You Know It's Coming

A good morning. I crashed out on my couch last night watching the Olympics, after having cheered on Phelps and the rest of the men's swim team on the 4x100m relay. And I awoke this morning to the unmistakable sound of burners whooshing overhead, as a hot air balloon seemed to barely clear the roof of my apartment building. It's getting to be that time of year again in Albuquerque.

A cup of coffee, a glance at the online headlines for the Dallas Morning News (I just can't stomach the local Journal) and absent-mindedly flipping between Fox News Sunday and a Sopranos repeat on A&E. I muse briefly that the two shows probably have more in common than Chris Matthews would care to admit.

Clouds hang low over the Sandias; the ceilings lie at least 1,500 feet or so beneath the 10,678 foot summit. From my perspective on Albuquerque's west side, the clouds seem lower than my balcony. They're not, of course, but that's how they look. There's not a trace of wind, either. A good-sized thunderstorm blew through last night, and this is the result. It was on a similar morning, four years and one month ago, that I soloed for the first time.

There's nothing big on my agenda this morning. It's a rare Sunday that I don't have to work, Jim's covering. Not much to do today, other than go up to spend the afternoon with my folks and Abby. I need to run to the store, too -- there was no milk for my coffee this morning, I had to resort to one of umpteen creamer packets I've copped over the years from a variety of motel rooms. Still, I have the rare luxury of time today... so I lay back on my couch, and watch TV.

9:00 am, This Week comes on ABC. Still a Sunday morning of tradition of mine, one that started four years ago in Dallas. The local affiliate finally moved the program to its rightful place in the morning; it had been on Sunday afternoons here, but KOAT moved it back to the morning shortly after Meet The Press host Tim Russert died... correctly assuming, I imagine, that with Russert's passing MTP would be more vulnerable in the local ratings. Such is life.

I only pay half-hearted attention to the commentators, discussing who will be chosen as Obama's and McCain's running mates. But I look up as I hear the familiar strains of the theme for "In Memoriam."

Issac Hayes. Jerry Wexler. The head of the Democratic Party in Arkansas, who was gunned down in his office this week by a crazed lunatic who had recently quit his job at a Target store, sigh.

Nine soldiers lost in Iraq and Afghanistan. Sigh, again.

Camera one, back on George. "We also lost a member of our ABC News family this week. Leroy Sievers..."

I stop cold, and stare mouth agape at the TV. I feel tears welling up, but wipe my eyes angrily before the torrent can begin.

God damn it...

Photo by Tyrone Turner

My Own Private Oshkosh

(I wrote this Wednesday morning, still trying to kick the OSH-Cold I'd managed to catch. Alas, I didn't have time to complete it and find pictures, so it's sat in the "Created" file on ANN's CMS the past three days... and gotten stale for the site. So, I'll post it here...)

I have to say, that so far this year's Oshkosh hasn't gone the way I'd hoped. That's certainly not the fault of the EAA, which has once again put on a dynamite show. Nor can I blame the weather -- so far as perfect as one could dare hope -- or the crowds, which have exceeded expectations to date and appear to be heading for a banner year.

No... it's because I'm typing this from ANN's "OSH House," sitting at the kitchen table in self-imposed exile for the second day in a row, loaded up on cold medicine and ibuprofen. Which means I've already missed such notable attractions as the first flight of the Martin Jetpack, the Dreamlifter's departure from Wittman Field Tuesday night, and the first public flight of the Rocket Racing League's prototype racer. At this rate, I'll probably miss the Cirrus SJ50's arrival Wednesday afternoon, too.

So, rats. And to add insult to injury, our house is close enough to the field that a steady stream of piston, turbine, and full-wail jet aircraft are making regular laps right overhead. Maybe the Cirrus jet will fly a REALLY wide pattern to land on 18, and I'll be able to snap a shot of its belly.

Even with my head feeling as if it's been placed in a vice, though, I know I can't really complain. How many readers would rather be under the weather, three miles from AirVenture, instead of being perfectly healthy and reading about the week's goings-on at Wittman Field from their office computer? There ya go. Rob, stop complaining.

I was also fortunate to arrive early this year... and by that, I mean EARLY, as in a full week before the show started. Thanks to the gang at Gobosh Aviation (who as regular readers know provided the light sport plane I earned my license on earlier this year) I was able to fly myself almost the entire way to Oshkosh, from Denver. Company vice-president Dave Graham invited me along for his flight, ferrying a new plane back from a trade event at Centennial Airport to Gobosh's headquarters in Moline, IL.

