X-Country to Buffalo Bill Territory (Part 2)
By Ron Kilber

Illustration by Frederic Remington

Monday, June 15, 1998
Grand Junction, Colorado

Timberline Aviation opens for business at 0500 hours, but when I call from the hotel at 4:30 AM, I find out that they've already taken my airplane out of the hangar and put it on the line. They knew I wanted to leave right at 5 AM, so someone came in early to make sure I wouldn't be delayed. On top of all that, they let me take the crew car to the hotel overnight. What a great bunch of patriots!

I'm in another race with El Niño today. When I checked the weather last night, I found out there'll be another VFR window along my route form 6 AM to noon. And their prediction was quite accurate from the looks of the sky now. Last night it was solid overcast here. Now, even the satellite and radar images look good, although it appears I'll have to fly VFR-on-top for awhile across parts of Colorado and Wyoming.

Seat-of-the-pants flying today is going to be pretty tough. I've just lifted off from GJT, and as I climb higher I can see that there are quite a few low clouds over the mountains along my route of flight. Landmarks will be hard to discern, so I decide to make a few adjustments. Instead of flying directly to Rawlins, Wyoming, I decide to use V-26 and fly 18 degrees from the GJT VOR directly to Meeker. Who knows what the winds are really doing out here, it's just too easy to get lost when the ground is obscured like it is. My hands are full as they are, and the last thing I need is to learn that I'm lost -- over the Rocky Mountains with no place to land.

Many of the clouds below me have holes over the valleys, which are still giving off heat from yesterday, and which explains why the air over them isn't saturated. They appear to be safe refuge should I need it.

I never am able to actually see the Meeker VOR, but when I'm right over it, I make a course correction, still on V-26, but now tracking 354 degrees directly to the Cherokee VOR west of Rawlins. Farther back in the mountains I was flying VFR-on-top, here, in rolling-hill country, I'm flying VFR-under, and there's a broken ceiling as far as I can see. The Cherokee VOR is 120 miles from Meeker, and it takes 55 minutes to reach nearby Interstate 80, the only major road connecting San Francisco and Chicago. Without the slight quartering tail wind, it would've taken a full hour. I adjust my heading over the VOR station, and then track 20 degrees to Casper, another 100 miles or so on the horizon.

There's no mistaking the land below me. No longer in mountainous Colorado, I'm in arid Wyoming ranching country, where cowboys and branding-irons once took the place of fences, and before then, the buffalo roamed on one huge, gigantic, unbroken pasture, which spanned from Canada to Mexico and included the western portion of Texas, Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakotas, all of New Mexico and part of Arizona, Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana.

Just because there's a lot of ranching in these parts doesn't mean they have more cows than anywhere else. Back in the more fertile East, it's "how many cows can an acre support". Out here it's more like "how many acres does it take to support a cow". The land below me is desolate prairie, with hills and valleys, many deep, and timberless, except where water flows or where there are buttes that lift the air and cause precipitation, and then only producing dwarfed and gnarled growth. What the land lacks in fertility and richness, it makes up for with vastness and abundance.

Illustration by A. B. Frost, 1825

It's sparsely populated around here. In fact, Wyoming, I think, is the state with the least number of people -- about a half million. And they live far-and-few-between, not because it is their nature, but because the land is arid. If it were more fertile, it would not only support more cattle, but more agriculture, too, with the end result meaning more people dwellers. Indeed, nature dictates the lives of all of us, and around here it dictates just how far away a neighbor lives.

Big Horn Mountains

It's taken me less than three hours from GJT to reach the Casper VOR, and now a course of 7 degrees will put me into Gillette in about 40 minutes, thanks to a little quartering tail wind. The skies have cleared, the sun is shining, and I'm totally relaxed as I steal my way over these high plains. The Big Horn Mountains loom on the distant horizon at my 10 o'clock, bulging with snow from one end to the other.

Illustration by Frederic Remington

The Wyoming country below me is vast, and appears as untrodden as it must have been before the old explorers and fur traders arrived in the early part of the last century -- soon to be 200 years now, folks. As then, there remains today trackless wastes of plain, plateau, and river-bottom.

Later in that century, river boats were the only major form of public transportation to and from these parts, and when the rail roads finally came along, the people then must have reacted to the faster train travel the same as later generations reacted to the even faster air travel. The difference remaining today, however, is that the coming of the railroads was death to riverboat travel, but the airplane didn't spell death to its forerunner, the train.

