Barnstorming in a Ghost Town

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How Mike, John, Lorna, and I are surprised by a successful desert barnstorming gig.

It started about a month ago. Janet and I had done some desert barnstorming and had ended up in Congress, across from the Congress Trading Post. We’d talked to some of the locals and they’d suggested that we go out to Stanton, a ghost town about eight miles southeast, when they were having one of their “outings.”

Stanton, AZ was a huge mining community back in the 1800s. The story goes that a group of settlers were traveling through the area, led by some Indian guides. In their travels, they crossed a mountain that came to be known as Rich Hill. In a place that came to be known as Potato Patch, they found gold nuggets the size of — you guessed it — potatoes, right on the surface. The miners came and the town sprung up in a valley just west of the mountain.

Stanton was quite a community in its day. It boasted an opera house, hotel, and stage stop. These building still stand, preserved and protected from vandals by the town’s current owners, the Lost Dutchman’s Mining Association. (I can’t make this stuff up.)

The Lost Dutchman’s Mining Association is a club of people interested in looking for gold. The club owns several properties in the southwest. If you’re a member, you can camp on any of the properties for a very reasonable daily, weekly, or monthly fee. But best of all, you can dig on the club’s mining claims, like the ones around Stanton, where they’re still occasionally finding impressive gold nuggets.

The Lost Dutchman’s Mining Association has several outings at Stanton every year. I missed the one in December, which was supposed to be the big one. (Let’s hope I don’t miss it next year.) But I did make it to the one on February 21, 2004. And I brought Mike, John, Lorna, and Tristan’s R44.

I’d made arrangements two weeks before with Linda and Larry, the town’s caretakers. The rides would be $25 per person and would go up and around Rich Hill, with views of Potato Patch. I didn’t expect to do many rides. After all, the people who go to Stanton are an older crowd and older folks tend to be afraid of helicopters. But I was wrong.

We arrived five minutes late and there were so many people waiting around my landing zone that I couldn’t land there. Instead, I had to land on a nearby road and let Mike out with instructions to shoo them away. When I repositioned, Mike, John, and Lorna went into action. They loaded my first group of passengers before I could even think of getting out. When the crowd finally faded away more than two hours later, I’d taken 26 people on rides.

The ride itself is worth mentioning in some detail. Stanton is at about 3500 feet. To view the top of Rich Hill and Potato Patch, I had to climb to 5500 feet. I took off from my LZ, climbing carefully over some power lines, then turned toward the ruined ghost town of Octave, in the next valley. I flew up that valley, climbing at 800 to 1200 feet per minute (depending on my payload). At the end of that valley, I hopped over the mountain to the valley in which Stanton lies and headed toward Stanton, which looked like oh-so-many tiny trailers off in the distance. After a quick peek at Potato Patch — which is kind of a bowl at the top of the mountain — I began a steep 1000 feet per minute descent. Of course, that’s not steep enough to be at ground level by the time I reached Stanton, so I headed out over the desert about a half mile before looping back over Stanton and then looping back again to my LZ. I did this about 10 times and really had the hang of it by the time we were done.

I took my ground crew on the same tour before heading back to Wickenburg. I was tired. I’d flown nonstop for more than two hours and I’d never even gotten out of the helicopter. When we landed in Wickenburg, I checked the hobbs meter, which only runs when the helicopter’s collective is up. Exactly 2 hours. For the first time since starting my desert barnstorming, I made some serious money.

Best of all, Mike, John, Lorna, and I had had some fun.

And the Lost Dutchmen members? They’ll be talking about it for weeks to come.

One more thing…if you should happen to be watching the Outdoor Channel and see some aerial video of the Stanton area, you know who flew the camera around.

Smoke in the Cockpit!

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How I learn the importance of having a fire extinguisher on board.

Saturday, February 7, 2004 was a typical Arizona winter day. Temperatures in the 60s, clear skies, light winds. Mike was working at the airport until 2 pm, when we expected a furniture delivery. The monthly airport barbeque was set up by 11:30 when I decided to take a trip down to the place I planned to do some desert barnstorming the following day.

