"No," I replied, waving off the beer at least until lunch time. "I've only shot a gun once or twice in my life."
"Oh, we won't need guns," said Jerry, popping a can for himself. "Larry, didn't you fill Greg in on this?"
"Not yet," replied our other passenger, grinning. "For starters, Greg, we need to finish this beer before going home, so you'd better get to drinking."
Larry was one of my more interesting flight students. A Purdue graduate student, his research involved analyzing forest and crop data collected by satellites and airplanes. While I taught Larry to fly, he enlightened me about Earth's mysteries out the window.
One day after a lesson, the subject of Christmas break had come up. "I'm driving out West," Larry told me, "but the trip is pretty ambitious." He'd visit his family in South Dakota, drive on to Denver with his brother, see an old flame in Tucson, and on the way back check out Texas A's doctoral program in College Station.
"Too bad you won't have your pilot certificate by then," I said. "That would make a terrific flying trip." Larry's eyebrows lifted.
"Would you like to go along?" he asked. Within minutes, our charts were out - the lure of seeing the West from a pilot's seat was too much to ignore. Besides, I dreamed of flying commercially one day, and this trip offered multiengine experience. We reserved a twin-engine Piper Seminole, and as paying for such adventures was always an issue, we enlisted another grad student to join us. Alex, a young Romanian, seized the opportunity to see and photograph the United States from the air. (Larry's brother would fill the fourth seat, between South Dakota and Denver.)
We launched from Indiana just after Christmas, and late that afternoon found ourselves approaching Pierre. It was my first visit to South Dakota, and as we descended I was struck by the starkness of the place - treeless rolling hills with hardly a blade of grass, all dominated by the biggest, bluest sky I had ever seen. Add harsh shadows from the low wintertime sun, and for a moment it seemed we were landing on the moon.
"Odd, that there's no snow at this time of year," commented Larry as we taxied in. "I'd heard there was a drought, but had no idea it was this bad." The warmth of Larry's family to strangers somehow emphasized the remoteness of their ranch near Eagle Butte. Over steak and potatoes we learned that it was 60 miles to the nearest doctor and 90 miles to the nearest public hospital. Yet clearly they loved it here.
Next morning Alex and I discovered the ranch equivalent of a flight simulator. This "bucking barrel" was saddled and suspended on ropes between four poles. Alex had just climbed aboard when Larry and his brothers showed up. With four men manhandling the lines, the would-be Romanian cowboy soon hit the ground.
It was then that Larry's uncle and cousin Jerry invited us coyote hunting. Coyotes were considered pests by ranchers in this part of the country. Dogs were herded into the covered beds of two pickup trucks, beer was tossed into the cabs, and off we drove through isolated range lands.
"So if we're not using guns," I continued, "how do we get the coyotes?"
"See how my dad is paralleling us on the next ridge?" Jerry gestured toward the other pickup. "Any coyotes along here will run for cover into the dry wash between us. Then...."
At that moment, the dogs behind us began yelping wildly.
"There's one now!" said Jerry. Slamming on the brakes, he signaled the other truck. Both drivers tugged rope lanyards, opening trap doors to the bed of each pickup. Barking hysterically, dogs bounded from both trucks into the dry wash.
Fortunately for my city-boy sensibilities, the coyote escaped that day, and we spotted no more. The remainder of the afternoon was spent cruising dry grasslands and telling stories. When the beer was gone we turned homeward toward the ranch.
The next day we launched with Larry's brother for Denver, where we celebrated New Year's Eve. Then we were off to Arizona. It was only my second time flying out West, and the first for my companions. En route we thrilled to mountain passes near Pueblo, overflew ski areas near Taos, and lunched in old Spanish Santa Fe. In Tucson, the beauty of cactus-studded trails helped counter Larry's lack of success in rekindling his dormant romance.
Homeward bound, we crossed El Paso, Texas, at 11,500 feet. Anticipating an old Western town from the famous Marty Robbins song, we instead found a metropolis sliced in two. On one side was modern El Paso with bustling streets, freeways, and skyscrapers. On the other was its Mexican neighbor, Juarez, marked by winding dirt paths and hovels. Dividing wealth from poverty was just a razor-thin line - the contrast was stunning, especially given our altitude. Never have the effects of a political border on the everyday lives of people been more striking to me from the air.
Funny, that with all the interesting destinations and adventures of that long-ago journey, my most vivid memories should be of cruising barren grasslands to the music of barking dogs, a cold beer in my hand, and the warm companionship of a South Dakota ranch family. Perhaps it was because those people were so unassumingly part of the land.
I remember that we'd barely arrived back at the ranch after coyote hunting when orange began welling from the horizon, reddening as it slowly conquered the oversized sky. Purple reinforcements appeared overhead, and under colorful assault the ground retreated from dusty brown to black. Then, violet heavens faded to streaks of gray, and surrendered to star-studded velvet.
Spellbound, Alex and I clicked innumerable pictures of that incredible Western sunset, while Larry's relatives stood by scratching their heads.
"No need to burn up all that film, fellas," said his uncle when it was over. "Same sunset we get here every night."
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. He is the author of several books, including The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit his Web site ( www.gregbrownflyingcarpet.com ).
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