bajapablo
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Air Baja!
Sorry it is so long but the article was an interesting and enjoyable read and I thought I'd share....Capt. Mike- do you know this Galen Hanselman? I
found this story in Outside Magazine Feb 1997 thought it might interest some of you. Did the writer paint a true picture according to you nomads?
Just wondering.
Above Suspicion
Touring foreign lands with fake credentials, an unflappable cohort, and a Cessna 182
By Randy Wayne White
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Meeting hellish deadlines when in the field is tough enough without attempting to compose while strapped into a Volkswagen-size Cessna 182, flying at
7,500 feet across the border of Baja California en route to undetermined destinations with my friend G.H. "This time," he said from the left seat,
"when the military tries to arrest me, I want you to snap a picture. Last year they detained me 32 times, and I don't have a single photograph to
prove it. You know--something I can frame for my office wall. They're camera-shy and trigger-happy. It's a dicey combination, so try not to be obvious
about it."
In terms of dicey combinations, the trip ahead of us seemed daunting enough: ten days in an overloaded single-engine two-seater, exploring the deserts
and mountains and desolate coasts of the Baja peninsula. As a lifelong tight-sphincter flier, I found the prospect of dozens of bush landings and
takeoffs sufficiently frightening without adding the potential for gunplay."Photograph the Federales?" I asked. "Why don't I save us all some time and
just open the door and jump?"
Like most pilots who are focused on flying, G.H. was numb to hyperbole. "Don't even think about it," he said. "We're tail-heavy as it is. Without your
weight, we'll rear up like a horse when I try to land."
G.H. is Galen Hanselman of Hailey, Idaho, a bush pilot who looks the part, with his leather flight jacket, his beard, and his Indiana Jones fedora.
But he's also the publisher and author of a valuable little book called Fly Idaho! The book was originally intended for working bush pilots, but
because planes go where cars can't, it's proved to be a popular guide for anyone interested in the Idaho backcountry. G.H. was now working on a kind
of sequel, Air Baja! "Baja is a terrible place to drive," he said, "but it's perfect for small planes." Like his previous book, Air Baja! would be a
no-nonsense, ring-bound air traveler's guide and would contain precise aeronautical data as well as low-altitude photos of landing approaches.
I'd joined G.H. on the trip for a couple of reasons. One was that he'd promised me that there's a quantum difference between traveling by plane and
exploring by plane--a distinction few of us get the chance to experience.
The second reason I was sitting sweaty-palmed in that cramped c-ckpit was that he needed someone to help him photograph and measure some of the 100
dirt airstrips that would be featured in his new book. And as I'd already been warned, he was unable to obtain a permit to take commercial
photographs, so all photos would have to be made surreptitiously--a task that had seemed mildly adventurous at first but now, with the news of G.H.'s
many detainments, seemed decidedly unsound.
G.H., who is in his late forties, looks and acts more like a kindly physics professor than a bandit. So why would anyone give him a hard time? "Some
of the landing strips were built by drug runners," he explained. "And since I do a lot of quick landings and takeoffs and scouting around, I fit a
certain profile. So remember: When they surround the plane and raise their weapons, just stay calm."
Coming through his little plane's scratchy communications system, G.H.'s voice had a rock-solid, Right Stuff quality that should have been reassuring,
but wasn't.
Below us was a valley bordered by small, peach-colored mountains. From horizon to horizon, earth tones were as subtly stratified as a Hopi sand
painting, and the only indications of life were vultures circling beneath us, their shadows sailing across the hardpan.
Then the hills tilted precariously as G.H. banked, and I had to fight the nauseating sensation that I might tumble out the door. The little plane
rattled and bucked as the altimeter swept counterclockwise. The earth grew larger and swelled with detail through the front window. G.H. leveled her
off, and we sped across the mottled desert at a mere 100 feet. We passed over an expanding salt flat funneled like a river delta, then suddenly shot
out over the Gulf of California, shimmering in the sunlight.
For 50 miles, we flew along the beach, where there were only wading birds and gulls and big fish flushing from the shallows: no boats, no houses, no
man-spore of any kind.
In the last year, G.H. has made ten research trips to Baja, and he has a solid work routine. He establishes a base camp, unloads gear to lighten his
plane, and then takes off again to scout out interesting places and usable airstrips. When he finds an unfamiliar strip, he lands and measures its
length and width with a calibrated measuring wheel. Then he hikes off and asks people the kinds of questions travelers ask: What's the local history?
Are there good spots to camp and fish and go nosing around? His readers, he says, want more than just information on where to park their planes.
