Sub-arctic sunsets are long affairs, taking full hours from the sky starting to turn to the stars coming out, and even then, as the sun slides at an oblique angle away from the horizon, still the fire rims the mountains while stars shine overhead. We'd taken off in full daylight, cold wind biting at my hands and face as I helped pull the wing covers off under the cloudless blue winter sky, and making me shiver despite four layers on my torso, biting at my legs through my jeans. The sun was already low enough that it was spilling golden light across the land, front range of mountains above the airport casting violet shadows on the mountains behind them, turning the ice fields where glaciers are born into contrasts of sharp-edged violet and gold.
For contrasts closer to home, I was very busy studying the panel layout of this unfamiliar Cessna 180 - an older example of the breed, she had a proud straight tail and far fewer pounds to weight her down than newer, feature-filled models. Taxiing an unfamiliar taildragger is always a challenge, and that I was sitting in the right seat didn't help. Under the owner's watchful eye, his hands ghosting on the yoke and rudders, I found the compromise between taxiing with ailerons forward (dive away from a tailwind) and ailerons back (keep the prop away from a soft field). The snow crunched underfoot, almost unheard above the din of a full six cylinders. Unlike a supercub, or even a PA-12, even a tailwheel Cessna is still a Cessna, and needs far less rudder input than many others. That is a lesson hard to learn, though it is better to be watching too much than fat, dumb, and happy. The secret to taxiing her is to build up a little speed, then press the brake lightly. Momentum-brake-momentum-brake-momentum-brake and she'll go where you want.
Unlike a nosewheel, she starts her takeoff roll a lot closer to flying attitude - and the controllable-pitch propeller and featherweight frame wrapped around six cylinders means all her metaphorical horses break loose and build up a lot of power very quickly - she climbs, at two people and half tanks, like a homesick angel. Like a firework. So steeply my prior experience had my body certain we were going to stall her and make a smoking hole on the runway - but after a small eternity, the vertical speed indicator still faithfully shows we are accelerating upward at a thousand feet a minute, and the manifold pressure and engine rpms are doin' just fine.
It is one of the cruel ironies of life that brand new student pilots are fixated on the gauges, (we break them of that habit early to look outside for traffic, weather, terrain, the airport they're landing at, and little things like that), but instrument rating students must then be broken from watching outside and forced to concentrate on the instruments. My copilot donned his foggles to blind him to the glorious light show outside. First we did clearing turns, wide gentle circles in the sky looking for other people around - but on a cold, windy weekday evening no traffic troubles our sky. So he transitioned into steep turns - leaning the airplane in like motorcycles lean into the curve as they 'round the bend. Just as a motorcycle must keep its front and rear tires aligned to prevent slipping or skidding across the road, so too we keep the plane's tail aligned to make the turn smooth, without losing power or position. (Besides, uncoordinated turns make people prone to airsickness turn green or grey. Sloppy practice makes for sloppy execution, so always aim for perfection.)
When putting your trust in mechanical things, it is critical to know their shortcomings, their quirks, and their modes of failure. In fact, that's good advice for people, too, but when learning to fly by instruments alone, you must remember which gauges show an instant response (even if it's wrong), and which ones are laggards. For example, the magnetic compass will show variation with every bobble and bounce of the aircraft. Unless the air is dead calm, and you're not maneuvering at all, the best to do is to average the swinging needle. On the other hand, the VSI will always lag a little behind what you're doing. If you want a 500 foot per minute climb, if you keep pulling nose up until you see the needle peg 500, you'll be doing 525 fpm. This is why you need small smooth corrections - put in a correction, hold it, and then check to see if it's had the desired effect.
When going 'round a corner, there's an instinctive reaction to grab something and help hook that turn, be it a playground trunk or the kitchen doorjamb. In the plane, the body tried to do this by taking the yoke you're already holding and pull it toward your chest. This is the wrong response - it makes the airplane climb, and airspeed drop. A student pilot usually notices about the time he starts feeling light, and corrects by shoving the nose down. this goes from 500 fpm up to 500fpm down, resulting in a micro-gravity moment of dust and gravel, loose pencils and all rising off their surfaces to hover. Then he does not realize he has put too large a correction in until you feel as though you are plummeting from the sky, often at 700-800 fpm, wind whistling through the prop as you gain speed in a dive. Inevitably, in panicked reaction, the student hauls back on the yoke, resulting in a more dramatic effect from the first time. Round and round, in your own personal roller coaster. Learning not to do that does not require overriding deep-ingrained instinct; it means scanning quickly enough to catch the problem when it's minor, and correct.
