Tag Archives: Arizona

Placerville, CA to Wickenburg, AZ – Day 3

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The journey continues…and finally comes to an end. There’s no place like home.

On Sunday, I woke at the usual time, made coffee in the little coffee maker, and started packing. Since I’d never really unpacked, I started by doing that. After all, I had at least three hours before I’d be able to leave. I had to do something with that time.

So I packed and watched the Weather Channel. They were forecasting clear skies and light winds for the southwest. Sounded good to me. Local temperatures were around freezing and winds were 5 to 10 miles per hour. The FBO, which I’d called the day before, didn’t open until 8:00 AM. I planned to be there when it opened. I wanted to be in the air by 9:00 at the latest.

I took a long, hot shower and dressed in clothes that were of questionable cleanliness. I’d been smart enough to wash all my clothes at Liz’s house three days before, but I was on my last pair of underwear and I’d only brought three longsleeved shirts along. Fortunately, I had plenty of socks.

I called the taxi company at 7:10 AM and woke up the cab driver. I asked him to pick me up at 7:45 for a trip to the airport. Then I gathered up my belongings and went downstairs to check out.

I left my luggage in lobby and went across the street to get a large latte and roll at a bakery there. I still had my headache and my stomach wasn’t feeling quite right. Migraine, I knew. But I couldn’t take my regular collection of painkillers when I was going to fly so I had to deal with it. I certainly felt okay to fly: alert and eager to be on my way. This headache wasn’t going to stop me.

The cab driver arrived in a van. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and was shivering. The van hadn’t warmed up yet and it was freezing outside. He claimed to have forgotten his jacket. How someone can forget to bring a jacket outside when it’s freezing is a mystery to me.

At the FBO, things were warm inside. One of the two women who had been there on Friday was already there. I went with the line guy on duty to retrieve Three-Niner-Lima from the hangar. We pulled it out onto the ramp and I started my preflight while he went to get the fuel truck. Everything looked fine, although I did need to add oil. I loaded my luggage and set up my iPod. I put my bottle of water where I could reach it. I organized my charts. Then I went back to the FBO office with the line man to settle my bill. Fuel was $3.49 a gallon there — that’s $1.10 per gallon higher than Wickenburg. The bottle of oil I bought to replace my empty was $6.50. And the hangar was $50 a night, although she only charged me $50. Between the hotel stay and the FBO charges, Mammoth had not been a cheap stopover. But I’d take it over Rosamond any time.

The line man gave me another lift to Three-Niner-Lima. I told him that if I wasn’t gone in 30 minutes, I probably would be staying for the day. I checked the fuel caps again, climbed in, and buckled up. Although the hangar had been heated, the thermostat had not been set to 68°. The ship was still cold. I gave it two pumps of the primer, then started it up. It ran extremely rough and I think carburetor ice was the culprit. I pulled the carb heat level to full and, as the engine began to warm, some of that warm air made it into the carburetor. It smoothed out. I settled back to wait as the ship warmed up.

A twin taxied past me, to the end of runway 09. By the time I was ready to go, he still hadn’t departed. He finally made a call, then took off. When he passed my position, I picked up into a hover, adjusted the carb heat to full again, made my call, and took off after him.

My the first half of my first leg would be easy. I’d follow the highway — route 395 — southeast, past the towns (and airports) of Bishop, Independence, and Lone Pine. This route was in a deep valley with elevations dropping from 7128 at Mammoth to 4120 at Bishop and 3680 at Lone Pine. The Owens River and an aqueduct ran to the east of the road. The Sierra Nevada Mountains ran along the west side of my path and the Inyo Range ran along the east. Both ranges were snowcapped and beautiful, especially in the early morning sun.

The day was clear and the winds were calm. It was perfect flying weather, except for the cold. At one point, my outside air temperature (OAT) gauge read -2°C. The cabin stayed pretty warm, though, with the morning sun shining into the bubble. I was wearing my baseball cap, to keep the sun out of my eyes.

Other than the mountains and the river beside me, the only other point of interest I passed on that first part of the trip was an array of radio telescopes, or “telescope antennas,” as they were identified on my sectional chart, south of Bishop. Although they were east of my route, I swung over to take a look — and a photo — without getting close enough to affect them.

Photo
An array of radio telescopes in the Owens Valley.

The airports along the way were pretty much dead. Bishop, which I didn’t fly directly over, had three runways; it must have been a busy place at one time. The choice of runways probably made it a favorite alternate for pilots who feared Mammoth’s crosswinds. Independence and Lone Pine were nothing more than paved strips. I passed another closed runway along the way and I wondered how long before there were big Xs over the runways at Independence and Lone Pine.

