Clem Sohn: Michigan’s International Daredevil Who Defied Gravity

Long before Gotham City’s Batman ever sprang across comic book covers, Michigan had its own real-life “Batman” – and his name was Clem Sohn. Years ahead of superheroes dominating people’s minds, Sohn was already amazing the world with his daring-do, homemade wingsuit, and humor when dealing with life and gravity.

Born in 1910 on a farmstead site just outside of Fowler, Michigan, Clem Sohn seemed set for just another life like everyone else. But the wide-open sky seemingly called to him, it seems. When he left high school at Lansing Eastern High School, he did not take the straight-and-narrow path other people perhaps envisioned. Instead, he jumped literally into a death-defying, stunt, and thrill aerial career.

A year or two out of high school, Sohn partnered up with Art Davis, a guy who ran air shows with everything from aerial racing to gut-turning loop-the-loops. Sohn picked up flying quickly, but the sheer adrenalin of flying out of airplanes got his juices flowing.

Spurred on by pioneering skydivers like Spud Manning, Soohn went about pushing the boundaries of freefall. Competitive falling in the early days, parachutists leaped to discover how close to the ground they could fall before opening the parachute. But Sohn’s mind was not on falling to see how far he could. He had to fly. And so he conceived a crude but revolutionary tubular steel and cloth wingsuit – an article of clothing that converted him into some sort of bird-man. Clothing wrapped around his arms and legs gave him the appearance of growing a tail, allowing him to float instead of landing headfirst. Bravely, he would, at times, wait until only 1,000 feet before deploying his parachute – a stomach-lurching maneuver even the world’s most seasoned skydivers would not dare to try.

By the mid-1930s, Clem Sohn was a sensation. Thousands of fans saw “The Birdman,” “Batwing Man,” or “Batman” because varying headlines had dubbed him as such. He was an imitator, but none so skilled, nor so bold. Sohn was not only a Michigan sensation – he was a worldwide sensation. Touring the United States and Europe, he flew in airshows where the theatrics of his dives were often augmented by a burst of flour to trace the route of his flight in mid-air.

And Sohn was no rural bumpkin act. He was charging as much as $10,000 for a leap in 1936 – a staggering amount of money back then, or roughly $230,000 now. They were attracted, not just to his talent, but to his willingness to risk everything and fly with death with every jump that he made.

But not all jumps were successful. On a spine-tingling 1936 flight at London, Sohn’s wingsuit became stuck on his primary parachute. He managed to activate his emergency chute just in time 200 feet above ground and survived with a sorely bruised shoulder. There was always danger lurking, just below the cheering.

Unfortunately, the life of Clem Sohn as a daredevil caught up to him a bit too soon. On April 25, 1937, during an air circus stunt in Vincennes, France, Sohn made his final leap. Again, he flew to 10,000 feet, jumped out of the plane, and began his breathtaking glide. Everything went exactly as it was supposed to until it did not.

While Sohn hurtled towards oblivion, he attempted to open his parachute at a height of around 1,000 feet. Shocked witnesses watched the parachute flap open but remained safely ajar, its shape all contorted. Sohn struggled desperately to throw out his emergency parachute, but even this safety net did not spare him. Falling down at a rate of around 2,000 feet per minute, nothing could save him.

The stunned silence that fell over the crowd, witnesses remembered later, was eerie. When Sohn hit the ground, the sound of the impact was like an explosion, witnesses reported. Some screamed, some wept, some were dazed. Doctors testified later that Sohn likely broke every bone in his body when he hit.

The crash caused shockwaves throughout the world. Investigations revealed a tangled cable in the primary parachute, but the reason for the backup failure was unknown. Some believed Sohn had fainted during descent; others believed equipment was damaged in transit. Whatever the reason, the result was gruesomely conclusive.

Although not good for his health, Sohn’s friends informed the media that Sohn had actually considered retirement. One of Sohn’s family friends, Patricia Greenwood, in a report then, stated that Sohn was to have already decided to “stop using his wings” when he came back from his Europe tour. Too bad fate had other plans.

Sohn was cremated in a French-style funeral, and his remains were sent back to Fowler, Michigan, where he was buried at the Most Holy Trinity Cemetery. Fragments of his original wingsuit and goggles are currently kept at the Michigan History Museum as silent observers to a man who believed he could conquer the skies.

Clem Sohn’s existence is a record of the thrill and peril of hanging in the balance. When comic book covers and cinema screens were still devoid of superheroes, Michigan had its own flesh-and-blood stuntman, one who fantasized not only about flying but actually flew. And though his life was short, his bold heart continues to soar between the pages of air history.