Crafted by Valor

SELF Beliefs

Growing up in Lander, Wyoming, was a wonderful experience. Of course, at the time, I had no idea just how damn lucky I was. Wyoming is immense in terms of land, it’s the eighth largest state in the Union, but it comes in dead last in population.

If you’re from Wyoming and explaining what it’s like, that fact is usually included, followed closely by a proud proclamation that there are far more pronghorn antelope than people in our beautiful spot on this big blue ball. In retrospect, I hit the jackpot in the birth lottery being born in Lander, Wyoming, an accomplishment that happens to only a tiny fraction of the world’s population.

Lander used to be a bustling little town thanks to its main employer: an iron ore mine just outside of town that kept the local economy moving. Even then, the town’s population peaked just under ten thousand folks. But those ten thousand were easy to get along with. Crime was low. The local paper struggled to find anything worth printing.

There was, and still is a welcoming attitude among the people who live in that little village. Those who didn’t work in the mine were the truest of cowboys. The old Western feel was still alive and thriving in our picturesque town nestled in a valley at the base of the Wind River mountain range.

These are resilient people who can handle isolation and extreme weather. They’re the kind who band together to help anyone in need. Everyone waved or gave a head nod when passing on the street or driving down Main Street.

As if I hadn’t already won the birth lottery, I was born into aviation. I didn’t know that not all families had airplanes. Our family vacations were always in a small plane piloted by my dad. He had “airport cars” in nearly every Wyoming town big enough to have an airport. Keys were always in the ashtray, doors unlocked, and a standing invitation to any pilot who knew my father, which was anyone who loved airplanes, to borrow the car, so long as they left some gas in the tank.

I’ve been flying since before I can remember. In fact, my first and only airplane crash happened when I was about three or four years old.

We were on one of our “family excursions,” which I now realize meant my dad brought us along on the dead leg of a chartered flight, the part without paying passengers. We ended up in Craig, Colorado, to pick up a client. The aircraft was a brand-new Piper Cherokee Six. My entire family was onboard: Dad, Mom, Mike, Mark, and me.

I remember getting on the plane with two new guys, big dudes, cops as I recall. They were seated to balance the aircraft properly. That meant no seat for me. I sat on my mom’s lap.

The two men joked loudly about hoping we didn’t crash. I started to feel alarmed until I reminded myself that my dad was flying. He was the best pilot in the world. Nothing bad could ever happen when he was at the controls.

Right after takeoff, the engine started to struggle. It wasn’t producing the power needed, critical on takeoff. I’ve been told my brother Mark commented that we were flying awfully low. My dad was working hard, fully aware we were in trouble. He knew we were going to crash and was preparing to do it as safely as possible.

Mountains surrounded us, no flat ground. Turning back would’ve been fatal. So, he aimed for terraced crop fields carved into the hillsides. Small flat ledges separated by steep slopes would have to do.

He got us over a fence, then immediately had to dive under a set of wires, using the descent to gain just enough airspeed to avoid a stall. A stall at that altitude? Death.

My dad always said landings were just controlled crashes. A good one was called “greasing it on.”

Before we touched down, he called out for us to get into crash position. I was still on my mom’s lap. I remember the moment it hit me: “Put your hands on your head, bend over, and kiss your ass goodbye.” I didn’t have a seatbelt. I was sure I’d be flung out and splattered like a bug on a windshield.

But not with my dad flying. He left the landing gear up, avoided a stall, and made a controlled crash. A farmer cutting alfalfa on a tractor was directly in our path. He dove off just in time. We missed him by inches.

We came to a jolting stop. I got a charley horse on my butt from the chair arm. My mom, somehow superhuman, had clung to me tighter than any seatbelt could. She saved my ass. No one was hurt. It wasn’t our day to die.

That kind of childhood left me feeling constantly safe. I was never really scared, not of people, not of life. But I’ve always leaned toward being the protector.

Another story from early childhood happened at Olson’s, our neighborhood country store, about a block from our house. Olson’s was heaven for kids. It had hundreds of penny candies. All the neighborhood kids went there.

Next door lived Larry A., the local bully. Bigger, older, and candy-deprived, Larry waited for kids to buy their sweets, then he’d steal them.

One day, I went to Olson’s with my two older brothers. Larry confronted us, demanded their candy. They gave it up. But I wasn’t having it. I loved candy too much.

When I got mad, I transformed. My brothers say I turned into the Incredible Hulk. I don’t remember much after that, but the legend is: I got the candy back, and Larry never bullied us again. I became the little kid who beat up the big bad bully.

I liked that. I liked being a protector. But mostly, I really loved candy.

I always felt in control of my safety. I loved flying, got my private pilot’s license at 18, flew solo at 16. And once I could take passengers; friends, girls, I pushed the limits.

I did stalls, spins, nose dives, pulled out last second with enough G-force to flatten my face. I loved hearing screams of fear and joy. Flying was like an extension of myself. Adrenaline was my drug of choice.

To Be Continued…….