i'm writing a book - right here!

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Twentynine Palms
Written in mid July, 1988, in southern California.

Thinking back to about a week ago, I wasn't asking this kind stranger to take a week of vacation from his job to fly me all over the southwest, but he volunteered the generous gesture, and out there with so much space between airports and populated towns I wasn't about to turn him down. Not while my two and a half-day stint at the laundromat in Taos, New Mexico that happened two weeks earlier, was still fresh in my mind. That was where I spent the majority of my Taos visit, leaning up against the triple loader, making hours upon hours of calls from the payphone attached to the wall, looking for a pilot with an old plane to come fly me out.

Like many of the other phone numbers I've collected, someone who knew him and knew that his plane was pretty old gave Brandon Gentry’s number to me. I called and told him how I was trying to hitchhike through all of the continental states via vintage aeroplanes, etcetera, and could he take me in his antique plane to, or in the direction of Utah?

He said he'd wanted to fly out to see his step dad in Corona, California, anyway, and had the vacation time coming to him, so why not take it now, help me out and have someone to do some sightseeing with. We planned to meet in person the next day over lunch and talk about the places we'd fly to.

At an outdoor second floor cafe in Reno we planned a tentative schedule to land at St. George, Utah and do some hiking in Zion National Park and to fly over the Grand Canyon into Arizona. He was tall and trim, looked like a bicyclist and it was apparent that he liked the big desert west outdoors; he said he would bring two tents and we could camp out near his airplane.

Three days earlier Ted Contri's P-51 Mustang brought me to Reno Cannon Field so we arranged that Brandon would fly over to Cannon from his home base airfield, just twenty miles away, and pick me up by Ted’s hangar, there the next morning. This way I would be keeping my rule of no car rides or other transportation to get to the next airfield.

Over the next four days, the sweet little red 1959 Aeronca Champ took us from: Reno, to Yerington, Nevada; to St. George, Utah; then into Arizona over the Grand Canyon; and southward down to Prescott; Sedona; and Tucson; then back northward to Scottsdale; and back to Prescott; then we turned westward for Twentynine Palms, California; then Corona, California. Whew!

Between our flights, Brandon and I hiked and swam in two red rock canyons, watched Fourth of July fireworks and explored the Pima Air Museum together. He was a terrific travel companion.




continued...

[frankie_bondo]

...I enjoyed these most recent posts.....love the pics.....and the new format...

[AAC Cadet Leader]

thanks frankie! by "the new format," do you mean that i went back and enlarged all of the chapter titles, added some pilot pics (lots more to come of those), more other photos, and am putting "mom's log..." at the top of each of those pages?

[frankie_bondo]

correct on all counts, Cadet Leader!

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Twentynine Palms part II
On July 6, 1:10 p.m. Brandon and I crossed over the California state border somewhere along a line drawn between Prescott, Arizona and our first planned California landing point, Twentynine Palms. Below us we could see the Colorado River separating Arizona from California. The grass was no greener on the California side—because there was no grass—just more thirsty beige sand.



Over the California desert we picked out a large triangular pattern on the ground that marked what must have been a WWII military training airfield. Now, there were not even buildings left, just sand colors and textures marking the flat ground with remnants of runways and ramps. In the Forties it must have been a place bursting with energy. I imagined rows of P-38's, Stearmans and AT-6's parked wing to wing on the ramp. Now it looked much the same as the centuries-old Indian ruins I'd flown over north of Albuquerque, New Mexico.



A few miles further, we spotted Twewntynine Palms airfield ahead. It looked pretty quiet, with just a dozen or so small planes and a yellow spray plane by the gas pumps. I wondered what a crop duster was doing out here where it looked like the only crop around was cactus.

Time at landing—1:30 p.m. Outside the little airport operation we were greeted by a friendly airport bum sitting on a bench in the only scarce shade to be found. When we walked in the door, we weren't quite sure we were in the right place. Brandon asked the man sitting on the overstuffed old sofa, "Is this the place to pay for gas or somebody's living room?"
"Well, it's both," he answered.

To be sure I stepped back outside and read the (used to be red), now pink, sun-baked airport office sign above the door.

I went back in. "Gosh, this is not your typical airport office— This is like a home!" I added.

"Well sure! And we're glad to have you!" the man said, "Relax and stay a while!" he invited, gesturing for us to sit on the couch. A daytime game show was playing on the old set in the corner of the cool, dark, windowless room.
to be continued...

