#rv7a

I closed my eyes again, placed my palms on my knees and whispered a mantra from the science fiction story, Dune.

I will not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. I will face my fear. I will let it pass over me and through me, and when it is passed, all that is left is me.

I took a deep breath, exhaled and opened my eyes. The propeller spun in thin black lines that paused, turned backward, then forward again. The altimeter still read five thousand feet. The engine still thrummed. The little airplane symbol was still on the purple line on the Advanced Flight System (AFS) screen..

My fear goes everywhere with me. Most of the time it keeps me from doing obviously stupid things like taking my boat out in gale force winds.

I wrapped my hands around the soft, warm sheepskin shoulder straps. All that is left is me, and my fuzzies to hold on to.

The small, blue screen of the Avidyne below the radio stack flashed.

“Time to turn,” Roy said, and turned a knob on the AFS. The artificial horizon on the Dynon tilted, and the compass needle ticked past numbers. Our altitude was still five thousand feet. We were still on course. Still in the clouds. Still above the Smoky Mountains.

My fear would never miss a chance to natter on about how scary things are, so no way would it miss out on a flight like this.

Usually, my job is to enter and manage our route with the FMS. Instead, my fear was sitting in my lap, whining about how we were going to fall out of the sky. My fear was taking the place where my co-piloting could reside.

I nudged Roy and pointed at the Dynon. “It’s 3 degrees outside.” Water droplets formed on the wing. Filtered light gave way to dark, ominous gray. We were between layers of clouds that curved in long waves, like upside down turkey platters.

Roy nodded and dialed up weather information on the AFS. “Looks like it should clear soon,” he said.

“Lenticular clouds,” I blurted. My butt cheeks tightened in the seat. “That means unstable air.” My fear studied the temperature on the Dynon as if it were about to divulge the relationship between gravity and electromagnetism.

We popped out into gray light just long enough to see dark, rain sodden rolls of a cumulus formation. I shut my eyes tight, and shook my head. “I don’t want to go in that big ass cloud,” my fear announced.

Our plane bounced and yawed. I smelled exhaust and my own body odor, and the faint smell of Roy’s Irish Spring. The bouncing stopped and I opened my eyes. We were still in the clouds, but they were thinner. Our altitude was still five thousand feet. I pulled the iPad out of the side pocket and opened the Avidyne app. Our compass heading matched our flight-plan trajectory. I looked at the chart on the AFS. We were well above any mountains. The radar overlay showed we were on the edge of the weather system.

I looked out the canopy and spotted ground through wet blankets of gray.

Roy reached for my hand. “Okay now?” He asked.

“Yes,” I brushed my fingers across the stubble on his cheek. I knew he’d shave it off after we arrived at his cousins home in Savanna, and I knew I’d miss it. “I’m okay,” I said. And suddenly, in saying the words, I knew I was.

Long, white chicken houses rolled by below, and homes, and barns in folds of the mountains. The trees distinguished themselves in stands of red and gold maple and green pine.

It felt like we were sinking. “We’re still at five thousand feet, right?” I pointed to the altimeter.

“That’s MSL,” Roy replied. “We’re three thousand...”

The radio interrupted his reply. “174RT,” the Controllers voice said, “Climb to 5,500 for terrain.”

My fear had nothing to say about this.

The clouds thinned. Entire farms we visible, then roads and town. Suddenly, the mountains fell away to a broad, delta and the clouds dissipated. The ground was flat and wet and green. Small, wispy clouds passed over our wing and canopy.  My fear was still with me, but it was somewhere in the baggage compartment, with the wet socks, where it couldn’t prevent me from thinking.

The long, black rectangle of the Savanna, Georgia runway sat in the middle of the delta.

“Savanna Approach, Experimental 174RT” Roy said into the radio, “We have the runway in sight.”

“174RT,” The controller replied, “You’re number three for the runway. Clear to land.”

Number three? I thought. “Where’s our traffic?” 

Roy pointed out the canopy. Two Delta Airlines jets were at our ten O’clock and twelve o’clock.

“Caution wake turbulence,” I said and laughed. Roy turned and grinned at me, then raised his finger in the “quite please” gesture.

Later, I stood in the posh reception area of the Savanna FBO, my hands wrapped around a steaming mug of hot chocolate, and watched a large jet being towed past the picture windows. Our plane was out on the tie-downs, a miniature next to the private flying limousines. I felt very small, very human, and very alive.

