Standing in the aviation museum and staring at this exhibit—otherwise known as my next mode of training transportation—I started to seriously worry that I was going to die. Fast-forward thirty minutes, now airborne, and my worry shifted to the far more terrifying realisation: I might not.
The aircraft in question was an ancient Piper PA28, a relic so decrepit it probably rolled off the assembly line when Wyoming was still part of the supercontinent Pangea, eons before it ever became part of America. I wouldn’t have been surprised if this flying fossil had once shared a runway with dinosaurs—perhaps the Diplodocus leading the pack—and somehow emerged as one of the sole survivors of the comet that nearly wiped out God’s creation in one fell swoop, leaving only the mammals and this contraption to withstand the hellish blast. As I buckled myself into the cracked and slightly sticky seat—made from a material that clearly predated any FAA-approved safety standards—I couldn't help but wonder if the plane had been serviced at any point in the last few millennia. The dashboard was an apocalyptic wasteland of faded dials, peeling labels, and suspiciously loose screws. A quick glance told me the instruments probably hadn’t been calibrated since the Bronze Age.
When the engine finally coughed to life, I instinctively clutched the seatbelt tighter. It was less of a reassuring hum and more of a death rattle. If the PA28 had a soul, it was begging for retirement—or euthanasia. Instead, here we were, defying gravity through what I could only assume was sheer force of denial.
The first few minutes in the air were uneventful if you didn’t count the unsettling vibrations that made the entire plane feel like it was held together by wallpaper glue and cardboard. The horizon tilted slightly as we climbed, the Piper wheezing like an asthmatic, chain smoking centenarian at every adjustment of the throttle.
By the time we levelled off, my mind had gone to a dark, sarcastic place. If this plane went down—and trust me, the odds were solid—it wouldn’t even make a dramatic headline. “"Aviation Relic Defies Fate One Last Time Before Finally Meeting Its Maker" was about as sensational as a headline could get.
So, what led me to climb into a flying contraption with the crash protection of cheeseburger wrapping? A laundry list of reasons, of course, topped by my chronic lack of foresight and a thin grasp on the consequences of my poor decisions.
To be fair, the plane was in far better condition—thanks to my friend Nate’s relentless maintenance efforts—than its decrepit exterior suggested. If it hadn’t been for his steadfast credo, “No shit leaves the shop!” I wouldn’t have gone within 500 yards of that substantial turd.
Second, the Piper PA28 is a low-wing aircraft, which, mercifully, blocks the downward view. Given my unease with heights, it’s the only kind of flying machine I can tolerate at altitudes exceeding 500 feet without fainting or otherwise disgracing myself.
Third, in order to secure the dream job of predator control pilot, the IFR course was a non-negotiable hoop to jump through—regardless of how little sense it made for the job description.
And finally, let’s not forget the cherry on top: I’d be allowed to legally stroll around with a gun holstered to my belt, fulfilling some latent childhood fantasy of being the airborne sheriff of the skies.
So, what happened after I left Tom’s head of aviation office in Cedar City, clutching his lukewarm promise that we’d “stay in touch and see what the future holds”? Well, not much—until a few weeks later, when my phone rang.
It was Tom, his voice practically buzzing with enthusiasm.
“Marcel, I’ve got great news for you! I believe I can get you into our program. Soon. Very soon. Like... tomorrow.”
I wasn’t biting just yet.
“So, you’re telling me that on top of the other job openings in your program, another one has just miraculously materialised out of thin air. What’s the catch?”
Tom chuckled, his dismissive tone practically dripping through the receiver.
“Don’t be silly, Marcel! No catch—we need you!”
And then came the sucker punch.
“Oh, by the way... how far along are you with your IFR training?”
I sighed, the weight of inevitability pressing down like a toilet bowl stuffed in a backpack.
“Great, actually,” I replied, deadpan. “Couldn’t be any better—because I haven’t even started yet. Why on earth would I throw my meagre life savings into that black hole of bureaucracy and pointless procedures when you can’t even guarantee me a work permit?”
Tom was unfazed, armed with his silver-tongued optimism.
“Don’t worry about that, Marcel. That’s just a technicality now. I’ll contact immigration, and we’ll work something out for you. After all, there’s got to be something better for you than picking plums on some California orchard or scrubbing toilets at an Indian-owned motel.”
