Stalls and Spins

When I started taking flying lessons, I guess I knew that I would have to learn how to do some scary maneuvers. I just didn't dwell on it too much. So last night when I started watching the cd-rom lesson describing what I would be learning on my next flight, my stomach dropped a little when I heard the word "stalls". Stalling an airplane isn't really the same thing as stalling a car. I have stalled a car before and simply got out onto terra firma and called my dad. But stalling an airplane..... I had heard of these moments when air is no longer flowing smoothly over the top of the wing and producing lift because the angle of your wing is too severe in relation to the wind. I don't know much about aerodynamics yet, but smooth air and lift sound rather pleasant and safe. To make my nervousness reach a new height, the lesson also included spins. This is a situation in which you do not use enough rudder to correct for a turning tendency while you stall causing your airplane to spiral downward, towards the earth, gathering speed. The instructor on the cd-rom told me I wouldn't be spinning on my flight; that in-flight spins are not required by the FAA to obtain a private license. But couldn't I inadvertently put us in a spin anyway? Forget whether I am supposed to or not. I just hoped my young instructor at the flight school had eaten something light for lunch.

I got to the flight school this afternoon and quickly completed my pre-flight. I wanted to get into the air and get the inevitable over with. We reached a safe altitude of around 7500 ft. and my instructor asked if I would like to stall by myself first or if I would like him to demonstrate one. I wanted to say I wanted to stop at a Starbucks and not have to learn about stalls at all, but agreed to a demo. He pulled the controls back, lifting the nose high into the air. The stall warning bell started to sound and I held my breath. Suddenly, the airplane stopped climbing, buffeted in the wind and started to fall with the nose still high. He very calmly lowered the nose and added power. No big deal. "Your turn," he said.

The good news is that I am back on the ground. The better news is that I am not done with stall training yet. The great thing about learning scary maneuvers is that I will get plenty of practice with someone experienced in the plane with me before I ever encounter them on my own. I just hope I don't lose my own lunch.

Oh and the picture included is a Cessna Skyhawk 172- the kind of plane I am learning to fly.

Lightweight

It was the day before CU started its fall classes. My friend Rachel was in town for a "business meeting" for the new art gallery she was working for. You would have to know Rachel to understand how much entertainment this idea brought me. Anyway. We had spent the evening quietly at an Irish pub called Connor O'Neils located in downtown Boulder. I ordered a coffee and Bailey's.

On the drive home, I may have been speeding a bit down South Boulder Road. The posted speed limit was 45mph. But if you have ever driven this road, especially at night when the traffic is minimal, you understand how impossibly slow 45mph is.

I was trucking along in old Buttercup when I noticed a Crown Victoria pull a fast U-turn and start following me. Knowing the inevitable, I started to pull over, but when the car didn't turn on the red and blues right away, I pulled back onto the road. I started getting distracted a bit by the lights shining from the car on my bumper assuredly running my license plate information. I swerved a bit and sped up without even realizing it. Rachel advised me to pull into a nearby drive way. Too late. The lights came on and I pulled onto the shoulder.

The female officer came up to my window and customarily introduced herself. She asked if I had been drinking that evening. I told her yes, but only one coffee with Bailey's and I had eaten pasta for dinner and consumed a large amount of water with my alcohol. She took my registration and license and went back to her squad car. Only God knows what they do back there for half an hour. You would think that they would realize that if you took the risk of speeding that you probably had somewhere you wanted to be. Anyway. She returned and told me that because I had had a drink that night and that I was speeding and swerving that she was "concerned about my safety". I stepped out of the car with shaking legs as Rachel started laughing to herself.

The cop was new. She hadn't ever given a sobriety test before. She needed back-up. There was a least one other patrol car and perhaps three other officers there to assist her in learning how to hold the flashlight. I stared at the pen point, I walked in a line with my toes to my heels, I even stood on one shaking leg and counted. "One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand." In my nervousness, I couldn't seem to remember what you said after ten-one-thousand. Eleven-one-thousand? This was one of those things I should know, but there was a chick with a gun holding a bright light in my face and my mind went blank. Apparently I passed the test, because next she picked up the little Breathalyzer. "Here blow into this until the machine beeps." I turned to the other guy who seemed to know what he was doing. "Do you want me to put my lips on it?" By this point, they knew I was sober.

