Mexico calls me, and I cannot refuse!

Colima is just the starting point- the central highlands east of there are full of great hang gliding sites.

We camped at my old amigo Esteban Zaragoza's airfield in Colima.  Shade trees, a powerchord, a hose and
7,000' of runway.  I even had an internet connection.

This is the city of Colima from about a mile high.  Launch at Cerro Grande is on the mountain in the background.

Here's a view of the Club Aereo de Colima, Familia Zaragoza.  Camp is at the right end.  This shot is of arriving HIGH!

Getting closer to approach, our camp can be seen in the shade trees.  Very comfortable, and a quick cab ride into town.

Hey gringos!  How long has it been since you've had a good look at the rear-end of a virgen?
  This is the Virgen de Guadalupe, and it's pronounced  la BEER-hen de wa-tha-LOO-pay. 
She stands beckoning atop La Cumbre, but not for you.  Nope, the Virgen has more
lofty issues at hand, mainly the Volcan de Fuego which threatens to blow the whole place sky-high.

You take off at La Cumbre and peel for the sky, getting higher...

and higher...

Climbing out above La Cumbre, looking at cumulus clouds above.  How's THAT for a January sky?

until you're skyed-out!

Look the other way and realize you're drifting straight towards the Nevado de Colima and the Volcan de Fuego.  The Nevado measures over 14,000'.  I'll look for a better shot of this, because my camera can't do it justice!

This is January, don't forget!  We sure had some great flying in Colima.  This shot is from around 8,000'.

I finally got back to my trike in northern Mexico, and took it for a spin.  I flew from Hector's hangar in La Yesca out to Kino bay.

You get out on the highway and head straight west for the mountain pass in the distance...

I was shook up a little here by the wind...

but by the time Bahia Kino hoves into view, there's not much left by way of turbulemce.   It just gets smoother...

...and smoother...

so that by the time you get to the coast the air is glass!  I drove over to the end of the estuary and dove on in...

There's about six kilometers of runway down there, when the tide is out!

I couldn't resist a low pass!

Ahh!
I was met by a local Kino Bay triker, and we had camarones for lunch.  I didn't tarry long as the February days are still short in Sonora.  But I'll be heading back there in November, for a fly-in.  I jumped in the trike and headed back for Hector's hangar.

That's Hector's airfield out in the Sonora desert.  Gracias amigo!

Scroll down for my Mexico journal.

PIDES Y RECIBERAS; BUSCAS Y ENCONTRARAS

So reads the piece of cardboard hanging cockeyed upon a fencepost atop of La Cumbre, the flying site here in Colima, Mexico. "Ask, and ye shall receive, seek and ye shall find." We have come some 1200 miles south of the border at Nogales, seeking thermals, and about that we have not been disappointed. There are thermals for the finding. As for the asking part, we are somewhat disappointed about that. We are trikers without trikes. Back at the border the Aduana (Customs) decided not to issue permits for our trikes, based on the fact that we had no "titulos" and no "registracion" for the machines. We tried to explain that these papers do not exist, but to no avail. We asked, but we did not receive. Thank God we’ve got hang gliders too.

At the moment that this denial became clear to us we were actually already through the border. About fifty feet through the border. At issue was the fact that trikes have motors. Anything with a motor must have a permit. We leaned on the trucks for a while in disbelief and dismay, while the border guards there carried on about their business of hassling everyone they encounter. I tried to explain to a seņor that it would be very easy to make sure we returned with the trikes, which is what they are worried about after all: that we don’t just haul them south and then sell them, if they would simply put three words on my motorhome vehicle permit as follows: AVIONCITO COSMOS 27717, but it was no good. With the sudden realization that they really didn’t care what the hell we did as long as we had no papers, we loaded up and hit the wind, southbound, trikes and all.

We were trikers with no permisos, but we were headed south nonetheless!

Arriving at Hermosillo around dark, I was already having second thoughts about our decision. There was really nothing else we could have done, was there? I suppose I might have gone BACK across the border and driven to my friend Dick Phelps’ place in Casa Grande and left the trike with him. Or at Kemmeries’ hangar in Phoenix. But the lineup at the border must have been about four hours by the looks of the stack of cars headed north. Besides, the date was December 1. I’ve been planning to cross the border on December 1 for about six months now. To be on schedule for a trip like this seems too good to be true and I (we) were determined. So we went. But by the time we got to Hermosillo, I was filling up with regret.

What about those Hacienda (read: Mexican IRS) checkpoints on the way south? What would THEY think about our illegal aviones? And then there would sure to be military checkpoints too, soldiers in battle fatigues, lazing around sandbag bunkers with tripod- mounted automatic weapons. Wouldn’t they just love to have a funny-looking airplane?

Outside of Hermosillo around dark, things were looking grim. Hesitant to drive Mexican roads at night, and faced with camping in a PEMEX gas station, I called Hector, a local triker. Hector was glad to hear from me and insisted that we wait there while he sped across town to meet us. We then caravaned through town with Hector who dragged us to his airfield in La Yesca for the night. I was happy to be there, not just for the safety and tranquillity, but because I once worked at a neighboring airfield, and so felt quite at home.

We had a few cervesas to celebrate and Hector looked over our rides. Then I told him what happened with the Aduana at the border and he said to continue would be a ‘locura’. "There are too many revisiones headed south. They will take your trikes." To make a long story short, we chickened-out and left the trikes in Hector’s hangar. They will be safe there. Oddly enough, for the same reason that we were not issued papers for them, it would be easy to sell them in Mexico. I have given Hector permission to try to sell my Cosmos. If the Aduana had simply taken my advice and put the Magic Words on my vehicle permit, I would not be able to leave Mexico without the trike. Now I can...

I suppose I’m a little late in introducing the rest of our caravan. We gathered at the Kasbah in Tucson, Arizona. I’m not making this up. The Kasbah is a hip college hang-out, draped in Persian rugs, ripe with the smell of patchouli, and serving tea and healthy drinks made from green stuff and brown stuff. We were there because of David Lundquist, our other triker, who is a hipster himself. David is an artist, most famous for the Grateful Dead album covers he has done over the years, and a stand-by at the Kashah. In fact, David was scheduled to appear at the Kasbah on the last night of November, where he would beat on his bongos while the girls bellydanced for our entertainment. "These are not bongos." David later assured me. He had some other name for them, but they sure looked like bongos to me: you beat on them and everyone jumps around. David’s puppy was wearing a fresh cast on a front leg and looking very drowsy from the sedatives, after being hit by a speeding motorist and spending the day at the vet. An auspicious circumstance: our first casualty and we had yet to cross the border.

David has a 1965 Chevy Suburban with a fresh motor, and he is hauling his trike in a ToyHauler. This trailer converts into living space when the trike is off-loaded. He also has a hang glider, a Seedwings Sensor 610, or the like. David informed me right off that he was "David" and not "Dave". He reminds me of the son of Maynard G. Crebbs. David has a willingness to speak Espaņol, but he needs some practice. He keeps saying "Valor, primo!" which translates into something like "Brave cousin". It dawns on me that he is trying to relate something like "Volar es lo mejor" (Flying is the best) but what works on the Islands does not work so well here. The Mexicans are just confused by "Valor primo"…

David was met by his friend Peter, a giant Swede about 30 years old, who brought a paraglider to fly in Mexico. Pedro is about two meters high, strongly built, and with his head shaved bald, he looks like nobody but Mr. Clean’s youngest sprout. Especially standing there grinning in the Kasbah. Pedro speaks English of a sort, but not a word of Spanish. He is traveling in a Chevy van. Pedro looks so much the part that I quickly come to introduce him as Pedro Guarda-Espalda, which translates nicely I think, as Pete Body-Guard. Pedro becomes quite indispensable during the next few weeks as a very willing sort, who will run any errand, do any thing asked of him, and he flys that bag well, too.

Then- in pops the rest of our team: Johann Posch, who has a wife and two boys who are camped outside of town in their motorhome. Johan just pops in briefly and makes arrangements to meet us the following morning for the assault on the border, and then runs off to do errands. I suspect Johann may have been slightly uncomfortable with the atmosphere of the Kasbah, including the fact the college kids were sneaking out the back curtains to smoke pot, and so he hurried off. All I knew about Johann was that he is a Microsoft techie-type (retired- ain’t they all?), that he flies the latest of hang gliders called an ATOS, and that he is a member of the Austrian World Team, which would put him at the fore-front of hang gliding competition, simply because the best flyer in the sky is an Austrian, and the Austrian team usually wins World meets.

It was not until the following morning when I met up with Johann that I discovered his real worth, in a very real sense of the word: Johann is traveling in and guarding his flock in, the largest, most luxurious and most ostentatious motorhome I have ever laid eyes on. Are all these Microsoft guys millionaires? It makes me wonder what that hell I was thinking all those years which I spent jumping off mountains when I could have been striking it rich. Was it worth it? Now, here comes Johann, about ten years younger than myself, and he’s traveling in STYLE! His wagon makes mine look pathetic! It’s a forty-foot diesel pusher, a basement model with two slideouts- one for the kitchen-living area and one for the master bedroom. The interior is all leather upholstery and gold fixtures and mirrors. There is climate control and plush carpet and lots of room. His wagon rides on three axles and eight tires and the rear axle lifts off the ground for sharp corners. Trailing along behind on a car dolly is Johann’s assault vehicle- a shiny red Volkswagen Westphaila. This vehicle has a ladder rack on the roof, which houses Johann’s ATOS. There are four bicycles hanging off the ladder too. I notice, among other things, that the Westphailia has about three inches clearance between the rear bumper and the ground, which does not bode well at all for Johann on Mexican roads.

Johann’s ride was so unlikely as a private vehicle, that as we traveled through Mexico I would notice people standing along the highway, Mexican locals, who were waiting for a bus. You see this everywhere in Mexico- thousands of people in one’s and two’s and three’s- whole families even, waiting stoically along the road. And when they see Johann in the distance they figure their ride has arrived; they stick out an arm and wag a finger. I tried to convince Johann to swing off and pick ‘em up, charge them for "servico delujo", but he looks puzzled at the thought.

Johann has two of the most beautiful and smartest boys I have ever met, and a lovely wife who homeschools them. Every day from 9AM to 3PM the boys study with mom, while dad pilots his show through Mexico. I learn a new word in Espaņol as a result of Johann’s presence: ostentazio, a word used to describe why it might be dangerous to travel in Mexico hauling such a display of wealth. I hope Johann and family survive the trip with happiness, but he’s talking about LOTS of driving, through dangerous places like Sinaloa, Michoacan, Oaxaca, Chiapas and Quintana Roo. I think I’d rather drive a truckload of chickens.

I have just stepped out to the runway to watch a Cessna depart for a local joyride. I got the day’s first glimpse of the volcano and I’m not disappointed. There is a smoking volcanic cone about twenty miles west of here, which rises to about 12,000’ and a dormant cone behind that which tops-out at over 14,000’ These are the Volcan de Colima and the Nevado (snowy) de Colima and they are impressive, to say the least. The city of Colima basks in tropical sunlight, ever aware of their presence. The last major eruption was during World War II, but since then there have been many smaller awakenings, including those which have caused evacuations of small villages up the flanks. Even now some areas are off-limits to all but scientists, due to threat of poison gasses. I understand the locals get worried when there is NO smoke.

Here's one taken from the Zaragoza airfield.  You can vaguely see the smoke plume, and a little puff that has blown downwind.

