the Apple Valley Airshow and other desert doings

Not much has happened over the past few days, and yet so much has. That is to say, by readers' standards, what's been going on is rather humdrum. By my standards—seeing as how it's my life and all—quite a bit has happened. I'll tell you about it anyway, shall I?

Let's get the obvious stuff out of the way first. Saturday, October 3, was a red-letter day in Apple Valley. There were two events going on, the Equine Affair (sort of a rodeo-cum-horse show open to all livestock owners in the area) and the airshow. We stopped off at both. We went into town about 10:30 to get some stuff done, and since the Horsemen's Center is right off Highway 18 on our way into town, we had a gander at the Equine Affair. It was mildly interesting—all the feed stores in the area had set up display booths, as had the farriers. Other parties had brought horses, so there were a bunch of people in cowboy hats riding about on beautiful paint and quarter horses. There were also some neat miniature horses standing by for people to cuddle with.

We stayed only long enough for Dad to locate a heavy equipment dealer who our neighbor Sharon knew. She'd told him that Dad was a gunsmith and he had expressed interest. Dad found him and they exchanged contact information, and then we were on our way again. We hit a couple more places, and then (as I'd been eagerly hoping) we turned down Dale Evans Parkway to the Apple Valley Airport, on the northern outskirts of town. A tiny general aviation airport, the place is even smaller than Cheyenne Regional. But that day it was packed. People of all ages and sizes were going back and forth from the dusty lot where their hundreds of cars were parked onto the apron at the airfield. 



The first thing I noticed after we paid the $2 admission fee and walked in the gates was a Rockwell Commander parked with its door thrown open, inviting people inside. I would've killed to get inside and sit in the cockpit—but that would've involved infanticide. The plane was a hit with the little kids. I never got a chance. Oh well, I got a photo-op with the Predator drone at least. 

Moving on, we discovered that Apple Valley Aviation, the flight school I hope to attend, had hauled out its fleet onto the tarmac and was displaying them for the public. I looked over their Cessna 310K, which I'd be using for my multi-engine rating, and perhaps my commercial license as well. 

The rest of the airshow passed in the blur of whirling propellers. I saw a P-51 Mustang, a P-47 Thunderbolt and a P-40 Tomahawk, all great favorite World War II fighters of mine, do flybys—and come taxiing down the runway after landing. This one's the Thunderbolt. 

I'm particularly proud of this photograph, just so you know. Ain't that a beautiful piece of machinery? You should've heard it roar as it flew over. I'm 75% German, and I got a strange urge to duck.

We walked further along the flight line and saw a life-size replica of the Red Baron's triplane (with a life-size replica of Snoopy in the cockpit).

I got to peek inside one of the California Highway Patrol's nifty Eurocopters, and meet one of the pilots, with a .45 automatic holstered at his waist (cool!).

Finally, I got to drool all over the B-25 Mitchell parked in the center of the flight apron ("Photo Fanny"), and be blackly jealous of its pilot, who would be flying it out of there at 4:00. The B-25 is a seriously cool airplane, folks. I dig warbirds, and have ever since the age of 14, but the Mitchell has always been one of my favorites. What a sexy beast! 

We wandered out, and went over for a bite at the Phoenix House. It's a Chinese restaurant on the corner of Navajo Road and Bear Valley that has been there since I was in high school. And get this—we haven't been in to eat there since we left for Wyoming three years ago, and the old proprietress recognized us. She remembered us perfectly. It was like we'd only been in the week before. She couldn't believe I was 23 already. She asked me if I was married yet, which made me go red (she's a past master at making me blush). What I should've said was "You got a daughter?"

We ordered up our old favorites: hot-and-sour soup for starters, followed by three-flavor delight (Mom likes this, a blend of pork, beef, and shrimp with assorted vegetables over rice), Szechuan chicken (Dad's favorite of course, being hot and spicy) and sweet-and-sour pork. Normally I go for the shrimp with lobster Sauce, but this time I decided to shake things up a bit. It was a lovely day, I'd found my old safari jacket packed away in a box in my room, my beard was actually longer than an eighth of an inch for the first time in my life, and I was feelin' mighty fine. We ate and departed with much good cheer. That was Saturday.

