On Aug. 19, 1957, Maj. David Simons lifted off from an Iron Range pad, soaring past 99 percent of the earth's atmosphere, and eventually cresting at 101,516 feet (19 miles up).
No human had ever been that high — so high, Brainerd Dispatch reporter Renee Richardson wrote, that Simons, an Air Force medical doctor, could see "that stars did not twinkle at that altitude ... they produced a steady light in the color that indicated their age - white, blue, orange, yellow and red."
Said Simons, "I was like I could see the stars for the first time in Technicolor."
You probably never heard of Simons because he didn't reach space; that's another 12 to 43 miles and because he didn't use a rocket.
The Man High II balloon in the Portsmouth mine. As part of the top-secret Air Force "Man-High" program was attached to a gigantic helium balloon: 200 feet across, with a volume of 3 million cubic feet. The launch took place in Crosby Minnesota because the balloon needed protection from surface winds that could smash it against the ground, so it was placed in the 40-stories-deep Portsmouth mine.
Though Simons could not be called an astronaut, his 32-hour voyage was significant for space flight.
The pressurized aluminum gondola preceded the Mercury and Gemini capsules and was built by Winzen Research of Minneapolis. On launch day, Simons — wore a pressurized suit and helmet that would soon become familiar to generations of Americans. The capsule was installed in the telephone booth sized capsule in Minneapolis and trucked to the Crosby mine.
Simons' self-portrait was on the cover of a 1957 Life magazine before Col. Joseph Kittinger. Americans would get used to this type of image. Like his astro-descendents, Simons conducted at least 25 experiments on his 32-hour journey. The New York Times noted the aero-medical doctor had launched monkeys, mice, and guinea pigs to test weightlessness and radiation effects and on his own flight, photographic track plates attached to his arms and chest confirmed cosmic radiation was a significant health hazard.
Simons' perilous journey led to what we refer to as Mission Control where crews on the ground engaged in communication contact procedures.
Simons' capsule rose to its record-breaking heights during the daytime when the sun heated the balloon. However, at night, it dropped 30,000 feet right in the midst of a thunderstorm.
Turbulence tossed the capsule about lowering it further and into colder air than anticipated. The balloon was extremely brittle. Simons feared a deadly lightning strike in his metal capsule. He tossed everything he could spare over the side to reduce weight, including extra batteries.
The Man High gondola was an early pressurized capsule but by morning the crew noticed Simons was slurring his speech. Carbon dioxide levels had risen dangerously high. He was ordered to breath pure oxygen from his helmet and descend immediately. In Simons' severely impaired judgment he never noticed an emergency. The ground crew guided Simons into a field in South Dakota just across the line from Minnesota. He had survived without any physical problems.
After Simons' impaired in-flight experience, Man High II was re-evaluated. It was decided that pilots should not be given complete control. A panel of experts would be the brains to make critical decisions and minimize errors during the exhilaration of flight.
In the New York Times' obituary, reporter William Grimes notes just how alien Man High's technology was to Americans of that time:
"When Dr. Simons touched down after his historic flight, a farmer and his son raced across their field on horseback to greet him. "Hello, how are you today?" he said to the farmer, removing his space helmet. The boy, ignoring the aluminum space capsule at his feet, pointed to an approaching Air Force helicopter and said, "I've always wanted to see one of them."
The top-secret flight didn't stay that way for long; Simons made the cover of the Sept. 2, 1957 Life magazine, which ran his first-person account. There is a book "Man High." In his later years he was a Veterans Administration researcher and an expert on painful neuromuscular knots.
Simons' flight was supposed to be the last of two "Man-High" journeys, but five weeks after he landed, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik. A year later, on Oct. 1, 1958, NASA was born and seven days later, "Man-High III" took off. It was not as successful as Simons' flight — Pettersen notes the new agency forgot to include cooling dry ice in the capsule which the sun quickly overheated — and pilot Clifton McClure just missed topping 100,000 feet.
Simons held the human altitude record for three years, until Joseph Kittinger — whom Simons supervised on Man High I — parachuted from a balloon over New Mexico at 102,800 feet. Later on Yuri Gagarin consigned Simons to the memory hole with the first manned spaceflight in 1961 achieving an apogee of 203 miles.
