Driving Into the Past

Somehow, I felt like a road trip. So, in late October I decided to head east, but not on a bike this time. It’s getting a little cold in some parts of the country, so I hopped in my Ford Edge. Yes, I know, I’m getting old… but I am doing my best, and while adventurous, I’m not crazy.

I began to drive into the past, so to speak. My son was born in 1974, and no trip for me anywhere near the state of Oklahoma would be complete without stopping in to see him and his beautiful family.

Chris is now the President of the OKLA chapter of the Hangmen. What have I done?

After a week of hanging out and visiting with some of the Oklahoma Hangmen, I was off on the road again. Driving through Kansas and Iowa it rained a lot, and I was on mostly two-lane roads and highways. Eventually I encountered the dreaded tollways! Where they charge you extra for driving on roads that are already paid for by tax dollars, registration fees and gas taxes. Talk about double dipping! They still have to nickel and dime you for more money. End of rant!

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In 1986 I was officially hired by American Airlines. I was bundled into a class of five other pilots. One of them was Bodhan Marciniw, also known as Bo. I will mention him and the others in my next book. I was impressed that he could speak Ukrainian (it sounds like Russian to me).

That class of six turned into five when one got fired. The rest of us knew that axe was hanging over us as well, so we worked harder.

When the training ordeal was over, we were all sent together in the middle of winter to New York to start our new careers.

         At the time, it seemed pretty bleak. Being sent to a big, cold, uncaring city, making little money, living in rented apartments, crash pads and cheap motel rooms. All we wanted to do was get out and fly, so we could eat for free on the airplanes. It was tough for a while, but it paid off in the end.

         First, we had to learn how to get around the city. There were subways and buses and cabs or hired limos. All on our own dime of course, and we had to be on time of course… or else.

Bo and I in the New York Subway. No, I wasn’t really going to mug him, even if it looks that way.  Photo by Mike Philpot

Training together, Bo and I became good friends. So, thirty-eight years later, when I just happened to be in the neighborhood of Wisconsin, I had to stop in and say hello.

A lot older and a little wiser, Bo and I are still good friends.

the year was 1976, when I lived in the log cabin outside of Anchorage, I’d planned to go on a hunt for Dall Sheep. Since I had a hard-to-get permit, it was a big deal. Two friends also planned to go on the trip with me into the Alaska wilderness near Tok Junction. It was a twenty-mile hike from the highway, mostly uphill and across a big river to get into the mountains where the sheep were.

At the last minute my friends couldn’t make it. In Alaska they tell you not to hunt alone, it’s too dangerous. There’s too much that can happen, too many ways to die.

I ignored that advice and went anyway.

I took off from work and left for two weeks. My wife was mad, losing money from my job to go on this trip didn’t sit well with her. If she was worried about my safety, going off alone, she didn’t mention it.

After a seven-hour drive in my Toyota Land Cruiser, and a two-day hike in from the trail head, I was seeing footprints. Sometimes very large grizzly bear footprints, but also human footprints. I was not alone.

After following the tracks for most of the day, I met up with Marlin Hauer, who was in the Air Force, based in Fairbanks. He was alone too for the same reason, buddies that promised to go but didn’t. We teamed up, it was the logical thing to do.

We hunted together, camped together, ate together. Almost died together. After ten days we ran out of food, the sheep were all too far away and not big enough. We got walloped by a severe storm that blew down his tent, so I shared mine with him.

When it was time to leave, we didn’t care about hunting anymore, and I was glad we didn’t have to carry anything else out of those mountains. We were tired and weak from hunger. After badly injuring my knee, it was all I could do to get myself out.

We probably saved each other’s lives several times while in that wilderness and on the way out. It was an unforgettable time.

When we got out to my truck at the highway, I gave him a ride to Fairbanks before heading home to Anchorage.

Marlin took this picture of me having fun in the mountains of Alaska in 1976.

Marlin. Not a very good picture, but I was still using my Kodak 110 pocket camera from my biker days.

Now back to the trip. During my battle with toll roads and horse drawn buggies in Pennsylvania, I stopped in to see Marlin. We’d been in touch online for several years, but that would never replace the thrill of getting together face to face after forty-eight years.

We had a great time catching up and talking about the old days. Soon it was time to move on.

With Marlin. 48 years later.

0n the road again, braving more toll roads in New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts and New Hampshire, I pressed on, staying in cheap motels in some sketchy towns that I can’t remember the names of.

I cruised through beautiful country, with hills, trees and old houses dating back several hundred years. I felt like I was driving through history itself.

The farther north and east I went, the older the houses and farms were. Old America, it seemed, such a change from the west.

Soon I arrived at my destination, Ossipee, New Hampshire, which took me into the past again.

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The year was 2002. It was right after 9-11 and that was all that was on our minds. I was back at the flight academy for American Airlines and met my new training partner, Marc Christensen. We were both there to learn the Fokker F-100, but found we were into guns, so we hit it off right away and have been friends ever since.

While I am retired, he still works at American, flying out of Boston. Since he is part owner of a Cirrus SR-22, we took it flying one day, hopping over to Keene, New Hampshire to have lunch with some business associates, Alan and Dan Warner.

I’ve been back to see him many times over the years and this time I decided to stay for a bit.

With Marc in the Cirrus on one of the few sunny days this time of year.

As I write this, I am renting a cabin in the woods of New Hampshire, spending time working on my next book which I hope to publish early next year.

It will pick up where ‘The Lucky One’ leaves off, and chronicle my adventures at American Airlines, a job I never expected to be so lucky to have.

A writer’s retreat