"Art," I pointed out, attempting to sound casual while clutching the yoke like a wrestler in a death-grip bear hug, "if intergalactic travel is your plan, perhaps we should start by upgrading the life support systems in this flying laundry basket.” We were already at a hideous 11,000 feet, and Art—my benevolent tormentor disguised as an instructor—had just decided we needed to climb to 13,000 feet. This was all part of his grand scheme to shepherd me through the maze-like process of earning my instrument rating. Meanwhile, my lifelong nemesis—fear of heights—had decided to join us for the ride, making itself right at home with a vengeance.
There we were, squeezed into the cockpit of a Piper PA-28, a single-engine airplane so compact that it made a tanning bed look spacious. Sharing that confined space felt like trying to fit two people into one anti-embolism stocking the diameter of a drinking straw. Between the headroom the size of a glove compartment and the shoulder clearance reminiscent of a straitjacket, I was sweating like a politician in a fact-checking session.
This, I thought, is what purgatory must feel like: teetering between heaven and earth, crammed into an airborne shoebox with a man whose calm demeanour only made me fantasise about a James Bond-style ejection button—one that would launch him into the void without so much as a courtesy parachute.
“This is for a good cause,” I muttered through gritted teeth, trying to summon courage from the pit of despair as I re-entered yet another fierce battle for survival.
But then, from the broom closet of my mind, a small red flag began to rise, flapping indignantly. A tiny, sarcastic voice piped up, dripping with skepticism:
“Ah, a good cause, you say?” the voice persisted, now practically dripping with contempt. “Is this the same good cause that landed you in the Yukon with chinless, chubby dentists hunting for their next trophy to slaughter? The one that culminated in a catastrophic mess so spectacular it made Godzilla's destructive stroll through New York City look like a leisurely Sunday picnic? That’s the cause we’re throwing ourselves behind now, is it?”
I opened my mouth to argue, but what could I say?
I had no retort.
Because, damn it, the flag had a point.
An opening excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.
“Behold: Wayne’s Boot Shop, where cowboy leather meets comedy, and Kevin the Awesome keeps flexing like Arnold might walk back in any second.”
This wasn’t just a store—it was a Wyoming shrine to misplaced confidence and linguistic minimalism. Kevin, self-branded as “the Awesome,” had two German words in his arsenal—Guten Tag and Cowboy Stiefel—and he deployed them like secret weapons of international diplomacy every time I walked in.
But Kevin’s pièce de résistance? The time Arnold Schwarzenegger allegedly came boot shopping. Kevin, standing roughly in the “Tom Cruise if Tom Cruise wore lifts” height range, rolled up his sleeves, flexed his microscopic biceps, and tried to impress the Austrian Oak. The effect was less Pumping Iron and more chihuahua barking at a freight train.
Did Arnold remember him? Doubtful. But Kevin swore he’d left an impression. Probably somewhere between bemusement and boot receipt.
Still, Wayne’s Boot Shop became my sanctuary: a place where despair was drowned not in whiskey, but in Kevin’s comedic timing and his signature piece of advice, always delivered with the solemnity of a frontier prophet:
“Don’t trust the government.”
And honestly? For a man selling overpriced leather and recycled nostalgia, it was the best advice I’d ever gotten.
Not a great place to be when you’re afraid of heights. IFR training at 13,000 feet: me sweating bullets in a glove-compartment-sized Piper, gripping the yoke like it owed me money, all just to snag a USDA low-level flying gig.
Naturally, it was all wasted — torpedoed by a DEI bureaucrat who handled my visa with the same brilliance the TSA applies to national security: strip-searching toddlers, fondling prosthetic hips, and still letting a guy board with enough lithium batteries to power a space station.
Art Griffin’s Citabria — his pride, his joy, and a genuinely lovely plane to fly.
Meticulous in shape, polished to perfection, and flown with a care most pilots only dream of. Almost as nice as a Super Cub… but only in the same way a Ritz filet mignon is almost a Burger King hamburger. Different leagues, same joy of biting in.
This wasn’t just a machine. It was Art’s calling card: elegant, reliable, and always ready to remind me that even at 13,000 feet of terror, flying could still be beautiful.
Location:
Thermopolis, Hot Springs County Airport
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