He has been forgotten till now..
No human had ever been that high — so high, Brainerd Dispatch reporter Renee Richardson wrote, that Simons, an Air Force medical doctor, could see "that stars did not twinkle at that altitude ... they produced a steady light in the color that indicated their age - white, blue, orange, yellow and red."
Said Simons, "I was like I could see the stars for the first time in Technicolor."
You probably never heard of Simons because he didn't reach space; that's another 12 to 43 miles and because he didn't use a rocket.
The Man High II balloon in the Portsmouth mine. As part of the top-secret Air Force "Man-High" program was attached to a gigantic helium balloon: 200 feet across, with a volume of 3 million cubic feet. The launch took place in Crosby Minnesota because the balloon needed protection from surface winds that could smash it against the ground, so it was placed in the 40-stories-deep Portsmouth mine.
Though Simons could not be called an astronaut, his 32-hour voyage was significant for space flight.
The pressurized aluminum gondola preceded the Mercury and Gemini capsules and was built by Winzen Research of Minneapolis. On launch day, Simons — wore a pressurized suit and helmet that would soon become familiar to generations of Americans. The capsule was installed in the telephone booth sized capsule in Minneapolis and trucked to the Crosby mine.
Simons' self-portrait was on the cover of a 1957 Life magazine before Col. Joseph Kittinger. Americans would get used to this type of image. Like his astro-descendents, Simons conducted at least 25 experiments on his 32-hour journey. The New York Times noted the aero-medical doctor had launched monkeys, mice, and guinea pigs to test weightlessness and radiation effects and on his own flight, photographic track plates attached to his arms and chest confirmed cosmic radiation was a significant health hazard.
Simons' perilous journey led to what we refer to as Mission Control where crews on the ground engaged in communication contact procedures.
Simons' capsule rose to its record-breaking heights during the daytime when the sun heated the balloon. However, at night, it dropped 30,000 feet right in the midst of a thunderstorm.
Turbulence tossed the capsule about lowering it further and into colder air than anticipated. The balloon was extremely brittle. Simons feared a deadly lightning strike in his metal capsule. He tossed everything he could spare over the side to reduce weight, including extra batteries.
The Man High gondola was an early pressurized capsule but by morning the crew noticed Simons was slurring his speech. Carbon dioxide levels had risen dangerously high. He was ordered to breath pure oxygen from his helmet and descend immediately. In Simons' severely impaired judgment he never noticed an emergency. The ground crew guided Simons into a field in South Dakota just across the line from Minnesota. He had survived without any physical problems.
After Simons' impaired in-flight experience, Man High II was re-evaluated. It was decided that pilots should not be given complete control. A panel of experts would be the brains to make critical decisions and minimize errors during the exhilaration of flight.
In the New York Times' obituary, reporter William Grimes notes just how alien Man High's technology was to Americans of that time:
"When Dr. Simons touched down after his historic flight, a farmer and his son raced across their field on horseback to greet him. "Hello, how are you today?" he said to the farmer, removing his space helmet. The boy, ignoring the aluminum space capsule at his feet, pointed to an approaching Air Force helicopter and said, "I've always wanted to see one of them."
The top-secret flight didn't stay that way for long; Simons made the cover of the Sept. 2, 1957 Life magazine, which ran his first-person account. There is a book "Man High." In his later years he was a Veterans Administration researcher and an expert on painful neuromuscular knots.
Simons' flight was supposed to be the last of two "Man-High" journeys, but five weeks after he landed, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik. A year later, on Oct. 1, 1958, NASA was born and seven days later, "Man-High III" took off. It was not as successful as Simons' flight — Pettersen notes the new agency forgot to include cooling dry ice in the capsule which the sun quickly overheated — and pilot Clifton McClure just missed topping 100,000 feet.
Simons held the human altitude record for three years, until Joseph Kittinger — whom Simons supervised on Man High I — parachuted from a balloon over New Mexico at 102,800 feet. Later on Yuri Gagarin consigned Simons to the memory hole with the first manned spaceflight in 1961 achieving an apogee of 203 miles.
He has been forgotten till now..
