Sometimes I think we all get a little carried away and trapped in our daily responsibilities, seeing as how life has it's way with making us forget to stop and smell the roses as it were I figured you could at least laugh at my expense. Somehow I've made it a habit to participate in some of the most ridiculous (foolish) hair brained attempts at fighting boredom and overall monotony. Here's what it's like to live in my (clown) shoes for a day.
On a side note the above picture was taken during my trip to Cozumel a few years ago. I'm not certain but I think the water down there is full of rufee's and or Whiskey. Ha!
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Two of the funnest yet probably dumbest things I’ve ever volunteered for. At least this month
06-07-2008
I’ve always wanted to go on a white water rafting trip and seeing as how I live in Colorado what better place right? After three years of being told “Not just no, Hell no” by damn near everyone I know I sort of gave up on the thought until much to my surprise I was invited to go with a group of my girlfriends co-workers last weekend. We drove down to the town of Canyon City, home to their very own men and women’s correctional facilities. It’s kind of a cool little Mayberry type town, tucked within the mountains and valleys however not much to look at other than a few small buildings linked together by a sidewalk that I’m fairly certain gets rolled up every night when the sun goes down. We arrived at the Rafting camp around an hour early so we decided we’d head up the road a few miles to try and see the Royal Gorge, apparently it is the worlds highest suspension bridge.
After winding up a half ass dirt road we arrived at the gate only to find out that it was an amusement park. They had a rollercoaster, a train, an air tram, and undoubtedly truckloads of seventeen dollar funnel cakes and the usual never ending buffet of “sure to make you shit yourself” fried snacky treats. All we wanted to do was walk out over the canyon snap a few pic’s and head back to the Rafting camp but since time was running out on our little adventure we decided to turn back around and find something else to occupy our minds. When we drove back through the town we saw a big sign stating, “helicopter tour through the canyon.” Well why not, why not try and add some excitement to our laid back weekend (keep in mind this was still when I thought white water rafting would be a leisurely and laid back afternoon, wrong again!!!).
So there we stood ten minutes later inside a small room at the top of a flight of wooden stairs leading to a sliding glass window waiting our turn on the bright red helicopter hovering above a small concrete heli-pad. Lots of shit goes through your mind when you’re about to take a ride in a helicopter through the canyons of the Royal Gorge. Surprisingly not once did I ever ask myself “Hmmm… did I take out the trash, or is the sink full of dishes… (Told you ladies… those things aren’t as important as you may think.). The single most important thought in my mind at that moment or worse yet when I buckled the seat belt in the back seat was “I hope this guy knows what he’s doing.” Maybe it’s just me but for some reason every time I end up in a flying contraption (which by the way seems far to often) I wonder exactly how capable the pilot is. I mean seriously lets face it, just because he owns a helicopter doesn’t mean he can fly it right? Hell I have lots of things in my possession that I haven’t the slightest clue how to use, or even what they are for that matter.
It’s fascinating to me that we’ll put blind faith into complete strangers just because they bought a really flashy sign and have cool t-shirts with their company name embroidered on them. Anyhow, after strapping into the helo I put on my headset and much to my delight my ears were greeted by the sweet sounds of Michael Bolton in the form of Muzak. Not quite the “soothing” background music I’d like to hear while screaming through a canyon a thousand feet deep and barely wide enough for Oprah to squeeze through.
In a few seconds we were off to the races. He had this thing screaming feet above the tree line and making a beeline for the canyon. Up to this point I hadn’t seen much in the form of large valleys so I was still wondering where the hell the Royal Gorge was located. Question answered, pilot says, (over the backdrop of Michael Bolton…) “in about ten seconds we’re going to rapidly descend down the face of a twelve hundred foot cliff where we’ll find our self within the canyons walls.” What? What the hell does that mean? Rapidly… like I’m late for the bus rapidly or my ass is on fire and the nearest hose is three blocks away rapidly? Another question answered; by rapidly I’m guessing he meant the later of the two previous examples because one minute I’m looking down at the buzzing treetops and the next we’re falling from the sky like a carnie in a wooden barrel plummeting to his death over Niagara Falls.
