Deadlines. Tom Hawthorn

scrimped for two years before enrolling at the Edmonton and Northern Alberta Aero Club, which had been launched with First World War ace Wop May as president and chief instructor. Rutledge became a prize pupil of Moss Burbridge, of whom it is said not one of his seven hundred students ever suffered an injury.

      She trained on such biplanes as a Cirrus Moth, Gypsy Moth, American Eagle and Alexander Eaglerock, the latter a favourite of prairie barnstormers. On October 12, 1933, she was issued private pilot’s licence No. 1317.

      By doing the club’s books and handling chores such as stretching fabric over the wooden ribs of an aircraft, Rutledge earned free flying time, according to aviation historian Shirley Render. The deal was a necessity for the ambitious pilot, whose earnings of $22 per week were not enough to cover lessons that cost $12 an hour. On August 29, 1935, she was issued commercial licence A1236, becoming the first woman in Western Canada to be so qualified.

      As the twenty-one-year-old woman prepared to join her family in moving to Vancouver later that year, the male members of the club presented her with an engraved watch acknowledging her achievement. Pleased to discover six other licensed women pilots in Vancouver, Rutledge travelled to Burbank, California, to meet Lauretta Schimmoler, a pilot from Ohio and one of the founders of the Ninety-Nines. The group, which took its name from the ninety-nine licensed women pilots who attended its inaugural meeting, decided Canada had too few pilots to permit a chapter. The journey was not an entire bust for Rutledge, however, as she did get to meet the famed Amelia Earhart.

      Rejected in the United States, Rutledge returned to Vancouver determined to organize her own informal club. The Flying Seven, formed on October 15, 1936, captured the imagination of Vancouver by staging a dawn-to-dusk flight the following month. A Golden Eagle and a pair each of Fleets, Fairchilds and Gypsy Moths took twenty-five-minute spins in the air, a member taking off as another landed. The stunt began precisely at 6:59 a.m. when Tosca Trasolini took off without a hitch despite drizzle and a dangerous ground fog at Sea Island Airport, today the site of Vancouver International Airport.

      Over time, the Flying Seven adopted a smart-looking uniform of culottes with a silk blouse worn beneath a wool jacket, topped by a distinguished Glengarry hat, all in grey.

      After the outbreak of war, some of the women were rebuffed in their attempt to join the Royal Canadian Air Force as pilots or instructors. Instead, they appealed for “dimes or dollars to buy our boys more planes” as part of a Vancouver Air Supremacy Drive.

      On a sunny midweek day in June 1940, the Flying Seven staged a “bomphlet” raid over the city, dropping a hundred thousand “Smash the Nazis” pamphlets. As it was, a brisk southeast wind, combined with a city ordinance forbidding flight lower than 3,000 feet, swept many of the handbills into the waters of English Bay and Burrard Inlet.

      Shortly before the outbreak of war, Rutledge’s skill won her a small measure of fame. Ginger Coote hired her to handle reservations and operate the radio for his Bridge River & Cariboo Airways. She was posted to Zeballos, an isolated gold-mining town on the west coast of Vancouver Island where she was one of three unmarried women in a rambunctious town otherwise populated by fifteen hundred miners.

      Grant McConachie, who owned Yukon Southern Air Transport, and on whose recommendation Rutledge had been hired, had a flare for publicity. He leaked word of the unusual job and its circumstances. Newspapers across the continent ran an article on her duties, some including a photograph portraying the no-nonsense operator posed in front of a large console. A believe-it-or-not headline in the Chicago Daily Tribune was typical: “Canadian woman pilot is operating a radio station.”

      “I was supposed to be the radio operator but I also dispatched, did the waybills for the freight, tied up and fueled aircraft, and herded loggers and miners on and off the planes,” she once told Render, the aviation historian. “I took a dunking more than once while trying to push a drunk logger onto a plane.”

      She described her reservation duties as simply counting the number wishing to leave. If three or fewer, she ordered the airline’s Waco to Zeballos. If ten or fewer, she called for the Norseman, although a full load meant the seats would be removed and passengers would sit atop their luggage.

      Coote sometimes allowed her to take control of the aircraft, making her the province’s only woman working as a commercial pilot. While he had confidence in her abilities, he had other motives. “I remember the day we went to Gun Lake to put in a radio station,” Rutledge told Render. “He told me to fly the Norseman while he went back to read the newspaper. When we got there I called him back to take over as I had never landed it by myself. He was sound asleep and too groggy to wake up—he liked his liquor. When we docked he fell off the float and I had to jump in after him.” She rescued him only with difficulty, as his breeches had filled with water.

      In Zeballos, Rutledge would leave gold bullion worth one million dollars on a chair overnight in the airlines’ unlocked office.

      “Nobody thought anything about leaving that stuff around loose,” she told historian Jack Schofield, “but you’d never leave a case of whisky unattended.”

      In addition to Coote’s Waco and Norseman, Rutledge also flew Barkley-Grows owned by Yukon Southern. In fact, when McConachie invited her to join him in the cockpit on a test flight of a Lockheed 14 passenger plane from Vancouver to Edmonton, it would be her final flight as a pilot.

      Coote’s bush company was one of ten gobbled up to form Canadian Pacific Airlines in 1941. Rutledge returned to Vancouver where she would enjoy a twenty-year career, during which she became superintendent of reservations.

      In retirement, she lectured about the Flying Seven and offered her memories to a succession of aviation historians. After marriage, she made her home within sight of the jets taking off and landing at the much-expanded airport where she had once taken part in the dusk-to-dawn flight.

      January 5, 2005

      Gertrude Ettershank Guerin

      (Klaw-law-we-leth)

      Chief

      (March 26, 1917—January 25, 1998)

      Delbert Guerin once asked his mother why the family always ate at a restaurant called the New Pier on Main Street in Vancouver. She told him that, fifty years before, the Guerins had been hustled to a corner table at the Trocadero Grill on West Hastings Street. The manager explained, “Indian people want to be in here, they have to sit in the corner out of sight.” The family walked out, never to return.

      Gertie Guerin did not take such snubs lightly. She traced her lineage to the great warrior Ke’epalano, who defended his people against raids by the Haida. Gertie, too, was a warrior, her weapon of choice her character.

      A daughter of the Squamish on her mother’s side and of the English on her father’s, she was left at age twelve to care for a younger sister, Vivian, when their mother died. Life was harsh on the reserve. Even as Vancouver’s skyline began to grow across the harbour, the Squamish trudged from their homes to the single tap that provided water for the entire reserve.

      As a teenager, Gertie Ettershank worked at a cannery, where she met a quiet, hard-working, slick-haired fisherman. Victor Guerin was ten years older, a handsome lacrosse player. In 1936, they were married at St. Paul’s, the reserve’s church where Gertie had been christened and confirmed.