tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82738159734566513592024-03-13T08:18:44.432-05:00Bayou Balloon AdventuresThe ups and downs of hot-air ballooning in The Bayou State.Treehopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05239613954856200217noreply@blogger.comBlogger37125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-17034953737736822902010-11-11T03:43:00.002-06:002010-11-11T03:50:26.851-06:00Relax....I got a bit of advice this morning. And it was well timed. It was not anything I had never heard before. Nothing that I don’t already know and most of the time try to adhere to. But sometimes we forget what we know and have to be reminded occasionally. I guess my friend could tell I was pushing the edge as he calmly and quietly, as is his nature, gently suggested to me to simply…. relax. A simple single word spoken sincerely by a concerned friend changed my whole attitude at that very moment. My entire body began to unwind and I could almost feel the ice in my veins start to thaw a bit. Instead of being faced with a day of tension, anger, and stress, I could now see that this day could be saved. All I had to do is, relax. Apparently the power of suggestion took an immediate hold on me and suddenly the day seemed a little brighter. He did not change the circumstances of my stress. He did not “fix” anything at all. But what he did was give me permission to take control and make a choice. And I chose to relax. Simple. My friend also reminded me that most things in life will pretty much work themselves out. And whatever the outcome, all the worry and stress you may throw at any problem usually ends up being wasted.<br /><br />The source of my stress has been like a bee buzzing around my head for the last few months, never knowing if or when I would get stung. But if you have ever had a bee chasing you, you know the more you swat and run, the more aggressive the bee gets. Sometimes if you just stand still and be quiet, the pesky little varmint will just fly away and go find someone else that is a lot more fun. Easier said than done when you think at any moment you are gonna get popped a time or two by the bee. But in reality, for most of us, the thought of the bee sting is multiplied in our heads so much that sometimes the actual sting is a relief. We can hurt ourselves far more by trying to get away from the bee than taking the hit.<br /><br />I will spare you the ugly details of what exactly has had me so riled up and ready to throw a bonifide conniption fit. In a few short days it will all be behind me and I will be headed to Louisiana, home, and family. When I leave this place, I hope to take just the good memories with me and there are a ton of them. I’ll take what I learned from the lessons, but not dwell on the lessons themselves. They were just instruments to get my attention and help me learn what I needed to know….for now. I suspect and certainly hope there are many more lessons out there for me to struggle through and eventually learn. I hope I can do myself a really big favor when the new lessons begin. It sure makes them a lot easier to learn when you slow your head down a bit and remember the advice of a good friend and simply….relax.<br /> Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-57340593924249705432010-10-30T05:23:00.002-05:002010-10-30T05:44:45.392-05:00FALLWhat a wonderful gift we have been given in the form of the four seasons, Spring, Summer, Fall, and Winter. Can you imagine if there were only one season all year round? Well if that were the case, then I don’t suppose it would really be a “season” at all would it? It would just be what we have all the time with no other climate to look forward too. Lucky for us that is not the case. I like them all and each has it own effect on me. But it is Fall that I look forward to each year with great anticipation.<br /><br /><br />There is something about how Fall arrives that captures the imagination. For some it has arrived when the green leaves begin to turn to every shade of browns and reds and yellows that marks it’s arrival. For others, it is the cool morning air that is a welcomed relief from Summer’s miserable heat. For me, Fall has arrived when it is properly announced by the honking gaggling sounds of the first flock of wild geese winging their way to escape the bitter cold of Winter that chases them southward. I’m never really convinced that Fall is among us until I hear the sweet, soft, distant music made by a couple of hundred wild snows, blues, or even Canadian geese as they navigate through the night. For me, it is reassurance that all is right with the world. I find great comfort that these sky travelers have once again navigated their way toward the promise of warmer climate and bountiful food. It is a great reminder that change is a good thing in our lives and it is not only natural, but inevitable.<br /><br /><br />Unlike Spring that gives us hope for new beginnings, Fall is a time for reflection. It is a time to shed the old leaves of doubt, despair, and uncertainty. As we rid ourselves of these distractions in our lives, Fall allows us to rake them up into a big pile and set fire to them. As the smoke lazily journeys into the sky, it takes with it some of our burdens that have accumulated over the year. As the pile is consumed, we can then happily make room for new dreams and hopes and anticipation of another year. We can choose if we burn a big pile or just a small one, for there is no shortage of these leaves. But we know from our past, if we don’t get them raked, piled, and burned, we will soon be up to our knees in life’s leaves, making it really difficult for us to move forward.<br /><br /><br />Enjoy this time of year. Take a walk in the woods and quietly observe nature at work. Every living creature is undergoing change and is going about the tasks of preparing for these coming changes. Old burrows are being cleaned of empty shells and unneeded clutter to make room for new stock to insure survival of tougher times ahead. I too, as nature has intended, will take stock of my burrow, clean out the clutter and make room for those things that will help me make it through whatever challenges the next season of my life will bring. I suggest that you pick up your rake and do some cleaning of your own. When you are satisfied you have done all you can do, I encourage you to sit down, relax by the fire, and enjoy this gift called Fall.Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-55050938170271728962010-10-11T13:18:00.004-05:002010-10-11T13:36:27.844-05:00Food for Thought...There is an old saying that states something along the lines of “ being in a foreign country will make you appreciate home”. Whoever said it first knew what they were talking about. I have been in quite a few foreign countries before and have experienced that renewed appreciation every time. But being in Turkey for the last 5 months has redefined the essence of appreciation for the good ole United States of America. I am not saying that Turkey is not a wonderful place to visit, because it certainly is. I have had the privilege of meeting some wonderful people with whom I hope to remain friends with for as long as I live. I have seen and done things here that will remain among the memories that I pull up in my later years when I want to smile and maybe even laugh out loud. But there are some things, that are totally missing or different here that most of us take for granted at home.<br /><br /> Wal-Mart. How many times have you griped and moaned about having to go to the big box store when all you wanted was just a small item like, let’s say shoelaces. My fellow pilot Manie from South Africa and I spent several hours one afternoon looking for new laces for his flying boots. I think he is still looking and in the meantime is relying on the old ones being held together by several small knots. Just little things. Like a spare key for his apartment. You would think that the local hardware store would be just the place….and you would be wrong. Everybody here in the little town of Avanos knows that if you need a spare key, you go to the pharmacy and they will fix you right up. You would also think that a pair of leather gloves, much needed to reduce the calloused pinky epidemic among balloon pilots here in Turkey, would be an easy find at the hardware store. Not only are they not found at the hardware store, they are not found anywhere! As far as I know, along with the other 50 or 60 balloon pilots working here, there is only one place within 50 miles to find a good pair of leather gloves. That would be in the city of Kayseri, but even then that is not a sure thing. Manie and Andy took the time to make the drive one day to pick up some gloves and came back with just some nice memories of a ride to the big city because the gloves were out of stock. If I didn’t say it before, I will mention it now…..a local Wal-Mart would sure come in handy around here.<br /><br /> Back in the summer it was so hot even the critters were looking for some cool place to get out of the heat. Unfortunately, among those looking were some nasty and vicious scorpions. Paco, my upstairs neighbor, like right above my place, can provide the best evidence of this. At last count he has found 6 of the little devils in his apartment. Manie, who lives next to Paco, has only found one, but it was under his pillow! I on the other hand have found none in my place, but I assure you it has not been from lack of trying. It is a complete and very thorough, before bed ritual that I have developed and follow religiously. I may forget to brush my teeth before bed, but I promise you, I will not forget to take my little flashlight and check under the bed, under the pillow, between the sheets, and all adjoining walls before I lay my head down to sleep. You’d think that the hardware store would have just the thing to keep the little buggers outside. Nope, but the pharmacy does. And just for your information, avoiding a sting from the scorpions here is a worthwhile endeavor. My friend Mehmet was not so lucky and was stung on the side of his foot. He missed a few days of work, endured excruciating pain, and his whole foot looked like it was going to fall off from the infection. I’m not saying we don’t have our share of critters that will hurt you back home, because we surely do. But we don’t normally have to do a bed check to make sure they are all still outside.<br /><br /> Living here for the most part by myself has forced me to cook for myself. That in itself is not a problem for me because I kind of enjoy cooking….certain things. I like to make up a big pot of chicken and sausage gumbo on a cool Fall day. Well it is very cool here now, (just got the first snow on the mountain this past weekend), no problem finding a chicken, I could pluck one of those right outside my door. But finding pork sausage is an exercise in futility. They do have something here that looks like sausage and I’m sure after an acquired taste, it is probably just fine, but I don’t think it will work in a good Cajun gumbo.<br /><br />Thanks to a couple of kind souls back home, I have had a good supply of southern grits to give me good nourishment and great comfort. Did you know that a big bowl of grits with lots of butter can be enjoyed at any meal? I know this because I’ve had them for every meal and sometimes just for a “I miss home” snack. I was also sent some really good pancake mix. However, there is a severe shortage of maple syrup around here. There is something the locals call syrup but it is made from grapes and just does not have the right texture, taste or effect. And what I would not have given for a can of Rotel when I made a pot of chili the other night. Again, where is that Wally World when you really need it?<br /><br /> Everybody complains about traffic cops at home right? I would love to have a good ole boy Louisiana State Trooper follow me around for a couple of days over here. He would have writer’s cramp for sure. I love these Turkish people, I really do. But they are responsible for me breaking out in some terrible fits of road rage. Traffic signs, speed limits, and road markings are obviously just suggestions that are almost always ignored. Driving here has given me a whole new appreciation for the folks I use to fuss at back home for driving too slow…God bless ‘em.<br /><br /> Personal space. I know we all just pretty much take that little space between us and a perfect stranger for granted. We all know that it is just common courtesy to give folks a little breathing room. For example, at home when you go to the bank, there is a line, sometimes defined by a nice colorful rope, chain, ribbon, or such. There is a line which one does not cross until the person in front of you has completed their business at the window and moved on. The window at the counter is narrow and just big enough for one person to interact with the nice teller. Pretty simple, right? Not here it isn’t. There is no rope and no line. There is a number system. Walk in the bank. Take a number, have a seat, which is provided, and wait for your number to light up above the teller’s head therefore indicating it is now your turn to go to the window. Somehow that last part has gotten lost in translation. Maybe it is because the teller window is three feet wide and will fit four grown up people. I suppose folks think if four can stand there, then that is where they should be. Can you imagine doing your private banking business and having three total strangers standing next to you vying for the teller’s attention? And sometimes getting it as the teller will stop helping you and help them? And it is the same at the market check out counter. I have never been a patient person as some members of my chase crew back home can attest, but living here in this country has given me a chance to work on that a bit.<br /><br /> These are just a few of the little things I have encounter here that I find a bit different from home. I am in no way ridiculing or making fun of the Turkish way of doing things. I am a visitor here and should adapt to how things work and I am really trying my best to do so. For them, it all seems to be perfectly fine and logical. I’m the one out of sync. So as I wait for my departure I will do my best to fit in with the locals as they have been so gracious to allow me to at least try. I hate to say it, but having had this experience I believe I have definitely garnered a newborn appreciation for some to the little things that we all take for granted in our everyday lives. And I am glad to say, I have learned much about some things that I previously did not have a clue. In a whole lot of ways, people are pretty much the same all over the world. It is often merely our own perception of what is normal that makes them appear to be different.Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-32434126317568479012010-10-07T12:52:00.002-05:002010-10-07T13:02:27.633-05:00The Great Escape<em>Note: Some portions of the following story may or may not be true, depending on who reads it and what kind of questions arise. Anything construed as illegal will definitely be denied and was most likely just made up to facilitate the story. Or, maybe, it actually happened just like this….<br /> <br /></em> I have always tried my best to stay on the right side of the law. When it comes to any possibility of paying huge fines or spending time in jail, I am very diligent about making sure I don’t break any laws. So when I found myself deep in the heart of a foreign country, traveling at breakneck speed in a four wheel drive pick up, across some of the roughest terrain you can imagine, with the Jandarma (Turkish military), hot on my tail, you can only imagine my disbelief that this was really happening to me. With my heart about to fly out of my chest, and the truck about to fly off the road, I had visions of spending a very long time in a Turkish prison if these guys were able to catch me…and at that moment, their chances looked pretty good. My chances of ever flying very big balloons in Turkey again were looking very slim. In fact, my prospects for just staying alive weren’t real good at the moment. My only hope was that the guy driving my truck was faster and better than the guys with guns that were chasing us…<br /> It had been a perfectly lovely morning. Although I am still waiting for my “re-validation” before I can start flying again, I decided to go out and watch the Turkish rent-a-pilot fly my balloon. Before daylight at our launch site it was cold. In fact, the coldest day since I’ve been here, 3 degrees Celsius or about 37 degrees Fahrenheit. Driving from Avanos to Goreme in the little jeep with the top off, I could clearly see my breath as I made my way the 6 kilometers down the dark black top road with no lines. I remember looking up as I drove and seeing at least a million stars sparkling in the endless Turkey sky. There was just a sliver of a moon and I remember thinking to myself that it reminded me of the quarter moon depicted on the Turkish flag. It was indeed a beautiful morning with the promise of becoming a beautiful day. I knew that in just a little while, the sun would come over the mountain and start it’s daily ritual of filling the Goreme Valley with brilliant colors of yellow and gold, painting the ancient geological rock formations that has made this place so popular with visitors from all over the world.<br /> The two Alaaddin balloons were already cold packed when I arrived and were about to be heated by the giant burners. After my ride in the jeep, my plan was to stand as close to those burners as I could to try and warm up a bit. As I warmed myself and watched the Turkish pilot do “my” work, I could not help but feel a touch of resentment toward him, although I know it is not his fault that I can not fly. But still, I guess I just could not help myself. The big 210,000 cubic foot balloon stood up tall in response to the huge flames that had been directed through the mouth and into the belly of the envelope. Yokon completed his post inflation checks and motioned for the 12 passengers to climb aboard which they eagerly did with assistance from members of the ground crew. Once on board, Yokon began his standard safety briefing, which in most cases is a bit of a problem. He has very limited usage of the English language. Although there are people that come to fly from all over the world with many different nationalities and languages, most, but not all, can understand at least a little English. But none of them can understand Turkish. That’s one of the reasons the balloon operators like to have English speaking pilots. So, Yokon has a canned speech and really does his best. It goes something like this…”We have rules. Rule number one, no smoking in basket, please. Rule number two, no sit on edge of basket. (Duh!) Most important…landing position…I say landing position, you must face back of balloon, sit little, and hold two hands. All times..landing position….understand”? We can only hope that they do.<br /> I watched as the two Alaaddin balloons slowly lifted off and claimed their place in the early morning Cappadocian sky that would be shared with at least 50 other balloons on this day. And it was a typical day here, which means, that close to 1,000 people would be flying in the balloons to see this spectacular landscape. Fifty balloons, 1,000 people, all sharing one small piece of sky for the next hour. Quite beautiful, but fairly nerve racking for the pilots who are charged with the safety of all 1,000 of them.<br /> As the ground crews scrambled about loading up the fans and readying to begin the chase, Mehmet came over to me and said hello. Mehmet is a nice guy, he has become a good friend. He is just as upset as I am about me not flying for the last 5 weeks. For him, as owner of the company, every day I don’t fly, he loses money, so naturally he would be upset. But I think it is more than that. He knows I came here to fly and understands that for me, it is not about the money. I just want to fly the very big balloons. He explained that there was a second sortie for the 210 this morning. Which means after the first flight, the passengers would be unloaded, new fuel placed on board, and new passengers loaded up for another flight. This is kinda tricky sometimes, due to wind conditions, location of the first landing and just the logistics of getting everything and everybody in the same place in a timely manner. He explained that although there was a second sortie, there were only 5 people scheduled to fly. This meant there was room on board and he asked me if I would go along as a passenger, just some extra needed weight, so to speak. I have say, his request did not make me feel good at all. In my mind, I have gone from being in charge, piloting the very big balloon, to just being some dead weight. I know he didn’t mean it that way , but it did cross my mind. I told him sure because, after all, I did not have anything else to do.<br /> The first sortie went well and Yokon managed to land the 210 in a fairly accessible location to facilitate the passenger transfer. During the chase of the first sortie, I had all but decided that I was not going to ride along. There is something about more than one pilot on board that makes me uncomfortable. I suppose part of it is pride, and the other part is all the stories about accidents occurring while there are two or more pilots in the balloon. Why is that? It is a simple matter of communication. The key is making sure that everybody knows who is pilot in command at all times. It may sound very elementary, but more than one fatality has occurred because each pilot thought the other was flying the aircraft.<br />But once the new passengers and fuel were on board, it was obvious that a little more weight was needed. The big 210 is hard to land when under loaded, so I jumped in. Much to my surprise, Mehmet also climbed on board, along with a brand new German pilot. My God, now there were four pilots on this aircraft, almost more pilots than passengers! I decided to try and put that thought out of my mind and just relax and enjoy the flight. And low and behold, I did enjoy it very much. The wind was kind to us, Yokon did a good job and, the passengers were happy, even the three extra pilots managed to enjoy to ride. We managed to fly over Love Valley, which was a real treat for everybody. It is one of the most sought after places to fly because of it’s natural beauty and rather unique towering pinnacles of rock formations. It does not take the first time viewer long to guess why it is called “love” valley. When I am flying, if they don’t quite get it, I just tell them. “think Viagra”. “Oooh yeah”, is the usual response.<br /> We passed over the valley on onto the large open flat land that I call the farm. There are lots of places to land among the many small farms that populate the area. One of the issues when flying a second sortie is time. The passengers pay for a one hour flight and that is what they expect, and rightly so. However, most of them are on a tight schedule to complete the ride and get on to the next event which is usually a bus tour somewhere. There is a lot of pressure from the tour operators to be on time and they want their customers back and ready to go by 9 a. m. This is sometime hard to do, like I said, depending on landing location of the first sortie, wind conditions, etc. More often than not, the second sortie gets shortened by 10-15 minutes and the passengers get slighted out of their after flight champagne ceremony. Such was the case today. We were running a little late and the tour operator was already calling to find out where his passengers were. It looked like again the champagne ceremony would not happen. We would either have to cut the flight short to do the champagne, or fly the hour and skip the after flight ceremony. But then I saw something so cool that it just made me laugh out loud. Yokon was setting up an approach that was taking us to an open area downwind. Mehmet got on the radio and began talking to the crew chief who was waiting there with the rest of the crew. Almost immediately the crew was rushing around and looked like little ants swarming around the chase truck. Before long, two of them were running toward the balloon carrying a bottle of champagne and the wooden box that contains the champagne glasses. Yokon flew the balloon perfectly down to within two feet of the ground below and held it there. We were contour flying like a magic carpet right above the grape vineyards headed straight for the crew. As the balloon drifted slowly toward them, I realized what was happening. Without the balloon ever touching the ground, the crew handed Mehmet and I the champagne and glasses as we silently passed by. We now had the makings of an in flight champagne party! Mehmet popped the cork and I got the glasses ready and Yokon got us a little altitude. With glasses full, as we continued to fly the full allotted hour, we toasted our guests and to there wonderful balloon ride. It was awesome. I was truly glad that I had gone along for the ride.<br /> After a nice gentle landing and getting the passengers onto their waiting bus, on time, I got into the little jeep and headed for Avanos where I planned to cook a little breakfast and have a short nap. I was feeling good about the morning and had for at least a short while, all but forgotten about how miserable I was because of not being able to fly the big balloons. I was enjoying the nice leisurely jeep ride, after all, half the route between Goreme and Avanos is within the boundaries of the Goreme National Historic Park. The stars I had seen on the drive earlier in the morning had given way to clear blue sky and bright warm sunshine. Not to waste such an opportunity, I took a side road that traveled through one of the more scenic areas of the park to take advantage of the morning sun reflecting on the numerous fairy chimneys along the way. This spur of the moment decision could have been a fatal one. The drive itself was nice and uneventful. But the twenty minutes it took to get back on the main road to Avanos was just enough time to be a main ingredient in a recipe for disaster.<br /> That twenty minutes gave Mehmet and crew enough time to get back to the hangar located in Avanos. As I approached the hangar, I saw they had already returned and were busy getting the balloons ready for the next day. I pulled in with intentions of just saying hello for a few minutes and then get on home to breakfast and the nap. I pulled the jeep into the graveled, barbed wire enclosed compound and parked in the one place where a green tarp was making some shade. Even though the morning had been cold, the sun was now heating things up very rapidly. I no sooner got out of the jeep, when Mehmet came from the other end of the compound driving the four wheel drive Mitsubishi pick up truck. A quick glance inside the truck revealed three other people who will remain nameless, but all were Turkish. Barely slowing down, Mehmet says, “come, go with us!” Now I have been around him long enough to know to ask questions, like, where are you going?<br />“Fishing” he replied with the excitement of a little boy. And in anticipation of my next question, he said “only 30 minutes, come on let’s go!” I also know that Mehmet does nothing in 30 minutes and accepted the fact that breakfast and nap would have to wait.<br /> We drove past town and onto a dirt road that follows the Kizilirmak River. Translated to English it means Red River, which I continue to find quite a coincidence. It is the longest river in Turkey and mysteriously enough has its’ origin and ending at the Black Sea. It runs right through the middle of Avanos and is the main reason for the famous pottery industry in the little town. It seems the mud from the river is ideal for use in making top quality ceramics of all shapes and sizes.