As we near the mountains east of Denver, we have descended to level that we have to cut through the passes — flying down valleys with timbered slopes to either side. The tops of the taller peaks are lost in the clouds as we pass them. It’s not that we have to cut down valleys and risk the possibility of being penned in them by the weather. We have plenty of room to turn if we need to and good visibility. I won’t put myself in that kind of position again without the aid of accurate GPS equipment and terrain following radar. That was the first big lesson learned early on in my flying career.
Flying is a matter of putting tricks in your bag — usually done by making poor decisions and living through them. As the saying goes, there are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots. I think I had a total of a hundred hours under my belt and felt pretty good about my skills. I had flown over to visit my grandparents for the weekend and we were fishing on a lake. I had to get back for work that evening, but that didn’t stop us from getting in a day on the lake before I had to fly back.
It was a hot, summer day. We were on a lake with tall, steep rising cliffs on all sides. The sky overhead was the light, clear blue that is found on most summer days in Eastern Oregon. I looked to the west to see the very tops of clouds building over the Cascade Mountains. The fact that I could see their tops from my vantage point meant they were already billowing high into the sky.
My grandmother, seeing me constantly peek at the growing cloud masses, asked me if I had to go. I think my look of worry said it all. We packed up and I watched the thunderstorms build in a line down the length of the range as we speedily drove back to the airport. By the time I had the aircraft ready, the dark cumulus clouds, with their anvils stretching to the east, covered the path home.
Asking if it was a good idea for me to fly through those, I answered that I’ll go up and take a look to see if I can find a way through. If the path was blocked, I’d turn around. Of course, I also knew myself and that, once I started, I’d do about anything to get through. Plus, I had to be at work and calling in because I had been trapped by weather just showed I hadn’t been paying attention. I worked at an airport and my boss wasn’t exactly very understanding.
With trepidation, I took off. With a map on my knees, I stared at the mass of storms growing bigger in my windscreen. Sweat began to gather under my arms. I flew down the length of the mountains looking for an opening under the storms. The single-engine Cessna wasn’t going over so under was the only way I was getting through. I found a small opening under the towering, boiling masses.
Following the valley with my finger on the map, I saw that I could possibly use it to skirt under the storms and make my way toward the Willamette Valley. To get there, I would have to cross over to other valleys at points. I had to make doubly sure that I kept a close watch on where I was at all times in order not to miss any of them. With that stupid thought in mind, I turned and descended.
I entered the valley with the dark gray clouds just above my wings. As I proceeded farther into the mountains, the clouds lowered. Abrupt, forested hills rose steeply beside me and vanished into the clouds. There wasn’t much room to turn in the narrow valleys if I found my way blocked. Lower and lower I descended as I pushed through. The river flowing below me was my only option if something happened. I was constantly looking for a place to put down in an emergency. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling too comfortable with my decision- making skills at this point. And, the worst thing — I couldn’t turn back at this point.
I remembered someone mentioning the dangers of being a one hundred hour pilot just before that flight. I do believe my response involved some eye-rolling. Well, there I was. I seriously thought this could be my last flight as I transitioned from valley to valley. I was worried I would head up the wrong valley, all of which wound their way higher into the mountains and just ended. The rain poured against the windscreen and my little shell of aluminum was bouncing all over the place. I was afraid I was going to get bounced up into the clouds, at which point I would have no option but to climb upwards. Descending blindly back down in the hopes I would manage to get back into the valley was out of the question.
Onward I flew, twenty pounds lighter at that point — all water loss and not all due to sweat. Three weeks later, or so it seemed, the valley I was in began to widen out and I found myself shooting out of the mountains and into the Willamette Valley. Every time since, when I found myself faced with similar situations, I brought this memory up. Yeah, I wasn’t about to do that again.
There are two real dangerous levels of being a pilot — those with one hundred hours and those with ten thousand. The hundred hour pilots — no offense to anyone — think they have a good handle on their skills as do the ten thousand hour pilots. Complacency has a tendency to settle in at both of those points. Those in between those two points have experienced situations and still remember the lessons learned.
There were a few times when I looked at something and said, “Hmmm…”
Like the time I flew over Fort Walton Beach at about a hundred feet during Spring Break at about five hundred knots with both jet engines screaming. By the way, just so you know, that’s not a good idea. Apparently, base commanders enjoy hanging out there on nice days. Yeah, I left a good part of my ass on the floor with that “great” idea.
We skirt our way through the mountains. The clouds on the other side rise, and before long, begin to break up. We climb to a more reasonable altitude. I look over at Robert from time to time during our flight, exhibiting a tremendous amount constraint in order not to ask how he is doing.
“I’m fine, Dad,” he says on perhaps my fortieth glance.
The rest of the flight is just the way I like my flights: boring.
Slip Sliding Away
The time runs endlessly on, some moments filled by panic and terror, other ones with strength and determination. Sensory deprivation does strange things to the mind. Lynn has tried concentrating on events, plans, and other memories to occupy her, but, here in the inky blackness of the room, her thoughts slip away and she comes back to her emotions, to fear.
The one thing that has kept her on the sane side is her unfailing belief that Jack or the teams will find her. She has been kept alive for a reason — what that reason might be is still beyond her. She has no idea why she is being held — or is still alive for that matter. The broadcasts she hears sporadically keep her spirits from sinking into some very dark depths.
The struggle isn’t so much against the night runners near the door, but against her own mind. Each low, menacing growl sends shivers through her body in waves of dread. It gets to the point that she wishes they would just attack and get it over with. She wishes for that at times so at least something would happen. In the darkest of moments, she wonders if she is being kept for food…that the night runners have advanced to the point where they are starting to collect people for food — farming them as it were.
Lynn forces her mind back from these depths and concentrates on logical reasoning. She hasn’t witnessed any time when night runners haven’t attacked and eaten the very moment they find someone. Now they seem to have the ability to restrain themselves and take hostages. They certainly couldn’t have made this leap overnight.
If she knows anything, it’s that Jack will turn the city inside out to find her. After all, she would do the same for him — or for anyone in the compound for that matter. And the fact that she hears the broadcasts from time to time lets her know that the others believe she is alive. How they will find her is another matter. She doesn’t delude herself into thinking that they will go into every single darkened building in search for her.
She is torn over that thought. She knows what Jack will do — put any semblance of danger aside — and she doesn’t want him to do one of his…well, Jack things. On the other hand, she wants this, whatever this is, to be over one way or the other. There have been moments when she has thought about just rising and fighting. That is in her basic instinct when dealing with fear. Push the fear aside and charge forth — doing whatever is necessary. She has actually had to force herself to sit back down after rising to attack the night runners. The fear she has is
