C-Day

The look I have in this picture is actually that of the “pinch-me-is-this-really-happening” variety. Seeing it now, I think I look mildly retarded. And in a way I was for a bit. Words completely failed me when I walked through the hangar door and laid eyes on N218DF for the first time. All I could think was, “I’m the luckiest little boy in the whole wide world!”

The day began at 8 a.m. I arrived at the Cirrus factory and was greeted by Judy—a perpetually smiling individual who made me feel right at home in a nanosecond. The only time she didn’t smile at me today was when I pulled out my digital camera to take it with me on the factory tour. Then, she looked at me like I’d just pulled out a 357. You see, under no circumstances are guests, even paying ones, allowed to take pictures in the factory. I told her I completely understood and put the camera back in my bag. Like flicking a light switch, the smile returned.

Judy then introduced me to Ken, who was to be my guide on the tour. Like everyone I’ve encountered from Cirrus, Ken was genuinely friendly and eager to answer any questions I had. The factory is a marvel of efficiency and technology. While every plane is assembled by hand, the process is honed to such a degree that they can build as many as four aircraft per day. All tools and framing jigs are machined on site. In fact, with the exception of a couple of components, the airplanes are almost 100% American made. Considering the Cirrus SR-22 is the best selling aircraft of any kind, including military aircraft and commercial airliners, I don’t think anyone can say America doesn’t do anything well but burgers anymore.

After the tour I was given a warranty briefing and instructed on the use of the software that I will need to update the avionics’ databases. After that came lunch where I got to spend a little time talking with a couple of other pilots that were picking up SR-20s. Then, finally, Debbie Backlund came into the pilot’s lounge with a Cirrus corporate pilot to take me down and show me the plane.

After a thorough walk around, the pilot got in the left seat and I in the right for the “delivery flight”. This is basically where they take you up to show that all the avionics work correctly and to see if there are any little details you’d like addressed. The only things I noticed were a sticky map light switch and a little squeal in the headphones that seemed to be linked to engine rpm. The pilot said he thought the door seal on the passenger side wasn’t right. Even though I told him it seemed fine to me, he wrote it up anyway. That's how dedicated to getting it right these people are.

Tomorrow begins my first day of transition training where I finally get to sit in the left seat. They’ll have to shoot me to keep me from getting pictures of that.

Oh, one more thing. While Ken and I were sitting in the front office I got to meet the Cirrus copywriter/marketing consultant. I think I freaked her out a little bit because I was almost as excited to meet her as I was to see my plane. Cirrus does the kind of advertising I wish Horizon would do more of. Their current ad plays up their parachute system. The headline is “Chute Happens . . . Live With It.” The other ad, which I have hanging in my cube shows a picture of the Cirrus from behind that really shows off its curves. The headline for that is “Finally. Something Else With Curves a Man Can Trust.”

Now, I’ve been convinced from the second I saw that ad that the copywriter intended for the headline to be “Finally. Something With Curves a Man Can Trust”, but that she was forced to change it because some nervous Nelly was afraid it would offend women. The fact that it was a woman who came up with the headline obviously didn’t matter one bit. Well folks, I was 100% correct. Debbie (the copywriter) told me that the ad originally went out sans “else” but that someone higher up saw it in a magazine and made them change it. It was both a kind of relief and sadness to know that aversion to taking risks in advertising existed even someplace as forward thinking as Cirrus.

C-Day, -1

Greetings from Duluth, MN, home of . . . home of . . . well, home of Cirrus aircraft for sure but besides that I have no clue. Due to the enormous economic benefit Cirrus has brought to this community, people have been rolling out the red carpet for me ever since I arrived. The hotel I’m staying at is just 2 miles from the factory and they provide a shuttle to and from. The folks behind the counter at Country Inn and Suites, North Duluth couldn’t be nicer.

The trip up was uneventful. I rented a car to get to Midway because Laurie has been up in Chicago the last three days at a teachers’ seminar, so we would’ve had a car stuck up there if I drove mine. She did meet me though at the Budget drop off at the airport and spent a little time with me before I headed to my gate. It was nice to get a little sugar to help sustain me the next four days.

While we were sitting down by the baggage claim (the only place non-ticketed passengers can really hang out), I happened to glance over my shoulder and see a very familiar face. A face I’ve seen about a thousand times on TV, usually in March. MSU basketball coach, Tom Izzo was on his cell phone looking a little put out. Don’t know what the problem was, but it seemed serious enough that I decided to keep my distance even after he got off the phone. I really like Izzo. I think he’s an exemplary coach as evidenced by how disciplined his teams are.

After kissing my wife goodbye I headed for the gates. I flew Northwest for the trip up and let me tell you, I’m going to love flying myself back. No taking off my shoes and getting wanded. No ridiculously priced concourse food. No uncomfortable, forced conversations with someone you’d otherwise ignore if wasn’t for the fact they’ve packed everyone so tightly into coach you feel more awkward not saying something to the guy you’re going to be rubbing knees with for the next two hours.

From Midway to Minneapolis/St. Paul I was wedged into an A320—Europe’s answer to the 737. But because Airbus, a consortium of European aerospace companies, depends heavily on government funding from the various countries of the companies within it, it is slower in responding to competitive threats. I often hear Airbus trumpeted by the left here in the states as a shining example of what government can do for industry. And while Airbus did have a good few years where it was slightly outselling Boeing, Boeing, which is not encumbered by a bureaucracy and actually has to turn a profit to survive, responded quickly and has once again asserted dominance over Airbus.

Anyway the ride on the Airbus was nice but because it’s almost entirely flown by computer the control responses feel more digital and not as smooth to me. Granted Boeing and McDonnell Douglas (which was eventually bought by Boeing) also use flight computers but they are there to augment the pilots, not replace them. As such the control responses in a Boeing or other older airliner feel more analog because during many of the most critical phases of flight a human is at the controls that knows how to keep other humans comfortable. This is what came to mind as I rode the older DC-9 that flew me from St. Paul to Duluth. I love DC-9’s. They have such a solid feel to them.

