I’m enamored of travel by general aviation aircraft. Some of the happiest, most satisfying moments of my life have been spent at 2,000 feet above the ground, watching the world roll by beneath me.
It’s remarkably easy to become deluded into thinking we live on a desperately overpopulated planet covered in concrete, steel, and glass. This belief can be reinforced by what we see and hear from our position on the ground amidst the clutter of modern life.
From altitude however, we can see a very different story unfolding.
Roughly 250 million Americans live in the eastern half of the United States. This is where some of the great cities of the nation have been established: New York, Boston, Pittsburgh, Detroit, Atlanta, and so many others. Yet, for all their hustle and bustle, noise and expense, those population centers are merely an oasis of civilization plunked down in the vast greenery of the nation.
VFR pilots and their passengers learn fairly quickly that America is largely undeveloped. It’s accessible, to be sure. An impressively large and intricate system of roads can get us almost anywhere on the surface. But we have to be willing to sit through the traffic lights, construction delays, and roundabouts clogged by drivers who don’t understand how they work.
Traveling by surface roads can get us pretty much anywhere we want to go. But we often move at a relative snail’s pace while dodging the unavoidable frost-heaves, potholes, and speed bumps that make those drives less than enjoyable to experience.
Thankfully, there is often a small, local airport near the place we want to go, effectively limiting the frustration of traveling to out-of-the-way places by reducing our time on the roads.
From on high we have a very different experience than our ground-bound friends might. We can see the bright lights and expansive development of the cities from many miles away. But we can also see the miles and miles of undisturbed forests blanketing the surface of our world. Farmlands stretch out in a patchwork of greens and browns that demonstrate a logical order to the manipulation of the land, while respecting the need to protect and care for it in the long term.
The vistas are amazing. Early morning flyers are presented with the golden glow of sunrise washing over an awakening world. Later in the evening we enjoy the last rays of light coming over the horizon, as streetlights and buildings below swim in beams of glowing artificial color.
There is no boring time to be aloft. There is no route that offers nothing of interest to see. Every leg of every flight is completely unique. Each is an event that can never be perfectly recreated, but can be a satisfying treasure in our memories for a lifetime.
For those who travel by general aviation there are two axioms that challenge the unwary pilgrim: First, the innocuous, “If you have time to spare, go by air.”
Yes, you will experience delays. Learn to live with it.
That banal expression is closely followed by the far more menacing: “Let’s give it a try. I think we can pick our way through this weather.”
The first expression is largely true. There is no getting around it. I’ve been fortunate enough to travel over a wide swath of America in small, single-engine general aviation airplanes. I’ve had groundspeeds as low as the mid 50s and as high as three times that pace. The view was wonderful, although sometimes that view included a frontal weather system that gave me every indication it was time to get on the ground and stay there for a while.
I’ve never resisted that opportunity to set down in a new, unexpected place. The inconvenience has always been outweighed by the whimsy of finding myself in a town I never dreamed I’d spend time in — perhaps one I’d never even heard of before.
I’ve slept on couches and in cars when a hotel room wasn’t available.
Uncomfortable? Yes. Big deal. It was always part of the overall adventure. There was always a decent cup of coffee and a local restaurant nearby where I could find something or someone to engage my interests.
I once spent three days in the small Louisiana town of Jennings thanks to a stationary front that took its sweet time moving off my route of intended flight. I’ve been forever grateful for that experience. The FBO manager lent me a van to drive for my entire stay. He didn’t even charge me for the kindness of that loan, even though he knew my C-152 wasn’t going to take enough fuel to make him a rich man in return.
Those unexpected stop-overs are all happy memories in retrospect. I’m appreciative of every one of them.
The alternative, of course, would be to take an entirely different attitude.
Should I decide my incredible piloting skills, combined with the erroneous belief that if I didn’t get to my destination on time my life would be ruined, I might very well experience a significantly different outcome — one that leaves a much more lasting impression on a larger group of people.
If I’d adopted that second perspective early in my career, I might not be here to share this story with you now. I’d be dead. My life truly would have been ruined. My family would have suffered unnecessarily.
And that meeting or appointment I felt compelled to make it to under less than ideal circumstances? I can’t even remember what that might have been about all these years later.
With that in mind you might come to realize there is a reason I’m such a big fan of being a chicken. I’m perfectly fine with calling it quits. Given the option, I’ll take time on the ground over forcing myself into a situation that would be uncomfortable at best and fatal at worst.
Several years ago, after canceling a flight I’d planned due to weather, a friend commented to me as I tucked my airplane back into the hangar, “A lot of pilots have been buried on a sunny day, because they flew when they shouldn’t have.”
I wish I’d heard that truism earlier in my career. Thankfully, the message was clear to me long before I heard the actual words.