A few weeks before, Janet and I had done some desert barnstorming in Tristan’s R44 helicopter, north of Carefree Highway, west of Lake Pleasant where some ATVers had gathered to ride on the trails. We didn’t do very well — we just did one ride for three people — but one of the people told us that there was a big motorcross scheduled for February 8. They told us that if we came back then, we’d be able to do lots of rides.

I decided to check things out the day before. Since my helicopter is a heck of a lot cheaper to fly than Tristan’s, I fired it up and headed east.

Things were really hopping when I got there. The place was full of trailers and dirt bikes and a huge red and white striped tent had been set up not far from a good landing zone. I set Three-Niner-Lima down and kept an eye out while I shut down. When the blades had stopped, I made my way to the big tent.

There was a lot of activity in the area. Dirt bikes rolled by, stirring up clouds of dust. Vendors selling all kinds of dirt bike paraphernalia had set up shop under canopies alongside the dirt road. There was even a food vendor with a smoker.

The huge tent was almost empty. Tables had been set up around the perimeter, but there wasn’t much going on at any of them. In the back was a table with two computers and a few guys staring at them. I walked back and introduced myself.

Oddly enough, one of the guys at the computers was one of the three people who’d flown with me a few weeks before. He remembered me and called over someone else who was a decision maker. She was thrilled to see me. She told me she was supposed to call me and had forgotten. She was glad I’d come. Of course I could do rides. She called over another boss person and told him. He was busy but seemed mildly interested. He said he’d announce the rides at the dinner that night. I offered three free rides for a raffle and promised to return the next day with my ground crew.

It was nearly 1 pm when I returned to Three-Niner-Lima. I’d promised Mike I’d be back by 1:30 so I could go home and await the furniture. I checked the oil, walked around to look for obvious tampering, and climbed aboard. Then I went through my all-too-familiar ritual of starting up.

I put my headset on, leaving my right ear uncovered. I pushed the mixture full rich. I turned on the master switch. I opened my door and called out “Clear!”, making sure it really was clear. Then I turned the key to start and started the engine. Flicked the Clutch, Strobe, and Alternator switches. Checked to make sure I had good oil pressure and that the starter light was out. The blade started turning. Then I turned on the avionics in the usual order: transponder, radio, GPS.

“Pop!”

The sound was new, something I’d never heard before. I distinctly remember saying “That’s odd,” to myself. “I wonder what that is?” Then I looked at the instrument panel and saw the puff of smoke on the passenger side, right beside the GPS.

Smoke.

I cut the throttle, flicked the clutch off, and pulled the mixture. The engine died. I remembered my fire emergency procedures and flicked off all switches, then turned the fuel selector to off. I opened my door and stepped outside, looking anxiously in the cabin I’d just vacated.

Fortunately, nothing was on fire. The smoke dissipated, leaving an electical fire smell behind.

I waited to be sure that nothing was on fire. Then I thought about my situation. Parked out in the desert, about 20 miles from home. Furniture due to arrive in an hour. Mike would be pissed.

But hell, my helicopter could be on fire!

But it wasn’t.

I remembered my emergency kit, which I kept under my seat. I dug it out. It has a very nice Swiss Army tool in it. With a screwdriver that I could use to open the instrument panel for a peek inside.

I was unscrewing the panel when a man rode up on his ATV. I told him my situation as I worked. He told me he was an electrician. (How could I get so lucky?) He helped me open the panel. I swung it back and we peered inside. No trace of any problem. No trace of burning, smoke, or anything else. Surprisingly, not even much dust.

Not satisfied, I decided to remove the panel covering my avionics. We had four screws out when we realized that there would be at least eight screws and we’d need a microscopic allen wrench to get the knob off my radio. That wasn’t a job to do out in the desert. So we closed it back up.

He asked me if I had a fire extinguisher. I told him I didn’t. He told me he’d get me one and took off on his ATV.

I called Mike and told him the situation. I couldn’t stand next to the helicopter while I was on the phone. The signal was bad there. I had to walk 20 feet away. I told him what had happen and what I’d done. I told him I planned to start up the ship with the circuit breakers for the avionics pulled. If that worked, I’d fly home. But I wouldn’t have any radios, so he should start making radio calls for me in about 20 minutes, warning area pilots that a helicopter without radios was on its way in.