I couldn’t help but agree. I, too, believed that my destiny could not possibly revolve around an eternal purgatory of scrubbing toilets just to cling to life in the States. However, I wasn’t entirely convinced. The looming expense of the utterly useless instrument training—without so much as a guarantee of a job—was more than slightly worrying. Tom, ever the charmer, assured me that he’d back me all the way and urged me to trust him.
I desperately rummaged through the dusty inventory of my brain, hoping to unearth something even remotely reassuring about Tom’s insistence that I should trust him. All I could find, however, was a well-stocked shelf of past experiences labeled pain, endless mental agony, and vast financial losses.
Each memory felt like a slap across the face, a grim reminder that trusting promises—especially those wrapped in government bureaucracy—had never worked out in my favour. If anything, Tom’s assurances were starting to feel less like a lifeline and more like the opening act of yet another fiasco.
The whole thing painfully reminded me of that infamous saying: “Follow me, I’m right behind you!” Only in this case, “right behind me” was also the Utah Attorney General’s office, apparently tasked with solving my visa problem. What could possibly go wrong with those guys on the case?
Oh, I don’t know—maybe everything?
The fact that the very people—overzealous mormons— now holding the keys to my success were the same ones who had transformed my Yukon adventure in 2018 and my Wyoming ranch stint in 2019 into soul-sucking nightmares should have sounded an orchestra of alarm bells in my head.
Add to that the countless warnings I’d received from anyone with half a brain: “Don’t trust the government or the bureaucrats”—or religious fanatics while you’re at it—and you’d think I’d have had the sense to demand some sort of written guarantee. A contract, a signed statement, anything to keep me from being left dangling like yesterday’s laundry in a Wyoming windstorm.
But no, here I was again, barreling toward disaster like a moth to a bureaucratic flame.
I hung up the phone, my mind racing. What would a reasonable adult do when faced with yet another of life’s twisted little conundrums? Sleep on it, maybe? Sure, I could give that a try, but let’s be honest: all that would accomplish is a solid eight hours of unconsciousness, followed by waking up to the exact same problem—and possibly a neck cramp.
So, I did the logical thing: I asked my wife. She knows me best, after all. By now, she’s been dragged through more catastrophes and harebrained schemes than she ever signed up for. Naturally, her advice was as concise as it was predictable: “Follow your heart. You’ll end up doing that anyway.” Fair enough. At least she’s honest.
Next up was Mrs. Claus—Karen—the benevolent owner of Santa’s House, who had recently insisted I move back into her home due to the trifecta of freezing temperatures, a brewing snowstorm, and the Rover’s heater stubbornly giving thermodynamics the middle finger. I’d initially refused, of course. Pride, you know. But faced with the grim alternative of hypothermia-induced death, I eventually caved. When I asked her about the IFR training, her advice wasn’t exactly groundbreaking. Aviation oddities like this were, understandably, outside her wheelhouse. Still, true to her golden heart, she assured me I could stay as long as I needed to complete the training—or even longer, if necessary.
Her kindness triggered a vivid déjà vu of Lolita, my best friend back in Los Angeles, who had similarly bailed me out countless times. After one particularly spectacular disaster, I’d even ended up pitching a tent in her backyard when things were especially dire. But that’s a story for another day.
Finally, there was Nate. Nate, bless him, exists on a completely different wavelength. Adventures, chaos, or anything deviating from the so-called “norms” are utterly foreign to him. This isn’t meant to be demeaning—it’s just the reality of trying to bridge the vast expanse between his stable world and my parallel universe of chaos. Predictably, his advice was inconclusive, except for one comment he made—almost offhandedly—that, in hindsight, I really should have taken to heart.
“Apart from the IFR rating, which I’m sure you’ll ace,” he said, “have you ever thought about the nature of this predator control flying job? No offence, but isn’t your history more about protecting species than mowing them down from above with heavy artillery?”
He wasn’t wrong, of course. But in my typical impatience and excitement, I brushed his words decisively aside, impervious to suggestions, like an inconvenient mosquito—without a moment of reflection.
And just like that, I began sleepwalking straight into a major disaster, blissfully unaware of the carnage waiting just around the corner.
Naturally, I decided to give it a go. What could possibly go wrong? But first, I was confronted with an array of problems to solve.
