A window into the past had been opened. The wagon trail below us was
undeniable proof that the great western stories were more than just
fiction. More than a John Wayne movie or a dime novel. We could
imagine the dust billowing up behind the winding column of wagons.
Warriors were watching from the ridges. Smoke signals rose from a far
mesa.

Rabbit Ears, Round Mountain, Mount Dora, Point of Rocks, Canadian
crossing. as the landmarks and waypoints passed slowly below us, we
used the "Santa Fe Trail by Air" as a tourist guide. My copilot wife
and I were discussing the events that had transpired at each of these
places. Perhaps the massacre at Wagon Mound. Or a deadly outbreak of
cholera. Then, what was that! My attention was instantly drawn back
into the cockpit! The engine had missed a beat. You know, the sound
you hear when you pull the mixture back just a tad too far when
searching for best power. The tach wavers almost imperceptibly. That'
s what this felt like. But I hadn't touched the mixture. I scanned
the gauges; oil pressure and temperature were okay, fuel in both
tanks, fuel pressure okay. Look for a landing sight dummy! There was
nothing below us but rock and arroyos. No fields, no roads, no flat
land at all. A glider pilot's worst nightmare. C'mon baby, don't
quit me now! I listened intently, ready to pull carb heat and switch
tanks at the next hiccup. A surge of adrenaline coursing through my
veins. Heart beat was racing. But the engine ran on. I looked over
at my copilot gazing out the window, mesmerized by the deep river
valley gouged downstream of Canadian crossing. She needed no
reassurance. One look at her face told me she'd heard nothing. I'd
heard nothing either. It was the same phenomenon many pilots have
experienced flying over a large lake. You subconsciously imagine the
worst. The Great Spirit had gotten the message across. Enjoy the
scenery, but don't get complacent. My scan now included looking for
suitable emergency landing sites with increased vigor. Confidence
slowly ebbed back into my soul. The Lycoming was running, No! purring
sweeter than ever, even at this high altitude. As fuel burned off she
became stronger, more frisky. I think the airplane was enjoying this,
too. I could almost hear her laughing at the startled look on my face
when I thought she was about to let me down.

Off in the distance a silver ribbon appeared. Not a river, a highway.
I-25! Civilization, an endless landing strip! Soon we were within
gliding distance. I wonder what the teamsters would have thought of
the diesel tractor trailers running down THAT trail. Will someday our
great grandchildren look down from a yet unimagined transportation
unit, and wonder in awe at the remnants of a super highway? The trail
paralleled the highway, crossing and re-crossing in spots. We passed
the point where the northern and southern routes joined together.
This was an area known for turbulence and mountain rotors. But the
winds weren't bad, and now we could make out towns in the distance.
Las Vegas, New Mexico was our next planned stop. I wanted to land and
explore the remnants of Fort Union. I wanted to walk in those ruts
down below to get a better idea of how deep they were. They were now
coming from several directions. You know the saying that all roads
lead to Rome. Well, in this case all ruts converged at Fort Union.
The trail is in many places, a series of trails, where teams had to
take detours to find better grass or more water. They usually tied
back into the main trail, but even it was more than a two track wagon
path.

The plan to land at Las Vegas, refuel and spend some time on the
ground viewing the ruts up close never made it to fruition. It was
getting later in the afternoon, there was at least 21/2 hours of fuel
still on board according to the timer and fuel gauges. And I didn't
want to risk another high density altitude take-off that was bound to
be more challenging than the one at Clayton. For by now, it was even
warmer, the airport elevation was higher, (6877') and the density
altitude was off the scale. The secondary plan was to follow the
trail southward until it turned toward the mountain pass, then make a
decision. Either, leave the trail and fly to lower terrain and cross
just east of Albuquerque where we'd spend the night or, if we were
brave, continue to follow the trail through the higher pass all the
way to Santa Fe. The way points clicked by and with civilization
becoming more predominant it was harder to pick up the ruts visually.
They now often disappeared into the trees. Trees! That's something
we hadn't seen for hundreds of miles. We marveled at the mountains
looming before us. The Cherokee was in a slow climb. Stronger and
lighter than ever, she droned upwards, the propeller tenaciously
ripping, trying to get a bite on the thin air. We could make it! We
could clear the mountains on each side of the pass now. I was focused
on the wind and the weather. I became busier with the charts and the
radios and the traffic scans. We kept climbing for more of a safety
margin, more options, more outs. And we passed comfortably over the
crest and entered the valley below. Our destination lay out before
us. A call to the tower at SAF announced our presence. A sense of
accomplishment washed over us. We'd done it! I brushed those
thoughts aside to savor later, after we were safely on the ground. We
glanced down at adobe homes and businesses as we crossed over the
south edge of town and entered the traffic pattern. Man, I wanted to
squeak this landing! A great touchdown would put an exclamation point
at the end of a nice trip. No! Not a trip, an adventure through time!
The landing wasn't a 10. Probably not even a 9. One main touched
down a hair before the other. But it was a good landing.

It was 4:30 p.m. and we were hungry. We'd missed lunch and although
we were not that tired, we were ready to take a break and enjoy our
destination for the rest of the afternoon and evening. The folks at
Millionaire treated us well. They set us up with a rental car, found
us some lodging, and pampered the Cherokee. We freshened up at the
hotel, went out for a nice dinner, then headed downtown to the market
plaza. This was the final stop for those wagon trains of goods
transported from half a country away. We visited the Palace of the
Governors, (the oldest continuously occupied building in the U.S.
which is now a museum), toured the old Spanish cathedral, and learned
more about the history of the city, it's culture, and the trail.

Later, back at the hotel we hit the pillows. for tomorrow, "Manifest
Destiny" would call again! Sedona or Bust!

Epilogue: In the story of Bill Lear's life, he refers to his jet as a
time machine. It can transport you forward into the future by making
travel so fast you could be at a business meeting on the coast in
morning, zoom to another meeting clear across the nation, then zoom
back home before dinner. Travel that used to take months was now
possible in mere hours. Our Piper is a better time machine than the
Lear. okay go ahead and laugh, but hear me out. The Cherokee had
transported us over what was 33 day journey by wagon from Clayton to
Santa Fe in just 2.2 hours! That's nothing compared to a jet you say!
Well you see, there is something else to consider. The Cherokee has
the ability to transport you BACKWARD in time as well. By flying low
and slow we could see the evidence our great grandfathers had left
etched in the soil 150 years in the past. It is a time machine that
provides a spectacular view that even the Great Spirit may be envious
of.

"JJS" jschneider@REMOVE SOCKSpldi.net wrote in message
...

Freckles... that's what they reminded me of... freckles. What the
hell

were those strange circular patches on the ground? A bit less than
an

hour into the flight and the wife was asleep.