Tag Archives: desert

A Good Attitude

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I’m happy to be appreciated.

Yarnell Daze is coming up in May. It’s an event that’s been happening just about every spring in Yarnell for the past 30+ years. It includes a parade, art fair, car show, and all kinds of other activities for people of all ages. A lot of fun up in Yarnell, high above the low desert just as the low desert is starting to really heat up.

Years ago, I noticed someone giving helicopter rides as part of the Yarnell Daze festivities. He was flying out of a lot beside the Mountainaire convenience store (Woody’s) in Peeples Valley. I only saw him one year and that’s because I was just driving through on my way home from Prescott.

So I figured I’d call the Yarnell Chamber of Commerce and ask if I could do helicopter rides for them. There was a machine when I called. (There’s always a machine when you call. I don’t think Yarnell’s Chamber of Commerce is very busy.) So I left a message. And so began our game of telephone tag.

Someone from the Chamber called back and said they were thrilled that I’d called. Thrilled. Wow. Can’t help liking that attitude. Her message said their first Yarnell Daze planning meeting was coming up on a Monday in February and could I attend? I checked my calendar and called back. I told the machine I’d be out of town that day (I was going to be at the Grand Canyon doing a mule trip I’d planned eight months in advance). Then I didn’t hear anything for a while.

I called back early this month to see where things stood. I left another message. Someone named Linda called back and left a message for me with a different phone number. I called back and actually spoke to Linda. Their second meeting was March 28. Could I come? I put it on my calendar.

The meeting was at the Buzzard’s Roost, an interesting little cafe on the north end of town. The Buzzard’s Roost was always a funky, kind of junky-looking place that specialized in smoked food — ribs, pulled pork, etc. It was tiny inside — maybe six tables? — and had a few tables outside. Then someone came along and fixed the place up. They enclosed the outside with clean, neat-looking siding, removing the outdoor seating and making the place look….well, normal. Around that time, the bikers stopped coming in and the place looked empty all the time. It had been stripped of character. Then someone must have woken up to the fact that the place’s old funky look was part of its formula for success. They somehow managed to make it look weird and funky again, added more outdoor seating, and parked an old Harley out front. Now it’s the same old place it was but bigger and people stop in for meals again.

I stepped inside, wearing my freshly pressed Flying M Air oxford shirt and feeling a bit out of place. There were people there having breakfast, but no big groups. A woman at the counter looked at me and said, “Yes, this is the meeting.” Her name was Wendy and with her was a man who turned out to be the cook. When he went into the kitchen to get to work, I noticed that he wore a western style holster under his apron with two revolvers tucked inside it. I don’t think they were fake.

Wendy owned the Buzzard’s Roost and was evidently part of the Yarnell Chamber. She was excited that I’d come and excited that I’d be doing helicopter rides. In fact, she told everyone who walked in or called on the phone while I was there that they’d be having helicopter rides at Yarnell Daze. I know she was more excited than I was. We talked about pricing, hours of operation, etc.

Then she asked me if I could be in the parade. She wanted me to hover down the street. Wow. I’ve always wanted to do that. I know I have the skills required. But the downwash would create hurricane-like winds as I passed. It could blow up dust and tiny pebbles. It could get in people’s faces or eyes or damage property on the parade route. I had to say no. But I promised to do a low fly-by during the parade.

Wendy suggested advance ticket sales. A great idea, especially after the farce at Lake Havasu City. I’d know in advance how many people I could expect at a minimum. We’d do advance ticket sales at a slightly lower price, to encourage people to buy before the event. The tickets would have time slots on them, so not everyone would show up at once. She could sell them at the Buzzard’s Roost, which would help her draw people in. All I had to do was create the tickets and a bunch of flyers.

Linda came by and we talked about landing zones. That’s the only thing that bothered me about the gig: the proposed landing zone was all the way out in Peeples Valley, about three miles further up route 89. Not exactly the in-your-face LZ I like to have. The presale tickets would help get people out there, but didn’t they have a better location?

A man having breakfast, who’d already chatted with me about doing aerial photography from the helicopter, suggested a field near “Choo-Choo,” the train museum at the edge of Yarnell. Linda and I scoped it out when we went to check the Peeples Valley LZ. We both agreed it was better. Linda had the job of finding out who owned it and getting their permission to operate there.

