A tiny, weather-worn granite marker stands sentinel at the crest of a rise in Olean’s Mount View Cemetery, overlooking the south bank of the Allegheny River. It is all that remains to tell the story of a 32-year-old woman who fell to earth on a sunny afternoon in 1907 and was adopted in death by the stunned witnesses of her demise. The marker reads, “Carrie Myers, killed September 14, 1907, by fall from parachute. Erected to her memory by admirers of her daring event.” 

According to accounts published in the days following the tragedy, there were hundreds, perhaps thousands of people who viewed Carrie’s coffin at Quigley’s Funeral Parlor, who visited the exact spot where she landed just north of where she had begun her ascent into the bright sky and who escorted her remains to her grave. None of the citizens of Olean knew the daredevil personally. Nor did they have any connection to her, other than they may have witnessed her fall or heard about it from someone who did and were deeply touched. But they donated money to pay her final expenses, including sending her personal effects to her relatives. The local florist donated wreaths, while the funeral director donated a beautiful pearl-gray casket bearing a silver plate engraved with the words “at rest.” Her final resting place was paid for by the people of the city, not by her family. 

Reports maintained that Carrie’s husband and sister, as well as her mother, all remained far away in her hometown of Springfield, MA. They did not attend her funeral nor contribute in any way. Even her brother in Waterville, CT, reportedly refused to have anything to do with her, more or less telling the funeral director to take care of her burial himself. Instead, it was the citizens of Olean who adopted the daredevil in death and made her their own.

Carnivals and traveling shows were commonplace at the turn of the 20th century as rural communities big and small were frequent stops for the troupes of entertainers who crisscrossed the United States under the ownership of various showmen and promoters. The Chicago World Fair and Exposition of 1893 opened the floodgates and soon after, dozens of shows had hit the road. By 1902, some 17 shows were touring the United States. The number exploded with each passing year and, by 1936, more than 300 shows were moving from town to town.  

The Southern Tier town of Olean was like so many others at the turn of the century, in that it hosted an annual fair, held on the grounds of the Olean Fair Association, sometimes called the Jersey Farm.  The grounds were dominated by the large oval track of the city racecourse. The racetrack was situated in a north-south configuration on a level field north of West State Street, bordered by North 15th Street to the east and North 20th Street to the west. It sported a 300-foot-long grandstand that overlooked a half-mile-long, 60-foot-wide oval track. The fair featured some of the traveling troupes of the day, and within the oval would be situated attractions like trained animal acts, a “Loop-the-Loop,” “slack wire walkers,” running and trotting races. A large crowd from the bustling city of Olean and surrounding communities attended the fair each year to partake of the wonderous sights, the lively fair music and daring acts, while sampling exotic foods.  The Olean Fair first opened in 1879 and closed in 1916 though, like all such events around the nation, it was well attended.

Though daring, none of the aforementioned balloon “tricks” matched what Carrie Myers could do, and the massive crowds attending her performances demonstrated the curiosity of fairgoers to witness the uniqueness of her act. They came to see one of the most spectacular acts anywhere. 

Each performance would begin with Miss Myers climbing into the gondola, arrayed in a brightly colored cape. On her orders, the balloon would be untethered, whereupon it would rise into the air with the beautiful daredevil waving to her cheering audience as she ascended. When the balloon reached its zenith, between 1,000 and 2,000 feet, Myers would climb out of the gondola and, to the amazement of the crowd below, jump out of the basket while holding onto long, trapeze-type bar. Attached to the bar were two large cloth bags or knapsacks. After a brief free-fall, she would suddenly release her right hand from the iron bar, wave to the crowd below, then reach up and yank a cord, dangling for a precarious second from the trapeze bar with only her left hand still grasping it. In response to her tug on the cord, a giant parachute would burst from the knapsack and momentarily retard her plunge to earth.

A sigh of relief would rise from the audience, thinking she was safe under the billowing canopy with both hands holding onto the bar and attached parachute. At that point, the performer would again lift her hand from the bar and, with another wave, release the clamp holding the first chute to the bar, letting it drift away on the breeze. Gasping, the fearful audience would witness her renewed plunge to earth. Convinced that she was tumbling to her death, the panicked spectators would witness another miracle as a sudden jerk of her freed-again hand would release a second, smaller parachute, which would complete her safe decent to the waiting field below and the appreciative applause of her more-than-satisfied fans. 

Though her performances may have been spectacular, little is actually known about the performer buried under the name Carrie Myers other than the fact that she called Springfield, MA, her home. To begin with, her name may have been something else. Newspaper articles concerning her death reported that she was married, but in the style of the day only gave her name as Mrs. W.H. Wilcox. One report suggested that she had trained under her husband’s tutelage. That being said, her husband was described to be a “railroad man.” In addition, it was said that a sister, brother and mother also survived her. Yet no family members traveled with her and it appears that she acted on her own behalf in her endeavor. 

Further research reveals up some curious, though perhaps coincidental, facts.  A July 1887 performance booklet from Vermont advertised a balloon act orchestrated by a “Prof. Carl Myers of Mohawk, NY” and his protégé, known publicly as “Carlotta.”  In this act, Carlotta would rise into the air, suspended from a balloon with no gondola, which had been inflated with Hydrogen gas.  Carlotta, in fact, was Carl Myer’s wife, Mary, whom the booklet fashioned “Queen of the Air.”  Carl + Mary= Carrie?  Queen of the Air?  Queen of the Clouds?  Was there any relation—or was it all just a coincidence?  Could this contemporary balloon daredevil couple have provided the inspiration for Mrs. Wilcox’ performance name?  The truth remains a mystery.

When the fair opened and the time for Carrie’s performance drew near on Saturday September 14, a crowd reported to be between 8,000 and 10,000 strong gathered on the oval track of the city racecourse.  Perhaps the sight of the swelling crowd served to sweep away any pre-show jitters, erasing any bad memories of what had transpired earlier in the month, let alone two days before. Newspaper accounts reveal that Myers even joked with her assistants and other performers, something that she was known to do, saying that because she had survived her jump on Friday the 13th, she surely would be safe on this day. 

An Olean Times reporter quoted her teasing “Dare Devil Dick,” a fellow performer who rode a bicycle on a wire, saying, “Let us trade acts this afternoon—you make the ascension and I’ll make the ride and drive.” To this the bicycle man replied, “You might not have such good luck with the wheel as I have.”  A confident Myers quipped back, “Good luck? Didn’t I make it safely with the balloon yesterday? And that was Friday, the 13th. I guess that’s some luck!”

Later the same bicycle rider asked about her choice of dress for her stunt. “We all seem to have red cloaks around here,” he observed. “Why don't you wear a red cloak?” Myers is reported to have said, “I wear violet for luck. I have two other colored suits but I’m wearing my violet today and just watch me.” 

When the reporter asked her about her sprained wrist, she assured the questioner that it was better than it had felt yesterday. She even dismissed a chance to have her picture taken when the manager of the high wire walkers walked up to her with his camera. She dodged behind the Times reporter and said, “You will not need a photo of me to remember me by when I am gone.” All this said just hours from her fateful plunge.