<br /> We followed the shallow river for nearly a mile before turning off the dirt road and taking a small trail to the river’s edge. Two other people, who will also remain nameless, were already standing near the water. Strangely enough I did not see another vehicle. Now there are 7 people gathered at the river. I am the only one who can not speak or understand Turkish, so naturally the conversation that ensued was lost on my ears. I was just there because I was invited and was just along for the ride, so to speak. I did notice there was no fishing gear in sight. On closer inspection I did see a net stretched out into the river. Hmm, I thought to myself, but before I could even complete that thought, things began to happen fast. The casual conversation from a few moments earlier had suddenly turned more serious…and louder. There was a lot of pointing, first from the direction we had just traveled, then the opposite direction and back again. I could tell something was amiss, but had no clue. Mehmet made a motion for everyone to get back in the truck, which we all did without any delay. He drove the truck back out onto the main road and turned in the direction of town. After traveling on a couple of hundred yards he again turned off the main road and down toward the river. Again, we stopped and all got out. Things seemed a little calmer for the moment. Mehmet was on the phone and the rest of us throwing rocks at a can floating by in the river. After a few moments, the two people that were on the river bank came walking down the to the river where we were now parked. I asked Mehmet if there was a problem. “Big problem”, he says. I then remembered the net I had seen in the river. “Mehmet”, I said. “is that net illegal”? He nodded yes as his phone rang again. After a short exchange, Mehmet excitedly started yelling in Turkish and everybody ran to get in the truck. All I could think of is “oh crap” as I found me a place in the back seat of the four door truck. Two of the other folks were not so lucky and had to find a place in the bed of the truck. Mehmet quickly turned the truck in the direction away from town and took off like a shot. I did not want to, but I had to ask the question, “are the police chasing us”? Mehmet’s said “yes..yes”!! And I said, “well drive faster dammit!” (Please remember I have been asking him to slow down ever since I got to Turkey!) At this point I am in total disbelief. Just a few short minutes ago, all was right with the world, well, maybe not ALL, but close enough. Now I was in a truck careening down a dirt road, full of rocks and big holes, and to top it all off, very slick. It had rained the day before for the first time in two months. Oh, and did I mention there were guys in uniforms, with guns, in hot pursuit?<br /> No one in the truck said a word. Mehmet was driving like there was no tomorrow, and maybe that’s what he was afraid of. He was going so fast the truck was all but out of control. The road pretty much followed the river’s every twist and turn. At times, the road rose above the river and became even more narrow. At one point, the road looked to be at least a hundred feet above the river, straight down. The truck bounced and slid, and jumped but Mehmet was not letting up at all. I wanted desperately to put on my seatbelt but I did not dare let go of the side handle that I had a death grip on with both hands. It was so crowded in the back seat of the truck I could not even turn around and see if the good guys were gaining on us.<br /> At one point, the truck suddenly slowed and came to a stop. Dead ahead was a small stream, where yesterday would have been just a dusty ditch. It took Mehmet about 5 seconds to put the truck in 4 wheel drive and back up enough to get a running start. I don’t know much about how the human brain works, but for some reason, right there, at that moment, the scene from “Romancing The Stone” flashed through my head. Yeah, the one where they are in a 4WD truck and are being chased by the bad guys. Except this time, I was pretty sure that there was no ramp that would magically appear to launch our truck over the stream. Mehmet gave it all the little truck had and we went barreling toward the stream like a runaway train. I was thinking, this could be the end. We will either die, or at best get stuck and then caught by the Jandarma. Neither one of those possible outcomes was very appealing to me. It did not look good. But in the face of adversity, they say humor sometimes works, so I yelled as loud as I could, knowing it was the one thing I could say that my Turkish friends would understand…”LANDING POSITION NOW!!!” as the little truck left solid ground and sailed across the water, almost to the other side. The back wheels hit the water and mud and rocks and water exploded under the spinning tires. For the next fifty yards the road was covered in water and suddenly we are mud hogging for real in the middle of a dad-gum desert. About this time, I remembered the two guys in the back of the truck….I managed to get my head turned around to see both of them still there, but just barely. They were truly hanging on for dear life with arms and legs flailing in every direction. I can’t not imagine how they even stayed inside the truck.<br /> We continued down the road for another 10 minutes or so and all the while the road getting rougher and then began to smooth out and get wider. Eventually we came to a hard surfaced road, hung a quick left and in just a few moments were in the middle of downtown Nevshire. With no sign of our would be captors, there was a collective sigh of relief that could be understood in any language. <br /> Not sure how we did it, maybe it was the little stream we jumped or the muddy road, or maybe the Jandarma just have a short attention span. I really don’t care. All I know is I’m very happy to be alive and that I am not going to wake up in a Turkish prison tomorrow. Not sure about Mehmet however. With “Alaaddin Balloons” written all over the Mitsubishi, the Jandarma just might be waiting for him when he gets home.<br /> Mehmet and I will have a little talk about this later, about putting me in that situation. I will scold him good for sure. And then I will compliment him on his driving skills and tell him that I forgive him for all those times he was speeding like a madman on the highway. I now know that it was just practice for the day he would really need to go fast in order to execute “the great escape.”Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-74426981270504517112010-09-29T09:02:00.002-05:002010-09-29T09:45:00.078-05:00Tomorrow Never Comes....Part 2Today is a very sad day for those who knew and loved Mr. J. D. Phillips. He is being laid to rest today after 77 years of making this old world a better place to be in. It can never be counted accurately the number of people that JD touched and influenced while he was here among us. He did many things but his passion was flying and that is what he did for most of his adult life. And he shared that passion with a lot of us who were fortunate enough to spend some time with him in the sky. There are several entries in my log book with his signature, the first one in 1981 and the last one in March, 2010. He not only taught us, but he also encouraged, inspired, and just plain ole made us smile. He will be missed.<br /> JD’s passing has made me do a little rethinking about the last few weeks and the frustrations I expressed in “Tomorrow Never Comes.” It occurs to me today that maybe we spend way too much time thinking about tomorrow or yesterday. There is a whole lot of stuff that we anticipate will happen tomorrow or some other time in the future. And it seems we just can’t wait for that future time to get here that will somehow magically make our lives better and happier. I know we have to plan for the future and all that. But maybe, at least in my case, we should pay a little more attention to “today”. What a wonderful gift we have been given, today, not tomorrow, not yesterday, but today. I think I’m gonna try a little harder to enjoy and appreciate today.<br /> There is a lot of time spent thinking about what happened to us in our past, yesterday or 10 years ago. Time does not seem to matter, especially to a heavy heart. The pain from many years past can be as real as something that happened to us just yesterday. Time does not heal all wounds, it only treats the symptoms that help ease the pain a little… that old wound can be opened up at any time to deal us misery all over again just like it happened yesterday. We spend a lot of time in the past, we can’t help it, it is part of us and always will be. We try to deal with it as best we can. The gift of today can help us do that if we will just allow it.<br /> For most of us, tomorrow will come in due time. It may or may not bring us that better job or better house or car or whatever is in our head at the moment that we are waiting for. But it will come. Be patient. And while waiting…..let’s celebrate today! How do we do that? For me, I think it is a simple matter of trying to live more in the moment. I have those old wounds like everyone else and I have anticipations, hope, and worries for tomorrow and the future. But I think, just maybe, if I consume myself with today, it will leave little of my precious time for thinking about what happened in the past or what may or may not happen tomorrow. There is a good reason to do this. For JD and lots of other good folks, the worry of tomorrow is over. There is truly no tomorrow for them, at least not in this time and space we live in. That is why today is so important for those of us who have been given the gift of it.<br /> Today is a good day to be happy, even among the sadness of present or past heartaches. Today is a good day to tell those close to you how much you love and cherish them. Today is a good day to tell a stranger hello or extend a helping hand to someone in need of it. Today is a good day to smile, just because. Today is a good day to be thankful, for all the moments in your life, and especially those that are unfolding right now that are contained in the little box of today. Today is a good day to be happy for all the days you have had so far, good or not so good.<br /> For those who have lost loved ones, this is not easy and I am sorry for your loss. The pain you are feeling is real and in no way do I mean to diminish that. But just try for a moment, just today, celebrate their life and their love. Let their overwhelming legacy be the happiness their lives brought into your life, not to be overshadowed by the pain of their loss. Do this just for today, because you have been given of it. If in fact “Tomorrow Never Comes” we will have at least earned all of our “todays”.Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-41563320723829625212010-09-22T07:11:00.002-05:002010-09-22T07:26:42.256-05:00Tomorrow Never Comes <br />As long as I can remember, I have always tried to avoid the word “never”. I guess I learned early on that once you say never, it won’t be long before it comes around to bite you in the butt. So, like most people I know, we use the word never, not for something that we know will not ever happen, but for things that we think could possibly happen, but probably won’t. Stay with me here. For instance, as a young male in high school, in my mind there were certain things I knew would “never” happen. Things like going on a date with the prettiest, smartest, and most popular girl in the school, which in my school, happened to be three different girls. I knew that would never happen, but somewhere in that part of my teenage hormone infested brain I still hoped that it would. Never happened. Or I knew I would never be the star football player, but again, somewhere in another part of my also ego infested brain, I hoped. That too never happened.<br />Today I am sitting in a part of the world that is far from my home and realizing that maybe I should change my attitude about “never”. I know I have mentioned before that things happen very slowly here, at least in this part of Turkey. Even the Turkish people make jokes about “tomorrow”. Nothing seems to happen today, but always tomorrow. The latest and current situation now is that I have been waiting on “tomorrow” for the last three agonizing weeks to begin flying again. I waited six weeks when I got here for all the formalities to be dealt with, processed, scanned over, faxed, couriered, slept on and whatever else they do to “validate” a foreign pilot. It finally happened and I began flying the very big balloon in this beautiful place. Life was good. For 30 days. And then all of a sudden, because the company I work for changed it’s name, myself and the other foreign pilot, have to be re-validated by the Civil Aviation Authority. Which means we can not fly again until, once again a piece of paper has to be processed, scanned over, faxed, couriered, and slept on. And I think, but not quite sure, that it is now in the sleeping on it stage. And whoever is doing that has settled in for a long winter’s nap. I have been told almost every day for the last three weeks that it will be completed “tomorrow”.<br />Yesterday I was assured, without a doubt, that I would fly today. I guess nobody told the guy sleeping on my paper work, because this morning I was not flying the very big balloon, again. There is a “rented” Turkish pilot flying my Green Goblin while we are waiting for tomorrow to come. I have tried to be patient and understanding and have even gone out to help and support the team every morning while I am waiting. I am not a patient person, but have been working on that while living here, out of necessity mostly. Either that or end up in a Turkish prison for a very long time, so I’m really trying.<br />So here I am, waiting for tomorrow. And I don’t want to think that it will never come. I could get a call today with the news that everything is complete and I am cleared to do what I came here to do. Fly very big balloons in Turkey. I am not holding my breath, but remain hopeful. Maybe tomorrow.Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-86911903869730805612010-09-05T16:14:00.004-05:002010-09-05T16:32:22.268-05:00The Secrets and Mysteries of Cappadocia<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2NwAKvzRXOh3k8DE3SyWw8jwSQHwzOm8JlOXd9aE5c9E3W1XWZY01-2K8RtxR5fZjQKEJ9nxvmQYtkY9tGoGbnFKvXvau0b_OPiHloGcNTdP1dyWE2SJDefaARf1Fogv5bpkwZ5ERfhE/s1600/P9040096.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513544545213215058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2NwAKvzRXOh3k8DE3SyWw8jwSQHwzOm8JlOXd9aE5c9E3W1XWZY01-2K8RtxR5fZjQKEJ9nxvmQYtkY9tGoGbnFKvXvau0b_OPiHloGcNTdP1dyWE2SJDefaARf1Fogv5bpkwZ5ERfhE/s400/P9040096.JPG" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />The longer I am here, the more questions I have. But the answers, like everything else in this part of Turkey, come very slowly, or sometimes not at all. There are things about this ancient place that have been a mystery for a very long time. Some will remain so until, well, forever, or the end of time, which ever comes first. But some can and have been solved, maybe only momentarily, and then fall right back into the secret category.<br />One such secret was revealed to me today as I was assuming the role of “accidental tourist”. I have gotten into a pattern of not planning too far ahead around here. The only given is that every day I will hopefully fly the very big balloon, have breakfast, take a short nap, spend the rest of the day doing whatever, find something to eat for supper, and go to bed. And then repeat the next day. It’s that span of time called “doing whatever” that is usually taken up by spur of the moment whimsy. This morning for some reason I decided to drive the jeep to Cavusin, park it under some nice shade, and walk a part of Rose Valley I have not seen except from the air. The days are getting nicer now and it is possible to actually go trekking in the middle of the day. A week ago you would run the risk of heat stroke by venturing out between the hours of 10 am and 6pm. But now it is quite pleasant most all day, still a little hot in the direct sun, but find a little shade and it is automatically 10 degrees cooler. So off I go, camera, gps, and water bottle in tow.<br />After being here for three months, one of the mysteries is getting a little clearer. Rose Valley is really one of the five “fingers” of Red Valley. Red Valley, or Kiliclar Valley, is quite large and runs from the town of Goreme like a giant hand to the village of Cavusin. But within its’ boundaries there are at least five smaller valleys, or canyons really, that spread out like fingers from the palm end at Goreme, to the finger tip end at Cavusin. There are hundreds of hiking or trekking trails as they prefer to call it here, throughout the entire complex. And for the most part, all but a couple are not marked. Maybe a dab of red paint on a rock here and there, and sometimes an arrow pointing a particular direction, sometimes straight up. So it makes for a very confusing and mysterious place. Adding to the misery is the fact that no complete or comprehensive map exist of this wonderful place. Another secret I guess. Between you and me and the fence post, I think the reason is simple. The tour guide people want to take you on a trek and having a nice map available for individual trekking pleasure would be way too easy and cut into their booming business. But that’s just me talking.<br />While Joy was visiting we were on a quest to find as many cave churches as possible. Sounds simple enough. Not so. First there are the written “tourist guide books”. They do a very good job of telling you there are beautiful and exotic stuff to see just about everywhere. But the directions to get to these sites are horrendous! For example. We made no less than three attempts to find the “Madonna” Church. The book says, “If you follow the pathway split from the Tokali Church you can reach the Madonna Church. It is far from the main road around 250 meters. It is located to see the whole Kiliclar Valley. The Church is entered through a 5 meter long narrow passage.” No problem finding the Tokali Church because it is on the main road and, what a novel idea, it has a SIGN on it that tells you it is indeed the Tokali Church!!!! Not so for the lady Madonna. It is one of Cappadocia’s best kept secrets. No signs, no paint, no arrows and about a dozen “pathways split” in the vicinity of the Tokali. But I swear….I will find it before I leave here.<br />Today, I was not even looking for cave churches. I just wanted to take a nice long walk and enjoy the peace and quiet and solitude of the winding trail that found it’s way through the various shapes and sizes of unique rock formations. Just a simple walk….but I’ll be danged if I didn’t find not one, not two, but three cave churches!<br />The trail leading into Rose Valley canyon is very dusty. So dusty that at times it is like trying to walk on a very sandy beach. But it soon becomes more and more narrow and the dust gives way to rock which makes for a lot easier walking. The sun was shining in a blue cloudless sky, but the tall rock walls of the canyon shielded me from any direct sunlight. When I looked up, all I could see was blue, blue sky stretching from the top of one side of the canyon to the other like a tightly fitted veil. I could almost see the “tracks” left by the dozens of hot air balloons that had flown gently over and through the canyon that very morning just a few hours before. I knew they had been there, and of course it was just my imagination that made the tracts appear. For they had come and gone just like they do every day, invading the space between the rock walls of the canyon, leaving not a trace or clue they had been there. My imagination kicked in again and I could almost hear the silence of the little valley being abruptly awakened by the roar of the powerful burners bouncing off the rocks. But now the valley was silent. The birds, that had been frightened by the huge balloons, had now forgotten all about the monsters, and were settled into their daily routines. I watched them many times scatter as my very big balloon would sometimes slip silently into the valley, before a deafening blast from the burner was needed to break the descent and send them into a flurry in all directions. I tried vigilantly to see a fox on the trail or sunning on the high rocks. I’ve seen them many times from the balloon, but now without the advantage of height, they are nowhere to be found. But probably really close, very still, just waiting for me to pass on by.</div><br /><div>After walking for about a half an hour the little trail split off in two different directions, one straight ahead, and the other a hard left and going almost straight up. Much to my surprise, there was not one, but two signs directing the way to continue the Rose Valley route and the way to the Hacli Kilise, or Hacli Church. I could hardly believe it. An actual navigation aid directing me to one of the hundreds of cave churches in Cappadocia. Another mystery…why this one? Of course the trail that went left and up was the one to follow to get to the church. Up and left I went, almost giggling that I had found the way to go. The “up” was not too bad, but I had to be very careful while on these trails when there is any kind of incline or decline. The rock is very soft and tends to crumble very easily and all the crumbled rock pool together and it is like trying to walk on ball bearings! You can lose you footing in the blink of an eye. Which reminds me of something I have been wanting to mention since I got here. There is no OSHA here in Turkey. The Occupational Safety and Health Administration does not exist here. You are on your own my friend. No handrails, no warning signs, no nice steps, no nothing. You can kill yourself here in a heartbeat by taking one wrong step and nobody will give a flip. You should have been watching where you were going buddy boy!!!. Just thought I’d warn you.<br />Not far up the trail I found the Hacli Church. I know that’s what it was because it had two big signs that said so. I also found a Turkish man selling souvenirs and freshly squeezed orange juice. Go figure. I was in no need of any souvenirs but the orange juice was pretty good. The church was much like a lot of the others I have visited. Domed ceiling, a couple of little side room cubby holes and some fairly nice frescoes or paintings. The paintings were done by monks in the 10th and 11th century time frame and depict various scenes from the life of Jesus. Some are somewhat crude, while others are just spectacular with detail. All are amazing. Looking at them conjures up all kinds of emotions of different sorts for different people. For me it is just overwhelming to be standing in such an ancient and sacred place.<br />I was pleased to have found the church, and I wasn’t even looking for it. I still wonder why this one as so well marked? Secrets and mysteries abound here. I left the Hacli Kilise and headed on down the trail while trying to figure out just how I could make it back to the jeep without doubling back. I had left the main trail when I turned left and started climbing up and so now I was above the valley floor. Just needed to find a way down to hopefully hit the main trail that would take me back to the jeep.<br />I continued to follow the trail and eventually I could see the main trail down below. I slowly began to pick my way down when low and behold, another church appeared. It was very recognizable as being a church, but alas, no name, no sign, nothing. I stepped inside and was treated to a much smaller version of the Halci Church. Fewer frescoes, and not as well preserved. Bonus, two churches in one day. Now I could go home and write about my good fortune. Little did I know, the best was yet to come.<br />I worked my way on down and finally made it to the valley floor and the main trail without the ball bearings having their way with my backside. Quite an accomplishment in itself. The trail was a little wider now and led to a small stand of what looked like very tall aspen trees. I stopped under the trees to take a break and have some water and enjoy the slight breeze that was sneaking through the leaves. As I rested, I saw three people coming up the trail from the opposite direction. As they approached I greeted them with a “hello”. That’s my super sneaky way of finding out if folks can speak English or not. Sure enough, I got three hellos back. I then engaged them further and found out the couple were from Australia and they were being guided by a Turkish man. (They couldn’t find a map either.) The guide’s name was Necip. Out to the blue he asked me, “did you see the church just down the trail?”. Hmm, I thought to myself. Was this a trick? I did not see any church just down the trail. If there had been one I would have seen it, because today I have been very lucky with church finding. I relented and said no I had not. He replied, with, “please come with us, and I will show you the best church in all of Cappadocia”. Just like that. Not even a blink. Now I was very suspicious, but even more curious and fell in behind the three of them, heading back up the trail from where I had just come.<br />We only walked 25 yards before Necip stopped and pointing to his left, exclaimed quite calmly, “there it is.” I quickly looked in the direction he was pointing and what I saw was nothing. Well, not nothing, but it sure was not a dang cave church. What I saw was a solid flat rock wall 100 ft across and just as high with a few pigeon holes in it and one small opening on the far end. No signs, or any thing else to indicate that this was anything at all, let alone the “best church in all of Cappadocia!” What has this guy been smoking? I could see him smiling at my distrust as he motioned us to follow him. My God, where is OSHA when you need ‘em. We shimmed on our butts down a ravine and then climbed up the ravine on the other side using steps, more like handholds, carved out of the rock. This put us on a ledge that varied in width from 6 to 12 inches wide. On one side of the ledge, solid rock wall. On the other side, nothing but air. No handrails, no handholds, no nothing. We followed him along the ledge to the far end until we finally reached the little opening we had seen from across the ravine. Necip disappeared inside the hole and we followed. Halleluiah and revelations! Another Cappadocia secret revealed! What we saw was breathtaking. No, really…simply breathtaking. Like something right out of an Indiana Jones movie, the small hole we crawled through opened up into a huge cathedral style room with an arched ceiling 30 feet high and 30 feet wide with giant columns going from the floor to the ceiling. Nobody said a word. I couldn’t if I had wanted to. It was truly unlike anything I had seen or visited before. The columns were massive. There were cross pieces spanning the width carved from the solid rock. The arched ceiling had a column running the length of the room at the top center. There were side rooms. There were grave sites. It was the biggest cave church I had seen in all of Cappadocia. And apparently, a secret to all but a few. Why? Why keep this a secret? Why not let folks know it’s there and God forbid, tell them how to get to it. No signs, No arrows pointing the way. So obscure a rat would have trouble finding it if it was full of cheese. But here we were, standing in a place built in the tenth century that rivals any modern day architectual feat.<br />I finally found my voice and thanked Necip for his kindness. He did not have to invite me along. He wasn’t going to get paid any more. But out of pure human kindness, he said “come, let me show you”. Maybe it was Turkish pride. Maybe he is just one more example of the kind of people I have met in Turkey. There are many more secrets and mysteries we can talk about, maybe later. But for today I discovered a few answers to just a few of the mysteries. I have lots more questions about the secrets and mysteries of Cappadocia. However, thanks to my new friend Necip, there is no question or mystery remaining in my mind about the pride, compassion, and kindness that can be found in the hearts of the people of Cappadocia.<br /> </div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-50936570575072220592010-09-03T23:34:00.001-05:002010-09-03T23:39:36.479-05:00The Gift of HappyGood and bad. Pretty and ugly. Happy and sad. Did you ever notice that these things usually travel in pairs. Sometimes the “sad” happens first, then hopefully followed shortly by “happy”. But sometimes it is the other way around. The best we can hope for is a lot more “happy” than “sad” in our lives. I have found a whole bunch of “happy” while living and working in Turkey for the last three months. I have seen things that are so awesome that words and photos only begin to tell their story. I have met people from the four corners of the earth and have found them to be, for the most part, just like the rest of us, with just a few cultural differences. I have flown a hot air balloon carrying 12 passengers from 7 different countries into the depths of one of the most beautiful little rock canyons in the world, shared a champagne toast afterward, and not once even considered them as “foreigners”. The last two months I had the good fortune to share this place with my partner, my wife, and best friend. (It works out well when they are all the same person). So the “happy” in my life has been pretty much dominant for a while now. But she has gone home to check on the homestead and the grandkids and I am left here alone. The flying is still great. The people are still wonderful. The scenery is still as breathtaking as always. But of course now, “sad” is trying to take over and make me feel like crap. But you know what? I’m still smiling, cause as far as I am concerned, if all I have to do is experience a little “sad” in exchange for two months of adventure and “happy”, that is a pretty dang good trade off. I’ll take that anytime.