I suspect one motivation for his gracious offer was so that he could sit back and enjoy the trip for a change, and let someone else do the flying... which I happily did, logging a hair over six hours of brand-new, Pilot-In-Command cross-country time. And though I wasn't able to complete my planned goal, of flying myself into Wittman Field -- I had to "settle" for flying right seat in a pristine Beech Sundowner, as storms and low cloud cover along the route from MLI to OSH precluded a VFR trip -- I was still able to enjoy the sensation of being on final approach to land at one of the world's best-known and most highly-regarded airports. Not a bad tradeoff at all (and special thanks to Erik Skjerseth for a great flight.)

Arriving to Oshkosh a full week before AirVenture kicks off has some definite advantages. It's amazing to watch the field transformed from a sleepy Wisconsin airport (deceptively so... as OSH handles a significant amount of traffic in its own right, but those numbers are rated against the admittedly steep AirVenture curve) to the World's Busiest Airport.

Two years ago, Kevin O'Brien waxed poetic about that process in reverse... far more eloquently than I could hope to now, but I do better understand now what he was talking about. Even without all the tents, and the people and all the planes... there's an excitement present on the field. You just know something good's about to happen.

Even the workers on forklifts, those tasked with assembling the colorful displays and huge exhibit tents, seem to understand that. I had to be mindful of moving equipment as I walked around the slab of empty pavement last Tuesday, that in six days would become AeroShell Square and would host the Boeing 747-400 LCF Dreamlifter.

Instead of grumbling about the wide-eyed bystander intruding into their workzone, however... three different operators smiled and waved. I wholeheartedly returned the gestures. There's something about Oshkosh.

Arriving early, I was also able to enjoy a venue I'd never been to before, but for a quick walk-through last year en route to Cessna's SkyCatcher announcement. This time around, I wouldn't have to report on a trade event, or cover an early morning press conference. In fact, I was able to visit places far removed from show center, in both geography and ideology.

Last Wednesday, I was able to take in the EAA Museum and Pioneer Airport. For five hours, I walked around the exhibits, quietly taking each display in on my own time and my own (read, non-ANN-related) terms. And all I can say is, it was an illuminating experience.

I saw the SpaceShipOne mockup perform its tail-feathering dance, and watched the video presentation Alan and Dale Klapmeier gave in the mid-1980s about their VK30 experimental (love the hair, guys.) I sat on a nearby bench and contemplated the Wright Flyer; later I tried my hand at the various "kid's experiments" set up at the temporary NASA exhibit. I even spent time lolling through the gift shop... taking it all in, and buying a T-shirt for my mom.

It was... transcendent. For starters, it isn't every day you get to see a Ryan NXP on short final to a grass strip... but there it was, and the tram slowed down so everyone could grab their cameras. Yeah, it's only a replica... but how many replicas of the plane Charles Lindbergh first crossed the Atlantic in are still flying??

After arriving on the other side of the field, the tram deposited its load of families, a few older couples... and the wide-eyed Managing Editor, holding his camera.

I quickly walked ahead of the group. It's an annoying habit I have; when in a crowd, I always want to be first. But my rush to get ahead came to an abrupt end when I walked into the Aeronca hangar... and gazed upon the vintage airplanes contained within, under a veritable sea of wooden wing spars and period engines hung from the rafters. All sound from the outside seemed to vanish; I was now standing on holy ground, or so it seemed.

The families with their children eventually caught up, but even the youngsters quieted down somewhat as their parents stopped to read about the airplanes. The same was true as we walked through the other six hangars on the field; even the kids grew somber when we walked into the Wittman hangar, and read about Steve and Paula's last, fateful flight. As a group we paused to silently consider the propeller from their Wittman O&O, now hanging on the hangar wall.

After several moments, I walked back outside and watched as the EAA's Young Eagles GlaStar fired up, to take another young flyer around the patch for their very first time. It was an odd -- but appropriate, I think -- juxtaposition. While waiting for the tram back, I spent some time talking to Jake, also a first-time visitor to the museum, here with his wife from Scottsdale to spend the whole week at AirVenture.

Already in a reverential mindset, I opted to make one last stop on my own private Oshkosh journey. After retrieving the car, I drove back towards Aero-News press headquarters... but then turned left, heading towards the EAA Chapel and Compass Hill.

I'd only been in the chapel once before, during my first year at Oshkosh back in 2005 during an impromptu tour given by former ANN stringer Rose Dorcey, who now works for EAA. I'm not especially religious... but something drew me through the doors, and I sat for several moments in one of the empty pews, considering the events that had brought me to this point in time.