That in itself was weird. Most hosts require that I find and get permission for landing zones. Yarnell was doing everything for me.

Want to know something else that was weird? Linda told me they have insurance and I didn’t have to worry about it. Wow. Normally, the big stumbling block for these events is insurance — hosts normally want to make sure I have it and add their names as additional named insureds. It’s become part of my planning ritual for events. So I told Linda that I have insurance, too. I produced the certificate and made her take a copy. I told her that I pay a ton of money for my insurance and I wanted everyone to know I had it. She took it — probably just to be polite.

Yesterday, I had all the tickets and flyers ready to bring to Yarnell. But I don’t get up there too often so I wanted to mail them up. This way, they’d get them right away. So I called Wendy at the Buzzard’s Roost to get her address. They don’t have mail to their physical address in Yarnell. It’s all Post Office boxes. She told me that she appreciated me doing this. As if I were doing her a favor. I told her that it was my pleasure, that Yarnell was a pleasure to work with, and that I hoped I met their expectations.

And I meant it.

It’s nice to see a Chamber of Commerce that actually works hard to ensure the success of its events, one that invites local businesses to participate and makes it easy for them to do their part. A Chamber of Commerce with a positive “can-do” attitude rather than the “why should we do something for you?” attitude I’ve seen all too many times around here. I think I’ll be joining the Yarnell Chamber of Commerce. It’ll be a real pleasure to support such a good organization.

Now if only all of my helicopter ride hosts were as pleasant and accommodating as Yarnell.

The Truth About Spring Break

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I get a rude awakening when I try to become part of the fun at Spring Break.

Imagine this: a lakeside town in the desert. Temperatures around 80°F every day, sunny every day. Lots of hotels, restaurants, bars, boat rental places. An airport with flights from Phoenix.

Now add several thousand college students, off for a week for spring break.

You’d think that these kids would be interested in doing fun stuff, right? That they’d want their spring break to be memorable. That they’d want to have stories to tell their less fortunate friends, the friends who don’t get all-expenses-paid-by-dad trips to one of the Spring Break capitals of the southwest.

I’ll tell you what they want to do. They want to get up late (because they’re hung over) and start the day by filling the cooler with ice and beer. (Or taking that keg out of their hotel room and getting it refilled.) They want to be loud and obnoxious, so all their friends who are still sleeping will soon be awake. The girls want to dress in clothes that are so skimpy, their grandmothers would keel over and drop dead from shock if they saw them. Everyone wants to makes sure that every single tattoo they have is visible — or at least partially visible. As they walk around, getting themselves together for the day, they have their cell phones up against their heads, trying to coordinate the day’s big event. And that event? Well, it’s the same as the day before: hop in a boat with beer and junk food and cruise about five miles down the lake to a place called Copper Canyon. The canyon is tiny and features a rock formation jutting out of the water. Once there, they cram their boat in with the scores of others, fastening them together with ropes to make them into one big floating platform. Let the drinking begin! They spend the day out there in the sun, drinking beer, jumping into the water, listening to loud music. Then, when the keg is empty or most of the group is unconscious, the designated boat driver makes his way back to home base. They hit the bar at the hotel to start their serious drinking. Somewhere along the line, they get a bit cleaned up and dressed. Then they hit the fast food joints or pizza place or corn dog stand for dinner. More drinking follows, with loud music now provided by a DJ at the popular hot spot, which, on occasion, dumps foam onto the intoxicated dancers to make things just a little more interesting. When the bars shut down around 2 or 3 AM, it’s back to the hotel where they spend an hour or so yelling back and forth to each other before finally passing out.

The next day, it starts all over again.

Silly me. I thought young people would enjoy helicopter rides. I thought they’d enjoy seeing their beloved Copper Canyon from the air. That it would give them an experience that they’d remember and want to tell their friends about. Something they could even tell their parents about.

Silly me.

Too Old for a Helicopter Ride?

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And people think I say bad things about seniors!

About two months ago — maybe longer — I wrote to Bud Carr, president of Rainbow Parks, Inc. Rainbow owns a number of 55+ trailer parks, including North Ranch, which is halfway between Wickenburg and Congress on Route 89.

