My Photo Book

Click here to view this photo book larger

Shutterfly photo books are the new way to preserve your memories. Create your own today.

Simply Economical

While there has been much emphasis of late on the ideas of recycling, restoring, and re-using a lot of our "stuff" in the name of sustainability, sometimes it just happens naturally.   Especially here in the North Woods of Maine since the mill closures forced a lot of people in the area to use their creativity to sustain a livlihood.

Eight years ago when I bought my "camp" on South Twin Lake I discovered a need for few essential maintenance tools and pieces of equipment including a lawn mower.  The new friends I had made area pointed me in the direction of the supermarket bulletin boards and a couple of local guys who liked to fix stuff like mowers.  With very little effort I soon found and purchased a rather old mower in good running order for the sum of fifteen dollars cash.  I had half expected it to fail on the first or second use but to my surprise it performed well for the whole first summer I used it.  At the end of the season I put it away in one of my sheds and forgot about it until the following spring when the lawn needed to be cut.  Again, I had my doubts about the mower ever starting again, and again I was surprised when it burst into life on the first pull.  This cycle continued for another seven years so this year when for the first time it failed to start I was a little surprised.  I had come to depend on it's unfailing reliability.  

I pondered my small dilemma - should I pay to have a fifteen dollar mower fixed or just take it to the dump and get a new one.  It owed me nothing and paying $160 for a new one after seven years did not seem too bad an idea.  But then.... maybe I should give it one last chance before casting it off the the junk metal heap.  By now I had my list of "go to guys" for just about everything.  I had my plummer, my construction guy, my garage mechanic, and the guy who fixed my boat, all of whom could be depended upon to do whatever it took to get something working again when it failed.   My "boat guy" had really surprised me when the transom on my old 1985 Crestliner cracked and began to come adrift from the rest of the boat.  I was ready to call it quits with the boat but thought I'd take it to Lou anyway to take a look at it but feeling pretty sure he would tell me that it was beyond repair.  He didn't.  Instead he said he could fix it for about four hundred bucks which would include a reinforcing the transom with steel plates and caulking all the cracks.  I invested in his belief and today the boat is still running serving it's purpose.

So I threw the lawn mower in the back of my truck and took it in to town for Lou to see what he thought.  Lou has the reputation of being able to fix just about anything that has an engine, that floats, or that travels on snow.   And sure enough, Lou said he could fix the mower.  "Just leave it here and come back tomorrow" was about all he had to say.  So I did.  He cleaned out the carburettor and rebuilt it and put in a new filter and the old mower was back to starting on first pull again.  The cost - forty bucks.  As I drove home with the mower I couldn't help but smile knowing that I'd clearly done my part to keep equipment working instead of trashing it.  The fact is that people around here do it for one simple reason - it makes a lot of economic sense.  Not only that it serves the local economy.  People like Lou have a purpose and an income.  People like me save money and get stuff working again.  Its simply economical.

Fly, Fish, Feast!

Why would you fly for four hours, drive for three, hike for another three, just to fish for one hour?   For me this past weekend,  the answer is clear - a good catch of native brook trout.

First though, lets clear up some misconceptions.  Native brook trout found in northern Maine are not "trout" like you think of trout.  In fact they are a salmonoid with reddish colored flesh, a legacy of the last ice age.  They are closely related to arctic char but are much much smaller, sweeter, and ever more succulent.  The first time you taste one you will immediately recognize the difference.  These fish will only survive in pristine waters.  Pollution will kill them.  And no, in the ponds we fish, they are not stocked.  These fish spawn and engage their life cycle right there in the clear cold mountain pond fed by natural springs and snow melt. 

Heading to our secret pond last weekend (a lot of Mainers don't even tell their best friends where they fish), we hiked in to find the single campsite there occupied and the canoe that goes with it, spoken for by the campers.  After we chatted a while around their breakfast campfire, they generously offered us the use of the canoe until we got our bag limit.  From past experience that could take anything from  an hour to a full day but our campers assured us it would not take long today.

