Wyoming Saga, Part 2 / The Flying Tigers

“Now, here’s the problem, Nate,” I began, adopting the tone of someone explaining the solar system to a chicken. “As you may or may not be aware—living here, no offence, in the back of beyond—the U.S. immigration system has some deeply rooted problems. To sum it up: it sucks. Big time.”

Nate, the FBO (that’s Fixed Base Operator), nodded slightly, as though trying to decide whether I was serious or just on the verge of a public meltdown.

The airport Nate was babysitting was a masterpiece of government overreach, conveniently situated in the middle of nowhere Wyoming, near the microscopic village of Thermopolis. With a runway stretching over 6,000 feet and 100 feet wide, it seemed ready to welcome international jumbo jets. Only it wasn’t accommodating any of those. In reality, the runway mostly welcomed a handful of rancher-owned Cessnas, Pipers, and scrappy homebuilts held together by duct tape and a prayer. Then there was the crop-dusting biplane, which was so ancient it might have been present at Kitty Hawk—the Wright brothers testing site in North Carolina— to take notes.The only thing older? Probably its pilot, who looked like he’d been grandfathered in from an era when horseback was cutting-edge technology.

Every so often, an emergency flight would roar in during the dead of night, delivering the unfortunate remains of a car wreck to the nearby hospital. Twice a year, the Wyoming Governor would grace the area with his presence, stepping off his governmental jet in cowboy boots and an ill-fitting hat to “connect with the people”—usually when an election loomed and a rodeo or round-up offered prime photo ops.

The rest of the year, the airport served as a playground for cottontail rabbits, prairie dogs, and the occasional coyote. Unless the FAA had a top-secret plan to transform this facility into a global aviation hub, it was hard to see this as anything but your tax dollars circling the drain.

Not that any of this bureaucratic absurdity was my concern. I’d come here mostly out of curiosity, intrigued by whatever brilliant idea Nate might have cooked up and hopeful for another glimpse of those gorgeous Super Cubs.

But let’s face it: America’s immigration system is less a system and more a soul-crushing institution  designed to deter even the most determined and qualified aspirants. Frankly, why anyone—apart from me, of course, for whom this still is the greatest country in the world—in their right mind would want to fight their way into a country where working three jobs barely covers rent is beyond me. Dodging landmines in Mogadishu seems like a safer bet with better odds of survival than trying to scrape by in the U.S., where making ends meet feels like a slow-motion suicide mission.

Anyway. I digress.

“Unless I hop on a plane to Mexico,” I told Nate, “hitchhike to the U.S. border, and paddle on a dinghy across the Rio Grande disguised as a Ghana goat herder seeking asylum, my chances of getting a work permit are about as likely as finding a mormon in a mosque.”

Employment wasn’t even my primary goal at this point. I’d have been content with some sort of internship arrangement—learning the ins and outs of running an airport, even a comically oversized one, and picking up skills in aircraft maintenance. I already had a beginner’s understanding of Super Cubs from my time in Africa, though to be fair, the “African way” of fixing things probably wouldn’t fly here in Wyoming. Especially not under the watchful and perpetually nosy eye of the ever growing FAA.

At this point—pre-Top Gun: Maverick release—I was still clinging to some faint hope of squeezing a few bucks out of our Brazilian Minibus debacle. The dream of it keeping me afloat a little longer was like a life preserver made of toilet paper, but I held on nonetheless.

Nate, ever the optimist, suggested I start the following day at 6 a.m. sharp to see if the work suited me and whether we could “mesh as a team.” His enthusiasm was almost touching, but I felt the need to crush it immediately.

“Look,” I said, emphatically declining his kind offer, “unless it’s a dire emergency—or perhaps my own funeral, and even that’s questionable—you will not see me anywhere at that ungodly hour. Period.”

I elaborated, “My mornings start at 6-ish with some yoga—to coax my aging body into something vaguely resembling functionality. After that, I’ll aim to be here around 7:30... or we scrap this whole endeavour altogether. Your call.”

I also felt compelled to clarify the nature of our potential working relationship, lest he harbour any illusions. “And let’s get one thing straight. I’m here to work with you, not for you. Just so we’re clear.”

