fwd: For Hobbs

-------- Original Message --------

This is for those of you who have flown at Hobbs, and those who want to.
I feel like I should write this down... If you like it, pass it on. If
you think it sucks, that's cool too! Either way, let me know.

Today was a gorgeous blue afternoon as far as the eyes could see as
my wheels lifted off from a small grass strip North East of San Antonio.
I am ferrying a Pawnee back to Albuquerque as well as joining my
"Family" there for Thanksgiving dinner. Due to lack of proper lighting
on the Pawnee I found myself 15 miles south of Hobbs as the sun went
down on this gorgeous November afternoon. In the last rays of sun, a
saw a familiar ramp stretched out before me. Even though the day was
perfectly smooth, I instinctively reached down and tightened my belts.
For a moment, the noise of the engine went away, and I was at redline
with my dump valves open aiming at a van parked in the middle of the
airstrip. It all came back in a rush. I swore I could see the glint of
white wings as those who came in before me pulled up into the downwind.
I could almost hear Charlie Lite saying "Standby... MARK, good finish!"

I snapped out of my daydream as the Pawnee crossed over midfield
somewhere around 150 MPH at way too low an altitude. I set myself up
for the task at hand, which was landing a rattling beast of a
powerplane. I turned into the tiedowns right in front of the NSF
buildings and shut down the engine to a purple sky. I got out, bundled
in my coat, gloves, and heavy boots as are fit for flying a drafty
Pawnee some distance during the late fall. As soon as I had pulled my
bags out of the hopper, (Mmmm the smell of old Ag Chemicals) and my feet
hit the ground, a second feeling hit me. This is the same one that I
get EVERY SINGLE time I am on this ramp at sunset.

This time I looked out across the familiar ramp, I could almost see
the B-17's parked wing-tip to wing-tip, their dripping radials waiting
for the next day's crew. If I listen closely, I can hear the shout of
the maintenance people readying the planes for tomorrow's practice
missions. I can feel the anxiety of men who know they are about to go
to war nervously chatting over an evening meal. Yet when I once again,
I come back to reality and look closely, all I see is an empty ramp with
grass growing up through the cracks. I see the faded paint from summers
past where "THIS SPOT RESERVED FOR SEX" is painted in one of the trailer
tiedown spots. The windsock at the NSF hanger hangs limply, tattered
and faded, and it is absolutely, spookily QUIET.

A quick phone call brings Jo and Charles Shaw to come get me and
take me to dinner. It is the first time I have seen Charles without his
silly blue hat, and Jo without the deep suntan which only comes from
many hours in the cockpit. Through the kindness of their hearts, they
bring me to dinner and even loan me their truck to get from my hotel
back to the old Pawnee in the morning. Jo tells me "If I loan you the
truck, and you just leave it at the airport, I don't have to get up at
the God-awful hour you want to leave". My thanks goes out to Jo and
Charles for their help and hospitality tonight.

And now, as I sit here in the Comfort Inn, typing this, I realize
how strange it is. I realize that it's just not right not to have the
A/C on in the room full blast, it's weird not to be nursing a sunburn
and a buzz from too many SchinerBacks pulled from an ice-cold cooler
while waiting on the score sheets to be posted. It seems very odd to be
able to find an outlet in my room which is not occupied by a battery
charger of some type. And worst of all, when I walk down the hallway of
the hotel, there are no friendly faces, there are no airport kids
running up and down the halls or splashing in the pool. It just does
not seem right.

Many summers ago, I remember telling young Michael Westbrook
"Welcome to the Mecca of soaring" as he prepared for his first contest
here. He laughs and probably still does, but I truly believe that this
IS "Mecca" for any U.S. soaring pilot. We need to do whatever it takes
to make sure that the airport and these hotels never feel as empty in
July as they do right now. We have had many divisions in the SSA over
the past few years, but it is time to pull together as one and make sure
that we don't become the second set of ghosts to inhabit the ramp at
Hobbs. The first set of heroes, in their new fatigues, faces barely old
enough to shave, with no idea that they were being sent like lambs to
the slaughter is plenty haunting enough for this ramp.


(Mitch)

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On it goes....


Jack