They were right.  We paddled to the middle of the pond and let the canoe drift down towards the end while we fished.  In Maine a pond is usually big enough to be called a lake in most other parts of the world, and this pond is like that.  It took us about an hour to drift from one end to the other and in that time we had nine fish.  Several small ones were released as it was clear from the outset that this was going to be a good day and fish of 10 to 12 inches (large for native brook trout in this area), were in abundance and easy to catch.   We paddled back a little to get one more fish and have our bag limit of 5 fish each.

We returned the canoe, hiked out to our truck, and got back to camp (aka "house on the lake") just after lunch.  This gave us the afternoon to relax, clean our catch, and prepare for our traditional evening feast of pan fried whole brook trout, fiddleheads, and potatoes accompanied by a bottle of Oyster Bay (NZ) Sauvignon Blanc.  Once more we had achieved what we had come for and toasted our success - fishing, friendship, and feasting on one of the most edible species of fish I've ever tasted.  Priceless!

A Most Memorable Meal

It was back in the early eighties. I was between jobs and had taken a year off from all work. One connection led to another and I found myself living on the Greek island of Lesvos in the village of Molivos.

 In those days, well before the Euro, it was a very inexpensive place to live and the lifestyle was just what I needed at the time. From early spring until late into the summer the climate was idyllic. It rarely rained, the wind rarely increased too much above a soft breeze, and the sun on the blue water of the Aegean Sea contrasting the many white buildings perched on the village hillside, made for a very relaxed and sensuous vibe. At night, at one of the three tavernas in the village, there was always good food and wine.

Dining out every night of the week didn’t seem to strain the budget in any way at all and was the main event of the day. I’d also leaned to speak and understand enough Greek to get by and enjoyed conversing with my new found Greek friends as well as the dozen or so long-term expats mostly from northern Europe. There were very few short term visitors in those days and the village life was as intriguing as the backdrop was appealing.

My daily routine was pretty simple. I would sleep until I was awakened by the smell of fresh pastries coming from the village bakery just below the window of my little two story Turkish style house. After a pastry or cheese pie from the bakery with a glass of water and a couple of cups of Greek coffee it would be time to head for one of the nearby beaches. My favorite was Eftalou about 4 kilometers away, and with the whole day at my disposal, it was a pleasant walk. If anyone passed in a vehicle on the narrow one lane dirt road they would always offer a ride.

On one such day at Eftalou I found myself in conversation John and Arianna. John came from England and although he’d lived in the village for several years spoke very little Greek. His friend Arianna came from Athens and probably because of her education and wealth had more in common with the foreigners than the local Greeks and was of great help to John as an interpreter and mouthpiece. A little later we were joined by Heinz who was a house painter from Munich who came to Molivos between jobs and had a residence there. He was a master of simple living and could often be found walking among the rocks with a hand spear looking for an octopus for dinner. Eating was important to Heinz and he was often a great resource in that department.

“Hey, you all want to join me for lunch?” he asked.
It was already past noon, none of us had brought food with us, and we were thinking of heading back to the village.
“Where?” asked John.
“Have you been to the little outdoor taverna down towards Skala Skimania out on the point?” asked Heinz.
None of us had.
“How do we get there, Heinz?” asked Arianna.
“We can walk along the beach and there is a road near the beach further along. It’s probably 4 or 5 kilometers.”
“Sounds too far for my legs” said John.
With a little urging John soon gave way and we were all strolling down the beach. An hour later we were sitting at one of two outdoor tables next to a small shack that served as a kitchen next to an outdoor fire pit that made up the complete taverna. Janni, the owner,  greeted us as profusely. A jug of cold local retsina was placed on the table as we sat and admired the view.

We were surrounded by the sea on three sides and across a small bay could see a small fishing village. The coast of Turkey was clearly visible some twelve kilometers across to the East. Two umbrellas in the blue and white colors of the Greek flag shaded the long table and much of our bodies from the strong rays of the early afternoon sun. A small ginger cat fed on the scraps in a large fry pan beside the fire pit.

