The plane circled above our small, desert camp. We were out in the middle of nowhere celebrating the fourth of July on the dry, flat Blackrock desert. Many of the 70 people in our camp peered out of our shade structures to look up. From my pilot training still in progress, I guessed that the pilot was circling to assess wind direction. I was worried because the ground was wet and sticky in some places and could grab the planes’ wheels on landing. So, I grabbed a sheet and ran to a clearing that I knew was hardpack, raised the sheet above my head to serve as a windflag, and waited for the pilot to use me as a signal.
The plane made a large sweeping turn and flew directly at me, into the sheet, into the wind, descending quickly. The pilot touched down about 200 yards abreast, and gently bounced the plane to test the ground. Once confident that the sand would not grab, the pilot eased her in. After the plane slowed, the pilot turned it around, and came back to the camp. The plane was a 1951 open-cockpit Speezio—yellow with blue flames on the wings. The pilot removed his goggles and leather helmet, and carefully stepped on the cloth wing. His name was Andrew and I quickly learned that he was part of our camp and was planning to spend the weekend with us.
Being fascinated with flying, I spent some time that weekend getting to know Andrew. He’s a New Zealander who is absolutely full of life. We talked a lot about flying, the outdoors, music, and a lot about Richard Bach’s books, who is a favorite author for both of us, and inspired Andrew to buy the Speezio. But I must admit, that Andrew was a hard man to get to know. He spent almost every day flying, taking people up for rides over the desert. Somehow, given that I was in my own pilot training, I felt like I should let everyone else go for a ride before I did, even though I was jumping out of my skin to go up in an open cockpit aircraft over the desert. On the last day at camp, I asked Andrew if he would take me up and I was put in line. But quickly, we ran out of time, and gas was short. Although we had been shuttling to town to fill up our gas canisters, those were now empty, and he had just enough to get back. “Oh well,” I said, “next time” and I finished packing up my truck for the 6-hour ride back to San Francisco.
Just as I was finishing up, Andrew came over and said that he was feeling pretty exhausted and was wondering if I would fly with him back to San Francisco. I would sit in the front and fly, while he would sit in the back, navigate, handle complex maneuvers, and take offs and landings. I tossed my keys to my camp-mate, put on his spare goggles and leather helmet, and jumped in the plane.
The desert was beautiful from above--the blue sky contrasting strongly against the brown mountains and the beige desert floor. We circled back and flew about 300 feet over the camp, with a tip of the wing to salute our campmates goodbye. And off we flew towards the western horizon.
Once we reached 7000 feet, Andrew passed the controls over to me. He requested that if I saw and lost sight of any traffic, e.g. other planes, that I should let him know. Otherwise, I would just fly towards a peak in the distance that was serving as my landmark (I didn’t have a compass in the front cockpit.) I quickly adjusted to the plane, which was the first trail-dragger I had ever flown. It had felt a bit squirly at first. The speezio seemed to like to run into or against the wind, but I had to put some pressure on the stick whenever I had wind coming from the side, which was not like the training aircraft that I was used to flying.
Andrew put on an Eric Clapton CD and we just chilled as we flew at 120 mph westward. I was thrilled, excited, and pretty relaxed all at once.
As we started to approach the east side of the Sierras, I saw a plane to our right that was descending. It was probably a thousand feet below us and it looked like it was going in for a landing. As the plane flew below us, I lost sight of it; I called back to Andrew to let him know that I lost sight of the traffic. He said, “Great, let’s take a look” and took over the stick. With one quick maneuver, the Speezio was on it’s side, flying sideways, and we could clearly see the plane below. Sure enough, there was a private airport down there and the plane was going in for a landing. Then Andrew turned the plane a bit further and we started to dive towards the ground. It was an exhilerating descent, but as our descent rate increased, I found myself getting nervous, then scared. I could feel the acceleration in the seat of my pants. I was wondering when Andrew was going to pull up. The next thing I hear is Andrew clicking on the intercom, “Hey Jason, you’re in a pretty deep dive.” “Hey, I thought you were flying this plane, “ I thought as I grabbed the stick; I could feel both of us pull up. I could feel my body weight press into the seat as we pulled out of the dive. I don’t think either of us said anything, and I still don’t know if Andrew was just playing with me. “I shot the Sherriff” came on and we just chilled to the music as we continued to approach the eastern side of the Sierras.
We stopped for gas at a local airstrip, but the credit card machine at the gas pump was broken, so we took off with just a bit of gas left. We soon stopped for gas at an old military base that was open to the public. As we waited for the gas truck to arrive, I walked around the airport and explored an old world war II warhawk that was parked there. It had been very well maintained. It’s battle scars, including a long series of bullet holes in it’s belly, were left intact.
After filling up and taking off, I flew for a bit, then Andrew took the controls as we ascended past 13,000 feet to cross over the Sierras. He said that the plane’s max altitude was 15,000 and that the plane was more difficult to fly at that altitude. It was quite cold at that altitude, and I found myself shivering, being under-dressed for the occasion. The beauty of seeing the Sierras from above was well worth the mild discomfort. I quickly went through a roll of film as we looked across hundreds of peaks up and down the Sierras.
After crossing the pass, we stayed closer to the ground. As we flew through the mountains, Andrew followed the line of the river below, and we carved our way through the mountains like water returning to the sea. It felt fluid, natural, and simply beautiful. The closest experience I can think of is snowboarding in two feet of fresh powder. And we were listening to jazz, or course.
