Heli-Shopping

The latest craze? I wish!

You’ve probably heard of heli-skiing, where they take you to the mountaintop in the ultimate “lift”: a helicopter. And heli-hiking, where they take you by helicopter to a remote trailhead and pick you up someplace equally remote. Well, thanks to one of my regular passengers, I’ve now started doing heli-shopping trips.

Here’s the deal.

Wickenburg has serious limitations on its shopping opportunities. Sure, there’s a great supermarket (which even has a Starbucks now, if you can imagine that) and there are a handful of shops down and around town for buying souvenirs, items for your home, and gifts. And even a little boutique.

But for hard-core shoppers, that might not be enough. For these people, it’s Scottsdale or bust.

Scottsdale, by car, is a good 90-minutes from Wickenburg. And that’s if you don’t hit any traffic and push the speed limit a bit. But by helicopter, it’s only 30 minutes away. The obvious benefit for the shopper: less time in the car, more time in the shops.

Last year, a couple who flies with me every time they come to stay at one of Wickenburg’s guest ranches, drove down to Scottsdale for a shopping day. The weather was awful and rainy and since people who live in Arizona don’t know how to drive on wet roads, the traffic was terrible. When they got to the shops, she got right down to business while he tried, in vain, to get a seat at one of the mall restaurants for lunch and a few hours of reading time. But the mall was packed and he couldn’t get a seat, so he wound up in their rental car in the covered parking garage, reading by the car’s dome light. Then, when she was finished shopping, they had another long, miserable drive back to Wickenburg.

This unhappy memory stuck with them. So this year, when they came to visit, they asked me if I could simply fly her down to Scottsdale, while he did something in Wickenburg that he enjoyed: a round of golf.

I’m never one to turn down a good charter, so yesterday at 10:30 AM, I was winding up Three-Niner-Lima with my eager passenger on board. We had an uneventful flight down to Scottsdale, landed, and locked up the helicopter on the ramp. Then, since I had only one passenger and my Scottsdale airport car is a two-seater, I drove her down to the Scottsdale Fashion Mall and let her loose by herself for four hours. Then I spent the time doing some errands, having a nice lunch, and doing a bit of shopping on my own.

I picked up my passenger at 3:30 and drove back up to Scottsdale Airport. I put the car away and we carried our bags back to the helicopter. I stowed everything under the seats and, a few minutes later, we were heading north for a slightly different route back to Wickenburg that would include an overflight of Lake Pleasant and Castle Hot Springs. We were back on the ramp at Wickenburg in time for cocktail hour at the ranch.

Mission accomplished. In style.

Heli-shopping isn’t for everyone. For one thing, it ain’t cheap, so potential heli-shoppers have to be really serious about their shopping time. And shoppers simply have to say no to that great deal on an end table at Restoration Hardware — or anything else that won’t fit in the helicopter.

But heli-shopping is more than just transportation to the shops awaiting your discretionary spending dollars. It’s a scenic flight from one world (the sleepy retirement community of Wickenburg) to another (the busy city of Scottsdale). The transition from town to open, empty desert to suburbs to city is something to see. And you won’t believe the kinds of things you can see from the air that are simply invisible from the road.

Heli-shopping takes shopping to new highs. Pun intended.

A Search…

…but no rescue required.

I was sitting down at my desk, getting ready to start working on Chapter 6 of my Excel 2007 book (for the third time), when my phone rang. It was someone I knew from here in Wickenburg. He was wondering if I was available for a helicopter flight that day. It seemed that his son and his wife and young child had gone hiking and hadn’t come back.

Jeez!

Yes, I was available. I asked a bunch of questions, like whether the authorities were involved. He told me the police knew but hadn’t started looking yet. But he wanted to start looking right away. He thought they might be in the Granite Mountain area. That’s near Prescott, about 40 NM away.

I warned him that it could be expensive to search by helicopter. He said he didn’t care. I told him I could have the helicopter ready to fly in 30 minutes. I told him to give me a call if he wanted to go out. And we hung up.

He called back ten minutes later, just when I was warming up my Dell PC. He would meet me at the airport.

I dropped everything, threw on some jeans and practical shoes, grabbed my handheld GPS to track our search area, hopped in my Jeep, and drove off to the airport.

