Essential non-gas-wasting trip July 27-28, 2006
to visit Shattuck and Whitman college classmate Fred Fair

First posted
Friday July 28, 2006 11:37
Monday October 7, 2013 08:12

Sleepless in Seattle, Silkwood, When Harry Met Sally and fred fair

Hussein in the Membrane: Making Lemonade in Iraq
1776 reads as if January 9, 2007 17:53.
We commented [Fred Fair.... for visibility reasons, of course.

----- Original Message -----
From: Fred Fair
To: payne payne
Sent: Saturday, January 06, 2007 5:18 PM
Subject: Fwd: Roleplay (for adults)

Begin forwarded message:
From: Panama Billy
Date: January 4, 2007 4:52:33 PM MST
Subject: Fwd: Fw: Roleplay (for adults)

Fred, this one you'll like when you get back!

----- Original Message -----
From: "Fred Fair"
To: "payne payne"
Sent: Sunday, September 24, 2006 11:50 AM
Subject: visit

Bill: be leaving for Denver early tomorrow and back by 4pm so any time after that. My place: go about three miles north of plaza and look for Atilano Rd on left(just past a mail box cluster) - if you pass the El Prado post office you went too far. Go down Atilano jog slightly right on Atilano Ln (sign on Rumsfeld fence) - that's my drive way - cross 4 cattle guards and a couple 90 degree turns - it's a two story territorial with a red tin roof in a pasture all by itself - a smaller one story guest house will be at the opposite end of the pasture. My phone, when you get lost, is 758 9331 or cell which I never answer is 613 0653. See you tomorrow. Regards,

Photo of Rumsfeld's Taos fence taken Tuesday September 28, 2006

Fred is Taos, NM neighbor, friend, and sometime business partner of defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld.
----- Original Message -----
From: Fred Fair
To: bill payne
Sent: Wednesday, February 21, 2007 3:08 PM
Subject: Re: rummy

Bill: I just order the new bio. on Rumsfeld by Cockburn. I rather think it is unflattering. Hubris????

On Feb 15, 2007, at 9:03 PM, bill payne wrote:

----- Original Message -----
From: Fred Fair
To: payne
Sent: Wednesday, February 21, 2007 3:23 PM
Subject: Rumsfeld

Bill: did I ever send this to you before?


Trip to Oz

We were off to Nixon’s funeral in a sleek Citation, chartered by my friends Don and Joyce. Originally we were flying out in the ancient but elegant Aero Commander Don and I owned. The weather had turned sour, but early enough for Don to arrange for the jet so we saved ourselves the horror of thundering out in four hours. Instead we whispered across the Southwest at 36,000 feet in two hours. Don had gotten me an invitation to the funeral. This was probably no easy feat; it was the number one power junkie event of the week.

The day of the funeral, a Wednesday, began with a full winter snowstorm in Taos. We were scheduled to leave at noon. By 10:00 a.m. it appeared we would have to drive to Santa Fe to pick up the jet because of the snow. But 15 minutes later, the snow had tapered off and the crew of the charter jet decided on a Taos pick up.

I was ready in my new second-hand suit purchased in Austin. I could use it for a wedding coming up and also my own internment some day. My normally windblown hair was plastered down with hair spray for the solemn occasion.

It was still spitting snow at the Taos airport but the Citation landed on time and took right off again; we were quickly en route to the Orange County airport. I resisted the urge to kibitz with the pilots in the cockpit. Don was churning through several newspapers and magazines, dumping them on my lap so that I might be as current as he was regarding the mass of editorializing about Nixon’s past. Since his reading and retention rate were greater than mine, I left the unread editorials in a pile when we landed in Orange County.

The local FBO was buried in what pilots describe as “heavy iron”--mostly Gulfstream III’s and IV’s which towered over our little Citation. All were there for the funeral. A limousine waited at the plane’s door. First, we were whisked off for a quick lunch and then driven 20 miles to Yerba Linda where the funeral was being held at the Nixon library. Our first stop was for credentials which turned out to be a little purple button with “R.N.” slashed across the face. I was not on the master invitee list but Don quickly arranged for my button and we were off again in the limo for the six-block ride through a modest neighborhood, now cordoned off to keep the public at bay. People were lined up on the sidewalks, some holding placards. I wondered if they were protesters although it seemed a bit after the fact. The street in front of the library was clogged with massive media vans and antennas.

I imagine that getting out of the limo was as close as I was ever going to get to a state function. There were crowds of people standing around, hoping for a look at someone famous. My face would puzzle a power groupie. It was 3:00 pm and the service was set to begin at 4:00.

We walked with an amorphous crowd through a security check which opened into the court where the ceremony was to be held. It looked packed already with a grand stand set up at the rear. Long rows of chairs seated around 1500. The place was milling with recognizable faces from the current administration, the congress and the Nixon/Watergate era. It was a kaleidoscope of recent American history and events. Each face evoked mental subtitles, descriptions of who and when, and were they indicted/convicted and for what.

Don and Joyce slowly waded through the crowd with me in tow. Sometimes they would stop and press flesh with old friends and political cronies. I was introduced and for a moment pulled out of the newsreel environment of recognizable faces. The funeral was “ground zero” for the world that afternoon. I came face to face with the Joint Chiefs of Staff and their “football”-- the device for launching a full-scale nuclear attack on anybody, anywhere, carried by a mere colonel. They, and we in turn, were completely surrounded by the Congress of the United States and various other levels of factotemry all trying to find their respective levels of notoriety in the seating/pecking order.

Don was to be seated with Nixon’s old cabinet in the second row, but he broke for air and we ended up sitting behind the congressional delegation. We were sitting next to one of his retired, congressional friends from Michigan. Next to me was a Wyoming senator. In front of us was the blue-black wrinkled mass of the congress. In front of them, popping into view from time to time, were three past and current presidents. Publicity-seeking wannabes jockeyed for coveted seating. The bulk of the Watergate era passed into view over the next 30 minutes as we waited for the ceremony to begin.

Thunder rolled in the not far-off distance. “Will it rain?” was a common refrain of new arrivals sitting around us. Security helicopters hovered in the darkening sky. Behind were bleachers filled with the untermensch, probably the press, or those with mere yellow buttons. They were not entitled to the reception to follow in the Nixon library. Their lot was to press their noses against the windows and look in or hang around outside to get some verbal pearls from us, the purple button set, after the ceremony.

At 4:00 sharp the Marine band, which faced us from podium’s left, began playing military school music. Directly behind the podium was the old Nixon family home which resembled a Sears catalog home circa turn of the century. It was set attractively with some mature landscaping dominated by a great live oak. From behind the old home came the casket carried by ten young men from the various branches of the armed forces. They must have been chosen as a result of steroid ingestion and their ability to lift and carry a heavy object.

They somehow managed, in lock step, to carry the heavy casket around corners, and up several steps, where they then deposited the casket on the stand by podium. Had they been able to rehearse the march with Dick, I wondered, or had they had to do it as a dry run, so to speak?