This morning has dawned crystal clear, and out on the runway the view is truly spectacular. The ‘fumarol’, or smokeplume, has but a minor vertical component today: the smoke is laid flat by upper-level winds blowing onshore, and tumbles down the back. Here at the field there is a cool morning breeze flowing down off the heights in exactly the opposite direction.

Colima is a beautiful town, all pastel colors and enormous trees and a certain hustle and bustle. Very clean. There is lots of retail activity; there must be a thousand places to get a taco or a torta, and a cold cervesa is never further than the next corner. This is the capital of the State of the same name: Colima, Colima, one of the smallest States in Mexico. It is hot here, which is NOT true of all of Mexico. Colima lies low near the coast, but still about 40 clicks inland and, at 1,400’ it is hot, but drier that the beach. There is a profusion of beautiful girls here, which ought to be the marketing slogan for the State Office of Tourism: WE HAVE BEAUTIFUL GIRLS! They are simply everywhere. At this writing, none of us have managed to get our hands on any, but that situation might break suddenly, we are hoping.

But back to our journey: We depart Hector’s after a day of rest and I find myself relieved, liberated even, not to have the trike back there on my tail anymore. Not only am I relieved that I may not lose my wagon to some arrogant bureaucrat in civvies and with an UZI slung over his shoulder, but my motorhome travels lighter. I know from experience that there are about a thousand topes (read: speedbumps) between here and my destination, and that while I will crawl to a near complete stop for 99% of them, the missed 1% could spell disaster for the trike.

Some explanation of speedbumps should be made here, for those who are unaware: Mexico is rife with speedbumps, lousy with speedbumps, awash with speedbumps. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes and have different names wherever you go. There are topes (TOE-pays), the most common nomenclature, there are vibradores, which are usually corrugated, and in Michoacan the name suddenly changes to: reductor de velocidad. This is, perhaps, the most descriptive term of all: should you hit a reductor de velocidad at, say, full speed, it might just reductor your velocidad right down to NADA! You’d be dead-in-the-water, so to speak. Topes, vibradores, reductores... whatever! The traveler must practice eternal vigilance because, even though the majority of speedbumps are marked by a roadsign, there are those that are blind. A blind tope is the worst kind. But many of these objects are serious business, in more ways than one...

You see, topes, vibradores and reductores are also a boon to the local cottage industries and economies. Each tope, millions of them throughout the land, has become the home of at least one Mexican family, out to reap the benefits of so much slow traffic. After all- everybody’s gotta stop, right? And everybody’s gotta make a living, right? So... let’s sell them something! Two birds with one stone! Jugos, aguas, tacos, tortas, refrescos, cervesas, and more are all available at topes throughout Mexico. You can buy nearly everything at topes. I once stopped at a tope where I was offered a parrot, a splendid bird which promptly bit the shit out of my finger nearly crushing it, thus ending any possibility that we would travel on together as companions, happily ever after. I’ve often thought that someone should open a variety store nationwide in Mexico, that would be called simply: TOPES.

Topes are also favorite spots for tire shops, muffler shops and hubcap shops. These particular businesses are usually frequented by those who failed to fully stop for one too many topes: they blew their tires, ripped off their mufflers, and watched their hupcaps spin off into the jungle/desert, maybe all at once. They might even need new leaf-springs fore and aft as well... no problema! They just happen to fix tires and mufflers and sell hubcaps, right there at the tope, and you can relax with a chilled cervesa and delicious huevos rancheros while you wait. Yum! They can duplicate your leaf springs on-the-spot to get you on down the road, poorer perhaps, but wiser and well-fed! One might even suspect that the proprietors of said businesses may be guilty of removing the signage which once warned of the road hazard, thus rendering the tope blind, but this is just another mystery about which we are left to speculate.

To imagine Mexico without topes is to think of Florida, minus the ‘gators; just not quite the same. Topes are the reason why Mexico is Mexico, and why the flood of tourism is really only a trickle: it’s just so damn hard to get here, to get safely past the topes! Also, the southbound traveler eventually arrives at the conclusion that he must encounter each and every one of these same topes when he retraces his tracks northbound, plus, maybe a few more. You gotta count each tope twice...

Now take for example the toll roads; these are quite good roads, with almost no traffic, simply because they are so expensive. About every hour or so, the toll-road traveler in Mexico is confronted by first a tope, and then a toll booth. The fee is about $7, although it varies widely. The $7 is a nice average, if you are rolling on two axles. Then they count the tires that hit the pavement, and the number of axles. My motorhome has but two axles, but it has six tires, so... they double the toll. Call it $15 per hour. Johann’s motorhome has three axles, which doubles the toll yet again, and the same with his eight wheels. Johann is also hauling the Volkswagon, which makes two more axles. Johann will pay some steep tolls, indeed, around $45 US, per hour I would guess. Hallelujah for Memo Puertas (English: Bill Gates) it appears that Johann won’t miss it too much. But this is enough to piss off a gringo, until he remembers that even if Mexican tolls are among the highest in the world- there are no topes on the toll roads. If the tolls were lowered there would be lots of traffic on the toll roads, yet there remains almost none.

Then there are the "freeways". In Mexico the libremientos (freeways) are not as we think of them- where you are free to travel at a high rate of speed. No, in Mexico, libremiento means you don’t have to pay. Freeways. Simple as that. These are generally narrow, poorly-maintained two-lane roads, with no shoulder, lots of traffic and topes and every other type of road hazard know to man. Take for example, the worst moments I experienced on this trip, when I was traveling a libremiento out of Puerta Vallarta, southbound for Bahia Tenacatita. Everything was going fine when gradually I became overwhelmed with the stench of rotten flesh. I was poking along up a mountain pass around blind turns, when my progress was suddenly blocked by a farmer on an ancient Massey-Furgeson tractor. The old farmer was towing a huge cow who was quite dead and very bloated. He had a rope around the beast’s neck and as I pulled reluctantly to within a few feet of this strange and awful procession, I wanted nothing more that to gag. And get safely past.

Groucho, my dog and traveling companion, who was as usual sound asleep sat up in his seat wondering what was going on, and must have smelled the disgusting odor too, because he jumped on the dash and began barking. We were forced by the road to stay close behind the horrible stench, looking for our opening. The farmer sat half turned around on his tractor and nodded and smiled a toothless good morning at us, but showed no inclination to let us pass. A disgusting streak of animal was being left behind on the roadbed, along with bits of flesh large and small. Thousands of bottleflies accompanied us to some final destination.

We traveled along this way for a few minutes and I was beginning to despair, but a miraculous and truly abhorrent happenstance gave me an opening when the cow’s head parted with the rest of it’s body, in a horrible spray of gas and guts. I will never, unfortunately, forget the sound that gas made while escaping the beast, heard even above the moan of my motorhome. Nor will I forget the awful splat of brown and red guts that sprayed the farmer. I did not notice if he was still smiling, but as he stepped on the clutch to stop the tractor, I swung my wagon into the other lane and escaped with nothing worse than horrid memories.

I have returned to Colima for the first time in years and I am very happy and comfortable here, and the flying is much better than I recall. I’ve been flying mostly at La Cumbre, a small bump very near the town center where I flew regularly some years ago. But I do not recall a house thermal like there is now. I have taken nine flights from La Cumbre so far, and I was only disappointed one day, when I sunk to the valley floor, a very overcast day. Otherwise, there has always been plenty of lift and I have made seven of nine flights to a private Aero Club where I live in my motorhome.

I had one flight where I sunk and sunk and sunk and I was but one turn from a long final when I started to climb. It was just a hint at first but I was gliding across the face of the last bowl on the ridge, a LONG way from the airfield I call home, when I caught a little lift. I checked my altimeter and swung back across the bowl. My altimeter showed I’d lost no altitude making the turn, and that I gained twenty feet on the next pass. So I tried it again. The whole flight hinged on that one turn as I began a climb that ended at over 5,000’ and an easy glide into town.

YEAH!

The locals also have a new site that they are wild about, and rightly so; Cerro Grande is great! It’s about twice as far from town, yet still a short 45 minute drive to launch on a good road. Launch is at about the same altitude as La Cumbre, around 2,600’, but here you launch from the side of the hill rather that from the top, and there is about 4,500’ of mountain kicking off thermals above launch. The mountain rises to around 8,000’ and looking over the back there is a giant wall they say reaches 10,000’. I haven’t been back to that wall yet, but maybe today I will go. I’ve had only one flight at Cerro Grande but it was spectacular, I climbed to 8’400’, and meanwhile a local flyer, Benigno, climbed out to 9,700’ MSL. Not too shabby, considering that the valley floor is around 1,500’, and this was the last day of 2001.

The locals say that from this date on (New Year, 2002) that Cerro Grande will be happening daily until May or so, that it will be launchable daily, and that it will turn on daily, and I have no reason to doubt them. David has more experience there, and he agrees.

One thing both of these sites offer is a spectacular view of the Nevado de Colima, and it’s volcano, the Volcan de Fuego. From these heights we are looking over an inversion of dust from the city and moisture from the coast about 30 miles southwest. The geography is vast and forbidding, the volcano’s fumarol either standing straight and tall or laid over in the wind. From these heights it appears totally likely to someday be soaring the cone itself! Where do I sign up?!

Since I left to visit my sister in Valle de Bravo, Johann and family have departed for points south, while Dave David and Pedro Guarda-Espalda have disappeared for some Rainbow gathering on the beach in Michoacan, apparently a few hours south of here. I did not know that this hipster tradition still flourishes but then, David is more in tune with this sort of thing than I. I know they must return here since David’s trailer is parked here. I’m hoping they will want to stay and fly a few days because otherwise I will have no certain ride up the mountain, and I may have to rent a car and driver, more expensive than I’d like. If I pay Pedro to haul me in his van, he gets to fly too. I’m also hoping they have found some hippie chicks to liven things up around here, we shall see.

Next year I would like to return with this same or another motorhome like it, and a tiny vehicle which will hold two gliders and three occupants. I will need a car small enough so I can put the front end on a bumber rack behind the motorhome, and just drag one extra axle, thus saving money on tolls. I will bring more stuff to set up a real camp, although I notice there is now a WalMart here; maybe I should just buy everything here- outdoor carpet and lanterns and some sort of musicbox.

Living is very cheap here, and quite satisfying. I had a plate of mariscos (seafood) which is the most expensive food you might seek, a large order of camarones empanizados (breaded shrimp) which cost 55 pesos, around $6.50. This was a complete dinner with arroz or papas, a saladita and of course, tortilla, limon and salsa. Extremely delicious. On the flip side, you can just wander around the streets and eat much more economically, although you might have to stand. How about all the tacos you can eat for about $3.00? With a Squirt thrown in. Or not one but TWO roasted chickens, rice, tortilla and limon for 50 pesos ($5.70). This purchase is enough to feed four hungry gringos. The food is delicious and very fresh.

About that chicken though; the next time I negotiate with the seņor who sells them, I will approach him with my own tongs in hand. I will complete the transaction only after he has allowed me to personally lift the bird off the grill, and into my own container. I will not allow him to grab the bird with his personal tongs, and, more importantly, chop it to pieces on the treestump he uses for a cutting board. Thus I hope to savor the delectable beast without the consequences of the minor case of salmonella poisoning the last one gave me, which put me down for twenty-four hours.

