"Art," I pointed out, attempting to sound casual while clutching the yoke like a wrestler in a death-grip bear hug, "if intergalactic travel is your plan, perhaps we should start by upgrading the life support systems in this flying laundry basket.”
We were already at a hideous 11,000 feet, and Art—my benevolent tormentor disguised as an instructor—had just decided we needed to climb to 13,000 feet. This was all part of his grand scheme to shepherd me through the maze-like process of earning my instrument rating. Meanwhile, my lifelong nemesis—fear of heights—had decided to join us for the ride, making itself right at home with a vengeance.
There we were, squeezed into the cockpit of a Piper PA-28, a single-engine airplane so compact that it made a tanning bed look spacious. Sharing that confined space felt like trying to fit two people into one anti-embolism stocking the diameter of a drinking straw. Between the headroom the size of a glove compartment and the shoulder clearance reminiscent of a straitjacket, I was sweating like a politician in a fact-checking session.
This, I thought, is what purgatory must feel like: teetering between heaven and earth, crammed into an airborne shoebox with a man whose calm demeanour only made me fantasise about a James Bond-style ejection button—one that would launch him into the void without so much as a courtesy parachute.
“This is for a good cause,” I muttered through gritted teeth, trying to summon courage from the pit of despair as I re-entered yet another fierce battle for survival.
But then, from the broom closet of my mind, a small red flag began to rise, flapping indignantly. A tiny, sarcastic voice piped up, dripping with skepticism:
“Ah, a good cause, you say?” the voice persisted, now practically dripping with contempt. “Is this the same good cause that landed you in the Yukon with chinless, chubby dentists hunting for their next trophy to slaughter? The one that culminated in a catastrophic mess so spectacular it made Godzilla's destructive stroll through New York City look like a leisurely Sunday picnic? That’s the cause we’re throwing ourselves behind now, is it?”
I opened my mouth to argue, but what could I say? I had no retort. Because, damn it, the flag had a point.
But wait—I’m getting ahead of myself. How exactly did I end up crammed into this flying coffin above the clouds, devastated, questioning every life choice that had brought me here? Let’s rewind the story to the job interview with the director at the USDA headquarters in Casper, Wyoming—a meeting that seemed harmless enough at the time, but in hindsight, was the starting pistol for my slow descent into this particular circle of hell.
Michael, I believe, was the name of the sturdy fellow stationed behind a desk that bore an uncanny resemblance to the crumbling cabin I’d once encountered in the Yukon. That cabin, commandeered by my untidy employer for business correspondence—and a range of less dignified purposes—had looked like the aftermath of a tornado nobody saw coming. Michael’s desk achieved the same aesthetic: papers stacked in precarious towers from left to right, a couple of half-eaten sandwiches lounging in their own decay, and wrappers of a nature so mysterious they seemed to defy any connection to edible food.
In one corner of the office, a box of canned meals loomed—a doomsday stockpile fit to outlast an apocalypse of biblical proportions. Later, I would discover that Michael, like my messy Yukon employer, was a Mormon. Naturally.
When he extended his pouchy hand for a greeting, I couldn’t help but mentally scroll through the timeline of my vaccinations, wondering if my last tetanus shot was still effective.
However, Michael’s friendly and welcoming demeanour slightly redeemed the situation. He promptly offered me a coffee—which, given the state of the surrounding hygiene, I politely declined. As I sat there, my initial impressions of the USDA's Casper headquarters gnawed at me.
Getting there had been an adventure in itself. My phone’s navigation system stubbornly refused to recognize the address, insisting it simply didn’t exist. Perhaps the USDA had taken a page out of the CIA’s playbook and cloaked its operations in secrecy. After what felt like an eternity of aimless driving, I finally stumbled upon what I assumed must be the place: an oversized shipping container—or possibly a gruesome stack of them—outfitted with small, grimy windows and a single service car tucked into a makeshift carport.
If the predator control unit was trying to hide from enraged animal rights activists, their efforts were clearly a resounding success. The whole setup screamed, "We definitely don’t belong here. Nothing to see, move along!" The only reason I didn’t immediately run for the hills was the comforting knowledge that the USDA planes were maintained by Nate—not the janitor presumably doubling as this building’s structural engineer.
Mike and I exchanged pleasantries and dove into the operations of the predator control unit—a topic I knew next to nothing about beyond the piloting of Super Cubs. He laid out the grim details of the job, which bore a passing resemblance to my former mission in Africa. Back then, I flew at tree-top level with a ranger in the rear seat, armed with a German G3 Heckler & Koch machine gun, hunting poachers.
