"Should be there within two hours," came the reply. "You'll certainly be staying the night."
A young man's dream had drawn our Flying Carpet here to Colorado Springs from Phoenix, Arizona. Ever since age 11, when he invested three weeks' allowance to buy the application guide, my son, Austin, has longed to attend the United States Air Force Academy. Now, some five years later, his former schoolmate, Cadet Adam Keith, had offered the tantalizing invitation to attend a day of classes there.
Three and one-half hours by Cessna 182 took us from the Sonoran Desert over pine-covered plateaus and red-rock barrens, then through snow-clogged mountain passes at 12,000 feet to the place where Pike's Peak defines the westernmost edge of the Great Plains. There we were seduced by the mystical setting of the Air Force Academy itself, nestled against foothills of the Rockies, cadets marching among jet fighters by the famous chapel.
But most inspiring was the boundless and hopeful future written on one young man's face when I dropped him at the Academy's "Bring Me Men Ramp." There Austin shook hands with Keith, resplendent in knife-edged blue uniform and white dress gloves, and the two departed to spend a day chasing dreams only a young person can appreciate. It was a sight I'll not forget, regardless of what path Austin ultimately follows through life.
Only after Austin was on his way did I phone flight service and learn of the approaching storm. I renewed our hotel room and then wandered around the campus. Even more imposing than the famous chapel is the Academy's endless parade ground, spanning even under the campus buildings themselves, which rest on columns above the ground.
Also impressive were the hall and statue commemorating Gen. Henry "Hap" Arnold, "father of the Air Force." This man, in one amazing lifetime, learned to fly at the Wright Brothers' school, led our Army Air Forces to victory in World War II, and crowned his career in 1948 as first commanding general of the newly formed U.S. Air Force.
More sobering were exhibits honoring Academy grads who lost their lives or freedom in the service of our country. Perhaps most personally touching was the photo of an attractive young woman who was the first female graduate to die in a combat zone. Reminded that the Academy is first and foremost an institution for training military officers, I struggled to ignore the darker risks associated with my son's aspirations.
Before the first snowflakes fell, there was just time to visit the Academy airport, where cadets train in glider flying and parachuting. Three runways support several hundred parachute jumps and glider flights on every nice day. Enthusiastic young people rushing about the ramp reminded me how infectious is the dream of flight that drives us all.
By the time I returned to campus, wet snow blanketed the ground and burdened General Arnold's statue, tiring his great figure and aging him from his earlier sunlit demeanor. I collected Austin at the "Bring Me Men Ramp," and, on the wintry journey back to the hotel, he regaled me with tales of his day at the Academy, along with the hopes and plans fostered during his hours there.
He also queried me about our odds of getting home anytime soon, this being his first blizzard since moving to warmer climes at age 4. With the storm raging outside, we spent the evening watching TV and pondering the fate of our poor airplane, huddled cold and forlorn on a snowswept ramp.
Next morning dawned gray but optimistic, so we slithered on icy roads to the airport, warmed and dried the Flying Carpet in the shelter of a friendly hangar, and took flight through a haunting mist rising from the airport's freshly cleared pavement.
A few malingering clouds hugged the peaks as we entered narrow Mosca Pass where it pierces the 14,000-foot stockade of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Snow-slathered towers of rock leaned menacingly from either side over our diminutive Flying Carpet, with only a slice of azure sky to hold back the powerful summits from closing overhead. We barely had time to re-cover from the experience before reliving it again at Cumbre Pass through the San Juans beyond Alamosa. Never have I felt smaller, nor more dazzled and awestruck, than when we escaped the jaws of those passes into the high desert of northern New Mexico.
After such a majestic passage, I was surprised to discover Austin leaning dejectedly against his window.
"You OK?" I asked.
"It may sound funny," he replied, "but actually I'm a little depressed."
"Why's that?"
"Oh, it's just hard tasting life as an Air Force Academy cadet, and then returning to high school for two more years."
To break his funk, we tapped some iced coffee from the cooler, ogled the wall of snow-covered peaks behind us, and then toasted Austin's future. (Just a small toast, as we still had some two and one-half hours left to contain it.)
"Well, I guess it's not really a whole two years," Austin volunteered, perking up. "I'm gonna work to raise my score a few points on the SAT next month...for my Academy application.... Know what I mean?"
I knew.
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