Author Archives: Maria Langer

How the Other Half Lives

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Mike and I spend time down in Phoenix, chatting with “city folk.”

A few weeks ago, I was invited to a housewarming party down in Phoenix. The party was yesterday evening. After some minor discussion, Mike and I hopped into my city car (the Honda S2000), put the top down, and sped southeast.

We hit Home Depot and A.J.’s Fine Food along the way. At Home Depot, we needed to gather pricing information for a summer cabin I’d like to build on our property at Howard Mesa. The plan is to have a building shell put on the property, then fill the shell with the comforts of home — things like toilets, sinks, lights, a bed, a stove. You know. That stuff you have where you live that makes your home feel more like a home than a campsite. We bought our hostess a nice orchid plant with a decorative pot and a Home Depot gift card. Then we hit A.J.’s for some deli salads and a cake.

Our hostess was one of my editors. I write articles for a technology Web site called InformIt, which is somehow related to Peachpit Press, one of my publishers. I write about the kinds of things that can be found in my Peachpit books and InformIt adds links so readers can buy my books. They also pay me a few hundred bucks per article. That’s a good deal for me, since I can knock off two articles in a day and they seem interested in publishing anything I want to write about. When I’m done with my Tiger book, I plan on writing eight or ten articles for them before I dive into my QuickBooks book.

I’d never met Esther in person and the photos she uses as her iChat icon looks nothing like she does in real life. (I think it might be a glamour photo.) So when we arrived at her house, it took some guessing to figure out which one she was. I got a big hug before she hurried off to do other things. Mike and I grabbed a coke and tried to mingle with the other guests. We were not very successful. The other guests were gathered in groups and obviously knew each other. They pretty much ignored us newcomers. I guess they didn’t need to meet anyone new. We didn’t need to meet anyone new either, but you don’t normally go to a party with that attitude, so we’d left it at home. Since several of the conversations seemed to revolve around OS/2 (an ancient IBM-created operating system, if you recall), we didn’t feel as if we were missing much.

After a while, Esther showed us around the house. They’d been living there three months and had finished most of their unpacking. Both Esther and her husband, Bill, work out of the house and their offices were in the two front bedrooms, side by side. Lots of computer stuff. Mike says the house was probably built in the 70s, but I think it might be early 80s. It had an interesting layout, with a master bedroom suite tucked into one corner and a long, narrow kitchen with two giant refrigerators and a chest freezer. (Seriously into refrigeration, as Mike said.) Esther brought us back out into the back yard, which was completely surrounded by a 6-1/2 foot wall, and had a curvy-shaped pool with a fence around it. There were big trees that shaded the half of the yard without the pool. The next door neighbor had really, really tall palm trees. A third of an acre, Esther told us proudly. “Pretty big for this area.”

The area was just south of Thunderbird around 56th Street. All the houses were like Esther’s: single-story homes with walled-in back yards, and security company signs on their front lawns. Suburbia. Later, Mike commented about how odd it was to not be able to see the horizon from the backyard. I hadn’t thought about it. The backyard hadn’t seemed like the outdoors to me and I wasn’t really expecting to see the horizon.

We found some folks in one of the two living rooms who were more friendly and we settled down with them. One group was a family: mom, dad, and two kids. The son, who was probably about 11, had his head buried in a Game Boy the entire time we were at the party — about 2 and a half hours, as it turns out. He even managed to continue playing while he was eating dinner. The girl, who was 8, spent much of the time browsing through Esther’s impressive collection of books, which includes some compilations of comics and an odd book called “Why Cats Paint.” The dad told us about his flight training experiences, which were impressive but did not result in a pilot certificate. The mom talked with two other moms about the school systems where they lived.

Another guy who heard we’d driven down from Wickenburg was very impressed. “That’s a long drive,” he said. “And I was debating whether it was worth the drive for me.” He’d come from Thunderbird and 24th Street. Just over thirty city blocks away. Well, to be fair, blocks in Phoenix aren’t like blocks in New York. You can walk 30 blocks in New York and not break a sweat. Thirty blocks in Phoenix has to be at least three miles. That was some drive.