It suddenly fell silent, all except for the wind and the distant thunder. The casket sat alone; we all stared. Billy Graham lurched up to the podium for a short introduction and prayer and a peevish reminder to “follow the program.” The band, this time accompanied by the Navy choir, played and sang what I guessed were Nixon’s old favorites. They were familiar to me also from my past military school ceremonies.

Over the next hour, Kissinger, Dole, Pete Wilson and President Clinton all gave eulogies. All were appropriate and thankfully short. Kissinger was mumbly and faintly emotional. He performed a touching pivot towards the casket at his arrival and departure, a short gesture of respect and farewell.

The image of Kissinger and Nixon on the Oval Room rug praying together during the dark moments of Watergate always made me think that a politically expedient trade had been made between the two. Was Kissinger, at that moment before the casket, thinking of those bleak moments and the dark history they had shared? Dole repeated his “that’s American” phrase about Nixon four or five times. At the end, a rising tide of emotion carried him off the speaker’s podium with a final and barely audible “God Bless America.”

Wilson was articulate; Clinton, presidential. More songs followed, and more Billy Graham with the Lord’s Prayer, and “Amen.” Then it was all over.

The fine strong young men offered a 21-gun salute and Nixon was carried away for internment somewhere behind the old family home. Three beautiful brass canons were fired, one after another, a hundred yards away. Fortunately the muzzles were pointed towards the suburbs just across the street. I watched the smoke rings blow out the barrels after each firing and wondered how the neighbors felt about being down muzzle. They had all probably been evicted from their homes for the ceremony. If not they were all going to need hearing aids.

After the interment, which we listened to over a loudspeaker, the entire assembly moved en masse to the library for libations. We were cheek to jowl with every one of the purple buttons inside the library. Don, Joyce and I continued through the pack. Every couple of feet we would stop for introductions. I met George Schultz, George McGovern, Mr. Speaker, Al Haig, the British Defense Minister and several of Don’s congressional alumni en route to the hors d’oeuvres. There was a reception line to express condolences to Nixon’s daughters. I sidestepped that to arrange for our limo to pick us up. The former presidents were leaving; the reception and security and television crews were ubiquitous just outside the entrance. I reveled at the sight of TV cameras swiveling to follow me as I left the entrance. Might I be spotted by friends and neighbors back in Taos on the evening news?

Clinton stayed at the reception until the very end and was easily accessible. I was tempted to go over and say hello and mention S. Ross and Kay, his old Oxford buddies from New Mexico but a set of pastries got in the way.

Don and Joyce and were finally headed for the door where they were once again entrapped by old friends and for the next half hour acted like hosts at the end of a party, standing by the front door waving good bye to the departing guests. Our limo was parked just outside the library entrance; suddenly were whisked out of the pack and off to the airport for the return to Taos. On the way to the airport we rehashed the highlights of the afternoon. Who spoke the best? Dole, we decided, but he lost credibility for excess emotion. Who had the most to gain politically from his podium appearance? Pete Wilson, we thought. Clinton, fortunately, was unanimously voted “most presidential.”

We stopped at a liquor store for a celebratory bottle of wine for the flight back, congratulating ourselves that we weren't going to be aboard ol’ Thunder for a three hour bump and grind back to Taos. The limo dropped us at the door of our Citation and we settled comfortably into its cabin while the crew got us airborne. A moist red sunset glowed over the L.A. basin, followed by a light dinner salad served with an appropriate wine. Just about the time we had finished, we landed back in Taos, where thick white snow was still falling in perfect silence.

“We must get our message across to the masses of the nation and break the media siege imposed on the jihad movement. This is an independent battle that we must launch side by side with the military battle.”

Our enemies have skillfully adapted to fighting wars in today’s media age, but . . . our country has not. . . .

Rumsfeld Gets Icy Treatment

from PAGE A1

of his war."

On Thursday, workers at the ski area were blasé about Rumsfeld and his appearances there.

"He was here at the hotel for lunch, maybe a month ago, wearing a baseball cap," said Greg Jaramillo, who who was working the grill on the outdoor deck at the St. Bernard lodge. "People here aren't psyched be lives here, but I don't know that anybody really notices him much."

His coworker, John Woolery, added, "I think there's people in Iraq who'd like to talk to him. But that's why he likes this place - nobody cares."

Over at Crossroads Plaza at the ski area, Molly Mainelli was chopping bell peppers, recalling an incident three years ago when she was working at Tim's Stray Dog. "He came in and asked for a hot chocolate without whipped cream," she said. "The

The bartender said, "No, I'm not going to serve you," said Mainelli, but then another bartender stepped in and made the drink for him. Rumsfeld didn't seem upset, she said. "He was like, 'Whatever, give me my damn hot chocolate.'"

In the town of Taos, owner/baker Karen Todd of the Dragonfly Cafe, says it's not just Taos residents who are being more vocal in their displeasure with Rumsfeld. "It's a reflection of how people feel nationally. We're just a microcosm of the country. People are getting more and more knowledgeable of Rumsfeld and Cheney and Bush."

But Todd said she had two minds about criticism.

When she heard that someone said "he hoped Rumsfeld rotted in prison," she thought, "Aren't we opposed to people rotting in prison. But then, he should be accountable for this actions."

A waiter at the Dragonfly Cafe said, "Getting more vocal? We burned him in effigy north of town last year."

At Brodsky Bookshop, owner Rick Smith was a bit more circumspect.

"If he wanted a book, I'd help him, "he said. "I want people to respect my private space, so I have to respect theirs. I don't agree with confronting him in public."

Smith echoed other locals who said that Taos allows people to be who they are. "At meetings here, they go on forever," he said, "because they let everybody talk."

Smith said that if Rumsfeld ever came into his store he might recommend the new book "Blood and Thunder," about Kit Carson.

"It's ostensibly about Kit Carson and the subjugation of the Indians but there are a lot of about respect for indigenous peoples. To not have respect for history is probably the biggest mistake he's (Rumsfeld's) made."

Saddam Hussein's Iraq, Rumsfeld was praised as "a good listener" (p 76), also revealing, according to a former Iraqi intelligence officer, that behind that famous handshake photo that inundated the Web in early 2003, all Rumsfeld wanted to talk about with Saddam was business deals, such as an oil pipeline from Iraq to Aqaba, Jordan, in which Bechtel was tremendously interested.

When Rumsfeld went back to Baghdad in 1984, Saddam's army had already unleashed mustard gas on Iranian troops. But, as Cockburn writes (p 77), Rumsfeld "was apparently happy to reassure his hosts that they should not take objections to what would one day be called weapons of mass destruction personally. He was certainly enthusiastic in promoting business deals between Saddam and Israel."

[R]elaxation on his own spread in Taos, New Mexico, was "to go out and chainsaw the lower branches of trees".