Last year, when I had Tristan’s helicopter, I’d landed in a big open area at North Ranch to talk to the folks that run the park about doing helicopter rides there. I’d already had successful events at Stanton (the ghost town, which is inhabited by members of the Lost Dutchman’s Mining Association) and at Robson’s Mining World. At all of these events, the vast majority of my passengers had been aged 55+. Landing the helicopter at North Ranch got a lot of attention (it usually does) and lots of folks seemed interested in rides. But the manager told me I’d have to write to the head office to get their approval.

So I did. And after more than two months, the head office answered me. And I still can’t believe what they said.

“Thank you for your proposal,” Mr Carr wrote. “Due to the age of our members and concerns about liability and insurance, we are not able to allow you to give helicopter rides at our property.”

I added the bold italics. It’s that phrase that really tweaked me. (I’m used to the insurance argument and have enough insurance to satisfy most folks.) It’s obvious to me that Mr. Carr believes that his members are all half dead or too feeble to enjoy a scenic helicopter ride.

Any of the hundreds of people who have flown with me over the past five years can attest that a flight with me is nothing like an amusement park ride. Blood pressures will not rise. Hearts won’t fail. Arteries won’t harden and clog. I’ve never had a passenger complain about a flight; I’ve never had a dissatisfied customer.

“Due to the age of our members…”

A few weeks ago, I took a 90-year-old woman and her 88-year-old brother on an hour long flight up the Salt River from Mesa to Roosevelt Lake. They were like two kids in there, talking about the rock formations and the boats on the lakes and the greenness of the desert. The woman had been wanting to fly in a helicopter for more than 40 years, but her husband had asked her not to. Her children knew how much it meant to her. My helicopter and I were her birthday surprise.

“Due to the age of our members…”

In January, I was part of the Anniversary Celebration entertainment at Robson’s Mining World in Aguila. I took 47 people on flights that day and more than half of them were over 55. In fact, when I arrived at 9 AM, there were eight “seniors” waiting for me. They’d driven to Robson’s from their 55+ park in Hope, AZ specifically to fly with me.

“Due to the age of our members…”

This past weekend, I wasted my time at Lake Havasu City offering helicopter rides for spring break. Thousands of college students had descended on the city and its resorts. I waited with my helicopter in a parking lot at one of the resorts, right where all the kids could see us. I took a total of seven people for rides in two days. And do you know what? All seven of them were older than me. (I’m 43 these days.) Two of them were over 70. One woman was a nervous wreck when we took off, but ten minutes later, as I made my approach to land, she said, “Oh, that was too short! I want to do it again.”

Where were the kids? Maybe they were too young to enjoy a helicopter ride. (In reality, all they were interested in was beer and boobs. But don’t get me started about that.)

“Due to the age of our members…”

But the folks at North Ranch won’t be getting helicopter rides there. Bud Carr thinks they all have one foot in the grave.

And this guy is the company president?

Gone to the Birds

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A little bit about the birds in my life.

This morning, my rooster started crowing at 4:03 AM. I know this because I heard him. We’re getting on to the time of year when you can leave windows open all night. I think one of the bedroom windows must be open a crack because I heard him quite clearly this morning. I was already awake, of course, so it didn’t really bother me. It just reminded me that I have a rooster. And it made me wonder whether my new neighbors — the folks that moved into the pink house on 328th Avenue — could hear him. And whether he bothered them.

My closest neighbors must hear him pretty good. I asked them once if he bothered them and they assured me that he didn’t. They like the sound. That’s good to know. But when you consider that he does most of his crowing before sunrise, it makes you wonder how early they get up.

One of my other neighbors had a rooster for a while. I could tell because I’d hear crowing far off sometimes, when it wasn’t my rooster. Then the crowing stopped and I knew the coyotes had paid Mr. Rooster a visit.

The coyotes have paid my chickens numerous visits. The first time was way back with my first batch of 8 chickens, all hens, which I used to let out during the day. They’d come down the driveway to where the horses live and spend the morning scratching around in the sand for bugs and other chicken delicacies. One afternoon, when they all came back to roost, there were only five of them. Three had disappeared without a trace. You’d think the horses would protect them, but no. Horses have no interest in chickens.