On Aug. 19, 1957, Maj. David Simons lifted off from an Iron Range pad, soaring past 99 percent of the earth's atmosphere, and eventually cresting at 101,516 feet (19 miles up).
No human had ever been that high — so high, Brainerd Dispatch reporter Renee Richardson wrote, that Simons, an Air Force medical doctor, could see "that stars did not twinkle at that altitude ... they produced a steady light in the color that indicated their age - white, blue, orange, yellow and red."
Said Simons, "I was like I could see the stars for the first time in Technicolor."
You probably never heard of Simons because he didn't reach space; that's another 12 to 43 miles and because he didn't use a rocket.
The Man High II balloon in the Portsmouth mine. As part of the top-secret Air Force "Man-High" program was attached to a gigantic helium balloon: 200 feet across, with a volume of 3 million cubic feet. The launch took place in Crosby Minnesota because the balloon needed protection from surface winds that could smash it against the ground, so it was placed in the 40-stories-deep Portsmouth mine.
Though Simons could not be called an astronaut, his 32-hour voyage was significant for space flight.
The pressurized aluminum gondola preceded the Mercury and Gemini capsules and was built by Winzen Research of Minneapolis. On launch day, Simons — wore a pressurized suit and helmet that would soon become familiar to generations of Americans. The capsule was installed in the telephone booth sized capsule in Minneapolis and trucked to the Crosby mine.
Simons' self-portrait was on the cover of a 1957 Life magazine before Col. Joseph Kittinger. Americans would get used to this type of image. Like his astro-descendents, Simons conducted at least 25 experiments on his 32-hour journey. The New York Times noted the aero-medical doctor had launched monkeys, mice, and guinea pigs to test weightlessness and radiation effects and on his own flight, photographic track plates attached to his arms and chest confirmed cosmic radiation was a significant health hazard.
Simons' perilous journey led to what we refer to as Mission Control where crews on the ground engaged in communication contact procedures.
Simons' capsule rose to its record-breaking heights during the daytime when the sun heated the balloon. However, at night, it dropped 30,000 feet right in the midst of a thunderstorm.
Turbulence tossed the capsule about lowering it further and into colder air than anticipated. The balloon was extremely brittle. Simons feared a deadly lightning strike in his metal capsule. He tossed everything he could spare over the side to reduce weight, including extra batteries.
The Man High gondola was an early pressurized capsule but by morning the crew noticed Simons was slurring his speech. Carbon dioxide levels had risen dangerously high. He was ordered to breath pure oxygen from his helmet and descend immediately. In Simons' severely impaired judgment he never noticed an emergency. The ground crew guided Simons into a field in South Dakota just across the line from Minnesota. He had survived without any physical problems.
After Simons' impaired in-flight experience, Man High II was re-evaluated. It was decided that pilots should not be given complete control. A panel of experts would be the brains to make critical decisions and minimize errors during the exhilaration of flight.
In the New York Times' obituary, reporter William Grimes notes just how alien Man High's technology was to Americans of that time:
"When Dr. Simons touched down after his historic flight, a farmer and his son raced across their field on horseback to greet him. "Hello, how are you today?" he said to the farmer, removing his space helmet. The boy, ignoring the aluminum space capsule at his feet, pointed to an approaching Air Force helicopter and said, "I've always wanted to see one of them."
The top-secret flight didn't stay that way for long; Simons made the cover of the Sept. 2, 1957 Life magazine, which ran his first-person account. There is a book "Man High." In his later years he was a Veterans Administration researcher and an expert on painful neuromuscular knots.
Simons' flight was supposed to be the last of two "Man-High" journeys, but five weeks after he landed, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik. A year later, on Oct. 1, 1958, NASA was born and seven days later, "Man-High III" took off. It was not as successful as Simons' flight — Pettersen notes the new agency forgot to include cooling dry ice in the capsule which the sun quickly overheated — and pilot Clifton McClure just missed topping 100,000 feet.
Simons held the human altitude record for three years, until Joseph Kittinger — whom Simons supervised on Man High I — parachuted from a balloon over New Mexico at 102,800 feet. Later on Yuri Gagarin consigned Simons to the memory hole with the first manned spaceflight in 1961 achieving an apogee of 203 miles.