----- Original Message -----
From: Fred Fair
To: payne
Sent: Wednesday, March 21, 2007 12:44 PM
Subject: Fwd: pilot story

Begin forwarded message:

Date: March 20, 2007 4:30:24 PM MDT
To: Fred Fair
Subject: pilot story

Here you go. I'm still planning on coming to Regina Saturday if I can't get there Friday.

Subject: near death and survival

Tony/Steve: as a neophyte pilots you will be stunned and astounded by the following tale of flight stupidity that occurred yesterday. Actually, the take off from the ranch, which should be included as a near weekly stupid act, but is not because I do it weekly. I was en-route to Los Alamos for an oil change and had turned back towards the mountains. As always, aware of the cost per hour, I was planning on flying direct which would, in a couple miles, require that I climb 3000' to clear the San Pedros. The wind was blowing about fifteen to twenty from the usual southwesterly quadrant so I planned on picking up lift from the windward side of the San Pedro range. Imbued with the desire to fly as direct as possible, I closed on the ridge at a mere 8000' and immediately started picking up a good 1000' per minute ascent rate. I was traversing south across my GPS direct route to Los Alamos so I tuned a tight 180 degrees to pick up a good lift spot off a ridge. By now I was ove r 9000'. I had turned away from the range but then turned 180 degrees back towards the range to pick up that ridge line again and when I rolled out of the tight turn, I was just inside the steep and tiny valley, much like what we had walked down several summers ago. I had just barely passed the ridge line that defined the valley. A quarter mile south from that ridge was another ridge, slightly higher. It was too high to climb over and the valley, the two ridges formed, was too narrow to get out of; ie, no room to do a tight diving 180 as I was already close to a stall having tried to maintain my altitude in the last 180 degree turn. I had also misjudged my position over the ridge where the lift was - I had passed it and I was getting the effect of a slight lee side down draft from the approaching ridge line. My options were exhausted if I ever had any. I was right on the stall - the stall warning light was a deadly and steady red. I had a slight right bank, taking me slightly away from the range. I was precariously balanced between a full loss of control stall and as the near ridge got closer, the larger trees on the ridge top were filling the view through the windshield two or three hundred feet directly ahead. Out of the right corner of my eye I would see the ridge dropping away giving me that dramatic view across the San Juan basin, 3000' below me. But I could'nt increase my rate of turn. Any increase in the turn rate would end in the right wing dropping into a twisting turn and a spin into the trees. I heard myself saying out loud several times, "do it baby!, do it baby!. Slowly, it seemed, the ridge started disappearing under my right wing just as it seemed my left wing would be into the trees. I think, only because the left wing was slightly lifted in my gentle turn, that it missed the trees. I slid off the top of the ridge into gratuitous lift and the full and open view of the basin flashed into full view ahead with the prehistoric Cabezon Peak in the the center of my windshield like a site. I don't think I was on the critical edge for more than twenty seconds but along with hearing myself involuntarily saying "do it baby!" I was also rehashing the stupidity of it all and that I would finally be a CAP and GADO statistic. Oh, the shame! I won't go into the next two events, certainly diminished by the first but I would like to reserve some attention to the role that the new VGs I installed at the last annual, played in those twenty critical seconds. Regards,
Begin forwarded message:
From: "Geo"
Date: March 1, 2007 3:40:23 PM MST
To: "Ben" , "Fred Fair"
Subject: Fw: The Rape of Europe

The Rape of Europe
By Paul Belien

The German author Henryk M. Broder recently told the Dutch newspaper "De
Volkskrant" (12 October) that young Europeans who love freedom, better
emigrate. Europe as we know it will no longer exist 20 years from now.
Whilst sitting on a terrace in Berlin , Broder pointed to the other customers
and the passers-by and said melancholically: "We are watching the world of

Europe is turning Muslim. As Broder is sixty years old he is not going to
emigrate himself. "I am too old," he said. However, he urged young
people to get out and "move to Australia or New Zealand . That is the only option
they have if they want to avoid the plagues that will turn the old continent

Many Germans and Dutch, apparently, did not wait for Broder's advice. The
number of emigrants leaving the Netherlands and Germany has already
surpassed the number of immigrants moving in. One does not have to be prophetic to
predict, like Henryk Broder, that Europe is becoming Islamic. Just
consider the demographics.

The number of Muslims in contemporary Europe is estimated to be 50

It is expected to double in twenty years . By 2025, one third of all European
children will be born to Muslim families. Today Mohammed is already the
most popular name for new-born boys in Brussels , Amsterdam, Rotterdam , and
other major European cities.

Broder is convinced that the Europeans are not willing to oppose

"The dominant ethos ," he told De Volkskrant, "is perfectly voiced by the
stupid blonde woman author with whom I recently debated. She said that
it is sometimes better to let yourself be raped than to risk serious injuries
while resisting . She said it is sometimes better to avoid fighting than run
the risk of death."

In a recent op-ed piece in the Brussels newspaper De Standaard (23
October) the Dutch (gay and self-declared "humanist") author Oscar Van den
Boogaard refers to Broder's interview. Van den Boogaard says that to him coping
with the islamization of Europe is like "a process of mourning." He is
overwhelmed by a "feeling of sadness." "I am not a warrior," he says, "but who is? I
have never learned to fight for my freedom. I was only good at enjoying it."

As Tom Bethell wrote in this month's American Spectator: "Just at the
most basic level of demography the secular-humanist option is not working."
But there is more to it than the fact that non-religious people tend not to
have as many children as religious people, because many of them prefer to
"enjoy" freedom rather than renounce it for the sake of children. Secularists, it
seems to me, are also less keen on fighting. Since they do not believe
in an afterlife, this life is the only thing they have to lose. Hence they will
rather accept submission than fight . Like the German feminist Broder
referred to, they prefer to be raped than to resist.

"If faith collapses, civilization goes with it," says Bethell. That is
the real cause of the closing of civilization in Europe. Islamization is
simply the consequence. The very word Islam means "submission" and the
secularists have submitted already. Many Europeans have already become Muslims,
though they do not realize it or do not want to admit it.

Some of the people I meet in the U.S. are particularly worried about the
rise of anti-Semitism in Europe . They are correct when they fear that
anti-Semitism is also on the rise among non-immigrant Europeans. The
latter hate people with a fighting spirit. Contemporary anti-Semitism in Europe
(at least when coming from native Europeans) is related to anti-Americanism.
People who are not prepared to resist and are eager to submit, hate
others who do not want to submit and are prepared to fight. They hate them because
they are afraid that the latter will endanger their lives as well. In their
view everyone must submit .

This is why they have come to hate Israel and America so much, and the
small band of European "islamophobes" who dare to talk about what they see
happening around them. West Europeans have to choose between submission ( Islam) or
death. I fear, like Broder, that they have chosen submission - just like
in former days when they preferred to be red rather than dead.
Europeans apparently never read John Stuart Mill:

War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things; the decayed and
degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks nothing worth a war, is
worse . A man who has nothing which he cares more about than he does
about his personal safety is a miserable creature who has no chance at being free,
unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself.

