Tag Archives: photography

More Birds of Quincy Lakes

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A few more photos.

Back in 2008, on my first trip to Washington State for cherry drying work, I spent a lot of time exploring the Quincy Lakes area not far from where I was based. I took along my camera and made quite a few photos. Some of them appear in my June 2008 and 2009 posts, “Flying Things of Quincy Lakes,” “Takin’ Pictures,” “Sometimes It’s Too Easy to Get a Good Shot.” All of the best ones appear in my Washington photo gallery (slide show).

I went back on July 12, 2010. I’d waited too long. Most of the baby birds had grown. It was very hot every day, making hiking an avoidable activity. But I still managed to shoot a few dozen images. The ones here are the best.

American Coot Family
This is a family of American Coots. These were among the youngest birds I saw that day. (View larger image.)

American Coot Family
The chicks of this family of American Coots had outgrown their nest. But that didn’t stop them from squeezing into the area at the end of the day. (View larger image.)

Brown Headed Cow Bird
A male Brown Headed Cow Bird. (View larger image.)

Yellow Headed Blackbird Family
A family of Yellow Headed Blackbirds. The youngster (in the middle) is still begging for food. (View larger image.)

Heron Reflections
This is my favorite shot from the day. This heron looks as if it had settled down for the night on this little island. I happened to snap the image just as a bird flew low over the water, adding itself and its reflection to the final shot. (View larger image.)

Moving Day…and the Day After

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Or how I lost a day of my life.

On Friday, I moved my helicopter and RV from Quincy, WA to Wenatchee Heights, where I’ll be based for the next three weeks.

Step 1: Move the Helicopter

The move started early. I drove over to the ag strip where my helicopter was parked at 7 AM. I untied the blades, did my preflight, and cleaned the windows, which were coated with dust. By 7:20 AM, the engine was running and the blades were spinning. On my GPS, I dialed in the waypoint for the previous year’s landing zone (LZ). The goal was to take the shortest route to the LZ. Not only was I trying to save money — every minute in flight literally costs me a few dollars — but I was supposed to meet my client at 8 AM and I didn’t want to be late.

I launched by 7:25 and headed out. The guys at the ag strip were flying and I had to assume that their competition on the other side of town were also flying. So I climbed to about 600 feet AGL, hoping to stay out of their way. I adjusted my course to head directly to my old LZ. The GPS told me it would take 18 minutes.

I overflew the Columbia River south of where route 28 winds down from the Quincy Basin toward Crescent Bar. The river, more than 1200 feet below me, looked inviting — I love to fly low-level over its surface. But I could clearly see the action of the wind on the water. It would be a bumpy ride. And it would definitely not be the quickest, most direct route. So I ignored it and continued along my route.

My RouteIt was the first time I’d flown over some of that terrain, but it wasn’t very interesting. I did notice some abandoned wheat fields in an unlikely place. And I got a great view down to Wenatchee when I crossed the ridge separating Malaga from the hills to the south. My LZ was on the side of a hill just beyond the next ridge, so I approached from the east and turned west after I’d crossed the ridge and had it in view.

Helicopter ParkingI wasn’t planning on landing in last year’s LZ, though. I was going to land on a construction site where I planned to park my RV. I came in for my approach and zeroed in on the patch of dirt I thought was level. A huge cloud of dust erupted and, for a moment, I thought I’d have white-out conditions. But the cloud drifted away as I touched down. Unfortunately, the LZ wasn’t as level as I thought and I just didn’t like it. So I lifted up, sending even more dust into the air, and flew to a known level spot close to last year’s LZ. I set down in the grass among weeds and flowers right beside a pond ringed with cattails and only a few yards from some of the cherry trees I was hired to protect. As I cooled the engine, I watched the dust cloud I’d created moments before drift off to the southwest.

Zimmerman PondI locked up and made a short hike through the orchard, up to the packing shed where I’d be meeting my client. It was a pleasant morning with clear blue skies and not the least indication of rain anytime in the near future. At the top of the hill, I looked back down at the pond and the mountains beyond it. My helicopter looked like a red speck on the grass. The cherry trees seemed to embrace it while rocky hillsides studded with other orchards looked on.

Step 2: Get Back to Quincy

I met my client near his packing shed after taking another quick look at my planned RV parking spot. It was 8:10 AM when we headed back to Quincy.

My client and I had a nice chat along the 40-mile drive to Quincy. I learned a lot about the cherry business — there’s so much to it! I gave him a copy of my Cherries: from Tree to Truck DVD; I hope he gets a chance to see it.