The man on the ATV returned with a small fire extinguisher. He told me it belonged to the people serving food and made me promise to bring it back. I promised. I also promised to give him a helicopter ride the next day. I studied the instructions on the fire extinguisher and stowed it on the passenger side floor. Then I climbed back on board and he rode away. I pulled out the Pilot Operating Handbook and read the Fire procedures in the Emergency Procedures section, just to make sure I knew them very well.

I pulled the two avionics circuit breakers and the one for the avionics fan. I figured that if there was a fire in there, the last thing I needed was a fan blowing air on it. Then I went through my startup ritual (see above), skipping the part where I turn on the avionics. The blades were spinning when I realized that I was hearing a rhythmic clicking sound I don’t think I’d ever heard before. Although there was no smoke, the sound spooked me. I turned everything off again.

Now I was desperate. I wasn’t sure if the helicopter was safe to fly, but I didn’t know what to do. I called MIke again and gave him an update. He started making plans for coming to pick me up. Then I told him I’d call Paul Mansfield.

Paul Mansfield was my mechanic. He’s probably one of the best Robinson Helicopter mechanics out there. Unfortunately, due to a disagreement between me and the company he works for, I’m not allowed to bring my helicopter to him for servicing. I wasn’t very happy about this and neither was he. He told me that if I ever had a problem, I could call him. He even gave me his cell phone number.

Throughout the past three years or so, I’ve called him about four times. He’s been very helpful. I called him that day. He answered. I told my story. When I got to the part about the smoke, he said what I’d been thinking at the time: “That’s not good.” I was glad we agreed on that point.

He thought the problem might be in the strobe, which I’d turned on right before the avionics and had turned on the second time I’d started, too. The rhythmic clicking sound could correspond to the charging mechanism. He thought I might be hearing it through my headset. He suggested that I leave the strobe off and give it a try. I thanked him and hung up.

I called Mike to give him an update. By now, it was almost 1:30. I was going to be late — if I ever made it at all.

I climbed aboard again and pulled two more circuit breakers: the strobe and the intercom (what the heck; who was I going to talk to anyway?). I started it up. The clicking was gone. There was no smoke. Everything was fine.

Of course, a ton of stuff wasn’t even turned on.

I took off cautiously, my eyes straying occasionally to where I’d seen the smoke and the fire extinguisher lying on the floor beyond it. I flew low for two reasons. First, without a radio, I wouldn’t be able to announce my position to anyone. I was far less likely to encounter someone at 400 feet AGL than higher. Second, I wanted to be close to the ground in case I needed to land in a hurry. Let’s face it, the closer you are to the ground, the quicker you’ll get there.

I also decided not to take the quickest route home, which went across the mostly flat and definitely empty desert. If I had to land, I wanted to land where some people would see me and be able to help — or at least give me a ride to civilization. So I followed Carefree Highway and, when I reached it, Grand Avenue.

My Bose headset, which has excellent noise cancellation features, completely stinks when it isn’t powered up. I’d unplugged it before taking off, so it offered very little sound muffling. The helicopter was very loud and I imagined that every noise was a new one, one that could mean trouble. But there was no trouble. I flew into Wickenburg, flying only about 300 feet above the ground so I’d remain clear of any traffic in the pattern or departing the area. Then I made an approach from the south to the helipad. It was 1:50 PM when I set down.

Mike was busy fueling helicopters: a Schweitzer 300 and a Robinson R22. I wanted to look at the Schweitzer, but didn’t have time. I hopped in my Jeep and went home. The furniture guys arrived five minutes after I did. Mike arrived ten minutes later.

On Monday, my local mechanic, Ed, took apart the instrument panel and removed the avionics. The GPS had faint singe marks on it, but when we removed it from its case, its circuits were okay. He reassembled everything and we powered up the avionics stack. No popping noises, no smoke. Everything fully functioning.

I hate when that happens.

Ed thinks there might have been a loose screw or something inside the stack. It hit the GPS case and caused a little short circuit, complete with smoke, but didn’t pop the circuit breaker. Then the helicopter’s vibrations shook the screw into a place where it couldn’t be found. A place where it wouldn’t pop again.