But enough of my ruminations on commercial aircraft. Tomorrow Project Cirrus commences in earnest and I need some sack time. My tour of the factory begins at 8 a.m. followed by the paper signing, then lunch, then . . . drum roll please . . . delivery of N218DF. Expect a picture or two in the next post.

The Peace Corps with Guns

Anyone that hungers for an analysis of American foreign policy that goes beyond sound bites, Sean Hannity and silly contrivances like Fahrenheit 911 needs to read this book. Robert Kaplan has spent most of his life traveling to the worst places on the planet to chronicle the efforts of modern-day empires. In the 80's he was in Afghanistan covering the Soviet exercise in imperialism there. In the 90'’s he was in the Balkans with NATO. In Imperial Grunts he returns to these places in addition to visiting many others as he travels with the American military to see up close how the only empire currently on earth conducts itself.

His analysis is refreshingly different in that he goes to great pains to place all of what is happening in the American military'’s various theaters of operation in historical context. And I'’m not talking within a context of the last several administrations. He goes back centuries to show how what is happening today was basically inevitable. That by and large, empires have risen and expanded in response to what was going on around them. Not as a result of conscious will.

But I will spare you an amateurish attempt at a detailed review and stick to the basic points I came away with.

1. Imperialism is not necessarily a bad thing.


2. Imperialism is most powerful when it is least visible.


3. America'’s political leaders would be better served to study the lessons of the plains Indian wars and British colonialism of the late 19th century than those of WWII or Vietnam.


4. America'’s military, like any organization, works best when command is decentralized and the officers on the field are given freedom to adapt and improvise.


5. Special Forces spend more time training other militaries than fighting them.


6. America should not shrink from the role of police officer. It should, however, rethink how it executes that role.


7. The greatest obstacle to democracy in the Arab world is not Islam but tribalism.


8. The American military is not only the most potent in the world, its men and women are quite possibly the most educated, best trained and most motivated all-volunteer force in the history of the world.

I know eight is kind of a funny number to stop on, but that'’s about all that really sticks out to me. As you probably have surmised I highly recommend this book to anyone who is seriously interested in the future of America'’s role in the world. It is exhaustively notated and Kaplan is about as objective as I think was possible under the circumstances. I throw in that last caveat simply because his admiration and respect for the soldiers he traveled with is undeniable. Thankfully, though, he does not try to tie their dedication and heroism to any political affiliation. He simply reports what he sees and tries to put it in context for you. If only all journalism was this good.

Control Room

The Netflix envelope, and nearly every other synopsis I've read, will tell you Control Room is about Al Jazeera's coverage of the war in Iraq. For me, however, it seemed to be more of a study of how moderate Arabs view the world, and specifically the U.S. I came away encouraged as well as sobered.

I think the only real criticism I have is that they left so much of the good stuff out of the theatrical release. Unlike the deleted scenes on many DVDs, the number and quality of those on the Control Room disk almost amount to a second movie. I can only assume they were left out because documentaries are hard enough to market to theater goers without making them 3 hours long. If you rent it, you must watch the deleted scenes. Otherwise, you simply will not have seen the entire movie.

On a side note, I just read the other day that Josh Rushing, the Marine public relations officer who is a focal point of the movie, was just hired by Al Jazeera. Now that I've seen him in the film, I'll have to admit I'm more than a little impressed they did.

Goodbye Charlie. Hello Delta Fox.

In the past few posts you might have heard something about a new "family" airplane. I fly up to Duluth, MN next Tuesday to pick it up from the factory. I've been reticent to talk about it because 1.) I assume most of you do not share my passion for aviation and 2.) It has seemed almost too good to be true.

The airplane is a Cirrus SR20-G2. Like my old Piper Archer (N6897C), the Cirrus (dubbed N218DF) is a 4-person, single-engine airplane with fixed landing gear. But that's where the similarities end--rather abruptly too. Whereas the aluminum-and-rivets Archer was a 30+ year old design that topped out at 128 kts (147 mph), the 95% composite airframe Cirrus is a 21st century design that cruises at 156 kts (180mph). And it does so with just 20 more horsepower than the Archer had.

The SR20's instrument panel consists primarily of two large, flat-screen displays that present attitude, GPS navigation and systems information to the pilot in a logical, easy-to-comprehend manner. Only someone who's had to piece together the separate indications of over a dozen WWII-style gauges to maintain situational awareness while flying through clouds will be able to fully grasp what a miracle this is. Instead of a yoke, the Cirrus is controlled in pitch and roll with a side stick controller reminiscent of the kind used in the F-16 and Airbus 320/330/340/380 airliners.

The pies de resistance, however, is the aircraft's ballistic recovery system. If the proverbial excrement every truly hits the fan (i.e. midair collision, engine failure over the Rockies), I can reach up above my head and pull a red T-handle that deploys a giant parachute which will lower the entire airframe safely down to earth. So far the system has been used eight times in real-world situations and each time it saved the lives of those on board. You can see video of the BRS in action here.

While all of these features certainly make flying the Cirrus easier and safer than the Archer, they will require me to undergo three days of transition training at the Cirrus factory just to familiarize myself with them. I plan on posting while I'm there, so watch for the daily debriefings. When you get a chance, check out the Cirrus website. Even if you're not a pilot, but someone who admires visionary technology, you'll find it interesting.

Whew

UPI Headline:
"Large Asteroid Will Miss Earth Tomorrow"

Who says they only publish the bad news?

Of course, leave it to the French to take the negative slant.

AFP Headline:
"Asteroid Has Near-Collision With Earth"

Hackman and The Conversation

Netflix continues to grow in my estimation as one of the greatest uses of cyberspace yet devised. On its recommendation (based on about 300+ movies I’ve rated) I checked out The Conversation (1974) starring Gene Hackman. Hackman plays Harry Caul—a brilliant recluse who is one of the “top men” in the field of surveillance. The supporting cast is full of up-and-comers that went on to make it big, including a very young Harrison Ford, Terri Garr and Cindy Williams. There's also a bit performance by a not-so-young, but still-on-the-rise Robert Duvall.

