Cool story! I lived in Ft. Morgan, so your XC was basically in my front and back yard. Our buddy with the 210 and 421 was based out of Kimball, NE. Whenever we were out of town on a job (usually in western CO, western WY, eastern UT, eastern MT, western ND, or northern NM) he'd usually offer to fly down, up, or over and pick us up so we could all be home on the weekends. Naturally since I was the aspiring pilot of our crew, I'd always sit left or right seat and would take instruction from him. I also "legally" started taking instruction from a CFI in Brush, CO whenever I had the time off to do so, which was very little. I officially had 4 hours of logged time with him and 2 hours logged aerobatic time from a CFI out of Sidney, NE. That was all back in the late 70's early 80's during the heyday of the oil field when I had the money but not the time to burn.
The CFI in Brush was a crop duster by trade and had a nice 182 that I took instruction in. I remember taking my lessons in the winter, pulling the plane out from the hanger, doing my pre-flight, warming it up, and then taxing over to pick him up from the nice warm FBO shack to begin our lessons. He'd hop in, then light up a cigarette and proceed to tell what he wanted me to do. I'd take off and we'd head out over the plains, get some altitude and I'd do my coordinated turns, stalls, spins, etc. then head back and do some pattern work. That was about it. He wasn't much for talking nor really instructing for that matter. He handed me a couple books to read to prep me for the written but I never had the time to read them. The CFI in Sidney was also a crop duster by trade. He had a nice Citabria which I took a couple hours of aerobatic training in at the suggestion of my friend in Kimball. I wanted to do that type of training not only because it was fun, but so I could get a feel for unusual attitudes. An hour in that thing was almost more than I could handle. I'd be light headed for a day or two after each flight. It was a good euphoric type feeling. Almost like I was walking on air.
In 1986 s**t hit the fan in the oil patch. Since nobody was drilling and the majors were drastically cutting their budgets, our jobs (pipe inspection and cathodic protection services) started getting further and farther between. I didn't think it was fair for my boss to keep me on the payroll and me not doing any actual work, so I told him I was going to take a long vacation and head down to Phoenix, AZ for the winter and golf. I loaded up my golf clubs and a few clothes and headed down for a well deserved vacation. I've been here ever since. I guess I just got tired of living out of a suitcase all the time. Sure the flying back and forth with our buddy was cool and I always looked forward to the weekends, but my heart was just no longer in the oil patch.
It wasn't long before I started a moving company, sold it, and then started a motorcycle courier company, sold it and then started an advertising agency which I still own to this very day. Flying was always in the back of my mind, I subscribed to all of the flying magazines just to keep abreast of all the new planes and cool gadgets that were coming out. Many of the friends I've made over the years have airplanes and I will occasionally go up with them for the so-called $100 hamburger run, but it just isn't that exciting to me anymore. I guess I'm the type that needs a purpose and mission (so to speak) of where I want to fly and why I want to fly, which now brings me to this point in my life. With my new start-up business, I will now have that purpose and a mission.