Posted by: normanlgreen | January 5, 2012

Dream, Janary 5, 2012 racoons and ultra-lite helicopter

Dream, home, 6:10 am

My father has asked me to visit him at a cabin in a national park. I will have to cut it close on time, as I am a student and am obliged to attend high school. Dad will only be at the cabin the one night, so this morning is our only opportunity to visit.

He has very little time for a visit, as he has to pack and get onto the road to his next stop. He has some clothes and whatnot that he has brought for me. We load them into a heavy steel framed car from the early 1970s. While we load the trunk, He tells me with great excitement of a baseball game that he attended. I pretend interest. He realizes that the players he mentions and the details of the action are from a different world from my own. I confess that the last time I went to a game, it was to take the boys when they were very small – free bats were given to every child. He shrugs, disappointed, but he lets me off the hook.

The road leading to the cabin reminds me of the Mt. Baker highway, with its twisty nature intermittently following the bends of a narrow river. But the land and the plant life suggest the Sierra Nevada – dry grass, skinny pines, boulders devoid of moss, sandy trails. On the rocky ridge behind the cabin, a Pair of raccoons watch us at work. Dad says that these two have been bold visitors throughout the night and morning. I make eye contact with the mother coon. Her child pops up every once in a while as it scurries around her position with her little forepaws bracing her as she peers over a sharp rock.

Park rangers arrive at a clearing to my right (North).  They will present a workshop on the local wildlife.  I feel sure that they will showcase the raccoons, both of whom have climbed down from the rocks to nuzzle the legs of the rangers.  A young giraffe with mottled coat grazes beside the people.  He bends his neck in a Z shape.

My Dad has left and I will be late for school — getting younger as the dream progresses.  Rather than take the car, I feel the trip will be shorter if I go as the crow flies, so I opt for and ultra-ultra-ultra-lite helicopter — a backpack with a seat and two shafts that support two small propellers.  I know I am low on gas, so I switch the motor to electric mode and take-off for the South.  I see the road meander to the East of me, as I fly across fields and forests.  I keep my altitude below 100 feet, in case I lose power.

As I fly over the football field of a high school, the propeller on my left side begins to slip on its shaft, while the one on the right slows as the battery runs low.  I know that across the river — now on my right, my uncle mans a gas station for logging trucks.  I just clear the river then walk the few yards to his pumping station.  this is a not a commercial gas station with fuel for sale, but a private operation for the logging company.   for that reason I am not sure how I can pay my uncle.  He comes out of the mechanics’ garage and assures me that he can spare the little gas it will take to fill up my helicopter.  I remove the gas tank, a flexible plastic bladder  ten inches across.  It looks like a seat cushion, but with a spout that is a little too small for the gas pump’s nozzle.  As I fill the bladder, I have difficulty avoiding spills,  I pull a wad of gray and gooey sludge from the mouth of the gas tank and find it fills much easier.


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