He dropped me off at my truck at the ag strip. Before I left him, we talked about the other helicopter parked there. The pilot, who was on cherry contracts just like I was, had parked it there two weeks ago, before heading back to Seattle. Although he was on call, he didn’t take his status as seriously as I did. If it rained, I doubted that he’d make it back in time to fly. But since rain didn’t seem like a possibility, no one would know. It irked me and shocked my client.

Step 3: Move the RV

The RV was mostly packed up and ready to go. But since I didn’t think I was going to have water where I was going, I spent a little extra time and washed out Alex the Bird’s cage. It was hot, sweaty work and I did it in gym shorts and a tank top, not really caring who saw me. I let it dry in the sun while I vacuumed the trailer one more time. Then I dumped the tanks and put away the power cord and hoses, wiping mud off the cord and water hose before neatly coiling them up and putting them away. It was important to keep everything neat and clean.

Inside the RV, I strapped down the movables — my La-Z-Boy chair, Alex’s cage, and the big television on its swing arm. Alex was already in his travel box, waiting on the grass in the shade of my neighbor’s RV. Then I pushed the button that brought in the slides, the button that brought up the stablizer legs, and the button that sent down the landing gear to raise the front end. All of these buttons are in a remote control, so I could walk around the RV while I did all this, doing the work of two people.

I dropped the truck tailgate and backed it up to the RV’s gooseneck hitch. Even though it’s a fifth wheel trailer, we put a conversion kit on it so it would mate with our existing gooseneck ball. It took me about six tries to get the hitch centered over the ball. Then another button push brought the hitch down onto the ball. The landing gear rose as the truck’s back end descended with the weight of the trailer. Soon, the feet were off the ground and the legs were fully retracted. I lifted them the final 10 inches and used the pins to hold them in place. I connected the chains, the pin, the brake cable, and the power cable. I brought up the tailgate. I was almost done.

On the Road AgainI had to drive forward about four inches to free one of the wheel chocks. I collected them and put them away, then locked up all the hatches and did a final walk-around. I was ready to go.

The drive to Wenatchee Heights was uneventful. I drove slowly; there was no reason to rush. The last few miles were the toughest — a winding rode that climbed the hillside to the orchard. When the pavement turned to gravel, I pushed the 4WD button to give me extra traction. I finally reached the driveway for the building site where I’d be parking and stopped the truck.

I use small construction style cones to help me back up. I place them on the boundaries of where I want to park. I can easily see them and refer to them in the rearview mirrors. I fetched them from one of the RV’s storage cabinets and put them out. Then I started backing down the gravel drive. The first time I touched the brakes, the whole rig slid 6 to 12 inches before coming to a stop. Clearly, this would be tricky. I repeated the backup, stop, backup, stop process, inching down the hill. Finally, my truck’s wheels left the gravel and hit the dirt of the construction site. Suddenly, I had traction.

Back Window ViewI got out to reposition the cones and continued the process. Eventually, I had the RV positioned just about where I wanted it, with its big back window facing out over the valley (see cell phone photo for view) only a few feet from the edge of a cliff.

One more thing: leveling. I checked the level just inside the RV’s door. I’d need to raise the driver’s side. I pulled out the Lego-like leveling blocks and stacked them 3 high in a stair-step configuration. I backed up another 12 inches, feeling the RV rise onto the blocks. I stopped and got out to take a look. I was very surprised to find both left side wheels centered perfect atop their blocks.

Parking SpotFrom that point, setting up was a matter of disconnecting the truck and pushing a bunch of buttons on the remote control. Within 20 minutes, the RV was fully set up, with Alex back in his cage.

It was about noon.

Where I Went Wrong: Lunch

I decided to reward myself with lunch out. All day long, I’d been craving fried chicken but for some reason, I decided to visit the Thai restaurant I’d been to on previous summers. They made a good Pad Thai and a great black rice pudding. I figured I’d eat half the Pad Thai and bring the rest home. I’d also hit the supermarket to pick up a few things.

For some reason, the TV in the Thai place was tuned into the Discovery Channel, which was playing a show about army ants. Those are the ants that can swarm and kill people. No people were killed during my meal, but various poultry and large insects were. Not having my iPad along, I had nothing else to look at. Whether that was a contributing factor to the next 36 hours is unknown.

I put aside half the Pad Thai and ordered the black rice pudding. I was about halfway finished with it when I began feeling unusually stuffed. Unusual because I know I can eat a lot more food than I had. I put the pudding aside, too, and got boxes for both of them. They were too tasty to leave behind.

