Classic roadsters meet Billy the Kid
Dan earned his pilot credentials only a few months ago; with 60 hours under his belt he was happy to accompany me on this 300-mile cross-country. "This is the farthest I've ever flown from home," he exclaims. It will also be his first experience with density altitude and a high-performance airplane.
"That's quite a ridge up there," observes Dan of the hulking mass cradling Lake Roosevelt. "It's the Sierra Ancha," I reply, "always intimidating and sometimes sinister when the winds are blowing. Once, when my son Austin and I crossed that ridge after visiting Bruce in Santa Fe, our Flying Carpet was hurled over Lake Roosevelt like a leaf on an ocean wave. Made us feel mighty small. Returning home another time I surfed stratus over the Sierra Ancha into a gaping hole revealing the lake far below. It was as if Earth had cracked under my feet and invited the lake to swallow me. You know how you rarely feel height in an airplane? Well, that time I did."
"Sounds like you and Bruce go way back." says Dan. "We do," I reply. Years ago while teaching together at Purdue University, Bruce and I discovered common passion for cars, art, computers, and airplanes. Bruce also flew hot air balloons. Those interests generated countless flying trips together. By the time Jean and I moved to Arizona, Bruce lived in northern New Mexico -- first Las Vegas and then Santa Fe. I remembered our first flight there from Phoenix. We traced the route of the Spanish conquistadors, reliving beneath our wings their trek over inhospitable terrain, their surprise upon discovering ancient Indian pueblos, and their dismay at encountering impassable lava flows. While we knew their destination, they did not. For our journey home the weather turned unexpectedly sour; I photocopied instrument flying charts in the tiny trailer that then served as the Las Vegas Flight Service Station.
"Something interesting happens whenever I fly to visit Bruce," I tell Dan. "Once I took my boys along to Santa Fe -- they were small then -- and one accidentally opened the door at 11,000 feet. There was no danger in it, of course, but those sorts of things kids and their dads remember. On a subsequent trip, the clouds lowered at the Arizona border, and I found myself unable to get an instrument clearance because the St. Johns navigational station had gone off the air. Can you believe there's only one VOR between Phoenix and Albuquerque? That's 320 miles!"
Dan and I soon find ourselves over mammoth open-pit mines along the New Mexico border. We marvel first at their size, then at the frighteningly brilliant hues of nearby tailing ponds. "Can't imagine what creates those colors," I say to Dan. "It's probably good that we don't know," he replies. Beyond Silver City the terrain turns desolate, so conversation gives way to private thoughts.
A talented artist, Bruce was once honored with an exhibit in Santa Fe's New Mexico State Capitol building. It was a weeknight, but I flew over from Phoenix to attend the opening; he was astonished when I entered the gallery. Having to work the next day, I soared home that night over mountains slathered with honey-butter moonlight.
Another special flight took me to Las Vegas for Bruce's retirement party where I met Jon van Arsdel, an FAA flight service specialist. Since then I always radio Jon a friendly message when overflying Albuquerque. Jon is also a private pilot and a Mariachi musician -- someday I hope to experience this six-foot-tall, blond Dutchman strumming his pot-bellied guitarr�n and singing Mexican corridos in his concho-studded sombrero.
Soon Las Cruces materializes out our windshield, before the jagged Organ Mountains. Borrowing a loaner car, Dan and I motor downtown to Mesilla Plaza, a historic square hardly changed since cowboy times. There waits Bruce with his dog and his scarlet Mini. He's greyer and balder than before but maintains his youth through highbrow humor.
Following introductions, the three of us slurp enchiladas and wander the show. There are Jags and Triumphs, MGs, and Austin-Healeys -- even a Morris Minor convertible. Bruce predictably favors the Minis, but Dan falls for a Jaguar Salon sporting burgundy lacquer deeper than Lake Roosevelt. My own favorite is a 1925 Morgan three-wheeler racing car, finished in British Racing Green. We pause to ponder a running Sunbeam Alpine offered at the bargain price of $500. It seems incongruous, classic British sports cars showcasing their charms before adobe buildings with stick-and-straw ceilings. Roadsters display their shiny engines outside the old Confederate territorial capitol building where Billy the Kid was once sentenced to hang.
Soon it's time for Dan and me to chase the sun westward, but no sadness erupts because we know another excuse will arise to reunite us. "Coming to the Albuquerque Balloon Festival this year?" Bruce asks as we hug shoulders. "Maybe so," I say, "maybe so." Rare are the friends you can go without seeing for years and then resume your bond uninterrupted upon reuniting. Bruce is one of those people, and Dan will likely become one, too.
Greg Brown was the 2000 National Flight Instructor of the Year. His books include Flying Carpet, The Savvy Flight Instructor, The Turbine Pilot's Flight Manual, Job Hunting for Pilots, and You Can Fly! Visit his Web site.