First and foremost, I informed Nate that I needed a flight school that trained on a low-wing aircraft. My reasoning? My debilitating aversion to climbing to any meaningful altitude, of course. If I were to endure this airborne torment, it would have to be in a plane with wings strategically positioned to block the view of the terrifying abyss below. Nate gave me a look—an expression typically reserved for my most idiotic and barely coherent ideas—and said nothing for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, he pointed out that there were plenty of instructors in the area, along with a fleet of perfectly serviceable Cessna 172s (high-wing, naturally) available for training. That would’ve been too easy. I wasn’t interested in easy. No, for my taste in adventures, it had to be unnecessarily complicated.
Second, the plane’s dashboard had to be old-school—seriously old-school. Anything more modern than basic round gauges, preferably salvaged from a time just after the Wright brothers’ first flight, would be a dealbreaker. Those flashy, glass cockpit displays with their sleek, cutting-edge design and vibrant colours? They had the uncanny ability to reduce my attention span to that of a goldfish binge-watching Jeopardy. Claiming I was “old school” would be generous; it was more like some inexplicable character flaw had frozen my personal evolution around 1970, give or take a few decades.
Third, I’d need an instructor who—given my complete lack of social graces—I could tolerate for the countless hours we were about to spend crammed together in that flying glove compartment. Ideally, someone I wouldn’t feel compelled to kick out of the cockpit mid-flight, sans parachute, just to preserve my sanity. The candidate would also need to possess an anti-smart-ass gene because, let’s face it, that’s my department.
If no such mythical creature existed, perhaps we could cobble one together by raiding the genetic pool of Pamela Anderson, the Red Baron, and Kermit the Frog? A little charm, a touch of flying genius, and just enough laid-back absurdity to survive my personality—what could possibly go wrong with that brew?
The plane problem resolved itself faster than expected. Nate informed me that, within the hour, a plane would arrive for servicing from a neighbouring flying club based in Worland, a quaint little village about 40 miles away. The pilot delivering it, conveniently, happened to be a young instructor. I could talk to him on the spot and assess if I could tolerate his presence without the overwhelming urge to commit a felony mid-flight.
"Wait," I said, raising an eyebrow, "isn’t that the same club that sent over the green-and-white PA28 last week? You know, the one you threatened to set on fire and vowed never to accept another plane from? That club? I shudder to imagine what other Frankenstein’s monsters they’ve got lurking in their hangars."
“Relax, Marcel," Nate replied, his tone annoyingly dismissive. "Yes, it’s the same club, but today’s plane is better. A little better. And it’s white and red. That has to count for something, right?”
I couldn’t decide if he was being serious or just flexing his notoriously dark sense of humour—a trait that often left me staring at him in stony silence, questioning both his wit and my tolerance.
With Nate, the punchline was usually some sort of elaborate prank. So, I braced myself for the worst. I envisioned an airborne calamity—a flying contraption that would lumber through the Wyoming skies like a stoned, pregnant hippo. But I wasn’t prepared for what actually arrived.
It screeched onto the runway like the ancient wheel of a Roman carriage dragged from the depths of a cursed tomb. Waddling down the tarmac like a drunk duck with arthritis, it appeared to defy not just aerodynamics but the very laws of nature. This contraption made “project” sound like an overly generous compliment. Clearly, it seemed to have been designed by someone who had never laid eyes on an actual plane before. It wasn’t merely old—it was downright prehistoric. Noah's ark was cutting-edge tech by comparison. A future spent scrubbing motel toilets—with nothing but a toothbrush—suddenly seemed like a dazzling prospect compared to the prospect of flying in this airborne disaster.
The friendly flapjack—aka the instructor—piloting this nostalgic relic of aviation was dismissed as an option immediately. A nice kid, sure, but one who had just embarked on his flying career by taking the obvious first step: becoming an instructor to rack up hours before queuing for a "real" job. His next rung on the ladder wasn’t much higher—charter pilot—a rung that felt all too familiar as I faced my own version of professional purgatory.
The reminder hit like a gut punch: I’d soon have to scrape together every scrap of my flying history—notes, hour sheets, operation logs—dating back to 2015. Naturally, these were all haphazardly scattered across my aviation bag like a confetti bomb of chaos, with no discernible system or filing concept. After all, who could have predicted I’d need to produce these relics of my flying past for anyone ever again?
Having somehow juggled four different commercial pilot licenses in four different countries, I’d assumed my days of adding to my résumé were over. So, I’d approached record-keeping with all the urgency of a drug dealer meticulously filing his tax returns—barely a passing thought and certainly not meant for anyone’s scrutiny.