As it went, this particular pilot was doing pretty well, getting there, and we went 'round and round the sky, working on minor corrections, getting better with each pass, until he was satisfied. (Or queasy.) The sun had almost set, the mountains in the west that it rested upon dusky violet silhouettes, sky ruby behind them but for the low fiery orange sun. The pilot smiled at me, sat back, and gestured down at the wide white bands messily braided below us of a glacial river running to the sea, and said, "Want to take her down and look for moose? I saw a whole bunch the other day."
I turned until the plane was pointed at Denali, highest North American peak - and her flanks were still pink , glowing gold at the top where she stood tall enough to catch the light of the sun. He handled the throttle, talking me through the use of a manifold pressure gauge and prop control (what can I say? I'm a throttle-mixture kind of girl, without those extra controls.). Down we coasted, into purple shadows, running up the river as the altimeter unwound, looking for the darkest spots you can see as we overflew the many sandbar islands with brush and trees. The moose like to lay down in the islands, among their food and shelter - a dark indistinct shape out in the snowy stretches of ice and snow would likely be a snag, but as we skimmed down low and lower, we saw moose lying down and some standing by the edges, on the banks of islands.
I raised a wing to turn, pressing rudder gently at the same time, so that as the land upriver slowly crept up in height, we might stay in the middle, clear of the tops of the highest trees, as we checked tracks in the snow - moose, maybe wolf, definitely, here and there near habitation, those of snowmachines. As we came to a confluence, I gently pulled up a little, for the wind coming down the feeder river brought treetop-height turbulence, but fifty feet higher than the trees was as still as the winter calm can be.
Finally, our great shining beacon ahead, our measuring stick for sunset's progress, started showing that impossibly clear pink that only sunrise or sunset on snow can be, and the ten thousand shades of light between that and deep violet of near-night at the base. I turned, adding in throttle and checking with the owner on prop setting, and started a gentle climb back the way we'd come. We rose into a mountain-rimmed bowl of twilight, the open channels of the river and the ocean arm gleaming like molten pewter against the deepening sky. Night came softly, and a lone call of traffic had us straining to look - confused by a bright beacon moving oddly, but it was only an ambulance's lights. Saying a brief prayer for whomver the ambulance was going to see or bring back (for it was far out of town, hurtling down the packed ice backroads that melt to gravel in summer), we aimed for the bright lights of the Birchwood Shooting range across the ocean arm, marking the location of the airport just across the road.
No matter how much I trust the plane mechanically (and I knew her mechanic, engine time, and maintenance history well before I went looking for moose), I do not trust me to land her on an icy runway on first acquaintance - and neither, sensibly, did her owner. He took the controls on downwind, and brought her gently down, mains first, then tailwheel. As we taxied to her tiedown, the headlights of a friend approached, attracted by the distinctive sound of her engine coming in.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Where to find ANC-19
I keep getting hits from people searching for ANC-19, Wood Aircraft Inspection and Fabrication, which makes me consider that I'm not the only person out there combing the web for it. Because this publication looks rarer than aileron cove for a pre-WWII airplane, here's the link for all of you searching for it:
http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015011856757
for those of you who want a hardcopy, you can get it from Essco.
Out of curiosity, who are you, and why are you looking for it? What plane are you working on, if one? Have you found any very nice sites that are full of good information, or build logs you like?
http://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?id=mdp.39015011856757
for those of you who want a hardcopy, you can get it from Essco.
Out of curiosity, who are you, and why are you looking for it? What plane are you working on, if one? Have you found any very nice sites that are full of good information, or build logs you like?
Friday, March 6, 2009
An October Flight (Introduction to my airspace)
October 2006:
The clouds had come down like a grey lid on the world, drifting over the mountains at about 4000 feet - the tops of the mountains got snarled in the clouds, merging snow and sky together. While it looked calm and still at a glance, a long, careful watch showed winds boiling over the peaks and roaring along the mountain as a low pushed its way blindly to wherever weather goes to die. But below, I could see for a hundred miles of Alaska, calling me out of the city to come play.
