Resurrection America

[Scott Chastain]

[Scott Chastain]

At around 10:30 P.M. that night in Wayne, a couple in a Bonanza landed and taxied onto the ramp. They were on their way home from Oshkosh but decided to spend the night in the FBO building. As the son was leaving for a walk down the taxiway, the couple were just about to enter through the after-hours access panel. The pilot was a disheveled man in his forties with a small wiry frame. His female companion was a woman who also looked somewhat frazzled after a day of flying through bad weather. She was carrying a set of luggage and the tattoos on her arms stretched darkly on the skin of her triceps as she stood there waiting to come into the pilot?s lounge. The pilot asked the son if he was planning on sleeping in the FBO.

?Yes,? the son replied.

?Where?? the pilot asked.

?In the snooze room. I?ve already got a recliner set up.?

?Okay,? said the Bonanza pilot somewhat resignedly. ?I guess we?ll take the couch and recliner in here.? The couple lumbered into the room and the son left. He walked past the Bonanza which was parked about 30 degrees cockeyed. It looked like the pilot had shut down in a real hurry. The son continued down the flightline all the way to the run-up area where he stopped and looked into the darkness. He had a brief conversation with the father. Patience was the word. The son had sensed a troubling spirit being brought into the FBO building by the couple in the Bonanza, and the father?s message to the son was clear. Be kind, be gentle, but most of all, be patient.

When the son came back, the couple were getting unpacked and setting up for a night of sleep in the pilot?s lounge. After brushing his teeth, the son went into the snooze room and closed the door. He turned off the light and lay down on a recliner, with one blanket beneath his body, and one covering him. He could hear the couple having a conversation as unintelligible murmurings piped down through the ventilator grill. It lasted for about an hour. Then the son fell asleep.

His alarm sounded at 5:00 A.M., and he rolled over and dismissed it. He did not get up until a little after 6:00 A.M. when the son walked out into the pilot?s lounge to make coffee. It was a Keurig maker that needed water. The son saw the pilot sleeping in a recliner with a towel over his face to keep the light out of it. The woman was twisted uncomfortably on the couch with an arm flung over her forehead as if to express some wordless misery that had kept her awake all night. They were both snoring heavily as the son brought the Keurig reservoir over to a the Chippewa water dispenser to fill it up.



The reservoir lid slipped off and hit the floor. The clatter was very loud and lasted a few seconds as the lid bounced around like a roulette marble, trying vainly to find a place to settle down. There was a sudden snort as the couple jerked out of their sleep and the snoring stopped. The son felt a little embarrassed as he picked up the lid and proceeded to fill the reservoir. As the water came out of the dispenser, the large bubbles chugging up into the Chippewa bottle seemed louder than normal. The couple attempted to roll back into sleep, and the son watched the Keurig hiss out 2 cups of coffee for his thermos. Then he stepped out through the side door where the hangar had already been opened. The crop dusters were getting prepped for a day of spraying.



The son pre-flighted the Dove and packed his gear. The couple in the pilot?s lounge did not make any attempts to get up as the son finished wrapping up his departure chores. He walked out with his flight bag and closed the door and left them there in the light of morning.

The son taxied to the run-up area and completed his checklist. Departing on a left downwind from Runway 36, the son bade farewell to Wayne, Nebraska.





The son leveled off at 10,500 with a set course nearly due south. A storm cell near Lincoln, Nebraska forced the son to skirt west and climb significantly to clear it. Beyond the weather, the air became much cooler. He flew over Wichita and Oklahoma City where the morning haze languished over the plains.

[Scott Chastain]

After a 3.5-hour flight, covering roughly 550 nautical miles, the son made an aggressive descent and shot a straight-in approach for fuel at Bridgeport, Texas (XPB). The final 3,000 feet of the descent was quite uncomfortable as the Dove got jostled around in turbulent air. After touching down, the son fought a hot, stiff wind that blew across the tarmac from the south. He taxied up to the pumps and shut down.



As he was entering numbers into his log, the airport manager walked up to the son and introduced himself.

“The Descending Dove,” he said with affirmation. “This plane sure looks familiar!”

“Really?” said the son. “I’ve never been to Bridgeport before.”

“No?” he replied. “She’s purdy. Looks like a P-51.”

“Thanks,” said the son as he climbed out. There was an 18-wheeler parked nearby to offload fuel. The airport manager climbed up on top of the stainless tanks with a long dipstick to measure the level. The son topped off the Dove and began pushing her back to a nearby transient tie-town. From on top of the fuel truck, the airport manager called out to him.

“You don’t have to move it,” he said. “Just leave it there.”

“No, I better move it aside. Others might be needing to get in, and I have to use the restroom.” The son pushed the Dove over a few more feet to the tie-down and chocked the wheels. Then he walked over to the FBO building and went inside.



