An Eclectic Mind

When photographers get together, it’s time for show and tell.

One of my Twitter friends, @anntorrence, author of U.S. Highway 89: The Scenic Route to Seven Western National Parks, rolled into town yesterday on a book signing tour. Highway 89 runs right through Wickenburg and that’s where we first met, in person, about two years ago. Ann stayed overnight; later today she’ll visit a few local shops and then continue her trip down to Phoenix and beyond.

Last night, after dinner, we started pulling out our camera equipment and playing with each other’s cameras and lenses. Ann told us some things about our Nikons that we didn’t know. We played with her flash in “commander mode.” We discovered that she and I each had the same old 50mm autofocus lens and it worked on all our cameras: my lowly D80, my husband’s newer D90, and Ann’s far superior D700. We also played around a bit with the two lenses I’m renting for a week from BorrowLenses.com, both of which arrived yesterday afternoon.

I snapped this photo with my Nikon Coolpix point-and-shoot to document the mess of equipment on my kitchen table. Fun stuff!

Days in My Life cameras, friends, photography

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Another episode from my Truth is Stranger than Fiction files.

Yesterday, I picked up a charter flight from Scottsdale to Grand Canyon and back. The client’s agent booked the flight at 11 AM and I was supposed to pick up the client in Scottsdale at 12:30 PM. This is far less advance notice than I want, but pre-Christmas business is always slow — other than gift certificates, of course — and I wasn’t about to turn it down. Instead, I hustled my butt off and, at 12:30 PM, was walking into Scottsdale Airport terminal while a Landmark Aviation fueler topped off my helicopter’s tanks.

My passengers were not around. I had a voicemail and it was from them. They were at the FBO at the other side of the airport. Scottsdale has a terminal building and two FBOs. For some reason, no matter how much I stress that I meet passengers at the terminal, they always wind up at one of the two FBOs. In the background of their second voicemail, I heard the FBO staff member explain how to get to the terminal.

I figured I had about 3 minutes to hit the ladies room. I was just finishing my business there when my phone rang. Expecting my passengers, I answered it.

“Flying M, Maria speaking.”

“Is this Maria?”

I don’t understand this. I answer the phone the same way all the time and 50% of the calls start out with “Is this Maria?” Does anyone listen when they make a phone call?

I replied (as I always do), “Yes, this is Maria.”

“My name is Jean. Steve Smith told me to call you.”

So far, this meant nothing to me. I didn’t know a Steve Smith. I didn’t reply, as I let my brain work on this information.

My caller hurried on. “Steve Smith worked with your husband Mike about two years ago.”

At first, nothing. Then a glimmer. “Steve? The guy who makes the ribs? From Texas or someplace?”

“Oklahoma,” she replied, sounding relieved.

Steve deserves his own entry in my Stranger than Fiction files. The poor guy moved from Oklahoma to Phoenix to take a job with my husband Mike’s company. The first night he’s in town, staying at a hotel, thieves steal his truck with all of his belongings in it. Mike, who didn’t know him before that, is one of a few people to help him out as he recovers from that and settles into his new apartment. He came to our house one weekend and made us the best smoked ribs I’ve ever had from our smoker. But he’d left his wife (and kids?) back in Oklahoma and he missed them. One Monday morning, he simply didn’t show up for work. When they checked where he had been living, it had been cleaned out. He basically disappeared and we never heard from him again.

Until yesterday.

Jean was talking again. “I just moved into the Phoenix area. Steve said I should give you a call. I’m looking for a job and I was wondering if you knew of anything.”

WTF?

At this point, I was washing my hands, speaking to her from the inside of the ladies room at Scottsdale Airport’s main terminal through my Bluetooth earpiece. I was expecting my passengers to appear any minute. I had to brief them and hustle them out to the helicopter so they could catch a tour at the Grand Canyon in less than 90 minutes.

And this stranger, referred by a missing-in-action friend, was asking me if I could help her find a job?

“I don’t know of any jobs,” I said. “And I think it’s pretty strange that Steve gave you my number, considering he disappeared off the face of the earth two years ago and we never heard from him again.”

This seemed to surprise her. “Oh, well he always said such nice things about you.”

Like that mattered to me?

She was talking again, but I cut her off. “Listen, I’m waiting for some clients and I really can’t talk now. I can’t help you. Good luck with your job search. Goodbye.”

I heard her say goodbye as I pressed the disconnect button.