Judging by the stunned look on his face, Nate clearly thought I was completely bonkers. But at least I was upfront about it. If nothing else, he’d have to give me credit for honesty—or, audacity.

Often in life, I dive headfirst into something new—not because I’m brimming with confidence or foresight, but because some nagging gut feeling won’t shut up. Where I once would’ve protested, argued, and questioned these vague urgings like a pesky IRS agent examining your laundry bill deductions, I’ve now embraced the art of shrugging.

With no clue where I’m headed but a reckless optimism that things will "probably" work out just fine, I set off, blissfully ignorant of the chaos I’m courting.

Take Nate, for example. Our relationship was awkward at best in the beginning. He was odd, sure, but once you tuned into his unhinged, borderline-creepy sense of humour, he was downright hilarious. And the man was a mechanical wizard. Watching him bring completely decrepit contraptions back to life was mesmerising. Where I, faced with a broken device, would’ve stared blankly at it like a donkey watching a magic trick, then set it on fire just to feel in control of the situation, Nate would patiently fiddle for hours until the thing worked better than when it was new.

I deeply admired his skill—partly because patience, unlike sarcasm or making poor life choices, isn’t one of my talents.

Two days later—on a Sunday morning, I think—my phone rang. It was Nate.

“What are you up to? Some moron just planted his plane nose-first on my runway without extending his landing gear. The tarmac got some scratches and I believe one of the taxi lights is bend. Care to help me clean up the mess? Oh, I think the pilot is fine though.”

I had to smile. Nate apparently thought he was funny. Since I was occupied with the strenuous activity of doing absolutely nothing—apart from being in Wyoming, which was growing on me more by the day—I replied, “Sure, give me 20 minutes, and I’ll be there.”

Nate, never one to miss an opportunity for a jab, shot back, “How about I pick you up instead, so you get here while there’s still daylight? I’ve seen your bucket of rusty bolts—you know, the one you call a Range Rover.”

It was moments like this that affirmed Nate was my kind of wickedly amusing. “Fine,” I said, “pick me up. And while we’re at it, let me give you a swift kick in the butt for that hilarious comment, you clown.”

When we got to the airport, it was clear Nate wasn’t exaggerating. The pilot was fine—shaken but physically intact. The plane? Not so much.

The landing gear was in immaculate condition, likely because it had been spared the indignity of, well, doing its job. Safely tucked away in the belly and wings of the plane, it had avoided all the messy business of actually supporting a landing. The runway, on the other hand, hadn’t been so lucky. Deep gouges marred the surface, with a smattering of paint left behind as a souvenir.

The propeller? Well, it had experienced the aviation equivalent of a fatal head-on collision, its soft blades shredded by the unforgiving tarmac. On the bright side, the runway lights were still in pristine condition—a small miracle worth celebrating. After all, if they’d been smashed, there was a good chance I’d be the lucky bastard tasked with replacing them.

The pilot, meanwhile, was in full meltdown mode, rambling nonstop in a desperate attempt to rewrite the laws of physics and deny what had just happened. His excuses were so painfully repetitive I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

Nate, like myself,  ever the beacon of delicate compassion, cut through the noise with a tone as dry as the Wyoming air. “Oh, I can explain it for you,” he said. “You forgot to put down the landing gear. Problem solved.”

The pilot had a name I can’t recall, though I do remember him saying, “My friends call me Piet.” As we started scraping the remains of his plane off the tarmac, I found myself wondering if anyone actually ever called him that. True to form, the landing gear—once we’d heaved the mangled carcass high enough to coax it into action—worked flawlessly, as though mocking the massacre around it. If it hadn’t been for the propeller blades, now resembling a warped metal pretzel, Piet might’ve been able to navigate his contraption back home. On the highway, that is. Flying it was out of the question for the foreseeable future—and not just because the plane’s structural integrity now rivalled a house of cards in a windstorm. No, the real danger wasn’t gravity but Piet’s wife, who, as it turned out, had financed the ill-fated aircraft. Odds were, Piet would end up hospitalised anyway, courtesy of her wrath, which promised to be far less forgiving than the asphalt had been.