<br />If we could just figure out a way to make sure that the good times outweigh the bad, then life would not be so hard. Someone close to me, made a comment recently about nobody’s life being perfect. I suppose that is true, however, I really think it depends on who is doing the evaluating. How many times have you thought about someone you know and either said it out loud or at least thought to yourself, “now that person has got a perfect life!?” I am guilty of that myself. But if we could get into that person’s life and actually live in their shoes for a while, we just might find that we get sore feet. Do we have any control over our lives, really? In my humble opinion, of course we do. Can we determine if life is going to be mostly “happy” for us instead of “sad”? Maybe not. But, if I had it to do all over again, and it is probably a good thing that is not an option, there are a few things I would at least try to do differently. So these suggestions are for those of you who are still trying to figure out your journey.<br />Educate yourself. The more you know, the more you grow. In other words, it’s OK to be stupid occasionally, but you don’t have to stay stupid. And remember, if you insist on being stupid, you gotta be tough.<br />Prepare yourself to get lucky. Life is kind of like flying a hot air balloon in competition, trying to reach the target at the end. It is about 20% skill and 80% luck. If you are lucky enough to find the right wind, you still have to be skilled enough to take advantage of it and get to the target. Sometimes the percentages change and if you are truly prepared, you only need a little luck. Luck will always find you, but you have to have the skills to take full advantage. Your quantity and quality of “happy” depends on it.<br />Find out what you like to do, and just do it. It’s your life’s work and you should not spend it doing something you hate. Now if you are “lucky” enough and “prepared” enough, it might even be something you can make a decent living at.<br />There’s lots more I could recommend, but whose listening anyway. When given the choice, I will choose “happy” over “sad”. I know that sometimes we have no choice and it’s hard to accept things that do or do not happen to us or our loved ones, that cause us to be sad. In search of the perfect life may be foolish, but while doing so, a lot of good things can happen to us. Some of them will be because we are prepared and expecting the “happy” to be in our lives. Some of it will be because we are just lucky, or a combination of the two. The “happy” and the “sad” are all gifts given to us to do with what we will. I hate it, but I really do believe, that which does not kill us, will make us stronger. And the stronger we become, the more prepared we are to accept and enjoy the “happy” that finds it’s way into our lives…Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-80084947978458071002010-08-09T10:42:00.003-05:002010-08-09T10:49:15.068-05:00Between a rock....<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpFsJ60l-P8nv8PNZbJAWZ-9_ImeOIrqzwWmYWJM4RDp4bb0Usc00FXBC1kbmZIDHpqEYwgppnYNQTgItIyRVWggxLSPJ8_JcxhTb6X8p3jat2M8IpcG1_TCKRxv6OZ80Ha69B7TJR2I/s1600/042.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 267px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503437566920502370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtpFsJ60l-P8nv8PNZbJAWZ-9_ImeOIrqzwWmYWJM4RDp4bb0Usc00FXBC1kbmZIDHpqEYwgppnYNQTgItIyRVWggxLSPJ8_JcxhTb6X8p3jat2M8IpcG1_TCKRxv6OZ80Ha69B7TJR2I/s400/042.jpg" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw8NUyAOsb7PS25VtcTgdfNkh2Kn88oGiDWdujVus09EGNHE6uP51Io_zR9LL2FCWQYgwrMw2YODc6qmSPPTY12xebIWKBw38lC7DKDLvsN74Ls24oiHYc5kbH7vIYkHZ3GDRa7cnVxE/s1600/036.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 281px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503437335220510530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtw8NUyAOsb7PS25VtcTgdfNkh2Kn88oGiDWdujVus09EGNHE6uP51Io_zR9LL2FCWQYgwrMw2YODc6qmSPPTY12xebIWKBw38lC7DKDLvsN74Ls24oiHYc5kbH7vIYkHZ3GDRa7cnVxE/s400/036.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqRCjZ_eA0U-8lEHRcNjFEVyDNzWzEKjlYw30Bx3TJGJLWfmUvtm3Tyx708mAu-kkcCEEuFn74YIv1YCxfmMqFzsrW__EhfWXarD2bF8kABXNonABITfvcpt7kjQRUR9oCB9xoZy1Zyw/s1600/046.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 364px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503437062259940018" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNqRCjZ_eA0U-8lEHRcNjFEVyDNzWzEKjlYw30Bx3TJGJLWfmUvtm3Tyx708mAu-kkcCEEuFn74YIv1YCxfmMqFzsrW__EhfWXarD2bF8kABXNonABITfvcpt7kjQRUR9oCB9xoZy1Zyw/s400/046.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br />I knew this day was coming for me. I had heard about it. I had even seen it with my own eyes. But until today, it had not happened to me, but I knew it was just a matter of time. I had imagined it, dreaded it, and even feared it, but apparently there was no escaping the inevitable.<br />I arrived with the rest of the crew at the launch field in Goreme Valley just as the it was getting light enough to see the outline of the mountains to the east. To the west I could see Uchisar Castle, a solid rock fortress and the tallest thing within miles, towering above the desert landscape. Directly behind the launch area to the south twinkling lights were visible in the little village of Goreme, the virtual center of Cappadocian tourism. And to the north lay the entire Goreme Valley, the phenomena that tourist from all over the world come to see. Of the almost one thousand tourist who would see this amazing place from hot air balloons today, 12 of them would see it with me. As my Turkish ground crew went about the business of readying the Cameron 210, (210,000 cubic foot hot air balloon), I studied the small helium filled test balloons, back in the USA we call ’em piballs, which stands for pilot information balloons, that had been released in order to get some idea of what direction the winds may take us today. Just like every day for the last couple of weeks, the little piballs drifted slowly to the north at about 2 mph. And then at around 120 meters, or 400 feet for my American friends, the piballs start to take a slow turn to the east and by 300 meters are heading back to the south. With this kind of wind a good pilot can go just about anywhere he wants. The only problem here in this valley is that it won’t stay that way for long. When the sun starts to peek over the rim of the mountain to the east, all bets are off. As the cooler air on the valley floor starts to heat up the wind does strange unpredictable things and as a balloon pilot, you just don’t know from minute to minute what the wind might have in store for you.<br />The entire Goreme Valley actually consists of many little valleys or more like canyons that stretch out like fingers. The more prominent ones are Red Valley, Rose Valley, Zemi Valley, Pigeon Valley and of course everybody’s favorite, Love Valley. These valleys are just full of geological wonders consisting of ancient cave churches and dwellings, and the most striking feature, what the locals call Fairy Chimneys. The chimneys are tall slender columns of solid rock that can be up to 100 feet tall and stand like guardians in the valleys they protect. These wonders are why 40-60 hot air balloons take to the sky each day. Our mission is to take our guests for the ride of their lives floating among the fairy chimneys, deep into the canyons. A very serious problem is that these little valleys will not accommodate more than a half dozen or so balloons at a time. It is like a balloon rally competition each day to see who can get in and stay in long enough for the passengers to experience what they came for.<br />The crew had the 210 ready for inflation about the time my passengers showed up. As they were directed to the little table set up for serving hot coffee, tea, and cookies, I set about the task of bringing the giant balloon to life. I checked the connections, all 28 of the individual steel cables attaching the envelope to the basket, checked the control lines, and made sure the propane tanks and hoses were properly installed and ready. With everything in order and a nod to the two crew members holding the giant mouth open, I aimed the three burners to the center of the balloon and squeezed the toggle on the top burner. I could not see them, but I know the passengers were startled at the roar of the burning propane shooting into the belly of the beast. Slowly at first, and as the balloon began to rise, I continued to burn until it was standing straight up in the cool comfortable morning air. Once I was sure the balloon was stable, I called for my passengers to begin boarding. Even the lack of sleep from getting up so early in the morning could not hide their excitement. These 12 trusting souls were getting into a flying contraption supported in flight by mere hot air and a few steel cables, with someone they had never met. And they could not have been happier. I never cease to be amazed at the sense of adventure and fun that these folks bring with them as they scramble into the basket to begin their once in a life time experience. I am equally amazed that they leave behind any concerns about a perfect stranger taking them into the sky. Oh well, as long as they keep coming, I will keep taking them.<br />Now the basket was filled with an international group of people from France, Spain, and Turkey. And of course, the good ole USA, represented by me. Luckily on this day with this particular group of passengers, they all could understand at least a little English, with the exception of the Turkish couple. Lucky for them, I have become pretty adept at making myself understood to Turkish folks. I gave them the standard welcome greeting, introducing myself, and going over what we were about to do. I try to address each person individually and ask where they are from and if this is their first balloon ride. When they say yes, it is their first time, I reply “Yeah, me too! That usually helps loosing them up a little as they laugh and secretly hope to themselves that I am just kidding. I then tell them we are going to fly about an hour, give or take a few minutes, depending on the wind and our flight path. I explain that we will go with the wind but I can change altitude to maybe change directions, sometimes. I assure them they are about to fly over one of the most interesting and beautiful landscapes on earth and that any direction we go, will be woderful. Next comes the safety briefing. I have to tell them about possible windy or hard landings and how to prepare for that if it happens. This is where I have to make sure they are really paying attention so that I know if at any time during the flight, I say, “ LANDING POSITION NOW!” that they will indeed know what to do. The functional integrity of their arms and legs and other various bones, and their very lives may depend on it.<br />Once I’m sure everyone understands about the landing position, we are ready for take off. With the 12 passengers and me on board it takes a lot of heat to get us off the ground. The total weight including balloon, propane fuel and passengers is now close to 4,000 pounds! There is an extra fuel tank on board that is used just for inflation and getting the balloon hot enough to fly. It takes the entire tank to do this. Once it is empty, I disconnect the hose from it and reconnect to a full tank. The crew chief takes the empty tank out of the basket. That gives us four full tanks or 60 gallons of propane to make the flight. If all goes as planned, that will allow us to fly one hour and still have about 45 minutes of reserve fuel. Fuel management while flying a hot air balloon is very critical anywhere you fly. But flying here, it takes on a whole new meaning, because if you get caught out of fuel here, it could not only be embarrassing but downright dangerous. I always tell folks not to worry when they ask about where we will land, there is always a place to land, it’s just that some places are way better than others. There are some places here in Cappadocia that you don’t want to end up. You might be able to safely land, but even a good Turkish donkey could not get to you. Therefore, fuel management is always on my mind.<br />One final check of my passengers, a radio check with the crew chief and a thumbs up from my spotter indicating it is clear above, a quick burn using the power of two burners, and we slowly leave the ground. The lift off is normally so subtle, that almost always there will be someone in the basket that does not even realize we are airborne until we are 25 feet in the air. It is 5:45 am as we begin the 2 mph drift to the north, just barely skimming the tops of the fruit trees in the orchard below. I stay low because I like the direction and will wait to climb when I want to make that turn to the east. Before I can climb, I call the crew chief to see if it is clear above. It’s the one place I can not see, straight above me. And with 50 or so other balloons in the area, I want to know it is clear. Mehmet calls back, “Skybirdman, you’re upside is free!” I am constantly looking and calculating and watching the other balloons. Today, I was one of the first 5 balloons in the air and I had the other 4 in site, a good confirmation for me that my “upside” was indeed “free”. Using only a single burner now I start a slow climb to get that turn to the east. As we climb I point out the different areas of interest to the passengers and remind them that in approximately 30 seconds, they will see the “first” sunrise of the day peeking over the mountain. Very often here the passengers will be treated to more than one sunrise as we descend down into the canyons and back up again. At 500 feet I am still heading due north. A quick look behind me and the race is one, as now another 30 balloons are off the ground and headed my way. In just a few more minutes, there will be 50 of us vying for premium airspace for the optimum views. Don’t get the wrong idea here. If I did nothing else but take the balloon to 1000 feet and just sit there for an hour, it would be fairly spectacular. In any direction from that height you can see an awesome landscape that has been formed from millions of years of carving by nature’s knife. But from a pilot’s point of view, fairly boring. So for me, and for most of the other pilot’s flying here in these very big balloons, it is a challenge. A personal challenge to test one’s own flying skills, and to the other pilots to see who on any given day has the right stuff to get down in the canyons and fly the balloon like a magic carpet, slowly gliding past the fairy chimneys, and the doors and windows of the ancient churches and dwellings that are carved into the canyon walls. To silently visit a place where hundreds, even thousands of years ago, a people lived in harmony among the rocks. A place where you can still see orchards and vineyards growing in the same place where they did so long ago. Just the thought of sharing the same space with these ancients is mind boggling. But to see it, from the balloon flying effortlessly and silently through the canyon, close enough to reach out and touch, is just simply, beyond description.<br />Now there are balloons in every direction and all altitudes. There are balloons below and above me and in all directions. They pretty much have me surrounded. About this time, the sun has done it’s thing and put a kink in any preplanning as far as wind direction is concerned. I look down and see balloons getting a shift to the west which is a good thing, right toward the coveted Love Valley. It is by far, the most interesting and sought after by the balloon pilots. It is a challenge to get to, but once there the passengers are extremely happy. The fairy chimneys in Love Valley are quite different than most others. Let’s just say they are strikingly similar in appearance to something that lends itself to support the designation of this particular place as “love valley” and could also be called Viagra Valley. Enough said?<br />Some of the 50 of us have already missed the chance to navigate to the valley, I think I can make it. A good visual check below and I pull the red and white vent line to release some of the heat that is keeping us in level flight. In just a few seconds the now, not lighter than air balloon, starts a deliberate descent toward the river of moving air that will hopefully take us to Love Valley. As we descend, it is very apparent that other pilots are also making their play for the valley. I have to slow my descent to give another balloon some room, then head down again. Adding heat now from two burners, I want to stop the descent quickly and stay level where the wind will take me west. One hundred yards from the canyon rim and entrance into the valley at 100 feet above the ground I look and see my friend Andy has joined me in my quest. Andy is from England and flies for Urgup Balloons. We have been talking on face book and he has been trying to get some decent photos of the now named “Green Goblin” for me. (My four and a half year old balloonatic grandson, Christopher, gave it the name) His big yellow 400,000 cubic foot balloon carrying 25 passengers is cruising maybe 50 feet higher than the Goblin, about 100 yards north, and slightly behind. We are both headed for Love Valley, along with 10 other balloons all around us. I can see half a dozen “good pilots” have already made it and are cruising through the canyon, now headed north at about 4 mph. There is a trick to getting into Love Valley. And I sure wish I knew what it is. I think it has a lot to do with just plain luck. Andy is maintaining his position in relation to the Goblin. Our forward speed has dropped off some and we are now racing for the canyon at about 3 mph. I’m sure I will get to the rim before him. Once over the edge, the valley drain should pick me up and push me to the right or headed north like the balloons already in. If that happens too quickly, it will put me on a collision course with Andy and the big yellow balloon. As the Goblin gets closer, I noticed two balloons in the canyon right in front of me. If I have to climb to give them room to pass our chances of getting in are shot. The westward wind will push me right past the narrow valley, but they do have the right of way since they are already in. There are not many trees on the rim. But there was one scrawny little bush doing it’s best to survive the rocky landscape growing about 20 feet from the edge. I’ve probably forgotten a lot of what I’ve learned over the last 20 years flying over the cotton fields and sugar cane fields around the little town of LeCompte, Louisiana. But at this moment in this far away land, far, far, from Lea’s Lunchroom, I remembered about “organic braking”. I didn’t invent it, and Paul gave it the name, and it was just what I needed to buy a little time. The little bush wasn’t much but obviously had some strong deep roots. I let the Goblin cool a bit and leveled out just above the terrain with no more than a foot between the basket and the ground, contouring the earth at 2 mph. More than one of my passengers are now expressing concern and asking me if I see that bush and want to know if we are going to hit it. I answered by telling everyone to hang on tight and cover their eyes. (To avoid a poke in the eye from the bush). I hit the bush dead on and it grabbed the Goblin and held on tight. Just for a minute, but that’s all I needed to give the two balloons in the valley time to get by. The basket rolled a bit, slid past the bush and we were on our way to the prize. Or so I thought. There are many mysteries here in this ancient land that will never be explained away. I’m sure one of them will be how can there be an “invisible wall” that protects Love Valley from only “some” invading balloons, while others just slip right in? I hit the dang wall. The Goblin did not actually stop at the invisible wall, but instead took a hard right turn and began to drift north, right along the rim, right toward the very big yellow balloon. I was still flying only a few feet off the ground, at least on one side of the basket. The other side was a 300 foot drop to the valley floor below. Weird. One side grass and rocks within touch and the other side, nothing but air. I kept low hoping to get a drift left so I could descend into the canyon and give Andy some room. But the Goblin stayed right on track following the rim like a magnet. Very slowly the two big balloons converged. Andy was holding his altitude about 50 feet higher than the Goblin. Closer and closer and now the big yellow balloon completely blocked the sun. One of my passengers ask, “is this dangerous?” I explained that it was common for two balloons to touch as long as it was fabric to fabric and not basket to fabric. Not sure she was convinced. Andy got to the rim and hit the wall. I kept on tract at about 1 mph on the rim right toward the yellow balloon. At this point Andy and I are close enough to talk to one another. The only thing I could think to say was, “Hey Andy, don’t forget to take some pictures for me!“ Closer and closer and then we stopped. The Goblin and “Big Yellow” were now touching, fabric to fabric and both suspended and dead still. I had drifted a bit just over the edge and the basket was now hovering two feet over the top of a very pointy fairy chimney. Andy began to slowly inch his way up the side of my balloon. This would hopefully give him enough altitude once above me to continue on past so that I could then climb, get over the invisible wall, and do the same. Half way there he stopped climbing. It seemed like a good strategy to me and I could not figure out why he just stopped. He sat there, now more above than beside for what seemed like a very long time. I have not moved from my locked in position, two, now one, now two, feet above the pointy rock below, with no wind to move me in any direction. It has happened, just like I knew it would eventually. I am trapped in a hot air balloon between a rock and a hard place…the hard place being Andy’s basket. They told me it would happen. But did they tell me what to do? Only one thing to do. Patience. Something will change sooner or later. Hopefully sooner than I run out of fuel and have to land on one of those not so good places. After what seemed like a real long time of talking to my passengers and telling them how wonderful it was that we were getting to just sit in this one lovely spot and view the wonderful Love Valley from here, we began to move. Ever so slowly to the west and out over the valley. After just a short time I could see why Andy stopped his climb. There were two other balloons stacked right above the big yellow balloon, holding him down like he was holding me.<br />By now, there was no time to play in the valley of Love. There was barely enough wind to keep us moving west and we had used a lot of fuel trying to maintain position between the rock and the hard place. We stayed level and slowly drifted over the valley with the strange looking pinnacles below. Close enough to see and for the passengers to ooh and ahhh…but not where I wanted to be. But, now I had a new goal for this flight. Find a nice safe and crew accessible place to land the Goblin. The fairy chimneys and churches, and cave dwellings, and the mysteries of Love Valley will still be there tomorrow.<br />I could see the crew truck parked on the far ridge. Another five minutes on this track and we will be there. Two minutes later the Goblin caught a wind that moved us now to the south and away from the good landing places beyond the ridge. I couple of good blasts from the two burners and we were climbing to find something that would get us back on track. At 1000 feet above the ground we got a good shift back to the west where we continued until over the open farm land. The crew was on the move, trying to figure out where we would end up. I gave the vent line a good 3 second pull and we were on our way down again, fast. We had to get down fast so not to get pushed out of the good landing places. Again the two burners did their job and we leveled off ten feet above the ground. Now a new twist. Instead of poking along at 2-3 mph, we were flying across the fields at 8 mph. I looked for the crew, but could not find them. At this point, without the crew, it is just me and the Goblin against the forces of the wind. I let the balloon settle at two foot off the ground and now we were really moving. Still no crew. There is only a limited amount of space in front of us before we run out of “the good place”. It was time for my passengers to do their part in preserving life and limb as I instructed in the loudest but calmest voice I could muster…”LANDING POSITION NOW!” Still no crew to be seen anywhere. As soon as I could see that my passengers were indeed ready for what lay ahead, I let the Goblin kiss the ground, but just barely. The passengers could not see, but they could hear the basket ripping through the dry grass and weeds, not much organic braking but helping some. Just as I was about to let it settle onto the moving earth, and brace myself for a little bone jarring dragging and bouncing, the basket began to slow rapidly, touch the sandy soil, dragged for 10 feet and stopped. Another mystery I supposed, until I looked behind me and saw my three little Turkish crew guys, hanging on for dear life to the outside of the basket. They had saved the Goblin, and me, and all 12 of our trusting passengers, from what could have been a very rough landing.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>We had quite the adventure that day. And the day was just starting. I got caught between a rock and a hard place, and lived to tell about it. We saw some beautiful scenery. The passengers were happy. The crew was happy. It was just another day at the office for me. And Andy got some tremendously awesome photos of the Green Goblin at work. </div></div></div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-42023395041405455342010-08-01T08:21:00.003-05:002010-08-01T08:35:19.859-05:00One Thing...<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjcnaugM8G4tMJHEQegrOVS6pNCGcbQOzNhhrlrnH9QnUnz6LOfPOKylupQSAhy_WYNK0TdGlgsr8bp8sZ8aEENvNoIwuAv8czrjVua2C8AlUqgIP7oShNTHMfkfqUqMlLhyzaSiyf-Q/s1600/P7200002+-+Copy+-+Copy.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500434018162067250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTjcnaugM8G4tMJHEQegrOVS6pNCGcbQOzNhhrlrnH9QnUnz6LOfPOKylupQSAhy_WYNK0TdGlgsr8bp8sZ8aEENvNoIwuAv8czrjVua2C8AlUqgIP7oShNTHMfkfqUqMlLhyzaSiyf-Q/s320/P7200002+-+Copy+-+Copy.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br />Did you ever notice how one thing sometimes leads to another and another, and before you know it, you can’t even recognize where you started from? That seems to be the standard here in Turkey. Like last week for instance. Joy and I went for a walk in the Cavusin area to visit some of the cave churches and houses that are very abundant in that area. Going for a “walk” around here is just another term for setting yourself up for an adventure. We expected to just walk through the ruins and get a little exercise and enjoy the spectacular scenery that is plentiful here in Cappadocia. Well, we did that, and them some.<br />Having climbed several hundred feet above the valley floor already, it did not take long for us to decide that this particular trail we had chosen was much too steep and dangerous for us to continue on. We turned around to settle on just climbing around the ruins concentrated near the trail head. As we turned and headed, as it so happened, back to the west, we were rewarded with an amazing sky that could not have been more beautiful if it had been created in a Hollywood film studio. The sun was dipping toward the horizon and was engulfed in a mysterious looking cloud, the only one in the sky. The cloud was shaded in the center and lightened toward the ragged edges. The effect with the sun trying to burn through this God given shroud, was to say the least, breathtaking. The sun’s rays pierced the cloud with laser like precision, projecting brilliant spokes of light toward the valley below. Neither of us uttered any sound as we stood there for what seemed like minutes watching this live ever changing portrait. With each passing second, the sun’s rays, penetrating the little cloud, seem to be pointing at the landscape below, highlighting first one rock formation and then another. It was like we were being given the Master’s grand tour of this magnificent place, making sure we did not miss a single thing. As the performance continued to unfold, we were again rendered speechless as we both realized that at center stage, just below the cloud in the foreground and only a few hundred yards from where we stood, was the ancient cave church of St. John the Baptist.<br />We spent the rest of the useable daylight exploring the nooks and crannies scattered throughout the old church and surrounding caves. Trying to describe the emotions and feelings of being among such ancient dwellings would be futile. I’m sure each person is affected differently, but I am also sure no one could stand among these ruins and not be in awe of the people who carved these shelters and lived their lives here. For me, it instilled a staggering feeling of smallness, and appreciation.