Light of Life

"Stay gold, Ponyboy"

The light has come back. Four months waiting for this, and today I opened my eyes to find the sunlight stretching golden through the birch, turning even the darkest spruce bough into a gentle soft shade of green, so bright and abundant that even in the shadows, the birch trunks glow a muted warm white and the spruce trunks deep brown. Bright and clear, vivid the blue sky above, soaked and saturated in that color, touched by red aspen tips beginning to bud with the first faint trickle of sap up skyward. The snow below holds the light, multiplies it, reflects it back upward to light the forest around me.

Winter solstice is past, and now the sunlight is pouring back into the sky, every day flooding back into our parched eyes, our sun-starved souls, lifting our hearts and bringing thoughts of summer ahead. No longer the dim red light of the sun barely filtering through the atmosphere from the horizon, cut with cold blue shadows even at midday, nor the greyness of near-dark twilight under overcast requiring headlights even at noon so that cars whose colors are anonymous under grey glacial silt may see and avoid each other on the dirt, gravel, ice and snow that buried our asphalt. Now the light is golden and glowing inside the surfaces of things!

Nothing gold can stay, perhaps, but the real secret is that if you wait out the darkness, if you keep that hope alive in your soul, after all the darkness, the depression and the pain, the gold comes back. We will never have the first blush of our lives back, nor the pain-free bodies of our youth, the freedom attendant with a lack of responsibility in a world run by parents, any more than we can ever have last summer again, never smell those same flowers, nor pick that four-leaf clover. But that does not mean summer will not come again!

After this long cold time alone, I find an abundance of blessings - the joy of discovering new friends and connections with old ones, the returning function to my lamed leg, the title and registration to my own plane, paid free and clear. Today I go to dismantle all my work and pack up all the parts for my wings, to put them in storage: I must pay my medical bills, and have no money left even for hangar rent for my project. Nothing gold can stay, not that first rush of discovery, or the joy of accomplishment at watching the wing take recognizable shape from scattered parts. Still, I have a light heart, because I know her time will come.

I will not despair, as she is only sleeping: she will wait patiently for me to pay off my bills, and as my leg allows me to work more, I shall come clear of this massive debt, and soar free without fetters or shackles. The lids of totes folded over the carefully photographed, tagged, and labeled parts is no more than the drift of leaves on the forest floor, insulating the bulbs below for the spring to come. The time will come, just as summer is coming, for new friends to grow from words on introductory emails, then voices on the phone, into into faces to see and bodies to hug. The time will come for me to go from curled on the couch half-stoned and still unable to escape the pain and humiliation of being unable to even stand long enough to cook my own food, then affecting a hat and a devil-may-care attitude to go with my cane, to walking back up the mountain passes and climbing the ridges. And someday soon I shall be holding my breath, biting my lip in hope and fear and pure joy as my first student gets into her without me, and takes the lovely golden bird that we built together into the air on her own, for three ritualistic landings without an instructor that signify she has joined the ranks who have grown wings and learned to fly free.

Nothing gold can stay, maybe, but the gold will come again. Have faith, and hope, love, and patience for yourself, and those around you. The world is a beautiful place, and summer is coming!

Shoot for the Stars

"Life is Pain, Highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something..."

Adventures rarely come in glossy color brochures offering convenient packaging and efficient handlers. More often, they arrive in the form of a casual mention by a friend of a possibility. So when a friend of mine mentioned casually that a mutual acquaintance would be bringing his submachine guns to the range, I jumped at the opportunity and asked with unfeigned glee what might be done to be able to shoot them. Then I went off and checked with the esteemed gentleman himself, and proceeded to go buy the ammunition for the guns.

Despite internet horror stories, I can firmly say that my experiences with gun store employees have been uniformly positive, friendly, and helpful - and by en large, with the other customers there, too. Certainly there's a lot more warmth, relaxed attitudes, courtesy, and easy smiles even in the middle of a lunchtime rush than you'd ever expect from a store. Whether a large man in a duster and a long grey beard with a bag of brass in hand or a small lame woman in a black leather trenchcoat with a post-it note and a puzzled look, Great Northern Guns will take care of you with unfailing courtesy and humor.

