"I hope you either take up parachute jumping or stay out of single-motored airplanes at night." - Charles A Lindbergh, 1931.
Actually, I felt quite calm. I was northbound, almost home after a long day. I had known it would be dark long before I got back to Monroe; I had watched the sun set over the city of St. Louis. From my vantage point 3,000 feet above the ground and 40 miles to the east, I could clearly make out the downtown skyline. The Gateway Arch glistened in the failing light. From that distance it looked like a fingernail clipping jabbed into the earth, fragile and petite.
Now it was perfectly black across the horizon. Not a hint of daylight glowed to the west. St. Louis was long gone; even if I looked over my shoulder and focused on the horizon, I could not make out the city lights. Just over Dixon, Ill., this was the homestretch of my journey, and without question the most glorious.
Dixon is south, southeast of Monroe, as the crow flies roughly 50 miles. To drive the distance takes one hour and 20 minutes, or thereabouts. This evening I was not driving; I was flying. Cocooned in my aircraft over a half-mile up and punching a path through the air at 120 miles per hour, it would take just 20 minutes to fly from Dixon to Monroe.
Mr. Lindbergh's anecdote was not far from my mind. It was night and I was in a single-engine aircraft. I was calm, but not complacent. Every few minutes I scanned the instruments. In the dimmed cockpit lighting I focused on the numerous engine gauges, and then the navigational equipment. I checked my heading, my attitude, and my airspeed. Everything checked normal, just as it had for the previous five hours.
Additionally, I hypothesized my contingencies. What if I lost oil pressure? What if the engine quit? What if I hit something - suppose a goose smashed into a wing? Directly beneath, and across the horizon were the answers. Should something happen now, I would land at Dixon. There - I can see the airport. If something happens in the next few minutes, I'll turn around and glide in; at this altitude I can make it. Five minutes from now, I can make the airport at Mt. Morris. Ten minutes from now I'll be able to make Freeport. I continually scanned, picking out options I hoped I would not have to utilize.
Despite these rather morbid calculations, I felt completely at ease. Five feet in front of where I sat, the 200-horsepower Ranger engine drummed along. Six pistons thrust up and down, 12 spark plugs set off explosions, a metal crankshaft spun on metal bearings; cams forced valves open while springs snapped them shut, gears whirred, magnetos clicked, and all the while a 6-foot propeller slapped the air at a rate of 2,200 revolutions per minute. Outside my window struts jutted to the wings and landing gear hung from the fuselage.
The ensemble should have been unbearably noisy and chaotic. It was not. Rather, the experience shone as a perfect example of harmony. The airplane was singing its tune, and every part was in key. In fact, the serenity and sense of peace was exquisite.
The atmosphere relaxed as night set in. No longer were ground thermals buffeting the airplane. The wind had all but died down. I rested my arm on the doorframe and draped my hand over the control stick. It took just two fingers to fly. The most minor corrections were all that was required to steer the ship; far less input than is needed to hold a car in its lane on the interstate.
What a view. Directly over Dixon, I could make out the Rock River snaking its way toward Rockford. Immediately to my left, the lights of Sterling were burning bright. Directly ahead was Freeport. Beyond were Brodhead, Juda, and Monroe. Everything was so close I could practically reach out and touch it. Each city glowed, like shimmering islands - exactly like bioluminescence in a dark ocean.
The nighttime view was soothing and therapeutic. Here and there, lights twinkled as some were turned on while others turned off. Automobiles flashed their indicators, dimmed their headlights, streetlamps illuminated pavement; cellular towers and windmills flashed red. Between the island-cities, dust clouds glowed around tractors as farmers worked late.
Overhead the stars twinkled and mimicked their terra firma counterparts. At the horizon, natural and artificial light blended as one, where there was neither beginning nor end. Mine was the best seat in the house. I was suspended mid-dimension, floating somewhere between the reality of earth, and the infinite heavens above.
So gentle was my flight that I hardly felt as though I was moving. I lined up the landing gear with a northbound car. Only by doing so could I confirm that I was traveling twice as fast. Speed, as it seemed, had caught up with me. Dixon was now behind, and I was ready to start my descent. Although on this evening I had proved Mr. Lindbergh wrong, the words of another aviator rang true. In 2007, 23-year-old Barrington Irving became the youngest person and first African-American to fly solo around the world. When asked why he flies, Irving remarked:
"There is nothing else I can think of that creates such an adrenaline rush and at the same time so much peace."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
Actually, I felt quite calm. I was northbound, almost home after a long day. I had known it would be dark long before I got back to Monroe; I had watched the sun set over the city of St. Louis. From my vantage point 3,000 feet above the ground and 40 miles to the east, I could clearly make out the downtown skyline. The Gateway Arch glistened in the failing light. From that distance it looked like a fingernail clipping jabbed into the earth, fragile and petite.
