Circle (Part Four)

"I always knew if you had the chance, you'd want to learn to fly. You have so much of your grandfather in you..."


I'd approached the subject cautiously. I'd flown to Farmington twice in the past two days, and was due to fly up there again Monday. Those flights were like nothing I'd experienced before, and I wanted to learn more. And -- though I planned to pursue lessons even if Mom had expressed reservations -- I was greatly relieved to have her blessing to do it.


Serendipity played a role in what followed. The pilot I'd flown up to Farmington with had a friend who'd just earned his flight instructor certification, and was looking for a student. A friend graciously loaned me some money to get started. Soon, under his tutelage, I was plying the skies in a variety of Cessna Skyhawks, some lessons learned more quickly than others.


I soloed for the first time in N62507 at Belen Alexander Airport (E80) on July 24, 2004. One week later, I drove a U-Haul moving van with all my earthly belongings to Dallas. Eleven months before I'd left DMC to take a customer service position at a building materials company called American Gypsum. That company was now relocating its home office from Albuquerque to North Texas. The fat moving stipend I received kept me in the air, and I soloed a second time from Collin County Regional Airport (TKI) the following November.


If the path I was on had been fortuitous up to that point, the road that followed was nothing short of a miracle. One day in May 2005, I was browsing aviation headlines on a website called Aero-News Network, and came across an article about the search for unpaid "stringers" to help cover the annual AirVenture gathering in Oshkosh, Wisconsin. On a lark I submitted some writings of mine. One in particular caught their attention, and soon I was off to Wittman Field to learn how to be an aviation writer.


I was a quick study. Within two months I was writing for ANN on weekends... and on October 28, I left American Gypsum to pursue a full-time career as an aviation journalist.


Aero-News opened new horizons for me, and was a welcome and earnest distraction from my fears throughout a bout with testicular cancer. The job allowed me to earn my Sport Pilot license, in April 2008. Alas, good things don't always last, and within a year -- thanks in equal part to the economy, and the need for health insurance -- I was back where I started.


Back at DMC. And, really... that's about right, isn't it?


It seems like I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling;
That we'll all be together again.

No straight lines make up my life;
And all my roads have bends;
There's no clear-cut beginnings;
And so far no dead-ends.
-Harry Chapin

Circle (Part Three)

"You don't have to be so gingerly on the controls. The plane can handle more -- see?"


I distinctly recall yelping as the pilot on my August 2002 flight to Farmington pitched the little Cessna 310 into a quick 50 degree bank, then just as quickly returned us to level flight. That was accompanied by a death grip on both the seat armrests.


Up to that point, I'd done a passable job of holding N591DM on-course towards Four Corners Regional Airport, and at our assigned altitude of 8,500 feet. Denver Center hadn't peeped since our handoff from Albuquerque, which meant I'd managed to abide by the rules under VFR flight following.


Maintaining straight-and-level flight is among the most difficult tasks for a student pilot, but it suited me fine. Steep banking, on the other hand...


"Can we not do that again, please?" I asked.


The pilot chuckled. "Your airplane." Despite this formal "handoff" of the controls, I noticed his attention never wavered from what I was doing.


After a few more minutes, I was happy to turn the controls back over, and watch outside the window as we descended over the San Juan River, south of the airport. Four Corners Regional sits on a plateau overlooking the city of Farmington; on this crystal-clear morning, it was hard to miss.


I listened intently as the pilot described his actions prior to landing. "Tower cleared us onto the downwind for Runway 5, which you can see over there. We're flying parallel to it. Now I'm dropping the gear... three green, all good. Next we'll turn base leg... time for GUMPS. Gas, check, both fuel valves are open and clear. Undercarriage down. Mixture set. Props at correct pitch for landing. Seatbelts fastened --"


"Chartran 104, cleared to land Runway Five, winds zero-four-zero at seven."


The pilot clicked the radio button at the top of the yoke. "Cleared to land on five, Chartran 104... Okay, there's a very slight crosswind from left, not much of a factor," the pilot explained. "I want our wheels to touch down right on those white bars you see on the runway. And... there we go! Rollout, no brakes yet -- let the plane slow down on its own -- and, here comes the nosewheel."