Janni asked if we were hungry. As each of us responded in some way he took mental notes of how much food he might need to prepare. There was no menu. Janni and his wife would decide what to bring to the table, when to bring it, and in what quantity. This was not new to me and was a custom practiced in several of the smaller tavernas on the island. Heinz who had been here before asked Janni if he had any “marides” to start with. A smile and a head gesture from Janni told us he had some. “Marides” are small fish something similar to what many of us might know as smelts although they taste so much better. The Greeks roll them in flour and fry them whole in virgin olive oil.

Janni’s wife came out the fire pit, shooed away the cat, picked up the large frying pan and banged it twice on a nearby rock before placing it over the grate on the fire pit and pouring oil into it. I looked at John who also noticed what was happening and who despite his three years on the island seemed to hold on to many of his English ways. He squirmed a little but then shrugged and chugged down half a glass of his retsina. Heinz and Arianna also noticed but were obviously unaffected. I looked at the cat, now in the distance. It appeared to be in good health and free of any lethal diseases so I raised my glass shouting “Iassos!” and downed some retsina too.

I’m not sure if it was the sun, the seascape, the company, or the retsina, but those marides were the best I’d ever tasted. And that was just the beginning of a most memorable meal.  A day I will remember as the one when I didn't really care that a cat had cleaned the frying pan before it was used to cook my meal.

A MOUNTAIN OF MY OWN

When I signed the trail register at the beginning of the Sentinel Mountain Trail at Kidney Pond, I noticed I was the only person so far signing out of that trail today. I wondered if it would stay that way.

It did. For the next four hours, the trail and the mountain were mine. I had hiked Sentinel several years ago and before I’d ever hiked Katahdin. It appealed to me then because of its relative ease compared to other mountains in Baxter State Park, according to the guide book. Little did I know that then that there are really no “easy” mountains in the Park. Even Sentinel at less than 2000ft, is a solid hour and half of hiking on the typical BSP trail of mostly roots and rocks. Sentinel is a little deceiving though.

The first few miles are not very steep. In fact there are some flat sections around Kidney Pond, some gentle ups, and also a few downs near a couple of stream crossings. But like all large chunks of granite in the area with the name "mountain" attached, the last haul to the summit calls for a few pauses to breathe and to let a little heart pounding subside before continuing.

This time, I chose Sentinel because I wanted to see the view again and get some pictures from the summit. Sentinel gets its name from the fact that it stands like a sentinel in the south west corner, guarding the other mountains deeper into the Park. There was the usual morning fog which I’d assumed would burn off by the time I reached the top.

Realizing I had the mountain to myself gave rise to both excitement and a little trepidation. Hiking alone always adds a little more excitement to the adventure and knowing that nobody else was out there on the same trail added a little more. Some say you shouldn’t hike alone in the wilderness and I can understand that perspective, but don’t always choose to abide by it. Sure, you could have a heart attack, or fall and break your leg, or get attacked by a bear and no one would be there to help or to save you. To me it’s a simple matter of calculating the risks, managing them as well as possible, and enjoying the rewards that come from a little more risk exposure. Even though I’m no longer a spring chicken, as a pilot I’m required to have an annual physical. I’m told my heart health is pretty good for my age. Now if you are on heart medication, or are an overweight smoker, or have done no physical exercise in the past several months that you can recall, then yes, you’d better take a companion on your hike. As for bears, I figure that if a bear wants to eat someone, she’s just as likely to go for a menu of two as a menu of one. All a companion will achieve is to perhaps be first on the menu and give you a little extra time.

Now having said that partly in jest, I strongly believe the chances of being attacked by a bear in the Maine North Woods is pretty remote. I’ve seen several bears over the years and never once did I feel I was in danger. There are a few simple rules I follow that seem to work. Don’t get between a bear and her cub, and give the bear the room and time to move. Mostly they will amble off and leave the trail to you.

