He really lived.......

Ken Guthrie was a remarkable man!!

Such is the opinion, of all who were in attendance at his funeral, in the small community church near Ken’s home in Cougar Washington.

The gloom of the low hanging clouds, and constant drizzling rain on that Saturday in October, seemed to punctuate the feeling of loss felt by all in attendance.

Words of tribute were spoken; there was laughter as the humorous moments of Ken’s life were remembered, and tears at the realization that further memories with Ken in this life, would never be realized.

Ken Guthrie was also a dreamer, and a big dreamer at that. Unlike most who dream big, Ken made the majority of his dreams come true.


A man of humble beginnings, at the age of six, he and his brother were dropped off at an orphanage by their mother. At twelve, he was sent to a "boy’s ranch" which was essentially indentured servitude. Running away at sixteen, he made his way to America, eventually working construction in California, selling Real Estate in Texas, and drilling oil in Colorado.

He even worked on Marilyn Monroe’s home in Beverly Hills!! When asked if there was any hanky panky between he and the starlet, he responded by saying “ no, but she had her chance”.


He became a US citizen, learned to pilot fixed wing aircraft, purchased a fixer-upper helicopter, self taught, he flew it a couple times, but realized he needed professional training to fly it safely and get a commercial rotor-craft rating. He went on to accumulate over 15,000 flight hours in numerous models of helicopters.


He flew tourists over and scientists to, Mount St. Helens after the eruption. Using Sky Crane helicopters, he lifted lumber out of the forests of the Pacific Northwest, dropped water to extinguish forest fires all over the United States. With a fleet of thirteen helicopters, his company moved everything from Christmas trees to sections of buildings, nothing was impossible for the Sky Crane and Ken as it's skilled pilot.


He told me flying from sun-up to sunset, then staying up late into the night or in some cases the wee hours of the morning, making repairs to the aircraft, to do it all again the next day, never seemed like work to him. He loved it that much.

He hired many locals to work for him, and at the memorial service, one young man expressed how grateful he was for that, as he had been unemployed for a time. But Ken expected a full days work for the money paid, just as he had given to others all of his working life.

Flying helicopters was a lucrative business, earning Ken and his wife Suzanne a very good living. Retiring in 2000, he and Suzanne began collecting automobiles, eventually replacing the helicopters in his hanger to well over 100 collector cars. Cars from the 20's, 30's and early 40's were represented. There were the “best of the best” models from the 50's, 60's and 70's. Hotrods, customs, low mileage survivors, all found a home in their collection.



Car clubs and rod runs would visit the hanger, and were always welcome. Ken drove his favorites to weekly lunch dates with friends, and errands about town, not to mention the parades, car shows and cruise nights he and Suzanne participated in. Ken even owned his own roll back tow truck, to retrieve one of his babies, just in case it broke down at one of these events.

I became acquainted with Ken, when he decided it was time to sell the collection. One random email, informing me of a few of the cars, sparked enough interest that I made the 1650 mile round trip from my home in Riverton Utah to Cougar Washington, in June of this year.
As impressive as my first few steps into the hanger, as the row after row of beautifully detailed cars came into view were, my initial meeting with Ken was even more so.

Over the course of my career restoring antique cars, I have met many owners of large collections. Most are the suit and tie or stylish casual types, who have earned their fortunes in real estate, energy, construction or high tech industries.


Not that there is anything wrong with that, but Ken was different, wearing a fleece lined denim jacket, blue jeans and a well worn ball cap with his company logo, there was no pretense to the man. What you saw, is what you got, a man who valued hard work and kept at it his entire life.


To occupy his time, at that moment he was working on the ground up restoration of a 26 Chevrolet to “keep his butt off the couch just watching TV”.

Being the blue collar type as well, I could relate to Ken, and came to truly admire the man and his accomplishments.

Over the next few months, two more visits were made to Cougar to show the collection to interested parties. On one visit, Ken and Suzanne treated me to “Taco Tuesday” at the local café, before having to leave for home. I observed that other patrons at the café greeted Ken and Suzanne, with respect and friendship. In a whisper, he told our waitress he would cover the tab for a young family, who I could tell were struggling financially.