The main difference? This time, the heavily armed passenger wouldn’t be targeting poachers but an array of unsuspecting wildlife instead—namely coyotes, who had the audacity to indulge in their natural predatory instincts and occasionally snack on sheep. This, as Mike gravely explained, was a cardinal sin in the eyes of ranchers whose primary grievance lay in the profit margins gnawed away by every missing lamb.
“Your bush flying experience in Africa makes you a perfect fit,” Mike declared, his tone dripping with conviction. “We need pilots who can handle extreme low-level flying under pressure, and you’re exactly what we’re looking for.”
I muttered something meekly about the slight logistical hiccup of not possessing a valid work visa. Mike waved it off with the breezy confidence of someone used to moving bureaucratic mountains. “Don’t worry, Marcel,” he said, leaning back with the certainty of a man who believes his government can do no wrong. “If the government wants something, it gets it! And believe me, the government wants you.”
There was something oddly reassuring in his tone, and, against my better judgment, I let his confidence soothe my gnawing doubts. Any moral concerns—along with the faintly fluttering red flag in the back of my mind—were quickly swept under the rug. After all, if Uncle Sam was rolling out the red carpet, who was I to question his motives? Besides, I reasoned, it’s not like I’d be taking orders from the CIA... probably.
We wrapped up our 30-minute meeting with Mike assuring me, in no uncertain terms, that he had considerable sway within the agency and would do whatever it took to get me onboard—effective immediately, if possible.
With our plans tentatively set, I left the disheveled headquarters feeling uncharacteristically optimistic. For one:
a. I’d dodged whatever microbial horror might have been lurking in that coffee cup, sparing myself a potential bout of Montezuma’s revenge, and
b. My odds of becoming an actual American citizen seemed to have inched ever so slightly closer to reality.
Buoyed by the prospect of a proper job—and my enduring ability to sidestep gastrointestinal catastrophe—I decided to celebrate in style. I pointed my truck toward town for some unapologetically serious Western gear shopping, visions of boots, hats, and denim swirling in my head.
But fate, as it so often does, had other plans.
A week later, word reached me that Director Mike was no longer in charge. Whether he’d been kicked to the curb or exiled to Nebraska—a fate far worse, if you ask me—was anyone’s guess. Regardless, my pathway to citizenship had just hit a Wyoming-sized pothole.
Wayne’s Boot Shop
True to my established coping mechanism—upon hearing of Michael’s unceremonious ejection from the USDA stage—I sought solace at the one place that could reliably deliver salvation and nourishment to my tortured soul: Wayne’s Boot Shop in Cody, Wyoming.
Now, there are countless western gear establishments dotting the cowboy-swarming corners of America, but none compare to the family-owned charm of Wayne’s. And there’s a good reason for that: Kevin.
Kevin, the owner—affectionately and self-proclaimedly known as “Kevin the Awesome”—is one of the most unintentionally hilarious characters I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. Not because he’s inherently funny, mind you, but because he tries so hard to be. It’s the kind of earnest effort that turns his company into a comedic treasure trove.
A stalwart adherent to conservative values, Kevin, like myself, may be a little too rooted in the glorified “good ol’ days.” You know, when cars were faster, girls were prettier, and the Marlboro Man confidently assured us that smoking was the secret to a healthy lifestyle.
Due to Kevin’s lifetime of experience selling boots and wrangling international customers—especially the relentless flood of Europeans—he had managed to cobble together an impressively limited vocabulary of their languages. Take German, for example. Despite being exposed to thousands of German tourists over the years, Kevin had somehow distilled his grasp of the language down to just three words: Cowboy Stiefel—which, shockingly, translates to "cowboy boots"—and Guten Tag, a polite "good day."
And like clockwork, every single time I walked into his shop, Kevin would greet me with the same absurdly predictable question:
“Hey Marcel, what’s ‘cowboy boots’ called in German?”
It didn’t matter that he already knew the answer. It didn’t matter that he had asked me this question so many times I was convinced it was a personal ritual. He’d ask it with the same sincerity, as though the linguistic revelation might suddenly change overnight.
“Cowboy boots,” I’d deadpan, “are called Cowboy Stiefel, Kevin. Just like they were yesterday. And last week. And every other time you asked me.”
Kevin would grin triumphantly, as if his mastery of international diplomacy had just been reaffirmed, and declare, “See? I told you I speak German!”