Now it was perfectly black across the horizon. Not a hint of daylight glowed to the west. St. Louis was long gone; even if I looked over my shoulder and focused on the horizon, I could not make out the city lights. Just over Dixon, Ill., this was the homestretch of my journey, and without question the most glorious.
Dixon is south, southeast of Monroe, as the crow flies roughly 50 miles. To drive the distance takes one hour and 20 minutes, or thereabouts. This evening I was not driving; I was flying. Cocooned in my aircraft over a half-mile up and punching a path through the air at 120 miles per hour, it would take just 20 minutes to fly from Dixon to Monroe.
Mr. Lindbergh's anecdote was not far from my mind. It was night and I was in a single-engine aircraft. I was calm, but not complacent. Every few minutes I scanned the instruments. In the dimmed cockpit lighting I focused on the numerous engine gauges, and then the navigational equipment. I checked my heading, my attitude, and my airspeed. Everything checked normal, just as it had for the previous five hours.
Additionally, I hypothesized my contingencies. What if I lost oil pressure? What if the engine quit? What if I hit something - suppose a goose smashed into a wing? Directly beneath, and across the horizon were the answers. Should something happen now, I would land at Dixon. There - I can see the airport. If something happens in the next few minutes, I'll turn around and glide in; at this altitude I can make it. Five minutes from now, I can make the airport at Mt. Morris. Ten minutes from now I'll be able to make Freeport. I continually scanned, picking out options I hoped I would not have to utilize.
Despite these rather morbid calculations, I felt completely at ease. Five feet in front of where I sat, the 200-horsepower Ranger engine drummed along. Six pistons thrust up and down, 12 spark plugs set off explosions, a metal crankshaft spun on metal bearings; cams forced valves open while springs snapped them shut, gears whirred, magnetos clicked, and all the while a 6-foot propeller slapped the air at a rate of 2,200 revolutions per minute. Outside my window struts jutted to the wings and landing gear hung from the fuselage.
The ensemble should have been unbearably noisy and chaotic. It was not. Rather, the experience shone as a perfect example of harmony. The airplane was singing its tune, and every part was in key. In fact, the serenity and sense of peace was exquisite.
The atmosphere relaxed as night set in. No longer were ground thermals buffeting the airplane. The wind had all but died down. I rested my arm on the doorframe and draped my hand over the control stick. It took just two fingers to fly. The most minor corrections were all that was required to steer the ship; far less input than is needed to hold a car in its lane on the interstate.
What a view. Directly over Dixon, I could make out the Rock River snaking its way toward Rockford. Immediately to my left, the lights of Sterling were burning bright. Directly ahead was Freeport. Beyond were Brodhead, Juda, and Monroe. Everything was so close I could practically reach out and touch it. Each city glowed, like shimmering islands - exactly like bioluminescence in a dark ocean.
The nighttime view was soothing and therapeutic. Here and there, lights twinkled as some were turned on while others turned off. Automobiles flashed their indicators, dimmed their headlights, streetlamps illuminated pavement; cellular towers and windmills flashed red. Between the island-cities, dust clouds glowed around tractors as farmers worked late.
Overhead the stars twinkled and mimicked their terra firma counterparts. At the horizon, natural and artificial light blended as one, where there was neither beginning nor end. Mine was the best seat in the house. I was suspended mid-dimension, floating somewhere between the reality of earth, and the infinite heavens above.
So gentle was my flight that I hardly felt as though I was moving. I lined up the landing gear with a northbound car. Only by doing so could I confirm that I was traveling twice as fast. Speed, as it seemed, had caught up with me. Dixon was now behind, and I was ready to start my descent. Although on this evening I had proved Mr. Lindbergh wrong, the words of another aviator rang true. In 2007, 23-year-old Barrington Irving became the youngest person and first African-American to fly solo around the world. When asked why he flies, Irving remarked:
"There is nothing else I can think of that creates such an adrenaline rush and at the same time so much peace."
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
