After our close encounter at Hart, Paul and I rode in silence.
It’s funny how a brush with disaster can make you sit back and reflect. We crossed from Louisiana into Texas over a gnarly body of water labeled as the Toledo Bend Reservoir. Just like that, we effortlessly sailed across another state line.
As the Fairchild PT-19 chugged along, I leisurely glanced down and watched the earth roll past like a 360-degree, slow-moving conveyor belt.
The thought struck me then, as it always does when I fly, what a privilege it is to be able to look down on it all. How often do you get to sit back and appreciate this remarkably beautiful world we live in?
Crossing over the Toledo Bend Reservoir was significant in two ways. First, we were well over halfway to Corpus Christi. Second, the headwind that had plagued our progress all day — and nearly brought us crashing down at Hart — had subsided. We were making much better progress, and had every reason to expect to make it to Corpus Christi well before dusk.
In the open cockpit I swiveled my attention all the way from the left to the right, soaking up 360 degrees of unobstructed view. The rugged and rough logging territory of southern Arkansas gave way to soft, blue-green, low-lying marshland. Above the ever-present aroma of hot engine oil and exhaust fumes, the dank and salty bouquet that defines a marine ecosystem enveloped the open-air cockpit. No question, we were nearing the Gulf.
We passed just to the east of Jasper, Texas. One of the more interesting observations of our trip was to note how the ground elevation dropped steadily throughout the day. Cape Girardeau, Missouri is situated on land that is 342 feet above sea level. Jasper, 213 feet above sea level. Galveston International Airport is just 6 feet above sea level. As we neared the coast there were no hills or discerning features — just an endless, low-lying, featureless expanse of marshland that was both stunning and spectacular in its own right.
On this leg of the journey as we neared Galveston, I witnessed one of the most spectacular views I have ever seen from an airplane. All day long, the sky had been obscured by a smeary overcast. As we approached the coast, the cloud layer sunk lower, just as the ground elevation tapered off to meet the sea. I descended so as not to fly amongst the clouds. The ceiling was low — only about 1,500 feet, so Paul and I cruised along at 800 feet off the ground. We were sandwiched between the endless expanse of low-lying marshland, and an overcast sky. We were threading a needle; bridging a void. We were close enough to the ground to savor the details, yet elevated enough to appreciate the expanse. I felt connected to the earth, yet high enough to reach up and touch the clouds.
Here and there, lazy and unthreatening rain showers sprung up as the darker clouds became overburdened and let loose, sending a cascade of water down to the earth. From our vantage point, the rain showers appeared as long, shimmering curtains that bridged the vacuum between earth and sky. The view was spectacular, and appeared like so many bridal veils across the horizon.
There were a series of thunderstorms far to the west, hitting Houston. The route Paul and I were on offered no such danger, and I idly swung the PT-19 to the left, and to the right in order to avoid any serious rainfall. As I skirted the edges of the showers, tiny droplets of water formed on the windshield. The droplets merged with other droplets, and then ran up the plexiglass, leaving quivering, short-lived water trails. The air temperature dropped pleasantly, and I savored the cooling sensation of the mist.
Throughout the day, I followed our route on my handheld GPS. Even as we were airborne, I could access weather and airport information. As I weaved amongst the water veils, my radar screen mirrored each downpour. It was utterly fascinating to observe a developing rain shower on the horizon, and then veer slightly to avoid the downpour, and then follow precisely those movements on a real-time radar screen.
I marveled at this marriage of sensation and technology as Galveston sparkled into view. I was experiencing the most primal feeling of all — the wind and rain on my face — as I soared nearly a thousand feet off the ground, observing weather form and then dissipate right in front of my eyes. All of this replicated and recorded real-time on a GPS screen that promised with confidence a safe and unobstructed journey across more than 700 miles of a variety of terrain. We would have to stop once more for fuel along the Gulf coast, but Galveston represented the home stretch on our flight to Corpus Christi.
What a privilege it is, to Rise Up.
— Dan Wegmueller is the owner of Wegmueller Farms and his column appears regularly in the Times. His website is https://www.farmforthought.org.