The conversation turned to neighborhoods and this is where it got weird. They all started comparing their neighborhoods. Apparently, it was a good thing that in one neighborhood, people liked to put their barbecue grills out on the driveway and hang out there. So everyone had their barbecues out in front of their houses, within shouting distance to their neighbors. Almost every house in that same neighborhood, which was on Wagon Wheel Road, had wagon wheels in front of their houses and they’d put colored lights on the wagon wheels for all the holidays. People would drive through the neighborhood on those holidays just to look at the lights on the wagon wheels. Another neighborhood got hundreds of kids for Halloween because people from South Phoenix would drop off their kids there to go trick or treating.

Esther’s real estate agent showed up late with a woman and a plate of cookies. They were dressed as if they were ready to hit some posh wine bar in Scottsdale after the festivities at Esther’s. They joined in the conversation. And that’s when Esther started talking about the convenience of living two houses off Thunderbird. When they lived in Taranto, they’d get in the car and have to drive 10 minutes before they got to any shopping. That gave them plenty of time in the car to decide where they were going out to eat. Now they have no time for discussion in the car. They get to shopping within minutes and there are so many choices. And sometimes, they even pass their house while they’re still out shopping!

Wow. I never really thought of convenience as a reason to live in one of the thousands of “compartmentalized” homes in the Valley. Sure, I bitch that there are no dining options here in Wickenburg and shopping is somewhat limited. But never in a million years would I consider moving down into the Phoenix area just to increase my dining and shopping options. That’s a quality of life change. Those folks get their privacy from 6-1/2 foot walls that block the views. I get my privacy from having neighbors that live too far away to see into my windows. Those folks make their neighbors an integral part of their lives with community barbecues and home lighting rituals. I make outdoor activities and recreation an integral part of my life with hiking, horseback riding, and Jeeping — all from my backyard. Those people live with the sound of traffic on Thunderbird or other major arteries a backdrop to their daily existence. The soundtrack for my life is the sound of the wind and the birds and the occasional howl of a coyote or hoot of an owl.

We left the party at 9 PM, using our long drive as an excuse for early departure. We were tired — Mike had done some serious yard work early in the day and I’d spent 3 hours that morning at the office. We drove up to I-17 and Carefree Highway with the top down. The sky was clear and the moon was full. As the ambient light around us faded, the stars emerged, one by one. I realized that the folks we’d spent the evening with probably couldn’t see the stars from their homes.

Would I trade my lifestyle for theirs? What do you think?

Sunset and Moonlight, All in One Flight

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I take Mike and two friends down to Falcon Field for dinner.

Depart Wickenburg by helicopter about a half hour before sunset and head southeast. Behind you, as the sun sinks into the horizon, the light casts a golden glow over the mountains all around you. The saguaros and hillsides throw long shadows that add texture to the desert below you. Off ahead, in the distance, you can see the tall buildings of downtown Phoenix. They get closer and closer as desert gives away to west valley subdivisions. You pass over familiar landmarks: Arrowhead Mall and Bell Road, Metro Center Mall and I-17. Look straight down Central Avenue, now lit by the headlights or taillights of cars on their way north or south. The helicopter crosses highway 51 and banks to the east to pass between Piestewa (Squaw) Peak and Camelback Mountain, where you can see the homes of some the area’s wealthiest residents clustered in the foothills around you. At the Loop 101, the course shifts back to the southeast. The land below you, now mostly in shadow as the sun has set, is Reservation and you can clearly see where Indian lands stop and Scottsdale subdivisions begin. The pilot talks on the radio now, to Falcon Tower, requesting entry into its airspace with the intent to land. The controller issues instructions in what sounds like code and the pilot replies. You pass over the Salt River, which has flooded its normally dry course, approach the twin runways at Mesa’s Falcon Field airport, turn to the east, and land — right in the aircraft parking lot in front of a restaurant. Inside, patrons lucky enough to get a window seat are watching the helicopter maneuver to a parking spot and set down. A short while later, when the engine has been turned off, you step out onto the pavement, where the air is still warm and the sky to the west is glowing with color. A short walk up a path to a door marked “Pilot’s Entrance” and you’re inside at the hostess desk, waiting to be seated.

