain west. The resulting economic bonanza benefited the city and surrounding communities. Civic leaders had every intention to perpetuate and protect their status as the “Crossroads of the West.” Thus, it seems logical that Salt Lake City was destined to play a key role in helping Wilbur and Orville realize their vision of a national aeronautical transportation network. 

Utah’s first airplane flight occurred on January 30, 1910 at the Salt Lake Fairgrounds. Louis Paulhan, a French aerial daredevil, wooed a crowd of 10,000 spectators with a 10-minute flight at a height of 300 feet. The robust public response encouraged further flights, as well as a desire to monetize such enthusiasm. Salt Lake City’s next aeronautical extravaganza commenced on February 11, 1911 at the Saltair Pavilion. The hastily developed Barrington Aviation Park hosted the three-day event. Another 10,000 attendees paid $1.00 each to applaud the exploits of barnstormers Glen H. Curdiss, Eugene B. Ely and Charles S. Willard. 

World War I cemented the legitimacy of flying machines — they were here to stay. In 1918 the US Postal Service (USPS) inaugurated airmail service between New York City and Washington DC. Soon thereafter USPS announced their intentions to establish airmail service between Chicago, the west coast and major metropolitan areas in between. 

Cities desiring air mail service were expected to invest in making this a reality. In 1920 Salt Lake City purchased 106 waterlogged acres just west of downtown at a cost of $6,000. The SLC Chamber of Commerce named the single-strip landing field after USPS executive and airmail proponent John Jordan, calling it Jordan Field. Building a hangar and service facilities required an additional $20,000. Airmail service commenced inauspiciously on November 7, 1920 when the Wasatch mountains claimed their first pilot, John P. Woodward. It would not be their last.

Airmail pilots flew day and night regardless of the weather conditions. Under certain circumstances, it was death defying. Navigation depended on contact flight rules: following rail lines, roadways, etc. To aid flyers, states (Utah included) constructed massive concrete arrows, painted bright yellow. They helped guide pilots to their destinations. When pilots complained that the Salt Lake City airport was difficult to locate, the Mormon Church installed an arrow on the roof of the Salt Lake Tabernacle pointing in the direction of the airport. The words “Salt Lake Airport” were painted a brilliant white and accompanied the arrow. Pilots rejoiced. This navigation aid would remain until the roof was replaced in the late 1940s. 

Today, the Salt Lake City International Airport is the envy of the intermountain west. It serves as a testament to both the Wright Brothers and forward-thinking community leaders who shared a vision of aviation’s future possibilities. 

The Park City Museum will host a lecture titled “The Wright Brothers and Their Flying Machines,” given by Dorian DeMaio on March 13 from 5-6 p.m. at the Park City Museum’s Educational and Collections Center located at 2079 Sidewinder Drive.

David Nicholas is a Park City Museum researcher.

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The following is the third article in a series on the idea to build a ski resort in Park City.

Paul Stokes, the Union Pacific Railroad’s local station agent for Park City, received an interesting telegram from William Hynes (Union Pacific manager of freight and passenger operations, Western Division) in late 1935. The communique informed Stokes that a person employed by Averell Harriman (CEO of the Union Pacific) would visit Park City in the first week of January 1936. That person was Count Felix von Schaffgotsch. And they requested a tour of the soon to be developed Snow Park winter sports area. No explanation was provided.

Stokes was familiar with the WPA’s pending investment in Park City for a ski area. The Park Record provided extensive coverage in the closing months of 1935. He thought to himself that a tour of the Deer Valley/ Frog Valley area would be brief. Less than three miles (southeast) from town, there wasn’t much save for a rail spur, the Park City Consolidated Mine (operating at full capacity, a rarity for the times), and the ruins of the Queen Esther Mine and Judge Mine Smelter.

Considering that Averell Harriman requested this tour, Stokes had no intention of disappointing him. He would ensure von Schaffgotsch received VIP treatment. He knew the perfect person for this assignment.  

