Clayton Fisher's Greatest Adventures
"Part Four"
by Clayton Fisher

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I reached at my hip pocket for my wallet. I felt my old ugly face turning red – flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. A lump like a swallowed king sized lemon drop came into my throat. “Earl”, I stammered, “Man, I forgot my &%#(‘!@?#) wallet, and my drivers licence is in it. In the excitement – the busy nervousness of getting ready to fly, I just didn’t get everything into my clean pants”. I quit trying to explain, figuring we were screwed. “We’re screwed”, said Earl, explaining that either a third class medical, or a valid drivers license were required for a Sport Pilot Certificate. I had to have it and that was that! It was a darn shame – me and ole Earl had been getting along like a couple of boys playing hooky, and I had blown it. We sat staring at each other for a while. When the dull ache of resignation finally set in, I choked out, “I guess I’ll go to heck home, huh?” “That’s about it”, he said, “I’m sorry”. 

“Ok, but Earl, er uh, with no wallet, er uh, I don’t have my credit card, or any money, and er uh, I don’t have enough fuel to get, gulp, home”.

“Aw, don‘t worry about it”, said Earl, “I’ll fill you up and you can pay me later”. (All in a days work for a Sport Pilot examiner).

This morning began full of promise, with a full power take off from my patch in central Okla, just before civil twilight, on my 65th birthday. It’s really dark at that time of the morning – just a hint of pink in the eastern sky. The thick creamy light of Okla. City 35 miles to the North, the scattered twinkling of outlying areas, streaks of ground fog in the low spots were quite a sight. “Beautiful”, I thought, in sort of a citified, populated way. But, I wondered what it would be like if there were no lights? What if I could do a climbing 360°, and not see a rival fire agleam? You see, I’ve had this unorthodox notion since I was a wee lad, that one increased his or her chances of living a fruitful life, if one was a far piece away from Lawyers, Doctors unless you are hurting real bad), Tag Agents, Government farm planners, car salesmen, Produce buyers, speed trap enforcement officers, fundamentalist preachers, and haystack inspectors. (Dang, that’s about everybody, ain’t it?) I’ve been in a place or two like that – been the only human heartbeat, completely alone in bear country, at night. I’ve felt that indescribable feeling of looking way yonder, and not seeing a light, anywhere. And I know how crazy it is, but I liked it.

A wild and lonesome place of mountains and glaciers on the Alaska – Canada border, North of Skagway, AK. 

I throttled my Chinook back at 2500 ft., scanned the gauges with a small flashlight, and checked for traffic again. “Man”, I thought, “I’m the only one up here. Look at all them Okies down there. Probably all eating their pancakes getting ready to hit the interstate, to work for some grouchy boss man”. “Clayton”, me thinks, “Your one lucky geezer”.

I keyed up and got the boys on 122.15, at the Mcalaster FSS and activated my flight plan to Cushing, Okla., about an hour or so at 20° NE. I had finally decided I had studied enough to take my flight test and oral exam. This would finish off my Sport Pilot certificate and get me bonified – in compliance – my CFI, was getting tired of accepting sweet corn and fresh asparagus as payment for services rendered. 

Being, most of my life, a round peg trying to fit into the square holes that would, from time to time, present themselves as opportunity; I had finally accomplished a series of huge undertakings, starting 18 years before. I survived several missteps in the aviation experience gathering process. I had learned to keep an airplane in the air, most of the time. I crunched a few. I had a few friends volunteer to be my pallbearers, a few more threaten to shoot me down, if I ever came THAT close again. But, Boy Howdy, I flew the teewaddeling out of stuff – different 3 axis ultralights – trikes – but always in the gray areas of the Regs. Now I was going to see if I could be a regular guy and quit having to look over my shoulder. Chock full of confidence, I sang out my open door at the slice of big red sun now peeking above the orangie pink horizon.

“No one can tell me that I’m doing wrong today”
(from the song, “Your Smiling Face”, by James Taylor

Four hours later I’m heading home, bouncing along in the thermals, not believing what I had just done. It took several days for the lemon drop to dissolve – for that sick feeling to go away – for life to get back to normal. 

When the story got out, my friends laughed, acquaintances giggled. Both wondered as I did, if I was pilot material in the first place if I could make a mistake like that. I told my wife that I guess I’d write a little short piece about how big an old forgetful fool I was. She allowed as how I might ought to make it a bit longer, maybe a series, to be continued. 

This getting old ain’t fer sissies!
It’s the same story the crow told me
It’s the only one he knows. 
Like the morning sun you come,
Like the wind you go.
Ain’t no time to hate, barely time to wait
Oh, Oh, all I want to know is
Where does the time go?

Song: Uncle John’s Band by Jerry Garcia – The Grateful Dead

Well, life goes on, and two weeks later I rescheduled, and, a slightly more prepared, I passed. Not exactly with flying colors, since I had practiced doing things wrong for a few years, but I passed. My Chinook performed great. I could feel her telling me what to do thru the seat of my britches and the stick in my right hand.

I am now a Sport Pilot, with a legal, registered experimental amateur built aircraft. Since I am the builder, I hold a repairman certificate so I can do repairs and maintenance. I have all the paperwork, my logbook and my drivers license, so, Gimmie a ramp check – I’m ready!

I’ve really got to thank ole Joe Grimes, my CFI, whose patience and advice, and instruction got me proficient, and probably kept me alive. (so far) Thanks to the boys at EAA headquarters in Oshkosh, WI. For answering all my questions and nursing me along as I slogged thru the bureaucratic process. Without these guys, I probably would have taken the advice I had heard along the way, to just – “Shut up and fly”. It would have been a mistake.

Now the next step in this ongoing saga, since a Sport Pilot is not “IOCA approved” is to get permission from Transport Canada to fly up the Alaska Highway to a place where I can’t see lights at night – anywhere. Wish me luck.

Cloud high I climbed but yesterday
100 miles around.
I looked to see a rival fire agleam,
as in a crystal lens it lay,
A land without a bound.
all lure, virgin vastitude, and dream.

(A verse from the poem, Squaw Man by Robert Service)

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