Thinking back on this, I’m amazed that it happened at all. This woman relocates into the 5th or 6th largest city in the country. A city with newspapers and Craig’s list and employment companies. But rather than tap into the wealth of all the job listings available to her, she cold calls a “friend” of a friend looking for help finding a job? Even if I was hiring, I wouldn’t hire her (unless I was hiring someone to make cold calls; she seems to have some skill at that). She’s obviously not interested in finding her own job and would prefer to have someone else find a job for her.

A stranger.

Maybe she thought I had a job to offer. Maybe that’s why she didn’t offer any details on the kind of job she was looking for. Hell, she didn’t even say what kind of work she did! Was she a secretary? A lawyer? A hair stylist? Who the hell knows? Maybe Steve told her I had a successful helicopter charter business and needed help. By being vague about the kind of job she was looking for, she thought she could wrangle an offer or interview out of me.

Not likely, for so many reasons.

I’m also left wondering if this was some kind of scam. (New Yorkers really can’t help wondering this when something strange happens. It’s in our blood.) Maybe she didn’t even know Steve. Maybe she found (or stole) his address book. Maybe she thought she would wriggle into some kind of friendly relationship with me. Maybe she thought I could help her find a place to live — or that she could move in with me. Or that she could get financial support from me with some kind of sob story.

If any of that is true, she really called the wrong person.

Days in My Life careers, friends, Phoenix, stranger than fiction, weird

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I take Zero-Mike-Lima on a long cross country trip to take care of business and visit some friends.

Rod had been asking me to come out and visit him and Liz in their new home in Georgetown, CA for some time. Georgetown is not far from Placerville, where I visited them in Three-Niner-Lima about a year and a half ago. It’s also not far from Sacramento. So when Apple invited me to an AppleCare Vendor Fair at Elk Grove, just south of Sacramento, and the Arden Fair Apple Store gave me a time slot for a presentation on the same day, it seemed like a perfect excuse for a cross-country trip. Nothing like mixing business with pleasure.

I took off from Wickenburg on Tuesday May 3 just before 9 AM. I’d planned the flight out and had checked the weather. Except for moderately high winds in the Edwards Air Force Base area of CA, the weather looked good and I was confident that I’d make the 500+ mile trip in one day. My calculations showed about 5-1/2 hours with two fuel stops. I headed almost due west from Wickenburg, with Twentynine Palms punched into my GPS as my first waypoint. That was a distance of about 150 miles.

It was all familiar terrain; I’d flown the route before. It passes just north of Aguila, slips through Cunningham Pass in the Harcuvar Mountains, cuts across the barren desert, and crosses the Colorado River just south of Parker. Then it’s more barren desert, marked up by the tread tracks of World War II tanks. The area was used extensively for tank training and the two-track marks are still clearly visible from the air for mile after mile. I crossed over the town of Rice, which is no more than a deserted landmark. The flying was smooth and I listened to tunes on my iPod as I flew. It’s a good thing I had the iPod for entertainment, because there was very little beneath me worth noting. I skirted along the northern boundary of Joshua Tree National Park (or is it still a monument?) toward Twentynine Palms. There were signs of civilization beneath me. Small square houses scattered on the north side of the road. All of the homes were abandoned and there wasn’t much around them to indicate why they’d been built in the first place.

I crossed over Twentynine Palms and my GPS automatically steered me toward the next waypoint, Williams. There was nothing going on at Twentynine Palms, but at least I was flying over a good-sized town with things to look at. I’d flown to Williams airport before, but it wasn’t called Williams. I couldn’t remember what it had been called until I flew over it again: Hi Desert. It was painted on the runway. The place had been for sale the last time I’d stopped. I’d been in the R22 and had stopped there for fuel. The place was for sale. It had one impressive home on it and the rattiest restroom I’d ever been in. I guess someone bought it and changed its name. I didn’t stop that day; the R44 holds more fuel so I didn’t need to stop until my next waypoint, Apple Valley.

There was a student pilot in the pattern at Apple Valley when I arrived. I think he was Asian, if his accent was an indicator. I got in behind him on downwind, watched him turn base and final, then cut in behind him, crossed the runway, and landed on the ramp. There were two men there, sitting in the shade of an Decathalon’s wing. After I landed, one of them climbed aboard and taxied away, leaving his companion on the ramp. I shut down and walked to the FBO to place a fuel order. Then I hit the terminal for the bathroom and a bite to eat. It was about 11:20 AM and I was right on schedule. I’d planned to leave Apple Valley by noon.

