buck,” croaked Rufus. “Took him the better part of three years to get that old bird running.”
“Engine sounds good! Really nice…” Tommy said, flashing one of his megawatt smiles.
The biplane was a 1941 Boeing PT-17. It had a 220 horsepower radial engine and a two-person open cockpit. Most people knew them as the Stearman Crop-duster—the sturdy little planes familiar to anyone driving through California’s agricultural heartland, the Central Valley.
Boeing built ten thousand of them. A thousand are still thought to be in use—or at least airworthy. Karl Eller inherited the plane when he bought the garage. The last owner had dreamed of restoring it and spending the rest of his days hopping around the southwest in the nimble little two-seater.
Never happened. As it turned out, the previous owner’s remaining days were cut
short by a massive heart attack. But his dream had lived on in the form of Karl Eller—and two and half years later, the yellow bird had been restored to flight.
Karl ran the engine up, creating a cloud of dust that swirled around the elevators, then quickly let it coast back to an idle, not wanting to stress the rebuilt engine.
“Way to go, Karl!” Sam jumped off the porch and jogged toward the plane for a closer look.
“Yeah!” screamed Carla, hopping up and down.
Karl revved the engine again. Then he stood up in the cockpit and waved back to the group, not caring that his ball cap was ripped off his head by the sudden blast of prop wash. Not usually given to displays of emotion, Karl was grinning ear to ear. A kid in a candy store.
He dropped back into the cockpit, and—just as he was about to add power and taxi into town—the engine hiccupped and sputtered, then finally stopped altogether.
The town plunged into silence. Sam thought he’d suddenly gone deaf as he watched the Stearman’s prop make a final revolution and then stop. Tommy’s smile faded, and Rufus’s face fell.
Inside the cockpit, Karl was momentarily confused. What happened? A look crossed his face. He reached forward and tapped the gas gauge. The needle jumped, then fell back, indicating the tank was empty.
He’d run out of gas!
A pilot’s cardinal sin .
Karl laughed at himself for being so careless. He patted the dash and whispered, “That won’t happen again.”
Chapter 24
It had been almost an hour since she left the highway. Laura gripped the wheel, bounced over a rutted section of road, then had to add power as she wound up a steep, rocky hill—the final bit of elevation before the road leveled at the top of Furnace Mountain and then turned down towards the valley below.
She slipped the car around a horseshoe bend, crested the hill—and got her first good look at Furnace Valley and the handful of buildings that made up the town.
Directly ahead, the road widened into a turnout. It looked like a rest stop or an observation point. Laura slowed the car, then turned off the road and pulled into the rest stop, driving right up to where the land fell away and parking next to a giant saguaro that loomed over the turnout.
The cactus was huge—tall as a tree—and looked like the kind depicted in those Roadrunner cartoons. The top was shaped like a giant fork or trident, with the middle tine jutting fifty feet into the air.
She turned off the engine and let the dust settle as she marveled at the saguaro through the windshield.
“ Carnegia Gigantea ,” she said out loud. One of the most impressive specimens she’d ever seen. And then she suddenly felt like a nerd again. Nothing she could do about it. It was in her DNA. Beecham’s the name, knowledge of the obscure is the game . What was that Huey Lewis song? “ Hip to be Square .” Always made her smile.
It really was an impressive sight. But definitely not indigenous to the area. A saguaro cactus that tall had to have been planted over a hundred and fifty years ago!
Very cool! And thank you, Johnny Cactus-seed , wherever you
“Engine sounds good! Really nice…” Tommy said, flashing one of his megawatt smiles.
The biplane was a 1941 Boeing PT-17. It had a 220 horsepower radial engine and a two-person open cockpit. Most people knew them as the Stearman Crop-duster—the sturdy little planes familiar to anyone driving through California’s agricultural heartland, the Central Valley.
Boeing built ten thousand of them. A thousand are still thought to be in use—or at least airworthy. Karl Eller inherited the plane when he bought the garage. The last owner had dreamed of restoring it and spending the rest of his days hopping around the southwest in the nimble little two-seater.
Never happened. As it turned out, the previous owner’s remaining days were cut
short by a massive heart attack. But his dream had lived on in the form of Karl Eller—and two and half years later, the yellow bird had been restored to flight.
Karl ran the engine up, creating a cloud of dust that swirled around the elevators, then quickly let it coast back to an idle, not wanting to stress the rebuilt engine.
“Way to go, Karl!” Sam jumped off the porch and jogged toward the plane for a closer look.
“Yeah!” screamed Carla, hopping up and down.
Karl revved the engine again. Then he stood up in the cockpit and waved back to the group, not caring that his ball cap was ripped off his head by the sudden blast of prop wash. Not usually given to displays of emotion, Karl was grinning ear to ear. A kid in a candy store.
He dropped back into the cockpit, and—just as he was about to add power and taxi into town—the engine hiccupped and sputtered, then finally stopped altogether.
The town plunged into silence. Sam thought he’d suddenly gone deaf as he watched the Stearman’s prop make a final revolution and then stop. Tommy’s smile faded, and Rufus’s face fell.
Inside the cockpit, Karl was momentarily confused. What happened? A look crossed his face. He reached forward and tapped the gas gauge. The needle jumped, then fell back, indicating the tank was empty.
He’d run out of gas!
A pilot’s cardinal sin .
Karl laughed at himself for being so careless. He patted the dash and whispered, “That won’t happen again.”
Chapter 24
It had been almost an hour since she left the highway. Laura gripped the wheel, bounced over a rutted section of road, then had to add power as she wound up a steep, rocky hill—the final bit of elevation before the road leveled at the top of Furnace Mountain and then turned down towards the valley below.
She slipped the car around a horseshoe bend, crested the hill—and got her first good look at Furnace Valley and the handful of buildings that made up the town.
Directly ahead, the road widened into a turnout. It looked like a rest stop or an observation point. Laura slowed the car, then turned off the road and pulled into the rest stop, driving right up to where the land fell away and parking next to a giant saguaro that loomed over the turnout.
The cactus was huge—tall as a tree—and looked like the kind depicted in those Roadrunner cartoons. The top was shaped like a giant fork or trident, with the middle tine jutting fifty feet into the air.
She turned off the engine and let the dust settle as she marveled at the saguaro through the windshield.
“ Carnegia Gigantea ,” she said out loud. One of the most impressive specimens she’d ever seen. And then she suddenly felt like a nerd again. Nothing she could do about it. It was in her DNA. Beecham’s the name, knowledge of the obscure is the game . What was that Huey Lewis song? “ Hip to be Square .” Always made her smile.
It really was an impressive sight. But definitely not indigenous to the area. A saguaro cactus that tall had to have been planted over a hundred and fifty years ago!
Very cool! And thank you, Johnny Cactus-seed , wherever you
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