Paul walked across Pacific Avenue to the Kimball Garage, directly opposite (west) from the station. The multigenerational family business was currently managed by the Kimball brothers, Gib and Bob. It was a full-service operation open 24 hours every day, providing automotive repairs, fueling, car storage, and chaining services. Mel Fletcher was one of its employees.

A junior at Park City High School, Mel was locally renowned for his athletic abilities, endearing personality, and a belief that winter sports could be an important economic driver for Park City’s future. Also, his winter driving skills were exceptional. Mel owned a 1924 Buick painted red-white-and-blue that had all four tires chained up during snow season. Paul asked the Kimball brothers if arrangements could be made for Mel to escort von Schaffgotsch. Their answer: of course.

The day of the tour soon arrived.

Before departing Ogden’s Union Station at 6:30 a.m., Tom O’Keefe, the conductor for train #226 (the Park City local), wired Stokes that they would arrive at 11 a.m. Stokes welcomed von Schaffgotsch to town. They then walked over to the Kimball Garage where greetings and introductions were exchanged.

Mel Fletcher drove the Count to Deer Valley, extolling the virtues of Park City for winter sports. Both men shared a passion — an unequivocal faith in the potential of winter sports in America. Both would play key roles in making their respective visions of the future a reality.

After the tour was completed, Mel dropped von Schaffgotsch at the station in time to catch the return train to Ogden, #225. Ultimately, Park City was not the Count’s choice for a new resort, mostly due to the active mining scene nearby.

Although they would never meet again, von Schaffgotsch and Fletcher would see their visions of the future become reality. For von Schaffgotsch, the opening of the grand Sun Valley Resort in Ketchum, Idaho on December 21, 1936, fulfilled his (and Harriman’s) vision. For Mel Fletcher, while Snow Park became a local ski spot soon after the Count’s visit, the later opening of Treasure Mountains Resort on December 21, 1963, was both a vision realized and a dream come true. Park City would never be the same.

The Park City Museum offers exclusive hikes to historic mining locations to our members. Join today to be able to join our remaining hikes in July, August, and September. Sign up through the front desk or online: https://parkcityhistory.org/membership/.

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The following is the second article in a series on the idea to build a ski resort in Park City.

By 1935, Averell Harriman, chairman of the Union Pacific Railroad, was absolutely convinced that skiing could become a viable business in North America. Despite a painful depression, the fact that 8,600 Americans booked European ski extravaganzas in the 1934-35 ski season was confirmation enough. The average duration for these trips: one month, including ocean transit.

Clearly these people were the ultra-wealthy. Harriman wanted their money. He intended to leverage the assets of both the Union Pacific Railroad and his investment bank Brown Brothers Harriman & Co. to build a grand destination ski resort in North America. When complete, the plan went, the new resort would rival the best European resorts and would certainly be more convenient.

The Union Pacific was one of the largest and most profitable railroads in America. Brown Brothers Harriman & Co. was the largest private bank in the U.S. Harriman was chairman of both companies. The engineering and financial assets required to construct a luxury destination ski resort were within his domain.

Harriman had three immediate challenges: He did not ski, he was clueless about building a ski resort and he had no idea where to build it. No problem. He cabled a former bank colleague with experience consulting for European ski resorts — Count Felix von Schaffgotsch (a member of the Austrian royal family). They reached an agreement in which Harriman would cover all expenses (first-class, of course) and the count would donate his time. Von Schaffgotsch sailed for New York City, arriving in early November of 1935. Harriman was impatient. He planned to open the continent’s first destination ski resort the next year, on Dec. 21, 1936, in time to celebrate the winter solstice. 

Harriman instructed the count to locate the perfect location for this endeavor. He expected a decision on the location no later than the end of January. Together they defined the site selection criteria as having mountains (but not too steep), reliable snow, a dry climate, abundant sunshine, a remote location, and being close to a main line of the Union Pacific.

