Seeking life among the pines
Next to me Jean grimaces under similar discomfort. "I hope this new house proves worth it," she says, agitated. "Today I'd happily collapse on the old home couch."
"I agree, but what else could we do in these awful temperatures? It's supposed to be 111 degrees for our anniversary on Sunday."
My wife nods grudgingly, and we climb on, sweltering. Over the years we've watched Phoenix grow from a sleepy desert town into the nation's sixth largest metropolis. While gaining some big-city perks, it has gradually lost the pristine desert and vibrant cultural mix that drew us here. Worst of all, murky haze has desaturated the light that rendered this place magical. The once-crimson earth, emerald cacti, purple lupine, and yellow paloverde blossoms now merge with the formerly indigo sky into somber shades of gray. Like an aging beauty the Valley of the Sun hints at her former glory, but increasingly it's through the memories of those who knew her prime.
As our temperatures and tensions ease with altitude, Jean and I reflect on months of aerial house hunting. We'd sought escape from overheated Phoenix to some smaller Arizona community like Prescott, Flagstaff, Show Low, or Payson. Another option was Mogollon Airpark, a fly-in residential community near the tiny towns of Heber and Overgaard.
Quickly it became apparent that Mogollon and Flagstaff best suited our tastes. Higher than the others by 2,000 feet, they offer shady Ponderosa pine forests, moderate summer temperatures, and wintertime activities like cross-country skiing. Initially Mogollon's remote setting and laid-back lifestyle claimed our hearts, but then we tilted toward Flagstaff, a lively college town with dining and cultural attractions.
Our fourth mission to Flagstaff delivered the neighborhood we wanted; with pre-summer home sales booming we narrowed our selection the following day and made an offer. Later we flew up for the home inspection. On closing day, Jean delivered our car to Flagstaff Pulliam Airport, and we flew back together. It's been good use of an airplane--tonight we'll sleep in our new home for the first time.
"Did I mention what happened when I flew up to meet the movers?" I ask, eager to brighten today's mood.
"No," Jean replies. She knows that the Flying Carpet was undergoing annual inspection last week, so I'd rented another airplane for the mission. Based on my flight experience, the owner had waived my rental checkout.
"I noticed upon taking the pilot seat that I'd never seen the installed brand of radios before. They looked simple, though. A previous pilot had already dialed in the airport's ground-control and tower frequencies, so I made my calls and took off. Only later did I realize that I couldn't change the 'tenths' frequency digits. These radios feature separate comm [communication] and nav [navigation] frequency windows with knobs on each side, six confusing buttons, and a little 'hundredths' flip lever."
"Did you try pulling out the knobs?"
"I tried everything--pulling, pushing, flipping, and spinning--but none of it worked. Finally I swallowed my pride and radioed the flight school for advice using my portable transceiver. Unable to raise anyone, I decided to continue to Flagstaff, contact the tower on my handheld, and phone for guidance after landing. I was almost there before determining that the right-hand nav-window knob changes tenths, the one by the comm window changes units, and a particular tiny button assigns their functions to one or the other. Whew! That's what checkouts are for, I guess."
"Sounds pretty dumb," says Jean, never one to soothe souls but laughing for the first time today. "You aren't going to put that in your column, are you?"
Out the windshield a solitary dark cloud streams rain and virga over Humphreys Peak. "Was that lightning?" I ask. Jean didn't see it. Flagstaff's automated weather broadcast indeed reports a thunderstorm and 20-knot crosswinds. We may need to postpone landing, but with blue skies all around any delay should be brief.
"The thunderstorm has moved east," reports Flagstaff Tower when I call. "The wind is now calm, so choose your runway." As we touch down, the sun rends sapphire holes through the brooding clouds. Golden sunset splatters the runway and glimmers like jade through the surrounding trees. We pop our windows on rollout. "It's chilly here!" exclaims Jean, retrieving her sweatshirt. In 45 minutes we've escaped desert heat for a 60-degree breeze. Our faces clear like alpine air freed from the hot breath of the city. Cloaked in vibrant light, we offload our belongings.
How fitting it will be, celebrating our anniversary in a new home. Little do we imagine that the coming experience will reflect our entire marriage compressed into a week: how we'll sleep like newlyweds on an empty floor; how Jean's yell from the shower will lead to hours attempting to turn it off; and how I will activate the irrigation system while crouching, unsuspecting, over a sprayer head. Only by week's end will the emotional roller coaster begin to settle.
For the moment, however, our spirits soar among sun-soaked clouds and peaceful pines. Home here is just five minutes from the airport. Pausing by a pond along the way, we thrill to the trills of a redwing blackbird. "Elk!" whispers Jean, noting antlers among the trees.
"Did we do the right thing?" I ask as our home emerges from the woods.
"You bet we did," she beams. There's no better proof than her kiss.
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.
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