Category Archives: Days in My Life

I don’t just sit around and watch TV.

A Friend Drops In…Literally

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How I’m pleasantly surprised by the visit of a good friend.

It was about 5:30 PM and I was just getting ready to step out of the shower when I heard the helicopter fly over the house. I immediately assumed it was LifeNet, the local medical evacuation company, which is based in Wickenburg. They often fly over our house on their way from Phoenix to the airport for fuel. But this helicopter was a lot lower than LifeNet usually flies. And, as I reached for my towel, I realized it was coming back for another pass.

It must be Jim, then, I thought to myself. Jim, who lives in Wickenburg, flies a Hughes 500c. Sometimes, when he’s out flying around, he’ll fly past my house. But Jim normally flies in the morning, not in the evening. I wrapped my towel around me and went out on the upstairs patio to take a look.

It wasn’t Jim. It was a Bell 206L LongRanger. With a rainbow colored paint job. And that meant it could only be one person: Rod Carr.

He came by for another pass as I waved wildly with my free hand. The other hand was holding my towel on. He must have seen me, because he veered away suddenly, climbing out toward the airport.

Rod Flies InI ran downstairs and grabbed my aviation radio. I turned it on and tuned into Wickenburg just as he was making his call.

“Hey, Rod. You’re landing at the airport?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Going to be here for a while?”

“Just a bit.”

“Let me get some clothes on and I’ll be right over.”

I got dressed in a hurry, loaded Jack the dog into the Jeep (since Rod likes Jack), and raced to the airport. Raced is actually the right word here. I caught myself going faster than I should have several times and slowed down each time. It was getting late and the sun had already set. I figured Rod’s visit would have to be short since he probably wouldn’t want to fly wherever he had to go in the dark. It gets very dark out in the desert around Wickenburg.

But when I got to the airport, Rod was tying down the blades. That isn’t the kind of thing you’d do if you were only going to be around for a short while.

Turns out, Rod was working out in Salome, which is about 60 miles west of Wickenburg. He was on a Game and Fish contract that had something to do with counting bighorn sheep up in the mountains. He’d flown into Salome a while before and shut down for the night. But when he met up with his fuel truck driver, he learned that there were no more motel rooms in town. (Frankly, I didn’t even know Salome had a motel.) So he decided to fire his helicopter back up and fly to Wickenburg, where there were lots of motels.

Of course, I wouldn’t let him stay in a motel. I helped him close down the ship for the night, then loaded his gear into the back of the Jeep. Then he, Jack, and I went home.

We had a nice evening, with dinner at House Berlin (the local German restaurant; highly recommended) and then several hours of chatting out on the back patio. I heard all kinds of helicopter pilot stories — Rod is full of them. Then we all turned in for the night.

This morning, Rod reported that he slept like a log. He said he got his helicopter log book up to date, then laid back on the bed and — pow! He was dead asleep. He didn’t get up until almost 7 AM.

I took him back to the airport and helped him with his preflight. (After all, not long ago I was preflighting helicopters just like it.) Then, after listening to him thank me about a dozen times, I watched him climb into the cockpit. I retreated with Jack in the Jeep to give him some space. He started up and took off to the west.

And I’m looking forward to the next time he buzzes my house.

Remembering Harry Combs

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My thoughts on a great man in aviation who I was privileged to know.
I first met Harry Combs in November 2002, not long after I’d taken over operation of the airport. I’d been subletting his hangar every summer for my helicopter for three years, but had never met him in person up to that point.

Mr. C, as many folks called him, had a home at Rancho de los Caballeros in Wickenburg. He’d arrive in Wickenburg each November as a passenger on a Lear 35 jet — the same jet he’d owned and flown years before. At the Pima Air Museum, there’s a Wright Brothers display that includes a photograph of Mr. C standing beside his Lear with the distinctive Kitty Hawk monument in the distance. Mr. C had sold the jet to a fractional jet company with the stipulation that any time he wanted to fly, that same jet would take him.

Last year, Mr. C would occasionally stop in at the airport terminal to chat. He had many nice things to say about the work I’d done at the airport and it was an honor to receive complements from such an aviation legend.

I recall a conversation I had with Mr. C at the terminal one spring, when he told me about the Wright Flyer reproduction he had commissioned for display at Kitty Hawk. He’d been almost outraged that there was no full-scale reproduction of the plane at the park and had done something about it. “It’s going to cost a lot,” he told me more than once during the conversation. I never asked how much.

Every year, someone would ferry Mr. C’s Bonanza down to Wickenburg, not long after his arrival. At that point, the subletter would be kicked out of his hangar — sometimes with as little as two days’ notice — and his plane would be moved in.

I recall seeing him arrive at the airport with Joyce, his secretary, for a flight in the spring. Mr. C had turned 90 in January and he was a bit unsteady. Joyce looked nervous. We all tried to talk Mr. C out of flying — without insulting him, of course. But Mr. C was stubborn and it appears he knew what he was doing. His takeoff on runway 23 looked smooth as silk, despite the crosswind. After flying around the desert northwest of the airport for a while, I heard Joyce’s voice on the radio, announcing their return. (Mr. C left all radio communications to Joyce.) Mr. C landed smoothly and taxied back to the hangar. Ed and Rob put his plane away. That’s the last time I saw them fly.