A funny story here. Every night during the summer’s monsoon season, we have to move our horses out of their lower corral, because it’s in a flood zone, to spend the night in their much smaller upper corral. The upper corral has fence-hung feeders. I’d go to the upper corral in the evening and prepare it by adding hay and a grain mixture we call “bucket” to each feeder before bringing up the horses. The chickens were usually out and about and even though they don’t have enough brains to fill a shot glass, they figured out that there was grain in the feeders. So once in a while, they’d hop up there and scratch around a bit. One day, when I brought the horses up, Jake, our unflappable Quarter Horse, stuck his head in his feeder to get at the grain and immediately pulled it out. A chicken popped out, onto the ground, and ran away. Jake seemed to let out a deep sigh before he stuck his head back in for dinner.

I currently have three hens and a rooster. Over the years, I’ve lost lots of chickens to coyotes, which is why a coyote tail hangs from my Honda’s rearview mirror. More recently, however, the problem has been my neighbor’s dogs. I like my neighbors and I like their dogs. We live outside the town limits, at the end of a dead-end road. There are only three houses out here and we all have dogs. Although leashes are technically required — this is Maricopa County — none of us pay much attention to that. Instead, we’ve trained our dogs to stay nearby. Dogs don’t necessarily understand property lines, so our dogs occasionally stray onto each others’ property. No big deal there. My neighbor’s dogs, Bo and Trixie, often come up to my house to visit my dog, Jack. Sometimes they go down to the wash and play together. They play rough — too rough for my brother’s dog, who came to visit for Thanksgiving. But they have fun and they don’t really bother anyone.

That is, until Bo and Trixie discovered that if they dug under the fence, they could get at the chickens. The fence was my effort to contain the chickens so the coyotes would stop getting them. Coyotes are evidently lazy and are not interested in the hard labor of digging under a fence. Bo and Trixie, on the other hand, like to dig. The chickens gave them a reward for good digging. So one day, they dug under the fence, got in, and had a good chicken dinner, leaving only two live chickens behind as mute witnesses.

At first, I thought the coyotes had done the dirty deed. But then I realized that whoever had done it had left parts. Coyotes don’t leave parts. They take the whole chicken in their mouth and trot off with it. I’ve seen them do this. But I wasn’t putting two and two together yet so I figured it was the coyotes. So we reinforced the bottom of the fence with stakes and filled in the holes and got some more chickens, including the current rooster.

One day around Thanksgiving, I’m lounging around the house with my house guests and there’s a knock on the door. That in itself is amazing; no one ever knocks on our door. No one can ever find our house. If you know where our house is, it’s likely that you know us well enough to just open the door and holler “Hello?” I opened the door and found my neighbor’s three little kids standing there. They’re aged 4 to 8 or something like that. Two boys and their older sister. “Our dogs are eating your chickens,” they reported.

I threw on my shoes and ran down the driveway, followed closely by my brother and whoever else was around. Sure enough, the dogs were in the chicken yard. But these chickens had some survival skills — quite impressive for chickens — and had retreated into the upper part of the coop. The dogs were unable to catch them.

We got the dogs out and secured the chickens in the upper coop, where I knew they’d be safe. We patched up the hole Bo and Trixie had made. And a few weeks later, we installed an electric fence around the outside bottom edge of the fenced-in yard. I was there one day when Bo touched it. He went yelping back home and didn’t return for over a week. Needless to say, they don’t try getting into the chicken coop anymore.

The chickens, however, must be traumatized by all these close calls. Only one of the three hens lays eggs. I get about 5 eggs a week from her. The other two are freeloaders. They don’t know how lucky they are. My chicken-raising book advises you to eat the chickens that stop laying.

PhotoI also have a bird in the house. Alex the Bird is an African Grey parrot. As I type this at my kitchen table, Alex is practicing his vocabulary. “Jack, no! You’re bad! Are you cranky? Hello Mikey. Are you a duck? Gimme that thing. Jack, no! Alex! Hey goober. Fatso. Come on Jack. Wanna go upside down? Are you a chicken? Are you a cow? Are you a cranky bird? Ricky bird. Alex, are you cranky? Alex is a maniac. Okay, Alex the Bird. Hello. Hey, you goober. See you later alligator.” You get the idea. He’s 2-1/2 years old and he says a ton of stuff. In fact, he’s forgotten half of what he used to know. It’s pretty amazing considering that he’ll live to be about 50. By the time I’m dead and gone, he’ll be talking better than most people I know.