Now, of course, that laziness was coming back to haunt me.
As usual in my life, solutions tended to reveal themselves through action rather than contemplation. Two days later, an older gentleman arrived, flying in with an antique aircraft in need of Nate’s reputable expertise. He piloted a beautiful old Citabria taildragger, a plane that was almost—just almost—as endearing as a Piper Super Cub. Even Nate, whose default setting was to find fault in everything, begrudgingly admitted that this was a fine aircraft—one he’d gladly take over any alternative, every day of the week and twice on Sundays.
The pilot’s name was Art, and he was a flight instructor, though seemingly more as a hobby than a profession. His rancher’s hands, hardened and calloused, betrayed his true occupation: lifting heavy, uncomfortable things. I explained my predicament, flight log chaos and all. After a few days of what must have been miraculous levels of thought—I still can’t fathom how—Art presented an intricate plan to navigate the labyrinth of instrument flying.
Art’s convoluted scheme required us to tackle a laundry list of egregious obstacles:
- Getting My Aviation Paperwork in Order
This charming task involved spending endless hours transferring hundreds of flying hours scrawled on decade-old, mildew-scented scraps of paper into my logbook. Each entry seemed to mock my aversion to organization, a personality quirk that had apparently been lying in wait to sabotage me at the worst possible time. The process felt like trying to reassemble a shredded encyclopaedia while blindfolded and in the middle of a sandstorm in Somalia. - Dealing with the Self-righteous, Bureaucratic Maze of the FAA
Ah, the FAA—a regulatory body so invasive and convoluted that even Kafka himself might have found their methods excessive. Their medical certification process alone is a masterclass in bureaucratic sadism.
Instead of a straightforward doctor's visit, you first register on a website designed to test your patience and sanity. Then comes the joy of answering intrusive questions about your health, such as:- “When was your last rectal exam?”
- “Do you have haemorrhoids, headaches, or a pulse?”
Beware the headache question—it’s a minefield. A single aspirin taken in 2012? Congratulations, you’ve just earned yourself an MRI, at your own expense, to prove you’re not incubating a secret brain tumour.
Family history isn’t spared either. If some Neanderthal in your genetic line had leukaemia, prepare for exhaustive bloodwork. All of this culminates in a system-generated confirmation number that grants your doctor permission to proceed with tests—including the ever-dignified “squeeze and cough” routine. (Fun fact: do they have an equally humiliating alternative for women, or is the FAA just a bit…biased?)
Contrast this with Kenya, where you simply hand over a crisp Benjamin Franklin, chat with the doctor for ten minutes, and walk out certified. Efficiency, your enemy is FAA.
- Taking a Biennial Flight Review
In theory, this requirement might make sense—until you consider that in America, where flight instructors outnumber mosquitoes, every pilot has a buddy who can pencil-whip the test over a couple of beers. Food for thought. - Surviving the Torture Chamber of TSA Training Clearance
The jewel in the crown: applying for training clearance through the TSA, the most inept institution currently cluttering the planet, staffed exclusively by sandwich-deprived morons, specialised in groping erogenous zones on an industrial scale—targeting anyone who doesn’t show up stripped down like a convict in a prison shower. Their stellar track record? Zero terrorists caught, zero bombs found, but an impressive haul of confiscated knitting needles from harmless grandmothers and traumatised toddlers accused of weaponising their sippy cups. If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to witness humanity’s rapid devolution firsthand, look no further.
This is the same agency famous for confiscating nail clippers from pensioners, baby formula from mothers, and dignity from anyone within a 50-foot radius. Their hiring criteria? A complete absence of common sense and the ability to ensure that any task, no matter how simple, takes five times longer than necessary.
If you thought navigating the FAA was bad, welcome to the real circus. At least the clowns at the TSA wear their incompetence like a badge of honour.
We embarked on our gruelling journey on November 1st, a date forever etched in my memory as the day I encountered the rolling catastrophe on wheels—the red-and-white Piper PA28. It sat parked with all the grace of a defeated walrus, slumped forlornly in front of a hangar in Worland, as if waiting to remind me that nothing in my life came easy.
The flight to Worland was unexpectedly pleasant—after a takeoff that could generously be described as “rustic.” My recent hours in a floatplane had turned the tailwheel into a distant memory, a relic of aviation trivia I’d all but abandoned. Predictably, the result was a bit of tail-dragging drama on the runway. Once airborne, though, everything smoothed out.
