I looked down the length of the wing. I did not like what I saw.

I circled the airport, designated as “Hart” on the sectional. Hart appeared as a single east-west paved runway carved out of gnarly, low-lying woodland in west-central Louisiana. There was fuel and a few buildings, but little else. The orientation of the runway made for a perfect crosswind. It was not favorable to land in either direction, and the wind was steady at 20 miles per hour on the ground.

I circled Hart, weighing my options. The next closest airports along our route were either flagged as closed for runway maintenance, or did not offer fuel for sale. Hart was our best option.

I set up my approach. Immediately, the wind delivered a series of blows, as if rejecting our intent to land. The Fairchild PT-19 is a robust and forgiving trainer, but we were fighting a riptide. I added flaps to control our descent, and managed the approach with the throttle.

The airplane bucked, tipped, and swooped. The gusts of wind felt exactly like swells on the ocean, and I instinctively worked the throttle in anticipation of each rise, and each fall.

A gust of wind slammed the PT-19, giving it extra lift and tossing it higher. I carefully throttled back so as not to gain too much altitude. Anticipating the apex of the gust, I added power so we didn’t drop out of the sky when the boost expired.

Throttle up; throttle down, each time with the expectation of a gust coming or going. The runway was close — the tree line blurred past, and gave way to mowed grass. We were nearly there, just a few more gusts and I would set us down, timing our landing to match a trough between the gusts. We had been crabbed sideways to compensate for the velocity of the wind, so I used the rudder pedals to straighten the airplane.

We were close — so close. The runway threshold slid past. The airspeed indicated 70 miles per hour; a perfect approach. Our altitude was treetop height.

And then, my world slowed to a crawl. A deep and resolute thought permeated my consciousness and I became aware of nothing else: “This is not going to end well.”

I became hyper-aware of my circumstances. The gusts had intensified, flinging the airplane higher and dropping us lower each time. This landing was unsalvageable. I added full power and reached down to release the flaps, but hesitated — flaps slow the airplane, but increase lift. If I dumped the flaps now, we would drop like a rock. I pulled back slightly on the stick, but we were still dropping. My eyes darted to the airspeed, which registered below 60 miles per hour. I could feel the controls turn mushy and unresponsive.

Nose-up attitude, full power, bleeding speed, much too low to lose flaps, maybe 100 feet off the ground; the realization washed over me — the airplane was about to stall. I pushed forward on the stick just as the airplane stopped flying.

I felt the PT-19 break loose. The wings no longer produced lift. Out front, my view changed from cloudy sky to pavement as we plunged. I held the stick forward and danced on the rudder pedals to keep the wings level. The engine roared and the propeller clawed frantically at the air as the ground rushed up to greet us.

Something caught. The wind changed. The propeller took solid bites of air. The wings did their thing. The PT-19 recovered. I glanced down. Had we hit the ground, we would have smashed runway lights and skidded into the tree line. No time for reflection — I pulled back on the stick, which translated into altitude.

And then, it happened again. The airplane broke loose a second time and plummeted. Again, I pushed the stick forward to ride out the fall. Out front, my view changed from cloudy sky to trees and steel buildings. For the second time, I imagined what it would be like to smash into the earth. Amazingly, I felt a sense of calm. I watched the buildings and trees grow larger and larger, and then sensed the recovery.

For the second time in as many seconds, the PT-19 caught itself and we gained altitude. Safely above the trees, I reached down and disengaged the flaps. The airplane dipped from the sudden loss of extra lift, but our airspeed ticked up to 70 miles, and then 80. We were out of danger, but still needed fuel.

At the west end of the airport was a north-south grass spur, facing directly into the wind and easily long and wide enough to accommodate the PT-19. However, the airport directory made no mention of a grass option — only the paved runway. At that moment a US Army Lakota helicopter approached Manly. I radioed the pilot, “Manly helicopter traffic, I am a taildragger running low on fuel and I don’t like this crosswind. Is that north-south grass strip an option to land?”

A weary but commanding voice responded, “Taildragger, I know the crop-dusters use it in the summertime.” With that, the Lakota bounced and departed to the southeast.

I set up my approach and executed a textbook touchdown on the grass strip, directly into the wind. We rolled to a stop, turned, and taxied to the fuel tanks in silence. I shut down the engine and secured the airplane. Paul found a place to sit down and quietly remarked, “You know, you saved the airplane.”

His comment caught me off-guard. “What do you mean? I should’ve never tried to land. I nearly wrecked the airplane.”

“No way, I felt it when we stalled. But you had already added power. We would’ve crashed if you hadn’t added power when you did.”

The windsock snapped back and forth. We were just over halfway to Corpus Christi, Texas. I reflected on all of this, and the frailty of life in general while I fueled the PT-19.

With nothing left to accomplish at Hart, I climbed onto the wing and settled into the pilots seat. Because that’s what you do when a horse throws you off — you get right back on.

— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.