Armed with 250 rounds of 9mm, earplugs, hearing protectors, (why are so many of my expressions of freedom loud?) and 800mg of ibuprofen freshly spiking in my bloodstream, I stood by the table as the guns were gently pulled out of their bags and shown to us, starting with a careful explanation that they are safe when the bolt is closed, not like my rifle.

A few years back I was in a bad car wreck, when the woman behind me didn't stop on the ice and slammed into my car as I sat at a red light. So the little muscle that runs from your neck down to your shoulder, used for things like holding your arm up, or a gun to your shoulder? Mine supports a max of five pounds for about five minutes before failure. The uzi is heavy. If only I had been able to hold it without muscles screaming in agony, it would have been a gun I could adore.

The mac-10 is light enough and fast enough on the rate of fire it has a kick like an eight-year-old throwing a temper tantrum. The Sten, though, is a fine old gun, simple and straightforward as the design of my plane, and roughly of the same vintage. Its rate of fire was slow enough I could place my shots well, and it was light enough I could hold and fire about eight bullets at a time between breaks as my muscles gave out and I had to control the breathing as my body hyperventilated with pain. I adore that gun, in all its simple, straightforward, plain and easily fabricated glory.

It was so worth everything - even sore today, I have no regrets at grabbing that chance and exploring it. If I'd waited another year or two until I might be strong enough it wouldn't hurt, the opportunity would be long gone. Never hesitate - take on life with everything you've got, and don't waste a moment.

On Shared Ideas in Culture

"In the beginning, there was the idea. The idea attracted others, like-minded. It flourished, and grew. Well, my friends, the idea has become the institution."

We participate in the most powerful of shared cultural ideas every day - like government and money. Some we fight against - but the very hallmark of an institution is that its detractors will try to define their alternative by comparing to the thing they don't like. To fight against the institution is to reinforce the belief in the institution. For example, consider the Satanic. What is a Satanist if not someone who still defines their whole world view on Christianity? Certainly, if you ever meet a Buddhist monk, you'll find that he does not define himself as struggling against the Christian God - so it is fair to say that Satanists are nothing more than devout believers in the concept of Christianity, though not its practices, and that everything they do only reinforces the idea, the institution, that they fight.

Another such struggle is 'racial discrimination.' Once the concept of race was introduced (and it is a fairly recent invention), it was rapidly used to combat the cultural shift in Europe away from slavery, and justify continued slavery under the guise that whereas before anyone of any country was fair game, now it would only be practiced on a clearly defined "other". Not that it was, and slavery continued under other names like "indentured servitude" as so many of the poor of the British Isles had their bonds sold by their owners and carted off to the colonies, whether or not it was officially called slavery anymore. (Political correctness is a new name for an old idea.) Nonetheless, western Europe moved away from the concept of slavery, as did its colonies, and the institution of slavery, the idea, has been abandoned so thoroughly that neither its supporters nor its opponents can make us believe in it as a place in civilized society.

Now that the justification that relied upon the concept of race is gone, so, too, may the concept of race slowly be relegated to the historical relics and museums. But there are very powerful institutions that have large amounts of political power and money, as well as ego, tied up in "fighting race" - they are the truest believers in racism, and determined to make the rest of us abide by both their shared concept and their interpretation of it.

Think on that, the next time you get called racist for judging someone not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.

Spar Update

As time goes by, and paperwork is dug through (Alaskan Geek-Montana Architect found ANC-19, bless his black heart!), I become more and more reconciled to the loss of my spars. Wooden spars are fragile works of wooden art and science, and there are no more than a handful of people in the country who make them. (Four?)

Waiting on a quote to get them made and shipped from Michigan - many things are cheaper in the lower 48, but shipping is a killer, and something as long as a wing, light, flexible, and fragile must be trucked to the coast and shipped up on the barge.

There's one place in state - and he quoted $666 per spar, and what shipping? Come road trip to him and get them myself. (I must snark about the price - you knew it would be evil to have to replace them!)