He trusted me enough to let me drive his pickup down to town to get back to my hotel.


On my third trip, my son Jason accompanied me to Cougar. Being an aviation fanatic, I wanted Jason to meet Ken as well. Again, we were made to feel at home, sharing a Bar-B-Q, with Rick White and his family. Rick is a close friend to Ken and Suzanne, and was asked by Ken to represent him in the liquidation of the collection.

Ken and Suzanne lost a son in a motorcycle accident in 2010. I was told the motivation for selling the collection was partly due to that loss. From my three visits, I came to the conclusion that Ken had also decided to move on to the next stage of his life and the responsibility of maintaining such a large number of cars had become burdensome.

He would never be done collecting cars, just a smaller number. In fact he was interested in building a full size version of a Franklin Mint model called the “Coupe Simone”. A beautiful art deco rendition based on a long wheel based Duesenberg chassis. Yes, Ken dreamed big. The project would be a dauntless and expensive task, and funded by the proceeds of the sale of his collection.
He had hinted that he wanted me involved in the project, and I began researching and planning the project, by contacting the designers and creators of the model. They informed me that several others had expressed an interest in building the full size version, but the project had never taken flight. My excitement for the project grew, knowing Ken was just the person who could pull it off.

Once at a car show, after a gentlemen had spent a great deal of time carefully studying one of my photo albums, and after discussing the circumstances of the project with me. He made the statement that I didn’t just restore antique cars, but that I “made dreams come true”.

I have never forgotten that encounter, and as I reflect on the many "impossible" projects I have completed, and the amazing people I have been fortunate enough to work for, I suppose that I really have made a few dreams come true. Having the opportunity to work on some truly one of a kind projects has also fulfilled many of my own dreams.

As I was driving home after the funeral, I called Shanna, my youngest daughter to congratulate her on completing her first 5K marathon. In the course of our conversation, she asked me why I had traveled so far to attend the funeral of a man I hardly knew. My initial response to Shanna, and not wanting to go into great details on the cell phone while driving was; that I felt “I needed to”.

Upon reflection, with hours of time on the road driving home, to think about it, I truly did need to be there.


First to say goodbye to a man whom I had come to respect and admire. Second to express my sympathy to his widow Suzanne, and to Rick White and his family who were so close to Ken.

And lastly, a more selfish reason. To say goodbye to a dream. Kens dream to build a one of a kind automobile, had become my dream as well. Someone may at some time in the future build the Coupe Simone, but for me that dream has passed with Ken.

Funerals are not held for the dead, but for the living. Funerals bring closure to family and friends at the loss of a loved one. The long trip from my home, to the Pleasant View Community Church near Ken’s home in Cougar, then standing with family and friends in the constant rain at the small Yale Cemetery, helped bring a bit of that closure to me as well.

I firmly believe, that throughout the course of our lives, we are truly fortunate when someone comes along who leaves a positive impression upon our being. Coming to know Ken Guthrie has been one of those treasured contacts and has renewed my desire to live large, and dream big.

I hope all who read these words may be inspired by my experience with Ken Guthrie, and strive to do the same.

The Old Hunting Knife

It is just an old hunting knife. Handmade with a finely shaped steel blade, a brass guard, and a layered handle with alternating clear and brown Plexiglas, capped with a hand shaped aluminum butt. I was told that it was made by my father’s brother, my Uncle Dick.

When it was crafted is unknown, the keepers of that bit of family history are all gone now. But I do remember dad saying it was given to him before he left home after his enlistment in the Army Air Corps in 1941. I would like to believe that dad carried it through his twenty-seven combat missions over Germany and France in 1944, but that is pure romantic speculation on my part.

Regardless, the knife is now mine and has become a treasured keepsake. Just when the knife was given to me by my father, I cannot recall. It wasn't a monumental ceremony, a passing of the torch by any means. Just one day it was mine.


