Finally!

 If God wanted man to fly, He would have given him more money.

  We sat out the storm in the airplane.  In less than half an hour the sun was shining brightly through the trailing clouds of the storm front.  It had moved on east leaving sparkling, ozone-rich air behind.  Both dad and I had had enough flying for one day, though I seriously considered just getting out of there and getting home. We could be there by dark.  But dad cautioned that we were in no hurry, and who was to say that another storm front might boil up in our path.  Why not relax here, see to the airplane, make our flight plan, get a good rest and leave early the next morning, getting home by lunch time?

So after taking care of the Beech, including paying for overnight hangering, just in case another storm blew through later, we rented a car, got rooms at the Marriott, then had a picnic at Riverview Park beside the Chippewa River, feasting on the grub I had brought from Portsmouth, then taking a walk along some of the paths and trails in the Park.  The river was pretty and the trees were still glittering from the fresh rainwater dripping from their leaves.  I couldn't help reflecting that the day before I had eaten lunch on islands in the Atlantic Ocean and here I was in the middle of the continent lunching beside a river.

That evening we drove into downtown Eau Claire for supper, stopping at a place called Hooligan's that when we looked in we thought had no tables available, it was so crowded, but the greeter led us to a nice little corner one.  We had only meant to peek in but since we were there we ordered and enjoyed quite good prime rib with mashed potatoes and green beans.  Afterwards, we walked around the downtown area a bit, crossing over a pedestrian bridge above the river.  We were quite surprised at how pleasant the city was, with people walking around enjoying the cool of the evening, plenty of crowded bars and restaurants.  We decided to have a night cap at the Fire Side beer hall before heading back to the hotel.  I abstained since I was driving, but dad enjoyed a couple of microbrews that he said weren't bad.  I forget what he said they were. To be honest, I was about worn out with visiting new towns and wandering around aimlessly, eating and drinking restaurant fare.  I think dad was trying to break the spell of events earlier in the day and cheer me up with some new experiences, but it wasn't taking.  I didn't say anything or act in a way that would reveal that's the way I felt, but I think dad could sense it, and I could sense that he, too, was tired of this trip. Of course, he had been at it much longer than me. He had to be completely worn out.

We got airborne early the next morning heading west-northwest.  We'd clip a  corner of South Dakota, then span North Dakota before entering Montana.  All told, today's flight would cover about 900 nautical miles.  To avoid any possibility of being surprised by fast-developing thunderstorms, we climbed to FL220, 22,000 feet.  I didn't think we could get that high and thought we should have planned for FL200, but dad thought we could do it, and if we couldn't we'd change to FL200.  On dad's advice, we actually climbed to 22,200 feet, our rate of climb at that altitude 100fpm, then dropped down to 22,000 feet to get "on the step."  Our airspeed settled in at 190 knots with a fuel burn of 38gph. I was impressed. I'd always thought that this whole "on the step" business was a myth. But maybe it wasn't. 

We had on our adjustable-flow rebreather masks and we kept an eye on each other to make sure we were getting oxygen.  I'd never been this high in an unpressurized airplane before and it was certainly...interesting.  Also cold.  The cockpit and cabin heaters were on full blast but making little headway against the below-zero -- way below -- temperature.  When we left Eau Claire it was 64 degrees F., but now the outside air temperature was minus 19 degrees F. and the exhaust from our engines was creating a beautiful double contrail of ice crystals marking our progress across the sky.  But because the less dense air at this altitude contains fewer air molecules in a given volume of air, the airflow over the cylinder heads has less ability to cool them, so we had to keep a sharp eye on the head temperatures.  That may seem odd, that we had to worry about engine overheating when it was so cold, but thus it was.

We started out the flight in shirtsleeves but now were bundled in wool sweaters, caps and mufflers, and we wore two pairs of socks.  We couldn't eat or drink without removing our oxygen masks, which was awkward.  After two hours of this, with nothing but clear skies ahead and forecast, we gave it up and began a gradual descent to 8,000 feet. As we passed through 10,000 feet the oxygen masks came off with sighs of relief.  Eventually, we dropped down to 5,000 feet.