Right about then I started wondering exactly how much extra room there was in my bootlegs because I was fairly certain that I was gonna start filling them with a surge of “yellow” fear and my own poo. About forty feet above the riverbed he quickly pulled up and instead of free falling we began “shucking and jiving” our asses through the canyon (again Oprah would probably have to grease her hips to fit through this thing) in our bright red helicopter. I remember looking down and watching the blurs of white water rafters below getting dumped out of their rafts and beaten on the rocks. “That’s some pretty rough shit down there,” I said. “Aren’t you guys going to be rafting today?” asked the pilot. Yeah but we’re going to be on the lazy river,” I said, confident that there was more than one passage. “Well there you go! That’s the only one around here. Should be fun,” he chuckled. Fucking comedian.
The next five minutes went by like usual for me when strapped into a moving aircraft… first comes the praying to anything holy that I won’t puke, then came the realization that I’m gonna then finally… Oh hell the ride was over. Before I even knew it we were skidding to a halt on the heli-pad and everything was fine. My boots were still clean only containing my feet, thank god, my McDonald’s breakfast albeit shaken was not stirred and for the first time in my life I landed in not only one piece but still presentable and unsoiled. Hallelujah!!!
I’m not too proud to admit however that upon exiting the aircraft I felt and probably looked like a brand spankin’ new baby giraffe. I tried like hell to stand up and be a “man” but that’s sort of a task in and of itself when perched atop wobbly ass knees. Once again the twelve year old girl inside me surfaced and as I walked through the front door of the outpost a middle aged “Abercrombie and Fitch” type guy propped up along the wall sorta chuckled at my ghostly appearance. All I could think as I climbed into the car was WHY did that ever sound like a good idea, but in true dumb-ass fashion I resorted to the one thing we all say when we’ve just done something that we know we’ll never do again, “Now at least I can say I’ve done it.”
On to phase two of the “laid back” weekend getaway.
Now like I’ve stated in the past sometimes I’m not the sharpest marble in the bag. At this point in the morning (another thing I rarely see “mornings) I’ve already driven two and a half hours from home, eaten McDonalds, flown over and under the Royal Gorge (in a foolish attempt to be adventurous) in a helicopter and witnessed a brief glimpse into the river that were heading off to raft down, and all before 11:00 a.m. They should name a street after me, or at least an ice cream truck! Even after watching the rafters below on the not so amateur rafting trip I thought we were soon to be enjoying (key word-enjoying) I somehow managed to figure the most dangerous part of the day was over. Well here we go!
When we got back to the rafting outfit the deserted little outpost we pasted earlier in the morning was now packed with middle aged and elderly folks all lounging around the picnic tables laughing and having a great time. This made me feel pretty good about myself seeing as how I was getting a little nervous that maybe I had signed up for something a little to out of my capabilities. If a sixty year old out of shape couple can do this I can right, I mean they wouldn’t purposely endanger themselves for the sake of adventure would they?
We meet up with the other five members of our “deliverance” crew and began grabbing our gear. The lady behind the counter recommended that we all rent wet suits seeing as the waters temperature was only 49 degrees. That’s all I needed to hear, wet suit here I come. The guy handing out wet suits looked me up and down then grabbed the smallest “fit for a dwarf” suit available and handed it over. I’m not the biggest of guys but I’m certain he got a kick out of giving me the Barbie doll sized suit. Great not only am I a wee lad but now I’m gonna be wearing the twelve year old girl rental that most certainly has had its fair share of “yellow” water flowing through it. Whoopee!!! Emphasis on the-pee.
Here I go trudging up the hillside back to the car to slip into my little girl pajamas passing every rafting guide lazily lounging around camp on my way, their Fabio hair frolicking in the wind. I’m pretty certain they we all laughing behind my back as they recited scenes from Point Break in their heads. “Someone’s got to go down Body.” And lucky me like usual that someone had to be me.
