1:55 P.M.
After lunch. Stuck waiting.
YOU DIDN’T HAVE TO be a brain surgeon to see my growing frustration. We should have been out of here hours ago.
For the last few hours, two older private pilots, the fixed-base operators in Susanville, had tried to help us get information regarding the weather directly in our path. “Brian, let me call the Mountain Home tower again. I know you’re trying to figure out a plan. Let’s find out one more time exactly what they are getting on the ground.”
Susanville, California. An off-the-beaten-path California town that bordered Nevada. Stopping here was supposed to be simply a planned fuel stop; that’s all.
We left Lodi in great skies, full of anticipation of getting to Mountain Home on schedule.
I flew us on a straight northeast vector. Southeast of Sacramento. Right over top of Auburn. East of Oroville, skirting northward up the western edge of the Sierra Nevada mountain range—beautiful, tree-covered land, once traveled by pioneers seeking a new life in the Golden State.
You have to pay attention when flying over mountains, especially those like the Sierra Nevadas, which ranged anywhere from 9000 to 14,000-plus feet. Unlike the San Joaquin Valley, where the land is flat and the air so smooth that LIMA could fly practically by herself, wind currents around mountain ranges are something else. It’s a good idea to have barf bags within reach.
Sure enough, 40 minutes into our flight, as we got to the mountains, we encountered big, bulky cumulus clouds, leftovers from the weather system that had dumped rain all over Sacramento but was now heading east. The ride was bumpy but, for me, pretty normal stuff.
Turbulence is simply a fact of mountain flying. Anyone who has flown commercially knows all too well when the pilot’s voice comes over the speakers, “Please buckle your seat belts,” that the ride could get bumpy. However, two advantages that jets have over small aircraft are their size and the fact that they fly much higher, some 20,000-30,000 feet, at altitudes above the stirring currents caused by mountains.
Mountain turbulence in a small plane could be unnerving. Imagine being in the very front seat of an invisible roller coaster. Up. Up. Up. Then, ugh, free fall. The loss of hundreds of feet, maybe a thousand feet, in seconds. Sometimes your plane gets drawn toward a mountain but is suddenly slapped away.
Wild. You feel like pennies in a soda can. The experience can get the best of anyone.
Reaching the Sierra Nevadas, we started getting our fair share of jerks, drops, and bounces. Jayann kept her calm while Heather tried to sleep in the back, having wisely taken some Dramamine to fight motion sickness. They were probably a little scared, but nothing was saying to me, “We have to stop this flight and land now.”
Nah. Didn’t bat an eye.
I was no newcomer pilot. At 16, seeing that my dad had been a pilot and I respected him, I said, “Why not me?” So one afternoon I went over to our local one-horse airfield in Rio Linda and talked one of the old pilots into taking me up in his plane.
No seconds flat, I was hooked.
That night I plopped down at the dinner table, as independent teenagers do, a little full of myself and what I had done. Then I made the big announcement. “I flew my first plane today.”
Talk about upsetting the apple cart. Mom could not believe her ears. “You did what!” Dad, saying nothing, just grinned from ear to ear.
“I am going to get my license.” End of discussion. Please pass the peas.
From that day on, whenever I could afford it, I would take a flying lesson or rack in an hour or two in the air, working my way toward my private license. At one point, I hit the jackpot and was able to learn from an instructor who was a former Air Force pilot. I would ask him, “How do we do…?” And he would know how to do it. Barrel rolling. Loops. Spins. Stalls. Snap rolls. Spirals. Like Top Gun. So cool. He was an exceptional pilot who taught me a lot.
But married with kids, I was years into our marriage without having completed what was necessary to get my pilot’s license. Jayann realized that unless we did something I was never going to get the job done. “You know, you need to finish this,” she said flat out. “Honey, we are going to make the financial commitment to enable you to get your license.”
No ifs, ands, or buts.
Jayann was right. She had just graduated from dental hygiene school, and we were used to living on my salary alone. If we devoted her paychecks to my flying, I would finally get to the finish line. The time was right.
In 2002, the dream came true. I finished logging the hours, passed the tests, and became certified. Although I was not instrument rated, meaning I was not permitted to fly in clouds or any condition including rain that prevented me from seeing the ground, I was a pilot. Free to fly when I wanted. Able to go up into the air by myself.
There was only one slight wrinkle.
I had to rent a plane every time I wanted to fly and, as the months ticked by, renting became a major inconvenience. You had to nail down rental times, and there were restrictions (if you go more than three months without renting, most airports will make you fly with an instructor to assure your competency) that only added to the expense.