The restaurant at Apple Valley, Leonard’s, isn’t anything to write home about. But it does make hot food. I ordered bacon, egg, and cheese on an English muffin — they serve breakfast until 4 PM — but was told that I could save money by ordering one of the breakfast plates. Rather than argue with the waiter, I just ordered what he suggested. When the food came, it was bacon and egg on a buttered English muffin with potatoes on the side. No cheese. Whatever.

Outside, a biplane landed and picked up the man who’d been on the ramp. I started thinking about whether it was possible to cross the country as a hitchhiker at small airports. You know, hitching rides with local pilots who are going 20 or 30 or 50 miles in the direction you want to go. Sounds like a summer adventure when I run out of money and have to sell Zero-Mike-Lima.

I paid for my breakfast and fuel, did a walk-around of Zero-Mike-Lima, and climbed on board. When I took off, it was just after noon. The first waypoint was Southern California Logistics (Victorville), the only towered airport I transitioned. It was about 10 miles from Apple Valley, so I reached it quickly. The controller cleared me across at 2800 feet and gave me the altimeter setting. Victorville is an airliner graveyard. The last two times I’d crossed over it, I’d noticed a lot of Tower Air planes. A friend of mine, Alta, used to fly for Tower. This time, there were lots of United planes. The Tower planes were in the process of being chopped up. It was a very sad thing to see.

From Victorville, I flew toward Rosamond. On my last trip, I’d been stuck at Rosamond for an overnight stay because high winds made it hazardous to cross the mountains. I had no plans to ever stay at Rosamond again.

My flight path took me over even more empty desert with even more deserted homes in the middle of nowhere. To the north, I could see the huge dry lake bed of Edwards Airforce Base. But it wasn’t all dry. The heavy rains in the southwest seems to have filled the southwest corner of the lake bed with water, making a shallow lake. Rosamond’s lake was full or overflowing, too. I flew over the airport at Rosamond, exchanging calls with a southbound airplane pilot who passed about a half mile to my left about 200 feet up. Then I headed north, toward Tehachapi, where I planned to cross into the central valley.

The mountainside approaching Tehachapi from the south is a wind farm. There are hundreds of windmills. The 15-20 knot winds forecast for that time of day in the area didn’t seem to have materialized. It was a relatively smooth flight as I climbed over the windmills. Only about 2/3 of them were spinning. New ones were under construction. It was nice to see that someone was interested in alternative energy sources.

I crossed over the mountain town of Tehachapi and its two small airports. One of these days, I’m going to land there.

Next waypoint, Porterville, 62 miles northwest. I’d programmed all of this into my GPS, so navigation was an breeze. I backed it all up by keeping track of my location on a sectional chart. The charts were all piled up on the passenger seat, folded so I could see what I needed to. Very neat.

I was descending over the foothills of the Sierras, about halfway between Tehachapi and Porterville, when I started hearing a weird metallic clicking sound. It sounded like the seatbelt latch being snapped. Once, twice, a few times more. Then a steady but irregular stream of clicks. I looked around in the cabin, but could not figure out what was making all that noise. My instruments looked fine, the helicopter was handling fine. What the hell was it? I was starting to think about making a precautionary landing, when I looked through the bubble as a huge bug hit the Plexiglas. Splat! Then clink! I was flying through a bug storm and the clinks I was hearing was the sound of bugs hitting the rotor mast shroud and skid pants. Sheesh! I descended a bit, but it didn’t subside. I started wondering whether the helicopter was being damaged and felt helpless to stop it. It went on for at least fifteen minutes. Then the sounds subsided and I continued my flight looking between bug splats.

The terrain here was gently rolling hills of greenish grass with scattered trees. Pretty but not outstanding. Not much in the way of civilization, although I did cross over a few remote ranches. By the time I got to Porterville, I was down in farmland. There had been some mild turbulence as the wind over the hills tossed me about. But then even that subsided. I was flying at about 500 feet above the ground with a white haze above me and limited visibility in all directions except down. Welcome to California’s Central Valley. I could see the ground perfectly well. The radio, which I tuned into the proper frequencies for radio calls throughout my flight, was quiet. No one was interested in flying in this white muck.