I went to Safeway and did some food shopping — mostly salad stuff. I felt bloated the whole time.

I drove the 8 miles back up to my campsite and put away the groceries. I still felt stuffed.

I talked to my husband, Mike. I mentioned how stuffed I felt. I was spending a lot of time in my comfy chair, mostly because I felt kind of sick.

By 5:30, I had my Sea Bands on. They’re elasticized bracelets that fight nausea and they usually work pretty well for me.

By 6 PM, I was vomiting. I hate to vomit. I can’t understand how people can be bulimic; vomiting is the most disgusting thing a person can do.

As you might expect, I felt a lot better when I was done. That’s the thing I hate most about vomiting. No matter how much I hate doing it, I know I’ll feel much better when I’m done.

After rinsing my mouth out with water and using damp washcloth on my face, I settled back into my comfy chair to read.

Must have been something I ate, I said to myself. Better not eat those leftovers.

The Misery Continues

I went to bed around 9 PM after watching some TV. Even though I was off the grid, the TV in the bedroom is DC and the antenna was able to get a very good picture on 6 channels. I watched something called MI-5 on PBS. I liked it.

I fell asleep around 10. By 11:30, I was awake again, feeling sick. Soon I was hugging the toilet again.

I didn’t think it was possible to vomit something I’d eaten nearly 12 hours before, but apparently it was.

I slept like crap.

The Day I Lost

When I woke up, it was fully light out — sometime after 6 AM, I think. I ached all over — every single muscle in my body. It took me 30 minutes to summon the strength to get out of bed. I went to the bathroom, did my business, and went right back to bed for another 30 minutes.

Alex, still covered, started to make noises. I dragged myself out of bed again to uncover him. Then I sat down on the sofa near his cage for another 20 minutes. I thought about coffee, which I’d have to perk or drip; without electricity, my coffee maker was useless. So was the microwave. At least Alex’s breakfast was ready — I’d made him scrambled eggs for the next few days before leaving Quincy. I cut some up for him and put them in his dish. Then, since my stomach was still feeling iffy, I decided to brew some Hopi tea instead of coffee.

I downed two ibuprofen to deaden the pain in my muscles. It worked.

I spent the entire morning dozing fitfully in my comfy chair, eventually drinking the entire 18-ounce cup of tea.

I had a problem. The temperature was expected to reach the high 90s that day and get even hotter the next two days. The trailer, parked in the sun, would likely get at least 10°F hotter. I had a 2000-watt Honda generator in one of the RV’s cabinets. I wasn’t sure whether it would run the air conditioning. But one thing I was sure of: there was no way I would be able to lift it out of the cabinet by myself. I was just too weak.

There was a possible solution, though. I was on a construction site for a vacation home. Construction had ceased, but not before electricity had been run to the site. The day before, I’d had enough foresight to see if the power was turned on — I’d plugged in a portable fan and it had run. What I needed to do before I could think further about the generator was to contact the property owner and see if he’d let me tap into his power supply. (He already knew I was parking there.)

That meant doing the following:

  1. Taking a shower. I needed one. I stunk.
  2. Dressing. For obvious reasons.
  3. Walking to the site next to mine, a distance of about 1/4 mile round trip, to talk to the guy next door, who was working on his home’s construction.
  4. Getting the name and phone number of the owner of my site.
  5. Calling the owner of my site and getting his permission.
  6. Running one or more power cords the 100+ feet from the power box to my RV’s power port.
  7. Seeing if the air conditioner would run on a 110v connection over 14 gauge wire.

It took me nearly two hours to do all this. I lucked out at every step of the way. My neighbor was still there, he had the phone number, the owner answered the phone, the owner said yes, I only needed one power cord to cover the distance, the air conditioning worked.

Exhausted, I went inside and settled back into my comfy chair. I dozed on and off for a few hours. Then I stretched out on the sofa and dozed on and off for another few hours. Then I moved into the bedroom and stretched out on the bed where I dozed on and off for another few hours.

Somewhere in there, I made myself some cereal with bananas and ate it. I wasn’t hungry, but I felt empty and I didn’t think that was a good thing.

I also spoke to my husband and a fellow cherry drying friend. My friend, in fact, offered to help with the generator if I needed to. It would mean a 3-hour round-trip drive for him. I’m glad he didn’t have to do it.

Alex was very well-behaved. I think he sensed that I was sick.

At 7 PM, I forced myself to stay awake. I was worried that I’d sleep fitfully throughout the night if I slept too much during the day. That’s about when the headache started. I took three Extra Strength Tylenol and tried to read.

I had three crackers with cashew butter on them for dinner.

