History is full of baffling decisions. Some people invade Russia in the winter. Some people think putting pineapple on pizza is a good idea. And then there’s the uniquely American tradition of deciding, after a heroic number of beers, that the laws of physics are merely suggestions. This is the story of four such visionaries, their Cessna Skywagon, four shotguns, fourteen empty beer cans, and the unfortunate stretch of Palo Duro Canyon that had to witness it all.

If you’ve ever wondered whether it’s possible to shoot down your own airplane, wonder no more. It is. It has been done. Welcome to the crazy tale of the bird hunters who shot down their own airplane. And it involved more than a little bit of alcohol. Because of course it did.

The following true account appears in They Called it Pilot Error by Robert L. Cohn.

Meet the Hunters Who Shot Down Their Own Airplane: Aerial Darwin Award Contenders, 1980-Something Edition

Our protagonist is Billie Lee Riggs, a 29-year-old Amarillo “character” who, according to surviving relatives and everyone else who ever met him, was the kind of man whose medical chart probably included the phrase “repeat DUI enthusiast.” Billie was not a licensed pilot, which normally would be a problem when acquiring an airplane. But never underestimate the combined power of determination, cash, and a logbook creatively enhanced with signatures taken from the serial numbers on dollar bills.

Billie rented airplanes frequently enough from Tradewind Airfield that the staff recognized him, trusted him, and apparently didn’t ask many questions. On the unfortunate day in question, Billie enlisted three of his regular companions: Dexter Swift, Sonny Martin, and Lonnie Brewster. They brought:

• A cooler containing one full case of beer
• Two six-packs of malt liquor
• Four shotguns
• Over 100 shells
• The combined judgment of a lukewarm turnip

After loading the supplies into the Cessna Skywagon—carefully following all standard FAA procedures for beer-to-ammunition ratios—they settled in at Rockwell Field in Canyon, Texas, and began warming up for the day’s activities by consuming a heroic amount of alcohol. It was a pre-flight ritual for one of the most spectacular aviation mishaps.

How to Trick a Police Officer While Reeking of Beer and Bad Ideas

At one point, a Canyon police officer responded to calls about four men using the airport as a beer garden. He approached, presumably prepared to issue stern warnings.

Billie explained, with confidence that only a man deeply inebriated can muster, that he couldn’t leave because the airplane “needed to cool down before starting.” The officer verified that cooling can indeed be a thing that engines occasionally need (though usually not while being marinated in Bud Light), and, unable to test anyone’s breath, politely asked them to clean up their cans and be on their way.

The officer concluded he could have legally stopped them from driving a car but could not legally stop a drunk pilot from flying an airplane.

File that under “sentences no sane universe should allow.”

The Low-Altitude Tour of the Greater Chicken Community

After takeoff—performed by Billie in a manner that could be charitably described as “ambitious” even if he were not a drunk pilot—the group headed not immediately to Palo Duro Canyon, but on a scenic buzzing tour of everyone unfortunate enough to be outdoors that morning.

One low pass over a chicken farm produced the anticipated result: a frantic cloud of poultry, a deeply unimpressed farmer, and phone calls to law enforcement that resulted in… absolutely nothing, because no one could read the tail number.

The Main Event: Aerial Bird Hunting, or “What Could Possibly Go Wrong?”

Finally reaching the state park, the bird hunters prepared for the main event: hunting birds from a moving, vibrating, badly-piloted aircraft while very drunk. They opened the side windows. They positioned the shotguns. They loaded the shells. At least they had a plan. We didn’t say it was a good one.

Then they began firing.

It did not go well.

About 70 rounds were blasted into the Texas sky. Bark dust, rocks, clouds, atmospheric humidity, and the collective dignity of aviation were all shot at. Not a single bird was harmed. If the purpose had been to demonstrate the limits of human aim while suspended in a metal tube controlled by a man whose blood alcohol content rivaled jet fuel, it was a stunning success.

This frustration fermented into determination. The bird hunters would find a bird. They would hit it. And it would be glorious.

The Hawk, the Showdown, and the Unfortunate Left Wing

The bird hunters’ white whale arrived in the form of a hawk. A large, slow-moving, majestic creature gliding over the canyon, unaware that it was about to become the target of four humans making decisions that were on par with trying to race Titanic through an obstacle course of icebergs.

They swooped in for the first pass. Missed.

There was laughter, shouting, reloading, and a second attempt. Missed again.

This was unacceptable.

Billie, the drunk pilot, banked left, dropped to 40 feet above the ground and lined up for The Shot That Would Redeem Them All. Dexter did the same on the left side.

As the hawk swooped up and away, both men reflexively raised their shotguns to follow it.

What happened next is exactly what every physics textbook, sober human, and anyone familiar with Cessna’s iconic design that places wings on the top of aircraft would expect:

They shot the airplane.

More specifically:

• A blast of buckshot tore into the left wingtip
• A gaping hole opened along the leading edge
• The wing partially detached
• The airflow became very, very unhappy

The Skywagon rolled hard left, then right, then stalled, then plunged into the canyon floor in a catastrophic impact.

The Aftermath: Tragedy, Bureaucracy, and the World’s Least Surprising FAA Meeting

Three passengers died upon impact. Dexter, astonishingly, survived long enough for interviews but died nine days later.

Investigators found:

• Four heavily used shotguns
• Dozens of spent shells
• A demolished beer cooler
• Blood alcohol levels ranging from 0.153 to 0.178
• A student pilot medical certificate
• No pilot license
• A thoroughly falsified logbook
• Increasingly frustrated FAA agents

Texas newspapers ran the story. The FAA offices in Oklahoma City fielded angry calls. Everyone blamed everyone else. The FAA blamed the Texas DPS. The Texas DPS wondered why they had no power to stop intoxicated men from flying. The public wondered how a man who could not legally drive a car could legally operate an aircraft.

It was a perfect storm of regulatory loopholes, outdated procedures, and several hundred ounces of beer.

What We Learned (Besides “Never Do Any of This”)

The event became a case study in FAA safety reform. It sparked discussions about:

• Better coordination between aviation and law enforcement
• Medical reporting requirements
• Alcohol use regulations
• Pilot license verification
• Automated background checks
• Training for FBOs to screen renters
• Why airplanes should not contain shotguns

The story is tragic. Four men died. Families were shattered. An airplane was destroyed. And all because no one involved had the sense to say, “Maybe let’s not mix guns, low-altitude maneuvering, and blood alcohol levels that could power a lawn mower.”

Yet, as awful as it is, the incident stands as one of the most astonishing examples of preventable aviation mishaps in American history: bird hunters who shot down their own airplane. It’s a reminder that flying is safe—remarkably safe—unless you (like the pilot who tried to land a plane while blindfolded) actively work very, very hard to make it unsafe.

Billie and his friends succeeded at that more thoroughly than anything else they attempted that day.

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