There did not appear to be any after-hours access at first glance, but it did not matter. The son was not planning to stay long. He checked a few numbers in Foreflight after using the restroom and headed back out to the Dove. In the meantime, a straight tail Bonanza and a Piper twin had taxied up for fuel. The airport manager was tending to other chores nearby as the son pulled the chocks and strapped in. He cranked over, taxied back to Runway 18 and blasted out on a left crosswind departure.

It was very bumpy under the cumulus layer drifting above him. The son flew beneath the Dallas-Fort Worth Class Bravo for 30 miles to the east with the power pulled way back to alleviate the turbulence. There was a lot of chatter over the radio and plenty of other airports around, so the son flew with heightened vigilance. There was a strong draw on his heart. He could feel it pulling him in as the son flew north of the Alliance Class Delta and then turned sharply south. The runway lay before him. No other traffic in the area had announced, so he made another straight-in approach. On short final, the son could see a large black SUV holding short of a displaced threshold to cross over. Then the son touched down and rolled past the fuel pumps. The son kicked the tail around and back-taxied over to the pumps where he pulled the mixture and watched the propeller spin to a stop. He was at Northwest Regional Airport (52F), about 3 miles north of Roanoke, Texas. During the time he and his father were building the Dove, a few people on the airport and in the vicinity had been an immense help in bringing the project to completion. Jay Pratt and Danny King were particularly instrumental, not to mention the unfailing encouragement received by countless others on a website called Vans Air Force, or VAF.

[Scott Chastain]

After a one-hour break, the son pushed the Dove back onto solid ground and performed a pre-flight. He was unable to reach his friends during the short time he stayed.



He paused at the run-up area and looked upwind. The skies looked bumpy, and he knew that they were, but the son released the brakes anyway and entered Runway 17 for departure. A new destination awaited him.



The son made a left downwind turnout and then a base leg departure to the west. He watched as the hangar-packed real estate of 52F disappeared below.



The son kept the power pulled back significantly as he flew through the hot air and the rough chop that greeted him under the Class Bravo. At the outer limits of the airspace, the son applied full power, pulled up the nose, and climbed up through the 7,000-foot scattered cumulus to 10,500 feet where the air became clear, smooth, and pristine. He set a course to the southwest and flew toward another powerful draw he felt pulling him over the Texas plains.



It was a relatively short flight but not one without any excitement. When the son made his descent, he found himself being knocked around by turbulence all the way from 9,000 feet until he touched down. He made another straight-in approach for the second Runway 17 for the day, this one at El Dorado, Texas (27R). He pulled up to the pumps and shut down.

It was hot and windy in El Dorado, not unlike the winds that were blowing 215 miles away in Roanoke. After topping off with fuel, the son pushed the Dove to a tie-down cross. All the son could see in front of him was a long row of dark green hangars. For overnighting, the airport looked far from promising, but while fueling up, the son saw a sign on the pumps that offered a glimmer of hope.



The son pushed the Dove to a tie-down cross where a large chemical tank was trailered in the dirt behind him.



Then he followed the arrow around the hangars where he found another sign, this one screwed to a door.



The son punched in the code and walked in. A wall-mounted air conditioning unit was running full blast and it was cool inside. He looked around with a sense of relief. He was certain the draw to come here was as real as the jolts he felt on the descent into El Dorado. Now he just needed to find out why the draw had been so strong.





The son went back outside to wipe down the Dove and cover her up. He took a set of car keys from the wall of the pilot’s lounge and walked over to the car port where he found a Ford Expedition waiting for him. He climbed in a started it up. Then he drove into El Dorado where he parked on a side street and got out. It was like a ghost town. The people were gone.

[Scott Chastain]

The son walked through town. Here and there, a voice could be heard and an occasional vehicle drove down a street. But for the most part, the town of El Dorado seemed empty, shut down, and locked up.

[Scott Chastain]

In a hot dry parking lot, a lone barbeque rested across the street from a small church. The evening shadows cast a corrosive light upon the body of the rusted kiln.



The son looped back to where the courtesy vehicle was parked.









A great mystery overwhelmed him as the son climbed back into the Expedition. There was still a powerful feeling within that seemed to be drawing him somewhere nearby, but no matter where the son looked, the people of El Dorado seemed to be missing and no place in particular stood out for him. He drove through town and around its perimeter, stopping at a few churches, the local high school, then finally back to the airport.

[Scott Chastain]

There was a small poster taped to a storefront window in downtown El Dorado. It was a poster the son could not stop thinking about. It had a photograph of a Rodeo Queen contestant, a girl about 17 years old, asking people to come to an event scheduled to open that very night, on July 27, 2019. It was the Top of the Divide Rodeo, coinciding with the 50-year anniversary of the Schleicher County Rodeo Association, or SCRA. The problem was that the son had driven everywhere, and not only was there no fairground or rodeo arena to be found, there were no other signs or banners posted in town that celebrated the Rodeo Queen?s invitation. So the son was still at a loss when he pulled the Expedition into the parking stall at the airport and got out, ready to call it a night.