At 9 PM, I was back in bed. I tried to watch TV, but the picture kept digitizing, which was weird. (Could the A/C connection screw up the RV’s circuitry enough to mess up a TV reception?) I was asleep before 10 PM.

I’m Back

Despite going to bed with a splitting headache, I slept like a log. I woke up feeling 95% myself. What a difference a day makes!

My ViewAlthough I pushed myself a bit too hard with a short hike in the orchard this morning — and was rewarded with a period of lightheadedness — I was able to do things today. I shot some photos around the orchard. I set up the BBQ grill and the outdoor mat. I took out my folding chair and set it up facing my wonderful view (see cell phone photo). I had a real breakfast (cereal with yogurt and banana) and real lunch (grilled chicken satay). I put a bunch of photos online and I wrote two blog posts. I even caught up on my Twitter and email accounts and moderated blog comments.

Yesterday was a lost day. I’m glad it’s the first one in a long time.

Joy-Flying on a Saturday Afternoon

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It’s days like this when I feel very privileged.

I spent most of yesterday morning at my desk, editing videos I recorded the previous afternoon. It was boring, tedious work, made even more unpleasant by a stupid little nagging headache I’d had for more than 24 hours. In general, I was feeling under the weather and I couldn’t understand why. It was a nice day and I had most of the windows in my RV open for fresh air. Even Alex the Bird was behaving.

I worked on a book for a while, then decided I needed a break. I’d head into town and pick up a few groceries, along with an ice cream sundae. That would make me feel better.

The supermarket parking lot was unusually crowded. That’s when I realized it was Memorial Day Weekend. (One of the oddities of being a freelancer is being completely oblivious to things like weekends and holidays.) The parking lot was crowded and so was the store. I realized that many of the people shopping for their holiday weekend groceries were young people who were likely camped out at Crescent Bar.


View Quincy, WA in a larger map

Crescent Bar is a mostly manmade island extending down along the Columbia River just before it enters a gorge. There’s a campground, a few trailer parks, some condos, a golf course, boat ramps, and a cherry orchard (belonging to one of my clients) down there. On weekends, it’s a popular destination for water lovers.

Seeing these people filling their shopping carts with chips and salsa and hamburger buns gave me a brainstorm. Why not take a little flight down to the river and around Quincy Lakes? And maybe even past the Gorge Amphitheater? Hell, I was a helicopter pilot. I had a helicopter parked at an ag strip within sight of my RV. Why the hell wasn’t I flying it?

(For the record, one reason I wasn’t flying it is because it costs a fortune to fly and I’m not made of money — although too many people think I am. Still, occasionally I do need to treat myself to a flight that doesn’t have a “mission” attached to it. Today would be that day.)

So I drove back the RV, stowed my groceries, and hopped back in the truck. A while later, I was standing on the truck’s bed, gently pulling off the blade covers. After a quick preflight, I climbed on board, and started the engine. I did some paperwork while everything was warming up. Then I donned my headset, waved to the ag pilots who were hanging out by the office door, and took off.

Where I live in Quincy is a good 700 feet higher in elevation than the Columbia River. The river flows in a gorge carved out by massive ice age flooding. Quincy sits on a sort of shelf full of irrigated farmland; there’s another, higher shelf to the north covered with wheat fields. The area is fascinating from a geologic perspective. You can really appreciate it when you fly over and through it in a helicopter — which I’d done numerous times in the past two years. I like flying along the towering basalt cliffs and over the various formations formed by those floods.

I hooked up with the road and descended with it through a valley that dropped in steps down to the river. I was cruising at 110 knots. I slipped over the final step and descended down to about 200 feet over the river. There were lots of boats and jet skis speeding around. The campground was full. I circled a small island where some people were camped out, then sped off downriver.

Crescent Bar

I snapped this photo of the south end of Crescent Bar as I left the area. Quincy’s farmland is spread out on the shelf above the cliffs on the left side of this photo. (View a larger version in my photo gallery.)

Farther downriver, I swung to the east and climbed over the edge of the gorge. I sped over Dusty Lake, where Mike and I had gone hiking with Mike’s cousin Rick and his friend last year. A few fishermen stood on the southwest side of the lake and looked up at me as I zipped past. Then, dodging wires, I climbed back up to Quincy’s level and headed southwest. The Gorge Amphitheater was packed with cars, tents, and people. A show was going on. I kept my distance as I swooped past, then dropped behind the stage and headed back upriver over a rock shelf covered with ancient potholes. Then I was abeam Quincy Lakes again and chose another of the two flood-carved canyons to fly up.