Once again, my love of flying was sputtering.
What I didn’t know was that Jayann was already one step ahead of me. Without me knowing, she was hunting for a plane to buy for me, rather rare among spouses of private pilots. With my fortieth birthday on the horizon, the woman had a plan.
Whenever I would window shop, looking at airplanes for sale, Jayann would say, “I’m sorry, Brian, but there is no way we can afford a plane, not with Tabitha in college.” However, behind the scenes, Jayann was actually hunting for one, having the time of her life, learning about models, specifications, and costs, and asking a million questions of dental patients who were pilots or mechanics.
What a sneaky lady.
On my fortieth birthday, there she was. A 1966 Cessna 172 Skyhawk. A four-seater. Super bright yellow. She had 145 horsepower with a cruising speed of 120 mph. Tail number N4640L. The perfect plane for a guy like me. Used but rock solid. Not so expensive that it broke the bank.
I named her LIMA. Pilots use words for the sounds of letters spoken over the radio. The word for “l” is lima (pronounced “lee-mah”). Jayann liked the sound so much, I named the plane after it.
Now I could fly anytime. And we did. Small trips here and there. Mendocino. Points south. Up to our family’s cabin in Northern California. Hundred dollar hamburger trips. Every time I rolled that plane out of the hangar and saw the N4640L tail number with the 40 (my fortieth birthday) and 64 (the year I was born), I would remember what my wife had done because she loved me.
LIMA was my release valve, my getaway—important for someone in an occupation such as firefighting. LIMA brought me enjoyment and freedom, and took me to a beautiful place far above all of the world’s emergencies and tragedy.
Small wonder I got teased about having a mistress. In some ways, LIMA was. I knew every inch of her, spending hours at the hangar, wiping her down, tinkering with whatever I could do legally as a pilot. I simply loved that plane and my wife for this gift.
Sure. LIMA was far from new, dating back to 1966, but it was not uncommon for a plane that age to still be flying. Some planes in the air date back to pre–World War II days, and every year, as required by law, LIMA was given a detailed inspection by a certified FAA mechanic, a guy who went through everything—motor, frame and airframe, nose to tail, top to bottom, removing every one of the 30 inspection plates, checking the cables, and looking for any sign of corrosion.
Some guys do golf. Others are hunters or boaters. I fly.
A great day for me is to hang out at the airport. Tinker around in the hangar. Eat lunch. Talk to the mechanic or another pilot. Watch the skydivers who fly out of the Lodi Airport. Take LIMA up for an hour and come back.
This plane meant the world to me. She had a name. My wife had bought her for me.
In the private pilot world, other guys would be shocked when I told them how often I went to the plane. It is rare for a wife to show that much support toward her husband. Nine times out of ten, they would say, “Hey, does your wife have a sister?”
After hitting turbulence along the Sierra Nevadas, we were ready for our pit stop—one I had already planned—in Susanville, California.
Nestled in a beautiful valley, Susanville is one of the last airports with services before heading east/northeast over the bulk of the Sierra Nevada range. At 4258 feet, Susanville has its roots in the gold rush era of the 1840s. Settlers coming west, looking to find an alternative to Donner Pass, established a route running north from the Humboldt River through Susanville to Shasta City.
What it offered us was a smooth landing, fuel, and a chance to stretch our legs. It was supposed to be a 20-minute break. Tabitha was expecting us for lunch in Mountain Home, and given the delay with the battery, I wanted to stay on schedule so that we would make it there on time.
Landing in Susanville, we hit rain, nothing hard but some sprinkles. We landed, tied LIMA down, and walked into the flight office, one of the better ones with indoor restrooms. They also had a computer to check on weather, along with wall maps for visual referencing.
The two guys behind the counter were great. I walked up and asked, “What’s it looking toward Mountain Home, Idaho?”
“Oh, not so good right now.”
My heart sank. Earlier in the week, I had checked the weather in Mountain Home directly with Tabitha. “Warm days and clear skies” was her answer but, now, today, May 26, the forecast had shifted to the possibility of thunderstorms.
“How about Winnemucca?”
“Sorry. Same deal in Winnemucca.” In so many words, don’t come right now because we have a really bad storm coming through.
Not on the plan. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. I had studied weather reports for months in advance, looking for trends. I had generated three different flight plans with Susanville as a possible planned stop, along with several other contingencies including Winnemucca, Nevada. Going there would entail backtracking southeast, but Winnemucca had accommodations should we have to stay overnight. Now that looked out.