How many pilots would be willing to pay $40 for such a book? I asked him."There are close to a million of us in the U.S.," he replied. "People who
travel in private aircraft make up one of the quietest subcultures around. They're self-reliant and good at what they do, so you don't hear much about
them. Not that they all buy my books--I sold about 5,000 copies of Fly Idaho! But I don't do the books because I expect to make a lot of money. I do
it because I love the research. It gives me an excuse to fly and explore--my two favorite things to do."
We'd already done a good bit of exploring. The day before, we'd made a base camp near the Bay of San Luis Gonzaga at a funky little settlement of
beach shacks called Alfonsina's. We'd had to wait for the falling tide to expose the mud landing strip before we could wheel the Cessna up behind our
room. Soon after our arrival, a Humvee loaded with soldiers charged up the strip after us and demanded our papers. But the soldiers were cheerful and
polite. They kept their weapons slung and didn't even bother to search the plane. The officer in charge gracefully accepted G.H.'s gift, a 25-pound
sack of beans.
"Maybe they've relaxed their attitude toward private aircraft," G.H. said, pleased not only by the reception but by the chance to part with all those
heavy beans. Or maybe it was just that the kicked-back attitude of Alfonsina's was contagious. A dozen or so men had just rolled in from Tijuana, and
they hadn't even knocked the dust off their clothes before they invited us to the bachelor party they had planned for that evening.
"Do you know those guys?" I asked.
"Never seen them before in my life," G.H. said.
We sat on the beach eating roasted clams, drinking Pacifico Clara beer, and watching a full moon emerge from a windy sea. Even G.H., who doesn't drink
alcohol while on flying trips, was unable to decipher who the prospective groom was, but it didn't much matter to us and seemed to matter less to
them. We were part of their group, and they made sure that we were included in every toast and every joke.
"Go ahead-drink up and have fun," G.H. said before heading off to bed. "I'm not flying tomorrow."
About midnight, someone produced a trunkload of musical instruments, and I spent the next couple of hours playing maracas and bongos to songs I'd
never heard before. Soon I was getting teary-eyed right along with my compa?eros at every sad song.
The next morning--it couldn't have been much after sunrise--I awoke to G.H. pounding at my cabana door. "The plane's all set," he said. "You ready to
go?" I blinked my way around the room--whitewashed walls, raw cement floor, bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, seatless commode coated with
sand.
Thank God, I was still in Baja.
I sat up and said, "You told me you weren't flying today."
"I'm not flying today," G.H. replied, already turning toward the little gray and white Cessna parked just outside. "I'm taking pictures while you
fly."
Eight hundred miles long and only 60 miles wide, Baja California is a fragile land-break immersed in the open sea. Isolated by geography and its own
poor road system, the peninsula is intimately connected with wind and stars and the cataclysms of geology. When the Transpeninsular Highway linked
Tijuana to Cabo San Lucas in 1973, cynics predicted that Baja would be overrun with tourists. While that's exactly what's happened to Cabo, that thin
ribbon of asphalt otherwise has done little to destroy the peninsula's pristine wildness.
Over the next few days, while steadily working our way south, I spent longer and longer stints at the controls, stints that at first left me
white-knuckled and breathless. Gradually, though, all the flaps and flight gauges that had been a blur to me began to assume individual consequence,
and I began to master the niceties of trim. G.H.'s prediction was on the money--I was coming to enjoy exploring by plane. Often, when crossing the
mountains that run down the spine of Baja, we flew at an altitude that allowed us to see both the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of California. The
peninsula between--wrinkled, jagged-stretched beneath us like some immense topo map.
The strangest place we visited was an island in the gulf, San Marcos, where there is an industrial village that houses employees of a large gypsum
mining company. Landing on San Marcos was like landing on the bright side of the moon. On one of the hillsides sat a bone-white church, and to the
left of the airstrip was a baseball stadium complete with bleachers and a wooden outfield wall that proclaimed HOME OF THE SAN MARCOS STARS in bright
orange paint. We saw men riding in mining cars, men dwarfed by rock-grinding equipment. The island was controlled by the scream of a steam whistle.
Each time we heard it, there was a flurry of human movement in the far quarries. No one ever came to inquire why we were walking up and down their
airstrip, pushing a measuring wheel.
Another odd place was the Diamond Eden Hotel, near the town of Loreto. It was originally built as a golf resort, but poor returns inspired its
transformation into a 183-room nudist colony, which now boasts the largest and "hottest" in-the-buff Jacuzzi in all of Mexico."If we try to take
pictures here," G.H. told me as we flew low over the place, "we might have our first real trouble with the military."
At first, G.H. seemed grateful that the Mexican military was being so nice to us. But slowly his gratitude turned to disappointment, as more and more
soldiers kept meeting us with grins. "What the hell's happened?" he asked me one afternoon after yet another pleasant encounter. "Truth is, it takes
some of the adventure out of things."
