On one early Monday morning, I took things for granted. I cut corners. I made certain assumptions about a departing fuel truck and an obscured fuel gauge—no substitute for pilot responsibility. Thirty minutes later, barely clearing the redwood ridge tops of the Santa Cruz mountains, I would dive for the first straight section of road I could find in the Silicon Valley.
I’ve given a lot of people their first flight. Seeing things as they are, from the air, is fundamentally optimistic. People tell me it’s transcendent because it allows them to see the day-to-day rat race in a different way. The transcendence of seeing your neighborhood or your city from six thousand feet is the spiritual opposite of living in forms.
Society will always tell us there’s no such thing as safe enough. We will add more and more sensors, cameras and lidar to things that drive themselves, while news headlines rage of man failing machine, machine failing man. We put in airbags and then a switch to deactivate them.
Tumbling from the heights of permanent snowfields, I pulled out over Lake Isabella, with a few hundred feet left to chance. The water surface reflected a seasawing yellow wing, my dash reflecting needles that no longer moved. I had no more fuel. The cockpit was covered in coffee, debris, and batteries. I had fought through wind and turbulence for 20 minutes.
The photo of the bridge disappearing into an unknown would tell the story that I was also flying into an unknown. But rather than the whiteness of a marine layer, it was the blackness of oil. Blowing out my cowling. While I flew on unawares, my wife shifted in her seat, looking out into the horizon, as if she knew already that life traded on the thinnest of margins.
Maximum depth of the Grand Canyon is 6000′, shortest width is 600′ with an average of 10 miles in most places. Even BonBon could do the simple math. So we puckered up for a “scenic flight” across one of the great seven wonders.
There is a lot of discussion about the state of GA, whether we are in decline or at the beginning of a renaissance. Briefly setting this ever tempting discussion aside, I’ll propose we are in an intermission: at nearly a million strong in the 1980s, active pilots halved a decade later; now, we are told, there’s been an increase every year since 2016. Somewhere between the GI Bill of our grandparents and the innovations in flight tech that are bringing our kids (and all ages) back to flight, we drift.
Flying at 500 feet off the shore or ruttering S-turns over the river is one of the most meditative things I’ve ever done. Thoreau, who as Pico Iyer reminds us was “one of the greatest explorers of this time,” wrote in his journal, “It matters not where or how far you travel—the farther commonly the worse—but how much alive you are.” Flying the Cub with the doors and windows open is the most alive I’ve ever felt.
Recently a friend and I had cause to celebrate a newly earned PPL, so in the midst of winter, we left snow-covered Idaho for a 4000-mile trip to the tip of Baja and back. A Super Cub is not the ideal plane for this mission. With only 46 gallons of usable fuel and 31-inch backcountry tires, our speed was limited to 100 miles per hour. This journey was going to be on Mexican time: low, slow and off the beaten path.