Bar Ten Airstrip - My plane trip back to Marble Canyon, AZ
July 2001
The faded, orange windsock looked like it always did. It was July and I was waiting on the small airstrip at the Bar Ten Ranch for the 90-minute plane trip back to Marble Canyon. Being a desert rat, I sat perfectly still atop my gear bag and waited for the breeze that never came.
I was heading back to civilization after a week long rafting trip down the Colorado. I had sat on this airstrip twice before following a 7-day trek and a glorious, 14-day what-day-is-this trek.
The large, pressurized and air-conditioned plane had left an hour ago. It'd be at the Marble Canyon airstrip by now. I had a seat on that bird, but gave it to someone else. The fine line between chivalry and stupidity was crossed an hour ago. The sweat pooling in my shorts proved it.
I was returning in a non-air conditioned sardine can with a student pilot, a certified pilot and three fellow river compatriots. As we boarded, the other passengers were concerned about which seat offered the better view. I made sure my window would open. The pilots gave me a knowing look and I smiled. We knew "it" was coming and I had the honor of a ringside seat.
As we waited for take-off, the four functioning windows (out of six) were wide open. This brought the combination of tarmac heat, aviation fuel and hydraulic fluids directly into the hot, sticky cabin interior where it swirled with the smells of river rot and fear.
I quickly played a short game of "what is that f***ing smell?" to desensitize myself. I came close, but I didn't see my lunch of bread, crackers and ketchup. That gob of spackle stayed where it belonged.
Two of the passengers had never flown in a small plane. They enjoyed the vistas from their carefully chosen seats for thirty minutes until "it" came for them. Within minutes, they stopped talking. This was not a good sign.
To compound their situation, they had closed their windows during the flight. It stopped the flow of engine smells, but it also stopped air from moving around them. In fear mode, their brains focused on the thing that now intensified their fear – gag-producing smells.
They suffered and slowly lost all color in their faces. I remember tasting my "safe small plane ride meal" a few times when I saw the guys swallow small yerks (upchucks). After those episodes I had to focus on the terrain below. Gee, that's an interesting tree. And, there's another one. Clever how they’re all together like that.
The guys made the trip worse for everyone else by breathing through their mouths. It was sweet and sickly. I knew the gods were coming close to ending civilization as I enjoyed it, so I glued my head against the open window and freely promised my soul to any and all divinities.
My green travel companions stayed intact even when we encountered some "slight" turbulence, causing the light plane to suddenly dip a few times. For the next twenty minutes of intermittent drops, I wondered when they would make the cabin look and smell like a coupla chickens exploded in a $hithouse.
Finally, we landed. As we prepared to leave the aircraft, I remembered the two things a man's gotta do on his own and with the least amount of fanfare. Taking a healthy dump was one of them. This was going to be the other one.
The two guys exited the plane, walked to the runway's edge, knelt down and spewed their stomach lining onto the hot desert rocks.
They had a nice rhythm going when we passed them. We didn't bother shaking their hands. They were kinda busy anyway.
The Grand Canyon Bar Ten Airstrip is located in Whitmore, Arizona, USA.
You'll get a chuckle when reading the "Additional Remarks" at the bottom of the airport's web page. It's true.
---
The faded, orange windsock looked like it always did. It was July and I was waiting on the small airstrip at the Bar Ten Ranch for the 90-minute plane trip back to Marble Canyon. Being a desert rat, I sat perfectly still atop my gear bag and waited for the breeze that never came.
I was heading back to civilization after a week long rafting trip down the Colorado. I had sat on this airstrip twice before following a 7-day trek and a glorious, 14-day what-day-is-this trek.
The large, pressurized and air-conditioned plane had left an hour ago. It'd be at the Marble Canyon airstrip by now. I had a seat on that bird, but gave it to someone else. The fine line between chivalry and stupidity was crossed an hour ago. The sweat pooling in my shorts proved it.
I was returning in a non-air conditioned sardine can with a student pilot, a certified pilot and three fellow river compatriots. As we boarded, the other passengers were concerned about which seat offered the better view. I made sure my window would open. The pilots gave me a knowing look and I smiled. We knew "it" was coming and I had the honor of a ringside seat.
As we waited for take-off, the four functioning windows (out of six) were wide open. This brought the combination of tarmac heat, aviation fuel and hydraulic fluids directly into the hot, sticky cabin interior where it swirled with the smells of river rot and fear.
I quickly played a short game of "what is that f***ing smell?" to desensitize myself. I came close, but I didn't see my lunch of bread, crackers and ketchup. That gob of spackle stayed where it belonged.
Two of the passengers had never flown in a small plane. They enjoyed the vistas from their carefully chosen seats for thirty minutes until "it" came for them. Within minutes, they stopped talking. This was not a good sign.
To compound their situation, they had closed their windows during the flight. It stopped the flow of engine smells, but it also stopped air from moving around them. In fear mode, their brains focused on the thing that now intensified their fear – gag-producing smells.
They suffered and slowly lost all color in their faces. I remember tasting my "safe small plane ride meal" a few times when I saw the guys swallow small yerks (upchucks). After those episodes I had to focus on the terrain below. Gee, that's an interesting tree. And, there's another one. Clever how they’re all together like that.
The guys made the trip worse for everyone else by breathing through their mouths. It was sweet and sickly. I knew the gods were coming close to ending civilization as I enjoyed it, so I glued my head against the open window and freely promised my soul to any and all divinities.
My green travel companions stayed intact even when we encountered some "slight" turbulence, causing the light plane to suddenly dip a few times. For the next twenty minutes of intermittent drops, I wondered when they would make the cabin look and smell like a coupla chickens exploded in a $hithouse.
Finally, we landed. As we prepared to leave the aircraft, I remembered the two things a man's gotta do on his own and with the least amount of fanfare. Taking a healthy dump was one of them. This was going to be the other one.
The two guys exited the plane, walked to the runway's edge, knelt down and spewed their stomach lining onto the hot desert rocks.
They had a nice rhythm going when we passed them. We didn't bother shaking their hands. They were kinda busy anyway.
The Grand Canyon Bar Ten Airstrip is located in Whitmore, Arizona, USA.
You'll get a chuckle when reading the "Additional Remarks" at the bottom of the airport's web page. It's true.
---
posted by Mike Chandler | 5:23 PM
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