Jumper Away!

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The Grand Canyon has its first suicide by helicopter jump…and I happen to be the pilot.

It’s true. I was the pilot in the helicopter that made the news this week.

I don’t want to spend too many bytes discussing it here. Frankly, I’m a little tired of talking about it.

The short version is this: we were near the end of a North Canyon tour in the Dragon Corridor. We were about 2 minutes from crossing back over the south rim. I suddenly realized that the passenger beside me had his door open and was sticking his head out. About a second later, I realized that he was trying to get out. I grabbed his belt and held him, then started to think about what would happen if I got him back inside and he went berserk. He could have taken the controls or hurt me. We could have crashed. So I let go of him and he jumped. It’s as simple as that.

He fell 3000 feet. I didn’t circle back. Why should I? He was obviously dead. Besides, I was hysterical, screaming into the radio and shaking like a leaf. And then I had to deal with his headset hanging out the door by its cord — something I didn’t want hitting the tail rotor. And getting his door closed. And calming the other passengers. And landing us all safely at the heliport.

I talked to a lot of policemen. I was offered counseling. I was told over and over that I did the right thing. There’s no question about that. That’s probably why I’m not having much of a problem with it. It takes two hands to fly a helicopter. And it may have taken two hands to fight off a suicidal maniac. So I made my choice based on what we’re taught: in an emergency, your first priority is to fly the helicopter.

I took the next day off. When I came back to work on Saturday, people were surprised to see me. They obviously thought I’d become a basket case, traumatized by the event. I hadn’t. Although I do admit that I jumped when a passenger beside me yesterday quickly reached for her camera (near her seat belt clasp). And the movement of passengers shifting in their seats in the back of the helicopter makes me wonder if someone is heading for a door.

But I think I’ll get over all that. After all, this is the first time this has ever happened. Forty years of tours, millions of people flown. What’s the chance that it happens again? To me?

I’m Officially a LOCAL Now

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I finally get my hands on a Grand Canyon Market canvas grocery bag.

Mike came up to spend the day with me on Friday. Thursday had been extremely weird for me — I’ll probably write up a brief description of that ordeal somewhere here — and I got the day off to recover from the weirdness. Mike figured I needed company and volunteered to drive up. Although he wanted to drive in to Flagstaff for the day, I didn’t feel like dealing with the long drive or traffic. So instead, we took our bicycles to the Grand Canyon.

We had lunch at El Tovar (why not?) and took the bikes over to the bike trail that runs from the library to the new Canyon Information Plaza. The trail was pleasant: paved smooth, winding through tall trees, and completely underutilized. I wasn’t sure, but it seemed as if it were mostly uphill. (I later discovered I was right.) We did the two miles to the Info Plaza, looked at some of the displays there, and then continued on to the Mather Point Lookout, which is one of my favorite canyon viewpoints.

We rode back on the main road. But on the way, we made a point of stopping at the Marketplace area, where the post office and grocery store are. That was where I’d get my canvas bag.

As we wheeled our bikes to the bike rack, I saw a woman waiting by the curb with five canvas bags. I pointed at them and said aloud, “That’s what I need.”

She heard me and said, “Do you want one of mine? I have nine of them.”

“Why do you have nine?”

“Well, I’m a LOCAL.” (She stressed the word as if it were something she was proud of that pained her very deeply.) “Every time I come here, I forget to bring my bag and have to buy another one. They cost about $6 each.”

I’d heard they cost $10, but I still hadn’t seen one in the store. I said, “If you’re serious, I’ll give you six bucks for one.”

“Sold.”

She transfered groceries out of the biggest of the bags, moving them into the other bags. Her gallon of milk didn’t fit, but she didn’t seem to care. I got the feeling that she thought the $6 was worth it. I gave her the money and she gave me the bag. I rolled it up and bungeed it onto my bike.

So I now have the bag. I’m a LOCAL. I’m looking forward to using it next time I’m up here.

Decisions, Decisions

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I make a tough decision each day on what vehicle I’ll use to commute to work.

I’m spoiled. I know it. Even though I live in a tiny trailer when I’m working at the Grand Canyon, I have three vehicles to choose from for my daily commute from Howard Mesa to Grand Canyon Airport.

