With the removal of the problematic “Mountain Mirage” fountain from the Denver International Airport Jeppesen Terminal this summer, officials may be relocating the sculpture of Elrey P. Jeppesen to the vacant spot, at least temporarily. The 16-foot bronze statue of the aviator in leather pilot’s helmet, goggles and jodhpurs now stands near the north security screening lines. For nervous passengers, “Jepp” has a positive connection to air travel, more so than the red-eyed “Bluecifer,” demon horse of the Apocalypse, or the 26-ton statue of the Egyptian god of death now being installed outside DIA.
Who makes these decisions, anyway – Darth Vader?
Anyway, back to Jeppesen, an inspirational figure if ever there was one. A pioneer who has been called the “father of aerial navigation,” Jeppesen came into the world a little to late to join the daredevil pilots who took on the “Bloody Red Baron” during World War I. Born to Danish immigrants on Jan. 28, 1907, he grew up in Fort Hood, Ore., the son of a cabinet maker. Always fascinated by flight, he once recalled that as a boy he would climb into the trees and sit for hours watching the eagles soar into the air.
He took his first trip in a newfangled flying machine with a barnstormer named Briggs in 1921, paying $4 for a 10-minute flight.
“This was magic,” he later wrote. “The sun would shine through the canvas and you could see the ribs, the sunlight, the river below and the mountains.”
Elrey P. Jeppsen, the pilot’s best friend, during his early career.
Inspired by Charles Lindbergh’s transatlantic flight in 1927, Jeppesen quit high school, left home and took up residence in a hangar at Petersen Field. Doing odd jobs to make ends meet, he took flying lessons and made his first solo flight after only two hours instruction. (Obviously, learning to fly was a lot simpler in those days.) He finally pooled pennies with a friend and bought a World War I “Jenny,” escorting wide-eyed thrill seekers on short treks into the wild blue yonder. Going from job to job – literally breezin’ along with the breeze – he went barnstorming with Tex Rankin’s Flying Circus, among others, and even took a turn as a wing walker, a scary occupation if ever there was one. Although he considered going back to college for an engineering degree, he decided to stick with aviation. When the U.S. government began issuing pilots licenses in 1928, Jeppesen got one of the first, signed by the Orville Wright.
Always a great storyteller, in later years he loved to regale listeners with tales of the early days. One of his favorite stories was about the time he spotted a burning barn at dawn while flying over Illinois farmland. He circled the house at a low altitude to wake the sleeping occupants and watched them run outside to put out the fire before he moved on.
Jeppesen settled briefly in Dallas, working for a time for Fairchild Aerial Surveys photographing and mapping in Mexico. During the height of the Depression, he flew the mail from Salt Lake City to Cheyenne in his own Boeing 40B, compiling a reference guide for future flights. Later he worked for Boeing Air Transport, where he piloted the first plane to carry a stewardess, Ellen Church. In 1936, he married another stewardess, Nadine Liscomb, who he met on a United Airlines flight from Chicago to Omaha. Meanwhile, he kept taking notes.
This bronze statue of Jeppesen is more likely to inspire confidence than certain other sculptures at DIA. The inscription reads, “airmail pilot – airline captain – wing walker – air navigation pioneer – barnstormer – air safety pioneer – businessman – instructor.”
In the early days of flight, navigation was so primitive that pilots used road maps to get around. Always concerned with safety, Jeppesen bought a palm-sized loose-leaf notebook (the famous “little black book”) to keep records of landmarks, pastures for emergency landings, elevations or obstructions and approaches to airports. He designed procedures to be used when visibility was poor and became the first to develop flying charts. When pilots began requesting his manuals, he decided to print copies and sell them for $10 each. He and Nadine started their manual and chart business in Cheyenne, Wyo., and later moved to Salt Lake, Utah. In 1941, he rented office space in Denver for their growing enterprise.
During World War II, the Army and Navy both adopted “Jeppcharts,” which became critical to military operations. In 1943, when United Airlines won the contract to fly across the Pacific, Jeppesen was one of the pilots selected. He flew just one mission to Australia before the military sent him back to Denver to make charts.
The commercial airline business really took off after the War. Jeppesen continued to fly for United Airlines until 1954, when he retired to spend full time at aviation charting. He sold the business to Times Mirror Co. in 1961 but continued to serve on the board as company chair until 1988. Jeppesen Sanderson Co. still sells flight information and navigation manuals worldwide. The majority of pilots would not fly without them. In fact, during Jeppesen’s career he received scores of thank you letters from pilots around the world.
One of his favorites came from astronaut John Glenn, who wrote: “I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for you.”
Jeppesen died at his Cherry Hills home in November 1996, remembered fondly by friends and neighbors as a kindhearted and modest man. When DIA unveiled a display of his aviation memorabilia in 1995, he smiled modestly and remarked, “They did a good job with it. I hope it does somebody some good.” During his funeral at Fairmont Cemetery, three biplanes flew over his gravesite as a fitting final salute.
Aviation fans can read more about Jeppesen’s career in Capt. Jepp and the Little Black Book by Flint Whitlock and Terry L. Barnhart, published in 2007.