After squeezing my ass into the black vinyl hot pants (aka wet suit) I came strolling down the hillside staircase looking like a bad reincarnation of Milli and or Vanilli (sans the dread-locks). You pick but neither is very heroic or manly to say the least. Anyhow after being forced into an even smaller life vest (which I may add gave me that nice slice of cleavage I’ve always wanted) and strapping down my flimsy ass helmet that was provided we loaded into a bus and away we went. Remember those little crappy toys we’d get ass kids from the quarter machines in the grocery store, now do you recall the little plastic capsules they came in. That’s what I mean by flimsy ass helmet. On with the adventure! As we headed up the road a guide stood up in the front of the bus and gave us the “shit not to do/and or try” speech while on this quest for fun. Now being in such a lawsuit-crazed society I thought this more for legal sake than the usual worst-case scenarios. Apparently I was more enthralled by my new cleavage than to his speech however my attention quickly shifted when I overheard him mention that the water levels were currently at their highest this time of year and that although its rare if one should fall out of the raft to be cautious of washed down debris and or metal scrap. What the hell do you mean metal? I thought we were rafting not foraging through a scrap yard. Maybe I should have worn better boots than these stupid open toed sandals.
After about ten miles the bus pulled over on the side of the road and into a small turnout by the rivers edge where we all unloaded. We stood there and waited to be given our commands and group guides. By this point my “cash and prizes” had been slowly baking in the heat underneath my cute little plasto-suit so I figured I’d just unzip a little and let the outside in as it were. Stupid idea, in case you’ve never ridden in a school bus while in a wet suit on a hot summers day let me fill you in on some basic physics. First you sweat and by sweat I mean imagine if all of your body suddenly pissed itself from head to toe. Next some crazy laws of science take over and that sweat becomes superbly amazing glue to which attaches said wet suit to your bare ass and everything else contained within your rented human sausage wrap. Whilst unzipping I quickly realized how sensitive certain areas or your torso/lower stomach area add to that the onset of a bloody nose (for no damn good reason) and that’s how my rafting trip begins.
We meet our personal guide and he gives us the commands, left side forward, right side back, try not to die, lock your feet in (by the way there isn’t shit to lock your feet in) and my favorite of all, “If you fall out in the Narrows just hang tight and ride it out we’ll catch up to you when we can. Lets have fun,” he added with a grin. For those of you who’ve never rafted before let me explain something that caught me off guard. You don’t actually sit in the boat it’s merely a place to store your feet and once you begin to hit the rapids it becomes yet another place to store the shit your about to accidentally release from the legs of your “Body Glove.” You half straddle the exterior of the boat one ass cheek in and one ass cheek out. We’ll since I wasn’t born with an ass that meant having to ride bareback on the outside edge of the tube, lets say 85 percent out of the boat.
We pushed off shore and into the Arkansas River practicing the commands he was giving as we slowly made our way down stream. There were seven boats ahead of us and four behind so to say the least the river was plum full of people all eagerly anticipating an eventful yet peaceful afternoon. I remember thinking to myself in between the warm up strokes how beautiful the day was. The temperature was already in the high seventies and the sun was shinning bright up above. It was like a picture perfect scene torn straight from the cover of a tourism brochure. That picture lasted about ten minutes.