Then he heard something. It was coming from about a mile away. It sounded like somebody calling him over a loudspeaker. And then he heard the distinct sound of a crowd cheering. To the south, the son could faintly see stadium light poles sticking up just above the horizon. The sun was still out and he could not see any lights, but the call to him was unmistakable. There was a rodeo going on after all, and the son got back into the Ford and started driving again.

About ten minutes later, after driving about a mile south of town, the son parked the Expedition and got out again. There, he found the town of El Dorado sitting in the bleachers before a well-groomed rodeo arena. The show was about to begin.











The call came out for the Mutton Busters to gear up. Fathers came out with their sons and daughters and started fitting helmets and pep-talking them. A few of the children backed out when they saw one of the first sheep riders tumble through the dirt after falling off. The sheep were held back, the riders were placed onto their backs, and when the gate was opened, the sheep made a wild dash across the arena with the children clutching desperately to the wool. Over the loud speaker, the rodeo clown encouraged the child riders to hang on, but most were tumbling through clouds of dust within the first ten feet after the gate was opened.

[Scott Chastain]

The son walked behind the bleachers and over to the concession stand. He bought a Goat Boat Sandwich, made with smoked goat meat. There were lots of people who were socializing in the concession area. The son could feel the anticipation for some of the bigger rodeo events that were still upcoming.





The son sat on a railing and watched the rest of the rodeo from there. All of the children were called out into the arena and lined up for the sheep chase contest.





The bronco riders came out and gave the audience a good show.





The bull riders came last, but none of the riders seemed capable of hanging on for more than two or three seconds. The pattern began with the first ride, and by the fifth, the son decided to head back to the airport. It was getting late.



Outside the main rodeo event, the warmup band for country singer Pat Green was performing as the son drove out of the parking area. A lot of people were attending the concert.



When the son stepped out of the Expedition and walked out from under the parking shed, he looked to the south and saw the stadium lights in the distance. There was a lot of happiness in the air and the people of El Dorado were thoroughly enjoying what was probably one of their highlight events of the year. The son walked the flightline that night and followed a skunk as it skittered along the row of hangars and finally rustled off in the grass toward the fuel pumps. He watched it go, pleased that the mystery of his being so powerfully drawn to El Dorado that day was no longer a mystery but a message. It was the father speaking to him as only a father could. It was a voice of encouragement. It was a voice of healing. It was a voice of wisdom, of teaching, of direction, of guidance, of patience, and of understanding. But mostly it was a voice of love. It was the father?s call, and like so many other sons he had seen and spoken with that day, he heard it. He heard it, he heeded it, and he lived.

[jeffsvan]

Originally Posted by Scott Chastain

At around 10:30 P.M. that night in Wayne, a couple in a Bonanza landed and taxied onto the ramp. They were on their way home from Oshkosh but decided to spend the night in the FBO building. As the son was leaving for a walk down the taxiway, the couple were just about to enter through the after-hours access panel. The pilot was a disheveled man in his forties with a small wiry frame. His female companion was a woman who also looked somewhat frazzled after a day of flying through bad weather. She was carrying a set of luggage and the tattoos on her arms stretched darkly on the skin of her triceps as she stood there waiting to come into the pilot’s lounge. The pilot asked the son if he was planning on sleeping in the FBO.

“Yes,” the son replied.

“Where?” the pilot asked.

“In the snooze room. I’ve already got a recliner set up.”

“Okay,” said the Bonanza pilot somewhat resignedly. “I guess we’ll take the couch and recliner in here.” The couple lumbered into the room and the son left. He walked past the Bonanza which was parked about 30 degrees cockeyed. It looked like the pilot had shut down in a real hurry. The son continued down the flightline all the way to the run-up area where he stopped and looked into the darkness. He had a brief conversation with the father. Patience was the word. The son had sensed a troubling spirit being brought into the FBO building by the couple in the Bonanza, and the father’s message to the son was clear. Be kind, be gentle, but most of all, be patient.

When the son came back, the couple were getting unpacked and setting up for a night of sleep in the pilot’s lounge. After brushing his teeth, the son went into the snooze room and closed the door. He turned off the light and lay down on a recliner, with one blanket beneath his body, and one covering him. He could hear the couple having a conversation as unintelligible murmurings piped down through the ventilator grill. It lasted for about an hour. Then the son fell asleep.

*** Scott- Thought for sure you were going to offer those weary travelers the Snooze room. Especially the female. Where is the Chivalry?
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[Scott Chastain]