Wally Nash
25th District Republican Party Leader
13408 110th St Ct E, Puyallup WA, 98374, USA
Tel: 253 864 6401 Cell: 253 318 9474

Payne and lawyer Jay Jones discussed in detail dismissal of paid for 12 person jury trial lawsuit by a judge and voiding judgments two and from Taos.

Below photo location is about 200 yards southwest of Rumsfeld's Taos home.

Jay [ a lawyer - bio] , Kathe, and Fred Fair [red shirt] Monday September 24, 2006 in Fred's home in Taos.

Fair forwards below link January 3, 2007.

Technology, of course, is making our legal project possible.

Payne got a email from Pepe Escobar with a question about Rumsfeld's home in Taos.

----- Original Message -----
From: "Pepe Escobar"
To: "bill payne"
Sent: Sunday, March 25, 2007 9:48 PM
Subject: Re: Rumsfeld Taos neighbor Fred Fair

Hi Bill,

Thanks for that wonderful Taos file. I've been to Taos
myself a few times when I lived in California - and
it's one of my favorite places not only in the US but
globally. [REDACTED]
All the best,
Pepe/Asia Times

Payne answered question.

Payne responds to Escobar a third time.

----- Original Message -----
From: bill payne
To: Pepe Escobar
Sent: Wednesday, March 28, 2007 4:57 PM
Subject: one word on what happened


larry everest advised, "spead the word."


----- Original Message -----
From: Fred Fair
To: payne payne
Sent: Sunday, October 01, 2006 1:53 PM
Subject: another story


Unlike most boat owners or yachties as we exboat owners refer to (in sympathy and derision) having “been there and done that” and having paid the price, I started off with a fifty footer then a sixty and backwards slowly to a forty four, and finally a modest thirty eight. Finally, with no shame I ended my dubious history of boating with an elderly 43 Hatteras powered by two huge diesels, air conditioned, a floating house. I loved it. It was sunk in hurricane “Floyd” in 99 in the Abacos. Now I’m merely a “boat bitch” on friend’s boats.

In those early days I entertained thoughts of sailing adventures but after twenty years I can sum it up with the adage, “never sail out of sight of a good restaurant!”. This is the event, the demise of adventure in favor of a good dock and restaurant.

I started my sailing experience in a Gulfstar 50' partnership. It was crewed and would spend the summer around Long Island and the winters in the Caribbean. As a partner, I used it in both locations, with and without the crew. The crew usually consisted of a live a board handyman cum cook. Some times the live aboard would up grade to the term captain if he were able to attract a squeeze that could cook, “Admiral” if she could really cook!

After several years without a boat my need for another boat, a west coast boat, grew. Several clear signs, early warning symptoms, could have led to early therapy in the local “boat anonymous” group. Any town has an intense group of would be boat owners that would benefit from some kind of boat anonymous therapy. The first sign that you need help is when you catch yourself picking up Yachting magazine and reading the classified for sale section. That alone is the first lesson. Everyone that owns a boat is desperately selling. Ignoring the signs leads to boat self abuse wherein the afflicted calls the broker, the same broker that screwed you when you accepted his clients ridiculous offer for your last boat. An offer that didn’t even cover the mortgage and left you owing him a commission along with the balance of the mortgage.

Soon I was reading the listings of boats in my price range and then making offers. Miraculously, I found the boat of my dreams, owned by someone almost as desperate as I had been to sell. Within a couple days I had formed a boat partnership. I had by this time learned the lessens of ownership. There are never too many owners to a yacht! I had found the requisite four or five partners or, as we referred to ourselves, "the fools". Ownership obligation had two rules, don’t bounce your monthly check and don’t sink the boat in shallow water.

The boat was in San Diego. The plan was to sail it down to Australia. The preparation or shake down was to sail it to Cabo San Lucas and enjoy the Sea of Cortez for awhile.

In preparation for Baja, I hired a young skipper from Gloucester, Mass. Anyone from Gloucester sails, so I felt secure that at least I wouldn't have to feel responsible for anchor watches and I could order someone around for grocery shopping in exotic ports.

Preparations for provisioning were carried out an hour prior to departure by the expedient of giving everyone a shopping cart at Safeway and telling them to meet back at the checkout counter in ten minutes. As a backup to provisioning, I had stuffed the bilges with canned food. No quiche for this crew!

We left San Diego at midnight and motored down to Ensenada, Mexico to clear customs and have lunch. Later in the afternoon, we sailed out to anchor for the night in one of several tight anchorages at Todos Santos Island.

The next morning we woke with the wind blowing strongly from the northwest and rain showers all quadrants. It was ideal sailing with the large Genoa and main sail up. Evening came with the winds increasing to a steady twenty knots. I was on the verge of asking the skipper about reducing sails for the night when, with the arrival of pork chops for dinner, the skipper lunged from the cockpit to the scuppers and started vomiting. So much for professional leadership. It was apparent that we were on our own for the night.

With darkness, the wind and following seas picked up. We were paralleling the coast five miles offshore with only one navigational hazard ahead, the "Sacramento Reef", named for the steamer of the same name that went up on the reef en route from Panama during the California gold rush. My sailing guide vividly described the storm condition on the reef: "seas breaking wildly, spray hundred of feet in the air", etc.

I was in command. The skipper had finally dragged himself below; not to reappear for three days. My main concern was to stay off the reef, so I corrected our course to seaward - and continued to do so all night until we were running at a right angle to the coast - to compensate for night time paranoia of compass error.

Until you experience it, you never know, like a piano lesson, how you will personally handle off shore heavy weather conditions. I would wonder no more. I got extremely cold, miserable and slightly seasick. My teeth chattered all night whether below in a damp sleeping bag or huddled on deck dressed in everything I had aboard. There was no romance at the helm that night.

I should have reefed the main and changed the large genoa for a smaller jib but it was more expedient to stay in the cockpit rather than work the fore deck in the dark under those conditions. Wind gusts were as high as 40 knots and blowing a steady 30 knots from the stern quarter. The boat was roaring along; thirty five thousand pounds skidding down the face of huge overtaking waves. We were making ten plus knots through the dark night. Except for the binnacle and chart table light below, the only illumination came from the breaking wave crests which seemed to carry their own illumination.

Each functioning member took two hours at the wheel. It was enough time to reduce everyone to serious doubt about his future sailing commitments. When I wasn't in the cockpit or at the chart table, I was in my sodden bunk waiting for the boat to role over at the bottom of a wave we had just skidded down, waiting for us to ride the last big wave onto the Sacramento Reef due to compass error and for the mast to come crashing down from a final wind gust. And I almost didn’t care, I was so miserable. It was a long night!

A dirty gray dawn began illuminated the horizon enough to give us an indication of the sea that had built up after dark. If we had started the night with the seas in those conditions, I would have had considerably less faith in our boat's ability to survive the night.