We rolled through a couple of what I was told were class 3 rapids like a group of pro’s. There’s nothing to this I thought as we shot down the course. Just as my dumb ass finished that thought I started hearing the faint sounds of surging water ahead, then it got louder and louder and louder until over the crashing waves I heard the guide firmly bark, “Here we go… Dig in.” Around the next corner was a class 4, something I still didn’t understand, at this point keep in mind I’m internally calculating on a scale of one to ten therefore a four is still less than half, at least in my wee tiny brain. Right side this… left side that… meanwhile I’m realizing that maybe we all should have taken a group dance class before the session on the water since apparently a cohesive rhythm is rather necessary and that’s “not a happenin” in this here floaty. Were slapping the shit out of each-others hands with the end of our paddles and doing an overall great job of trying to remove one another’s thumbs from hands. It’s about that time that the biggest son of a bitch in the raft takes to flight and in true Elvis fashion exits the building. This poor bastard is now bobbing along side the raft trying his best to get back in as were lickity splitting our happy asses down the surge. And of course he’s got to be probably 210 pounds of solid ass (not buoyant) muscle. Yah there goes me, my hundred and sixty pounds and another guy trying to both pull him back into the boat. River (1) Rafters (0).
The water calmed down after we finally got the incredible fucking hulk back into the raft we pulled over and did a “screw this idea” update. Alls well in a few minutes and were off, here’s when my day starting getting a tad more interesting. After another slow patch of the river we were again told to dig in, lock our feet and get ready cause it’s about to get real busy in here and shures as shit our guide was right. The river ahead looked like some Hollywood fabricated theme park, without the security blanket of being on a guided track. It looked more like an ocean with waves rolling in what appeared to be an uphill motion over the front of the raft. I was sitting second from the front on the right side so my vision was blocked most of the time, all I could see were huge bursts of white coming over the head of the guy in front of me I did however know when shit was about to get rough based on his choice of profanity and or creative use of adjectives. “Were reaching the narrows,” yells the guide along with about a dozen commands to row forward… then backwards… then harder… then to just plain learn to row. Hell we might as well have been trying to swat misquitos with a fuckin tooth pick for all the good it would come to do us because one moment I can’t see shit then the next moment all I can see is our guide airborne and coming right at me. Lucky me, this bastard who looks like he hasn’t missed a meal ever has now become my personal Kayden attack missile. Well he hit his target which unfortunetely created a domino effect causing me to do a white boy 7-10 split not only removing the guy in front of me but my girlfriend as well. Now you’d think that after falling into 49 degree water the first thing on your mind would be “bur shit it’s awfully cold in here.” Well maybe except that for a split second my right foot was still stuck in the raft whilst the remainder of my body was chilling in the rapids. I wish for nothing else that I would have had a camera and been able to use it because after I finally completely was one with the water I looked back at the boat and the three remaining guys still on the left side looked back and shouted “Oh shit there goes the guide.” The look on their faces was a mixture of panic and confusion (understandably so) and to say the least was definitely one of those priceless photo opps that come few and far between.
Here we are in the worst part of the course (remember the Oprah dilemma from earlier) well that’s where we were when we decided to go into the drink and since the sides of the river were nothing but jagged rock cliffs we had nowhere to go but down the river sans raft. The guide and my girlfriend after getting beaten up against a few rocks got back in thankfully uninjured (other than a few bumps and one hu-funkin-mungus bruise on her leg) and as they tried to get the boat under control my happy ass still bobbing down the river (in the river) was doing my best to channel the water walking skills of Jesus to no avail. I made it through a good portion of the “narrows” for a few minutes it seemed trying my best to avoid colliding with the now much more prominent boulders in my path until I finally got pulled back in. Lets just say that I was damn thrilled to be out of the water especially seeing as how my shitty little “plastic vending machine helmet” hung on for Oh six seconds before it came flying off. Even though we were three paddles short including the guides at least we were all in the boat!
The guide finally got it under control and we made it to a clearing a little further down the river where we could pullover and catch our breath. My sunglasses were still on my face (thank you cheap shitty little band for saving my favorite $2 jewels) however they were now custom bent far more vertical than horizontal. I had a stomach full of the Arkansas, a scratch down the center of my forehead from hairline to nose, a torn eyelid, and a fantastic single raccoon eye that would get several different shades of purple and red providing my friends with much amusement in the days to come. River (5), Rafters AND guide (0)
We finally gathered our thoughts and although timid made our way down the remainder of the course eventually ending up back at the bus where once again my baby giraffe skills proved trustworthy as I wobbled my silly beaten ass back into the bus to go home.