Later that afternoon, the winds were howling along at forty miles an hour, gusting to sixty. The Santa Ana winds had kicked up with a vengeance. With the worst timing possible, a wildfire sprung up in the San Gabriel Mountains, near Wrightwood. The ferocious winds fanned the flames and blew smoke throughout the entire valley. It was a disorienting thing to wake up Sunday morning and see a perfect river of smoke flowing through the sky thousands of feet overhead, heading northeast, following the path of the jet stream.

In that howling wind, Dad and I flung ourselves under my '95 Jeep Cherokee to fix the hoses. Remember, while my Jeep technically passed its smog test, it still couldn't be registered, because the filler and vent hoses were leaking and needed to be replaced. The repairs would have cost me $450. Dad figured we could do it ourselves instead, so I simply ordered up the parts through the mechanic's shop and took them home. The morning of October 4—and those ghastly winds—found us prostrate under the Jeep's rear axle, making earnest repairs. At first we figured we could simply unscrew the metal bars holding the gas tank in place and drop the tank only part of the way, in order to be able to access the hoses on top of the tank. No such luck. Quarters were so tight that we had to drop the tank all the way down. I thanked Our Lady of Internal Combustion that I had only about a quarter of a tank of gas at the time of the repairs; if I'd had a full tank the task would've been flatly impossible. As it was, Dad and I had a devil of a time wrestling the tank out of its slot and lowering it onto a makeshift platform—while laying flat on our backs under it. But we did it. We took out the old hoses (which were chewed and worn through in places), slapped the new ones on, somehow hoisted the gas tank back into its proper place, and screwed it back in. Whew!

It was then time for some beer and some football, no doubt about it. Too bad the Chargers lost to the Steelers 28-38. That was a real letdown. I almost thought they'd pull the rabbit out of the hat, seeing as how they were down by 28 points through most of the game. But no, even Darren Sproles couldn't make up for the deplorable holes in the defense. Shucks. Next game's October 19. Double-shucks.

On Monday the fifth, I finally, finally managed to get my Jeep registered with the state. (You remember what a hassle that's been, right?) I drove the Jeep down to A-Action to have it re-tested. It passed. I came straight back home to get my registration paperwork (which, in retrospect, I should have taken with me when I left in the first place; it would've saved me a trip). I retrieved it, and since the hour was still reasonably early (as I thought) I decided to try to hit the DMV and get it registered that very same day.

I'm not going to go into a lengthy description of the California Department of Motor Vehicles. I'm sure many of you reading this are familiar with the DMV in your own state and can identify with me, and those of you that aren't have gotten an earful already. So I won't describe the mile-long, 'round-the-building lines, or appointment schedules months backlogged, or the rainclouds over the heads of the people on both sides of the desk. Suffice to say that, when I drove down to the Victorville DMV, the line was going around the building, twice. I went there merely on a whim; I suspected in my heart of hearts that the crowd would be prohibitive.

So I swung away, got on Interstate 15, and drove to Barstow. Barstow is this wonderful little town about 30 miles north of Apple Valley, right in the middle of the Mojave Desert. It's about as crappy as Victorville and Apple Valley on a per capita basis, but since the population is drastically lower, the crappiness is not as noticeable. Plus there's a neat little gem store there where you can buy all sorts of cool rocks, and a Sherman tank in desert camo set up at the entrance to the downtown area. It was that downtown area to which I drove, exiting the highway, turning left on Barstow Road and hanging a quick right down Virginia Way, whence lay the Barstow DMV.

Now, customarily, the Barstow DMV is far less crowded than Victorville's. This is—or was—a well-kept secret, and for years a furtive legion of tri-city residents has been sneaking up to Barstow to get their vehicles licensed and their driving tests taken.