I passed over Sequoia and Reedley on my way to my next fuel stop at Mariposa. Somewhere along the way, I left the farmland and started climbing back into the foothills. By the time I reached Mariposa, I was in rolling mountains full of thick green grass and flowers, dotted with tall trees and cows. I crossed over a small herd of cattle on a hilltop, scattering what looked like javelina, before landing on the taxiway. Two airplanes were at the self-serve fuel pumps. One had already fueled and its door was open but its pilot was nowhere in sight. The other was being fueled. A few men were chatting nearby. I hovered for a moment, then set down on the ramp about 50 yards away to wait. Spinning. Burning fuel. You think these airplane pilots would get the hint, but they were either being very dense or very rude. After about 10 minutes, I picked up and moved over to the other side of them, making it clear that I was waiting to get at the pumps. By this time they were both done fueling and they were just bullshitting. Seeing my helicopter a bit closer (and feeling its rotorwash) woke them up. They climbed on board and moved so I could get at the pumps. The airport was beautiful. Well, the airport wasn’t beautiful. The area around the airport was beautiful. To the northeast was a high hill covered with grass and trees. As I fueled my helicopter, a cow and calf walked by on the other side of the fence. I could hear cows calling to each other. I took a photo, but it doesn’t do the place justice.

The airport staff was unhelpful and unfriendly. But the fuel was only $2.87/gallon. And the bathroom was clean. So I guess you could say it was a good stop.

I took off on my final leg to Rod’s place, passing over Columbia and Placerville on the way to the coordinates Rod had given me. I passed over many canyons filled with rushing water. It was really beautiful — so different from the barren desert I’d been flying over earlier in the day. I zeroed in on the coordinates without much trouble, but beneath me were just trees and houses. On my third circle, I saw Rod down below, waving at me. I recognized his house from the pictures. I set up for an approach and started in. But the landing zone was surrounded by tall pines and I had to fly right over his neighbor’s house to land. I was about even with the treetops when I decided that I didn’t like the LZ. I added power and pulled out. I circled around, waved to Rod, and headed for the airport at Georgetown, only 2-1/2 miles away.

Rod arrived as I was cleaning bugs off the bubble (for the third time that day). He gave me a big hug and spent some time admiring Zero-Mike-Lima. Then we loaded my gear into his Jeep and headed back to his place.

The following days were a lot of fun. Rod was off from work — he’s on a 12-on/12-off schedule — and took me around while Liz, his significant other, was working.

On Wednesday, he showed me Georgetown, Placerville, Sutter’s Mill at Colona, and a bunch of other small towns along the American River. He also took me up to a place called Swansboro, which is an airpark on a mountain top that is accessible by just two roads. One road is narrow and windy and rather scary and features a one-lane bridge over a creek between the mountains. The other road is longer, but wider and more comforting for those who are afraid of heights or get carsick.

On Thursday, we headed down to Sacramento, where I had some business at the Apple Computer Call Center in Elk Grove and an Apple Store at Arden Fair, and he had to pick up his mom at the airport.

On Friday, I flew Rod from Georgetown to Placerville where Liz was waiting with her niece and nephew. I gave them a ride. Here’s a photo Rod took of me, Liz, and the kids.

Then, after dropping the kids off at school, Liz treated me and Rod to breakfast and the three of us went to Nevada City for the afternoon. I got this great shot of Rod in the ice cream place.

On Saturday, it was time to go home. I’d left the helicopter at Placerville and, after breakfast, Rod and Liz brought me up there. It was about 11 AM by the time I was ready to go and a beautiful clear day was quickly filling with puffy clouds. (And yes, those are the snow-covered Sierra Mountains in this photo.) After much hugging and many thanks, I cranked up, warmed up, and took off.

The first stop was Mariposa, to take advantage of that “cheap” fuel. On the way, I passed over Columbia again. There was a parade in town and I altered course just a little to take a look before going on my way. When I landed at Mariposa, I was the only one at the pumps. I took my time about arranging the awkward platform ladder and filling both tanks. A biplane was parked nearby and after a while a couple came out and stood by it. I assumed it was their plane. They didn’t talk to me and I didn’t have anything to say to them, so there was no conversation between us.”When are you going to get fuel?” the woman asked the man.”Well, when she’s done and she hovers away, I’ll move the plane over,” the man said.

The conversation ended. The woman walked across the ramp to one of several V-tail Bonanzas parked there. I began to get the idea that they weren’t flying in the biplane. She came back and continued to hang out with the man. A woman who worked at the FBO came out and chatted with them. She didn’t talk to me either.

I finished fueling, put the receipt in my Hobbs book, and went inside to use the bathroom. I was about halfway to the building when I heard the woman say, “For Christ’s sake. We’re never going to get out of here.”

Now she knows how I felt the other day.

