When a 1920s aviation pioneer launched a thank-you project for the families that keep coastal ships safe, he propelled a goodwill tradition that’s lasted longer than he ever imagined.
For one hundred years, land-speed records have fallen here. Now, the question isn’t how fast they can go, but how much longer this ecological wonder will even exist.
In the golden age of aviation, a one-eyed Oklahoma farm boy and a handsome Hollywood stunt pilot embark on a historic and daring round-the-world rivalry.
As a post-grad struggling to build a creative career while drowning in debt, I was desperate for a lifeline. Then one rolled right up in the form of a $50,000 luxury SUV.
The free shuttle from New York’s poorest neighborhoods to the city’s only casino is a little red bus packed chock-full of dreams, disappointment, and daily diversion.
We were giddy new parents on a coastal jaunt. He was an ageless man on his third bottle of the day, and his sordid stories filled the dining car with a gravity I’ll never forget.
I chased my ex-boyfriend across Europe, my best girlfriend chased me, and we all fell frantically in and out of love.
A love for flying lured dauntless daredevils to the icy Last Frontier in the 1920s. But when Russ Merrill’s plane went down between Anchorage and Sleetmute, it ignited a 10,000-mile search and changed the burgeoning world of aviation forever.