While I’m sure some who view the film today will probably find the eavesdropping aspect particularly prescient, I found it merely an instrument to tell one of the most poignant stories of loneliness I’ve ever seen since Taxi Driver. As such, it’s not a real feel-good movie, just a brilliant bit of cinema that satisfies in a way too many of today's vapid flicks won't.

Bye Bye Charlie, Bye Bye.

It was with mixed emotions that I handed the keys to N6897C over to its new owner. On the one hand I was happy to have her out of the hangar so we could make room for the new plane. On the other, she was my first plane. I guess like any "first" anything, Niner Seven Charlie will lay permanent claim to a little real estate in my chest.

That said, the farewell flight to the buyer was a good one. I filed for 5000 which put me right at the same altitude as the puffy cumulus that had set sail over central Illinois and Indiana. Zipping along at a not-too-shabby ground speed of 140 kts, I had a ball punching in and out of the clouds. The sensation of speed was exhilihrating. I tried to capture some footage with my little digital camera, but it didn't turn out quite as well as I'd hoped. If you want to see these .mov files anyway, just drop me a line and I'll e-mail them to you.

One Born Every Minute

"For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me."

"Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?"

"I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me."

Such is the Judgement Day conversation that Jesus describes in the gospel of Matthew that will take place between God and those that were obedient to him. It is these words that I often have to struggle with when I'm face to face with someone looking for a handout that makes my "sucker meter" start to twitch. I hate being taken for a sucker as much as the next guy, but the unfortunate fact is lots of genuinely needy people end up going without because nobody likes being taken for a sucker.

Tonight I was once again presented with this dilemna in the form of skinny kid with gang tats and a big grin schlepping magazine subscriptions so he could win a trip. As most of these guys are, he was a fast talker. Before I knew it he'd shoved a plastic covered list of magazine subscriptions in my hands and was in full sales barrage. My initial reaction was to give a terse "No thanks.", toss the subscription list to him and close the door. But before I could, this very difficult passage of scripture popped into my head.

I know I don't talk about my faith a whole lot on here. For one I know I am often a terrible representative of it. But tonight I'm going to ask your indulgence because, as reprobate as I can be sometimes, Christ really is the pattern of who I desire to be. And when that desire collides with my more natural tendencies I have to try and sort it out. And from now on, you may see me sorting it out here. So without any further uncomfortable background, I continue the story.

As I'm standing there listening to Jay I start thinking about all the doors he's had slammed in his face. I think about all the other ways Jay could be making an easy buck tonight, but instead he's taking a stab at something remotely legit. I think about how hard it's got to be to have few other career options open to you at the age of 21 but this. I finally agree to a year's worth of Flying Magazine. This is where it gets even tougher.

Up till now this has all transpired with me standing in my doorway, hand on door with Jay standing in the hall. To get my checkbook I'll have to go back inside to get it. I'm faced with closing the door and making Jay sit on the steps in the hall or inviting him to wait inside. I think about my wife in the next room. About all the horror stories of guys charming their way into people's homes and then stabbing them for what they can steal from a costume jewelry box. Only problem is "I was a stranger and you invited me in" is reverberating in my cranium like a pipe organ in a cathedral. Do I be the "sucker" or do I do the "smart" thing and make him chill on the steps while I look for the check? Then I'm reminded that, technically, Christ was the biggest sucker of them all. He fed people, healed people and turned water into wine and mankind expressed its gratitude by nailing him to a cross.

That's what it comes down to I guess. If you're going to claim to be a follower of Christ, sometimes you have to be willing to play the patsy. Not that Christ ever intended us to be blindly trusting ("Be as shrewd as snakes and innocent as doves." Matt 10:16), just to give sacrificially. Especially if it means sacrificing your ego. I invited Jay in and he somewhat nervously asked if he could sit on our footstool. "Sure." I went and got the checkbook, paid him and sent him on his way. He thanked me profusely and took his show to the neighbors across the hall.

A few minutes later I decided to see what I could find online about the company indicated on the receipt--the Sunshine Subscription Agency. If you just Googled it, you know what I now know. There are all kinds of complaints against it. It's a legit company in the sense that they have an actual physical location and aren't selling drugs. It's just that, as Johnny Caspar in Miller's Crossing puts it, they're "a horse of a different color, ethics wise." Most of the bad things I read about involved how they take advantage of disadvantaged youth like Jay.

Did I get taken? In all likelihood, but it won't have been from Jay if what I read was correct. Then again enough people must get their subscriptions if SSA is still in business. We'll see. Now I have to decide if I should cancel the check or hope that, of the many tainted transactions SSA makes, this one actually goes through and Jay gets his commission.

Best Fortune Cookie Fortune Ever

"Ignore previous cookie."

--received 6-26-06 from Super Wok

The Berries

I mark the passage of time now by how long it's been between posts. Not much has really happened since the last one which is why it's taken this long. I only post now to break the dry spell. Speaking of dry, I went to pick strawberries Saturday and the earth was parched. Time's been flying by so fast, it really hasn't occured to me that it's been a while since we've had a really good rain. Despite the heat and dust however berry picking proved to be much more fun than I would've thought.

We went to Pontious Berry and Herb Farm in White Heath. As the name implies berries aren't the only thing going at Pontious. In addition to a great herb garden they offer tomatoes, onions and sweet corn in season. The vegetables, berries and herbs are grown without the aid of pesticides but, as their website says, they are not a certified organic farm. They just try to adhere to organic growning methods. It's all u-pick and payment is on the honor system. You weigh your harvest yourself, write down how much picked and the price, and then drop the money in a wooden lock box. If you have to make change, there's a box for that too. It's all very granola.

The strawberries we picked were pretty puny due to the lack of water. Apparently their irrigation system went down right about the time the drought started. None the less, these were some of the sweetest tasting strawberries I've ever had. They tasted exactly like you imagine the flavor when someone says the word "strawberry". The lady running the place said pickins were slim as this was the end of the season but between Laurie and I we managed to pick about 3 lbs. Enough for one incredible strawberry pie with some berries left over for eating with ice cream.