Kevin also had a well-worn tale he loved to dust off and share with anyone within earshot—one that conveniently showcased his unparalleled prowess in both customer service and bodybuilding. According to him, sometime in the early 2000s, none other than Arnold Schwarzenegger had walked into Wayne’s Boot Shop looking for boots.
Now, while this may sound impressive, the story’s real highlight wasn’t the former Governator’s visit, but Kevin’s gallant attempt to impress him. As he recounted with great flourish, he had rolled up his sleeves, flexed his considerable (read: microscopic) biceps, and awaited a reaction from Arnold.
Here’s the thing, though: Kevin’s ego, while towering and imperial, was inversely proportional to his actual stature. Standing somewhere in the Tom Cruise range of height—actually, Tom was a giant compared to Kevin, who was a far cry from Arnold’s imposing 6'2"—Kevin’s “raw muscle” display was likely about as intimidating as a Chihuahua growling at a Rottweiler.
I can only imagine Arnold’s reaction. Perhaps he gave Kevin one of his trademark grins, nodded politely, and silently wondered why this pint-sized cowboy was reenacting a scene from Pumping Iron. Or maybe he just wanted to find his boots and escape the bizarre flex-off. Either way, Kevin swore he’d left a lasting impression, though I suspected the only thing Arnold remembered was the price tag on his new boots.
Wayne’s Boot Shop clearly wasn’t just a store; it was a slice of Wyoming nostalgia wrapped in leather, denim, and unapologetic sentimentality.
Kevin wasn’t exactly a fountain of wisdom when it came to practical advice—no sage counsel on how to resurrect my crumbling dreams of becoming a predator pilot or how to navigate the endless bureaucratic nightmare of immigration. What I did get was his standard-issue motto, repeated with the conviction of a man who believed it could cure anything: “Don’t trust the government!”
And yet, Kevin’s value wasn’t in offering solutions to life’s tangled messes. His comfort was more spiritual, rooted in his ability to make me laugh and momentarily forget the relentless uphill battle I was fighting—just to gain something he was born with: American citizenship.
It’s always the same, isn’t it? The things one person takes for granted are the very things another prays for. But Kevin didn’t wallow in life’s unfairness, and under his roof, neither could I. He turned irony into a joke, despair into a smirk, and for a while, that was more than enough.
Every empire eventually falls, and every emperor must step down, relinquishing power to a new generation better equipped to tackle the demands of a changing world. In the case of "Kevin the Awesome," his transition was a fortunate one. His son-in-law, Eric, and Eric’s equally lovely wife stepped up to take the reins of Wayne’s Boot Shop in January 2023.
They wasted no time breathing fresh life into the establishment, ushering in necessary changes and sweeping away the nostalgic cobwebs that had inevitably gathered over decades of operation. It was a bold move, one that combined respect for tradition with a keen eye for modern innovation.
From the bottom of my heart, I wish them nothing but success. May they preserve the spirit of Wayne’s while steering it toward an even brighter future. After all, if anyone can balance the legacy of Kevin’s eccentric empire with the demands of today’s world, it’s them.
Back at the Thermopolis County Airport, I was savouring the days like a fine wine—or perhaps more aptly, a well-aged whiskey—learning the ins and outs of aircraft maintenance, riding tractors, and filling up planes. It was an oddly satisfying routine, punctuated by encounters with the particularly eccentric characters that seem to gravitate toward the aviation world. You see, most pilots are oddballs. And while I count myself among their ranks, I’ve always preferred to keep a healthy distance from the species at large.
Now, I’ll be the first to admit that, by "normal" standards, I might be considered a bit unusual myself. But, unlike roughly 90% of aviators, I don’t fancy myself some divine gift to humanity, bestowed with celestial navigation skills and the mandate to remind everyone else of their inferiority. Let’s be honest—flying a plane is nothing special. I say this with the authority of experience.
The tests to become a pilot? They’re not quantum physics. You don’t need to be smart, good-looking, or articulate. Hell, you don’t even need to know how to walk in a straight line without bumping into things. The only true requirement, the single indispensable quality you need to pilot an aircraft without ultimately turning it into a fiery lawn ornament, is this: an utter inability to panic.
