An Eclectic Mind

Traveling again.

If you’re wondering why you haven’t heard from me here in a while, it’s because I’ve been traveling. I’m doing one of my Southwest Circle Helicopter Adventures in northern Arizona, accompanied by a video crew and staff writer for a respected travel magazine.

The goal of this trip is to gather about 90% of the video needed to create three individual broadcast-length videos, each of which will be made available on DVD. It’s a huge project and, so far, we have at least 20 hours of raw video footage to wade through.

I’m flying with a door off and a video guy on board taking glare-free video images of what we fly over. He also has at least two POV.1 cameras mounted inside the helicopter at all times. The other video on the ground is “chasing” us — actually, he’s getting a big head start each day to drive to the airport where we’ll land before we arrive — and taking video of us landing. Then there are cameras whirring all over the place on the ground.

The writer is sitting up front beside me, taking notes and using my Nikon D80 to shoot images of what she sees. Although a good portion of the shots have some unfortunate glare — not much you can do about that when shooting through Plexiglas — many of them are really good. Like this shot she took of a herd of wild horses we overflew on the Navajo Reservation two days ago.

It’s been a busy week so far. Although I’m trying to demonstrate to the writer what my Southwest Circle Helicopter Adventure is all about, I’m also working with the video crew to make sure we capture all of the footage we need for our three videos. I’m hoping she understands that my usual clients won’t be rushing around like nuts all day.

I’m treating myself to a few of the activities my excursion guests get to enjoy. For example, on Tuesday, I joined the crew for a boat ride on Lake Powell that visited the “business side” of the Glen Canyon Dam before squeezing about a mile up Antelope Canyon (see photo) and gliding up Navajo Canyon for a look at the “tapestry” of desert varnish on some cliff walls. I skipped the Sedona Jeep tour and Monument Valley tour to work with one of the video guys or just rest up. Normally, while my guest are touring, I’m scrambling to get the luggage into their hotel room and confirming reservations for the next day. You might imagine how tired I am after 6 days of playing pilot and baggage handler.

At this moment, however, I’m sitting at the dining table of a double-wide mobile home near Goulding’s Lodge in Monument Valley. (Long story; believe it or not, the only lodging we cold get here in MV was in a pair of mobile homes that are part of the lodge.) I have the front drapes drawn aside so I can watch the eastern sky brighten for what promises to be a classic silhouetted butte sunrise. I always enjoy my dawns here at MV. Seeing the famous buttes outside my window is always surreal.

Today, we were scheduled to fly down to Winslow for lunch, then tour Meteor Crater and the Grand Falls of the Little Colorado River. Normally, the Southwest Circle Helicopter Adventure takes this route on the way to its last overnight stop at Flagstaff. But today we’ll probably go straight back to Page. I have four aerial photo shoots at Page starting on Friday morning; the money I make doing them will pay for this video excursion. We’ll do more video between those flights. Then we’ll hit the Crater, Falls, and Flagstaff on our way back to the Phoenix area on Sunday.

It’s a big trip and a bunch of huge projects. Just the kind of thing to keep me busy between flights for the winter season. But if all works well and as planned, I might be flying this route weekly in the coming spring and fall — with real paying passengers to take care of along the way.

I take a seasoned aerobatic pilot on a helicopter trip to Chandler and back.

My helicopter’s instrument panel includes an attitude indicator. That’s the gadget that tells you whether you’re flying straight and level or doing turns and climbs (or descents). My attitude indicator never worked right (how fitting!) in that it sometimes told me I was doing things I wasn’t doing. When it started telling me I was doing loops and rolls, I decided to get it fixed.

Ed Taylor pulled it out of my ship for me. He did some research and found a company that would fix it for a mere $1,195. Ouch. I made a few phone calls. A place in Mesa said they could fix it for me for about $900, but when I told them it was for a helicopter, they backed off. They said they didn’t have much luck with helicopter instruments and recommended that I buy a new one for about $1,400. I called the Chandler-based company they recommended and was told that the new one would be $1,700. Ouch ouch! But for $965, I could get an overhauled unit with the same one-year warranty as a new one. They had them in stock. I chatted with the woman for a while and she decided she liked me. She talked her boss down to $900. I gave her my credit card number before they could change their minds.

