Okay, I cede the battle. Our ground squirrels and pack rats are smarter than the traps I set out for them. For now, they have the run of the property. For now, they scoff at me.
Vermin take note: I have not ceded the war.
Yesterday’s news today: our first 100-degree day; regular gas finally breaks the 3-dollar barrier. The first is an immutable fact of nature. The second is not, but our betters would have us think it is.
Everyone – from left to right – agrees that gas prices are manipulated by the oil companies. Everyone agrees that mankind is overfishing and depleting the oceans. Everyone agrees that we’re capable of destroying life as we know it with current stockpiles of nuclear weapons. Why, then, do so many resist the notion that we might be contributing to global warming? Hey, I don’t know. Can one of you clue me in?
In a previous entry I vowed to pedal my bicycle all the way up Freeman Hill. The hill is part of a short 10-mile training route, but it’s steep. Anyway, I did it. Twice. It wasn’t any easier the second time. Donna and I rode this morning but neither one of us felt like tackling the hill. We’ll go on a longer ride tomorrow morning to atone for today’s wimpage.
We’re flying to Missouri Thursday for a short visit with my dad. It’s going to be hot and humid (no, check that, extremely humid). Dad’s been having a rough time, but my sisters and step-sisters say company still cheers him up. I hope we can help in the cheer department, even if it’s just a little. We’re bringing an interesting book about pigeons we both enjoyed, and if he’s up for it we’ll read it to him.
Speading of reading to dad, my sister Charleen has been reading parts of my blog to him. Ever since she told me, naturally, I’ve had blogger’s block. Are my stories seemly; do they reflect credit upon the Woodford name; how many ways have I offended thee, et cetera. I have a novelist friend who rarely, if ever, writes about sex. Why? Because he has to live with his wife! When I sense that fatherly presence looking over my shoulder as I write, I know where my friend’s coming from.
But maybe dad will like this story:
At Kadena Air Base, in the early 1990s, I was number two of a four-ship air combat tactics mission. After two engagements, three and four called bingo (the preset fuel level at which you start your recovery) and flew home, so there were only two of us left. Lead and I had enough fuel to fly a couple of intercepts on each other, then we too hit bingo and started home.
The fighter wing at Kadena had a “Red Baron” program. The way this worked, certain F-15 pilots (you had to be a four-ship flight lead and fairly senior, as I recall), so long as they had extra fuel after completing training missions, were allowed to intercept other F-15 flights proceeding to or from the overwater working areas. The idea was to train pilots to keep a good visual lookout, to keep their heads on a swivel. If you managed to roll in behind a flight before anyone saw you, score one for the Red Baron. If they saw you in time to react defensively, good on them.
We knew a buddy of ours was flying Red Baron between our position and the island of Okinawa, so we started our recovery in tactical formation, line abreast with two miles of lateral spacing, an ideal formation for checking each other’s six. We contacted the Red Baron on a prearranged radio frequency to work out altitude blocks. We agreed to stay in the zeros to fours (20,000-24,000 feet, 30,000-34,000 feet, etc); he agreed to stay in the fives to nines (25,000-29,000, 35,000-39,000). This guaranteed a minimum 1,000 foot vertical separation so we wouldn’t have a midair with the guy in the event we closed without establishing visual contact.
We didn’t want to use our radars to find him, and we didn’t expect him to use his radar either. Since it’s somewhat easier to eyeball another airplane when you’re looking down on it, we climbed right up to our training ceiling of 50,000 feet – the bottom of a zero to four block, as agreed – and turned west toward Okinawa. About a minute later, while glancing north at lead, I saw something gray flash between us, heading east. It was the Red Baron, also level at 50,000 feet, no doubt looking down and trying to find us. In our block.
Talk about a close call. We were on opposite headings with a closing velocity somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,000 knots, exactly co-altitude, all three of us within a tiny patch of air two miles wide. If the pilot flying Red Baron had been a little to the south my wife – and his – would have been widows. If he’d been a little to the north I’d have been looking at a fireball and thinking Holy Shit!
As it was, all I could do was key the mike and say “Uh,” to which lead responded, “Say again?” Lead never saw the Red Baron. The Red Baron never saw us. If I hadn’t glanced at lead at precisely that second, I wouldn’t have seen a thing.
That’s why you don’t cheat on altitude blocks. Remember that next time you fly!