<br />We followed the steep and dusty trail down the hill where the little jeep was parked. It is a small parking area, just the end of the road really, and there were no other vehicles nearby. At the bottom of the hill there are a couple of small outdoor cafes and on the other side of the road and up that hill a ways, a cave hotel. And anywhere there is a chance a tourist might show up, there is stuff to spend your money on, in the name of bringing something home to remember this place by. Like you really would need that. We entered an outdoor café in search of something cool to drink and found that, plus a bunch of souvenirs for Joy to consider. While she shopped, I sat quietly drinking my not so cold cola. As I looked around I noticed there was no one else there, except for the nice Turkish man who brought our drinks. It was very quiet and peaceful. Like most of the other outdoor cafes in Cappadocia, there was lots of shade. Even though the sun had gone down, the overhead cover provided by a huge walnut tree and an abundance of grapevines, projected the expected “Mediterranean” flavor. At times like this, I often find myself asking the question, “where the heck am I?” Before I could answer myself, my wandering thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices. I looked up to see three people entering the café, two young men and a beautiful young lady. Honest to goodness, I really tried not to be so obvious with my glances as she gracefully glided past my table. She was a beauty. Coal black hair, with eyes to match, and a little bitty hint of a white lacy dress that surely was made just for her. She was wearing a beautiful smile that was a dead giveaway, this was a very happy young lady. One of the young men disappeared, while the girl made herself comfortable on a small cushioned bench not 10 feet from my table. The remaining young man quickly pulled out a camera and started taking photos of her. It is pretty common practice here to offer to take a photo of people together. So trying to be of help, I stood up and made the familiar gesture that translates into, “would you like for me to take your photo together?” The response is usually positive, they give you their camera, they smile, you take the photo, and everybody is happy. The young man declined flat out. I thought I had done something wrong or somehow offended him. The other man returned and they all sat down together on the bench. I figured I would either make them really mad or redeem myself, so I offered to take a photo of the three of them together. This was received a little better so I took the picture and handed the camera back, and that lead to some conversation. As it turns out, the young lady, Gul, which means rose, and one of the men, Alp, were just married 3 days earlier and were spending their honeymoon in Cappadocia with his best friend, Osman. He was the one who declined the photo op. I kinda scratched my head on that one, but after further talk learned more. Osman and Alp had met while serving in the Turkish military, which by the way is mandatory for all young men. They had become very close friends during their tour of duty. Alp now lives in western Turkey. He and his new bride wanted to take a wedding trip and figured they could visit his friend Osman at the same time. All I can say is they must be really close friends because on the night of their wedding Gul and Alp got on a bus and rode for 13 hours to get to Cappadocia to be with Osman. Now that is real friendship. Osman spoke fairly good English so we were able to understand each other. Gul and Alp had no understanding of English at all. So Osman did all the talking. I asked him how long the newlyweds would be visiting and he told me three more days. He told me he had been taking them to all the normal tourist sites and some places that only the locals know about. Being a resident of the village of Cavusin and the owner of a tourist shop, Osman new a lot of cool places. I asked him if they had taken a balloon trip over the valley yet and he said no, they had not and would not being doing that. He further explained that their traditional Turkish wedding had been very expensive costing nearly 40,000 Turkish Lira or a little over $30,000 dollars. They simply could not afford the cost of a balloon ride on their honeymoon. What a shame I thought to myself….that just ain’t right. I asked Osman to ask them if they would even care to take a balloon ride. He did and Alp’s face lit up like a kid at Christmas. Gul’s pretty little smile turned to a pitiful little frown. I asked what was wrong and Osman explained that she was afraid to fly. Now in the last twenty years of flying balloons I have encountered this perceived fear quite a number of times. And most of the time I have been successful reassuring folks that it would be fun and safe, and that it was OK to be nervous. I sat next to Gul and held her hand and began to talk to her, with Osman filling in the required message. Her beautiful smile began to return and before long she was nodding her head, yes! With that out of the way I exchanged phone numbers with Osman and told him I would do my best, without promising. I told him I would call if I could make it happen. He did not seem too hopeful, but grateful at the gesture. We said our goodbyes, wished them well and off they went.<br />We gathered up our “had to have souvenirs so we could remember this place” and left the café. As we walked to the jeep I noticed the heat of the day had given way to a dry cool breeze that was both refreshing and invigorating. We passed the pathway leading up to the cave hotel and curiosity got the best of us. We turned up the path and began to walk up the hill to the hotel and suddenly encountered a talking tree. It was right next to the drive and it was definitely talking, I could hear it very clearly. The only problem, of course, it was talking in Turkish, so I had no idea what it was saying. The tree was not huge but was very dense with dark green foliage that draped almost to the ground. On close inspection we could see three small ladders on the ground under the tree reaching up into the thick branches. Okay, so maybe it was the three people standing on the ladders that were doing all the talking. Honest mistake. We stepped closer in hopes of finding out why the three people were standing on ladders and talking in the middle of the tree.<br />We found out that it was in fact a mulberry tree and the three ladies were harvesting its bounty. One of the ladies offered us samples which we gladly accepted. The first thing I noticed was that the oblong berry was a bit hairy. Upon further inspection, I decided the only polite thing to do was to go ahead and taste and was pleasantly surprised by its sweet smooth flavor. The other surprise was that mulberry’s are very juicy and will stain anything it touches a deep rich purple. I tried to wipe my hands and only succeeded in staining my white handkerchief the same color as my hands.<br />We continued up the path to the cave hotel hoping we could take a peek inside. Apparently we were not the only ones who have had that idea, for a handwritten sign on the door read, “Cave Hotel Tours, 2 TL (Turkish Lira). I was thinking that was a fairly small price to pay to get to see the inside of the place, when a young boy of about 16 approached and asked in very broken English if we would like a tour. I replied in very shattered Turkish that we would be most grateful to do so. So we took the tour and as expected were fairly amazed at how quaint and cozy a cave can be. The “lobby” was decorated with beautiful Turkish rugs and various forms of pottery and other native artwork and antiques. The lighting was very subtle so as to maintain the idea that, “hey, you’re in a cave.” A very narrow, low and winding hallway (tunnel) led to six individual rooms. We were able to view two of the rooms that were not occupied at the time. As you might expect the rooms were sparsely furnished containing a small bed, a night stand and a couple of chairs. The most striking feature was the hand stitched linen bed covers, of course made by little ole ladies in Turkey. The white lace and “tattings” were of extremely good quality. At least that is what Joy informed me. They did look nice. All this for a mere $60-80 a night. We finished the tour and I gave the young man his money. As we were leaving, the owner met us outside and began to ask us the usual questions, where were we from, etc. I explained that we were there for the balloon season and not leaving until November. He immediately wanted to know which balloon company I worked for. When I told him I was flying for Alaaddin Balloons, it was like he had found a long lost relative. It’s a small world here in Turkey and everybody is either related or at least knows everybody else. Just so happens that the marketing guy for Alaaddin, Ufok, is also the owners close childhood friend. All of a sudden we went from potential customers to dang near royalty. The first thing he did was make his son, the young man who gave us the tour, give us our 4 Turkish lira back that we had paid for the tour. I tried to resist but he said his son was so embarrassed because he did not know “who we were” and would be deeply hurt if we didn’t take the money back. What could I do? Halim, the owner, then proceeded to tell us how the hotel was his boyhood home. He had actually grew up living in the cave house which belonged to his grandfather. When his grandfather died several years ago, Halim sold everything he had and borrowed money and managed to buy the place from the heirs. He turned it into a hotel and is now living his dream of keeping the place up for others to enjoy.<br />We visited a few more minutes until Halim began to apologize because he had to leave to take some of his guests to a “Turkish Night” experience in Avanos. He made a point to introduce us to those guests, because as fate would have it, out of the 15 balloon companies operating in the valley, they were scheduled to fly with my company, Alaaddin Balloons the very next morning! Even stranger, the couple was Turkish, but live in Australia, and were visiting Cappadocia on holiday. (Try to keep up here!)<br />We started to leave, but Halim insisted that we stay and spend some time sitting on the outside patio and enjoying the cool night air. We agreed, but before we made it over to the patio, Halim introduced us to two more of his guests that were staying at the cave hotel. Right after the introduction, Halim disappeared and we were left standing there with this couple that we had just met 30 seconds ago. Without knowing what else to say, I invited them to sit with us on the patio, next to the mulberry tree. And they accepted.<br />We made our way through the many flowers and plants that decorated the patio and sat down around a large table that was constructed almost totally of stone. It was oval, but with very irregular edges with streaks of rust and milky cream colors. Before anyone could even start to speak, the young man whom I had offended earlier by paying him money, showed up with four large wine glasses, a bottle of red wine, and a platter of sliced white creamy cheese. He carefully poured each of our glasses full of the wine, then in his most humble, polite, and almost begging voice asked us to please enjoy, on the house.<br />The other couple may have not been surprised by this kind gesture, but Joy and I were speechless. Let’s see, how did we get from drinking beer at the river, sitting in a Wal-Mart lawn chair, and swatting mosquitoes…..to sipping fine locally produced wine and the “locally” is a beautiful garden on the side of a mountain, next to an ancient cave house, across from St. John the Baptist‘s church….in Turkey? Go figure!<br />Our very new friends are Michel and Nicole who live in France. In fact, they live very close to the region where Joy’s ancestors were from in France. They were revisiting Cappadocia after being here almost 40 years earlier on their honeymoon. They are both school teachers, he just recently retired and she is retiring in September. They spoke good English, but with the extremely heavy French accent. It was entertaining just to listen. We talked about work and kids and travel and all the places they have been and all the places we have been. And believe it or not, some of those places, we had all visited. I was very proud when they explained that they had traveled all over the world, and their most favorite and pleasant experiences have been in the good ole United States of America. In particular, Glacier, Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks, which just happen to also be some of our most favorite places in the world. It was truly an “international” moment. And when the glasses were empty, these people who we did not know 30 minutes earlier, were now our friends. We now have a place to stay, if and when we ever want to visit France. They have a place to stay, when they go visit Louisiana. And we have a date to meet up at the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta in 2011. How cool is that?<br />The wine was good, the company was great, the setting spectacular, but we said our goodbyes and once again we made our way toward the little jeep that would take us back to Avanos and our little stone house. Once in the jeep, I remembered the promise I made to Osman. It was after 9 pm, but I called Ufok just to check on the passenger load for the next day. Only 14 booked and room for 19, so I told him I had two guests that I would like to fly the next day. Ufok’s English is almost nonexistent but somehow we came to an understanding that I would have two guests flying in the very big balloon the next morning. At least that is what I understood and hoped to goodness, he did as well.<br />The next call was to Osman. I told him I had made reservations for his good friend Alp and his new wife Gul to fly the next morning. Could they be available? His answer was an immediate yes. I think. I heard a lot of talking going on in the background and of course couldn’t understand any of it, but to me, it sounded like “happy talk”. Osman was excited and began to thank me profusely. I tried to tell him it was my pleasure and I would certainly enjoy having them along. It would be much too embarrassing for me to repeat all the nice things he said to me. But I will tell you that, Joy and I received an invitation right then and there to have dinner with Osman and his friends the very next evening.<br />At 5 am we met our three new friends and had them follow us to the launch area. When we arrived the crew was just getting there also and immediately began to set up. At this time, I was still waiting for my Cameron 210 to be certified. Sancho would be flying the 350 with all the passengers and I was hoping there would be room for me to tag along, which had been the usual procedure in the past. As the balloon was being set up, Sancho came over to say good morning in his usual happy style. I introduced him to Gul, Alp, and Osman and explained their situation. Sancho smiled real big and said, “OK…since they are your friends, today you fly the balloon, start to finish. I will not touch anything.” He had let me fly the balloon on earlier trips for a few minutes and even got to do the landing a couple of times. But never start to finish. Now it was my turn to be extremely excited and more than a little nervous at the same time.<br />The inflation went well and we loaded up all the passengers. Gul and Alp climbed on board and joined the other 16 people who would fly that day. The large 350 basket is divided into 5 distinct and separate compartments. There is middle section for the four 15 gallon propane tanks and the pilot. On either side of the pilot’s compartment, the remainder is divided in two, on each side, making four passenger compartments. This is designed for safety mostly. With the passengers divided up, it is much easier to protect them in the case of a high wind landing. Sancho got in the compartment with three Spanish guests, I occupied the pilot’s spot, and the remaining folks were divided up into the other three sections.<br />I could tell Gul was still very nervous. Her happy smile from the day before was still missing. I attempted to reassure her as best I could as the big basket slowly broke free of gravity’s grip. The details of this flight are way too important to try to describe in these few lines. It is a story all it’s own and deserves much more time and space in an attempt to tell it like it really happened. For now, just know that all went well, and by the end of the flight, we had that big beautiful happy smile right back where it belonged.<br />We started out on a simple walk in the late afternoon in the high desert region of Cappadocia, Turkey. That in itself was enough to be thankful for. But, as one thing indeed led to another, and another, our lives were enriched by the people we met and the friendships we made along the way. It is a wonderful reminder for us that we should always happily embrace each step of this wonderful journey and the people we meet. The beautiful sunsets, the landscapes, and gardens all make it a worthwhile trip. But the people we meet is what really make this life an adventure.<br /> </div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-63708781206677835662010-07-16T10:51:00.000-05:002010-07-16T11:02:27.271-05:00No Good Deed.....<div align="center"> <br /><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">No Good Deed…….</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"></span><br />The old saying that states that “no good deed goes unpunished” has been around for a long time. My father first introduced it to me when I was very young. He was a helpful man. Seems like he was always trying to do things for people that needed one thing or another. And there was always something. But he insisted that the only way to get along in this world is by helping folks when they needed it. If someone needed to get a cow to the auction barn or chase down the hogs that found a break in the pen or get their old truck out of the mud, Mr. Clint was their man. He was quick to volunteer and never asked for any compensation for his kindness. But more than once I saw how his good deeds turned on him for his efforts. He was well familiar with the “no good deed goes unpunished” philosophy but still, he never hesitated to lend a hand. Like the time he was helping a perfect stranger when their old ‘55 Chevy pick up was hopelessly stuck in the mud. It was loaded down with firewood and was sunk deep into the Louisiana grey muck. Of course Dad was right in the middle of it trying to help. I watched as he used all the resources available, which was not much, to get some kind of traction to the rear tires so the truck could be coaxed out of it’s trap, which seemed to be trying to suck it even deeper into the muddy mess. He was making good progress, had managed to stabilize the truck with an antique jack and blocks of wood, so it would not sink any deeper. But as he attempted to dig the mud from under one of the wheels so he could place a board under it in order to get the needed traction to pull out, the old jack gave way and the entire weight of the truck and it’s load of firewood came smashing down on him, trapping his hand under the tire. It was obvious that he had to be in some serious pain, but amazingly enough he remained calm and told me exactly what to do. I did as he instructed and in a few minutes his hand was free. He never slowed down or complained. He just went back to work until the truck and the man were safely on their way. His hand was swollen and turned different shades of blue and red, but amazingly enough was not broken.<br />So it was on this day in the Land of Beautiful Horses, Cappadocia, Turkey that I got a reminder about how true the old saying can be. Joy and I were having a wonderful day exploring all the beautiful and historical gifts that this land has to offer. We were up at 3:45 in the morning to join Sancho, our Spanish balloon pilot, and 16 other lucky people for a once in a lifetime hot air balloon ride over the amazing landscape that draws thousands of visitors each year. We met the crew at the hangar and were at the launch site setting up by 5am. The paying passengers showed up a few minutes later in a small van, had tea and cookies, and watched in awe as the 350,000 cubic foot balloon came to life. And by 5:45, all were on board along with Joy and I waving goodbye to the crew as the earth slowly dropped away. The launch area sits in a valley surrounded by fairy chimneys, strange and beautiful vertical rock formations that were created over thousands of years of sculpting by the wind and rain in this high desert region. They stand as silent sentinels guarding the secrets of this sacred land that has been inhabited by humans for over 8,000 years. Some 2,000 years ago, Christianity was born and nourished here where the people literally carved out homes and churches in the soft tuffa rocks that were created by dying volcanoes. These dwellings kept them safe from Persians and others who aimed to do them harm and crush their religion. And now, as the sun began to spread it’s soft light onto the rocks on the far side of the valley, our very own ancient magic carpet, in the form of a not so modern hot air balloon, slowly drifted over and among the rocks below. Sancho is probably the best balloon pilot flying here in Cappadocia. And there are a lot of them. On any given day there are between 40 and 60 balloons taking as many as 1,000 passengers a day for their magical history tour. But Sancho loves to fly and is there to give folks their money’s worth. Some of the balloons will take off and go high and stay there the entire flight. That’s the easy thing to do, but very boring after just a few minutes. With Sancho, the difference is like watching a movie, and being in the movie. We began to drift toward the first set of rock towers. Sancho read the unpredictable winds in the valley perfectly. By adjusting the altitude of the balloon slightly up or down, he found the right river of wind to take us down among the giant rocks. We glided effortlessly past the towers, often looking up to see the tops. We could almost reach out and touch the many cave houses embedded in the rock canyon walls. We brushed the very tops of ancient grape vines on the canyon floor that were loaded with small green fruit, which Sancho was quick to point out, would later be made into wine or champagne. It was amazing. I enjoyed watching the other passengers and Joy as they expressed their reactions in different ways. A young couple from Peru rode quietly, but smiling and holding each other lovingly. A family from France, a man, his wife and two small children, were talking quietly among themselves as they took turns pointing out what they were seeing. A small group of people from Spain were getting the grand tour from Sancho, since they could understand each other. And a group of Japanese tourists that were so excited and taking so many photos that I thought their Fuji’s and Sony’s were going to explode any second.<br />As we watched in awe while the scenes continuously changed, I noticed a well worn trail cutting through the narrow canyon that was the beginning of Rose Valley. From my bird’s eye view I could see clearly how the trail snaked it’s way around the fairy chimneys, through small vegetable gardens and fruit trees, and finally spilling into the larger valley. I followed the trail back up the canyon and saw where there was a small road leading to the head of the trail. The road took a few turns but eventually came out to the main highway near the Kaya Campground. I took a mental picture, trying to record the map in my mind and mentioned to Joy that we should come back and hike this trail.<br />Sancho apparently was more interested in visiting with his Spanish friends than flying. He got my attention and motioned for me to take over the controls. I climbed over the tall partition that separated the pilot from the passengers and Sancho climbed out and joined his new friends. After all, Spain had just won the World Cup the night before and there was apparently much to talk about. For those of you who do not keep up with such, the World Cup is the Olympics of football, or soccer as we call it in the U.S. It’s a really big deal. So for the next half hour, Sancho got to celebrate Spain’s victory and I got to fly the very big balloon. In the interest of time and space, I will save those details for another time. In short, I found a suitable landing place and the crew was there waiting to literally catch the giant balloon and set it on the trailer before we deflated.<br />Following the traditional after flight ceremony with a champagne toast, the happy passengers got on their bus and went on there way to discover more of Cappadocia by some other means. Now they would go visit some of the things they had surveyed from the air. For Joy and I it meant back to the apartment, fix breakfast, download some pics to the computer, and take the all important nap. Got to have the nap. Besides, it’s summer here and too danged hot for anything else. We agreed to stay in until later and then set about trying to find and then explore the little trail we had seen from the air. At a little after 5pm we found ourselves pulling off the main road at the Kaya Campground. I recalled the little mental map in my head that would show the way to the trailhead. We followed the stone wall around the campground on the little dirt road and took the first right hand fork. The road became much more narrow and bumpy and started a marked descent down into the canyon. A left turn and the road became steeper as I down shifted to first gear to keep the little Suzuki Jeep at a slow pace. I could tell Joy was getting a little nervous as the road got steeper and more bumpy She even asked, “are we going to be able to make it back up this road”. Just like a woman, worrying about future details right in the middle of having present fun. Of course I assured her that it would not be a problem. And, also of course, I later got a chance to eat those words, raw and unseasoned. We made it to the bottom and pulled right up to the trailhead and parked, ready and anxious to now explore the canyon we had seen from the air earlier in the day. I had my back pack with all the essentials, water, energy bars, camera, flashlight and long sleeve shirts. We were ready. As we stepped onto the trail, we met a young couple just coming off the trail, each pushing a mountain bike. We exchanged greetings and I asked about the trail. They said it was good, a little rough in spots, and long, explaining they had to walk or carry the bikes in some areas. They looked pretty tired so I offered them water. They had plenty. As we talked I was thinking about where they had to go from here. They had probably rented the bikes in Goerme, which was at least two miles away. That in itself was not bad, but then I remembered the little road. They had to go up on those bikes what we just come down in the jeep. How nice it would be just to take them up the hill and they could ride on into town from there. Would surely save them a lot of grief and sweat and I would get to do my good deed for the day. And I was sure they would be really grateful that I came to the rescue. Did I just say “good deed”? Well you know what comes next.