None of this, however, was our problem. We parked the mangled contraption on the apron, dusted off our hands, and collected our consolation prizes: $30 each for our ruined Sunday. Nate, in a typical act of generosity—or perhaps simply a well-calculated move—handed me his share, remarking with a sly grin that he’d more than make up for it when he billed Piet for the “emergency rescue.”

“I just hope this hunk of junk doesn’t turn into a permanent monument on my apron,” Nate muttered, glaring at the crumpled plane like it had personally offended him. “It’s an eyesore as it is, and I’ve got enough on my plate with the other planes clogging up the workshop. Last thing I need is to waste time tinkering with this disaster—or worse, getting dragged into Piet’s marital apocalypse when his wife shows up swinging.”

Speaking of…

Nate’s work ethic—“No shit leaves the shop!”—was what had earned him the honour (or punishment, depending on perspective) of being the USDA’s go-to mechanic for their fleet of predator control Super Cubs. He handled every repair and maintenance issue that came his way, and while he grumbled about it daily, I had a sneaking suspicion he secretly loved the chaos.

Of all the USDA pilots, there was one Nate held in particularly high regard: Scott—one of the few names I’ve bothered to remember. Scott, a former flight instructor with more grit than sandpaper and a skill set harder than coffin nails, was the most experienced pilot in the fleet. If Scott so much as murmured a suggestion, it instantly became law, as if etched into the stone tablets of aviation gospel. Nate idolised him, and honestly, I got it. In a revolving door of USDA pilots, Scott was the unshakable constant, a veritable Mount Rushmore of the predator control world.

I liked Scott. A lot. He had a demeanour quieter than a morgue at midnight. He rarely moved or spoke, often giving the distinct impression he might actually be dead.

You see, I’m exactly the same. Calm, quiet, carefully contemplating every decision before taking action. Adhering to rules, particularly in the cockpit or air. Always following established procedures and dutifully recognising governmental authorities.

Except, I’m not.

Scott was the polar opposite of me in almost every way—apart from our shared love of Super Cubs. He embodied the organised, disciplined pilot I never was and never would be.

My version of a pre-flight checklist? Open the door, cram myself into the tiny, soul-crushing confinement called a cockpit, shut the door, start the engine, taxi to the runway, and, if I’m feeling particularly gracious, mumble my intentions on the radio before taking off. That’s it.

On the ground, the contrast was just as stark. Scott was introverted and reserved—like a corpse—while I couldn’t resist talking, sharing adventures, or indulging in pointless chit-chat.

To sum it up: we were nothing alike. Which is probably why we got along so well. I suspect we both looked at each other with the same curious thought—though in a friendly, mutual respect sort of way: 'Gee, what the hell is wrong with this guy?'

Scott’s words carried significantly more weight than the mindless drivel spouted by the other Cub pilot I’d encountered the other day. When Scott confirmed that the USDA was indeed in desperate need of pilots, he suggested I consider applying, given my background. Along with this advice, he offered a stern warning: never trust any bureaucratic pencil necks I was bound to encounter.

While my curiosity and interest slowly flickered to life, I filed his warnings—of course, I did— away under 'Miscellaneous,' alongside outdated grocery lists and useless receipts. Secretly, though, I began toying with the idea of taking to the skies again.

The final push that sent me hurtling face-first into the abyss of the U.S. Immigration Maze of Horror came courtesy of a trip to the movies. Top Gun: Maverick—after a two-year delay—finally hit theatres, and its instant success was owed to Hollywood’s now-rare trifecta: unapologetic raw action, chest-thumping patriotism, and the inevitable crescendo where America saves the world from yet another dictator.

The flying scenes? Bloody amazing. Utterly spectacular. I was so exhilarated that as soon as the credits rolled, I stormed back to the box office—alongside a horde of equally awestruck spectators—to buy another ticket and do it all over again. In total, I watched this cinematic aviation marvel eleven times in the theatre.

Yes, I know. The movie has absolutely nothing to do with reality. To those critics, I say: “If you're looking for reality, get yourself a soul-crushing corporate job in a ten-square-foot cubicle—or better yet, the DMV!”