Three! The first is my “airport car,” a 1987 Toyota MR2. I’m the original owner of this little gem and put most of its 130,000 miles on it. I learned to drive a stick shift on it and it still has the original clutch. (Okay, so it’s a little high, but it does still work. Toyotas are great cars.) I remember when it was brand new and shiny and lovingly waxed. Now its paint is faded from the sun, its windshield is pitted from road debris, and it’s covered with dust. Still, it gets about 25-30 miles to the gallon — something to consider when fuel is $2+ per gallon. And it’s peppy. (Read that fast.)The second is my 1999 Jeep. It’s perfect for the 5 miles of dirt road between the main highway and the trailer atop Howard Mesa. Unfortunately, it only gets about 15 miles per gallon and its soft top makes a ton of noise at highway speeds. And it rides like a cardboard box in heavy wind.

The third is my 1999 Robinson R22 Beta II helicopter. Yes, I brought that with me. Heck, why the hell not? It’s not like anyone would be flying it at home. And there’s nothing like turning a 36-mile, 45-minute commute into a 25-nautical mile, 20-minute commute. Of course, it burns about 10 gallons of fuel per hour and with warmup and shutdown time, the hobbs meter registers .5 hours after each commuting flight. 100LL costs $3+ per gallon up here. Ouch. And let’s not even talk about the other cost of operating that vehicle.

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Three Niner Lima and the Toyota parked behind the camper at Howard Mesa.

Of course, they’re not all here at the same time. For example, tonight the Jeep and Toyota are at Howard Mesa and the helicopter is at the airport. The other night, the helicopter and Toyota were at Howard Mesa and the Jeep was at the airport. Sometimes it’s tough to remember where each of them are. But it’s easy if I remember that two vehicles are always where I am. When I drive the Jeep to the airport tomorrow, both the Jeep and the helicopter will be at the airport with me while the Toyota waits patiently atop the mesa.

So how do I decide? Well, when I’m tired after a hard day flying or if it’s really windy at quitting time, I take whatever road vehicle is at the airport to Howard Mesa. If I’m not tired and feel like getting back home quickly, I take the helicopter. Pretty easy decision.

In the morning, it’s also an easy decision. I take the helicopter. I love flying it in the morning. But this morning, I took the Toyota. Why? Because I thought I might be driving to Flagstaff from work. I hate driving the Jeep long distances because of all that roof noise. The other day, I took the Jeep home from the airport even though it wasn’t noisy. Why? I’m still trying to figure that one out. I did discover, however, that the side step on the driver’s side needs welding. So I have to take it back to the airport tomorrow. Bummer.

Why all these vehicles? So I have options. I don’t want to get stuck at the airport or at the trailer. With two vehicles wherever I am, there’s always an option for getting from point A to point B.

And if you’re wondering what I have at home, it’s my sole remaining car, a 2003 Honda S2000. That car will never see the top of Howard Mesa.

On Canvas Grocery Bags and Pilot Uniforms

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Being a “local” has its privileges.

When I started working at Papillon, I was told that many of the Tusayan businesses offered discounts for local residents and employees. I was also told that the grocery store was not one of them.

But the truth emerged slowly. While waiting in line to check out — in uniform at the end of the workday — the girl in front of me whined that she’d forgotten to bring her canvas shopping bag, the one that entitled her to the discount. She, her friend, and I were the only three people in line. The check out guy pretended at first that he didn’t know what she was talking about. But she was persistent and he finally gave in, probably to shut her up. But when she left, he was faced me with — obviously another local. He gave me the discount, too.

At Papillon, I asked around about the grocery bag. I was told that you had to buy a special canvas grocery bag and use it every time you shopped. You’d get a 10% discount on the bag and anything you bought when you had the bag with you. It was a sort of signal, a way to let the checkout guy know you were a local and you knew about the discount without spilling the beans in front of the tourists.

So today I went into the grocery store. I poked around, looking for the canvas shopping bag. When I didn’t find it, I went to the checkout counter, where the clerk was taking care of a customer. He asked me if he could help me.

I said, “I was told I needed to buy a certain canvas shopping bag.”

He looked at my uniform and nodded knowingly. “I haven’t seen one of those bags here in a while,” he said, packing the other customer’s purchases. “I’ll see if I can find one.”

But then other customers came and his line got long. I decided to let him work. I began to gather up the groceries I needed. I found the other clerk stocking shelves. I asked him about the bag. He told me they didn’t sell them. They only sold them in their grocery store in the park. I certainly didn’t plan on driving into the park to get a 10% discount on a few groceries. I finished shopping and brought my basket to the counter. The other customers were gone and the two clerks were talking. The one at the register said that even though I didn’t have the canvas bag, he’d give me the discount. And he did. I saved $4.

Afterwards, I went to Wendy’s and ordered a Chicken Spinach Salad at the drive thru window. (I don’t really like fast food, but I admit that Wendy’s makes a pretty good salad.) When I got to the pay window and asked how much (I can never understand them on those speakers), he mumbled a number, then said, “But four sixty seven with the discount.” He’d obviously seen my captain’s bars.