The day dragged on. A 2:30 meeting I had was finished in 10 minutes rather than an hour. At 3:00 PM, I was at the fuel pumps in Wickenburg with Three-Niner-Lima, doing a preflight for my trip to Chandler.

Nancy, one of our local pilots, stopped by. She’d just gone flying for the first time in several weeks and had put her plane away for the day. I didn’t know it, but she’d had a bicycle accident and that had kept her at home, nursing a nasty cut and bump on her head. Nancy flies a Decathalon, an aerobatic plane. In her words, the plane is “just as happy flying upside down as it is right side up.” So she flies it upside down a lot. And does loops and rolls. And hammerheads. The kinds of maneuvers that make some people sick. She does them a few times a week for about 20 to 30 minutes each outing, several miles north of the airport.

Nancy, who is also one of my favorite people, used to do aerobatics professionally. Now she just does it for fun. She’s 73 years old.

I asked Nancy what she was doing, and she told me she had nothing planned. I invited her to come with me on my trip to Chandler. She made a quick phone call, then hopped in. A while later, we were airborne, heading southeast. As we left, Gary, on duty at the airport, told me to remind Nancy that we couldn’t fly upside down.

I took my usual route to Chandler: southeast to Camelback mountain, east along the north side of Camelback, then south to Chandler. It avoids all other airspace, so the only airport you have to talk to is Chandler.

Nancy thoroughly enjoyed the flight. Years ago, her husband Bill owned a Hughes 269 helicopter. I’m not quite sure what that was, but Nancy tells me it sat three people. Probably a lot like a Schweitzer 300. They used to land it at their home in Scottsdale — we’re talking years ago — and later, at their home in Wickenburg. Oddly enough, their old home in Wickenburg now belongs to one of my neighbors, and I can clearly see the nice, flat area where Bill used to set down. She told me a story about how a friend of theirs once landed his helicopter at their home after they’d moved. “He realized pretty quick that we weren’t there anymore and took off,” she told me.

I got the impression that it had been a while since Nancy was in a helicopter. She said, “This is great,” about a dozen times. She remarked that in an airplane, you don’t see as much. That’s because in a plane, you’re not sitting in front of a window that’s bigger than you are.

We talked about the airport and the airport commission. Boring stuff that would put you to sleep if I detailed it here. Heck, it would put ME to sleep if I detailed it here.

I pointed out interesting landmarks along the way. Highways, malls, roads, mountains, airports. We could see right down the runway for Luke, just before we reached Arrowhead Mall. I remarked about the new construction. We listened to Scottsdale tower scold a pilot for flying the wrong direction. We searched for the Chandler High School, which was my landmark for approaching Chandler.

We came into Chandler and landed at the helipad near Quantum, then hover-taxied to the transient pad. I shut down. We walked to Varga, two buildings away from Quantum. Along the way, I saw Tristan’s helicopter, shoved up alongside the hangar, and ran into Paul Mansfield, my old mechanic. Paul greeted me warmly as ever. We talked about Tristan and how we wished we could slap him on the side of the head. Then we headed to Varga.

At Varga, we didn’t seem too welcome. But we eventually got the attention of the fat man behind the desk, who went into a back room to retrieve the attitude indicator. And here’s a funny thing. When I first talked to Ed about all this, I told him that I was thinking of replacing the attitude indicator with one that had a ball. The ball tells you if you’re in trim. My helicopter has trim strings that also do this, but they’re completely useless if its raining or dark. I thought it might be good to have a ball in the ship. Well guess what? The attitude indicator the fat man gave me had a ball.

We walked back to Quantum, stopping to chat with Paul again along the way. If it were up to Paul, we’d still be chatting with him. But we were anxious to get back before dark. It was already 5 PM and sunset was less than an hour away. The flight would take an hour. We pulled ourselves away and I took one last look at 45PG.