I hope Ed is right and that there’s no more smoke in my cockpit.

Since then, I’ve flown more than 6 hours in Three-Niner-Lima — now nicknamed “Smokey” — and haven’t had any problems at all. It went to Prescott for a 100-hour inspection and Cody, the mechanic there, couldn’t find any problems either.

But I bought Three-Niner-Lima a present from the Robinson Helicopter Company: its very own fire extinguisher.

The Truth about Me

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A report on the fallout from a previous journal entry.

A long time has gone by since I wrote the journal entry titled “Living on the Edge of Nowhere.” Much has happened in that time.

First of all, I have to say that I’m flattered. At least one person in Wickenburg, the tiny desert town I live in, finds my writing stimulating enough to read everything I’ve ever written on all of my Web sites. That’s the only explanation. How else could someone here find my Weblog, which is buried deep in the bowels of my Web work and not even hosted on my own server?

One of these people liked the”Life on the Edge of Nowhere” piece so much that he (or she) sent it around to other fans via e-mail. He (or she) also printed it, photocopied it, and shared it with a bunch of others. Obviously, this person is above copyright law because he (or she) flagrantly violated it by distributing my work without my permission. (My lawyer is working on the paperwork for that issue.)

The result of the widespread distribution of this one article is quite comical. A few people asked me about it. They weren’t happy, but when told about the context in which it appeared, they didn’t seem to mind. After all, it isn’t as if this piece were printed on the front page of the New York Times. (Although I’m sure a lot of New Yorkers would have enjoyed it very much.) Other people, who I know read it, never said a word to me about it. To them, it was business as usual. A few other people who read it stopped me to tell me how much they agreed with me and how I shouldn’t be so frustrated living in Wickenburg. (The piece was written in a moment of frustration — that should be clear to anyone who read it.) One person even stopped by with his copy to read his favorite parts aloud to me, laughing the whole time. And a few people who didn’t know much about me made a point of looking me up to talk about things. Two of them booked helicopter rides and enjoyed them immensely.

The people who distributed the piece did so for a reason. They want the townspeople to think that I’m a one-woman hit squad, out to get Wickenburg. This isn’t what THEY think — they know better. They’ve seen the work I’ve done in town, especially at the airport, where I’ve invested over $20,000 in furniture, building improvements, a courtesy car, and landscaping. They’ve seen me at fundraising events for the museum and the Rotary. They watched me land Santa Claus at the Community Center in my helicopter for Cops Who Care and have seen me marking numbers on horse butts as a volunteer for the Land of the Sun Endurance Ride. They’ve heard about my presentations to school kids in Congress and Salome, about how I landed my helicopter in the schoolyard, then spent several hours addressing each class of kids. And they’ve seen the dozens of pages I’ve written for wickenburg-az.com , a Web site I maintain at my own expense that provides a wealth of non-commercial information about the town without charging anyone a penny for advertising or access.

But it isn’t the positive things I’ve said on wickenburg-az.com that they spread around. It’s the work where I point out Wickenburg’s shortcomings. As a result, the people who read what they illegally distribute get a lopsided picture of me.

What the people who distributed the piece don’t realize (partially because they’re so close-minded and self-served that they can’t see reality) is that voicing opinions of Wickenburg — both positive and negative — brings to light the way people see the town. We all know what’s good about the town: the laid back atmosphere, the weather (at least 10 months out of the year), the widespread spaces between many of the homes, the relatively low (yes, I said low) cost of living, the ability to live without fear of crime. And frankly, we all know what’s not so good about Wickenburg, too. Why shouldn’t we voice our opinions about it?

Wickenburg isn’t perfect — we all know that. No place is perfect. If there were a perfect place to live, everyone would move there and it wouldn’t be perfect anymore. (I think that’s what happened to San Diego.)

By bringing Wickenburg’s shortcomings to light, we make people aware of them, people who can make a difference. For example, if I complain about the lack of good ethnic food here in Wickenburg it may become a topic of conversation. Someone who has been interested in starting a restaurant might realize that there’s a niche to fill. He might open up an Indian or Greek or Spanish or fill-in-the-blank restaurant in town. That’s adding to what the town offers residents and visitors. It adds tax revenues to the town’s coffers. It offers employment opportunities. It makes the town better.

