Cooperisms

Cooperisms

Selections from the ramblings of a wise and well traveled man.

“Life is hopelessly complex for people who have no principles.”

“Pick up a rifle and you change instantly from a subject to a citizen.”

“Personal weapons are what raised mankind out of the mud, and the rifle is the queen of personal weapons.”

“The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles.”

“The rifle is a weapon. Let there be no mistake about that. It is a tool of power, and thus dependant completely upon the moral stature of its user. It is equally useful in securing meat for the table, destroying group enemies on the battlefield, and resisting tyranny. In fact, it is the only means of resisting tyranny, since a citizenry armed with rifles simply cannot be tyrannized.”

“Remember the first rule of gun fighting…’have a gun’.”

“Safety is nice, but it’s not first. Life is first and life is not safe.”

“Do you care about freedom? Dreams may have inspired it, and wishes prompted it, but only war and weapons have made it yours.”

“The media insist that crime is the major concern of the American public today. In this connection they generally push the point that a disarmed society would be a crime free society. They will not accept the truth that if you take all the guns off the street you still will have a crime problem, whereas if you take the criminals off the street you cannot have a gun problem.”

“The will to survive is not as important as the will to prevail- the answer to criminal aggression is retaliation.”

“One bleeding-heart type asked me in a recent interview if I did not agree that violence begets violence. I told him that it is my earnest endeavor to see that it does. I would like very much to ensure- and in some cases I have- that any man who offer violence to his fellow citizens begets a whole lot more in return than he can enjoy.”

“We continue to be exasperated by the view apparently gaining momentum in certain circles, that armed robbery is okay as long as nobody gets hurt! The proper solution to armed robbery is a dead robber, on the scene.”

“The police cannot protect the citizen at this stage of our development, and they cannot even protect themselves in many cases. It is up to the private citizen to protect himself and his family, and this is not only acceptable, but mandatory.”

“The 1911 pistol remains the service pistol of choice in the eyes of those who understand the problem. Back when we audited the FBI academy in 1947, I was told that I ought not to use my pistol in their training program because it was not fair. Maybe the first thing one should demand of his sidearm is that it be unfair.”

“A free man must not be told how to think, either by the government or by social activists. He may certainly be shown the right way, but he must not accept being forced into it.”

“The conclusions seem inescapable that in certain circles a tendency has arisen to fear people who fear government. Government, as the Father of Our Country put it so well, is a dangerous servant and a fearful master. People who understand history, especially the history of government, do well to fear it. For a people to express openly their fear of those of us who are afraid of tyranny is alarming. Fear of the state is in no sense subversive. It is, to the contrary, the healthiest political philosophy for a free people.”

“One difference between a liberal and a pickpocket is that if you demand your money back from a pickpocket, he will not question your motives.”

Jeff Cooper (5/20-9/06)

A Plane Ride...Really

Spock likely would disapprove, but I don’t have a logical mind. So I’m not strong in math. But we are talking about solving to an unknown here, and that’s math. So I guess I’m not gonna quickly come up with the solution here, and thus I live with an unknown. 

I figure I’ve got X number of mornings left. X more. X is my unknown.

So far, I’ve seen about twenty three thousand mornings. That’s a bunch. There won’t be twenty thousand more, in all probability. But if I try to solve for X, if I try to calculate how many mornings are left for me, I don’t have a clue. Really, no clue. 

What does pass for logic with me is the notion that I should make something of as many mornings as I can of those I have left. Why waste them? So, if this one Sunday morning was to be the first of the rest, I could set a precedent, and maybe try for something truly memorable. 

Significant decisions often result from improbable beginnings.  I’ve never had a bad morning in Yosemite. And in the forty years I’ve been visiting, I’ve had well over a hundred mornings in that national park, and that meant sleeping in a bunch of different places. But an advertisement in a magazine led me to a different spot, one I had never considered, and it led to two more fine mornings for us.

Two months later, in that same magazine, I fell over another ad, (for no better reason than I’d found the last one there so I was poking around), this one for restored World War Two airplanes, and the folks who fly them. And this lit a fire. 

The Collings Foundation has been visiting our little city with their restored B-17 and B-24 bombers for a while. One weekend each year. Years ago, I drove to the airport to see them in the flesh, for I have a certain obsession about such things, and I met these aircraft. And that was good.