I left a short while later. I was following the same flight plan I’d used the other day, but in reverse. It was all programmed into my GPS, so it was easy enough to do. The weather was still nice, clearer than the day I’d flown up but with big puffy clouds. Mountains gave way to farmland that stretched out as far as the eye could see. Then, at Porterville, the foothills began and I started climbing again. It was after 1 PM and the clouds seemed to be descending faster than I was climbing. I was 30 miles away from Tehachapi when I listened to the Bakersfield ATIS and learned that the clouds were scattered at 3600 with a ceiling of 4200. Tehachapi was at 4001 feet.

Soon I was flying around clouds, following valleys and ridge lines. Scud running. I’d approach a ridge at about 100 feet above it and, if I could see the next ridge, I’d cross it. If not, I’d follow the ridge line down until I could see the next ridge. I did this for about 15 minutes, venturing far to the west of my course. Soon, I wasn’t getting any closer to Tehachapi and I wasn’t climbing. I reached the valley where a highway and railroad track climb up to Tehachapi and followed it with my eyes. I got about 2 miles before the road disappeared beneath the clouds.

Shit.

I punched the NRST (nearest) button on my GPS and learned that Bakersfield Municipal was 15 miles to the northwest. I changed course and descended. A while later, I was on the ground, parked in a transient parking space conveniently located beside the self-serve fuel island, at Bakersfield Muni. It was sunny there, but back in the direction I’d come from, the sky was full of low clouds. The tops looked pretty high, but not high enough to be convective. The bottoms blended into a white haze that shrouded the mountains.

I used my cell phone to call Flight Service. It connected to Prescott’s FSS. Not what I wanted. I hung up on the recording.

I pulled out my Airport/Facilities Directory and tried an after-hours phone number for Tehachapi Airport. The idea was to get a report of weather conditions from someone on the ground there. No answer.

I called the AWOS at General Fox in Lancaster. Clear skies, 10 miles visibility. Winds 10 miles per hour. It was less than 40 miles away as the crow (but obviously not the helicopter) flies, but it could have been in another world.

Then I spotted a pay phone. I dialed Flight Service’s toll-free number and was connected to the Rancho Marietta FSS. I pushed the appropriate buttons and went on hold. Instead of music, they played a recording of a current AIRMET. Mountain obscuration, it said. Duh. Really?

I was finally connected to a briefer. I gave him my N-number and told him I was a helicopter trying to get from Bakersfield Muni to Apple Valley over the pass at Tehachapi. I told him it was socked in and that I’d tried to cross but had turned back. “If I helicopter can’t make it,” I told him, “you know it must be bad.”

He laughed. He then consulted the info he had. “When the wind blows from the northwest through that Central Valley,” he told me, “The clouds sometimes get piled up in the southeast corner.”

“That’s what it looks like,” I told him.

“Let me look at the satellite images,” he said. There was a pause, then, “Oh yeah, that looks like a mess. But over by Gorman, it isn’t so bad. You might be able to make it that way.”

“I’ll have to check my chart,” I said.

“Well, if you’re steering about 110 degrees for Tehachapi, you’d be steering about 160 for Gorman. You’d be following I-5 through the Grapevine.”

I’d heard of Grapevine and told him.

He described the road up to the pass, which was at 4200 feet. “There’s a flat grassy area at the top,” he said. “If things are dicey, you could always fool around there for a while.” He meant that I could land, but he wasn’t about to say that. “Just be careful for the power lines.”

I’d heard about the power lines. We talked a bit more and I thanked him for his help. He reminded me that they always welcome Pilot Reports, then hung up.

I went into the FBO, used the bathroom, then went back to Zero-Mike-Lima and topped off the tank closest to the pumps. When you’re heading into weather, you can never have too much fuel. I already had enough for at least another 90 minutes of flying time, but wound up putting another hour’s worth in. Why not?

I consulted my charts and decided on a route that would take me to route 99, which intersected with I-5 a bit further south. I’d follow that up to the pass. With my plan made, I started up, warmed up, and took off.

I flew over route 99 at about 500 feet AGL. Movement to my right caught my eye. It was a crop duster, painted bright red, yellow, and green, coming toward me on the west side of the road. It let a bit of smoke loose and rocked its wings as I diverted to the east a bit to give him room. He was flying about 200 feet below me. That’s something I’m not accustomed to: a plane flying below me. When I hit I-5, I started climbing. The road climbed up the mountains and I climbed with it. The clouds closed in, but always remained above me. At the highest point, when I was about 4500 feet MSL, the clouds were still at least a few hundred feet above me. I managed to snap a photo of the pass. (Please don’t mind the bugs on the windscreen.) I saw the flat area the briefer had told me about — it was the same spot I’d decided to make my turn to the east. I turned, crossed the area, and began my descent.

