Flying the Santa Fe Trail Story: long

A few weeks ago, someone in rec.aviation.piloting??, asked about
flying the Oregon trail. At the time of that post I had this trip
planned for a portion of the Santa Fe trail. I just now have had time
to set down and relate part of it. Here it is. Three days of perfect
flying weather while I had to work and now this! I knew it would
happen! The vacation days had to be selected well in advance because
of job commitments. The hoped for trip would take about 6 days.
Trying to find an opening in the Oklahoma spring weather for a vfr
pilot and plane was a stretch, I knew. But what the heck, if you
don't try you'll never succeed. I was off work yesterday and it was
beautiful, but the boss, (wife and non flying copilot) had to take
daughter #2 prom dress shopping and I knew better than to object to
that. Living in the American equivalent of the Australian outback,
prom dress shopping is a big ordeal involving several different towns
and dress shops 60 to 140 miles distant. For the women folk, it
vaguely compares to one of us buying an airplane. How, you ask?
Well, the girls have to do a pre-buy inspection on several different
dresses using girl friends and their mommas much as we use A&P's to
critique, comment, and cull. Finally after several days, (or in the
case of my family... weeks) of agonizing, they select one dress to
try. They then they spend a small fortune, on something that still
needs alterations before they're happy with it. It's impractical as
hell and will make no sense later. See I told you.. just like an
airplane. And, what the hell was I talking about? Oh yeah, the trip!
700' ceilings, crap! I'd changed the oil yesterday and fiddled
around the airport checking the outlook weather, flight planning and
going over the Cherokee. Now, the dress had been purchased, and the
wife was ready to go. She got to sleep in late this morning due to
the
weather and she was in a great mood. The bags were stowed, the
airplane fueled and everything was ready. Except the weather wasn't.
We walked to the FBO and visited with the line guys and my CFI / A&P.
The weather was supposed to break about 11 a.m. We would get a late
start if we got started at all. Another weather check in the terminal
says airports 10 mile to the west are vfr! We see breaks in the
overcast and head for the Piper.
She fires up easily and before the wheels start rolling the cell
phone rings. It's the boss. @#%*!, Major personnel issues at work.
I shut down the engine, climb out of the plane so I can get better
reception and call him back. A ten minute conversation later, I'm
o.k. to go. Whew! The boss closes the conversation by saying, "don't
let this issue ruin your vacation... don't even think about it while
you're gone"... ya right! We fire up again, taxi for take-off and
climb away from months of job stress... right into the face of a
forty knot head wind. @#!&! I'd climbed too high trying to get above
the scattered remnants of that ceiling. On a trip of this length I
wasn't going to be happy with that headwind, so down low we went. The
clouds disappeared as we entered the Texas panhandle. Our ground
speed picked up considerably and the turbulence was negligible even as
low as we were. We were enjoying the low altitude view from 800 to
1500 AGL.
We had flown out of the Indian country I grew up in, the land of
the "Battle of the Wa****a", Camp Supply, and numerous skirmishes
between settlers and Indians and cavalry. Out of Custer country and
Black Kettle country. My grandmother, bless her heart, had, as a
child heard many of the stories of the brutality of the Indians. Of
massacres on both sides, and of mutilation, capture and slavery.
"They weren't called savages for nothing", she'd say. Grandma herself
was a true pioneer who homesteaded here before statehood. The saying,
'The only good Indian is a dead Indian" had real meaning to her. When
her husband died of a broken back suffered in a fall from a windmill,
she raised her seven children single handedly through the depression,
and droughts, and wars. The Indians had been her generation's version
of Iraqi's. Of terrorists. Of, hell there I go again, I digress...
We were now in search of the Santa Fe trail. We'd previously
followed portions of it over the last few years and I hoped to pick it
up near Clayton, New Mexico. Clayton was our first planned fuel stop.
This little hobby all started when I'd seen one of those highway
markers while driving. You know the ones saying that "the trail
crossed here". One day I found myself puttering around the area
burning airplane gas when I thought I'd go see if I could find the
wagon wheel ruts from the air. A look at a sectional and some quickly
estimated gps coordinates put me near the highway marker. Low and
behold I could faintly make out some faint lines in the grass! They
were hard to distinguish from cattle paths and it took a bit to figure
out what I was looking at, but sure enough, there they were. I think?
Soon, I lost them. But I followed their general direction looking for
a place they might cross a river. How about that! There they were
again. Deeper and more obvious. They drew me on, almost coaxing me
to follow. Now there was no doubt in my mind. They became plainer,
stood out so to speak. The crossed the Cimarron river. They went
straight to a watering hole miles and miles from any stream or river.
I would follow them for aways and then lose them where the ground had
been plowed or the terrain change to rock. Then I'd spot them again a
bit further along. Soon I realized that the old wagon masters would
have followed some type of landmarks so I started guessing what they
would have used... you know, what stood out. Sure enough, if I flew
in the general direction of a bluff or rock outcropping or a dry
depression that might have once, or still did hold water, the ruts
would reappear. Now this was getting interesting! By now I'd
followed the trail's remnants way out in the Oklahoma panhandle past
the state line and decided I'd better get back home and refuel.
Over the next year or so, I did some research on the net and I
purchased William W. White's book, "Following the Santa Fe Trail by
Air". Let me stop right here and put in a plug for Mr. White. When I
called and ordered his book, I talked to him in person. As part of
the deal and without asking, he threw in his other book on the Oregon,
Mormon, and California trails along with loose leaf updated gps
coordinates that hadn't yet been added to the first printing of the
"Flying Santa Fe Trail by Air". He answered questions about the
route. Questions about best times to see the ruts and lighting
conditions, as well as about flying a low powered airplane in the high
terrain. I'd like to thank Mr. White and make it clear that this trip
was much safer and more enjoyable without a doubt due to his research
and well written book. It contains a brief history of the trail that
brings it alive. If you decide to try this trip yourself, without a
doubt, buy the book! Back to the story.
Subsequent flights took the wife and I up toward Dodge City as we
followed the trail's northern route. We'd find old fort foundations,
spring crossings, and places where Indian attacks had occurred.
Sometimes we would land and visit sites and museums along the route.
One such outing took us to La Junta, Colorado to visit Bent's Fort.
It had been fully restored by the park service.
Now, here we were skimming over the earth traveling 35 or 40 times
the speed of those
wagons, and we had a bird's eye view of the terrain. Just imagine
what those teamsters would have thought if they could see us now. Pure
magic! Perhaps the Indians would have taken us for a God, a
Thunderbird!
This part of the trail we'd be traveling today was the "Jornada"
or the part of the trail that became know as the journey of no return.
The near desert conditions combined with frequent Indian attacks had
caused the wagon teamsters to seek a safer route to the north and then
down along the eastern side of the Rockies, somewhat paralleling I-25
for part of it's distance. The Jornada! That term kept entering my
mind as I planned the flight in a low powered airplane over desolate,
hostile, high density altitude territory. I hoped it wasn't still
true, the no return part, but it was too late now. The adventure had
begun.