I took three times longer than I used to, preflighting the plane, running my fingers along the leading edge and gently acquainting myself with this new lady. Walk along the wing, looking for any bad dents, checking the pins and the counterweights, the play in the rods and the presence of the nut. It was good to come early, so the plane could introduce herself during preflight and we could get to know our differences - the fuse panel in a different layout, avionics master switch four inches over from where I looked for it, and instruments in a different order. A cherokee once surprised me with flaps that turned by crank in the ceiling, and I've met a 180 with flaps that operated by a bar pulled back from the floor like an emergency brake to full 40 degrees flap down. (That's common in supercubs, and older Cessnas, but the younger models would have you think the world ended at 35 degrees.)
This particular plane is a Cessna 172 P Model. It was produced in 1981, four years before Cessna ceased production of all light aircraft. The interior shows a trim that was absolutely pleasant back then, with a quarter-century of wear and tear in every crack of the Naugahyde and rough spot on the instrument panel. The instructor and I push her out, and climb in, adjusting our seats.
Her engine design dates back to the 1950's, and I give the engine two shots of prime before turning the key. The starter grinds, and nothing happen. The instructor looks at the prop like it's a puppy who forgot what to do when you say "Sit!" and shakes his head. "Try another two shots of prime."
We do, and the engine leaps to life. Once it remembers it's supposed to run, it's a very well-behaved happy growler, content to run smoothly at such a low idle we have to add throttle to start her rolling. Out to the taxiway, clearance from ground, and to the runway. I fumble over my radio calls, unfamiliar with my new name of "Cessna Five Two Niner Five Zero" and nickname "Niner Five Zero."
Up we go, from the quiet air in the lee of the mountain to the altitudes rich with winds. Physically, we've climbing over the eastern part of Anchorage city, passing houses crammed together and the sprawls of forested greenbelt that give us more feeling of space and freedom. Over the Moose Run golf course, where they have rules about what penalties to take if a moose gets between you and your objective, or if a fox kit pounces on your ball and runs off with it.
Before we have to try to climb over the mountains, we turn northeast and run the long gauntlet - keeping between the highway and the mountains. The highway represents a mental and regulatory barrier; beyond the car-studded asphalt ribbon below lies an army base and an air force base, and the airspace above it. There, the fighters practice traffic patterns while the C130's drop loads of soldiers by parachute to exercises below, live-fire tests are conducted, and the AWACS come home to roost.
The wind is from the south, and it keeps blowing us toward the mountains; my track is a zig-zag in the sky of slow corrections. Looking out the window and seeing the golden-swathed mountain closer and closer is beautiful, but not advisable, and we continued north. Not long after dealing with the turbulence and different airflow of the mouth of Eagle River Valley and Eklutna's Valley, we passed the end of the northward march of mountains, and turned east toward Palmer and the glaciers beyond. Silt-grey river wound beneath us, swollen with fall rain, and we sought its headwaters.
Past Palmer, the ranges started coming together again, leaving only a broad, steep-sided path ahead of us that the glacier had carved before retreating. Forward, we found a wall of white reaching far up the mountains til the clouds swallowed it; the base was composed of rumpled ridges of jagged blue-white ice, lightly gray with dust and sporting a broad black streak of dirt like a photo-negative of a skunk. At the base, a wide lake of meltwater was placidly still, and calved icebergs filled half the water with block shapes in colors from startling blue to black.
Borne on metal wings that took us higher than ravens, we flew up the glacier. Further up, the glacier splits into several separate glaciers, each coming down from their own source ice fields and mountainsides. One shone light blue-white, another was dark and dirty. All of them, toward their tops, had their sharp edges softened and colors hidden by the fresh snow of oncoming winter.
The air here was nearly still, and quite calm; we calmed the engine's growl with pulled power, and dropped to fly low over the glacier. Up close, the tumbled field at the base was full of almost-neat rows of jagged spikes, and all the crevices between were deep, deep blue. The glaciers seemed to stretch up forever, sky and mountain indistinguishable from the sources. Cool air came in the vents, clean and smelling faintly of hot engine oil and snow.
Regretfully, we turned and left for home, passing the flanking golden aspens and birch, the deep red highbush cranberry on the mountainsides and the dark spruce - gaining relative altitude by holding level as the ground dropped from walls of ice to far below us. Back, along the windy gauntlet to where home was calling with promises of a mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows, like little icebergs in a lake below.
The clouds had come down like a grey lid on the world, drifting over the mountains at about 4000 feet - the tops of the mountains got snarled in the clouds, merging snow and sky together. While it looked calm and still at a glance, a long, careful watch showed winds boiling over the peaks and roaring along the mountain as a low pushed its way blindly to wherever weather goes to die. But below, I could see for a hundred miles of Alaska, calling me out of the city to come play.