I returned to my car grateful I wasn't being given a DWI or even a speeding ticket, just the little plastic mouth piece from the blood alcohol test as a souvenir. The cop told me a did a good job. I told her she did a great job giving instructions for the first time. High fives all around. Welcome back to Boulder.

Going Bald and Beautiful

For those of you who know me, there is one battle in my life that is reoccurring. That is the battle I have with my hair. This battle started when I was three years old. I had this bad habit of using my little fingers to twirl my hair into knots and then I would yank them out, effectively leaving bald spots throughout my scalp. One night, I twirled a knot I could not get out, so I found a pair of scissors and clipped it off. Legend has it that I went to show my dad who was distracted by watching TV. I believe he glanced at me and told me my barber skills were "very nice". Armed with this encouragement, I returned to my mirror and went to town. The next time I wandered into the living room to show my dad, he realized his folly and made me go wake up my mom. Needless to say, she was less impressed. I still remember the beating I received that night. But the spanking and grounding were not enough punishment for my mom. She took me to the barber the next day who could do very little with my creativity. My hair was completely shorn and I looked like a little boy for years.....

I could never have known how that one childhood experience would haunt me into adulthood. I have gone to varying lengths, styles and colors and yet I always seem to be looking for something different. I have paid lots of money for professionals to take a stab at making me happy with my lovely locks, but usually end up happiest when the scissors or sometimes clippers, are in the hands of friends or my twelve-year old sister. A little over a year ago, right after my hair had reached an all-time longness of shoulder-length, I had an irresistible urge to shave my head. Although I had cut my hair short before, number two on the buzzer was a new one. This haircut met with mixed reactions. I loved it. Then I spent the next year and a half growing my hair out. Again.

This August I was able to almost pull all of my hair into a hair tie. I couldn't handle it. I got it cut when I returned to Boulder. It was a very nice little bob, clipped right underneath my ears. I couldn't handle that either. Tonight, I took the only thing I could find that could do the job, kitchen scissors, and found a mirror. I put Elisabet, my better half and counsel, on speaker phone and started clipping away. Occasionally I would curse myself for my impetuousness, but my love of short hair won out. I managed to cut it somewhat evenly....

The nice thing about having a problem like impulsive hair cutting is that I only have to be patient. My hair will start growing out again tonight.

I sat with my sweaty fingers and cold toes trying to decide if I should grip the steering column or simply sit with my hands to myself. My instructor was talking gibberish into his headset to the control tower, "Control, this is Tango 1-2-7 Charlie. We are staged for take-off." What?! I think I caught a "niner" somewhere in the response. And then we started rolling towards the runway. I was just praying he wouldn't tell me the controls were mine anytime soon.

As I thought about the meaning of life last week while checking my Face Book account about every twenty minutes to see if a new message had arrived from one of my many friends, I was thinking about how I am at a time of my life when I should be doing fun and adventurous things, you know the kinds of activities that become nearly impossible with the arrival of children later on. I have had many hair-brained ideas over the years, so the list of possibilities was quite long. I decided to start with the expensive ones now so that I can put this tuition money to good use. First on the "expensive" list: Flying.

Today was my first flight. I flew an airplane. Even though this is something I have been thinking about for quite some time, I never actually thought I would end up doing it. Granted, I only understood about 25% of what we did today, but my very young instructor (he is my age instead of a crusty 65-year-old as I was expecting) assured me that the first day is the worst in terms of being overwhelmed. Hopefully next time I will at least be able to close the door of the plane.

Over the weekend, on my flights to and from Portland, I decided to read a book on Amelia Earhart. I felt as though I should know something about the first lady of the air, so to speak, since I am now attempting to become an aviatrix myself. She was an incredible person who encouraged women of all classes and ages to do as they liked. She believed women could do anything, not because they were women, but because they were human. Despite the fact that Amelia most likely died in her airplane somewhere in the South Pacific, I feel a renewed sense of excitement when I think about flying and the kind of freedom it brings.