By noon the wind had dropped off. Things had dried out and we were starting to think about eating and sleeping. I estimated our position to be about forty miles off shore. We set a new course that would carry us back towards the coast. We wanted to take advantage of Turtle Bay, one of the few safe anchorages on the west coast of Baja. I figured that we would be in Turtle Bay around noon the next day.

The wind continued dropping until finally, at dark, we started motoring. What a difference from the night before. This time we had a leisurely dinner in the cockpit. Everyone but the skipper took four hour watches. Except for my usual night time fear of the "Great Squid" ie, being plucked from the wheel by a huge tentacle - the night went well.

By dawn, we were cruising between the coast and the eastern shore of Isla Cedros. By late afternoon we were anchored in Turtle Bay. The anchorage is the only thing to commend the village. Under no circumstances would the village of Turtle Bay be an end in itself unless you're desperate for something. And you should be very desperate. We weren't yet, but to celebrate our arrival we elected to go ashore in the dinghy, dressed in our finest.

Some things are sacred and taking a dinghy through a shore break is one of them for me. About a hundred feet from shore I noted a diminutive shore break - vicious waves about eight inches in height. Inside the break, the wave action kept the sewage from the village and turtle guts from the turtle rendering plant concentrated in an indescribable porridge washing and heaving against the shore. Undaunted, I sized up the break, and turned in with a small overtaking wave accelerating the dinghy from behind. As the wave overtook us, the dinghy broached, skidded sideways and flipped us all out and into the primordial goo. Fortunately the water was knee deep. Never in the history of maritime experience has such a small wave created such misery. We pulled ourselves from the water dripping sewage, sand and turtle offal, and wandered the only street. Nothing was open so we returned to the boat. It was Super Bowl Sunday somewhere but for us it was a miserable evening in Turtle Bay.

The next morning we headed out for a two day sail to Cabo San Lazaro, the western most headland on the west coast of Baja. Navigation error compounded with the currents strong on shore set has littered the beach with wrecks.

I planned a dawn arrival but estimated that we would pick up the light house off the cape during the early morning hours. The two-day sail down revived my enthusiasm for the trip. Light winds kept us moving at five knots. We were accompanied frequently by pods of gray whales and porpoise. Night watches were so benign that even the "Great Squid" nightmare was dispelled. The skipper actually showed up on deck. All was well. We picked up the flash of the light from Cabo San Lazaro light house right on the bow just after midnight on the second night. I was greatly admired as a navigator.

By 3 am, we could make out the loom of the headlands against the star lit sky. I turned parallel to the coast and we motored until we could identify the anchorage, which was on the south side of the headland. It was a large open bay but gave good protection from northern swells and weather. Although there was little wind, there were large swells running from the northwest. In the anchorage, a mile inshore, we could see the anchor lights of several Mexican shrimp boats. I continued south, well off the point that marked the entrance to the bay. When I judged we were far enough beyond the point we turned in. The sails were lowered and at reduced speed we cautiously motored toward the anchored shrimp boats.

Everyone was on deck: the spreader lights were on in anticipation of anchoring. It was incredibly peaceful. In the distance we could hear a shore break against the point. One of the crew, Tim, was at the bow as lookout and playing a spotlight on the water ahead of us. All was calm. Then Tim screamed from the bow, "get out of here!" and started running for the cockpit. At the same moment mist and noise enveloped us. A huge wave broke with a roar almost underneath us. The spreader lights illuminated the wave; a white arch of water breaking into a black void just beside us. We rode the edge of it down like an elevator and struck the bottom with our keel. Everyone was knocked down by the impact. Another towering wave was coming up from behind and it collapsed on top of us in the cockpit. Luckily, the crew had all tumbled into the relative safety of the center cockpit just as we rode the first wave down and nobody was washed overboard. The hatches were wide open and a good part of the water coming down on us had washed into the boat. I was at the wheel holding on for my life. I nearly ripped the throttle from the steering pedestal trying to get power while spinning the wheel hard over. The next wave was coming on us as the bow slowly started responding to power and rudder. Our environment was total confusion, noise and spray. We were in a dark maelstrom of pounding waves. Our world had suddenly gone insane. The boat’s bow slowly turned into the oncoming wave and rose taking the wave directly on the bow. We went up almost vertically before the wave broke over us. This time we took on very little water.

Just as suddenly as it started, it was over. Once again we were cruising on a calm, silent sea as if the previous minutes had never happened. Tim, who had been up in the bow, was huddled on the cockpit floor holding his head in his arms and moaning over and over, "oh my God, oh my God!". I thought he had suffered a head injury but it was only aftershock. Everyone was still on board, uninjured, and except for a lot of water and gear strewn below, there was no damage.

We headed directly out to sea and spent the next several hours cruising back and forth off the entrance to the anchorage, waiting for dawn. When it came we were able to see our error. The entrance course had been premature and we had been carried over a storm sand bar that had built up off the point. The long swells had built up suddenly as they compressed against the sudden shallowing. The first wave had carried us across the bar sideways and deposited us just inside the bar for the next wave to crash down on us. The third wave, the one we took on the bow, had given us the lift to cross back over the bar and into calm water.

Between the bar and the low black lava cliffs a hundred yards inshore was the maelstrom of contradictory seas, smashing against each other and against the low, black lava cliffs. We had been right in the middle of that.

We finally entered the bay and anchored. Bedding was strewn over the decks to dry. Had there been a bus we would have ended the trip there. As it was, we dried out and in the afternoon we hiked up the beach north of the point to look at several freighters which had washed up on the beach. Like us, they were victims of navigational errors.

Without further incident, we arrived at Cabo several days later. The boat and I spent several seasons cruising in the Sea of Cortez. I had no further sailing traumas but then again, I haven't cruised off shore since that time - nor will I. At night I want to see the warm friendly glow of my favorite restaurants reflected in the waters of a calm marina.

According to John, Larry’s pilot was the legendary Airborne Fred Fair himself, who had already made a name with the FAA by flying under the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge, down liftlines, and across international borders at night. Fred apparently, piloted Larry hither and yon across the state, as the collector picked up treasures from the villages and filled up the tiny plane with plunder: santos, retablos, bultos, etc.

----- Original Message -----
From: Fred Fair
To: bill payne
Sent: Wednesday, September 20, 2006 9:00 AM
Subject: Re: scientology in new mexico

Bill: thanks for the info. I had heard about it and new generally where it was but this puts in right in my plans for an arial visit soon. Bought a experimental plane a couple weeks ago. A Kit Fox - weighs 400 pounds and is powered by a 65hp snowmobile engine - actually only around 45hp at this altitude - two seats, off the ground at 35mph and cruises around 85mph. Thought I could keep it here at the house and use it for flying to the ranch - save the time of driving to the airport. Reality dictates other wise - too light and under powered for around here. Here is one of my many short stories about bad decisions:

Beach Landing

I bought my first airplane, a 1937 Porterfield, when I was living in Seattle in 1961. The plane and myself were the same age. I had received seven hours of flight instruction eight years before, at military school.

I had driven out to Renton field in Seattle in the family Chevy wagon to see the plane I was hoping to get a free ride which I did. I also bought the plane.