Meanwhile, Quantum’s R22s were flying in, like homing pigeons. One after another, they landed at the helipad and hover-taxied to parking spots. We started up as the last one glided past. I remembered all my radio calls, hover-taxied to the helipad when cleared, and took off to the west.

We went back along the south side of South Mountain, over the Gila River, over the northernmost part of the Estrella mountains, south of Goodyear, over Buckeye, and north along the Hassayampa. I wanted to show Nancy something different. She had a great time and I enjoyed her company. We set down at Wickenburg just before 6 PM.

Today, Ed installed my attitude indicator. I can’t wait to try out the ball.

I buy Alex a new cage and he won’t move in.

I had a feeling there would be a problem, but Janet made my worries seem ridiculous. So I bought the cage.

The idea was to buy Alex, my 18-month-old African Grey parrot, a new cage. This would be one I could leave outside so he could spend nice days outdoors without me having to wheel his cage in and out. Moving the cage is a royal pain in the butt, and I only do it when it’s time to hose it out. A second cage would make life easier and get Alex some fresh air while I was at work.

Janet and I took Mike’s pickup down to Phoenix to Bird Expo West (or some similar name), a one-day bird show where we were sure to find great bird deals. Janet’s significant other, Steve, has a scarlet macaw named Calypso. He’s a monstrously huge bird with a beak large enough to break bones and a scream loud enough to wake the dead. While Alex may chew on toilet paper rolls and small pieces of wood, Calypso can tear through two-by-fours. Janet was looking for something to keep him occupied so he’d stop chewing the blinds.

The show was very big and very good. There was a little of everything: toys, food, cages, and birds for sale. The place was filled with bird noise, as if we were walking through an aviary. At one point, Janet missed a cell phone call because she never heard the phone ring over the din.

We bought toys. I didn’t buy many — I think I spent about $15 total. They were all brightly colored wood and wicker toys. Small toys that Alex could chew up within a few days each. They were cheap and would last Alex about two months. Janet bought bigger toys that she carried around in heavy bags. She also bought a few smaller toys for her Budgie, who’d lost his partner over the summer.

There were all kinds of cages, from the smallest carry box for a finch to huge, walk-in aviaries. And the prices on cages were incredible. Cages that would cost $500 in PetSmart were $200 or less. At my top budget price of $200, there was plenty to choose from. Including the corner cage with the rounded front.

Take a moment to imagine this. Alex lives in a rectangular cage in the corner of my dining room/kitchen. The cage is about 26″ deep and about 34″ wide. Add to that about 4″ on each side for the “seed catchers” that do a so-so job of keeping dropped food and toys from falling on the floor. As a result, a big corner of my kitchen is taken up by Alex’s living space.

I’d seen corner cages before, but had never seen one quite as spacious as the one at the show. (Mind you, there were other less spacious ones there, too.) This one would give Alex all the room he needed to live quite comfortably. Best of all, its two flat sides, which would be tucked into the corner, measured only 26″ wide. With the rounded front, the cage would take up much less space than Alex’s current cage. It was even green, almost the same color as the cage he already had, which matched my kitchen.

It all makes sense, right? Buy the corner cage, move Alex into it, and use his current cage for outdoors.

But there was a little voice inside my head that told me it wasn’t such a good idea. You see, Alex likes his cage. He likes to hang out in it. He likes to climb all over it — even upside down from its roof. Sometimes, in the morning, I can’t get him to come out. He spends the day in there, and he sleeps in there. It’s his room, his personal space.

I told this to Janet and she looked at me like I was nuts. He’ll get used to it, she told me. He got used to the one he’s in, didn’t he?

She was right — or at least she sounded right to me. So I bought the cage.

You know what comes next. I brought the cage home and wheeled it into the kitchen to show Alex. He was on top of his cage, just hanging around, and when he saw the new cage, he took a dive to the floor. He was shaking like a leaf when I showed him the new cage. He jumped off my hand several times. Over the next two days, every time I brought him close to the cage, he’d climb on my shoulder so he could be as far away from it as possible. Any time I’d try to get him to step onto the cage, he’d dive onto the floor. Obviously, not only did he dislike the cage, he was terrified of it.