At Lone Pine and Owens Lake (mostly dry), my route got a little tricker. I had to head east, crossing the ends of several mountain ranges, to get into Death Valley. There were a few roads that went my way, but I couldn’t follow just one of them. The trouble with following roads from the air is that you can’t read the road signs. That makes it very easy to take the wrong road when you have a choice. Although some roads appear on a sectional chart, my GPS doesn’t show roads. So to navigate, I need to closely follow my path on the chart while relying on my GPS to point me in the right direction for the next waypoint, keeping in mind that I probably won’t be going on a straight line.

Photo
Owens Lake. The reflections of the mountains in the calm water (where there was water) were beautiful.

Why not a straight line? Well, in this case, the darn mountains were in the way. When you’re cruising along in a valley at 500 feet AGL, climbing over mountains just to follow the shortest path isn’t always practical. For example, if I were flying at 4000 feet MSL and I needed to go over a 7000 foot mountain (which meant a climb to 7500 feet or thereabouts), I’d have to climb. My best climb speed is about 60 knots, so I’d have to slow down. Say I could climb at 500 feet per minute at 60 knots. It would take me 7 minutes at that speed to reach the elevation I needed to cross the mountains. Up there, I could be subjected to higher winds and mountain waves (caused when winds cross over mountains and mountain ranges). But if there were a mountain pass just a few miles away, I could detour and slip through that, without climbing as much or dropping speed. While the detour might still take longer, it wouldn’t take much longer and it might be a more comfortable ride.

That’s my take on it, anyway. Other helicopter pilots might have different opinions. Airplane pilots can’t understand this argument at all, since they’re already flying at 10,000 or more feet to go from point A to point B. (They’re also not admiring radio telescopes in the desert and flocks of birds over lakes.) On this part of my journey, I also had to switch from the San Francisco sectional chart to the Las Vegas sectional chart, which I’d borrowed from Rod (mine was in my ship when I was doing my flight planning). Switching charts always makes life interesting, when you’ve only got one hand to do any kind of work. But since my charts had been prepared before I left, it wasn’t so bad.

I headed east at Owens Lake, crossing the mountains in the gap between the Inyo and Coso Ranges. I entered the boundaries of Death Valley National Park and followed a road to Panamint Springs. There wasn’t much going on there, but I did notice a few vehicles, including a motorhome, parked on an overlook for the valley I’d have to cross. I wondered what they thought of the tiny helicopter making its way eastbound.

I followed a road across the dry lake bed at the northernmost end of the long valley, marveling at the sand dunes to my left, which were clearly marked on my chart. The road turned northeast and climbed into a pass of the Panamint Range.

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Telescope Peak, which rises over 11,000 feet from the desert floor, was snowcapped and looking beautiful in the midday light.

I followed the road down to Stovepipe Wells, which has a tiny paved strip walking distance from a store, motel, and campground. I’d flown there in May, on my trip to Death Valley, and had regretted it. It was a long walk to the store for a Gatorade and a long walk back to my helicopter.

I was now in Death Valley proper. I headed southeast around the end of the mountain range and zeroed in on Furnace Creek. As usual, it took me a few moments to actually see the airport. Imagine the floor of Death Valley as a dry lake bed, which it mostly is. The airport is on the east bank of that lake and, beyond it, are the campgrounds, lodges, and other facilities that tourists visit. There’s even a golf course — the lowest one on earth. I made a few radio calls and got no response, so I just landed at the pumps. My altimeter read -200.

I’d been at Furnace Creek Airport before, so I knew the drill. I left my ship and headed over to a building where I found a house phone, a pay phone, and a restroom. I took care of business in the restroom first, then used the house phone to call the Chevron station. A while later, a white pickup pulled up to the pump with two men on board. They unlocked the pump, unwound the hose, and let me do the filling. I topped off both tanks and they put everything away. A plane flew overhead, landed, then parked while we worked. Then we all climbed into the pickup truck for the mile or so drive to the Chevron station, where I could pay.

After settling my bill with them (20+ gallons at $3.20 a gallon!), I called for a shuttle ride to the Furnace Creek Inn, where I hoped to get a good meal. The driver was friendly. He told me that the park would get very busy on the upcoming Thanksgiving Day weekend. He dropped me off at the Inn and I gave him two dollars for his time.

At the Inn, I was in for a special treat. First of all, you have to realize that the Furnace Creek Inn, which is a historic monument, is also a 4 diamond resort, as rated by AAA. It’s a nice place. It sits on a hillside overlooking the valley and the Panamint Mountains beyond. It has a pool and tennis courts and a very good restaurant.

Photo
Furnace Creek Inn.

What I didn’t know was that the restaurant had a Sunday brunch. And my arrival at 11 AM was just in time for it to begin.

I ate curried chicken salad, chilled asparagus, two kinds of caviar, smoked trout, smoked salmon, and seared ahi tuna. I ate osso bucco, risotto, and roast beef au jus. I ate other things that I can’t remember. All while sitting at a window table, overlooking the stark, silent beauty of Death Valley. The view from Furnace Creek Inn.

Sure it was expensive, but so what? You only go around once, and I don’t like to skimp when it comes to eating good food.