Of course it’s not real. That’s exactly why everyone loves it. Who wants to see a film that accurately depicts the dreary monotony of some air force outpost bogged down by endless chains of command? Or the suffocating life aboard a submarine? Watching paint dry—or an apple slowly rot—would be more thrilling.

I could already envision myself operating my—err, Super Cub—in true Maverick fashion, pulling off daring manoeuvres and defying gravity with flair. Admittedly, the Cub is a far cry from any of the sleek, missile-laden beasts featured in the movie. Attempting even a single manoeuvre from the film would undoubtedly send the aging canvas-and-paint contraption plummeting to Earth in a great ball of fire.

Still, that didn’t stop me. From that moment on, I began pursuing the road to my inevitable financial ruin—applying to the USDA for the dubious honour of becoming a predator control and wildlife service pilot. Because what’s life without a little reckless optimism and the occasional catastrophic decision?

Where to begin?

There was a colourful assortment of challenges to wrestle into submission. First on the list? Consulting a lawyer—a task that, in itself, is comparable to climbing Mount Everest with a toothpick and a roll of duct tape. The procedure of finding someone specialised in immigration law—a subject more convoluted than quantum physics, tax codes, and the study of sedimentary rocks combined—posed the first hurdle.

The first attorney, who gleefully demanded $300 for a one-hour consultation, proved about as helpful as a screen door on a submarine. A 10-year-old kid fresh out of elementary school in Djibouti would have offered more insight.

The second candidate was somehow even worse—a legal genius from Austin, TX, charging me $500 an hour for the privilege of listening to her regurgitate information I’d already Googled for free. At least I came away with a nugget of useful advice: how to extend my tourist visa and avoid landing on the FBI's Most Wanted list for deportation to Bosnia—or somewhere equally alarming.

With my visa secured for another six months, I resumed my unpaid apprenticeship—the only legal endeavour left to me besides joining a crew of Mexicans and working under the alias "Ramirez" on some orchard in California—and settled in to see what opportunities life might toss my way. Summer, hands down the second best season in Wyoming (Winter is my favourite), offered a welcome reprieve. For three glorious months, I religiously attended the rodeos in Cody. As a spectator, of course—my horse-riding experience is limited to countless hours atop braindead dude ranch ponies trained to shuffle around and make clueless city slickers feel like Marlboro cowboys or, on occasion, cowgirls.

Cowboys, though, have always been my childhood fantasy, and seeing them live in the arena is pure, heart-pounding entertainment. The pinnacle of the evening, however, isn’t the dust, the broncos, or even the testosterone-charged swagger—it’s the opening national anthem. Played nightly, it’s a symphony of goosebumps that makes the drive in my clattering Rover to Cody and back entirely worth it.

Back to the airport.

“Hot Springs County Airport, RV-8, 34 Papa Bravo, six miles east at 2000, for landing on Runway 23”

The radio crackled to life, shattering the calm of our lunch break. I perked up, mid-chew, as the call came through. In all my years as a commercial pilot, I’d never heard a radio transmission so precise, so professional—except maybe from a 747 captain lining up at SFO or LAX.

“Nate, who is that? If this guy doesn’t have some German roots, I’ll be damned! Jesus, if I’d made just one call like that during my commercial practice test, I’d have been hailed as a wunderkind. My calls sounded more like a cow mumbling through a mouthful of barbed wire.”

Nate barely glanced up from his sandwich, unfazed. “That’s John,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And yeah, I think he went to Germany once. Might even speak some of that weird language of yours. Who knows? Maybe you two can bond over your equally odd accents.”

I left Nate to wrestle with his sandwich and bolted outside, curiosity dragging me like a leash. I had no clue what an “RV-8” was—could’ve been anything from Howard Hughes’ absurdly massive Spruce Goose to a P-51 Mustang, gleaming in WWII nostalgia. Turns out, I wasn’t entirely wrong.

The little taildragger that swooped in for a flawless landing on Runway 23 was an experimental plane decked out in full homage to Major General Claire Lee Chennault’s legendary WWII Flying Tigers. The decals were bold, the paint job screamed look at me, and the whole machine oozed personality.