To be continued... if anyone is interested and still reading. In the
mean time...here's some web links.
www.westernairtrails.com
http://www.stjohnks.net/santafetrail...elinkpage.html


--
Joe Schneider
8437R
(Remove No Spam to Reply)

A few weeks ago, someone in rec.aviation.piloting??, asked about
flying the Oregon trail.

great story snipped

Wow -- COOL flight, Joe.

It had not occurred to me that a modern-day pilot could go off in search of
the old wagon trails -- at least not in such detail, and in so complete a
manner. I figured after 150 years the tracks would be completely
obliterated by weather and man.

Thanks for sharing that experience. I, for one, am looking forward to the
second chapter!
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

"Jay Honeck" wrote in message
news:z3Ubc.179388$_w.1827094@attbi_s53...
A few weeks ago, someone in rec.aviation.piloting??, asked about
flying the Oregon trail.

great story snipped

Wow -- COOL flight, Joe.

It had not occurred to me that a modern-day pilot could go off in search
of
the old wagon trails -- at least not in such detail, and in so complete a
manner. I figured after 150 years the tracks would be completely
obliterated by weather and man.

Fly on up near Glendo State Park in Wyoming and see Register Cliffs. The
rocks have names carved from people on the Oregon Trail and the wagon ruts
are still VERY visible 150 years later.

Tom

Freckles... that's what they reminded me of... freckles. What hell
were those strange circular patches on the ground? A bit less than an
hour into the flight and the wife was asleep. I was thoroughly
enjoying my low altitude view. The headwind had forced us down low,
but now we were making very good time. There was smooth air and the
view stretched all the way to the flat Texas horizon, perhaps 60 or 70
miles distant.