For future reference,
Eyak Air in Willow, AK, on the Willow Airport,
907-495-6428
or
precision aero marine
http://www.precisionam.org/

On brighter notes, I made the last payment this month - she may not be flying, but Vickie now belongs to me free and clear, no liens or loans. That makes me giggle, despite all else.

I leave you with a couple photos of previous flights, showing the view of winter I'm missing. If you like what you see, I can post more on these lines while waiting for spars to be made.

Call to Action - Opening Indiana's Waters to Pilots

To seaplane supporters everywhere:

The Indiana Seaplane Pilots Association (ISPA) is seeking help in with a state-wide seaplane issue that is heating up.

Last week the INDNR announced two upcoming hearings (Feb. 3 and 4), about a proposed change in status for five lakes—currently classified as private-use landing areas—to public-use.

Indiana, as you may know, is backwards when it comes to seaplanes. Unlike WI, IL, MI, MN, etc., where the rule is (more like) "open unless prohibited", the law in Indiana is "closed unless an approved seaplane landing area (base) exists." There are only four public-use seaplane bases out of over 750 lakes in the state.

Since 1998, Randy Strebig, a Maule-driver and SPA field director from Ft. Wayne, has singlehandedly fought for more access. Through his efforts and those of his organization, ISPA, over time, INDNR and INDOT have granted a pilot program of private-use landing areas on 17 lakes. You have to get Randy's permission to land, but at least they're somewhat open. (Admittedly, requiring permission from a private individual to land on public waters is a screwy situation.)

Now the INDNR has proposed changing the status of five lakes from private-use to public-use. This is a (small) step in the right direction. There is some concern that they might simultaneously try to restrict or close access, but we're hoping for a big show of support to avoid this.

There is a briefing paper on the ISPA website at:

www.seaplanepilots.org/inspa

How to help:

All seaplane supporters, worldwide:

-Write a letter of support to INDNR, with a copy to INDOT and our organization (see sample letter on the website)
-Sign our online petition at: www.petitiononline.com/inseapln
-Send this message to other supporters

Supporters near NE Indiana (including NW Ohio):

Attend and speak at one or both meetings scheduled by INDNR for Feb. 3 and Feb 4.
Write a letter to the editor of your local paper

Americana

Sunday I went to a gun show, in Wasilla, Alaska.
Specifically, it was in the Wasilla High School.
It was sponsored by the Wasilla High School Hockey Booster Club.

Where did you think our governor's joke about hockey moms came from?


In other news, if any of you happen to be in possession of ANC-19, I would sincerely, dearly love to hear from you. What is it? Why, it's the Army Navy & Civil Affairs Commision publication on Wood Aircraft Inspection & Fabrication. Published in 1939, and despite being published by the government, there seem to be no publicly available copies of it.

I think I have two viable ways to repair my spars - but I have not data to define the engineering limits or the specs to which I can repair. Federal Aviation Regulation 43.13 is bloody useless, mealy-mouthed generalities based on CAM 18. Civil Aeronautics Manual 18 is pointless, and based on the elusive ANC-19. If I can't get ahold of the blueprints for the spars (why would that be difficult? They're only 68 years old!), ANC-19 might, might hold the data I need.

Beyond that, tomorrow I get to get up early and start calling museums in other time zones, talking to librarians and restorers. Because sometimes, no matter how wonderful the internet, it only leads you back to the favorite places of my childhood where knowledge is preserved long after a server goes down.

Of Dreams Writ in the Sky

Today is an absolutely beautiful sunset - the clouds overhead do not cover the horizon, and break just before coming to the ground for a streak of robin's-egg sky blue. The sunset light coming under the clouds is purple-washed peach, shining bright off the wet ice from the west and glowing off the clouds swathing the mountains to the east. A rainbow shoots high into the sky, looking far more orange, peach, and purple as the sky behind it glows like watercolors running over floodlights. Looking to the north, where night holds reign above the arctic circle and floods back over the land after every short day, the clouds fade to deep blues and violets, broken with swathes of gold where low-hanging scud catches the evening light.

