It had been just four months since I climbed out of the plane with the beaming smile on my face that proved I was certified private pilot. At age 17, it truly seemed unreal to me. Nevertheless, today was the day, and a beautiful day at that, for the longest cross country flight of my young career.

Having watched many an airshow and movie about WWII and later air combat, I have often wondered how the airmen tolerated the +/- g-forces, twisting maneuvers, inverted flight, and constant head-turning required. Turns out even our aerobatic and combat heroes are not immune to motion sickness.

There will be few pilots, professional or amateur, who will not remember the good instructors with whom they have flown. Conversely, those instructors who have denigrated your best efforts and in doing so destroyed your self confidence, are invariably remembered with a cold contempt usually reserved for one's worst enemy.

In a recent post I bemoaned the fact that the fatal accident rate for private flying had gone up to 1.40 per 100,000 hours after remaining level in the 1.20 range for almost 20 years. Guess what it was when Air Facts started in 1938? Would you believe 16.6, or, a fatal accident about every 6,000 hours.

For one week each year, the desolate Black Rock desert in Nevada becomes a swirling city of parties and new friendships - Burning Man. It even has its own airstrip, which pilot Jim Salters used to capture this aerial view of the temporary city.

All was normal at the top of descent until we both spotted what looked like an undulating patch of orange mist ahead and slightly below us. There was a sort of velvety sheen appearance to it. My captain and I looked at each other with the most unflattering miens, I’m sure, and exclaimed simultaneously: “Northern lights…!!”