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Well Maybe North First

OK, change of plans. I needed a spare tire for my pop-up so the "lengthy" West trip had to ube put off for a bit. I still wanted to check out the road worthyness of the Escape and get a mileage ehcck, so I decided to take a trip up to Hartington. I grew up there and it was the subject of my first book and I hadn't been there in a very long time.

After a few Nebraska detours, we made it to our first stop, Uncle Jelly's farm. It's kind of hard to see it from the road. It's one of those farms where the buildings and house were at the center of the section instead of out by the road. A section is about 640 acres and in the day when our rural land was filled with family farms and one of those farms was 160 acres-four farms per section. It's still there tucked away in a sea of early spring green.

I have a lot of good memories about that little farm and the gentleness of the residents, Uncle Jelly and Aunt Rebe were two of the sweetest, nicest people I have ever known. I miss them.

Next stop, Hartington. Things have changed. My dad's Ford garage is closed and a new Chevy dealership is out on the highway.Downtown is not the bustling place I remember from my childhood but Hartington is no longer a hub of activity. A sixty mile trip to Sioux City is nothing today but was a major event in the 1950's.

And there it stands. Still the same colors The porch is different. The bushes are gone. The big walnut trees that lined the driveway are gone, too. But there it is. Just about how I remembered it. That house will always be home to me.

The roof was flat when we lived there. That's important because I had a recurring dream when I was a kid. I dreamed I crawled up on the top of the house and stood at the edge of the flat roof, put out my arms to my sides, and stepped off. Just like that, I rose above the trees--even the big Rossiter pines across the street--and flew. That dream kept coming back when I was young and it finally flew away when I became a pilot. Strange, huh.

My other favorite spot was the little shack at the Hartington airport. I use to park right next to that shack and watch for planes. Hartington is no O'Hare.  I don't ever remember seeing a plane land there but that didn't keep me away. I promised myself that I would land the first jet there. That was long before I learned that a 3,000 foot runway is not the best choice for a Lear Jet smoking though the skies. I didn't get to keep that promise. A Citation did land there and I wasn't on it. I understand that Citation is  by the folks who built the new motel right over the spot where my Mother use to live.


You can measure your life with some things. In my case, it's trees. That's the golf course as it looks today. When my brothers and I worked there as teenagers, it wasn't much more than a pasture. You could hit a monster slice and go across a couple of fairways and not hit anything. (Well, most of the time. I clocked the local mortician on one of my famous shots.

Dad was the "guy in charge" of the course so he bossed us around. One of the tasks was to plant a bunch of trees between the fairways. In the hottest part of summer, he sent John and Roger out on the little Ford tractor and wagon with a tub full of water to make sure those trees got a good nourishing drink. Today, the fairways are as private as a Hillary Clinton foreign back account list. It's all because of my Dad and brothers making sure the trees got planted and watered. Beautiful, isn't it.

After a nice chat with my old friend Tim Kuchta and some quiet time at the cemetery with Mom and Dad, it was time to go.

You can go home and I am glad I did. If only for a few minutes, I reached back and found the boy in me and I can only wonder, why was I in such a hurry to leave?

Thanks for the love, Hartington.

Headin' West

It's just time.

I haven't been on a vacation or any type of road trip in a very long time. It's time. No, we are not going to take the Interstate for this adventure. You just miss too much. We are going to take a few of the country's back roads like Charles Karult did in his "On the Road" Sunday morning series. (If you missed those stories, you missed some great stuff.)

For now, the only things I am going to pack are my trusty companion, Willie; a tent and sleeping bag; and a Coleman 5-day cooler that keeps things cold for three days; and this iPad. Hopefully, we can find enough hotspots and enough good ideas to keep you interested and entertained.

At least it will keep me writing and I have no doubt that is part of the good Lord's plan for me.

Saddle up.

Like stories? Be sure to check out Kenny's books on amazon.com

The Strange Case of Skipjack Lux

The sky was coming to life. There were wisps of gold and yellow clouds becoming visible as the sun slowly made the slow climb into the darkness of morning.

The lake was stirring, too. You could hear splashes and if you looked carefully, you could see a ring going across the glass calm water, marking a successful breakfast for a fish willing to jump. The bunnies scurried through the tall weeds. They zigged and zagged with an explosion of effort that came to a sudden stop. They always faced danger from above, from around, and from far away if a young hunter had them in their gun sites.

In the distance, a single headlight came into view. Only one headlight worked on the old Ford truck but it was enough to get the job done. The job was to get Skipjack Lux from his home to his favorite fishing spot before the Vietnamese claimed it.