That’s what Mike, John, and Lorna experienced yesterday evening, when they climbed aboard Zero-Mike-Lima for a dinner flight to Falcon Field. Mike and I had made the trip many times before in my old R22, but this was the first flight down there in my new R44. It was great to have some friends along for the ride. It’s the kind of trip that makes getting around by helicopter kind of magical. But the best was yet to come.

Anzio’s Landing at Falcon Field is an excellent Italian restaurant. They combine quality ingredients with imagination to offer a wide variety of tasty appetizers, entrees, and desserts. Although they are located at the approach end of Falcon’s Runway 22 left (the southeast corner of the airport, for those of you who are not pilots) and have six aircraft parking spots right out front, the vast majority of their patrons do not arrive by aircraft. I think that says a lot about the restaurant; a typical airport restaurant caters primarily to pilots and those interested in flying.

We skipped the appetizers (to save room for dessert) and ordered entrees we couldn’t get within 30 miles of Wickenburg: veal chianti, veal parmesan, shrimp and mussels, and sliced pork tenderloin. All dishes were served with an excellent sauce over a bed of pasta. For dessert, we split a bread pudding with vanilla sauce and ice cream and creme brulee. The meal was served at a leisurely pace by a server who greeted us by asking how the flight had been and telling us that he’d always wanted to fly in a helicopter. Through the window, we could see the arrival and later, the departure, of a Cessna that had also flown in for dinner.

John graciously picked up the tab for the meal and we slipped back outside, through a gate marked “Pilots Only.” It was now dark outside, but the moon, which was almost full, glowed from behind a thin veil of clouds. I checked the helicopter’s fluids with the aid of a flashlight and we climbed aboard, stowing our leftovers under the seats. A while later, the engine warmed up, I picked up to a hover, called the tower, and got permission to cross both runways for our return flight home.

All around us, the city of Phoenix and its suburbs sparkled with light. Street lights, store lights, headlights, house lights, park lights — white lights, red lights, blue lights, green lights — there was more light from the ground than from the moon high above us. We took the same route home but it looked completely different. The light reflected up into the cockpit, illuminating the bubble and the main rotor blades spinning above us. Once past route 51, we could clearly see the deep darkness to the northwest where the urban sprawl ended and the empty desert began. After a while, we crossed into this darkness. Our eyes, not yet adjusted, filled the windows with a whitish haze that faded away slowly. Then the desert below us was clearly illuminated by the light of the moon. We saw cars cutting through the desert on roads and winding their way around the track at the Chrysler proving grounds. Ahead, in the distance, a line of headlights clearly indicated the path of route 93 southeast bound towards us from Kingman. The town of Wickenburg sparkled like a little chest of jewels. Five miles out, I made my radio call on the otherwise empty Wickenburg Airport frequency. Gus, at the airport, responded with current winds and altimeter setting. A few clicks on the mike button and the airport lights came alive. We flew up Sols Wash and made a straight in approach for runway 23. I showed John and Lorna how the PAPI lights, which I never use, turn color when an airplane gets on the proper glide slope for landing. Then we zipped down the runway, about 50 feet off the ground, and set down on one of the parking spaces near the hangars.

It was 9:30 — just over 3 hours from our departure from Wickenburg. It had been a great flight and a wonderful night out.