"Look Brandon!" I said, “An antique ‘Tom's’ machine!”

Brandon and I had been patronizing ‘Tom’s’ vending machines in just about every airport lobby we’d visited in the last few days. I think Tom, whoever he is, has a monopoly on the general aviation vending business, as every snack machine has his name emblazoned on them in all the little airports I’ve been in so far. This vending machine was the first really old Tom’s machine I’d seen. I went over to have a closer look at it where it stood against the wall, next to an overstuffed chair with a crocheted grandma doily on it.

"Brandon, check this out! The gum and chips spin around inside on a rack!"

"Truly incredible," Brandon muttered from across the room, uninspired.

"What's your guess, 1950’s?"

"Can't be that old—maybe ‘60's," he estimated.

"Ol’ Tom's been around longer than I thought—the man is a legend in airport food," I said, digging in my pocket. "And look! The slot only takes two dimes per item. What's your preference? I'm buying this time."

"Big spender — I'll take the chips," he said.

I tossed Brandon his bag of chips and asked the man, "Why do they call the town 'Twentynine Palms'? Are there supposed to be twenty-nine of them? I only saw three or four."

He explained, “Well, you have to drive a few miles into town to see more. A long time ago when they named it, supposedly it had twenty-nine palm trees. Out here we don't take the trees for granted. With afternoon temperatures around a hundred and ten, you too, might consider naming your town for the trees. You might even say heck with the name, and plant more trees, like we did here.”

"Good point," I said.

The ladies restroom had a naughty light switch and other assorted bathroom funnies, and against the wall of the living room—I mean, the pilot lounge, there was an old tuba propped up, ready for playing on a chair stand.

The man encouraged me to go ahead and give it a try, so I crawled into the curled up tubing and mustered out "Buckeye Battle Cry" through its long pipe. It took a lot more of my wind than it did when I blew the tune through my old high school trumpet, but the valves worked the same way. The man and his wife seemed happily entertained by my tune on their tuba and politely applauded. Brandon shook his head and rolled his eyes as I crawled out of it, somewhat dizzy.

We thanked the couple, said goodbye and walked back out to the little red Champ and I declared to Brandon that of all the FBO’s I’d been to, Twentynine Palms was my new favorite!

Logbook entry: Headed for California…Nice welcome here by the most home-style FBO yet. 110º F on ground.



At 2:40 p.m. we were back in the air continuing west for our final destination together—Corona, California. Twenty minutes into the flight we passed the town of Palm Springs that from above looked to be a manufactured green amidst the surrounding sea of tan-colored dust.

Further west, through the Banning Mountain pass, the desolate, barren desert floor below us suddenly began turning into a maze of traffic-packed twelve-lane highways and wall-to-wall housing developments. We had hit the outskirts of Los Angeles, the USA’s fastest expanding megalopolis. And at this point, we were still fifty or so miles east of its downtown, flying over its furthest suburbs.

From what we could see out the windows, and from the large yellow patches on our air chart which designate populated areas, the ground below looked like one huge city that grew thicker and more congested toward its core.

Just ahead and below us, we were about to penetrate a thick, brown layer of afternoon LA smog that closely resembled a bowl of beef broth. To descend into the mess and know we'd be breathing it was a disgusting thought. After having just flown over so much desolate land through clear air, it seemed inconceivable that millions of people would all jam into one place to live and work so crammed together.

"Brandon, how can people live here?"

"I don't know, but they do it every day. Take a deep breath before we drop down into it. It may be awhile before you get back out! And keep your eyes peeled for mountains and other airplanes. There are lots of them here—and down in this mess you don't see them until you're right up on them."

"Oh, scary thought!" I said.

I breathed in deep and held it as long as I could as we entered the mucky air. As we descended, our visibility instantly dropped from two hundred miles over top of it, down to two or three within in the soup. I’d never experienced anything like that before.

As if with homing instinct, Brandon confidently steered the Champ through the smog, reassuring me that we were on course. In a few miles, Corona's asphalt airfield magically appeared directly ahead. Brandon radioed in, did his downwind check and made our last landing together. Taxiing in, I tried to breathe shallowly. "You'll get used to it after awhile and you won't even notice it." Brandon said.

"Yeah, right."

Funny, but he was right. After you walk around in the mess and breathe it for a while, you tend not to notice it so much; or maybe you just try not to think about it.