The controller’s voice came over the radio; “174 Romeo-Tango, clear for take-off, left turn-out approved.” Roy pushed the throttle, turned out to the runway, and we were in the sky.

“Our plane won’t see the hangar for a long time,” Roy said. “Feels strange.”

The house that used to be our home passed underneath, then the Portland office building where I’d worked, and the Columbia river where I’d sailed.

Twenty-plus years passed by in thirty nautical miles, and five minutes. I wasn’t sad. My little girls were women now, my career complete, the house had felt big and empty, and the river too small.

I pulled out the IPad. “I have no idea where we’re staying tonight,” I said. I’d only danced around trip prep, doing laundry, packing, sorting.

”It’s okay,“ Roy replied, “I have it figured out. I’ll show you when we stop for fuel.”

I nodded and held on to my sheepskin shoulder straps. The brown grasslands of Eastern Oregon and Idaho went rolling by.

Ahead of us lay One-thousand, five-hundred nautical miles of mountains and rolling plains to our first destination: The RV Fly-In at Petit Jean, Arkansas. With luck, we’d be there in two days.

An hour later we were in Mountain Home Idaho for fuel. I plopped down on the worn, brown sofa in the pilot lounge of the FBO. Sunlight bent through dusty blinds. Roy sat down next to me. “I found a place for the night in Wyoming that has reasonably priced fuel and a pilot lounge.”

I picked up a red pen off the coffee table, and pushed around a AAA battery someone had left behind. “A pilot lounge? As in camping?”

Instead trip planning, I’d had lunch with friends, gone to the beach with my daughter, shopped and erranded. It was more denial than lack of commitment. I was excited about our travels. I wanted to explore, and experience, get to know the people and places in our country, but I was afraid I was doing the same thing I’d done since I was a child in a military family. The longest I’d ever lived in one place was Portland. I was always moving, leaving friends, undoing my life, only to re-do it again.

I set the pen down. “Can we get a hotel tonight? For our first night out?”

He shifted in his seat. “I’d prefer free.”

I glanced at the clock behind the vacant customer service desk, with it’s display case of aviation paraphernalia for sale. The building was open, but the office was not. Very few are these days.

“It’s two now, and it’s a three hour flight. Would you call to be sure they’ll be open? I’m going to use the little girls room. Be right back.”

Roy was standing by the front door when I returned. “They close at five. Lets beat tracks.”

In the sky again. Grassland gave way to steep, forested slopes. In the distance, mountain peaks were dusted with early season snow.

I watched our ETA. Five thirty. Ten minutes ticked by. ETA was 5:40. I pointed at the Dynon in front of me. “Looks like we’ve picked up a headwind,” I said.

Roy nodded.

We weren't going to make it by five thirty. “Rawlins, Wyoming,” I said. “We stopped last year on our way to Petit Jean. Remember? The line guy was super nice and gave us a ride to a hotel.”

“Okay,” he nodded, “A hotel it is.” He shrugged and changed our course.

The mountains rose in front of us. Ten thousand feet above sea-level. Crystal blue lakes and patches of snow provided a deceptively inviting landscape. There were no ‘plan B’s’ for us here. Roy was focused on engine monitoring. He pointed at the navigation display in front of him. Four triangles with long yellow lines. The lines indicate speed and direction.

“Those guys are fast,” he said. I looked off our wing. I felt the rumble in my inner ear before I saw them. Four F-15’s sped by. “Caution wake turbulence,” I said. No sooner had I said the words than our plane bounced side to side. A con-trail ran in a long, white line where they’d been, then curved around toward us. “They’re coming back,” I squirmed in my seat. “They can see us, right?” Headlines flashed across my brain; Small plane obliterated in mid-Air collision with military fighter.

Roy turned a knob on the flight deck, and our plane banked gently to the left. “I think we’re fine,” he said, “but just in case.”

No sooner had he said the words than the jets were off our wing again, four of them, so close I could see the pilots. I inhaled sharply. “I think they’re looking at us.”

Roy grinned. “They’re probably thinking, cool plane. Wish I was flying one of those.”

The mountains rolled down to dark, rocky plains, liked plains like curled fists. Roy pulled the throttle back and we began our descent. Two states away, and it wasn’t even dinner time yet. It is a cool plane, I thought, and smiled. I’m ready.