His mom, who I already knew, arrived at the airport as I was pulling the helicopter to the fuel island. I talked with her after I fueled up. Weather was closing in — an unusual thing here in Arizona — and the ceilings were dropping. Rain was a certainty. And to the north, where I needed to fly, the tops of the mountains were obscured by clouds. I’d checked the weather by computer before leaving home and things in Prescott looked okay for at least the next two hours. But I wanted to get up there as soon as possible.

Doug and his wife arrived a short while later. I gave them a preflight briefing, loaded them on board, and attempted to start the helicopter. For the first time ever, it took five tries to start. I’d flooded the engine while priming it.

We crossed the Weaver Mountains north of Wickenburg to the east northwest of Yarnell. We were flying right below cloud level up there. But ahead, at Granite Mountain, the sky was only partly cloudy.

We reached the mountain 20 minutes after leaving Wickenburg. It’s a one-hour drive. We circled around the west side to the north, had some trouble getting permission from Prescott tower to skirt their airspace as we flew around the mountain, and then started looking for the missing people’s truck.

Of course, there are a few things that made this a less-than-perfect search. First and foremost is that they weren’t sure that the missing people had come to Granite Mountain. They might have gone to some trail that ran from I-17 to the Verde River — which was at least 40 miles away. Second, the wind was howling up at Prescott, with gust spreads of 10 miles per hour or more. As the wind came over the arms of Granite Mountain, it bounced us around something fierce. Doug was getting airsick. My barf bags were under his seat.

We did a good amount of searching, but with thoughts of puke on my leather seats, I suggested we land at the airport and check in with other people who were monitoring the phones. I don’t think Doug was happy, but he didn’t argue. Five minutes later, we were on the ramp at Prescott airport, near the terminal and restaurant, and Doug was heading toward the buildings while I shut down.

In the restaurant, while Doug drank Sprite and his wife and I enjoyed other beverages, Doug checked in. The missing people’s truck had been found. At the Cave Creek trailhead, wherever that was. He didn’t get the coordinates. We hurried back to the helicopter, started up, and headed south.

The weather to the south wasn’t good. We hit rain right away. I joked about how the rain took the bugs off the main rotor blades. I didn’t mention that it also took the paint off.

It was a good 20-minute flight down the east side of the Bradshaw Mountains, which were completely socked in. It was really beautiful, seeing those clouds mingling with the mountains. You have to understand — clouds are not a usual feature here in Arizona. And when there are so many and they’re layered among the mountains, it’s really a sight to see.

Past Black Canyon City, I headed southeast, hoping to hook up with the road that runs from Cave Creek/Carefree to the lakes on the Verde River. That’s where Doug thought the trailhead might be. The wind was blowing, the rain was falling. And then I caught sight of a DPS (Department of Public Services) helicopter flying northbound. I tuned into the helicopter air-to-air frequency (123.025) and made a call.

“Police Helicopter north of Cave Creek, are you on one-two-three-point-two?”

“This is Ranger 42, north of Cave Creek.”

I told him who I was and who I had on board. I asked if he was searching for the missing people. He said he was and that he was heading toward the trailhead where their car had been found. He offered to give me the coordinates. I told him we’d just follow him.

Now keep in mind that I was flying a Robinson R44 helicopter. He was flying something else, something turbine with lots of rotor blades. I don’t know what it was. But I took off after him and tried like hell to keep up. We lost sight of him three times among the mountains we were crossing, but we finally caught sight of him in a low orbit around a parking area. The missing people’s truck was parked down there.

Ranger 42 told us he’d search to the west and suggested we take the east. Okay with us. So we followed a few roads in the area for about 15 minutes. Then we heard the media helicopters coming in. Channel 3 with Scott at the controls. Channel 10. Channel 15? I don’t know. All I know is that they were coming. And no matter how big the sky was, it would be a lot smaller with three more helicopters.

Doug suggested that I land in the parking area, let him off, and let his nephew, who had found the truck, on board. Then he proceeded to puke repeatedly into the barf bags I’d had the foresight to remove from under his seat before we left Prescott. In the back, his wife was fine.

We landed. Doug got out. His nephew climbed in. I gave him a safety briefing, made sure he fastened his seat belt, told him not to get sick because we were out of barf bags, and took off.

We spent the next 30 minutes searching to the northeast of the parking area. Ranger 42 and two other helicopters that had shown up had landed to coordinate the search efforts. They graciously offered to leave room down in the parking area for me, but I preferred to stay out of their way. So we followed trails and roads up and down mountains and canyons.

After searching to the east, we crossed over and went west. I watched my fuel levels. I had about 1/4 tanks when we got back to the landing zone and found one of the police helicopters spinning up. I reported in.

