Collins Writing Prize Second Place: Livin’ the Dream
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Editor’s note: This article received second place in the 2026 Richard Collins Writing Prize for Young Pilots. Grace Eger, who also placed in the contest in 2023, shares a memorable winter lesson in humility—and a reminder of why flying is still the best job in the world.
Livin’ the Dream
by Grace Eger
“Grace,” Carter said, “You aren’t going to understand this phrase probably, but… what the sigma?!”
He pressed his nose against the window of the room connected to the hangar. He was right—I was no longer fluent in teenage vernacular—but judging by his tone I was going to want to look out the window. The roar of heavy machinery permeated the room. From where I sat behind a folding table, lesson plans and charts splayed in front of me, I couldn’t quite see. I got up in time to catch a glimpse of a mammoth yellow snowplow shoveling the taxiway leading to the neighboring T-hangars. I had to agree, they looked pretty cool. At the tail end of his tour of the hangar, I’d told him that the “clubhouse” was where the magic happened. Carter hadn’t been disappointed.
What felt like a routine day for me was anything but for Carter, who was experiencing his first “job shadow” for a school project. I had a good chuckle when his parents approached me with the request. Really? I thought. Being a CFI isn’t that impressive. I’d been teaching for maybe six months—barely a professional in the industry—but Carter needed to pass his class, and I figured a project for freshman English didn’t need to be too serious. At the very least, I’d give him a day off school. So there we stood, basking in the sun of one of those rare wintery, blue-sky Michigan afternoons, waiting for my student pilot to arrive.
I didn’t often fly in the winter. I found the bulk of coats in the cockpit and insufficient heat rather disheartening. However, this now being my main source of income, my underfed wallet protested louder than my frigid fingers. This made me especially grateful for my student, Brandon, who was willing to wear an extra layer for the furtherance of his private pilot training.
It would be a simple flight: hop over to a neighboring untowered airport, top the tanks off with cheap gas, brush up on a few maneuvers, soak in the last drops of sunshine, then debrief in the comfort of the clubhouse. In due time the airplane was preflighted, NOTAMs were checked, the lesson was briefed, and we were ready to roll. Carter, thrilled by the prospect of flying, looked like he could float off the ground where he stood. Even Brandon, who usually took pains to appear nonchalant, couldn’t contain his delight with the sunshine that made 20 degrees Fahrenheit feel balmy. This had the makings of a perfect day.
The paint-chipped Cherokee 140 easily slipped into the air on takeoff. Brandon was impressed by its performance, being accustomed to its summer sluggishness. I was impressed by Brandon’s performance, since this was his first soft-field takeoff after a month’s break, and Carter was impressed in general—this being his first flight. Every change in pitch or bank was accompanied by an “ooh” or an “ahh” from the back seat. Brandon pointed us in the direction of our destination while I fiddled with the cabin heat and Carter peppered me with questions over the crackly intercom: “How high are we? What does ‘radar contact’ mean? Why is he flying with just one hand?”
It was wonderful to be in the air again. Besides us, the CTAF at Fremont Municipal Airport was delightfully silent—surprising for such a beautiful day. I made plans for some pattern work after our fuel stop, relishing the idea that we had the airport to ourselves. After a smooth, uninterrupted pattern entry, we touched down on the patchy runway. Brandon let the airplane continue to roll as we approached the first taxiway.
“Hold up,” I said, grabbing the hand brake to slow us down. “Better to turn off earlier.”
“Are you sure?” Brandon asked. “I was thinking we’d taxi down a little farther. That one doesn’t look plowed.”
Sure, it looked a little snowy, but from where I sat it looked like a fairly thin layer. I squinted.
“No, no, I think it’s all right,” I said with a wave of my hand. “We can just power through it.”
“If you say so.”
Brandon bumped the throttle up, and the Cherokee happily rolled along. We traveled about halfway down the taxiway before she stopped with a faint crunch of snow.
Brandon gave me the side-eye.
“Try a little more power to get us moving.”
Brandon obliged.
