I stood at my back window gazing out at the spectacular view of the Colorado Rocky Mountains. As I was enjoying the view of Bear Peak, a stony peak lit up by the early morning sun, I thought of how many times I had wanted to try and hike to the top of it someday. But now I have wings! I can fly to the top of it! Today is that day.
My flying buddy Joe agreed to meet me at a nearby field today at noon where we will begin our "assault" on the Peak. The sky was blue, the winds were calm, but the air was a chilly 38 degrees. We really bundled up knowing it will get a lot colder at 9,000 feet with a 30-mph wind blowing in our faces. Open cockpit flying is great, but it can certainly ice up one’s mustache.
After taking off we flew over a nearby reservoir, enjoying the sight of white cranes flying beneath us, contrasted against the dark blue water and ice. Just west of the lake Joe was joined by a pair of bald eagles. What an awesome sight!
Further into the countryside we flew west along the north edge of a large reservoir, waving back at all the hikers and their dogs.
Turning south, we flew along the west edge of the lake, which was mostly covered with ice. I couldn’t see Joe, so I asked him where he was. He said he was down on the ice. I looked down and found him doing a touch and go on the frozen surface of the lake. Flying his big red white and blue chute, he was cruising along the ice at 30 mph. A number of wide-eyed, slack-jawed ice fisherman watched him cruise by.
It was at this point that a life-long dream came true for me. I flew with the Canadian geese. There were many flocks of Canadian geese around the mostly frozen ponds, each flock consisting of around a hundred geese. There were literally thousands of geese below me. I descended a couple hundred feet and flew alongside them. There were Canadian geese below and all around me. It was fantastic! As I watched their powerful wings, their outstretched necks, and their shiny black eyes regarding me wondering, I’m sure, "Does he really belong with the flock, and who invited him anyway," my thoughts traveled back in time to a sunny autumn day, many years ago.
An early Sunday morning in October found me standing beside my dad’s bed, eager with the excitement and anticipation inherent in an eleven year old boy. "Dad! You wanna go goose huntin’ today?" My dad usually worked around 60 hours per week, and like the night before, often worked until midnight. The fact that it was 5 a.m. didn’t seem to bother him any. His face lit up with the usual bright smile as he replied, "You bet!" Grabbing our shotguns, thermoses full of coffee and hot chocolate, and the fixins’ for lunch, we jumped into the old 59 Chevy Station wagon and headed west, the sky behind us promising a good sunrise.
Heading towards the northwest corner of Colorado into the "Big Country," we enjoyed the sight of the early morning sun shining on the cedar-covered hills, gullies and canyons. Cresting a hill, we gazed down into the beautiful valley of the Little Snake River.
During the fall, thousands of Canadian geese would stop in this remote valley during their flight south. As I was growing up we came here every fall to hunt geese. Although we never actually brought one home to adorn the Thanksgiving Day table, we always enjoyed our time with them. I developed a high regard for the Canadian geese, their intelligence and their beauty, and the thrill of hearing their cries during take-off. We learned that when a flock was sitting on the ground or on the water, they always posted scouts in such a position that we could never sneak up on them without being seen either by the flock or by the scouts. We discovered that they like to rest and feed in fields that held nearby cows. If we got too close to them they would take off, yet stay only a couple of feet off the ground, flying below the backs of the cows for hundreds of yards so we wouldn’t be able to fire a shot. The Canadian goose became our favorite bird, and a symbol of the bond between a kid an d his dad. We often talked about how wonderful it would be to be able to fly with the geese.
And now, as I was realizing a long-lived dream, gazing at the many geese flying beside me with their wings glinting in the sunshine, I was wishing that my dad could have been in the back seat, Flying With The Geese. But you know, maybe he was. Just maybe he was.
Leaving the lakes and ponds and our fun, feathered fellow flyers behind, we headed west towards Bear Peak. We flew up and over Hogback Ridge, clearing the crests of the huge vertical red rocks. We had to climb to over 8,000 feet in order to clear the first foot hills of the Rockies. Not far now to Bear Peak. Climbing to around 9,000 feet we flew over Bear Peak to the other side of it then dropped down a couple hundred feet and circled the stone peak. The view of the Rocky Mountains was spectacular at that altitude. At the southwestern foot of Bear Peak, a couple thousand feet down, we could see Bear Creek and the South Platte River. Off in the near distance we could look down on Strontia Springs Reservoir.
Although the view was awesome, we were freezing our fannies off, evidenced by Joe’s radio transmission, "I need some hot chocolate!" Heading back east over the 8,000-foot "hills" we encountered some pretty rough turbulence. It still scares me to be up so high and to get jostled around like a leaf in the wind although it is actually safer being up that high. If the chute collapses due to severe wind turbulence, there is a lot of room for it to re-inflate on the way down. Even though mentally I know that it is safer up high like that, my fright meter is just not set correctly for altitude. Breaking through the turbulence was a relief, but it also left my arm and hand muscles sore from hanging on so tightly. It is hard to trust that safety belt enough to just forget about it. So I usually grip the bars that surround me and hang on tight enough to stay with the machine in case the safety belt malfunctions. Kind of like being on a roller coaster without the lap bar. But laughter and the joy of being alive always follow my screaming and shrieking.
The mountain flying was beautiful and exciting, but it felt good to descend down to a few feet above the plains. Joe was low on fuel and headed back towards our little landing field. My fuel level was good, so I flew around the ponds and lakes for a while, rejoining my friendly flying flocks of feathered fellow flyers. It would have been even more exciting to be able to hear their honking cries all around me, but all I ever hear is the muffled roar of the engine through my headset and helmet.
As I headed east towards my house to buzz May and the dogs, Joe circled around and re-joined me. We did a couple of fly-bys over the field behind my house, then headed back to the landing field a few miles away.
This time, I dropped down low over the edge of the semi frozen reservoir which borders the landing field, flying lower than ever before, once again thrilling at the sight of being surrounded by flocks of geese. Towards the edge of the lake I lifted up over the trees and power lines and descended onto the field where Joe had just landed and was packing up his chute.
An hour later found me cozy and warm by the fireplace in my house, ready to enjoy a cup of hot chocolate. Wait a minute…. Is that the sound of an airplane overhead? The skies are calling my name….