Foundations of the Past

Dr. Ross's flight instructor, Jeff Plumb, left, with a friend at Cable Airport.The lonely, orange wind tetrahedron stands guard at its post on the south side of runways 6 and 24. Like a triangle shape lying on its back, the apex points in the direction that the wind is coming from. It always points down runway 24. In 30 years, the only discernable change in the “wind tet” is the stenciled words on its side: cableairport.com, A grudging concession to the all-pervasive Internet. I am with my wife, Linda, in the small terminal building at the family-owned and operated Cable Airport in Upland, CA. In fact, it's the largest privately owned airport that is open to the public. Seated at Maniac Mike's cafe in the terminal, we order a plate of French fries, just like we did 30 years ago. I look around inside the restaurant. A pretty lady, depicted as “nose art” on a B-17 bomber, faces us from one wall. She is Millie Stewart, Maniac Mike's mother and the daughter of the airport's founder, Dewey Cable. Lots of airport memorabilia and witty sayings like “Never trust a skinny cook,” grace the walls of the vintage eatery. As we wait for our artery-clogging snack, my eyes wander to the windows and outside, past the wind tet, across the runway, beyond the hangars containing airplanes I admired from afar, and back into time. “Hi, I'm interested in getting taking some flying lessons,” I say. “OK,” says the thin, college-aged guy behind the counter. “Our rates are $25 an hour, wet [gas included] for a [Cessna] 150. Yeah, that's the plane right there, tied down, N5966G.” He gestures out the window to a tired-looking two-seat aircraft. “Of course, the instructor is an extra $11 per hour.” “How long does it take to get a private pilot's license? I mean, I guess what I'm trying to say is, how many hours would it take?” I ask. “That depends,” he replies. “It depends on how quickly you catch on to the flying and how hard you study to pass the written. Some people do it in the minimum number of flight hours that it takes to be eligible for your private license, which is 40. But most people take about 60 hours, or more.” “Well, OK. Would you have an instructor available?” I ask. “Yes, I think we do. Let me check.” He disappears into a back room. He returns quickly and says, “It looks like Jeff can take you. He's flying now, but he should be back in about a half hour.” “I can wait.” Within a short time, a slightly pudgy, red-haired, mustached, freckled fellow with rectangular wire-rimmed glasses strides into the office. He extends his hand, and pleasantly says, “Hi, I'm Jeff Plumb. I understand you're thinking about some flying lessons.” “Yeah, I am. I've always been interested in it. And now my wife and I have been able to set aside a little cash, which might make it possible.” I say. “OK. What kind of work do you do?” he asks. “I'm a second-year student at the new osteopathic medical school in Pomona. I don't know if you've heard of it, but it's the College of Osteopathic Medicine of the Pacific — COMP.” I say. “Yeah, I have heard of it. I'm in the toxicology graduate program at Cal State Fullerton, so I know something about it,” he replies. “I never would have guessed that a flight instructor would be in a tox program. I would think that all you guys would want jobs with the airlines.” He smiles. “Not all of us.” “Hmm. Have you thought about med school?” Jeff and I average a flight every two days, which is not all that easy because we are both studying to keep up in school. I quickly discover that Jeff is a perfectionist in everything he does. He proves to be an excellent pilot and an even better teacher. I do my best to follow his instructions, and mimic his approach to flying. I solo in just over 11 hours. Jeff introduces Linda and me to his wife, Mary, and other friends at Cable. We spend a lot of our off-time with them, either at the airport or at someone's home, talking and flying. I passed my private pilot check ride on Jan. 6, 1980, at 49 hours, nearly all of them in 66G. “You know, I'd really like to get my instrument rating,” I say to Jeff. “That sounds good. I can help you with that, too.” Soon enough, I am flying a four-seat Cessna aircraft, trying to get used to the absence of external visual references, which, of course, is fundamental when flying an aircraft in instrument conditions. As part of the training, Jeff occasionally arranges opportunities for me to fly a higher performance aircraft from Cable. Sometimes I ride in the back seat, and observe other pilots receiving lessons from Jeff. We land and take off from Cable at all times of the day and occasionally very late at night. “This is our second missed approach, Ken,” Jeff calmly says to the instrument student pilot next to him. “It doesn't look like we're going to be able to get into Cable at all tonight.” The three of us are in N738TN, Jeff and Mary's Cessna 172, that he sometimes uses for instrument instruction. “We need to shoot the ILS [instrument landing system] approach at Ontario [a major airline airport about six miles away].” Completely enveloped in darkness, clouds, and rain, we navigate to the Ontario airport area. We fly the full ILS to its minimum altitude of 200 feet above the ground before finally seeing the runway and landing without incident. “Nice job, Ken,” Jeff tells my fellow student. “Let's get everyone together at my house, and we'll pick up some pizza and beer, if we can find our way home in this fog.” All of our friends