Dean Talley, a 29-year resident of Durham, passed away suddenly March 10th at his home. Countless lives were touched with his kindness and joy. He loved his family and friends. Dean loved to fly and did so for all his life.

In 1949 Dean was born to Billy and Viva Talley in Bakersfield. Most of Dean’s early years were spent near Redwood City, getting his first taste of flying in Daly City, helping Viva in the ice cream parlor.

His adult life was dedicated to public service beginning in the Coast Guard. Dean earned his wings and became a Coast Guard Search and Rescue Pilot in Florida. After his service, he returned to California. He started flying in the early ‘80s for Hemet Valley Flying Service. He next flew with CALFIRE fighting wildfires in California, eventually as a S-2 Airtanker pilot. Dean then moved on to Aero Union, flying large air tankers for the Forest Service, fighting fires across the country. He eventually returning to CALFIRE. His reputation as a airtanker pilot is legendary, having dramatically saved countless lives over his more than 30 years fighting fire. Because of his great skill, Dean became a flight instructor, many of the air attack planes protecting our wildlands and homes are flown by those he taught. He was a long-time board member for the Associated Aerial Firefighters and spent hours supporting Aerial Firefighters, causing mischief and telling yarns.

When Dean wasn’t busy fighting fires he was flying crop dusters all over the North State or flying helicopters for his aerial applicator business, which he started with his dear friend, and fellow pilot Bob Hennigan.

To occupy his down time at work Dean loved to write. As a talented writer he published two novels, many letters, and stories he shared with family and friends.

He was active in the Durham community, including the Durham Recreation & Park Board of Directors, moonlighting as Santa Claus, and in the past, being Smokey The Bear. Dean coached soccer, chaperoned fields trips, including leading several classes around the Chico Airport. He was also part of the Durham Exchange Club including a stint as president, and participated, with enthusiasm, in numerous activities.

Dean Talley is survived by his wife Nancy and their children: Stephen, Laura, Michelle, stepdaughter Vikki, and three grandchildren (a fourth on the way). Dean was a wonderful and adventurous husband and father. He enjoyed life to the fullest and made sure his family had every opportunity to do the same. Just a few shorts months ago he spent time in Cuba with Nancy and friends; ending the trip visiting family on the East Coast. This was an bookend to his story because there was nothing he loved more than his family, friends, and new places.

A celebration of Dean’s life was held Saturday, April 14th 2018 at the Chico Airport

Please share memories of Dean at rememberingdean@lonepalmpublishing.com

Chico, California

June 27. 2013, 2010 Hours

When the narrative ended Jack and Walter adjourned to the kitchen. Walter refreshed his drink while Jack loaded his plate with something quiche-like, salami, and a medley of raw vegetables. Through the closed glass doors Jack heard muted sounds but the shaded patio table and chairs were vacant.

“We better check on the ladies,” said Walter, stepping to the door and sliding it open. Laughter erupted when Walter stepped out and Jack followed. The yard was fenced with tall grape-stakes. An artificial spring bubbled water over rocks to a little pool surrounded by Japanese maple trees and fern. A trellis separated the covered patio from a hot tub. Discarded clothes littered the grass by the redwood-sided edifice.

Lancaster, California

June 27. 2013, 0600 Hours

Jack’s smart phone played reveille. Fatigue hung like a veil but he was immediately conscious. The rerun of the previous evening continued playing in a loop through most of the previous night. In spite of an instinct for self-preservation and rational reservations he knew he was hooked. Digging into a story with tragic heroes, lascivious lobbyists, greedy politicians, backpedaling bureaucrats, against a backdrop of flaming disasters; he couldn’t resist: and now a gun toting twenty-four-year-old woman out of a pulp fiction novel was going to fly him to Chico, California. The thought of Rod, his Boss, was a mental toothache. Not much of a ring to Chico thought Jack, writing the script in his mind. He showered and put himself together, packed his backpack with his tools of the trade plus underwear and socks.

Lancaster, California

June 26. 2013, 1930 Hours

Jack was scouting the parking lot for his ride when he spotted C. J.

“What’s for dinner?” she asked as he approached.

Jack decided to dial down his inclination to spar verbally even though he felt like he had been left on the ropes after their morning encounter. “Any dietary restrictions or requests?” he asked as he arrived at the car. C. J. had added a fanny pack to her outfit, Jack presumed she was armed to shop or go Dutch.

Lancaster, California

June 26. 2013, 1412 Hours

The incomprehensible assault of speakers, strategically placed around the facility to inflict maximum aural stress, drove Jack to seek refuge. Having failed, he spent his time attempting to comprehend the meaning of the various announcements. There appeared to be at least three different channels hosted by the system. There were a number of calls for medical aid and traffic collisions. Occasionally a stuck microphone produced a prolonged annoying buzzing background noise and in one instance some un-censored observations about the quality of life. It was after one o’clock when things started to happen.

