A Laundry Run

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Now if only there were a helipad in the Laundromat parking lot…

Our place at Howard Mesa is 40 acres with about 1/4 mile bordering state land. The lot is pie shaped, with the pie “crust” at the top of a gently sloping hill. About 5 acres at the top of the hill is quite level — certainly level enough to land a helicopter.

PhotoLast year, when I worked at Papillon, I had my R22, Three-Niner-Lima, up here with me. Sometime during the summer, we had a load of cinders (volcanic gravel which is widely available here) delivered and we — well, mostly Mike — spread it out to make an oddly shaped landing pad. That’s where I landed Three-Niner-Lima, and this year, that’s where I’m landing Zero-Mike-Lima. The pad is less than 50 feet away from our trailer and its screened-in room. It’s also less than 50 feet away from the horse corral, where our horses go to drink and to eat whatever we throw down to supplement their grazing. As I sit here in the screened-in room, typing this, it’s right in front of me. I put a little fence around it to keep the horses from wandering in. That’s probably a good thing, because they’ve been itchy lately and scratching themselves on anything handy: the corral gate, tree stumps, the BBQ grill shelf. I can just imagine them scratching themselves on the helicopter’s stinger and cracking a tail rotor blade in the process.

Today, I flew down to Williams to do my laundry, check my e-mail, and do some grocery shopping. I loaded up my laundry bag and a few small bags of garbage (no garbage pickup up here), did a preflight, and climbed on board. Cherokee was in the corral, munching on some timothy grass when I started up. He didn’t look concerned until I brought it up to 75% RPM for my mag check. Then he bolted. I don’t know where Jake was. Alex the Bird and Jack the Dog watched from the screened-in room as I spun up and took off.

I did a quick circle over our property to make sure the horses were together. Cherokee really freaks out when he can’t find Jake. They were together, gazing about 100 yards from the pad. I was already forgotten.

I zipped out over the mesa, then dropped down on the north side. I circled Larry Fox’s house; if he’d come out, I would have landed and offered him a ride. But he was nowhere to be seen, so I headed south, to Williams. I flew out over the town once before landing at the airport. I dumped the trash, added 25 gallons of fuel, then started up again and repositioned to a parking spot. Then locked up and lugged my laundry through the terminal to the parking lot out front where my faithful MR-2 is waiting.

As usual, it started right up. I really love that car. I mean, how could you not love a car that is content to wait in an airport parking lot days, weeks, or months before you come to put it to work? A car that always starts when you turn the key? A car with 132,000 miles and its original clutch?

I did my Williams chores, angry with myself for forgetting the cooler. That meant I couldn’t buy ice cream. Not that I need ice cream.

The Laundromat was particularly weird for me. Laundromats are weird places, anyway. In Williams, the people who use the Laundromat fall into two categories: the usual folks who don’t have washers and dryers (normally apartment or trailer dwellers on the lower side of the income scale) and vacationers who have run out of clean clothes. Most of the folks there that day were in the first category. I was kind of a mix of the two, but I fit right in, driving up in my sad little Toyota, wearing ratty clothes because that’s all I had left. I was the only one who knew I hadn’t arrived in Williams in that car. And I’m pretty darn sure that I was the only one in the place who was living in a trailer with a helicopter parked 50 feet away from it. But I enjoyed the experience, especially listening to the tips offered by one woman about using the dryers: “Only put in a quarter at a time. Then pull out the dry clothes and add another quarter for the rest.” A quarter gave you 10 minutes of dryer time. She claimed that her clothes were often dry with only a quarter’s worth of time. She must have a lot of polyester and nylon; my 100% cotton clothes took 3 to 4 quarters to dry.

I bought a bunch of groceries at Safeway and a few odds and ends at the hardware store, then zipped back to the airport and loaded the helicopter back up. The broom and 5 4-foot lengths of half-inch rebar were particularly difficult to load up. (No, they didn’t fit under the seat.) By that time, the wind was howling at Williams — probably 15-20 knots from the south (where my tail end was pointed). I started up, warmed up, and hover-taxied over to the taxiway with a nice crosswind. Then I pointed into the wind, made my departure call, and took off into the wind, making a 180° turn as I climbed out. With the 30-knot tailwind I had, it took less than 10 minutes to get back. (Sure beats the 50 minutes it would have taken in the truck.)

