Running to the Hills

Scott Chastain · #1 08-12-2020, 10:56 PM

It was time to go. In a world where trial and tribulation had become as commonplace as clouds, the sky above wore a grin of opportunity to quit the flatlands for a better place---at least for a time---and by so doing, we might prepare for a future time when such opportunity would be mercilessly squeezed off as by the walls of a canyon to the point of catastrophe, necessitating more of an escape than an excursion which, by definition, implied the expectation of a return home. With plans to fly back, it was like practicing for deployment as we did decades ago in the Air Force; except for guns, chem-gear, and sufficient supplies to dig in for a long winter, we had food and water for over a week, a tent with bedding, a few changes of clothes, toiletries, and each other. Her name was Sammy, a German Shorthaired Pointer.

At 21 months, Sammy took her first training flight for an overnight stay in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The short flight from Merced (MCE) to Alpine County (M45) was a good indicator of how she would adapt to being an RV-8 passenger. As expected, Sammy was as instinctive to being airborne as she was to hunting birds. There were a few minutes during climbout, with her muzzle resting on my shoulder as if to observe the panel, when assurances were given and her underbelly scratched, but before we could even level off for cruise, Sammy was curled up comfortably for a short nap enroute.

After just over 40 minutes of flying time, we arrived in the downwind entry for landing at Alpine County. There were no other airplanes on the ramp, but two 5th-wheel camping trailers were parked at the edge of the woods. We swung around from the downwind to final and landed.

Scott Chastain · #2 08-12-2020, 10:57 PM

There were plenty of campsites at the south end of the runway where the forest met the sage, and with the exception of where the 5th-wheels were parked, all of them were empty and unoccupied. The trailer camp was quiet and appeared bereft of people as Sammy and I made a few trips back and forth from the plane to unpack. After getting the tent set up, we walked down to Indian Creek Reservoir to take in a few sights and breathe in the pine-pollinated air. It was hot that day, and Sammy was more than happy to get wet and chase a few dragonflies up and down the shoreline once we reached the lake.

There were convective buildups forming fairly quickly and dramatically to the southeast as we walked back up the road toward camp.

Not long after reaching the tent, we felt the first droplets touching us gently from above. Suddenly, it was time for both of us to climb into the blue nylon dome for shelter.

It did not seem like much of a storm at first, but then the lightning and thunder began. It would be three hours before it stopped, and hail stones were flung down about the size of peas and blueberries until the ground swelled with ice pellets and the once-parched earth beyond the woods became flooded with rainwater. We were right underneath the heart of the cell.

Sammy and I emerged from the tent when the storm finally dissipated. We were relieved to find the RV-8, Descending Dove, completely undamaged by the onslaught of hail. We walked the length of the runway to absorb the surging scent of pine and sage and earth awash from the afternoon downpour. The airport periphery still sweltered in a tattered gloom of the storm remnants.

Scott Chastain · #3 08-12-2020, 11:00 PM

The trailer occupants arrived later that evening, two families traveling together from the Los Angeles area. They had been out fishing and arrived back in camp to find their lodgings surrounded by mud-filled mini-lakes. Meanwhile, Sammy and I took to the forest at sunset to bond more deeply with the last shades of daylight.

After dark, several carloads drove past our camp and spun through the mud to an adjacent campsite about 100 yards south of us. They were college-aged kids, about a dozen, who seemed to have no regard for campground etiquette and made enough racket setting up their campsite to frighten off every critter for miles around. Sammy and I were comforted by our own blazing campfire which provided a warmth that was needed that night at 5,800 feet. The thunderstorm replaced an arid summer heat with a chill that was wet and penetrating.

We slept well that night. Early the next morning, we packed up and headed home.

As an introduction for what was coming, Sammy had passed her first flying test with a natural adaptation to the airborne environment. She was already curled up for a 30-minute nap on the ride home to Merced by the time we were upwind from Runway 35 on departure.

Already, Sammy had proven herself a worthy backpacker after just having spent two weeks in the Ansel Adams Wilderness. Already, she had proven herself the perfect companion for life in the back country. Already, she had proven herself a natural for a life of adventure and exploration.

But now it was time to apply her proven abilities to something far greater, far more challenging and uncertain, than what her recent training had wrought in Sammy’s character. She was made for the RV-8. That much was certain. Sammy even had the markings on her back to prove it.

So we soon packed up Descending Dove again and launched out of the flatlands for nine days. We ran to the hills as if our lives depended on it. In a powerful way, we both knew what was coming, so it made for good practice while the weather was favorable. It wouldn’t always be that way, and we knew that, too. So we made the most of the time we had together and flew north toward a jagged horizon of uncertainty and excitement and adventure. And we lived to tell about it.