If so, then the adventure was suddenly put back into the equation upon landing at the Pacific Coast town of San Carlos, a popular tourist destination
during the winter whale-watching season. As we taxied to a stop, we found ourselves surrounded by Mexican marines, dressed in blue field uniforms and
boonie hats and carrying Heckler & Koch G-3 automatic weapons. These guys weren't smiling. Indeed, they appeared irritated and eager for action. "Pin
on your ID tag!" G.H. whispered before he climbed out of the plane-by which he meant the officious laminated identification cards he'd had made for us
because, he said, soldiers are impressed by such things.
I clipped my tag to my pocket and stepped out onto the tarmac. The biggest marine--a sergeant with bulldog shoulders and a state cop attitude--started
interrogating us. Why had we landed in San Carlos? Where else had we landed this morning? When G.H. told him about the several isolated strips we had
visited, I saw the sergeant raise his eyebrows in interest. In that case, he said, he wanted to see our passports immediately and would have to
inspect our plane.
I returned to the Cessna and dug through my backpack until I found my passport. It wasn't until I turned around that I realized one of the marines had
followed me and was standing there with his rifle up and ready. I offered my passport as if it were a soiled tissue.
For 20 minutes, we answered questions and signed forms that I did not understand. It wasn't until we were back in the plane again and taxiing that I
realized, for the first time in my life, I actually looked forward to the prospect of being aloft, alone and unencumbered by bureaucrats or mountains
or sea barriers. I yearned for the sky's vantage point, for the illusion of omniscience that is, illusion or not, a kind of freedom.
G.H. drew back on the yoke, and the Cessna lifted off the ground. Soon the village of San Carlos was but a speck in the distance, and the desert hills
and jade water of Baja were once again wide and easy and wild beneath us.
[Edited on 2-13-2004 by bajapablo]
[Edited on 2-13-2004 by bajapablo]
\"changes it lattitudes, changes in attitudes\"
J.Buffet
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David K
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Thanks for posting this! I have the book 'Air Baja!' and I believe the story is true!
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capt. mike
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Yes, Galen is one of those "salt of the earth"
types. i bought his book as soon as it came out as an adjunct to my Senterfitt's guides of which i have several editions. I've spoke with Galen
several times on the phone but we have not met in person yet. he also wrote the definitive book on Idaho's back strips, "Fly Idaho".
If Galen says it happened....it did!!
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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Skeet/Loreto
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David ! Yes I am sure that it is true!!
For me it really brings out the Memories of Senterfitt's "Airports of Baja California" which was my "Bible" from 1968 to the last of my flying days
in Baja in 1992.
I followed the same procedure by ecploring every small strip I could find during those years in a Cessna 172 and then to a Tail-dragger Cessna 170B!
I have heard of this Author and will for sure get his book!
One of the reasons I stopped flying into Baja was the the start of the Soldiers based at every small landing Strip.
The one and only time I havd a problem was flyinginto the small strip out side of Cabo.
Flew into the strip that was directly behind the Hacienda Hotel in Cabo. the old Cannery was still there and it was dredged out and is now the present
day Ferry Slip!
One thing in the story should be added to and that is most of the small strips where ther before the Drug Runners started using them.
Many small strips were started when the "Shark Liver" planes would make weekly runs up and down the coast to pick up shark livers and deliver them to
the states for the Vitamin. Old twin engine Cessnas and and SNJ's, were used.
Later these same strips were extended and some new ones put in by the Drug Smugglers
Do you have an email address for the new Book,tele number, please post.
Pabalo: there is no doubt in my mind that the story is true, I have never met the Man but from my many hours of Flying Baja I know that"He knows of
what he Speaks"
The very first time I flew into Baja I landed on a small combations road and Strip behind a small Motel and got Gas out of 55 Gal Drums and had a fish
dinner.
Wnet on an Landed at Bao Of LosAngeles right in front of Pappa Diaz place, two or three roomsto let , good food and Aviation fuel was $2.10 Gallon.
first time into Loreto I could not land at the FlyingSportsman Strip for therewere too many donkeys,sebt to the Muni. Strip which is now occupied by.
the School.}The old Brick Building is still there. It was the Airport Office
During my flying years in Baja yhere were no Soldiers, no one bothered you . The people wopuld geive you Lobsters and Shrimp Free, just to talk to
you!
It was a different time, just as it is in the States .
Skeet/Loreto
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David K
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Hi Skeet, the book (Air Baja!) is not that new... c1998. He does have more strips than Arnold had.
I think most of the strips have since been ditched.
