I was a sky diver once. I flew to a great altitude in a small plane, crawled out on the wing, and dropped off the edge into an unknown abyss. But I wasn’t one of those fancy skydivers with all the latest gear. I picked up a cheap World War II parachute—the kind people use as a drop cloth or vehicle cover—then went looking for someone with a plane to take me up. I didn’t have a helmet or a skydiving suit. I wore a wool hat pulled low, some goggles from a hardware store, and a Levi jacket buttoned all the way to my chin.
I was living in the high desert of California in a place that used to be a major agricultural area with alfalfa farms and ranches. But the government had come in a year or two earlier and said they wanted to build a big international airport there and everyone would have to move. They bought up thousands of acres. One day the farmers were there; the next day they were gone as though they’d been magically transported away or perhaps abducted by aliens. Except a lot of them left their dogs behind, and they would roam the desert in feral packs, devouring anything they could find, including at times each other. Arsonists torched a few of the farmhouses, giving the area a grim, post-apocalyptic vibe.
I’d heard about a pilot name Corey who lived somewhere in the desert. Apparently, he’d sit around in front of his place, sipping on a tin cup of cheap whiskey, waiting for people to ask him to take them up in his plane and charging them a few bucks. He didn’t get many takers. Someone told me if I wanted to take a flight with him, I should do it early, before he’d had time to drink much, and to be sure to smell his breath. I went looking for him one afternoon, with my parachute and other gear loaded in the back of my old ’51 Chevy panel truck.
Corey’s place was just off a paved road with a small parking area and a dirt landing strip next to the shack where he lived. A peeling sign said, “Corey Air: Crop-Dusting, Charters, and Sight-Sightseeing Flights.” At one time, he had a twin-engine Cessna and flew businessmen to Los Angeles and other coastal cities for meetings, and he made a decent amount of money. He also had a crop-dusting plane and was renowned for his daring, often flying under powerlines at the end of the field so he could spray the pesticide or fertilizer over every inch of the crop. But it ruined his business when the farmers packed up. I suppose he could have gone further afield, looking for new customers, but most farms already employed pilots who’d been working for them for years. He eventually sold off both planes to get by. Now all he had was an aging biplane with two open cockpits, like something from World War I.
Corey was sitting on a folding chair in the shadow of his biplane when I pulled up. I rolled down my window and shouted: “Say, how much would you charge to take me up in your plane so I can go skydiving?” He’d been napping and woke with a start, almost falling from his chair. His skin looked parched and wrinkled, and he had shaggy gray hair, tattooed arms, and a grizzled face. His hands were greasy like he’d just been working on an engine.
“You want what?” he barked, annoyed at being woken up.
“To go skydiving. You know, I need someone to fly me up high so I can parachute down.”
He rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly. “Why the hell would you want to do that?”
“I don’t know. It’s just something I’ve always wanted to try. I went out and bought a parachute, and I’m all set to go.”
He shrugged. “Twenty bucks?”
And that was it. Ten minutes later, I was ready—wool hat pulled low with goggles in place; Levi jacket buttoned up; and parachute strapped securely in place. But the parachute was so big and awkward, I couldn’t get all the way down into the seat. So, I just put my legs in the cockpit and sat on the back of the seat, trying my best to hold onto to rim of the cockpit. Of course, I couldn’t use the seatbelt. But I figured I wouldn’t be sitting there for long.
The flight was more terrifying than anything I’d ever done before. The loudness of the engine; the shuddering vibration that rumbled through the plane; and the wind blowing hard against me as the plane raced down the runway and then rose above the desert. It was all I could do to keep from falling out and plunging downward before we’d even reached an altitude where my parachute could save me. I have no idea how high we were flying, but we passed through the clouds and eventually went well above them.
Corey finally slapped his hand loudly on the fuselage of the plane and pointed down to let me know it was time to jump. I was shaking violently as I crawled out on the wing, clinging to the struts. But I just couldn’t do it. I was paralyzed with dread. I wanted to wave at Corey to signal that I wanted to get back in the plane and not jump today, but my hands were locked in a death grip on the struts.
Corey kept pounding his fist angrily and pointing downward. Then he started making the plane bank sharply to the left and then to the right, again and again, ever more violently. I finally lost my grip, smashing my head on the wing as I was flung out into the open sky—falling…but not falling. I felt weightless, hanging in the air, far above the land. And it seemed it would go on forever—the wind whooshing around me, holding me, supporting me like a hawk soaring high overhead, barely a speck in an autumn sky. I closed my eyes and the most euphoric feeling washed over me, sheer ecstasy. I didn’t want it to end, not for anything. Then I think I passed out. For seconds? Minutes? I have no idea how much time elapsed. But then the sun burst through the clouds and the light flashed sharply in my eyes, snapping me from my trance. I instantly pulled the ripcord, but I was so close to the ground—maybe just a few hundred feet up—and still falling too fast despite the parachute. I had no control.
I could see the charred ruins of an old farmhouse below me with a row of tall trees growing along a dirt road leading away from it, and I was heading straight for them, probably falling forty miles an hour or more. I crashed hard into the top of one of the trees. It broke my fall, but I went all the way through it and bounced off the ground, twisting my ankle, then shot back up and was left dangling ten feet up in the tree. I had a folding knife in a leather snap sheath on my belt, which I pulled out and hacked through the parachute cords. As I fell to the ground, I threw the knife away so I wouldn’t end up stabbing myself. And then I just sat on the ground there, wondering how the hell I was going to get out of this mess.