In 1961 I was an Ocean Marine Underwriter trainee working for a very conservative insurance company and making $400 a month. I couldn’t afford the luxury of a plane but after the short flight, I made the seller an optimistic offer; the family car. He accepted. The next morning I made my first solo flight as an aircraft owner.

For the rest of the summer I spent most of my free time with the plane. It was a basic Cub covered with fabric and powered by a 65hp engine. Other than engine instruments it had an altimeter and airspeed indicator. The sole attitude instrument was a slightly curved glass tube glued horizontally to the panel with a ball bearing inside. At one time the tube was filled with a liquid to dampen the oscillations of the steel ball. If I banked the airplane, the bearing would just clang against one side of the tube. The fuel gage was a wire stuck through the top of the tank in front of me. It was attached to a cork that floated on the fuel inside. When the gas tank was empty the wire all but disappeared inside the tank. The plane had no radios, no starter, and no generator. I had no experience and no license. I had never heard of the FAA. We were a match made in heaven.

By mid summer I was proficient. I dazzled my fellow office workers with flying stories. Seattle in the summer was a pilot’s paradise. There were islands with airstrips, mountain valleys with strips and just across the border in Canada my father lived on a mountain lake with an airstrip nearby. I could fly their in an hour and not even bother clearing customs. Aviation was so convenient. I thought nothing of flying through the glacier covered Olympics and Cascades. The passes were all low enough so that even my anemic craft could make it through the mountains. My abiding flying philosophy was: "if you could see it you wouldn't hit it". One Saturday morning in July my family and I decided on a beach picnic just across Puget sound from Seattle. I was hoping to find a suitable beach on the Olympic Peninsula where we could land. I was used to beach landings and liked the effect of flying to a remote spot not available to the car bound putzes.

Judy, my wife and my two year old son Mike occupied the back seat. My flying confidence was not hampered by any self doubts. By now I was infallible.

The Hood Canal was a natural channel formed by an island just off the Olympic Peninsula. It was only 20 miles west of Seattle. Just at the northern end I found a spit of sand that looked landable. The spit took off from a steep forested hillside. One side of the spit was a tidal lagoon. Another shorter spit came off the shore at right angles and this formed the other containing arm to the lagoon. It was the weather side, it was covered with drift wood and unsuitable for landing.

From a thousand feet the first spit looked just right. From short final it looked very short plus the beach angled into the water. It was low tide and I landed on the packed sand next to the water and stopped safely. As soon as I got out I realized that my passengers were going to have to take the ferry home. The strip was too short, but by myself, I hoped, I might be able to get the plane off.

Anyway, we were there so we walked to the other side of the spit by the lagoon and ate lunch. There were other picnickers about who were, as yet, undecided as to whether I was a fool or a flying "bonvivant" of great skill. I chose the latter attitude while not trying to think of the coming take off.

The tide was coming in. When I finally got around to thinking of my departure an hour later I discovered that the plane's wheels were under water. The tide had really come up and as it was coming up it was reducing my take off distance and forcing me into the soft sand at the top of the spit which was just as well. Taking off on the angled beach would probably have forced me into the water long before I could have become airborne.

I fired up the Porterfield and proceeded to taxi up the angled beach to dry sand. This required, as it turned out, more skill than I had. To even get the plane to move at full power I had to try and raise the tail out of the water and then, balanced on my two main tires, I could just move. Precariously balanced, I slowly edged the little plane to higher ground but as I got higher I traded water resistance for soft sand. Suddenly the plane pitched over on its nose when the wheels rolled into a small depression. The propeller was smashed to splinters and I was thrown forward against the windshield. The plane, engine dead, remained perched on its nose. I climbed out unhurt.

People came to help and we were able to right the craft and push it through the sand to the tree line. Someone lent me a wrench and I unbolted the remains of the propeller from the crank. Except for my ego the propeller and the redented engine cowling everything seemed fine. We left the plane and hitched a ride to the ferry and home.

All week I agonized over the price of a new propeller. It was a week's wage. I also worried about the take off attempt the next weekend. Reality was not on my side. I would be forced to take off from soft dry sand instead of the tidal packed hard surface. If I had a favorable wind I thought I had a chance.

The next Saturday with my new propeller clutched to my bosom and a favorable weather forecast we retraced our path back to the beach. So did everyone else that had witnessed the earlier incident along with their extended families. The beach was crowded as if for an air show. Even the spit that was at the far end of my take off path was filled with picnickers. Between the two spits there was a channel of water a hundred yards across. My hope was to become airborne before I sank in the channel.

There was a festive and expectant air. Most of the viewers were making odds that were not in my favor. The viewers on the far spit were right in line with my take off. They were pretty sure I would be underwater before I got to their sand spit.

I maintained an air of studied confidence. I had practiced it in front of the mirror during the week. I was so frightened though that I could hardly speak and when I did I could hardly control my lower lip from visibly trembling.

There was no lack of helpers. We soon had the new propeller bolted back on and pushed the plane back as far into the tree line as it would go. The first one hundred feet of role was relatively compacted with a slight covering of Bermuda grass. Then came two hundred feet of soft dry sand to the high water mark. The tide was out so I had about 100 feet of descending compacted sand to the water line. I hoped to get airborne in that last hundred feet, given a slight headwind.

In final preparation I removed everything from the plane. Most of the fuel had drained out of the tank while it was standing on its nose. I thought I had just enough to make it back to Seattle. I partly deflated the tires for better flotation across the sand. I was ready!

I hand propped the engine to life and told Judy I would meet her back at the house that evening. Several helpers were asked to push on the struts. I hopped in but kept the door unlatched in case I had to speedily vacate a sinking plane when I hit the channel.

I gave the Porterfield full power while holding with the brakes, then I released it and we started rolling. Quickly I picked up speed and lost my pushers. I got the tail wheel off but then I hit the soft sand. To keep from nosing over again I had to bring the nose up and the tail wheel started dragging in the sand. I got it up again and, barely balanced on the main wheels, I gimped across the soft sand barely faster than a person running. I had no intention of stopping as I knew my only chance at gaining air speed was the acceleration I would get when I hit the packed incline to the water. I started down the incline accelerating quickly but not enough to be quite air born. The main wheels hit the water but skipped across the surface of the channel. The sand spit loomed in front of me.. It was about ten feet high and covered with drift logs. My main wheels were trailing a wake of spray as I was still not quite flying. I was afraid of pulling the nose up for fear of catching the tail wheel in the water so I kept staggering across the channel hoping for lift.

The spectators on the spit were running for their lives. I was coming right at them. Through the spinning disk of my new propeller I could still see the logs on top of the spit, still just above me but at a point just before the oncoming drift logs I picked up speed and lift and was able to pull the nose up just enough to start a staggering climb that got me clear.. From there the Porterfield soared. I left spectators picking themselves from behind logs. Warm rising air and luck got me clear. I continued my climb back across the sound to Seattle and was home for dinner.