Well the cage is installed in the opposite corner of the dining area, where Alex can look at it all day. I’ve installed some perches and toys in it. I lined the top with paper — not an easy task, given the quarter circle shape. And I keep trying to get Alex to take an interest in it.

The sad part is, I bought the cage to save room in my kitchen, and so far, I’ve just lost more space.

A trip to Mesa to put Three-Niner-Lima on display.

A few months ago, I got a phone call from Jeff Fulinari (whose name I have probably just mangled). He’d gotten my name and number from someone — I can’t remember who — who said that I might be interested in putting my helicopter on display at a special “Helo Day” at Falcon Field’s Veteran’s Day Fly In. Of course I was interested. Any excuse to fly!

And then I proceeded to tell him about all my other helicopter friends who had ships that were far more interesting than mine. At the top of my list were Brian and Keith with their Bell 47s and Jim with his Hughes 500c. I promised to contact these people to see if they were also interested in putting their ships on display.

Time went by. Jim agreed to come and made arrangements with Jeff early on. Brian seemed to hop on board about a week before. Meanwhile, Jeff had been busy. He told us via e-mail that he’d lined up a total of 19 helicopters for the show. Very impressive.

Jim and his wife Judith agreed to fly down to Mesa with Mike and I. The trouble was, Jim’s 500c usually cruises at 105 knots. My never exceed speed is 102 knots. Alone, on a cool (less than 80° or so) day, I can push my ship to cruise at 95 knots. But with Mike on board, I’d be lucky to get 85 knots. Jim might slow down by 10 knots, but he certainly wouldn’t slow by 20. The solution was simple: let Mike fly down to Mesa with Jim. That would lighten me up so we could fly together. It seemed like a good enough idea to Mike — he’d been wanting a ride in Jim’s ship and this was his big chance. We settled on this as the plan.

Early this morning, Mike drove to Jim’s house, where he hangars his helicopter. I drove to the airport and loaded my ship with folding chairs, Big Wheels (a long story), and miscellaneous marketing material for Big Wheels and the airport. I took off and circled Jim’s place, which is about 3 miles north of the Wickenburg airport. Jim’s helicopter was sitting on the helipad. A few moments later, the strobe light started blinking and the blades started turning. I was on my second pass when he took off.

He slowed to let me pass him just south of town. Then we flew in a loose formation toward Phoenix. My GPS had the old “Camelback Route” set into it. The route goes from Wickenburg to a point just west of the north side of Camelback mountain, passing over Arrowhead Mall and Metro Park along the way. It then slips between Camelback and Squaw Peak, east past the 101. From there, it goes due south to Chandler, but I’d change the last waypoint when we were clear of Phoenix’s class B airspace. The benefit of this route, of course, is that it is the most direct way that avoids all Class B, Class C, and Class D airspace in the Phoenix area.

It was a beautiful day in Wickenburg — clear and cold (8�C on the ramp) — with excellent visibility. Not so in Phoenix. A beige smog cloud blanketed the valley, hiding the skyscrapers and mountains beyond from view. Even Camelback looked far away and, at first, I thought it was a different mountain much further to the southeast. I thought about people with breathing problems who may have come to Arizona for better air. So many people, so many cars, and a daily thermal inversion conspired to make the air worse to breath than where they’d come from.

As we flew, we tuned in, at first, to 122.75, which is the “official” air-to-air airplane frequency in the area. That frequency was full of students announcing positions in the Northwest and Northeast practice areas north of Phoenix. So we switched to 122.85. That frequency was used by students in the Southeast and Southwest practice areas, and there were far fewer of them. But the frequency was also being used by a bunch of airplane pilots.

“Six-five-bravo is 152 miles out.”

“Niner-three-juliet is 110 miles out.”

“Four-Alpha-Papa is 140 miles out.”

There were six or seven calls like this. Then some chatter about who was faster, how high airplanes close to each other were flying, and whether the plane off one guy’s left wing was one of the group. Then silence.

A while later, new position reports trickled in, followed by more chatter. I couldn’t contain my curiosity. “Where are you guys going?” I asked.

