It took me a few minutes to recover from my camera fail.
As I cycled through the stages of grief for my broken device, I did what we all do: turned it on and off hoping it would self-correct (denial), I cursed my fumbling hands (anger), fiddled with the knobs and scrolled through the menu looking for a command that might help (bargaining), all to no avail. Finally, resigned to its demise (and a little miffed I wouldn’t be able to get snaps), I headed out to explore the air park.
Past the chow hall I went, and the fire department, and ‘round the north side of the roundabout and the US and Texas flags that proudly flew at its center. I passed the Class Six (Air Force version of a package store) and the Burger King, and took note of them as possible dinner locations on the return leg. It felt nice to move my body, to put one foot in front of the other after the long sits in my car.
Over the years I have found an hour before sunset to be a good time for a walk; the shadows are longer, haze filters the setting sun, there is usually a breeze, and the people you encounter are generally more relaxed. (In this case I had also wanted to get photos of the aircraft.) As I walked I realized I had miscalculated; twenty minutes out and the air felt hotter than when I had left. But there they were, towering above me, the first aircraft in the display.
They were fast jets, the F-100, F-104 (made famous in that last scene in the Right Stuff where Chuck Yeager chased that demon in the sky), the F105, and the F-4 (with enough thrust even bricks can fly), which I remembered fondly from my early days at Nellis. I was naughty and left the path to explore each jet and its placard which included not only type descriptors but details of the tail number’s actual missions). It reminded me of the thrill I felt when I was first learning to fly, the possibilities and excitement available in the big blue sky.
Next was a cluster of Korean era warbirds (F84, F86, and others). A little farther on, after a pair of trainers (T-37 and T-38), I came upon a cluster of early Cold War workhorses. I marveled at the playfulness of their names (Voodoo, Tweety, Skytrain, Thunderstreak) and their personal histories (the lone C-47 had over 100 flights as part of the Berlin Airlift). As I read each placard I was struck by their development histories: each had a specific mission and with it a rapid development and deployment cycle, sometimes as little as eighteen months from idea to flight. Each of these aircraft were built for a specific purpose, built by men and women with a mission, so different than the drawn-out, design-by-committee multi-mission ‘platforms’ we see today.
But what was this? I was suddenly lightheaded, and a flush of weakness passed through me. I’d let myself become so engrossed in the planes that I had missed that even with the low sun, the air was scorching. Less than a mile in, I was too hot and too tired. As much as I wanted to continue, after a quick pass around a group of light transports (including samples of the C121, C123 and Caribou, the same types my first flight instructor had shuttled around Cambodia and Laos the year I was born) I turned back.
My progress slowed considerably. I adopted a zigzag path, lingering in the shade of trees and aircraft to catch my breath and regain my balance before scurrying to my next refuge. I briefly considered waving down a passing car and asking for a ride (a relatively safe choice on a military base), but decided to press on as long as I could on my own. And, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I reached the last of the displays, and shortly thereafter, the Class Six. I stumbled in and reveled in the air conditioned space. After one tall ice tea from the fountain, and then another, I felt composed enough to continue.
By the time I made it back to my room I was lightheaded and a little bit pukey. After a long shower and some ibuprofen I curled up in bed, hoping a good night’s sleep would clear my head for the next day’s drive.