rough draft of my book, "Have Goggles, Will Travel"

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Spray Pilots
Day 13, June 9, 1988, 6 p.m. Written in the AAR Pilot Lounge-Snooze Room that overlooks the runway at Will Rogers Airport, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, where I’ll RON (remain overnight) tonight.

Yesterday began with an exciting formation flight - well, more like a small gaggle, really. The gaggle was arranged by my new friend, Kay Alley, a terrific lady King Air pilot who flies for “Angel Flight” a charitable air operation that takes sick children and their families where they need to go. Kay is yet another pilot introduced to me through Lee Spencer and his home-grown aviation journal. I did not fly with Kay, but we had lunch together and a tour of Flight Safety with one of her friends, Gerald Griggs, who instructs in Learjet simulators there. Kay made a lot of telephone calls the night before to line up some rides for me with friends of hers and she got the local TV news crews and newspaper reporters to come out as well.

Whenever reporters show up, a little more excitement is added and a few aviators flying their aeroplanes becomes an event. And what better place to host such a quickly-arranged event, than in Wichita, Kansas, the very town where Clyde Cessna, Lloyd Stearman, and Walter Beech came together in the 1930’s and employed thousands in the business of small aircraft manufacturing.

My first flight of the day was with Sid Tucker, who, in his light blue 1939 DeHavilland Tiger Moth, hopped us six miles over from Beech Factory Airport, (where I last landed yesterday), to Beech North Airfield, where we all came together. There were three other vintage aeroplanes waiting for us at Beech North, along with “King Air-Kay” and the TV and newspaper crews.

After Sid and I arrived, and the news crews interviewed everyone, we stood together and had a little pilot briefing to plan out the series and timings of our take-offs for the cameras. Our succession was to be as follows: In the lead was Sid, solo this time in his Tiger Moth; 2nd came a young stylish couple dressed in vintage aviation apparel that matched their 1930’s Pietenpol Air Camper – darnit, I missed getting their names; then Gerald Griggs and myself in his 1937 Aeronca K; a camera news helicopter; and one more…



The fifth in our gaggle, taking up the rear, was to be a 6'5" 290 lb. thirty-five year old, student pilot with an old Cessna 170 who told us during the pilot briefing, “A half of an hour ago I was lost over Wichita and just happened to land here at Beech North Airfield because it looked like an uncontrolled grass airfield where I couldn't get into too much trouble. Then, when I taxied up and saw the news crews waiting, I thought I was in real trouble!”

We invited him to join us in the fun, and help us put on a show for the TV cameras, so long as he kept his distance from the other planes, made a good take-off, and promised not to get lost again while following us. Somehow, I missed getting his name, but did get his picture. If anyone recognizes this guy, please call his wife and tell her he might still be on the ground in Wichita, needing a ride home.

Gerald and I lost sight of our other "formation" pilots and said goodbye to them over the radio during our westbound flight. We landed on yet another Wichita airport called, Riverside Airport, which in my opinion should be named, Riverside “Sidewalk” since the runway was barely wider than one.

Kay Alley caught up with Gerald and myself, met us on the ground there, and the three of us had lunch at a swanky, rustic place near the little airport. Afterwards, Gerald treated Kay and me to some Learjet simulator time at Flight Safety, Inc. In the back of my logbook, I logged .7 hours of simulator time and Gerald signed it with his CFI endorsement.



King Air Kay did well at the controls doing a couple of instrument approaches under the hood. When my turn came, I knew I'd be a lost cause flying instrument in the thing, so I asked Gerald if it was possible to fly it by visual references. With the press of a button, Voila! Looking out the windscreen beyond the packed panel of buttons, knobs, throttles and turbine temperature gauges, a nighttime runway lit up and looked so real and three-dimensional—I felt I could almost reach out and touch the lights as they went by my peripheral on take-off run. For 45 minutes I lasted, flying through transparent grain elevators and buzzing the farm silos, until I plowed us into the ground while attempting a 70-degree bank at 300 feet altitude and 300 knots airspeed. Suddenly, a jolt and all the blinky lights outside went to black. Best quarter I ever played! Okay, so maybe it wasn't exactly in keeping with the vintage aeroplane theme, but it was strictly a local flight, so I didn't break my rules.

By contrast, later that afternoon Gerald and I barely putted over the trees on takeoff from “Riversidewalk” Airport in his 65 horsepower antique Aeronca K. The weather was beautifully clear and sunny, but over the hundred degree mark. Heading south over flat farm country, the little fabric two-seater rode the updrafts and downdrafts like a fragile kite. No other aircraft I'd ever been in was so affected by the rising and lowering air currents as this one. I was flying the little bird the lazy way, with my right hand on my lap, and my left hand on the trim tab adjusting the up and down, while my feet on the rudders did the back and forth. Gerald said he was just
along for the ride.



