What used to be normal, isn't any more

I live in the Appalachian Mountains of western Virginia.  Our Air Force and Navy like to practice their defensive maneuvers in our area.  They fly a variety of planes among our mountains and valleys executing dramatic ascents, descents, and sharp turns.  This has been going on for decades.

About the year 2000, I wrote a letter to then Virginia Senator John Warner about a huge C-130 cargo plane that had disappeared behind the 1,500 foot hill in front of my home (which is at about 1,400 feet ASL).  The valley floor beneath the plane is 1,200 feet ASL; the rear stabilizer on the plane is about 70 feet high.

Three members of our armed forces responded to my query to Senator Warner.  All three assured me that it wasn't their airplane.

I concluded that it had been the Russians.

Now when I hear the jets, I look up and wonder if Donald Trump has started World War Three.

Arctic Circle Golf

Years ago, my wife and I were driving north on the

highway out of Fairbanks, Alaska that eventually

goes to Prudhoe Bay and the Arctic Wildlife Preserve 

inevitably crossing the Arctic Circle

which is well marked and is ofcourse

an iconic stopping point for tourists.

We arrived there at an hour when we knew we

should stop and sleep.  I won’t say stop for

the night because it was sunshine 24/7 on 

that date in early July.  The campsites were

obvious even though this was not an officially

designated campground and we found a place to

put our tent up out of view of the few other

people who were there.  We went for a walk to

check out how many neighbors we’d have for the

“evening”.

Alaska has plenty of gnarly weather, so smart travelers

are sure to have good rain suits; jackets and pants

are a must.  I had purchased a good set for the

trip and before leaving home in Virginia, had recently 

worn it to play golf in a "tournament" the week

before we left for Alaska.  I happened to

have a single golf ball and a courtesy "gold" tee

in my pocket. Chris and I were walking on the vehicle

tracks (don’t call them roads) through the head

high alders occasionally spying a truck or an

SUV.  Then we came around a bend and saw a Japanese

gentleman practicing his golf swing.  He had his

clubs and his bag out and he was hitting “air drives”

with his big club.  

We waved to him and started to return to our camp when

I felt the ball in my pocket.  I turned around, walked up

to him and handed him the ball and the golden tee.

I didn’t know if he spoke English, so I just said:

              “This is for you.”

We turned around and walked away, I told Chris not
to look back in case he decided to hit the ball off into
the brush.  I didn’t want to make him nervous or
intrude on his solitude.  

I often wonder what he may have told his family and
friends about this when he got home.