<br />Anne and Anders are from Denmark and are just what you would expect. Young healthy, blonde, and very likable. So I went ahead and ask if they would like a lift to the top. Anders was all for it, but I could see that Anne was a little hesitant. After all, they had only met me three minutes earlier. But when Anders reminded her that his front tire was flat, she reluctantly agreed. The little jeep only has two front seats and a soft top. I opened the tailgate and put the two bikes inside but could not close the tailgate. No problem, we’ll just leave it open, the handle bars of one of the bikes was keeping it partially closed. Since there was not room for all of us, I suggested to Joy she stay behind and just relax for the five minutes it would take for me to get up the road and back. She agreed. Anders got in the passenger seat and Anne crawled in and sat on his lap. There was not much room and they were pretty cramped, but they didn’t seem to mind. Getting to the top of that steep, dusty, winding road would be worth a little discomfort for a few minutes. I jumped in the drivers seat, waved to Joy and reassured her I would be right back. Then we started up the hill. I guess I pretty much over estimated the power of the little jeep and way under estimated the wickedness of that dirty, dusty, little hill. The jeep began to struggle almost immediately. We made it around the first curve and shifted to first gear to give it all the power we could muster. The road was not only steep, but was full of washouts that were deep making me maneuver this way and that, trying to stay in the middle. To make matters worse, the road was covered in a layer of dust at least 3 or 4 inches thick, making traction even more difficult. Around the next curve and the road became even more steep. I could tell Anne was nervous the way she was gripping the hand hold on the dash with one hand and Anders with the other. But I was determined to help these kids out so on we went. The little jeep was struggling hard now to the point of stalling. We had made it up a fair distance, but had about the same amount yet to climb. And then the jeep just gave up. The engine died. Oh crap! And this thing has a bad habit of not starting after running a while. I slammed on the brake and tried to crank the engine. Nothing. The jeep started to slide backwards down the hill. I pulled up the emergency brake, but the steepness of the hill and the layer of dust created a sled effect and we were on our way down! Backwards! And fast! I tried to keep it straight but the washouts were having their way with the little jeep and we were now just along for the ride with no control. I tried to remain calm, Anders was being cool, and Anne, well she was freaking out. Not screaming or real loud, but some rapid fire questions all directed at me as to what I was going to do. The best response I could utter out of my gritted teeth as we continued to slide down the hill was, “hold on real tight”! One of the tires caught a wash out and drove the jeep toward the side of road where there was build up of dirt. The tires on the left side slammed into the mound causing the jeep to tip to the right, way right. The left front wheel left the ground as we finally came to a stop. Thank God! Well, for stopping anyway. But now the left front tire was in mid air and the jeep was leaning to the right, rocking gently back and forth, just on the edge of tipping over. Now Anne, bless her heart, was pretty much demanding an answer to her familiar and now very urgent question, “what do we do now?” In the calmest voice I could manage, I advised them to do nothing, do not even breathe. Each small movement made the jeep teeter totter in mid air. It was leaning so far to the right, it was impossible to attempt escape from their side. I felt like a tip over was imminent. In the coolest, calmest, Indiana Jones voice I could muster, I instructed them to brace against the right side of the jeep and keep their hands inside! We were at such a steep angle, I was afraid when it did tip over, it would not just fall on it’s side but actually trigger a roll all the way down the hill. It was not a pretty image in my head. Here I was, in Turkey, waiting, not so patiently to fly the very big balloons, and the whole adventure was about to end right here on this dirty dusty little road and just because I wanted to help these folks out. Now I was on the verge of causing them extreme bodily harm or even death. The old proverb rang out in my head loud and clear. What seemed like minutes, I’m sure was only a few seconds. The jeep continued to sway like a leaf in a gentle wind, final destination unknown. I tried to think of options while Anne, now on the verge of tears, continued to asked that nagging question….Anders was trying his best to reassure her. We could wait for help. Nope. That could be a long wait..and too late. I was having to hold on to my side of the jeep to keep my weight from drifting to the right. I asked Anne if she could slowly, very slowly, climb to my side of the jeep, hoping to take some of the leveraged weight from the right side. I managed to open my door as she made the long trip from Anders lap to mine, moving in slow motion to check what effect her movements would have on the balance of the jeep. So far, so good. I instructed her to crawl over me and to the outside of the jeep, but at the same time keeping as much of her weight on the left side of the jeep as possible. Once she got out, I asked Anders to do the same. I figured at least if I could get them out of the vehicle, if it rolled, they would be safe. Anders made the trip just as slowly and deliberately as Anne. With his weight moving now to my side of the jeep, it began a slow movement back to level. Once he was safely outside, I crawled out the door as all three of us kept as much weight on the jeep as we could manage. The little jeep responded by righting itself to the point that all four wheels were now touching solid ground. Well at least, in a mound of dirt and not thin air. We tried to push the jeep back onto the road, but it was no use. The left back tire was wedged. We assessed that I could now get back in and try to drive it out. The back tire just spun in place. Better late I guess than never, I remembered the jeep did have four wheel drive. Duh….if I had thought of that before I started up the hill, we would not be in this mess!…and if a frog had wings..he wouldn’t bump his butt when he jumped! But now with the four wheel drive engaged the little jeep dislodged itself and came to rest back in the middle of the road and pointed straight up the dirty little hill. We all took a collective sigh of relief. With the confidence of the four wheel drive engaged I suggested we all get back in a continue on up the hill. Anne, with wisdom way beyond her years, would have none of it. She was perfectly happy to walk up that dirty little hill, thank you very much. I think she figured she had had enough “help” from me for one day. Anders and I got back in the jeep and slowly crawled up the hill, with Anne keeping a safe distance behind. Shortly we had the worst of it behind us and Anders convinced Anne to get back in for the rest of the trip to the highway. We arrived at the Kaya Campground where we stopped and all got out. We started to unload the bikes, when I suggested that I just go ahead and take them on into town. It was at least another mile, but mostly down hill. With her most polite, and appreciative voice, Anne quickly declined, not giving Anders a chance to vote.<br />I told them I was so very sorry for scaring them that way. And I admitted that I was so sorry for scaring me that way. But we agreed that it turned out to be quite an adventure. Anne said she would probably even write about it in her dairy, but was not quite sure she would relay the story to her mother. And I mentioned to them I was pretty sure that the adventure would end up in my blog. I was very proud of them. In the face of very real danger, they remained very calm and helpful. I left them on the side of road, no worse for actual physical wear and tear, but I’m sure there will be at the least some emotional scarring.<br />I made my way back down the hill where Joy was waiting. As I drove I recalled the many times my Dad had gone out of his way to help someone, sometimes in a small way, and sometimes at critical times in their lives. Even though very often he found himself being “punished” for his good deeds, he never stopped offering and never stopped doing… to in some small way try and do the right thing and get along in this ole world by occasionally helping others. And I suppose I will continue to try my best to do the same.<br />P.S. Joy was waiting patiently at the trail head but did ask if I had any trouble making it up that dirty little hill. “Nope. Just had to put it in four wheel drive”, I replied.</div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-56316147249521153822010-07-07T12:49:00.002-05:002010-07-07T13:02:26.780-05:00Camille<div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Camille<br /></span> <br /> <br />Since we had a day off from flying I got to sleep a little bit later but was wide awake by 6 am. I lay there for a while trying to decide what to do with my day and after going over the options I settled on a nice long hike up in the hills behind my house here in Avanos, Turkey. I cooked some eggs, put them between a couple of pieces of toast and pretended it was an Egg McMuffin. You know you are in bad shape when you fantasize about McDonald’s food. By the time I got myself squared away it was almost 8 o’clock. I put a bottle of water in my pack and headed out the door.<br />I had every intention of spending the morning alone and enjoying the solitude that the hills had to offer. As fortune would have it, that would not be the case. She was waiting for me just around the corner. I really did not expect to ever see her again, since we had only spent a few casual hours together a couple of weeks ago. She lives just up the street on the way to the trail that leads up into the hills. At the time, I figured it was a one time deal. We had met on the street and even though we could not speak the same language, we just seemed to hit it off. She was quite friendly and I was needing some company. Not as pretty as some of the others I’d seen, but her frolicking personality more than made up for any cosmetic deficiency. I was glad I ran into her again , because I knew my day would be better for it. I’m not sure why she took a liking to me. Just one of those things I guess that you just can’t explain. But I think it was about the time that I started rubbing her belly that she pretty much fell in love with me. Since our language is so different, I just call her Camille. She is also real fond of me scratching her behind her ears. If you haven’t guessed by now, Camille is a short haired white dog with some black spots that without hesitation was once again volunteering to keep me company. And for the next four hours she did just that.<br />About the language thing. It’s true. I don’t speak dog and she doesn’t speak human. But I had to laugh way out loud when it finally dawned on me why Camille was not responding at all to any of the normal human to canine communication. She did not acknowledge “come here, or come see, or sic em”, or anything else I had to say. How silly of me, this is a Turkish dog and certainly, like all her human contacts except for me, does not have a clue what I am saying in English. But unlike the Turkish humans, Camille is much more accepting and forgiving of my communication skills.<br />Camille is real good company. In the four hours we spent together on this day, she never left my sight. Sometimes in her excitement to explore or chase a desert lizard or sniff out a hole in the ground she would get a little ahead of me. But never too far and I could not help but notice that even though she was really enjoying her romp, she kept a close eye on me. If I stopped to rest, she immediately returned to my side. If I sat down, she sat down. When I started walking again, she was off and running, checking out anything and everything that may lie in store ahead. I was glad she decided to come along.<br />Its was hot. The hottest day so far since I have been here. The dirt road we were following offered little protection from the sun. Every now and then we would come across a small tree or bush that cast just enough shade for me an Camille to share. The difference in temperature in the shade and in the sun is amazing. I’m sure it is at least 10 degrees or more cooler in the shade. This is what they call high desert and very similar to conditions in Idaho and Utah. The elevation at Avanos is around 3200 feet. It is a very dry climate with very low humidity. (Not missing that in Louisiana). The temperature was hitting the high eighties but the “feel” was more like the high nineties. It is so dry that you don’t notice the sweat because it evaporates almost immediately. Your clothes stay dry, but you are still loosing water. It is very dangerous and requires taking in lots of water.<br />The little road was a steady climb and I figured out later with my GPS that we gained 1000 feet in elevation on the hike. The view of the valley below was staggering. After walking a while, I could no longer hear the sounds of the town below. The landscape became a canvass an upon it lay the most magnificent creation. The valley stretched out for miles and because of the distance, became frozen. There was no movement that I could detect, although I knew the little town was as busy now as when I left it earlier in the day. The people were still at the market, the cars and the motorbikes were still breaking the speed limit and ignoring traffic signs. But I could not see any of that. I saw a picture, a portrait of a landscape formed millions of years ago and shaped by the life and death of three nearby volcanoes. And over the many years the portrait became more alive and disturbed by each civilization that came and went. But now at this moment, it just was what it was. A thousand years from now, it will be something different and will have taken on a new dimension to some poor soul lucky enough to be looking down on it as I was at this moment in time. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it might have looked like 10,000 years ago, right before humans first came to this area. The only similarity would be the sound of the wind. I know wind itself really makes no sound. It has to interact with something else to make it’s music. And at this moment I only heard the sounds created by the wind caressing what little that lay in it’s path. The tall grass on the rolling meadow makes a quiet rustling sound as the wind goes around and through it like a flowing river. The short grass and rocks ignore the intrusion and make no sound at all. The pine needles act like reeds in a musical instrument and play a melody that is much more distinct. It is a lonely sound, but at the same time creates a peacefulness deep within anyone lucky enough to hear it.<br />I knew I had made a mistake by not packing any food to carry along. I was reminded of that fact quiet vividly by the rumblings in my gut. I had resigned myself to the fact that once again I had not been real smart. It also brought to mind a way too familiar quotation from my old hippie buddy, Jim. He is very quick when the occasion arises, to tell me that “if you’re gonna be stupid, you gotta be tuff”. Point taken. Again.<br />As we approached a small grove of trees along the road, Camille suddenly left the road and ventured into the trees. I decided to follow, if for no other reason, because of the promise of some shade. But it was not just any ole trees. It was apple trees. Little green apples so heavy on the limbs, they appeared they would break at any moment. I was immediately concerned. If the limbs broke, the tree might die, or at least ruin the little apples. So the right thing for me to do was pretty obvious. I needed to relieve those limbs of some of it’s heavy burden. So I had apples for lunch. Like I said, they were small but just three of them helped me forget the stupid feeling and put a stop to the rumbling in my stomach. Camille and I rested under the trees and became quite content sitting there, just the two of us. But I knew we had to keep moving because the day was not gonna get any cooler. And we were only about halfway through the hike. So we moved on. I was starting to get a little sore and tired. But Camille just kept on scouting the trail ahead and investigating anything that caught her eye or nose. About an hour later we came to another stand of small trees. This time pears. Little tiny pears. But the sweetest I have ever tasted. Surely the owner of these lovely trees would not miss just a few of these delicious morsels.<br />We enjoyed the rest of our walk. Into the fourth hour I was getting pretty sore and was quietly hoping someone would come along and give me a ride. But that is one of the nice things about walking in these hills. You pretty much have them all to yourself. As we got closer to town, Camille seemed to get anxious. I guess she knew our time together was about to end. I’m sure that time did not mean quite as much to her as to me. Although being alone is sometimes very cleansing and rejuvenating, time spent with a friend with no questions or no expectations can do wonders for the soul.<br />Camille led the way off the little road and onto the narrow foot path that meandered through the rocks and down the hill until we finally made it to the edge of the little town of Avanos. We walked right past her house and on down the cobblestone street. It was another hundred yards of winding narrow road to my house. I figured she would just stop at her place and call it a day and maybe give the ever present chickens some grief, before finding a shady place to rest after her adventure. But she didn’t. She led me right to my door. She stayed just long enough for a quick belly rub and then turned and headed back up the hilly little street. I watched as she rounded the corner, hesitated , turned and looked back. Not sure what Camille was thinking. But it was pretty clear what was swirling through my mind….and for just this once, I wish she could understand human English. But on second thought, she is probably much better off not getting involved in human emotion. I hope she sees fit to be my companion on yet another adventure, on another day.<br /></div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-19728933411047526922010-06-30T08:24:00.002-05:002010-06-30T08:34:30.448-05:00The Potter's Wife....or Not<div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-size:180%;">The Potter’s Wife…..or Not</span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><br /></span>Everything I know about making pottery, I learned in one day. This day. Before today, I had never seen a potter’s wheel or other such things that potters use in their trade. Mehmet and I were right in the middle of going from one official office to another in the pursuit of trying to get me a Turkish social security number, so that I could in turn open up a Turkish checking account, which will allow Alaaddin Balloons to pay me my due on a regular basis. Don’t let the travel brochures fool you. Life may be simple here, but getting things done is anything but simple. But that is a different story. After running into several dead ends, Mehmet suggested we pop in and see a friend of his. His shop is right on the main road in town and I have passed it by, and a dozen more just like it at least a hundred times since I have been living in Avanos. Apparently, Avanos is the pottery capital of Cappadocia, and maybe all of Turkey. One of the reasons it is a prime spot for such is the presence of the Kizlirimak (Red) River which runs right through the middle of town. Over the last few thousand years, the river has been kind enough to deposit the perfect kind of clay that potters need to ply their trade. I have purposely not gone into any of these places in fear that I would readily expose myself as a common tourist instead of a seasoned adventurer and traveler. It’s been all in vain because I think I have blown that cover several times over.<br />Mehmet’s friend is Saban, in Turkish pronounced Shabonne. He is a young man, looking to be about the same age as Mehmet, probably in his early 30’s. He greeted us at the door, more like an entry way into the stone building that was built right into the side of a hill. Four steps into the place and the temperature dropped 10 degrees. There were pots, plates, bowls, and other crafted pieces everywhere. They were on shelves, tables, hanging from the ceiling and the walls. They were all sizes, shapes and colors. Some were plain as opposed to some that looked like they belonged in a museum. Like most buildings I have seen here, this one was long and narrow, with the ceiling making a wide arch above our heads that gave the appearance we were entering some kind of church or other religious place. As I gawked, I clumsily tripped and nearly and fell into a large stack of what appeared to be the “good stuff’, before realizing that the floor was just natural rock and dirt that was no where near being level. We passed through one room into another and it was there I got my first peak at a potter’s wheel.<br />I could not help thinking to myself that the object before me was nothing less than a piece of history itself, handed down from generations of craftsmen who not only passed on the most simple of tools, but a way of life to their sons and their son’s sons. To look at Saban, he could be anything or anybody. A handsome man, as it seems the lot of Turkish men tend to be, he stood humbly there as a proud maker of beautiful and useful things fashioned from nothing more than his potter’s wheel, his hands, and the red river clay.<br />The wheel was exactly that, a wheel, but instead of standing up vertically as most wheels do, this one, made of wood, was recessed into the stone and dirt floor so that the flat surface of the wheel and the floor were on an even plain. The center of the wheel supported a spindle that rose up to a height of about two feet or so, and also through the wheel itself and into the dirt. This allowed the wheel to spin freely. It is on the top of the spindle that the raw shapeless blobs of clay are placed and carefully molded by the potter’s hands. Saban sat down on a simple bench and straddled the spindle. He reached into a dirty looking bag and pulled out a handful of clay and sharply planted it on the top of the spindle. He began to speak, again in a language that is both beautiful and impossible to understand. But there was a familiar tone to his voice, a rhythm as if he were singing a song that had been taught to him many years ago. It reminded me a great deal of Solomon and his telling of the history and his love for his wine. As Saban began to sing his song, his feet went to work on the wheel. Slowly at first and then faster, as he appeared to be running in place, his feet touching the wheel so lightly it made no sound. The sound of his voice and the motion of the wheel became one. As the wheel turned, so did the spindle holding the yet to be created piece of work, which at this point only existed in the imagination of the potter, Saban. He continued to speak as he dipped his hands into some very muddy looking water and then began to caress the clay with the finesse of a lover’s touch. Suddenly, as if by pure magic, the shapeless blob of clay disappeared and was instantly replaced by what was obvious even to me, to be the top to some kind of container. The lid was perfectly shaped and with the turn of Saban’s skilled little finger, a small knob appeared on top forming a handle. Still the feet were running, the wheel was turning, and the clay blob was no more. A couple of quick adjustments, and the skillful application of a very thin string to the spinning lid, and it separated itself from the spindle. Saban gently set the lid to the side and continued his song. He added a little more clay to the spindle and stuck his two thumbs into the top of the spinning blob. Again, like a slight of hand trick, there appeared a perfectly shaped bowl. I was fairly amazed and more than a little impressed, but I thought to myself, “how does he know the lid will fit the bowl”? There was no measuring, no checking on any kind. He just knew it would fit. But here’s where things get a little tricky. Remember, I told you that Saban was quietly telling a story as he worked. And Mehmet was listening and now began to relay to me the details. Many years ago, it seems people were a lot more practical than we are now. There was a lot less waste and everything had a purpose. And according to Saban, the skill of a craftsman was very important in determining the acceptance of any marriage proposal by the potter. Upon requesting his lady’s hand in marriage, the man had to sit before his perspective bride’s entire family and make a sugar bowl with his potter’s wheel. Only one chance at making a good impression and there was only one way to do it. The potter had to make a sugar bowl for his bride to be. Sounds simple enough, right? Not so. According to Saban, many a young man’s heart was broken, because he failed the test. The bowl did not have to be elaborate, it did not have to be made of the finest clay. It did not have to be of certain size or color. But, you guessed it, that lid had to fit perfectly to the matching bowl. No second chances, just one shot at securing the hand of his love, and determined solely by the geometry of a blob of clay at the hand’s of the potter and his wheel.<br />Imagine, if people today had to pass such a test. Or any test for that matter. I think there might be a lot less misery, heartache, and disappointment in our lives if we just took a little time to see if the person we are promising to spend the rest of our lives with, is indeed a perfect fit for the sugar bowl that we call life.</div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-37599550916232616812010-06-23T10:00:00.002-05:002010-06-23T10:04:51.505-05:00The Wrath of Grapes<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP2CeJRYyNrCtWyrxm-zrkg60MLgJ4BIg7yc8fYADUUHTuxM89LZ6OFOx6JalVmwIueEdovdKdxv5yUUuGE5dRsOZsKcRyU1JXcgsthP-MBeFKHTbJH9YfFPyJtPg7yBo4eJTyaM5kYg/s1600/P6200002.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485984993536072690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPP2CeJRYyNrCtWyrxm-zrkg60MLgJ4BIg7yc8fYADUUHTuxM89LZ6OFOx6JalVmwIueEdovdKdxv5yUUuGE5dRsOZsKcRyU1JXcgsthP-MBeFKHTbJH9YfFPyJtPg7yBo4eJTyaM5kYg/s320/P6200002.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">The Wrath of Grapes</span></div><br /><div align="center"><br />Did I mention that I don’t like check rides? I know they are necessary, for there has to be some way to prove one’s proficiency in flight before being turned lose in the sky. The next worse thing to the check ride itself is waiting to have it. You can think it and rethink it, fly it in your head, review emergency procedures, and just plain work yourself into a tailspin, (sorry), worrying about it. At least I always do. Except this time. I can not count on all my fingers and toes how many check rides I have had to endure in my flying career. For some reason, this one was different. Make no mistake, I had my concerns, but for some reason I just didn’t agonize over it like in the past. Maybe it was because I was just tired of waiting. I had waited two months to get to Turkey in anticipation of flying the very big balloons. I had spent one whole month in country waiting to take my first basket full of passengers from all over the world for their great hot air balloon adventure in Cappadocia. And I had waited all my life for this adventure of mine, this one, here in Turkey, the one I had all but given up on. I was just ready.<br />The flight check itself is preceeded by about fours hours of “orientation” in a class room. These four hours were spent one on one with a Turkish flight instructor named Murat. By the way if you forget someone’s name here in Turkey, just call them Murat or Mehmet and you’ll have about an 80% chance of getting it right. Murat is what you would expect from someone in his position. A rugged looking man of medium height, (standard Turkish), very short dark hair, and a full beard, but cut very short. He looks like an experienced , no nonsense, all business, professional pilot…that could swallow you whole if you ever gave him a wrong answer. The kind of face that looked like it would crack if there had been anything other than seriousness projected on it. But I was determined not to be intimidated by him or anyone else at this point. Turns out, he is a very nice gentleman that just wanted to make sure that I got the information I needed to safely fly the very big balloons in Cappadocia. There was one minor problem. His English was just a tad bit better than my Turkish. But because of his patience and my determination we managed to get through the 4 hours with me getting the information he wanted me to have and I surely needed.<br />He told me to come back the next day and be prepared for a written exam covering what we had just discussed, plus everything possible in the Cameron flight manual from loading charts, aircraft limitations, normal and emergency procedures. The next day I showed up at the appointed time, but as usual I ended up waiting an hour for Murat to arrive. (Those of you who know me, will know there is only one thing I can not stand more than someone being late…me being late!) This was no standard, out the can exam with multiple choice or true/false answers. No sir, not even close. This was 10 questions, dictated by a person who was certain of what he wanted to ask, but not sure he was asking it so that I would understand. Questions that required some thought, not just memorized statistics. Discussion was required. A half hour and four scribbled pages later, I laid my pencil down and let out a silent sigh of relief. I was pretty sure that if I had understood the question correctly, then I was pretty sure I knew the answers. I found Murat in the next room looking at his laptop. I stood there for what seemed like several minutes before he looked up. I told him I was finished, and was hoping he would check my answers right then and there and confirm my suspected knowledge. But instead, he said, “flight check tomorrow morning, 5:15.” I could not stand it. I asked him if he was going to check my test. I think I saw a brief hint of a smile underneath all that formality as he just said, “later”, and turned his attention back to his laptop. I just picked up my hat and eased on out the door.