Hives! My copilot had awakened and noticed the same scenery I'd been
contemplating. Without me saying even a word, she saw the same
features and said "they look like hives! I thought, you know she's
right, smallpox pustules or some such thing. Appearing about 10 to 12
feet in diameter they were in groups. The groups kept getting more
numerous, and there were more and more to a group. Small areas devoid
of the already sparse vegetation. I'd never noticed them anywhere
else. Of course I didn't usually fly this low, either. My scan went
from the instrument panel, checking fuel and engine gauges, to the
windshield looking for towers & traffic, (most likely birds at this
altitude), back to... what the heck are those things on the ground.
We were paralleling the Oklahoma panhandle but were just a bit south
of it near Texhoma and Stratford Texas. This perplexing view had been
going on for 10 or 20 minutes. The intriguing freckles only appeared
in the uncultivated grassland areas. Then it finally dawned on me!
Prairie dog towns! No wonder the ranchers hated them critters. They
had literally chewed up hundreds and maybe thousands of acres of the
precious grassland, leaving openings to their burrows that were a
menace to the livestock. A calf with a broken leg would have a hard
time making it to water around here. Not only were the ponds and
creeks getting scarce, the roads, fences and houses were as well. At
the start of my story I mentioned that I thought the wife and I had
just left from the American outback. If that was true ,we were really
headed into a threatening lunar like landscape now... into the
Jornada!

The little Cherokee slowly climbed with the rising terrain. It was
almost imperceptible at first, but now becoming much more noticeable.
As the miles clicked by the terrain became drier, higher and more
desolate. Nearing the southwest corner of the Oklahoma panhandle we
could make out some small mountainous features in the distance. These
were the extinct volcanoes, remnants of a geological period that
crushed, pulled and molded the region into what we saw before us.
Small volcano remnants looked similar to meteor caters, because they
lacked the cone. This was lending more credibility to the lunar
landscape description. We were leaving the Sea of Tranquility and
headed towards the unknown. The dark side! Can you imagine the
fortitude, the bravado, the skill that it took to tackle a trip across
this land below us in the 1800's? If the lack of water didn't get
them, then perhaps Indians, wolves, a mountain lion, or a rattlesnake
might. Not to mention natural causes like disease, heat stroke and
heart attack. The nearest emergency room, hah! The nearest doctor
and his buggy was 40 DAYS away. 40 DAYS! Just choose your poison
man! How many people started out only to get lost and never return.
Gone forever! M.I.A.! CRIPES! Once in awhile a wagon train would
come across a party or individual that had been scalped and mutilated
in grotesque ways. Left in a position and manner sure to be found! A
warning to anyone else foolhardy enough to trespass. Our ancestors
were amazing people tackling this JORNADA. Now, I had a much better
appreciation for the term.

The volcanoes became larger, easier to distinguish. We recognized
Mount Capulin in the distance. Just under two hours into the flight
and the small town of Clayton appeared. Although I had 3 hours of
fuel remaining, I wanted to land here before it got too hot and top
off the tanks. The AWOS was already squawking a density altitude of
7200 feet! It was nearing 1 p.m. That overcast weather delay at our
departure point was doing exactly what I'd wanted to avoid. Any
nearer the mountains and I feared trouble getting off the ground with
a full load of fuel. And considering the terrain and the fact that
we'd be following wandering wagon tracks instead of VOR's, highways or
railroads, I definitely didn't want to add a low fuel situation to the
equation. The delay caught us in early afternoon and temperatures
were rising quickly. We needed to fuel and get out of here! I'd
intentionally planned the trip for early spring, choosing ever
changing weather and possible thunderstorms over heat and high density
altitude. Little did I know that record high temperatures were about
to plague us throughout the duration of our trip. What we were about
to experience was a precursor of things to come.

The airport was abandoned! We taxied to the fuel pumps, climbed out,
stretched and headed for the "facilities". A sign with a phone number
beckoned that we use the phone to call for fuel. Within 10 minutes a
nice Hispanic gentleman arrived to top off the tanks. A quick bite
from the vending machine and a drink from the pop machine would get us
by for awhile. We'd eaten a late breakfast. I thought to myself, I
wonder what the wagon travelers would have given for a pop and vending
machine scattered every 50 miles or so along the trail!

A preflight check showed the airplane to still be in good order. I
ran the engine up, and remembered to lean for the density altitude.
The runway we had landed on was tempting because the wind was nearly
nil and in the opposite direction it headed toward lower terrain.
There was no traffic. I made the radio call, but the gentleman in the
terminal suggested taking a different runway that was a oriented a
little more into the light wind. I thanked him and took his advice,
figuring he was thoroughly familiar with the terrain and aircraft
performance in general. As expected, the Cherokee used a lot of that
nice 5000' long runway. I held her in ground effect, picking up speed
as we lifted slowly, grudgingly, into the air. As we passed over the
departure end, she struggled to climb at 150 feet per minute! As
speed slowly increased, the climb rate inched upwards. We headed
straight out, opposite our intended path to gain altitude as we took
advantage of the lower region south of the airport. A gentle turn to
get back on course got me to wondering if we would be able to out
climb the terrain. A gentle turn back the other way, and a 360 back
over the airport and we were in much better shape. I was glad I'd
removed the rear seats and had tried hard to keep our luggage to a
minimum. We were a good hundred pounds below gross, even with full
fuel.