We also harvested some of their basil and cilantro. We made pesto out of the basil last night. I've never eaten it fresh like that. It's nothing but fresh for this paisan from now on. After we got back from produce picking I changed the oil and filter on the motorcycle. The bike really did need the oil change. I wasn't just trying to assert manhood after berry picking. Besides when a man berry picks or harvest herbs it's called "foraging".

After dinner last night, we watched Born Into Brothels. This is a very difficult film to watch. For one its an unflinching look at one of the worst possible existences this planet has to offer. It also makes you feel like a total ass for complaining about perceived injustices like someone taking your parking spot or cold Big Macs. That said, it also showed that even in the darkest corners of the world, no matter how bitter their circumstances, kids still dream. That the value of a child's life trancends its "quality".

Finally, if any of you know someone who is looking for a nice, used airplane with a slightly hightime engine, but that's excpetionally clean, send them here. So far I've only received a couple of nibbles. It will be going up on Ebay this week as well. Kool Mo P wanted some info on the new plane, which I will offer when I take delivery of it on July 12. That should be quite an adventure. I will be flying up to Duluth to pick it up and receive three days transition training. Expect a detailed account along with pics here.

Hoosier Air

I am truly a blessed man. Not only do I have an airplane, but I have a wife that actually likes flying in it so much, that she is sometimes more eager to go for a flight than I am. Such was the case yesterday. As a few of you know we're selling the plane to make hangar space for a new one--a whole other story. She suggested we use the stellar weather to take 6897 Charlie on a tour of Indiana and post sales flyers at various airports. Believe it or not, I was actually a little reluctant because we'd just spent a couple of hours last weekend washing it should a couple of prospective buyers drop by for a closer look. But she REALLY wanted to go flying and a voice in my head finally piped up and yelled, "Hey moron! Do you know how many pilots would kill for a wife that begs them to fly?" So to honor my wife's wishes and out of respect for my fellow aviators in less ideal marital circumstances, I planned the flight.

Leg 1: KCMI (Champaign, IL) to KLAF (Lafeyette, IN)

KLAF's proper name is Purdue University Airport. It's right on the edge of campus. And I mean right on the edge. When you depart runway 5 you're just a few hundred feet above the quad. We departed Champaign about noon. Cleared on course, I elected to fly this leg at 3,500 feet. There was a little bit of an overcast plus I just like flying a little lower once in a while. You can see more details on the ground. As we bounced along in the light chop we scoped out cool little farm spreads, small town "rush hours", cow "ants" and all manner of springtime flora and fauna. Dialing in the ATIS (Air Terminal Information Service) for KLAF I caught a strange comment at the end of the weather recording "(something) activity around the airport, all quadrants." On the second time around the loop I made it out--"caution BIRD activity around the airport, all quadrants."

What kind of bird activity could possibly merit a mention in the weather recording? As we got closer I kept my eyes peeled, but didn't see anything out of the ordinary. It wasn't until I was on about 3 mile final for rwy 5 that I saw what they must have been talking about. Flying in the same direction, about 50 feet below and to the right of my flight path, was one of the biggest hawks I've ever seen. It reminded me of a time in California when I was flying along in an even smaller Cessna 150 and got an uncomfortably close look at a couple of vultures that happened to be circling at my altitude. I think it would've been a toss up in that case as to who would've still been flying if we'd hit. Considering the size of the tiny Cessna and the enormity of the birds, odds on the vultures wouldn't have been long. Thankfully, this encounter was nowhere near that close.

Things weren't very busy at KLAF either. When we landed only one plane was taxiing out to do a little pattern work. None the less, the fine folks at Lafeyette Aviation rolled out the red carpet for us. Two line guys came bounding out of the office to direct me to a parking spot right by the front door, chocked the wheels and asked us if we needed anything. Since we weren't buying any fuel, I had to pay a ramp fee of $8. Believe it or not, this really didn't bother me. Places like Lafeyette have limited ramp space and they have to pay the bills with fuel sales. It seems more than fair to me to pony up a little something if I'm going to be taking up space and not buying anything. Even if it's just for the 5 minutes it took us to use the john and hang up our flyer. What annoys me is when I hear some fat cat flying a half-a-million dollar twin that guzzles hundreds of gallons a flight bitching about ramp fees. As one of my old instructors used to say, "If the cost of flying bugs you, you probably shouldn't be flying."

After a quick potty break and posting our flyer on the lobby bulletin board we boarded the plane for our next sales call--KEYE: Eagle Creek Airport just north of Indianapolis International.

Leg 2: KLAF (Lafeyette, IN) to KEYE (Indianapolis, IN)

Indianapolis International is surrounded by about 4 or 5 sattelite airports that are all within about 20 nm of it. One of these, Eagle Creek, is right next to a dammed up lake on the NW side. The reason I decided to make it a part of the itenerary, despite the fact the local FBO also sold aircraft and probably wouldn't let me post my flyer, was because of a nearby restaraunt that received favorable pilot reviews on airnav.com. A little place called Rick's Boatyard. All the reviews talked about an outdoor patio with a fantastic view of the adjacent lake. I figured even if we didn't get anything to eat it would be worth checking out for future hundred-dollar hamburger trips.

As we approached KEYE from the northwest I caught sight of the lake about 15 miles out. The traffic pattern entry for the active runway took us right down the middle of the lake. Below us we saw all kinds of sailboats and pontoons plying the waters, and right there on the southeast corner of the lake Rick's Boathouse restaraunt that looked like it would be right at home in Miami. As we were to find out later, so did the owners. All the apparel they sold in their gift shop used the same font and colors as the Miami Vice logo. Cheesy? Supremely, but in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way. Then again, maybe Indy is like Baratslava--"Miami Vice. #1 new show!" Rick's was right across the road from the airport. Not even a 100 yard walk. It was just as reviewed. We found a spot on the lake side of the enormous patio overlooking the boat slips. In the middle of the patio was a good sized cabana bar that had all kinds of tasty looking libations on tap, but as pilot in command, I wouldn't be able to avail myself this visit. Needless to say I'll be back. Maybe on motorcycle. There were a lot of bike's in the parking lot (get those carbs cleaned Chicken).