<br />The next morning, Mehmet dropped me off at 5:10 at the THK launch area where I would take my check flight. I was thankful that I had managed to get there on time because Mehmet usually runs anywhere from 15 to 30 minutes late, for everything. He dropped me off because our Spanish pilot, Sancho had a flight and was launching from a different location. I waited for 20 minutes before anyone from THK showed up. But when they came, it was like an invasion. Three large trucks carrying crew and pulling trailers, followed by several cars carrying pilots. They all began to disembark and started unloading and setting up. I spotted Murat and walked over to get started. I did not know which balloon I was suppose to be using so I asked Murat. He pointed to one and said, “you will be flying the 105 and here is your check pilot….(can you guess?), Murat!<br />This Murat was even more stoic than the first, but without the facial hair. He was larger, but of course, about the same height. And I swear when I first laid eyes on him I said to myself, “Oh my God, it’s SHREK!” He just had that look, the only thing missing was those shreky ears. Otherwise, a spitting image, with the absence of the green skin, of course. Thank goodness.<br />I set about helping the crew ready the balloon for flight. As best I could. I had never flown a Lindstrum 105. I had never flown a balloon with three burners. I had never flown a balloon with turning vents. I had never flown with Shrek. OK, I was getting a little intimidated now. I managed to get thorough the preparation with some gentle help from the Turkish crew. The whole while, under the big watchful eyes of Murat #2. He watched from a few feet distant, smoking the whole time. As far as I can tell, every male above the age of 15 in Turkey smokes. A lot. The American tobacco companies need not worry. If every single American quit smoking today, it would be a very small blip on their profits. The Turks will keep them in business. After a good cold pack, I put the heat to the big 105 and watched it come to life. This was the moment I had been waiting for, burner time. It felt good. I wasn’t nervous, For some reason at that moment, something clicked in my head. I did not do it on purpose, it just happened. Instead of that old familiar case of check ride nerves flooding my mind and body, a strange sense of calm came over me. I realized that I knew what I was doing, it’s what I wanted to do, it’s what I have been waiting to do, and by God I’m just gonna do it and enjoy the ride! And I did. It was one of the most relaxed and fun flights I have ever flown. Simply amazing. I’m not saying it was uneventful by any means.<br />My check pilot put out his cigarette and climbed in the basket with me. He indicated he was ready to go not by words but by merely pointing one finger in an upward direction. I had already had a discussion with the crew chief about communications during the flight. Again a problem. But we managed to agree on the importance of “upside clear” so that I knew it was safe to climb. As the 105 gently left the ground, Murat turned to me, put his big finger in his chest, and said in near perfect English, “No English”. I just could not resist. I jammed my thumb into my chest, smiled the biggest smile I could and said, “that’s OK, no Turkish!” All the while I am taking in the fact that I am finally flying a balloon over the magnificent landscape in the Goreme Valley of south central Turkey. I had watched the videos dozens of times. I even rode with Sancho a couple of times. But now it was my turn. It felt good. The giant rock formations glided silently underneath the basket as we drifted slowly down the valley. Murat held up three fingers, and then pointed them toward the ground below. I knew he wanted me to land three times as part of the requirements of the flight. I picked out a spot down wind and pointed it out to Murat. He shook his head, yes, and I set up an approach and set the basket gently onto the little trail I was aiming for. He pointed up and off we went again in search of landing #2. In just a few minutes I saw Murat pointing toward something on the ground and heard him say, “fox!” I could not have been more happy. Sure enough right below us was a silver fox making his way around a pile of rocks and into some tall grass. I knew then I had it made, for Mehmet had told me early on that seeing a fox during flight meant good luck and a good landing. On the other hand, seeing a rabbit would produce the opposite result.<br />I nailed the second landing dead on. This was getting ridicously easy. Then I saw the dang rabbit. Looking up at me, and I’m sure smiling a dirty little rabbit smile. He knew he had me, as he turned his big white tail and hopped away, leaving me to my “unlucky” fate. I tried not to think about it, I really did. But if your going to believe the fox side of the luck, then you pretty much have to go along with the rabbit side too.<br />Murat pointed his bilingual finger upwards, moving it continuously in that direction meaning he wanted to go high. Up to this point we had pretty much been contour flying around the rock formations. I climbed to about 900 feet above the valley, (the further away from that pesky rabbit the better), leveled off and took in the view. And it was spectacular. From altitude you can see that there is not just one valley, but a series of valleys or fingers within the larger one. The rock formations define the distinct walls that confine Rose Valley, Red Valley, Pigeon Valley, Love Valley, Zelve Valley, and Kilicar Valley. Each one of them spitting out hot air balloons like a pin ball machine in slow motion. It was so breathtaking that I almost forgot about the sinister hare. After all, what possible effect could a silly rabbit have on the outcome of my wonderful balloon flight? The answer slowly unfolded right in front of me. Murat had indicated earlier that we would do a final landing on the other side of Love Valley, along with a dozen or so other balloons, including the one Sancho was flying. I was maintaining the high altitude because it was taking us right where we wanted to go. Then with no indication why, the finger pointed straight down and was accompanied by, “Now!” OK..I can do this from 900 feet. I vented the big balloon, and started a rate of decent that was comfortable. I also reached up and grabbed the green turning vent line for the first time, and thus began a gentle turn to the right, and at the same time, my slow journey toward the coveted membership into the Royal Order of the Calloused Pinky Society. Life is good and I am living it. Except, the rabbit had other plans. It started to become obvious that I would not make the small intended landing area as planned. The wind mysteriously picked up as I approached the field and rushed me past any hope of gracefully and safely landing there. So I prepared to abort the approach. But when Murat saw that I intended to abort, he suddenly became very animated, (remember…Shrek?) He became visibly agitated and mustered a very loud, “no, no, no….land now!”<br />One of the things that Murat #1 had to tell me during our little visit was the importance of landowner relations in the valley. There are no big farms in the valley, but it is literally dotted with hundreds of small individual plots of cultivated crops. All kinds of crops. There are squash, tomatoes, cucumbers, okra, beans, peas, greens, and most important all, of course grapes. All the other stuff is seasonal and is replanted every year. Not so grapes. Grape vines have a ancestry all their own and can be passed down through generations of growers. These plants, therefore, have great sentimental value as well as the money factor. A great deal of the grapes grown in this valley are harvested and turned into some of the finest wine in all of Turkey….(Solomon’s Wine Hause). Therefore, Murat #1 was especially emphatic…”do NOT damage the grape vines! He went out of his way to make me understand that nothing could get me in trouble quicker than messing with the grapes. Well, thanks to my friend the rabbit, I was on a sure fire collision course headed straight for trouble. Just downwind from my intended landing spot was a nice little vineyard. It did not appear to be that old, maybe the vines were only 10-15 years old. But they had been well cared for, loved and nurtured into strong healthy plants. In years to come, these very grape vines would be capable of producing world class wine. If they survived my aerial attack, that is. I was headed straight into the plants, all the while Shrek insisting I continue to land, and now! So I did the best I could. I skimmed the top of one hearty vine, that thankfully did not break. I sat the basket down hard just beyond the vine but the finely cultivated soil between the plants was no match for the 105,000 cubic foot balloon. The heavy basket cut through the soil like butter and slid right up to and jammed up against the next plant in line, where it came to a stop. The base of the vine was skinned up and the whole plant itself was listing to the west. My heart sank as I continued to try and keep the balloon stabilized to avoid further damage from the basket trying to rotate in the wind. My once in a lifetime adventure of flying very big balloons in Turkey flashed before my eyes. I could now see the small clumps of tiny green grapes hanging on for their very lives as they remained precariously attached to the damaged vine. Out of nowhere my Turkish crew were swarming the basket like hungry bees. Thank goodness, I thought. At least they can walk us out of here with no further damage. Wrong again. As four of them held onto the basket, one of them jumped inside with me and my now surely enraged check pilot. The one who held my adventure in his non-green hands. I waited for his wrath to reign down on me in buckets. Instead, without saying a word, or even gesturing with his talented talking fingers, he climbed out the basket, slowing walked only a dangerously close few steps away, and lit up an American cigarette. I was speechless. As we sat there, I looked over at the grapevine that we had just tried to destroy. It was still leaning and the churned up soil leading up to it created a telltale trail of evidence of what had happened. I would be lucky if I did not end up in Turkish prison over this. By now the balloon had settled and a couple of the crew had let go and were just standing there. I had an idea. I rubbed my hands together, as if to generate some creativity. I got the attention of one of the crew and pointed to the poor leaning plant. I put the palms of my hands together, fingers pointing upward, slightly leaning. I looked at the plant, then I looked at him. I slowly and gently brought my hands up to vertical, not taking my eyes off the Turkish man. He started to smile as he walked over to the grapevine and gently brought it back to it’s normal healthy position as prior to the crash. I gave him a big thumbs up which he quickly returned. By now, Murat is on cigarette #2. Looking at the ground around the plant, I could tell there was work yet to be done. I held up my hands, palms facing out in a halting position. That got my man’s attention again. I then pointed to the ground where the soil was torn up. I held both hands out, palms down, and began a rapid sweeping circular motion. He caught on and copied my motions with his hands in the soil. One of the other crew jumped in a did the same. In no time, it was impossible to detect that anything unusual or destructive had occurred on the site. When I looked up, every man was smiling almost to the point of laughter, even the smoker.<br />Murat climbed back into the basket, and the other man stayed in. Again the talking fingers directed me to take back to the sky and leave this place. Which I did gladly.<br />We flew over a power line an on to the field where some of the other balloons had started to land. I cruised past a couple of the downed balloons saying hello the crews working below. Our final landing was uneventful, almost. As soon as we touched down, I began to stabilize the balloon and shutting down burners and venting the lines. The next thing I knew, the two other folks in my basket decided they wanted to leave, without telling me. Of course when they departed the big balloon wanted to fly again. It took all the crew and pulling vent line like crazy not to go airborne again. Was that some kind of test? What were they thinking?<br />Once deflated the crew set about packing up the balloon. I set about trying to figure out what just happened and if I was going to pass my check flight. The man who was going to decide if I was in fact going to get to fly very big balloons, was quietly standing a few feet away, having another American cigarette. I walked over to where he was standing so I could try to thank him for his time. Maybe he could see the question written all over my face. Before I could say anything, He kinda halfway smiled and raised his fist into a “thumbs up” sign, and said in perfectly clear English, “Goot….very goot”.<br />I start flying the very big balloons and passengers from all over the world on Friday. </div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-63465869890418410802010-06-15T10:30:00.005-05:002010-06-16T01:52:27.715-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2JXsm3ncwOCP8oalxySKeSY82_UhcE4SW4CMF46ZV7puLrM-8-X0X9mOYKg5_vsUS94rJ6QEcalFOZ7C_E6sfommTsH0BTQm3RBHEhC4oC9h_ybhxV_qvCRE1rSdyTfp3X-WfLJ6wApU/s1600/P6130064.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483028342278956770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2JXsm3ncwOCP8oalxySKeSY82_UhcE4SW4CMF46ZV7puLrM-8-X0X9mOYKg5_vsUS94rJ6QEcalFOZ7C_E6sfommTsH0BTQm3RBHEhC4oC9h_ybhxV_qvCRE1rSdyTfp3X-WfLJ6wApU/s320/P6130064.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">The Royal Order<br />of<br />The Calloused Pinky Society</span></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center">I met Graham and his lovely wife Alceia quite by accident last week. Sancho who is from Spain is one of the three pilots working for Aladdin Balloons here in Cappadocia. Sinon, a Turkish man is the second, and I am number three. It was Sancho who introduced me to the couple. He and I had just left the office of the THK who conducts validation of pilots who come here to fly. In other words, it is there job to determine if a new pilot has the experience, knowledge and skill to fly very big balloons in this environment. It seems to be a process that is only understood by few, but it is in fact something that all new pilots have to go through. THK’s part in this process consist of a flight check with one of their pilots and an oral and written exam. But the friendly folks at THK will not even talk to you until all of the required paperwork has been documented, looked at, reviewed, sent to various agencies, sat on someone’s desk for a week, (maybe two), and eventually signed off on. But only at 5pm on a Friday afternoon so that nothing else can be done until the “next” week. Do I sound a little frustrated here? I am now into my fourth “next week” and hoping I get validated very soon.<br />Graham and Alceia were sitting outside under a big umbrella that shielded them from the afternoon sun. It was a quaint little café looking place, much like you would expect to run across in a tourist town here in Turkey. What you would not expect is to see a rustic but festive sign above the entrance that said “Fat Boy’s Café and Bar”. It is one of the only, and maybe the only sign that is in English in the whole town. Maybe it’s because “Fat Boy’s in Turkish could be a whole other meaning and lose it’s punch in the translation. Sancho introduced us as best he could in his gallant effort at speaking English. He really thinks he is speaking English, but it’s pretty much hit and miss, with only an occasional word or phrase that is recognizable. But he tries.<br />I was more than thrilled when Graham spoke because it was obvious that he was well versed in the king’s English. I was elated when Alceia broke out in a variation of the same but in obviously good ole American dialect. Finally, somebody I could talk to. I asked them, “where ya’ll from?” They both kinda looked at one another, like they each were searching for the right answer and needing help from the other. And I was thinking to myself…that was not that hard a question! Finally Graham explained. He is originally from the United Kingdom and she is from Colorado. They are married, so he is an American citizen also. ( He and I already have plans for BBQ and fireworks on the 4th of July). But they only live in Colorado part of the time, and the rest is spent somewhere in the world, flying very big balloons.<br />Sancho and I sat down at their table under the big umbrella at their insistence. Graham was nursing an “Efess” beer, which is a dang good Turkish impersonation of Budweiser! She was finishing up what looked like the last of a frozen daiquiri. My God, there is hope for this place. We spoke for a few minutes but unfortunately they were just leaving when we got there. Before they left, Graham explained to me that Fat Boy’s was the hang out for most of the balloon pilots that are working in Cappadocia and that on Sunday afternoon at two o’clock, was the unofficial meeting place and time for the Royal Order of The Calloused Pinky Society. And if I wanted to be a member, I should show up on Sunday. Well at this point I am desperate for some kind of social contact, but am wondering what the heck kind of initiation I would have to endure to be a member in good standing in this suspicious group.<br />I showed up at Fat Boy’s the following Sunday right on time. Sancho has already agreed to meet me there and was on his way. I spotted the British/American couple sitting in a traditional Turkish booth with two other gentlemen that I did not know. The booth had a square table in the middle but it was only a few inches tall. There were cushions for seats and it is required that you take off your shoes to sit there. Graham and Alceia appeared genuinely pleased that I had shown up and that made me feel pretty good. I could not, not show up. First I was having a real need to be around someone that I could communicate with and not wonder if I had just told some poor soul in Turkish to go wash themselves instead of the intended “good morning”. And, I was pretty much at my wits end trying to figure out what the Royal Order of the Calloused Pinky Society could possibly be all about and how and if I would even qualify.<br />They introduced me to David and John, two Brits who were also pilots. David has been here for several months and John had only arrived two days earlier. Thank goodness, at least I am no longer the newest guy in town. David is one of those guys. The kind that likes to talk and be heard. But the good news is, he does it in such a way that it is not at all irritating and really down right entertaining. I used to think and have been proud of the fact that I speak pretty good English. I was wrong. David speaks “English” and obviously, I just manage to get by with a variation of red neck American. He and John are also from the UK. John currently calls Japan “home” and will go back there once his tour of duty is finished in Turkey, flying very big balloons. Apparently David has no permanent address. He has spent the last few years hiring out to fly balloons in places like, Kenya, Australia, Spain, Netherlands, India and of course Turkey. I have later discovered that is the case with a lot of the pilots here. Flying balloons for a living and going wherever the wind takes them, so to speak.<br />I ordered and Efess and just listened while the men told tales of flying tourist here in very big balloons. We are talking balloons that will hold 15 to 25 people. As Mehmet would say, “a lot of”! I won’t tell you all of the tales here and now, but do you know what happens to botoxed lips at altitude? Well I did not either, but Graham was gracious enough in the most formal Brit accent he could muster, to explain it in vivid detail. It was not a pretty picture. The telling of it had to be one of the funniest accounts I have heard in a while. It was the first time since I have been in Turkey, that I just laughed out loud until the tears were flowing down my cheeks. And he just went on and on and about it and said the only thing he could think of at the time was, “I wonder if I go high enough, will they actually explode and make a mess in my basket? Or will they just fall off and get trampled by tourist that are crammed in like sardines”?<br />When I finally gained my composure and could not stand it any more I had to ask Graham the question that had been on my mind since our first meeting a few days earlier. Would he please explain about the R.O. C. P. S? He laughed out loud and did proceed to tell me. And I could have kicked myself for not knowing, but you have to remember, I have led a fairly sheltered life compared to these guys. “It’s very simple really”, he said. We fly very big balloons here and these balloons carry a lot of passengers. These balloons are fitted with turning vents, so that the balloon can be turned in flight, left or right, to give all the passengers a good view, and most importantly, to position those bus sized baskets full of tourist for a proper and safe landing. It does not change the direction of flight, just the orientation of the basket. Crap, I knew that. I think. Since I have never had or flown a balloon equipped with a turning vent, I did not know that after “venting” every day to turn the very big balloon, one’s pinky finger will become calloused very quickly from pulling on the small rope that operates the vent. </div><div align="center">Now I know, and I am so anxious to have my very own duly seasoned pinky. I can hardly wait to be a member of this elite club, here in Turkey, flying very big balloons.</div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-37758533801005455112010-06-10T09:43:00.004-05:002010-06-10T11:08:44.626-05:00<div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuc7cbnEmigeiBlQgN6v9rAjwO7nMXcv7mMB0tf_Z-MYspd-FULIepqAQg3D5ed0RfK-W-Ro2Ab5YNhpPwAXZWOzgY2ouxZHu9xKIrfrSBLMemZUn7B9913jSUJ9V2gMno5gJEU4txPI/s1600/P5230014.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481157887168693314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjuc7cbnEmigeiBlQgN6v9rAjwO7nMXcv7mMB0tf_Z-MYspd-FULIepqAQg3D5ed0RfK-W-Ro2Ab5YNhpPwAXZWOzgY2ouxZHu9xKIrfrSBLMemZUn7B9913jSUJ9V2gMno5gJEU4txPI/s320/P5230014.JPG" /></a> </div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:180%;"> </span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">"Adventure of a Lifetime"<br /></div></span><div align="center"><br />I think I have mentioned before that things move pretty slowly here in Turkey. (Except for all moving vehicles that is). I have been here for two weeks now and I am still waiting to be cleared by the Civilian Aviation Authority of Turkey so I can start flying the very big balloons. I have had a seven hour aviation medical exam. I have registered with the local police who verified my visa and work permit, and my place of residence here in Turkey. I have done everything they have asked and I am still waiting. I have been told, that all is in order, that the only thing left is for the CAA to schedule my check flight. For that I will fly with a Turkish check pilot and 10 very brave volunteer passengers. During the flight I have to demonstrate that I can safely fly the 210,000 cubic foot balloon among the 40 + other balloons flying in very close proximity over the tricky Cappadocia terrain. The flight must also include 3 full stop landings, which means I have to find not one decent place to land this monster, but 3 separate ones. No problem. I am a bit nervous about the check ride, just because it is a “check” ride. But that is normal, at least for me. In my 39 years of flying small single engine airplanes, high performance jets in the U. S. Air Force, and hot air balloons, I have never liked “check” rides. I know they are necessary, but I just don’t like ‘em. I just want to get it over with so I can start the job I came here to do, flying very big balloons.<br />I can’t believe that I am actually here and getting to do this. Ever since I started ballooning over 20 years ago, I always thought about flying tourist in some exotic place. It doesn’t get much more exotic than the beautiful mountains and valleys of south central Turkey. Just another classic case of “be careful what you wish for”. You might get it. I am thankful that I did. </div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">Everybody who knows where I am and what I am doing just goes on and on about how exciting it is, “an adventure of a lifetime”. I agree. But be assured, it does not come without sacrifice. I will be here for about five months, which in the big scheme of things, as we all know, is nothing. It will go by in a blink. But during that blink there are a few things I cherish that I will miss and never get back. I will miss our annual trip out west to Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming. Joy and I just live for those times. I will miss getting the faithful Skybird crew together for an early morning flight out in the country so that some couple, young or not so young, can experience the once in a lifetime adventure on their first and probably only hot air balloon ride ever. I will miss breakfast at Lea’s with the girls who have taken more than their share of hard times from me and the crew. There’s some pretty good talk that goes on around that table while we wait for our breakfast. My favorite thing to tell folks that have never been there, about Lea’s is …there is no menu, you just order what you want, and they bring you what they got. But it is always good.<br />I will miss whatever it is that the grandkids are into, baseball games, birthday parties, or just hanging out at Papa’s house in the woods. Those times are precious and go by way too quickly to miss even a minute of it. I will miss hanging out at the river. It’s kinda like Forest Gump said, “life, (the river) is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’re going to get”! You just never know who is there or who will show up. Like one day when the guy walked up out of nowhere with a chicken perched on his shoulder. But that’s a whole other story.<br />I will miss being there for my kids. They are all grown ups, but sometime ole Dad just might have the solution for whatever catastrophe is presenting itself on any given day. I will miss my log house in the woods. It’s not fancy, but it is home and it gives me peace and comfort when I am there.<br />And I will miss Joy. Time lost with my wife at this stage of our lives is tragic. We can’t get it back, and we just don’t know how much of it we still have left. None of us do. Every day, every moment is a gift. I have wasted some of that gift in my life and I regret it. That is why it is hard to be away now. But for this, which we will share once she makes the trip to Turkey, we agreed to sacrifice the gift, for a few moments, to get to share the “adventure of a lifetime”, here, together.<br />It is not just my sacrifice. It is shared by my family and friends whose lives have been altered, greatly or slightly, so that I could be here in Turkey flying very big balloons. And I thank all of you from the bottom of my heart.</div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-61996032059788642312010-06-07T04:00:00.003-05:002010-06-16T11:03:26.460-05:00<span style="font-size:180%;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1bp_kH5AwnfclXcEx0hpWjluFUDKlOySnNKFp31wybSCoIHnjT6kAjxAA9sj391EgxPLGG4z8q5PrSf5XA5pQYuo805XkR6dbpb6N0YPRr98N_5w1G5qe9wx_DuXuPQzhBIjE0GhHKI/s1600/P6050039.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479955603814168514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1bp_kH5AwnfclXcEx0hpWjluFUDKlOySnNKFp31wybSCoIHnjT6kAjxAA9sj391EgxPLGG4z8q5PrSf5XA5pQYuo805XkR6dbpb6N0YPRr98N_5w1G5qe9wx_DuXuPQzhBIjE0GhHKI/s320/P6050039.JPG" /></a><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">The Girls With No Shoes</span></div><br /><div align="center"><br />I had my first official site seeing trip in Cappadocia yesterday. It was suppose to be me and Mehmet, him picking me up at 10am. At 10:20 he called to say that he was not able to go, but his partner, Ersin was going to let me use his vehicle for the day, and I could go where ever I wanted. Sure enough, 10 minutes later Ersin showed up. The vehicle turned out to be a 1987 jeep with no top, which I thought would be pretty cool driving around. Except I was more than a little concerned because I had driven this vehicle the day before. Just a short distance between the “hangar” and my apartment. It performed miserably. It coughed and sputtered and jerked and stalled and just completely died six times in the two mile trip. I reminded Ersin about that and he smiled real big and said in very broken English, “yes it is a beautiful day!” Once I did get him to understand my worry, he in turn ,through hand motions, and very deliberate short phrases, explained that the electronic control device attached to the dash that meters and regulates the flow of natural gas to the engine was the culprit and had been replaced. Yep, natural gas. Right there in the back of the little jeep is a 20 liter tank. It seems that gasoline is very expensive here and a lot of the vehicles have converted either to total use of natural gas or a combination of that and gasoline. I noticed that gasoline is only about 2.80 Turkish lira or about 2.25 dollars. But that is for a liter and not a good ole U.S. gallon. So it comes out to be about twice what we pay for it.