He has been forgotten till now..
No human had ever been that high — so high, Brainerd Dispatch reporter Renee Richardson wrote, that Simons, an Air Force medical doctor, could see "that stars did not twinkle at that altitude ... they produced a steady light in the color that indicated their age - white, blue, orange, yellow and red."
Said Simons, "I was like I could see the stars for the first time in Technicolor."
You probably never heard of Simons because he didn't reach space; that's another 12 to 43 miles and because he didn't use a rocket.
The Man High II balloon in the Portsmouth mine. As part of the top-secret Air Force "Man-High" program was attached to a gigantic helium balloon: 200 feet across, with a volume of 3 million cubic feet. The launch took place in Crosby Minnesota because the balloon needed protection from surface winds that could smash it against the ground, so it was placed in the 40-stories-deep Portsmouth mine.
Though Simons could not be called an astronaut, his 32-hour voyage was significant for space flight.
The pressurized aluminum gondola preceded the Mercury and Gemini capsules and was built by Winzen Research of Minneapolis. On launch day, Simons — wore a pressurized suit and helmet that would soon become familiar to generations of Americans. The capsule was installed in the telephone booth sized capsule in Minneapolis and trucked to the Crosby mine.
Simons' self-portrait was on the cover of a 1957 Life magazine before Col. Joseph Kittinger. Americans would get used to this type of image. Like his astro-descendents, Simons conducted at least 25 experiments on his 32-hour journey. The New York Times noted the aero-medical doctor had launched monkeys, mice, and guinea pigs to test weightlessness and radiation effects and on his own flight, photographic track plates attached to his arms and chest confirmed cosmic radiation was a significant health hazard.
Simons' perilous journey led to what we refer to as Mission Control where crews on the ground engaged in communication contact procedures.
Simons' capsule rose to its record-breaking heights during the daytime when the sun heated the balloon. However, at night, it dropped 30,000 feet right in the midst of a thunderstorm.
Turbulence tossed the capsule about lowering it further and into colder air than anticipated. The balloon was extremely brittle. Simons feared a deadly lightning strike in his metal capsule. He tossed everything he could spare over the side to reduce weight, including extra batteries.
The Man High gondola was an early pressurized capsule but by morning the crew noticed Simons was slurring his speech. Carbon dioxide levels had risen dangerously high. He was ordered to breath pure oxygen from his helmet and descend immediately. In Simons' severely impaired judgment he never noticed an emergency. The ground crew guided Simons into a field in South Dakota just across the line from Minnesota. He had survived without any physical problems.
After Simons' impaired in-flight experience, Man High II was re-evaluated. It was decided that pilots should not be given complete control. A panel of experts would be the brains to make critical decisions and minimize errors during the exhilaration of flight.
In the New York Times' obituary, reporter William Grimes notes just how alien Man High's technology was to Americans of that time:
"When Dr. Simons touched down after his historic flight, a farmer and his son raced across their field on horseback to greet him. "Hello, how are you today?" he said to the farmer, removing his space helmet. The boy, ignoring the aluminum space capsule at his feet, pointed to an approaching Air Force helicopter and said, "I've always wanted to see one of them."
The top-secret flight didn't stay that way for long; Simons made the cover of the Sept. 2, 1957 Life magazine, which ran his first-person account. There is a book "Man High." In his later years he was a Veterans Administration researcher and an expert on painful neuromuscular knots.
Simons' flight was supposed to be the last of two "Man-High" journeys, but five weeks after he landed, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik. A year later, on Oct. 1, 1958, NASA was born and seven days later, "Man-High III" took off. It was not as successful as Simons' flight — Pettersen notes the new agency forgot to include cooling dry ice in the capsule which the sun quickly overheated — and pilot Clifton McClure just missed topping 100,000 feet.
Simons held the human altitude record for three years, until Joseph Kittinger — whom Simons supervised on Man High I — parachuted from a balloon over New Mexico at 102,800 feet. Later on Yuri Gagarin consigned Simons to the memory hole with the first manned spaceflight in 1961 achieving an apogee of 203 miles.
He has been forgotten till now..
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