After a brief respite of iced tea and live jazz we got up to head back to the airport. The waitress said the tea was on the house. Why, I have no idea. We dropped a generous tip and walked back across the road. Next stop was Bloomington, IN.

Leg 3: KEYE (Indianapolis, IN) to KBMG (Bloomington, IN)

Bloomington, Indiana--home of lily white basketball teams (under Knight anyway) and John Cougar. I don't care if he calls himself John Mellencamp now. He'll always be John Cougar to this American kid doin' the best that he can. Bloomington made the itenerary because it had a couple of FBOs that would be great places for posting flyers and one of the FBOs had Caddilac courtesy cars. I'll let you figure out which of those two factors weighed more heavily in my flight planning.

For this leg I filed an IFR flight plan which would provide us with positive radar coverage from takeoff to touchdown. Our course was going to take us right along the western edge of Indianapolis International. With all the traffic coming in and out of Indy, as well as the satellite airports, I simply don't have enough eyes in my head. I was going to need traffic reports. Plus, in today's day and age you really don't want to be operating around major urban areas without a constant link to ATC. That way if a Blackhawk appears off your wing you don't have to use hand gestures and can ask, "What seems to be the problem officer?" before the door gunner opens fire.

I filed for 6000 ft hoping it would put us up in the midst of the cool looking cumulus canyons that were sailing over us. Turns out they were up at about 7,000, but it was almost as cool to skim the bottoms. This leg, like the rest of them, took all of about 30 minutes. We were on the ground in Bloomington in no time. Which, by the way, has some fairly striking scenery for this part of the midwest. Lots of rolling, tree-covered hills. The airport is on a rise that kind of overlooks some of the smaller hills to the west. As the sun descended toward the horizon and the shadows got longer, it all looked very serene. Just like one of those daydreams of summer that I usually start experiencing about the 4th week in February.

We parked in front of Cook Aviation because they were the ones with the Caddie courtesy cars. Courtesy cars are free transportation that most FBOs lend transient pilots for an hour or two so they can run into town and get a bite to eat or something. That's right. Free. But as with most things that cost nothing, you usually get what you pay for. Courtesy cars are almost always an adventure. Some of the most memorable that I've driven have included a rusted out mid-60's pickup with a speedometer that didn't work, a giant white '70's station wagon that looked like it might have been a coroner's car in another life and I don't know how many retired police cars (probably the most common courtesy car at small municipal airports). You don't even have to leave your driver's license or cc number. I guess they figure no one would be dumb enough to steal a POS car and leave their airplane. But on very rare ocassions you'll be fortunate enough to land somewhere that offers some really nice wheels. Cook Aviation was just such a place.

While the line guy fueled the plane, Laurie and went into the office and asked if we could have the use of a courtesy car to grab a bite to eat. I'm not even sure if I was all that hungry, but I needed to have a plausible reason to ask for the car. As anticipated, the kindly office girl handed over the keys to a 2002 merlot De Ville. We're talking one of those big mamas you see dominating the parking lot at Hometown Buffet when there's an early-bird special. But because it was a DTS with alloy wheels and lower profile tires it looked more Tony Soprano than Lawerence Welk. Down the road a piece from the airport we found a great little Chinese take-out/dine-in place called Dragon. One of those places where your order's cooked fresh. I got the house special mein fun and Laurie opted for the Mu Shoo. Both entrees were fantastic and we had tons left over for lunch today.

I took my time cruising back to the airport. Partly because I was fighting a food coma and partly because I was really enjoying the Caddie. Back at the airport we hung our flyers and settled up with the office girl for the fuel. About the fuel, it was only $3/gal. I about fell over. Avgas is almost always a buck higher than auto gas, but I'd just managed to fill up for a mere .20 more than my fellow groundbound travelers. When you throw in the free use of the DTS I was probably coming out ahead. Man, was I having a great day. The only thing that could have made things more blissful was some guy handing me a suitcase full of cash for my plane. But ain't that America, you and me. Ain't that America, somethin' to see baby . . .

Leg 4: KBMG (Bloomington, IN) to KHUF (Terre Haute, IN)

We decided to stop at Hullman International Airport in Terre Haute because I thought it was a fairly busy general aviation airport and it wasn't entirely out of the way on our way back to Champaign. The airport is apparently named after the Hullman family that brought us all Clabber Girl Baking Powder. It boasts a sprawling terminal that, in it's postwar heyday, was probably every bit as busy as Champaign. At least that's what the photos on the wall seemed to indicate. On this particualar day, however, Hullman was dead. There were few signs of life. Even the Air Guard ramp looked deserted with a row of cold F-16s tied down and intakes covered, silently waiting for their next mission. I thought with all the gorgeous weather, the place would at least be hopping with student pilots in the pattern or something. The only activity was a couple line guys washing an airport police vehicle.

Inside the terminal it was similarly deserted, save for a couple of young ladies working the FBO counter. We located the "selling board", tacked up a flyer and, after another loo break, took off for home.

Leg 5: KHUF (Terra Haute, IN) to KCMI (Champaign, IL)

By now it was approaching 5:30 or 6 and we were headed NW right into the sun. With all possible eye protection deployed--sunglasses, check--tinted visors, check--I was still squintsville with a forward ground visibility of about 5 miles in haze. Time to call for a little radar coverage again. Terra Haute approach was kind enough to arrange for flight following all the way to Champaign. Oddly enough, despite the fabulous flying conditions, Laurie and I seemed to be part of only a handful of souls wandering the skies over east central Illinois. There was almost total silence on Terre Haute's frequency. It wasn't until we were handed off to Champaign approach that the radio calls seemed to pick up. Still, none of them seemed to be headed to Willard.

Winds were light so approach gave me my choice of runways. Our course was almost perfectly in line with runway 32, so picking was easy. As I exited the runway after landing I noticed Champaign's ramp was about as dead as Terre Haute's. Even the university planes were put away. I can only chalk it up to summer break. After shutting down, we wiped all the fresh bug kill off the leading edges of the cowl, wings and wheelpants. Just in case a prospective buyer, grasping one of our sales flyers, should come by for a look-see. After I put 9'er 7 Charlie away, I stood there in the still, sultry sunset air taking it all in. Laurie said, "This was the perfect day." No argument here, babe.