Illustration by Frederic Remington

I imagine going back in time, taking this airplane with me, and appearing on the horizon for an earlier generation see. Wouldn't that be a blast? How would General Custer view my presence, flying machine and all? Knowing him, would he be in denial, the same as when he lost the battle to the Indians at the Little Big Horn in Montana? Or would he enlist me as a gun-ship pilot sporting Winchester-equipped soldiers to do battle? That'd open the eyes of any enemy then. The thought is entertaining, as is pretending I'm flying over 19th-century territory with covered wagons bound for Oregon, huge cattle drives with rawhide-tough cowboys on horseback, tribes of native Americans residing in teepee villages, hunting parties chasing huge buffalo herds across the tractless, endless prairie, or more exciting, a shoot-out on main street. I'm pretty certain that the land below me today doesn't look any different than it did 200 years ago. If I suddenly found myself in a time two centuries earlier, how would I know I was in an earlier generation? By just looking at the land, there'd be no clue. It's easy to imagine those frontier days.

Illustration by Frederic Remington

Devils Tower National Monument is 50 miles on the other side of Gillette, but it's clearly discernible on the distant horizon more than 80 miles away. A circular granite monolith with a girth larger than a football field, it rises more than 1,200 feet above the Bell Fourche River at its base. It's world-famous among rock climbers, and about a month ago, my climbing partner, Jim Tucker, and I climbed to the summit twice. It's an awesome place, and you don't have to be a rock climber to believe in it. Somehow, Devils Tower captures everyone's imagination.

Devils Tower, WY

Finally, here I am, at last, on the ground in beautiful Gillette, Wyoming. It's not even 9 AM, and only Monday morning. The whole week is mine. If I don't accomplish what I came here for, it'll be my own fault.

Thursday, June 18, 1998
Gillette, Wyoming

Up until about 4 AM this morning, it had been raining off-and-on ever since I arrived in Gillette on Monday. The sun never did come out yesterday. But at 8 o'clock now, that's all history. I've got a VFR window all the way to Arizona, only I can't exactly get to Grand Junction. VFR flight on a direct route is not recommended, as El Niño hasn't quite dragged its butt eastward all the way across the Rockies. But if I fly to Rock Springs, Wyoming, near Utah, I'll be able to enjoy a nice high-pressure weather system and fly all the way to Arizona.

Gillette, WY to Chandler, WY

My airplane is already fueled, my bill is paid, and my pre-flight inspection is complete. All of my gear is on board, my seat belt is fastened and the doors and windows are closed. The only thing left is to start the engine, and then I'm out of here. Only the starter won't catch. Its little motor turns, but nothing else. Now what?

After I rotate the propeller a few times by hand, the starter catches and the engine starts. Hmm. Maybe all the rain had something to do with the problem. Oh well, the motors running now. Hopefully, it won't do that again.

I was a bit surprised to discover that av-gas costs $2.20 in Wyoming. With all the oil wells and refineries I've seen around this state, you'd think petrol be cheaper than in Arizona where we have maybe one oil well and exactly zero refineries. There are places in Arizona to buy fuel for $1.65. I don't know what goes here, but $2.20 is a lot of shekels for av-gas.

So far on this journey I've been pretty lucky. Sure, I've had a few problems, but my luck has now run out. While I was able to do a good two miles a minute on the way to Wyoming, now I'm barely able to move 1.5 miles during the same time. I've got one hell of a quartering head wind. Unless I get some reprieve, its going to add three hours to my air time. Talk about throwing money to the wind. I'm doing it right now.

It's taking me forever to get to Rock Springs, and without much to do when going this slow. I can only take my mind off the dilemma by thinking about other things. When I was in these parts about a month ago, my daughter's great uncle passed away, only I didn't know it at the time. She, Dawn, purposefully withheld the news of his death, knowing my fondness for him and knowing I might well have been on the side of Devils Tower when the cell phone rang. Warren died in Phoenix after a long illness, and was survived by Edith, his wife of 42 years.

Warren was a great aviator and WWII B-26 bomber pilot, having survived 42 combat missions. He had his close calls. Besides the Nazis trying to jam his navigation radio to force a South Atlantic ditch when flying from Acension Island, there were mechanical problems, too. Once, his landing gear malfunctioned and one of his wheels would not come down. After retracting his remaining gear, Warren bellied onto the field with his bomber, which then skidded and disappeared into the forest at the end of the runway, striking trees and brush along the way before coming to a full stop. Luckily, no one was injured.

His wife, Edith, said that Warren was always a very lucky person. When he ran out of fuel, it was always in front of a gas station rather than in the middle of nowhere.

I have many fond memories of Warren. When we first moved to Arizona in the mid-seventies, he had been spending the weekends roaming the state alone. Like me, he had wanderlust, and it was only natural that we began to roam Arizona together. He even bought his first motorcycle so he would not be left behind whenever I cruised the state on mine, never mind that he was already over sixty years in age.

