“During the initial faltering steps toward the stars, when man first grew wings, when he dared to venture away from home and go chasing distant rivers, mountain ranges and far horizons, romance and adventure were part of the picture, too.” [1]
After the First World War, the pilot and his dangerous life became a figure to romanticize. In a way, the pilot was a new type of cowboy; the wild west was replaced by the latest space to romanticize: the sky, with the pilot exploring the new frontier. Of course, it should come to the surprise of nobody that there was a mythologization of the pilots’ careers by both themselves and their fascinated supporters. Even when describing the somewhat unappealing early days of flight, the time in which pilots flew out of farmers’ fields and dealt with problematic livestock, enthusiasts for flight still described it in romantic language. They intended to entertain and awe an audience that would become enthralled by the idealized image of a new type of 20th-century adventurer and the daring fighter pilot of the First World War.
Notice the barn in the background. Patricia A. Myers, Sky Riders: An Illustrated History of Aviation in Alberta 1906-1945 (Fifth House LTD., 1995), 58.
The romantic picture of the pilot partly has its roots in the early limits of the technology. When the plane first came to Alberta in the early 1900s, its use was limited to the spectacle. Unable to carry much weight, and so new that few had thought about the potential business opportunities it could unlock; planes were used to awe spectators. The first public display of a plane occurred in 1911 when the directors of the Edmonton Exhibition Association hired Hugh Robinson and “Lucky Bob” St Henry to fly their airplane at their grounds, drawing in 1800 people to bear witness. [2] By the time the sensational Katherine Stinson performed her stunts in 1916, the airplane she flew was capable of displaying a variety of stunts, and after the end of the war there soon appeared a rotation of daring pilots roaming the countryside, selling the opportunity to perceive their skills. [3] The activity they were partaking in was known as “barnstorming.” Crucially, many of these pilots had now been trained in the First World War, meaning the exhibition spectacle was combined with a reverence for the heroic fighter pilot who had returned home to Alberta.
Before planes were used primarily for commercial functions, “barnstormers,” as they were known, flew between fairs and rodeos in rural communities all summer to sell private flights and show off their bravery with exhibition stunts. Historian Patricia A. Myers describes how even if “they didn’t have any engagements booked they might perform “on spec,” circling a town in hopes that a crowd would gather. The flyers would land and see if anyone wanted to be taken up. If the prospects didn’t look good, they took off to another town.” [4] This business model lasted for some time, with pilots such as Grant McConachie using it into the 1930s. In one instance, the young bush pilot landed in a farmer’s wheatfield, destroying the crop where he landed. The furious farmer was apparently subdued when McConachie reacted to the demand of compensation with a casual response: “How would you and the family like to come up for a free ride in my airplane, then we can talk business.” [5] He ended up convincing the farmer to allow him to fly his airplane out of the field for the weekend, selling rides for $2.50 per passenger. [6]
One of those former WW1 fighter pilots, Harry Fitzsimmons, described his experience barnstorming in detail, and it further shows how closely linked his romanticized vision of early flight was to the rural events of rodeos and fairs. Fitzimmons detailed in a series of columns in 1922 the oddities that could arise from being so intertwined with the rural events. In a section titled, “The Bull Fight,” Fitzsimmons detailed how “One of the funniest experiences of our adventures was at Raymond Fair in 1920.” The plane was parked across from a bull riding event when disaster struck:
One of the steers had been ridden and spurred until he was half crazy, and after getting rid of his rider, instead of going into the corral at the end of the track, he broke through into the field where our machine, Palmer and myself, and three or four spectators, were examining the plane were. Mr. Steer immediately lowered his head and chose me to pace him for a marathon, around and around the plane we went, the rest of the party joining in. I was afraid that the cow’s husband might try to take a short cut and jump over or through the plane, which would have wrecked it completely. I shouted to the others to run for the fence and started for there myself, and finally got up onto the top rail of the corral and paused for breath. On looking around I observed my partner, Palmer, taking long leaps toward me and the bull after him. Palmer had his flying helmet on, and the chin strap was undone, the helmet was flapping on both sides of his ears and he resembled nothing else than a Holstein fleeing from her irate husband. He was straining every nerve to reach the fence first, and finally did so by a small margin. [7]
The bull then destroyed an elevator of the plane as revenge and gave up the chase.