Under the pilot's expert guidance, November-five-niner-one-delta-mike gracefully turned off the runway, and made its way over to the freight ramp at fast taxi speed. As we settled to a stop, I remembered why I was there -- to cover a route. I tried to push my mind back into "work" mode.


That lasted all of three seconds. "See you later!" the pilot grinned. I knew at that moment that I was hooked. I had to learn how to do this flying thing myself.


***********


I flew to Farmington three more times after that. I took the controls a couple of times, but mostly I focused on what I could see. I realized what a wonderful experience flying could be when you're able to see what's in front of you, versus out of a tiny side window in a cramped passenger cabin.


After the second day, I had to make an admission to my parents -- particularly to my mom. I never knew her father, my Grandpa Darmody, but those who knew him said I reminded them of him. I shared his passion for building models of cars, and airplanes... and, now, of flying.


Even though I was 27, and well past the age of seeking my parents' permission... I still had to find a way to tell Mom that. She lost her father to a midair collision over Nevada in April 1958... and now, I had to tell her that her only son wanted to follow him into the sky.

Circle (Part Two)

We left off in April 2002, just after my promotion. From 04:00 to 14:00, Monday through Friday, I had full responsibility for DMC's warehouse and distribution operations in Albuquerque and northern New Mexico. This included receiving and sorting the day's pharmaceutical shipments, dispatching our aircraft to all corners of New Mexico, and overseeing the driver who had taken over my Los Alamos route. In practice, I was often at work by 03:30 and didn't leave until closer to 5 pm. There was seldom time to even sit down on the job, unless I needed to grab an Aspire and cover for an absent driver.


It didn't take very long at all for me to tire of this routine. Everything I'd appreciated as a driver -- the open road, the people -- was absent from my new position, and I soon determined the bump in pay wasn't really worth the added stress. I knew I was near the end of my rope, but I didn't want to leave the company outright. I truly had grown to appreciate the job we did, and the people I worked with.


Fortunately, I'd made an impression on the manager who oversaw the Customer Service department. A fair amount of lobbying on her part convinced Ops to let me transfer over, though not until the middle of August -- about three weeks away. I agreed to suffer through it; at least there was light at the end of the tunnel.
However, it was just three days later that my world changed forever, with the words "we need you to cover a route in Farmington." Our regular driver needed to take some time off, and no spare drivers were available to fill in. Considering my lame-duck status in my current position, I was the obvious choice.


I thought I'd be driving a van up there and back -- making for a very long day -- but instead the Site Manager handed me a spare headset. "You'll fly up and back on the 104," he said, "and use her truck while you're up there."


This made me a little nervous. I'd always been fascinated by airplanes, but I'd never flown on a plane smaller than a 737. (For that matter, I was 16 before I flew for the first time -- on United, from Albuquerque to Omaha and back.) Plus, I'd seen our planes. Hangar queens they're not.


Nevertheless, a sense of adventure followed me to the airport early the next morning. As I parked my Focus in the Seven Bar parking lot, a FedEx cargo jet (an Airbus A300) roared down the runway, its twin turbofans shaking the ground for a few seconds. A flush came over me; that seemed like a good omen.


That feeling changed somewhat as I walked up to the twin-engined aerial chariot that would take me to the Four Corners. N591DM had clearly seen better days over its 33 years, the once-proud white-and-burgundy paint job severely faded and chipping almost everywhere. I knew outer beauty wasn't necessarily an indication of how well the plane was maintained... but, well, some shiny paint and gleaming propellers still would have been nice.


I shook hands with the pilot, then stepped aside as he loaded the freight and did his preflight check. I watched with some alarm as he struggled with the starboard landing light, which refused to descend from its housing under the right tip tank; a solid smack with the palm of his hand finally coerced the light downward.


With his preflight complete, the pilot motioned for me to climb in after him. Both cabin doors on the Cessna 310 are on the right side; after I was seated, the pilot reached across me and slammed the door shut. "I have better leverage than you would," he explained. "It takes a solid pull to latch it all the way."

