- Reaction score
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- Points
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Somewhere up ahead, beyond the green cleavage of a mountain pass (possibly the only time green cleavage can be truly attractive – unless you’re Capt. James T. Kirk, I suppose) a helicopter was waiting for me on an LZ carved out of the wilderness. I was several hours late for the RV, having been nearly swept into oblivion while fording a river. Then, there had been the long climb up to where I now found myself, inching along a game trail that ran perilously close to the edge of the gorge. Far down below, through the lingering tatters of morning fog (or perhaps they were newly-forming clouds, water vapour can be deceptive, especially when you’re nearly blind from exhaustion and hunger.) I could barely discern water churning amongst giant boulders. Every few feet I had to pause and catch my breath, and wipe the perspiration from my eyes. It wouldn’t have been nearly so bad if I were equipped with decent mountain climbing gear – rope, ice axe, pitons – but I was driving an Iltis. So there was no hope.
(Little would a casual observer of this harrowing scene realize that here was a man at the apex of his career as a soldier. I didn’t realize it myself. At the time I thought I was just getting started in the Infantryman’s trade, but already I was at my apex. Ahead lay only poverty, defeat, humiliation, and despair. Sadly, that was also what lay behind. Mind-boggling how low some apexes can be.)
When at last I came ploughing my way out of the forest and onto the LZ, the helicopter was there, but the pilot was nowhere to be seen. The only person in sight was a grizzled old drunken Czech, sitting on a log and staring malevolently at the helo.
“Dem t’ings ain’t meant to fly” He said to me, and nodding at the chopper. “A man has to be crazy in d’head to fly around dese mountains in one of dem egg-beaters. Give me a good mule any day.”
“Don’t say things like that” I told him. “I have to fly in that egg-beater.”
“Oh, so you’re the eediot.” He said. “Vell, let’s get on wid it. I am pilot.”
We’ll call him Pete. (Mostly because I have no idea what his name may have actually been.) He was a pleasant enough fellow, (although somewhat morose) once you got past the smell of alcohol and looked through the red in his eyes to see the hint of blue. “I explain vat ve do,” he said once we had climbed into the cockpit, and I had moved the unconscious co-pilot into the back in order to allow him to sleep off…whatever he was sleeping off. “If you understand vat we do, you not vorry so much aboot us crashing. I alvays tell passengers to relax and enjoy ride. No point in bot' off us scared to death.”
As we lifted off cleanly and made a sweeping turn over a wall of trees, I concealed my modest anxiety behind an expression of disinterest, mixed with a hint of boredom.
“Scared?” Pete shouted.
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Goot.” He said, “Maybe den you let go off my leg? You’re cutting off circulation.”
Once we were on our way over the Bosnian countryside, I noticed the small statue of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, mounted on the instrument panel. Considering that his home nation was only very recently Communist, I found this interesting.
“Catholic?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “Cautious.”
Pete was a pretty good tour guide, really. He pointed out miniature deer far below, and a herd of elk galloping along like tall ants. The fact that they were actually a bunch of cows and some horses didn’t detract from his attempts at friendly conversation. The fact that he would remove both hands from the controls to grab my shoulder and point did, however. I briefly considered shooting him, but realized in time that he was the only conscious one of the three of us who knew how to fly the thing.
As we pounded up over the steep, thickly forested hillside, (I say pounded because at that point we had actually stuck our feet through the floorboards and were running, while holding the skids in our hands, a la the Flintstones.) he indicated a tiny clearing. “Last month I land chopper dere.”
I was impressed, to say the least, as the clearing didn’t look large enough to accommodate a Kiowa, let alone a Hip, and said so.
“Vell,” he replied, “until I crash dere, it vasn’t clearing at all. Ve chop down trees like grass. Maybe dat’s vhy dey call it ‘chopper’ hah? Ha ha ha! Funny joke, no?” (No, I thought to myself.) “Ve vere upside down, spinning like top. You are cutting off circulation in leg again.”
“Sorry.” I explained. “ Canadian custom. It’s how we show our appreciation for a really good story. Could you pass that bottle this way?”
A sheer cliff, about 17 miles high, was rapidy approaching in front of us, and Pete showed every intention of flying directly into it. I calmly demonstrated my unconcern by gnawing gently on my rifle barrel.
“I haff to shtop talking now, ‘cause dis is der shcary part.” He said.
"THIS is the scary part?”
“Ya. Ve catch elevator now.”
“ELEVATOR? “ someone shrieked in a high-pitched panic-stricken tone. I still can’t figure out who it could have been, since Pete wasn’t talking anymore, and his cohort hadn’t woken up yet.
He explained that because of the altitude and the limited power of his helo…(here, I interjected a calm question, “Limited power?!! It’s a Hip!!!” He answered, “Yes, but it’s very old, and not running too goot lately.”)…he had to put the chopper right in close to the cliff so we could ride up on the strong updraft. “Saint Christopher, don’t let me down, now” he said. I said, “Saint Michael, I’ll get you for this, you baaaaaahhh!”
The elevator ride was quite exhilarating. I do believe that I broke the world’s record for longest sustained inhale, followed by the longest sustained exhale. Guiness has yet to accept it for the Book of World Records, though, as I only had Pete as a witness, and he was too busy flying and mumbling something over and over to pay attention to my efforts at immortality. A second later, we came zooming up over the top of the cliff, where Pete cut a nifty little figure eight, and set us down on the mountain peak.
