wires, awards, and complex airplanes

This epistle shall leap all over the place, I'm afraid. It's an amalgamation of several different posts, some of which have been in the pipeline for a while, and others that have just cropped up. First, I'm going to tell you a story. Second, I'm going to accept an award. (I spoke too soon yesterday.) Third, I'm going to update you on how the job's going, and the work in progress ("the Novel," with a capital N).

And so, the story: When I go on my afternoon constitutional, I usually head north down Corto Road, then cut east on Ocotillo Way. After about seven-tenths of a mile, Ocotillo peters out at Pioneer Road, which parallels the railroad tracks north by west until it intersects La Mesa. Each of these dirt roads is rougher than the last. There isn't a house within two miles of La Mesa. It runs north to south, from Highway 18 (miles away in the valley below) up into the foothills of the San Bernardino Mountains. Beyond La Mesa, my walking path is a mere dirt bike track, winding sinuously through the empty desert further east.

The Pioneer/La Mesa crossroads is a peculiar one. The four dusty trails are joined by the railroad tracks alongside Pioneer, which run for miles to the southeast until they reach the limestone mines. There are also power lines. A row of high-tension towers accompanies La Mesa along its northern stretch, eventually breaking off and curving away north across the valley after bisecting the railroad tracks.

Originally, I was ambivalent about these pylons. Easily a hundred feet tall, they rear their porous gray gantries against the eternal blue and sullen gray of the desert sky. Their black insulators, ribbed like huge accordions, hang from their stout arms like missiles slung beneath the wings of a fighter jet. I used to despise power lines; they mucked up the panorama. I still harbor a bit of resentment toward the structures in general. Not these power lines, though. Somehow I don't mind them. Though man-made, they seem to add something to the stark desert landscape, rather than detract from it. Standing in the midst of empty desert as they do, they seem almost like sentinels, guarding the vulnerable houses to the west against the threatening shades of night. Their angular outline seems to fit the hard, unforgiving terrain, while simultaneously estranging them from it.

These impressions aren't always supported by visual stimuli, either. Last fall, I was heading east down Pioneer on a golden, sunny afternoon. The omnipresent Mojave wind (what Pete down at M—— Aviation jokingly calls "the desert breeze") was blowing energetically. I looked ahead and saw the towers looming. I strode along. The only sounds were wind buffeting my ears and the crunch of boots in the gritty dust. As I approached the towers, I became aware of a thin, roaring scream creeping into auditory range. It was almost undetectable at first, so high-pitched and wispy was it. I paused for a moment, and listened. The sound was still indistinct, so I resumed my walk.

The nearer I got to the towers, the more apparent it became that the sound originated from them. At their very feet, I stopped short and listened once more. An involuntary chill ran up my spine. The thin scream assaulted my ears, louder than ever. It's impossible to describe exactly what it was like. It was as if a hundred thousand hoarse banshees were yowling all at once, or the Devil himself was whistling between his teeth. Memories sprang unbidden to mind: the dusty street of a ghost town in a black-and-white Western—and the timeless, tuneless whisper of the wind, blowing through chinks in the dilapidated buildings, howling across the dusty ground between outlaw and lawman. It was the wind. That desert breeze, coming out of the southwest, was slipping through the towers' pylons and creating that spine-chilling sound.

Goosebumps broke out on the back of my neck. My neck craned upward. My eyes gazed in naked wonder. I couldn't move. I was spellbound by the music. Imagine my delight (and amplified chills) when I returned to the towers in late winter, when the winds were blowing with all February's fury. Whispers became screams. Whistles became shrieks. Howls became a hellish chorus. The towers yammered and whined and moaned like living beings under the onslaught of air.

On that day, and many days after, I stood beneath them and listened to their haunting, ceaseless cries. I soon learned to judge the sounds as a critic would judge a sonata. The wind, passing through the towers, created at once a thin voiceless shriek and a deep, atonal thrumming. Hearing it, I could almost imagine that I stood on the blasted surface of some alien planet, listening to some nameless tribal ritual echoing from the dark and unknown distance. The power lines danced as though legions of invisible acrobats tripped giddily across their expanse. And the wind never faltered or held back. It blew as if it had always blown, ever since the blasphemous days, the very Dawn of Time itself. And I wondered: if humanity should someday vanish, and its trammels fall to ruin, what might extraterrestrial explorers think of these skeletal metal towers? To see them standing there, far from civilization's edge, slowly bleaching in the desert sun, surrounded by a jumbled mass of truncated rubber and copper tentacles? Would they guess their moot purpose, the reason behind these eldritch structures? Or would they misinterpret the find, hold these odd pillars to be cultural icons, rumors of a long-lost and barbaric religion? To what would they attribute the unending scream of high-tension towers in the wind?

A compelling query, in my opinion. Now onto the award ceremony thingy!
Muchas gracias to Christi from A Torch in the Tempest for her generosity. I could be wrong (I've been wrong about several other things on her blog, trust me), but I don't believe this accolade comes with any conditions. You just pass it on to five bloggers. Based on the title, however, I will send it to recipients who exude an optimistic demeanor in their writings, or whose posts retain an intangible, uplifting quality—however subtle or covert.

• The Pollinatrix - The Whole Blooming World
• Jerry - Gently Said
• Jane Jones - Jane Jones
• Mashlip - Bullshit
• Laura - Through Laura's Eyes

Thank you for your dramatic tales, prose uplifting in its eloquence, and silvery consideration, friends. Your posts never cease to make me smile, think, or sit back in wonder.

This is my first full week of flying. The previous three we've been canceled by winds and weather, only working two days. This week I'm with Mr. Mooney again. We're getting a lot done, both in the air and on the ground. I was going to give you a full blow-by-blow, but I think I'll save that for another time. I will say this: I now know how to take off in a Mooney, have negated that accomplishment by botching five landings in a row, and even aided in Sierra Hotel's 25-hour inspection. I took off the cowlings, and—

Well, that's for later. I'm also getting a lot done during down-time. The Novel's second edit is almost complete. Once that gets finished I'll send it off to my alpha readers, and let them rip it to pieces. Once I implement their vitriolic revisions, I'll start down the long, long road to publication. Rejection slips, here I come!

Stay tuned...