It was a good trip up and back, and I'm glad I
went - even if the idea didn't give me shivers of anticipation earlier in the
week. Southwest Airlines of course, because the price is right. Nothing but the
best for our boys in blue, so long as it comes in at the lowest bid. Having to
line up at the wrong end of cattle row "C" with all the rest of
lés malheureuses
was only the rubbed salt in the festering
wound of the by-now accustomed indignities of 21st century air travel. One goof ball with bad hair gets caught trying to
light a fuse in his Pro Keds and each day for the rest of eternity, millions of
American citizens have to kick off their shoes in front of the unblinking,
unsmiling, and (occasionally impertinent) shock troops of the TSA . I am certain at this
moment that nothing in this world is more tedious than dealing with a martinet
with just that little
bit of
power.
Deep
breath.
K.
Back
now.
------------
Got
into Reno just before a tentative, uncertain sunset - more of a gloaming than a
going down of old Sol, obscured as he was by the low, overcast clouds. I'd been
feeling pretty sorry for myself of late, as we in Sandy Eggo have been inundated
by more rainfall in the first two months of this year than is normal in an
entire twelve month period. Those feelings of petulance were immediately washed
away by a hard, flat, spiteful rainfall in Reno. This was a rainfall which
appeared to take great pleasure in seeking out the seams of my outerwear, and
then eagerly tunneling with cold, clammy hands into my secret
places.
And you can thank me for that
image later, if it do ya
fine.
Getting out of town and on I-80
towards Fallon, I ran into rush hour traffic. Which, if you've known Reno for
very long, you know is a phrase calculated to cast doubt upon the speaker's
sanity. Oh, it wasn't San Diego 5/805 merge type traffic, but it was much denser
than the "Biggest Little City in the West" was ever prone to in my previous
experience. It turns out that the vertiginous escalation in housing costs in
Oakland and San Francisco have pushed mere mortals over the Sierras into Reno,
searching for that 3BR/2BA American Dream, priced at less than $300k. They've
poured over the mountains like fire ants boiling out of the nest, with the
result that the city fathers are dealing not so much with growing pains as
growing convulsions. These latter worthies have responded by throwing
casino-financed bulldozers at everything resembling a public thoroughfare, with
the only drawback being that, in their eagerness to improve services
expeditiously, they've pretty much shut the city down, whenever two or three
shall meet.
But eventually I broke
free, and started my journey into the Nevada wilderness east of Reno. The rain
was still coming down pretty hard, and as the temperature started to drop down
towards the freezing level, your humble scribe got just a little thoughtful.
Which is not to say concerned. Not as who might say, "actively" concerned. Even
while knowing that while there are worse fates than skidding off a freezing
mountain road, through the guard rail, down the embankment and into the turgid
Truckee river all unnoticed by fellow mankind, there are not that
very
many fates which are all that much
worse.
But the truck's interior was
warm enough, and the windshield wipers kept up their rhythmic thumps as if to
say that, there-there, all would be well. I passed by the hard-scrabble company
towns, full of miners and factory workers in their bread box houses hard by the
river's edge, some of them no doubt watching with anxious eyes the rise of the
river through their kitchen blinds. Closer to the highway's edge, an Amtrak
train wove soundlessly and sinuously 'round the foothills. In the falling,
monochromatic light, its silvered car tops looked like the segmented carapace of
some some alien sea monster, full of malignant purpose and unknowable
desire.
The miles clicked by, and
soon I was passing the optimistically named "West Fernley," and getting off on
the exit to the appropriately (if somewhat unimaginatively) named, "Farm
District Road." East Fernley flashed past like greased lightning, leaving me to
wonder whether Central Fernley was ever going to get any billing whatsoever, and
whether there were life-long rivalries attending to growing up on one or another
side of a town with a population of very nearly
8500 people.
Once past
that particular metropole, the rain let up and I was moving quickly past miles
of grey and dusty farmland, illuminated now by the harvest moon. Desert
farmland, the kind of land where livelihood, and even lives themselves, are
measured in acre-feet of government water. Where people have been shot over
water rights.
Soon I was moving
through the little hamlet of Hazen (elevation: 4000 feet, population: 30), and
sensed more than saw the rising terrain just east of the single country store
that was the center of that unincorporated village's social life. On that
promontory I knew could be seen, by the light of the day, a white letter "H"
painted against the brown dirt and scree. This seems to be the custom of towns
and cities all over Nevada, no matter how large or small - a demonstration of
local pride perhaps, or a protestation against something less noble even than
mediocrity.