“Ranger 42 is departing the area,” the pilot told me. “The missing people have been found.”

The missing guy’s mom, who was sitting behind me, was thrilled. We listened to the media helicopters talking to the police helicopters. It seems they’d gotten lost the evening before just as it was getting dark and had simply pitched a tent and spent the night in it. In the morning, they’d stumbled upon someone’s home and the woman who had lived there had driven them back to the parking area. Found.

Approaching the landing zone from the north, I watched the three helicopters there take off. I lined up for landing and settled down in the space they’d just vacated. My two passengers got out. I caught sight of a restroom in the parking area and decided to make use of it. Two minutes later, the engine was shut down and the blades were stopped and I was making a beeline for the toilet.

There were cops all over the place down there. One of them had approached me as I was shutting down and I said, “Please don’t give me a ticket.” After all, I’d landed in a parking lot for a trailhead. He laughed.

Everything was okay. Happy ending. Doug decided to drive back with someone else. I think he had enough of the helicopter. But his wife stuck with me. We climbed back on board, started the engine, and took off. The media helicopters were circling above us like vultures. I just followed the canyon south, climbing up out of their way while they jockeyed for position to land and interview the found people.

I headed southwest toward Deer Valley. I needed fuel to make it back to Wickenburg. But I hit a wall of rain that was just falling too hard for me to fly through with a passenger on board. I turned around and headed east. Things were clearer over the Verde River. When I cleared the canyon, I was able to turn back to the southwest.

The media helicopters weren’t far behind me. I heard them debate whether or not I had the found people on board with me. Apparently, the vehicles in the landing zone had driven off just as the first helicopter landed there. Doug’s wife and I had a good laugh.

We landed at Deer Valley and I arranged for fuel. Once fueled up, we took off to the northwest to return to Wickenburg. It was raining most of the way and we skirted below the clouds almost all the way to Wickenburg.

I showed my passenger her house from the air before we landed.

Time logged, 2.9 hours. And yes, I was paid for my time.

Jack the Dog Earns His Wings

We go flying in the helicopter and take Jack with us.

The phone call came last night at about 7 pm. It was Robin from Prescott, another R44 owner.

“We finally have a day off tomorrow,” he told me. “Want to go flying?”

Of course I did. I always want to go flying. I suggested Red Creek, a dirt strip along the Verde River. He’d never been there and was interested in seeing the place.

I told him I’d fly up to Prescott and meet him and his wife Linda at around 11 AM. We’d fly down to Red Creek and have a picnic lunch and a short hike.

Mike and I debated asking various friends to come along. My helicopter has four seats; it seemed a shame to waste two of them with such a fun destination. But we couldn’t decide who to ask.

In the morning, I made an outrageous suggestion: “How about if we take Jack?”

Jack is our dog. He’s part Border Collie and part Australian Shepherd. We call him a Border Shepherd and, if we say it with a straight face, people think its a real breed. He’d been in a small plane once, but he’d never been in a helicopter. He’s a pretty smart dog, although he tends to get excited easily. He loves roaming around in the desert and this destination would be perfect for him.

A while later, Jack was wearing the harness we’d bought for him months ago and sitting on a blanket in the back of my helicopter. Mike used a piece of rope and a carabiner to fasten the harness to the seat belt. The idea was for him to sit in the seat behind me so Mike could reach around back or take a look at him easily if he had to. But he’s so squirmy, he managed to sit in either seat.

I fired up the helicopter and took off. Jack was calm. It was like he was in the car, going for a ride. But the view out the window was…well, somewhat distant.

We flew up to Prescott and eventually got clearance to land at the bottleneck. I saw Robin and Linda in front of their hangar with their helicopter parked nearby. There were two planes on the ramp there. I flew in between them. One wasn’t tied down and its wings rocked, but not dangerously. (Why a pilot would park an airplane with its wings lined up right over the tie-down chains yet not tie it down is beyond me.) I set down on the ramp. Mike got out to talk to Robin and Linda. When he came back, they got into their helicopter and started up. Robin made the call for a flight of two helicopters departing to the northeast, low level. That would keep us from having to cross the runways. We got clearance and took off.

Once clear of the Class D airspace, we switched to the helicopter air-to-air frequency, which is 123.025. Robin told me to lead. He fell in behind me, a comfortable distance away and slightly higher than me. It was a real pleasure to fly with a pilot who knew how to give me some space.