They decided the count would explore six states in pursuit of Averell’s vision: Washington, Oregon, California, Idaho, Utah, and Colorado. The count’s field research would include Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood, Lake Tahoe, Alta, Brighton, Park City, Victor, Jackson, Ketchum, and Aspen. William Hynes (Union Pacific manager in charge of freight and passenger operations for the western region) and his staff would choreograph this 7,000-mile, six-week marathon. The count would travel to the farthest locations west then work his way back east. At each location the local Union Pacific station agent and prominent officials would help make the necessary arrangements. 

A visit to the Wasatch Back was scheduled for the week of Jan. 6, 1936. Internationally renowned ski jumper Alf Engen and a fellow Austrian, Fred Speyer, would introduce von Schaffgotsch to Alta and Brighton. Mel Fletcher would do the honors for Park City.

Von Schaffgotsch departed New York City in the comfort of a Pullman sleeper bcar ound for Chicago for the first segment of this quest. Mel Fletcher, just a junior at Park City High School, anticipated his arrival in approximately two months. Regarding the future of skiing in America, they shared a common vision. Destiny decided that they would meet.

Park City Museum and its Friends of Ski Mountain Mining History are hosting a lecture titled “Shiny Rock to Silver Bars” given by Donovan Symonds on July 12 from 5-6 p.m. at their Education and Collections Center located at 2079 Sidewinder Drive.

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The following is the first article in a series on the idea to build a ski resort in Park City.

For most Parkites, the winter season was an unavoidable nuisance if not an outright liability. Not so for Mel Fletcher. He was a gifted scholar/athlete. Although only 17 years old and a junior at Park City High School, he was wise beyond his years. As it related to the future of winter sports, one could use the term “clairvoyant” to describe him.

Mel loved his family, his town and its four seasons. But, for Mel, winter represented a time of magic. Snow sports were his specialty — especially those involving skis. His ski jumping exploits, whether at the Creole Jump off the old Creole Mine dump (opened 1930) or Ecker Hill (opened 1928), were legendary. Despite his youth, he could hold his own with the best of the best. His humbleness endeared him to all. 

The Great Depression exposed the risk of an economy based upon a single industry. In Park City’s case: metal mining. From 1930 to 1940 the town’s population would decline by 30% and most of the mines would close. Those continuing to operate struggled financially. The ensuing economic misery was palpable, touching all who remained. Mel was no exception. 

Mel did not dwell on the past and a return to the good old days. Rather, he looked to the future, envisioning a robust economy based upon the twin pillars of mining and winter sports. The town’s mountains, abundant snow, and transportation infrastructure represented potential salvation. He was unabashed in expressing his vision of the future. While such prescience may have positioned him as an outlier, he was not alone.  

The 1932 Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, New York, piqued the country’s interest regarding winter sports. While luxury ski resorts were common in Europe, it was not so in the U.S. Whatever facilities existed were primitive at best. Nonetheless, an ember began to glow. Mel and others intended that ember to become a guiding light. 

In December 1935, Guy R. McKay, the Works Progress Administration engineer for Summit County, announced a commitment by the Roosevelt Administration to develop a “Winter Sports Park” in Park City. The WPA would invest $15,000. The location picked was an area called Deer Valley on the southeast side of town approximately 3 miles from the bottom of Main Street. Salt Lake City, Ogden, Heber City, Park City, and Summit County rejoiced.

The award culminated a coordinated campaign by these communities to leverage Park City’s mountains and Utah’s (soon to be known) “Greatest Snow on Earth” for economic revival. Seemingly a world away in New York City, in the executive suite of the largest private bank in America, Brown, Brown and Harriman, two men discussed the promising future of winter sports in America. One of them was destined to meet Mel Fletcher. 

The author wishes to acknowledge the contributions of Alan Engen, Peggy Fletcher, the Hewitson Brothers (Ken, Bill and Jim), Steve Leatham, Connie Nelson, Mark Schmitt, and Larry Warren.