New Year’s Eve we were partying with the family of Benigno Alvarez, one of the Colima flyers. Benigno sells tacos on the street, so carne asada was on the menu, of course. The awaited hour was approaching when my sister Jan remarked that she hoped the fireworks would not be too explosive. Jan’s been living in Valle de Bravo where it seems everyone is wild about fireworks. George piped in and said he hoped the tradition would not be like in Tejas where every redneck stepped out in the street and fired their guns at the sky. We laughed at that and I asked Benignio what the tradition was here. Would there be lots of fireworks?

"Oh no Ole." said Benny vey seriously. "Son peligrosos los cuetes. Muchos encendios." (Fireworks are too dangerous. Lots of fires.) I explained this to Jan and Jorge who seemed relieved, but then Benigno continued. With a very straight look he told me that here in Colima, the tradition was that all the cops would step out in the street and shoot their guns in the air. I explained this to Jan and Jorge, who looked shocked while Benny explained that he wouldn’t be letting us, or any of his family outside until the fusillade had diminished, and the coast was clear. Sensibility in the face of absurdity.

I’m sure glad I don’t have a trike. This hang gliding is just too good. And a helluva lot simpler. No worries about fuel and torque and spark wizzing and props spinning and such.

Yesterday I launched Cerro Grande at 2:30PM and peeled into the sky. I may have spend about two minutes below launch, but then I caught the express into the wild blue, and hung with it to 8,000’. This was a fat and strong thermal- my averager showed 850 FPM climb. I climbed almost 6,000’ into a cobalt-blue sky, and never looked back. The rest of the Colima pilots struggled around launch for quite some time, while I was all alone skyed-out. I flew all over Cerro Grande waiting for them, and then pointed towards town.

Flying a trike just can’t compare.

My landings are not very elegant, however. The continued pain I feel in my foot makes me very reluctant to land on it. So... I land on my belly, which is protected by the cushion of two parachutes. I have large training wheels on the base tube. I simply fly down to about six inches and then fly slower and slower until my belly scrapes along the ground and I roll out on the wheels. Benigno described it best when he said "El buey vuela como pajaro, pero atterisa como pez!" (The ox flys like a bird, but lands like a fish!) And it’s true- the landing part anyway. My harness is getting torn up by so many landings, I’ll need some serious repair, or maybe a new harness, very soon.

Esteban Zaragoza owns the airfield where I am camped. I know Esteban from the last time I was here, when I was a flying-guide, and we used to land at his airfield. Esteban seems genuinely glad to have me here, and shows me off to all his friends. Many of them are flyers too, Cessnas, Quicksilvers and such, and his brother Carlos is the local crop-sprayer, with his Piper Pawnee.

This airfield used to be the only field around and all commercial traffic used to land here until they built a huge facility about fifteen miles outside of town. Now, this field has become a sleepy place, the sign on the fence reads: CLUB AEREO DE COLIMA, FAMILIA ZARAGOZA.

Happily, they like having some gringos around, and Esteban gets a faraway look in his eyes when the talk turns to hang gliding, since he once used to fly them. He often hauls me up to La Cumbre in his rattly old pickup when I have no other ride, and watches me take off with a critical eye. In fact, the first time I negotiated with Esteban to haul myself and my gear to launch, settling on 50 pesos (about $6), I was tickled when he loaded his whole family into the truck. I was to be their entertainment. I should be charging THEM!

Esteban has a beautiful family; a lovely wife named Teresa, two boys named Christian and Estevan, Jr., and a young daughter named Maria Teresa. He has a beautiful German Shepard pup, very friendly, named Max. Since we have arrived here there has been much talk about hang gliding, and when Junior discovered his dad’s old LaMouette Atlas hanging in the rafters, he threw a quite embarrassing fit over wanting to fly it. He’s only twelve years old however.

There’s not much activity here, however. About three or four flights a week, private stuff. Then, every other Friday night or so, they hold races out on the runway, racing cars. This is the biggest event at the Club Aereo Colima. They race everything they can drag out here, from pickup trucks to dragsters. Taxis, too. One guy has the most souped-up Rambler American I have ever seen. George Romney must be applauding from his grave! They make an awful racket, and you can step out on the runway for tacos, cervesa and pretty seņoritas!

This January 4 was as good flying as I’ve had any January 4 that I recall. Out of nowhere, a sky that had been just plain blue for days, this sky today popped full of cumulous clouds at about 11AM.

I am just a recreational flyer. I like to thermal. Thermalling, and landing, have always been the thing for me. If I can catch a thermal or two, fly for an hour or two (two hours is about as long as I can hang in the saddle) and then make a gentle landing at home (remember: dignified is OUT!), I am a happy dangler. That’s exactly how I spent my January 4, 2002.

I had to work for it too, a little at the start. In fact, I’d sunk down to 1,900’, which put me at less than 500’ above the valley floor, before I hooked into the thermal, and it was a BULLET. I had to crank and bank the wing into some unlikely and a bit disconcerting angles-of-attack, but the nose was pointed UP! I went screaming up past launch, where the entire Zaragoza clan was watching and pointing. They even had Groucho there to watch, and they said later that Groucho seemed quite "atentivo" of my progress.

The thermal drifted quit sharply over the back and I moved forward in it two or three times, and each time I came back it got stronger. Later, my averager would show I reached a max rate-of-climb at 990 feet per minute. I can only guess at this but I’d bet it was during this stage of the thermal- right as I was drifting back, where warm air from both sides of the ridge converge. Whatever- right about there I quickly climbed maybe another grand or two, and then it shut off. I was over the back with plenty of altitude for a safe glide somewhere, but not high enough to get back home. I watched Esteban herd his flock into the pickup and start down the hill, then I drifted out the end of the ridge, looking homeward now, and looking for some more lift.

The clouds were awesome, so I figured there must be something.

Before long I started turning in large areas of generally rising air, gaining slowly and drifting, drifting. Then I found a few cores and started climbing more surely. Soon I was climbing consistently all the way around the circles, and I glanced up: big fat cummies! It was fat most of the way to cloudbase and I was starting to think about moving out to the edge of the cloud, when the lift began to slow and mellow. I stayed-put under a beautiful flat-bottom cummie and PUUSSHHED! Bit by bit I made it to cloudbase- mark THAT on your calendar: January 4!!!

I looked down and realized that I was over WalMart. This was a revelation for two reasons a) that I could walk in there anytime and feel right at home I mean: I’m a WalMart shopper, and 2) that I could clearly trace the most direct route on my bicycle from this fine vantage point, taking advantage of a few short-cuts.

In fact, my vantage this afternoon was really spectacular. The Nevado and the volcano were both shrouded in cloud, but the city of Colima was beautiful... There is yet a nice shade of green to everything. There were LOTS of buzzards, as always, and with this altitude I could afford to play "chicken" with them, chasing them from above until they twist upside down and leave me to shame.

I topped out at 7,100’ above sea level, which put me at about 5,800’ above the city. Call it a Mile High...

Now I had drifted past Esteban’s airfield. I pointed the glider into the wind and glided, glided... glided. I came up over the field with thousands of feet and flew on past. Finally upwind, I banked the glider first this way and then that, in graceful spirals from the Heavens. I spiraled down mid-field and flew a downwind leg for the Zaragoza family, who were by now gathered for the landing. I carved a baseleg to final turn and leveled the wings over the centerline of the strip. I flew down to two feet and slowed, one foot and slowed some more, one inch and I pushed!

Remember the sound of fingernails on a blackboard? That’s the sound my harness and wheels make when I touch down. For this particular landing, everything seemed slow motion, and the wheels did not touch until I had skidded some few yards on the harness. Then the wheels touched and I skidded to a complete stop for a moment... then the stinger dropped. This landing was as dignified as you might ever get, if you’re landing like a fish. Groucho meet me there on the runway, very happy to see me.

I don’t like to get carried away with writing about flying; that takes a special talent. But this is a flying journal, after all…

Sunday, January 6, and I blew it today. Half a dozen stinkin’ bags flew around the Volcan de Fuego, rumour has it that someone landed in Ciudad Guzman which would be a great flight! Meanwhile, I waited too long and I don’t think I saw even 3,500’.

I blew it. I watched the bags climb out in a bitchin’ thermal, and I sat around waiting for it to get better. I never did. By the time I flew, it was only 1:40PM, there were no thermals to speak of, only wind. You could have stayed at the ridge and flown ‘till dark, but I left in disgust after an hour.

Actually, when I left, I told myself it would get better over the flats. But no... the bags but me to shame today.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Colima flyers went to Cerro Grande and climbed to 9,000’. Some days it’s watermelon, some days it’s the pits. I dropped my glider off with Clemente this afternoon, so I can catch a ride with the baggers maņana. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em!

My student Rob gave me a fascinating history of Mexico by T.R. Feherenbach that I have been enjoying immensely. The author starts his narrative with the pre-Azteca peoples whom he calls AmerIndians, and has taken me thus far through the rein of several Aztec kings, the arrival of Hernan Cortez and his band of stinking thieves, through the Conquest of New Spain, and now, several hundreds of years later, into the Mexican Revolution. Along the way I have met the likes of the indio peasant Juan Diego, whose vision of a beautiful Aztec Princess has become the legend of the Virgin of Guadalupe, of a poor parish priest named Jose Maria Morelos who became a brilliant tactician and a Hero of the Revolution, of Vicente Guerrero for whom another State is named, and who is said to be the only Mexican President who left the office as a poorer man than when he was elected, of Nicholas Bravo, whose bronze likeness I have often admired stands in the Jardine of Valle de Bravo, and many other colorful characters whose often wicked ways are now cast in Mexican history. I am at page 343, the start of chapter 12: TREASONS and there is another 300 pages to go. I am in no hurry to finish.

Thanks, Rob!

Wednesday and Thursday, January 9 & 10, 2002 were both good days for flying. This news is surprising because both days were hazy, and this morning dawned so hazy I didn’t get out of bed until 9AM. Wednesday I launched a little early- about 2PM and took the first thermal above launch where it petered-out. I squirted out the side of the hill towards home knowing I’d need another to get there. I hadn’t glided more that a minute when, bingo!, there it was. I took it to 6,100’ and it was drifting straight for the volcano, about fifteen miles distant. One of these days I must get brave and head there. But the airfield looks so inviting, as compared to some distant unknown, that I chicken out, with pleasure.

Then today, Thursday, I couldn’t even believe how easy it was to sky out. I took the first thermal to just over six grand. It was bitchin’!

I have been riding up the hill with Esteban’s brother Enrique Zaragoza. Enrique drives a Toyota 4X4 pickup that has no second gear. It’s an automatic, it has a great first and third gear, but no second. I ask him when he will get a second gear, and he just shrugs.

Dave David and Pedro Guarda-Espalda have returned to Colima. I found David’s truck parked in the Jardin de la Libertad and I found Pedro wandering the Jardine de Nuņez. They have stories to tell themselves, about how there was no Rainbow Gathering after all, how they traveled up to Patzcuaro and froze their asses off one night, and that David has found a rancho he wants to buy on Lago Chapala. David’s puppy has shed his cast and seems healthy. I am glad they’ve returned, to now have some constant flying companions.

Today, January 11 brought a sharp change in the weather. We should have been at launch around noon to catch the best thermals, but one plan after another for getting up there failed and it was only because Enrique showed about 12:45 that we made it there at all. Enrique seems quite happy to haul us up to launch and watch us bail.