I walked out to the plane and gave the news to Jayann and Heather. “What do you want to do? Wait this out or head back home?”
Jayann responded, “Let me call Tabitha to tell her that we are going to be delayed.”
All right. Okay. Let’s give it an hour.
We went back inside the flight office to wait. Learning that one of the pilots flew for hire during the fire season, I started swapping stories with him about firefighting. The hour flew by fast.
“Brian, the weather is actually starting to look good at Winnemucca.”
Good deal. Jayann, Heather, and I got back into the plane, ready to roll. But when I turned the key, nothing happened. Once again, the battery didn’t have enough juice to turn the engine over. I couldn’t believe it. Another delay. One more time, I had to pull out the charger and charge the battery.
I was beyond frustration. All my months of planning had gone right out the window.
“Mom, what’s happening?”
“Honey, the battery needs to be charged again.”
“What!”
Tabitha’s disappointment was right on the surface. Understandably so. All of her plans for lunch with us were out the window too.
“We also need to wait for the weather in your direction to improve.”
“But the sky is clear. The weather’s warm here.”
Then I heard Jayann say, “Tab, we might have to turn around and go home.”
Silence.
Bottom line, we would have to fly 274 nautical miles to reach Mountain Home, but it was only 134 back to Lodi. If we got delayed much longer, heading toward Mountain Home could result in us flying in the dark over mountains. Not a smart idea with weather possibly going sideways on us.
More silence.
“Mom, if you don’t make it this weekend, maybe I should postpone my trip out to California. Given our move on base soon, I could get more packing done if I stayed here and got home just in time for the Wicked performance.
“I want you to get here today,” Tabitha added, “but, if we have to come up with a different plan, that’s okay.”
The only “different plan” would be Tabitha making the long drive to California by herself with her dog. Something no one wanted, especially me.
“Tab, while the battery charges, we’re going to get some lunch in Susanville. If after lunch the battery holds the charge, we will take a look at the weather both on the ground and in the air. At that point we will decide whether to keep heading toward Mountain Home or not.”
“Okay. Talk to you then.”
I put the battery on the charger, and we headed back inside, hoping the guys had a courtesy car they could lend us.
Sure enough. An old, cigarette-smelling Ford Taurus. As we chugged into town, I could tell that Heather was at the end of the line. Dead battery. Mountain turbulence. Dead battery again. Strike three. She was done with flying to Mountain Home.
“Mom, how far is Susanville from Elk Grove?” she asked.
“About four hours.”
Heather was thinking through a way to get home. Maybe her boyfriend would be willing to come get her. It would mean long hours of waiting and driving, but at least her feet would be on the ground.
We found a small diner, and as the minutes passed, Jayann and I were glad to have this time with Heather. She had struggled being on her own. She had recently moved back home for a bit.
Watching Heather order her lunch, I kept thinking that I should say something. She had soup, a sandwich, and more. Big lunch. Back of an aircraft. Mountain turbulence. Not good. But I held my tongue. The last thing I wanted was Heather feeling like I was criticizing her.
Wasn’t all that long. A few more hours and we were back at the airport, checking the weather again. I had LIMA refueled, figuring full tanks would give us an extra margin of safety given that we might end up heading toward Winnemucca.
Still, I was hedging my bets on Mountain Home. “Clear skies” were the continual reports from Tabitha. I double-checked the wall map regarding the distance from Susanville to Mountain Home. Doing some quick calculations, I saw that flying a direct route would shave off some time. Should take us less than two hours.
“Would you check the weather one more time on Winnemucca and Mountain Home?” I asked the guys at the counter.
“Winnemucca is not too good, but you should be able to make it through to Mountain Home. The front is moving east pretty fast, and they are seeing some good breaks in the weather.”
Perfect. That settles it.
I put the battery back in the plane. Whap! She fired right up. Even better, with the air currents moving east, I would have a significant tailwind, one that would slingshot us toward Mountain Home. Possibly even ahead of schedule.
“Let’s roll, girls.”
Heather got back into the plane without a word, hesitant and conflicted. Although she did not want to get back into the air, Heather put on a good face, not wanting to be the one to call it quits, disappointing everyone.
I taxied LIMA down the runway. Altitude and temperature were significant factors on performance. At this elevation, I wanted to make sure that we left Susanville sooner than later because when air heats up at high altitudes, your plane will not want to leave the ground. And again we were heavy.
Beautiful. LIMA took off without a care in the world.
Sierra Nevadas. Owyhees. Soon we would be home free. Yeah. With this tailwind acting like a slingshot, two hours max. Sweet.