Like the Vietnamese, Skipjack came to the lake every day. It didn’t matter if it was raining or blowing or even snowing, Skipjack showed up with the dawn.
He smiled as he looked around. He had won the race to his place. The Vietnamese had not arrived but they would soon.

Skipjack shifted his pickup into the park, He had to jiggle the shift lever to accomplish the task but finally, the old Ford truck relented and shifted to park.

He got out of the cab and stood for a second and took in the morning. He smiled. God’s paintbrush was adorning the sky with every second. The lake served as God’s palate as it changed from the dark of night to the ever changing yellows, reds, pinks and blues of morning. It was going to be a good day.

Skipjack turned and reached over the side of the pickup box and grabbed his tackle box, his trusty rod and reel, and his five-gallon bucket. He threw his Walmart folding red fabric chair, still in the convenient carry bag with strap, over his shoulder. Skipjack was ready.

He started the short hike to his spot just as other lights were coming up the road. He turned and grinned as he watched the assortment of Japanese-made cars park next to his old rusty truck.

“You here already,” one of the Vietnamese hollered at him. “We caught yo big fish last night.”

Skipjack ignored the taunt. They teased him every day and he just looked the other way. He didn’t have much to do with these five-foot bullies. They were good fishermen and he and they knew it.

Unlike Skipjack, they didn’t throw the small fish back. If they caught a fish, it went into the five-gallon bucket and ended up in a ground up concoction they actually ate. Some say heads, guts, and all went into the grinder.

Skipjack was very aware they were the masters of patience and masters of catching the “big one.”
He looked out at the lake. There were a bunch of ring spreading out. The fish were feeding and that was a good sign. He set up his chair and sat down and opened his tackle box. He removed a bologna and cheese sandwich packed in a Ziploc bag. He carefully dug his finger through an assortment of Eagle Claw hook and selected a small one. A leader was next. He picked a nice fat worm for the first cast of the day. He assembled his choices on the end of his line and made a gentle cast toward the lake.

His fish breakfast disappeared into the lake leaving an ever-expanding circle as proof. Now, it was time to get situated. He flipped up the top tray in his tackle box and pulled out his rod holder and pushed it into the ground in front of his chair. He put his rod in it and sat down to enjoy the morning, and wait.

Suddenly, the tip of the rod bounced. A fish was nibbling. Skipjack smiled and gently pulled the rod from the holder and pointed the tip at the lake. He reeled in some of the slack.

“Come on,” he said. “Come on.”

Another bounce and just as quick, Skipjack snapped the rod up. The line went tight and the rod tip started dancing. He could feel the fight. A fish was on. He pulled back and reeled in the slack. The fight continued. He pulled back again and reeled but the fight stopped.

“Dang it!” he said.

“Ah big one got away again,” a Vietnamese fisherman said as he stood behind and watched. ”I catch for you!” the man said as he continued his walk.

Skipjack sneered as he reeled in his line. Sure enough, the worm was gone. Fish 1. Skipjack 0.
Four casts and two hours later, the fish were still winning. The Vietnamese however, were already bringing in some impressive fish. Big carp and catfish. Some medium black bass were in the buckets even though they should have thrown them back because they didn’t meet the twenty-one inch limit. No game warden, no foul.

By noon, Skipjack’s bucket was still empty. His rod was in the holder. He walked back to get a beer out of his truck. It was lunchtime and a beer and the bologna sandwich was on the menu. He sat down in his chair and enjoyed both.

He looked at the Western sky. Some thunderheads were growing in the distance. Maybe they were coming Skipjack’s way. Maybe not.

“You catch fish?” A Vietnamese asked as he walked by. The little man struggled to carry his bucket and a big tail struck out of the top of it. He had bagged a big catfish. Skipjack pretended not to notice.

“Some,” Skipjack said. “But I threw them back.”

“Ah,” the Vietnamese said. “I catch big catfish so I go.”

“I see you did,” Skipjack acknowledged. “Congratulations.”

The Vietnamese man did a short bow and continued his walk back to his Toyota minivan. Skipjack knew they were laughing at him but they were polite people and never showed what they though while around him.

The Western sky was dark now. The lower clouds hid the thunderheads so Skipjack wasn’t sure if he would be in their path or not. A little rain wouldn’t run him off anyway.He continued to re-rig as he fed the fish and failed to hook any. Suddenly, the wind picked up. He looked across the lake. Three rapid lightning strikes announced the approach of a major thunderstorm.

Just as sudden, his rod bent in the biggest arc he had ever seen. It jumped out of the rod holder and if Skipjack had’t stomped on it, his rod would have been in the lake. He grabbed it and snapped it back to set the hook even deeper. The fight was on.

