"Well...yeah, if it's not too much trouble," Don answered. "Is it feasible to fly all the way to Page after work on Wednesday?"
There's nothing like a good mission to get a pilot's juices flowing, so I gladly accepted. We set 4 p.m. for takeoff, late enough for afternoon turbulence to subside, but early enough for Don to dine with his troop and for me to escape northern Arizona's high country before dark.
"Any problem if I'm a few minutes late?" asked Don.
"Not at this airline," I said. "I know the pilot."
Wednesday afternoon found us winging northward from Phoenix in the Flying Carpet. Temperatures were unseasonably warm and winds aloft were moderate, meaning a toasty cockpit and the potential for turbulence. But with clear skies and a good tailwind, my passenger's first flight would be beautiful and comfortably short - under an hour and a half.
After overflying Don's house in first-flight tradition, we headed northbound over the Bradshaw Mountains, then crossed the expansive Verde Valley. Soon we found ourselves sailing above an ocean of pines around 12,600-foot Humphreys Peak, the tallest in Arizona and sacred mountain of the Navajo. Nice as it was surfing a 20-kt tailwind, I knew that shortly we'd be passing to the lee of the giant peak. I explained to Don how wind flows over mountains like water over stones in a brook, and how accordingly we should expect a few bumps. When passengers anticipate turbulence it doesn't bother them as much.
Abeam the big mountain we peered down into the exposed heart of knife-edged Sunset Crater - jet black amid its company of volcanic cinder cones. I felt like a real pro giving my new passenger this great ride, until reaching coolly into my bag and discovering that the Las Vegas sectional chart wasn't there. One never realizes how comforting a map is until it's unexpectedly missing, especially in trackless country with high terrain.
With measured nonchalance, so as not to clue in my passenger, I extracted my IFR charts and airport guide from their respective pockets. Given good visibilities, the charts at hand, and ATC flight following, I felt comfortable in proceeding.
But as if triggered by my error, at that instant turbulence began in earnest with the Flying Carpet enduring slow cycles of alternating updrafts and downdrafts - classic symptoms of mountain wave - undoubtedly the result of the sacred mountain's anger at my ineptitude. The bumps weren't bad, but maintaining altitude was impossible - no danger in this untraveled area, but attention-getting for a pilot nonetheless. Most battered was my ego for losing the chart.
"Doing OK?" I asked Don.
"You bet," he replied, reading my mind. "I took Dramamine before we took off, just in case."
I looked back at the instruments and was astonished to see the vertical speed indicator pegged at 2,000 feet per minute. I couldn't tell whether it was up or down until gathering my wits and examining the altimeter. Sure enough, we were going down mighty fast, although smoothly, and continued to do so for some 30 seconds until flying out of it. There was nothing I could do to escape, even armed with 230 horses in a Cessna 182. Unknowing, Don just stared dreamily out his window.
"Just that one road down there," he noted. "Bet it's the one we'll drive home." Relieved that I could marvel privately at the granddaddy of all downdrafts, I began my descent toward as-yet-unseen Page and the Utah border.
Pilots flying the Southwest become accustomed to spending hours over bleak terrain, broken only by the occasional low mountain range. So there's no preparation for crossing yet another nondescript ridge, there to miraculously discover Oz - Lake Powell shimmering sapphire in its endless valley of nude golden rock. Thousand-foot scarlet stone buttes tower from the lake's surface while their land-bound brethren pin the reservoir in place against the water-starved landscape.
Wind howled from the right as we turned onto the final approach - I'd already warned Don about touching down on one wheel - and after exercising my crosswind taxiing skills we rolled up to the ramp.
"Unbelievable!" exclaimed Don, checking his watch. "Do you know how long it takes to drive here? At least six hours!" He thanked me warmly, and three times shook my hand. But I knew the magic was just beginning for him because so often the glory of flight is not fully appreciated until later, when vivid memories capture the subconscious.
Armed with a new Las Vegas sectional chart, I departed on the slow journey home, fighting against headwinds. There were no more 2,000-foot-per-minute downdrafts, and the formerly aggressive turbulence settled to a burble as setting sun met rock. I occupied myself by staring in amazement at late-afternoon shadows delineating isolated Navajo hogans and towering rocks.
Night overtook me at the Verde River Canyon, where even as I approached the lights of Phoenix I talked sweetly to my Flying Carpet as this is no place for an emergency landing in the dark.
The only thing richer in my mind at that moment than lingering aerial images of glowing crimson columns piercing turquoise waters before sunset, was wonder at the thought of Don describing them at that very instant to Boy Scouts gathered 'round a campfire on now-distant shores.
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