Alex also does sound effects, like the dog whining, my cell phone, and the squeal of the back screen door (which no longer squeals, but Alex squeals anyway every time we open it). He whistles pretty darn good, too. Right now, I’m teaching him the theme for the “Andy Griffith Show,” which I downloaded from the Internet. Every once in a while, I play it a few times for him. He practices in the morning — like right now — and I repeat back the part he’s trying to do to reinforce the correct stuff.

African Grey parrots are incredible companion pets. They thrive on attention and will learn to say whatever you take the time to teach them. Like all other birds, they’re messy, but if you have a dog that likes bird food, a lot of the mess is cleaned up as it happens. Every morning, in fact, when Alex has his breakfast (scrambled eggs), he drops half of it on the floor where Jack is waiting to gobble it up. Sometimes I think he drops the food on purpose just to watch Jack.

Unlike the typical African Grey (at least according to most books and articles I’ve read), Alex is extremely affectionate and likes to be cuddled. I hug him every morning before I put him back in his cage for the day and every night before I put him back in his cage for bed. He also likes to play rough. I hold him upside down by his feet and tickle his belly. Although he makes some fussy noises sometimes — his way of saying, “Cut that out!” — I know he likes it. It’s the attention, I think. He trusts me and knows I won’t hurt him. So although our rough play should be scary to him, it isn’t.

There are a lot of wild birds around Wickenburg, too. Hummingbirds abound. I used to keep feeders filled for them, but I’ve been slacking off. I don’t spend enough time at home to watch them. There are also quail, doves, Gila woodpeckers, thrushes, orioles, and more others than I know. When I had my office in the house, I recall looking up out the window one morning to see a Gambels quail dad leading his six or seven baby chicks to a shady spot in my flower garden. I watched them lounge for quite a while, transfixed. The babies were so cute! Then dad decided to move the troop on and they hopped out of sight.

We also have roadrunners here, although I don’t see them very often. Roadrunners are most often found in sandy washes and places where they can find lizards and snakes, which they eat. I was in Lake Havasu City the other day, chatting with some folks at the Nautical Inn when we spotted a roadrunner standing on the deck of a building less than 50 feet away. One of the men told us a story about an exchange between a roadrunner and a coyote that he had witnessed. The two animals faced off with a long chain-link fence between them. The roadrunner made cackling noises, and walked back and forth on his side of the fence, teasing the coyote. The coyote walked back and forth. Little by little, the roadrunner and coyote got closer and closer to the end of the fence. Finally, the coyote seized his chance. He took off, darting around the edge of the fence. But the roadrunner was quicker. He took off (they do know how to fly) and sailed over the fence, landing on the other side. Then they faced off again, on opposite sides of the fence, and the roadrunner started cackling all over again. It was quite clear who was smarter (in case those cartoons didn’t convince you) and the roadrunner was definitely having some fun at the coyote’s expense.

We don’t get many birds in the yard anymore, probably because of Jack the Dog. He chases all animals out of the yard. That’s okay, though. There are plenty of other places for them to go. I’m sure I could get some back if I put out seed for them, but Jack is actually quite good at catching doves and I really don’t want to see any more dead doves on my doorstep. (And they say cats are bad.)There are three red tailed hawks in the area. They live near the golf course on Steinway Road. I often see them together on the power lines there. The are also turkey vultures in town. They just got back from wherever it is that they go for the winter. They look wonderful in flight and many observers mistake them for hawks. But there’s no mistaking them when they’re on the ground around a dead cow. They’re downright ugly!We have owls, too. There was one that lived in the state land out behind my house. Every evening, just after sunset, he’d fly out for his nighttime hunt. He’d land on a tree behind our house and hoot for a bit, then soar past our house and land on the top of a power pole on 328th Avenue. We saw him nearly every day for weeks. And we often saw or heard him coming in early in the morning. But one day, he misjudged his landing on the power pole. His wings evidently touched the power lines in just the wrong way. Fried. We found him on the ground near the power pole. The next day, his body was gone.

That’s the way things are here in the desert. Every animal — dead or alive — is a meal for another animal. Nature keeps a delicate balance here that really isn’t a balance at all. For example, because of all the rain we’re having, there’s a lot of grass. That means there’s plenty of food for the rabbits. That means there will be plenty of rabbits this spring and summer. Rabbits are good food for coyotes. So next year, there will be lots of coyotes. It happened the last time we had an El Niño year, so I know what to expect.