But, the aerial photos are color and there is GPS for each location. I like it beter than Arnold Senterfitt's for those reasons. However, pilots
should have both books, IMO. Senterfitt's is updated thanks to Jack at Baja Bush Pilots.
Contact info in the book: phone: (208) 788-5176 and (800) 574-9702 or
Box 1236 Hailey, IDAHO 83333
$49.95 + $5 S&H
I got mine at Discover Baja Travel Club a couple years ago.
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BajaNomad
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Links to this article...
http://outside.away.com/magazine/0297/9702out.html
...and others have been posted on this site for some time:
http://www.bajanomad.com/articles/more.htm
There's another by this writer about a trip with GH:
http://outside.away.com/magazine/0997/9709outthere.html
(The restaurant is no longer there)
As well as a couple others by Randy Wayne White that I've enjoyed tremendously:
Travelers' Spanish:
http://outside.away.com/magazine/0296/9602ot.html
And a non-Baja related article that's poignant to those of that lead an active, adventurous lifestyle:
http://outside.away.com/magazine/0197/9701out.html
Excerpt:
"A friend told me recently that you know you've reached middle age when your travel partners start dying. "'Natural causes' is the key phrase," he
said. "Listen for that, and you'll know." I think he was referring to any "cause" other than foreign taxis, air crashes, faulty climbing gear, boating
accidents, or street thugs. In short, he was excluding situations in which we have a hand in the decision-making process. If there is risk in what we
do--and an active life always involves risk--then we have the option of throttling back and living safe but dull lives, or we have the option of
embracing those risks and trying to manage them as best we can. Perhaps that's why the phrase "natural causes" is so disturbing. It describes a
process over which we have no authority and less control. It transforms death from an external variable into an internal eventuality in which our own
bodies turn traitor. To accept that process is the challenge of middle age and, to my way of thinking, demands a spunky screw-it-all attitude, as well
as the same kind of emotional untethering that travel itself requires.
"There's a lot to be said for just letting go. It also helps to keep in mind that that bastard Grim Reaper is loose in the room and moving targets are
harder to hit."
--
Doug Means
When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people.
– Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel
We know we must go back if we live, and we don`t know why.
– John Steinbeck, Log from the Sea of Cortez
Affordable Domain Name Registration/Management & cPanel Web Hosting:
https://www.regionalinternet.com |
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capt. mike
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excellent Doug, thanks!! nfm.
    
formerly Ordained in Rev. Ewing\'s Church by Mail - busted on tax fraud.......
Now joined L. Ron Hoover\'s church of Appliantology
\"Remember there is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over....\"
www.facebook.com/michael.l.goering |
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Skeet/Loreto
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Thanks Doug for the good information and all of your effort to keep this board in a useable condition.
Adventure! "The Passion of Life".
Skeet/Loreto
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Skeet/Loreto
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Air Baja Book
Just checked with Amazon .com for the Air Baja Book. It is now 141.00 Dollars , new and used. Anybody would like to sell one , let me Know.
Skeet/Loreto
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BajaNomad
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| Quote: | Originally posted by Skeet/Loreto
Just checked with Amazon .com for the Air Baja Book. It is now 141.00 Dollars , new and used. Anybody would like to sell one , let me Know.
Skeet/Loreto |
Why don't you just get it (and the updates) from the author himself?:
http://www.flyidaho.com/
--
Doug
When I was young, I admired clever people. Now that I am old, I admire kind people.
– Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel
We know we must go back if we live, and we don`t know why.
– John Steinbeck, Log from the Sea of Cortez
Affordable Domain Name Registration/Management & cPanel Web Hosting:
https://www.regionalinternet.com |
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Skeet/Loreto
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Thanks Doug. thought it was out of print! On my way to Air Baja. Skeet
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Skeet/Loreto
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Capt. Mike and Doug
Thanks for the info. Air Baja is on the way.
Most interesting as I had met this guy several years ago. he was a Friend of Jack Simpson who prior to his Death lived in Loreto for several years.
I went Flying with Jack a couple of times at Sun Valley idaho where he owned one of the best Steak Houses Around.He was an old time Pilot who was one
of the original Pilots for Wein at Alaska Airlines.
Jack was a coffe House buddy of Ernest Hemingway.
Jack and his Wife Marylee both Walked the Pacific Crest Trail when he was in in his 60's, had a fall in Idaho, broke his hip and had to be Helio off
the Trail. Started riding a bike after his hip was replaced, went back via Helio to the very spot and finished the Hike to Canada. !!
Tough ole bird and a very Good Man.Hellva fisherman, He had the first Boston Whaler in Loreto!
Adventure is the Passion of Life.
"In God we Trust"
Skeet/Loreto
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