For all the worrisome quirks One-Delta-Mike had presented so far, I was heartened when both engines fired up on cue. I followed along as best I could as the pilot first called Clearance Delivery to obtain our route to Farmington, then ground control for our taxi instructions. I could feel my heart racing as we rolled closer to the departure end of the runway. I wasn't scared, really, but at the same time I honestly didn't know what to expect. In a sense, that pretty much described how I'd lived my life up to that point -- not knowing what to expect, not necessarily scared, but only because I wasn't really expecting very much.


Years later, I would write how we can spend our lives "drifting idly through our existence... down the paths of least resistance and lesser stimulation, focusing only on those things that ensure we have enough novelty in our lives so that we may want to survive to see tomorrow, that give us just enough momentary satisfaction to continue on down the road to Who Cares What." It sounds pretentious (because it is) but that entire sentence came from experience. That was me the morning of August 8, 2002, as we taxied into position for takeoff...


...And that same wandering, pessimistic, rudderless approach to life ended, for me, the moment the wheels of that Cessna 310Q lifted off Runway 3.

Circle (Part One)

All my life's a circle;
Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls thru the nighttime;
Till the daybreak comes around.


All my life's a circle;
But I can't tell you why;
Seasons spinning round again;
The years keep rollin' by...
"Circle," by Harry Chapin




Today was a pretty crummy day at work. The kind of day in which all the victories I've managed to amass in the past six months now feel completely hollow, useless, and not worth the effort. Time will tell whether that feeling sticks around (past history tells me it won't) but suffice to say I felt a dark cloud surrounding me as I walked out the door tonight.


However, the cloud did manage to lift as I left the miles behind me. Part of that was thanks to listening to some old podcasts of mine -- reliving past glories, I guess, from back when I was at least somewhat relevant to aviation journalism -- but most of the doom and gloom waned as I reflected on the series of events that have brought me to this point in time.


It's kind of a neat story, really, and telling it always makes me appreciate life. And, as is often the case, it all started with a girl. And a breakup.


**********


July 2001. I'm living in my rented guest house on El Pueblo. I'm 25, unemployed, living off savings (along with more than a few parental handouts) and feeling generally sorry for myself. I've also just broken-up with a girl... for the second time. After reentering my orbit for a few fleeting moments earlier that summer, she'd found me very much the same insecure, awkward and needy mess I'd been before. I'm self-aware enough to know that... and to realize I'm depressed, directionless, and in desperate need of a shower.


Others see that, too. "Get out of the house," my friends say. "Go find something to do... preferably something that also pays at least a little money!" my folks add. "OK, seriously, are you ever going to leave your house again?" my landlady asks, with more than a little worry in her voice.


Finally, those messages ring through. My friend Lee recommends a job he only recently left, as a courier for a company called DMC. "It's great if you like to drive... which you do... and like to talk to people... which you used to," he says.


With a copy of my driving record in-hand, I fill out an application... and am immediately interviewed by the manager, Carlos. I'm sure that interview consisted of more than, "have you ever been convicted of any felonies and can you drive a 5-speed?" but that's the part of it I remember. A few days later -- July 25 -- I'm riding along in a van filled with bank bags and medical totes, heading up to Los Alamos and Espanola in the wee hours of the morning. By the following Monday, Route 112 is mine.

Me & 333, outside the Radisson Santa Fe. February 2002

The next eight months are rather fulfilling, and seldom dull. The long drive from Albuquerque suits me well; I average right around 250 miles round-trip, five-days-a-week. Some days take me as far North as Angel Fire. Most days I'm in a brand-new Toyota Tacoma (shown above) that I soon adopt as my own. I'm more proud of that truck than I am of my POS LeBaron convertible, and keep it spotless -- even waxing it during my hour of down-time in Espanola. Playing old cassettes in the tape deck helps me work on my singing voice... and work through some personal issues as well.


I also rediscover how much I enjoy talking to people, and find the challenge of keeping on a tight schedule to be invigorating (particularly in winter, while maneuvering a lightly-loaded Econoline up the hill to Los Alamos.)


Driving that route was just what I needed at that time in my life. By April 2002, however, I felt that time had mostly passed. So, I went after a promotion, to morning warehouse supervisor. I got the job...


...And soon realized that was a big, big mistake. But that's a story for tomorrow.