What, you may be asking yourself, could possibly have prompted me to risk life, limb, and breakfast to soar up to this barren, windblown pinnacle of rock? The truth is, by the time we got there, I had completely forgotten, and haven’t remembered to this day. If anyone out there knows, can you please get in touch with me?
- Mr. McManus, I am SOOO sorry. I can't stop myself. It's a sickness.
(Little would a casual observer of this harrowing scene realize that here was a man at the apex of his career as a soldier. I didn’t realize it myself. At the time I thought I was just getting started in the Infantryman’s trade, but already I was at my apex. Ahead lay only poverty, defeat, humiliation, and despair. Sadly, that was also what lay behind. Mind-boggling how low some apexes can be.)
When at last I came ploughing my way out of the forest and onto the LZ, the helicopter was there, but the pilot was nowhere to be seen. The only person in sight was a grizzled old drunken Czech, sitting on a log and staring malevolently at the helo.
“Dem t’ings ain’t meant to fly” He said to me, and nodding at the chopper. “A man has to be crazy in d’head to fly around dese mountains in one of dem egg-beaters. Give me a good mule any day.”
“Don’t say things like that” I told him. “I have to fly in that egg-beater.”
“Oh, so you’re the eediot.” He said. “Vell, let’s get on wid it. I am pilot.”
We’ll call him Pete. (Mostly because I have no idea what his name may have actually been.) He was a pleasant enough fellow, (although somewhat morose) once you got past the smell of alcohol and looked through the red in his eyes to see the hint of blue. “I explain vat ve do,” he said once we had climbed into the cockpit, and I had moved the unconscious co-pilot into the back in order to allow him to sleep off…whatever he was sleeping off. “If you understand vat we do, you not vorry so much aboot us crashing. I alvays tell passengers to relax and enjoy ride. No point in bot' off us scared to death.”
As we lifted off cleanly and made a sweeping turn over a wall of trees, I concealed my modest anxiety behind an expression of disinterest, mixed with a hint of boredom.
“Scared?” Pete shouted.
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Goot.” He said, “Maybe den you let go off my leg? You’re cutting off circulation.”
Once we were on our way over the Bosnian countryside, I noticed the small statue of Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, mounted on the instrument panel. Considering that his home nation was only very recently Communist, I found this interesting.
“Catholic?” I asked.
“No,” he replied, “Cautious.”
Pete was a pretty good tour guide, really. He pointed out miniature deer far below, and a herd of elk galloping along like tall ants. The fact that they were actually a bunch of cows and some horses didn’t detract from his attempts at friendly conversation. The fact that he would remove both hands from the controls to grab my shoulder and point did, however. I briefly considered shooting him, but realized in time that he was the only conscious one of the three of us who knew how to fly the thing.
As we pounded up over the steep, thickly forested hillside, (I say pounded because at that point we had actually stuck our feet through the floorboards and were running, while holding the skids in our hands, a la the Flintstones.) he indicated a tiny clearing. “Last month I land chopper dere.”
I was impressed, to say the least, as the clearing didn’t look large enough to accommodate a Kiowa, let alone a Hip, and said so.
“Vell,” he replied, “until I crash dere, it vasn’t clearing at all. Ve chop down trees like grass. Maybe dat’s vhy dey call it ‘chopper’ hah? Ha ha ha! Funny joke, no?” (No, I thought to myself.) “Ve vere upside down, spinning like top. You are cutting off circulation in leg again.”
“Sorry.” I explained. “ Canadian custom. It’s how we show our appreciation for a really good story. Could you pass that bottle this way?”
A sheer cliff, about 17 miles high, was rapidy approaching in front of us, and Pete showed every intention of flying directly into it. I calmly demonstrated my unconcern by gnawing gently on my rifle barrel.
“I haff to shtop talking now, ‘cause dis is der shcary part.” He said.
"THIS is the scary part?”
“Ya. Ve catch elevator now.”
“ELEVATOR? “ someone shrieked in a high-pitched panic-stricken tone. I still can’t figure out who it could have been, since Pete wasn’t talking anymore, and his cohort hadn’t woken up yet.
He explained that because of the altitude and the limited power of his helo…(here, I interjected a calm question, “Limited power?!! It’s a Hip!!!” He answered, “Yes, but it’s very old, and not running too goot lately.”)…he had to put the chopper right in close to the cliff so we could ride up on the strong updraft. “Saint Christopher, don’t let me down, now” he said. I said, “Saint Michael, I’ll get you for this, you baaaaaahhh!”
The elevator ride was quite exhilarating. I do believe that I broke the world’s record for longest sustained inhale, followed by the longest sustained exhale. Guiness has yet to accept it for the Book of World Records, though, as I only had Pete as a witness, and he was too busy flying and mumbling something over and over to pay attention to my efforts at immortality. A second later, we came zooming up over the top of the cliff, where Pete cut a nifty little figure eight, and set us down on the mountain peak.
What, you may be asking yourself, could possibly have prompted me to risk life, limb, and breakfast to soar up to this barren, windblown pinnacle of rock? The truth is, by the time we got there, I had completely forgotten, and haven’t remembered to this day. If anyone out there knows, can you please get in touch with me?
- Mr. McManus, I am SOOO sorry. I can't stop myself. It's a sickness.