That’s all for now; I need my second cup of coffee. And my rooster is crowing again.

Off-Roading by Helicopter

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I learn that even a helicopter can get stuck in the mud.

The idea was to show Mike’s brother, who is in town this week, a few of the more interesting spots out in the desert. So we took him to one of our favorites, an abandoned house north of Lake Pleasant.

The house sits in a saddle between two mountain peaks and there isn’t much clear, level ground near it. So I usually park on a dirt road that winds past it. That day was no different. I hover-taxied along the road, looking for a level spot to set down. I was quite surprised to see that the road, which was still wet from all the rain we’d been having, appeared to have been used recently by an ATV or some other narrow wheelbase vehicle.

The first place I attempted to set down didn’t seem level enough. The problem, I later discovered, was a CG issue. Mike’s brother is a big boy and having him sit in the front seat was pushing my CG much more forward than I was accustomed to. As a result, the fronts of the skids were touching down long before the backs of the skids. But on that first set down, I wasn’t thinking that. I just figured the LZ wasn’t level. So I picked it back up and moved a bit farther down the road.

I set down in another spot and although it didn’t seem level (probably due to the CG issue again), I put full collective down and we settled into the ground. Unfortunately, I mean that literally. We settled into the ground. The ground on my side was soft and the right skid sunk into it.

I looked out my window at the skid. It was sunk in about 1/2 inch, mostly in the back. It didn’t look too bad. We decided to get out, walk around as we’d originally intended, and deal with the sunken skid when we got back.

I don’t know if it was a bad idea or not. Mike claims the helicopter sunk in a bit more while we were away — perhaps 45 minutes. While we explored the ruins, we picked up discarded pieces of lumber, blackened with age. We each carried some of it back to the helicopter with the idea that we’d somehow lift the skid out of the mud and slip the wood beneath it for support.

I really don’t know what we were thinking. The helicopter weighs 1500 lbs empty and it had about 30 gallons of fuel on board (180 lbs). Although the left skid had settled onto relatively firm ground, the right skid was definitely sunk in. Mike slipped a metal can top under the back of the right skid. Then we had his brother pull down on the tail rotor gearbox to lift the front end of the helicopter out of the mud so we could slip wood pieces under the fronts of the skids.

That was definitely a bad idea. Although the fronts of the skids sat nicely on wood, the backs of the skids — both of them! — sunk deeper into the mud. Now we had a real problem.

At this point, you might be saying, what’s the problem? It’s a helicopter. Just start it up and take off.

Helicopter skid in mudIt’s not that simple. If one of a helicopter’s skids is stuck in something, it could create a pivot point. Then, when you start to lift off, the skid remains stuck. If you keep going, the entire helicopter could fly over onto its side. This is called dynamic rollover and it’s the cause of more than a few accidents. As far as I was concerned, the skid could be seriously stuck in the mud, creating a pivot point. I was not about to take off until I was sure the skid was clear of mud. So we dug. The ground was very soft and the pieces of wood we’d brought made relatively good digging tools. As we dug, we hammered pieces of wood under the skids, using rocks as hammers. Of course the trick there was to keep those pieces of wood relatively flat so they wouldn’t create pivot points. We worked on it for about an hour. We got very muddy. Our shoes kept sticking in the stuff and, more than once, my foot slipped out of my shoe when I tried to walk. (I hate when that happens.) At one point, I thought I might have to call for help — we just didn’t seem to be making the situation any better. But then we cleared most of the mud aside and I was satisfied that we’d done the best we could do.

Mike’s brother and I got in while Mike stood outside, watching to see if the vibrations of the helicopter’s engine and blades would cause it to sink deeper into the muck. I started up and warmed up the engine. Everything looked good. Mike got in. I told them both to keep quiet so I could concentrate. And then I very carefully pulled up the collective, making sure that I didn’t move laterally in any direction as we got light on the skids.”You’re off the ground back here,” Mike told me.

I’d picked up so smoothly that I hadn’t even felt it. We were airborne, I pulled more pitch and rose two feet off the ground. Then I pushed the cyclic forward and we took off, over the edge of the cliff and into the valley beyond.

Another learning experience. But a messy one.