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We do not remember days, we remember moments.
—Cesare Pavese, Italian novelist/essayist
Since 1939, a feature in Flying magazine enjoying almost universal appeal has fallen under the title of I learned about flying from that. The stories told there have been described as harrowing, embarrassing, humorous and thrilling, to say nothing of being informative. They are replete with cautionary tales of “hard earned wisdom”—which is, of course, the whole point.
It seems to me there are almost limitless ways to learn about flying, and not all fall under one or more of the above adjectives; yet those lessons are there, and they are free for the taking. In fact, some happened even before we held a license to do the deed ourselves, or for that matter even before we might have considered it.
For me such an episode occurred when I was just an adolescent.
It happened during a winter festival on Silver Lake, a slightly larger than 300 acre lake in Waushara County, Wisconsin, where for decades my family had a second home. I was 14, the year was 1972. Dad hadn’t yet learned to fly—or even expressed a desire to learn to fly—flying was still a rare event in my family, and rides were being given as part of a larger, organized “winter celebration” on the lake. It was a sunny Saturday. At the west end of the lake was a crowd, a food tent set up, a whole range of activities in motion. The atmosphere was festive, and it should have been: it was a perfect winter day in East Central Wisconsin.
An airstrip was plowed through the snow for the “arrivals” and “departures,” and a Piper Cherokee on wheels—not skis—would be our ride. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, in retrospect, I think Dad was always secretly a little in love with flying, and he wasn’t going to miss an opportunity that day to partake. He also was always happy to include his children in his fun. This time would be no different. Each of my siblings would have a chance to take a quick round of the lake from above.
When my turn came, I was allowed the front seat. Belted in, all wide-eyed, I sat enthralled by the complexity of the instrument panel, and by the skill the pilot must have to know how to handle such a complex machine. In that moment I didn’t have slightest inkling that in just a few short years I too would be learning to fly, and that it would happen in an aircraft very much like the one I would experience that day. As it were, we hadn’t even taken off, and flying had already caught a little piece of me.
Then it got better. The pilot proceeded to taxi to the end of the ice strip, pausing momentarily to do what I later learned was a standard preflight check. And he made it look easy, even effortless. And it all seemed so procedural, so focused, so controlled. How could a 14 year old not be impressed? Our nose was pointed in the general direction of the SilverCrest restaurant, a popular steak house on the opposite shore. My heart raced. Then, simultaneously, he released the brakes and gently but firmly eased the throttle forward until it stopped at the firewall. Our takeoff roll had begun.
In a few short seconds, we were surging through 30 mph, then 40, then 50, and then, liftoff. The lake’s outline became immediately visible—and that steakhouse irrelevant. The air mass we were climbing in was completely stable. It seemed, in fact, that if not for the pilot’s inputs, we were standing still, while everything else was in motion. I remember all the neighboring lakes being in view, and their locations relative to one another and to our lake; and at that moment, too, seeing it all through different eyes than I ever had from the ground. In just moments, finishing our circuit—one big 360-degree turn—we aligned with our landing area, then began our descent. We were about three fourths of a mile out. With our ice strip now in full view and coming our way, my anticipation grew as the pilot reduced power.
I noted the downward pitch of the aircraft, the pilot making minor adjustments on throttle settings, pitch and roll attitudes, and flap settings. And then, clearing the trees on the shoreline, he eased into his flare, the airspeed bleeding off, the wheels softly touching the ice, their low rumble over the less than perfect surface filling the cockpit. Wow, it was over, and it was exhilarating. All that was left was a slow taxi back to the starting point to pick up another group.
It would be a short ride that day, just that big, lazy, arching left turn. I would have been thrilled to go again, but I was satisfied to have had a memorable, fun experience. It was probably my third ride in an airplane overall, following a trip to Michigan in a jet to visit my Uncle Jim and Aunt Dorothy; and an 8th grade class field trip to our community’s local airport for my first ride in a small craft.
This one for whatever reason was special. I think what resonated with me was the masterful ease with which the pilot performed his task; and the gracefulness and elegance of it all, both the aircraft and the actions, in that setting, on ice no less.
Today, looking back, I believe that experience may have nudged Dad one step closer to his decision to learn to fly. He entered flight school not long after.
That day on the ice over 50 years ago—a day my sun showed a little brighter and my sky a little bluer—I could not have dreamed of how we were, as a family, at the cusp of a long and still ongoing relationship with aviation—five pilots, three generations, across six decades. But maybe that’s what inspiration does.
It was “a moment,” and I learned about flying from that.
Above, Dad, me, and my son, David, still two decades out from earning his wings. It occurrs to me there might be something a little timeless about flying off ice. The above picture was taken more than a quarter century after that “winter celebration”in 1972, on the same lake; and below, still another quarter of a century later, just weeks ago, on Lake Winnebago, near my home in rural Fond du Lac County, WI.
- A Winter Flight That Sparked a Family Legacy in Aviation - April 7, 2025
- What was one of the scariest moments in your life? - April 24, 2024
A very positive story Neal. Thanks for sharing. BTW, the 180on skis and the PA-12 belong to friends of mine based at Hartford Arpt. northwest of Milwaukee. Ken and Keith will be honored that you put pics of their planes in the article. They’re likely having Sunday brunch at a place on the SE corner of Winnebago. Many of us have flown there for same, good food reasonable.
I also was inspired to eventually learn to fly, 48 years later, by a short trip from a small midwestern airport, 21D, Lake Elmo. Nice story which reminded me of that. Thanks.