"Have you ridden horseback before, Kit?" I asked the young boy next to me.
"Only once," he replied. "I rode my friend's horse in his backyard, but this is the first time I've ever steered one myself."
I reflected on his nickname. "Ever heard of Kit Carson?" I asked. "Maybe you'll be famous like him one day." Kit was either too shy to answer, or, like a true cowboy, the silent type. He soon migrated with his parents toward the rear of our little pilots-on-horseback procession, while my wife rode up alongside.
"What a beautiful day for riding!" said Jean. "It's so peaceful out here - and the air is so clear." We dodged the arm of a giant saguaro cactus, then threaded our way between palo verde and mesquite trees too scraggly to offer shade. In the background floated craggy red mountains. "Look at this soft sand we're riding through," added Jean, "not like the hard soil near our house."
"It's the Hassayampa River bed," interjected Frank, our wrangler. "The river runs underground here at this time of year." Just a few weeks earlier we'd learned of this fly-in horseback ride hosted by the Wickenburg Airport. Jean and I had jumped at the chance to ride in the pristine Sonoran desert near the small Arizona community, not to mention the pleasant round-trip flight required to get there from Phoenix.
We felt especially fortunate to be here today, as the outing had been threatened by other plans. "Susie from my new job is hosting 'girls weekend' at her mountain cabin near Prescott," Jean had informed me after work a few days earlier. "I think I'll go."
"Sounds great," I said. "But when exactly is it? Sunday is the horseback ride, you know."
"Oh brother. Why does everything good always happen on the same day?" Fortunately it turned out that Sunday's trail ride wasn't until 10 a.m. I arranged to pick up Jean earlier that morning at Prescott's Love Field, following the sleepover. From there a quick hop over the Bradshaw Mountains would land us at Wickenburg Airport in time for coffee before hitting the trail.
We were still congratulating ourselves on this plan when the phone rang. It was our older son, Hannis, a music major at Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff.
"Hi, Dad. You know how I always call you when the jazz concerts are worth coming to?"
"Sure do, Hannis. Do you have a good performance coming up?"
"Yeah, a really great one. We're playing some 'out-there' music, plus I have a guitar solo on one of the best songs."
"Cool!" I said. "We wouldn't miss it. When is this concert?"
"Sunday night, at 7:30."
"This Sunday?"
"That's right. Meet me at Flagstaff Airport by 4 o'clock, and we'll do dinner first. You and Mom are coming, right?" Given the rarity of parental invitations from college kids, there was only one possible answer.
"We'll be there, Hannis," I said. "Plan on it." Frustrated, I hung up the phone. How could we do all this stuff in one day? And if not, what should we cancel? Of course our son's concert was top priority; we couldn't miss that. And the Prescott "pajama party" promised opportunity for Jean to bond with her new coworkers. That left the eagerly awaited saddle trip, which was to consume much of the day. Too often life's special pleasures are displaced by obligations - and this was one excursion that we didn't want to miss. Hoping for a solution I phoned our host, Maria, at the Wickenburg Airport.
"What time will the trail ride be over?" I asked.
"Late afternoon," she replied. My heart sank, then rose again as she continued. "That's if you take the shuttle into town for lunch. We'll be done riding by 2 o'clock for those who need to leave early." Dining in Wickenburg would be fun - it's one of the few Arizona communities retaining its Old West character - but that we could do another day. Elated, I shared the good news with Jean.
"If I pick you up at Prescott by 9, we'll easily make Wickenburg before 10. Flying from there to Flagstaff takes about an hour, so unless the horseback ride runs really late we should meet Hannis on schedule at 4. The concert starts at 7:30, however, meaning we won't get home until late. You work early the next morning, right?"
"That's OK," said Jean, "so long as you're comfortable flying home at night."
"Under different conditions I might not be," I said, "but the skies are forecast to be clear with a full moon to light the way. We'll follow the freeway home to cover our bases. I'm fine with it, providing we agree to stay over if we're tired or the weather turns sour."
"You've got a deal," she replied. "Sounds like an exciting day. I can't wait!" We pilots delight in touting trips achievable only by airplane, and this time it was certainly true. Making all three commitments by car in a single day would have been virtually impossible, given the limited mountain roads connecting them. Yet here we were, riding warm saddles under blue skies, thanks exclusively to the Flying Carpet.
Back at the airport, I shook Kit's hand one last time. "How was the ride?" I asked.
"He fell off!" Kit's distressed mother answered for him. "Came too close to my horse and got bucked off."
"Is he OK?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said. "He lucked out - landed on his butt in the sandy river bottom. He's fine."
I winked at Kit. "Now you have a good story to tell your buddies," I said.
"Yep," he replied, cowboy-style, as his dad hoisted him into their Cessna 170 taildragger.
"Don't forget your winter coat, Greg," said Jean as we boarded our own airplane. Despite shirtsleeve weather here in the desert, snow would frost our high-mountain destination an hour away. After takeoff we again overflew the green Bradshaws, then traversed Mingus Mountain and the Red Rock Wilderness west of Sedona. There'd be dinner with our son in Flagstaff, and a dynamite jazz concert before flying home under the warm light of an Arizona moon. What a day; what a night!
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His latest book, Flying Carpet: The Soul of an Airplane, has just been released. Greg's other works include The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, and Job Hunting for Pilots. Visit his Web site.
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