Also with a sigh of relief, I handed off the airplane to dad and went back into the cabin to stretch my legs and make us brunch. Dad wanted a roast beef sandwich on a Kaiser roll with mustard and horse radish -- I went easy on both the condiments, but added a dash of black pepper. He wanted a side of chips, too. I also prepared a side in a little plastic bowl of thin-sliced carrot and celery sticks, slices of red pepper and thumb-size or a bit bigger bites of broccoli and cauliflower heads that he could spear with a toothpick and munch on.  I put all these in a box tray with napkins, a handi-wipe, a sparkling water and a fresh, hot cup of black coffee and  handed it up to him.  He put the Beech on autopilot and dug in.

I looked over the remaining stock of grub and decided that I'd have a roast beef sandwich on a Kaiser roll, too, and duplicated the meal I'd made for dad for myself.  Instead of climbing back into the cockpit, though, I sat in the rear seat, pulling out and down the the seat table to place my meal on, dropping my coffee into the cupholder to secure it.  I ate slowly, looking out the window at the passing scenery and letting my mind wander.  When I finished eating, I folded my hands, closed my eyes, and gently drifted off to sleep.

Bright sunshine full in my face woke me.  I had been dreaming of honey bees buzzing around a big rosemary bush, darting among the little blue flowers collecting nectar.  As I gradually switched realities, the buzzing of bees became the drone of our Wasp engines hauling us steadily toward home.  I cleaned things up in the cabin, washed up and refreshed myself, then went forward.  Dad's chin was slumped on his chest and he was sound asleep.  I was alarmed at first, fearing not that he was asleep....  Then I shook my head, thinking it's actually surprising that this was the first time this has happened.  I climbed into the left seat, scanned the instruments, all in order, then checked the GPS.  We were on course and more than two-thirds of the way home. I compared the GPS track with our dead reckoning plot, noting the last time dad had updated it -- just 10 minutes before, so he'd only nodded off a few minutes ago.

I left the autopilot engaged, took the remains of dad's lunch and went aft to make myself and dad coffee. It had been hot in the cockpit and it was warm in the cabin, so I took the opportunity to change from my jeans to cut-offs and also traded my shirt and tee for a half-sleeve blouse, leaving the top two buttons undone. Much more comfortable.  Then I climbed back into the cockpit balancing two cups of lidded coffee. I placed dad's cup in its holder without wakening him, buckled into my own seat and sipped mine while watching the land roll by beneath us, scanning the instruments, checking the GPS, updating the DR plot.  

There were a few fair-weather clouds but no storm fronts building and ATC told me there was nothing developing along our flight path. It would be smooth flying all the way home.  I could hardly believe it.  Would we really make it in with no further excitements?  I studied the engine instruments hard, looking for any tell-tale of trouble.  But there was nothing.  I looked out at the engines, the spinning props.  Just keep keeping on, I told them.  Only a little bit more, then you can rest.  I looked over at dad.  He was deep in sleep. I saw no reason to disturb him.  We were going to land at the local airport to refuel, top-off the oil and stretch our legs, then fly on to the ranch landing strip. We could just by-pass the local field, but thought it a good idea to top off the tanks on a sunny day, and besides, you never know when you might need to fly again unexpectedly and it's always good to have full fuel, just in case.

As I sipped my coffee, I daydreamed of the meals I would prepare for my family, the deserts and dinner entrees and breakfasts, hearty lunches.... My mind  reveled in imagining happy hours in my kitchen -- my kitchen! -- making meals for an army, my mini-me right alongside me, helping and learning.

Time passed, dad slept on, the sun slid westward and soon we were approaching our local field, wind dead ahead at 2 knots.  There was no reason to wake dad, so I set the Beech down on the short strip, 2,000 rpm and 20 inches, 45 degrees of flaps, crossing the fence at 75 knots, pulling back power just before touch down, rolling out in 800 feet, and taxied over to the fuel pumps.  Only when I shut down the engines did dad wake, blinking and rubbing his eyes, then stretching his arms above him and arching his back.

"Have a good sleep?" I asked.

"Best ever!  And I'm hungry!"

The FBO, whom dad and I both knew, had come out of his shack along with his A&P guy, whom we also knew, and who also knew our Beech, having worked on it often.  We clambered out to be greeted like the old friends we were.  The A&P guy said he'd take care of refueling and checking things over when the FBO invited us to chow down at the burger hut next to the long-unmanned tower, a relic of World War Two days when this was a way station for planes being ferried to the Soviet Union. They say there are still scraps of crashed P-39s scattered in the weeds at both ends of the runway.