It is 42 degrees out, as a powerful low has spun its way up from the south and brought moisture and warmth, ripping through the atmosphere with winds that have peaked at 105 knots and vary between a deceptive 5 knots and ten minutes later ripping gusts at 32. There is a rain falling, almost an alien thing after months of frozen cold, and the snow is melting - everywhere, the ground cover is showing through snow like it is spring, and the ice is polished with running water. The wet ice gleams with all the glory of the skies above, reflecting light back to light.

This is a good day to be on the ground. You see, no matter how pretty it looks - and it is astounding enough to draw city-dwellers out, calling others to come out and see - it is deadly. Like jewel-colored poisonous snakes and frogs, this beautiful sky would do its level best to kill any pilot who tempted it. Part of flying is learning the wisdomto tell when you're seeing a swallowtail butterfly balancing on a lilly, and when it's a fer-de-lance coiled around a tree branch by an orchid.

Being outside is like walking in a dream, it's so beautiful - the kind that makes your chest ache at emotions battering inside even as the wind buffets your body. And as I watch it from the shelter of a coffeeshop, slowly fading into a million hues of purples and blues, I think of another, more enduring dream, and a conversation that circles in my skull.

Recently I was talking with Oleg Volk, an extraordinary photographer and champion of the right to keep and bear arms, about dreams. In that quiet way that we let slip our deeper desires, he said that he dreams of a day when the very idea of gun control is looked upon by the general public with disgust - when the very idea of taking away a responsible citizen's ability to defend themselves is as abhorrent as, say, the government requiring licensing, permits, and quota'ed approval to have children. (I think he chose a different metaphor, but the comparison still stands.)

I personally dream of a day when aviation is truly accessible to all, the barriers and negative stereotypes have fallen, and the public at large is positive about flight. Our dreams have much in common; both our passions are under attack by Hollywood stereotypes that have little to do with reality, by a media that relentlessly seems determined to give them bad press, by lawyers determined to punish our industries for the actions of criminals and mistakes made by users, and by politicians determined to protect us from ourselves, at the cost of our freedom - while leaving us prey to criminals and the malicious or merely uncaring employees of bureaucracy there to keep us safe. (Some of you may be thinking of Ruby Ridge or Waco at this point. I point out the indignities and stupidities that the TSA subjects us all to in the name of safety, as well.)

Flying is a great freedom, and a great responsibility. There are no cops waiting under the overpass or in a speed trap, no roadblocks to test if you're drunk, no traffic lights, stop signs, speed limits, and construction zones. There are also no shoulders to coast onto and call a tow truck, no concrete dividers and guard rails to keep you from danger, no airbags, no crumple zones. For the freedom to go anywhere comes the responsibility to separate yourself from traffic, to judge the wisdom of testing the weather... You alone are responsible for your flight, and if you mess up, you are to blame. It can kill you if you are careless - no second chances, no pointing a finger and blaming someone else, no slap on the wrist.

Firearms are also a great freedom, and a great responsibility - and as with aviation, unforgiving of mistakes. The very first thing you should be taught when handling firearms are the four rules - and the first is to always respect the ability and potential, to treat all firearms as loaded, all the time. So similarly you always treat a prop as if a lead is broken and a careless turn could start the plane, treat the weather as though it could turn bad... respecting the danger inherent in a thing disarms its ability to surprise you by being dangerous. Yet this danger, and the responsibility it demands, is not a thing to shun and fear. Life is always a risk, and the rewards, from knowing I can protect myself should another rapist try again to the ability to soar over a glacier and touch lightly on land I could never reach otherwise, are far greater than the dangers inherent.

So I sip my tea and write as the thoughts circle my brain: I know the kind of society I want to live in, and I have a dream of how it should be - but how to get from here to there is unclear, and I think it will take not one silver bullet but a thousand answers, many hands dedicated to the task. Outside the incredible light display has faded to night, leaving us a tomorrow that is ours to take, to shape, and to make. Here's to you, Oleg, and to freedom and responsibility for all.