Given that the trails in the area are mostly rocks and roots with the odd stream crossing and several muddy patches, you really do have to focus on where you put your feet to avoid injury. This is not the place to hike with your head up. Sounds simple enough, but a friend who works in triage at the local hospital tells me that most falls on the trail happen because people simply don’t look where they are placing their feet. When asked how it happened the reply often includes “I was looking at ..(a bird, the trees, the trail up ahead, my brother coming behind me……) and I didn’t see the (rock or root) and I fell.” I’ve done enough rock hopping in Maine to know that if I want to look around, I stop and look. When my feet are moving so are my eyes but not too far from where my feet are landing. There’s always the danger of slipping on slippery rocks too, but the most dangerous is wet feet landing on what appears to be a smooth dry rock. I’m always aware of how wet my boot soles might be and take extra precaution when I know they are wet.

I see a lot of newbie hikers trying to imitate the pros with their shiny new hiking poles. Let me tell you, unless you plan on doing some serious long distance hiking, you do not need hiking poles to day hike most of the mountains in Baxter State Park. If anything they are more of a hindrance and are totally useless on mountains like Katahdin. On the other hand they do make an excellent lightning rod when strapped to the back of your pack. But if you really want to get struck by lightning you might as well also put a sheet of aluminum foil inside the back of your pants. Then when you do get zapped you’ll cover five miles of that ten mile hike in a single heart beat. Forgive my Maine sense of humor that I've acquired from my friends at the local watering hole.

Jokes aside, a better alternative to poles is a single solid staff. My preference is a five foot length of birch sapling. It serves to steady my upper body when I need a little more support but leaves my other hand free to grab tree trunks or rocks as well. And as for lightning, people do get hit. The odds are in your favor but I still always check the forecast before I hike and make sure I get below tree line if there is a storm.

The most serious danger in my book, weather hiking alone or with others, is the risk of hypothermia. Several people over the years have fallen prey to this one. It’s important to stay hydrated and to carry more than enough water for your hike. You also need appropriate clothing. Avoid cottons and go for polyester which doesn’t cling to your body when wet and make you cold. Carry rain gear and some extra dry clothing. I always take at least an extra pair of socks, an extra shirt, and a flashlight, in a dry sack, just in case. The temperature on the tops of many mountains can be ten to fifteen degrees colder than at the bottom. If circumstances do arise that you’ll need to spend a night on the mountain, make sure you’ll survive it.

So much for the risks of hiking alone and how to manage them. What about the rewards? For me the best part of hiking alone is that I get to choose my own pace. I don’t have to play catch up, I don’t have to stop and wait, and I get to feel my stride and go at the pace that is just right for me. I noticed today on Sentinel that my pace varied. When my second wind kicked in, I felt that wonderful feeling of a surge coming into my pace. When I began to feel the strain of the final accent to the summit, I noticed myself slow and breathe more deeply to accommodate. They say that everyone hikes their own hike, regardless. To me it just seems easier when hiking alone. I also enjoy being with my own thoughts without interruption. Like anything, too much of this would probably not be a good thing. For most of us though, I’d guess we don’t get enough of it. For me, when hiking alone, I begin to actually notice what I’m thinking about. I become a witness to my own racing mind and get to see all the things that seem to come to the top of the tree. I guess this is a form of meditation in a crude sort of way. And it works like it too. After a while I see the speed of my mind beginning to slow and I start to become more present to each moment and more present to what is around me.

On this particular hike I began to notice the different varieties of mushrooms I encountered along the trail. Being alone, I could take the time to stop for a closer look if I wanted. I even took a few photos with my digital camera to show a mushroom savvy friend. I know there are basically three kinds of mushroom. There are those you can eat with your steak, there are those you feed to your enemies with their steak, and there are the kind that will provide an inexpensive trip without needing to leave home. I don’t trust myself to know the difference so when I hike and see mushrooms I look at them for their visual appeal and not their food potential. Perhaps if I learn a little more about them it could add a little more excitement to future hiking adventures. After all, I do like mushrooms with my steak.

I did stop to pick the blueberries though. Being the second week in August, and after an abundantly wet several weeks (some say too wet), it was a perfect season from Maine’s wild blueberries. Around the summit of Sentinel I discovered a huge patch of heavily laden bushes exposed to the southern sun. The only container I had was an empty water bottle which I quickly filled with blueberries. I then went about devouring as many berries and I could possibly load up on. This was lunch. Anything I’d brought in my pack could wait till later.

