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  #221  
Old 10-03-2019, 09:52 AM
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Scott Chastain Scott Chastain is offline
 
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Default 32. Resurrection

After topping off, the son parked the Dove on a transient tie-down cross and spent some time wiping down in the wind. Then he walked inside the FBO building to clean up and change into another set of clothes. There were several others sitting in the lobby as the son walked in and greeted them. He received only a nod or two from the men. When the son came back out of the restroom, he walked over to the coffee dispenser and pumped out a cup. The owner of the FBO, a short unsmiling man behind the counter who was wearing a neon-green vest, seemed to be the mood-setter in the place. The son tried to strike up casual conversations with him and the other employees, but each time he was met only with an attitude that kept wordlessly asking the questions, ?What do you want with us?? and ?What are you doing here?? The son took his coffee into a conference room and relaxed by himself for a time, looking out over the flightline where a lineman sat on a lawn chair on top a fuel truck as a pump slowly chugged gasoline into the tank. The lineman braced himself against the wind and hunkered over as if to convey an experienced knowledge that the wait would be long and boring and very windy the entire time. It was a clear signal for the son to get up and leave. He could feel a draw pulling him out of the area.

The son cranked over and taxied out to Runway 31and made a left crosswind departure to the southwest, letting The Dalles disappear in the wind behind him.



At 10,500 feet, the son passed just to the south of Mt. Hood where the summer-stained snow pack, cracking and crumbling downward on the rugged bone-like spire, belied the violence typically associated with a volcano as the Dove sailed by in perfectly glass-smooth air.





Mt. Adams and Mt. Rainier, companion volcanoes to the north, rose up majestically from behind.



The son descended. He had been airborne for just over half an hour as he entered the downwind for Runway 34 and touched down in Albany, Oregon (S12). He taxied over to a transient tie-down cross. In front of a long, low-squatting, flat-roofed maintenance hangar, the son pulled the mixture and watched the propeller blades as they spun down into stillness. He climbed out and chocked the tires and proceeded to wipe down. A small black pickup pulled alongside him. A man in his forties, who introduced himself as Bret, complimented the son on the Dove. He handed the son a business card for his metal fabrication business. On the back of the card was a miniaturized version of a flight plan form. After Bret drove out the gate, two young men in their twenties walked up. They were Kevin and Fabio, students of the local flight school. They wanted to know where the son had flown in from, about the workings of the RV-8 and how it could perform. So the son told them about flying through America and about how he and his father had built the Dove together and had completed it 11 years earlier.

?Who did the interior?? Kevin asked.

?Luke, from Classic Aero Designs,? the son replied.

?Did you know his shop was here?? Kevin asked. The son told him that he did not. ?It?s right over there, about three hangars down,? Kevin said, pointing toward the north end of the airport. ?You ought to go over there and meet him.?

The two young pilots went back over to the FBO building, and the son finished wiping down the Dove and covered her up. Then taking Kevin?s advice, he walked over toward Luke?s aircraft interior shop.





The hangar door was open, but nobody was around at first.





Toward the back of the hangar, the son found a large woman in her sixties sitting in the cockpit of a complex upholstery sewing machine where brightly colored thread was pulled tightly from spindles that were arranged in a cascade of circles over her head. She turned with a startled look on her face, staring at the son wide-eyed through the web of string.

?Can I help you?? she said suddenly.

?Is Luke here?? said the son.

?Luke? No, Luke?s not here,? said the woman curtly.

Just then, a younger man stepped out from behind a wall. He had dark hair and a beard. ?Would you like to leave a message for Luke?? he said. The woman on the sewing machine was looking at him. The son told him that Luke had designed and fabricated the Dove?s interior over a decade earlier. The son simply wanted to meet him.

?Luke?s here just about every day,? said the man, ?but today is kind of weird. He had to take his wife into Portland for a flight to Malaysia this morning. He won?t be back in until tomorrow.?

The son thanked both the man and the woman and walked out of the shop and went over to the FBO. He found that the building had after-hours access 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Inside, it smelled like a bakery. In a kitchenette toward the back of the building, there were fresh chocolate chip cookies that had just been pulled from the oven. They were still warm and soft. He tried one.



The pilot?s lounge was actually part of a flight school. A separate area with a long countertop had pilot supplies for sale behind it. There was a couch in the lobby, but it was spartan in appearance and did not look long enough to sleep on. Somebody was already trying to take a nap there, but even using the table as an ottoman looked very uncomfortable.

