I took another flight a week or so ago, one of countless thousands, yet in many ways, despite it being far the most expensive it was without doubt the one that was the most gratifying and rewarding and all things being equal, worth the money. There was no upgrade to business class, no glass of wine, eye mask or newspaper. It started and ended in the very same place and flew (relative to others I take) slow and low over some spectacular territory. This was a case of very much seeing the trees in the forest… and the river running through it. The fire look out towers, the Three Sisters Mts in central Oregon, the naked flanks of Mt Bachelor and the pointy bits of Three Fingered Jack and Broken Top. Nothing below looked like a landing strip and the engine sounds were less than powerful. Indeed, the inner tubers below us on the McKenzie River looked to be faster and safer. Nothing however could detract from the pleasure of these 90 minutes.
Creswell Airport www.takewinginc.com lacks a terminal, the TSA ( Hallelujah ), jetways, a coffee shop and makes use of a honey bucket out back for a genderless restroom. The pilot shows up in a Tee and Bermudas and shows a certain deftness with the untying of knots as he releases a Cessna 172 from its bondage under a tin roof. He deftly wields a giant tool reminiscent of a pair of ice tongues and with them physically tugs the blue and white airplane out into the full sun. As the sole paying passenger I show a keen interest as he dips the fuel tanks, checks oil, nuts and bolts and for the absence of bird’s nests on the engine block. A little paperwork is taken care of, tires are given a final kick ( by me as well, for lord only knows what reason, but it seems the thing to do ). I am summoned to a flimsy seat that makes coach on Ryan Air look like the big man’s seat on Air Force One and handed a heavily huge pair of cool green ear phones complete with boom mike that proceed to make me feel like one of those bobble headed dolls sold to enrich sports stars beyond all good reason. With a wheel coming back into my solar plexus and peddles apparently moving of their own accord beneath my feet, I settle in. Handed a sectional chart I am determined to look nonchalant, quite unflappable and spatially aware.
It is warm in coach and the air vents produce nothing ( What’s new? ) I ponder that an open door on taxiing might help a little. The pilot flicks a few more switches, twirls a dial or two, pumps something in and out of the dash, yells out loud, like a golfer, post errant shot, to all who might be in range and at long last lights the fire. It catches and the world begins to shake, rattle and eventually role as the little craft trundles on down towards the end of a runway. The one and only runway incidentally. It is warmer than ever and the pilot’s Tee is showing some serious dampness now. Is that supposed to be reassuring? I glance over at him but the return glance remains inscrutable behind the Ray-Ban aviators. He is occupied, making the engine strain at the leash as he checks the magnetos, carb heat, flap positions and then he is conversing with some other brave soul on something called ‘final approach’ into this same little strip of macadam after having dodged a sizable antenna farm, a hill and finally, an under- construction motel. It sounds ominous. My cool exterior is going to remain intact, fortified even as I listen to the pilot’s voice on the radio as he notifies all of his intentions. The dude in Bermudas and shades is sounding cool. A Jimmy Buffet wannabe?
The pilot, hands positioned upon wheel and throttle, a little rudder input from the feet and the the 172 surges ( actually I think I can peddle faster ) down the strip of tar and as felt via the seat of the pants quickly gets light, takes wing and climbs out towards what must have been Eugene’s landfill at one point in time. How glorious. Altitude gained and with engine throttled back and leaned out we take an easterly heading up the river and towards the silhouette of the Three Sisters. Beneath us are dark green and growing trees by the billion, wild fire charred trees by the millions and thousands of invisible trees on naked and scarred slopes where in their felling they went onto other uses for the many of us requiring forest products. I am trying to pinpoint us on the chart with little luck and before having to ask the pilot points out where we are and quickly enough I get my bearings from a couple of reservoirs and dams.
I request a landing into Eugene which today entails an approach to the airport over the U of O campus and close by Autzen stadium. More to the point the man at the wheel has to display his competence with ATC . I listen attentively and watch the scribbling of numbers on a pad situated on a leg. It all sounds very calm and professional, if just a little fast and garbled to my untrained ear. Air traffic around Eugene is very light so it is easy enough to slip in and out a couple of times as the heat thermals bring straw from nearby harvested grass fields swirling up to meet us, along with a threesome of turkey vultures. Gazing down onto the swimming pools of Eugene’s south hills I look up just in time to see the antenna farm as our left downwind has them sliding past the right wing, then in seconds we are on final, the pilot adds carb heat, flaps, he rudders in a touch of side slip and bobs your uncle we come in over the numbers and alight gracefully back to earth with the merest chirp of a well kicked tire.
Just another airplane ride with just another competent pilot? Not at all! It was so much more special than that as you might have surmised. The flight today was piloted by none other than one of my own boys and it isn’t too long ago that he was riding around on my back in a carrier and sometimes being ejected over my head as I would bend down to unlatch and move irrigation pipe on the farm. We have come a long way in what seems ( just now) the blink of an eye. On the farm, where every day we watched the Oregon Air National Guard fly out and back in F4’s then F15’s he graduated from kid backpacks, peddle toys, John Deere’s, ATV’s and pickups. This seamless transition now leads him away from the land and into the wild blue yonder for a chance at endless learning, transferable skills and a rewarding career. Even as I watched the numbers at the Avgas pump spin around… I remained thrilled, proud and not a little envious.
Mark,
It was a pleasure meeting you yesterday at the Power Breakfast and I really enjoyed the read.
It sounds like you have the right perspective on things that matter.
Wishing you continued success.
Kelly True
Vice President
General Sheet Metal
Gavin told me how excited he was to take you up. What he didn’t say was what an accomplished writer you are. Two of a kind - one of you plying his trade with a pen the other doodling in the sky.