The clouds had lifted a little but not enough for a clear view of Katahdin and its surrounding ridges. I shot a few photos anyway and began my descent, slowly at first to let the blueberries settle. On the way down I noticed that slightly exhilarating feeling I sometimes get when I hike. Some say its endorphins kicking in. I don’t know what causes it but I do recognize it. It’s a feeling like “all is well with life and with the world around me”. When I feel it gives rise to a litany of appreciation. I’m grateful for my health, for my life and all I have, my wife and family, my friends, and this great place in Maine where I’m now so fortunate to be.

The distance passes quickly now and soon I find myself back close to the shore of Kidney Pond. I know I’m close as I see the sky through the trees and hear the sound of the loons on the pond. From the shore of Kidney Pond there is an awesome view across the water to Katahdin’s bulk planted firmly behind it. I love this view and even though I have several photographs of it, I pause to take yet another. As I sign out at the trail register, I add one more gratitude to my mental list. Thanks for giving this mountain to just me today.

Calendoon

This story was told to me one of my colleagues when I was a school teacher in the Outback. It is supposedly a true story and reflects the unique sense of humor of the Aussie in the bush.

Calendoon
by Michael Lee

“My turn!” said Will grabbing the rifle from his brother Sean’s hand. He filled the clip with another half dozen rounds and took careful aim while resting the rifle barrel on the window frame of the Holden Ute – the Aussie equivalent of a GMC pickup truck. The sun shimmered off the red dirt of the burnt landscape in this arid part of the outback. The boys had been on a weekend jaunt from Brisbane, a city some three hundred miles distant on the coast, and a place from where most people had rarely ventured this far into the heart of their country.

“Who’d wanna go out there?” they’d say. “That’s just a place for sheep, abos, and ‘roos!”

Will and Sean, both in their late teens, had heard their Uncle talk about his experiences in the outback when he was a sheep drover in his younger days. “There’s more bloody kangaroos out there than you could poke a stick at!” he had told them. So they had saved some money for a few paydays, borrowed their uncles 222 semi-automatic rifle, and headed out for a weekend of ‘roo hunting. It had been a long drive - two hundred miles to the end of the sealed road and then another hundred on dirt roads. There was so little traffic that you could spot an oncoming vehicle some 10 or miles away by the cloud of dust on the horizon.

After driving all night they had seen a few ‘roos on the morning of their arrival and had gotten off a few shots but from much too far away to be able to exact a kill. As a result most of the remaining kangaroos within miles had heard the shots and taken off. They remembered though that Uncle George had told them they needed a spotlight and the dark of night to be able to get close enough to get off a head shot and take down a giant red.

“Geez, we’ll just have to kill some time till tonight, Will,” said Sean.
“Yeah, mate. Would be good if we could get some sleep but it’s too bloody hot to sleep out here. Hey, look at that sign!”

They had just crossed a grid on the road with barbed wire fence stretching away from it on either side – a property boundary. A large white sign with bold red letters announced the name of the property they were entering. “CALENDOON” read the sign, some 200 yards distant. Had the boys done some research they would have known they were entering one of the largest sheep and cattle properties in South-West Queensland. In this part of the world public roads went through private property and single properties half the size of the state of Vermont were not uncommon.

Sean had pulled over to the side of the dirt road and grabbed the rifle from behind the seat. He took careful aim and fired blasting a hole just off center in one of the “O”s in the sign. A few more shots and a few more well placed holes in the “O” resulted. Will took his turn and placed a shot inside of the second “O” and was about to fire off his second shot when the boys noticed a cloud of dust approaching. Earlier in the day they had stopped to greet and chat with the occupants of other passing vehicles so were not surprised when Charlie pulled up and got out. Charlie was typical “cockie” as landowners in the outback were known. Even though he had barely turned forty his skin was bronzed and wrinkled from the sun. On his head he wore the wide brimmed felt hat, his shirt was brown with the two large chest pockets, and he his shorts were trim and neatly supported with belt and buckle. He wore the elastic sided riding boots with socks rising a few inches higher on his ankles.