Lots of learning occurred while barnstorming; between the uneven runways, intense winds, and mechanical problems (not to mention the daredevil stunts that they performed while in the air); adaptation was just a necessity of life. Highlighting the rugged environment they were in, Fitzsimmons described in his column how they quickly figured out the necessity of staking down the plane when travelling in the windy prairies of southern Alberta. In one of the particularly bad storms, they had to frantically figure out how to keep their plane from blowing away in a farmers’ field, destroying their prized machine. “During a temporary lull of the wind”, Fitzsimmons explains, “I ran to a farm house nearby to secure more stakes and when about one hundred yards away from the machine on my return I observed Palmer laying on his face on one of the wings and trying frantically to maintain himself and the plane on the ground.” [8] They soon figured out how important it was to leave the plane in whatever shelter they could find, whether that was a straw stack or a small stand of trees.
The danger was often readily apparent and further mythologized in the constant retelling of those events. The former fighter pilot of WW1, Freddie McCall, became a barnstormer in Alberta after returning from Europe. The danger was immortalized when he was forced to make a quick landing at Calgary Stampede in 1919. Shortly after taking off to give two young passengers a ride in a Curtiss JN-4D “Jenny,” his engine died. Unable to land where he had taken off, McCall made the split decision to stall the airplane on top of the merry-go-round. “There perched the Jenny,” historian Shirlee Smith Matheson describes, “on a tilt, with the centre pole of the ride puncturing the floor of the aircraft and protruding vertically between the two boys.” [9] After the plane was lowered, the midway manager then had the brilliant idea to charge 25 cents to take a piece of the plane home as a souvenir. [10]
“163 Fred McCall,” The Military Museums, accessed September 10, 2026, https://mural.themilitarymuseums.ca/panels/row9/163-fred-mccall.
Matheson, Maverick in the Sky, 50.
Hopping between rural events to show off their fascinating new machines and the skills they could demonstrate with them, barnstorming was an activity that lent itself well to the romanticized view of early pilots as a new type of adventurer. Of course, it was closely associated with the rural activities of Alberta, such as rodeos and fairs, making the association between the romance of the cowboy and the romance of the pilot an easy comparison to make. With their constant connection with danger and bravery, these barnstorming pilots created a romanticized image of their careers and adventures that were copied down and sensationalized by mesmerized observers, historians, and those very same pilots which has lasted in modified versions to this very day.
[1] Don Dwiggins, The Barnstormers: Flying Daredevils of the Roaring Twenties (Grosset & Dunlap Publishers, 1968), 1.
[2] Tony Cashman, Gateway to the North (Duval House Publishing, 2002), 2-3.
[3] Cashman, 5-6.
[4] Patricia A. Myers, Sky Riders: An Illustrated History of Aviation in Alberta 1906-1945 (Fifth House LTD., 1995). 40-1.
[5] Ronald A. Keith, Bush Pilot with a Briefcase: The Happy-Go-Lucky Story of Grant McConachie (Doubleday Canada Ltd., 1972), 60-1.
[6] Keith, 62.
[7] Harry Fitzsimmons, “The Sky Hoboes: Some Adventures of Two Pioneer Commercial Airmen,” The Lethbridge Daily Herald, May 20, 1922, 4, https://digitallibrary.uleth.ca/digital/collection/herald.
[8] Fitzsimmons, 6.
[9] Shirlee Smith Matheson, Maverick in the Sky: The Aerial Adventures of World War I Flying Ace Freddie McCall (Frontenac House Ltd., 2007), 44-8.
[10] Matheson, 49.
Bibliography
- “163 Fred McCall,” The Military Museums, accessed September 10, 2026, https://mural.themilitarymuseums.ca/panels/row9/163-fred-mccall.
- Cashman, Tony. Gateway to the North. Duval House Publishing, 2002.
- Dwiggins, Don. The Barnstormers: Flying Daredevils of the Roaring Twenties. Grosset & Dunlap Publishers, 1968.
- Fitzsimmons, Harry. “The Sky Hoboes: Some Adventures of Two Pioneer Commercial Airmen.” The Lethbridge Daily Herald, May 20, 1922. https://digitallibrary.uleth.ca/digital/collection/herald.
- Fitzsimmons, Harry. “The Sky Hoboes: Some Adventures of Two Pioneer Commercial Airmen.” The Lethbridge Daily Herald, May 27, 1922. https://digitallibrary.uleth.ca/digital/collection/herald.
- Keith, Ronald A. Bush Pilot with a Briefcase: The Happy-Go-Lucky Story of Grant McConachie. Doubleday Canada LTD., 1972.
- Matheson, Shirlee Smith. Maverick in the Sky: The Aerial Adventures of World War I Flying Ace Freddie McCall. Frontenac House Ltd., 2007.