Rafting, it’s kinda like getting beaten with golf clubs by a shouting stranger in a prison shower where the outcome is certain to be detrimental to one’s health and pride.
Pictures soon to come!!!
P.S. I was just watching the news and found out that 5 people have died on that same stretch of the course in the last six weeks as well as tons of broken noses/bones. That info would have been great to know before signing up although my dumb ass probably would have still gone.
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3-24-08
So I just returned from a week stint in Alabama and am happy to say survived. After flying into Atlanta we made the four hour trek south to the sprawling metropolis that is Enterprise to visit my brother who’s currently stationed down at Fort Rucker. This was my first trip to Alabamer and not having any inclination whatsoever as to it’s potential on the fun meter I arrived expecting little in the way of amusement. The first day my brother took me to see the Army Aviation Museum on base, which was interesting to say the least. They must have every single helicopter every built hanging from the ceiling of that hu-funkin-mungus hangar facility. I even got to sit inside the cockpit of an old retired Cobra that was on display and let me tell you I’m by no means a large man and that was a little to cramped for my ass. Way to many buttons and way to many gadgets, I quit!!! After cruising through the museum and doing the tourist thing we headed back to his place and got ready for the next day’s flight school graduation.
Seeing as how my brother is waiting to head out to his new station his furniture situation is… ah… well lets just say non existent, he was however thoughtful enough to buy a “ho-on the-go” twin blow up mattress for my stay. I crashed on the “inflato baggy” silk sheets and all until the next day where after an emotional goodbye with my air mattress we headed out for the grad ceremony. Now here’s a few dozen soldiers all dressed up (and not very happy about it) ready to spend their whole months pay at the cash bar wives, children and families in tow. After an hour the ceremony was over and you would have thought they dropped anthrax in that place by the way the soldiers all fled out of there. Apparently there was a party in the making at a cabin on Lake Tholocco on the other end of the base. They asked if I wanted to come so like a true gentlemen on the hunt for free cocktails I agreed, especially since the cash bar had my wallet looking about as empty as the stands at a Crush game.
Here’s where my brothers Army training started to come in handy. Now he’s been living and commuting to and from Fort Rucker for the last year or so as have the rest of the guys. You would have thought that at least one of them would remember where the hell this Lake was, I mean damn it only covers a square mile. Maybe the whiskey had something to do with their lack of recollection. So here we are driving around this big ass base with no clue where the hell were going in the pitch black and (in case you’ve never been to the southeastern states) to make matters worse its gotta be the thickest forest I’ve ever seen. Long story short we finally found the cabin mainly due to the glowing bonfire on the beach.
Here I am the scrawny musician walking into a party of complete strangers all of whom are helicopter pilots and to say the least in damn good shape and full of spirits. Thankfully everyone there was very open hearted and extremely generous especially with their J.D. It’s hard to explain how difficult it is to follow a conversation between shots and acronyms but I gave it the good old college try. It didn’t take long for someone to bust out an acoustic guitar and before you knew it another, then another. Here I am sitting around a campfire on the shore of a lake surrounded by music. It’s funny how no matter where you go there’s always a little bit of home.
One of my brothers friends (who it turns out is a great player as well as comedian) named John Stegall out of Tupelo, Mississippi had me laughing to the point of damn near throwing up all night. He’s one of those guys that can make a funeral uplifting. Anyhow, after lord knows how many bottles of brew, J.D. and anything else in reach one of the guys decided that the fire wasn’t quite large enough. Here we go, now again these guys have all been taught how to survive in the sticks eating worms and shit and wipping their asses with tree bark but despite their training they were having a hard time locating any wood to burn in the fire. Fuck were in a forest for god’s sake. Then one of them got the idea to just start burning anything that wasn’t bolted to the beach. First it started with a small bench, then a chair until finally one guy figured that the plywood table holding all the drinks would be far easier to just burn then to take with him when he leaves. If the liquor wasn’t certain to give you a buzz I guess the glue would finish the job.