We flew southeast, eventually intersecting with I-17 where it comes down off the plateau into Camp Verde. Then we followed the Verde River south. We didn’t fly down in the canyon, hugging the twisting river. Instead, we kept up a bit, overflying the goosenecks. The river was flowing swiftly beneath us, but after leaving the vicinity of Camp Verde, we didn’t see a soul. Well, there were a few cars by the Childs Power Plant. But after that, no one.

I pointed out the canyon that led to Payson. Then I pointed out an odd-shaped butte that was near our destination. I flew in first, checking the windsock at the east end of the strip. The wind was blowing from upriver. I made my approach from the south, crossed the strip, and landed in the tie-down area near the picnic table.

Robin Lands his R44 Beside MineMike already had Jack out of the helicopter as I was cooling the engine down when Robin came in for a landing. Although I thought there was enough space beside me, Robin didn’t think the spot looked level enough. He wound up parking a few dozen yards east, on the same side of the strip.

We met over at the picnic table. Oddly enough, we’d both brought along fried chicken. Ours was from Safeway, theirs was from Fry’s. And chocolate chip cookes. And soda and water.

A plane flew over and we thought it might land. I’d parked with my helicopter’s tail a little close to the runway. After guessing at a few frequencies, I finally reached the pilot on my handheld radio and asked him if he was landing. He told us he wasn’t; the runway was too short. And sandy and bumpy, I could have added. If he was in doubt, he definitely would have messed up a landing in his Cessna 172.

In case another airplane came by, we used Robin’s wheels to move my helicopter a bit farther away from the strip.

A little history of this place: if I got the story right, the airstrip was carved in by Jason Rovey’s grandfather, who used to run cattle on that land. Back then, he flew in and out in the Citabria Jason still flies out of Wickenburg. I happened to stumble across the place while flying in the area in my R22 years ago, but later met Jason and learned more about it. We flew in a few years back with four helicopters (my R22, two Bell 47s, and an R44).

The strip is maintained by the people who use it. They take care of the runway manually, with rakes and shovels that they leave at the site. I’ve been told that a lot of people from the airpark at Carefree use the place. In addition to the maintenance tools, there’s a picnic table, an ammo box with a sign-in book, some lawn chairs, a horseshoe pit with horseshoes, a barbeque pit, and water bottles. The one thing the place could really use is some shade–it’s mighty sunny there with very few trees taller than a person. There are plenty of cacti, though, including tall saguaro and lots of prickly pear.

Mike and Jack at the Verde RiverAfter lunch, we took a short hike down to the river. It was rushing pretty good and the sound of the flowing water was great. There’s plenty of space down there to camp and we hope to come back in the spring, when it’s warmer at night, to camp out. I’m hoping Jason and his fiance, Becky, can join us. Jason still flies in with the Citabria that’s older than he is. But somehow, I don’t think we’ll camp by the river. I think we’ll be up by the runway, by that picnic table.

And I know we won’t come in the summer because it’s too darn hot and Jason says the place is full of rattlesnakes.

The ShackAfter scouting around down by the river, we followed an old road up to a shack built high above the river. There were some cattle pens there and the place was pretty beat up. Supports for the porch roof had collapsed and the metal roof panels hung down against the side of the building. The concrete pad the place was built on had 1964 scratched into the cement. Inside, the building showed signs of recent use, including a new set of steps leading up to one of the bunks and a sleeping bag in decent condition.

We made our way back to the picnic table and spent some time drinking water and soda and chatting. Jack sniffed around the prickly pear cacti, looking for rodents (likely) or lizards (unlikely this time of year). He’d had a lot of fun wading in Red Creek and the river and was just dirty enough for Robin and Linda to tease me about the mess he’d make in the helicopter.

We left a short while later. It was almost 3 PM. Mike wanted to follow Red Creek back toward I-17 to see how close you could get to the airstrip with a truck. He had ideas about bringing the horses in. There was a ranch about 3 miles up the creek and a good road ran to it. The rest was rugged and would require a quad or hearty Jeep. Or horses — they are the best ground-based, off-road vehicles, after all.

Robin followed us for a while, then we went southwest and he split off to the northwest, toward Prescott.

The ride got bumpy as we flew over one mountain or canyon after another. We crossed I-17 right near Black Canyon City, then continued almost due west to Wickenburg.

