On the Sunday before Memorial Day, the thirtieth day of May, I awoke at 5:30 a.m. as the sky began to turn gray in the east. That weekend the northeastern United States was under a huge dome of high pressure, which filled the heart of every pilot in the region with keen delight.
Not a breath of wind stirred in my West Virginia mountain valley, and as the light improved I could see fog thickening. It would soon burn off, I hoped, so I made coffee and called flight service.
At 6:30 I opened the door of our oak-pole hangar, and I could see blue sky above.
For several years, I had been waiting for a day that I could fly up the New River to its birthplace in Boone, North Carolina, and today looked like the day. In the past when I had the time, the weather in the mountains to the south wasn’t good enough. Today it was, and I was going to do it.
The New is one of America’s magnificent rivers, and in some ways it is quite unique. Of course, the name is misleading; the river is one of the oldest in North America. The New was there when the upthrusting and folding that formed the Appalachians began. Fortunately, the New carved the rock faster than the mountains rose. Its ancient channel runs more or less north, slicing through the mountain ridges from Boone to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, where the river—now named the Kanawha—empties into the Ohio.
With the fog thinning to gauzy pools in the lowest valleys, I get airborne at 7:10. The sky is clear, with visibility at least 30 miles, and there is not a puff of wind.
First stop is the little restaurant beside the grass runway on the mountaintop at Rainelle, West Virginia, for breakfast. I am the first airplane there, the first customer of the morning. While I am drinking coffee and studying sectional charts, the waitress fields a call from someone in Richmond asking for the exact location of the airport.
Everyone in the restaurant comes out to wave as I take off. I waggle the Piper Pacer’s wings and turn southwest.
In just a few minutes I hit the New River where I-64 crosses it. The river here is flowing generally northwest. To my right, downriver, is the southern end of the spectacular New River Gorge, the deepest canyon east of the Mississippi. Just north of Fayetteville, West Virginia, a highway bridge spans the gorge 800 feet above the river. One day a year the bridge is open to base jumpers, but year-round rafters, hikers, bird-watchers, and tourists of all stripes enjoy the river and its canyon.
This morning I turn left, south, to ascend the river. In less than a minute I am flying in a canyon. The walls rise steeply three or four hundred feet above the alpine river.
I stay above the top of the canyon, an estimated 500 feet above the water, safely above the power lines that occasionally span the river. Even cruising sedately at 100 miles an hour, to stay over the river with its twists and turns requires constant turning flight; it seems that I am rarely straight and level. I find that the Pacer rolls best with a definite push on the rudder as I apply side stick.
The first town I come to is Hinton, where the Greenbrier River joins the New. The town is just waking this Sunday morning; the streets are almost empty.
Just up the river is the Bluestone Dam, which holds back a long, narrow, manmade mountain lake. This holiday weekend the banks of the lake are lined with campers for 15 miles. Sleeping in is not an option for these folks; both campers and fishermen are out and about this morning. Boats filled with fishermen drift or motor slowly along the lake, and fisherfolk wade in the shallows. I will see a lot of waders today, for the wide, shallow New is a fly-fisherman’s delight.
As I buzz along, many of the campers look up and wave. I wave back, though they can’t see me.
Still no wind, no up- or downdrafts, no swirls of air off the ridges lining the river. Flying in clear, still air, I see the wall of a mountain ahead several miles before I get there.
The river flows through a deep-V water gap that it has carved in the mountain, which stretches away to my right and left as far as I can see. Actually, the river cuts through three mountains in about three miles at this place, which is called The Narrows. Just beyond the first gap is a little town named Rich Creek. South of the three ridges is Pearlsburg, Virginia.
Over Pearlsburg I turn and look back at the cuts in the mountains: It seems as if God used his finger to slash a channel for the river. Perhaps he did, but he used water to do it, so the gaps are sublime monuments to the immensity of time.
Six or eight miles south are three more water gaps, although the mountains are not as prominent here. Looking down, I can see the riffle in the clear water that marks each rock formation through which the river has cut. From this angle the shallow water is transparent.
My journey upriver takes me right by the New River Valley Airport in Dublin, Virginia, so I drop in for fuel. As I am leaving, I find a gentleman named Carl Chandler inspecting the Pacer. He learned to fly in a Tri-Pacer, he says, and was thinking of restoring one. After a pleasant few minutes visiting, I make an intersection takeoff. Still no breeze.
South of Pulaski is Claytor Lake, another power project that dams the New. More fishermen, speed boaters, and even a few waterskiers.
At the upper end of the lake the river is muddy for a stretch of a mile or so, with much floating debris. Here, for the only time in the journey, I can see splash circles made by jumping fish. The fishermen are there in boats; I wish them luck and fly on.
Ascending the river, which is gradually narrowing, I pass three more power generation dams, each of which is holding back a small lake. The valley is wide here and irregular, filled with small wooded hills and ridges and plenty of small farms. Christmas-tree farms are everywhere, with acre after acre of symmetrical cones arranged in patterns that would delight modern artists.
Near the North Carolina line I find that my general course is west. The river is flowing through small gorges with steep, occasionally sheer walls, apparently formed as the rising land forced the river to engrave its meanders in stone. I am flying well above the canyon walls and no longer following every twist of the river—it is just too crooked.