It felt good up at altitude at a thousand feet or so, and the cooler air temperature on my skin reminded me that I was not watching the altimeter. It also brought my attention to the smooth, but definite elevator ride we were taking up four hundred feet, down five hundred, up three hundred, down two hundred. Unless I’m taking a flight test or giving instruction, I’m not that concerned with holding the altitude right on the money—I guess I too, was just along for the ride. And Gerald didn't seem to mind the numbers going up and down. He was off-duty from his Learjet training job.

It also didn't faze him in the least that I didn't have a destination in mind before we took off. We decided to head in the direction of Oklahoma City and choose a good drop-off point along the way. About three quarters of an hour into the flight, I pulled the air chart out of the seat pocket behind Gerald and opened it up. "Okay, where are we?" I asked.

"Right about here," he said, putting his finger down on a little town in northern Oklahoma called Renfrow. I studied the chart and noticed a familiar name of a town about twenty miles ahead.

"Pond Creek! It seems to me I got a letter from a man in Pond Creek inviting me to fly with him…" I dug my Rand McNally out of my bag and opened it up to Oklahoma. "Sure enough—Pond Creek!" I showed Gerald my map with a little blue sticker and the name "Kirk" written on it, next to the crossroads called Pond Creek. Thinking hard, I recalled that the letter was from a crop duster and pipeline pilot. "David Kirk. That's who that is. That would probably be a good place to land."
continued...

Spray Pilots continued

"Okay," Gerald said. "Do you think the airport's got gas? I'm gonna need some to get back to Riverside."

"I don't know. Let's see what it looks like on the chart. I think it's just a little private dusting strip."

"Well that shouldn't be a problem. Any crop duster is bound to have gas to keep his planes tanked," Gerald stated.

On the air chart I located two unpaved airstrips on either side of the little town of Pond Creek. "Hmmm. I'm not sure which is the right one, but the one on the west side of town is called 'Pond Creek,' so let's fly over it and see if it looks like it's got gas."

As we approached the airfield, we could see a yellow Ag Cat sitting out by a fuel truck and three or four people near it. "This must be the right field—it looks like a lonely little duster strip," I said.

We landed and taxied up to the four men by the Ag Cat and shut down. The obvious spray pilot was standing straddled over the cockpit, pumping gas through a hose from the fuel truck into the top wing of the chalky yellow spray plane. He was handsome, blonde and tan, in his twenties, wearing faded blue jeans and a gas-spotted striped shirt. The other four guys looked like the official airport bums as they stood, shaded by the upper wing from the beating late afternoon sun, leaning over his lower yellow wing, just as if it was a bar in a saloon. The young pilot looked like their bartender they were telling their day to.



They all looked in our direction with smiles of curiosity as we taxied up to them after landing on the grass strip. Gerald and I climbed out of the little Aeronca. Holding up my map, I directed my question toward the pilot, who was still fueling his plane, "Are you David Kirk?"

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Spray Pilots continued...
The pilot and his bar buddies broke out in an explosive burst of laughter. When they stopped, the pilot stated in a slow, confident drawl, "No, I'm not David Kirk!" More laughter as his buddies were doubled over, howling.

"Why is that so funny?" I asked.

As he put the gas cap on the wing tank he confidently answered pointing the gas nozzle eastward, "David Kirk's my competition! His strip is about five miles that way. My name’s Jim Deterding and my strip is the one marked Pond Creek on your map. Why are you looking for David Kirk?—Who are you?—And why are you wearing those weird pants and boots?"

Gerald and I joined in the laughter and I explained David Kirk's invitation for me to fly with him and my pursuit of rides in antique aeroplanes, and so on...

"You don't want to fly with David Kirk—you want to fly with me!" he proclaimed.

"Oh? And why should I fly with you?" I inquired.

The peanut gallery leaned over their yellow bar, obviously enjoying the entertainment. The pilot gave me several worthless reasons why I should fly with him instead of his competitor in the crop dusting business and said that when he finished spraying at sunset, he would take me into Enid (the nearest “big” town) for dinner and dancing—but only if I'd wear different pants. Then he sweetened the pot with an offer of the guestroom in his sister's house, unbeknownst to her, assuring me that she would welcome my company. And if she wouldn't, I could sleep on the couch in his living room or camp on his airfield—whichever I preferred.

I must confess I was flattered by Jim’s progressive bidding for my company, against his competitor spray pilot who wasn’t even present. And after Gerald gassed up his plane, he told him that he owed him nothing—the gas was "on the house."

With that show of generosity for Gerald, I decided to stay.

As Gerald passed overhead back toward Wichita, and I waved goodbye, the spray pilot instructed his buddies, "Load her bags into the back of my truck and drive her to my sister's house. And if her house is locked, let her into my house. And turn on the AC for her."

"Is your sister home?" I asked.

"No, she'll be home around 6:30," he answered, as if it was no consequence.