Jack Enjoys the ViewJack spent most of the ride back lounging in the back of the helicopter, stretched out on both seats. He was tired after all his running around. Mike shot this photo of him looking out the window as we neared the airport. That’s Wickenburg down below — one of the motels and Denny’s, with the newly built apartments and condos below them. It almost looks as if Jack was enjoying the view. Almost.

Will we take Jack flying again? Of course! He passed the test and has earned his wings.

A Trip Back East

Some photos from a trip back to New Jersey and New York for the Thanksgiving Holidays.

I didn’t want to go, but Mike talked me into it. Then we made flight reservations before I could change my mind. It would be a short trip. I’d fly out on Wednesday and return on Saturday. Only three nights, and those would be made comfortable with a room at the Glenpointe Marriott in Teaneck, NJ. Dinner with my family at my brother’s house in New Jersey on Thursday, dinner with Mike’s family at a restaurant in Queens on Friday, Dim Sum with family and friends in Ft. Lee, NJ on Saturday morning.

The New York/New Jersey metro area where I grew up and lived most of my life is very different from Wickenburg, AZ, where I live now. So different that I decided to take some photos to try to document some of the differences. I could have done better, but this is what I’ve got to share. This is the view from our hotel room in Teaneck, NJ, on Thursday morning. It had snowed and rained during the night and it was bitter cold that day.

This looks out to the southwest. As you can see, there are lots of tall trees, but they’re pretty much bare in late November. The overall effect is gray. A gray day with gray skies, gray trees, and gray pavement. I hated the gray of the New York metro area in the winter months. But it was the cold that finally chased me out of the area.

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Here’s another look from our hotel room window. This view looks toward the southeast. The highway in the foreground is I-95, which stretches from Maine to Florida. The body of water is some marshland that might just be close enough to the Meadowlands to be considered part of it. The gray buildings poking into the gray sky are the skyscrapers of New York City off in the distance. The pointy one on the left is the Empire State Building, which is now the tallest building in New York again. It formerly held that title from 1934 to 1977, when the World Trade Center was completed. With the WTC gone, this depression-era building is once again the tallest in the city.

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On Friday, we drove to Queens. Here’s a snapshot taken on the Cross Bronx Expressway, which goes from the George Washington Bridge (on the Hudson River), across the top of Manhattan and the middle of the Bronx, to two of the bridges to Long Island: the Whitestone and the Throgs Neck. When I was growing up, this area of the Bronx was filled with burned-out building shells, and we’d often see broken-down or abandoned cars being stripped on the side of the road as we drove through. But the buildings have they’ve since been renovated and people live there once again. Don’t get the idea that this is an up-and-coming area of New York, though. It’s still a poor, crime-ridden area. Ever read Bright Lights, Big City?

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I forgot to take photos the day before, on the way to my brother’s house. We took the New Jersey Turnpike (I-95 down) and there are lots of weird scenic things along that, like the big gas tanks that appeared in a scene of Stephen King’s The Stand and Newark Liberty International Airport. Next time.

Here’s a pretty poor photo of the roadway on the Whitestone Bridge.

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There are three bridges that’ll get you from the Bronx to Queens and Long Island and they’re all pretty similar in appearance: single-span suspension bridges. The Triboro Bridge has some nice art deco touches that make it my favorite of the three bridges, but that one’s much closer to Manhattan, which was out of our way. The Throgs Neck bridge has great views of the Long Island Sound which, in the summer, is full of sailboats and very picturesque. Of course, the Whitestone Bridge does offer the best long-distance views of Manhattan. I took a bunch of photos and this one was the best. It really gives you the flavor of new York from a distance. The tugboat with barge in the foreground, the plane departing La Guardia Airport (out of this shot on the left), and the huge cluster of buildings in midtown Manhattan. You can clearly see the Empire State Building almost dead center and CitiCorp Center (look for the slanted roof to the right). Astoria, Queens is in the foreground, on the other side of the water. And you can just about see the heavy black bridge of the train trestle that parallels the Triboro Bridge. If the World Trade Center were still standing, its towers would appear to the far left in this photo.

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If you’ve never been to New York and you have the opportunity to visit, don’t pass it up. New York is like no other place on earth. As I was telling a Phoenix cab driver just the other day, it’s one of the few U.S. cities that blend old and new in a way that leaves you breathless. Go downtown, to the Wall Street area, and see exactly what they mean by the “Canyons of Wall Street.” The streets are so narrow and the buildings are so tall that light rarely gets down to the street. Although midtown has more tall buildings, the streets are a bit wider. You won’t believe the crowds walking the streets during a weekday lunch hour, the sea of yellow cabs, the bicycle messengers, the street vendors. This time of year, they’re roasting chestnuts near Rockefeller Center and steam is rising from manhole covers and vents on the street.