That’s it. That’s the secret sauce. And, ironically, it’s the one trait many aviators—those who strut around the tarmac with all the humility of a self-proclaimed demigod—are tragically, fatally missing. Their overconfidence is what gets them into trouble. It’s why they end up landing gear-up, plowing through a cornfield, or crashing unceremoniously into a peaceful pasture of grazing cows. Or, for the truly unlucky, a compost heap. Few things are worse than going down in history as the pilot who met their end in the most undignified pile of organic waste imaginable.
However, the best part about the airport had absolutely nothing to do with aviation. By late spring, I’d traded the charming yet claustrophobic Santa Claus house of our friends in Thermopolis for the rugged freedom of my camping bed in the back of the Range Rover. The airport’s garden hose—typically used to wash down planes after maintenance—doubled as my open-air shower once everyone had cleared out for the day. This arrangement was nearly perfect, marred only by Nate’s infuriating habit of showing up at the crack of dawn (sometimes even earlier) and interrupting my blissful airport solitude. Still, I couldn’t help but romanticise the whole setup—it felt like my own personal Top Gun: Maverick moment.
Tucked behind the hangars, I revelled in the open-air simplicity of cowboy roll living, sleeping under a canopy of stars. The nights were as silent as an undiscovered pharaoh’s tomb, save for the occasional hum of distant wildlife. Only once was my peace broken—an emergency flight arrived late at night, delivering the unfortunate remnants of a horrific traffic accident.
Of course, this idyllic existence wasn’t without its challenges. Unbeknownst to me, one seemingly tranquil spot I’d chosen for a good night’s sleep turned out to be ground zero for an invasion of overly ambitious mice. Apparently, my Range Rover had been shortlisted as their next dream habitat.
Among the predator control pilots was another character—besides stoic Scott and the babbling one I’d first encountered—whose name eludes me. What I do remember is that he was a rather chatty fellow, prone to spinning tales and making promises. He provided the next crucial step in my descent into chaos by announcing that he was best buddies with the Capo di Tutti Capi—the Boss of Bosses—the director of the entire predator control program. This was no ordinary man, he claimed, but someone wielding power so immense it made Thor’s hammer seem like a toddler’s rattle. Whatever obstacle the immigration office might hurl my way, this almighty director could supposedly clear it with a flick of his godlike hand.
Pilot Number Three, as I dubbed him, assured me that he would personally put in a good word for me and facilitate an introduction. He promised this with all the conviction of a politician before an election—abundant words, zero follow-through. Naturally, he did none of these things. What he did do, however, was hand me the Boss’s email address, leaving me to fend for myself.
So, with my typical mix of unwavering determination and contagious optimism, I reached out to this supposed demigod of the USDA. To my surprise, I received a prompt and cordial reply from someone named Thomas, who had an Irish-sounding last name. Despite never having heard of me—thanks to the nonexistent recommendation—he seemed approachable, almost friendly. Little did I know, I was about to meet this legendary figure much sooner than I expected.
In early September 2022, Nicole and I headed to the headquarters in Cedar City, Utah, to meet Thomas. As with Michael before him, the agenda was a blend of an interview and a casual get-to-know-you session. Thomas also planned to provide an overview of their aerial operations, training facilities, and other logistics.
The headquarters was worlds apart from the makeshift container setup in Casper, and Thomas himself was the polar opposite of the ousted Director Michael. Ex-military through and through, Thomas exuded a disciplined and no-nonsense demeanour. His office was immaculate, reflecting his orderly nature and a life spent commanding respect.
We hit it off right away, bonding over tales of ancient military history—his from the army and mine from what felt like a navy stint that predated World War I by comparison. Thomas had only left the army a few years earlier, making my naval adventures seem like they belonged in a sepia-toned museum exhibit.
I handed Thomas my résumé—my very first one, though he had no idea. Up until this point, I'd never needed to draft one. Thomas seemed impressed, particularly by my extensive flying experience in Africa and the Yukon, both on land and water. He confirmed—yet again—that I was an ideal fit for the team. Frankly, if I had a dollar for every time someone told me I was the perfect match, I could have retired without ever lifting a finger again.
Thomas laid out the available job postings: Oregon, California, Nevada, Wyoming, and—hallelujah—the Mormon State, Utah! When I asked why there seemed to be no pilots in Oregon or California, despite their vast populations, Thomas gave a knowing look and hinted at a few "issues" and mild "animosities" toward the program. Apparently, not everyone in those liberal strongholds was on board with the idea of thinning predator populations via airborne heavy artillery.