By 11:30 AM, I was ready to move on. The same shuttle driver took me back to the airport. I gave him another two bucks. Then I checked the fuel caps and the oil, climbed aboard, started up, and departed to the east.

I followed the main road past the Inn and out of the valley. I climbed with the terrain, about 400 feet per minute. Once outside the Valley, I set my GPS for my next waypoint, Shoshone. I’d cross a lot of empty, lonely desert to get there and, once there, I kept going toward my next waypoint, Jean, NV. Jean featured a pair of runways beside a pair of casinos on I-15. I never quite made it to Jean, though, because I steered too far to the south. When I came out of the Pahrump Valley, I saw Jean about 10 miles north of my position. So I set my GPS for my next waypoint, Bullhead City.

There isn’t much to say about my leg from Death Valley to Bullhead City because it wasn’t very interesting. The terrain was standard southern California/Nevada desert. That meant a lot of mountains and valleys with very little vegetation or signs of civilization. It was odd to see a road in many places and even odder to see a car on it. Not the kind of place you’d want to land if you didn’t have to. Cell phones would not work — no question there. Nights would get cold. It would be a long walk to help. And wildlife would include predators, like coyotes and perhaps mountain lions. Well, maybe not mountain lions, but definitely coyotes.

But when you spend as much time flying in the desert as I do, you get used to the isolation. And you bring along some supplies that might help you if you do need to land in the middle of nowhere. I carry a small green bag filled with emergency supplies. It contains matches, a signal mirror, some water, a space blanket, medicines, first aid supplies, a yellow bandana (sun shade, signal flag, tourniquet, etc., all in one!) a scissor, an extremely high quality all-in-one tool (like a Leatherman, but better), and lots of other goodies. I don’t carry this bag with me on all trips, but I did carry it on this one and I usually carry it when I fly alone and know I’ll be crossing wide expanses of nothingness. Hell, I don’t want them to find me dead with nothing on board that could have helped me.

I’m looking at my charts and noticed something I failed to mention throughout this narrative: the MOAs. MOA stands for Military Operations Area. It’s a place that the government has set aside for its military pilots to practice in. The southwest is full of MOAs. On this particular day, I passed through a bunch of them: Bishop, Owens, Panamint, Shoshone, Turtle, Bagdad 1, and Gladden 1. Each MOA has its own operating hours, altitudes, and controlling agency. When you pass through an MOA within its operating altitude during its operating hours, you run the risk of interfering with a military training exercise.

As a helicopter pilot, I normally fly below operating altitudes of MOAs. For example, the Gladden 1 MOA’s floor is at 7000 feet MSL or 5000 feet AGL, whichever is higher. I fly at 500 AGL, so I technically don’t fly in the MOA’s airspace. But I often see the F-16s from Luke Airforce Base (south of Wickenburg) streaking across the airspace in pairs, occasionally breaking the sound barrier. And I was once “buzzed” by four F-16s as I crossed through the northeastern corner of the Bagdad 1 MOA at a 80 knots, 500 feet up, minding my own business. Talk about a wake-up call!I can’t remember if I read this or saw it on one of the King written test videos, but the advice was to avoid MOAs at all cost. A pilot in the southwest couldn’t do that. If he tried, he’d severely limit where he could fly. The proper thing to do is to contact the controlling agency to see if the MOA is “hot.” If it is, you should stay out of it.

But I didn’t make any calls. I just flew through at 500 AGL, too low to get in anyone’s way. Heck, I have a transponder. They can see me. Besides, it was Sunday and I figured all the pilots would be back at base, watching a football game.

I passed between Searchlight and Kidwell, flew over the northern end of a small mountain range, and saw Lake Mohave before me. I planned on following the lake south to Bullhead City.

As I rounded the bend and crossed the lake, the wind picked up. I looked at my GPS. I had a 20 knot tailwind. Yee-ha! Ride ’em cowgirl!I called Bullhead City tower when I was still 10 miles out. Things were quiet, as usual. That place is always quiet. The controller told me the winds were 25 knots from the north. No fooling. He told me to report one mile north.

I closed the distance to the airport in record time and reported as requested. The controller told me to land direct to the helipads. That would have me landing with a 20+ knot tailwind. Not a chance. I asked to do a left downwind along the river. He told me to proceed as requested. I came down the river and tried to make my base turn short of the Home Depot parking lot, so I wouldn’t overfly it. The wind wouldn’t let me get away with that and blew me right over the lot, sideways, about 200 feet up. Must have given customers in the parking lot a good show. Look at that tiny helicopter, flying sideways. Fine. I pointed into the wind and headed toward the pads. Eventually, I made it, touched down, and shut down.

I called for fuel and they sent a golf cart instead of a fuel truck. Seems I had to go inside to place my fuel order. I told the woman at the desk to top off both tanks. By that time, she was distracted by the arrival of a Citation jet that would probably take on a lot more fuel than I would. I retreated into the bathroom, which was filthy and didn’t have any toilet paper. Fortunately, I had some tissue in my shirt pocket. It was the worst stop I ever made in Bullhead City and I sincerely doubt whether I’ll buy fuel there again.