Anyway, as I was setting up a few parabags launched and a couple of them got quite high out front. But a line of clouds and overcast was approaching, so I hurried to get off. I carried my wing up to launch where there was a gaggle of bagsters standing around with bags in hand. There was lots of wind and another bagger was trying to launch and getting thrown around launch and rolling around in the dirt in a most undignified manner. I didn’t realize that he was Pedro, until he got thrown off to the side of launch, creating an opening just roomy enough that I could sneak in myself. In the interest of good launch manners I inquired if anyone minded if I cut the line and no one spoke up, so I moved to launch.

That was when Pedro spoke up: "Ole", he said "Will you be launching straight away?"

I replied with three giant steps and PUNCHED! My launches are getting better, like the old days, and my last step was unnecessary.

Well... the bags got blown out and I had the ridge all to myself. The clouds moved in and shut down all the heating, yet there was instability in the air and so I boated around the sky for an hour, working marginal thermals and getting higher in ridge-lift that I ever have at La Cumbre. It was a blast.

Meanwhile, David sat on launch where he says the wind picked up to 25-30 mph, a number I find hard to believe. A 25 mph wind would have pinned me to the ridge, yet I had no trouble boating around. Finally, David had some help from Enrique and a bagger and he punched off. Then there were two of us boating.

There was a beautiful line of clouds above us, and behind the ridge was bright sunshine, but out in front was all shade. I thought sure we would slowly climb up to the clouds at around six grand, which would make for an easy glide home, but it never happened. We would get to around 3,500’ but by then the thermal would have drifted so far behind the ridge that it was time to head back, or cross the point of no-return. I was too chicken to do that.

Finally, with 3,800’, I headed out the side of the hill, gliding for La Caseta, which is less that half the way home. I’m gliding for La Caseta and I’m keeping an eye on my altimeter and I’m losing very little altitude. I’m gliding and looking beyond La Caseta and by the time I’m halfway there I forget about it, don’t even glance at it anymore, aiming now for the near end of the runway. I figure I can land there, about a kilometer from my camp, but I’m getting an incredible glide. If I fly on the edge of stall I even get an occasional bleep from my variometer.

Soon it becomes obvious that I can make it safely home on a glide, so I point for the far end of the runway, and pull overhead with a grand to spare. YAHOO!

This place is awesome! David ground-loops behind me.

By the time we sit down to lunch at the picnic table there is a very strong wind, about 150 degrees from the normal wind, and the sky is all gray. It looks like it might even rain but it doesn’t. Not anyway, until I wake up the next morning to find a few raindrops on my windshield. Very strange!

The streets and jardines of Colima come alive after sundown. There are people everywhere, out to enjoy the evening. To drive slowly down Aveneda Rey Coliman, a narrow street lined by retail shops, is to drift back in time to the 1960’s America, before the mall took over. There are shoppers and strollers everywhere. They all seem to enjoy themselves. There are musicians everywhere too, playing everything from Jungle Congo to Mexican polkas to Latino beat to rock ‘n roll. We went into town last night and there was a concert going on in the Jardine de la Libertad. A quite large ensemble was perched up on the cupola, brass and strings and percussion. A couple hundred chairs had been arranged for listeners, but many of them were empty as the listeners were dancing in the streets. People of all shapes and sizes, young and old, were all shaking their booties. I passed an old granny who seemed to be dancing alone, and who had a most ecstatic look on her face.

Pedro insisted we stop at Cafe Una, Dos, Tres, a jazz club. We sat down and immediately an old black man who looked like he could be from Chicago sat down next to us and began blowing on a saxophone. Two fetching young and haughty black girls offered us menus. We listened to the saxman for a while and when he broke momentarily I told him he had a Chicago or New Orleans sound- not Colima- and I asked him how he came to Colima.

He set his sax aside and told me a story of just happening to pass through Colima in 1985, and he’s been here ever since. Raising up his comely flock. I never saw his wife- he told me she was the pianista- she must be a beautiful woman, judging by her progeny.

I thought Cafe Una, Dos, Tres was a catchy name, like the jazz, man- a one, a two, a one two three... Then I noticed the address on the menu and realized the name was more clever than at first glance; Cafe Una, Dos, Tres is located at 123 Calle Corrigedor.

Cool, man!

Sunday January 13, 2002

We did not fly yesterday due to lack of interest. I was interested, but no one else was. The day dawned very gray and still and did not hold much promise of thermals. But around 2PM some holes appeared and some wind came up and it looked wild up in the Blue Yonder, for a few hours. My interest was fun-based of course, but also because I’d like to know everything about La Cumbre, should I bring gringos here, as a guide like I used to. I miss that lifestyle.

They say it doesn’t rain in the tropics in Mexico during the dry season, so we were surprised by a few raindrops and a little drizzle. Then, last night, the Heavens opened wide and it dumped. Groucho and I were snug and dry in the camper, but I couldn’t believe how it just rained harder and harder. It rained as hard as any rain I’ve ever witnessed.

This morning my first thought was for my awning, which is quite weak from sun exposure. I jumped out of bed to knock off the water, but the awning is torn to shreds and hanging. I should have lowered a corner to give the water a place to run off, but I didn’t. It’s a goner...

I was thinking of having a new piece of cloth sewn up, figuring it will be cheaper here. Looks like another cultural and financial exchange in the making.

Monday, January 14 the sky cleared and revealed that the Nevado is living up to it’s name (Snowy). The Volcan de Fuego is also brilliant with a covering of snow that reaches down to maybe 7,000’. Most of the Colimenses here are suffering from the cold- a cold that would be typical of the finest summer morning ever on record back home in Arlington, Washington.

We get rolling for launch around 12 noon, and get set up in time to see a small squall line moving in off the sea. The air is so clear that we can see the ocean from launch quite clearly, something I’ve only seen from altitude in years past. There are thermal cycles which look quite strong, but it is early yet so we wait to see what will happen. What happens is that the small squall expands and gets so big it shuts down all heating in the valley below, and actually rains all over the city. It blows too, but not so hard the birds aren’t flying. It looks pretty good actually, except for the rain.

By the time the squall moves on the air has become absolutely still; you couldn’t punch off even if you were desperate, but when finally there is some sun breaking through below it is as though someone flipped a switch on a fan, and the thermal cycles return.

I run off first in what looks like a strong cycle, but it is only top-side. Maybe I got five minutes, landing below in the tiny village of Piscila. David gets off about a half-hour later, and things have improved at La Cumbre, he gets about an hour, gliding out to La Caseta. Pedro tries to inflate his bag two or three times, but decides it is too rowdy and so he bags his bag.

We get back in time to visit Mariscos Chano for a fine repast of giant shrimp wrapped in bacon, and a few cervesas. Then we sit around the airfield with the Zaragoza family, and get pleasantly drunk on Cuba Libres. They insisted they were drinking rum only to stay warm.

January 18, 2002 We have had two strange days of flying, one acceptable and one where we blew it and pianoed to the village of Piscila.

On Wednesday I launched at 2PM and sunk maybe half-way to the first thermal. It was a bullet that required an extreme bank-angle but that yielded a couple thousand feet. Meanwhile Pedro got off behind me and sunk out to the river valley. Then David launched and we both hooked a ride to about 3,800’. This put us only 1,500’ above the Virgen. (I might point out now that the flying site La Cumbre is topped by an onion-dome cathedral with a statute of the Virgen de Guadalupe, who is beckoning to the distant Volcan de Fuego, the hope I guess is that the volcano does not explode and vaporize her).

Anyway, I bailed with 3,800’ and started gliding for La Caseta, the half-way point for home. David stuck around, last I saw him he was sinking back to launch. I didn’t find anything on the way out, but I was gliding OK. I set sail for the near end of the runway, figuring if I landed there I could breakdown at that end and walk home for a ride. There are some nice-looking fields along the way for bail-outs. But getting closer to the near end it started looking likely I could drift downwind and fly right up the strip, which is what I did. I made it home in about 25 minutes of flight- short yes, but happy too.

There was no one here when I arrived, not even the dogs, since the whole Zaragoza family had driven us to launch, and we took the dogs. They all say that when I launch Groucho stands at the edge and watches my progress. Then, when it’s time to go he jumps readily back in the truck with everyone else.

David hung on the ridge for another hour and a half while the wind picked up. When the wind blows here you can soar the ridge for hours, but never get very high- the thermals are torn apart, ratty and drifting very fast. But with the same altitude as the Virgen you glide out to La Caseta, which is what he did.

La Caseta, by the way, is a police outpost. The proper name would be La Caseta de Vigilancia. I guess each road that leaves Colima has a guard station. I suppose if someone does some nasty deed, they can quickly block the exits. The cops down here seem genuinely friendly, to gringos. Perhaps because we are so few.

Then, yesterday, only Pedro and I flew. I launched at 2PM again, and sunk rapidly to the valley floor from Hell. It was so dang hot down there, and I was covered with sweat just from taking off my harness. The Big Swede launched a few minutes behind me and had no better luck with his parabag. The only help I had getting my wing out of the field, a walk of several hundred yards, was a tiny Mexican boy of nine years, Jorge. Jorge was tiny yes, but willing too. I shouldered my harness bag, then set the light end of the glider atop Jorge’s head. I then lifted the bulk of the wing on my own head and we began to march. We were forced to dismount the wing twice to get through two cow gates out to the road. By then the gringo was drenched in perspiration, to the point where the salty sweat was stinging my eyes. I would have died of heat stroke if Jorge had not dragged me to the tienda where we downed a frosty refresco.

It was a nightmare which I hope not to repeat not just for the ordeal, but because the best field in Piscila is covered quite densely with cowpies. Cowpies are one thing when you land on your feet; step in cowpie, Oh well! But when you land on your chest, as I do, they become quite another indignity altogether, one that only luck can avoid.

Perhaps I should appeal to the Virgen de Guadalude to deliver me from cowpies.

Saturday, January 19 was just so friggin’ hot there was no interest in flying. The sky remains very hazy, we can barely see the volcano. But I have an internet connection here now, so I spent the day trying to dig up some work, and may have found it; there’s a new Cosmos owner in Tucson who just might need my services. Let’s hope!

Sunday we flew. We arrived at launch at 1:30 and the wind was already blowing. This is good news if you’re happy to boat-around the ridge all afternoon, but lousy news if you hope to get high and fly to town.

I flew anyway and I didn’t make it to town. I landed in the same field-from-Hell as the last time, at La Caseta. But I had fun and about half way into the flight some clouds popped at the far end of the ridge. One of the locals was getting higher that the rest of us there, but I couldn’t touch him, nohow. The clouds were a surprise and I dashed over there, to a place they call la liquidora, that is to say: the blender, and I caught some rowdy air. I climbed there as high as I got all afternoon and then headed out.

When I made La Caseta there was strong laminar wind and I floated straight down, hardly any flare at all, and landed on my feet. Team Colima had already landed, all except Gerardo, whom I watched land. The field was just as bad for breaking down as any other time I’ve been there, and I don’t understand why they chose that field, but I went there because they were my ride home.

I am hoping for a change in the weather, back to some light winds and high thermals. As we were breaking down more cumulus clouds appeared and it looked to get much better suddenly. The whole sky popped full of clouds as we sat on the ground drinking a beer. If things don’t improve soon, I’m out of here. Maybe we should be flying Cerro Grande all these days, I dunno...

Walter had Circling disease all right, that much was diagnosed more than twenty years ago. Even after years of treatment the prognosis was still the same: acute Circling disease, possibly terminal. The only winter time therapy thus far known to man, or to this man anyway, was to drive deep into Mexico, find a cliff somewhere, and jump off. You see what they mean by ‘terminal’. This sort of activity was just plain dangerous, even for a young man. But Walter was a beat-up old glidehead, who just didn’t have the sense enough to stand around on the ground, and figure his circles were up. Nope, the only possible cure, or even temporary treatment, was lots of circles.