Now that I have a Part 135 certificate, I can do this flight for hire. I think it would make a very special evening for a couple celebrating an anniversary, or a great gift for someone’s birthday. Since the trip takes 1-1/2 to 2 hours of flight time (depending on wind), it’s a bit pricey: $595 for up to 3 passengers (and that doesn’t include dinner). But I hope there’s someone out there willing to splurge. I don’t think they’ll be disappointed.

Me, I’m just looking forward to the opportunity to share this experience with others.

The Truth About Spring Break

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I get a rude awakening when I try to become part of the fun at Spring Break.

Imagine this: a lakeside town in the desert. Temperatures around 80°F every day, sunny every day. Lots of hotels, restaurants, bars, boat rental places. An airport with flights from Phoenix.

Now add several thousand college students, off for a week for spring break.

You’d think that these kids would be interested in doing fun stuff, right? That they’d want their spring break to be memorable. That they’d want to have stories to tell their less fortunate friends, the friends who don’t get all-expenses-paid-by-dad trips to one of the Spring Break capitals of the southwest.

I’ll tell you what they want to do. They want to get up late (because they’re hung over) and start the day by filling the cooler with ice and beer. (Or taking that keg out of their hotel room and getting it refilled.) They want to be loud and obnoxious, so all their friends who are still sleeping will soon be awake. The girls want to dress in clothes that are so skimpy, their grandmothers would keel over and drop dead from shock if they saw them. Everyone wants to makes sure that every single tattoo they have is visible — or at least partially visible. As they walk around, getting themselves together for the day, they have their cell phones up against their heads, trying to coordinate the day’s big event. And that event? Well, it’s the same as the day before: hop in a boat with beer and junk food and cruise about five miles down the lake to a place called Copper Canyon. The canyon is tiny and features a rock formation jutting out of the water. Once there, they cram their boat in with the scores of others, fastening them together with ropes to make them into one big floating platform. Let the drinking begin! They spend the day out there in the sun, drinking beer, jumping into the water, listening to loud music. Then, when the keg is empty or most of the group is unconscious, the designated boat driver makes his way back to home base. They hit the bar at the hotel to start their serious drinking. Somewhere along the line, they get a bit cleaned up and dressed. Then they hit the fast food joints or pizza place or corn dog stand for dinner. More drinking follows, with loud music now provided by a DJ at the popular hot spot, which, on occasion, dumps foam onto the intoxicated dancers to make things just a little more interesting. When the bars shut down around 2 or 3 AM, it’s back to the hotel where they spend an hour or so yelling back and forth to each other before finally passing out.

The next day, it starts all over again.

Silly me. I thought young people would enjoy helicopter rides. I thought they’d enjoy seeing their beloved Copper Canyon from the air. That it would give them an experience that they’d remember and want to tell their friends about. Something they could even tell their parents about.

Silly me.

Too Old for a Helicopter Ride?

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And people think I say bad things about seniors!

About two months ago — maybe longer — I wrote to Bud Carr, president of Rainbow Parks, Inc. Rainbow owns a number of 55+ trailer parks, including North Ranch, which is halfway between Wickenburg and Congress on Route 89.

Last year, when I had Tristan’s helicopter, I’d landed in a big open area at North Ranch to talk to the folks that run the park about doing helicopter rides there. I’d already had successful events at Stanton (the ghost town, which is inhabited by members of the Lost Dutchman’s Mining Association) and at Robson’s Mining World. At all of these events, the vast majority of my passengers had been aged 55+. Landing the helicopter at North Ranch got a lot of attention (it usually does) and lots of folks seemed interested in rides. But the manager told me I’d have to write to the head office to get their approval.

So I did. And after more than two months, the head office answered me. And I still can’t believe what they said.

“Thank you for your proposal,” Mr Carr wrote. “Due to the age of our members and concerns about liability and insurance, we are not able to allow you to give helicopter rides at our property.”

I added the bold italics. It’s that phrase that really tweaked me. (I’m used to the insurance argument and have enough insurance to satisfy most folks.) It’s obvious to me that Mr. Carr believes that his members are all half dead or too feeble to enjoy a scenic helicopter ride.