Oddly enough, I’m starting to FEEL like a local here. I just have to get my hands on one of those canvas bags.

Call Me a Mouse Relocation Specialist

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I catch a mouse, take it for a helicopter ride, and set it free at Grand Canyon Airport.

Anyone who has been reading these blog pages carefully should have noted that my trailer at Howard Mesa has a mouse problem.

The problem started last season. The trailer is parked here from late spring to early fall. Last season, we didn’t spend much time here. On our last stay, when I opened the door I found that the fringe on the throw rugs was gone and there were tiny black mouse droppings all over the floor. No other sign of the little buggers, though.

We bought those noisemaker things that are supposed to keep rodents away. We plugged them into an inverter that we left plugged into one of the trailer’s cigarette lighter-like outlets. Then we left for a few weeks. When we returned, we found that although the batteries were still charged (thanks to the solar panel on the roof) and the inverter worked fine, the two noisemakers were dead. There were more mouse droppings on the floor. And the little buggers had begun chewing the white threads off the sofa upholstery.

We hooked up the trailer and took it home. Mike went at it with whatever mouse removal tools he wanted to use. That usually includes sticky pads and nasty, snapping traps. I don’t like those. I don’t like seeing dead animals. So I just avoided the trailer for the whole winter season. Mike assured me sometime in January that the problem had been resolved.

This spring, we took the trailer back up to our property at Howard Mesa so I could live in it while I worked at the Grand Canyon. It’s only 36 miles door to door, and it beats the trailers with housemates program Papillon makes available to its employees.

I scattered moth balls around the trailer’s tires. Someone told me that would prevent mice from climbing up the tires and into the trailer through openings we knew nothing about.

But when I returned to the trailer after being home for a week, guess what I found? More droppings, chewed up Kleenex, and less white thread on the upholstery. The mice were back.

Mike planned to come for the weekend. I asked him to bring the humane mouse trap. That’s a mouse trap that actually TRAPS the mouse. It doesn’t kill it. It holds it in a tiny metal box so you can do something humane with it. And I went to Flagstaff and bought another rodent noisemaker.

When Mike came, I gave him an assignment. I told him that the mouse nest must be under the sofa. That was the only place we hadn’t searched thoroughly. I asked him to check it while I was at work. When I returned at the end of the day, he showed me where all that white thread and throw rug fringe had gone. And he repaired the ductwork for the heater.

Had he seen a mouse? No.

We left after the weekend. Mike had set up the humane mouse traps (we had two) in the trailer. I closed them up, explaining that they wouldn’t be very humane if we caught a mouse and let it starve to death. Instead, I set up the noisemaker.

I returned to the trailer on Wednesday evening. Opened the door and looked inside. And guess what? No mouse droppings, no torn tissue, and the sofa looked just as bad as when I’d left it — not worse. The noisemaker was still making its weird noise. I unplugged it and put it away, then set up the humane mouse trap, with a dab of Skippy peanut butter as bait.

At around midnight, I was wakened by a snapping noise. And then a tiny rattling, kind of like a very small mouse trying to get out of a metal box. I’d caught a mouse!

The tiny rattling went on for a half hour and I soon realized it was likely to go on all night. I got up, fetched the trap, and put it outside on the picnic table. Then I settled back to sleep.

In the morning, after having coffee and getting dressed, I went outside to look at my prey. What a cutie! I would have been shattered to see such a cute little guy stuck to sticky paper. He looked scared. And cold. But I had no pity for him. Not after what he’d done to my sofa. In my eyes, he was lucky to be alive.

Now what to do with him? Sure, I could take him out to the road and let him go. But what if he was some kind of homing mouse, one that could easily find his way back to the trailer? I could drive him down the road and let him go. But that would take time, and I had to go to work. So I decided to take him to work with me and let him go there.

I’d flown my helicopter to the trailer the evening before and that was how I planned to get to work that morning. So I loaded the mouse trap with its prisoner into the helicopter, along with the odds and ends I was bringing to work. I started the engine, warmed it up, and took off. I’m pretty sure that was the first time mousie was ever in a helicopter.

I landed at Grand Canyon Airport and set down on one of the transient helipads. I cooled down the engine, shut down, and unloaded my stuff. I brought the mouse trap over to the grass at the side of the helipad and opened it up. I shook the mouse out. He landed at the base of a tall clump of grass and looked at me as if to say, “What now?” Then he was gone, into the grass.

I set the other trap tonight. Let’s see if I can get another one.