Well, we didn't fly today. Well, we did, but it didn't really count as a flight.

Got up at 05:00 and looked outside. Cloudy and damp. Back to bed.

Checked again at 05:15. Clouds were lifting, half the sky was clear. So throw on non-flammable clothes and head to the airport.

Have a good view north as I drive in. Some of the clouds are walking. Can't even see the Ferrises, and we're supposed to be counting antelope on the other side. Half of me is disappointed, because I want to get this count done, and the flying has been going so well so far. Half (the guts half) is getting hopeful that we will be grounded.

Weather station in Central City to the northeast is reporting the same half-fog half-clouds that we've got.

Only way to know if we have the sunlight we need to count antelope is to go look.

Pilot and I opened the hangar doors and pushed the Cessna out onto the tarmac (quick little side note here: while waiting for my half hour of computer time at the Hot Springs Public Library last week, I browsed their fund raising book sale. And bought a paperback Webster's Collegiate Dictionary for $1 (marked price was 50 cents, but hey, it's a Library). Couldn't remember if "tarmac" ended with a "k", so that was just the first word looked up in my "new" dictionary). Got in the back seats and settled in, and nothing. As in "it don't go" nothing.

Dead battery.

Pilot left the master switch on after Saturday's flight. So we got no juice. To top it off, one of my neighboring co-workers and one of my game wardens are also on the tarmac loading into a competitor's Cessna 185 for their antelope survey (a line transect survey, not a count. I might explain the difference some day when I feel like writing a technical treatise.). Pilot and I have been flying together for more years than I have been married, so I know his moods. He's embarrassed and mad at himself at the same time.

I trot to the truck for jumper cables, and pilot drives his truck over. The battery in a Cessna 180 is in the tail section, which you pop open with just a screwdriver. The jump is quick, but it gets damn cold standing alongside the plane in the propwash. I return the jumper cables to my rig and then get back into my seat in the rear while pilot reparks his truck.

Plane begins sputtering as pilot is walking back, and he breaks into a run. Now I know I should lean forward and adjust the choke, but there is no way I'm gonna do that. I can just see me adjusting it too high, and then off I go down the tarmac without a pilot. And there is no way I can steer from the rear, unless I dive forward and push the pedals with my hands. So I sit and see who wins the race.

Fortunately pilot gets in before the engine died.

As we head down hangar row, I notice all my test blows into the headset microphone aren't producing the static they should. Tap the pilot's shoulder, and we start checking wires.

This old 1950s aircraft is not equipped for modern conveniences, like headsets or GPS units. So there are cords running all over the place on the front seat. Headset cords, power cord, the wires to the dispatch radio, the GPS receiver and display, and just for good measure, the cords for the antenna mounts on the wings for when he does radio relocation flights. The headset control box has at least seven cords plugged into it, and we finally agree they're all in the right places.

So, unscrew the cover and check inside. Looks ok and this unit doesn't use batteries that might need to be replaced. Pilot assumes our battery jump has fried the insides of the controls. So pilot goes in the next hangar and scavenges the headset control box from the Cessna 206. But it can't wire in to the portable radio, so our 20-minute check-ins will have to be handled without the mike, and we probably won't hear dispatch if they try to call us.

As pilot jumps back into the plane, the handle falls off the door and clatters on the asphalt. Now he's really embarrassed and pissed, and I'm laughing. As he's jamming the handle back on, the other folks pass by in their solid tangerine-colored airplane on their way to the runway and an uneventful take-off.

While rewiring ourselves, the engine idles down and we lose the GPS display. Rev it up, and the display comes back. So now the pilot is hopeful that the problem is just in battery power, and he won't have to replace his custom-made radio box. We get our mikes working with the spare, and off we go.

Beautiful flight. Smooth, and steady. There are mists trying to form on top of the rim just off the end of the runway, and we swirl through them. All over the country side moisture is trying to rise from the ground. Just enough sunlight here to give the antelope that red alpine-glow. In the middle of dark green, wet vegetation.

Pilot keeps tapping the glass covering the ampmeter. It's stuck at zero.

But he informs me it's been stuck at zero for over twenty years. Okay, if we've never needed it before, I won't worry about it now.

But to the north there is a wall of clouds. We're only five miles from the airport, but we can see the south hogback face of the Ferrises. Clouds are rolling over the top (10,000 feet) and then evaporating before they hit the bottom on our side. Muddy Gap and Whiskey Gap on the west side are buried in a solid wall of white. Same for the east side. There is a front of clouds resting on the north side, trying to push south. We couldn't count antelope over there if we flew at ten feet.

So ends the morning flight.

We can see the clouds are walking to the south and west also and, as expected, my compatriots land shortly after we do. So the five of us have a nice visit on the tarmac, with conversations ranging from loose door handles to weather forecasts to horse pastures and vet bills, to knee surgeries and doctor bills, and annual reports. But the clouds don't get any better. So, here I am.

Try again Friday.