“Chiriaco Summit, for breakfast,” one of the pilots replied.

Chiriaco Summit is a truck stop along I-10 in California, about halfway between Blythe and Palm Springs. It had a decent runway, a Patton Museum, a gas station (for cars), and a restaurant that featured photos of the airport when it was actually used.

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“They’re filming a movie out there,” another guy said, “and we want to check out the actresses.”

I laughed to myself. Any excuse to fly. “Where are you flying from?” I asked.

“Deer Valley,” two of the pilots answered, stepping on each other.

The conversation was over — no need to clutter up the airwaves any more than they needed to be. I thought about flying out to Chiriaco Summit instead of Falcon Field, wondering if I’d have a better time there. But by the time I made it there — after two hours and a fuel stop — all the activity would probably be winding down. And I didn’t think Jim would want to fly that far.

I tried to get Jim to switch to the helicopter air-to-air frequency (123.025) as we got closer to Phoenix. He tried, then met me back on 122.85 to report that his radio couldn’t get that frequency. Mike later reported that he heard me laughing when I replied. Old radio equipment.

We flew north of Camelback to the canal, then headed straight southeast to Falcon. We agreed to switch to Falcon’s frequency and make separate radio calls. I called in first. The controller, a woman who sounded very cheerful, replied with instructions to report one mile north of the tower. A plane reported in before Jim, then Jim got a chance to call. “Helicopter Two-Zero-Three-Zero-Foxtrot, flying with the other helicopter that just called in wants to do the same thing.” (Jim’s a riot.) The controller was just as friendly to him.

A mile north, Jim called in before me. I think he was afraid that I’d forgotten. We were cleared across and told to switch to 122.8 for guidance. I crossed first and made the switch. I was told to follow the signals of the man in the orange jumpsuit. After figuring out which man in the orange jumpsuit, I touched down on the ramp. Jim parked nearby.

A few other helicopters were already assembled, including an APS Huey, a huge Sikorsky, and a Hiller that looked strangely familiar. It was 8:30 and the show was scheduled to start at 9 AM. Jim led us all to one of Falcon’s two restaurants for breakfast. Mike and I had the Atkins Special omelet, which appeared to be meat scrapings from the griddle, loaded into a thin, folded layer of egg. It couldn’t have been too bad, because we both ate the whole thing.

Back outside, we spent some time walking around, checking out the helicopters. A pair of JetRangers and an AStar had arrived. The JetRangers were doing rides for $25 a pop and were in constant movement by 11 AM. Paul Alukonis, my first flight instructor, was flying the AStar and he spent some time showing off it’s avionics and ENG (electronic news gathering) equipment. Extremely cool. I introduced Paul to a number of people as “the man who taught me to fly.” I think it made him feel good. Brian arrived in his Bell 47 at about 10 AM, embarrassed to be late. No one complained.

I met the Sikorsky owner and, later in the day, got to climb into the ship’s cockpit. He’d been letting kids climb all over the ship all day and I thought he was nuts. But when I sat in the cockpit, I realized why he wasn’t worried. The instrument panel looked like something in a museum. Only in museums, none of the stuff works. In his ship, it was all the same industrial strength stuff, dusty and dirty and looking ancient — but it worked. Very strange. But not as strange as sitting in a cockpit ten to fifteen feet off the ground.

I also met the Hiller owner. He’d been trained in Chandler, where he also got the ship maintained. He told me that if he was lucky, an annual would cost him only about $5,000. He figured his hourly cost to operate was around $300. Not bad for an antique. It’s a weird-looking ship, with a 1-3 seating arrangement. The pilot sits up front, in the middle, by himself. Three passengers can sit on a bench seat behind him. Unlike his Sikorsky buddy, he’d plastered his ship with “Do Not Touch” signs and left his daughter to sit on guard with it.

I was pleasantly surprised to see quite a few people checking out my ship. In my opinion, it was the least interesting of the bunch. But people appeared to be amazed at how small it was. I heard comments when Mike and I finally decided to use the chairs I’d brought along. Some people had assumed it could only seat one person. Many assumed it was a kit helicopter. I set quite a few people straight and spent some time explaining how the drive system worked. I also opened the door and let a few kids sit in it.