I have come to believe that the knife held special meaning to my father, because his name is neatly engraved in the blade. Unlike myself, he was never one for collecting things, other than the stack of once read Wall Street Journal’s that would accumulate on the top of his antiquated paper cutter, which sat at the front of his little print shop in our garage at home, as if the information contained in that mountain of back issues may at some time in the future, be of immense value.

Dad was not a hunter. Not that he condemned the practice; he just chose not to participate. Mother told me it was due to the near miss incident with a shotgun, while duck hunting along the tailings pond near their home in Magna Utah, with my Uncle Dick. In addition, Dad was not one for roughing it in the outdoors. His idea of camping was in the comfort of a motor home.
In retrospect, I believe, that dad had seen enough shooting and killing while in Europe during the war. He never fully elaborated that fact, but given my father’s kind nature, I am confident that played a large part in his choice.

My love for hunting was fostered at an early age by another uncle, and a cousin. I was fortunate to spend many of my summer breaks from school, at my Aunt Jalna and Uncle Karl’s farm in Shelley Idaho. Elementary school children way back then, were not subjected to the torture of year round school, we actually had the whole summer to be kids.

My cousin Reed and I took advantage of those carefree summer days. We swam in the canal, rode bicycles, which eventually transitioned to motorcycles, up on the butte, and explored the lava rocks around the edge of "the project", which was the section of ground Uncle Karl farmed with his three brothers.

The lava rocks are the natural home for “Rock Chucks”, a furry varmint, who love eating the crops planted along the edge of the "lavas". Rock Chucks are perfect game for a couple of young boys with 22's trying to perfect their hunting abilities. Timid little buggers, at the sound of anyone or anything approaching, they slide undetected into their dens in the jagged rocks. To successfully dispatch this nuisance to farmers, one must learn the art of stealth, a silent stalk is required, as well as patience. Working ones way into position on the high rocks above their habitat, then waiting, for what seemed like hours, for the critter to emerge from their hidden home. Then POW, let him have it!!

Of course practice was required to develop that "dead eye" necessary to quickly dispatch any desired target. Hours upon hours, and box after box of ammo, were spent with BB guns, then 22's and eventually shotguns.

My love for hunting was firmly established, when Reed and I became old enough to accompany my Uncle Karl on my first pheasant hunt. The anticipation, as we heard the opening of the gun cabinet, and saw the box of 12 gauge shells sitting on the kitchen counter. Leaving the warmth of the house, for the crisp fall air, well before sunrise. My cousins Weimaraner , Smokey knew what was ahead, and was waiting at the back door.

It seemed to take forever for the morning light to greet the fields, we would have to wait until 1/2 hour before sunrise, for the season to officially open. Smokey crisscrossed the cut grain field, nose to the ground, then stiffened, with tail at a point. The command to "get him out" was given, and Smokey jumped! I jumped, as the field seemed to erupt, with the startled bird heading skyward in a straight up flight, then away from the danger, only to fall lifeless to the ground as Karl shouldered, than shot. It was amazing for a young man to see!

A few years and some needed growth were necessary before Reed and I could handle the recoil of the 12 gauge, but we soon joined Karl on the hunts. Bruised shoulders from shooting box after box of shells, and tired legs and feet, did not dampen our enthusiasm. Over the course on many trips to Idaho, that scene would be repeated, as Reed and I took to the ditch banks and fence rows.

As a senior in High School, the lure of the mountains called to me. With some buddies from school, and a 30-06 borrowed from my neighbor Mr. Keiser, I went on my first deer hunt. Being successful on that first hunt affirmed my enjoyment of all things hunting.

It wasn't until after I was married, and out of the house, that I purchased my first firearm, as dad did not allow guns in our home. It was a Model 70 Winchester, in 270 Caliber. I was invited by my father-in-law, Richard Cheever, to join him at his favorite hunting area. I suppose it was a gesture of acceptance into the family, and I enjoyed many years and have fond memories hunting everything from rabbits to deer with him and his sons Scott and Joe.