I do love New York, but I don’t have enough money to live there the way I want to. And New York is one of the grayest places I know.

We didn’t get into the city during this trip. Next time I go back, I’ll take some photos. But you might have to wait a few years. Once in Queens, we hopped on the Cross Island Parkway to go to Mike’s Mom’s apartment. I took this shot out the front window of the car. It’s an interesting example of one of Robert Moses’s parkways. He built them all over Long Island — Queens is on the eastern end of Long Island — and this was probably one of his first. One of the trademarks of his roadways was his stone overpasses. They all look pretty much the same, but they’re really nicely executed. When you look at this photo, it’s hard to imagine that tens of thousands of people live within a mile of where it was taken.

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This stretch of roadway is sunken in and surrounded by trees. Mike and I had our first apartment together about 5 miles further down this road, in Bayside. We had a wonderful view of Littleneck Bay (you’ve heard, perhaps, of Littleneck clams?), but had to listen to a never-ending stream of cars going by far beneath our terrace.

At Mike’s mom’s place, we had bagels for breakfast. This is a photo of me holding a real New York bagel. Notice that it is large and plump. The outside is crusty and the inside is moist and almost doughy. It doesn’t have blueberries or cranberries or any other type of berry in it. This one has sesame seeds (my personal favorite), but they also come plain, egg, poppy seed, salt, pumpernickel, onion, cinnamon raisin, or everything. Everything means seeds, onion, and salt and is a real assault to the taste buds. A common way for a New Yorker to eat a bagel is to slice it open and toast it, then cover each half with cream cheese and slices of lox (smoked salmon). Some people add red onions, capers, and/or tomatoes. (I don’t like tomatoes on my bagels.) A quick spread of cream cheese is referred to as a “schmear” in New York; I prefer a more generous helping. You can’t get a good bagel anywhere outside of the New York metro area, although you can get decent ones here and there. Einstein Brothers makes a decent bagel. Bagels do not come in the grocery freezer section; anything you find there that is labeled a bagel is a mere imitation.

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The next time you go to New York, have a bagel as described above. It’s part of the New York experience and should be required for all serious visitors. And, while you’re at it, take a ride down to the Lower East Side and have a corned beef, pastrami, and tongue on rye sandwich at Katz’s Deli. Get that with mustard. Do not ask for it with mayonnaise; you will be forcibly removed from the premises and publicly laughed at out on the street. A Dr. Brown’s Creme soda is a nice accompaniment — and don’t forget the kosher pickle. Leave the Carnegie Deli for the tourists. What you’ll learn — among other things — is how to properly make a sandwich. There should be more meat than bread. That’s something they just don’t get outside the New York metro area.

But I digress, again. This is a photo of the Throgs Neck Bridge, taken from Mike’s mom’s patio. She’s on the 7th floor and has a nice view out this way. Beyond the bridge is the Long Island Sound. Imagine it with lots of sailboats and you’re imagining the view on a summer Sunday afternoon. Put some green leaves in the tree in the foreground to complete the picture.

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As you can see, it isn’t always grey in New York in the winter. Friday was a very nice day, although it was still bitter cold, with temperatures in the 30s and enough wind to make it feel a lot colder. Of course, it did get gray again on the next day.

Here’s a look at the George Washington Bridge from the foot of the Palisades. The Palisades, in case you’re wondering, are a line of cliffs along the Hudson River in New Jersey. This photo was taken from a boat basin/park area almost directly across the river from the northernmost end of Manhattan. The view is to the southeast.

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The GW Bridge has two decks — upper and lower — and is a major route between New Jersey and eastern New York. It’s actually the first bridge you get to if you sail up the river from New York Harbor. The next bridge is the Tappan Zee, which is at least 20 miles further upriver. To cross the river closer to downtown Manhattan, you can use one of two tunnels: the Lincoln (midtown at around 30th Street) and the Holland (downtown at around Houston).

When I was growing up in New Jersey, my family had a small boat that we used to take out in the river. I’ve been around Manhattan by boat more times than I can count. It’s a neat trip that you can do on the Circle Line tour boats. We also took a few perilous trips into New York Harbor and around the Statue of Liberty. I say perilous because our boat was really small and the water can get rough out in the harbor. I also remember going past Ellis Island long before it was fixed up and opened to the public. I’ve never been on the island, though.

