I pulled the hotel room curtains open. The view outside on this April, 2019 morning was not encouraging. This was not a great day to fly. The sky was smeared and overcast. It was not raining, nor was it supposed to, but the wind was troubling — 15 miles per hour sustained, with gusts up to 25 directly out of the southwest. There was no other way; I would be fighting a headwind all the way from Southeast Missouri to the Texas coast.
From the vantage point of the Missouri hotel room, I could see US Interstate 44 humming with activity. Even at this predawn hour, people were on the move. Traffic zoomed both directions - north and south - while a steady stream of plastic bags and trash carried by the wind bounced along the median and shoulders like contemporary tumbleweed. What a time to be alive.
Even at 5:00 in the morning, the Crystal Meth Highway was awake. It probably didn’t get much sleep either.
“Need anything besides smokes?” I asked Paul as we stepped into the gas station. I felt anxious to get moving. Daylight was fast approaching, and the anxiety was quite familiar — I get that same feeling when we make a cutting of alfalfa at the farm, with rain in the forecast, and we have one day to get it all done with no machinery breakdowns or unforeseen complications. “Make hay when the sun shines!” as the saying goes.
I felt that same “let’s get moving” anxiousness as I grabbed an armful of water bottles and snacks, and immediately became aware of the amused glances of the cashier. From my peripheral vision, I could sense him watching me. On occasion our eyes met, and the amused look on his face grew more and more pronounced. Something about my presence at 5:30 in the morning was clearly entertaining to him.
I made my way to the register to pay. There were bars and thick glass separating me from the cashier, who wasn’t even trying to hide his amusement at this point. “And how is your morning going?” I locked eyes with him.
He burst into laughter and shook his head, “I’m sorry man, y’all just look so damn cute in your matching uniforms!” and nodded toward Paul.
At that moment I realized — Paul and I were wearing exactly the same outfits. We matched perfectly. Jeans, sunglasses on baseball caps, and denim button-up work shirts from an aircraft engine repair shop — we couldn’t have planned it better if we had tried, and this was exactly the levity I needed. I threw my head back and laughed, “Well, we’ve got an extra shirt in the truck if you want to join the club!”
The attendant passed my change through the slot underneath the glass, laughing and shaking his head, “Nah — looks like y’all got it under control.”
In anticipation of an early start, we had packed the airplane the day before. The load for this journey included a protective tarp for the open cockpit in case of rain, our two small bags of personal luggage, a spare set of magnetos, snacks and bottles of water, an empty gallon jug in lieu of being able to pull over to use a restroom, and a case and a half of engine oil. Most importantly, I tucked a gift basket of Wisconsin cheese and beer for the US Navy airshow coordinator who had arranged for us to participate in the Wings Over South Texas Airshow. Full of fuel and oil, we would take off heavy, and get lighter as the trip progressed.
I walked around the Fairchild PT-19 airplane, performing the preflight inspection and generally looked for a reason to not take off.
As unusual as it may sound to look for a reason to abort the trip, one of the more dangerous aspects of flying is a condition known as “get-there-itis.” This condition affects pilots who are so focused on reaching their destination that they overlook crucial details to the detriment of safety. I didn’t like the wind, but it was manageable and in and of itself not a reason to abort the trip. Waiting for the wind to die down was not an option, as the forecast for southeast Missouri promised deteriorating conditions, whereas weather along our route was expected to improve.
By now, Paul had climbed aboard and was situating himself in the passenger seat with the safety harness. Satisfied, I climbed onto the wing and slid into the pilot’s seat.
Strapped in and comfortable, I started the engine. The WWII-era Ranger engine roared to life. I scanned the engine gauges and turned on the transponder and radio. Paul and I established communication through our headsets over the idle rumble of the engine.
I performed one more scan, looking once again for a reason to abort the trip. The airplane gave me none. My consciousness welled as I realized this was it — we were about to fly ourselves from sleepy Southeast Missouri to an active military base in Corpus Christi, Texas.
Time to make hay, sunshine or not.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