On Sep 15, 2006, at 11:22 AM, bill payne wrote:

Fred and bill have known each other since 1954.

Fred is a member of the shattuck class of 1956.

Fred toured the world after graduation from Shattuck, then matriculated at whitman college in 1957.

Whitman classmates Fred and Judy Street married. They had one son, Michael.

Michael is a graduate of the University of New Mexico and teaches computer science in Albuquerque public schools. Michael is 47 and is married. Fred is 68.

Judy lives just to the north of Alamogordo, NM, fred reported.

Fred appears to suffer some senior citizen episodes. But, hey, don't we all from time to time?

Tularosa, NM?

Fred once accused bill of introducing him to judy.

Here's a jpg log of some of the trip to see fred with commentary.

Last time bill and patty saw fred, his third wife Linda and daughter daisy was in September of 1980.

Heading toward Cuba, NM in 2003 grey corolla [gas mileage table] with cruise control set about 65 mph and air conditioner running.

Here's Cuba, NN with El Bruno restaurant under American flag which burned down, fred said, about an month ago.

Fred left two cell phone messages.

First message received in abq advised bill to arrive after 10:15 when fred said he would be at the ranch.

Second message received in Cuba, NM was garbled.

Assumption was that fred was to be late.

Bill drove though Regina, NM and on to Gallina, NM on highway 96. Then turned around.

Bill spotted a small plane flying west and tried, unsuccessfully, to photograph it.

Fred's ranch house is located at the end of road

which you see at the bottom right of the photo.

Bear Paw ranch looking to the southwest at about 10:45 Thursday July 27, 2006.

Here's grey corolla, Fred's ranch house and beat-up 4x4 pickup truck looking to the east

Bill went up to the front door. Rang the bill.

Fred exclaimed, "Take off your sun glasses. Let me see you."

We started looking at the Golden Memories book.

Ranch foreman, Zan, a retiree from El Paso gas, entered.

Fred and Zan immediately began talking about the winter weather now and about 20 years ago at the ranch.

No more snow packs. And lots less water!

Both talked about drilling an about 800 ft water well into an aquifer using compressed air as opposed to Bentonite mud technology drilling.

Bentonite is not good for pure water for the reason, if used, it must be pasteurized, fred stated.

Bill gave fred two cd roms containing photos from the 50th trip which included visiting Powder River coal operations.

Fred and bill drove to one of of the air strip on the Bear Paw ranch to pickup good fred brought.

That's a 1,000 gallon gas tank you see.

Fred stated that he uses automotive gasoline as opposed to avgas for the reason that he believe avgas may be scarce in the future.

Fred reported that he got rid of his two engine airplanes because they used too much fuel. Fred stated that he is down to two planes.

Elk on the air strip pose a landing hazard, fred said.

On the way back to the ranch house, bill asked fred how many crashes he had during his more than 50 year flying career.

Fred replied that he totaled five fixed wing aircraft and one helicopter.

Fred volunteered that he damaged rear propeller on a helicopter by running it into some sage brush.

Mechanics replaced the rear propeller but did not magniflux the rear propeller drive shaft. Fred said that he was testing out the repaired helicopter by taking one loop around the airstrip.

Fred said he was hovering at about 15 feet [about 50 feet from where you see the above plane] when the drive shaft from the transmission to the rear propeller broke.

Fred said that the helicopter started to spin. Fred said that there are five things you need to do, but did not elaborate.

Fred said of the rotator blades contact the ground, then bad things can possibly happen to those inside a helicopter.

Fred did not go on.

Fred said that he an a partner operated an aviation company in Taos.

Fred said one of the planes their company leased to another party was apprehended smuggling drugs and confiscated by the feds.

This caused the feds to investigate fred for drug dealing and income tax evasion in the early 70s, fred said.

Fred said that the feds in Albuquerque threatened him with prison.

The feds couldn't prove any drug dealing, fred said. The investigators reported they had never seen such sloppy bookkeeping, fred said.

The judge fined fred about $12K, fred said. Fred reported that he started to argue with the judge. At that point fred said his attorney dragged him out of the court room. Fred said he attorney told him to go back into the court and apologize to the judge. Fred said he complied.

Fred said that the feds still wouldn't give back the plane and that the company was teetering on bankruptcy.

Fred said he complained to then Senator Montoya.
Senator Montoya was born September 24, 1915 in Sandoval County. In 1938 Joseph Montoya was elected to the New Mexico House of Representatives and in 1940 he was elected to the New Mexico Senate. In 1946 and 1948 Joseph Montoya was elected to be the Lieutenant Governor. In 1957 Joseph Montoya was elected to the 85th Congress of the United States by a special election and was reelected to the 87th and 88th Congresses. Joseph Montoya served as a United States Senator from 1964 to the end of his term in 1977. Senator Montoya died on June 5, 1978.

Fred said that next day he got a phone call telling him location of the plane. No paper work was required to get the plane back.

Fred said that the plan was stored in a barn. Tires on the plane were flat and the plane was coated by pigeon poop, fred said.

But that they cleaned-up the plane and flew it back to Taos.

Fred said that he sold his part of the aviation company to his partner [1974?].

Fred's divorce from his second wife apparently occurred about this time. Fred has one daughter by this marriage, he said.

Fred reported that about 9 months later his former partner and two clients were killed in a plane crash.

We went to lunch in cuba about 1 pm.

We talked about coming electrical power problem, solar 12 volt electrical water pump on one of fred's other ranches, peak oil, and fred explained well drilling technologies.

Fred asked whether our other 1956 classmates are tuned-in to the serious energy problems we all face. Bill opined that he thought other classmates were becoming increasing aware how serious the energy problems are.

On return fred said he had to make some calls so bill went fishing at one of the bear paw lakes.

Rain and wind caused bill to stop fishing and go into cuba cell phone range to talk to wife patty.

One return the weather had cleared so bill fished a bit long.

Four fish hooked. Three landed. All fish were about 3 inches long!

Bill returned to the ranch house at about 4:30.

Fred suggested we either go mountain biking or take a walk.

We walked in about a 1 1/2 mile loop. First by a dry pond about the same size as the above aquifer-fed lake.

We walked up hill by an elk skeleton and crossed a ditch coming down from the mountains which terminated in another dry pond.

Fred reported that the ditch was dug in 1890.

We had delightful conversation in which fred, now on his fourth wife, always referred to his current wife.

Fred apparently got married for the fourth time about 6 months ago.

Fred said that in his real estate developer business he visits state court clerk frequently.

When fred ask to purchase a marriage license, fred said the the entire office staff stated laughly. Fred said that one of the clerks said "You don't have to get married to do that."

Several times fred exclaimed to bill, "You've been married for 44 years?" Bill volunteered that Patty's three younger sisters are all divorced.

On return to the ranch house we sat on the porch. Fred opened a bottle of wine.

Here's a view looking to the west south-west.

You may be able to see an apple orchard to the right of the photo..