We tied down the airplane and went in to meet with Brandon's step dad, Dave Smith, owner of Corona's airport cafe called Bob's Chili & Chow Hall—don't ask me who Bob is, I don't know. Dave fed us well and generously set me up with my own private little trailer in the aircraft tie down area.

The trailer came complete with a telephone for arranging my next rides. Brandon would be visiting with Dave for a few days before making a beeline back to Nevada to his engineering job, thus ending our journey together and putting me back to my task of finding more pilots and more aeroplane rides.

While Brandon and his step dad visited in the restaurant, I luxuriated in my little trailer with a shower and a late afternoon nap then called home to exchange the daily scoop with Mom. She started by giving me an overview of mail and phone messages.

"Okay, Martha, now you've got a lot of people in southern California already on your list and you got five more letters today from people who read Gordon Baxter's article. One is from Canada and the others are from Michigan, South Carolina, Texas, Wisconsin. And you got two calls from the Trade-A-Plane ad. One is from a woman in Mississippi and the other is from a man in Manhattan Beach, California, which is very close to Corona.”

“Great!”

“Do you have a pencil?"

"Yep, go ahead, Momma. What kind of plane does the guy in Manhattan Beach have?"

"A Wacko, uh Wayko."

I laughed. “Waaah-co, Mother. Pretend your at the doctor’s office and say 'aaaaah.’ Then put a ‘W’ in front of it and say Waaaah-co."

"Waaahco."

"That’s it. You know Momma, ever since I got you into all this old airplane stuff you've been calling them 'Wackos' and Waycos and I have to correct you every time. I think you're mispronouncing it on purpose."

She laughed, too. "That's a good plane, isn't it?" she asked.

"A Waco? Yeaaah! Did he say what model it is?"

"Yes, I wrote it down. Let's see... It’s a 1939 YPT-14. He said it looks like a Waah-co UPF dash seven."

"Oh good! Yeah, that's a real good one—an open cockpit biplane. Looks a lot like a Stearman. What's his name and number?"

continued…

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Twentynine Palms Part III

"Mmhhm, okay, got it, Momma." I said, writing the name and number on my list of contacts.

She continued, "He said he recently read your ad in Trade-A-Plane and thought there would be a remote chance that he'd meet up with you, but thought he'd give it a try anyway. It's almost uncanny that he called just last night and you're so close to where he lives. I told him that you were going to be in Corona and he said that it's real close by. It's funny what he said after that. I wrote it down."

"Oh yeah? What's that?"

"He said to tell you, 'If you happen to be in the L.A. area and he and his Waco happen to be available and the wind happens to be down the runway, he'll be happy to give you a ride."

"Really, he said all that? Ha. That's pretty funny. I'll call him. But first I've got to call the people around here who wrote me letters," I said, reviewing my list. "Let's see, there's Brian Launder in Long Beach with a Stearman and Torrance Parker in Torrance with a Travel Air— Hm, I wonder if they named the town after him. And there are the Baileys in Riverside. Mom, this area has a ton of good, vintage planes. I might be around here awhile...hey, before we go, how are Dad and Mary Jane?"

"They're fine. Dad's golfing with Uncle Eddie and Mary's at the library," she said.

"Good…Okay, talk to you tomorrow. I love you, Momma."

"Love you, Martichko."

After we hung up, I called the Baileys and Brian Launder, and made tentative arrangements to meet them the following day, then I called Dave Pyeatt. He sounded nice, but definitely let me know that he would be going to a lot of trouble to give me a ride.

He said, "I'll have to get up at five in the morning to jockey cars and airplanes around and fly the Bonanza up to Camarillo to get the Waco before coming back down to Corona to pick you up. I'll try to get there around ten-thirty in the morning, before the winds pick up. And I'll be happy to give you a ride—that is, if the wind is still down the runway when I get there. I don't like landing the Waco in a crosswind."

"Okay" I said, "that would be fantastic!"

"Where do you want me to take you?" he asked.

"To Flabob Airfield."

"Flabob!?!" he exclaimed in disbelief. "That's only about ten miles away from Corona! Why don’t you just take a car?!"

"Uh, well, because this whole thing is about getting from place to place in old aeroplanes, see? One of the rules I made for myself is that I can’t go to the next airfield in a car, train, bus, taxi or anything else but a plane. And it has to be one that’s at least twenty-five years old,” I explained.