 The hut had a couple of rooms in back available for stay-overs by working pilots, seldom used anymore.  But the cheeseburgers on grilled buns the cook turned out were legendary and people would drive over to treat themselves.  The french fries were also a local legend. Deep-fried in beef fat, they were outstanding.  If you didn't want fries, the home-made potato salad was an excellent alternative.  Some people ordered both.  On Friday nights and weekends, the menu also included fried chicken dinner, with mashed potatoes and gravy or fries, plain or on a pancake bed, Cole slaw, slow-cooked barbecue baked beans and corn on the cob in season, and people would drive in for a nice meal.  If the cook felt like it, he would also whip up his special chili, with or without beans.

As dad and the FBO were finishing up their burgers (I was about a third through mine), the A&P guy came in and told dad the left engine had an oil leak and did he want him to track it down?  Dad, wiping his mouth with his napkin, said, "Let's go take a look," and, turning to me, said, "We should be right back." They, along with the FBO, who went with them, left me sitting at the counter.  The fry cook went over to the screen door and stood looking out, spatula in one hand.  Turning to me, he said, "That's a nice-looking airplane you guys have there.  Where'd you fly in from?"  I thought about saying Scotland, but just said Chippewa Valley Regional.  "Great little area," he said.  I used to work there at a place called Hooligan's. Ever hear of it?"  

"We ate there last night, the one in Eau Claire.  I didn't know there was one in Chippewa.  Actually, I don't know anything but the airport."

"Oh, I meant the one in Eau Claire.  What did you have?"

"Prime rib."

"Good choice.  That's what I always had on my break."  

"What brought you out here?"

"Oh, I found out my girlfriend was cheating on me and I just said, 'Fuck it!' and walked out of everything.  I got on my motorcycle and headed west.  I ran out of money and gas here, and here I've stayed.  I got no plans to go anywhere else.  What would be the point?  Everyplace you go, there you are, and every fry kitchen looks the same.  Here I get a decent salary, the boss lets me have the upstairs apartment -- it's just a studio but it's got a nice bathroom with a launderette and is furnished, even has a TV, so I'm set."

"You still have your bike?"

"Oh, yeah.  It's out back.  Want to see it?"

"Sure.  Just let me finish my burger.  I'm a slow eater."

A fly buzzed.  Otherwise, it was silent.  As I was finishing up my sandwich, I heard a plane coming in for a landing.  I got up and went over to the screen door and looked out.  It was a Pawnee. Awkward-looking airplane, purpose-built for work.

"That's Jim, coming in to get his fourth load of the day.  He usually does six, has his breakfast, lunch and supper here.  He lives down the road in that old motel.  Sometimes when he's too tired, he sacks out in one of the back rooms."

"Crop duster?"

"And seeder in season.  He'll be wanting two bacon cheeseburgers with fries and onion rings. I'll sell him a beer under the table.  We don't have a liquor license but I always keep some beers in the fridge for the regulars.  They pay me direct. Have to give you a rain check on showing you my bike.  I gotta get to work."

Jim taxied his Pawnee to the fuel pumps, clambered out and began fueling.  The FBO left the Beech and went over to talk to him.  I looked at our plane. The lower cowl was off the left engine and dad and the A&P guy were busying away.  Crap, I thought.  How long is this going to take?   I went back to my counter stool, took the last few bites of my burger and went outside, the undamped screen door slamming behind me.  It was hot, but the porch roof provided shade.  There was an old vending machine, an ancient Pepsi-Cola thermometer reading 96 degrees F., a couple of Adirondack chairs and a bench swing suspended by chains.  I looked out over the flight line. I saw a Tomahawk, doubtless owned by the FBO, who also offered flight lessons among his many services.  Then there was a Cherokee, a Saratoga, a Debonair, several Cessnas.  At the far end were a couple of AgCats and an AGTruck, probably the only three of the line-up that were still doing useful work and much of the reason for the airport to stay open. I doubted if any of the other planes was newer than about 40 years.  Last stop before these old birds wore out and went to the boneyard. 

Jim walked over to the shack, taking the one step up onto the porch, then stood in the shade while his eyes adjusted.  He took off his hat and wiped his brow.  Then he noticed me.

"Ma'am," he nodded, trying to doff his cap that he'd already taken off.