I hit some nasty turbulence as I descended. The wind was coming over the mountains there, causing mountain waves or rotors. I got bumped around quite a bit and had to reduce power and speed. My descent rate at one point was about 1500 feet per minute. Then I was off the mountains, in the valley beyond, heading toward Rosamond, listening to the controller at Fox (Lancaster) try to direct a half dozen planes that didn’t seem very interested in acknowledging his instructions.

It was a perfectly clear day on the south side of the Tehachapi Mountains. The clouds were stuck, but were trying to overflow down into the valley. I snapped a photo to document the sight. I realized that there was no way I’d ever be able to get through the mess sitting on top of that pass.

The rest of the flight was uneventful, if not downright boring. I had a 15-20 knot tailwind most of the way and averaged about 120 knots ground speed. At Apple Valley, the restaurant was closing early, but the manager had the cook make me a turkey sandwich. It was about 4 PM. I ate, topped off the tanks with fuel, and headed out again. I was now on the home stretch, with only two waypoints between me and Wickenburg. Then one. Then just Wickenburg, 157 nautical miles away.

I was exhausted by the time I got to Cunningham Pass, but got my second wind over Aguila. I dropped down to about 300 feet AGL and sped across the desert. The wind had died down and the flying was smooth again. After the power lines at Forepaugh, I followed 60 at about 200 feet AGL for a while, racing the cars below me. I set down on the ramp at Wickenburg at 6:20 PM.

It had been a good, long trip. Just what I needed to get flying out of my system for a few weeks.

Flying, Travels with Maria aerial, Arizona, California, friends, helicopters

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I have a nice flight to Quartzsite and back with some pilot friends.

Now that I’ve got my new helicopter, lining up paying gigs to fly it is my top priority. I need to take in about $4K a month to cover its fixed costs, like the monthly loan payment, insurance, and the cost of that annual inspection. Owning a helicopter ain’t cheap, which is why I started Flying M Air in the first place. There has to be some revenue coming in. The R22’s costs were about half of this helicopter’s, so I need to earn twice as much money with this helicopter to keep it.

That said, I’m always on the prowl for possible flying gigs. This month is the “big month” in Quartzsite, AZ. A friend of mine, Ivan, said he and his wife did some barnstorming out there one season with a Hiller and did very well. That was years ago, but he seems to think that it can be done again.

For those of you who have never heard of Quartzsite, let me explain. This little desert town is on I-10 about 20 miles east of the Colorado River and Arizona border. It has a year-round population of about 1,000. But when winter comes, the snowbirds begin arriving in their RVs. They descend upon the town, taking up all the campground parking spaces and overflowing into the BLM land around the town. At its peak — the time of the big RV show in January — there are about 100,000 people within a five-mile radius of the center of town, with more on the outskirts.

What brings all these people to an otherwise boring piece of desert on the highway? Swap meets, mostly. The place turns into a giant flea market, with hundreds of vendors selling everything from small tools to RV solar solutions. There are also a few specific shows, like the RV show, the Main Event, and Tyson Wells Extravaganza (or whatever it calls itself). People are shopping all day, looking for great deals and things to buy and do. And a helicopter ride over the area is a real eye-opener to how the town spreads out.

The trouble is the landing zone. Although the town doesn’t seem opposed to landing a helicopter on an empty lot and doing rides — as long as I have a business permit — the owner of that empty lot might not be so accommodating. So I have to locate an appropriate landing zone, track down the owner, and get his permission. If he says no, I have to start the whole process all over again.

Of course, Quartzsite is completely surrounded by BLM land and it is possible to get a permit from BLM. But it takes 6 months — really! — for them to decide whether they’ll let you. And I don’t have six months.

I called Dick Cloud of Cloud’s Jamboree. Mr. Cloud owned a ton of land on the east side of town, on either side of I-10. His Jamboree was held annually for years and years. Then the State decided that Quartzsite needed another exit. They wanted to put it on Mr. Cloud’s land. So they condemned most of it, paid him off (I hope), and built the new exit. He’s left with only 6 acres on the north side and a trailer park on the south side. He moved the Jamboree to the Avi hotel on the Colorado River in the southernmost reaches of Nevada. He said he’d give me the permission I want, but he doesn’t have room for me. There are RV dealers on the six acres and not enough room for me. But he’s trying to buy some of the land back from the state. In the meantime, I asked him about helicopter rides on weekends at the Avi. He’s going to talk to the General Manager there and let me know. I wouldn’t mind spending every weekend on the Colorado River, especially if they set me up with a room and let me bring Alex the Bird.

