Plane Spotting under Clear Skies in California

The most elusive commodity in the City of Angels is the very sunshine Los Angeles builds its reputation around. Smog, fog and haze generally rule the air above the city where landing at Los Angeles International Airport in a brown swirl is as routine as the traffic on The 405 just to the east of the field. I lived there in the mid-90s and well remember one day to the next when the sun seemed only to come out at dusk and then just in time to set on the Pacific horizon. The temperature was always as advertised, along with the weather itself, rarely ever a rainy day but the skies above were best viewed after take-off heading back to wherever the disappointed tourist came from.

One Sunday afternoon last December was a day right out of central casting. There was hardly a cloud in the sky and the weather was a comfortable 75 degrees. This is the kind of day the travel brochures boast of and the realtors use to lure unsuspecting citizens in to god awfully pricey real estate. For me I couldn't have dialed up a better day for one of my favorite activities of all time, plane watching.
I'd already been to the beach and captured some glorious sunsets the Friday before, including this one. Saturday was the day for one of the ultimate music fan pilgrimages, a trip to Neverland Ranch to see what I could see of the former home of the late Michael Jackson. Today was a day, relatively speaking, to relax by the side of one of the greatest international airports in the world and watch airplanes from the four corners come and go under text book California sunshine.

"Funeral Hill" on the south side of the airport is in El Segundo just along the surface road that marks the beginning of The 105 freeway running east towards Norwalk. It got this colloquial name due to the Douglas Funeral Home that sits across the road at the top of the hill that offers unfettered views of the entire southern half of LAX. The skies were clear enough to see the "Hollywood" sign and all of downtown while laid out before me were the international gates as well as the terminals for American, Delta, Continental and United.

It was early afternoon and I had largely missed what is known as the "Asian Invasion" when the major Pacific Rim carriers launch for Korea, Japan and China. Air New Zealand and V-Australia were cooling their heels on the west side remote stands waiting to start the journey south long after dark and long after I will have left for the day. I did see China Airlines head in to the sun bound for Taiwan but the real show for me was to be the similar exhibition of European airlines headed east for all the usual places. British Airways and Lufthansa were in plain sight and would surely lift off before the sun set.

Ever since I was a child, so my parents tell me, I always wanted to know "where dat one going?" whenever they took me on an outing to the airport. I've been in love with airplanes ever since. Seeing a recognizable international flag carrier launching in to the sky lifts my spirit and imagination.

I know where dat one is going and I wish I was on it!

Gotta go!

Never to Neverland

In the United States there are five main houses that pretty much everyone knows by name and location: The White House, the Biltmore, Graceland, Southfork and the exquisite Hearst Castle. Then there is Neverland Ranch. It is not famous at all for the main house which was hardly more than a typical ranch home like others in the area and rarely seen. Neverland Ranch, the former home of the late Michael Jackson, was more about the collection of trains, rides, animals and other amusements strewn throughout the grounds to entertain Michael and the long list of famous and underprivileged visitors.

The infamous man-child entertainer had passed away some 18 months ago and hadn't lived on the property since 2005 after the fallout of the second child molestation case brought against him. The place was overrun immediately following the death of the superstar and there have been few serious efforts to sell the place since. It stood alone, quietly to itself among the other ranches and wineries in the area just north of Los Olivos one beautiful Saturday afternoon, the day I chose to finally go and see it for myself.

Leaving the hotel where I was staying on business in Woodland Hills the drive seemed no less shorter for starting in the San Fernando Valley. Heading west on US-101 I joined California #154 for the drive over the mountains in to the Santa Ynez valley about 30 minutes north of Santa Barbara. In this same area is the Dutch tourism village of Solvang but my radar was locked in on finding Figueroa Mountain Road leading to the mountain range on the north side of the valley. Five miles up and on the left was #5225, the former home of Michael Jackson, Neverland Ranch.