This has worked in the past. For example, way back before Alco came to town, townspeople often complained that there were no basic clothing stores in town. Indeed, if you needed to buy underwear or socks, you had to go “down the hill” to Surprise, Glendale, etc. The folks at Double-D heard what was being said. They now sell these things. And Alco came along to add more variety to these offerings and more.

I could write all day about the good and not-so-good things in Wickenburg, but I won’t do it here. Why should I? This article won’t get the widespread attention that “Life on the Edge of Nowhere” got. Because it shows me the way I really am: someone who cares enough about the town to speak out.

And the folks who want to keep that picture of me slanted the other way just don’t want people to know the truth.

The Right Tool for Photo Shoots

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How we finally find the right camera for doing photo shoots.

When Mike and I first decided to start doing aerial photography, we went nuts looking for some good reference material to help us understand the best way to go about it. We finally wound up with a book called Secrets of Successful Aerial Photography.

This book was somewhat helpful in that it discussed photographic techniques. It also offered a piece of advice that I wish we’d ignored: It recommended the Pentax 67 camera.

The Pentax 67 is a medium format camera that is extremely heavy and quite expensive. We tracked a used one down at a camera shop in New Jersey and paid $1,500 for it. The camera had a built-in light meter, but did not have automatic exposure. That meant that the photographer had to adjust the shutter speed or aperture for every single shot.

Mike, my photographer, was lazy. He’d adjust the exposure once, then do the entire shoot with those settings. His logic was that since we were flying over the same area at the same time of day, the exposure didn’t need changing. What he didn’t take into consideration is that when you point north, south, east, or west, the light changes depending on the sun’s location — even when the sun is high in the sky. As a result, many of the shots were over or under exposed.

Mike decided to try shooting with his Nikon F2, which does have automatic exposure. The trouble with that is that Mike didn’t always capture exactly what the client wanted. As a result, photos needed to be cropped. Cropping 35mm images and enlarging them results in grainy photos. Although some of our clients didn’t seem to mind, it wasn’t the quality I wanted to offer.

My 2 megapixel Canon S300 was out for two reasons: first, it seemed to have trouble focusing in the featureless desert terrain we often shot. Second, cropping and enlarging photos resulted in pixelated shots. Not the quality I wanted to offer.

But a digital camera did offer one benefit — it saved money on film and processing. We could shoot dozens of images on one outing, delete the really bad ones, and prepare proofs on a color photo printer for our customers. It was quick and relatively cheap.

I decided that we needed to try a different digital camera and made a list of desired features:

  • Manual focus, so focus could be set to infinity
  • Shutter speed priority automatic exposure, so we could eliminate body shake and get good exposures
  • High resolution, so even cropped images could be enlarged without losing quality

We looked at several cameras that met these requirements. Unfortunately, they all offered lots of other features we didn’t need — and were priced accordingly.

We wound up with a Canon PowerShot G5 camera. This 5 megapixel camera has all the features we wanted — and a few others (like exposure bracketing) that help us get the job done right. Best of all, I used the photo printing feature of iPhoto to order a 16 x 20 enlargement of a photo I took with the camera and got back a clear, color-perfect image.

Know anyone who wants to buy a slightly used Pentax 67?

Cliff Dwellings — Not!

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Mike and I take Three-Niner-Lima to explore some cliff dwellings and get less than we bargained for.

If you’ve been reading this bLog, you may recall that on a trip to the Wayside Inn, I passed what looked like a cliff dwelling along the Date Creek wash. It was a cut out in the cliff face that looked like a cave. I’ve seen plenty of cliff dwellings around the southwest and although this wasn’t big, it looked like the real thing.

I told Mike about it and on Sunday, after doing a quick photo shoot in Forepaugh, we decided to check it out.

I used my GPS to head straight out toward the Wayside Inn, then dropped into the wide Date Creek wash when I was still at least ten miles out. The cave had been on the left, near the top of the cliff. We flew at a good pace, but not too fast to see where we were going. It was a very clear day, but windy. We’d had a tailwind most of the way out, but when we dropped into the wash, much of the wind was blocked. It was a smooth flight.

