Damn, I Love Hometown Airports

So I'm up and out of the tent at Barber Airport in Alliance, Ohio, and I'm
taking my early morning constitutional when ...

A happy fellow drives up into the driveway just off the main highway and
gets out.
I see that he is elderly and hardly able to walk. But he is smiling and
full or the morning's energy. "May I let my pigeons out here?" he asks.

"Oh, sure," I say (as if I had any authority). "Where did you bring them
from?"

"Youngstown," says he proudly.

"So when you release them, they will fly back to Youngstown." I ask, "like
homing pigeons?"

"Oh, yeah. That's what they are --- homing pigeons," he says as he opens
the doors on his car.

"Oh, neat," says I. "I have never seen this before. Heard about it but
never saw it."

"Well, you'll like this," says he. "They'll join up in formation."

So he opens up the car, with the back seat removed, and takes out 2 big
chicken boxes made of wooden dowels lined up in so many bars as if in a
miniature prison cell.
I'm sure you've seen these cages if you've been around a farm. The two
cages are crammed full of struggling pigeons with hardly enough room to
breathe. And as soon as he opens the boxes the pigeons scramble out and
take off with a loud noise, almost like an explosion, from the beating of
their wings. It is like music hearing their wings spanking the air.

I wonder if they had those wonderful high-lift devices on their wings Steve
White told me about as we drove to see Bat Cave Dave's airplane.

Climbing and climbing, they fly around in circles, two scattered flocks, and
then the two flocks merge and become one. And around the airfield they
circle and climb, like a school
of fish in tight formation, their wings shimmering a split-second reflection
as they turn, flashing, in the sun and corkscrew upwards in formation. It
is a splendid thing to watch. The little
man looks up intently, still smiling, as I do, the shape-changing mass of
silvery flapping wings
glistening in the July sun.

And then suddenly, ominously, appears another bird flying close by the
pigeons, above
them, then around them and back and forth, exploring, looking them over. It
is a bird with
wings of a greater aspect ratio -- longer narrower wings, and much faster.
The wings of this solitary bird move at a pace reminiscent of a fighter or
pursuit airplane.
It seems to be stalking the flock of pigeons. Yes, I can make it out now,
it
is a small raptor, a peregrine falcon.

I turn to see the little man but he is gone.

The pigeons tighten their formation so they appear to be a cohesive shape,
something of a feathery blob, and
every time the falcon comes near them, they tighten and counter by
following the solitary bird, even chasing it. Yes, strangely, the prey are
giving chase.
The solitary bird flees the white formation so tight the pigeons appear as
one. The maneuvers occur until finally they are all so high that they are
out of my fading sight.

Then I make out the falcon descending. He returns to the tall
stand of pines alongside the runway and lights in the top of the tallest
pine. It appears he has given up trying to cull out a fat prey bird for
his (or maybe "her") meal. Or maybe for her nestlings. And being an
amateur I theorize this defense behavior of the flock evolved since the last
ice age.

I stand there in a reverie wondering if the owner has ever returned home to
count his homing pigeons and found that one, having been eaten, didn't show.

Don't you think airports are just the splendidest things on earth?

Excellent writing. It was fun.


"Larry Smith" wrote in message
...
So I'm up and out of the tent at Barber Airport in Alliance, Ohio, and I'm
taking my early morning constitutional when ...

A happy fellow drives up into the driveway just off the main highway and
gets out.
I see that he is elderly and hardly able to walk. But he is smiling and
full or the morning's energy. "May I let my pigeons out here?" he asks.

"Oh, sure," I say (as if I had any authority). "Where did you bring them
from?"

"Youngstown," says he proudly.

"So when you release them, they will fly back to Youngstown." I ask, "like
homing pigeons?"

"Oh, yeah. That's what they are --- homing pigeons," he says as he opens
the doors on his car.

"Oh, neat," says I. "I have never seen this before. Heard about it but
never saw it."

"Well, you'll like this," says he. "They'll join up in formation."

So he opens up the car, with the back seat removed, and takes out 2 big
chicken boxes made of wooden dowels lined up in so many bars as if in a
miniature prison cell.
I'm sure you've seen these cages if you've been around a farm. The two
cages are crammed full of struggling pigeons with hardly enough room to
breathe. And as soon as he opens the boxes the pigeons scramble out and
take off with a loud noise, almost like an explosion, from the beating of
their wings. It is like music hearing their wings spanking the air.

I wonder if they had those wonderful high-lift devices on their wings
Steve
White told me about as we drove to see Bat Cave Dave's airplane.

Climbing and climbing, they fly around in circles, two scattered flocks,
and
then the two flocks merge and become one. And around the airfield they
circle and climb, like a school
of fish in tight formation, their wings shimmering a split-second
reflection
as they turn, flashing, in the sun and corkscrew upwards in formation. It
is a splendid thing to watch. The little
man looks up intently, still smiling, as I do, the shape-changing mass of
silvery flapping wings
glistening in the July sun.

And then suddenly, ominously, appears another bird flying close by the
pigeons, above
them, then around them and back and forth, exploring, looking them over.
It
is a bird with
wings of a greater aspect ratio -- longer narrower wings, and much faster.
The wings of this solitary bird move at a pace reminiscent of a fighter or
pursuit airplane.
It seems to be stalking the flock of pigeons. Yes, I can make it out
now,
it
is a small raptor, a peregrine falcon.

I turn to see the little man but he is gone.

The pigeons tighten their formation so they appear to be a cohesive shape,
something of a feathery blob, and
every time the falcon comes near them, they tighten and counter by
following the solitary bird, even chasing it. Yes, strangely, the prey
are
giving chase.
The solitary bird flees the white formation so tight the pigeons appear as
one. The maneuvers occur until finally they are all so high that they are
out of my fading sight.

Then I make out the falcon descending. He returns to the tall
stand of pines alongside the runway and lights in the top of the tallest
pine. It appears he has given up trying to cull out a fat prey bird for
his (or maybe "her") meal. Or maybe for her nestlings. And being an
amateur I theorize this defense behavior of the flock evolved since the
last
ice age.

I stand there in a reverie wondering if the owner has ever returned home
to
count his homing pigeons and found that one, having been eaten, didn't
show.

Don't you think airports are just the splendidest things on earth?