Any of the hundreds of people who have flown with me over the past five years can attest that a flight with me is nothing like an amusement park ride. Blood pressures will not rise. Hearts won’t fail. Arteries won’t harden and clog. I’ve never had a passenger complain about a flight; I’ve never had a dissatisfied customer.

“Due to the age of our members…”

A few weeks ago, I took a 90-year-old woman and her 88-year-old brother on an hour long flight up the Salt River from Mesa to Roosevelt Lake. They were like two kids in there, talking about the rock formations and the boats on the lakes and the greenness of the desert. The woman had been wanting to fly in a helicopter for more than 40 years, but her husband had asked her not to. Her children knew how much it meant to her. My helicopter and I were her birthday surprise.

“Due to the age of our members…”

In January, I was part of the Anniversary Celebration entertainment at Robson’s Mining World in Aguila. I took 47 people on flights that day and more than half of them were over 55. In fact, when I arrived at 9 AM, there were eight “seniors” waiting for me. They’d driven to Robson’s from their 55+ park in Hope, AZ specifically to fly with me.

“Due to the age of our members…”

This past weekend, I wasted my time at Lake Havasu City offering helicopter rides for spring break. Thousands of college students had descended on the city and its resorts. I waited with my helicopter in a parking lot at one of the resorts, right where all the kids could see us. I took a total of seven people for rides in two days. And do you know what? All seven of them were older than me. (I’m 43 these days.) Two of them were over 70. One woman was a nervous wreck when we took off, but ten minutes later, as I made my approach to land, she said, “Oh, that was too short! I want to do it again.”

Where were the kids? Maybe they were too young to enjoy a helicopter ride. (In reality, all they were interested in was beer and boobs. But don’t get me started about that.)

“Due to the age of our members…”

But the folks at North Ranch won’t be getting helicopter rides there. Bud Carr thinks they all have one foot in the grave.

And this guy is the company president?

People – What are they thinking?

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I try to understand how some people think.

The other day, I was up in Prescott, taking care of some business for Flying M Air. Since it had been three or more years since my last eye exam and my vision was starting to fail again, I made an appointment for an eye exam at the Sears Optical department. (I could go into a long story here about why I don’t get my eyes checked in Wickenburg, but I’ll keep it simple: inconvenient hours, bad service, and/or questionable business practices, depending on which eye care practitioner you visit.)

I arrived early, and while I was waiting, I did a little shopping in the mall. I needed a new purse. I’d been looking for a while, but finally found just the right one at Dillards. (Nothing like that feeling of success when you’re been trying hard to find something and finally hit paydirt.) Outside of Dillards was a kitchen store. I needed a box of those little gas canisters for my whip cream machine. I always forget to buy them when I’m in those stores because they keep them behind the counter. (Apparently, kids inhale the gas to get high, so they commonly steal them from the stores.) I don’t see them so I don’t remember to buy them. I remembered that day and I took care of it then.

The woman behind the counter noticed the Flying M Air logo on my shirt. “Do you fly helicopters?” she asked.

I admitted that I did.

“Do you want to hear a great story about a helicopter?”

“Sure.” I always like hearing great stories.

She then proceeded to tell me about her boss’s father, who had been killed in Buckeye in a gyroplane accident. She managed to mangle the information about the cause of the accident just enough to assure me that she had no idea what she was talking about. The story was not great — nothing good happened in it at all. The guy got himself killed because he apparently lost control of the aircraft. (Stupid pilot tricks.) And the story wasn’t even about helicopters.

I don’t recall how I reacted to the story. I must have said appropriately polite things. But in my mind, I was trying to figure out why she had told me the story at all. That’s what I was still thinking about when I left the store and went to my eye exam.

So why did she tell me the story? And why are some people so consumed by the misfortune of others? Why do people watch news stories that report bad things? What’s with people?