"Well, I don't want to go into her house if she's not there!" I said.

"Why not? She won't care."

"I'm not going into her house!" I replied.

"Okay, well then, go to my place."

As one of his buddies drove me away, Jim yelled, "Relax and make yourself at home! Watch TV! Use the phone! Read my magazines! And don't leave town! I'll be through flying in about at hour."

His friend dropped me off at Jim's house and left. The front door was wide open. I paused for a minute, thinking how strange it was that someone would leave his house wide open. Well, maybe it's not so strange in this town. This town looks like Opie 'n Andy's Mayberry.

I was also feeling funny about going into his house when he wasn't home and I'd just met him ten minutes earlier, but he seemed so insistent and nonchalant about it back there at his airfield, so I put my apprehension aside and went in. I dropped my bags on the floor, turned on the AC, and eyeballed the cropduster magazines and the phone on his rolltop desk. Though I felt like a trespasser in a stranger’s house, his words repeated in my head and reassured me I wasn’t doing anything wrong. "Use the phone! Read my magazines!"

His only aviation magazines were trade magazines for spray pilots. I sat at his desk and leafed through them. The articles were about bugs and chemicals, and the ads showed pictures of heavy farm machinery and spray planes, no Cessna Citations, no latest Burt Rutan designs, no Piper Cubs, no old fighter planes.

The telephone beckoned me, so I made two calls. First, my daily "Mom call," second, a local Pond Creek call to Jim's competitor. Three rings and a man answered. I cleared my throat, "Uh, hello, is this David Kirk?"

"Yes it is, who's this?"

"Hi David, this is Martha Esch. Guess where I am?!," I said, thinking that a guessing game might lighten his reaction or give me a minute to think of how I was going to tell him where I was.

"I don't know—Utah? Where are you?"

"Uh, would you believe at Jim Deterding's?" my voice cracked.

"Deterding's!? What in the world…" (or something like that) "...are you doing at Deterding's!?"

"Uh, well I sorta mistook his airfield for yours. You know, it says 'Pond Creek' on the chart for his field and I remembered that you were in Pond Creek, so I just figured that this was the right place—so this is where we landed," I said apologetically.



[to read the rest of this interesting chapter, you'll have to buy my printed version. ~m]

~

Mom's Log
Day 13
Thursday, June 9
Oklahoma
Martha swam in Pond Creek municipal pool before it closed yesterday at dusk. Afterwards Jim Deterling took Martha to dinner at 10:00 PM. At Holiday Inn and then disco dancing until 2:00 AM – not much sleep. Slept on living room sofa at home of Peggy (Jim Deterding’s sister). She lives in the house next door. At 6:30 AM David Kirk buzzed overhead the house in his cropduster ag plane. He took Martha up and the ride was thrilling! 10’ over ground and river and David’s horses, cows and planes.

Mike Wise came in the late morning from Wichita to Pond Creek in his 1955 Cessna (a charter pilot in a tail dragger) and they flew to Oklahoma City. Martha is staying at the FBO lounge tonight at Oklahoma City Airport. She called the president of 99’s today to see if she could see the Amelia Earhart display at the 99’s Museum. She had not heard of Martha and seemed cool to the idea, (museum closed today) but arranged a special appointment to allow Martha to tour the museum, as she won’t be there on Saturday when it is open.

[insert here expanded chapter on "The Scariest Thing that Happened to Me During the Whole Journey" not yet written. have only told a few people about it and been avoiding writing it til now, but it needs to be included.]

Day 14
Friday, June 10
Oklahoma
Piper Twin Commanche or Bonanza Shirley and Charlie Brown in Bonanza took Martha to their lovely home in Oak Tree Golf Course, Edmond, OK. (PGA) will play there this summer. Martha stayed the night. Shirley is the chairperson of the 99’s in Texas. They took M for a tour of the 99’s Museum Headquarters. They pulled out Amelia Earhart’s pilot license, bracelet, and a locket of her hair and offered Martha a chance to hold them. Whoa!

The first Cleveland air show in 1929 was the beginning of the 99’s. Amelia and five other women pilots beneath bleachers and discussed starting an organization of women pilots. They sent out letters across the country and a total of 99 women joined up at the 1st meeting. Tomorrow at 8:30 AM, 4 or 5 women of the 99’s Oklahoma chapter are going to meet at the airport ramp and wave Martha off to the Denton, TX air show. Retired Col. Bill Porter will fly Martha in his 1948 Cessna 195. Martha officially joined the 99’s today.

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Mom's Log
Day 15
Saturday, June 11
Oklahoma & Texas
[Morning flight 9:25 - 10:40 a.m. with Bill Porter in his 1948 Cessna 195 from Will Rogers Field to Denton, Texas.]
Joe Roselle 1941 WACO UPF7 at the Denton, TX air show Martha met correspondents Gary Neeley from Austin and Mark Hagan from Wichita Falls, TX. Both had written from the TRADE-A-PLANE ad. Gary flew Martha to Edna Gardener Whytes’ home in Roanoke, TX in his 1943 Stearman and Mark or Joe flew alongside in his 1940(1941?) WACO UPF-7. Martha photographed Mark Hagen as he flew alongside. He flew in super close formation very decisive flying.