“Gidday!” he greeted. “How ya goin? Orright?”

“Yeah, mate. Orrright!” Sean replied.

“Doin’ a bit o’ shootin’ are yez?” enquired Charlie.

“Yeah. Just killin’ a bit of time till we can get amongst ‘em tonight,” said Will.

“Nice lookin’ rifle ya got there!” said Charlie.

“Yeah. It’s our uncle’s. A semi-automatic,” offered Sean.

“Mind if I take a shot with ‘er?” asked Charlie.

“No worries mate! Go for it,” said Will, passing the rifle though the window of their Ute.

Charlie held the weapon in his hands for a few seconds appreciating its beauty and the feel of the wood trim around the barrel. He glanced at the clip to see three rounds available and one in the chamber. With a flick of his wrist he turned the end of the barrel back the way it had come and in through the window of the ute towards its roof over the driver’s head. With his finger on the trigger he squeezed off four quick shots, blasting four holes through the roof of the ute.

Will catapulted back into his brother’s lap amid the smoke and smell of burnt roof lining and torn metal.

“What the hell are you doin’ you stupid bastard? That’s our ute!” he exclaimed.

Charlie threw the rifle into his lap, and smiled as he pointed toward the “O”’s in Calendoon. “Yeah. And that’s my sign!”

He turned climbed back into his vehicle and drove away with a wave of his hand accompanied by a friendly “Gidday!”

Washing The Bird

First published in AOPA Pilot, (Dec 2006) the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Magazine with a circulation of over 400,000.