I had no idea where I was, and I hadn’t made any kind of arrangements with Corey to pick me up. This was in the 1970s, long before cellphones, so I couldn’t call anyone. My mouth was parched and filled with the bitter taste of adrenaline. I needed to get my bearings somehow. It was already late afternoon and would be getting dark in a couple of hours. I limped to the farmhouse, hoping to find something useful—like a well or a water pump that worked. I was so thirsty. But there was only burned-over rubble. I did find a stout branch nearby to use as a walking stick. My ankle was swollen and painful.
I always kept a large canteen of water in my truck for desert emergencies, and I knew I had to get there as soon as possible. But which way should I go? The outline of some familiar hills in the distance and the direction of the setting sun provided some clues, but I knew it was a gamble.
I thought about walking down the farm’s dirt road, figuring it would reach a highway at some point, but it was leading in the wrong direction. To get to my car quickly, I would have to hike overland, probably going through washes and over windblown dunes in some places. When I finally got the direction fixed in my mind, I headed out, walking as briskly as possible despite my sore ankle.
I’d probably only gone two miles by the time it started getting dark. I had no idea how many more miles I had to go—maybe a dozen? And I knew I could easily miss the place in the dark. My mouth was already so parched? I wondered if I might die out there.
Then a strong wind came up, swirling sand all around me. I pulled out my old blue bandana and tied it over my mouth and nose, then I put on my goggles to keep the sand out of my eyes and trudged onward. The moon was beginning to rise, but I couldn’t see much. And then I heard it—the distant barks of a roving band of feral dogs getting closer and closer—and I felt a chill.
Would they attack a human? Why not? They’d been abandoned by the people who raised them; left to fend for themselves in one of the harshest environments on Earth. They were no doubt ravenously hungry. I’ve always loved dogs, but I knew that wouldn’t count for much here. I heard them barking loudly, maybe only a hundred yards away and headed straight for me. I turned up the collar on my jacket and made sure the top button was fastened securely, hoping it would make it harder for them to get at my throat if they attacked me. I reached for my knife but found the sheath was empty. Then I remembered I’d thrown the knife away while I was falling from the tree after cutting the parchute cords.
I lifted up my walking stick and held it before me as the dogs emerged from the swirling dust, their eyes and teeth glistening in the moonlight as they growled and snarled all around me. I knew most of them were just pack followers and would just circle me until I fell or a more aggressive dog took me down.
And then I saw him—a massive German shepherd, obviously the alpha dog. He came lunging at me, leaping upward. I leaned into his attack, smacking him on the side of the head with my stout walking stick, like a fencer parrying a sword, while the other dogs danced around my feet behind me, snapping at my heels. I knew if I stumbled and fell, it was all over. He came back at me, and I knocked him down again, always instantly holding the stick back up in front of me like a spear. It was so lucky that the branch I’d picked up was so big and sturdy. I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if it had broken.
I growled and yelled and cussed at them to show I was tough and would never give up. But really, I wasn’t sure how long I could keep going. I only knew that if I wanted to survive the night, I had to keep fighting back. I don’t even remember how long this went on. It had to be hours as I trudged miles across the desert, with dogs snapping at me and a frustrated German shepherd attacking again and again and again.
Was this all really happening? Or was this entire day with the skydiving and the wild dogs just some grim fantasy? Would I wake up in my bed in a few minutes, trembling and drenched in sweat? If only.
At some point, the winds died down and a full moon shone over the desert, illuminating my way forward. And the dogs started easing up on their attacks. Most of them had finally lost interest and drifted away. The German shepherd was still there, though he wasn’t attacking anymore. I sensed his presence even when I couldn’t see him. It was like we’d fought each other to a standstill and now were bonded in some way.
I saw the glint of metal up ahead in the moonlight and knew it was my truck. Though the inside of my mouth was dry as leather, I was sure I was going to make it, and the thought made me giddy. When I finally reached the truck and got out my canteen, I guzzled endlessly. It was the best drink I’d had in my entire life. Then I crawled inside and fell asleep.
I woke up at dawn an hour or two later, hungry and shivering from the cold. I was parked about a hundred feet from Corey’s shack and was tempted to go pound on his door and chew him out about what he did to me on the flight the day before, but I didn’t bother. I just bundled up in my blanket and sat sipping water from my canteen.
Then I saw the German shepherd again, hunting small rodents in some brush along the dirt road. And he was beautiful—so light on his feet. It was like watching a fox or a coyote in action. He would leap into a patch of cover, jump straight up in the air, then come down snapping at mice or whatever else he flushed.
I started my truck, drove closer, and sat watching him for nearly an hour. He didn’t seem to mind. I wondered how someone could have just abandoned him like that. Why didn’t these people at least drop their dogs off at the SPCA or something? How hard is that?
I looked around inside the truck to see if I had anything I could give him. I found a takeout bag with a few tortilla chips left in a little cardboard dish. I stepped outside and whistled. He froze and was wary, but I set the dish down, and he walked cautiously over to me. He sniffed at the chips for a minute, then wolfed them down. I poured some water from my canteen into the dish. He drank it all, so I gave him more. We were only three feet apart. I finally held my hand out to him with my palm up. He carefully sniffed at it as we stared into each other’s eyes. He had many scars on his head from the many fights he’d no doubt had as he struggled to survive, but his eyes were surprisingly gentle.
I walked behind my panel truck and started to open the back door. I had an overwhelming urge to take him home with me. Although I knew he had wanted to kill me just a few hours earlier, I sensed that our conflict was over and we would be great companions for the rest of our time together. But I paused and then finally stepped away from the door.
I sometimes feel sad about that and wonder how our lives might have been changed for the better if I had taken him home with me. I drove away across the desert without looking back. I never saw the dog or Corey again—and in the end, the giant international airport project that had caused all the problems petered out and it was never built.