We all sat around the once small campfire and watched in amazement as it sort of overtook the beach. I’m not sure what it is about fire but I always end up starring into it like some sort of half-tard waiting for Teletubies to come on air. It was rather surreal to watch the fire’s glow reflect from the lake as Apache Longbow’s, Kiowa’s, Chinook’s and Blackhawk’s flew above.
Now being a musician I’ve been to some wild ass parties and drank more than my fair share of everything alcoholic. I mistakenly thought I was rather seasoned, I didn’t take long to realize pilots (at least military) have got to be the largest single consumers of whiskey and beer in the world as well as being extremely efficient and accurate in the fine art of projectile vomiting. If they can send their weapons downrange half as accurate as they can vomit and piss then were safe from any and all attacks, human and or extra terrestrial.
On a serious note though, it was a night I won’t soon forget and I thank everyone for the invite. Be safe in your travels gentlemen wherever the winds blow you!
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12-13-07
So I made a groundbreaking discovery last night. After years of being warned what kind of diseases you can get from eating raw cookie dough (chickens suck, they always have) I found a way around it. Seeing as how my diet consists of gas station food, Kraft macaroni, cup of noodles and oh the fabulous “raw cookie dough” I had to figure something out or else I’d be forced to resort to eating rice or bread or something wholesome (not here). The good folks at Pillsbury must have realized my plight, because not only did they fix the problem, they gave me options. Thumbs up cookie boys, Keep on with the ever changing times!
I was as happy as a puppy with two dicks when I turned the corner at the grocery store and saw a stack four feet wide by three feet tall of their new pre-cut Xmas sugar cookies. Now being the rocket scientist that I’m not immediately everything started making sense. As the stars aligned and clouds parted I had a vision, an epiphany if you will. Being pre made means I don’t have to add eggs (oh yes grand master of bakeries) I was in the clear. I beat you Salmonella. I won!!!
After eating eight of the little raw stocking shaped morsels of goodness I glanced at the empty package lying on the counter. Ingredients, sugar, flour, salt, blah… blah… blah then the worst thing ever to flash before the eyes of an idiot doing a self congratulatory dance mid chew, “eggs.” I’d love to tell you that something happened in my brain, that activity started blossoming and I realized the error of my ways. However truth be told I decided the best thing to do was ignore the small print and just finish off the remaining candy cane and stocking shaped cookies. Like a true professional I enjoyed a dozen sugar cookies (complete with frosting) without even having to grease or clean a cookie sheet, (pre-heat my ass). I never said my life was exciting but it’s true what you’ve heard. Every now and then I take danger to the next limit, one egg yolk at a time.
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11-22-07
Be weary of guys day out
Have you ever tried something “reasonably” dangerous just for the sake of trying it, then found out it closely resembles a cross between riding inside a washing machine and chocking on Jell-O? If you’re nodding yes then you must have been Jedi-mind tricked into flying around the sky in a lawn chair with wings (a.k.a. Cessna 172). My father has always had this fascination with anything that flies, something my brother equally enjoys and although planes have never bothered me they haven't exactly become one of my favorite pastimes by any means.
One day the three of us decided to fly from Denver to Cheyenne for breakfast, in a shoebox named “Cessna.” For those of you that haven’t had the unique pleasure of being inside a Cessna 172 allow me to give you the grand tour. Take two friends with you to a car dealership and ask to test drive a Ford Focus, when the dealer hands you the keys ask him if he’ll drive, then walk to the back of the car open the trunk and all three of you climb in. Next ask the salesman (through your muffled voice) if he‘d be willing to drive, oh let’s say seventy-five miles and hour through a horse pasture. That’s about the best simulation I’ve found.
