Thread: The End of the Trail

I'm new at this but sooner or later I'm gona post something; so why not tonight.


THE END OF THE TRAIL

My wife and I have a summer home in the Sacramento Mountains of Southern New Mexico. Since we don't spend the majority of our time in Ruidoso I know only a few folks. When I get lonely, board or restless and need some company I drive out to the airport, sit in the sun on the bench outside the FBO and drink my coffee. It won't be long someone will come along, set down and we strike up a conversation, about flying; what else. This morning was one of those times.

A young feller, I judged him to be in his mid 60s, with hard blue eyes that had squinted out a lot of high country sun, wearing faded Levis, long sleeve shirt, a ball cap from a seed company and a pair of walked over boots helped himself to the other end of the bench. We howdied, named and shook and set about getting acquainted. He is a local and when he mentioned that he flew a Super Cub I told him that I recalled seeing it on the field, clean little plane. The best way to endear yourself to a pilot is to complement his plane.

I could tell that Jake was down in the dumps but it just won't do to ask a new acquaintance about his troubles. If he wants to share he will soon enough and if he doesn't when you ask he will most likely just excuse himself and mossy.

Soon enough turned out to be pretty quick. He said that he had grounded himself because week before last he was on his way to Roswell to pick up a rancher for the purpose of thinning out some of the marauding coyotes in the Pecos valley. Somewhere east of Hondo (maybe 20 miles ease of Sierra Blanca Airport ) he woke up from an unintended nap; the way he put it was that the lights went out for a while.

He turned right around, beat it back to the airport and didn't let his shirt tail his back before he was at his doctor's office. After an examination his doctor made him an appointment at the Texas Tech Medical Center in Lubbock. Long story short they told him that he had a condition; he didn't name it and if he had it most likely wouldn't have meant scat to me, that in its' self was not dangerous but made things like driving a car and walking stairs, a very poor idea; that for sure lets flying out. They told him that it might never happen again or it might happen before he got out of the building.

I was reminded of Gordon Baxter's condition. (Gordon was a well read down home pilot that many years wrote for “Flying Magazine”) When I read his article describing why he had stopped flying it was all I could do to keep from bawling like a baby. Although I had just made his acquaintance I felt that same way after Jake told me about his trouble.

Then he turned the conversation on me. What did I fly? How long had I been at it? Had I ever flown a Cub? I told him that own an old Cessna 182 and that like most kids of my age I had started out in a 65 horse J-3 but that had been a long, long time ago. He asked me if I thought I could still land a Cub and have it in on piece. Thinking that it was a hypothetical question I assured him that there was a high probability that I could land a Cub and still use ALL of the parts again.

Jake invited me down to his hanger. When we rolled the doors back there was the great grandson of the plane that had introduced me to the sky. For a long time he walked around the Cub, touching and patting every surface the way that a man might do before giving away his favorite dog.

Then he surprised me by saying, almost whispering, "Hell let go fly".

I agreed, assuming that if Jake’s lights did blink again I could keep things together long enough for Jake to get it all together and land his pride and joy. We tugged on the lift struts and the Cub nearly jumped out of the hanger. He hopped into the rear seat and I struggled my way into the front seat. Three shots of throttle and two blades later the 0-320 woke up, rearing to go.

I had never flown a 150 horse Cub and right away I was behind the airplane. Yes sir, you can get behind something as slow as a Cub, well at least I can. The tail was ready to come up way before I told it to. Then the wings levitated us into the air without my prodding or permission. Even with a 9000+' density altitude we drifted up at 700 feet per minute. I leveled us off at 7500, about 600' above the ground (it just doesn't seem right to fly a Cub much higher than that).

I tuned us down canyon and asked Jake where he wanted to go. He said that it really didn't much matter to him, he just wanted to fly. He declined my offer to give the controls of his airplane to him; said that he couldn't see all that well with the tears and all. So for the best part of two hours I took advantage of the opportunity to reacquiring myself with the little yellow icon of general aviation and to explore the river valleys and ridge lines at 100 feet to 500 feet.

Soon enough it was time. The time all pilots dread, the end of a wonderful flight, I told him that it was his plane but he again declined. He said "You took her off so you should land her. Just don't break the G D thing; I sold it to a guy over in Silver City", then he chuckled.

Well we won't talk too much about the landing but the feller in Silver City won't have very many repair bills. After we bedded the Cub down we walked back up to the FBO. Jake shook my hand and thanked me for making and ol' man happy. I had a big ol' lump in my throat as I told him that he too had made an old man happy. I was thinking that our roles could very easily have been reverse and that all too soon I too will be reaching the end of the trail.

I reckon if a few of us oldies shove over a bit and you promise to get your fingers tapping on the key board then we can make room for you.
Divus

That sounds fair Divus.

Welcome to the old guys club. That's the polite name for it. Some of the youngsters around here aren't so polite.

My brother had a J-3 when I was a kid that we used to ride around in some. We started out for Yazoo City one time and ran into about a 40 mph headwind. When I pointed out to my brother that an old pickup truck on a dirt road had just passed us he turned around and took us back to Gulfport.

There are a few little nits to pick, but the writing is good enough that they don't count. That's what copy editors get paid for.

Thanks Mr. Gwaynew,

...a pleasant and easy read. Soothing style, appropriately poignant and most enjoyable

Ian

Hi,

I agree with Ian, it is a nice story to read!

Small error (?) "When I get lonely, board or restless and..." I reckon you meant "bored" although I can see why you wrote 'board'

I'm not much of a critic, and new to writing, but nicely done. A pleasure to read. Thank you.

Mostly what they said, gaza said a few little nits, the only one that jumped out at me was "When I get lonely, board or restless", wrong sort of bored.

Wayne

Where have you gone? We mature chaps look out for writings of your genre.

Have you got some more stories tucked away in a file?

Dv