January 20, 2013 6:24 PM
Written by Hank Billings
Several summers ago, I flew a load of live turkeys to Cherokee, Iowa.
Cartons of turkeys were packed around me in the Beechcraft Bonanza so I just had room to see out and fly the plane.
When I neared Kansas City, I realized that I had claustrophobia. If I had a parachute, I would have bailed out and let the turkeys fly themselves.
I also should have realized I had been blown off course.
The fuel gauge told me it was time to find an airport.
One appeared, but I saw no name and didn’t know the radio frequency.
I was glad they still used light guns — red for circle and green to land.
I also was glad I was not color blind.
I made a regular approach, got a green light and started a landing approach.
It was then I saw a row of parked military planes. I wondered if I’d get in trouble for landing at a military base.
No, it was a National Guard unit stationed at the Sioux City, Iowa, Municipal Airport.
I thanked God the line serviceman who refueled the Beech helped me put the turkeys in the shade of the wing to shade them from the blistering Iowa heat.
After I located Cherokee on a map and called the boss to admit where I had strayed, the line serviceman helped me reload the turkeys.
He was worth far more than I could tip him.
The flight home was uneventful. So what do turkeys have to do with snakes?
When I landed after the most frustrating flight of my life, someone asked if I wanted to take another charter.
For some reason, I asked: “What’s the cargo?”
“Well, snakes, but they’re securely boxed.”
“No thanks!”
If your car has ever killed a cow who strayed onto the road, chances are the farmer said, “That was my best cow!”
Here’s a snake equivalent:
A Federal Aviation Agency safety inspector took me along on a safety check flight in a Fairchild.
After we landed and were taxiing in, the pilot yelled, “Hold on!”
He swerved the plane. “There’s a snake. I’m going to get him with a wheel.” Easier said than done.
Each time the snake was pinned it wriggled free or the wheel rolled off.
Around and around reptile and machine went, probably leaving the snake puzzled and exhausted.
A small crowd of people had gathered, wondering what possessed the pilot.
The pilot put the snake out of its misery with a blow from a wrench.
By then a farmer had joined the crowd.
“That’s a bull snake. It’s not poisonous, and he kept my place free of rodents!”
When the farmer found the pilot was a federal agent, he apparently decided not to press his claim.
I have written several columns about the summer of 1953 as the tense time of the cobras.
An angry supplier of snakes for a pet shop released a sack of snakes he found on the pet shop porch to get even for what he considered unfair prices.
When he admitted the deed years later, he said he didn’t know the dozen or so snakes were cobras.
Most were killed, one was captured and died at the zoo and no one was bitten!
The experience inspired a short piece of fiction which I sold to a science fiction magazine for the grand sum of $17.50.
The far-fetched plot had cobras being flown to a space station to extract their venom for scientific purposes.
The cobras escaped, but the astronaut was able to charm them with a TV test pattern.
Probably $17.50 was too much.
Story: http://www.news-leader.com
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