Everything In Moderation . . . Well, Not Everything

Sorry guys. I was fooling around with the blog the other day and turned on the comment moderation. It is off now. Please forgive the momentary lapse into censorship.

In other news I'm thinking about changing the template, so things may look a little different on your next visit. Or not.

I'm Coining a New Word

stereondipity (ster-ion-dip-it-ee): n. The chance synchronization of a person's driving actions with the music on the stereo. Most commonly occuring when a song ends at the precise moment the person comes to a stop in a parking space and just before they turn off the ignition. Also common when driving in the rain while listening to jazz or quickly accelerating away from an intersection precisely as a metal guitar solo begins. Usually accompanied by the sensation of being in a music video or movie montage. Most often occurs if the music on the stereo is particularly rockin' (i.e. Boston, Clutch, Bon Jovi).

Fire In the Hole

A couple of weeks ago I took a fishing trip with some guys up to the Northwoods of Wisconsin. Until this trip, the farthest north I'd ever been in Wisconsin was Milwaukee. It truly is a wild and wonderful slice of country. Temps were a good 10 degrees or so less than they are here, but the cool weather gave the air a crisp, clean quality that was invigorating. This crisp air, combined with the scent of pine trees and the hard blue water of Little St. Germain, made you feel like you were in a Hamms commercial. All that was missing was that dancing, beer swilling, cartoon bear.

The seven hour drive north was actually pretty easy going. It's a straight shot up 39 and 51. And while the scenery is mostly "cheddar" as you go up, it really starts to get Northwoodsy around Tomahawk. Clear lakes start flashing at you from between the forests of Czech pine and deer crossing cautions are everywhere. St. Germain, where our cabin was, was about as backwater as they come in these parts. It wasn't dirty by any means. In fact from the looks of the well-built school, firehouse and community center, it was clear tourist dollars provided a big enough tax base so the locals could keep things pretty inviting. The only truly Mayberry thing about it was that they rolled the sidewalks up at 8. If you wanted anything to eat after then, besides a Little Debbie snack from the local quicky mart, your options were to stock up on groceries during the day or head into Woodruff, about 10 miles away.

There were six of us and we split up into fishing parties of two while we were there. Moto and I, the least accomplished anglers of the lot, were put together. What we lacked in fishing accumen we made up for in style with our little pontoon boat that we rented to cruise around the lake in. Compared to the boats our companions were using, we had a party barge. It had two comfy captains chairs forward and a wide bench seat aft. It was also equipped with a rather capacious live well that didn't see a lot of fish the first day and a half, but came in quite handy later. It was really stable too. You could walk around without having to be careful of tipping over. And it had a Bimini top that could be quickly deployed in the event of rain or a lack of sunscreen. About all it didn't have was any serious horsepower, but the lake wasn't that big that it took very long to get anywhere. Anything more than a 45 outboard was probably overkill.

Friday morning everyone was up at 5 ready to tear into the local pike population. Moto and I were the first to hit the lake because we were the only ones with a boat on the resort dock. Mike and Jim had to trailer their rigs to the nearest landing about a mile away to put in. It was in the high 30's or low 40's on the lake, but we were giddy with anticipation so the cold really didn't bother us that much. We dropped anchor in one of the bays closest to the resort dock to start out.

I've only fished for Northern one other time in my life on a Canadian fishing trip. At that time it was mid to late July and we were knocking them out with all manner of crank baits, but primarily in-line spinners. The fish there were really aggressive. So, I figured they would be here too. Three hours later, it was clear that what worked in Canada wasn't working here. Plus, Little St. Germain is really shallow in parts and we were constantly getting spinners hung up in the weeds below the surface. Somewhat discouraged but not defeated we decided to start fishing a nearby spot for Walleye using jigs. Another hour or so passed with nothing more than a couple of nibbles. So we weighed anchor and motored to other parts of the lake.

Still certain that a pike was in the cards for me I talked Moto into going to points hither and yon on the lake, all to no avail. I commend him for his infinite patience. Long story short, the first day was a total wash. We had nothing to show for 11 hours of fishing except a slight sunburn and draggin' butts. We didn't even drink much of the beer we'd brought along. We were so intent on catching Pike that I think I had maybe two beers the entire time we were out. Now that's a failure of fishing trip my friends when you can't even manage to drink more than a couple of beers, let alone catch any fish.The mini pontoon was still cool though. In fact I doubt I could've lasted as long as I did if it wasn't for the party barge.

The next day I didn't even hear the alarm. I slept right through it. Turns out I wasn't the only one that was less than enthused about the prospect of getting skunked yet again by Little Saint. A quick look out my window revealed that Kellner's boat was still on its trailer. He hadn't even bothered to try and make the "morning bite" even though he was one of the privelaged few among us to have caught a Northern the day before. Instead everyone in the party had a nice breakfast of eggs, bacon, taters and toast. We all just relaxed and hit the lake about 10 or so.

Of course this was well after the morning prime time and a good six hours or so before evening prime time. Undeterred however, Moto and I explored the rest of the lake employing what tactics we knew in our efforts to catch the elusive Northern Pike. Elusive to us anyhow. Besides Mike, Mike's dad and Jim had each caught one but that was it. It wasn't until the rainstorm rolled in later that day that we discovered another much more bountiful target of opportunity--crappie. Turns out this time of year the tasty little buggers come into shore around evening and during storms. Everyone was catching a bunch from off the resort dock so Moto and I boarded the party barge and decided to head up shore from the dock a short way and fish the underwater ledge. Before it was all said and done I'd dropped 20 or so Crappie into our live well. I was finally fishing, baby.