After Warren retired, I was no longer a match for his fondness to travel. While I was shackled to the business of earning a living, he went about making travel a full-time affair. I was slugging rats, and Warren was hitching rides on military aircraft and traveling to every nook and cranny on earth. He kept that pace up until only a few years ago.

The fondest memories I have are when we visited Warren at his home. As soon as we rang his doorbell, Skeeter, the proud short-haired terrier, always barked once or twice, only he didn't come running to the front door as all dogs do. Instead, he silently ran out his dogie door into the back yard, up a make-shift ramp to the top of the house, across the roof and right smack above our heads -- only to start barking and scare hell out of any unsuspecting visitor. Dawn, my 4-year old daughter at the time, always wanted to visit Warren's house. She'd forgo a trip to Disneyland just to see Skeeter in action.

You didn't have to visit Warren's house to meet Skeeter. If you were lucky enough to have Warren driving his car in front of you on the freeway, Skeeter would make a guest appearance by sticking his head out of a hole in the trunk lid. If, instead, Warren was on his motorcycle, well, so was Skeeter. Warren had a milk carton bolted to the back of the motorcycle. Skeeter sat nose-to-the-wind and as calm and collected as the RCA dog listening to the phonograph.

In Memory Of Warren W. Calland Major USAF (Ret.) June 9, 1915 - May 15, 1998 Uncle, friend and WWII B-26 Bomber Pilot

Last February I lost another friend. Pete Garrett was killed while on take-off from the Homer, Alaska airport on his way to Nanwalek. He was flying a single-engine cargo plane when a jug separated from the crankcase at 200 feet of elevation. Loaded with 1,000 pounds of supplies, the plane veered left and nosed in.

Pete was not only a fellow pilot, but a rock-climbing partner of mine, too. We had many great times on the rock in Arizona, and my memories will always be fond. The ability to plan ahead is one of the most important skills of any pilot, and it's a skill that Pete carried over to rock climbing. Whenever we spent a day pulling on basalt in Arizona, Pete always had an ice cold cooler with a six-pack waiting for our parched tongues at the end of the day. He was not only a great aviator and rock climber, but a great friend, too.

In Memory Of Peter Scott Garrett June 5, 1961 - February 6, 1998 Friend, pilot, and rock-climber.

Another thing I think about is my adventure with the Dakota Skytrooper I mentioned earlier. Last year, five of us flew it from Mesa, Arizona across the North Atlantic via Greenland and Iceland, and finally to its destination, the Wings of Liberation museum in The Netherlands. What a blast is was, and bar none, it has gone down as one of the most adventurous undertakings of my life. Some of the details of our experience can be found at the Dakota Squadron Internet home.

Dakota Skytrooper photo courtesy of Tom Dorsey, Salina Journal, Salina, Kansas

Thinking of that beautiful Dakota airplane in The Netherlands reminds me that my meeting in Irvine on Saturday has been canceled. Roland Korst will not travel from Europe this week after all, and so my trip to Southern California is off. I was able learn that by reading my email while I was in Gillette.

Finally, after three long hours of flying into head winds, I'm safe but not so sound on the ground in Rock Springs, Wyoming. The wind is blowing so hard here, I can only find safe haven by parking the airplane in front of the huge hanger with the wind behind it. Unless the wind changes by 90 degrees, I'll be safe here. The attendant tells me the wind blows like this all the time. I think they must have to replace the winsocks monthly and bury every now and then an airplane or two mangled by the wind.


Battling Wind At Rock Springs, WY

After refueling ($2.05/gal), adding a quart of oil, downing a couple of cans of soda with some jolt in it, and buying a few candy bars for the cockpit, I'm all set to turn the ignition key. Only again, the engine won't turn over. Not even after several attempts of rotating the prop by hand. Unless I want to hang around here while an A&P mechanic fixes the problem (might take three days), I'd best find someone to help me hand-prop this monster.

Luckily, the airport manager, Gary Valentine, is a C-72 pilot, and he agrees to operate the magnetos while I do the arm work. His staff of three join in to watch, and I'm left with the impression that my airplane problem may well be the most exciting thing that has happened around here in a while. (The local newspaper reporter could be on his way to do a story.)

When I'm certain Gary has the breaks set, the throttle cracked, and knows what he's doing, I'm ready and in position.

"Contact!", I yell to Gary.

As soon as my arm motion causes a piston to compresses enough air/gas mixture and a magneto fires, the engine instantly starts running on its own. Beautiful! Way to go, Gary.

Don't ever try this at home! Unless you've been trained and know exactly what you're doing, a spinning propeller on the old noggin will certifiably ruin your day. Too, never attempt to hand-prop an engine unless the person in the cockpit is a pilot and familiar with the controls. You'd be better off chaining the airplane to the ground without anyone inside, than have a neophyte in the cockpit.

