Well just 2 more days.

Well its just 2 more days before I head home from flying the bomb (B-24) after 2 months. I'll have some lasting memories from all it. Some good some not good at all.

The flight up the coast yesterday from Arcata (KACV) was beautiful. The wind when we left was whistling a gale but was down runway 31 for the takeoff. The sky was crystal clear and except for sea haze the visibility was almost unlimited. I only climbed up to 1,000 feet before setting up cruise power on the four PW 1830-65 engines. Hugging the shore line we proceeded north. Although we were heading for Medford, Oregon , going direct would mean climbing to some eight or nine thousand feet. Flying the coast up to Crescent City and than a pass to Grants Pass before turning to Medford , we would only need to climb up 4,500 feet.

We had a number of "riders" on board. These folks are usually sponsors, media, or local WW2 veterans and family member. There are "comp" riders, folks whom we give a ride in lieu of compensation for cars, hotel rooms and such. Sometimes we carry mechanics and sectaries of the FBOs (Fix Based Operators) at the airports where we stop. Anyway its usually a happy group. There was enough time to give each of them a few minutes at the controls of our lumbering beast. "This is cool!" "Fantastic!" "Wow!" "This is what I always dreamed of!" and "I can not believe I'm doing this!" are the not uncommon remarks I hear on the intercom. From the vets its a little different. Most of them are quite. They seem to stare off in the distance. I don't know if they are looking at the memories of the distant past or in some automatic mode of self preservation from that distant past of looking out for boogies. They don't say much but they do look across at me at times and smile. Than I know we're both on the same page. We both love the old girl of the B-24. Both for different reasons but still love her the same. As always they will often slip out a story or two of that distant past. "Shot down at 'such and such'". "The bombardier was a drunk but could hit anything you could see". And so on. They always remember the names of those killed with them and what happed to them in detail. Like it is an obligation and promise to do so. They are living memoriam themselves.

While going up the coast, I noticed the wind down on the surface was really kicking up. Big Pacific rollers would crest and break at their tops. The wind would than blow the white crests off the wave tops and a long and wide carpet of delicate white bubbles would be left behind the wave slopping down into the troth. According to my seafaring flight mechanic, that indicated a wind of "35 to 40 knots". And it looked cold. I was suddenly happy I had 4 trusted PW engine purring out on the wings.

The shore line is very rugged along here. As a matter of fact in some places there is no "shore" to speak of. Just solid rock coming out the ocean with endless breakers trying to tear it down. The locals call this area "The Lost Coast" I understand. And with the wind that was blowing, they "were looking for good fishing and whales to come in close to shore". But we see neither fish nor whales as we go.

At Crescent City we made a turn around the lighthouse stuck out on an impossibly small rock. We than put the mixtures controls to "Auto Rich" and the power up to 2300 rpm and 35" mp. Thus set we climbed up to 4,500 feet and turned up the Illinois valley toward Grants Pass. The world changed. From the crashing waves of the Pacific to the giant and majestic seclusion of the red woods. Here we passed Preston Peak on our right at 7,309 feet, in the Siskiyou wilderness area. Just south of Kirby Peak we crossed the 42nd degree latitude, that marks the California Oregon state line. At Grants Pass, we turned east over the Rough river and descended into Medford.

The mountains had done their job. Fore there was just a breath of wind down runway 32 at KMFD. Though the TSA bureaucracy would put a damper on the rest of the day, as I sit back and just think about the flight, better and wonderful thoughts come back of what I was allowed to witness. The joy of someone experiencing something for the first time. The joy of sharing memories from heroes. The joy of seeing God's good earth in its power and solitude. In my 54 years as an aviator, God has never disappointed me. I am nearing the end of my allotted time here (well maybe in another 10 or 15 years) but I when I choose to be a pilot so long ago, I had no idea, that in all the pursuits that flying allowed me, (wife, children, grandchildren) he would give me a profession that would also keep me young at heart and be able give something to other people as well. For that I am grateful.