Also fishing off the dock with us was a fella named Stan. Stan was a quintecential Chi-cah-goan and had been coming to Little Saint Germain for about 23 years. Stan had what I'll call a vocal depth perception problem. He used the same volume of voice for people standing right next to him that he might use for someone a good 100 yards away. His advice for catching Northern, while noisy, was simple. Just stick a chub on a hook, throw it out and wait. All day if necessary. You see, apparently at this time of year Pike are spawning and the females are laden with eggs. So they're really not interested in chasing a spinner bait down. They 're looking for easy pickin's like bait on a hook.

So, the next day Jim, Patrick, Mike and his dad went into town and bought a bunch of chubs while Moto and I tried one more time to find a Pike using other baits. That's the thing about fishing, there are so many variables in what makes the critters twitch--water temp, barometric pressure, cloud cover--it's really a matter of being in the right place at the right time. We were to see this firsthand later that day.

When we left the dock that morning, Stan had a pole in the water with a chub on a hook just waiting. When we came back 8 hours later, he was still there, fishless. Our plan for the evening was to relax a little then fry up the crappie we caught the day before. While we were waiting for Mike and his dad to return we decided to kill time on the dock drinking beer and catching more crappie. While we were at it, Jim threw a line out with a chub on it and just let it sit while he jigged for crappie. About 45 minutes later Jim let out a holler. Something had grabbed his line and was heading out to the middle of the lake with it. He dropped is crappie rod, grabbed the other one and yanked. "I got it! Whatever it is, it's a big one." About a minute later he'd managed to reel "It" into the shallows. It was a monster 30 in Northern. Megaphone Man started yelling "Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!" Between his yelling and sight of this big, beautiful fish almost within net's reach, my heart was racing.

I scrambled for a net and so did Patrick. We positioned ourselves on either side of the dock in case it tried to go under. It ended up coming to my side. I slipped the net over it's head and scooped it up. It was heavy and pissed. It started thrashing around in the net like a trapped gator. Scared to death it was going to flip back into the water I dropped it unceremoniously into the bottom of Jim's boat. We all just stood there staring at this really angry fish glaring back at us. I finaly calmed down enough to try and get the hook out. I'd heard stories about pike latching on to people's hands when they tried to retrieve their hooks so I was a little nervous. I guess it had finally resigned itself to it's fate because it didn't struggle at all while I retrieved the hook.

I picked it up in the net and hauled it over to the live well on my rental boat as Jim's live well simply wasn't big enough. Stan, the poor guy who'd been sitting on the dock all day without a bite, and had actually given us the advice on using the chubs, looked on with an amicable yet scarcely concealed envy. On a brighter note, Stan had a 28 in pike on his line not 15 minutes later, followed by yet another 29 in on his son-in-law's which I'm sure more than made up for having to watch some Johnny Come Lately take what should have been your fish.

Inspired by the big catches we all decided to skip dinner and keep fishing. Moto and I took our boat up shore a little ways to catch more crappie. Anytime we'd throw one in the live well with the pike there'd be a short pause then you'd hear the new guy swimming madly around the live well when it figured out what it's cell mate was. Lucky for the crappie confinement had ruined the pike's appetite and none were eaten prematurely. About three hours later we had the live well literally packed to the gills with one ginormous pike and about 25 or so very nervous crappie.

The day we were to drive home Moto and I cleaned the rest of our catch and added it to the community crappie catch. Jim was even kind enough to share his pike with everyone else. We each went home with about 3 to 5 lbs of fish filets each. I fried my share of the crappie up the other night for Mr. and Mrs. Train Guy. It made for quite a feast. I can't wait to go back up there next spring. This time I'm skipping the pike and going for the crappie. If I'd been fishing for nothing else the entire three days I was there I might've easily landed 60 or more by myself.

I'll leave you with a link to some pics from the trip on flickr. Now, where to go next? Bone fishing in the Keys anyone?

Immigration Song

I wanted to share a poem written by Ray Bradbury that appears in today's Wall Street Journal (see the link below). I've always admired Bradbury's clarity as a writer and it's good to see that at 85 he's still got it.

America: An Ode to Immigrants

Suddenly Sinatra

If you happen to see it in the bargain rack at the grocery store or Wal Mart, do yourself a favor and buy “Suddenly”. It’ll probably put you out no more than $5 and it’s easily more entertaining than most of what Hollywood’s pooped out this year. This 1954 thriller stars Frank Sinatra and Sterling Hayden. Hayden is probably best known for the role of Colonel Ripper—the mad Air Force commander in Dr. Strangelove that plunges the world into WWIII to prevent the commies from “sapping our precious bodily fluids”.

Here Hayden plays Sheriff Tod Shaw, constable of the sleepy town of Suddenly, CA. Sinatra, normally the hero in most of his films, plays against type as a psychopathic hired assassin sent to dispatch the President of the United States who’s train is making a quick stop in Suddenly. To do so he has to take a family hostage so he and his gang can use their house that sits on a hill overlooking the train station.

While the acting is typical of anything you’d see in the early 50’s, the plot and storyline is surprisingly tight. And the characters are all written to be rather intelligent. Not that I expected them to be stupid, just maybe a little more Leave It To Beaver. The writing’s actually more on par with an episode of 24, only more plausible.

I won’t say much more about the movie. I’m going to see if I can talk Martin into screening it at a crappy movie night. I will say this, though; it made me wish Sinatra had been cast as a bad guy more often.





  

Peanut Butter Therapy

For me one of life's greatest pleasures is peanut butter. On our way home from my bros, I announced to my wife I had a craving for ice cream. Turns out I was really craving peanut butter. We stopped at County Market where I sought out Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby which has peanut butter filled pretzels in it. Fortunately for my waistline, they were out. But spurred on by my love of peanut butter I decided to further explore the aisles and see what new and exciting things Big Snack (aren't all corporate cabals supposed to be "Big" now?) was doing with it.

First stop was the cereal aisle. Nothing new there. Same thing on the cookie aisle. On second thought, the Elves had created some kind of Tagalong knock off I'd never seen before, but that was probably just new to me. Despite the abundance of peanut butter flavored snacks, none of them caught my fancy. Mainly because I knew there was no real peanut butter in any of them. And most were too sweet for what I wanted tonight. Laurie, sensing my discontent, offered the novel suggestion that perhaps I should just have a peanut butter sandwich. We had a jar at home and I wouldn't have to spend a dime. Two butter-soaked, peanut butter-laden English muffins later and my Jones has been satisfied, which now frees me to think of other things. Or more accurately, my peanut butter preoccupation has been subdued enough to allow other things to pop into my head. Like Mel Gibson for instance.