Next I walked behind the chapel, to the EAA Memorial Wall. Once again, I paused to reflect... this time on the names engraved in brass plates set upon the bricks. Some I recognized, mostly through reporting on their deaths. Most were foreign to my eyes... but I tried to take them all in. I considered taking a picture, but it seemed inappropriate.

It's on their shoulders, that we all reach for the heavens...

My last stop was Compass Hill... a fitting end to what had turned out to be my day to consider the celebrations and sacrifices of flight. I stood among the four lifesized bronze statues depicting a family watching planes at the airport -- "Directions," by sculptor Larry Anderson -- and marvelled in their realistic expressions of wonderment and awe. It didn't take much effort to imagine they were real... another group of wide-eyed enthusiasts, taking in another beautiful day at Pioneer Airport.

I can't describe the emotions I felt in my heart as I walked back to the car, sitting forlornly in the chapel parking lot. This would probably be the last day that lot would be empty, at least for another week or so. I was grateful to experience such a place "by myself."

There's something magical about being among 600,000 of your closest friends during AirVenture. But it's quite another to have Oshkosh all to yourself, at least for a little while. I'm glad I had the chance... it's those memories that keep me going until this darned cold subsides, and I can visit the field again.

Sure Is 'Purty'

It's "officially-official," just got this in the mail today!

Bowing is allowed.

Solstice

One year... officially. As of July 1, I'll have been in New Mexico one year. A lot has happened over that time, but not much has changed in the grand scheme of things. Case in point, here's a photo from last summer:

And now a more recent one:

See what I mean? Only the computer has changed. Even the beer has stayed the same.
Of course, there ARE differences. I'm now a pilot, officially, for real. That said, I've yet to fly since I got back from Florida, because there are no LSAs to rent around here... but something's in the works that might give me the chance to fly soon. I hope so. I'm getting twitchy here, stuck on the ground.

I'm also probably more comfortable with being back in New Mexico now, than I was when I first got back here. Back then, I had to look hard to see the benefits, outside of mountains and family. I no longer feel like such a Stranger in a Strange Land as I drive down the road... though I still miss Dallas. I had a dream the other night where I was grocery shopping at the Kroger near my old apartment. Very strange. I had the old Grand Am in the dream, too.

I think a change is gonna come. The exact nature of the change I'm not really certain of... but the air seems more volatile around me than it did a year ago at this time, if that makes sense. I can't deny there are aspects of my life that I badly need to rearrange... I just need to make sure I dictate the changes, and not the other way around.

Time will tell. For now, I take comfort in sitting on my balcony in the evening, watching the sun set against the Sandias (or more recently, the clouds hang over them) and making the effort to enjoy this moment in my life, knowing that the clock is ticking and this precise moment in time will never come again.

The Good Son

If you haven't read the book "Big Russ And Me," please put it on your library list. Its author, NBC commentator and "Meet The Press" host Tim Russert -- one of the most hard-hitting, yet completely fair, journalists of the modern era -- passed away Friday from apparent heart failure. He was 58.

I read Russert's 2004 homage to his father -- as well as its 2006 follow-up, "Wisdom Of Our Fathers" -- when I was out in Dallas. Both are quiet, reflective works by a man known more for his strong-willed, and sometimes brash, persona on the television screen.

The first book showed Russert's unabashed love and respect for his father, "Big Russ." Russert stood to the side in his second book... instead sharing letters from "Big Russ" readers, telling Tim their stories about their fathers.

It is both poetic and cruel that Big Russ -- still kicking at 85, though in assisted living -- will mourn for his son this Sunday... Father's Day. Fathers shouldn't outlive their sons, it's as simple as that.

I first heard the news of Tim Russert's passing on my way home this afternoon. I've been watching CNN's respectful coverage all afternoon. To their credit, the network -- a competitor to NBC -- has given equal time to Russert's strong ties to his family (he had one son, who graduated from Boston College just days ago) and to his acumen as a political pundit and reporter. That is as it should be.

It's an odd feeling... to mourn the passing of someone you'd never met, but still felt you "knew" through watching them on TV and reading their books. I've been in mourning all afternoon... and I plan to hug my Dad extra hard this Sunday.

Requiem

Earlier this month, it was announced that after years of abandoned neglect, the Bella Vista restaurant in Cedar Crest, NM would soon be torn down. As you can see in the pics, the work has already begun.

Bella Vista was my first-ever paying job. I started as a busser in late-June 1993… almost 15 years ago, less one month. I was promoted to carrier exactly one month later, when the three other food carriers failed to come in to work on a busy Friday. I worked at Bella for about 20 months; I left in February 1995 -- I think… wow, your brain DOES fuzz out over the years -- to go to work at another restaurant, started by one of the waiters from Bella.