While my brother and father were busy going over a checklist in the front seat I was questioning my judgment in the back. You don’t realize how small these planes are until you’re stuffed in the back of one, both elbows touching either side. We taxied around for a while until we made it to the runway. You kind of feel like a freckle on “Fat Bastards” ass when you’re on the huge concrete runway. As the go cart (wings extended all six feet) went hauling off down the runway I sat in the back thinking how important it was that I had my seatbelt on, I mean shit what would happen if we hit a suicide hummingbird or something. Seriously though, my father and brother are both extremely capable pilots but that wasn’t what bothered me, the thought of hanging in the air suspended in a cigarette pack beneath what I felt was a high school woodshop project gone wrong had more to do with it.
We took off and after about fifteen minutes were “hauling ass” (see key at bottom of page) over downtown Denver. I took some pictures of Coors Field and LoDo before we breached “screaming ass” (see key) speed across the prairie. The ride was pretty uneventful until we hit Wyoming. They have a big buffalo statue at the CO/WY border, that’s how they roll in the land of fireworks! We landed in Cheyenne locked up the plane and went to grab breakfast. I survived my “across the globe flight,” I made it for the whole hour and a half voyage. Remember how I was saying I’m not always the most intelligent of folk, well here’s another example. The good waitress at the dinner recommended I have the early bird breakfast. Ah the power of suggestion. I’m also not the keenest weather observer either even sitting alongside the floor to ceiling window. The wind started picking up and clouds started rolling in over the mountains to the west. Hell ya bring on the butter soaked biscuits, bring on the grease-drenched sausage. I am man and I shall eat!!!
So after powering through the greasiest of breakfasts we decided to get back to our little powered recliner before the weather pinned us down. I thought I was a pro by now so takeoffs shouldn’t bother me a bit. Screw that, we took off and right away the wind beat the hell out of our Maxi-pad with wings. We weren’t even over Cheyenne yet when I had that familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach. You know the (hey the half ass erected carnivals in town) one that says stop riding the magic “roller coaster of death” after drinking a fifth of whiskey jackass. I grabbed my little headset mic and told the boys in the front (six inches away) that we were gonna have to pull over at some point, and soon. My brother turned around and here’s the kicker, gives me a puke bag and says “Can you make it to Greeley?” By now I was doing my best not to look like the five year old girl that I felt inside, I can’t puss out with my baby brother in the plane. Halfway through that thought the bag started coming in handy, so did another one and another one. Wyoming grease is much different than Colorado’s. It’s kinda like syrup without the cool log cabin bottle. Anyhow, Greeley was getting closer I could smell it. For those of you who’ve never been through Greeley, it’s a feed lot for cattle, or maybe it’s just the largest shit storage plant in the nation either way its got a good old fashion “wading through sewage” smell to it. Yum, that’s a scent that a guy puking in a tossed around toaster wants to smell.
Long story short the guys kept pushing on, skipped over Greeley and we made it home after the longest hour of my flying experience. A few weeks later I thought I’d try it again, this time in a stunt biplane with an ex-Navy test pilot. I’m proud to say I made it through six barrel rolls, one hammer head, and one and a half loop-d-loops, half being the magic word. Another bag bites the dust. So flying for me is best done in helicopters, at least they can pull over.
KEY:
Hauling-ass: Six maybe seven knots… A brisk walk
Screaming-ass: Twelve to fourteen knots… Similar to an Olympic power walk (if they don’t have that on the competition circuit they should!!!)
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Before I Flew Up!!!
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Right about the time I noticed we weren't pulling over.
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Picture taken during flight. the passenger door was removed allowing me to "James Bond" my ass out of the cockpit, roll over the wing and hang onto the "Step Here" pedal. Disregard what looks like the ground in the distance. Optical illusions are funny when your flying at such altitudes.
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Denver's LoDo. another photo taken by myslef. This time I was slung beneath the fuselage, strapped to the landing gear with silk scraves. Red Barron'ish you know. |
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Coors field, where the Major-league baseball team "The Rockies" does their thing. Unfortunately apparently the "Red Sox" do theirs a little bit better.
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