Collins Rhōg

Sedona AZ (December 10, 2014) – The following has been taken from Collins Rhōg’s private journal, and reproduced exactly as it was written, by his own hand. The date has been omitted, at his request, but Collins view is always captivatingly honest, full of depth and color, heart and perseverance in times of struggle. Collins spills his soul and captures his feelings with vivid imagery and heart felt emotion that oozes from the pages of this historic text.

The following is but a portholes view, from across the room of “The Life and Times of Collins Rhōg“:

If you are new to the story, it all begins at this link (click here). In previous weeks, our readers were introduced to Rhōg’s story as written in his journal. Join us as we return to the Life and Times of Collins Rhōg, now 38, while he surveys the gates of Hell:

– Cambire, The Story Part 10 –

The trip to my cabin went smoothly, no one was looking for a khaki topless Land Cruiser. I kept my speed down and made fun of Shugo squinting as he peered over the folded windshield frame while I drove. He would extend his neck, letting the wind blow into his jowl and inflate his cheeks, the whole time fighting to keep his eyes open. It’s the only time I ever saw a dog squint.

We arrived just as the sun was going down. Stopping the cruiser near the cabin, Shugo climbed over me and launched off of my gut as he jumped out the window. He hit the ground, took two paces, raised his leg and let rip.

“Dang it, Dog, don’t jump over me like that…you hear me?” He paid no attention with his chin high, tail up, and eyes closed as he continued to whiz away.

Our position, atop one of the area’s great ridges, provided the best vantage of the evening sky. It was one of those vividly colorful sunsets that takes precedence over everything and entirely possesses one’s attention. Climbing out of the truck, I uprighted its empty windscreen frame to lean against, then hopped onto the hood. Sitting on the Cruiser, I marveled at the flaming hues of war paint that bled into the skyline, decompressing from the day’s drive as the engine heat soaked through the hood and into my lower body. Looking up from the ground, Shugo’s eyes plead their case, as the engine cooled in ticks that broke the evening’s silence.

“Come on up, you kooky dog…” and without hesitation he bound beside me wearing that grin of his. The two of us didn’t move, but just sat there enjoying the beautiful sunset as darkness chased the last solar rays over the horizon. It was peaceful, and peacefulness gives a person time to think.

I thought about Reegan, with her deep green eyes and imagined how a rendezvous might play out. I was slightly nervous to make the phone call. I still loved her.

Shugo and I remained on the hood for quite a while until the stars began to show themselves, then noticed that my legs were getting numb.

“Okay that’s it, my ass is going to sleep!” I growled while getting down off the hood. Shugo followed, turned, and walked away.

After unpacking I gathered up enough nerve to ring up my ex. Beneath the light of the rising moon, I called Reegan from a pay phone just outside of town.

“Hello Reegan…it’s me.”

“…Yes.”

“Yes, I know it’s been a long while. Listen, I’m going to cut to the chase love, I’m in a pinch and could  use your help. I’m near the cabin now getting ready to head your way.”

“Don’t ask.”

“Reegan, can you meet me, day after tomorrow at Valley Falls…I’ll be flying to the hangar?”

After a slight hesitation, she replied, “Okay…at the crossroads then?”

“Around dusk.”

“Alright then, see you there.”

The black plastic phone felt almost as heavy as my heart when I heard the click.

“I’ve missed you!”  I blurted out, but she had already gotten off line.

Completely dark now, I started the cruiser and strong armed it back onto the road. Driving out of town, the brisk night air flowed through the open cab, but failed to wash away the heartache I felt. I had one more task to complete before returning to the cabin and tried to focus on my next move. Shugo attentively stood in his seat as I pulled the truck off the road and onto the gravel in front of the cemetery.

“Stay here,”  I commanded while climbing out of the Land Cruiser. Shugo obeyed and scanned the area from the truck. 

The ominous gates cast a foreboding shadow in front of the old graveyard, awash in bright moonlight. My eye caught the shape of a grasshopper leaping from my stride as I moved through the darkness. The rusty wrought iron hinges released a devilish shriek into the night as flakes of curled paint cracked and rained to the ground. I stepped within the cemetery to feel a shadow skulk over me. Looking up, an owl’s body was silhouetted against the night sky as it silently winged above.

The grave was in the back, marked by a marble spire which rose six feet above the unkempt property. Carved from a solid piece of marble, the monument was aged and weathered, and wore patches of moss like liver spots on an old man. Its bronze plaque contained an epitaph in relief, flanked by four large bullets which jutted from each corner. His name had been Daniel O’Neil, killed on the beaches of Normandy at the age of twenty four. Pausing, I paid my respects to this bloke who never peered back at life from behind wiser eyes. Every visit to Daniel’s grave has given me a huge appreciation for the time I had lived, and for the time I had left on the clock.

