Getting Anywhere From Here

Local Airport
J. at the counter, flight connections cancelled

Creatures in the lobby

Mountain Lion on a ledge

The Gris

If this were an old book with a lengthy sub title, it might go something like this: "Being the latest installment in the tedious and treacherous process of conveying a motor coach from Arizona to Wyoming and the difficulties encountered and surmounted."

In spite of our experiences with the unreliabilty of used motor homes--and those who sell them--J.'s twin brother and his wife decided to finalize the purchase of two units. They have supposedly put the RV inspection crew through their paces. My sister-in-law is clever with airline tickets and motel reservations and handles the details of such trips. A bit belatedly J. decided that he might as well travel with them and retrieve the now repaired motor coach we had to abandon outside of Phoenix, AZ. The only ticket available would land him in Yuma several hours after his brother and crew would arrive.

He packed his bag and with our grandson in tow, I went along to the little airport in the next town to drive the car home. His flight was scheduled to depart at 4:12 with a layover in Denver, CO. Then, a hop to LA airport and a final connection into Yuma. [To forestall any thought that this is idiotic, let me point out that there are very few thru flights available to anywhere from Wyoming--and if there are, the likes of us can't afford them!]

Flying out of Wyoming is a nightmare of scheduling connections, so it wasn't a huge shock when J. was told that the LA to Yuma flights had been cancelled for the day. "Phoenix!" said J. hopefully. "It's Phoenix that I really need to get to!" The young clerk poked at her computer, asked for help from another clerk, apologized, finally came up with the helpful information that the local flight to Denver was OK to link with a direct flight to Phoenix. There was, however, going to be a delay in the local take off because the plane was held up in Denver "for repairs."

We groaned. The shuttle plane, commonly known as "the flying culvert" is ALWAYS down for repairs in Denver. On any incoming flight we have sat in the waiting area, far down the busy main corridors of Denver's huge terminal and listened to the intermittant voice from the loud speaker assuring us that the plane designated for the bumpy passage to the interior of Wyoming is still undergoing service and there will be yet another 20 minute wait. When the flight number is eventually called the passengers are hustled through the security door and herded down several flights of stairs before stumbling out onto the wind-swept tarmac. One by one we teeter up the fragile metal stairs and collapse into the uncomfortable plastic seats. The propeller twirls, the engine churns, sounding like a washing machine full of rocks; the small plane shudders. Leaving from the local airport is simply the process in reverse.

This afternoon, faced with an indefinite wait, we went into the little cafe and ordered a light meal. Other delayed passengers straggled in. The tone of conversation from table to table was joshing, after all, the delays were to be expected. Outside a restless wind teased a clump of field daises, fluttered the plumes of foxtail grass.

Grandson and I said our farewells to J. who doesn't like anyone to hover and went to Wal Mart for some quick errands. We arrived home at 6. We told each other that surely J. must be nearly to Denver. When he eventually phoned from Denver we learned that the plane never took off from the local airport until after 7 p.m. J. was laconic. "Oh well", he said, "I have time for supper in the Denver airport and now I won't have to wait so long here!"

I sit waiting for the phone call that will assure me that the last leg of the flight has been safely made. Our sister-in-law , using her laptop and cell phone, managed to arrange a motel reservation for J. in Phoenix with a shuttle from the airport. She thought they might arrive at the motel at about the same time he does. I think of the old adage" "If the good Lord's willing and the creek don't rise!"

I suspect that our family and friends in New England wonder why we don't make it "back home" more often. I could tell the stories, all variations on this one. You can "get there from here"..but it ain't easy!