The Park City Museum is hosting one leg of the Garlic Mustard Games at the Glenwood Cemetery (another of Mel Fletcher’s passions) on Saturday, July 8. Just show up at 8 a.m. to help de-weed the historic cemetery!

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December 17, 2022, represents the 119th anniversary of man’s first flight of a manned heavier-than-air powered and controlled aircraft. Take a moment to reflect on our aeronautical accomplishments since 1903 – extraordinary.

From aviation’s humble beginnings, weather posed a threat – especially in mountainous regions. Park City is no exception. For mountain town residents, abrupt weather changes may snarl traffic but not necessarily threaten lives. Not so for flyers.

Treacherous weather combined with other factors (human error, mechanical failure, faulty communication, etc.) may result in death and/or a near-death experience. Such was the situation on Monday, March 10, 1929, when a plane crashed in Old Town between Woodside and Norfolk Avenues. 

At 5:30 p.m. Ragnar Torkil Feng emerged from the comfort of the Salt Lake Aerodrome to thoroughly inspect his Boeing Model-40B aircraft. He did so twice. The plane incorporated the best in aeronautical engineering.

In addition, it was the first aircraft designed to carry both passengers (maximum two) and mail. This combination would prove a financial bonanza for Boeing Air Transport (BAT) and forever change the course of commercial aviation. 

Though the youngest pilot on BAT’s roster, Ragnar was wise beyond his years. On July 24, 1919, he enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Service at nineteen. Ragnar distinguished himself as a gifted pilot, navigator, and mechanic. He had been flying ever since. Ragnar was assigned to BAT’s Salt Lake City, Rock Springs, Cheyenne CAM route (Contract Air Mail).

He was expected to work fourteen-hour shifts, day or night, regardless of the weather. His life and passengers depended on his flying skills and intimate knowledge of the route. He respected the inherent dangers of mountain flying. Failure to do so could result in the pilot and passengers’ death.

On the evening of March 10, the plane was heavy with mail (42 sacks) and one passenger – a banking executive from Oakland, K.A. Kennedy. He was traveling to New York City to board an ocean liner bound for Naples, Italy.

Ragnar introduced himself to Kennedy and they exchanged pleasantries. Kennedy’s cramped accommodations were comfortable enough – an insulated cabin. Ragnar’s not so – an open cockpit exposed to the weather’s mercy.

In 1929 navigation involved contact flight rules – visually following landmarks from a height of 200 feet. Fortunately, the route was well-marked courtesy of the Denver Rio Grande and Western Railroad (DR&G) and the Union Pacific Railroad (UP). 

Ragnar secured Kennedy in his cabin, climbed up and into his cockpit, adjusted his flight gear, scanned the gauges one more time, bid farewell to the ground crew, and lifted off, heading south. Shortly after takeoff, he banked the plane east, following the DR&G tracks from Salt Lake City up Parley’s Canyon.

Approximately halfway up Parley’s, the plane encountered a winter tempest. Icing up, buffeted by fierce winds and bedeviled by a faulty carburetor, the two men were in trouble. Their best chance for survival: divert to Park City. 

Ragnar, relying on both his flying skills and the hand of God, executed a miracle landing between Norfolk Avenue and Woodside Avenue. The plane flipped over in the backyard of the Neilson home (address 441 Woodside). Fire ensued. Despite serious lacerations, Ragnar, with the help of four Parkites, pulled an unconscious Kennedy and 36 mail sacks from the growing inferno. The two men were taken to Miner’s Hospital, knowing that death had been cheated.

Join the Park City Museum for an in-person lecture titled The Wright Brothers and Their Flying Machines given by Dorian DeMaio on September 14 from 5-6 p.m. at the Park City Museum Education and Collections Center at 2079 Sidewinder Drive. Please register for the lecture at parkcityhistory.org.