"Okay, I think I get it.”

“And I've heard that Flabob is a really interesting old airfield with a lot of colorful history,” I said.

“Yes it definitely is. I’ve been there once or twice...”

“After Flabob, we can go hopping around to other fields — if you wouldn't mind taking me?" I asked.

"Sure, that's fine. As long as the winds stay straight down the runways, that is," he said.

"Okay, great. I hear Chino is a good place, too, yes?"

"It is. It’s a great place. Lots of warbirds there, and I know a lot of the pilots there," he said.

"Super...And then at 6 p.m. I've arranged to fly with a guy who's got a Stearman at Long Beach Airport. Do you think you could you drop me off there on your way back home?”

"Sure, no problem. Who are you flying with at Long Beach?"

“Brian Launder. He wrote me a letter offering me a ride.”

“Oh, I know Brian. He’s a good guy,” he said.

July 7, 1988, 10:45 a.m., the next morning…
While frantically repacking my bags in the little trailer, there was a knock on the screen door.

"Dave Pyeatt?" I asked, opening the door.

"Yes. Good to meet you, Martha," he said with a very businesslike manner, extending his right hand.


[Reader, you’ll have to buy the printed version of this book to read the rest of this life-changing chapter with accompanying photos.]

[backusstudio]

Happy Thanksgiving 2007 Aerodromers!

Cool aerial pics, M. Love the ghost airfield.

[AAC Cadet Leader]

A Few People I Met



What are they doing? Why, they're taking the Air Adventurers pledge, of course!

[AAC Cadet Leader]

And Some Cool Overhead Views

[AAC Cadet Leader]

Mom's Log
Day 41
Thursday, July 7
California
Dave Pyeatt of Manhattan Beach, CA in a 1939 Waco UPF-7 flew to Corona and took Martha airport hopping. They stopped at Flabob Airport in Riverside, CA and met Bill Turner has been long-time refurbishing and replicating antique planes.

Roger Bailey, who wrote to Martha before her journey, was at Flabob when they arrived at 2 PM and took videos and will send Martha a Trade-A-Plane newspaper. He allowed her to use his camera to video the people she met while at Flabob Airport. It was a very unique place that seemed to be set back in time. The people at Flabob were also very interesting. Many had active antique airplanes and some flew in WWII.

Though Martha did not ask for donations, Mr. Turner offered Martha $40 toward expenses of her journey; two others then gave her $20 and $5.



They walked over to see Ray Stits at Flabob, an inventor of fabric covering for planes and plane pits, which he sells. He sent an ad to Lee Spencer’s aviation newspaper back in 1950 with a cover letter. The price then of a large display ad was $5. Martha sat with Mr. Stits at his desk and had a long conversation. He gave her $100 and said he remembered when he had a hard time getting started.

Met 4 or 5 more people and a man who is building a replica early 20’s or late teens of an Eagle Rock.

Dave then flew Martha to Long Beach Airport and they met Brian Launder in his 1941 Stearman. Martha took picture of Brian and Dave shaking hands. It was 5:30 and getting late and Martha wanted to see more airports in the area. Brian Launder flies a corporate plane, Cessna Citation. Long Beach Airport is very busy. They were the only antique planes in line and they were 8th and 9th for take-off.



Martha flew with Brian and took picture of Dave in his Waco with the Queen Mary and The Spruce Goose’s hangar in the background over the Long Beach Harbor. Dave then landed at Torrance Field in Torrance, CA and Martha and Brian circled the Goodyear Blimp and took a picture of a man waving from it. They flew over the beach and the industrial shipping channels and landed at Torrance Field, where they met six more people with Stearmans, etc. Dave Pyeatt knew them. M met a man (Harry Harlot?) who has an exquisite hangar with one of the first Stearmans ever built, different looking than others. He had a big box of WWII pilot helmets and gave Martha a soda and a WWI helmet with gosport holes (very rare) - megaphone type system for sound to travel from instructor to the student sitting in front of a “two-holer” (two open cockpits).

Went to another hangar where there were long-time fliers. Saw a 1928 Travelair and a Spitfire car that belongs to Dick [Smith]. Brian left for Long Beach and Dave took Martha to Manhattan Beach where she stayed overnight in a guestroom overlooking the ocean. Dave and Martha and his 6’7” very humorous roommate ate pizza and watched TV.