I saw the cave and pointed it out to Mike. He looked though some binoculars he’d brought along and made a noncommittal noise. I told him I’d pass by again, lower and slower. I made a tight turn, then flew back up the canyon. I turned again, then dropped altitude until I was about 200 feet AGL, cruising at about 70 knots. Mike looked; I watched where I was going. He agreed that it could be a cliff dwelling.

PhotoI looked for a place to land and found a large, clear area in the middle of the wash. It had rained several days before and had snowed up in the mountains. Areas of the was were still wet. I set down on a high, sandy area where the sand looked packed. I lowered the collective slowly once I’d touched down, watching my skid sink into the sand. It sunk in about an inch. Mike said there was no sink on his side. Satisfied, I shut down.

We took our picnic lunch, my new Canon G5 camera (which we’d used for the photo shoot), and a flashlight out of the helicopter and packed them in a canvas bag. Then we started walking. The cave was about 1/4 mile away. The walk to the base of the cliff was easy — gently sloping desert terrain with creosote, palo verde, cholla, and joshua trees. The slopes were cut with shallow washes — hundreds of them — that drained water into the wash. The ground was damp and relatively soft. There were no animal tracks and no signs of people.

PhotoAt the base of the cliff, I stopped to take a photo of the cave. It looked very promising. In fact, I was sure I could see signs of a manmade wall inside the cave.

We started climbing up the side of the hill. It was easier than it looked. The soft soil made it easy to step up on. It only took us about 10 minutes to make the climb.

But when we reached the cave, we were disappointed. The cave was only a fraction of the size we thought it was. In fact, it couldn’t have been more than 20 inches high in its highest spot. The cave roof was stained by leeched water containing some kind of chemical. It made an interesting pattern in one area. The cave floor was littered with cholla spines. It was obvious that the cave had been used as a home by some kind of rodent — probably a pack rat.

PhotoDisappointed, we made our way back down the hill. We stopped on a sunny spot and ate lunch, admiring the view across the wash, where years of erosion had eaten away the cliffs.

We walked back to the helicopter, climbed on board, and took off. We continued down the wash to the point where it joined the upper end of Alamo Lake. Then I turned east, flying up the Santa Maria River. I’d seen another cave the last time I’d been through and thought about visiting it, too. But I was kind of turned off to the cave thing after our disappointment. In any case, I didn’t see the one along the Santa Maria.

PhotoWe followed the river east to route 93 and explored some of the rock formations there. Some people on ATVs looked up at us as we flew over. Then we headed up the road to Burro Creek. Mike wanted to see the campground from the air; we were thinking about spending a few days there at the end of the month. He shot these two excellent photos. The bridge over Burro Creek. (Yes, it is possible to fly under the bridge, but we didn’t do it that day. The bridge isn’t the problem; the power lines, which hang lower than the bridge, are what’s scary.)

By this time, I was getting alarmed about our fuel situation. We’d left with about 22 gallons on board and had been flying for more than an hour. We decided to go straight home. I punched Wickenburg’s designator into the GPS and set a course. Unfortunately, the tailwind we’d had while flying toward Alamo Lake had become a headwind — about a 15-knot headwind. I dropped down to about 400 AGL, hoping to stay out of the wind. It didn’t help much. I watched the fuel gauges drop steadily. I pitched for my best range speed of 85 knots. We were still about 20 miles out when the Aux tank gauge got to E. I knew we had at least 15 minutes left on the main tank, but the GPS said it would take 17 minutes to reach Wickenburg. Route 93 was within sight. I decided that if the main tank gauge approached E while I was still 5 or more miles out, I’d fly over the road. Then, if the Low Fuel (read that “Land Now”) light went on, I could land close to the road and not have to walk far for a ride.

Fortunately, we made it to Wickenburg and I landed without seeing the light. But both fuel gauges were on E. I took this shot as I cooled down the engine; note the oil pressure; the engine really is running for this shot.

The trip had been fun, although a bit stressful. It was good to get out and fly with Mike; I’d been doing so much solo flying. But next time, I won’t let the fuel get so low.