The Foundation offered rides in the bombers for a fee. But I thought I’d be practical, and I passed on that. But now years later, I did the reconsider, and went to the web site to see what a brief tango in a 70 year old bomber might cost these days. And I found instead, their P-51.

We don’t have time here for the full story. Someday, if the inspiration and the magic of fingers on keys cooperate, I might be able to explain the full story.  Just thinking about this task intimidates me right now. But let’s just say I’ve had a mad passion for the P-51 Mustang for some considerable time.

I’d like to have one. Problem is, I lack the wherewithal. Mega millions might help, but even that might not be enough. So along with a few other preposterous fantasies, I’d put this one on the shelf. I went to the occasional air show, and listened to the sweet sound of a P-51 engine start, and then I melted a little when the craft took off and that sound seared into my soul, and then when one roared past, buzzing the field, I died a little from the sheer lust of the moment. And until now, that has passed for close enough. That’s how we get by when we cannot get all that we want.

And then I found the Collings Foundation website, and right there in plain English, was the invite to ride along in their very unique two seat, dual control, P-51C. Betty Jane. And all it would take is a credit card and an hour of my precious time. I gave it some thought. I consulted with folks wiser than me, for emotion should not rule one’s decisions, and some logic should be applied. 

And then I disregarded logic, and paid heed to my heart, and I made my reservation.

So one of the Sunday mornings that I have left dawned overcast. The marine layer had slipped in under cover of darkness and that meant solid clouds a thousand feet above. That would mean no flying that day, unless it had the decency to clear away. Shucks! 

Oh, I’ll be fine. It’s just a plane ride. 

We watched as the clouds backed away from the hills to our east until we could see blue above. Hope began again. We arrived at the airfield early, for that’s how I operate. The B-17 and the B-24 sat on the pavement, looking just like those pictures from 70 years ago. The P-51 was nowhere to be seen. Oh, they probably broke it, and just forgot to tell me. No problem. I’ll just go home and get on with my life. 

No problem.

Nine o’clock and the tables were set up and the souvenirs were set out, folks were showing up with cameras and memories, and the two planes were being prepped by a covey of earnest looking men, the ground crew….and still no P-51. Pretty soon I was going to have to ask where it was. 

About then, the electric mule arrived, towing the polished aluminum, red spinner on the prop and red stripes on the tail and elevators, Mustang. Freaking awesome gorgeous in the perfect bright morning sun, my P-51 now sat just beyond the tail of the B-24. That noise was the pulse in my ears.

The Second World War had many parts, and the air war over Europe was a big part of that war. The B-17 and B-24 bombers each carried crews of ten men, and as many as a thousand bombers might head for Germany in a rather large group on any given day trying to win that war. Ten Thousand men at risk.

The Nazis objected to this, and they had many thousands of anti-aircraft guns, the 88’s, and also many hundreds of fighter aircraft, the Me-109 and FW-190, and an assortment of others arrayed to stop this. Their job was the destruction of those bombers, and the ten men aboard each. The leading Nazi ace in that war had 200 aerial victories, otherwise known as kills. Most of those victories were bombers which carried ten men to 25,000 feet above Germany, from which they fell to earth. Some survived. Others did not.

The P-51’s went along to safeguard the bombers. They were tasked with performing aerial victories against the Nazi fighters. They did well. A battle to the death, and from one point of view, of good against evil. For some then thought the Nazis should be stopped. And contrary to what some teach today, they were right.

This all was a nasty business.  I cannot even begin to wrap my brain around the courage those boys carried on each mission. For I’ve led a sheltered life.

A 737 airliner that we have all flown to 30,000 feet is a small plane to most of us, but they are larger than those WWII bombers, and the P-51 parked next to the B-24 looked like a mosquito next to that green plane. But in the inevitable evolution that war brings, in the survival of the fittest, the P-51 was the best to come out of that war. And on this morning, 70 years later, I’d be allowed to experience a tiny bit of what this airplane meant to history.

The P-51C was an engine, four 50 caliber machine guns, large fuel tanks, and a little space for the pilot to make the whole thing work. And the parts went together very well. 