So was the rain. At first, it was light. Then, it came in torrents along with small hail. The hail increased in size pelting Skipjack as he fought whatever was on his line. There was no giving up on either end of the line on this day.

The rain swirled just enough for Skipjack to look out on the lake. Through the whitecaps, he could see a huge black bass jump out of the water. Skipjack’s eyes almost came out of his head as he finally got a glimpse of his foe.

“He has to be the state record!” he said as he pulled back and reeled. His smiled as the rain slammed into his face. He could hardly see but he didn’t need to. He could feel his prize fish. He was winning.
The tornado warning siren blasted in the background. Skipjack wasn’t going anywhere. The fish continued to fight him. He fought harder. The storm raged. The wind was extreme and then the storm was gone.

The park superintendent was making his slow drive through the park to check for tree damage when he noticed Skipjack’s truck. A large fallen cottonwood had crushed it. The superintendent jumped out of his truck and went around the fallen tree to try and get the best view of the inside of the truck. No one was inside.

He looked toward the lake. Skipjack’s chair and tackle were spread over a wide area. The wind or worse had made quick work of everything. The superintendent looked at the trees. It was clear a tornado had moved right over Skipjack’s favorite spot and had taken everything with it. Had it claimed Skipjack, too?

The superintendent called 911 and before long, some rural firefighters, law enforcement, and park workers mounted a search for

Skipjack. They didn’t find him. Two days later, the search was abandoned. Skipjack as never found.
Another morning and the Vietnamese were arriving on schedule. They took their usual spots except for one. He stopped and looked at the spot where Skipjack used to fish.

“This spot now mine,” he said as he smiled. He assembled his gear and made his first cast. Within seconds, his rod bent like he had never seen it bend before. He grabbed it just before the rod went into the lake. He tried to reel some line in but whatever was out there drug him almost over the bank and into the water. Thankfully, his line snapped before he went in. He thought he heard a laugh.

“Big fish!” the excited fisherman exclaimed.

He made another cast and again, his rod bent like it never had before and almost pulled him in. The line broke and he could swear he heard a laugh.

“Lake haunted!” he said as he picked up his gear ad ran backward toward his Toyota pickup. Others tried to fish out of that spot and they all got the same result. The Vietnamese knew what a big fish felt like on the end of their line. This was no fish. Fear ran through the community as the legend of Skipjack Lux grew.

Never again would any of them try to fish on this part of the lake because they knew, they were the bait. The master fisherman waited patiently in the stillness of the deep.

Did you enjoy this story? It's one of the stories coming out in my new book, Living at the Lake, coming out in kindle format later this year. Be sure to check out my other kindle books on amazon.com. Enjoy! Here's the link: http://amzn.to/2kIeLXd

The Little Girl from Lexington

Every day, there are some very special flights criss-crossing the United States. They are called "lifeguard" and in the air traffic control system, they get top priority. That's because those flights carry some special people who are holding on to life by the thinnest of strings. This is the story of one of those flights. It's about a very sick little girl and the pilot who wanted to make her trip a special memory.

The Little Girl from Lexington

By Kenny Miller

"Do what you can to make her comfortable," the nurse said as the ambulance slowly backed toward the door of our Lear jet. "I don't think she will survive the flight to California."

          From the size of the crowd and the number of get well signs, you could tell our patient was a popular central Nebraska young girl. But, she was likely to die on this airplane trip as we did our best to get her to San Jose and a last hope.  She was going to have a heart and lung transplant at the Stanford University Medical Center. Veno Occlusive, a very rare disease was clogging her lungs. She was slowly suffocating.  I never imagined I would face something like this when I became a pilot.

          She was covered with a blue blanket. Her plastic oxygen mask went from clear to cloudy with each breath. There were bags of life-saving fluids attached to the long silver stainless steel rods and from the bottom of the bag dropped those clear plastic lifelines which lead to the IV entry points in both arms. She wore a brightly colored scarf on her head. Just below the scarf, I made contact with two blue eyes. They were glued on me as I helped load her stretcher into the airplane. I smiled and slowly mouthed the words, "Hi, you'll be OK."

          The eyes squinted and the mask turned white as she tried to smile. She seemed so terribly fragile and weak. Once she was transferred to our on board stretcher and the paramedic crew had everything properly assembled, it was time to be on our way.

          As I started to close the jet's door I noticed him. He wasn't moving away from the plane with the others. He just stood there, holding a small suitcase. He seemed a little over-whelmed with everything. I could see a toughness in him and at the same time, a gentleness. He seemed like a strong man--maybe an area farmer. I would not have thought much more about him except for the tears. Tears didn't belong on a strong face like his.