Yesterday I read somewhere that Mel was using a press junket for his latest film, Apocalypto, to lay into Bush. He said Bush and his team were not unlike the corrupt Mayan rulers in his film, in that they used fear to retain power. What galled me about this statement was not that he was coming out against Bush, but that somehow Bush is the only one to have ever used fear as a lever. Don't get me wrong, I like Mel. A lot. But fear is to politicians what sex is to Madison Ave.

"If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to toss you out on the street without any food!" "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to poison your water!" "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to knock up your daughters and make them get back alley abortions!" Or the one that seems to evoke the greatest hysteria, "If you don't vote for us, Republicans are going to make you go to church!"

No politician anywhere at anytime in history has won with the campaign slogan, "Everything's fine." That said, I might agree with Mel that Bush lied to us about WMDs. But if he did he was only trying to keep alive a lie that had been so very useful to the previous administration when it was looking to pitch a little fear in order to divert attention from trouble at home. Only Bush was apparently too dumb to realize that if you actually invaded Iraq, it would blow the whole con. Or was he?

I don't know. Frankly, and this will come as a source of great satisfaction to my Democrat friends, I don't know what to think of the guy anymore. He and the soon-t0-be minority Republican congress seem to have spent the last several years trying to out-Democrat Democrats. First there was the enormous prescription drug benefit that appears to be of little benefit. Then there was the knee jerk pledge of trillions of dollars to a sinking city. Say what you will about the "Bridge to Nowhere", at least it actually went to an island that will still be there in 50 years or so. Who can say the same for New Orleans? Between feckless leaders like Nagin and geology, I'm guessing it won't be long before we see another flooded bus yard. And finally, his most-recent suggestion that the National Guard patrol the border to make it look like he's doing something about illegal immigration. Not since Carter's rescue attempt of the hostages in Iran have I seen such a desperation move from the White House.

Clearly P J O'Rourke was right:

The Democrats are the party that says government will make you smarter, taller, richer, and remove the crabgrass on your lawn. The Republicans are the party that says government doesn't work and then they get elected and prove it.

Mmmm. Peanut butter.

Somewhere a Pike Just Shivered

That's right my fine finned friends, enjoy what little time you have left. I just went lure shopping and come Friday of next week you're going to be on the end of my line. Or you'll just sit there and do nothing because I had no frickin' clue whether or not I got the right tackle.

Moto gave me a list of lures for pike with cryptic names like "husky jerk", "twitchbait", "Shallow Raider" and my personal fave, the "Rattlin Rouge". Sounds more like the selection you usually find in the men's room vending machine at the local truck stop, don't it? I was only able to find a few of these with the names given in the list. Obviously they're proprietary to certain manufacturers and the off brands used other names. So, I tried to go from my memory of what we used when we fished for pike up in Canada about 4 years ago.

Another problem encountered was the size of the baits sold around here. Most everyone here fishes for pan fish and bass so they don't need big lures. Just about everything I was able to find was on the low end of what was recommended on the list. And why not? There aren't any pike around here anyway. About the only thing I was able to find suitable sizes of were the spoons and that's because there must be enough people around here that trout and salmon fish up in Lake Michigan.

Still, I hold out hope that one or two of the lures I blew a sizable chunk of cash on tonight comes through and I'm able to post a great picture of me and a monster northern when I return from the trip.

Shooting Under Par

Last Saturday I went to my first organized trap shoot. It was kind of like a putt-putt tournament played with .12 gauges. You go around to different stations and have to shoot clays that are released from different directions. One station releases them straight up, another rolls them across ground, another launches them from over your head and so on. It was for a good cause too. The proceeds from the tickets were for a 4-H chapter. Included in the ticket price was a tasty hog roast. It really doesn't get much more red state than guns and spit-roasted pork.

Participants were put into "squads" of 4 to 9 shooters. Our foursome consisted of Mike, Jeff, Joe and myself. This was fortunate for a couple of reasons, not the least of which was the fact Mike owned a Mule. For you non-ATV'ers out there a Mule looks like the result of a drunken liason between a Hummer and a golf cart. So instead of having to walk to each station, Joe and I got to ride. Which brings me to another thing--the sophistication of some of the equipment these guys were using.

Sure there was a lot of camouflage and orange hats, but many of these guys, including our shooting companions looked like they'd be right at home on an English hunt. They had fancy vests, nice shooting glasses and some of the most beautiful guns I've ever seen. And I mean aesthetically beautiful, not just beautiful to a gun enthusiast. A couple of guys even had hand carts like you'd use for golf bags only they were equipped with weatherproof gun cases.

There were 12 stations on this particular shoot. At each station you shot 8 to 10 clays. I mostly shot at mine. The clays were released in pairs so you had to take down two at a time. After about two stations it was crystal clear why pro trap shooters use over-under and semi-automatic shotguns. I think there was only one station where I was actually able to take down two clays at once. I'm not blaming it on the fact I was using a pump-action, but it did make acquiring the 2nd clay a little tougher. Still, even at that I was able to shoot 37 out of 100 which was way better than I expected to do. Ironically, Joe had the exact same score, but unfortunately it was not nearly as good as he expected to do. Having seen him shoot before, I know how good he can be.

What really got me though was the number of kids that were participating. I'm just glad none of them were in my group. Not because I was worried about safety, either. It's bad enough to shoot worse than any adult, but getting shown up by a junior Wyatt Earp would be too much to bear. Now I realize the idea of giving a kid a shotgun makes many people blanche, but there are few things on earth that engender self-confidence and discipline like learning to do something inherently dangerous in a safe and professional manner. Honestly. I would feel safer shooting side-by-side with a 12 year old who has been properly trained on how to handle a shotgun than riding shotgun with many adults I know.

More later . . .