I signed in at the table, and suddenly I was a VIP. I got to go over, beyond the rope, and check out Betty Jane up close. I got to know her, intimately. I met Jeff, the pilot. I took pictures, and Joie caught those photos of me next to the Mustang. We all watched the clouds to the north and west, for that’s where we were supposed to fly. And we waited on nature. And we waited.

Jeff offered the choice, to fly above the clouds to the northwest, or instead head east over the delta and into the valley where clear sky awaited. The map was marked with no trespassing zones, those places we could not clutter with our presence. The permitted open area past the delta looked fine to me. That was settled. Joie has a photo of Jeff and me, two backs, walking toward the Betty Jane.

You climb up on the port wing by stepping on the landing gear tire, and then on a shackle, and then you get a knee on the wing. The step into the rear seat is a bit of a stretch, but easier than that little move you did on Wall Street, well up on the Exum Route to the summit of the Grand Teton. (This bit is for Dad, who likely will remember) A ground crew member helps you don the parachute harness, two shoulder straps, a waist strap, two canvas loops between the legs. The seat belt with two more shoulder straps follow. 

With a smile, the guy tells you that if you need to “get out” the pilot will pop off the canopy, and you unfasten the seat belts, and pull that ‘D’ ring once you are “out”, and everything will be OK. Comforting.

The airsick bag sits in a recess next to the left elbow. The pilot says to tell him when you get the first queasy moment, but that macho part of you disregards. It’s a large zip lock freezer bag, as a souvenir, I suggest. The crew member laughs.

Jeff is futzing around in the front seat. I hear a ticking sound. The crew member stands by the port wing tip. I’m checking out the gauges on the panel in front of me. And trying to find a place for my feet, so I won’t interfere with the rudder pedals. It’s very cozy in my seat.  I have a control stick between my legs, and a throttle handle at my left. I find the magnetic compass, the gyro compass, the propeller RPM gauge, airspeed indicator, manifold pressure gauge, altimeter, g-force gauge, artificial horizon, temperature gauge, rate of climb or dive gauge, and fuel gauge. This should be easy. 

I’ve never piloted a plane before. I’ve never even been in a small plane. Those two trips in a sailplane likely don’t qualify as practice for this. But these crazy folks are going to let me fly this precious old airplane. Least I can do is do the best I can.

The engine was designed for a racing seaplane back in 1936. Built by Rolls Royce, the Merlin had powered the Hawker Hurricane and the Supermarine Spitfire as Great Britain fought the Nazis to a tie during the Battle of Britain. The original Mustang was powered by an Allison engine, which lagged in high altitude performance, so somebody got the bright idea to put the Merlin in there, and it transformed the Mustang. The engine was manufactured by Packard under license during the war. 1650 cubic inches, and over 1400 horsepower, the twelve cylinder engine also produces that sound that so flutters my heart. No muffler on that thing.

Jeff fires the engine. A whining sound, the propeller turns slowly, and a few cylinders take, but not enough to keep it going. Smoke passes by on both sides of the plexiglass canopy. Wait a few seconds, and try again. A few more cylinders kick in this time, and the engine runs, albeit a bit rough. Finally, all twelve kick in, and the roar settles. The crew member by the wing gives a thumbs up. We are not on fire. 

I’d like to go for a ride, but first we must warm the engine at 1000 RPM. The little line on the temp gauge ever so slowly works through yellow toward green. I wait to die of old age. The cockpit fills with exhaust fumes and the smell of one hundred octane gas. I sit in a tin can with a blast of engine noise and metal rattle. This is a participatory event. I’m loving it. 

Finally, after checking with the tower, Jeff taxis off the parking area. All the folks who had been looking at the two bombers turn to watch. The sound we make is sweet. The runway goes west and east, so we must taxi to the other end. The wind dictates this. The P-51 is a tail dragger, so the nose is in the air and you cannot see to the front, so the pilot does slow S-turns the length of the taxiway lest he bump into someone.

I’m excited. 

The east end of the runway has a wide spot where you can run up the engine to see if it has any surprises waiting for you. And then after a short discussion with the tower, Jeff rolled us onto the runway headed west. The RPM gauge went to 3100, and we accelerated down the runway. The tail came up, and the speed came up, and then we came up. We had a hundred feet of elevation as we passed the two bombers, and then further up we went. 

