“Gravity is not just a good idea, it’s the law.”
It was either Isaac Newton or Nixon who coined that truism. Regardless, I’ve always enjoyed the sensation of flight.
In my younger days, I owned an airplane, and flew it for business and pleasure. On the business side, I could scour more country in an hour searching for cows than half a dozen mounted cowboys could ride in a day. I could land close to a remote windmill, and service it in a fraction of the time it would take to make the same trip by pickup.
On the pleasure side, I loved toodling around in the sky and feeling the principles of aerodynamics keep my butt from bouncing on the ground. There is a sublime freedom in flying an aircraft, The ground is two-dimensional, but the sky has three dimensions.
My aircraft of choice was a Bellanca Scout, sort of a Super Cub on steroids. Both are tail-draggers, better suited for short, rough landing strips, but trickier to land than a tricycle gear plane.
I bought the plane, tail number N-8621-Victor, from the doc that delivered my youngest son, and now you know where Victor Miller got his name. The Scout had tandem seats, one behind the other, and a dual set of controls for instruction.
My best friend in school, (his name rhymes with “Dave”) had never flown in his life. He had never been higher off the ground than he could jump. So, on a fine June day in 1980, he decided to go with me to check pastures.
Pilots and hunters call ‘em “bluebird days," bright, shiny and not a hint of wind. Perfect days for slipping the surly bonds of earth.
I showed Dave how to pre-flight the plane, then we strapped ourselves in. I walked him through the starting sequence, then we taxied to the runway. When we left the ground, I thought I heard him sigh a quiet “far out!”
We checked on cows, flew over vast herds of speedgoats that trailed clouds of dust, and dodged the odd eagle. Coyotes scattered in front of us like mice before a cat. Seminoe Reservoir was smooth as a mirror, and with the sun behind us, we chased our own shadow across the calm water.
At a safe altitude, I let Dave take the controls, to get the feel of the airplane. He banked into some slow turns, and followed a compass heading like a champ. If my amigo had any fear of flying, it was gone now. He was having a blast.
We headed back to the little Rawlins airport, and…….
Let me stop here and say that, if you want to appreciate the nearly indescribable beauty of Wyoming, fly a couple thousand feet over her on a clear June day and look down. Wyoming is another reason that I love flying.
…... Okay, back to the landing. I told Dave to put his hands on his lap and his feet on the floor, and we’d be on the ground in a few minutes, drinking cold beer.
But something bad happened as soon as the tires touched the runway. My little plan spun sideways and swerved across the asphalt, and landed upside-down in the sagebrush. It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Fuel was dripping down on us, and I had an intense pain in my upper back. I looked back to check on Dave, and his hands were curled in a death grip on my shoulders. He was muttering, “Let’s go, let’s go!”
We both walked away uninjured, but that is why my pilot’s logbook always indicated one more take-off than landing.
Rod Miller can be reached at: RodsMillerWyo@yahoo.com