Washington DC

July 26, 2002, 1330 Hours

Seymour preferred to be inside for meetings but the board walk lined seating of the Sequoia offered some splendid views of the Capital across the Potomac River. A slight breeze rustled the tasseled fringes of the umbrellas. He followed a member of the wait staff speculating about what Ray Gunnison wanted to talk about. Ray had been appointed Under Secretary for Natural Resources and the Environment in October of 2001 by George Bush. Seymour had been an advocate for his appointment in the senate. He was not expecting much in the way of scintillating conversation, yet there had been an air of intrigue along with the invitation. The mid-afternoon timeframe and river-side seating offered privacy.

Tanker 130

Minden, Nevada

June 17, 2002, 0750 Hours

“Any news from the front?” asked Wes Potter stepping into the Pilot Ready Room.

The limited space was packed with crews jostling and foraging from a small breakfast banquet spread out on various flat surfaces. The room, designed to accommodate five or six, allowing for personal space, was host to twenty or more. The question, directed at no one in particular, was absorbed by the chatter and shuffling of crews getting ready to do battle with the fire.

Lancaster, California

June 25, 2013, 2050 Hours

Charlie recounted of his exchange with Emily at the wake and her recollection of the meeting in DC. The story held Jack’s interest and offered some explanations to lingering questions.

“Obviously you believed Emily,” said Jack after a pause punctuated by Charlie popping the top on beer.

“It makes as much sense as anything,” said Charlie. “When I got started in ‘95, the business was changing. Nobody cared about the old piston planes. The big turbans, the C-130’s and P-3’s, had been working for a few years but two had already crashed, tanker 82 and a P-3, tanker 24. Another one of the C-130’s had shown up in Kuwait, a war zone, in 91. That pissed off Southern Air Transport. They weren’t too enthused about sharing the spoils of war, competing for contracts with planes the government had handed out to fight fire. Hell, another tanker contractor used a C-130 in a commercial. The tanker operators were greedy and not discreet.”

Lancaster, California

June 25, 2013, 1950 Hours

Commuters flowed from the Metrolink Station into the parking lots lining the Sierra Highway while the Metolink train dozed on the rails in Lancaster, the end of the line. A number of boarded up buildings, chain link fences topped with razor wire, and structures with barred apertures, the gingivitis of urban decay, told Jack they weren’t in the best part of town. “You’ve stayed at the Inn of Lancaster before?”

Lancaster Airport, California

June 25, 2013, 1450 Hours

She climbed out of an airplane at the near end of a line of planes. A fuel truck pulled in front of the twin-engine craft. She conferred with the driver then started toward the terminal. The truck operator stood, statue still, watching her departure. Jack maintained his position thinking if his luck held, she would enter the terminal through the double glass doors at the northwest corner and walk past, he didn’t care where to. He needed something in his hands and picked up a magazine, then looked back outside. The view kept improving and his plan appeared to be working.

Los Angeles, California

June 25, 2013, 0920 Hours

The insistent vibration of his cell phone penetrated Jack’s consciousness. After a short debate, to answer or not to answer, ‘not’ won the moment reasoning if the call was important it would go to message. He did a cursory exploratory search of the bed confirming he was alone. He had yet to open his eyes but his brain was engaged and he began to assemble his day. The slightly elevated pressure behind his eyes and forehead and desiccated copper mouth whispered hangover.

Hemet, California

June 13, 2013, 0820 Hours

From Palmdale Highway I-38 heads east until Pearblossom where it rides the ridges and creases of the foothills spreading out from the base of the San Gabriel mountains looming to the south. Jack followed the band of asphalt toward a craggy horizon inflamed by the rising sun. The mountains to the east faded to a dim outline in the stagnant air enveloping the eastern reaches of the Los Angeles basin.

Bakersfield, California

June 12, 2013, 1420 Hours

“Don. You’ve been out here long enough.”

Vicky had returned.

“We’re just getting to know each other,” said Jack. “Can’t Don stay and play a little longer?”

“If Don doesn’t move we’ll have to put him in traction again.”

Jack pressed on. “How do I talk to Charlie?”

“Charlie lives in Honduras, on an island most of the time. He’ll be here for his fire contract in a week or two.”

Lancaster, California

August 3, 1995

Near a year after the crash of tanker 82 people were beginning to show up at Foxy’s Southwest Steakhouse which was a crawling distance from the airport. It was a popular watering hole and the crew of tanker 82 had occasionally gone there, as had most of the pilots, mechanics, and people who worked out of Fox Airtanker Base.

Fox Airport, named after General William J. Fox, occupies a windswept patch of sagebrush desert in the Antelope Valley outside Lancaster, California. The antelope had long since been exterminated and the skies have thundered for sixty years with the antics of the speed merchants based at Edwards AFB to the north. Amongst the crews, Lancaster was said to be the place where dirt comes to die.