No longer. Somebody squealed. When I pulled into the parking lot there was a line out the door and along the windows of the Blockbuster Video next door. Only a fraction of the lines at Victorville, certainly, but still an inconvenient wait.

Oh well, I thought to myself as I parked and clambered out into the 70-degree sunshine, I came all this way so I might as well stick it out.

And I'm glad I did, despite the two-hour wait I endured. The façade of the Blockbuster was decorated with faux-stucco pillars. In one hour, I had moved approximately three pillars, or about forty feet. It took another hour to round the corner and get in the door, and about 20 minutes to get from the door to the counter...about twenty-five feet or so. That was the only downside. I had a very interesting conversation with a short, swarthy, craggy-faced Barstow man who was registering his vehicle as well, and was worried that they wouldn't take ATM cards. Better yet, I managed to get all of my stuff done: I not only completed my registration, but I also applied for a California driver's license. (Both should be mailed to me within two weeks.)

I stopped by a Valero station on the way out of town to grab a snack (an awful gas station roast beef sandwich, some Sun Chips, a Nutri-Grain bar, and some Tropicana orange juice; it reminded me forcibly of the kind of meals I subsisted on when commuting three days to college every August and January).

Best of all, I got to come back home on the 247.

Beautiful, ain't it? It's old Highway 247, which turns into Barstow Road as you come into town. It's the back way out of and into Barstow from Apple Valley. After some winding turns across the stark beauty of the desert, and one pass over a 4148-foot mountaintop, it dumps you out on Highway 18, right in the middle of Lucerne Valley, hardly a stone's throw from my house. From someone who lives where I do (off Milpas Road) it's a sweeter deal than coming back on I-15 and having to bulldoze my way back through Victorville and Apple Valley traffic. Not to mention that it's scenic as all get-out. I thoroughly enjoyed the 40-minute drive back in the cool autumn air. And that was Monday.

Tuesday (today) I went into town with Mum to do something I should've done a long time ago: get my own bank account. Mom and I have had a joint account ever since I first opened one in 2000. Now that I'm all done with college and have gotten back from abroad, it's high time I took charge of my own finances. So we did that, closing my old student account (with the help of a lovely Wells Fargo representative, Dori) and reopening another one.

And you want to know something scary? On this new account, I pay $75 every month into my IRA. I'm only 23, for cryin' out loud. Yeah, I know that the sooner you start, the more you'll end up with, but still, it's a scary thing to be thinking about this so soon. Yikes. I'm not ready for this. I never really figured I'd retire anyway. I always thought I'd keep flying and tending bar until I drilled a hole in the ground or got shot. Strange to think of saving for retirement now...

Ah, but how callous of me to worry about things like my personal finances, waiting in lines, and the state of San Diego's defense, when there are poor people in Wrightwood whose homes burned down! Sadly, the Sheep Fire, which I mentioned earlier, eventually spread to 7,500 acres and burned several homes. The entire town of Wrightwood had to evacuated, and it was only today (the sixth) that they were let back in. All today, while out and about in the valley, Mom and I could look up at the slopes of Mount Baldy and see the smoke wafting up from it, gradually dying down. The fire is now under control, last I heard. Once the Santa Ana winds died, the firefighters had things a lot easier. The cool autumn temperatures helped, too. Thank goodness that's over. Lord knows we don't need any more fires this season.

Oh yeah, one more thing: last night I sat down on my bed, comic books, various novels, CDs, cell phone, glass of water, USB drive, and reference volumes scattered and piled close at hand, and took an enormous chunk out of the novel. I banged out 7,500 words (the same number of acres burned by the Sheep Fire—how's that for a spooky bit of coincidence?). In so doing, I took care of the climax. Now all that's left is the denouement...which I'm about to start working on now. That means I could have this novel of mine—my very first—finished tonight. Tonight. After having worked on it for nearly a year, and various other versions of the same story since I was 19 years old. Finished. Completely.

Now that's scary.