Travel

Sky Trails

Sixty miles an hour, full flaps, power cut. The two front wheels touched ground as a tail wind picked us up and bumped us soundly, a mercifully gentle reminder of a primary rule of flight: don't land with the wind. But on this ranch runway, we had no choice. It was one-way only...

There was no turning back. Not now. Power lines to the right and a mountain to the left meant a decision to land was an irreversible commitment.

I held on, knuckles blanched white. The plane stopped at the point where the rough strip headed up a hillside similar to a runaway-truck ramp on the interstate. Drawing a deep breath, I uncoiled myself from the cockpit. My husband/pilot, Michael Collier, hopped out and paced off the strip in his extra-long stride, announcing that it was a thousand feet long. Room to spare.

We headed for the ranch house to see if anybody was home, but all was quiet save the barking dogs. So we strolled down beside the river along a dusty road, butterflies thick among the yellow rabbitbrush.

From a neighbor rancher we learned that the strip we'd landed on had been bulldozed by a previous owner about 25 years ago so he could fly in aboard his Super Cub. "Dink" Robart is the owner these days; he's an ex-fighter pilot who doesn't own an airplane, but he keeps the cockleburs bladed off because he likes having a strip nearby.

The plane that delivered us there is a red and white Cessna 180. Called the "Businessliner" when it was built in 1955, Michael fondly named her the Buzzard. She's a "taildragger," which means that the tail wheel is way at the back making for greater stability, the only kind of plane for this kind of flying, in Michael's mind.

The Buzzard is equipped with a STOL kit, specially modified wings for short takeoffs and landings. Along with a light load and an experienced pilot, these items are nice to have for any dirt-strip expedition. A good insurance policy also is a consideration, for a dinged prop or a bent gear can be costly to repair.

On this nippy October morning, we had departed Ganado on the sprawling Navajo Indian Reservation in far northeastern Arizona, sitting cozy in the cockpit of the old Cessna, with cabin heat full on. The afternoon before, a Navajo woman had emerged from her hogan to stare at us as we landed. Invaders from another planet?

This was the third day of a jaunt into the hinterlands of Arizona by airplane; dropping in on any dirt strip we could find, camping at night under a wing or in our tent beside the runway.

From Ganado we had leisurely putted along at an altitude of 6,500 feet over the Painted Desert. The soft morning light transformed the variegated hills of Chinle clay to peach-colored velvet. After a stop in Holbrook for fuel and breakfast, we made a beeline over Whiteriver, then headed east to the Blue River country where the aspens on Mount Baldy were dressed in splendid autumn gold.

By dead reckoning, Michael had managed to fly directly to the ranch on the Blue where the strip is scraped out of a hillside. He circled twice, checking for horses that might be grazing. None present, so we swooped landward as fangs of mountains rushed at us much faster than we seemed to be moving from them.

I still wasn't sure I had even seen the strip, though Michael had already asked me to slide my seat back a notch or two. Crash position, I guessed, but didn't have the courage to ask.

The strip on the Blue is private. It doesn't appear on aviation charts or in airport directories. Prearranged permission of the owner is the only way to land there.

What seemed most striking to me is that any pilot with a shred of self-preservation would even think of landing there. But then I haven't been fully converted to this religion called "Flying." In fact, I admit that I'm one of those people who believes if God had meant us to fly, he would have given us feathered wings.

Still I'm a glutton for adventure and unable to resist the lure of this escape machine. In Arizona there are plenty of dirt strips that are public and accessible. Indeed, there are enough to supply a lifetime of aerial adventures over a state that begs to be seen from the air.

Exploration of these strips naturally leads to a pastime known as airplane camping, which is much like any other camping except you carry your own tiedowns.

Take Tuweep, for instance. Bordering Grand Canyon National Park on the North Rim, this has a comfortingly longer, wider strip than the one on the Blue. It had been our first destination, after taking off from Flagstaff. That day the weather was Arizona at its best: "severe clear," as they say in the world of aerial meteorology. The air was smooth as glass, creating that strange sensation of being suspended on a string.

Once airborne, Michael fiddled with knobs, adjusting the fuel mixture and the propeller. All the instruments on the panel oil temperature, oil pressure, tachometer, and manifold pressure read as they should. As always, my ears were finely tuned to the intonation of the engine. At the slightest change, I could feel myself stiffen, eyes searching for a flat place to land should the need suddenly arise.

On the western horizon, the blue

Sky Trails

humps of the Pine Mountains a local term for mounts Emma, Logan, and the highest, Trumbull stood out nearly 100 miles distant. Below us the Coconino Plateau was finally broken by the deep gash of Cataract Canyon, whose axis we flew along on our way across the Colorado River to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Our friend Roger, accompanying us on this first leg, was behind us somewhere in his 140; we radioed that we would meet him at Tuweep. While Michael photographed out the open window, I held the yoke and practiced that most elementary technique: straight-and-level flight. It was pretty easy on such a fine day, and I felt fairly accomplished. But I don't fool myself, for this was not flying. Flying is maintaining control in a stiff crosswind landing, keeping track of pesky 747s hot on your tail at Sky Harbor International Airport, or setting down in a cow pasture after your plane has lost its power. Scooting alongside Tuckup Canyon, we turned west for the descent into Tuweep. We buzzed the ranger station, hoping someone would be around to offer us a ride to the Rim, nearly seven miles from the strip. I had been to the Rim Rim overlook at Toroweap one of the scariest places in Arizona and had a vertiginous experience. I crawled up to the edge of the canyon and peered over a 3,000-foot cliff down at Lava Falls, raging on the Colorado River. On that trip, I was honored to meet John Riffey, the National Park Service ranger who parked his venerable Super Cub Pogo at the Tuweep Airport. John first came to Tuweep in 1942 and was a living legend to all who knew him; he died in 1980 and is buried there in the valley that was his home for nearly 40 years. The airport directory informed us that Tuweep is an unattended dirt strip, 3,560 feet long, with a notice: "CAUTION. Watch for livestock on runway Bushes to 6 feet high growing up through the runway at various locations Numerous rodent holes." Sounded like our kind of place.