M is staying the night at E.G. Whyte’s home. A very interesting place, with walls lined in air racing trophies she won in 1920’s and 30’s and since. Edna is famous in aviation world and has her 120 Cessna and 140 Cessna in her garage-hanger. (She parks her car outside.) Edna is 87 yrs old and has taught 5,000 pilots and is still teaching flying. She has logged 34,000 hours in air time.

Gary Neeley is picking Martha up in the morning and taking her to Waco, Texas. Edna gave Martha her biennial flight check-up.

Day 16
Sunday June 12
Texas
M stayed in Neeley’s guestroom after Waco, Texas Airshow.

Day 17
Monday, June 13
Texas
Day off [did not fly anywhere today] – swimming with Gary in Austin, Texas.
3 TV stations had good coverage at Austin Airport, showing Gary’s beautiful (WWII Army colors) – also newspaper in Austin.

Day 18
Tuesday, June 14
Texas
Martha called from FBO in La Porte, TX. Gary flew M to Houston where Anita De Villegas a French woman flew M in a 1946 AT6 600 HP warbird at her airport to La Porte, TX where Martha tried to get a ride out to De Ridder, Louisana. No ride was available and the TV station and newspaper people were waiting in Louisiana at 7:00 PM for her. Bob Frazier will fly her out tomorrow at 9:45 AM in his Stinson Voyager 1947.



Day 19
Wednesday, June 15
Texas to Louisiana back to Texas
Arrived at DeRidder, Louisiana at Bonnie Swamp Smith’s elegant home. M met he and his wife, Sharon at the Stearman Convention in Pensacola on her stop there on May 29th. Bob Frazier and Martha landed on Smith’s grass strip amid cow pastures, steers, bulls and horses and the mayor of De Ridder was there and gave M the key to the city! Newspaper man interviewed them. Smith’s lovely home has Persian rugs – also two huge bear rugs – from their world travels. Smith flew M to Lufkin, TX in AT6 – 600 h.p. warbird. It was her third AT-6 warbird ride.

They arrived at Angelina City Airport in Lufkin, TX at 4:45. Were greeted by news people and air traffic controllers and Sandra Rathbun (see letter 4-6-88 to Lee Spencer). She is editor of “The Southwest Flyer” and area supervisor of Lufkin FAA Flight Service Station. Sandra and Martha are going Honky Tonking tonight and two-stepping - different from the Florida dancing. Texans do side to side dancing.

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Day 22
Saturday, June 18
Texas
Jim Wildharber—1955 Cessna 170B, Alan Gillis 1941 Piper Cub
Martha called from Best Western Sandpiper Inn in Ft. Worth where she was waiting for her ride to Grand Praire, Texas. Gary Gable, restaurant owner is treating her to brunch at the Airport Café at Grand Prairie 15 minutes by air from Fort Worth. Then she is flying (Sunday, 6-19-88) to Albuquerque, New Mexico in a 1947 Bonanza with Luis Cowley. John Forman and friend and his daughter and Mrs. Dorchan Forman, of Richardson, Texas visited 10 different airfields and approximately fifty people. Martha stayed at the Forman’s home overnight. Had breakfast in crowded restaurant with John Forman and his friend, Del _ __ _ Forman’s friend this morning at Addison Field.

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Mom's Log
Day 23
Sunday, June 19
Texas to New Mexico
At “Aerodrome,” met 20 skydivers—no time for Martha to skydive! [One of the jumpers offered to take me on a tandem jump but dusk was approaching.] Luis Cowley flew M to Albuquerque, New Mexico and to Tom and Elise Baker’s home in Tijeras, a suburb. Tom worked on his Piper Super Cub but did not get it ready. He deposits ashes from cremations up on the Gila Cliff Dwellings (thousands of years old). Martha tried to go up to the dwellings in her motor home on her previous trip out west in 1985, but the motor home could not handle the altititude.

Martha went into a Spanish town with Elise and bought lightweight, beige cotton fabric and sewed a pair of summer jodhpurs for herself using Elise’s sewing machine. Stayed on Sunday night and Monday in their log cabin home in the beautiful mountains. [Tom played Scott Joplin tunes on their upright piano. In the morning the two peacocks on the porch made a loud screaming racket—a morning ritual. Both are talented creative people, and did beautiful calligraphy.]

Day 24
Monday, June 20
New Mexico
[Did not fly today. While Tom worked on his plane all day today, Elise took me on a great driving tour of some of the outskirts and little towns near Albequerque. She and I became fast friends - we had a really great time together.]

