Week 15: Nellis

I am one of those people who believe that if you jump the net will appear. So I jumped… and reached the point where I expected the net. But I was flailing wildly; either the net was well below me or I had landed (possibly in my sleep) and been flung wildly in another direction. Seeking refuge from the shifting ground, I headed west to my adopted hometown and a stop that was well overdue.

Las Vegas, Nevada.

The northeast edge of the city.

A small alcove adjacent to the 66th Rescue Squadron.

It had taken four trips for me to actually make it. The first two had been during previous passes through the city in March and May. And earlier in the week I had driven to Nellis with the express purpose of visiting the memorial. During all three visits I had been distracted by other chores, and left the base without stopping in. This day, this trip, was for just this one thing.

It felt weird driving along the perimeter road. I had driven it hundreds, perhaps thousands of times a decade before, but this time was different. Yes, there were new fences and walls, testament to security increases since my last visit. But this was also the first time I’d driven the road with this specific purpose.

As I got closer I could see the years since 9/11 had left their mark. Back in the day the squadron had been housed in a lonely outpost to the northwest side of the runway. Now the once solitary office and hangar were part of a fully developed complex. I parked in the once bare-earth but now paved parking lot across the street and took a deep breath.

I had reached Las Vegas exhausted: physically from long hours on the road (and cushion), a rigorous retreat schedule, hiking, and the altitude; and cognitively from rapidly changing venues, new experiences, and the constant planning the trip entailed. It had been a relief to reach Vegas, the place I considered home, sheltered by friends and surrounded by memories. I also welcomed the opportunity for this pilgrimage, something I felt I needed to do.

I approached tentatively, not sure what I would find, not sure what the locals would think of this civilian interloper. The memorial was set in a small courtyard by the front door of the squadron. The original dedication, a scale helicopter and marker, had been expanded over the years and now also honored a pilot fatally injured during a ‘hard landing’, a flight engineer lost during a Medevac mission, and five killed during a bloody multi-day firefight. I stopped to read each plaque, and took photos of the area. At some point I realized, this was my first visit to the memorial, and feel a bit odd that it has taken me so long. I’m not sure when the tears began, just that there came a moment when I had to sit down and let them come.

“Hey.” I hadn’t expected to see anyone who remembered Kev, but here was one, a flight engineer, newly cross-trained at the time of the accident, now a senior NCO. He seemed genuinely glad to see me, and after some conversation, gave me a tour of the squadron. The space had changed; offices turned in to briefing space, carpet replaced with tile, the PJs (pararescuemen) moved to their own training complex on another part of the base, but the camaraderie was still there. Once caught up, he sent me on my way with a mug for my coffee and a green feet sticker for my car. I was struck again by the kindness extended after so much time because of a shared memory. This was the first time I also sensed the guys needed to reconnect as much as I did.

On Saturday I met some friends at a park on the south side of town for a run. We started out alongside (in?) a series of storm channels that dumped us in to the dry washes and lava beds along the edge of the desert. It was late afternoon, and hot as the dickens, but it was great to be out on trail, my first time along the terrain beneath Henderson Executive’s departure path, a route I had flown many times years before. As usual I was the last to the mid-trail beverage check, so I grabbed a some water and kept going. At one point, while still ahead of the pack, I lost trail. In frustration I scanned the desert, amused to see the hare’s hazard yellow shirt bobbing across the black and grey terrain ahead of me. I disregarded trail and followed him in a lazy arc, with the pack catching me as we reached pavement. After more water and chips, I headed back to the homestead for a long soak and good night’s sleep.

The next morning I was back on the road. I had been hearing a lot about drought during my drive, and the low water levels at Lake Mead while I was in town. On my way out, I stopped in Boulder City to look for myself. Boy was it was a shocker! I would later hear the last time Lake Mead was this low was back in the 1930s while it was being filled.

More soon!