Mr. Cloud got some wheels turning in my head, though. The land that had once belonged to him now belonged to the state. If I could get a permit from the state — much easier, I’m told, than BLM — I can set up on some land adjacent to his property. He’d mentioned a lot behind his trailer park, but I wanted more ideas before I made a trip down to the State offices in Phoenix. So that meant a flight out to Quartzsite.

After taking care of some odd jobs around my apartments this morning — including scrubbing a kitchen floor on my hands and knees (but let’s not go there, okay?) — I headed out to the airport. Mike was busy and had other plans, so I figured I’d track down Ivan and his wife and ask them to come along with me. Ivan was there, but he was busy with his Yak. Ivan, who used to fly helicopters, now flies antique airplanes at airshows, etc. The Yak is his plane, but he also flies L-39 jets for an outfit out of Deer Valley. He’d taken his Yak apart about 6 months ago to restore it and was working on it faithfully, every Sunday. This Sunday, his wife wasn’t with him and he was busy cleaning some parts. He said he wanted to come, but had to work on the plane. Besides, his wife’s sister was coming and he had to be home by 4 PM.

Next, I walked around the corner of Ivan’s hangar in search of Ray and Robbie. Their car was there, but only Ray was in the hangar. He was changing the oil on his often-flown and well-pampered Mooney. Robbie was doing things at home. They couldn’t come because he had to finish the oil change and Robbie had some big but unspecified plans for the afternoon.

I was beginning to think it was me, that no one wanted to spend 90 minutes in a helicopter with me.

I called my friend Keri and left a message on her answering machine. Then I drove to Screamers and bought a milk shake. Then I drove back to the airport. Chris, who has the hangar across from me, was just leaving. I went into the hangar, vacuumed Zero-Mike-Lima’s interior, and got the mysterious blood stain off the rear seat. (I’d been pretty upset when I’d seen it, but it came right off the leather with water and a paper towel. Phew!) Keri called back. She had a bad cold and although she wanted to come, she didn’t want to get me sick. I didn’t want to get sick either. Lance, her husband, had just returned from a hunting trip. He’d been up since 2 AM and wouldn’t be good company.

By this time, it was 12:30 and if I wanted to walk around a bit in Quartzsite while I was there, I had better leave soon. So I started hooking up Zero-Mike-Lima to its tow equipment.

I heard a sound behind me and looked up. It was Bill, a former helicopter pilot, whose wife, Nancy, flies an aerobatic Decathalon. He’d come to look at the helicopter. I asked him what he was doing at the airport and he told me that he and Nancy were planning to take a flight out over the desert to see which rivers were flowing and look at some biking trails.”How would you like to come with me to Quartzsite instead?” I asked. “I want to fly out there to look at some landing zones and could use a little company.”It didn’t take a behavioral specialist to realize that he was thrilled at the idea. “When are you going to go?” he asked.”As soon as I get this outside,” I replied.”Nancy’s putting fuel in the plane,” he told me. “I’ll tell her to put it away.” And then he was gone.

I pulled Zero-Mike-Lima out of the hangar, grabbed a water bottle and the emergency kit, closed up the hangar, and towed Zero-Mike-Lima to one of the jet parking spots on the ramp. I had it all disconnected and was taking photos of it when Nancy and Bill showed up, all ready to go.

Ray showed up, too. His Hughes 500D is being painted in Nevada and should be back any day now. He wanted to look at my ship. He peeked into the cockpit and made a comment that told me he was impressed by the interior. (I don’t think people expect to see leather in a helicopter.) Then, obviously realizing that we were on our way out, he wandered back to the terminal.

Bill sat up front and Nancy sat behind him. I started up, giving Bill a narrative of what I was doing. Bill had owned one of the first Rotorways years ago, when he and Nancy lived in Scottsdale and only one airplane was based at the then tiny Scottsdale Airport. He used to fly his helicopter all over the place — even drop Nancy off at work. They’d bought the land that my house currently sits on and built what is now my neighbor’s house. There was (and still is) a landing area there and he routinely landed there with his helicopter. So he seemed pretty interested in what I was telling him.