For the first time I see cattle standing in the river. I look for fences and see none. Apparently the cattle will not go down over or ascend rapids, for that is the only obstacle I can see preventing them from wading the shallow stream to escape their pasture.
Just south of the North Carolina line the river forks. I choose the South Fork and aim the airplane up it. The river now is just a stream—still shallow and clear, but a mere trickle compared to its former self.
Every now and then I see flotillas of canoes and kayaks descending the river. No one seems to be paddling upstream. On the South Fork I count 31 canoes in a couple of miles of river, then come across a man with canoes stacked on a truck, taking them off for a crowd of waiting people. Campers are strewn about.
Near Ashe I pass a church on a ridge. The parking lot is filled with cars. In the cemetery nearby I can just see spots of color—flowers—decorating the graves for tomorrow.
Farther south, past the huge horseshoes in the river, I come upon dozens of horse trailers parked in a field. Trailers, pickup trucks, campers, horses, and riders everywhere.
The river burbles over the rock formations it has eaten through, and I fly on, deeper into the North Carolina mountains. Of course I have been climbing slowly and constantly ever since I joined the river, and now I am at 4,000 feet, still 500 feet or so over the stream. There is some turbulence now.
At last I round a turn in the valley and the town of Boone lies before me. I climb still higher, then circle to see how the river is formed. Aha—at least three creeks, maybe four, flow from the hollows around the town and join in woody, brush-strewn areas behind shopping centers and residential areas.
America has turned her back on her waterways. Streams and rivers usually flow through the worst parts of town, past dismal industrial areas and tumbledown housing, past fields strewn with abandoned appliances and junk cars. If the folks of Boone pay much attention to the creeks that form the New River, it is probably only when they flood.
I fly on to the southwest, following a road along a high ridge. A mountain to my right reaches up to 5,920 feet, and clouds above it throw the sides in shadow. The visibility is poorer here than it was farther north, perhaps nine or 10 miles in haze. This is the first time that I have ever flown in this region: Flying in the cloud shadow, bounced around by wind swirling over ridges and around peaks, I sit drinking it in.
As I fly by the south ridge of the peak I see hikers on the high places. Swinging the Pacer near, I waggle the wings as the people on the top of the world wave madly. They must have spent the morning climbing this thing and have been richly rewarded with a magnificent view.
Just south of Burrsville is a mountaintop fly-in resort that I have seen advertised in all the flying magazines, so I decide to drop in. I am on final when the unicom man asks if I have seen the video.
The video? The ads don’t mention any video.
"This is a private field," he says, "and you can’t land here unless you have watched the video. We can mail it to you if you will give me your address."
I decline. The place is a bit too exclusive for my taste, although it looks spectacular as I fly by—houses and golf course and airport perched on a mountain ridge with a view that is simply grand.
At 12:15 p.m. I land at Asheville for gas. The FBO lends me a crew car to go get lunch. The FBO appreciates my little bit of business, and the nearby McDonald’s is just my speed.
Flying northeast along the front of the mountains at 5,500 feet on the way home, I thought about a remark that an FAA employee made to me the day before. We were enjoying a social visit—I hate seeing those people professionally—when he remarked that he belongs to AOPA because the organization is fighting user fees.
"I spent five years in Europe," he said, "and the governments charge for every landing. In Belgium they even charge a landing fee if you make an ILS approach and wave off before touching down. I hope that never happens here."
Most Americans would agree that the definition of freedom includes the ability to do whatever you wish on your day off—with a few commonsense restrictions, of course. Today my wife and son are at the Kemper Open with thousands of other golf enthusiasts for the final day of the tournament. The brickyard in Indianapolis is packed with people—maybe a hundred thousand—waiting for the start of the Indianapolis 500. Beaches all around the coast are dotted with millions of sun worshippers and people simply relaxing on a break from the grind. People are picnicking, camping, swimming, and sleeping in hammocks…the list is darn near endless.
Horseback riders, boaters, fishermen, hikers, sunbathers, airplane pilots—what if the government charged all of us a user fee? Fees for the use of the public water would certainly be easy to justify—like the user fees at national parks—yet a lot of people who enjoy the outdoors would not have to pay. The way to get them all, I believe, is to charge a fee for the use of the air.
Air is obviously a federal resource, one with scads of statutes and regulations on its use. Why not add a tax? A tax on air should nail everyone.
If you breathe, you pay. To make the tax politically palatable, people who breathe a lot of air—joggers, athletes, aerobic exercisers, hikers, and the like—would pay a reduced rate, say half of the regular rate. Yet since they breathe more than twice the air that couch potatoes do, they would actually pay a larger tax bill for our politicians’ favorite projects than our inactive citizens would. Such a twist would neatly comply with the classic rule of taxation—give with one hand and take with the other.
Bill Clinton, take note. A tax on air would make them forget Monica and Kosovo.
Ah me! If only I ruled the world. Until they elect me king, I’ll just keep flying. As long as the politicians let me.
When he isn’t flying, Stephen Coonts writes books. His next book, Hong Kong, will be published in September by St. Martin’s Press. The author recently sold his Piper Pacer in favor of a brand-new Aviat Husky A–1B. Visit his Web site ( www.coonts.com).
