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Though the past month has had none of the debauchery found in the Eagles song, I am certainly living the line “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.” On no less than six occasions, I’ve taken my keys to the front desk, heaved my bags into an Uber and set off in the morning thinking I’d seen the last of the Grand Canyon state. The first was a glorious week in Utah, and the last was a reassignment to California that was over in the time it took to get there.

Coming back from a week of routine maintenance, the word from on high was, “Finish up the two easy plans in Phoenix, then relocate to SoCal for reflys.”

So I did. For once, I was only a minor inconvenience to the fine controllers at Phoenix TRACON, who I’d been bothering daily to carve out an hour of access to the project. The automotive equivalent: running back and forth on the busiest downtown exit while semi-trucks, buses and Lamborghinis  buzzed by, giving your hair a tousle each time. These plans though, were out of the way enough that ATC wasn’t even required to call out the jets passing over and along side.

A few hours on station one afternoon wrapped it up, and the next morning I set off for an interstate adventure, Lana Del Rey (sorry, not sorry) cooing in my headset.

Though the headwind stretched out the journey, the bumps didn’t reach my 8500 ft cruise altitude, and the moody autopilot decided to show up to work that day. Too soon, the travel was over and the work began. Clouds and smog obscured half the target area, so I wandered about seeking a slice of project that was free of clouds or air too dirty to see through.

With all but two lines complete, I landed for fuel in Riverside, and was surprised to run into some fellow contractors. I was warming up my gear for a second run when another Aztec pulled alongside and called over the disused radio frequency adopted by imaging pilots, “Who’s that in 43Y?” I let him know the new guy was in town, and we talked about meeting after the quick shoot that would wrap up the work my rig was capable of here. Behold though, as I was blasting through the last line, new orders arrived: Back to Phoenix. So much for meeting the legendary pilot known to friends as “Big Country”.

So here I am, working 3 hours a day, devouring Murakami and Hemingway at the Drury Inn, where you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. Hey, I’m not complaining.

I’m in Salt Lake City now, having officially been assigned the  Piper Aztec. Flew over the grand canyon on my way from Arizona, landed to fuel up and cool the right engine, then popped up for some surveying near Park City. Today, the weather was forecast to be a bit windy, but perfectly VFR. I hopped up to 13000 feet with my oxygen cannula on and got kicked around by the 45 kt winds blowing over the mountains. There’s a limit to how fast we can be going while taking the pictures, so I was dragging around at 85 KIAS on the downwind photo lines using the landing gear as a brake since you can’t pull the engines too far back. Wind moving over mountains that fast creates some interesting dynamics, so constant jabs of rudder and power adjustments were required to meet the very strict tolerances for the survey work. I was truly earning my fee.

After shooting for a while, I pulled out of the mountains to see if there was another area of the project where the winds would be at my side instead of my back, which would make things substantially easier. It was fortunate that I took this little reprieve, because it allowed me to notice that an unforecast fog bank that was heading towards the airport I was basing at, moving at 30 mph.

I dove for the ground at the top of the green arc, trapped in the small wedge of open airspace between the mountains and the Salt Lake Class Bravo. Once low enough to duck under the shelf, I cranked over and zipped for the airport, arriving on the base leg only a minute ahead of the fog. The next challenge: the winds. Stronger and in a different direction than forecast, I would have to bring 5000 lbs of antique airplane to the earth while the wind gusted to 35 knots at a 40 degree angle to the runway. Did I mention this is my second day flying multi engine planes solo?

Fortunately, my experience whisking the venerable Scarlett into the oft windy and tree covered airport back home served me well. Each wheel kissed the runway in succession, in the proper order for a right crosswind, and I guided her off the runway and parked. Before I could shut the engines down, the weather rolled over, leaving me unable to see one side of the airport from the other.

Exciting as the day was, there was never any need for concern. The plane had 5 more hours of fuel and a full suite of instruments for flying in the clouds. Though I have little experience in this type of plane, I’m quite adjusted to gusty crosswinds and never hesitate to abort a landing if it’s not clearly within my abilities. There were several airports with lovely weather at hand to the south that would have served if I couldn’t comfortably get down in time. Of course, sharing that makes the story a little less dramatic, but I wouldn’t want anyone thinking of me as a flying cowboy, would I?