“A little more.”
The engine roared.
“More…?”
There we sat, in the middle of the taxiway, full throttle. It appeared that the snow was deeper than I thought.
Brandon turned toward me. “What do we do?”
I sighed and cut the engine.
“We push.”
Brandon rolled his eyes as he pulled off his headset. I crawled out of the cockpit onto the wing, then slid onto the ground. My foot sank into several inches of snow.
Groan.
Each footprint outlined my walk of shame as I trudged to the front of the airplane.
“You guys, I’m so sorry about this! Brandon, with your help this should be quick.”
Brandon and I each took a wing, the frigid aluminum stinging our hands.
“Are you pushing?” Brandon shouted from across the wingspan.
“Yeah, are you?” I shouted back.
“Try harder!”
We rolled up our sleeves—figuratively—and pushed harder. My feet began to slide in two different directions, and I let up.
“Brandon, I think there’s ice underneath this snow.”
His steady stream of muttered expletives confirmed my concern. I would’ve been impressed by how long he could go if I hadn’t been so mad at myself. The airport was completely still. Not even the windsock moved.
“Is there ****ing anyone at the ****ing FBO?” Brandon asked.
I looked to the north. About a half mile of unplowed taxiway stood between us and the FBO.
“There’s never anyone there. I don’t know if it’d even be worth the effort. Let’s have Carter help.”
In front of the Cherokee, Carter pulled out his phone to snap a picture.
“What the sigma!!”
We pushed to no avail, our feet unable to find traction on the slippery surface. The silence of the winter air, once energizing, now weighed on us. Brandon ran out of cuss words. I vowed to never wish for an empty pattern again. Carter, panting, called his mom to inform her that he was stuck at the airport and would be late for dinner. Our red, cranky fingers felt more numb by the minute, and the sun slipped closer to the treeline, lengthening our shadows.
We paused for a break.
Brandon tried to hide his shivering. “Now what?”
“I don’t really have a plan B.”
Brandon groaned and flexed his gloveless hands.
I counted down. “3…2…1… Push!!”
We threw our weight against the airplane in one last, desperate attempt. I offered a silent signal-flare of a prayer: please God, help us get home before dark… and please don’t let Brandon quit flight training, and please don’t let Carter’s first impression of aviation be as bad as it looks!
“Use your legs,” shouted Brandon. “I think she’s moving!”
Miracle of miracles, he was right. The Cherokee leisurely ambled backwards as we slipped and strained until she rested on plain pavement.
Hallelujah!
Brandon clambered into the cockpit to make radio calls between chattering teeth while Carter and I rolled the airplane back onto the runway.
“Fremont traffic, umm… this is Cherokee 98R and we are pushing back out onto the runway because… well, uh… never mind. We’re on the runway so please don’t land on us. Fremont traffic.”
We ran back around the wing, scrambled inside, buckled, checklisted, and hightailed it out of there. There was just enough time on our reservation to fly back home—nothing more.
Back in the clubhouse, we stretched our frozen extremities and debriefed the flight. Brandon’s “lesson learned” was straightforward: don’t taxi where it hasn’t been plowed.
Fair enough.
So much for reviewing stalls and steep turns… not to mention my failed job shadow! What a sucky day.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”
“You’d better ****ing believe it!” Brandon grinned as he scheduled our next lesson.
It was completely dark now, and Carter and I were starving. I’d offered him a ride home, so we picked up dinner on the way.
“Grace,” he mumbled between bites, “I can’t believe you do this every day.”
I grimaced. “You didn’t catch me on one of my better days, that’s for sure.”
“No, like—you get to fly every day… for work!” Carter sat in the passenger seat with his Qdoba in his lap, completely content with the world. “I totally want to be a CFI when I grow up. This was the best. day. EVER!”
And you know what?
He was right.
- Collins Writing Prize Second Place: Livin’ the Dream - March 25, 2026
- Young and reckless - April 5, 2023
Great article, reminds me of why I don’t fly much during Michigan’s winter!
Nicely done. You have a gift.