Quincy Lakes

This is Ancient Lake, fed by a waterfall that, in turn, is fed by runoff irrigation water. Quincy’s farmland is spread out on the shelf beyond these cliffs. (View a larger version in my photo gallery.)

I zipped back over the farmland south of Quincy. I noticed that my GPS wasn’t working quite right — a restart was required to fix it — but I knew my way back to the ag strip without it. The ag pilots were just leaving when I touched down. I’d been out for just a half hour. My mood was considerably brightened and my headache was just about gone.

Because of a gusty little wind coming out of the west, flying wasn’t smooth enough to make the flight perfect, but it was good to get out and about. What I really like is flying on those windless mornings or afternoons, when the river is glassy, reflecting the cliffs and clouds. When it’s like that, I can fly low over the water and around the canyons in effortless control of the aircraft. That’s magic.

As you can see, I got two reasonably good photos of the area while I was flying. I used a Nikon Coolpix camera for these shots. Although I really don’t like the camera in general — it doesn’t seem to work as well as the Canon Powershots I had before it — it’s easy enough to use with one hand (my left) as I fly. I can’t really frame a shot — I literally point and shoot and hope for the best. On these shots, the light was low and soft enough to prevent glare through the cockpit bubble. I lucked out.

Another Lake Powell Photo Flight

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Perfect conditions, except for the cold.

It was a photo flight that brought me to Page and Lake Powell on my annual trip from Wickenburg, AZ to Seattle, WA for cherry drying season. Although I usually depart Arizona mid-May, when this flight came up, I figured I’d use it as a springboard to start my trip. Rather than return to Arizona, I’d use the ferry fees to take me two hours closer to Seattle. Not exactly a direct trip — it would likely add at least an hour to my total flight time — but it was something.

I flew to Lake Powell on Thursday afternoon so I could be ready for the photo flight at 6 AM on Friday. I planned to spend Friday night in Page as well, since our second flight of the day was scheduled for 6 PM.

So at 5:30 AM, I was at the airport, preflighting the helicopter. It was already light; the sun rose while I was working. There was a thin layer of clouds to the east and it filtered the sun, softening the light. Exactly the kind of light my best Lake Powell photo client likes.

Fifteen minutes later, I was waiting in my rented car in front of the terminal. I own a hangar at Page — it’s for sale if anyone’s interested — so I have a key card to get onto the ramp. I figured I’d pick up my passengers in front and drive them out to the helicopter. I’d then leave the car out there until we got back.

My passengers were on time. The photographer was a big guy, weighing in at 240 pounds. His wife was much smaller and thinner; only 130 pounds. We said our introductions and I drove them out to the helicopter. I pulled the front passenger door off and put it in the trunk of the car. Then I gave them a safety briefing and handed out the life jackets. (I always make my passengers wear life jackets over the lake.) They were Russian — it seems that most of my Lake Powell photo clients are — but they spoke English well. I don’t speak any Russian.

It took a while to warm up. The temperature had dropped down near freezing overnight. But by 6 AM sharp, I was pulling pitch and taking off. We climbed out and I turned uplake.

That’s when I realized that my photographer client had no idea where he wanted to go. He told me to take him to places that I knew were good. Places I’d taken other photographers. And Rainbow Bridge.

Gregory ButteSo we did a quick circuit around Gunsite Butte and Alstrom Point, then hustled up the lake toward Rainbow Bridge. Although the forecast had called for 50% overcast and morning winds up to 10 MPH, the sun was bright but filtered and the wind was not an issue at all. Flying toward the sun, the views weren’t very good, but glances to the left or right as I turned showed stunning morning views of the lake and red rock cliffs. My client didn’t provide much instruction, so I didn’t waste his time by being a tour guide. (Note that this photo and all the others that appear in this post were taken at other times; I can’t take pictures while I’m flying with clients aboard.)

I should mention here that it was bitter cold. With my heat not functioning — it had triggered a carbon monoxide warning the day before — and a door off, the cold morning air rushed in. I had a hat, scarf, and three layers of long sleeves on, but no gloves. My client was out in it. His wife sat behind me and didn’t say much, so I don’t know how she was taking the cold. But I figured that Russians were probably a lot more accustomed to cold weather than thin-blooded Arizonans.

Rainbow BridgeWe had a bit of a tense time when my client asked me to fly lower near Rainbow Bridge. The problem is, Rainbow Bridge is at the bottom of a narrow canyon. I know that I can get down to 5,000 feet MSL safely, so that’s what I always shoot for. He wanted me lower. That would bring me very close to a canyon wall. When I pointed that out, he backed down. I think he may have been spooked. But I gave him a good look at the bridge and was satisfied to hear his camera clicking right through his microphone.