<br />Once I dropped him off, I was on my own for the day, which felt pretty good. I have been on someone else’s schedule for the last two weeks. My goal was to see the Goreme Open Air Museum. The site is the center of the Cappadocia tourist attractions. It contains numerous sandstone caves that were carved out centuries ago and in this particular area were used as churches by monks somewhere around 1000-1200AD. These people had a load of talent and showed it in their paintings on the ceilings and walls of the cave churches. These paintings are called frescoes. Don’t ask me why, but they are amazingly and hauntingly beautiful. Please go to one of the many web sites for more.<br /><a href="http://www.turkeytravelplanner.com/go/CentralAnatolia/Cappadocia/goreme/GoremeValley.html">http://www.turkeytravelplanner.com/go/CentralAnatolia/Cappadocia/goreme/GoremeValley.html</a></div><div align="center"><br />It is only 10 kilometers (6 miles)from Avanos but I took my time to enjoy the ride. Top down on the jeep, 80 degrees, sun shining, life is good. And by the way, I was wearing my LG T-shirt. I did discover something on the drive that has had me puzzled since I arrived in Turkey. Sure enough, it is possible to drive on this side of the world and stay on the right side of the road. I was beginning to think there was some kind of magnetic field affecting the vehicles around here. Mehmet has not stayed on his side of the road for more than 30 seconds at a time without crossing over, and I don’t mean just a little bit. All the way over. I have mentioned it to him a couple of times and his reply is always, “yes, it is a beautiful day”. I’m going to keep trying though.<br />I drove into the town of Goreme and there was a sign pointing to the left and up the hill. I was in tourist heaven. The street was lined with souvenir shops, outside cafes, and tour guide services. The jeep is perfect for negotiating the narrow, curvy, and hilly, brick streets so I made the turn and in short order found myself at the entrance to the museum. I pulled into one of several parking lots that was too small for the 20-30 tour buses that had arrived before me. Parked the jeep and proceeded to the entrance gate. I was met by a young man with tiny wire rim glasses, wearing a ball cap and short pants. You don’t see short pants here, except on tourist. Don’t know why this guy was different. He was polite and asked me was this my first time here. (How did he know?) When I said yes, his eyes lit up, in fact I think I saw little Turkish liras reflecting in them. He spoke very good English but had a very different accent, not Turkish. He said he noticed I had a jeep and that, although the museum was very nice, that now would not be a good time to go. Too many tourist and way too hot. I could see his point. He said he could show me some very nice places that were only accessible by the type vehicle I had and their would be “magnificent and fabulous” views. And he would be happy to take me and let me experience that with him. All for only 30TL. I quickly thought of three reasons not to do this. 1. My mission today was to see the Open Air Museum. 2. I’m gonna be here for several months and I can go exploring new territory any time I want. 3. I’m a little short of Turkish lira, or dollars, or any other kind of negotiable legal tender. I politely thanked him but told him I had a limited amount of time today, but I would consider his offer another day, please give me a card. He did and went on to the next guy that looked green.<br />It cost 15TL to get into the museum. Money well spent. It was all I had imagined and more. The towering sandstone formations, deep ravines, and spectacular cave churches, all lived up to the hype. Those were all things I had expected. It is the unexpected, that always gets your attention. I lost my wallet and didn’t even know it…had it not been for the girls with no shoes, I could have been in a real fix.<br />You can’t help but watch and listen to the “other tourist”. I was fascinated that I could be around so many people that looked just like me, for the most part and not understand a word being said. I am not an expert, but I’m sure I recognized French, German, Turkish, and several variations of Asian dialect. So when I heard someone behind me say, “lets go this way”, it got my attention. I was excited at the notion that I might get to talk to someone in my own language. I turned and asked in the best southern English I could muster, “where ya’ll from?”. The two young ladies were from California, but considering I was desperate to have a conversation with someone, I let that go. They had been in Cappadocia for a couple of days and this was the last day before they were to catch a plane that evening to Istanbul. Yes, they had taken the a balloon tour the morning before and it was just wonderful. About then, out of nowhere, the weather changed. The now 85 degree sunny day turned to solid grey accompanied by pouring rain. The winding trail that moments before was just dust, now was rapidly becoming a little river of water flowing rapidly down the hill. The three of us found ourselves seeking shelter and as luck would have it, no caves close by. The only refuge from the downpour was a entrance to a cave but it had been blocked by a glass door. There was just enough room for us and two other folks who were trying to escape the elements. They were from Australia. There were no signs or explanations for the glass door being there. (We later learned the glass door was there to allow you to see the unearthed graves of some poor souls, bones and all.) So for the next 20 minutes, we waited. The five of us strangers, trapped by something as simple as falling water. Christiana was of Filipino decent. Natalya was born in Columbia. They both lived and worked in California and were just having a “girls getaway” holiday. Natalya was going to a wedding in Spain and invited her friend Christina to go along. They had already been to the wedding, then to Istanbul for a few days, now Turkey and were traveling on to Jordan before returning home. I was curious. Did they book a package deal all planned out for them? I was pleased that no, they booked the flight to Spain and just “figured out the rest as we went along”. How wonderful that people can have the gumption to take off on that kind of adventure. They were having a grand time. After a little time had passed I got up enough nerve to ask, “Where are your shoes? What were you thinking going on a two hour hiking tour, up and down these hills, climbing ladders, over rocks?” They were wearing sandals, for crying out loud! Very fashionable, tiny little things with one small leather string between the toes. But not even close to functional in the terrain we were in. I had noticed even before the rain came and thought to myself…what were they thinking?<br />Of course they had no logical explanation. Just a “girl wants to look good priority thing, I guess. I can appreciate it, kinda like high heels, but I sure don’t understand it.<br />They ask me the usual questions. Where was I from, what are you doing here, how long are you staying? I answered all that smartly enough, and added that I had a small balloon company and specialized in private flights for two people back in Louisiana. Christiana had been to Louisiana but was thinking of going back and do a food tour. Not sure what that is exactly..you have to eat no matter where you go. She asked me for a contact number just in case she and her boy friend might want to go on a ride. That was when my world took a nose dive. I said to her, “let me give you a card that has all my contact information,” as I reached around to my blue jeans back pocket for my wallet. And then the other back pocket, and both front pockets, then the back again, and the front again as if I kept looking in the same place that my wallet would magically appear. I can not tell you the panic that passed through every inch of my body at that moment. A hundred scenarios raced through my head and what was in that wallet. Everything. A few Turkish lira, driver’s license, bank card, pilot’s license, SS card, the coveted work permit/ get out of jail free card, my life. Pardon the expression, but it took everything in me to stay calm and not just start screaming like a girl. The girls with no shoes could tell there was a problem. As calmly as I could manage, I proclaimed that I had lost my wallet. There faces mirrored my desperate look. I imagined in my head what kind of problem this could be for me, here in the middle of Turkey. What misery would be bestowed on me because I was so careless! Where could it be? I had taken it out two times since paying admission at the gate. Once, to purchase a bottle of drinking water, back when it was 85 degrees and hot. (The weather change dropped the temperature to 65 degrees now and the girls with no shoes were getting cold) I also used it to pay an extra 8TL for access into the Dark Church along the trail. I couldn’t remember which came first. I had the bottle of water in my back pocket, the same pocket as my wallet. Could my wallet have fallen out along the way as I pulled out the bottle for a drink? It could be anywhere at this point. Along the trail, maybe picked up by a tourist and now on it’s way back to whatever country they came from. Or in one of the several dark caves or narrow passage ways that I had been crawling around in. A feeling of hopelessness totally engulfed my body. I am doomed. I will never find it. But I have to try. It was still raining, but now that didn’t matter. That was the least of my worries. I told the girls with no shoes goodbye and wished them a safe journey and then slipped out into the rain to try to get my life back.<br />I worked my way down the muddy trail, water running fast seeking a resting place.<br />All the while my eyes searching the ground for my precious peace of mind, looking left and right, up and down. I searched a small passage way that led to a dark cave. There was no one in the cave and it was cold, dark, and not strangely, lonely. I could hardly see the ground so I pulled out my new Turkish cell phone and fumbled until I got the built in flashlight to come on. Little more than a small candle considering the vast darkness that surrounded me. No wallet. Leaving the cave and back on the trail, I continued to search to no avail. Shortly I reached the cave/tea house where I had purchased the bottle of water. I was relieved to see the same young girl at the counter. When I approached she smiled and I thought I had hit the jackpot. She remembers me and has my wallet!!, I say to myself. But instead she proceeded to ask by way of moving her hands across the counter, what would I like…water, soda, tea, cookies? Oh my God she does not have it! Not able to vocally make her understand, I began to play charades with her, hoping she would get the idea. I put my hands together flat then opened and closed trying to make them look something like a wallet. She pointed to the water bottles lined up on the counter. No, I screamed in my own head. I don’t want water, I want my wallet back. I tried again. This time with a little more emotion and desperation. She proclaimed. “Ahhh”, held up one finger vertically in the universal sign for “wait here”, as she walked around the corner and out the door. In less that 10 seconds she returned followed by a young Turkish man who held my life in his hands. The first thing I did was give the girl, now smiling, a great big traditional Turkish hug, executed by hugging and kissing one cheek and then the other…twice. Then I followed that by just a good ole tight squeeze. The man handed me my wallet and I tried very hard to say thank you in his native language. I was so happy and excited I could not remember “tesekur ederim”!! I just kept saying “thank you, thank you’!!! He replied with a proud grin on his face, “no problem in Turkey”. And that’s the way it is here in this country with the Turkish people. Modest, proud, friendly, and most of all, lucky for me, totally honest.<br />It was like I had been born again, resurrected from the dead. My identity restored. Right here in this ancient place, the very cross roads of modern religion, where the apostles and saints lived and traveled. And I owe it all to the girls with no shoes. If I had not asked, “where ya’ll from”, had we not got stuck in the rain, had they not asked for my card, had I not reached for my wallet to retrieve a card…..it would have, could have been hours and miles down the road before I even noticed my wallet was gone. I am thankful.<br />I will most likely never see or hear from them again. But if I do, I’m going to buy them some shoes.</div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-49233995167433111032010-06-05T00:34:00.000-05:002010-06-05T18:39:33.468-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgax6DQJFpgj0JnwcyMzZQfbf4V4a8m6F9U5AY5hPOvtUSbwloXjC_LegECyB1T8A_ExR0P9VEIQmmftrOS1QtaBRzJSxzMAJhrCkiAcrqGrqLkQXtsdf9hXG0UVBwC_5wCXikNHXWKvqs/s1600/P6030012.JPG"><img style="text-align: center; margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; display: block; height: 240px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479167970484377794" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgax6DQJFpgj0JnwcyMzZQfbf4V4a8m6F9U5AY5hPOvtUSbwloXjC_LegECyB1T8A_ExR0P9VEIQmmftrOS1QtaBRzJSxzMAJhrCkiAcrqGrqLkQXtsdf9hXG0UVBwC_5wCXikNHXWKvqs/s320/P6030012.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div align="left"><br /></div><br /><div align="center"><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">Solomon’s Wine House<br />May 26, 2010</span></div><br /><div align="left"><br />Mehmet, my host and employer in Turkey and I were having a casual discussion about alcohol. We both agreed that neither of us are really big drinkers. But when he asked me if I liked wine, I said yes. To appreciate what happened next I have to tell you what we had been doing, this my first full day after arriving in Avanos, Turkey.<br /><br />We had agreed that Mehmet would pick me up at my little stone house apartment at 10am. The clock in my head, not nearly adjusted to the 8 hour time difference, told me I should be still sleeping, after all it was 2am at home. But I was up at 5am for some ungodly reason. My main objective at least first hand was to unpack my suitcase. That took 15 minutes if you count the extra 5 I killed re-arranging my stuff in the small accommodation. I then went about the task of trying to get online so I could start communicating with the world again. Just like the night before, no luck. The wireless seemed to be working, I was getting the “you are connected message” but could not log on for love or money. Next, I decided to step outside and see what this little piece of Turkey looked like in the daylight. (It was late and dark when I arrived the night before.) You might remember the reason I came to Turkey in the first place, to fly very big balloons. I stepped out my door way, took a few steps to my right toward what looked like would be a reasonable vantage point to take a look around. The 30 or so hot air balloons that filled the sky in the near distant valley literally took my breath away. (Sorry if that sounds un-masculine.) They were just hanging as if someone had placed them there like ornaments on a Christmas tree. After the initial shock, I began to take in what else was in this picture. Imagine….a valley divided by a beautiful clean flowing river, the Red River, actually as coincidence would have it. The side of the river nearest me is filled with red tile roofed houses and business’ that make up half the small town of Avanos. The other half of the town is on the other side of the river followed by rolling green hills that dump into the valley floor that is hosting the gathering of balloons and their tourist passengers from all over the world. Directly below the hovering chariots are what they all came to see. A geographical site millions of years in the making by nature and altered slightly over the last 8,000 years by man. Volcanic action on three sides gave the landscape it’s definition, the people gave it it’s character. The sandstone over countless years formed a one of a kind geography that includes castle looking structures and “towers” that are now called fairy chimneys. Then as people began to inhabit the area, they carved the sandstone structures into houses, churches, and whole underground cities. If you would like a lot more detail about the area, just go online and search for “Cappadocia”….it’s worth doing.<br /><br />Anyway, after taking in as much of that view as I could stand I was off on another mission. Mehmet had been very thorough in furnishing the apartment with everything I needed to just move in. Furniture, linens, vacuum cleaner, iron, TV, high speed internet,(well, eventually), fully equipped kitchen with new appliances. Just everything a person would possibly need….almost…note to Mehmet….next time don’t forget the toilet paper! So, I went on a quest to find that which was at this point desperately needed to make the living accommodations complete. I made a list of a few other items that I could use and struck out to town. OK, I am already in town….out the door, down a very steep cobble stone street, with a bunch of cobles missing, take a right and I am on the main street of Avanos. It’s just like you would imagine. Small shops, markets, with fresh fruits and veggies and stuff I had never seen before. This was gonna be easy. Oh, wait…sure enough, these folks do not speak or understand English, or at least the way I attempt to speak it. The first place I went into was a market that had all of the above stuff…fresh stuff. I suspect it came from the green part of the valley across the river. After walking around the small place a couple of rounds I came face to face with I guess, the owner. Not having a clue what else to say, I asked, “do you speak English?” He looked at me like I had said nothing at all….blank. I tried again. This time real slow and louder hoping these changes would make a difference. It worked, sorta. He smiled and shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in a manner that even I could understand..he had no idea what I said. Not to be deterred I just kept on talking, explaining that I was from the USA, just got in last night, was staying around the corner, and would be here for the summer, flying very big balloons. The amount of talking did not seem to help, but it did produce some smiling and affirmative head shaking indicating that he understood which led him to trying to give me what looked like goat cheese cause maybe I looked hungry? I tried to be graceful, but ended up just smiling real big and slowly backed out of this man’s world.<br /><br />After entering a couple of more places, I finally found a shop that had what I was looking for. Toilet paper, no problem. Fairly recognizable. I also needed some shampoo. For those of you who are visually impaired, you can appreciate this. It reminded me strangely of being in the shower, without my glasses and trying to determine, which bottle is shampoo and which one is conditioner? Same problem here, except I had my glasses on and I wasn’t naked. But although the bottles on the shelf had some familiar looking brand names, the details of what was inside, of course, was in Turkish. After spending way too much time at that location, I finally settled on a good old fashioned bottle of “ClearTech Mukemmel Dolgunluk. I’m kinda hoping it works with no lasting side effects.<br /><br />After returning to my little stone house, Mehmet, picked me up right on time. Mehmet is not your normal Turk. Most of the people here are of medium height and keep their hair cut very short. Mehmet literally stands out in a crowd. He is at least 6’ 1” tall and has coal black hair that is long and combed back over the top of his head ending up in what looks like a Steven Segal flip. In fact he looks very similar to Mr. Segal. He is very friendly and outgoing. Everybody knows him and it seems every where we go, people just want to talk to him. About what, I have no idea.<br /><br />After a couple of stops, he took me to a café for lunch. We had what must be the favorite thing around here, which is kebob…it is sold everywhere….a lot of variations, but still kebob….pretty much some kind of meat with some grilled veggies. Not too bad really. Hot tea is the drink of choice. Served in what looks like a small clear juice glass. I think I am developing a taste for it.<br /><br />We then proceeded to go to the “hangar” where he keeps all his ballooning equipment. He calls it a hangar but it is really a fenced in gravel parking lot with a little building. The balloons are kept outside covered on their trailers. It is new and in the process of getting all the essentials like water and electricity. On this day the task was burying wire. So on my first full day in Turkey, instead of flying very big balloons, I found myself attached to the end of a shovel filling in the ditch containing the wire. Which brings me to the actual subject of this installment. As we were finishing the task at hand, somehow alcohol was mentioned and as I said in the beginning, we both agreed it was not a big deal. But when I told him that I did enjoy a little wine, it was like a switch went off in his head. He dropped his shovel and in his broken English, said , “come, let us go”. And go we went. And fast. Everything in turkey moves very slowly. Except traffic. The narrow, stone streets may as well be Talladega. Between the little screaming scooters, the tour buses and Mehmet’s quest to break some kind of speed record, I thought I had traveled half way around the world just to die on a Turkish street…without even flying not one very big balloon.<br /><br />We went through the little town like a mouse on steroids looking for cheese. Around this corner, up that hill, down and around and up and down until we came to a stop with Mehmet proclaiming, “ good..he’s open.” He was Solomon. We stepped off the street into a small courtyard filled with flowers and green grass and grapevines hanging over head. The sun was almost gone and the air was as clean and cool as one could have imagined. We were met by a small man with graying short hair and wearing modest western looking clothes with the exception of a wool sweater vest looking garment that seems to be the must have attire among the Turkish men. He invited us to sit on a small bench, verbally to Mehmet and through hand motions to me. And we just sat for a few minutes enjoying the evening before Solomon and Mehmet began exchanging some rapid fire conversation that left me bug eyed. Mehmet explained that Solomon had just invited us into his wine cellar. It was not a cellar. It was a fricking cave. The entrance was large, big enough that Mehmet did not have to bend to enter. And it was dark. I kept expecting a light to come on somewhere but it remained dark. As we entered, I could feel the air get cooler. There is something about being in the middle of a rock that is unnerving, at least to me. As we continued we made a sharp left turn into a narrow, low passage that then opened up into a small room. In here there was some light coming from somewhere, but it was very soft. The room was half surrounded by rock benches carved out of the wall, which is where we were invited to sit. In front of us was a long narrow table that held an array of wine bottles and small wine glasses. Solomon stood on the other side of the table, put his hands together and began to speak. It looked like class was about to begin. He seemed to be talking directly to me, even though he knew I could not understand a word. But it was easy to understand, that this man was telling me a story, his story, and it was filled with such enthusiasm and passion, that the words did not matter. I was mesmorized. To me the words he spoke were like background music, and only secondary to the story being told. His eyes sparkled and danced as his hands kept time to the music. I somehow broke free of my trance and realized that Mehmet was quietly translating the story to me. I won’t tell you the whole story, wouldn’t want to spoil your own trip to the Wine Hause. But you should know that, according to our host, people have been making wine in that cave for over 1,000 years! In the dark stillness of that ancient place, you can almost sense the past, and for a brief moment, become a part of that history.<br /><br />We sampled wine as the story unfolded, each small glass followed by a few moments of silence, and time to let the taste and aroma of the last fade before the next one was served. Each one was just a little different, progressing from sweet, sweet, to sweet, tangy. They were all good as I listened. When we were done, he gently guided us out of the dark place where the story was told. (I needed more than a little guiding after the story and the wine, to keep from stumbling in the dark).<br />No money was exchanged that evening at Solomon’s Wine House. But there was something given to me that I will not forget. A welcome to Turkey that will last me every day that I am here, and then some.<br /> </div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-52917414969328335492010-06-04T12:41:00.000-05:002010-06-05T18:39:05.998-05:00<div align="left"></div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQAiDSYf1-hGgSnHrroCmFqtxvnCetm-X6jdTSc_vCpiA_DNpQwjDyduFqettTEOxaN3E1cTqSbWAFYxNzKefUrMgPak-9nY7sC2Gh5s745EVluwCz9iwfIyJQqvTqkHp2TAi0PyiYxA/s1600/P5290032.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478789853623962162" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQAiDSYf1-hGgSnHrroCmFqtxvnCetm-X6jdTSc_vCpiA_DNpQwjDyduFqettTEOxaN3E1cTqSbWAFYxNzKefUrMgPak-9nY7sC2Gh5s745EVluwCz9iwfIyJQqvTqkHp2TAi0PyiYxA/s320/P5290032.JPG" /></a> <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 325px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478794036602128066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhHMfw-Mu0vIPxm7eCyX1DjCr1QflhTK0FEcmKBSTB_CkO-wyl-CrzgDE1OmtSFLqqryGwjI1rlr1vbgile1jUW_RWP2bSuk-ZNspXRbEt6zoNhNYdsAY3TFZDbi85M6sqVp0jjqk6EM0/s320/P5290038.JPG" /> Balloning in Cappacocia is unlike anywhere else in the world. It is truely breath taking.<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">Cappadocia: The Land Of Beautiful Horses</span></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left">I am not sure why this place is called "the land of beautiful horses". I guess the only reason that it is not named the land of beautiful balloons is because, 8,000 years ago when people first inhabited the area, hot air balloons were a bit scarce. That is not the case now. On any given day as the sun begins it's journey here, weather permitting, and it does permit about 300 days a year, you can see anywhere from 40 to 60 balloons gathered peacfully hovering above some of the most interesting terrain in the world. It all started nearly 20 years ago with one balloon and now there are 15 ride operators working here. And apparently it is the easist marketing sell ever. There is no shortage of passengers that are standing in line to pay 150 euros, (about $190) each to experience the "ride and veiw of a lifetime". They come in tour groups on buses that have come from trains, planes, and automobiles from around the world to lay eyes on this ancient place. And they are not disappointed. I am here for the season, which will last into November, to fly these monsters that carry the willing and fortunate, up to 8, 15, or 25 at a time. I hope to become more adapt at composing and editing on this site and provide anyone interested, thoughts and observations about life in Cappacocia. Stay tuned. By the way, so far, I have only seen a few horses, and I have to say, not really that beautiful.</div><br /><br /><br /><div align="left"></div>Skyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00255573896510487915noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-784195148922652772010-05-17T18:20:00.003-05:002010-05-17T18:55:55.871-05:00Turkey or not......By all rights I should be on an airplane right now flying at 35,000 feet into the first couple of hours of a twenty hour trip to Turkey. But, instead, I am trying to learn how to blog on this site so that when I finally do get to Turkey, I can use this medium to keep folks up to date on what's happening. After waiting, not so patiently for almost 2 months now, I finally got the word that my work permit had been approved. I was to report to the Turkish Consulate in Houston to have my passport stamped with the work visa and then get on a plane at 4:30. Not so.....appears that there had been yet one more <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">glitch</span> and "please come back in two days". So I'm sitting here in Houston hoping that come Wednesday, I will be Turkey bound...stay tuned.Treehopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05239613954856200217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-89907700956704677472009-12-21T17:48:00.004-06:002009-12-21T19:20:05.414-06:00It's Not Natural!Did you know that hot air ballooning can alter the very physical laws of the Universe? Or at least push events toward one outcome or the other? It's true, and I just proved it this weekend.