Five Dollar Frank

by Tom Shafer

June 19, 2019

I guess because of my extensive travel, I was recently asked if I had ever heard of Five Dollar Frank.  Okay, so sometimes this is a little like “Hey, you’re from Australia?  My buddy Mike Millcrap just moved there.  Do you know him?”   Well, in this case, I HAVE heard of Five Dollar Frank and actually met him several years ago – and what a character he was!

For those of you who never had the privilege, Frank Thomas was an aviator who built then operated Fayette County Airport outside of Fayetteville, West Virginia, for over sixty years.  For many of those years, he gave guided aerial tours of the gorgeous New River Gorge area for crisp five dollar bills – and he did this well into his seventies!  Of course, those flights in his single engine Cessna were always punctuated with history and geography lessons, life stories, and harmless juvenile humor.  He liked nothing more than to get a newbie sitting in the co-pilot seat with the old “Hey, I’m suddenly not feeling so well.  You do know how to fly a plane, don’t you?” 

Antics aside, my favorite Frank story involved a school group that I was sponsoring and leading back in the middle nineties.  For a few years, I had been taking members from my school’s mediation program to Beckley, West Virginia, for leadership training.  This typically consisted of team building exercises while engaging in whitewater rafting, horseback riding, climbing and rappelling, and hiking, among other activities.  This particular year we were camping on the grounds of the rafting outfit that would be ferrying us to our various activities.  Being summer, we expected to deal with occasional thunderstorms that would pop up in the afternoon.  However, on our first day, we were not at all prepared for the gully washer that nearly ended our trip before it had really gotten started. 

Our transport bus dropped us at the facility in early afternoon and because of threatening skies, we quickly assembled our camp.  A light rain started to fall, so after eating lunch with our rafting crew, we were driven to Babcock State Park to take a five-mile hike.  We thoroughly enjoyed our wet walk along the bluff above the New River – especially the still open ventilation tubes pouring forth cold air from abandoned coal shafts, which of course felt great on this very humid day.

As we returned to our campsite in early evening, we saw lots and lots of ponded water along the road, and a little stream close to our new home was now a raging torrent.  Turning the corner into our outfitters, we immediately viewed wreckage where we our tents and supplies had been.  Orange, yellow, and green nylon heaps littered the ravine, and coolers only marked the original locations of selected sites.  We gathered our remnants, which included soaked duffel and sleeping bags – and the aforementioned tents – and spread them out on the gravel parking lot. 

Darkness was approaching, and now we had nowhere to sleep.  Staff was helping with our stuff, and my contact with the company and I were scrambling to figure something out.  We decided that given little time to do much, we would sleep in the storage building that typically protected life jackets, paddles, and a handful of kayaks and rafts.  As my kids spread out some newly borrowed cots and blankets, I lit a number of citronella candles to provide a little light and protect ourselves from winged insects that were buzzing around the open barn.  Due to sheer exhaustion, everyone dropped into sleep fairly quickly – which so rarely happens with teenagers on a school outing. 

I stirred early, as I usually do, and grabbed coffee with a couple of guides who were early risers too.  With the full light of day, we walked down to better survey the designated camping area.  The hillside had actually given way, so a thick layer of mud was covering most of the level gravel campsites.  Sleeping in the equipment barn for one night was fine, but I couldn’t imagine doing that for the rest of the week.  Johnny, the oldest and longest tenured employ, suggested that we contact Five Dollar Frank to see if he could help us in any way.  I had read about his airport in travel brochures and wondered how he could assist us.  My kids were still asleep, so I jumped in a truck with Johnny and he drove me out to the airstrip.

Fortunately, Frank was sitting out in his hanger when we pulled up, and after quick introductions, Johnny explained our dilemma to him.  Frank didn’t hesitate at all, and offered to put us up for the remainder of the week.  He suggested that we bring all of our wet supplies to the airport and use his washers and dryers to clean and dry them.  I thanked him profusely, and Johnny and I headed back to camp.

I walked into the barn to wake my kids, and immediately started laughing at a couple who were already stirring.  Both of them were sporting two little black marks under their nostrils, giving them the unfortunate appearance of Adolf Hitler or Charlie Chaplin.  Jeff, the elected leader of our peer mediation team, quickly retorted, “You don’t look any better!”  Apparently, I was sporting my own unfortunate Hitler mustache – and had been doing so since waking.