Mike and I checked out the rest of the show, including the fixed wing area and museum. We used coupons provided by Jeff to “buy” hot dogs and water. We watched a never-ending stream of planes and helicopters fly by. The fly-in impressed me not only for how big it was, but how well-organized. That point was really driven home when it was time to go. Jim left first. His helicopter was surrounded by three or four ground guys who kept all pedestrians away until he was airborne. Then they surrounded me and did the same thing. It took a while for me to get clearance from the tower to leave — the friendly woman was gone and the man who’d taken her place was extremely busy. Finally, we were cleared to the west and told to fly three miles before turning to the north.

Mike flew with me on the way home. We sent the Big Wheels and chairs home with Jim and Judith. We took a northern route, over Scottsdale Airport. The controller was irate — I think that’s a job requirement there — but we were cleared into the airspace and over the airport. I showed Mike the big, white tire (see my previous entry), then headed home on a leisurely route. I was monitoring 122.75 just south of Carefree Highway when Jim’s voice came on. He was about 10 miles closer to Wickenburg, over Lake Pleasant. I told him where I was and that I’d be landing at his house to drop off Mike.

Back in Wickenburg, an Enstrom was in the area, giving rides to a bunch of young people there. I never got a chance to see the ship. I emptied my ship, hopped into the Jeep, and went home, tired from a good day out.

How I conquered the big, white tire.

In my essay, “When I Became a Pilot” (which has since been lost in various Web site changes), I discuss the various flights I’ve made that have led up to me finally feeling as if I really am a pilot. One of these flights was my private pilot check ride. And in one of those paragraphs, I mention the big, white tire.

The tire is a truck tire, painted white, that sits out in the desert in a practice area my old Scottsdale-based flight school sometimes uses. The area is about four miles northeast of Deer Valley airport (DVT). I’d tried on several occasions to find it, but was never successful. Until today, that is.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here. First you need to know the back story.

During my check ride, the examiner asked me to hover up to that big, white tire, face it, and hover all the way around it, facing it the entire time. This is an exercise in hover control and frankly, when I attempted it on my check ride, I did quite poorly. In fact, I thought I’d botched the check ride, mostly because of my failure to do this one maneuver anywhere near satisfactorily. I passed the check ride, but I vowed to return to the tire and try again.

Today, after a late lunch at Deer Valley’s airport restaurant, I decided to try to find the tire again. And this time, I found it.

It’s not very hard to find, if you know where to look. There are actually two big, white tires there. But more obvious from the air is the landing square, marked out with small, white tires and the orange windsock, which must have been recently replaced. Today, it hardly moved, with a two- or three-knot wind from the northwest.

I landed in the square, then hovered up to the big, white tire. I faced it with the tip of my cockpit only a foot from its closest edge and my skids only two feet off the ground. It seemed to mock me — after all, it was just a big, white tire in the desert, but it had been in my thoughts for years. It was as if I were making a pilgrimage to pay homage to its greatness.

And then I began my circle, to the left. It amazed me, at first, how easy it was to perform this simple task. Slight movement to the left with the cyclic, slight pressure on the right pedal, miniscule adjustment of the collective. Within half a minute, I’d circled it, returning to my starting point. Then, just for good measure, I circled to the right.

Ha! I could do it after all!

(Of course, I’ve logged over 600 hours since my first check ride. If I couldn’t do it by now, I should go back to flight school.)

I left the practice area, proud of myself. I flew low around the mountains of New River, over Anthem and the outlet mall, over Lake Pleasant and the golf course, into the Wickenburg Mountains. I flew low, a hundred feet above a car on Castle Hot Springs Road, past a man parked out in the desert with a camera, over some ATVers in the Santo Domingo Wash. I passed the shooting range and the rodeo grounds, then climbed to a respectable altitude to overfly Wickenburg. I came in to the airport on Runway 23, and set it down at the pumps, feeling more like a pilot than I have in a very long time.