Walkin'

As of 10:30 Thursday morning, Buttercup has made it home. After a frenzy of running about to catch buses to Golden, I made my way to the auto repair shop. Randy handed me my car keys as well as a piece of paper listing the full inspection of the car. "You may want to consider getting some of these things taken care of soon," He said. I looked at the items listed. The words "cracked" and "leaking" stood out. Granted, I don't want to spend any more money than I have to, but the thought of being stranded again along the highway in the near future sounds less than appealing. The problem with being a non-mechanical 22-year-old female is that I am never sure what repairs are necessary for the operation of the vehicle and which ones are simply a "good idea". But when I bend down and gingerly touch the still sensitive blister on my heel, I decide to postpone the purchase of the stilettos and instead find a tire shop to replace the bald front right. Hiking is always much more fun when it is on purpose.

Taking a week vacation to CU-Boulder.....

I can hear the bets going on at the admissions office at CU-Boulder right now. Cynthia looks over her shoulder to the twenty-something year old guy at the next desk. "Charlie, you owe me $10. She just dropped her classes again." Charlie looks up from his computer screen where he is adding some random "Capri Sun for the football team after every practice" fee to an unsuspecting Sociology student's bill. "What?! Again?! This makes three times that she has dropped the same set of classes! At this rate, she might finish her junior year by the time Hilary becomes president in the year 2030."

Who is the poor student these admissions clerks are speaking of? Well.... me. Yes, I did it again. After another year of planning and plotting to join the real world and attempt to finish a degree in, well, anything, I am throwing in the towel. I am just not cut out for sitting in a classroom for twenty hours a week. I think my mom may have mentioned something to me when I was a kid about how difficult it would be for me to sit still when I grew up. The only two things I can remember from daycare, which was the last formal education I received, is making cool pictures of Noah's Ark out of macaroni and sitting in the corner for hours due to talking too much. Who knew? Apparently you aren't supposed to tell stories or ask questions during prayers or nap times. Some called me hyper-active, I prefer the terms inquisitive and vivacious.

Needless to say, I am still an activity-prone person. I need to be doing something active to hold my attention. I have no idea what is coming up next. I am sure at the rate I am blogging now, I will post the information about my plans as soon as I get done calling my mom about it. Yes, I call her multiple times a day as well. What can I say? I am a little..... high maintenance. Oh, and I included a picture of Mare and I wearing CU tee shirts. At least I got a souvenir for all my attempts to become alumni!

The Groover.....

All of a sudden, I can't help myself. Everyday I think of another story or idea I could include on this silly blog thing. The encouragement from my sibs didn't help at all in tempering my itching little fingers from clacking away at the keys either. I guess I just have interesting things to say.... Just kidding. Kinda. I just make myself feel better with the reminder that at least when I am "blogging", I am not wasting my life with checking FaceBook. I need to get out more.

Alright, the story that came to mind today, Tuesday, September 4th, 2007 is one of my rafting adventures from the summer. I work as a commercial whitewater rafting guide for Wilderness Aware on the Arkansas River. I love it. And the joke about 'how do you know when a river guide has walked into the room? They'll tell ya.' stands true for me too. I seem to find ways to mention what I do for a living in just about every conversation I have: the clerk at the grocery store hands me my change.... "hey, thanks man. No, I can carry my groceries to my car. You see, I work as a river guide in the summer and pretty much have these huge arms.... thanks though." Its pretty bad.

Alright..... the story. Working in a 'high adventure' industry like whitewater rafting is interesting. You get all types on your boat. You have the people who had never considered doing anything as dangerous as rafting until a boyfriend mentioned that he has wanted to go since he was 8 years old and watched Maryl Streep on TV, and frankly the idea of floating down a raging river brings their lunch back up their pipe. Then there are the guys who think the life jacket is cute, but unnecessary because they served in the Navy and are super good swimmers. (Nothing against the Navy, Bess). I have taken boat loads of people down the river. Literally. But a few individuals manage to stand out in my memory. Here is one such group of people.

It was a three day trip down the Ark. It was a typical trip: nice people, good water, great weather. The first day and night passed uneventfully. Even the second day with the rapids was pretty chill. We got into camp the second night and after surviving the afternoon heat and setting up tents and the kitchen area, we all settled in for a fun evening of food and relaxation. I must tell you a bit about the group. There were six people. Two couples from Las Vegas who were professional, well traveled and fairly well heeled from what I could tell from their conversations. The other two were a father and son from Oklahoma. The dad was a Pastor of a Vineyard Church and the son was a non-social, silent 12-year-old. The group mixed well considering the different backgrounds and interests.