He picked up the wing and steadied it in the breeze. A bead of sweat dripped off his brow onto his glasses and dribbled down the inside of them. A gust lifted one wing a little and he had to set it down. The thermal seemed to be building however, so he picked it right back up, level now. He saw the streamer below line up with his nose and felt the wing suddenly lighten... it tugged gently forward... wanted to fly... Walter took three giant steps towards the edge... held the nose down... and shoved off with his toe. The glider cut a clean arch away from the hill. Time for some therapy!

The Mexican had popped his head over the wing as Walter was stuffing battens. He grinned at Walter and said "Usted va a volar?" It wasn’t the brightest of questions under normal circumstances, but one that could not now be answered with a straight "yes" or "no". How to explain to someone who’s probably never seen a hang glider, never met anyone with acute Circling disease? Who sees you stuffing battens into a funny-looking orange wing and figures he’s here just in time to see you jump? How to explain? Especially in a foreign tongue.

"Yes", was not a certainty. In fact, if the conditions didn’t look any better than the last attempt just yesterday, then maybe "no" was more certain. Walter had no desire to repeat yesterday’s performance of sinking out into the Hell of the valley below, with hardly a circle to speak of. Meanwhile, a few parabags had launched ahead of the gringo and skyed-out! Nope. The glider could be put BACK in the bag.

Instead, he changed the subject: "Veniste a pie?" he asked. ‘Did you walk here?"

The Mexican nodded and grinned some more. This, in spite of the fact that he had just climbed a steep mountain trail up a thousand vertical feet at least, in blazing sun and heat, without so much as a bottle of water in evidence. Or a drop of sweat. And dressed in a flannel shirt and trousers and boots like a logger; he looked fresh even. How do they do it? Walter was bathed in sweat, even though he was setting up in the shade cast by the Virgen de Guadalupe, just spreading wings and stuffing battens and pulling tension was all it took in the tropical heat . "Si, seņor." said the Mexican, and then asked again, "Va a volar usted?"

Walter figured he owed the guy a straight answer, the only question was: which one? So, he said, "Tal vez." Maybe. There might have been a touch of desperation in his voice but of course, the Mexican couldn’t know that. Walter was indeed desperate to fly, the flying had sucked for three stinkin’ days now. Very high pressure. Circles were desperately needed. No less than a hundred circles would do, the higher the better...

He turned his attention to the wing, not to be anti-social or even unfriendly to the Mexican, just because it was so damned hot, hotter that Hades, you just had to keep moving, get set up, and get off. There was no energy for polite small talk. But the Mexican seemed satisfied with a "maybe" and disappeared around the corner of the ‘catedral’. The gringo put the finishing touches on the wing and took a gulp of water. Gotta stay liquidated...

Soon, in spite of the conditions, Walter’s glider was all set up and waiting, the flight-deck was mounted to the base tube and the harness was laid out at the ready. Nothing now but to check the conditions at launch. He rounded the corner of the cathedral and hobbled over to launch, trying not to limp too obviously. The flags at launch hung depressingly flat, moved now and then by a stray puff, but very inconsistent. As Walter watched a very weak cycle came up the hill and stood them up for a few seconds. The cycle provided no relief from the heat however, in fact launch was a fiery hell, hotter than blazes.

Below, a few paragliders set up approaches to the fields in the valley. Walter had no desire to join them. He turned disgustedly away from launch, cursing the high pressure, and sought some shade. As he did there was a call from above. "HowEEEE!" he heard. He looked up to the Virgen standing atop the cathedral standing atop the summit, and there was the Mexican. He had scaled to the roof of the church, climbed the onion-dome itself, and then crawled up the Virgen’s gown and poked his head out a window. "YahOOO!" he hollered again. He grinned down on the gringo from fifty feet above, and threw out his arms as though to fly. "Vas a volar?", he cried from his lofty perch. Directly above his head a small windsock on an antenna luffed in the smothering heat. "Brincate!" he urged. JUMP!

Walter reached the shade and took a load off. He plunked his fanny down in the deepest part of the shade there atop La Cumbre, and tried to make a decision. Fly? Bag it? Let’s NOT and say we DID? He looked at his watch: 1:45. I’ll give it thirty minutes, then take a look, he determined. That was the most commitment he could give the day. The temptation was to bag it, but that would mean four days without circling therapy. Bad.

A thermal rustled through launch. He heard it whistling through the windows of the cathedral and around the concrete figure of the Virgen. It was enough to coax the gringo out from under his rock and back to launch for a moment. This was no thermal to write home about, but it WAS a cycle. Walter watched it straighten-up the streamers for a moment and checked his watch again: 2:07. Eight minutes until decision time. He walked back to his wing and there was the Mexican again. He had descended from his heavenly perch, to walk the earth like other sensible people. He spread his arms like silly wings however, and flapped them like a bird. He swooped and swirled a hand and made flying sounds. "Uuuhhhooo!" he said. "Como lo siente seņor?" How does it feel? "Para que esperas?" What are you waiting for? "Brincate!"

"Fudge!" muttered Walter. "Shoot!" He stood and began suiting-up, which was not a lengthy process in this heat; a sweatshirt and light gloves were the whole flying get-up. He pulled the harness over his head and sweat flowed over his glasses, effectively blinding him. Sunscreen flowed into his eyes, making them sting. He took off his glasses and wiped them clean with a shirttail. He wiped the slop off his face. He hobbled over to the wing and clipped in. He pulled the helmet over his head and put on the glasses- first his readers, then sunglasses. For better or worse- he was ready. He shouldered the glider and moved to launch. The Mexican hovered nearby. "Brincate!" he yelled.

Walter had waited on the cycle and was rewarded with seven circles. Seven circles took him to about three hundred feet. Not nearly enough therapy. He began to sink however, and was forced to point the glider towards the hellish valley below. He glided out and begged the SkyGods for any little morsel of lift to circle in. "I promise!" he prayed, "I promise I’ll stick with it like glue! I won’t leave until I top-out! I promise!"

Walter sunk. Then he sunk some more. He followed the nose out from launch and felt tears of anxiety well up behind his glasses. The valley was only a turn away, when the glider stopped sinking. Walter checked his altitude and made a hesitant circle. He completed the circle and checked his altitude again; he had lost three feet. He made another circle and lost another three feet. He adjusted the circle a bit this time, moving slightly away from the valley. His vario sung to life with a sweet beeping and he re-checked his altitude; he had gained three feet. He circled. More beeps. He was climbing, however painfully slowly; he was climbing. And circling. And feeling good...

The thermal came to life and moments later he was back at launch-level. He could see the Mexican standing there, at launch, exhorting him, with what words Walter could not tell. He circled some more and the Mexican got smaller. The radio towers swung past on the way up, now to 2,500’, now 2,600’. Now the lift turned on. Walter circled, feeling much better with each turn. He was well above the Virgen now, and climbing... circling... the Mexican looked like a tiny ant below. Circling and drifting, the glider crested La Cumbre and the lift became solid. Occasional glances at the altimeter showed steady results. 3,000’, then 3,500’. At 4,000’ it suddenly shut off. About twenty circles.

Craving more, Walter pointed the glider out the side of the ridge towards home. He slowed once for a false-alarm and continued gliding, gliding, sinking towards the fields at La Caseta. Not La Caseta! A worse place to bag the glider could not be imagined! Not La Caseta!

More than half-way there the vario beeped into life again. Just a marginal thermal coming up out of a canyon below, but large enough to circle in. Walter circled. And prayed. "Please God! Anything! Just give me another grand! I’ll take ANYTHING!" On the next circle the vario beeped encouragingly all the way around. The net gain was better than fifty feet. Walter circled. A red-tail hawk jumped into the thermal below, and then a whole family of buzzards joined in. Suddenly, Walter had a gaggle, and everyone was getting good therapy. Walter grinned. He drooled a little. He circled some more and hit pay-dirt. On the way up he shouted for joy. "I feel GREAT!"

Several hundred circles later, having climbed to 7,000’ and flown home to a gentle landing, Walter felt complete, yet again.

January 24, 2002 We’ve had some disappointing flying lately- very high pressure, not a cloud to be seen overhead, windy at times. By windy I don’t mean scary windy, just breezy enough to tear apart the thermals. When it blows around here, it really sucks. Have I mentioned that? You can soar all afternoon, you just won’t get far.

Yesterday Pedro and I flew. Pedro got high and I stunk-out. Today, Pedro stunk and I skyed. Luck plays a big part when your site is only about a thousand feet high- you’ve got about two minutes to find the thermal or you stink. Literally. By the time you bag yer wagon and drag it out of the field and tie it on the truck and ride home, you stink. You need some fresh water, some fresh clothes.

You gotta be willing to take the bad with the good in this sport, or you’ll soon give up.

Saturday January 25, 2002 I was thinking of pulling out of here and heading slowly north, at least as far as my trike. The flying was kinda lousy, very high pressure. Then I have two good flights and decide to stay a little longer. That’s all it takes to make this gringo feliz.

Dave David is going through a spate of bad luck. First, his truck has caused him lots of trouble. The rear-end went out while traveling and he had to have it replaced. They fixed that only to discover he had no compression in three cylinders and needed a ring job. They fixed that and then someone stole his dog, an Australian Shepherd, or maybe the critter ran off- we don’t know- only that we haven’t seen the little guy in five days now. David has rode all over town on his scooter asking people, and has put up posters and been miserable as a result. Meanwhile, he got word from home that the caretakers he left at his rancho in Oregon just up and left. They left the horses the dogs and the cats. His best buddy there went over and fed the critters and drained the pipes and shut down all systems, but he’s in a quandary. So yesterday he finally decides to go flying for the first time since he last saw his dog and he maybe gets five minutes. A straight piano to Piscila.

I felt badly for him as I climbed to 5,500’ and flew home.

He had an appointment with a Realtor in the Zocalo, so we jumped in his truck to drive the short distance, but the truck wouldn’t make it there. We had to abandon it alongside the road, and take a taxi. If it ain’t one thing, it’s another. I’m glad I’m not driving David’s truck, this far south and unsure of it.

I haven’t noticed much of a change in the weather, but the flying sure has picked up. Or maybe it hasn’t? Maybe there’s just so much luck involved in skying-out here, and I’ve been lucky these past two days, I dunno. The mornings have been a little cooler, that’s about all I’ve noticed. It has been great fun- the thermals are always very marginal at the bottom end; you’ve really gotta work for your first few hundred. Then they get nice and fat and strong for a few thousand, then get marginal again at the top. I guess I’ll give it another week

Sunday, January 26 So we went flying yesterday and it turned into about the best day I’ve ever had here. Driving up the hill I noticed the tiniest cumulous cloud I’ve ever seen. But it was obviously a cummie, the top of a vapor dome, and it was over the ridge at La Cumbre, which is often the last place we see clouds.

By the time we got to launch there was no doubt- cummies over the ridge! Nice looking cottonballs, even if they were at the far end. I got set-up in a big hurry and went to launch to check conditions. Since there were no signs of wind and it was a bit early yet, I decided to wait a while. Finally a NICE cycle blew through, so I went to get suited-up.

I carried the glider out to launch and it was DEAD. I mean- the flags and bushes were still, and the air was motionless. I think I felt a little puff DOWN.