We banked left and climbed over the city. Heading southeast and then east, we passed over our house. And then the hills passed below, the two little cities and then the delta, as we gained elevation. At four thousand feet elevation, Jeff’s voice came over the intercom. He was going to do a few maneuvers. He’d warned me that we would see 4 g’s of enthusiasm on this flight. I found a few of those g’s right away.

It kinda feels like your guts are going to come out your ass. Jeff leaned the plane over to ninety degrees. This meant that the wings which normally lie parallel with the earth are suddenly aligned vertical to the earth. The plane carves a very sudden turn. And the pilot finds out right away if that barf bag is going to be needed by his passenger. Momentarily, I wasn’t sure, until I realized that a gut shift didn’t necessarily mean the need for plastic bag. I was fine. I tightened those old belly muscles, and reminded myself to keep breathing, and I was fine. And I was having fun.

And then Jeff turned the plane over to me.

Holy crap!

I learned that the inputs to the control stick need only be subtle.  Raise the nose slightly, and then lean the plane to port, and it turns! Easy as that. I know nothing about driving a plane, but this lady is so predictable, that even a rank novice like me can easily make her behave. Turn right, turn left, 360 degree turn….no problem. I realize how easy it would be to get lost doing this, so I learn to look for the mountain, and when it doesn’t change position, I can use it to tell where I’m going. At 250 knots!

Jeff takes over, and we climb up to 6 thousand feet, and it’s time for some aileron rolls and then finally a loop or two. Weird feeling, looking up through the clear canopy as the ground shows up, up there. This all is very cool. Some quick ‘S’ turns, and then finally, the climb, roll upside down and then dive on the farmhouse below for a strafing attack. Wow, and Wow!

Then he hands the plane over to me again, and we make our way back toward Concord. I get to try some tighter turns, some 180’s and 360’s. I get nearly vertical in my last turn. I’m flippin ole Betty Jane around, looking for the Red Baron, and getting a sense for what those guys once did for a living, so they could keep on living. I’d lost the need to justify, but clearly this was worth the cost. Priceless is another word for it.

We passed over the airport at 1500 feet, and then turned round, dropped the landing gear and set the flaps. A touch of throttle, and we touched down gently on the front gear, and then waited for the tail to drop. And then it was just the runoff until Jeff tapped the brakes and we taxied in behind the B-24, turned, and then parked. The engine died. And my flight in a P-51 ended.

A ground crew member helped me with the seat belt and parachute harness, and I clambered out of the cockpit and onto the wing. A quick drop to the pavement, and I was back to earth. A hand shake and thank you for Jeff, and a quick look to Joie and her camera. 

My brain was a bit cluttered. 

I took the moment to wander through the B-17 interior. I waited for the P-51 to take off with the next passenger, and that sound seared my soul again. I wandered about the two bombers a dazed man. And I realized that it might be a while before my feeble brain can process all of this. Not even all that sure what I need to process. But I’m looking forward to whatever I discover next.

Not sure how many more mornings await, but this was a good one.

Worth the price? 

Yep.

A Blast From The Past

I’m going for a ride on Betty Jane this weekend. She may be 70 years old, but she is sleek and she can still dance. Now, don’t get all riled up. Yeah, I’m a happily married man, but sometimes a man’s just got to do what a man’s got to do. And…. I have my wife’s permission.

Let me ‘splain what all led up to this…..

They call them the White Mountains, and they named the tallest one White Mountain. Nothing remarkable about this. These mountains are snow capped much of the year. That might be why. I don’t recall a Mr. White hiking the place looking for a lost gold mine, so I’ll stick with this explanation.

The White Mountains are taller than the Inyos and those cinder cones south of Mono Lake so they hang on to their snow longer, and if you are looking at them from near Mono Lake, and you turn around to look up to the Sierra Nevada summits behind you, the White Mountains won’t look like it but they are actually taller.

Most everybody knows about the Sierra Nevada Range, but I venture some fewer know about the Whites. The big highway follows the base of the Sierra Nevada from Reno down to Mojave, but only a couple of lightly traveled roads go near the Whites. No ski resorts up in the Whites. No bed and breakfast places or golf courses. Not much man made up there at all.