Fred reported that there are 1,400 apple trees with about 700 living. One year they shipped about $30,000 of organic apples, fred said.

A road separates National forest and the apple orchard.

Fred that in September you can see flashing red, blue and white New Mexico state police car lights from the porch.

Police are searching for mature marijuana plants people are growing in the National Forest!

Here's a view to the east north-east.

A forest fire burned to the top of the ridge this year you see.

Fred said that about 400,000 gallons of water were taken from the bear paw ranch to fight the fire.

We had a light meal at the ranch house while we talked.

One of our classmates, both at shattuck school and whitman college. was Tom Bustard.

Bustard became an undertaker.
----- Original Message -----
From: Timothy Palmer
To: bill payne
Sent: Wednesday, July 05, 2006 9:02 AM
Subject: Re: eccles and bustard


I don't know what Eccles died from. Tom Bustard suffered a severe vehicle accident in 1997, as I recall. I spoke with him in the fall of '98 and he was still recovering from the effects of that. Also had some other health problems which didn't add up to a quick recovery. His sister, Pat, sent me an e-mail informing me that he died in ?'99. I believe his heart gave out on him. Glad I had the chance to speak with him -- I was just passing through Casper on a deer hunt about 60 miles north of there in Kaycee and took a chance I might get hold of him. Very sorry we didn't have time to sit face to face and talk about the old days.

Ferguson died of a brain tumor.


Fred told that one of his flying jobs was to fly a body of someone who had just died a violent death in the Taos are to Bustard funeral home in Wyoming.

Fred reported that during the flight, the body stared to move making him think that the person was still alive!

Fred said that it was thundering a lightening and he was dodging storms.

Fred said he he successfully delivered the body but did not see Bustard.

Peter Eccles was class vice president

Jim Abbott was class president.

Eccles is just behind and to the right of Bustard. Abbott is next to Bustard.

Eccles died in 1998 in Santa Fe. Eccles was apparently employed as a chef.

All of this brings to mind the Statler brothers song.

Friday July 28, 2006 fred listened to the story of bill's and Morales' lawsuit.

Here was fred in 1956

Bill explained our legal strategy to fred.

Fred advised not going into a legal hearing without a lawyer.

Bill said Morales and only do things by writing [or recorded message digitally posted!].

Bill said that he and Morales hope to settle matters soon with the feds.

Bill left at about 7:30. It was raining and about 63 degrees F.

Here's cabezon on the way back to Albuquerque.

----- Original Message -----
From: bill payne
Cc: ; Jan Axelson ; JOHN B HUNNER ; ; ; Timothy Palmer ; ; ;
Sent: Wednesday, August 02, 2006 5:46 PM
Subject: jerry jones has a law degree


I'll add more perceptions about my conversations with fred.

Fred is the SECOND most wild guy I have ever known.

Charlie Guess ranks number one.

----- Original Message -----

From: "Omie Drawhorn"
To: "bill payne"
Sent: Wednesday, September 13, 2006 3:00 PM
Subject: Re: charlie?
Hi Bill,

I apologize; I didn't realize I was being silent. Here's what happened:

Guess pleads guilty to aggravated assault

By Omie Drawhorn, Daily News staff writer
Published: 09-01-2006

Charles Guess was sentenced to five years probation and 30 days in jail after pleading guilty to one count of aggravated assault in Latah County Second District Court on Thursday.

Guess, a 70-year-old retired radiologist from rural Moscow, already had served 10 days prior to sentencing and was credited for time served.

The aggravated assault conviction is the result of an April 25 incident during which Guess’ estranged wife, Michele Guess, and her attorney, Stanley Welsh, said Guess threatened them with a .45-caliber pistol.

According to court records, Michele Guess said Charles Guess struck her twice on the face with his left fist, then ordered Welsh to walk further into the vault and remove his pants. Michele Guess and Welsh later convinced Charles Guess to drop the gun and go upstairs.

Latah County Deputy Prosecuting Attorney Jim Craig read a letter addressed to the court from Michele Guess.

“I am unable to be in court today due to my emotional state and unbelievable terror I feel (toward Charles Guess),” he read. “The fear of dying by his hand has scarred me forever.”

In the letter, Michele Guess asked for sentencing that would keep her estranged husband from harming her or other individuals.

Charles Guess’ attorney, Wynn Mosman, said Guess had led a law-abiding life for decades, and made references to surgeries and medical care paid for by Guess.

“They describe him as a kind, caring man,” he said. “(The incident) is not characteristic of the Charles Guess they know.”

Charles Guess read a statement to the court, describing his “embarrassment, shame, and remorse” about the incident.

“I don’t blame Michele; these were my choices and actions, not hers,” he said. “Every day is a battle to overcome the desire to end my life.”

When Michele Guess and Welsh left the residence, a 17-hour standoff with local law enforcement ensued. When law enforcement arrived to investigate the assault, Guess threatened to shoot himself if anyone entered the house.

The standoff ended peacefully, with Guess driving himself to the Latah County Courthouse, followed by sheriff’s deputies, to turn himself in.

Second District Court Judge John Stegner said it was Guess’ numerous charitable acts that convinced him to select the sentence.

“I’m genuinely impressed by your contribution to society,” he said to Guess.

Stegner ordered a withheld judgement, which means if he completes his probation successfully, the conviction will be removed from his record.

Restitution will be determined at a later date, and Guess is also required to continue with counseling and complete 100 hours of community service.

Omie Drawhorn can be reached at (208) 882-5561, ext. 234, or by e-mail at

Come visit.

----- Original Message -----
To: bill payne
Sent: Tuesday, August 01, 2006 1:49 PM
Subject: Your photo shoot and Fred Fair

Thanks, Bill.

Those photos and your conversation about them was terrific, and you added a picture of Fred. I didn't recognize him. But then I guess that's what happens after 50 years.

It looks like he lives a good life and had a fantastic view at his ranch. We should all be so lucky. When we're in Albuquerque Kathe and I would love to get together with you
and Patti and maybe, yes, we can harass Fred. It would be great to see you again and maybe see Fred and his "current" wife.

My nephew's wedding is Sept. 23. To date, I haven't got much on the plans. My brother, Dave, isn't even sure where or when the rehearsal dinner will be, and he's paying for it. I'll let you know what's happening.

I don't know what your weather is like, but Lucifer has control of it here in Arlington and the Metroplex.. In July we had 17 days of 100 degree temperatures with one going to 107. It's hot. But then it looks like the rest of the country is experiencing the same thing. Can you believe 107 in Fargo, ND last month?

What makes this worse is no one is getting any rain. And the drought conditions are threatening farmers throughout the middle plains. Maybe we should do rain dances like the Indians used to.

I'm on board with the concept of Peak Oil. I'm 90% invested in oil and gas stocks. When are we Americans going to wake up and start conserving oil? You'd think $3.00 a gallon would have an impact. It isn't. Something has got to give.

Again, thanks on the update of Fred. We'll see you in September.


Jerry Jones has a law degree!