But then here comes the next cycle so I launched, immediately climbing above, though not much. The air was ‘boaty’, with none of the desperate feeling that is the norm at La Cumbre. There was just big marginal fat lift everywhere in front of launch.

A couple other gliders launched and we all boated around for a few minutes, then I dialed into the house-thermal and began a climb to 7,100’ MSL. Meanwhile, I left the other glideheads struggling in the bowl, until they were tiny ants beneath me. What a great sensation!

I never did make it to cloudbase. The clouds looked to be 10,000’ anyway, and were forming nicely, and I thought sure I’d get seriously cold. Dave David claims to have been at cloudbase at 7,000’.

Mande?

It’s actually chilly here the next morning as I write this. I think this is good news for today, because it’s looking like another scorcher. Should make for a good lapse-rate. Wish us luck!

I got really high this afternoon and I’m really drunk now. We got ‘toped’.

Don’t get me wrong: the drug this afternoon was adrenaline. Tonight I’m drunk on rum, at the insistence of the many Zaragoza brothers. There are eight of them.

We went to Cerro Grande to fly. This is a site just out of town that the locals are very fond of. The locals, Team Colima, all fly on Sundays. The rest of the week you’re not likely to see them. Anyway, this morning the family from Cafe Una, Dos, Tres showed up to come flying with us. They have become quite fond of David and Pedro.

Unhappily, David’s luck continues in a downward spiral. We loaded up and David and Pedro traveled with the family- Mom was doing the driving. The plan was that we would stop at Clemente’s little store and stock up on beverages. As we pulled into the shaded street where Clemente has his store we came upon the tope. Remember the topes? Well... apparently David had distracted Mom- so says Pedro anyway, that it was all David’s fault- saying something like "Lookee there!" and Mom took her eyes off the street for a moment and rear-ended us as we stopped for the tope.

We were toped.

We all got out of the vehicles and assessed the damage: Enrique, our driver, lost a little paint from his tailgate, about which he does not worry. The gliders slid just over the hood of Mom’s car, no damage there, but the van Mom was driving took the brunt. The impact buckled the hood quite badly.

Well, we bought sodapops and water and continued on, this time keeping greater distance between us. We traveled out of town and off the highway for Cerro Grande, but when Mom saw the road up the hill I guess she balked. In fact, she refused to go any further, and this I don’t understand. What was she thinking? That we would drive DOWN somewhere to jump off a cliff? Mom has been to La Cumbre and the road is no worse. The road to Cerro Grande, in fact, is fine. Instead, they decide to go swimming at a river. But Enrique and I don’t know this. We continue with Plan A, which was: launch.

This does not make Pedro happy. We all chipped in $200 (pesos) for the ride, and now Pedro’s paraglider was headed to launch with me, but he wasn’t. Enrique and I also had David’s glider. But they never showed.

So... Enrique and I get to launch and there is Team Colima. Everyone’s all set up and they are at least an hour early. This is probably the only time when you’ll find Mexicans showing up early.

I get set up and it’s HOT. There is no shade at launch on Cerro Grande and the sun is baking the slope. The only shade that can be produced is under your wing. So I set up and hide under my wing until 2:30. By then the cycles look pretty promising, so I bail. I’m the first off...

Launch at Cerro Grande is about the same altitude as La Cumbre, with about the same vertical drop, but it’s a cliff and there’s another grand or two of mountain above: you launch half-way up. So, the thermals get plenty of reach to build up strength. I started climbing right there in front of launch, when Benigno took off. We worked the same thermal for a while and then I watched Benigno head for the peak and then he was GONE. I was forced to bank the glider way up and crane my neck and there he was, about two grand above me! Holy heck I couldn’t believe how fast he climbed! I figured that was the place to go though, so I pointed my wing toward the peak and HUNG ON!

At the top of Cerro Grande you have many thermals all converging and it can be STRONG. Today was STRONG. Before long I was banked-up and pitched-up and the vario was screaming, making noises I don’t believe I’ve ever heard! I squirted up to find Benigno, and we were at 8,900’ MSL.

That’s higher than I’ve been since I got here.

Benigno pulled his string and headed out. I don’t have a string, so I just headed out, too. I set sail for Rancho Zaragoza, which is a LONG way off, and I didn’t make it. I went from altitude to the ground without so much as a bleep from my vario. I kept aiming for the airfield and almost made it, but I stopped over a friendly-looking field and made an approach.

I bagged my wagon and hid it in the bushes- there was nobody around- not even a single niņo, which is strange in Mexico. The kids always come a running. But not today, not to this field. There were some vacas and some toros. And one lone gringo: myself.

Well, I had made my final approach over a housing development. So I stashed the glider and threw everything I could carry over the fence into the next field and went looking for a taxi. I walked down a shady lane to the houses and noticed a man working on his truck. His head was under the hood and the truck radio was playing a Mexican polka. I must have startled him with my greeting, because he dropped his wrench and knocked over a chilled cervesa. "Buenos tardes seņor." I said. The seņor was temporarily speechless at being confronted by a gringo out back of La Hoya I guess, because he only grunted and looked me over suspiciously. He may have been confused by my gearbag and my sweaty countenance. Maybe my wheels threw him a little too; they look like nothing so much as a set of barbell weights. So I continued. "Como se llama este lugar seņor?" What’s this place called?

"Mande?" he replied. This is Mexican slang for ‘huh’? Now he looked me over from head to toe. He glanced over my shoulder, to see if there were more gringos.

"Como se llama este lugar." I inquired again.

"La Joya." he said. The Jewel.

"La Joya." I repeated, to make sure I had it right. It was not a jewel of a place. "Y donde esta la salida?", I asked. And how do I get out of here?

Now he grinned a little, probably relieved to figure out that what he was seeing was just a lost gringo. But where had he come from? There’s nothing behind La Joya but desert and cow pastures. The sky? They just dropping in these days? The seņor pointed me in the right direction and I departed. "Gracias seņor." I said, and left him standing there to wonder about the wandering gringo.  I was hoping he'd offer me a chilly cervesa, bacause I was parched, but the usual Mexican hospitality was not there...

Meanwhile, back at Rancho Zaragoza, Enrique was explaining to all his family that his gringo (me) had just disappeared into the Wild Blue, when I pulled up in a taxi. We went together in Enrique's truck and fetched the wing from La Joya and that was how I came to be back at the Rancho, getting drunk with the Zaragoza brothers.

About that time along came Pedro. Pedro was in a foul mood. He had thrown away 66 pesos, about $7 US, and went swimming. I guess that from their position at the lake they could watch us launch, and sky out.

Esteban Zaragoza, our host here says to me, "Oye Ole, no quieres un ron"? Hey Ole, don’t you want some rum? Now, you CAN’T just say "No" in that situation, at least not all the time, unless maybe you confess that you’re a follower of the Twelve Steps. Perhaps I should have offered that excuse. Dumbly, I said "Si, como no.", figuring I could get away with one drink, and be done. That was when Esteban pointed out that they were all pitching-in on a bottle, and my share would be 50 pesos (about six dollars).

So we juntar the dinero and Esteban sends Tonio to the liquor store. He asked me if I had any music for the boom box. I came back with a CD my sister left: Greatest Hits of the ‘70s. Esteban’s brother Rafa goes wild when he hears Credence singing Born on the Bayou. He starts dancing and grabbing me in amistad and singing, even though he has not the slightest idea about the words. He explains to me that it doesn’t matter he doesn’t understand the words. He knows the beat. He knows the ritmo.

When a very large bottle of rum shows up, we are forced to drink it all.

Monday January 28 Pedro was a no-show today. We don’t even know where he is, but we guess he’s OK. He’s a big Swede after all. Maybe he’s had a better offer. But it’s the first morning we haven’t at least seen him. Pedro has decided that he can economize by becoming a ‘callejero’, and living on the streets. He will avoid paying Esteban Zaragoza 50 pesos a day.

So... David and I load up on Enrique’s truck and head to launch.

The day looks early, at least there was a strong cycle when we first arrive, so we quick set-up. I’m first off as usual, but I have to wait for the cycle and I timed it just perfectly. I’m happy to say that I ain’t lost my touch. I climb to four grand, which is NOT high, but I climb nonetheless. I’m sinking as David takes off and I watch him piano.

I’m gliding out too when I catch a little bullet that takes me to 5,400’ and an easy glide home, for yet another successful day. I’m on a roll!

"Piano", but the way, means the same thing in Spanish that is does in English of course. One definition that you probably won’t find in a Funk and Wagnells is : a heavy object. But we would all agree that a piano is definitely a heavy object, right? So the Mexicans have come to describe a flight which results in sinking to the fields below as a ‘piano’.

"Que pasa con Pedro?" What happened to Pedro?

"Se piano!" He pianoed. This is the ONLY case I have heard of were ‘piano’ is used as a verb.

In fact, they even call the field where you would land after such a failure the ‘piano’.

"Donde esta Pedro?" Where is Pedro?

"Cabron esta en el piano." The goat’s in the piano.

February 1, 2002 We have taken two days off. I don’t really know why. I guess Pedro is actively pressing one of the daughters at Cafe Uno, Dos, Tres. Dave David has been looking for a rancho, and his dog. I have been huevon.

"Huevo" is another of those interesting words you hear in Mexico, which has numerous meanings, not all of which will be found in just any dictionary. You’ll need a dictionary of slang to understand it fully, something I don’t have. Huevo- in the dictionary anyway- means egg. But Huevos is slang for: testicles. "Tiene huevos." could mean "He has eggs." But more likely, he has done something brave and "He has balls." But change the last letter: "Tiene hueva." and it means: "He is lazy." Also: "Huevon." The way it was explained to me is that if someone is "Huevon" or if "Tiene hueva." this means that his balls have grown so large that the subject is unable to move under their weight. Lazy.

Oddly enough- even women could be ‘huevon’. This means she is lazy.

So, I have been huevon for two days. Done pretty much nothing but sit around and read. I finished my Mexican history book, which took me right up to the assassination of Luis Donaldo Colosio, the ‘next President’, who was gunned-down in the streets of Tijuana in about 1997.

But yesterday we went flying, even though the day did not look good. Then- turns out it was. The day was quite hazy and we could see from launch the wind pushing in from the coast and bringing lots of moisture. It was windy too which, if you’ve been following this report, usually means lousy flying. But we went anyway, and Pedro jumped first and I was right on his heels. We pealed together into the first thermal, climbing right away, and watched from above as David launched.

We worked that thermal back as far as we dared and Pedro stayed above me, but just a hundred feet or so. On the next thermal I managed to out-climb Pedro and split out the end of the ridge, just above him.

Meanwhile, David was sinking badly and so he headed for the bowl again.

Pedro and I glided for home, and I took the lead, above and beyond him. I found my thermal again at La Caseta, I’ve come to think of it as ‘mine’, and started working. Pedro noticed me circling and came in underneath. He had La Caseta made but home was a long glide.  The thermal carried me to 5,400’ and gave Pedro a rise too. We both flew home, I got there high.

David struggled in the bowl and finally dug it out to land at La Caseta.

So... even a lousy day at La Cumbre can be a good one!

Today, I will make chicken and dumplings for the Zaragoza clan. I have just returned from the mercado where they sell caldo de pollo at 20 pesos per serving. Since I wanted ten servings, I was able to bargain down to 120 pesos. But I also had to purchase a container to bring it home in: another 15 pesos.