Grasping the first bullet on the upper right corner of the plaque, I turned it counter clockwise, unscrewing it from the spire. After the last bullet came free, the casting no longer hid the cavity within the monument. Reaching into the dark hole, the moonlight revealed a canvas army bag which held my cache.

A cricket began to sing eerily as I resealed the spire. Returning to the truck, Shugo was still seated at attention.

Back at the cabin, I spilled the bag’s contents atop the table. The inventory consisted of a Beretta Tom Cat in a leather shoulder rig with two extra clips, an Arch Angel silencer with a box of .32 shells, my leather bound journal, the WWII Zippo lighter inherited from my grandfather, $10,000 USD, a Navy UDT knife, four glow sticks, two passports, a computer memory stick, the sunglasses I made from welding goggles, a tube of lip balm, a toque and compass, and an emergency blanket. Everything was just as I had packed it. After throwing together some dinner, it was time for bed.

After breakfast the next morning, I grabbed my coat and headed outside. The grey Piper PA-18 Super Cub sat discreetly behind my cabin, beneath camouflage netting that hid her from prying eyes. She was a beautiful old girl that had flown many trips, most of which were below the radar. Her carbon stained fuselage revealed the dance of the exhaust that had mingled and rolled along her sides. I had picked the Super Cub because of its durability and “forgive-fulless” while flying. Not a fast plane by any means, however she was very rugged and extremely capable, stalling out at a wonderfully slow 28 knots.

As the camo netting slid from her wings, the PA-18 poised before me like a beautiful woman dropping her robe. She was a rag-wing tail dragger, skinned in cloth, with two main wheels in the front and a small articulated wheel at the back. She weighed 972 pounds soaking wet and, with her 35 feet 2.5 inch wingspan, she could land about anywhere…and had.

The plane was in good order, though her rudder bore three bullet wounds from our last flight. It took no time to patch both sides of the holes with 100 mph tape. She looked good.

After checking the oil, I pulled out a fuel tester and walked beneath the port wing where I depressed the bleeder valve, which released a stream of 80-87 octane aviation fuel into the vial. I removed the gauge to shut off the flow and inspected the petrol, looking for any signs of contaminants. Bad fuel can bring an aircraft down in a hurry.

“Ah hah…” I said, discriminating between the fuel and the bit of water in the tester. I tossed the fuel to the side and refilled the vial. This time there was no trace of water. Another toss, and another fill to be sure, and it was time to sump the opposite wing. This tank produced a bit more water though she bled clean in no time. I had installed a third tank on the floor of the Piper, which added weight and took up space, however the additional range had paid for itself on at least one occasion. Sumping the auxiliary from below showed that it was clean. Opening the door to the Cub, I reached in and pulled out my log book…what a joke…as I tossed it into the back. Like most prior, this transponder-less flight was off the books, it never happened. I loaded the hard shell military case into the plane, along with my 450 Alaskan, my rucksack and the canvas army bag.

“Okay mate, it’s time you earned your wings,” I told Shugo, pointing to the worn passenger seat behind the pilot’s. In pure Shugo form, he took a single bound into the aircraft. I was starting to grow fond of that hound, it was nice to have the old boy with me.

The engined turned the prop with a pulsing whine, resembling a car driving fast in reverse. Fast, fast, fast she turned over as I engaged the starter…fast, fast, fast, fast she kept going without lighting up…I disengaged the starter which snapped the prop to attention, stopping it on the compression stroke. I could feel Shugo in his seat behind me impatiently shifting his weight from side to side.

Another pump on the primer while simultaneously pushing in the choke and another try…fast, fast, fast, fast, fast she turned, the whine was pulsing again with each revolution…fast, fast, fast, fast and then…she bellowed out a pop followed by a growl which faded into a smooth purr as I adjusted the throttle as the engine breathed to life. I smiled.

What is it about a running engine that beckons a man to goose the throttle a bit? I sucker for it every time, and it always feels good. Revving up the horizontally opposed four cylinder, the prop grabbed ahold of the air and eagerly pulled the Super Cub forward. I smiled wholly as Shugo gave a few happy barks. His breath was absolutely terrible. Releasing the throttle, the engine relaxed and, just like a kid playing with a lighter, I goosed the throttle again, still smiling from ear to ear.

“Dammit dog, you’ve got the worst breath!” I yelled back at the hound.

We punched out, via the meadow just north of my cabin. The PA-18’s balloon tires didn’t notice the bumpy terrain and the cool dense morning air provided lots of lift beneath her wings. The Super Cub climbed like a homesick angel before I brought her around and headed south.

“There’s the cabin, Shug, with the truck beside it.” We were at 4500 feet and Shugo settled down in his seat. I looked at the instruments, all was well, and both float tubes on either wing socket showed two full tanks of fuel.

Next stop Valley Falls.

– Collins Rhōg

Cambire, The Story continues in the SedonaEye.com. Some SedonaEye.com scenes have been edited due to content. Look for the unedited Cambire, The Story, available at booksellers and retailers in the spring of 2015.

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