The author acknowledges the contributions of Addison Pemberton, Oz Crosby, David Gorrell, and Steve Leatham to this article. 

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Note: This history is written from the perspective of a figurative miner at the Mayflower Mine, based on interviews and information from Keith Droste, Jim Hewitson, Gary Kimball and Steve Leatham, along with other historical research. The details of the miner are historicized, while the other information is historical. This is the second of two articles.

After I got hired to the Mayflower Mine, our primary production shaft ultimately reached a depth of 3,600 feet. The mine shared geothermal linkages with the Heber Valley ecosystem. The valley is studded with hot springs (referred to locally as hot pots) — the most famous “hot pot” being the caldera at the Homestead Resort. Below 3,000 feet the mine’s ambient temperature approached 150 degrees Fahrenheit.

Hecla’s financial power funded the construction of a new mill (operational in 1962), expansion of the Union Pacific railroad spur and the deployment of innovative labor-saving technology. Industry-leading safety procedures were sacrosanct. In the 10 years I worked at the Mayflower there were no fatalities. And yes, we extracted significant amounts of gold. In 1966 the mine was the sixth-largest gold producer in the country.

My innate mechanical skills were an advantage. I quickly established myself as one of the mine’s “go-to guys” when it came to the dewatering and air-cooling subsystems. I enjoyed the responsibility, recognition and premium pay. Combating the heat required the installation of a 240-ton capacity Carrier chilled-water air cooling system. Plumbing transported the chilled water through radiation coils and fans to the oppressively hot working locations, ensuring habitable working conditions below 3,000 feet. Once an area was exhausted, the “plumbing” required relocation to the next extraction zone.

Working at the Mayflower was an honor and privilege. I was fortunate to meet many outstanding folks. Two colleagues in particular stand out — Keith Droste and Jim Hewitson. Keith was our superintendent from 1966 to 1969. He was one of the most humble, capable gentlemen that I ever met. In a way he was larger than life.

Keith held a B.S. in geology (Class of 1955, Monmouth College in Monmouth, Illinois) with advanced studies in chemistry, mathematics and language. He was an accomplished runner and skier. In monthly meetings he reviewed our profits and losses while preaching the importance of a “holistic” perspective on our business. He was all about “net smelter value,” which calculated all costs incurred to produce a finished product. Some of these costs were under our control, most were not.

Jim Hewitson joined us in 1967 as an intern from the University of Utah mine engineering program. Like Keith, Jim was both humble and impressive. He came from a fourth-generation Park City mining family. Besides enrolled in a grueling academic program, Jim worked full time as night watchman at United Park City Mines’ Keetley complex. Upon completing his mine surveying course (conducted at the 1,630-foot level) Jim returned to the “U” to complete his studies. He graduated cum laude in the spring of 1970 with a B.S. in mining engineering.

Hecla managed its properties “by the numbers” with no regard for institutional emotions and/or sympathies. Their practicality could not be faulted. By the late 1960s the tide was turning against the Mayflower Mine, though Keith’s teachings served us well. Commodity prices declined and our production costs spiraled as our drilling depths increased and the quality of ore declined. Salt Lake’s once-vast smelting and milling businesses gradually closed under the twin burdens of environmental regulations and aging facilities. Our transportation and processing expenses doubled. The Utah State Legislature compounded our misery with large tax assessments, further eroding our return on investment. The mine remained profitable but barely so. I sensed the end was near.

In 1972 the board of directors decided to close the mine, even though it had been profitable for 10 years. The macro trends, however, were omnipresent and irreversible. Shutdown required six months. All equipment that could be salvaged was. Owing to my expertise regarding our pumping and AC subsystems, and their necessity to enable a coherent shutdown, I remained employed to the bitter end. As the portal was sealed and the surface buildings padlocked, I reflected on those 10 extraordinary years working at the Mayflower Mine — experiencing a corporate culture that encouraged collaboration, brought an esprit décor and placed no limits on one’s potential.

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