Back at Howard Mesa, the horses were in the corral, hanging out by the water trough. I came in from the north, watching them the whole time. I think they were sleeping, because they didn’t seem to notice me until I was about 100 feet from landing. Then they walked out of the corral and stood beside the fence at the far side, watching me, ready to run if they had to. They didn’t have to. I set down gently and shut down.

It took a lot of trips to unload the helicopter. And a lot of time to put all the stuff away.

But at least I got my flying fix for the day.

July 4th at Williams, AZ

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We spend our fifth consecutive July 4th in Williams.

Williams, AZ is a great little town. I mean, I really can’t say enough good things about it. But I’ll save some of those good things for another entry. This entry deals with our fifth July 4th in the town.

We started going to Williams for July 4th celebrations not long after we bought our place at Howard Mesa. Mike likes fireworks and Williams has ’em. It’s also 20° cooler than Wickenburg in July, which really counts when Wickenburg is 105°F. And let’s face it: Wickenburg probably has the worst July 4th fireworks in the entire country.

Williams has a July 4th Parade. But unlike most parades, the parade at Williams is held in the evening. In fact, it was still going on when Mike, Matt, Liz, and I drove into town at 6:15 PM for dinner at the Italian restaurant. Why in the evening? Well, Williams lives and breathes for the Grand Canyon, 60 miles to the north. Its tourist activities are in the morning, before folks leave their hotels for the GC or other destinations, or in the evening, when folks return from their day at the GC or arrive from other locations. It’s kind of a stopping point for lots of GC tourists. Williams is also home of the Grand Canyon Railroad, which runs a real steam engine to the GC and back every day. There are lots of hotels and restaurants and gift shops. And unlike other towns, the downtown area of Williams is not a showcase of empty storefronts and “not a retail outlet” offices. There’s plenty to see and do and buy, just strolling through town.

The parade was good for us — at least, that’s what we thought. Everyone would be watching the parade, so we could easily get a table in the restaurant. It appeared at first that we were right; there were plenty of tables. But when those tables never filled, we were a bit baffled. I mean, the food was good — I’d certainly go there again. The price was okay — not cheap but not outrageous. (After all, it is a tourist town.) But then Mike figured it out. The restaurant was on the west end of town, a bit beyond walking distance of the nightly shootout and other activities. Tourists like things in their faces. This wasn’t. Their loss.

Our waitress was Asian. That was really weird for me. After all, we were in an Italian restaurant. She spoke perfect English, with a very heavy Asian — Korean? Chinese? — accent. She was sharp as a tack and joked around with us. It was so refreshing to have a waitress who was fun.

I really need to get out more.

Afterward, we walked back to the car, which was conveniently parked in an area where we could watch the fireworks. We took folding chairs out and set them up in a grassy area across the street where other people were already set up. It was about 8:20 and the sun had gone down about 40 minutes before. The sky in the northwest, which we faced, was dark blue fading to redish violet at the horizon. Venus and whatever star that is that’s hanging around with it these days dipped toward the hills as we chatted, finally disappearing. Then it was 9:20 and the fireworks began.

At Williams, they shoot off fireworks in an empty field beside a manmade lake, just north of I-40. It’s a great spot because there’s little chance of the fireworks starting a fire with all that water so close by. Most of the observation areas are on the south side of I-40, so you look past the highway to see the fireworks. Not a big deal, because the highway is on the ground and the fireworks are in the air. Our observation point was farther south, on the south side of the railroad tracks. We had a perfect, unobstructed view, but we were a bit far away for my taste. I like to hear the explosions when the fireworks burst open — not 3 seconds later. I like to feel those explosions in my gut. I like my ears to ring when it’s all over.

Williams must have a considerable budget for fireworks because they sure shoot off a lot of them. And they don’t do them one at a time, like other small towns do. They light off a bunch at once, so there’s a lot to see. This year, the pauses between segments seemed a bit longer than usual. That could have something to do with one of the fireworks exploding on or near the ground. (There was a really long pause after that one.) But the whole show lasted about 30 minutes and the finale was five minutes of nonstop explosions of color that began right after the train went by. (I wonder if they knew the train was coming and waited until it was past?)

During the show, the wind shifted and began blowing from the north. The temperature dropped down to about 70°F; which left us thin-blooded low desert dwellers shivering in our seats. But I’ll take a cool breeze over a sweaty summer night any day.

We drove back to Howard Mesa, watching the cars and trucks in front of us on route 64 peel away to other communities along the way. The road to our place was dark and the sky was full of stars. It was a nice end to a great evening out with friends.