"Hi, there.  Where were you dusting?"  He named the ranch and explained he was putting down calcium for next year's hay crop.  

"Isn't that usually done in March or April?"

"I do what they pay me to do."  

"It's just going to blow away."

"I know."

The aroma of frying burgers wafted through the screen door and Jim looked toward it just as the cooked called out, "She's ready, Master James!"  Raising his hand as if to tip his hat to me again, Jim, smiled and stepped inside, the screen door banging after him. I could hear him asking, "Got my beers?" and "Damn, son, those burgers look too good to eat!"

I got a Coke out of the vending machine and stood leaning against a roof post drinking it and watching the goings-on at the Beech. Dad was in the cockpit and the A&P guy was talking to him.  Dad turned over the engine without energizing the starter, then cut it.  The A&P guy ducked under the wing and checked something, then shouted at dad, who again spun the engine.  The A&P guy went over and stood below the cockpit and talked to dad, then backed off while dad started the engine in a cloud of blue smoke and flaming backfires.  Geez, pop, I muttered.  Don't set the engine on fire.   Then I noticed the A&P guy was holding a fire extinguisher, so what happened was anticipated.  I wondered what was going on, but was too lazy to walk over in the hot sun and ask. Instead, I sat down on the bench swing.

I heard the screen door screech open and bang shut and Jim walked to the edge of the porch, watched the Beech frolics, then came over and stood by me.

"Mind if I sit down?"

"It's a free country. Do as you please."  He sat down heavily beside me, the chains creaking and the bench swaying.  Big man.  But not fat.  Working man big. He smelled of Castrol, 100LL, sunshine and beef grease.

"That's what they claim. Want a beer?"  He offered me one of the cans of Big Sky he held.  

"Got my Coke, here.  But thanks anyway."  

He opened one of the cans and took a long, long drink, downing maybe half the can.  "Ah, God, that's good! Cold as ice.  I needed that.  It's hot in that cockpit."  He let his long legs sprawl out in front of him, one touching mine.  "Oh, sorry," he said, when I shifted away.  "I'm taking up the whole bench here."

"Oh, it's okay.  A man needs some stretching room."

"That he does."  He took another long drink, emptying the can, tossing it into a steel drum down the porch a ways and opened the other can, took a sip.  Then he looked out to the Beach again.  The A&P guy was reinstalling the cowling, I was pleased to see.  He must have found and fixed the leak.  Or, alternatively, there was a major problem he couldn't fix.  I didn't want to think about that.

"Who owns the old freight dog," Jim asked, gesturing at the Beech.

"What?" I was lost in my own worries and grim speculations.

"That freight dog. Who belongs to it?"

"Oh." I told him the name of our ranch.

"Big spread.  I've worked for them a lot.  I do seem to recall it parked on their strip. It's a pretty one, for sure.  You don't see many any more, though."

"You ever fly one?"

"Oh, yeah.  First paying pilot job I had was flying cancelled checks in a Dog 18 like that one. Cancelled checks, auto parts, medical supplies. Whatever had to get someplace overnight.  But I got in on the tail end of that business before FedEx and the internet took it all away.  Lot of little guys went out of business.  Had two or three freight dogs that earned them a living  Then poof! Nothing.  And their planes weren't worth a nickel to anyone. So they just parked them and walked away." 

"How'd you like flying them?"

"Oh, they are the sweetest planes ever made. A little tricky on the landing, being a big tail dragger, but nothing you can figure out."

By now dad had both engines running and the A&P guy was standing in front of the plane listening and looking.  Then he crossed his arms waving at dad, who shut down the engines.  In a minute dad was clambering out of the plane and huddling with the guy.  Then they collected the tools and carried them into the hanger.  Mentally crossing my fingers, I hoped all was okay.

"What did you say was the problem with that one?"

"Oil leak in the left engine.  Looks like they got it fixed."

"Mmm.  Always a problem with those radials.  All that vibration shakes things loose."

"I guess."

"Well, I gotta get back to work. Nice talking to you.  My name's Jim.  Hope to see you around again sometime."  He drained his beer and tossed the empty can into the drum.

"I'm Wanda.  I'll probably see you around.  You fly carefully now!"