We flew off to the west. The day was absolutely perfect for flying. Light winds, warm but not hot, clear blue skies. We zipped along at 500 feet above the surface, doing about 110 knots. I didn’t have GPS coordinates for Quartzsite, so I couldn’t punch it into my GPS and get the ETA info. I figured it would take about 45 minutes, though. We had full fuel and none of us were in a hurry. We had some nice conversation, talking about flying and swapping stories about flights. We talked about the things we passed over or near. It was nice having passengers who knew how to position the mike on their headsets so the voice activation feature of the intercom worked flawlessly.

I crossed over Eagle Roost Airpark and the two dirt strips nearby in Aguila. Oddly enough, a plane was just taking off from Eagle Roost — I didn’t think any of those people actually flew. Then Indian Hills in Salome, which was dead as usual. I adjusted course to follow SR-60 and descended after the ridge west of Salome. We flew over the Kofa Cafe, which has gone steadily downhill since it changed ownership two years ago but still seems popular with truckers. Then we passed over one trailer park after another through the valley. We hooked up with I-10, came through a pass, and saw Quartzsite spread out before us.

We circled the town a few times. Nancy took photos with my Canon digital, which I’d left in the back. Remember, I was looking for landing zones. She took a perfect shot of Mr. Cloud’s property on the east side of town on the north side of the property. The RV sellers hadn’t filled it (yet) and there was a nice gate on the far east side that would offer easy yet restricted access to passenger. I could call Mr. Cloud back and offer to e-mail the photo with my proposed LZ drawn in on it. I also saw some land adjacent to Mr. Cloud’s property on the north side of the highway. I’d try getting a permit for that with the state later in the week.

I also saw a perfect LZ with a “No Camping” sign in it (yes, I was low enough to read it from the air) and wondered how I could find out who owned it. (It’s not as if lot numbers were printed on the land like on a map.) I liked it because there was some grass on it to keep down the dust and no power lines in sight. it was also on a heavily-trafficked road with plenty of parking on the roadside.

We spotted all three landing strips in town, including the one on the Sectional Charts (now marked with a big X in the middle), the one everyone lands at (which has a slight dogleg in it), and the one the ultralights used which I landed at a few times (which now has palm trees planted near the edge). Bill kept telling us about a rock crushing facility he knew of beside the highway, but none of us could see it. I think it may have closed down since he’d seen it or, perhaps it was further west on the highway.

Since neither Bill nor Nancy were interested in getting out to stretch their legs, we departed the area, heading northeast. Rather than going straight back to Wickenburg the way we’d come, I decided to take them for a trip past Swansea, up the Bill Williams River, and back to Wickenburg via the Wayside Inn and Robson’s. A scenic flight. Let’s face it, the flight path along SR-60 from Wickenburg to I-10 isn’t exactly scenic.

I made several course adjustments before I thought I was following the right road to Swansea. I wasn’t. We ended up on the Bill Williams River, west of Swansea. We followed the river east. The river was flowing hard and had done some damage to farmland in the valley. Lots of silt. We came upon Swansea a few minutes later. There were a few Jeeps and ATVs on the roads there. I was very surprised to see that half the old worker’s houses had brand new metal roofs on them. It appeared that BLM was not only taking care of the place but it was restoring it. Swansea is one of my intended destinations from Wickenburg when I get my Part 135 certificate. Of course, I’m only two weeks into the six month application process, so I don’t even know whether they’ll let me land there with paying passengers.

We followed the Bill Williams River to the Alamo Dam and Alamo Lake. The lake was the fullest I’d ever seen it, with plenty of brown water coming in from Burro Creek and the Santa Maria River. We flew over the Wayside Inn, which had an airplane parked nearby, and up the Date Creek wash, which was wet in places but not flowing. Spotting some ATVs on the road, I “buzzed” them from a safe altitude, just to give them something to talk about. Then we headed toward Robson’s, where I repeated part of the tour I’d been doing the day before, crossed north of Forepaugh, where the RC airplane pilots were playing, circled Vulture Peak, and landed at Wickenburg.

I’d put 2.1 hours on the Hobbs meter and had two very satisfied passengers. Bill insisted on paying for the fuel to top off the tanks, but knowing what that would cost, I told him I only needed one tank topped off. He wound up paying for 18.3 gallons, which, at $2.89 per gallon, is more than generous.

As I put Zero-Mike-Lima away, I reflected on how successful the flight had been. I’d found three possible landing zones and had already established the means to get permission for two of them. There was a good chance I’d be in Quartzsite next weekend and I was looking forward to it.

Flying, Travels with Maria Arizona, friends, helicopters, Quartzsite

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