are there, and I tell everyone how really awesome our flight was. “Linda, I have a small favor to ask,” I say. “Oh, sure,” she responds suspiciously. “No, really. See, I'm just over 20 hours short to take my instrument check ride, and I need to pick up those hours as soon as possible. So I was thinking that this weekend we could fly 66G from Cable to Seattle.” “What? Endure that little putt-putt all the way to Seattle and back? Sorry, not interested,” she says. “Aw, come on. It would be fun, and we'll get to see our families there, although not for very long. I have to do this, and it would be great if you kept me company.” She finally agrees. On the northbound trip, we survive nearly running out of fuel on the first leg near Fresno, as well as spending an unscheduled night in the Medford, OR, airport. Coming back south, we are stuck in Apple Valley, CA, for a full day until dense fog lifts in the Los Angeles basin. I pass my instrument rating check ride on June 20, 1981, with 220.5 hours and somehow remain married. “I've been accepted at COMP,” Jeff announces. “You know, I've always kind of thought that it would be neat to be a cardiologist. You've shown me that it's possible to combine airplanes and medical school.” Jeff began his first-year studies that fall. Of course, he continues flying and instructing at Cable. Jeff and Mary come to my graduation from COMP in 1982, and wish us well as we leave for Chicago to begin my internship and residency. One year later: “This is Mary. I have some bad news. Jeff was killed in a plane crash.” It's 1983, and he is nearly halfway through the four years of medical school. I travel to the memorial service at Cable. It's held at the hangar Jeff and Mary lease for 8TN. “Here are your fries, folks,” says the young waitress. “Oh, thanks,” I mumble as I'm jolted back to 2010. We all need a home base. We need tangibles from the past to provide feelings of security and balance. A place that subconsciously reminds us that at least a part of our lives are not adrift in the constant tumult of change. For some, that place might be a house, for others a hometown, a summer camp, a high school, or a church. Whatever it is, it's a location that remains mostly intact, serving as a conduit to formative eras of our lives. It's vital that we allow time for occasional sojourns to these links, even if the travel to them is just in our mind's eye. It seems that the incidence of depression and suicide among physicians is on the increase, at least in the region where I practice. Several years ago, one of the members of my emergency medicine group killed himself at his home. Recently, another prominent physician in our community committed suicide in his office just before the start of his appointments. For whatever reasons, most of those coming into regular contact with these two doctors were not aware of issues that might have predicted these terminal events. I understand that an increasing number of physicians in our area are seeking help for significant symptoms of depression. There are undoubtedly many factors involved in the increased incidence of depression in physicians. One of those is a sense of loss of control. It seems to me that one way to retain at least part of that control is to return frequently to the basics — the places, people, and things that have grounded and helped shape us. Acknowledging the benefits of the foundations of our past might just be one strategy in the battle against these scourges. One of those special places for me is Cable Airport. Every time I am in Southern California, I try to visit Cable. Much of it remains just as I recall. Even today, it's a tranquil oasis in the urban sprawl and great crush of humanity defined at the confluence of the eastern edge of Los Angeles and the western edge of San Bernardino Counties. It sits along the foothills of the LA basin, three miles west of Mount Baldy. No airliners. No TSA checkpoints. No huge shopping malls. No eight-lane freeways nearby. There are never any traffic jams at Cable and no rush hour. In fact, very few people in Southern California would have any reason ever to go to Cable. That's one of the things that I love the most about this little airport. It's an addicting diversion from the pressures of every day life. Cable is a unique collection of original buildings and hangars populated by small businesses, a great variety of really cool planes and, most importantly, people (Cableites). They congregate at Maniac Mike's or at the Tumbled Gyro, a hangar converted to a bar and fun hangout. While I don't know nearly as many of the faces there as I once did, the spirit is the same. After some time, Mary remarried. She married Chuck, a long-time manager at Cable. Together, they created the Tumbled Gyro, and spend as much of their time at Cable as they can. After finishing off our fries at Maniac Mike's, my wife and stop by the Tumbled Gyro to visit Chuck and Mary for a while. In the middle of that hangar, sitting patiently waiting to fly is 8TN, looking just as it had on the night we diverted to Ontario and on the day of Jeff's memorial. As we drive out that evening, the wind tet appears like an apparition illuminated in the darkening haze by airport lighting. It's faithfully aimed at the gusts blowing down runway 24. In the distance, I catch a glimpse of Jeff unhooking the tie-down chains from 66G parked on the flight school ramp. Renewal. Return to EM-News.com

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