A while later, at about 3:15 PM local time, I was airborne, on the last leg of my trip. The tailwind stayed with me for most of the flight. It was a direct flight from Bullhead City to Wickenburg, with no intermediate waypoints. I passed east of Grossman Peak (near Lake Havasu) and east of Alamo Lake. I crossed a lot of empty desert. But this was familiar desert, desert I’d flown over dozens of times — if not more.

I started my radio calls to Wickenburg from just north of Alamo Lake, 50 miles out. No response. Again at 40 miles out. No response. Again at 30 miles out. No response. I finally got a response at 20 miles out: Alta giving me the wind speed and direction and unofficial altimeter setting. “Welcome home,” she added.

I touched down in Wickenburg at about 4:30. Thanks to the tailwind, I’d made record time from Bullhead City, which was over 100 nautical miles away.

Mike drove in just as I was shutting down. He helped me offload all my bags, including the bag of apples and mandarin oranges I bought in Placerville for him.

After a week away, it was good to get home.

Wickenburg, AZ to Placerville, CA – Day 1

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Foiled by wind.

I planned the trip for hours. That’s the truth. I knew I was going to go on a helicopter trip, but I didn’t know where I was going. It wasn’t until Friday, when I met Rod’s friend Nick, that I decided. I’d go to Placerville, to visit Liz and Rod. But it wasn’t until Sunday that I started planning a route.

The trouble with getting to Placerville from Wickenburg is the Sierra Nevada mountain range. There aren’t many places to cross it without climbing to altitudes that would cause Three-Niner-Lima to vibrate to pieces. (Three-Niner-Lima starts vibrating at 8500 feet.) I finally decided on the Tehachapi Pass, northwest of Palmdale. I then listed all the airports along the way, noting which ones had fuel (all of them) and restaurants (few of them). I marked up a WAC. And then I packed.

I got off to a late start on Monday morning. I’d hoped to leave by 8 AM; I took off at 9. I’d filed a flight plan to Apple Valley via Twentynine Palms. It was an ambitious flight plan. I’d have to fly direct at an average about 90 knots ground speed.

Flying direct was new for me. I have a tendency to follow roads when I fly and to look for mountain passes when I have to cross mountain ranges. Things worked out well for me at the start of this trip. I headed almost due west, over Forepaugh, and north of Eagle Roost. Then through Cunningham Pass, and over the Cactus Plains to the Colorado River, south of Parker. The terrain was boring, water-scarred desert, broken by mountains thrust out of the desert floor. To someone from the east or north or midwest, the terrain would be fascinating. But when you’ve flown over it as many times as I have, it loses its charm.

The Colorado River wound through the desert, a dark blue ribbon cutting across the dust and rock. Beyond it, the desert floor was flat, sloping gently back toward the river, scarred with thousands of tiny washes. I imagined the scene before me during a rainstorm, when water flowed in every single channel. I crossed over a VOR and followed a road and a line of train tracks. The track ballast consisted of light and dark colored stones. I caught sight of a name written alongside the tracks in carefully arranged stones. Then another and another. I soon realized that there were hundreds of names, all neatly written in stone in the middle of nowhere. I circled to take a picture. At least this was something interesting.

Photo
This photo doesn’t do the site justice; the names in stone went on for at least a mile.

Monitoring my progress on the Los Angeles Sectional chart now, I crossed over what had once been the town of Rice. It was a railroad junction where a few train cars waited on a siding. There were building ruins, including a stone building that still had one full wall standing. Lots of debris and trash. I continued on my course, almost due west, and passed south of Iron Mountain, with it single north/south runway. Nothing going on there.

Rocky hills and mountains rose from the desert floor. My path took me beside several of them. I joined up again with the road I’d left at Rice. It formed the northern border of Joshua Tree National Park. I stayed north of the road, flying about 300 feet AGL, admiring the stark rocks of the Coxcomb Mountains to the south. I climbed with the terrain, reaching an altitude of almost 3000 feet.

Joshua Tree
The landscape just northeast of the northern edge of Joshua Tree National Park.

Throughout the flight, I’d managed to maintain an airspeed that varied from 85 knots to 95 knots, with a similar ground speed. Still, flying at nearly full power with carb heat on, I was burning fuel at a higher rate than I’d expected. As Dale Lake (mostly dry) and the Twentynine Palms VOR came into view, I realized that I would not make it to Apple Valley. I made my first call to Twentynine Palms while I was ten miles out. No response. An airplane called in when I was about five miles out. He didn’t get any response either. He said he was heading toward Hi Desert, the next airport on my path, about 15 miles further along. I asked if there was fuel at Hi Desert — the chart said there was, but you never know — and he told me there was. I decided to go there instead. At least I knew there would be someone there.

Dale Lake
Dale Lake did have some water in it. But not much.