Anyway, all those boat trips started at the base of the George Washington Bridge, on the New Jersey side. I can still remember the smell of the water at low tide, and the look of all those exposed barnacles. And the way the boat floated up and down as it was loosely tied at the boarding area. We didn’t swim in the river back in those days — it was too polluted south of the Tappan Zee — but we did fish in it, although we never ate any of the fish we caught.

Here’s a shot of one of the “waterfalls” coming down the Palisades to the Hudson River. It’s really probably just runoff from a storm drain, but when we were kids, it was a waterfall and it was one of the most beautiful things we’d ever seen. My family often drove along the river’s shore road on Sunday outings. That’s back in the days when taking a drive in the family car was a cheap and fun day out. There were no malls, no computer games, no cell phones. We’d get in the car and go for a drive and drink up everything we saw out the window. If it was autumn, we’d go to a place called Tices Farms, which had apples and doughnuts (note the spelling) and cider and pumpkins for sale. When I got out of the car to take this photo, the smell of wet leaves brought me back to a time when we would rake them into huge piles and take turns jumping in them. Leave stems would stick in our sweaters and hair and we’d be breathless in the cool autumn sun. I don’t know if you can see it clearly, but there’s ice in the water in this photo. We’re talking cold enough to make a waterfall freeze. Cold.

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The Palisades area of Bergen County in New Jersey is one of its more historic areas. Originally settled by the Dutch in the 1600s, it was a hotbed of activity during the Revolutionary War. Posted alongside roads all over the area are “Washington’s Retreat Route” signs. Yes. This is the area George Washington retreated from when we weren’t doing very well in the first war with the Brits. Why we need that on signs is beyond me. But the area is also full of walking trails that were probably built during the depression. In more than a few places, you can find stairways and paths that climb the Palisades. This is one example, that follows the road for a short distance before cutting right up the cliff. We did a lot of hiking in the area when we lived there. The views from the top of the Palisades are magnificent.

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I took the shot that appears below from the AirTrain that travels around Newark Airport. That’s New York in the background.
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This photo reminds me of a visit by one of my editors when we still lived in New Jersey. I picked him up at the airport and was driving north along the New Jersey turnpike toward our house. He looked off to the right as we climbed a bit of highway that passed over the marshes at the Meadowlands and said, “What city is that?” He was looking at New York. That’s when I realized that the skyline I’d grown up with wasn’t nearly as familiar to everyone else.

Am I homesick? Maybe a bit. Would I go back to live there again? Nope.

Been there, done that.

Red Mountain

We “walk inside a mountain” near Flagstaff.

We spent Memorial Day weekend — or what was left of it after my Biltmore Apple Store gig — at our place on Howard Mesa. We bought 40 acres up there, fenced it in a few years ago, and added a septic system two years ago. This year, we’re adding a small, one-room cabin.

Howrd MesaHoward Mesa was beautiful. Or maybe I should say that it was more beautiful than usual. The grass was knee-high and green and the seed tops swayed with the wind. The San Francisco Peaks were still snow-covered, off in the distance. Best of all, we seemed to have the whole place to ourselves — as usual.

We spent Sunday doing odd jobs and relaxing around the camper. We went out for dinner that night in a restaurant in Parks, about 35 miles from our place. The place, called Rack and Bull, had probably been set up as a moderate-to-high priced dining experience that featured wild game, lamb, and ribs. It had since succumbed to the need to attract a wider range of clientele. The menu wasn’t anything special and they offered pizza. But the decor was very nice, the service was excellent, the food was good, and the value for the dollar was right on target. Why can’t we have a few places like that in Wickenburg? Heck, Parks must have a fraction of the population. But let’s not go there.

On Sunday, after a nice long walk, we decided to hop in the truck and take 180 toward Flagstaff. The idea was to take the aerial tram at the Snowbowl to the top of the peak. But I had a booklet called 99 Things to Do in Northern Arizona and it suggested a few more interesting things (as well as many far less interesting things). The one I was thinking about was headed “Walk Into a Mountain.” It appeared that northwest of Flag was a mountain that had collapsed long ago, forming a natural amphitheater filled with interesting rock formations, trees, and not much else. The booklet compared its formations to the hoodoos at Bryce Canyon. Sounded interesting to me.