Caldo de pollo is like a consume’, with lots of bird. So, I needed vegetables too. I collected papas, zanahoria, cebolla, apio and brocali: another 20 pesos. I’m into chicken and dumplings for ten for 155 pesos, about $17. This does not include the dumplings, because I already own a box of Bisquick, nor does it include the cab fare to the market and back.

The Zaragozas seem quite impressed that their gringo knows how to cook.

They are also amazed that I have no children, a fact that they seem unable to comprehend. Large families are the norm here- Esteban Zaragoza has eight brothers and six sisters. I am often asked where are my children, if maybe they have all grown and left the nest, and when I reply that I have no children at all, this statement is met with disbelief, as though maybe I’m lying. As though maybe I have indeed a number of children, and don’t know it. Or refuse to acknowledge them.

Sometimes I think the reaction is due to other opinions. How can you be a man without lots of niņos? Maybe the gringo is not a man, in the ‘macho’ sense of the word, after all?

Yesterday, I sat around with the Zaragoza brothers while a friend of theirs whom they hadn’t seen in a while told of his exploits, conquests and dilemmas with women. He spoke quite rapidly, so I did not catch it all, but the brothers all listened with rapt attention. The amigo described his women in detail. Later, he asked my about MY children.

"Yo no tengo niņos seņor." I replied. He looked at me as though there were a tarantula crawling across my head and exclaimed with disbelief.

"Ninguna!?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Ninguna, seņor."

Well... it seems this seņor has had six wives. He counts sixty-five niņos (mas o menos). I don’t recall how many grandchildren he said. There were great-grandchildren too. He seemed very pleased with himself.

Does he have a college fund for them?

Pedro and I went to La Cumbre. The day looked shitty, and was slightly better than that. We hooked thermals and Pedro left low, looks like he must have gone to La Caseta. I went there too, but about an hour later, after trying to crack 3,000’. I finally made it to 3,001’ and bailed. I wacked my glider there- I hate the place- and broke a downtube and the base tube. I tried to land on my feet, which doesn’t work so well. Didn’t actually break the downtube, just bent it badly, but it might as well be broken, for all the good it’ll do me.

I’ve got spare tubes, but I can’t be breaking any more basetubes, or I’ll have to head home. I hope that doesn’t happen because then it could be said: "Yea... Ole went down to Mexico and flew all he could until he’d broken everything and had to leave...!"

Sunday February 3, 2002 Am I just lucky at La Cumbre, or do I really have the place dialed? Yesterday was a real surprise. We arrived at launch a little late, only to find the wind trickling down, from the north. There was lots of haze and generally, it looked like a waste of time. The only other flyer there, a local, decided he had better things to do, bagged his wagon, and went home.

Then began a waiting game, as the wind stopped entirely and it didn’t even look like there was enough to get off. So we waited... and waited... The 2:40 express never showed. Finally, around 3 o’clock I hooked-in and moved to launch. I tried to convince David or Pedro to launch first, but they played the waiting game too. David moved his wing up behind mine and Pedro spread his wing on the ground right behind him.

As I was carrying the wing to launch I noticed a few wispy clouds that hinted of cumulus but I thought I was imagining things. They were impossibly small, and I couldn’t see any vapor domes. At about 3:10 a little cycle came through and I couldn’t wait any more, so I punched.

I was surprised to start climbing right away and noticed that the thermal was drifting from the west. Quite unusual. I circled with it for a few minutes and was rewarded with a few hundred feet. I don’t know what made me stop circling and head for the Virgen, but I stopped and made a beeline for her, and the west-facing bowl below her feet, and suddenly I was in FAT lift. Not particularly strong- about 500 feet-per-minute, but very big, and no drift at all; I was flying circles over the Virgen de Guadalupe, and getting higher, and higher.

I kept an eye on David and was waiting for him to punch, but he waited and waited... He just stood there on launch.

I was circling and noticed a dark spot on the ground behind launch, but it didn’t really register until after I’d made a few more circles and noticed it was darker. IS THAT SHADOW FROM A CLOUD? I banked sharply and craned my neck to look overhead and... sure enough! There was an awesome cummie forming just above me, where the sky had been blue before! Yahooo!

I climbed to 5,600’ which, of course, was plenty of altitude for an easy glide home. The flight lasted only about forty minutes, but it was sweet, especially so because it appears I waited until the best time of the whole day- hell, the best MOMENT. It was bitchin’!

As I flew out I kept glancing back at launch watching for David to launch which he finally did- and went straight to the ground, I guess he got five minutes. Pedro, to his credit, launched right behind David and hooked it, but not so high as the clouds were dying. Pedro landed at La Caseta.

I don’t know why David keeps having such lousy luck where I sky-out, but I suspect he just doesn’t turn in the marginal lift in front of launch. Maybe it has something to do with his glider, which might shine in coastal air- ridge lift- but maybe doesn’t thermal very well. The wing is called a Sensor 610, but might better be called the EVERY GADGET KNOWN TO MAN. I mean, it has a variable geometry of course, it has radial tips with slick little tip-fairings, a tail fin, hell... it even has FLAPS! All of which are supposed to make it a hot ship, but I don’t think it’s seen the top of my sail but twice this winter.

Last night I watched RAMBO II and then RAMBO III, IN AFGHANISTAN. A local TV station was offering a RAMBO trilogy and I have been watching late-night TV, learning more Espaņol. There’s not a lot of dialogue from a Stallone shoot-’em-up-bang-bang movie like that, but I did learn a few phrases like "La probamos" (Let’s give it a try.), and "Para que son los amigos?" (What are friends for?) and "Soy tu peor pesadia" (I’m your worst nightmare).

But I felt much better for having watched Stallone get out of so much trouble. You see- whenever I think of the long twisted drive ahead of me I get very depressed. Scared even. I wonder what the hell I was thinking to get myself in so deep. The road is just so long and dangerous that I want to cry, and I might still. But if Stallone can get out of Afghanistan I should be able to get out of Mexico. Right?

Of course, Stallone enjoyed some advantages. He had a big budget for one. I don’t enjoy such margin. He also had lots of weaponry, while I have but a machete and a dog. Stallone is buff to say the least, and I am not, to put it mildly.

Monday February 4, 2002 Yesterday we flew La Cumbre with Team Colima. We loaded six gliders and nine people in a 1981 Jeep CJ-5. This is the little Jeep, the top-heavy Jeep, the one that’s known for rolling. I was nervous, to say the least, so I got my helmet out of my gearbag for the ride up, not so much for protection but to impress the driver to proceed with caution. Happily, we made it up to launch with the shiny side up, but we wallowed like a ship at sea.

I was first off again, and the day was earlier. I took a good cycle again and climbed straight away to 4,600’ in a rowdy thermal that gave me two sail-inversions and was drifting back pretty fast. At 4,600’ I was nearing the point-of-no-return, but I thought I’d hang around and fly with my amigos, so instead of heading for town I flew back to the ridge and headed the other way. I never saw 4,000’ again as the wind came in very strong. The ridge was very buoyant however, so we had a good time boating around. One of the locals, Cacho, took a thermal behind mine and headed out the end towards town and had the best flight of the day, landing on the far side of Colima.

Cacho is a success story by the way- when I first came here with bunches of gringos and sailcloth Cacho was about fifteen years old and was determined to fly. We were landing in a field next to his village (Piscila) and so Cacho got his start by bagging wagons. We would pay him a few pesos, and Cacho would carefully fold the wing and stuff it in the bag. Eventually he talked a local flyer named Gerardo into giving him a few lessons, then he smuggled himself into the States and found enough work to buy his own wagon.

I asked Cacho how he got into the States and he said Gerardo dropped him at the bus depot here in Colima, he traveled thusly to Nogales and hired a coyote to guide him in. They walked through the desert for three days in August to reach Tucson, surviving on horrible water from cattle tanks.  You gotta admire someone with such determination.

Anyway, yesterday I could not make it past La Caseta and since I hate that field so much I decided to land in another instead so I landed all alone in a field where my wheels work. I say all alone, although actually there was one old nag and a couple of vacas. One vaca was very interested in my glider and as I was breaking-down the critter started to nibble on it. I tried to shoo her away, buy to no avail. I actually leaned on her to give her a shove but she hardly noticed. So I gave her a swift kick in the ass, which must have surprised her, as she ran off a few yards and then stood there gazing lovingly at my wing. Pinche vaca de la chingada!

It is Friday, February 8, 2002, and I am in La Yesca, Sonora, having driven like the wind from Colima. I made it from Colima to Culiacan in one day, which is more than I should have hoped for from La Tortuga, and into Hermosillo the next day, which, while maybe not a land-speed record, is still pretty good. This was about twenty-five hours of driving over a thirty-hour period.

I left Colima because my peso supply is getting low and because I feel worthless when I can’t work. I have felt worthless now for three months. Well... I have felt worthless when I was not consumed by hang gliding, that is. Hang gliding is still my biggest thrill.

The last day I was in Colima nobody wanted to fly. Wouldn’t you know it: it looked like the best day yet, with perfect cumulus clouds dotting the sky in all directions. It was enough to make me sick, so I packed-up and left. How’s that for a solution?

David was going to stay and keep looking for his dog. He’s living on a rancho in Piscila- the little village below launch on La Cumbre- David is quite enamored with that place. He keeps exclaiming how everyone is friendly and happy there, even though they have next to nothing. He also keeps talking about three sisters who are his neighbors there, and how beautiful and shy they are.

Pedro has found a home out front of Carlos’ place. Carlos is a local journalist who has befriended him. Pedro says that Carlos has a risky job writing about corruption in local politics, and that he often drinks too much and then drives. Pedro has become Carlos’ driver, when Carlos is drunk.

The Zaragozas were partying on my last night there. Of course. Here is a family who has perfected the art of doing absolutely nothing. I was sad to say my farewells with them, but I hope to see them next year.

The drive was an ordeal as usual. I wonder what the government does with that money they collect at the toll booths? It does NOT appear that they spend much of it on road repair. The road is just awful. I have yet to tally my toll receipts, but I bet there’s two-thousand pesos worth. My aggravation increased with each toll booth. I had very brief conversations with the workers there, as I pulled in and out to pay the tolls.

"Buenos dias seņor." They said

"Quanto seria?" How much will it be?

"Ciento cuarento y cuatro." One hundred forty-five, about $16 US.

"Y que hacen con el dinero?" And what do they do with the money?

A surprised look and a shrug of the shoulders was usually the only answer. Sometimes this would be accompanied by "No se" (I don’t know), or "El gobierno se roba." The government robs it.

"No areglan la pista." I would say. They don’t repair the road with it.

"Nooo seņor.", as though I had hit the nail on the head.

"La pura pachanga?" They have a party?

Or I would roll into the toll booth, we would be making the transaction, and I would remark: "Y la caja de surgencias seņor?" And the suggestion box...?

The worker would glance at me and say, "No hay caja de surgencias, seņor." (There is no such thing.) But I would make several surgencias. For one- I would have them lower the tolls. I realize that if the tolls were affordable to the poor majority of Mexicans, then the toll-roads would be crawling with all sorts of vehicles, and that there would be more maintenance required. But I could suffer this inconvenience if only the tolls were lowered.

I would suggest another sign. Along with the signs that say OBEDEZCA LAS SEņALES (Obey The Signs) and NO MALTRASE LAS SEņALES (Don’t Mistreat The Signs) and especially this one: CARRIL IZQUIERDO SOLO PARA REBASAR (Left Lane For Passing Only) I would suggest this sign: CARRIL DERECHO SOLO PARA CHINGAR SE! (Right Lane Is To &%#@ You!) The right lane is very bad you see, from so much traffic, from people who obey the signs.