Art had a plan for the flight: low-level flying, or so he claimed. However, his definition of "low" turned out to differ wildly from mine. While I envisioned skimming the landscape at a thrilling 5 feet above the ground, Art’s idea of low was a comparatively pedestrian 1,200 feet—just barely brushing the traffic pattern. A concept, I might add, that I was accustomed to climbing up into, not descending into like a rule-following pilot.
By the time we levelled out, I could almost see Art making a mental note, filing me away as the living embodiment of reckless abandon. Or, perhaps, just as a cautionary tale for future students.
The following weeks revolved around two tasks. One was so crushingly dull and soul-deadening that I frequently fantasised about ending it all by subjecting myself to an eternal loop of daytime soaps, slowly withering away in a haze of melodrama. The other chore was shovelling snow.
Instrument flying easily took the crown for boredom. Aside from perhaps spending 36 hours straight in a Nairobi prison cell the size of a Ghanaian phone booth, packed with ten Somalis and nothing to do but try and get a reaction from the peeling paint, this was the most excruciatingly tedious activity I’ve ever been forced to endure. Honestly, watching two arthritic nonagenarians duke it out in a 100-meter race would have been a thrill ride by comparison.
Fighting the monotony wasn’t my only problem; there was also the matter of altitude, which was far too extreme for my taste.
Unless I had unwittingly enrolled in Astronaut Training for Dummies, I couldn’t fathom why Art insisted on pushing our ancient contraption higher and higher into the atmosphere. Was he hoping to achieve low Earth orbit just to prove a point? I found myself wishing my friend John, the Flying Tiger, could swoop in and take over this airborne misery. Unlike me, he actually seemed to revel in all things aviation—effortlessly at home at lofty altitudes, a maestro on the radio, and a wizard with navigational aids. Those omnipresent GPS screens plastered across modern cockpits were his symphony; to me, they were just expensive distractions flashing nonsense.
However, shovelling snow was an entirely different beast. Nate, of course, tried to instil in me an appreciation for the so-called “hidden, intricate art” behind the deceptively simple task. According to him, there was far more to clearing the runway of the pesky white stuff—his term, naturally dripping with disdain—than one might assume. You couldn’t just lumber up and down the strip with the 500-ton truck, casually pushing snow to the left or right like some clumsy amateur. No, this was precision work. Every corner, every crevice had to be meticulously cleared, leaving the surface so pristine you could eat off it—or at least admire your own reflection in its snow-free glory. And all of it required specialised skill and attention to detail—qualities that, unsurprisingly, Nate considered himself to be brimming with, and I... less so.
Still, I loved it. I loved the tranquility of the winter landscape, the serene hush radiating from the snow—interrupted only by the occasional crackle of the radio, designed to warn me of the ever-present possibility of being flattened by a surprise airplane landing on top of me. Eventually, I just switched the thing off. When Nate inevitably asked why I hadn’t responded to any of his increasingly irate radio calls, I blamed my ineptitude with such a complicated device as a handheld radio.
Life had taught me a crucial lesson: if you’re willing to play dumb and blame yourself, you can escape almost anything. Since the accuser is usually gearing up to call you stupid anyway, owning it upfront takes all the steam out of their argument. This I learned in Africa, along with an even greater survival tactic: never, under any circumstances, reveal what you’re capable of doing unless you’re eager to end up doing everything as a result.
After a day of apprentice-level snow plowing at the airport, I would return to my temporary domicile only to continue the same chore—minus the industrial-grade truck. Whether it was clearing the roof, the carport, or the cul-de-sac, the relentless snow seemed determined to keep me busy. Much of it was already plowed away by the ever-industrious Mr. Santa—aka Rod—racing around in his snowplow tractor like a caffeine-fuelled NASCAR driver. Still, I enjoyed it thoroughly.
As an added perk, it kept my mind off the looming FAA written exam scheduled for December 6th. Preparing for it was a nightly ritual: sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet, surrounded by M&Ms, candy wrappers, and protein bars, I slogged through the 1,118 potential questions. Only 60 would appear on the actual test, and while a laughable passing score of 60% was required, it didn’t make the task any less mind-numbing. Even the ferocious FAA seemed to have grasped the mathematical limitations of its aspiring pilots. In contrast, every other country I’d taken exams in—aside from Canada, which barely qualifies as a functioning country—demanded a minimum score of 70-75%.