I passed Twentynine Palms airport just to the north of its runways. The field looked to be in good condition and I could see a big Chevron sign by the fuel pumps. About a half dozen planes were parked on the ramp. But there was no sign of life. I kept flying.

I overflew the rather large town of Twentynine Palms. Between Hi Desert and me was a mesa; I decided to fly around it, to the south. Meanwhile, the plane, a Cherokee, was getting closer to Hi Desert. Although I expected him to beat me in, he was still 5 miles out when I had the airport in sight. It wasn’t much to look at. I overflew it to check the wind, reported my findings to the Cherokee, and made a spiral landing down to the fuel pumps. It was about 11 AM.

Hi Desert is an airpark, something that isn’t obvious when you consult a sectional chart for information. It had one runway, which was in pretty good shape, and a handful of Mexican style adobe buildings on the southeast end of the runway. It looked as if it had once been a very nice place, but had since been neglected, probably because no one was around to admire it. I was shutting down when the Cherokee landed. The pilot appeared from behind some buildings when I was looking for a bathroom. Although the sign on the FBO door said it was open from 8 AM to 5 PM, everything was locked up tight.

The Cherokee pilot pointed out a bathroom that appeared to have been added as an afterthought to a shed. It was bright, but reminded me of the kind of rest room you’d find at a very old gas station. Not exactly dirty, but certainly not clean. There was toilet paper, but no paper towel. The Cherokee pilot helped me with the fuel hose, then spent some time looking at my helicopter while I fueled it. We chatted about the place. I told him that my husband and I were looking for a place like that. He told me it was for sale. I told him we weren’t interested in living in California. He told me he couldn’t blame us. Then a friend of his walked up and they started talking about other things. I finished up and put away the hose and static line, which was hopelessly tangled. I checked the oil, warned them to stand back, then climbed aboard and started up. It was about 11:20 AM. It wasn’t until the blades were spinning that I realized I’d forgotten to take a picture. It would have made an interesting shot.

I waved goodbye and climbed out, continuing toward Apple Valley. My course was now slightly northwest. Twentynine Palms and Hi Desert are just south of a bunch of restricted areas, which is why I had to remain so far south. Now I was flying across the high desert, with terrain roughly 2500 to 3500 feet. And the wind had kicked up. As I flew on the north side of the San Bernadino Mountains, I realized I was hitting headwinds of 20 to 30 knots. In the somewhat gusty conditions, it was tough to maintain an airspeed of 95 without getting dangerously close to my never exceed speed of 102 when the wind gusted, so I let it slip to 90. That gave me ground speeds in the 60s. As I flew along the road at Lucerne Valley, I realized that some of the cars were passing me. I dropped altitude in an attempt to stay out of the worst of the wind, but that didn’t seem to help at all. I was very glad I’d fueled at Hi Desert; I never would have made it to Apple Valley.

Meanwhile, the terrain wasn’t being as cooperative along my course. A mountain separated me from Apple Valley. Again, I skirted along the southern end of it, slipping through a pass about 5 miles southeast of the airport. There was a Decathalon in the pattern there; a Citation had landed when I was still 15 miles out. The airport was large and looked brand new, although there didn’t seem to be many planes on the ramp. I announced that I was transitioning but would remain east and then north of the runways. Someone with the Decathalon pilot — an instructor, perhaps? — thanked me. I continued on, heading into the wind, toward Victorville.

Victorville, or Southern California Logistics, is a controlled airport used primarily by the military. The AWOS was on a frequency that my radio couldn’t get. So I tuned into the tower while I was about 8 miles out and told them I wanted to transition westbound. “Transition approved,” was the reply I got. Simple as that. As I approached the airport, I realized that it was huge and full of parked airliners. Most of them wore United paint jobs, but I did notice one for Tower Air. An army helicopter was making excruciatingly slow approaches to the end of the runway. All around the airport were buildings and the ruins of buildings. I assume this had once been a big air force base that was no longer needed. The radio was quiet. When I was a mile out, I reminded the tower that I’d be flying over. He acknowledged my call with a simple, “Roger.” I punched L00 for Rosamond into my GPS. According to my research, Rosamond had fuel and a restaurant. It would make a good next stop, someplace where I could reassess my route over the mountains. I headed northwest, crossing more high desert. Below me were scattered ruins of stone walls and foundations. As I approached the southern edge of the restricted area around Edwards Air Force Base, I could clearly see Rogers Lake and the buildings of Edwards. I followed a paved road due west for a while, flying over a few homes, most of which were manufactured. My route took me far to the north of Palmdale and far enough to the north of General Fox, so I didn’t need to talk to either of these controlled airports.