Public Sacrifices for the “War” in Iraq

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A story on NPR triggers some thoughts about U.S. activities in Iraq.

I was listening to NPR (National Pubilc Radio) today when they played a segment about whether people thought the general public should be sacrificing more during the war in Iraq. The topic, and the responses the reporter got from members of the public, really bugged me.

First of all, I thought the war in Iraq was over. Didn’t George W come on national television over a year ago and tell us that the war was over and we won? I’m still trying to figure out what our people are still doing over there (other than dying, getting their heads messed up, or embarrassing the rest of us by treating prisoners badly).

Second was the topic itself. The NPR reporter was apparently trying to draw some kind of comparison between our activities in Iraq and our participation in other wars, like World War II.

During WWII, the American public made many obvious sacrifices, such as the rationing of fuel and other commodities, required blackouts, and the participation of women in the workplace. This was required and, to my knowledge, accepted without much question. We were fighting for our freedom, striking back at an enemy that had struck us first (in the case of Japan), ensuring our own future. Many, many Americans died in that war, but they died to keep America free.

Our activities in Iraq are completely different. It is now commonly accepted that the excuse we used to attack Iraq was invalid — there were no weapons of mass destruction and our government probably knew it. Sure, we took a brutal tyrant down, and that has to be good for the people he oppressed. And yeah, terrorists probably took refuge in Iraq, where they planned attacks on us and our allies. But I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I believe our war in Iraq was a ploy by George W to get our minds off more serious problems at home: the economy, health care, and energy. It saddens me that 1,700 Americans (so far) had to lose their lives — and many others had to sustain serious injuries — just so the flag wavers could brag about how powerful we are.

The problem this past week was that opinion polls showed that George W is losing support for our activities in Iraq. More than half the U.S. population thinks we should get out of Iraq and some people who once thought it was a good idea to go there in the first place now think it was a mistake (duh). George W loaded up his fire extinguisher and tried to put out these fires with a speech at a military base. He wound up pissing off a lot of people with brains, people who took offense to his mention (seven times) of 9/11.

Hello? George? 9/11 has nothing to do with Iraq.

Which brings me back to the original topic of this entry: sacrifices. The NPR reporter’s take was that the average American doesn’t really think much about the war in Iraq because he/she isn’t making any sacrifices. So she went to the WWII Veterans and the Vietnam Veterans monuments in Washington D.C. and interviewed a few tourists. The comments were diverse and indicated to me how Americans are completely missing the point.

For example, one high school student said that there are kids at her school who cut class as an antiwar protest. But she says they really cut class because they don’t want to go to class. (I don’t know what this has to do with sacrifices. Maybe it’s just an indication on the inability of young people to answer a simple question.)

Another man, who’d fought in Korea (I think), said that Americans don’t need to make sacrifices for the war. The servicemen and women are doing their jobs so we don’t have to sacrifice anything.

A couple said that they sacrifice by spending a little more time in prayer, praying for our soldiers and the Iraqi people.

Another woman used up a bit of airtime by reminiscing about ration coupons during WWII.

None of these people, of course, actually knew anyone who was currently in Iraq.

Then came a bunch of women from Mississippi. They had sons or cousins or brothers or nephews overseas in Iraq. One mother, who was obviously at the verge of tears as she spoke, said we need to send letters to soldiers. Her son says that at mail call, the people who don’t get letters have really disappointed faces. Listening to her voice, always on the verge of breaking down, brought tears to my eyes. This woman could lose her son as so many other mothers already have. For what?

Of course, the thing that the NPR reporter and the people she interviewed are all missing is that the American people are making sacrifices. We’re making sacrifices every day.

What?

Do you know how much this war is costing us? I don’t know an exact number (not having access to the Internet to look it up), but I know it’s a very big number. Billions of dollars. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could pour some of that money into health care? Renewable energy research? Education? The arts?

Can you imagine the kinds of things we’re missing out on because so many of our tax dollars are being used to pay for a war that isn’t doing us any good?

Why doesn’t the NPR reporter see this? Why didn’t any of the people she spoke to see this?

And what happens when the money runs out? Does the government simply go further into debt, thus ensuring that the next few generations of Americans will continue to pay for this war? Or will the government simply raise taxes, in the name of freedom and democracy, expecting us to tighten our belts and do without?