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Mom's Log
Day 25
Tuesday, June 21
New Mexico
The Piper was still not ready to fly so Tom Baker took M up in their 1932 replica of Pietenpol Air Camper to Santa Fe. Bakers are 35 years old—artists and pianists. It was the first time they flew the Pietenpol into a major airport [We were first for clearance.] It flew 55 mph—has big antique tires and open cockpit. Channel 7 news took great footage from a helicopter flying alongside—will send to us—Elise and Tom had on Martha’s extra goggles and scarves. 15 people on ground took the pledge. They flew out of Albuquerque over desert [over 2 ancient Native American forts], down highways—between mountains at 55 mph and arrived at Santa Fe on a 10,000 foot-long runway. “ New Mexican” newspaper took photos.


At Santa Fe Martha met Harry Oliver III who owns a 1943 DC-3 old transport. The maintenance man put 19 quarts of oil in each engine and Mr. Oliver’s secretary and 7 people (40 capacity) flew to Taos, New Mexico. Martha took the controls which felt very heavy and needed strong muscles to handle without using trim. Martha took great photos of the plane taking off-sun shining on red plane and sunlight on white wings. Clouds and shadows—mountain Summer afternoon thunder storm approaching Taos Airport quickly.

Stayed at youth Hostel ($10.00 night) at Taos, North of Santa Fe. Beautiful mountains-Indian Dancers.

Day 26
Wednesday, June 22
New Mexico
[No flights today.] M made four hours of phone calls [from the payphone at a rundown laundromat near the youth hostel] for arranging to leave for Colorado. Did much paper work and also rode to the Rio Grande Gorge by two other women. The driver was not very reliable and M will not take this kind of recreation in the future.

[Actually, the driver of the car from Taos to the gorge was not two women, but a man who was a terrible driver and may have been a little tipsy.

The two women were at the gorge in the hot springs. I was glad to see them there when we got down to the river. I asked them if they’d be driving back to Taos when they were done soaking, but they said they’d be headed in the other direction. As much as I would have loved to soak in those hot springs, I did not want to get in the water with that creepy man who drove me there. So while he got in the water, I made up some excuse why I was changing my mind about wanting to soak in the springs.

Angels were again looking out for me, as just a few minutes later, a nice family with kids on a driving vacation from Ohio came along to look at the springs. I asked them quietly and with fair urgency if I could please have a ride back to Taos with them.

They kindly obliged, and on the ride back to Taos, I explained that I did not feel safe in the presence of the drunk guy that brought me there.]

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Day 27
Thursday, June 23
New Mexico to Colorado
Margaret Lamb, an aviation attorney who is an instructor in mountain air freight and has 9500 hours in the air is taking Martha from Taos, New Mexico to Walsenburg, Colorado in her 1948 Ryan Navion at 12 p.m. to arrive at 1 p.m.

Larry Ruggerio, a high school classmate of Martha’s, who now lives in Pueblo, Colorado, is picking Martha up at Walsenburg and taking her to Falcon, Colorado, a suburb of Colorado Springs. Larry’s plane in a 1959 Ercoupe Forney.

At 3:45 p.m. at Falcon, Meadow Lake Airport, Dean Smith, in his 1947 Stinson Station Wagon is taking Martha to Golden, Colorado, just west of Denver where she is staying the night in Eugene Horsman’s guest room. Martha (see letter 6-30-88) from G. Horsman. Gene gave Martha a tour of Denver-then to Boulder - He was probably late for work! 1940 Luscombe 8A. [Mrs. Horsman, Lila (pronounced like a lilac), was the best cook on my whole journey!]

[I'm sure glad my mother wrote all the details down when I called her, because I would've forgotten most of them by now. Here's just one of the 67 pages from Mom's Telephone Log:]



Day 28
Friday, June 24
Colorado and Wyoming
Eugene Horsman took Martha to Van Aire Airport [in Brighton, Co.] his silver Luscombe and another pilot in a Super Cub flew side by side and Channel 7 helicopter flew overhead and taped them.

Gene Horsman flew Martha to Boulder where Pat Mosier (Cessna 150) flew her to Cheyenne, Wyoming, and from there to Laramie, Wyoming. It was necessary to go to Wyoming at this time, since the air is too dry [no, hot] and it would be difficult to navigate [no, climb over] the mountain ranges.

Martha had two more rides at the airport [Boulder]. One with Steve Stearns (1949 Taylorcraft taildragger) Martha was his first passenger. Aerobatic pilot Ackley Smith, Steve’s instructor, took Martha up. She got queasy.


The scenery is beautiful, spectacular clouds and sun and rain in distance - rainbow - could see mountains 200 mile distant. Passed over mountain tops at 25’ (8000 feet above sea level).

Twenty miles out of Denver there are no trees - just flat ground and nothing in sight. Every now and then a herd of cattle would appear with nothing near them. There were holes in the ground everywhere from prairie dogs.