          "Wait a second before you start the engines," I said to the captain. I opened the bottom part of the door, climbed out of the plane and walked over to the man. "Are you OK, sir?"

          "They told me there was no room in the plane and I couldn't go," he said. "I'm her father."

          I looked back at the plane and noticed only one small monitor sitting on the only seat left in the plane--the small and uncomfortable seat which covered the portable potty. The seat is right behind the crew and a few feet in front of the end the stretcher. In my mind and I was sure in his, the seat would be just fine. Within a few seconds, he was snugly strapped in, holding the small monitor in his lap, and the crowd was cheering an even louder good-bye as we took the runway and started our takeoff roll.

          "Denver Center...Lifeguard 500 double Romeo climbing to flight level 240," I said into the small boom microphone as our little jet climbed its way to the heavens. Our jet needed a fuel stop to make it to San Jose. With fast service in Grand Junction, Colorado we would be back in the air in less than ten minutes.

          "Lifeguard 500 double Romeo, Denver Center, radar contact," came the quick reply from air traffic control. "Fly heading 233 radar vectors to Grand Junction climb and maintain flight level 410."

          By simply saying the word, "lifeguard," the aviation world and its rules suddenly change. The controllers move your plane to the front of the line. It's only right. We were in a life and death battle with time.

          "Are you warm enough and comfortable?" I asked as I looked over my shoulder at the paramedics and their patient. It was busy back there. One of the paramedics was listening through a stethoscope and the other was adjusting the flow from the one of the IV bags. I could no longer see the young girl's eyes. The paramedics gave me a thumbs-up that all was fine.  So far so good.

          The weather was on our young passenger's side--clear skies and unlimited visibility. We could see Grand Junction over one hundred miles away and could even make out the small black line that would soon turn into our runway. Her father watched over my shoulder as we started our descent into Grand Junction. He had a gentle hold on her left slipper-covered foot.

          As we made our descent into Grand Junction, I had a strange feeling come over me. I looked over my left shoulder thinking one of the paramedics wanted something. An instant double take hit my flying busy head as I noticed our special passenger was propped up on her elbows watching us fly. Her eyes had a twinkle in them and the oxygen mask was turning from clear to white in a nice slow rhythm of what appeared to be very normal breathing.

          "Turn it," I said to the captain.

          "What?"

          "Do some gentle turns so she can see the mountains."

          He looked over his right shoulder and smiled as he made a series of gentle turns to reveal the grand splendor or the Colorado Rockies on a crystal clear day.

          "Can you see Aspen ski area over there?" I asked her and indicated she should look out of the right side windows. She leaned toward the windows and stared for a minute and then turned back toward me. The oxygen mask turned white and pressed tightly against her face as she moved her head up and down to indicate yes.

          A cheer erupted from two happy paramedics, her father, and two pilots. After a quick fuel stop, we were back in the air headed for San Jose. For the rest of our trip, our special passenger got the worst of the commercial pilot treatment.

          "On your left is Salt Lake City. That's the Teton mountain range over there.  That's Reno, Nevada and the big lake that looks like it is on top of the mountains is Lake Tahoe.  That's the Godfather's house--there may be a horse without a head in the yard."

          Her father, still gently holding her foot in his left hand, smiled and relayed every bit of information. She seem to giggle and smile more than ever as she was able to see each of the tourist points as the plane raced for California. She watched us enter the fluffy layer of cotton soft clouds and listened to the engine power adjustments and the radio calls as we glided through the quiet stillness of the fog covered San Jose sky.

          She watched the solid blanket of white fog turn to flying wisps as the Lear broke through the last of the fog to the running rabbit light that lead to the safe warm greeting of the yellow runway lights ahead of us. Finally, we were on the ground.

          Another ambulance waited as we taxied to the ramp through the bay area drizzle. Our paramedics transferred her to another stretcher and started moving the stretcher through the door.

          "Hold it!" said one of the paramedics.

          I looked back from my seat thinking there was a problem. There, raised between our two pilot seats, was a small arm with an IV taped to the top of a reaching out hand. Her hand took hold of my left little finger and gave it a gentle squeeze. The squint in her eyes and the white breaths in the mask told me she was still smiling.

          The tears were gone from her father's face. He smiled and waved good-bye as he boarded the ambulance and sat across from her. Almost instinctively, he reached over and began to hold her slipper-covered foot.

          The ambulance attendant closed the door and I watched the flashing red lights turn to a muffled red glow as the ambulance disappeared into the fog. 

          Welcome to California little girl.

If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out some Kenny's books on amazon.com. They're kindle books and only 99 cents! Here's Kenny's author page on amazon:

http://amzn.to/2hHdMcI