I looked at Johnny, who was now laughing himself, and he simply stated, “I thought you chose to look that way.”  The citronella smoke had done its job protecting us through the night, but the residual byproduct of inhaling and exhaling produced a fine black powder under the nose.  After all of us had cleaned up – including our ‘staches (but not before numerous pictures!) – we gathered our stuff once again and rode back to the airport.

There, Frank greeted my kids and suggested that for this night we camp on the runway itself (even more rain had fallen overnight).  We spread out the tents for continued drying, put the wet contents from our duffel bags into dryers (and washers for some), and headed out for a mountain bike ride through lands adjacent to Babcock State Park.  Even with the muddy conditions, we had an absolute blast on the trails and culminated that adventure with a couple of fun team-building activities.  The guide who was accompanying us on this day thought that a dip in nearby Summersville Lake might be the best way to cool off – and clean up – after our ride, so we spent an hour or so splashing around, then stopped for ice cream before returning to our new camp. 

While some of us started setting up tents on the end of the airstrip, others were gathering and folding our now dry (and clean) clothes.  Though it was very warm, the weather was now clearing and thankfully, we would not see any more rain for the remainder of the week.  Frank wandered down to our new digs to make sure that we had everything that we needed, and my kids smothered him with hugs and thank you’s.  A little taken aback, he quickly offered free airplane rides to any brave souls who wanted them.  Of course, all of them were game, so Frank spent the rest of the afternoon flying them (and me at least four times – some of my kids would not go without me) over the Gorge area. 

In a most humble thank you for his hospitality and generosity, we asked and Frank accepted an offer to join us for dinner at Pasquale’s in Beckley that evening, and he thoroughly enjoyed sitting and mingling with me and my kids.  He told us as we were returning to the airport that no one had offered to take him out to dinner like that before and that he was very appreciative for a fun night out.  Frank offered us wood for an evening fire, so we gathered some into his golf cart and dropped it off at camp.  Of course, we asked him to join us – and even camp with us – but he explained that his old bones were tired and required the comfort only Jack Daniels and an old mattress could provide.

Later in the week (our last evening before heading home) as we lay on the end of Frank’s runway enjoying a roaring fire (for comfort only on a very warm summer night), the conversation mostly centered on how fortunate we had been, that if it had not been for so many kind and generous people, our trip could have turned out so differently.  And, what a lesson to experience for a peer mediation group.  The employees of the rafting company couldn’t have been more helpful and giving of their time.  We knew that they were being paid for the services they were rendering, but we also knew that they weren’t being paid when they were hanging out with us in the evenings – and they certainly went above and beyond the call a number of times through the week. 

But it was Frank who stood out the most.  This sixty-plus year old man not only gave us his airstrip to camp on, he also spent time with my kids, showing them the in’s-and-out’s of his operation (including his hanger “museum” that sported a casket — supposedly Mrs. Frank — that triggered a car horn when opened) , taking them for free plane rides, conversing with them during multiple meals, and sharing his passion and experiences.  Some of them were even affectionately calling him Grampa Frank before we left.  Of course, he refused any compensation for what he had done. 

As my kids were staring at the fire and quietly contemplating a very successful week, one of them glanced up and noticed the distinct beauty of the West Virginia nighttime sky.  “I have never seen more stars in my life!” she marveled.  “It would be even better if it weren’t for that big cloud right there in the middle.”

I started to giggle, then realized I was the only one.  Scanning the firelit faces, I realized that they didn’t know what it was, which absolutely amazed me.  My suburban-city kids had never been far enough away from intrusive city lights to witness the hazy band of stars that make up our closest neighbors.

“Why, that’s the Milky Way – our galaxy – our home.  Those stars are part of our neighborhood and they sustain billions of individual planets.”

A powerful silence descended on the circle, one filled with awe and wonder. 

It was broken by Jeff.  “I don’t know about you, Mr. Shafer, but I can’t imagine a better home than ours.”

With thoughts of our river guide hosts, Five Dollar Frank, and a remarkable group of students, I couldn’t agree more.