The toilet facilities we use on overnight trips are very sophisticated. We have a fabulous plastic container that we line with plastic bags and top with a toilet seat. We affectionately call it the "groover" because back in the olden days of rafting, before the invention of plastic, we used old metal rocket boxes that would leave "grooves" in your bum after sitting on them.

We set up our groover behind some thick bushes and Cottonwood trees for privacy. After dark, Ginger decided she couldn't hold it anymore and enlisted Ira to go with her into the deep, dark woods to find the groover. Ira, being the compassionate and loyal friend that she was, went along to hold the flashlight. After the two ladies traipsed off, John, the pastor, turned to Dan, Ira's husband who was innocently reading a book and said, "hey, this is your chance to really scare the girls." Dan just shook his head and adamantly said he would not be a part of any mischief concerning the women. John walked to the banks of the river, picked up a fist-sized stone and walked back. He hurled it as hard as he could into the trees. It clattered through the branches and sounded like an animal running through the brush. We all held our breath around the campfire. There was silence for a moment, then murmuring and then Ira came tearing around the corner carrying the flashlight. She had left Ginger in the dark. Ginger, all alone and terrified, pulled up her pants mid-stream and came running after Ira crying "I'm peeing my pants! I'm peeing my pants!" The rest of us tried to contain our laughter, but could not. The girls immediately blamed Dan and were shocked to find out that the Pastor, was in fact, the one to blame.

When the trip awards were being handed out the next day during the van ride back to the office, Ira was given the most loyal friend of the year award. Ginger was given the best sport award.

Buttercup.....

This has officially been one of the longest days of my life, OK, year. It started out normally: wake up, check email, eat some oatmeal. Then I decided that since it is Labor Day and I have the day off, I would head home to Buena Vista to hang out with my siblings and ask my parents some life advice. I made it as far as Golden. I was passing through an intersection when my '85 Nissan konked out. This situation has happened before, but when it did, I simply replaced the battery and checked the alternator. When the alternator test showed that it was fine, I didn't give breaking down a second thought and went about driving as usual. Well, today wasn't quite as simple.

I pulled to the side of the road and popped the hood. I decided, alright another new battery just to get the darn thing home. But I didn't know where the nearest auto parts place was and I wasn't even sure it would be open Labor day. Then all of a sudden as I was cursing my car and staring stupidly at my cell phone as though it held the secret to my dilemma, a beater red Acura pulled up behind me. The two individuals who saw my plight and sought to perform their good deed of the day smelled heavily of beer and cigarette smoke and who knows what else. They didn't have jumper cables and so asked me if I wanted a ride to where we could find some. They didn't feel right about leaving me on the side of the road alone. Unfortunately. In this day and age, apparently "normal" people feel uncomfortable pulling over to assist damsels in distress and so, lacking other available options, I hopped in their car to find an auto shop.

After jumper cables didn't work, I assured the gentlemen I would be fine on my own. I walked a mile to Checker Auto Parts and purchased a new battery. A man saw me standing there and recognized me from the shop where we had borrowed the cables from. He asked if I would like a ride back to my car. The thought of walking the three or so miles back to the highway in 80 degree heat carrying a 100lb. car battery just didn't seem appealing somehow. So I acquiesced. After changing the battery and pounding on the cables a bit, we decided it actually wasn't the battery after all, but the wiring and cables connecting the juice to the starter. Pity. It was going to be an ordeal to get Princess Buttercup home by supper time. The kind gentleman left to go back to his shop and I was left to figure out a way to get back to Boulder. After all, there wasn't much I could do on the side of the highway in Golden.

The bus stop was about a half mile away and a kind local firefighter saw me truckin' along down HWY 93 and decided to give me a lift. Good Samaritan numero quatro. Once at the bus stop, I found out I would need to take a bus to down town Denver and then catch one to Boulder. Apparently RTD does not offer all of it's route options on Holidays. Unfortunately. There are much weirder people in Denver than in Boulder. I found out today just how sheltered I am on a daily basis. One strange trip to Denver, one trip back to Boulder and one hour of waiting for the bus to my casa. After all is said and done today, my car is still in Golden. I am home in Boulder. I have no idea how I am going to get my car back tomorrow. Cheers.