What is that smell? thought Jack, as he scanned the lounge. He flashed back on the times he had visited his grandmother in a rest home. The facilities had evolved, linguistically. Political correctness spawned euphemistic labels for what for many people here would be the last stop on the subway. But they still smelled the same: some sort of chemical reaction combining Pine Sol, institutional food, and atrophy.

There were a lot of women. When he had entered the room a ripple passed through the pond of blue hair as heads turned and a huddle of old men around a table peered up from their card game. A fair number of the inhabitants were unaware of his presence. At the far reaches next to a window the lone figure of a man sat in a walker. He was hunched over looking outside. A pretty lady with dark hair in a ponytail and a flowered print blouse hovered with a group painting pictures. When she saw Jack she waved him to approach. Seeing the lack of visitors as he maneuvered the room he made a mental note to call his grandmother.

Bakersfield, California June 12, 2013, 1310 Hours ‘Bakersfield, what the hell am I doing in Bakersfield?’ thought Jack. The air conditioning in Jack Hart’s 2013 Toyota rental had taken a dump and his ‘Deny Everything’ tee shirt clung to his torso feeling like a foam rubber wet-suit. An image of the abandoned weathered-checked vintage Giant Orange Stand he passed in Chowchilla was etched in his brain. He fantasized pulling into the parking lot and ordering a frosted mug of fresh squeezed OJ. His cell phone buzzed, a rattlesnake on the passenger seat, he was pretty sure he was about to get bit. After scanning for law enforcement he plucked it from its lair. “I need Blue Tooth.” He punched ‘TALK’ then put it on speaker. “Hola.” “You’re driving. Where are you?” It was his editor, The Boss. “Bakersfield.” “What are you doing in Bakersfield? I think Buck Owens is dead and Merle Haggard lives up north now. I hear the Crystal Palace is still cooking.” “It’s not about the music, Rod.” “Hey man, you work for Rolling Stone. It’s always about the music.” “I got distracted.” “A woman?” “A fire.” “Okay, I’ll bite.” “I was camping outside Porterville.” “I should cancel your expense report. Where’s Porterville?” “Don’t ask. Suffices to say you need a passport if you’re from New York.” “I get the picture.” “I was heading out of the mountains towards town and there was a fire. They stopped all the traffic. I was watching the fire climbing a ridge when this airplane flew over. It scared the shit out of me, it was flying so low. I mean it was big like an airliner. It made a turn up against the ridge and spewed a cloud of red on the fire and snuffed it. It was awesome!” “So you decided to go to Bakersfield?” “There was a guy taking pictures. Milo Peltzer. He’s like a groupie. An airtanker groupie. That’s what the airplane was, an airtanker. We got to talking and I explained I was a Journalist. He said he had been a pilot and had retired to the family farm where he had a man-cave full of aviation memorabilia with lots of airtanker paraphernalia; a private museum. Turns out he serves beer. How could I pass that up?” “A bar museum. I can see the appeal. That still doesn’t get me to Bakersfield.” “He said if I was interested in airtankers I should go see a guy named Don O’Connell, in Bakersfield. I think there’s a story. I don’t want to get into it right now but I’m going to talk to the guy.” “Where, at the airport?” Jack could hear frustration in Rod’s voice and knew he would not be pleased with the answer.

August 13, 1994 A shock wave passed through the fuselage and the yoke twisted violently clockwise with sufficient force and movement to sprain Bob’s wrist and break his grip. Adrenalin dumped into his bloodstream blunting what pain he might have felt. His brain struggled to recognize the meaning of the sickening dull pop that had accompanied the physical abuse and spastic movement of the aircraft as he took back possession of the yoke. He looked at Joe, his co-pilot, “What happened!!??” he blurted into the microphone resting on his lips, an appendage of his headset. Their eyes met. Joe’s mouth parted but there were no words. He was on the controls as well. Strain registered in his eyes and his usual crimson hue drained from his mottled bald pate to his jaw. Bob pressed the transmit button on his yoke as the plane torqued violently right then left. All that he could manage was “Oh shit!” on the Los Angeles approach frequency. Towering craggy granite peaks began to fill the windscreen replacing the dingy blue Southern California version of sky just before a brilliant flash enveloped the cockpit. Joe winced and turned away from it to the left. The heat would have cooked his skin were it not for its brevity. The view twisted as the whaling moan of the third soul on board, Shawn, filtered through the intercom from the engineer’s position just aft of Bob and Joe. Then the wind came and the world turned. Random pages of a manual swirled around the cockpit chased by the detritus that had accumulated in the nooks and crannies of the thirty-seven-year-old aircraft. The instrument panel of airtanker 82, a C-130A, told part of the tale. The vital signs of the number three and four engines were flat lined and their power levers had slammed to idle of their own volition. Bob knew it was futile but it was not in him to quit. He shoved the two power levers forward. They moved without resistance or any discernable response while he stood on the left rudder attempting to arrest the sickening rotation to the right. He pulled one and two power levers back, the left engines, and the acceleration to the right diminished but the plane continued corkscrewing violently down to a discernable point on a slope of granite. Bob could begin to pick out individual trees in the sparse vegetation swirling below. “It’s gone,” spoke Joe, looking right. “The wing is gone.”

