Flying Carpet

Flying Over Lonely Lands

Bold brushstrokes of orange splashed against the gray-green mountains of northwest Arizona - amazing, the brilliance of tiny California poppies from 10,000 feet. We were bound from Phoenix to a meeting in distant Reno, Nevada. Others might logically go by airline, but there was new terrain to explore along the way, and already the poppies had justified our decision to travel by Flying Carpet. Better yet, an unexpected invitation had steered us toward lovely Lake Tahoe, in the crook of California's elbow.

"How well do you know these people we're visiting?" asked Jean.

"Not well," I replied. "I met Tom and Laurel at a reception last October." Connecting us was passion for aerial adventure, us in the Flying Carpet and them in their tiny Cessna 140, Putt-Putt. Only two short e-mails followed that five-minute conversation: "Nice meeting you," and then just a few days ago, "Come stay with us."

Tom and Laurel live in Truckee, 35 miles from Reno but a world away in the heart of the Sierra Nevada. Gleefully canceling our room at the smoky conference hotel ringing with slot machines, I'd plotted a course for their home, just north of Lake Tahoe in the high mountains of eastern California.

Beyond Las Vegas, Jean and I found ourselves over lonely lands. Endless droning over featureless desert strangely jumbles one's feelings - conflicting senses argued whether we were conquering great distances or getting nowhere at all.

To occupy ourselves we matched exotic names from our chart with barren landmarks below: Pahrump Valley, Funeral Mountain, Furnace Creek, and Jackass Aerodrome. Always in the background loomed the impenetrable wall of the Sierra Nevadas.

Flying for hours at altitudes above 12,000 feet lends euphoria to such a trip, and a headache. Jean and I fought visions of landing powerless on the barrens that stretched empty to the horizon. It seemed impossible that anyone would ever find us if we went down or that other airplanes might even pass this way. Perhaps time would somehow warp during this endless droning journey, abandoning us over a primeval world with no airports or civilization to be found at our destination. Precautionary canteens and hiking boots stored in the back seat offered little comfort.

These small concerns were replaced by others as lowering clouds cloaked the Sierras in vapor, squeezing us downward and silencing the scratchy radio voices of Oakland Center. Thunderheads peeked through distant holes in the overcast, and airliners far above could be heard requesting deviations. I found myself gripping the control wheel and sweating.

Thankfully, Mono Lake soon appeared mirage-like between misty mountains, granting us the confidence to continue. At Minden we discovered Spooner Pass exactly where Laurel had promised it would be, with silvery temptress Lake Tahoe beckoning from her ring of mountains on the other side. Ducking through the pass, we turned north over the lake. "Keep the ski slopes to your left," Laurel's e-mail had reminded us. Beyond the ridge nestled Truckee Airport, clear between parted rainshowers, like a friendly bed with blankets turned back to greet us.

Putt-Putt wanders the country from this 6,000-foot mountain valley, drawn aloft by only 100 horsepower. "We tour Truckee's neighborhoods to gain altitude after takeoff," joked Tom over lunch. "And we carry only 20 pounds of personal baggage - five for me and 15 for Laurel."

Laurel is a writer and flight instructor, while Tom, a ski instructor and professional photographer, is a 400-hour student pilot. "Why rush to finish my certificate?" he says. "With Laurel I fly all I want." Traveling 50 knots slower than even our leisurely Flying Carpet, Putt-Putt delivers worthy adventures for the couple to capture through writing and photographs.

Jean and I reveled in high-mountain air and hospitality at our hosts' Victorian cottage by the railroad tracks. Laurel served homemade carrot souffl� with dinner, and Tom treated us next day to oatmeal garnished with dried fruit and brown sugar.

In Reno, we attended our meeting and dined with friends old and new from different worlds. A dozen gesturing pilots made that one raucous dinner noisier than all our eight hours behind a spinning propeller.

Next morning we climbed through mist over the ridge near the ski slopes to find Lake Tahoe more tantalizing than ever. This time she wore cobalt, with bits of fog dancing on her surface.

Homeward bound, we were just as haunted and lonely as we had been on the trip up. Only two other airplanes showed themselves in four hours, converging simultaneously under the watchful eyes of Las Vegas Approach. A jetliner banked just 500 feet below us while a Cessna flitted the same distance overhead.

This time, Jean and I forgot about emergency landings, talking instead of old Truckee, Lake Tahoe, and golden poppies. How different our conversation might be had we traveled by airline - just a smoky hotel to remember.

Most of all, we thought about Laurel and Tom - their warmth and interests, their humor, and their cross- country travels in Putt-Putt. Only over Jackass Aerodrome did those gracious hosts fully escape our minds; there it seemed appropriate to think of someone else.