<br /><br />Sunday morning down here in central Louisiana was a mite nippy, but it made for some beautiful flying. We've had a tremendous amount of rainfall in the last month to six weeks, so the ground has been awfully soggy where ever we go, and since this isn't my first rodeo I had the (surprising) forethought to bring my knee-high rubber boots along. I've had to wade into some mildly unpleasant places to help recover, and thought that with as much rainfall as we've had lately any field large enough to accommodate a comfortable balloon landing would also play host to a lot of standing water and mud, so I figured I was well ahead of the game.<br /><br />Now Jim has his own ideas about laws both natural and man-made and ballooning. When driving the chase truck he's fully of the mind that Ballooning Rules apply. Ballooning Rules state pretty simply that where things like laws and so forth run counter to what we need to do to safely and accurately chase the balloon then those laws are temporarily suspended. It's a good rule, and we've only had to invoke it a few times. This past Sunday's flight was supposed to go up Saturday afternoon, and Jim had brought Tracy and I our Christmas presents--cunningly made wooden hot air balloon birdhouses. Attached to my present was a smaller one that he suggested I open before the flight.<br /><br />Well, Jim's been doing this a lot longer than I have, so I opened it. What did he get me? A headlight. One of those clip-on LED lights that you can attach to the brim of your hat. "So," he told me, "this afternoon's flight doesn't become a night flight."<br /><br />See, Jim Knows. He knows that whatever you prepare for won't happen. Have a good source of light? Evening flight won't end anywhere near dusk. Got brand new mud tires on the chase truck? We won't get near soft ground. Have a full compliment of tools? Zero chance of mechanical mishap. When I got into the truck Jim gestured to my boots and asked me if I was expecting water. I should have known then that I was wasting my time.<br /><br />So there we were, nearing the end of the chase. Ski Lift, the other balloon in the morning's flight was down safe in a new subdivision, right in someone's side yard, and Skybird seemed too high to make it safely into the small cul-de-sac that ended the development. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFl5eyEqWcGhnNqsfDtnyMHmpsorseAQg6mLgSrVkQ-YYuTmkwAMrsWkDMynbx3GssyakQtyfmJvWxGMJLFoMo3ELiTSC1TXUzeea7IGVcQHfs77axmRVhQaHq_s-gnOlkJc_cFB_LLvs/s1600-h/flight+12-20+007a.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFl5eyEqWcGhnNqsfDtnyMHmpsorseAQg6mLgSrVkQ-YYuTmkwAMrsWkDMynbx3GssyakQtyfmJvWxGMJLFoMo3ELiTSC1TXUzeea7IGVcQHfs77axmRVhQaHq_s-gnOlkJc_cFB_LLvs/s320/flight+12-20+007a.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417862959755343458" /></a><br /><br />Jim and I discussed it, and we both decided that he was going to pass over and land in the large open field that bordered the neighborhood. I slipped my hiking boots off and slipped on my rubber boots, certain I'd beaten the odds and that my feet would stay dry and warm and that I'd be the only comfortable one on the ride home.<br /><br />Next thing I know Skybird is about twenty feet high off the road, literally right in front of the hood of the truck and descending and the red line comes over the side of the basket. The red line is a nylon strap much like those you see securing loads on 18 wheeler trailers, only this one is attached at one end by a thick steel carabiner to the basket and is used for, among other things, letting the ground crew haul the balloon down out of the air fast. Jim slowed, I jumped out and went galumphing up the road in my boots toward the gondola, seeing the end of the road and a lamp post straight ahead. I flung myself onto the edge of the basket, hooked my arms over it and tried to get traction--zero. Rubber boots do not make for excellent gripping on new asphalt. So there I was, skidding along with my feet making that weird rubber-dragging sound.<br /><br />Stop we did, thankfully before encountering anything steel or otherwise unyielding and bemused neighbors started popping out of front and back doors to see what had happened to disrupt their Sunday morning ritual. While the cellular phones and cameras came out we went about the routine of taking things apart and repacking. I finally had opportunity to change back out of my completely dry knee-highs as well, but I'm thinking pretty seriously about leaving them in David's truck toolbox: I could get pretty spoiled to sidewalk landings in manicured subdivisions.Treehopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05239613954856200217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-41970990999527968812009-11-03T17:30:00.003-06:002009-11-03T17:36:05.459-06:00Fall Festival at Temple Baptist Church in Ruston, LA<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHoVbv2ErF64YlPGdyd_cOSEckpoG6sAOsSOIQrgNLZTwW-SJiY-BKA-aUIB0fzVn_E-wbl_waInwoaoo_ZHWMrDFWcvFgxthTvgxKNx1IVDidVEnYVG7grRK7lDAmqUineXpirhxXPCM/s1600-h/Ruston+Halloween+2009.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHoVbv2ErF64YlPGdyd_cOSEckpoG6sAOsSOIQrgNLZTwW-SJiY-BKA-aUIB0fzVn_E-wbl_waInwoaoo_ZHWMrDFWcvFgxthTvgxKNx1IVDidVEnYVG7grRK7lDAmqUineXpirhxXPCM/s200/Ruston+Halloween+2009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400024801418571794" /></a><br /><br />Halloween, October 31, 2009<br /><br />This has to be THE worst group shot I've ever taken. It was completely out of focus, after all that flash-prep and carrying on my camera did, freaking them all out with strobe lights and what not. :(Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-77872665219920202712009-10-26T18:38:00.002-05:002009-10-26T19:15:21.462-05:00Absence Makes The Heart Grow FonderSame goes with being away from the balloon. :)<br /><br />The Great Mississippi River Balloon Race in Natchez this year was almost a complete blow. Not a wash, because water played a very small part in it. No, a blow, because fronts pushing cold northern temps kept pushing through, keeping the wind well up beyond safe flying and keeping us all grounded. Absence. Knowing the balloon was out there in the trailer ready to go, needing just a break in the wind speed. It was tough. But sometimes when you wait patiently and quietly (or in my case impatiently and grumbling a lot) you get rewarded. This last weekend all the variables fell into place and we managed three flights in two days. Not a record I don't believe, but it was certainly a nice deep drink from a cup that has been sadly empty here of late.<br /><br />Funnily enough one flight happened in Natchez. A lovely pair of ladies had met David at the festival and had arranged a flight for Sunday afternoon, after the festival had finished, but again the wind intervened, so Saturday found David and I driving back to Natchez. Alone this time, because the rest of the crew seemed to be elsewhere, on vacation or sick or otherwise disposed. Undaunted, and hoping that Corey, our Natchez-only crewman was feeling well enough to help after a bad bout with a sinus infection we pointed the truck eastward and made good time.<br /><br />A truly odd thing happened there--we found a nice quiet spot off the main highway, sent up a PI* ball and watched it head distinctly back towards the highway and Wal-Mart. Driving back to Wal-Mart to meet our passengers and Corey we watched a child accidentally lose her brightly-coloured PI ball, and to our great and pained astonishment it went exactly the OPPOSITE way as the first balloon, released not three miles away. A 180 degree shift in winds over a three mile distance: it promised to be an interesting flight.<br /><br />We weren't to be let down. A nice takeoff from very near the levee, a slow, graceful ascent, a chase lasting for all of perhaps ten or fifteen blocks at a very sedate pace and then suddenly Skybird and passengers became trapped. Sort of. The weather forecaster had said "light and variable winds" earlier in the day. "Light and variable" materialized as Skybird being effectively mired in a spot about two city blocks across. First she'd go one way for a few dozen yards, then reverse course and go back. Veer a little left, then veer a little right. This went on for quite some time, finally making me ask David if he'd decided to put up a mailbox and start housekeeping in that bit of sky.<br /><br />Fortunately a little breeze sprang up before dark and pushed them away from the tangle of electrical lines they'd been hovering over and we managed a successful landing in someone's side yard. It's not every day you get ready for supper and a little TV and find a hot air balloon parking in your grass.<br /><br />Sunday morning's flight was a repeat of the crew situation, <em>sans</em> Corey. David and I set up and launched our passengers, I chased. The flight was lovely and uneventful until landing. Not that it was bad landing, not at all. It was in a wide open field behind LSUA where we've been given gracious permission to land or take off. The problem arose when I approached the gate and found not a rusty bit of chain haphazardly looping it closed but a dirty and very sturdy looking Masterlock padlock on some new chain. Checking the other gate showed the same problem, and our recovery area was well behind that secure gate.<br /><br />Couldn't find campus security to save my life, which is quite the opposite problem from what we usually have. Found no-one in the Ag Center offices. I could barely find a living soul on the campus, and no-one to help. I finally lucked up and found a groundskeeper in the security building who didn't have the key but did know of the 'secret' entrance to the farms: a shallow ditch we could cross to give us access to the turn rows, a shallow ditch whose location I've already forgotten as I promised this kindly gent I would.<br /><br />A little careful driving along turnrows and such got us back to the passengers who had taken the opportunity to enjoy the gorgeous morning sunlight and cool temps, and a big breakfast at Leah's Pie Shop in Lecompte topped it off.<br /><br />That evening we had an extra special passenger. Monica, one of our crewmembers had asked for and arranged a ride for her father, Buddy. I found him to be a classic old Southern gentleman--strong but restrained, talkative, very gracious and friendly to a fault. We patiently waited for the wind to die while Monica and I fretted that we'd not get to lift, but again patience pays dividends. We inflated, got Mr. Buddy and Monica aboard and they were up and climbing into the sky. A family friend rode with me in the truck to help spot, and Monica's brother followed us close behind.<br /><br />I have to say it was an utterly beautiful evening for flying. Clouds filled the sky in long tatters, the setting sun painted everything rose and gold, and Skybird had a great flight into and then across a huge harvested field with superbly wide grassy turnrows, perfect for landing on. I was knocking on the door to the home I thought belonged to the landowners when the real landowner appeared, driving toward us from out of his field in his pickup. With a few very eloquent gestures he showed us where to enter the property and we got set up for a game of Catch. The balloon came in quick, we leaped on and got her stopped toot sweet, and Mr. Buddy almost hopped out of the basket with happiness.<br /><br />We get all sorts of passengers when we fly--some quiet and dour, some exuberant, many in between. Mr. Buddy? As far as I could tell we'd just made his month. He was so very happy, had deeply enjoyed the silence that comes of floating along in the sky, had loved seeing the manicured grounds of LSUA and the fields surrounding it pass by underneath his feet, and had even enjoyed the landing. Gracious to a fault he was, and when I told him that it was a real pleasure to have been helping his flight take place it was with full sincerity. Like David has told me a few times before--it's moments like that which make the whole thing worthwhile. The tough chases, the sore muscles, the abrasions and the mud up to your armpits all fade away and all you can remember is that you made someone's dad very deeply happy.<br /><br />There isn't a dollar figure for something like that, but if a strained muscle and some mud on my boots is on the price tag I'll happily pay it again.<br /><br />__________________________<br />* Pilot Information Balloon, a dark coloured 11" helium balloon released to gauge wind speed, direction and changes in direction as elevation changes. "PI ball" sounds ever so much more professional than saying "I'm going to send up a balloon."Treehopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05239613954856200217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-35078177024099406532009-10-21T19:32:00.000-05:002009-10-21T19:33:00.548-05:00Taking Off Is Always An Option. Landing Is Not.Student flights. I know, you guys just live for this stuff, right? Well, this one has a couple of twists.<br /><br />The Great Mississippi River Balloon Race in Natchez this last weekend was a wash. Or rather a blow, since the wind never wanted to drop below 15 knots or so. We managed one flight on Sunday morning, landed on a golf course and got the balloon soaking wet with dew. Monday afternoon my mentor emailed me around 2:30 and asked me if I wanted a student flight. The Sunday afternoon flight in Natchez got canceled and so the envelope was still pretty wet from Sunday morning. He needed to unpack and inflate it so that the heat of inflation would evaporate the dampness right off and giving me another student flight would kill two birds.<br /><br />So immediately after work the 'weekday crew' joined him and myself in Lecompte, we found a really nice old man who had a lovely big side yard and we set up. David handed me the striker after we'd cold packed with the fan, gave me some basics again as to inflation, showed me the signals he'd give me to start or stop burning and let me at it. I sparked the pilot light into life, stuck the striker in my back pocket, picked the left upright up enough to set it on my left knee like he does, he killed the fan and I burned.<br /><br />I actually managed to inflate it nicely up until the very last when a good big stiff wind came in and flattened her, and he took over since that's a VERY dangerous time, where the risk of burning the envelope is very high.<br /><br />Once the initial struggle of setup was over I clambered in, gave her a little head and we were up and going. He let me get to about 500 feet (I tend to stay HIGH!) and said "Okay, do a touch and go in that field there, and don't bounce it. Just ONE touch." He knows me too well, knowing that I'd much rather approach a landing tentatively, in ten or eleven small landings leading up to the final one. I didn't actually stick that one, either. Didn't quite get her fully on the ground that is. I'm always leery of coming down too fast, so I over-burn and don't ever quite make it down.<br /><br />Well, this went on a bit, he had me get low and do some contour flying in a flat field, then he had me fly up and contour along some trees. I was really genuinely getting the feel of it, which I didn't realise I'd lost so bad but I've not flown in three months. It was a really truly good feeling, very akin to the feeling I got when I realised I'd found the sweet spot between throttle, clutch and shifter on the bike, so that each shift was seamlessly smooth. I was really feeling how she was supposed to be flying, really FLYING her and not just riding along. That's when my glove brushed the toggle switch up on the burner handle area and turned the pilot light off.<br /><br />There I was, blissfully unaware, gliding over the treetops in silent splendor until I squeezed the handle to burn a short burst and all I got was a "pfffffffffffffft" sound and some white vapour where there should have been a six foot tall gout of blue flame.<br /><br />I panicked.<br /><br />He stayed as cool as an alligator in deep water, however, which comes of having more hours logged piloting aircraft than I've had hot meals. My one point of pride is that I got my striker out and up to the pilot light tubes just as fast as he did. Problem being, 1) my striker came open and I couldn't get it together again and 2) there was no gas there to LIGHT. He told me in that loud/calm Instructor Voice: "Just fly the aircraft, I'll get this." I didn't see what I could do, really. Without fire I couldn't rise, and venting would put us in the branches so I sort of stared forward and waited. Oh, and quietly panicked.<br /><br />He told me after I got home in an email that he'd learned twenty years ago to use Fire II (the extra boost/backup fire for emergency lift) as a pilot light in case the pilots would not light, but he'd never had to use it until just then. He twisted the Fire II valve open and suddenly we had a sputtering, blasting three foot tall flame of a pilot light. I squeezed the trigger and my heart returned with the sputtering roar of fire and heat and lift.<br /><br />Just in time, too. We'd cleared the treetops but were coming down fast into a clearing. We hit pretty hard and did some bounce-drag stuff for a while. I nearly got my arse tossed overboard for my troubles too. My center of gravity at 6' 2" is higher than his and he's better at bracing for impacts than I am, but I hung on to the uprights like a baby monkey clinging to his momma and rode it out, burning every time we got clear of the ground, remembering that he'd told me NEVER to burn, to actually take my hand off the trigger when bouncing on the ground to prevent accidents. Well, we finally got back up and I settled down as the gondola swung back and forth like a pendulum, slowly settling back into vertical.<br /><br />I was proud of myself--he told me that if we'd had a real emergency, rather than a self-inflicted one like I'd just done he'd have had me land with the Fire II in the field and be done with it, but since we knew what the problem was (he saw the toggle and flipped it back on just before we began bouncing) we'd go on. I was proud because I'd been about to ask him if we needed to land and stay put. Score a tiny one for the student. We flew on for a bit, me trying to generate enough spit to dampen the desert that was my mouth and in my nervousness I was climbing pretty high again, so he told me to vent, to get us low enough to cross the corner of a certain field using the prevailing wind down on the deck.<br /><br />Now this is the tricky bit. When Skybird got her new material added on the folks there sold him on a pulley system for the red line that controls the vent at top. It's akin to power steering on a race car, however: while it makes the job of pulling the top out it also robs you of a good bit of feeling. In my nervousness and so forth I'd vented already but I wasn't sure that the top had come out. It was so 'soft' feeling that I thought I'd not pulled hard enough so I pulled again, and again. Each time losing heat, and lift. WAY too much lift. We lost a whole lot of lift and went into what Jim likes to call "a screaming descent."<br /><br />I began burning when he realised I was trying to self-engineer another in-flight emergency for us and he started his insistent "Burnburnburnburn" order. We had time to recover but we were still descending awfully fast when we hit. Jarringly hard. Hard enough to unhook one of the three spring-loaded hooks that holds the burner in the frame. Hard enough that I felt it in my back teeth. Suddenly we were sitting flat on the ground and everywhere around me was blue, nothing but blue nylon settling around us in huge swaths almost to the ground.<br /><br />I had just enough time to hear David say "Hang on!" before she popped up again. FAST.<br /><br />And we started what I like to call a "BDS landing." BDS for "Bounce, Drag and Scream." We were dragged all across a rowed field, thumping and falling across each other, juddering and swinging and hitting again, up and down, back and forth. I was ready for this one tho, had my right arm looped around an upright and my left hand clenching another until I could get it free and we were off the ground long enough to burn, to inflate, to get us up off this forsaken violent rough ground!<br /><br />And finally we did get back up, and swung madly back and forth like a pendulum for way too long.<br /><br />But he took it like it was nothing at all, and I guess in a way it was. I mean, we were fine, just shaken up. No blood, no broken bones, and the aircraft was intact. I think I hit my hip on the aluminum lip of one of the cylinders, gave myself a nice goose egg, and my shoulder and upper arm are still sore as is my neck, but we were intact, and finally airborne again. Well, after that I was white knuckled and dry mouthed, but David was still as calm as milk. Astounding.<br /><br />He talked me through a mediocre landing right next to a parking lot, and Richard and Susie and Monica got us secured and it was all good. The campus security guy came up while we walked Skybird the twenty or so feet to pavement and we took her down, no problems. While Cap'n Miller talked to the Thick Blue Line I went ahead and took...command, I guess. I did what he would do if he were free: set to completing the process of securing the balloon. I made sure the top was pulled up to the center ring, walked back to the gondola, wrapped my arms around the Nomex part of the throat, called Monica to get behind me to help keep the weight of the material off me and started squeezing.<br /><br />I actually squeezed the whole thing out before David got to us, which I think made him a little proud; even as shaken as I was (and I WAS) I was still seeing to securing the aircraft. We talked a little bit then, he got a lot of good laughs out of the very curious crew, and I mostly stood there and smile sheepishly. We told them the condensed version of what had happened, and loaded the lot up.<br /><br />He told me there and again in the truck and again when I was back at the parking lot getting my log book filled out that I'd done good, really good on the contour flying, that he could tell I'd really gotten the feel for the burn/pause/maintain process that keeps us at level flight, and that it was GOOD that we'd endured both of those events together, so that now I'd be familiar with what can and does happen.<br /><br />He asked me several times if I was okay, and I assured him I was, that I was ready to go again if need be. I called Jim on the way home and told him the same thing, and he said the same thing also--that it was GOOD to get in trouble when you're training because those are the moments during which you really learn what to do. I've faced two serious problems now. Not common problems but problems that can and do crop up, and now I know how to alleviate both.<br /><br />As for me, two days later? I'm sore, no question about it, but I'm ready to go again. I feel like the first time I dropped my motorcycle--I'm anguished over it, but I know I can't stop just because of it.<br /><br />So. I know this--it's not dampened my enthusiasm at all. I'm ready to go again, would go right now if offered the chance. And like Jim said, I've not experienced all that can go wrong, not by any means, but I did get a good look at what can and does happen at times, and have learned a little of how to deal with it next time. David said the next morning that he was perfectly fine, that he'd learned "a long time ago" how to roll with those sorts of punches. I envy him that. But I'm glad I got my lumps, too. They'll help me remember. And one day I'll feel the same way--a BDS landing won't be anything worse than something to be endured, I'll know where to brace my feet and how to hang on so that I don't get brained by the burner.<br /><br />Now all I can do is imagine how I'd be in my own balloon. What it'd be like to be up there alone, standing underneath High Hope, for instance. More and more I think like that. I guess I'm thinking toward my solo flight, and beyond. What I'm going to have to do, how I'll have to do all of it, not just most of it. How I'll be fully reliant on me, on my ability to keep it aloft and flying level and steering with the wind and all that. Looking for and choosing my landing spot, everything.<br /><br />It's a terrifying feeling, but in a good way, like a mountain you want to climb, a mountain that you know can hurt you, could even kill you if you don't respect it, but if you can just get on top you'll never ever forget the view.Treehopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05239613954856200217noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8273815973456651359.post-63283832646703822782009-08-26T20:04:00.006-05:002009-08-26T20:18:15.093-05:00Crew Party!Just a quick word since the photos say a thousand words: Crew Party at Capt'n David's house. Most (but not nearly all) of the folks who crew were there, there was food and 'ritas and more food, and then there were photos and reminiscing and stories retold and shared, videos, and companionship in the company of excellent friends.<br /><br />It doesn't get any better than that.<br /><br />On with the photos*!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5T6vszrpFEYwuwhcG_gSHmRM5LmAAFnEp2dz56LMghoHR5Iuxi_cp-PXgJN-xupA0uEj6zWesM6GxQrJKv1g1hk-hJ8qW1hRyKF7xozOA8gTIzPOV-7vlyScgqfT8143-jpf4F4FchE/s1600-h/Crew+Party+August+2009.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW5T6vszrpFEYwuwhcG_gSHmRM5LmAAFnEp2dz56LMghoHR5Iuxi_cp-PXgJN-xupA0uEj6zWesM6GxQrJKv1g1hk-hJ8qW1hRyKF7xozOA8gTIzPOV-7vlyScgqfT8143-jpf4F4FchE/s320/Crew+Party+August+2009.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374443570729573314" /></a>Capt'n David laughing over an old photo of a much younger him. I guess they DID have cameras back then...<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSBQWsZiuw41HuJ8NxpAHIDEevX-gojSjFm4HYO0Omuj5h7fOirM2kGuGKIL4C6-3Q2qlVWexTEcXSB_bQGtLd2Qu7hb1wqBPi0Tt8IKCCueWov0Frs6xffx16URUD0579bHnoL5278M/s1600-h/Crew+Party+August+2009+(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMSBQWsZiuw41HuJ8NxpAHIDEevX-gojSjFm4HYO0Omuj5h7fOirM2kGuGKIL4C6-3Q2qlVWexTEcXSB_bQGtLd2Qu7hb1wqBPi0Tt8IKCCueWov0Frs6xffx16URUD0579bHnoL5278M/s320/Crew+Party+August+2009+(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374443640213198962" /></a>The first time I've ever seen Jim in anything but a baseball cap. Fancy!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rUiznGpwi6P05AdJEN9LmDIOmyIDyYbDFMAI8vLCjjCI5qGJJxM5cRwy5EeUY4J05rZs2GrAZe7J8RDyVCgoOXFeqMNlPRmHsRw_EQ4fxZsKgVKvgoLJaeLcMvihxJOuk1ohi1WlwzY/s1600-h/Crew+Party+August+2009+(2).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1rUiznGpwi6P05AdJEN9LmDIOmyIDyYbDFMAI8vLCjjCI5qGJJxM5cRwy5EeUY4J05rZs2GrAZe7J8RDyVCgoOXFeqMNlPRmHsRw_EQ4fxZsKgVKvgoLJaeLcMvihxJOuk1ohi1WlwzY/s320/Crew+Party+August+2009+(2).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374443715986475090" /></a>(l to r) Crew Momma Joy, Treehopper (Paul,) Mrs. Treehoppper (Jessica,) David, and Corey, who made the arduous journey all the way from Natchez to be with us.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSI7Gx8e2qdbKuK2XRGnqKz4jstt0DDoBpw9gfg377QOq7C-_g0a8pC3nPsbCkV4Xs3sJD60mi3Z-fQHXazQHgSASChLnyFB-CsAuO8BLdNDsEDZ5jwf7buG38ZA9qkfVEiH2LT36_tQA/s1600-h/Crew+Party+August+2009+(3).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSI7Gx8e2qdbKuK2XRGnqKz4jstt0DDoBpw9gfg377QOq7C-_g0a8pC3nPsbCkV4Xs3sJD60mi3Z-fQHXazQHgSASChLnyFB-CsAuO8BLdNDsEDZ5jwf7buG38ZA9qkfVEiH2LT36_tQA/s320/Crew+Party+August+2009+(3).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374443865024737986" /></a>Treehopper and Sky<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3J3ENau7KiD3d6XKPJn3ijjsRZxBsE1d_N47cChlTB-sLRNZ02dlX8RmmPhgSC5BP7341f85Z3YN6WGL5dM8GYU46qPeWC76luhAGknbbHYKE37iS3xN89vPp160FGL7p0w8b4n1xcI/s1600-h/crew+(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM3J3ENau7KiD3d6XKPJn3ijjsRZxBsE1d_N47cChlTB-sLRNZ02dlX8RmmPhgSC5BP7341f85Z3YN6WGL5dM8GYU46qPeWC76luhAGknbbHYKE37iS3xN89vPp160FGL7p0w8b4n1xcI/s320/crew+(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374445861481339810" /></a>(l to r) David's head, Corey, Susie, Jim, Richard, Tracy, Joy, Jessica<br /><br /><br />I just have to say right up front that Crew Momma Joy makes the BEST huckleberry pie. If I lived under that roof I'd blow up so fast you'd have to tie a ground control line to me to keep me out of the trees.<br /><br />____________________________<br />* All but the last of the photos courtesy of Tracy, since I didn't get any that were nearly as good as hers.Treehopperhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05239613954856200217noreply@blogger.com0