Mr. C was 90 when he made that flight. He’d been flying for 75 years, since he was 15 years old. He had witnessed aviation grow from the days when flying was left to daredevils to a time when getting on a plane to go from one point to another is commonplace for anyone. He was a great supporter of aviation and aviation history, the author of a book about the Wright Brothers (Kill Devil Hills), and a contributor to aviation museums.

Mr. C died just after his trip to the 100th anniversary celebration of the Wright Brother’s first flight. He was two months shy of his 91st birthday.

I’ll miss Mr. C, but I’m glad I had a chance to know him.

I Get It Right (For a Change)

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I make three good transportation decisions in the same day.

I’m just finishing up a week working at my summer job at the Grand Canyon. While I’m working, I live in my trailer at Howard Mesa. It’s a 36 mile drive or 28 nautical mile flight to work.

At the end of my work week, I fly home. Normally, I leave directly from Grand Canyon Airport at the end of my last work day. It’s a 1-1/2 to 2 hour flight at the end of a day when I may have already flown six or seven hours. The air is usually hot and full of thermals. Or thunderstorms have moved in. It’s not fun.

So here’s the situation last night. I get a bad night’s sleep, mostly because I have a headache and the wind keeps flopping the awning around. I wake fully at 5:15 AM. It’s cloudy. I make my first decision: I’m not going to fly home directly from the airport. Why? Because I simply don’t have enough time to pack everything up into the helicopter and close up the trailer.

Then I make my second decision: I’m going to drive to the airport. This one had some real logic behind it. It was cloudy and the weather folks were predicting a 50% chance of rain. There was a definite possibility that I wouldn’t be able to fly back from the airport at the end of the day. That means the helicopter would have to be left there overnight and retrieved in the morning. That would add an hour to my travel time the next morning when I needed to fly home. So I drove my Toyota, which had been parked at Howard Mesa for about a month, to work. It took exactly 41 minutes, including the amount of time I needed to open and close the gate.

Later, at the end of the day, I made my third decision: I’m going to drive the Jeep back to Howard Mesa. The Jeep had been parked at the airport for about a month. I use it on the days I fly in, as my local transportation. So I swapped the Toyota for the Jeep and drove back to Howard Mesa at the end of the day.

These turned out to be good decisions. The reason? First of all, I flew 6.5 hours and was exhausted. Certainly not feeling up to another 1.5 to 2 hours at the stick. Second of all, nasty thunderstorms were all over the area — especially at Howard Mesa. The roads were unbelievably muddy. The Toyota would never have made it up the Mesa. Heck, the Jeep almost didn’t — I skidded off the road into a ditch and needed to shift into 4-Low to get out. And flying up would have been completely out of the question.

So now I sit here in my trailer, toasty warm while it rains outside. The Jeep is covered with thick, reddish mud what will certainly turn a few heads the next time it rolls into civilization. The helicopter awaits me outside, where the dust is (hopefully) being washed off by the rain. Tomorrow, I’ll sleep as late as I can (probably until 5:30 if I’m lucky), have a leisurely breakfast, and pack everything up for my return trip to Wickenburg. The air will be cool and smooth for my flight. Sure, I’ll miss a morning at the office, but I can’t work ALL of the time, can I?

The Bag Works

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I try out my canvas shopping bag and get the discount, without saying a word.

I went shopping at the Grand Canyon Market in Tusayan the other day. I brought along my special local discount canvas shopping bag.

Allow me to regress. The bag is not made of canvas. It’s made of recycled soda bottles that have somehow been spun into thread and woven into fabric. If I understand this correctly, this means my bag is not biodegradable. It will last forever.

Of course, being a used bag that has obviously seen the inside of a coin-operated washing machine, it is pilled. I’ve never seen a pilled soda bottle, but there it is.

I walked over to the checkout counter and unloaded my milk and junk food selections onto the counter. I placed the canvas bag beside them. When the woman appeared to be ignoring it, I shifted its position, making sure she saw the green labeling that clearly identified it as the special bag. She continued loading groceries into plastic bags. I started loading groceries into the pseudo-canvas bag. For a moment, we competed to load groceries. She won. More groceries were in plastic than pseudo-canvas. I guess I’ll never have a career as a grocery bagger.

The total came to $25 and change, but she pressed a few keys and it dropped down to $19 and change. I think some of those keys were to remove the Pop Tarts she’d charged me twice for. But the other keys were for the whopping 10% discount I was entitled to as the owner of a special local discount pseudo canvas shopping bag. I paid with a $20 bill and actually got some change.

Wow.

Now where’s the laundromat?

When it Rains, It Pours

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Monsoon season arrives and foils some travel plans.

Monsoon season started the other day. Although it didn’t seem very serious about raining at first, it soon got right down to business.