I was driving in the right lane, minding my own business and trying to avoid the holes in the road, when I was overtaken by a speeding pickup. This particular pickup had sidegates about head-high surrounding the bed and it was so full of people, mostly kids, that I could not count them all. It was so full of people that the rear springs were bottomed-out. I didn’t notice the truck overtaking me until I heard it and felt its bow-wave nudge me to starboard. I was startled and then amazed as it flew past, he must have been doing eighty or ninety because I was doing sixty at the time. The occupants in the back of that truck stared dumbly at me as they sped past, swaying and bouncing along.

What do you suppose was the big hurry, that the prick would endanger all our lives? And what were the people thinking? Did they not worry that they were all about to die? Did they not mutiny? Unbelievable! Of course, it is forbidden to haul people like this many places in the States. I don’t think you’re even allowed to haul DOGS like this in California. But I’ve seen cops traveling thusly in Mexico. You see it all the time, in fact.

I spent the night of my journey holed-up in a PEMEX station. It was reasonably quiet and I felt quite safe; there were nightlights and people around, a 24 hour fuel stop. They even had a restaurant where I ate birria. The birria was so tasty and so cheap that I bought Groucho an order too, for which I think he is still grateful.

I was traveling north, looking for the exit to Guamuchil. My old amigo Ramon Vera lives in Guamuchil and I had neglected to visit him on the way south, because I was part of a caravan and the rest of the gringos did not want to even slow down. So... I figured I’d better stop this time, and visit Ramon.

I had Ramon’s phone number, but he had told me he could be located in hangar number nineteen, aeropuerto Guamuchil.

I was approaching yet another toll booth when I realized the exit was right there before the toll booth itself! For a moment it looked as though I would actually be avoiding a toll! But alas, NO! I swerved La Tortuga off the pista and down the off-ramp, and found yet another toll booth! They had set up another booth there, specifically for me! Shit!

Well, I paid the toll of P33, about $3.50, and had the usual brief exchange with the attendant. Then I went on my way, pissed that I had lost yet again. I rolled slowly down the narrow road for Guamuchil and noticed a row of hangars in the near distance, hung a left on a dirt road and arrived at the Guamuchil airport. I was disconcerted to see a group of soldiers with automatic weapons, who gathered around a palm-frond shack. They, in turn, were surprised to find a gringo motorhome driving slowly up the dusty road.

I pointed La Tortuga at their gathering and waved a paw out the window. I drove up to the nearest soldier and said, "Buenos dias seņor, vengo en paz." (Good morning sir, I come in peace.)

The soldier nodded politely and replied, "Que le ofrecimos?" (Can we offer you anything?)

"Si", I replied. "Ando buscano a mi buen amigo Ramon Vera."

The soldier looked pensive for a moment as others gathered around my window. "Pues lo siento seņor", he replied. "No conosco este seņor." (Sorry, but I don’t know your friend.)

I spotted another man approaching, this one in civilian dress. I shut down La Tortuga, and hopped out to meet him. He introduced himself simply as "Will", and said he was the "gerencia". I asked him if he knew Ramon Vera, and he informed me that Ramon had moved from the airport some months ago, and didn’t know how to locate him.

"Tengo su numero de telefono aqui de Gamuchil seņor." I said. "Podemos llamar a el?"

I followed Will into his office where he dialed Ramon. The seņora who answered the ring and informed me that, sadly, Ramon was away on business in Guadalajara and would not return until next weekend. I had passed through Guadalajara just the previous day, of course, but was ignorant of Ramon’s presence there. I had lost yet again. I thanked Will for his trouble and hobbled back to La Tortuga, interrupting the soldiers who were admiring my aging wagon. I wished them all the best and headed back to the highway.

Imagine my distress to discover that I would have to now travel through the toll booth that I thought I’d avoided the first time, which I hadn’t avoided at all, and which I now was faced with, yet again! Shit!! Double SHIT! I couldn’t believe it!

I rolled into the booth and explained that I had just paid the P33 but minutes ago, right over there about a hundred meters! The attendant just smiled and said "Trenta y tres pesos, favor."

SHIT! I said I’d like to speak with the gerente, and was told that he would not arrive "hasta la tarde". Shit! "Pero estoy pagado!" I pointed out. I flashed him the toll receipt, which is even marked with the time: 7:47 AM. Twenty one minutes had elapsed while I sought Ramon. "Estoy pagado!" I exclaimed again.

Behind me, some cabron honked his horn for me to get going. The attendant said: "Solo hay que regresar de aqui, o paga usted los pesos." (You can back out of here, or pay the pesos.)

SHIT! Behind me were two other travelers, and another vehicle rapidly approaching. Back up? SHIT!

So I paid la chingada pesos and went on my way again. Poorer, by $3.50, and pissed at the whole world, but especially Mexico. Nobody ever said life was fair, or the toll roads either! Shit! I drove past Guamuchil a few kilometers and there was the highway entrance- just past the airport. Had I been a little smarter gringo, I would have continued on from the airport around the next bend in the road, and re-entered the highway without paying the toll twice.

How the chingada was a gringo supposed to know THAT?

But the trip was a success so far and not too dangerous. I passed several military checkpoints where I was waved through, all but one. At this particular checkpoint I was confronted by a short, scrawny guy in civilian clothes who said "I yam special Policia Federal. Do ju hab any drugs?" When I shook my head no he asked, "Do ju hab any guns?" When I shook my head no again he said "Pull ju troka ober dere."

So I pulled over and climbed out of the cockpit and went aft to open the door and the guy was standing there pointing north and saying "ADELANTE, ADELANTE!" (Go ahead, go ahead!) I went back to the cockpit, fired the beast, and moved out.

What do you suppose that was all about?

Now I am in Hermosillo, back at La Yesca where this trip began. My trike is here and miraculously enough seems to be as fine as I left it. I’m about to give it a good once-over and take it flying. Hector Pavlovich, my old amigo and the owner of this piece of desert says there are two aging gringos out in Bahia Kino who are making noise about buying a trike and learning to fly, but he does not want to teach them because of the language barrier.

Maybe I’ll have some work? Maybe I’ll sell my trike? I should at least get some nice photos of the flight to the beach.

Stay tuned for more adventures.

Today is Saturday, February 9, 2002. There is a party planned for here this afternoon. I am at the hangar of Hector Pavlovich, in La Yesca, Sonora.

Several years ago I flew out to Bahia Kino from here, to enjoy the place and to see if I could stir up some business. I spent the day flying around from here to there, and really had a blast. The beach is very smooth in Kino, because there are no swells coming up this far into the Sea of Cortez. So, I landed on the beach and did touch-n-goes and hauled a few paying customers.

That evening was going to be cold and I wasn’t looking forward to another night sleeping on cold ground. I had been traveling with no support since Phoenix, and I needed a good night’s rest. So I took a room on the beach at a place called Hotel Saro.

It was winter time and the sun set early and I had a few cervesas and a fine lobster dinner and hit the sack early- wanting the most for my pesos. But about 11 PM there was a commotion outside my door and imagine my surprise when I heard a key slide in the door from out there, and the door swung open to reveal an angry old man and a local cop!

"Ve te de aqui!" ordered the old man as I jumped out of bed. Get out of here!

"Quien eres tu?" I asked in disbelief. Who the Hell are you?

"Soy Saro, esto es me hotel. Ve te de aqui!" I am Saro, this is my hotel. Get out of here!

I had rented the room from a very pleasant receptionist just hours before. I could not believe what I was hearing; there must be some mistake. The cop stood in the doorway and did not appear to be happy with the situation. Oddly, he held his hat in his hand. The old man Saro began grabbing my few belongings and throwing then at my TrikeZilla, which was bedded-down across the terrace on the beach. There went my boots. There went my flight suit. There went my toothbrush. "Pero estoy pagado!" I protested. But I’m paid!

"Ve te de la chingada!" roared the old man. I had heard these words in English of course, but never in Espaņol. I was shocked. Get the fuck out! He was a scrappy old guy, not that old really, just weathered from the Sonora sun. He found my helmet and gave it a good heave through the door. It was a black helmet and it flew across the terrace and almost hit my trike and then disappeared from the small circle of light cast by the bare bulb in front of the room. I watched it go and realized that it was pitch-black outside. Not even the small surf from the bay was visible, only a few yards away. Black, and COLD. My helmet was followed by my turban, which was doing me no good under the circumstances.

I turned to the cop, who seemed to be examining his feet. "Puede hacer esto?" I asked. Can he do this? The cop spun his hat in his hand and looked up at me. "Es su hotel seņor." he confirmed. This is his hotel. He shrugged his shoulders and looked as though he simply wanted out. But Saro had ducked into the tiny baņo in search of anything else the gringo may have left behind. He charged out empty handed and grabbed me by the elbow. He shoved me at the door with the other hand, and I was out.

Saro pointed at my trike and repeated’ "Ve te de la chingada!" He wanted me gone, trike and all. But by this time I had recovered enough to become indignant. "Y el dinero!?" I demanded.

The cop turned to the old man and implored him silently, with open hands, as if to repeat my question. "Chinganse y tu dinero tambien!" said Saro. Fuck you and your money too! At this exchange the cop moved in front of Saro and held him with a hand lightly by the shoulder. He said something to Saro I didn’t catch, but it must have had some effect, because Saro whipped out his wallet and threw a note at me. I didn’t want to pick it up from the floor though, and hopped over the terrace wall to my trike instead. Saro scurried over and scooped up the bill and wadded it up into a ball. He threw it at the gringo again. He pointed to my trike. "Fuera de aqui!" he roared. I was hoping he would blow a gasket. Cabron!

I looked like Seņor Saro wanted me gone as in really gone. Off the beach in front of his little establishment. But there was really no place to go. Saro’s hotel is the only one on that stretch of sand, packed in amongst private homes and RV parks. Some of the neighbors had gathered in the nearby houses to watch the show..

The cop came around the terrace steps and took me aside. He explained that it was really not a good idea to stay at Hotel Saro if you have one of those- he pointed at my trike.

Huh?

I glanced back up at the old man and noticed he had a garden hose in one hand and was reaching to turn on the flow with the other. What the fuck? The guy’s got a thing about trikes? He’s gonna SPRAY ME!

I swung into action, leaping for the rear of my wagon and gave it a mighty shove, there in the soft sand in front of Hotel Saro. The trike jumped out of the holes I had dug in the sand as wheel chocks and I ducked around front of it and began pulling. Saro squirted me down as best he could meanwhile, with a pathetic flow of water. I pulled the trike out of the light and into darkness. I was still dressed only in the sweatpants I wore to bed. I just couldn’t believe it! I was dumbfounded. What do you have to do to get eighty-sixed from a Mexican hotel?

I dragged the trike through soft sand down to the water’s edge, where the Sea of Cortez was making a gentle rustle on the beach. The tide was high so there was no smooth runway to roll the trike along, only soft sand. I had to push and shove and struggle with my load as Saro and his hotel got smaller and smaller. Finally, I was gone enough, so I pulled the seat from the trike and laid it on the sand. I pulled on my boots and flight suit and all the rest of the clothes I had, laid down on the trike seat and pulled my groundcloth over me against the dew. Using my gloves as a pillow, I managed some restless sleep until after sunrise.

Only the next day,