My evenings were saved from utter monotony by Karen’s visits after work. She’d stop by to check on me, see how the day had gone, and ask if there was any good news on the work front. Her presence was a welcome reprieve from the endless cycle of snow, study, and snacks.
December 6th holds a special, bittersweet significance for me. While this year it marked the hilariously inane IFR written test, it’s also the anniversary of one of the darkest days in my life. On this date in 2015, my best friend Shlomi was tragically killed on a dusty tarmac road in Kenya, run over by a drunk truck driver while riding his motorcycle. He left behind his wife and two young daughters, who had to navigate life without him. His untimely death remains one of the few genuinely tragic events of my life, and not a day goes by that I don’t think of him in some way. God bless his soul.
This year, however, the day bore happier tidings. I had my IFR written test scheduled in Cody that morning—a task so drenched in bureaucratic absurdity that I half-considered camping outside the test centre to ensure I’d make my appointment on time. The administrative requirements resembled a scavenger hunt through my life: copies of my logbook, passport, medical certificate, birth certificate, credit score, and perhaps even my kindergarten test results. And, naturally, a hefty fee to round out the indignity.
When the moment finally arrived, I entered the testing cubicle stripped of everything but my dignity. Pockets were sealed, bags forbidden, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if they demanded a blood sample on my way in. Judging by the TSA-level security measures, you’d think they believed aviators were the sole reason for federal budget deficits.
The test itself was timed at 90 minutes, but I managed to finish after 45, rechecking each question before leaving that irksome cubicle. After reassembling myself and returning to a presentable state, I approached the examiner to collect my results. She stared at the printout as though she was trying to determine whether I was Nikola Tesla or Houdini reincarnated. I had not only passed the test but aced it with an almost perfect score—a feat, she informed me, that was unheard of in Cody’s flight school.
Apparently, when the bar is set low enough, even I can dazzle in the labyrinth of aviation’s rules and regulations.
After the test, I naturally headed to my favourite soul-nourishing sanctuary in town: Wayne’s Boot Shop. Initially, I toyed with the idea of impressing "Kevin the Awesome" with my supposed brilliance, courtesy of my test results. But I quickly reconsidered. After all, the test had proven little beyond my ability to regurgitate mind-numbing aviation procedures—hardly the kind of intellectual feat that would wow anyone, let alone the unimpressible Kevin.
Plus, I knew full well that Kevin wouldn’t care. He’d either respond with a snarky comment or, far worse, launch into his infamous Cowboy Stiefel Story. Predictably, it was the Stiefel Story. Again.
I had barely settled back into the car when my phone buzzed. It was Tom, with more good news. After a brief pause—likely him grappling with the idea that I might leverage my immaculate test results to swipe his job, leaving him to join ex-Director Michael in Nebraska—he delivered the update. Apparently, let’s call him Greg, the director of Utah’s branch of Happy Predator Flyers, was in dire need of a pilot. Tom had already roped in Utah’s attorney general’s office, mobilising a battalion of state attorneys to fast-track my work visa.
We were practically celebrating over the phone, toasting imaginary beers—because champagne in Wyoming is as taboo as suggesting tofu at a cattleman’s dinner. A faux pas of that magnitude would earn you a one-way ticket out of the state, tarred, feathered, and banned for life.
Tom wrapped up the call by promising that someone from the AG’s office would reach out in the coming days to collect my details for the visa. The world smelled of roses, and I hung up with a grin wider than a Wyoming skyline.
It was, without question, one of the best days of my life. I was as happy as a Happy Ending.
Until I wasn’t.
The fatal bullet had already left the barrel, blissfully unbeknownst to me, and was hurtling toward my Wyoming paradise with the precision of a guided missile and the subtlety of a freight train. In its wake, it would leave an apocalyptic wasteland, reducing my hard-won serenity to a smouldering heap of existential debris. Soon enough, I'd be left rummaging through the wreckage, trying to piece together whatever scraps of sanity remained.
But that part of the Wyoming saga will have to wait until next week.
Marcel Romdane
Cheerful as a clam.
Pictures 1st row:
Still the best: The Super Cub. Even better: my Snowplow Truck. I wish John, the Flying Tiger, were here to help! Wyoming Skyline, Paradise
2nd row:
Entering low orbit.... TSA regulation make your head spin! IFR Chart...not my kind of having fun! Plowing snow: an intricate art indeed
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