Meanwhile, I realized that I was getting kind of sick. Like airsick. The problem was, the wind was gusty and the helicopter was doing a lot of bobbing around. Every time I consulted the chart to see exactly where I was — a GPS is nice, but situational awareness is important — I’d look up to find myself facing another direction. I’d correct my course, bounce up and down a few times, then check the map again. It was uncomfortable flying. And up ahead, I could see where the high valley I was in ended, with the windmills of Tehachapi pass. I’d been warned about the wind in the pass and had a feeling it would be worse than where I was now.

I crossed Rosamond Lake (mostly dry) and saw ripples on the water. Then I saw something that took me a while to figure out. It was a dark object, moving across the surface of the water, leaving dusty water behind it. At first, I thought it was a swimming animal. But the shape was all wrong. I realized then that it was a tumbleweed, being blown across the lake surface. We’re talking serious wind.

Rosamond Airport was beyond the town and it took a while to find it. I made a few calls in and didn’t hear any response. I overflew the field and saw windsocks flying straight out with a cross wind. I made right traffic to Runaway 25. As I was landing, I saw two people watching me. That’s when I realized that Rosamond was an airpark, too.

I set down by the pumps and shut down. There was nothing going on. The FBO office looked closed. The wind was howling.

A man stood by the FBO office. He told me he’d been listening on the radio and was very surprised to hear a helicopter coming in. He confirmed what I’d already suspected: that the restaurant was closed. He told me I could use his phone to call flight service about the weather. Feeling a bit dazed after almost two hours of bouncing around in the air, I followed him. He took me to his home, where his wife was waiting. They gave me the phone and waited while I called Flight Service. I was on hold a long time. When I got a briefer, he gave me the bad news. Winds of 30 gusting to 41 up in the mountain passes. Clouds building. The wind would calm by 7 PM, but there would be clouds in the valley in the morning.

One thing was clear: I wouldn’t be flying over the mountains that day.

I went back to the helicopter, filled it with fuel, and moved it into a parking spot. Moving it wasn’t easy; although I’d brought the ground handling wheels with me, they were underinflated. I tied down the blades and was removing my luggage when my new friend reappeared. He brought me back to his house, where his wife offered to let me stay there. That was weird, but what was weirder was that they were leaving, going back to their primary home in Los Angeles. They were offering to let me stay alone in their house. I thanked them, but said no.

So they brought me into town, where I starting to think I’d made a bad decision about staying at all. There was nothing going on in town — in fact, there wasn’t even much of a town. They drove me around for a while, then stopped at the Devonshire Motel, which one of their neighbors had recommended. I thanked them again, then climbed out with my luggage to get a room.

Inside the motel office, the desk clerk was struggling to get a fax machine working. She said the machine showed an empty paper message and kept trying to close the top of the machine without properly loading the paper. A man, who was waiting to receive a fax, was talking to someone on his cell phone. When it became obvious that it wasn’t going to work, he thanked her and left.

I got a room and the phone number for the local cab company, Dial-a-Ride. My room was on the second floor of the two-story building, just at the top of the stairs. It was clean, but otherwise unremarkable. I used my cell phone to call Mike and report where I was and why I’d stopped for the day. Then I called Liz and Rod and left a message with them.

I tried calling the cab company, but the phone was busy.

I walked to a Mexican place I’d seen nearby and had some lunch. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t anything to write home about. I walked back to my room. By this time, it was about 2 PM. I had an entire day to kill, but there wasn’t anything within walking distance of my motel to do. The town seemed to consist of a handful of schools, fast food joints, and a strip mall with a supermarket, pharmacy, and other necessities of life. There was no quaint town to walk through, no museum, no points of interest.

I spent the afternoon watching TV and starting this blog. And I called the cab company over and over. The phone was always busy.

Liz called to see where I was. She’d misheard me on the phone and thought I was near Santa Rosa, which she knew was pretty much impossible. I filled her in. Later, Mike called. I filled him in. Even later, Rod called. I filled him in, too.

At about 7 PM, I walked next door to the Fosters Freeze, an ice cream/burger chain in California. I bought a hot fudge sundae (so much for the diet). I tried to buy a souvenir tee shirt for Mike, but they didn’t have his size. I went back to the room, listened to the busy signal when I called the cab company, and watched Stargate reruns. By 9 PM, I was asleep.

Flashback: September 1, 2002

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The hidden cabins of the Weaver Mountains.

Richard’s story emerged over lunch at a local restaurant. I don’t even know how it came up in the conversation.

Years ago, he and his stepfather had gone on a four-day hike in the desert, looking for lost treasure. They’d followed old mining roads and pack trails high up into the Weaver Mountains, following vague directions given to them by an old miner who had recently gone to that great mother lode in the sky. As days wore on, they found one landmark after another. On the third morning, they were searching for their last landmark, some cabins deep in a thickly treed canyon. Although they couldn’t see any sign of the cabins from a ridge overlooking miles of high desert terrain, later that day they stumbled upon them while following a spring-fed creek. By then, they were out of time and had to start on their way back home. They never went back.