Bob Forbes

What makes a great pilot: heredity, environment, maybe dogged persistence? Whatever it is I know a guy who has it.

Bob Forbes is a man in motion. I’ve been pestering him to allow me to dig into his career and he stopped by Ukiah the other day and talked. I asked him to hang out and spend the night but the road called. Thinking about the talk we had the term “stream of consciousness” stuck in my mind and I looked it up. “A narrative technique in non-dramatic fiction intended to render the flow of myriad impressions”. That’s pretty close to the encounter without the “fiction” part.

Deen Oehl, The Deen of Tankers

“Not yet. Hold it. Hold it,” counseled Deen.

It was a long way down a steep hillside into a narrow canyon with an exit to the West. The lead finally broke right at the end of the retardant line. I waited a few seconds and touched off the load, held the line for a few seconds longer, then turned right trailing the lead. Deen was leaning forward intent on the view through the windscreen. The lead turned right and climbed; we stayed low and flew straight out into clear air.

Things are pretty quiet this time of the year. Hard to think of anything current and relevant to talk about and for some reason Facebook keeps deleting our posts. We’ll be back with the most current agenda post haste. We will be adding Clint Crookshanks from the NTSB to our presenters list. Meanwhile I thought I’d add something irrelevant.

Over the years I’ve had the privilege of burning up a lot of dinosaurs in a wide range of flying machines. After a brief flirt with a Lotus Cortina and a Porsche 911 in my youth my carbon footprint on the highway has been more subdued and my ground transportation mundane.

Under the category of shit happens I was driving back to work after a day off last week, my Monday, when I saw a flash in the darkness up ahead. At the same time an insulator on the power line paralleling the road looked like a sparkler on my right. I whoad-up my ride a little and speculated that the power would be out in the area. I was headed west on highway 20 out of Willows Ca. and mostly surrounded by orchards. I passed a house, lights on, interesting.

It’s been a busy summer. I’m flying an OV-10 Air Attack and staying marginally proficient with occasional flights in the S-2T. It’s been thirty-four years since I flew Air Attack and it has changed a bit. I went to work in April but it was July before we lost the first fire, the Wragg. It grew to 8000 thousand acres destroying two out buildings. It cleaned up a lot of brush. Fortuitously, based on the burning indexes, we picked up a couple of potentially destructive starts, starts with forest structure interface, because resources were plying the skies working the Wragg Fire.

Challenging the odds in the Drug Wars New Novel features gripping story about the third world drug trade and a unique group who face the challenge to survive.

In the late 1970s and ’80s, the South Texas borders spawned a unique group of aviators involved in the dubious industry of smuggling goods into Mexico. They traded their skill and bravado for the fast buck, matching whits with the authorities in Mexico, finding safe haven in the border towns of south Texas.

Flyboys-Risky Business has been dedicated to the flight crews lost in action fighting wild land and urban interface fires in the United States. I have been working fire contracts since 1978. The men and women who fly fires are a diverse group. A typical pilot brings thousands of flight hours and years of experience before their first hour on a fire. Tongue in cheek I have suggested the thing we all share has been poor career choices in aviation: to a man and woman we love to fly. As a group we have largely been the resource I have drawn on as I wrote the book. I have employed poetic license; hijacking incidences, imputing motives, and generally taking liberties with their experiences and mine. I have produced a work of fiction on the palate of recent past history in the Americas, basted on speculation, imagination, and threads of documented fact.

The sea claims a careless soul For Howard Farley the news that Charlie Jones had been seen in Cuba was disturbing. Charlie was one thread from a string that led to the past. From the moment he heard the name, Howard had obsessed about the five miscreants that composed the fragile link to a time and place he’d tried to forget. They had destroyed his life seven years earlier but he had rebuilt. Some of the people involved were faces while others had names as well. He would set a match to Charlie and light the way.

Dean O. Talley is an Initial Attack qualified airtanker captain currently flying P2v-7 aircraft on Forest Service contracts primarily in the western United States. He has been seasonally employed on fire contracts since 1978 flying 02, S2, DC4, SP2H, and P3 aircraft. Dean has also flown as an airline captain in the South Pacific, crop duster, fixed-wing and rotor-wing instructor, search-and-rescue pilot for the U. S. Coast Guard, and is a graduate of Naval Flight School.