Back in the Air
When I saw the notice in the morning paper that said general aviation was getting back off the ground, I didn't believe it of course. But it checked out on the web, and Hillside Aviation said, Sure, come out 'n fly. There are still restrictions; you can't fly into the area of a large airport without filing an instrument flight plan. The FAA is also refusing to allow further flight instruction for the time being, though why, is not entirely clear. They also won't open Washington National Airport. It doesn't seem like they appreciate that there is little they can do to stop what happened on Tuesday, regardless of their desire and authority.
But this not about our government, it's about flying. Those malefactors slandered flying with their actions last week. It was a kind of cheating. Like using nerve gas. And we don't want to speculate how that line might be crossed.
On the day of the bombing, all aircraft were ordered to land immediately. The Cessna Skyhawk in which I had earned my instrument rating had been grounded the nine days since. The windshield was dusty, and the battery needed a boost to turn the prop. This I discovered after a longer than usual pre-flight check of the aircraft. There was no evidence that it had suffered during the hiatus. No bird's nest under the cowling, which happens sometimes, just over night.
I performed the run-up check of the engine. It sounded strong and confident. The gauges also said appropriate things, and another plane was waiting behind me to take-off. Still, I quickly scanned my take-off checklist a second time, and then I eased my aircraft onto the runway. A final survey of the instruments as I opened the throttle and we spurred down the runway. At 65 knots, I pulled back slightly on the yoke, and in only a second or two, the nosewheel was off the tarmac, followed by the rest of us.
I didn't know where I was going until I was airborne. Usually a pilot announces which way he his headed after take-off, but not having decided, there was no intention to declare. I might have gone down to Red Bluff or over to Redding Municipal for a couple of landings. I might have headed to the coast, but I didn't know the status of the coastal fog. But as I was rising above the runway, I knew my direction and kept us pointed to the north.
I put the plane into a slow climb. Pouring through the haze that clouded this northern end of the Sacramento Valley, we crossed the first line of hills at the south end of Lake Shasta at 4,000 feet. A persistent drought has dropped the lake levels by almost a hundred feet. Between the tree line and the water line is a wide girdle of red-orange soil; in some places, fresh bright green grass has started to sprout. And in some parts of the lake, old dead trees are poking through the surface by several feet. Kinda curious, these stark sentinels of a drowning some sixty years ago, when the dam was finished.
I make for Mount Shasta, poking it's nose out of the Cascade Range at 14,162 above sea level. Only a few hundred feet shorter than Mt. Whitney. Interstate Five weaves its way from Redding to Mount Shasta, back and forth through the gorges hewn by the Sacramento River at the base of 6,000-foot peaks; it probably adds another eight miles to the journey. But I'm above it all. I level out at 9,500 and fly over Shastina, a 6,500-foot mountain-ette, relative to and west of the mystical Shasta.
I suddenly realize that the demons are exorcized. I can head back. I flick on my turn signal, figuratively, and circle around the upper cone of Mount Shasta. There's still some snow toward the top, even on the south face, and most of it will likely remain until it is buried in the winter offering.
It's deliciously cool up here. Not enough for a jacket, but enough to close an air vent. To the east, the sun is still climbing over distant mountains. In the foreground, layering themselves out toward the horizon are ridge after ridge of smaller hills, greyed in shadowy pastels. They're much like views you see in California posters, which look like graphics, but are actually photographs.
I would like to have practiced some touch-'n-go landings at"Muni", but the FAA says that looks like flight instruction which isn't allowed so I can't. Instead I land, then taxi back to the head of the runway and take off. Returning to my home field six miles away, I bring the aircraft in with a B-plus landing, and taxi to a tie-down spot. Again, closing out my flight, I watch myself focus more attention on what until last week had been cursory procedures. A small silver lining.
They can never take away what we know. Let's let the wisdom shine.
And that's SetonnoteS...I'm Tony Seton.