Richard’s tale of a four-day hike in the desert, living off the land and finding old buildings hidden away in canyons, fascinated me. I’d done my share of exploring when I was in my teens and had some interesting tales to tell. But none could come close to his. I wanted to know more, to see the cabins with my own eyes. Perhaps I thought it was a way to recapture part of my youth, when the simple pleasure of discovery was all the reward I needed after a long hike on a hot day.

But although Richard wanted very much to find the site again, a work-related injury made a long hike or horseback ride impossible. And Richard was certain that there were no roads anywhere near the canyon, so a Jeep wouldn’t get us there. Besides, with thousands of acres of mountainous terrain and numerous canyons with spring-fed creeks, locating the site would be like finding a cactus spine in a patch of tumbleweed. After all, Richard’s initial visit had been long before the era of GPS and he wasn’t sure where the site was.

I can’t recall if it were Richard or me who suggested the helicopter as a means to find his hidden cabins. If Richard suggested it, I’d probably been thinking about it quietly already, so his suggestion seemed perfectly natural. If I suggested it, I don’t recall him being surprised, so he must have been thinking about it, too.

Three-Niner-Lima, as I call my helicopter, is a 1999 Robinson R22 Beta II. I’ve owned it since October 2000 and have done most of my flying at its controls. I learned to fly late in life, earning my private pilot helicopter rating shortly before my 39th birthday and my commercial rating a year and a half later. Three-Niner-Lima seats two, including the pilot. Although it doesn’t have much power — a fact that becomes apparent at higher elevations, especially on warm days — it’s fun and relatively inexpensive to fly.

Richard, his wife Christal, and I met again over breakfast the next day. I brought along some topographic maps. Richard pointed out where he and his stepfather had parked the car for their hike and where he thought they’d hiked. He pointed out a few canyons with springs that could be the canyon they’d visited. I saw a number of 4WD roads and pack trails on the map and pointed them out. Richard repeated with certainty that there were no roads leading into the canyon.

There was a lot of mountainous terrain to cover. When flying helicopters, mountains mean three things: high elevation, which limits available power; unusual winds, which can make landing difficult or hazardous; and uneven terrain, which makes it hard to find an emergency landing area in the unlikely event of an engine failure. With all this in mind, I suggested that we begin our search early in the morning, before the temperature rises and the winds kick up. We agreed to meet at 6:00 AM.

One thing led to another and I was unable to keep our appointment. So we put it off a few days. Thus, it was by chance that we made our flight thirty years to the day of Richard’s original hike — a fact Richard didn’t realize until much later.

The morning of our flight was clear, cool, and calm. We took off from Wickenburg, heading north, just after sunrise. Although Three-Niner-Lima was equipped with a panel-mounted GPS, I brought along my hand-held Garmin, which has mapping capabilities, and set it up to log our route. Later, I was able to overlay the route on some topographic maps, which gave us an interesting view of our flight.

We climbed over the Weaver Mountains in the early morning light. It was slightly hazy that September morning, as if the desert were trying to send its moisture up to the sky to start monsoonal rains as early as possible. But because the summer had been so dry, the desert was a parched beige color, with dusty green patches of vegetation. Up in the Weavers, however, it was obvious where springs flowed. Dozens of canyons were green with tall cottonwoods and other water-loving trees of the desert. It was under one of those canopies of trees that we’d find the hidden cabins.

We flew a relatively standard search-and-rescue pattern, weaving back and forth over one canyon after another. For safety’s sake, I needed to remain at least 500 feet up. Since we were operating in an area of rapidly changing elevations, I kept my eyes outside the cockpit, concentrating on keeping us clear of terrain. I did my best to place the best view on the left side of the cockpit, where Richard sat, scanning the ground.

After about 40 minutes of searching, we were getting discouraged. I felt bad for Richard, who had come prepared with hiking shoes, water pack, and camera, ready to relive a thirty-year-old experience. He clearly expected us to land somewhere and it had gotten to the point where he didn’t really care where. We talked about finding a landing zone near one of the more densely vegetated canyons and I saw a spot that might work. After doing a high reconnaissance, I told him I’d try an approach, but warned that if the site didn’t look smooth or level, I’d have to break it off.

I went in cautiously, my eyes on the proposed landing zone, an arm of the mountain that seemed flat and clear. I was about 100 feet from the ground when Richard called out suddenly, “There it is!” I tore my eyes from the landing zone for a quick look and saw the weathered roof of a cabin among the trees. A moment later, I touched down on level ground on a high point near the canyon, surrounded by prickly pear cacti, agaves, and scrubby creosote bushes.

Richard and I were both excited as I cooled off the engine and shut down. I marked my helicopter’s location as a waypoint on my handheld GPS and followed Richard toward the canyon. There were some cattle trails that wound back and forth along the slope and headed into the trees. One thing I’d learned about free range cattle is that they always know where the water is. Following their trail would lead us to the creek.

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Three-Niner-Lima in the landing zone, only 1/10 mile from the cabins.