And what of the Americans who have died? Haven’t their families — wives, husbands, children, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters — made some sacrifices? Or the men and women who return with serious physical or psychological problems? Haven’t they made some sacrifices?

Am I the only one seeing this?

Smoke

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Arizona is burning (again), but not here.

The other day, one of my editors asked me, in an e-mail message, whether there was smoke where I was. She lives in Salt Lake City, UT and smoke from fires all the way down near St. George was coming up her way. At the time, I reported that Howard Mesa was smoke free.

But yesterday morning, when I opened the camper door to let Jack out, I smelled smoke — enough of it to throw my shoes on and walk over to the shed, which has a view out to the west. I scanned the horizon, looking for the fire I smelled. But there was nothing definitive in any direction. (I have a good nose for smoke. When we lived in Bayside, NY, I once woke up in the middle of the night, smelling smoke. It turned out that a church 13 blocks away had burned to the ground during the night.)

SmokeI didn’t see or smell smoke all day yesterday. But in the evening, as the sun was setting, I saw the smoke on the northwestern horizon. Probably the fire out in the St. George area about 120 miles away. This morning, the smoke from Arizona’s big fire — the second biggest in its history — had drifted north, past the San Francisco Peaks, shrouding the eastern horizon. I almost missed the sunrise. The sun fought to be seen through the thick smoke, appearing as an orange globe poking out through the top of the thickest of it. There was little light from the sun at first. Then, when it broke clear of the cloud layer, I could feel its bright warmth. The smoke cloud faded back to a blue-gray blanket on the horizon.

As I type this, the Cave Creek Complex fire has burned 140,000 acres of Arizona desert. I’m not sure exactly where it’s burning, but descriptions of its progress has me worried about one of our favorite fly-in destinations, the landing strip at Red Creek on the Verde River. The Sonoran desert out there is beautiful, almost pristine because of its remoteness. The landing strip, although rough for airplanes, is fine for helicopters. There’s a picnic table there and a bunch of donated equipment, including lawn chairs, water bottles, and emergency equipment. There’s also a trail down to the river, that runs past an old bunkhouse. At the river, tall trees offer cool shade. A secluded paradise, a secret on the Verde River.

When the fire is finally out and the temporary flight restrictions removed, I’ll fly down there and see what’s left of the area.

Getting to Work

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I spend my first day “working” at Howard Mesa.

Sunrise this morning was extra beautiful. There was a line of light clouds just above the eastern horizon and, as the sun made its way west, it illuminated the cloud bottoms. First brilliant orange, then gray, then lavender, and finally pink. Then the sun was up, casting a golden glow over my “camp” before disappearing briefly behind those clouds. Then it was daytime.

It was surprisingly warm this morning: 61°F at dawn. That’s warm enough to have my morning coffee outside, in the sunshine. Alex went right into his cage and Jack, after scouting around a bit, retreated to his favorite hangout, under the trailer. The horses even put in an appearance for a drink and the alfalfa I’d left for them.

The wind started picking up right after dawn. I’d been thinking about burning some of the cardboard boxes we’ve been accumulating, but I won’t start a fire if there’s anything more than a breeze. By the time I was ready to do it, it was already too windy. I’d have to wait until tomorrow. I started work on the partition wall framing in the shed. The wall is 80 inches long and about 70 inches tall, and divides off a 44 inch portion of the shed that will someday be a tiny bathroom. I’d bought a book about basic carpentry, so I knew what to do: nail in the header, use a plumb bob to position the footer, and nail in the footer. Then position the vertical studs 24 inches on center apart.

Interior of ShedI didn’t have to cut any wood. I’d bought all the wood pre-cut to my specifications. There’s a hardware store in Wickenburg (Johnson Lumber) that is very nice about cutting wood for me and that’s where I bought it. I took measurements last time I was up here, so I had exact numbers. That was odd because the vertical studs each needed to be a different length. When I assembled all the pieces, they fit perfectly.

I used 2x6s for this partition wall. The reason: all the piping between the bathroom and kitchen will be in it and I wanted to make sure the wood was wide enough to drill through for the pipes.

Unfortunately, I’d neglected to buy the metal do-dads I needed to attach the studs to the header and footer. (There’s no way I’m going to be able to sink a nail on a 45° angle.) I debated making my trip to Flagstaff today — I even told Mike I would — but I decided to see how far I could get without them. Because the pieces of wood fit so snugly, I was able to wedge them into place. That made it possible to get accurate measurements for the horizontal pieces that need to go between them. I hope the folks at the Home Depot in Flag are as nice about cutting lumber as the Johnson Lumber folks.