Martha called in afternoon from Cheyenne and said Pat Mosier and she were going to a cowboy saloon this night.

On page’s left margin: Ch 7 KMGHTV Denver, CO. tele (303) 832-**** Peter Peelgrane and Scott Wright photog. M gave Scott a silver pin in exchange for the a copy of the tape. I called Scott 7-7-88 for the tape and he said he would dub it over and mail it to me but he never sent it. Said he was incredibly busy!

The line guy at General Brees Field, Pat and Martha went to Laramie, saw cowboys, bought some books at a neat old, bookstore and went to the Cowboy, Grill & Dance Hall Saloon. Had a great time and did a lousy two-step.

They hopped a slow moving coal train at 10:30 p.m. when they got off ran along side the caboose. The old black man on the caboose yelled “Where you goin?” They said anywhere! They walked back to town 7 or 8 miles with wind blowing 30 mi/hr and lightening flashing in the distance. At the airport there was a huge old limousine with five rows of benches [benchseats, not benches] on each side [inside of it]. They slept the night on the benches.

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Islands in the Prairie
Day 28, June 24, 1988, 8 a.m. Written in the lounge of the FBO at Brees Field, while waiting for Alva Jones to arrive in his 1941 Interstate Cadet to take me to Rock Springs, Wyoming.

From Boulder, Colorado my immediate goal yesterday morning, was to get on the west side of the Rockies, into Utah. If there's one thing I've learned about mountain flying on this trip, it's that there aren't very many old aeroplanes with enough power to get over them in the heat of the summer.

It was my umpteenth phone call of the day to try to find my next ride, hopefully into Utah, the next logical state to check off my list. My almost permanently crossed fingers gripped the receiver on the payphone inside the FBO lobby.

"Fly you to Utah? Can’t do it," the voice of Pat Mosier told me, "Not in my airplane, anyway. But I can take you up north to Wyoming where there's a low spot in the mountains to cross."

“Wonderful!” I said.

Four hours later, after Pat got off work, we were on our way northbound in his twenty-nine year old, Cessna One Fifty, circumnavigating 40,000 foot-high thunderstorms, clearly defined within huge cylinders that stretched from the earth, upward to the top of the sky—something that you don't see in the east. The humid air that surrounds the storms out east never allows for such clearly-defined storms as does the dry air out here in the west.

There was a tall storm cylinder to the northeast about twenty miles away, one due north—maybe fifty miles off, and one to the west—a guess of eighty miles away. Between them you could see two or three hundred miles into the distance. Maybe it wasn't quite that far, I don't know. But anyway, over northern Colorado and southern Wyoming, I saw farther than I've ever seen before in my life!

An hour into the flight, just northeast of the town of Laramie, Wyoming we found a low spot of the Laramie Mountains. Pat’s 100 horsepower Continental engine put-putted us steadily toward the crevice in the ridge. The altimeter showed that we were 8000 feet above sea level. We judged our altitude above the ground through that mountain pass in the ridge to be maybe a hundred or two hundred feet even if it looked like only 25 feet. It was a thrilling sight as we approached and passed over the crevice in the steep, grassy mountain ridge.

Just over it, we could see Laramie ten miles to the southwest, lying there on the flat ground like an island in the vast, desolate sea of prairie land. The visibility was still incredible as we began our descent in towards the town. It was unsettling to be able to see so far in all directions, yet unable to see any other towns or settlements within that vast picture that had just availed itself to us on the west side of that ridge. The reality of the isolation of Laramie was unexpected and somewhat alarming.

The long, newly-paved black and white asphalt runways of Brees Field stood out from the surrounding dust-colored prairie and we noted how far away it was from Laramie, the town it served. The airfield also looked like an island, located about five miles west of the town. There was nothing in between it and the town, and nothing past it on the other side—nothing except the two-lane road that connected the airfield to its town. The road reminded me of the long bridges in the Florida Keys that connect the otherwise isolated islands to one another – only no water here. From above we could see cars and semi trucks heading out of downtown Laramie, past the island airfield and down that road into due west nowhere.



Our landing was at sunset. While tying down the little silver and red One Fifty, we watched beautiful, silent lightning activity from the storm that chased us on the other side of the mountain we'd just crossed. In the opposite direction, the dark red sunset and high white pink and yellow cirrus clouds put on another show. Looking at the worsening weather all around, Pat opted to stay overnight on the ground in Laramie, and head back to Boulder in the morning.





The young line crew guy, whose name was Victor was reading the av-gas pump meters and locking up the airport office doors. We asked him if he’d give us a lift into town and he gladly obliged taking us in his girlfriend’s hot rod. Down the nearly empty two-lane, five-mile drag strip into Laramie, Victor demonstrated the power of 440 cubic inches on foot-wide tires with no sheriffs or deputies in sight. What seemed like 14.68 seconds later, we were downtown and dropped off in front of "The Cowboy Bar and Dancehall."

