Dreams Forgotten
I was flying in the heart of the Rocky Mountains. It was a beautiful fall day with blue skies and white clouds. Not the menacing clouds the Rockies can develop, but those inviting clouds, welcoming a pilot to linger in the air a little longer. The winds were calm. The slopes were dusted with snow, and the aspens were on fire with color. I could hardly take it all in.
“That’s Breckenridge off to our left,” came across the intercom.
My instructor was pointing out the mountain and the town. I was participating in a mountain flying course out of Colorado Springs. The course was intense but rewarding, and today’s flight was definitely one of those rewards. As Breckenridge drifted beneath the wing, memories I’d forgotten for decades came rushing back.
My family and I traveled to Breckenridge annually for ski trips. Some of the best memories of my teen and early college years were made on those trips. Those trips played a big role in my ultimate desire to learn to fly. As I rode the ski lifts, I would daydream of a time I might fly myself to Colorado for a ski trip.
A young man with big dreams.
I’ve written before about my primary instructor, Eddie Duffard. I really wish there were more instructors like him. During flight training, I mentioned to Eddie my desire to fly to Colorado for a ski trip. I told him one of my goals was to fly myself to Colorado for a ski trip.
Rather than launching into a list of mountain hazards, his response was encouraging.
“You could do that.”
We talked about airplanes capable of making the trip. He shared some of his own experiences. Then he stopped. He wanted one promise.
Without trying to discourage me, he explained that mountain flying required additional knowledge and skills. He wanted me to promise that I would never venture into the mountains until I had received proper mountain flying instruction. I agreed I would seek such instruction, and I assured him I would keep that promise.
I promised that I would never venture into the mountains until I had received proper instruction.
I had completely forgotten about that conversation, but as the slopes of Breckenridge passed below, it came flooding back into my consciousness.
Back at the hotel that evening, I kept asking myself the same question.
How had I forgotten that conversation? More importantly, how had I forgotten that dream?
I’ve written before that I experienced a lull in my flying. I received my private certificate, did some flights with family and friends, and ate several $100 hamburgers. But then I “needed” to get my instrument rating. Flights became about satisfying FAA requirements. Once I earned my instrument rating, they became about maintaining currency. Then something would happen and I’d have a lull in flying. When I got back into flying, I needed hours to regain currency.
Somewhere along that path, I forgot the dreams and the wonder of flight. I started to fly for utility. I utilized my ratings and general aviation for “business and personal use” as I dutifully checked the insurance forms. After logging 1,200 hours or so, I didn’t hate flying, but I also couldn’t honestly say I was enjoying it. Yet, nothing was wrong. That’s what made it insidious.
“The airplane had become transportation instead of possibility.”
I still looked forward to trips. I still appreciated a beautiful sunset from 8,500 feet. But somewhere, flying had become practical. I launched, climbed, cruised, landed, tied down, and went on with my day. The airplane had become transportation instead of possibility. The dreams and adventures had somehow faded.
I still looked forward to trips and appreciated a beautiful sunset.
My logbook was accumulating hours, but I was accumulating a collection of forgotten dreams.
That flight in Colorado is part of my rediscovering the joy of flying. One forgotten dream had been awakened, and as often happens, it uncovered another.
My wife and I completed a journey in the Cub last summer.
My wife and I completed a journey in the Cub last summer. It was a trip out west, covering Texas, New Mexico, Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, and Kansas. It took ten days, fifty flight hours, and 4,500 miles.
That trip had as its seed an article long forgotten. Decades earlier, I had read about a father and son who flew a J-3 Cub from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon. The article described the places they visited, but more importantly, it described the relationship they built along the way.
When I first read it, I remember thinking how much fun that would be. I added it to my “bucket list,” even though at that time, I had never heard of or used that term.
Then life happened. The article quietly slipped into the back of my mind, and the planned flight was forgotten. But it was patiently waiting. Years later, as my flying changed from just utilitarian to also experiential, that forgotten dream resurfaced. And from it came one of the greatest flying adventures my wife and I have ever shared.
Yes, we saw remarkable places. More importantly, we experienced dozens of small moments that deepened our relationship in ways only a slow journey through the sky seems capable of doing.
I’ll write that story someday.
It was fabulous.
I’ve written how a long-delayed trip to AirVenture and a chance introduction to a future friend and mentor helped shake some of my dreams loose. As I began remembering the childlike desires I had when I first started flying, they reignited something inside me.
Didn’t I once really want to do a loop in an airplane?
The answer was yes, and an introduction to aerobatics instilled a new passion for upside-down flight.
Didn’t I once really want to do a loop in an airplane? Absolutely!
Didn’t I once want to fly in Mr. Piper’s yellow Cub?
Again yes, and a ride in a J-3 led to a tailwheel endorsement.
That endorsement led to a grass strip landing.
The grass strip led to a local fishing fly-in.
The fly-in led to backcountry flying.
As my old dreams resurfaced, and I allowed myself the opportunity to experience them, flying became exciting again. The more dreams I crossed off my proverbial bucket list, the more new dreams found their way into it. My bucket is now overflowing.
As my old dreams resurfaced, flying became exciting again.
Now, I’m an old man with big dreams.
As I reflect, mountain flying isn’t really about skiing. The Cub trip wasn’t really about flying west. Aerobatics aren’t about upside-down flight. These flights were never really about the destination. They were the dreams of a young man who believed aviation could take him anywhere. As each of those dreams comes back to life, a little of that young man comes back with it.
The dreams of young men (or women) don’t expire. Sometimes they simply are forgotten, waiting patiently beneath logbooks, ratings, careers, and responsibilities until something—a mountain, an old article, a familiar airport, or an old instructor’s words—brings them back to life.
If aviation has quietly become more routine than wonder for you, know that this can happen to any of us.
Students become private pilots.
Private pilots become instrument pilots.
Instrument pilots become aircraft owners.
Owners become commuters.
Professional pilots build careers.
“The dreams that first pulled us toward aviation don’t disappear. They simply wait to be rediscovered.”
Somewhere along the way, flying can quietly become routine instead of remarkable. The dreams that first pulled us toward aviation don’t disappear. They simply wait to be rediscovered.
The dreams that first pulled us toward aviation don’t disappear.
If aviation has become more routine than wonder, maybe it’s time to go looking for those dreams again. Find a quiet place at home, a park bench, or maybe the picnic table outside your local airport. Take yourself back to the time when you looked skyward and imagined soaring like a bird. Try to remember the day before your first flight. Somewhere, there’s probably a dream—or a promise—you once made to yourself.
Maybe it was flying to Oshkosh.
Maybe it was landing on a grass strip.
Maybe it was crossing the Rockies.
Maybe it was teaching your granddaughter to fly.
Maybe it was simply taking an airplane nowhere in particular on a perfect Saturday morning.
Whatever that dream or promise was, it hasn’t disappeared. It’s simply been waiting for you to rediscover it.
As it turned out, Eddie was right.
“I could do that.”
Ironically, that wasn’t a ski vacation. It was a training flight through the Colorado mountains that led me to rediscover the young man with big dreams.
I wonder where you’ll rediscover yours.
- Dreams Forgotten - August 3, 2026
- Friday Photo: Enjoying AirVenture - July 24, 2026
- Friday Photo: Circles in the Sky - July 10, 2026
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