I took three times longer than I used to, preflighting the plane, running my fingers along the leading edge and gently acquainting myself with this new lady. Walk along the wing, looking for any bad dents, checking the pins and the counterweights, the play in the rods and the presence of the nut. It was good to come early, so the plane could introduce herself during preflight and we could get to know our differences - the fuse panel in a different layout, avionics master switch four inches over from where I looked for it, and instruments in a different order. A cherokee once surprised me with flaps that turned by crank in the ceiling, and I've met a 180 with flaps that operated by a bar pulled back from the floor like an emergency brake to full 40 degrees flap down. (That's common in supercubs, and older Cessnas, but the younger models would have you think the world ended at 35 degrees.)
This particular plane is a Cessna 172 P Model. It was produced in 1981, four years before Cessna ceased production of all light aircraft. The interior shows a trim that was absolutely pleasant back then, with a quarter-century of wear and tear in every crack of the Naugahyde and rough spot on the instrument panel. The instructor and I push her out, and climb in, adjusting our seats.
Her engine design dates back to the 1950's, and I give the engine two shots of prime before turning the key. The starter grinds, and nothing happen. The instructor looks at the prop like it's a puppy who forgot what to do when you say "Sit!" and shakes his head. "Try another two shots of prime."
We do, and the engine leaps to life. Once it remembers it's supposed to run, it's a very well-behaved happy growler, content to run smoothly at such a low idle we have to add throttle to start her rolling. Out to the taxiway, clearance from ground, and to the runway. I fumble over my radio calls, unfamiliar with my new name of "Cessna Five Two Niner Five Zero" and nickname "Niner Five Zero."
Up we go, from the quiet air in the lee of the mountain to the altitudes rich with winds. Physically, we've climbing over the eastern part of Anchorage city, passing houses crammed together and the sprawls of forested greenbelt that give us more feeling of space and freedom. Over the Moose Run golf course, where they have rules about what penalties to take if a moose gets between you and your objective, or if a fox kit pounces on your ball and runs off with it.
Before we have to try to climb over the mountains, we turn northeast and run the long gauntlet - keeping between the highway and the mountains. The highway represents a mental and regulatory barrier; beyond the car-studded asphalt ribbon below lies an army base and an air force base, and the airspace above it. There, the fighters practice traffic patterns while the C130's drop loads of soldiers by parachute to exercises below, live-fire tests are conducted, and the AWACS come home to roost.
The wind is from the south, and it keeps blowing us toward the mountains; my track is a zig-zag in the sky of slow corrections. Looking out the window and seeing the golden-swathed mountain closer and closer is beautiful, but not advisable, and we continued north. Not long after dealing with the turbulence and different airflow of the mouth of Eagle River Valley and Eklutna's Valley, we passed the end of the northward march of mountains, and turned east toward Palmer and the glaciers beyond. Silt-grey river wound beneath us, swollen with fall rain, and we sought its headwaters.
Past Palmer, the ranges started coming together again, leaving only a broad, steep-sided path ahead of us that the glacier had carved before retreating. Forward, we found a wall of white reaching far up the mountains til the clouds swallowed it; the base was composed of rumpled ridges of jagged blue-white ice, lightly gray with dust and sporting a broad black streak of dirt like a photo-negative of a skunk. At the base, a wide lake of meltwater was placidly still, and calved icebergs filled half the water with block shapes in colors from startling blue to black.
Borne on metal wings that took us higher than ravens, we flew up the glacier. Further up, the glacier splits into several separate glaciers, each coming down from their own source ice fields and mountainsides. One shone light blue-white, another was dark and dirty. All of them, toward their tops, had their sharp edges softened and colors hidden by the fresh snow of oncoming winter.
The air here was nearly still, and quite calm; we calmed the engine's growl with pulled power, and dropped to fly low over the glacier. Up close, the tumbled field at the base was full of almost-neat rows of jagged spikes, and all the crevices between were deep, deep blue. The glaciers seemed to stretch up forever, sky and mountain indistinguishable from the sources. Cool air came in the vents, clean and smelling faintly of hot engine oil and snow.
Regretfully, we turned and left for home, passing the flanking golden aspens and birch, the deep red highbush cranberry on the mountainsides and the dark spruce - gaining relative altitude by holding level as the ground dropped from walls of ice to far below us. Back, along the windy gauntlet to where home was calling with promises of a mug of hot chocolate and marshmallows, like little icebergs in a lake below.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
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!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
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.
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