Washing the Bird
Soaping up flying memories
By Michael Lee

Washing an airplane is nothing like washing a car. You can't just take it to the drive-through and enjoy the thrill of soapy water squirting at your face behind the windshield, big roller brushes thrashing away, and the air dryer sweeping away the beads of water. Not only is this a job that has to be done by hand, but also most airplanes are a lot bigger than cars. They require special soaps and polishes that are kind to their aluminum skin, and they take a whole lot longer to wash. It can take all day if you are picky. I'm generally not.
I remember the kid who used to wash my airplane for me. If only he were still around. He had approached me one day at the airport and asked if he could wash my airplane, as he needed money for his flying lessons. "Sure," I said, "how much?"
He told me it would be 100 bucks.
"Wow! You must be either very good or very expensive," I recall saying to him at the time. This was back when avgas could still be bought for just more than a buck a gallon, not the four bucks or more a gallon it costs today, and an hour of flight training was around $45.
"I'm very careful and will do a good job," Tim politely informed me. And he did. It took him six hours and when he was finished Archer 53A hadn't looked so good in years. Tim would wash my airplane for me once or twice a year and always for the same price and with the same pleasing result. Sometimes I'd help out just for the heck of it, and marvel as I watched the way he focused on every move as he rubbed, squirted, polished, and buffed.
Mine wasn't the only airplane Tim washed. He built up a healthy clientele, paid for his flying lessons, and earned his private pilot certificate. Shortly afterward, he went off to an aviation college to become a professional pilot flying the big iron. Now he's a first officer for a major airline and probably no longer washes airplanes, although it wouldn't surprise me if one day at some hub airport I spotted Tim doing his preflight walk around a Boeing 737 with polishing cloth in hand. I missed him when he left and was never able to replace him. So the job came back to me. I was really no match for him, even though I'd studied his moves. A three-hour job is the best the airplane gets from me.
My mind wanders. It's too difficult to focus. I find myself thinking about other things — aviation things, to be sure — prompted by my proximity to my airplane, other airplanes, and the comings and goings at the not-so-busy little airport. When I'm washing my airplane, I'm feeding my passion for aviation, but not with the washing.
Today as I wash, I think of many things. Noticing the small chips in the paintwork on the tail, I'm reminded how they got there-a brush I had with some freezing rain on a flight last winter. How relieved I was to be able to escape the ice by finding warmer air above. There are some blackish bug remnants on the wing, and my mind goes back to a late-evening arrival in northern Maine in early summer and the black flies being thick enough to blur my visibility during landing.
My reverie is broken by the sound of engines. I watch a big twin-engine amphibious Grumman Goose whose pilot is practicing some takeoffs and landings. The beautiful, gray, ungainly bird struggles skyward with engines roaring, into the shimmering sunlight. I sigh in appreciation and bring my attention back to the bugs with the movement of soapy sponge on metal. For a few strokes I focus like Tim, but can't do it for long. Soon I'm recalling more wonderful moments from the past, moments that only being a pilot and owning an airplane could give me.
I recall the 7-year-old whose mom would bring her to the airport on weekends just to watch from the parking lot. One beautiful Sunday just like today, seeing them there as usual, I asked the youngster, "Would you like to go for a ride today?" The look on her face at that moment comes vividly back to me along with the sound of her hearty "Wow!" shortly afterward, as wheels left the ground and we were flying. I saw her mom in the backseat with tears of joy streaming down her face, watching as her daughter fulfilled a dream to fly. Just thinking about it now makes me smile. Sharing my passion in some ways far surpasses the act of engaging in it.
My sponge moves over the lights on the wing tips. In my mind's eye I see the lights blinking as I wing over New York City at 10,000 feet on a clear, crisp night in the fall, gazing at the lights ablaze below, spread out like a giant twinkling carpet. As I wipe the antennas under the belly I recall the feeling of having mastered the use of instruments they feed. How cool it is to experience the exhilaration and satisfaction of breaking out of a low overcast sky on an instrument approach just 300 feet above the end of the runway after spending hours surrounded by nothing but gray-to be guided to the runway solely by the navigation instruments with no visual reference to ground or horizon until the last few seconds of the flight. I revel for a moment in the trust, the training, and the patience it takes to pull that off.
The buffing is as complete as I want to make it, and I put the buckets, sponges, and cloths away. Three hours have passed quickly. My time with my thoughts has been enjoyable even if I haven't given the job at hand my undivided attention. The result probably wouldn't meet Tim's standards. I think about that some more and recall some other conversations I had with Tim. He was passionate too. But was his passion really about washing airplanes? In hindsight, I think not.
His conversation never revealed much excitement about flying here at this airport or about washing airplanes. But he talked a lot about airlines and Boeings and the Airbus, and the dream job he would have one day. His driving force was propelling him into the front seat of a jet and he would settle for nothing less. What is more, he knew what he needed to do to get there and he did it. My airplane was part of his ticket and he took very good care of that ticket. It was his passion to one day fly as a professional that gave him his focus. Washing my bird was an important steppingstone in Tim's overall flight plan, and so he gave it the same focus he would when he stepped into that jet. There was a mission to accomplish. Time spent remembering could wait. Buffing my airplane to perfection would help buy those future days that would fuel his memories. I hope he's somewhere up there right now building them.
I chuckle to myself as I come to the tentative conclusion that my difficulty in washing the bird comes not from my dislike of the job itself, nor does it come from my difficulty in focusing. When I'm shooting an approach in ugly weather or landing in a 20-knot crosswind I am very focused.
My airplane-washing mind drift comes simply because I am fortunate enough to have accumulated such great memories from aviation. I'm free to choose not to focus on earthly pursuits when I'm around airplanes. I can allow my thoughts to take over to fuel my passion and take me away from the task. I have nothing to lose by allowing it. Yet when I'm flying I can switch in an instant and become completely focused to the task at hand — even getting ahead of the airplane to be ready for what happens next. It's really just a choice for me to indulge my memories and be the half-hearted airplane washer I seem to be. After all, how could I enjoy washing my bird if it wasn't for the happy-memory logbook in my mind? Yet three hours are long enough to indulge it, no matter how good the memories. I head for home. Mission accomplished.
Michael Lee, AOPA 1153628, is an Australian-born freelance writer and private pilot who owns a 1979 Piper Archer.