Man has always wanted to fly. And seeing Wyoming from a
bird’s eye view is just about the best way possible to appreciate this
beautiful state.
And looking
down right now is just about as good as it can possibly get. The green valleys
are glistening with new growth while our purple mountains bask in the sunshine
with still enough pearly white snow to sparkle in the distance.
Our lakes are
as blue as our blue skies. And no skies in America are as blue as Wyoming’s.
Ah, what a
sight. Just love seeing Wyoming from the
air. Nothing like it in the world.
I write these
words as a person who piloted his own airplane for 30 years.
Legendary
flight instructors Les Larson and Larry Hastings taught me to fly in 1976. I bought an airplane with local accountant
named J. Ross Stotts. The plane we
bought was an old Piper P-28 that had been owned by the late Mable Blakely. She
was famous as one of the original “99s,” the name given to the first women
pilots in the country.
That plane was
heavy but fast – it was like landing on an aircraft carrier. Later I flew
Cessna 182s, which landed like a leaf falling from a tree.
I loved flying.
Every bit of it.
As a little boy,
my first flight was in a two-seater. I
was jammed between my dad and my Uncle Dick Johnson, both big men. We took off
and flew all over the hills and valleys of northeast Iowa. I can remember how
my stomach felt as we turned and climbed and soared. I even remember the smell
of the hot oil coming from the engine.
When we landed on a grass strip I recall saying to myself, “Someday that
is going to be me, flying my own airplane.”
It was 19
years later when I became a pilot.
I was part of
a small newspaper company that had newspapers in Lander, Greybull, Cody, Green
River, and Gillette.
Wyoming is so doggone
big; there is just about no way to make it smaller. But flying an airplane
instead of driving a car definitely works.
Flying from Lander to Greybull took a little over 30 minutes. It was a
three-hour drive.
That view of
flying over Boysen Reservoir and looking down on Wind River Canyon, well, it
was spectacular. To the northwest, the Absaroka Mountains were high and rugged.
The airport at Greybull was a piece of cake. The runway is wide and long
because of all the old converted bombers being used as fire-fighting tankers
that were based there. Plus Greybull gets very little wind.
Cody, on the
other hand, always had a nasty crosswind that blew down from Rattlesnake
Mountain right about the time you thought you had your landing in the bag. “Oops” or words to that effect usually
accompanied my landings at Cody.
Later on we
got involved with ownership of newspapers in Montana and South Dakota. Thus, we flew over the entire state of
Wyoming on these journeys. It was fun flying around the southern tip of the Big
Horn Mountains. Huge herds of domestic sheep
could be seen. Outlaw Canyon near Buffalo was spectacular.
I fell in love
with buttes during these flights. The
Pumpkin Buttes southwest of Gillette were probably my favorite although Pilot Butte
near Rock Springs comes close. One of the Rawhide Buttes outside of Lusk is
sure an odd piece of rock. Looks more like a pyramid.
The historic
Oregon Buttes on South Pass were so significant in our history. When those
500,000 Oregon Trail emigrants reached these buttes, they knew they had crossed
the Continental Divide and were more than halfway home.
Crowheart Butte southeast of Dubois
is a landmark that you can see from a long ways off.
And flying
over Devils Tower is unforgettable. What
a monolith! I learned to love the
Wyoming Black Hills from flying over them so many times.
I rarely flew directly
over the top of mountains. But I could look out the window and see the jagged
peaks of the Wind Rivers or the impressive canyons of the Big Horns.
Flying over
Elk Mountain and Kennaday Peak between Rawlins and Laramie could be
frightening. Crazy odd winds along that
route, known on the ground as the Interstate 80 Snow Chi Minh Trail.
Here is part
of a wonderful poem that I love, which talks about the love of flying. It is
called High Flight by John Gillespie
McGee Jr. Its final lines go like this:
“Up,
up the long delirious burning blue,
“I’ve
topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace.
“Where
never lark, or even eagle, flew;
“And,
while silent, lifting mind I’ve trod
“The
high untrespassed sanctity of space.
“Put
out my hand, and touched the Face of God.”
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