Several years ago, when I lived in the north end of San Bernardino,
California, my father-in-law used to land on a concrete slab left over from
a WWII Army supply depot. It was about a mile and a half from the house,
just of the east side of Interstate-15 We had scoped the place out, cleared
some brush, and sunk some anchors for tie downs. He lived and flew in Alaska
and the plane was a C-170B with big flaps and huge mains.
Pop would fly over the house and rack the throttle a couple times to get
my attention, then head for the patch. By the time I got there he'd be
tieing the plane down.
One late evening, right at twilight, we went through the drill. I helped
him finish up the tie-downs and just as we started to unload... Headlights,
spotlights, and cops -- sheriff, Highway patrol, city cops, and we found out
in a few minutes the FBI and DEA -- appeared from every direction!
Fortunately, none of them unholstered their pistols but a few had
shotguns pointed in the air. One guy, turned out to be DEA, asked Pop if
they could look in the airplane. I almost wet myself when the old man
answered, "Not unless you tell me what you think you're looking for." After
about ten minutes of hassling back and forth... Pop was a hard-core
conservative, if you haven't figured that out yet... he opened the door and
let them inspect his cargo. He was even polite enough to warn them that his
30.06 and 44Mag were hot loaded, as was his Armalite folded rifle that was
wrapped up in his parka. He was actually bluffing about that. He never
carried the guns loaded in the airplane.
Somebody in the neighborhood alerted the cops. Surely we had to be
smuggling something. Especially when the busybody watched us carry all the
gear out of the airplane and stuff it into the Wagoneer. Especially when
they saw the .06 in the open.
Then, came my turn. The DEA guy walked over to me and asked if he could
look into the Jeep. I could see the old man grinning at me over the agent's
shoulder. With a mouth full of cotton and pucker-factor creeping over the
nine mark, I managed to croak, "Not unless you tell me what you think you're
looking for." Every cop within hearing distance burst out laughing,
including the DEA agent. He shook his head and walked away.
The old concrete slab is long gone. A housing development went in there.
I moved away. The old man and N2310D disappeared into the mountains
somewhere between Anchorage and North Way. Every time I drive into San
Berdoo I remember that night.