At 8 p.m., still light out, it was too early for much dance activity, but we could see that "The Cowboy" was a good honky-tonk to return to later. In the meantime, we explored the rest of downtown Laramie and found amongst other great old-style stores, what had to be the best used bookstore anywhere. The deep and narrow, old store was packed full with treasures at bargain prices.

Pat, being a scientific type, became fascinated with a turn-of-the-century engineering manual he found tucked away on a shelf. He paid the man a mere $4 for it and looked for more finds. I found a beautiful, tall Victorian oak cabinet with drawers filled with antiquated maps and charts, but couldn't figure out how I'd fit the cabinet in my luggage, so I had to pass it up. We stayed as long as we could, enjoying the store until the owner said that he'd need to be getting some sleep before the morning, so we took the hint and left.

continued...

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Islands In the Prairie continued...
Pat and I were famished, so began a ten p.m. hunt for a place to eat, but found that most of the eating establishments in town had closed down at nine. The bars and saloons in the neon light district were just coming to life, but they looked a little intimidating. Neither of us looked rough ‘n tough enough to blend with the clientele in the bars, nor did we figure they’d have much to offer in the way of food beyond beer nuts and popcorn. As we searched on foot through the town for a place to eat with local color, our higher priority became the first place that we wouldn't worry about taking stray bullets or get poisoned.

Pat peeked into a saloon along our stroll and asked the bartender if they served food. He came out with a "no, but there's a place called 'Shari's' another three blocks down." We quickened our pace, passed two more bars on the dark that looked like movie sets for “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” then came upon Shari's Restaurant, glowing brightly, emanating white light like a K-Mart in the night. Although we had hoped to find a place that reflected more of the local color—we decided we'd seen enough of it and didn’t need it mixing with our food so Shari's looked fine.

Shari's reminded me of any Big Boy’s Restaurant, a reliable safe haven any hour of the day and night for wayward truckers and lonely souls to eat, read the paper and find a friendly waitress to ask, 'how was your day and what can I get ya?'

All refueled with soda pop and black coffee, toasted cheese sandwiches and big bowl of hot canned vegetable soup with macaroni bits, tasted pretty darn good. We started our walk back through Laramie toward "The Cowboy Dancehall & Saloon" ready to try out our lousy two-step techniques.

"Look Pat—a train! Wanna go for it?" The train was moving slowly just beyond the back streets and it looked like it would be a piece of cake to hop on for a ride.

"Sure!" he said, not giving it a second thought.

Moving only at a fast walking pace, it wasn't much of a contest to get on it and had no box cars to crawl into for a real hobo ride, but it was still exciting for first-time train hoppers.

I jogged slowly alongside the train, and grabbed onto the black iron ladder on one of the coal cars. Pat grabbed onto the ladder on the next coal car and we climbed our way up the to the top of the cars where lit by the moonlight we could see the payloads of dirty coal all the way along the long stretch of coal cars ahead.

Gradually, the train began speeding up and Pat called me down, warning that we'd better jump off before it got going too fast, so I climbed down and we both jumped off onto the gravel and railroad ties. We dusted ourselves off and looked toward the back of the train, approaching and saw the caboose coming. I wanted to try hopping on again onto the now faster-moving train. "Pat! The caboose! I've gotta try—just to see if I can. I won't go far..."

As the caboose caught up to me, I sped up my pace and ran beside the front of it as fast as I could, thinking about jumping on and wondering where it might take me.

I coached myself, "I can make it if I just grab on and don't loosen my grip." But common sense prevailed and I abandoned my attempt. The rest of my bags were back at the airfield and more importantly, I had my friend, Pat, to consider. If he didn't have his plane to get back to at Brees Field, I think he would have jumped on that caboose first, grabbing my wrist to help me aboard.

As the rest of the caboose began to pass by, to our surprise and delight, an old black man leaned out of a window in the back of the caboose and yelled to me, “Where are you going?”

I thought for a second and called back to him, "Anywhere!"

"C'mon, you can make it!" he encouraged.

It was straight out of a movie. Pat and I waved to the man.

Our adventure didn't end at the tracks, though. It had only begun. Our train hop had taken us conveniently nearby "The Cowboy" and we went inside to join a lively, packed house of real cowboys and cowgirls, not the glittery kind you find in the big cities. These folks had their own Wyoming version of the two-step that looked to be a bit rougher than it looked in Tulsa and Orlando. Pat and I noted that some of the men had bowed legs, we presumed from riding their horses all day, every day.

Most were wearing worn out jeans, ones with real wear on them, not the stone-washed kind, and they had on ten gallon hats and well-scuffed riding boots. The women had on pretty western dresses, or tight fitting jeans with lacy blouses and cowboy boots with colorful, fancy stitching all over them.