We headed toward Rabbit Ears. Rabbit Ears? Yep! One of those
landmark mountains the wagon masters used to guide them. It was just
north of the airport and there was no mistaking why they named it what
they did. We were under the Mt. Dora MOA and I wanted to watch
closely for traffic. The ground was nearing 6000' msl and the
Cherokee strained to get us to a comfortable altitude that was low
enough we could see the wagon tracks, yet high enough for some safety
if we hit some downdrafts. At just below 9000' msl I became convinced
we could do this and began to relax a little. The airplane was really
purring and oil pressure and temperature were well into the green. In
a few minutes the wagon trail appeared. I mean there was no guessing
or doubt what so ever! It stood out well enough that it was almost
continuous. In this arid region, with no farm ground, erosion had had
little effect on the wagon tracks. They were deep scars running
endlessly towards the horizon. They would zig and zag and alter
course once in awhile. You could almost read the teamsters' minds as
you second guessed their route then realized they were headed that way
for a reason. Either, because of unforeseen Arroyo's ahead or was it
because the animals smelled water. Or was it grass, precious grass!
Fuel for the mules or oxen! Hundreds of them in each wagon train. Up
to 500! (Horses weren't used much. They played out rapidly, and the
Indians wanted to steal them all the time). We turned to the west
from a northwesterly heading, forgetting about radios & vor's. They
were useless. Out here we were on our own. Too low for help from ATC
and way off the airways. I used the sectional for a cross check but
relied on the wagon trail and the gps for guidance. A New Mexico
State Aeronautical chart picked up for free at Clayton proved useful
as well. It had the trail marked on it. Preprogrammed gps waypoints
alerted us to landmarks the travelers used. My copilot and I referred
to the guide book, to look for old foundations and battle sites as we
cruised along in a slow climb trying to maintain altitude. As the
afternoon wore on, gentle downdrafts and updrafts became increasingly
more common, and more of a concern as neared rougher and rougher
terrain. It wasn't frightening by any means, but it sure was a
welcome feeling when a 1200 fpm downdraft turned into an 800 fpm
updraft. I played sail plane pilot, trying to make use of the
thermals, even though I had no experience at it. I'd slow down in the
updrafts and nose down a bit in the down drafts. It seemed to work.
Anyway, I had fun playing. The landscape was scenic in a drab,
desert, lunar sort of way and yet a bit uncomforting in that there
were extremely few roads, towns or houses even in this day and age.
The thought occurred to me that if the wagon masters were tough enough
to get through this country alive then there are just no words to
describe the Indians that roamed the region. The New Mexico state
motto, "The Land of Enchantment". It looked more like "the Land of a
quick death to me"!

To be continued... damn this is taking longer to write than it did to
fly it. In the mean time...here's those web links. Some have good
sattelite photos.
www.westernairtrails.com
http://www.stjohnks.net/santafetrail...elinkpage.html

It's also fun to retrace ghost railroads. You can follow not only surviving
roadbed that may have been converted to other uses, such as bike paths, but
also roadbed that has been obliterated for agricultural use but still is
visible from the air because the crops that grow on top of it are either
darker or lighter than the surrounding vegetation. In Indiana you can follow
the ghost of the old Erie Railroad, which in 1911 was Cal Rodgers' route
from New York to Chicago on his transcontinental flight.

Henry

"Tom Sixkiller" wrote in message
...

"Jay Honeck" wrote in message
news:z3Ubc.179388$_w.1827094@attbi_s53...
A few weeks ago, someone in rec.aviation.piloting??, asked about
flying the Oregon trail.

It's also fun to retrace ghost railroads.

Yes, we've seen them all over Iowa. You'll see a "track" that stops and
starts at different farms, perhaps for dozens of miles. I suppose it all
comes down to how ambitious the farmer was, and whether it was worth his
while to obliterate the rail bed.
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

In article , Henry Kisor
wrote:

It's also fun to retrace ghost railroads. You can follow not only surviving
roadbed that may have been converted to other uses, such as bike paths, but
also roadbed that has been obliterated for agricultural use but still is
visible from the air because the crops that grow on top of it are either
darker or lighter than the surrounding vegetation. In Indiana you can follow
the ghost of the old Erie Railroad, which in 1911 was Cal Rodgers' route
from New York to Chicago on his transcontinental flight.

I followed that one from Huntington IN to Joliet IL in 1986 when I flew
my Champ to OSH!

To be continued... damn this is taking longer to write than it did to
fly it.

Great write-up, Joe. Keep the chapters coming!
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"

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.

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.

Great story, Joe. Truer words were never spoken....

Thanks for posting it!
--
Jay Honeck
Iowa City, IA
Pathfinder N56993
www.AlexisParkInn.com
"Your Aviation Destination"