Animal activists, it seemed, had declared war. There had been occasional acts of sabotage, with shots fired at the planes to disrupt operations—and perhaps to dissuade pilots from signing up in the first place. This is why the hangars housing the unit’s Super Cubs were treated with the utmost security, as though they were guarding the nation's deepest secrets. The measures in place to prevent unwanted visitors from sneaking in at night—whether to set the planes ablaze or even kidnap the unsuspecting, hapless pilot—were treated as matters of national security, rivalling the safeguarding of Fort Knox itself. I knew the drill from my time in Africa. It was the same old pattern: "I don’t like what you’re doing, so I’ll do everything in my power to hasten the timely demise of your planes.”
So, nothing new to see here for me. Personally, I could almost sympathise with the radical activists' point of view—if only their pathetic attempts at sabotage weren’t so laughably shortsighted. The only tangible outcome of torching government planes is to pad the order books of the aircraft manufacturers. The government, after all, has an endless fountain of funds courtesy of compliant taxpayers, ready to be funnelled into even the most ludicrous of projects.
Honestly, wouldn’t it have been cheaper and far less dramatic to relocate the nation’s sheep population to a predator-free purgatory? Somewhere so dull and uninhabited that not even a coyote would bother showing up. Nebraska, perhaps, ticks all the boxes. Or North Dakota—because let’s face it, even the predators know better than to hang around there.
Anyway, the whole conversation with Tom was all fun and games until we hit the one absolutely useless requirement for the job—apart from that minor inconvenience of needing a work permit—that I’d been dreading the most: an IFR (Instrument Flight Rules) rating.
Let me break it down for the uninitiated: an IFR rating is a fancy endorsement that certifies a pilot to plunge headfirst into a cloud, armed only with their instruments and a strong stomach. It’s essentially proof that you can keep your cool and not immediately bail out with a parachute, leaving your passengers to ponder their poor life choices. Makes perfect sense if you’re flying a FedEx or UPS plane, rescuing someone in a storm, or parading your four golden stripes to impress high schoolers or wistful housewives at major airports.
Where this requirement doesn’t make an ounce of sense, however, is when your job involves flying low enough to spot individual coyotes and shoot at them. Predators, as far as I’m aware, don’t host their strategy meetings in cumulonimbus clouds. This entire stipulation is about as useful as an accordion during a Navy SEAL mission—entertaining, maybe, but utterly pointless.
IFR is all about strict adherence to rules, regulations, and an endless barrage of mind-numbing procedures while soaring somewhere near the stratosphere—essentially en route to the moon. This, of course, is in sharp contrast to my preferred flight zone: a cozy 5 to 500 feet above ground, where life is simple, and my nose doesn’t bleed from sheer altitude-induced existential distress.
I like to keep things simple.
My pre-flight preparation routine, for instance, is, shall we say, refreshingly minimalist. The weather report? Conducted by peering out the window to see if the ducks and geese are flying, waddling, or huddled at the bus stop waiting for public transportation. A quick walk around the plane to confirm that both wings and the rudder are still firmly attached completes my "extensive" checklist. As for radio calls, they’re more of a casual suggestion than a formal necessity—usually something like, “Super Cub, 100 feet, almost there,” mumbled just loudly enough to qualify as communication but not so clearly as to invite a conversation.
Tom admitted that he totally agreed with my points but rules were rules, no matter how desperately the USDA was on the look out for qualified pilots. A waiver might be possible in my case—in light of my experience—but highly unlikely, even though at present, the Agency had far more planes than pilots.
However, we parted with the usual hollow promise of staying in touch—eerily reminiscent of my farewell with Michael, whose vacated position had been temporarily filled by Montana’s director. Naturally, as I drove away, my optimism about landing the job was circling the drain. By now, a second red flag—the IFR requirement—had quietly hoisted itself alongside the first: the moral quandary of orchestrating the senseless slaughter of unsuspecting coyotes, whose cardinal sin was irritating sheep herders.
Still, ever the optimist—or perhaps just selectively deaf to my conscience—I chose to ignore those nagging whispers for now. After all, a dream is a dream, even if it’s wrapped in layers of bureaucratic nonsense and moral ambiguity.
How I ended up crammed next to Art, the IFR instructor, in that claustrophobic tin can of a cockpit, soaring uncomfortably high above the clouds, is a tale for the next part of this story.
For now, let’s just say:
Marcel Romdane, taking the parachute.
Wayne's Boot Shop, Cody, Wyoming No Coyotes up here, what am I doing here? Art's little trainer. almost as beautiful as a Super Cub, almost.
Kommentar hinzufügen
Kommentare