The next afternoon was the departure for the business end of the trip: delivery of our new aircraft to Vancouver. The requirement to avoid snow had us first heading south. After some careful stepping around Washington DC, Camp David, and the other very sensitive, “we’ll-take-action-if-you-penetrate-this-area” no-fly zones, we found ourselves in Greensville, South Carolina, with a balmy 15°C on the temp gauge. Nice place, from the 12 hours I spent there.
The next day was straight west…we’re talking 270 degrees from start to finish, and almost 1000nms, thanks to some favourable winds. The topography changed from Eastern Seaboad-Apalachien-Foothills to the great Midwest plateau range, just short of the southern Rocky Foothills, in Amarillo, Texas. There we enjoyed the big things the lone star state so proudly offers: a long drive down a wide highway in a big car looking at big billboards, a big parking lot outside a big hotel, a big Texas steak, and a “Texas-sized” beer (aka – a jug). Good thing I brought my big stomach.
No sooner had the novelty of “you must love us ’cause we’re big” had worn off then it was time to meander on westward. I use the term ‘meander’ loosely here, as the next day’s topography and weather conditions provided some of the best, and challenging, flying of the trip. As we left Amarillo the upper plains developed into deeper river gorges, higher hills, and wider valleys. Our trip suddenly seemed to loose pace at this point, as the next several states were much larger, mountainous, and desolate than we’d seen on the previous days. However, our spirits were far from lack-luster, in part due to the excitement of the destination; Las Vegas, Nevada via the Grand Canyon. The distances worked out quite well to get the most productivity out of a day’s flying, while still taking a route in a brand new multi-engined helicopter that most professional pilots (or anyone else) can only dream of. Northwestward it was, and we screamed over miles and miles of desert and canyons, which served to only whet our appetites for the grand finale. As we drew closer to our fuel stop, the variable that rears it’s head so often began to come into play; the weather. We continued on our course for a short while but we were traveling westward into an eastern moving weather system. The decision to divert was easy: the temperature was 2 degrees Celsius and dropping and the weather ahead had shrouded the hills in precipitation. We broke south on an unplanned-for diversion, attempting to get around the system that lay on the ‘B’ line to Grand Canyon National Airport. We were forced farther and farther off our intended track, and the need for fuel descended upon us so the diversionary destination was decided upon. Because of this diversion, I can now say I’ve been to Shiloh, Arizona……I’ve beaten you all. The gas stop was more akin to a pit stop as the weather was still moving in and squeezing us southward. So it was back to thumb-on-the-map navigation, assisted of course by GPS, to find a way down out of the hills. It was obvious to us that the self-guided Grand Canyon tour was no longer an option, but Vegas was still in range and on the intended route to Vancouver. As we clipped the northern edge of Phoenix’s Air Traffic Control space, we were finally able to follow a spectacular river valley northward into the hills and safely in behind the cold front that had produced our weather. We followed the terrain back up into the hills and were confidant that the path was clear to Las Vegas. While we were nearing the International Airport we were able to sneak in a quick diversion to circle overhead the Hoover Dam, an extremely popular helicopter tour site, and the evidence was in the air all around us. It was probably something like Vietnam.
Las Vegas…….well, nothing new to report here, except for a strange occurrence that happens to fit the theme of the story nicely. After blowing a token 40 bucks on a random black jack table in the sea of black jack tables, we sought out a dinner option. The Hard Rock Cafe in Vegas? Now that sounded to me like a true blue cultural experience. After a 2 ½ minute wait, my beef dip, fries, and side [platter] of salad was looking up at me. After the meal we rolled ourselves outside to go pay homage to some of the more famous Vegas landmarks: Bellagio, Mandalay, Mirage, etc. It was there in the Bellagio, the finest and most glamorous of Vegas can offer, that I began to understand that the feeling I had been developing in my stomach was an actual sickness as opposed to just over-eating on shitty food. All the classic symptoms were there: paleness, sweating, disinterest in everything and everyone around me. Then it hit me, right there in the middle of a loud and obnoxious room designed not to let you out………THE URGE. Garbage can?! No. Under a craps table!? It might have to be! Oh god, it’s coming. During my desperate scramble I spot a uniformed man. “Where’s the can?!” I simply follow the direction of his pointed finger rather than actually listen to his instructions. As I bolt through the slot machines and tables at a fast sprint I quickly realize that I could easily be taken down by security for this, and that would be messy. I finally found the can and burst into an empty stall with ½ a second to spare, and saved myself the embarrassment of clearing an entire section of the Bellagio slots, and subsequently helped earn Peter Winn just a few more bucks.
By the time it came to leave Vegas I was certainly ready to push on. We had perhaps one more full day ahead of us, and then a quick morning hop over the border into Vancouver. It turned out that the one last full day was a little more full than we wanted. As we were plodding on Northwestward we encountered more weather. It was of the winter coastal variety, but further inland and lower than forecast. Some creative enroute flight planning allowed us a diversion without losing too much ground on the original plan. We found ourselves in a fertile valley of Northern California for our fuel stop. After the stop we attempted a straight push westward to the coast over the southern finger of the Coast Mountains. As is typical of a pacific winter’s day, the clouds had packed in on the mountains from the west, cutting off any possibility of us moving North or West. We hedged our bets that we could make the coast if we first traveled fifty or sixty miles straight south. We lost our own gamble; it was more like one hundred. Regardless, after some careful stepping, we finally found our way down to the pacific where the winds were fierce and the weather was low. We turned north and rode some serious tailwinds up the desolate coast of Northern California. As our groundspeed crept up over 180kts the coastline seemed to rush by at 500 feet above the ground and two miles of visibility. Exciting and scenic flying to be sure, but after about an hour it was time to call it a day. Some previous in-flight trip planning showed us that we were destined to stop in Arcata, California, just south of the Oregon border. Although still far from home, geographically speaking, it still felt great to be back on the wet coast breathing in the fresh sea air.
The next day was the push for Vancouver. It was uneventful, but can you only imagine the scenery? Flying northward up the Oregon and Washington coasts at 500 feet with waves pounding the rugged shoreline below, following mountain valleys inland to Olympia, Washington, then north through the Puget sound, past the gulf islands and into Vancouver, Canada, with it’s snow-capped mountain backdrop as an appropriate grand finale to a visual spectacle: America by helicopter…..if only I could overcome those meals.
