A Bird's Eye View

1/13/06

Being high gives me a thrill. I don't know whether it's the fact that I've always been a pretty tall guy, or whether it's something that my parents installed in me from a child. Or maybe my enthusiasm stems from some genetic trait. Whatever the reason, I absolutely love hiking mountains, rock-hopping up creeks, riding in elevators, preferring lunch on the 38th floor of a building that I worked in two summers ago... Perhaps that's part of the reason that I was so motivated to earn my Private Pilot's licence this past summer.

Flying is a passion of mine as well as a very expensive hobby. I first discovered my love for flight from my grandfather, who has flown for 60 years now. And now that I have my licence, I absolutely must maintain my skills. This is accomplished by taking flights in the area and abroad every now and then, just to get some practice in. After three weeks of being "grounded" due to weather, it was high time that I get into the air again.

Flying in this area is absolutely breath-taking. My flight on this particular day was no exception. I planned on taking off at around 3:30 so that I could get an hour or two in before the sun set. Not that I don't love flying during sunsets, (in fact it's my favorite time to fly) but this particular flight was a "mission." My mission was to test my skills and knowledge in all of the practical areas so that I could properly "brush up" on everything I had learned in training. Here is a description of my flight from an "ecoliterature" standpoint:


There is something comforting about the smell of fuel and oil. Just as a trucker befriends his semi and calls it home, so does a pilot befriend his cockpit. He knows it inside and out. The best pilot is the one that uses the controls as another appendage. "Become one with the plane."
Amidst the brainwaves firing in my head, I imagine myself as a hawk as I first lift off. My direction and speed are in my control.
The first thing that I notice on taking off is the majesty of the heaps of rock and grass. The largest of which is called "Bishop's Peak." The royalty seems appropriate. The winter season in San Luis Obispo calls out to new life, beckoning it to emerge from the ground perhaps a month or two earlier than tradition dictates. Winter elsewhere means bleak. It means dreary, cloudy, drizzly, wet, frigid; not so in the local realms! Winter promises cool air with the occasional sprinkle with which to water the earth.
Abruptly I turn left. And again. I'm on my way now.
Infinite waters sparkle, like a million eyes turning at just the right time to give me that twinkle, sent from abroad on scrunched ripples. I tune out the constant hum of the engine and hear nothing, as if I were gliding over the surface of the waters.
SNAP! The man in the control tower interrupts my thoughts, and the electronic voice directs other traffic. I begin my descent near Vandenburg AFB. "Lompoc traffic, Cessna 62 Mike, 10 miles North, 3500 descending, Lompoc." It's all coming back: carb heat, throttle, flaps. Before I know it, I am on the ground. Quick! Flaps back, throttle full, carb heat off! Five seconds later, I'm airborne again, and suddenly the engine is tuned out. As I look off my right wing, I see a dreamlike picture:
An emerald hillside, no fence to mark its boundaries, and no trees to disturb its continuity. Perfectly placed upon the hill is a herd of dairy cows grazing on the sweet grass. These bovine are not like most. Instead of the usual earth-tones of color, I see black and white, spotted in stereotypical perfection. They continue to munch on their greens, unaffected by the steel hawk buzzing overhead and unawares that their simplicity brings joy to a more complex being.
Sunsets on flight are like a feast for the eyes. The cones that interpret the colors dance around inside my eyes for the joy of seeing new shades of pink and orange. The sun seems to stretch itself out sideways as if it were reaching with its arms to capture every last bit of sky and sea with its rays. It's almost as if it doesn't want to go. But it leaves out of duty because it knows that we live our lives according to its time... it leaves hesitantly, but rises eagerly. What a strange thing, the ball of burning gases - the source of heat and light that warms my face on a spring day is the same consuming, raging storm that has not ceased for thousands upon thousands of years.
And my steel hawk flies home.