Afterwards, he told me he wanted to go into a canyon he’d seen on the way up. But we were so close to Reflection Canyon, which everyone loves, that I asked if I could take him there. It added about 10 minutes total to the flight. He seemed happy with what we saw. The light was breaking through the clouds by then and although it was still soft, it was brining out the colors of the lake and the rocks.

We headed downlake and I reminded him several times that all he had to do was direct me and I’d fly wherever he wanted me to. We went into Wetherall Canyon on the south side of the lake, but he turned me around after only a few minutes. Then back to the main channel. Another side trip up Rock Creek’s main branch and back. Then another trip up Last Chance Bay and back. And some time over Padre Bay. There was a lot to see and the light was good, but he didn’t direct me to do much. I just flew, trying to enjoy myself, trying not to worry about my client not getting his money’s worth because he didn’t tell me where to fly.

Horseshoe BendHe asked me to take him to Horseshoe Bend and I headed out that way. I purposely swung past the Glen Canyon Dam, putting it on his side of the aircraft so he could take photos. I heard his camera snap. Then I climbed — Horseshoe Bend is best seen from at least 6,000 feet — and headed downriver. A few minutes later, I pointed out Horseshoe Bend and began making a climbing circle to the left around it. I was about 270° into it when he told me we were done.

I dumped the collective and started a steep descent, banking east toward the airport. I landed on the taxiway as a National Park Service patrol plane took off.

Here’s a look at our route on the official Park Service map:

Photo Flight

My client jumped out while I was cooling down the engine. He snapped a few pictures of the aircraft as his wife got out and joined him. Then I shut down, got the blades stopped, and climbed out. We’d flown 1.3 hours.

I brought them back to the front of the terminal. My client told me that he was going to cancel the evening flight — it was just too cold. I was shocked. He’d paid me for 5.3 hours of flight time but had only been airborne for 1.3 of those hours. A second flight would cost more, but it would also help spread the cost of the ferry time and help him get his money’s worth.

But who was I to argue? The wind was supposed to kick up later in the day and I wasn’t eager to be out over the lake with the wind howling around the canyons.

So at 8 AM, I was done for the day.

Two hours later, I was heading toward Bryce Canyon. But that’s another story.

Wickenburg to Seattle by Helicopter: Day 1

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Wickenburg to Page, AZ.

Regular readers of this blog who don’t follow me on Twitter might have been wondering where I’ve been. Did I fall off the face of the earth? Or finally, after six years, get tired of blogging?

Neither. I was making my annual helicopter repositioning flight to Washington State.

This year, I got an early start, piggy-backing my long cross-country flight at the end of a photo flight at Lake Powell. A photographer was willing to pay for the 4-hour round trip ferry time for me to get the helicopter from the Phoenix area to Page, AZ. At the end of that flight, I continued north to Salt Lake City instead of heading home. This put me several hours closer to my destination. At Salt Lake City, I picked up Jason, a low-time CFII interested in building R44 time for much less than the cost of renting. With Jason at the controls, we continued to Seattle.

The trip can easily be summarized by the number of days it took to complete. I’m putting it all down here, in four parts, while it’s still fresh in my mind. The photos aren’t terribly good due to glare through the bubble, but I hope the illustrate some of the terrain and weather we encountered.

In this first part, I’ll cover my trip from Wickenburg to Page, AZ. You can click here to see my approximate route on SkyVector.com.

I’ve made the trip from Wickenburg to Page (or Page to Wickenburg) countless times. It’s the kind of trip that I don’t even need to consult a chart to complete. I know the landmarks by heart.

But on Thursday, the weather promised to be a factor. Although it was sunny down in Wickenburg as I preflighted around 2:30 PM, the clouds were building to the north. I could see them thickening over the Weaver Mountains 15 miles away. And all the forecasts for all the points north of the Weavers called for high winds gusting into the 30s. It would be a bumpy ride.

So bumpy, in fact, that my friend Don and his wife decided not to join me on my trip to Page. Don’s got a helicopter very much like mine and he’d planned to fly up there with me, spend two nights, and let me show him around Lake Powell between my photo flights. But with the forecast so nasty, he bowed out. I didn’t blame him. No one wants to spend 2 hours getting thrown around the sky in a relatively tiny bubble of metal, Fiberglas, and Plexiglas.

And if wind wasn’t enough of a deterrent, the forecast also called for isolated showers and thundershowers north of I-40. So I knew I’d be dodging weather, too.

