February 15,1996

Federal regulations now require the same hour and a half check-in for domestic flights as for foreign connections. Agents make the deal more sinister by inquiring whether the passenger is carrying any packages for strangers.

By the time I make an hour's drive from the ranch to the San Angelo terminal to wait 90 minutes more, I am so jumpy that strangers avoid my company. Also, as overloaded as I go packing enough gear to walk and wade in the jungle on a trip, I can't address the subject of extra packages, much less carry one.

Safety rode heavy on my mind, too, when I began planning the trip to Peru in January. State Department advisories classify travel as dangerous into Peru. Noonday newscasters delight in recounting the robberies and hijackings north of Lima, one of the places I was headed. The reason for the State Department's precaution is because so many flights to South America originate in Miami. Our foreign services knows if you happen to step outside for a smoke exposed to Miami traffic, you might take your last drag to the tune of a sniper's bullet.

Four or five years ago after the German tourist was shot, the Miami terminal was as quiet as the fairgrounds in San Angelo a couple of days after the stock show ends. Concourses turned into cavernous passageways; hot dog salesmen had to be awakened to fill the buns. The gate areas were lonelier than being off in the pasture at the ranch.

But passing through Miami gives you a head start to adjusting to the South American republics. Spanish custom and language dominates the scene. All the Cuban exiles must launch their careers there. The only English the skycaps speak is "$5 a bag," and, "My gosh, lady, this bag is heavy!"

I made my way around the indifferent service for gringos by choosing the dominant race as table mates. Nobody is going to ignore you accompanied by a mother with three or four children diving off the stools and crawling under chairs. One episode cost three ice cream cones and a big blob of chocolate on my pant's leg, nevertheless, I was able to have a cup of coffee and a refill by sitting next to a big family.

Faucett, the national airline of Peru, only offers one flight a week to Iquitos to connect to my destination on a river boat to go up the Amazon. So I needed to be confirming the next flight and meeting a friend of mine from up on the north part of the Florida Peninsula, instead of drinking coffee in an out of control coffee bar. I was going to have him paged, but Harry Pearson translates so poorly into Spanish, I was afraid I'd summon the wrong hombre and have to hire a translator to work from English to Spanish to Cuban dialect to Haitian patois.

Harry made our deal direct with the outfitters in Peru and saved us a lot of dough. He crosses the equator over a dozen times a year. He flies so much his head is beginning take on the same shape as an airline pillow. Mosquito bites break the pattern of the no-see-um welts on his neckline. He keeps his hands cut and his toenails smashed from wearing diving equipment. His dark glasses reflect cathedral steeples and the peaks of pyramids wherever he looks. I suppose playing tennis at home and writing me every week are the calmest of his pursuits. I never have seen his backhand on the courts, but the postage on his letters makes the program at a stamp collector's club seem dull.

Far from being the competent traveler Harry is, about the time I overcome my provincial bearings, the trip is over. All those smart city guys turning up the cuffs of their white shirts and smiling at the stewardesses is so alien to ranch life, I look the other way. Static electricity off the upholstery causes my shirttail to come out in the back and blouse in the front. The same charges send my cow lick and forelocks flying amiss; smoke from the other section of the plane makes my sinuses drain so bad, my drawl turns into a croaky hillbilly twang.

The lady at the Faucett desk didn't ask what I was carrying on board. The straps and harness from the packs and cases covering my chest probably made her wonder how I was able to carry what I had. She said, "Un Americano, un Senior Pearson, busca para usted." I'd of understood her better if she had raised her head when she gave the message. I did understand the plane was full. I wanted to tell her about the time Harry and I measured Mt. McKinely up in Alaska from a merit badge test we learned in the Boy Scouts using shadows, but she seemed to be distracted by the big crowds of people ...