We saw the place on the right side of the road before we saw the promised signs for it. I’ve been up and down that road over 20 times and various times of the day and night and I can’t recall ever seeing that mountain. But there it was, red mountain, looking exactly as the description promised.

We pulled into a parking lot that had about six other vehicles in it. Jack the dog was with us, but there weren’t any NO DOGS or DOGS ON LEASH signs, so I stuck his leash in my pocket and let him run loose. He’s very well behaved on the trail — better than Spot ever was — and he absolutely loves hiking with us. He runs ahead, chases rabbits, then comes tearing back to us, only to take off in another direction. He probably runs four times the distrance we walk, but that’s okay. He’s younger and in better shape. Mike took a bottle of water, which he hung on his belt loop with a bungee cord. (How’s that for high-tech hiking equipment?) Then we started the 1-1/2 mile hike to the opening in the mountain.

At Red MountainThe trail, which was wide enough for hikers, bikers (the pedal kind, that is), or horseback riders, was smooth and covered with crushed red cinders. In places, it was heavily eroded, but not enough to make walking a problem. That was a good thing, because I hadn’t brought hiking shoes. I was wearing my red Keds and that’s probably the only kind of surface I could have walked 3 miles on. The trail climbed gently most of the way. It wound through the trees, then dropped into a smooth-bottomed wash and climbed toward the mountain in that. Soon, we were in a canyon with slopes of dark grey volcanic gravel on either side of us. It was fine stuff, like the red cinders we walked on. There were a few interesting formations right at the mountain’s entrance. Beyond them, we could see the red hoodoos inside the mountain.

Inside Red MountainIt appears to me that Red Mountain had once been a plain old mountain. Volcanic activity on one side had caused black lava to spew out of the ground. This undermined the mountain, causing a slide that took out about 1/3 of the mountain side. The result was the amphitheater the booklet told us about. Of course, this is all conjecture based on what it looked like. There was no interpretive sign in the parking area or elsewhere and no ranger to explain what we were seeing. I could have it completely wrong.

Inside Red MountainThere are two ways into the mountain, both of which were described in the book. At the head of the wash we’d been following, someone had built a neat rock dam. A ladder climbed the six or eight feet up to the top of the dam where silt had backed up, raising the ground to the top of the dam. That’s how we went. Jack took the ladder like a champ. The other way was to climb up over a gray cinders covered slope. That’s probably the only way you could get in with a horse. (I know my horse doesn’t climb ladders.) Our way was easier. Inside the mountain’s amphitheater was exactly as the booklet had described. Lots of rock formations made of red sandstone carved by wind and water, with a bunch of dark gray formations just to make things interesting. We walked up to the head of the canyon, passing a family having lunch with their dogs. One dog, a Corgi, came yapping out after us, followed by a dog that looked like a mix of every dog breed in the world. Jack had some sniffing with them, then followed us.

We rested in the shade for a while, taking in the view. I took a few photos. The sun was high and the light was harsh. But it certainly did remind me of Bryce Canyon. After exploring the area for a while, we headed back out the way we’d come. Jack was unbelievable on the ladder, taking it just like one of the Lassie actors. The return hike seemed longer, but it was almost all downhill. There was enough shade to make it a comfortable walk, even in jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Back in Wickenburg, it was in the 90s; up in the mountains near Flag, it was in the 70s. It was the same, strong sun — some people argue that it’s stronger at altitude because you’re closer to it (I can’t make this stuff up) — but the cool mountain air made it pleasant.

Jack at Red MountainI took this photo of Jack as we neared the parking area. It’s the new desktop picture on my laptop. That’s the San Francisco Peaks in the background; you can see Jack running on the trail, tongue hanging out, on the left.

From here, we headed over to the Snowbowl, where we took the 7-mile road up to the lift. We had lunch at the restaurant there while Jack the Dog rested in the car. We didn’t take the lift because 1) it was open-air, 2) it was windy, and 3) it was 25°F with the wind chill at the top. Instead, we sat and enjoyed lunch on the outdoor patio, watching people climb aboard the lift and watching other people climb off, shedding blankets and rubbing the warmth back into their bodies. We’ll return in the hottest part of the summer, take the lift up, and hike back down. It’s an elevation change of 2,000 feet (9,500 to 11,500) and I’m sure it’ll get my blood flowing.

As for Red Mountain, I’d like to return one day with my good camera and a picnic lunch. It’s the kind of place where a photographer can spend the day, moving from place to place to capture the formations with just the right light.