But I had a contract and my client had paid me to fly up there. I had a pilot waiting for me in Salt Lake City for a Saturday departure. The weather would have to be impossible to fly through to prevent me from making the flight.

So at 3:30 PM, I took off from Wickenburg (E25) into a 15 mph wind from the west and turned out to the north.

Wickenburg RanchI climbed steadily at about 200-300 feet per minute, gaining altitude slowly to clear the 5,000 foot Weaver Mountains ahead of me. Below me, I could see the scars the near-bankrupt developers had left on the desert where Routes 93 and 89 split off. Greed had scraped the desert clean, built a golf course, and then let the grass wither and die. Where there was once pristine rolling hills studded with cacti and small desert trees, there was now flattened dirt, void of vegetation, shaped by bulldozers and men. A dust bowl on windy days covering hundreds of acres of Sonoran desert.

I continued to climb, looking out at the Weaver Mountains ahead of me. The clouds were low over the mountain tops and I could clearly see patches of rain falling. The wind was moving the weather along at a remarkable pace. I picked a spot to cross the mountains, preferring the place where Route 89 climbs into Yarnell over the more direct crossing at the ghost town of Stanton and the valley beyond it. I knew from experience that the wind would be setting up some wicked turbulence in that valley as it gusted over Rich Hill and Antelope Peak. I braced for the turbulence I expected as I topped the hill at 5,000 feet MSL and was surprised when I wasn’t blasted.

That’s not to say there wasn’t turbulence. There was. But it was the annoying kind that bounces you around every once in a while just for the hell of it. The kind that makes flying unpleasant but not intolerable. The kind pilots just deal with.

Ahead of me was Peeples Valley, which was remarkably green. Our winter and spring rains had fallen as snow up there and it wasn’t until the warm weather began arriving that the grass could start sucking it up. The result was a carpet of new green grass that made good eating for the open range cattle and horses up there. All it needed was a little sun to give the illusion of irrigated pasture. But the sun was spotty, coming through breaks in low-hanging cumulous clouds.

Peeple's Valley to KirklandThe weather up ahead gave me a good idea of what I’d be facing for much of the trip: a never-ending series of isolated rain and snow showers. They appeared as low clouds with hanging tendrils of wispy precipitation. But unlike the gray rains hanging below summer rainclouds, these were white, making me wonder whether I was looking at rain or snow. With outside air temperature around 4°C (40°F), it could have been either. Or something worse; damaging hail or icy sleet.

I’d been taught at the Grand Canyon that if you can see through it, you can fly through it. But I didn’t think that rule applied to late spring storms at high elevations. I wasn’t going to fly through anything I didn’t have to.

Knowing which way the storms were moving made it easy to skirt around their back sides. Up near Kirkland, this put me several more miles west of my intended course. Before taking off, I’d punched the waypoint to our property at Howard Mesa into my GPS; I always fly over anytime I’m close, just to make sure everything is okay. Having flown the route dozens of times, I should be flying much closer to Granite Mountain. But that mountain was completely socked in by one of the storms, so I passed to the west of it, adjusted my course line with the push of two buttons, and continued northeast.

Near the Drake VORNear the Drake VOR, I detoured more to the east to avoid a rapidly approaching shower. Raindrops fell on my cockpit bubble and the 110 wind of my airspeed whisked them away. The sky was clearer ahead of me, although the tops of Bill Williams Mountain was still shrouded in clouds. The Prescott (KPRC) ATIS reported mountain obscuration and snow showers to the north, east, and west. I couldn’t see the San Francisco Peaks, which were likely getting more snow to extend the skiing season at the Snow Bowl.

Bill Williams MountainThen I was back out in the sun — a good thing, since the outside temperature had dropped to just over freezing and my cabin heat wasn’t able to keep up with the cold. I climbed up the Mongollon Rim just west of Bill Williams Mountain, trading high desert scrub for ponderosa pines. The mountain had recently been dusted with fresh snow. That didn’t surprise me; only three hours before, the airport at Williams (KCMR) had been reporting 1/4 mile visibility.

By now, the turbulence had become a minor nuisance that didn’t bother me much. I was listening to a genius mix on my iPod, hearing songs I didn’t even know I owned and trying to enjoy the flight. I was almost an hour into it and had more than an hour to go.

I reached Howard Mesa and flew over our place. Everything looked fine. I was surprised to see the wind sock hanging almost limp. Surely there was more wind than that.