I always do, Wanda! That's why I'm still at it. You have yourself a nice day, hear?"  And he stepped off the porch into the sunshine, donning his cap, adjusting the visor against the sun, and heading over to his Pawnee.  He fired it up and taxied up field to a truck where he took on another load of calcium, then staggered into the air, the heavily laden Piper reluctant to get airborne in all this heat at this elevation.  He circled the field and waggled his wings as he flew past the shack.  I waved.  Then he was gone.  

 Dad came up on the porch and stood wiping sweat from his brow with a shop rag.  He didn't notice me at first, his eyes not used to the shade.

"So?" I said.

"Oh.  There you are." He explained the problem was an oil line fitting that had become loose and begun seeping.  Routine.  But it was good we had stopped here and Randy, the A&P guy, had spotted it before it got worse.  I was going to ask what was all the drama with the backfiring but at this point really didn't care. I just wanted to get going.

"I gotta take a leak and wash up.  Buy me a Coke, okay?" and he walked down the porch to the lavatory.  It had a shower but I didn't think he meant to use it.

"When you get back," I called after him.

The FBO came out of his office and walked down the porch toward me.  He opened the screen door to the cook shack.  "Toss me a beer, will you?"  He snagged it and let the door bang shut.  He popped it open and took a slow sip, eyeing me.  "Young woman," he said, "You've got the prettiest pair of legs I've seen walking around here in a month of blue-nosed Sundays.  May I buy you a beer?"

"Got my Coke.  Thanks, anyway."

"You know, your dad and I go back a long ways.  We served together on the Kitty Hawk.  That must have been...let's see...1984, I think.  It was on that cruise that we collided with a Russian sub in the Sea of Japan.  That was a hell of a jolt."

"I didn't know about that."

"Oh, yeah.  Fun times.  The sub was carrying nuclear-armed torpedoes.  If war had started, the whole battle group would have been blown to hell before we ever had a chance to do anything."  He took a sip of his beer.  "We did get the sub's propeller jammed in our hull.  That was a real coup for us."

"Oh?"

"Well, yeah, the screws being a big part of how stealthy a sub is."

"I didn't know that."

"True.  Well, I shouldn't bore you with an old sailor's yarns."

"Oh, no.  It's interesting to me.  Really."

He finished his beer and tossed the can into the trash barrel. "I've got to get back to work.  Tell your dad when he gets back from wherever he is to bring that plane of his back so we can give it a thorough going-over."

"He's in the head."

"Okay, well, I'm off."  And he walked back to his office, his gait a little like that of John Wayne in an old cowboy movie. 

After a while, dad came out looking refreshed and bought himself a Coke. He drank it standing up, not talking.  I'd finished my Coke and was just holding the empty can.  I stood up and dropped it in the trash.  "I'm ready when you are.  The sun's getting pretty far west."

"Yeah. Let's go.  I'll finish this aboard."

It was like an oven in the cockpit even though both windows had been left open.  There  was no noticeable breeze.  The wind sock hung limp. My bra chafed.  I felt like pulling the sweaty thing off, but modesty prevailed. The engines, already warmed up, started easily and we were soon taxiing to the end of the runway. Holding the brakes on and with flaps lowered to 15 degrees, I pushed the throttles to 36.5 inches.  With the windows open, the roar of the engines was deafening even through our headphones.  I released the brakes and we lurched forward, my hand holding the throttles wide open and dad's hand pressing on mine, ensuring I did so.  The end of the runway came fast but at 80 knots, dad calling it out, the Beech told me she was ready to fly. I eased the yoke back and suddenly we were in smooth air, gear and flaps came up, cowl flaps closed, and we picked up speed smartly.  I circled back over the field and wagged our wings as we flew past the burger shack, but nobody was outside to see.  

I pointed the old bird toward home, climbing to 8,000 feet to get some cool air.  It wasn't long before we were flying over our own land and I felt a growing anticipation and assurance that nothing more would prevent me from sleeping in my own bed tonight.  In about an hour, our landing strip came in view, the hanger, and a bit farther on the ranch buildings and, amid shade trees, our house.  God, I was so glad to see it.  So glad.  I flew a wide circle around the house and turned back to the landing strip.  Here, too, there was no wind, the wind sock hanging limp. I came over the fence at 75 knots with a touch of throttle, full flaps.  The Beech slowed quickly on the grass and gravel strip and we were at taxi speed when we paralleled the hanger.  I taxied over to it, swung the plane around, pulled the throttles to idle cut-off. The props slowed and stopped and there was silence.  

We were home.