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  #222  
Old 10-03-2019, 09:53 AM
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Scott Chastain Scott Chastain is offline
 
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Default 32. Resurrection

The airport itself was built parallel to the Interstate I-5 Freeway, and the traffic noise coming into the FBO was not unlike what a person would hear under an overpass. The grumble of tractor-trailer diesels, the friction-drawn hiss of rolling rubber, and the staccato dit-dit-dit-dit-dit of tires hitting imperfections in the road---all reminded the son more of a truck stop than an FBO. Nevertheless, looking across the freeway, the son noticed a few recognizable American businesses that drew on his appetite.



Behind the counter of the pilot supplies store, the son found a young employee, a young man in his mid-twenties who, like Fabio?s friend, introduced himself as Kevin. The son asked him where he could cross over the freeway and get into town. Kevin pointed to the north of the airport and directed the son to take a frontage road up to an intersection where the son could walk under I-5 and proceed from there. The son thanked Kevin, then filled his water bottle and headed out. It was a hot afternoon as he walked off the flightline and ventured toward the City of Albany.



After crossing under the freeway, the traffic did not stop. The hissing, heaving, rushing thrust of travelers pushed the son down the long hot road that led him toward the center of town. There was a lot of traffic no matter how he heard it or saw it or felt it writhing about and snaking through the city. There was a steady streaming blast of summer heat baking the pavement under his feet as he walked to the west.







Across from a large railroad switching yard on the industrial side of Albany, a network of shattered, half-buried and defunct tracks converged onto a line of rails that stretched to the east where a wildfire had suddenly erupted and now cast an expanding cloud of smoke over the valley.



Nearby, and barely audible over the incessant tide of traffic, the squealing laughter of children splashed out of a pool where the center of attention spiraled up in a yellow ribbon and carried its riders thrillingly back down to the awaiting depths. In the sweltering city around it, the pool appeared like an island portal into heaven.



Signs for the historic downtown district led the son to the north beyond a flower-filled divider.



As the son entered town, he walked into the lobby of the Albany Fire Department and admired two original pieces on display, the newer being from the year 1927.



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  #223  
Old 10-03-2019, 09:54 AM
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Scott Chastain Scott Chastain is offline
 
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Default 32. Resurrection

The son walked through the heart of downtown where buildings from the late 1800s and early 1900s leaned into the heat of the afternoon. On one side of a brick building across the street, an angelic form stood aloft in the blast of sunlight pouring over his face. The son saw a resurrected Icarus who, like his father, Daedalus, created wings of his own with which to escape the cruel imprisonment of an island king. It was a welcome invitation to explore the city streets of Albany.















At the west end of the historic district, the son walked up to a large brown structure shaped like a circus tent. It was the Albany Carousel. Inside, children and adults were taking turns on a beautifully constructed machine as it glittered round and round to carnival melodies and the beat of a snare drum.





When the carousel came to a stop, the son picked out his horse. There were no others like it on the ride and it seemed perfectly made for him. It was a pale horse with the likeness of George Washington looking happily on, trailing Old Glory behind.

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  #224  
Old 10-03-2019, 09:55 AM
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Scott Chastain Scott Chastain is offline
 
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Default 32. Resurrection

Leaving the Albany Carousel, the son walked over behind a senior center where people getting ready for an outdoor concert in the park. Blankets and chairs had already been placed on the lawn to reserve viewing locations in front of the stage, and a few people were still wandering around looking for open spots.



The Willamette River flowed adjacent to the park. The son found a wooden walkway. It led to a balcony overlooking the banks of the river.





The traffic that had been so intense on the way into town now crossed the river over a trestle bridge while smoke from the growing wildfire leeched beyond its iron beams.



The son turned and walked back through a couple of alleys and pressed southward toward Albany?s civic center.





The steeples of the First Presbyterian Church were set ablaze before the pitched afternoon sun. From most quarters in Albany, the church?s bell tower was the most prominent structure to rise above the skyline.





Walking past City Hall, the son came upon the Linn County Court House. The slanting sunlight cast evening shadows across the face of the building and lifted the steps of its approach toward the measurement of time.



When the son reached the base of the courthouse, he stopped. He stood there for a long time, looking. Engraved above a flower bed was the year of the building?s completion. It was the year his mother was born. He thought about her. He thought about her not having a husband anymore after over 60 years of marriage. He thought about that, and then he thought about not having a father who was alive in the world. The son kept looking at the number as it blazed before him. The father was no longer in the world, but the son could feel him standing there, right next to him. And the son heard him speak.

?It?s time to go home, son. She needs you.?

?I know, father,? he said out loud. ?I knew it when I saw it.?