(Incidentally, what once was the Nob Hill Diner and Bakery is now a tattoo parlor; make of that whatever you will.)

Bella –- screaming Italian owners and all -- was a great first job. I met my first serious girlfriend there, as well as my best friend.

Destroyed so far is the North dining room – home to buffet lunches, and holiday banquets – and most of the 10,000 sq-ft kitchen area (I swear to God, I could STILL smell the all-you-can-eat chicken and fish… no doubt the result of ages of accumulated grease!) The rest of it is due to come down in the coming weeks.

Wow.


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The Newest Reality

"You are never given a wish without being given the power to make it true.

You may have to work for it, however." -- Richard Bach, "The Messiah's Handbook"

The Wish began far earlier than I realized at the time: age 8, or thereabouts. The scene was an air show at Offutt AFB in Omaha. I was startled by an A-4 Skyhawk II of the Navy's Blue Angels, that suddenly screamed over the crowd at 500 mph. My eyes teared up... not from fear, though. In fact, I didn't know why. But I'm fairly certain I watched the rest of the team's performance, like a pupil enthralled by the words of his teacher.

Despite that early signal, though -- and a family history with some interesting roots in aviation, especially on my Mom's side -- I never really, seriously thought about learning to fly. I did like planes... building Lego models (that were quite good, I might add) and the like, and I enjoyed being around airports.

A few years after that show at Offutt, my Dad and I were watching planes at Millard Airport, when a pilot walked over and offered to take us for a ride. I protested when my Dad said no, of course... but not necessarily out of a strong desire to fly in an airplane. I just wanted to do something "different," and see the pilot's airplane -- I think it was a Beech Bonanza -- up close. The Wish remained silent.

In fact, I was 17 before I finally flew in an airplane. My Mom and I took a United 737 from Albuquerque to Denver Stapleton, and then a 727 on to Omaha to visit my grandparents over the summer of 1993. I did like the feeling of power, of being pushed back in my seat as the engines throttled up, sending the airliner down the runway... and I handled the sensations of flight well enough, including an encounter with an "air pocket" (that I now know was actually mountain wave turbulence) as we turned final to land back in Albuquerque.

But still, I didn't hear The Wish -- that sense of purpose, and that I'd finally found What I Was Meant To Do. I guess 17 would have been too early for that, anyway -- as was 24, when my friend Lee offered to take me up during one of his dual lessons, free-of-charge. Still I said no. 

Most of you reading this blog know the story of when I finally "heard" The Wish: August 2002, when I caught a ride on a Cessna 310 freight hauler to cover a DMC route in Farmington. I had approached that flight with a mix of excitement and trepidation... but when the wheels lifted off runway 3, I knew. My rudderless existence up to that point at last had direction. I was supposed to fly. That later led me to Aero-News... which, in turn, led me to this moment.

Nearly six years after that flight in N591DM, I'm a licensed pilot. I add the qualifier because of something my boss, Jim, told me during dinner celebrating my newly-minted ticket. "You've always been a pilot. Now the FAA finally agrees."

There are those within the aviation community who might quibble over the qualifications of being "only" a sport pilot. It is a fairly-new category, barely three years old. The standards are, admittedly, less-restrictive than those needed to obtain a full-on private or commercial pilot rating. I can only fly certain aircraft, for example... alas, none of which are currently available to rent in the Albuquerque area. I can't fly at night, or in instrument conditions. I can only carry one other person with me. 

Nevertheless, I am a pilot. My instructor, checkride examiner, and the FAA all say so. The rest is only a matter of receiving the needed endorsements... and I do intend to pursue the required ratings to be able to do all those things, and more. In fact, I had to promise the examiner, Wayne, I'd do exactly that. "You'll be doing yourself and aviation a disservice if you don't go farther," he told me. "And I don't say that to just anyone."

It has been an arduous road to this point. Finances derailed the journey twice, cancer once. There were times I gave up on becoming a pilot... saying it would be too hard, too expensive, too heartbreaking to come close to realizing The Wish, only to see it flit out of my hands yet again.

That didn't happen this time. Almost one month later, I still can't believe it. And the full impact of the words "I'm a pilot" still hasn't hit me. My eyes did well up when I shut the engine down after the checkride, after successfully managing to avoid turning myself and Wayne "into a lawn dart" (his words) during my checkride. I choked up a bit when I called my parents later that evening, awkwardly asking them both to get on the line at the same time, so I could tell them at the same time "your son is a pilot."

"When you have come to the edge of all the light you have 

And step into the darkness of the unknown
Believe that one of the two will happen to you
Either you'll find something solid to stand on
Or you'll be taught how to fly!"