We began to see signs of long-gone occupation as soon as we got into the shade of the tall trees that filled the canyon. First a thick pipe, broken here and there, which must have carried water from the spring-fed creek. Then an almost intact wagon wheel lying among the broken remains of a cart, some old tools, and saw blades. We continued down toward the creek, our feet crunching over years of fallen leaves. We walked around a thick bed of what looked like irises and then came face to face with the first cabin.

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A wagon wheel and some tools were the first signs of civilization we encountered under the canopy of trees.

I don’t know who built the cabin or how long it had been standing beneath those trees, but I know it’s old — perhaps a hundred years or more. Its sides were made of crudely shaped wooden planks, which had colored with age to warm browns and dark grays. The roof was corrugated tin sheets, laid almost haphazardly to provide the best coverage. A stove pipe came though a hole in the roof and another pipe led from the ground into the wall. Two windows faced out over the stream, which gurgled softly nearby.

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Richard approaches the main cabin.

A small porch and open doorway faced us and we wasted no time stepping up for a peek inside. There were two rooms, a kitchen and a bedroom. Inside the kitchen, we found the remains of a wood-burning stove and a sink with a countertop. A firewood bin had been built into the wall between them. In the bedroom, a bed frame stood neatly against the window. Although the floor looked to be in remarkably good condition, especially in the bedroom, Richard and I thought it best to stay outside, where we were less likely to damage the fragile remains.

Beyond the main cabin stood a second, smaller cabin, which had probably been used for storage. That cabin was surrounded with a dense growth of vines. Had I been properly dressed in heavy jeans and hiking shoes, I would have made my way through the growth for a closer look. But my lightweight slacks had already been torn on the 1/10 mile hike from the helicopter to the cabins and my Keds did little to protect my otherwise bare feet.

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The other cabin.

Despite our find, Richard was still disappointed. He told me that the cabins he and his stepfather had found had apple trees growing in front of them. There was no sign of the trees that day — just the thick vines that covered the ground with a narrow cattle trail running through them. Although I pointed out that the trees could have died and rotted away during the past thirty years, he wasn’t convinced. He was sure we had the wrong cabins, although he thought we might be close. So we set off on a short hike down and then up the creek. Other than the cabins and some old fencing, there was no other sign of occupation.

After an hour exploring the area, it was warming up. Three-Niner-Lima sat at 5,000 feet — an elevation that would have an impact on its performance, especially on a hot day. Thermal updrafts and winds would be starting up soon, too. I was anxious to head out before performance and turbulence became an issue. As Richard and I climbed up out of the canyon and made our way back to Three-Niner-Lima, we talked about returning another day, with a better camera and the proper footwear for me. I marked the landing zone with a row of white rocks and walked around my ship to make sure stray cattle hadn’t damaged it while we were out of sight. Moments later, we were airborne, heading out over the canyon to start a spiraling climb over the mountain peaks between us and Wickenburg.

Richard, who is retired, spent the next few weeks trying to dig up some information about the cabins. He found an old man who knew about them and told him that there had indeed been apple trees. But some city slickers out camping in the wilderness had decided to cut them down for firewood. That had been years ago and no trace of the trees remained.

No trace of the people who lived there remain either. Or of visitors like us, who come to look but take pictures instead of souvenirs. Although the coordinates of the hidden cabins are safely stored in my GPS, they’ll remain hidden, too. Too many places have been destroyed by heartless vandals, who take pleasure in rubbing out the traces of our state’s history. I’d rather let nature reclaim the site at its own pace than share the secret location of the hidden cabins of the Weaver Mountains.

Flashback: February 6, 2002

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I take Mike’s cousin Ricky to a real ghost town.

Swansea is a ghost town about 60 miles west of Wickenburg. Located on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere (or as close to there as you can get), it takes about 3 hours to reach the place by car. But it takes only 40 minutes by helicopter.

Mike’s cousin Ricky was in town on one of his annual visits. (He doesn’t come annually anymore and I’m not sure why.) Mike had to work and I needed to play. So I took Ricky to Swansea in Three-Niner-Lima.

We landed on the site of what had been the mine manager’s house. The area was flat, covered with the same fine gravel that seems to cover about 90% of Arizona’s desert. The town was deserted — at least I don’t remember anyone being around.

Swansea
Ricky stands near Three-Niner-Lima, on the site of the mine manager’s house.

We explored the town for about an hour. I’d been there before and although I found it interesting, Ricky really seemed to enjoy it. The town has quite a few buildings, many of which have enough left of them to explore. BLM, which owns the townsite, has a walking tour, with numbered stops, and a brochure that explains a lot. It really is worth seeing, but whether it’s worth a total of 6 hours spent in a car, most of which is on dirt roads, is debatable. Having the helicopter for transportation really makes places like this much more accessible.

Ricky at the Wheel
I don’t know why, but I like this photo of Ricky behind the wheel of a desert wreck.

This year, if Ricky shows up, I’ll take him someplace new. I have a few ideas for places to explore.