I was supposed to start work at 6:55 AM this morning at the Grand Canyon. The plan was to fly up from Wickenburg at 5:00 AM. Even with mild headwinds, I would still get to work on time.

Yesterday evening, we prepared by rolling out Three-Niner-Lima, topping off its fuel, putting some of my luggage on board, tying down its blades, and putting its cockpit cover on. I’d drive to the airport first thing in the morning, stow my car in the hangar, do a quick preflight, and take off.

I knew it was monsoon season. And I knew that thunderstorms were possible any afternoon. But I’d be leaving in the morning. And we hardly ever got thunderstorms in the morning.

The lightning woke me at 1 AM. Out to the south. I got up and peered out the french doors in our bedroom though half-asleep eyes. There was a storm to the south. I went to the den and peered out the windows that looked north. Nothing. It was still early. Whatever storm was raging would have plenty of time to wear itself out by the time I had to leave.

I slept fitfully for the rest of the night. When my alarm went off at 4 AM, I was already half awake.

And there was still lightning to the south.

I watched the Weather Channel. It showed a storm morning northwest. But those darn maps don’t have enough detail to really see where the storm is.

I hopped into the shower. An enormous boom thundered over my head as I rinsed off. I knew where the map was showing the storm.

It was unnaturally dark at 4:30 AM when I came downstairs. I was pretty sure I was going to have to drive. And be about an hour late for work. I called and left messages for the bosses. Mike had already made my coffee and I drank it, listening to the thunder and lightning and pouring rain. At one point, the storm seemed to be fading. I opened the front door and looked out to the north. A bolt of lightning shot from the sky about two miles away. It seemed to say: “Are you crazy? Of course you can’t fly.”

So I drove. I took the Honda, which is a pleasure to drive. I had to stop at the airport to pick up some of my luggage (in the rain) and then fill up with gas. But by 5:00 AM, I was on the road, heading north while the rain pelted the car, washing off weeks of accumulated dust.

As an Arizona driver, I have a problem every monsoon season: I find that I have to reacquaint myself with the controls for my windshield wipers. Although I’d purchased the Honda back in August 2003, I’d only driven it in the rain once or twice. It had less than 5,000 miles on it. That morning, it was dark when I tried to figure the wipers out. I finally learned enough to turn them on and off. Later in the drive, I’d get fancy with the different speeds and the washer fluid.

It rained hard with lightning in every direction all the way through Wickenburg to Congress. I got stuck behind a slow car on 89 and passed him without problem. There weren’t many other cars on the road. The skies stayed dark as I wound my way up Yarnell Hill and through Yarnell. The rain had stopped up there, but the pavement was wet. And before I could even turn off my wipers, the rain started all over again — with a vengeance. And that’s when I made a discovery about the roads in Arizona: they’re not crowned.

If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, think of the roads in a place like New York or New Jersey, where it’s common to get rain at least once a week. (Sheesh. I can’t even remember what that’s like!) The roads are taller in the middle — right around where the dividing line is — than on the edges. When it rains, the water hits the hump and rolls off either side. The result: the roads aren’t likely to get flooded.

In Arizona, the roads appear to be flat. Of course, that asphalt gets pretty hot every day at least half the year. People drive on it and their tires go in the same two ruts on either side of the dividing line. The result: the road has a pair of ruts in each lane. When it rains, the water fills the ruts.

I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say that the ruts are probably about 1-3 inches deep and about 2 feet wide. And my little car, driving 10 mph below the legal limit of 65, could not handle all that water. It began to hydroplane. That required me to cut speed to 50 mph or less. Not a good idea when I was already going to be at least an hour late for work. So I improvised. I drove with one wheel on the line and the other on the hump between the two ruts. Because there weren’t many other cars on the road that early in the morning, I was able to drive without danger of scaring an oncoming car off the road. And I could keep up my speed.

By Kirkland Junction, the rain had stopped again. By Kirkland, it was starting to get light. After Skull Valley, I was able to turn off my headlights. The sun was rising behind the Mingus Mountains as I drove into Prescott. There were still plenty of clouds up there, but the ceilings were high. If only I lived there! Then I could have flown.

I stopped for breakfast at McDonald’s in Chino Valley. What’s another 5 minutes when you’re already an hour late?

I debated taking the top down, but decided not not. It was quite cool outside and I didn’t want to have to stop to put it back up if I ran into more rain.

I was on I-40 between Ash Fork and Williams when 6:55 AM came and went. I imagined the other pilots outside, preflighting their helicopters. I wondered if my bosses were pissed off and decided that it really didn’t matter.

I rolled into Tusayan at 7:45. By the time I got up to the break room and logged in, it was 7:55. An hour late. The priority board showed that I’d been made a spare. I wound up flying a total of only 1.5 hours all day.

I couldn’t tell if my boss was pissed. He has a way about him that sometimes makes him impossible to read. I told him that it wouldn’t happen again. That from now on, I’d fly or drive up the afternoon before I had to start work.

Of course, that’s when it normally rains this time of year.