"Tuweep International," announced the sign hanging from the picnic ramada, "North Concourse, Gate 1." This was pretty swanky, picnic table and all. But in any other way, it was like most dirt strips in Arizona: no fuel, no water, no rest rooms, no lights, no nothing.

Sky Trails.

We came supplied with the necessities: sleeping bags, Coleman stove, food, water, maps, survival gear, and waste-disposal provisions. In the absence of any facilities, etiquette demands a “you fly it in, you fly it out” ethic.

For dinner we panfried steaks on the Coleman and dressed them with a side of beans. At sunset we sipped tea, pulled up the collars of our jackets, and crawled into the tent to read a book aloud.

Before I closed my eyes, I saw the right-handed crescent moon, melting like butter behind the Pine Mountains.

In the morning, we were again airborne, soaring a few hundred feet above the lonely Arizona Strip, seeing occasional evidence of mining, ranching, and timbering, the region's economic mainstays.

We gained altitude to fly over the large green swell of the Kaibab Plateau, a fresh dusting of snow reminding us of the time of year.

Our stomachs put a temporary halt to exploration. Skimming the edge of the Vermilion Cliffs, we set down at Cliff Dwellers Lodge, near Marble Canyon, for breakfast. As soon as we landed, a dalmatian, whose name we soon learned is Spark Plug, trotted over. The dog's owner drove up, and Michael knew who she was even before he met her.

“Are you Connie Tibbitts?” he asked.

“Sure am,” she said a little quizzically. Connie has been part of the general aviation scene in Arizona for a long time. A pilot and mechanic, she had just returned from flying cargo in Alaska. She was headed for her blue and white Luscombe to grease the wheel bearings but hospitably took the time to run us up to the café.

Later in the trip, hunger again dictated our itinerary. In central Arizona we knew of a fine Mexican restaurant within walking distance of a strip.

Just as we landed, the welcoming party pulled up. A former airport manager, saddle-bronc rider, and miner, this gentleman was coming out to visit his most beloved possession: a 1946 Globe Swift, hangared in a slightly rusted corrugated-metal building beside the airstrip.

Shafts of sunlight leaked through the holes in the building. Stacked to the rafters were bags of aluminum cans, the sale of which furnished gas money for the plane. The Swift, a low-winged silver ship made for a while after World War II, is listed in A Field Guide to Airplanes as a “rare” bird. With a long screwdriver in his big hands, the proud pilot pointed out the many modifications he made to the plane over the years. There were 6,500 hours of flying experience talking, so Michael listened attentively to every word.

We finally ate our late lunch, then strolled back to the strip. And there he was, back to check on the dead battery in his Swift. He allowed, too, that he always likes to see a taildragger take off. “I'm no spring chicken anymore,” the 74 year old reminded us as he kicked the tires on the Buzzard and gave us our send-off. “Remember to fly low and slow,” he joked as we taxied out, “and come back again.” Our last stop was a strip by the Verde River. Along the way, the sun shed a golden glow on the Superstitions and Mazatzals. Boat wakes streaked Bartlett Lake, and the beveled mesas of the rough Verde country stretched out in front of us.

On final approach, the setting sun struck us between the eyes and blacked out the strip. “Can you see any better than I can?” I queried hopefully. Michael said yes but later admitted that he more or less echolocated in, using a particular saguaro to guide the landing.

The sharp two-note whistle of a curvebilled thrasher greeted us as we stepped out into the warmth. This is Arizona: saguaro-paloverde forest classic Sonoran Desert its rubbly ground littered with the dry skeletons of cacti; its air heavy with the sweet smell of flowers. Seductive as a tropical paradise.

There was just enough time to weave our way down to the river. And what a river, this Verde, bearing that gift in the desert: perennial water. The banks were lined with willows, cottonwoods, and cattails, all atwitter with red-winged blackbirds. After a quick bath, we headed back to camp and the airplane. Along the way we met some hunters glassing the opposite hillside. Daybreak tomorrow would mark the opening day of deer season, a good time for us to head home.

Just after dark, javelinas snuffled in the shrubs near our heads, and we giggled at the thought of how surprised they must be to find us there.That night the sky held us captive the Milky Way stretching across its midsection in a cloud of stars; the poignant blinking lights of silent airplanes passing overhead, on their way to a civilized airport somewhere.

Richard Bach wrote that when a person can “move himself through the halls of cloud in the day and travel from star to star in the night, then he can watch with knowing and does not have to imagine what it would be like to walk those halls and those stars.”I think now I know of those halls and stars.