Waypoints

A recent epiphany of sorts reinforced once again something I already knew, but something we all need reminding of occasionally: Flying—piloting an airplane where you want, when you want—is an experience unlike any other and one that no other earthly experience can supplant or replace. This explains why those with enough wealth to buy and do about anything they want often choose to become pilots.

This flash of the obvious came to me recently when I was feeling a bit behind by the Joneses. It seemed that everyone I know was buying this or that. A robust economy has been good for the neighborhood, and everyone around seems to have bought a new car, put in a swimming pool, added a room (or two), or sunk their savings into a vacation home. I noticed this driving to and from work in my 10-year-old plain-vanilla car. One neighbor now has four cars for three drivers, and they’ve purchased two new cars since we last bought one (not that I’m keeping track or anything).

Another neighbor has a sporty little pickup truck for driving to and from work and for all of those weekend warrior tasks. I confess to being a bit envious as I wrestle things in and out of the minivan. Another has a conversion van used only for weekend excursions. The rest of the week it sits in its dedicated slot in the driveway. "They have a TV in their van!" snorts my seven-year-old.

"And ours has wings," I retort, a bit too defensively.

The neighbors behind us put in a pool last summer. Another bought a summer home in the mountains.

"None of them has an airplane. And we do," my wife reminds. "We’ve been places, and seen and done things they can’t even imagine," she says, attempting to soothe my grumbling.

She’s right, of course (as usual).

But it was a recent flight that really reinforced the notion that as pilots we see the world from a unique perspective.

At 5:30 a.m., after a three-day helicopter show in Las Vegas, we piled into a cab for the drive from the hotel to McCarran International Airport. The garish casino lights beckoned even at this hour.

Fifteen minutes later we pulled up to the FBO and lugged our gear to the airplane. By 6:05 a.m., we were barreling down the runway. "I’m surprised the runway lights here don’t blink in sequence," I mumbled to no one in particular. The gear plunked into the wells as we banked left into the dark sky, leaving that most unique city behind. Ahead, just a hint of gray defined the horizon and the dawn. Looking down as we climbed to the northeast, I noticed the runways of North Las Vegas Airport cutting a swath through the dark desert. The black, jagged mountains to the west abruptly interrupted the serene quilt of stars overhead.

As we flew into the sunrise, the sky ahead turned from gray to orange to purple, and finally the disk of the sun appeared. We donned sunglasses and continued toward home, 1,700 miles ahead. As the sunlight began to define the rugged terrain below, I reflected on other flying experiences in this part of the world.

My first flight of any length in a Bellanca Super Viking occurred from Las Vegas. The airplane had been on display at AOPA Expo ’92. We had taxied the airplanes through the midnight streets of Las Vegas from McCarran to the Riviera hotel’s parking lot for display. After the show, the airplanes were returned to the ramp at McCarran. My task was to fly the new Super Viking from Las Vegas to AOPA’s headquarters in Frederick, Maryland. I had flown the Viking twice before, and I had made only a few flights using the KLN 88 loran installed in it. The Viking also had two VORs, so I wasn’t too worried about getting lost, but I hedged my bet by stopping at the AlliedSignal (Honeywell these days) booth for a quick update on the loran’s operating system.

After a lengthy wait for takeoff, the Viking’s fat wooden wing lofted me into the air and I headed for the Grand Canyon. If you’re going to fly in this region, you should make it a point of going via the Canyon. Yes, there are lots of airspace restrictions, but even threading your way through them you can still capture a breathtaking view of this remarkable landmark.

A few minutes into the flight, I had figured out the KLN 88—or at least the Direct-To function—and was winging my way toward the Canyon. After crossing the Canyon, I continued northeast toward Lake Powell, and then Monument Valley. This is a part of the world best viewed in solitude, from either horseback or a light airplane. From horseback, you can experience the eerie rustle of the wind singing around Mother Nature’s rock sculptures and view the vistas as Native Americans must have seen them centuries ago. From a light airplane, you see vistas never imagined by the forefathers, but ones that make you feel equally insignificant on the vast landscape.

From Monument Valley, it’s a quick trip in a Super Viking to Four Corners Regional Airport in Farmington, New Mexico, where I stopped for fuel, a burrito at S’enor Peppers restaurant on the field, and to learn a couple of things about density altitude.

From an elevation standpoint, Four Corners is deceiving. It sits up on a plateau above town. The terrain in the immediate vicinity of the airport is relatively flat. From the runways, you don’t have a sense that you are as high above sea level as you really are.

In fact, the elevation is 5,506 feet. But, hey, the runways are 6,500 feet and 6,700 feet long—no problem for a fully fueled Bellanca and just one lowlands-born-and-bred pilot on board, right? Right. It was no problem, but yards of runway streaming by—and by, and by—sure did get my attention. Eventually, the indicated airspeed crept up to the proper value, and I urged the airplane into the sky. You can bet that I’m now more careful about runway planning and the effects of density altitude even on just moderately warm October days.

From there I headed southeast, rounding the pass between Santa Fe and Albuquerque, where you can cross the mountains without ever straying above about 9,500 feet. Topographically, it’s all downhill from there to the East Coast. I slipped on an oxygen mask and stayed high to enjoy a nice tailwind as the sun settled in behind me. I followed the railroad from Dalhart, Texas, to Liberal, Kansas, and then across the prairie until the lights of Wichita came into view. The line guys at what was then Executive Beechcraft gave the shiny new Viking a curious once-over as they parked it among the Bonanzas and Barons and King Airs.

The next morning I dodged a few rainshowers and some towering cumulus as I continued eastward. Almost too soon the speedy Viking delivered me to my destination, and one of my most memorable flights came to an end.

But that is just one of many flights—first as an aircraft renter and now an owner—that has validated the notion that piloting an airplane is one of life’s most satisfying experiences. More recently, we piled the kids into the back of the Beech Bonanza and headed south. A few hours later we touched down in Beaufort, South Carolina, for fuel. "What are those funny-looking trees?" queried our oldest daughter, who has never been any farther south than Virginia. It hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t know what a palm tree looked like. After topping the tanks and finishing a picnic lunch, we continued south. Orlando Approach vectored us to the west side of the Class B airspace, as I knew they would when Kissimmee, Florida, is the destination. I was soon able to point out the big ball at Epcot and Cinderella’s castle at Magic Kingdom, where we would visit the next day. The kids ohhhed and ahhhed in amazement and excitement. Dad was a hero. You just don’t get views like that—or memories like that—from an airline flight.

How would my life be different or even affected if I owned a conversion van, had a swimming pool, or drove a spiffy new car? It wouldn’t. But because I can and do fly an airplane, my life is different. I now know what the Grand Canyon looks like from the solitude of a light airplane. I’ve heard my kids chatter back and forth in the cockpit about what this or that cloud top looks like.

While an airplane—tucked away at the airport—is certainly a less visible treasure than those enjoyed by nonpilots, it brings infinitely more pleasure, challenges, and memories than anything I could ever park in the driveway.