Interior of ShedTo see whether I’d be able to get my ever-growing butt past the bathroom vanity once it was installed, I took it out of its box and set it in place. That’s when I realized why it had only cost me $78 assembled with a sink basin: it was a piece of junk. It was falling apart and I had to use some skinny nails I happened to have to bang it all back together. Then I placed the basin in (partially to help hold the thing together) and moved it into place, trying to imagine a wall behind it. Yes, I could walk past it. Next, I worked on the ladder we’d use to get up to the loft. The loft is about 6-1/2 feet high, and just tall enough to sit up comfortably on. We’ll be putting a bed up there. Well, a mattress. And some carpeting under it. I positioned one 8-foot 2×4 on an angle against the edge of the loft, then took the precut 18-inch long pieces and a level and marked off where they’d need to be nailed in. The ladder’s rungs need to be parallel to the ground. This is something I learned when I built my first loft, back in college. The first ladder’s steps had been perpendicular to the sides and the ladder had been placed vertically. This made it very difficult to negotiate. So I put the ladder on an angle and then had to reposition the steps so I wouldn’t hurt my bare feet climbing up and down.

While in the process of nailing in rungs, I managed to bash the top segment of my left index finger really hard. It’s purplish and swollen now and tender to the touch. It’s a good thing that for some reason, that’s one of only two fingers I don’t use when I type. It just hangs out there in space, along with my left thumb, while the other eight get the job done.

There’s one thing you can count on just about all the time at Howard Mesa: wind. The wind picked up as I worked and kept picking up all morning. By 11 AM, when I stopped for a break, it was howling. I tuned in my aviation radio to Weather Channel 2, which covers northern Arizona and heard that a wind advisory was in effect for my area, with winds of 25 to 35 mph, gusting to 45 mph. Soon I began worrying about the trailer’s awning, which was taking a real beating. And Alex, in his cage, having trouble moving around without getting blown around.

I took a shower and had lunch. I ate outside on the picnic table to keep Alex company. Bad idea. My wet hair dried in seconds in a style reminiscent of Einstein. I really need a haircut.

By 1 PM, the wind was very bad. I set up Alex’s small cage in the back half of the trailer, with the connecting door open so he could see me. Then I settled onto the sofa inside the trailer and worked on the index cards I’m using to organize my novel. I turned on my PowerBook and fired up iTunes. Although my 12-inch PowerBook doesn’t have great speakers, I’d rather have 2,205 songs to choose from than listen to whatever’s playing on NPR or the local classic rock station. I mostly played Native American flute music, since Alex likes it. He didn’t like being in the camper’s back room and the camper’s constant shaking and rattling was making him nervous.

Every once in a while, I’d have to go outside and reattach one of the do-dads that keep the awning from flopping around. That requires standing on a stepladder and using a pair of pliers to twist a wing nut tight. I even had to adjust the tie-downs on the helicopter’s blades. They were flopping around far too much.

I made some baked beans on the stove. When I went to add the tomato paste, however, I discovered that the can I’d picked up included garlic, basil, and oregano. Not exactly what I had in mind for baked beans. Why is it that you can’t buy plain canned food? Why do they feel as if they need to add all the seasonings for you?

By 4 PM, the wind was calming down. I brought Alex back outside and came out with a book I’d bought long ago, Cause of Death. This Writer’s Digest Publishing book provides a lot of information about death and bodies for people writing about it. I learned enough to accurately describe the dead body my protagonists discover and get some additional information I may use in the future.

I went on my afternoon walk at 5:40 PM. I know the exact time because I called Mike and left a message for him on his cell phone just before I left. He called back when I reached the gate. Because I didn’t have much confidence in the cell signal, I remained rooted in position for the entire five-minute conversation. Then Jack the Dog and I walked down to “Four Corners” and back, a distance of about a mile. I walked briskly both ways. Jack ran. He chased rabbits, smelled things, and left urine samples here and there.

Back at the camper, I settled down with my PowerBook to write this blog. And that’s where I am now.

Tomorrow, I’m going to Flagstaff. I have a very long list of things to buy before the weekend and expect to spend most of the day there. I’ll stop in Williams on my way to publish my latest blog entries, collect my e-mail, and gather the incoming messages I’m expecting.