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  #225  
Old 10-03-2019, 09:56 AM
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Scott Chastain Scott Chastain is offline
 
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Default 32. Resurrection

The son turned away from the courthouse and began his journey home. Cutting back through downtown Albany, the son walked into a sandwich shop called Big Town Heroes where he ordered a large meatball sandwich and ate it hungrily. Besides the freshly baked cookie earlier, the son had eaten nothing all day. There was a long walk back to the airport and he was thankful that he did not have to battle the noisy traffic on an empty stomach. He got up and began retracing his steps. He walked below the main thoroughfare on a bike path for as long as possible, being led beside the waters of a small creek that flowed under the darkened arch of a bridge.



The son tried detouring through a neighborhood toward the interstate, but he was inevitably forced back onto the same busy city street which brought him into town, with the heat of the afternoon pressing down upon his back and the impersonal blast of commuters driving by, the stir of dust and the winds of their inertia hitting his face as he walked. With a mile or more to go, the son slowed along the edge of a pond and sat down to rest on a park bench. He had company. There were four geese who were intent on staying right where they were as the son allowed a little blood to flow through his legs and into his feet.







Crossing under the freeway, the son crunched through a field of stubble as the howling traffic pushed the evening shadows over an embankment toward the airport.



The son had to hop over a barbed wire fence to get back onto the frontage road. He followed the road wearily back up to the entry gate. He punched in the entry code and walked through. He went over to the Dove and removed her canopy cover. The son brought his flight bag into FBO building. He was the only person in there. He sat down on the couch and looked online at the weather. There were numerous wildfires south of Albany with large enough TFRs to prevent a direct flight home to Merced. Otherwise, the weather was clear. With a little planning around the fires, the son mapped out a course. It would be a simple 475-mile flight with waypoints at the CAMAS intersection near Roseburg, Oregon, and another at Willows, California (WLW). The son filled up his thermos with fresh filtered water from a machine in the kitchenette. Then he walked out to the Dove and pre-flighted in the reddening rays of twilight.

After packing up his gear, the son took out his phone. His mother had texted him. She wanted to know where he was and how he was doing. He texted her back.

?I?m departing Albany, OR in a few minutes. I?ll be home tonight. I love you.?

The son climbed aboard, strapped in, and cranked over. The oil was still hot from sitting on the ramp all day. He taxied out to the run-up area and completed his checklist. He pulled onto Runway 34 and pointed the Dove down the runway. Then the son applied full throttle and pushed the stick forward. He felt the tail come up. He saw the centerline going under the nose in white blurring digits as the mains lifted off and the son became airborne. He cranked hard to the left for a downwind departure and watched as the City of Albany sank into the dusk.





The son climbed up to 11,500 feet and headed for the CAMAS intersection. He watched as the sun began to set over a marine layer where the Pacific Ocean pressed in along the Oregon coast.





A grave darkness spread out below him. He could feel it covering the face of the earth, and he could see the thickness of it. But no fear could touch him, and no darkness dared try. There could be felt in that moment only an everlasting joy and freedom as it was handed him by the father. For in the light of that dying day the son at last beheld the coming fulfillment of a promise that must necessarily follow a time of darkness, a time of grief, a time of mourning, a time of loss. It came in the shape of a dove and drifted joyfully under the light of a sun that already had begun to burst with the glory of resurrection.

?Are you ready, my son?? the father asked.

He looked ahead into the blind void of black that filled the windscreen. A sudden ripple in the air became a series of choppy undulations as the Dove flew on through the night, though the darkness, through the turbulence, and beyond the clawing reach of whatever manifestations lay below. The son considered as he felt the father?s smile become the loving duplicate of his own, and with assured confidence he answered him.

?I am.?

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  #226  
Old 10-03-2019, 09:57 AM
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Default 32. Resurrection







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  #227  
Old 10-03-2019, 05:00 PM
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snopercod snopercod is offline
 
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Thanks for the epic photo-essay, Scott. May you find peace.
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  #228  
Old 10-03-2019, 05:48 PM
zmatt zmatt is offline
 
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Thank you for sharing your journey, I enjoyed your writing style.
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  #229  
Old 10-04-2019, 06:14 AM
Joeyo68 Joeyo68 is offline
 
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Default Great journey

Hi Scott,
It has been great following your journey. Your writing style has made reading about your travels very enjoyable.
Thanks for sharing.
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  #230  
Old 10-04-2019, 08:00 AM
Buzz Buzz is offline
 
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Scott,,,a wonderful documentary of your travels to find Resurrection America…thank you for your time and effort…excellent indeed…
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