Pat and I didn't exactly fit the unwritten dress code. In a way we felt like foreigners in hometown America. He was wearing tennis shoes, a short-sleeved sporty red shirt and shorts to fit the 105 degree Boulder, Colorado heat. I had on my weird jodhpurs and high laced boots and must say that our citified novice version of the two-step lacked at best. We were an odd spectacle to the locals, but didn't care.

After bruising each other’s toes, we sat it out on the sidelines and quietly shared made-up versions of the life stories of some of the dancers. We figured we were right on the money with most, but one cowboy had us puzzled.

The man was by himself about ten feet away from us, leaning up against a post with a beer mug in his hand. His attention was split between the pool game and the pretty girls in the room. He looked normal enough with a scruffy beard, tipped hat, snakeskin boots, hand-tooled leather belt, and a pinch between his cheek ‘n gums. But his t-shirt threw off the whole picture.

On the front of it, in big red letters was the logo for the famous play, "CATS."

This man didn’t look like a patron of Broadway. We guessed he was a trucker who had unloaded a shipment of Wyoming beef at a packing plant in Manhattan and someone had been handing out "CATS" shirts the day he happened to be there. I just had to know his real story, so I walked over and flat-out asked him, "Did you see the play?"

"What play?" he said.

"'CATS,'" I said.

"Oh, my shirt – yeah, I seen it, " he said. Then he stuck his finger in his mouth and repacked the lump of tobacco into his cheek, “I seen it in London."

I turned around to see Pat smiling and laughing about it. I turned back to the cowboy, "In London. Really?"

"Yep, I won a trip there at a plant I worked at a couple of years ago in Kansas City."

There’s our meat packing plant, I thought to myself turning again towards Pat, hoping he was catching all this. Then the cowboy moved a little closer and asked me with tobacco and beer breath, “You wanna dance?”

Oh, great, he thinks I came over to pick him up.

"Uhh, well I can't—see, I'm with a date." I pointed at Pat and waved to him, with a stiff smile then turned back to the cowboy and brought the subject back, "How'd you win the London trip? Was it a sales promo contest?"

"Naah. They just had a little drawing at the plant, and I just won it," he stated, starting to lose his patience, "Listen, why don't you stop worrying about your date and come dance with me?"

"Uh, well, he's really a good friend and besides I, uh, don't know how to dance," I said nervously, backing up a little. With my index finger behind my back, I motioned Pat to come get me out of this.

The cowboy persisted and started to reach for my hand, "All you need is a good dance instructor. I could show you..."
"Yep. I seen it in London..."

The whole conversation repeated between the two. Pat asked one more question of the cowboy.

continued...

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Islands in the Prairie continued...


Pat walked up just in time and asked, "You saw 'CATS?' Were the tickets part of the prize?"

"No, I read the play and always wanted to see it, so when I got to London and saw it on a marquis sign, I just went and bought a ticket."

Well go figure. Guess you can't judge a theater patron by his chewing tabacco.

~THE LONG WALK BACK TO THE AIRFIELD....
Pat and I left The Cowboy Dancehall & Saloon without ever discussing the two imminent questions of the night: One — How would we get back to the airfield? Two — Where would we sleep?

I never worry about such details until necessary, and apparently Pat had the same lack of concern. Ground transportation and lodging are foremost on most air travelers' minds and they can't begin to explore a town until they have keys to their rental cars and have settled into their reserved hotel rooms. I was expecting Pat to bring up the subjects but he didn’t and I wasn't going to. I thought it was kind of funny, but pretty neat at the same time, that neither one of us felt the need to discuss our circumstances, what others would consider a predicament.

We knew the situation: It was two in the morning and we were in downtown Laramie, without transportation back to the airfield. We were both exhausted. Chances were slim that Laramie had taxi service, especially at two in the morning. The few patrons that were left in the bar looked too drunk to even think about catching a ride with any of them. And between the two of us we had about five bucks left on us, having locked our wallets in Pat’s Cessna, so that ruled out motel rooms.

Without a word about it, we began the five mile walk back to the airfield down the long pitch-black road west. To keep awake and to take our minds off our aching feet, we told each other ghost stories and Pat warned me not to step on the rattlesnakes that come up to sleep on the warm asphalt at night. That comment woke me right up and kept my feet moving.

In the far distance to the south, silent heat lightning from a thunderstorm flashed often, looking like bomb explosions on the horizon. We guessed that storm was at least a hundred, maybe two hundred miles away. During our long walk back, only one car passed us.

We made it back to the airfield at three-thirty in the morning. Now where would we sleep? Again, without a word about it, we walked over to the huge, 1950’s airport limo that was parked on the ramp. It had four, long vinyl bench seats. The driver's front window was open. Pat reached in and unlocked the back doors and we found our home for the night. Pat took the second bench seat. I took the fourth.

~