Finally down the back
roads to the base itself, a place I lived for nearly two years in the late 90's.
The steering wheel seems to turn almost of its own volition, finding the lesser
roads - away from the town of Fallon, its fast-food restaurants, casinos and
speed traps.
I unpacked my bag in the
BOQ room. Inside is one of those little cards from the TSA, notifying me that my
gear has been searched. I seem to get those every time, perhaps my bag is
inherently suspicious. Something new this time though: The card was placed on
top of my khaki hat, and in the margin at the top was a scrawled note, reading,
"Thank you for your service to the country."
Which I thought was nice. He didn't
have to do
that.
----------------
The
next day to work for a two-day conference on the weapons acquisition roadmap.
Good, clean work with men who know and love the trade, my brothers. Many
important capabilities are in the offing, most are entirely unaffordable. It has
ever been thus.
We muddle
through.
After work, a four mile run
before heading to the club for dinner and an adult beverage. The air is as cold
and sharp as surgical steel, and two minutes into the run I glance down at my
heart rate monitor and am momentarily stunned by the number on the dial. Then I
remember that we're at 4000 feet above sea level, and ease it down a notch.
Because you want to make sure you get there, to the turnaround point. FA-18s and
F-16s rend the sky overhead, and the thinness of the air combined with the
rising terrain lend the screaming of their engines a new urgency. The sun sets
and the majestic Stillwater mountain range turns breathtakingly purple. Above
the fruited plane. Just like in the
song.
Later, at the club, I'm with
old friends from happier days - back when we were all still flying. We're all
talking the fighter pilot talk, the words come back to you like your mother's
lullaby. We're using our hands to show just how the bandit sat, and how we shot
him. Remembering past victories, and the ones that got away. If ever we have
been shot ourselves in simulated combat, you would never know it by the dialogue
at the club. At the club, the talk is all of victory, and the few that got
away.
It's the same with you: We are
all the heroes of our own
tales.
-----------------
Leaving
Fallon now, heading home. I'm reminded of what a quirky place the American West
can be. The desiccated gentlemen who unabashedly wear their cowboy boots and
hats, keeping the latter on even in the restaurants. They'd stop in an instant
to help a lady fix her tire, line up in rows to help her out. For a man, on the
other hand, they probably wouldn't stop at all. Unless to heap scorn and
derision on any that might need help. Real men do it
themselves.
On two lane roads traffic
will bunch behind the elderly gent doing 60 in the 65 mph zone, waiting for
their chance to pass, usually dissuaded by the high speed traffic in the
oncoming lane. Eventually the road will widen to a four lane for a bit, to let
the faster traffic pass. At which point, of course, everyone floors the gas.
Including the guy who'd been holding up
traffic.
Back to Reno, more
navigating through the wasteland of civic construction. And more jousting with
the TSA. Shoes please. Of
course.
Airborne again, and home
again in time. SNO picked me up at the airport, his university being closer than
our own lodgings. He took me down to NAS North Island to pick up the car I'd
left at work. I offered to buy him dinner at McP's
, the SEAL bar in Coronado (it's 20 days 'til St. Pat's, by the by). Being a
college student, and treasuring sleep perhaps more than breakfast, he readily
agreed. When his burger came, it was largely left to me to carry the
conversation while he attacked his dinner with single-minded zeal, eyes bulging.
We had a chance to laugh a bit after, in an easy way.
Then he his way, and I
mine.
-----------------
Home
again, and of that I shall not share more
tonight.
-----------------
Have
a great weekend!
Posted @
04:29 PM
|
Posted in
""
|
Sendit
|
Credo
"Sign on, young man, and sail with me. The stature of our homeland is no more than the measure of ourselves. Our job is to keep her free. Our will is to keep the torch of freedom burning for all. To this solemn purpose we call on the young, the brave, the strong, and the free. Heed my call, Come to the sea. Come Sail with me." - John Paul Jones
"Pardon him, Theodotus; he is a barbarian, and thinks that the customs of his tribe and island are the laws of nature" --George Bernard Shaw, "Ceasar and Cleopatra"
"And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music."--Friederich Nietzsche