The river we were following opened up into a beautiful mountain lake. As we flew above the lake, the walls of the mountain climbed up on either side of us. Out ahead, was a vista of the valley below, the Western side of the Sierras, The California Central Valley extended for mile and miles until it disappeared in a sea of thin clouds. Sacramento, Concord, Oakland, San Francisco, and the far reaches of the ocean seemed so far away, and yet I would be there in perhaps an hour of flying. Andrew inched the plane downwards, until we were skimming over the surface of the lake. I looked abreast and as wind bounced off the bottom of the wing, ripples were formed below, cascading away from the plane. I could see water vortexes, jumping out the lake, like fire trying to lick the bottom of our wing tips. Looking ahead, I saw waves being created for about 15 feet ahead of us, rippling outward as we advanced. Beyond the ripples, I could see the white-capped mountain peaks reflected in the water. And looking ahead, I saw power lines reaching across the lake, and the large white and red balls to warn us about them.
Andrew’s visibility in the back of the plane was pretty limited, because the aircraft cowling that housed the motor was quiet large and though I could see over “the hood” out in front of us, his vision ahead was relatively blocked. So, I called back to him, “Hey Andrew, do you see those power lines ahea....”
I hadn’t finished my sentence. The plane suddenly pulled upwards, graceful yet dramatic. We were climbing at what felt like a 45 degree angle. The blue of the sky was fading softer as the sun was preparing it’s descent to the sea. “Nope,” Andrew said.
As we continued to ascend, I soon forgot about the journey behind us, and just looked at the central valley far below. Farmland as far as I could see, marked with circles and squares for the irrigation systems. Bob Marley was playing. Of course.
We had enough gas to get to Oakland airport, but initial forecasts said the area was fogged in. We didn’t have VOR instruments on the aircraft, so we could only land by sight, and we didn’t know if Oakland would be an option for us. But we headed that direction waiting to see how the weather would turn. If we got to Oakland and couldn’t land, we had enough gas to get to Santa Cruz, but not enough to wait and look for an alternative landing site. And getting back to SF from Santa Cruz would have been difficult for me. Bob Marley was still playing.
As we neared, Oakland and SF were still both fogged in, so we decided to land at Concord. The airport was closed and there was no gas pump available, but they did have pilot-operated landing lights. As we flew over, we were able to click-on the landing lights from above. We made our descent and came to a stop in the middle of the runway. I hopped out of the plane, leaving the goggles and helmet behind, waved goodbye to Andrew, and quickly moved away from the plane. Andrew accelerated down the runway and took off, as I watched from the middle of the runway. I sat down in the lawn and watched the lights of the airplane as the ascended into the sunset. The sky was pink and blue, and then turned into white fog. I sat on the lawn watching the plane’s red and green blinking lights as they faded into the distance.
In the stillness, I began to experience overwhelm, trying to take in my journey, and all that had happened--not only in the flight, but the entire time in the dessert. Here I was, back in the Bay area. The lights on the strip turned off and I was in darkness. It felt very strange to be lying on my back in the middle of an airport just having flown from the desert where I had been car camping. Definitely unexpected. I couldn’t hold the overwhelm very long, and I got up and made my way to the terminal.
The doors were locked. The gates were locked. I was inside a closed airport, trapped by barbed wire fences. So, I moved a trash bin to against the fence, tossed the red welcome mat from the outside of the terminal on top of the barbed wire fence, and climbed out. I felt badly about leaving it there, but I had no choice.
I got to the sidewalk, and realized that I was in the middle of nowhere. It was an industrial/farming area, and there were no cars, no people, no houses, no phones. It was a bit freaky. And I did the only thing I could do. I started walking.
In about 15 minutes, I came to a Courtyard Marriot, and I went in, mostly to ask directions to the BART, which I knew was relatively close by. The lights in the hotel lobby were bright and everything looked so clean and orderly. The lobby felt completely unnatural and uncomfortable, and I felt very out of place. My clothes were dusty and dirty from breaking camp, and they were a bit too colorful for the urban environment, but oh well, here I was. I walked up to the front desk, and I could see the curiosity in the woman’s eyes. So, I said, “Wow, do I have a story to tell you if you want to hear it...” and we proceeded to talk for about 20 minutes. A few minutes into the story, she asked me to hold on and she picked up the phone. She was looking at me with a smile on her face while she was making the call. When I finished my story, she said just a few words. “Wow, thank you for a great story. It really made my night. Your limo is outside.” I shook my ahead in disbelief, smiled, and walked out the front door, where a limo driver was waiting with the back door open. Unfreiken’ believable!
After we drove for about 5 minutes, the driver pulled off to the side of the road, rolled down the barrier, and said, “Hey, I’m Bruce. I heard your story. You were on speaker phone. I figure you might need a drink before you get on the BART. There are plenty of options in the cabinet to your right. Do you mind if I join you?” He climbed in the back of the limo, put on some Pink Floyd, and we talked for about a ½ hour, enjoying rum and coke. It was a slow night for him, and we talked about his family, life aspirations, spiritual beliefs.... It felt like the conversations I had in the desert.
At some point, we both knew it was time to go, and he dropped me off at the BART. I gulped, hoping that I had remembered to bring my wallet and keys, which were totally unimportant in the desert. I had. The Bart station was packed with people going to the A’s game. After the openness of the desert and the solitude of the skies, having all these people around was just too much. I closed my eyes and smiled reminiscing of my journey home.
Epilogue
Two years later, Andrew was in a seaplane crash. Quite miraculously, he survived. His injuries, however, were severe and he was in the hospital for many months, uncertain if his foot would be amputated. It was a very trying time for Andrew, so knowing how inspiring Richard Bach had been to both of us, I spent some time trying to get a note to Richard asking for support. Despite my letters to the editors and publishers, I never heard anything back. Oh well, I had tried.
About 8 months later, I got an e-mail from Andrew. It said, “Hey I got a letter from Richard Bach. Did you have anything to do with that?”
The letter from Richard said, “Any landing you walk away from.... there is a reason you walked away. May you know that reason soon.”