The Bristlecone Pines live up there, and they are worth the visit, but few folks do. Not many people like looking at old trees. Just as well. Those trees like their peace and quiet. But there is a road that runs south to north up the ridge that is that mountain range, and it’s even paved for a while. Past the Bristlecones the road thins out a mite. It goes to gravel, and then to bumps, and pretty soon it’s not much of a road at all, winding where the mountain lets it, always climbing, up to where the other things thin out, too.

No trees up there. No bushes even. Some flowers that keep their heads down out of the wind. Lichen covered rocks. A few marmots, and they sleep underground. Even the air thins down to a bare minimum, although the wind is a presence.

When you get to the gate, you stop and park just off the road. Down below, which you can’t really see from there, you can take breathing for granted, but the gate is at 11,200 feet. Here you sea level folks learn to breathe all over again. And when you begin walking at the gate, and that jeep track you follow continues uphill, sucking in thin air preoccupies your consciousness.

Persevere, and after seven miles, eventually you will reach the summit of White Mountain, which has a little weather station and an old WPA stone building and nothing else. Well, not exactly nothing else. The summit holds some of those intangibles that motivate folks to do silly things like this. A view, for instance. Past your toes it drops off about 8000 feet to the foot of the mountain. And over there, that entire western horizon is defined by the jagged summits lined up along the Sierra Crest. That part’s nice.

To the left along that crest you can see Mts. Whitney at 14,505 feet and Williamson at 14,389. Those are the two tallest in the state. And this is the only place in California where you can say you are standing on the third highest mountain in the state, at 14,252 feet.

Just happened to be standing on White Mountain summit one morning when a sailplane passed by, below me. The valley between the Sierra Crest and the White Mountains generates some wonderful thermals, and the wind hitting the escarpment I was standing on also will bounce a sailplane up. This guy was driving back and forth below me, gaining altitude with each turn. I could look into his cockpit. He didn’t wave back.

The first time I looked down upon an aircraft while standing astride a mountain summit, I was on top of Mt Whitney. That time it was an F-15 I believe. This guy was playing around, passing between mountains and then to our west, slightly below our altitude. I briefly could see inside his cockpit as he turned. He went by in rather a hurry, so he didn’t wave, either.

Tagged Telescope Peak at some point in time between these other mountains. It’s a pimple at only 11,043 feet, but it does claim one thing. On top there, you can look down to Badwater, the lowest spot in North America, and then turn around to look at Whitney, the highest. This time it was an F-18 that went by, below me. 

A couple of years ago, I stood atop Mt Diablo, our local 3800 foot “mountain”. Drove up to show it to a friend who had not been on the top before, despite living in the area for decades. A good crowd milled about on a Sunday afternoon. We were on the exposed viewing deck of the summit house when I heard a familiar aircraft engine. The plane was approaching, and I spotted it coming in from the north, below us. It went past with an un-muffled roar.

I’d know that engine sound anywhere, although it took a moment for it to register. Wasn’t expecting it in that time and place. It came from a restored World War II fighter, a P-51 Mustang. A handful of these birds still live, and I’d heard them fly by before. I knew that sound like an old friend’s voice.

I’m a bit obsessed with the story of WWII. I’ve seen about every movie and television program made concerning that war since I was a child. I have read so many books. Like driving to Wyoming in September just to hear an elk bugle, I’ve driven hours to an air show simply to hear them start up the old radial engines of a B-17 bomber, and been delighted to see and listen to the other WWII planes at the show, including a couple of P-51’s. Gave me that thrill in the pit of my stomach.

Being in the physical presence of such history, and trying to picture the men who rode these planes into danger to halt the evil that drove the other side, lends some harsh yet reassuring reality to my perceptions of the past. They are letting the kids forget this history, so someday they can repeat it. But for us older folks, and our parents who lived that history, these planes help keep it alive. And if it stays alive, maybe the next time won’t come as such a surprise.

Now something’s come up to put that thrill back into my gut. Once a year the local airport hosts a visit by a B-17, a B-24, and recently, a P-51C fighter. And you can book a ride in any of these aircraft. Which is even better than just listening to the engines start.

If you are standing on top of Mt Diablo this Sunday morning, listen for the un-muffled roar of a 70 year old Packard built Merlin V-12 engine, and look over, or maybe down. I’ll be in that silver P-51 with the red striped tail going by. This is the Mustang called Betty Jane. You should be able to recognize me by the grin. I expect it will take a crew of five a week to wipe it off my face after I land.