Whoever this “John” guy was, he clearly had panache, a flair for the extravagant, and zero intention of blending in with the crowd. My kind of guy. I had to meet him.

The little machine taxied leisurely to a private hangar near the airport gas station, looking like a WWII relic reincarnated for one last victory lap. As the glass canopy slid back, out climbed John, clad in full survival gear and an aviation helmet like he’d just touched down from a secret mission behind enemy lines. He practically launched himself out of the cockpit, radiating an air of “cool pilot prance.”

Of course, I couldn’t resist leaning into cliché. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” I greeted him, my tone dripping with stereotype.

He laughed, responding in a delightfully mangled, “Ein wenig Deutsch spreche ich.”

I couldn’t help but grin. If this was how my feeble attempts at English sounded to others—an unholy blend of awkward syllables and a mystery accent—it suddenly made perfect sense why Nate spent half our conversations with that bewildered look, like he was deciphering ancient hieroglyphs.

John was the kind of guy who instantly made you feel at ease—a rare combination of kindness and open-mindedness wrapped up in an undeniably flamboyant package. He was sharp, too, with a mind honed by both music and engineering, a curiosity about world affairs, and an effortless charm that made him impossible not to like. Add in his flair for the dramatic, and he was the kind of character who seemed plucked straight out of a movie you’d actually want to watch.

This, of course, meant John couldn’t possibly be a native Wyomingite. Like so many others—including me—he was one of those fugitives from overcrowded cities, drawn to the vast quiet and rugged lifestyle of the last frontier. Forever-West Wyoming: the final outpost of the old cowboy ethos, clinging stubbornly to its identity while the rest of the world blurred into sameness.

Unbeknownst to either of us, we’d eventually find ourselves working together on one of his solar projects and, in the process, becoming friends. When my carefully patched-together world collapsed overnight—without so much as a courtesy warning, leaving me stranded in chaos and back where I’d started over a year before—John became one of the few steadfast anchors keeping me from drifting into oblivion.

Summer slipped by, each day feeding the flickering flame of hope that I might actually become a predator control pilot. It was faint but never extinguished. Then, out of the blue, the phone rang. The head director of the Wyoming USDA branch, based in Casper, wanted to speak with me. There were two potential job openings, and he invited me to submit my résumé and swing by for an interview-slash-get-to-know-you meeting.

Apparently, the pilot I’d met on my first day at the airport—whose name escapes me but, even if recalled, I’m fairly certain I’d butcher it—had put in a glowing recommendation. He’d extolled my virtues and extensive experience with Super Cubs but had conveniently omitted the minor detail that I used to work for the other side. Back in the day, my job involved protecting animals—particularly elephants—from poachers, not flying around actively thinning their ranks in the name of "population control."

I hadn’t exactly given much thought to the ethical implications of this new role. In my relentless drive to claw my way back into the aviation world, I’d strategically avoided dwelling on what the job actually entailed—or the mental gymnastics I might need to perform to sleep at night. In truth, I’d likely repressed the whole moral quandary, choosing instead to focus on my dream of living in what I saw as God’s country, the United States, and getting back in the air.

With that in mind, I agreed to make the drive to Casper a few days later. Partly for the interview, and partly because it was an excellent excuse to stop by Wyoming’s iconic Lou Taubert Ranch Outfitters for some proper Western wear. If I was going to morally compromise myself, I figured I might as well look good doing it.

Off I went to Casper the following day. Nate, likely concerned that my rust bucket of a Range Rover wouldn’t survive the trip—or that I might end up hitchhiking alongside a pack of tumbleweeds—insisted I borrow one of the relics from his three-car airport rental fleet. The truck he handed over was even older than my Rover but had one significant advantage: it was made in the USA, not England. This small but crucial fact meant the odds of arriving on time and in one piece were astronomically higher.

As I climbed into the ancient beast, I silently vowed to retire my British clunker the moment that elusive "proper job" finally came within reach, shimmering like a mirage on the horizon.

How the interview went and how, from that point, disaster began brewing—without me even noticing, of course—is a tale for next week's chapter.

Marcel Romdane,

riding off into the sunset.