The gate was all anyone today can see. What must it have been like when Michael lived here, groupies at the gates hoping for a glimpse as the motorcade sailed past? The gilded lettering announcing "Neverland Ranch" is gone. All of the floral arrangements from mourners were gone but much of the small graffiti left on the low walls around the gate remained. I parked in a small bare patch on the opposite side of the road that clearly had seen much use and thankfully noted two other cars parked farther down - at least I wouldn't be the only fan making a pilgrimage. I shouldn't have worried. The seen-it-all guards at the security house on the other side of the gate never came outside to see what was going on.

I took pictures from every angle, through the bars, off to the side, up a slight hill and as deeply in to the grounds as my zoom lens would let me go as it followed the winding road about a mile in before the road disappeared to the left around a small hill towards the main areas. I read some of the graffiti from well wishers that had traveled from as far afield as Australia, Japan, and Italy to pay and leave their respects. In September Nancy from Germany wrote on this rock "You were the greatest entertainer of all time. I will always keep you in my heart. I will never forget you."

A young couple from Chicago drove up soon after I did and we took each other's picture by the gate. Most stunning of all, a family stopped by in a minivan and helped the elderly grandmother walk to the gate first, cane in one hand, determination on her face.

The security guards came out to talk to her but the gate remained closed. There is really nothing to see except, as if visiting some ancient ruin, where things used to be. The house is empty, the rides and animals long gone. All of it in fact, and Michael, too, is gone too soon.

Gotta go!

Clearing My Mind at Carhenge

Nebraska is big. It's not quite the size of Montana, Texas or Alaska but it is certainly no slouch in the wide open spaces department. Most people not from the area tend to think of Omaha or the state capital, Lincoln where the Cornhusker Nation lives and breathes. I had never been to the state before and this day found myself in the far northwestern corner rolling south in my buggy on US Highway 385 through Chadron. The Black Hills of South Dakota were behind me as was my visit to both Mt. Rushmore and the Crazy Horse Monument near Keystone with my next destination a solid ten hours of driving in front of me, Lubbock, Texas. HIghway 385 would take me straight to Amarillo and from there the rest of the way in on I-27 to the home of Buddy Holly.

The four presidents of Mt. Rushmore gave me inspiration during this toughest period of my life, having recently been furloughed shortly after the World Trade Center fell on September 11, 2001. Crazy Horse showed me the truest face of resolve and personal sacrifice against impossible odds. Before that I found reason to look to the heavens for guidance after spending a day at the Devil's Tower National Monument. Well, truth be told I was looking more to see if the Mother Ship from "Close Encounters of the Third Kind" had actually been there or might one day actually pay a visit. After all that existential and spiritual musing the great plains of Western Nebraska worked their own special magic in helping me clear my mind for the drive ahead as well as the next round of ethereal events.

Neither prairie dog or buffalo made an appearance but I honestly felt it would have spoiled the truly unspoiled landscape all around me. If I had seen buffalo I would have wanted to see Kevin Costner and a tribe of Lakota Sioux pounding over the hills, guns, bows and arrows blazing and zinging through the air. The sky was royal blue, the long grass 24 karat gold and the air scented just slightly with natural pixie dust. There wasn't a soul around in the middle of the United States of America, something both rare to experience and worth every minute of preserving. When it did come, civilization came back in to focus in probably the quirkiest manner I'd yet come across.

Alliance, Nebraska is like any farming town, a gathering place for locals to do business when not tending the hundreds of square miles of the immediate area. Others in the area are either pure-dee-lost or on their way somewhere else, most likely Mt. Rushmore where I'd just come from. One farmer in the area like any typical farmer had a lot of junk cars and trucks on his property with no real purpose other than to rust back in to the ground and re-enrich the soil. Unlike any other farmer in the country, though, he drew inspiration from a famous international landmark in England and decided to recreate it as closely as possible with his collection of clunkers.

"Carhenge," just like the original Stonehenge, this one sits on the side of a two-lane road with little in the way of facilities or parking except this one is free of charge. Since I was the only one there none of those issues were a problem. I didn't have a lot of time to explore the homemade exhibit and there was zilch in the way of informational plaques and markers. Still, it was there, I felt quite confident I wouldn't be back anytime soon and it helped break up the long drive to Texas.

Mind cleared, somewhat, it was time to move on.

Gotta go.