With a move to our first home, I met Talmadge Robinson, and his son Lane. Both shared my love of hunting, and for 27 years now, we have hunted both deer and elk together, in the mountains of Utah. And enjoy a special friendship forged from our trips to the mountains each fall.
So what does this long monologue have to do with an old hunting knife?

As I mentioned, the how and when of my coming into possession of dad's hunting knife has faded from memory. I imagine he felt that because of my love of the hunt, I should possess the treasured implement, handmade, and given to him as a gift in love from one brother to another.

Each fall as hunting season arrives, the knife comes out of storage with the rest of the hunting gear. Initially, I wore the knife on my belt, in the sheave that has held it since new. As the leather has aged, the possibility of it tearing, and becoming lost in the woods, has caused me much concern. I now carry it, protected from loss, in a fanny pack with the other essentials required for a day in the woods.


The old knife has been an essential part of those fall trips into the wild. It has been used to cut rope, to hack away branches obscuring the view of the perfect hillside that some unsuspecting animal my cross, to cut up food for dinner, and even whittle sticks around a shared evening camp fire. And yes, to do the necessary cleaning and skinning of a freshly dispatched animal. Yes, essential.

But for some reason this year it meant more. I arrived at Elk camp a day or two later than the others. It was late afternoon; three of our party had spent the day chasing elk, and had returned to camp tired and hungry. We seldom hunt on our own, generally we stay together and work as a team, looking for animals, and directing each other as necessary.

Being late afternoon, and feeling fresh and ready to go, I decided to drive to a favorite look-out spot, that after a relatively short hike up a ridge line provides an unobstructed view of three different canyons. In years past, with the assistance of a good pair of binoculars, we have spotted elk from this vantage point, allowing us to "put them to bed" in hopes of locating them the next morning. That was my intent when I left camp.

Given the lateness of the day, I had not planned to really "hunt', so I traveled lighter than usual. Leaving things like rope, extra water and snacks behind.

I paused and caught my breath after cresting the ridge line and began scanning the surrounding hill sides. It was difficult this year because the leaves on the aspens and oak brush have stayed much longer than usual, providing dense cover for skittish animals. After several minutes, and seeing no movement, I switched to a second canyon, again with no success.

The third and closest canyon I reserved for last, as it is the canyon I had just driven up. After just a few minutes of watching, to my surprise I saw movement, a quick look through the binoculars confirmed it was a spike elk. Surprisingly he was alone, as elk generally travel in herds.

As any hunter of large animals will confirm. Hunting is fun, right up until you drop an animal. The fun ended!! Knowing it would soon be dark, I quickly went about the process of field dressing the animal. Over the years of harvesting elk, the process is much easier when done with assistance. This would not be the case, as I was alone on the mountain, and help was still awhile away.

Opening my pack, like a trusted friend, there it was. The old knife that had accompanied me for so many years. Knowing I needed to quickly get to the unpleasant but necessary task at hand, I was alone in my thoughts as I unbuttoned the sheath.

As I pulled the blade from the aged leather, and read my father’s name engraved there in the blade, I was struck by those feelings of loss for a departed loved one, that seem to always come at the most unexpected moments.

I was on the side of a mountain, with a dead animal that required my attention, as I thought about my father, and how much I miss him. I chucked through my tears at the irony of it. All I could do is wonder what my Dad and my Uncle Dick would think of me putting the approximately 70 year old knife to its intended use, while reminiscing about them.

Perhaps my father entrusted me with his hunting knife, knowing I would think of him fondly from time to time. Or perhaps not…. But either way, this year it worked Dad.

I am not sure yet, who will be the caretaker of the simple hand-made hunting knife, once I am gone. It's not like passing on the family fortune, but I intend to instill upon whoever it might be, just how special it truly is, and that they will be the keeper of its history and a charge to pass it along as well.

I hope that with its use, they remember the legacy of my father, and perhaps a fond memory, or two, of me as well.......