I punched the next waypoint into my GPS; a point on the far east end of Grand Canyon’s restricted airspace. I wasn’t allowed to overfly the Grand Canyon below 10,500 feet. Since my helicopter starts rattling like a jalopy on a dirt road over 9,500 feet, that was not an option. Besides, one look out in that direction told me that no one would be flying anywhere near the Grand Canyon that day. All I could see to the north was a blanket of low clouds. I couldn’t even see Red Butte, a distinct rock formation that can normally be seen from 50 miles away. The Grand Canyon (KGCN) ATIS confirmed that things were iffy. The recording reported “rapidly changing conditions” and instructed pilots to call the tower for current conditions. You don’t hear that too often on an ATIS recording.

My course would take me east of that area, but the weather was also moving east. It soon became apparent that I was in a race against the storm. I was halfway to my waypoint when I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to go that way. Although there was a gap there between two storms, I knew from experience that gaps can disappear quickly, swallowing up whatever naive pilot slipped inside. The temperature had dropped down to 0°C and the clouds were only 300 feet above me as I zipped across the high desert, 500 feet off the ground. I’d have to detour to the east.

I aimed for the leading edge of the storm, hoping I could reach it and go around it. But the leading edge was racing eastward to cut me off. My course kept drifting eastward until I was heading due east. That would put me, eventually, over the Navajo and Hopi Reservations, far from any major road or town. I didn’t want to go that way.

I came down off the Coconino Plateau just southwest of Cameron. At least that’s where I figured I was. The low-hanging clouds had blocked all of my normal landmarks from view. To the north, where I needed to go, was a solid sheet of gray rainfall, blocking out whatever lay beyond it. As I descended from the plateau, still heading east, I began thinking of making a precautionary landing and waiting out the storm.

Then I saw a break in the storm with bright sunlight beyond it. It was still raining there, but I could clearly see my way through and what I saw looked pretty good. I banked to the north and entered the rainstorm. Soon, I was being pelted by rain. Visibility was still tolerable; I could see well enough to fly. Thankfully, there were no downdrafts to contend with. Just turbulence, rocking me around, punishing me for interfering with nature’s gift of rain. I held on and rode it out.

And that’s when the carbon monoxide detector light went on. On departure, I thought the heat had smelled a little more like engine exhaust than usual, but had put it out of my mind. The warning light brought it right to the front of my mind again. I opened my door vent and the main vent and pushed the heater control to the off position. I took stock of the way I felt: any symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning? No, I felt fine. But soon I’d feel very cold.

Echo CliffsI passed through the rain and emerged on the other side with a clean cockpit bubble and likely very clean rotor blades. Ahead of me, now due north again, the sky was brighter and I could clearly see the Echo Cliffs. Before entering the storm, I’d punched Tuba City (T03) into my GPS to keep my bearings; now I punched in Page (KPGA) and was pleased to see that I was already right on course. I aimed for The Gap, a small town at the gap in the cliffs, right on Route 89, adjusted power to maximize speed, and sped forward, 500 feet off the high desert floor.

The rest of the trip isn’t very interesting. I did get some different views to the west, where the Grand Canyon was still covered by a thick blanket of clouds. It would be snowing there, especially over the North Rim. My usual path was at least 20 miles to the west, much closer to the Canyon. It included overflying the Little Colorado River Gorge and mile after mile of nearly deserted flatlands on the far west edge of the Navajo Indian Reservation. I was still over the reservation on this path, but the land below me was sculpted by wind and water into mildly interesting patterns. This was the western edge of the Painted Desert, which is not quite as picturesque as most people think.

The GapI crossed Highway 89 at The Gap and flew through the gap in the Echo Cliffs. I was now about 45 miles from Page, flying among three sets of high tension power lines that stretched from the Navajo Generating Station on Lake Powell to points south. There was a dirt road here that made a short cut to page — if you didn’t mind driving more than 40 miles on a dirt road. Navajo homesteads were scattered about. The sky was a mixture of clouds and patches of deep blue. I warmed in the sunny spots and cooled in the shadows.

It was after 5 PM and I was starting to worry about reaching Page in time to pick up my rental car at 5:30. I began making calls to the FBO from 25 miles out. No answer. A while later, another plane called in from the northwest. Other than that, silence.

I was fifteen miles out when Lake Powell came into view. It looked gray and angry under mostly cloudy skies.

I landed on the taxiway parallel to runway 33 and went right to parking. A line guy from American Aviation arrived with a golf cart to pick me up. I shut down and jumped in. It was 5:30 PM; the 200 NM flight had taken almost exactly 2 hours. I was just in time to get my rental car.