I don't know what happened to the starter, but some thingamajig somewhere must have worn all the way out, and now it's kaput. I may not need it anymore, if I can fly all the way to Chandler non-stop. My course is a lot more southerly from here, so at worst I'll have a west cross wind.

Vernal, Utah is about 95 miles south, and a course of 184 degrees will get me there -- only I'm flying 210 degrees to stay on course. Not only that, but I've got 9- and 10-thousand-foot mountains and a ceiling ahead of me. Unless the clouds are high enough, I may not be able to get through this way. I'm giving it a shot though. Things always look differently close-up.

I'm right under the ceiling trying to get as much elevation as possible to clear the mountain peaks, which are only 1,000 feet below me. It's not too much of a struggle in the bumpy air, and as soon as I travel over the higher terrain, the uplift begins. I need to power back a bit and nose her down to stay out of the clouds. As I proceed, the down-drafts arrive, so it's full power and back into a climb. Within minutes, the ceiling and mountain range are behind me, and now I'm staring at the great Southwestern USA. The sun is on full power, and the air is clear and the visibility south and west is unlimited. Hooray! I love the Southwest.

Within minutes I'm over the Vernal VOR station, and then on a new heading direct to Chandler. It's possible I can fly all the way without a fuel stop, though it does appear it may be a skosh close for comfort. If so, I'll drop into Flagstaff's high-altitude airport for fuel.

There's so much beautiful country in these parts. I can never get enough by just staring at the interesting terrain, and my impulse is to descend and fly close-ground maneuvers all the way home. Of course, the rugged terrain would demand endless climbing and descending, and it'd be certain I'd run out of fuel before reaching Arizona. Better to leave that idea for another time.

I'm approaching one of the most majestic areas on the entire face of the world. No where else on earth can you find the concentration of geographical wonders that can be found here. Besides the Grand Canyon, Canyon de Chelly, and Monument Valley, there's Capital Reef National Park, Bryce Canyon National Park, Zion National Park, Arches National Park, and Canyonlands National Park -- all of 'em close by. It'd take a one-year sabbatical to do justice to all of them.

Lake Powell

I'm flying over Lake Powell now. It's a huge reservoir on the Colorado River at the entrance to the Grand Canyon. Constructed in the early sixties, its 187 miles long with almost 100 side canyons. Its shoreline -- almost 2,000 miles -- exceeds the length of the entire US West Coast. Houseboats abound, and I can see that many have already moored in side canyons to bed down for the evening.

Rainbow Bridge

Eastward a ways in a canyon on the shores of Lake Powell is Rainbow Bridge National Monument. It's the world's largest natural bridge, standing 290 feet tall. The entrance to the Grand Canyon is off to my right.

San Francisco Peaks

As I approach Flagstaff, Arizona, the San Francisco Peaks are just ahead. Since departing Rock Springs, Wyoming, two states and a long time ago -- 4 hours and 15 minutes to be exact -- I decide it's re-fuel time. My total capacity is 54 gallons, but some of that is reserve, so I calculate that I've got about another hour of fuel remaining. It's still 150 miles to Chandler, so I'd be into my reserve supply before I get there. If the winds worsen or I'm delayed in some other way, it'd be too close for comfort for me, not to mention I'd feel really, really stupid if I'd run out of fuel and ruin someone's game with a forced-landing on a golf course.

Northern Arizona

It isn't long before I depart Flagstaff heading south in clear skies. I only took on 10 gallons of petrol, just enough to get me to Chandler where Venture Aviation can refuel at $1.65/gallon -- not $2.20 as I just paid. The starter was still kaput, and a friendly A&P mechanic insisted he do the arm work to get the engine going, even though I only wanted him to operate the magneto switch.

It isn't long before I can look to the west a little and see Sedona with its trademark terra cota rock. One can imagine that the 500 foot mesa, which Sedona's airport is situated upon, looks much like an aircraft carrier in the middle of the community.

I had to begin my descent over Horseshoe Lake in order to get under the Phoenix Class B Airspace by the time I get to the McDowell Mountains. Falcon Tower lets me transition their control zone at 3,000 feet, and when I reach the Superstition Freeway, Chandler Tower clears me for a straight-in on Runway 22-R.

It's a peaceful drive as I make my way back to the house. What a day of flying it has been. All totaled from Gillette, it was about 8 hours aloft. Not bad, considering I had to go out of my way and had hellish head winds at times. But it was all worth it, and I'm glad I didn't give United Airlines all that money. It was money better spent, and a lot more fun, as well. I'd do it all over again next week.

The End

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