Over the Mountain

January 7, 2023

I opened my eyes, glad to see the Rocky Mountains beneath me, and the plane still level. My then-girlfriend, Jewel, was looking at me quizzically, but I forced a grimace. I looked out the window nonchalantly and tried to keep my hands from white-knuckling the vinyl seating. Everything was going to be ok.

Commercial airliners have always made me a bit queasy. I always used to tell my father that humans weren’t meant to fly.

“But planes are!” He would always joke back. Hardly reassuring.

Southwest Airlines at least had cocktails to make the invisible speed bumps a little less scary. Fortunately for my liver, but unfortunately for present me, I’m not an alcoholic, and no amount of booze would calm me from the rickety old single-engine biplane in front of me, seemingly held together with duct tape and string.

The Aspen air was crisp and cool, and I took a deep breath as I squinted against the high-altitude sun at our pilot, Gary. Gary was one of two flight instructors who founded the Aspen Flight School in 1995. He had over 25 years of piloting experience in some of the most turbulent winds in America. Having an experienced pilot for a short flight did absolutely nothing for my heart rate, and my inner dialogue insisted that no matter how small of a probability a crash was, we were the lucky ones.

In an effort to calm myself, I tried to detach from my body. I turned and saw the sun glint off of the metal. The wings were about eye level, on top of the body. Three blades sat stationary, and I wondered how the hell THAT was going to keep four bodies aloft. The rectangular body tapered towards the tail, with the rudder standing tall. This Cessna 210 single-engine biplane was going my ride to the town over, the “more scenic” and quicker alternative to a three-and-a-half-hour ground trip.

We were venturing to Gunnison, a small Colorado town around 50 miles from Aspen. There was a small greasy spoon there that had hash browns to die for. I hoped they didn’t mean that literally. Gary had pulled the plane from the hanger and opened the doors. Myself, Jewel, her mother, and Gary climbed in. I was in the back, behind Gary. His seat slid back into place, and he climbed in. The rotors turned laboriously, the engine churning. It caught. We began to move, and my blood pressure stabilized. I watched the wheels turn, breathing intentionally, drawing squiggles in the gravel with the point of my shoe. I pulled out my phone again, noting the time dilation and musing how the world would be different if a minute really did last an hour.

In an instant we were at the end of the runway, and we turned. The plane picked up speed. It was much different than being in a jet airliner, where the force presses you against the seat. It was much gentler, and then we were airborne. The ground shrunk quickly, but everything was smooth. However, hopes of a gentle plane ride were soon dashed.

Planes obviously work through lift. The pressure underneath the wing is greater than the pressure above, which creates a force that lifts the plane off the ground. In normal air, this results in a plane ride. Mountain air is different. The ground on the mountains give off heat during the day, which mixes with the cold air. As a result, small pockets of hot, less dense air are interspersed with the cold dense air. This causes the plane to drop momentarily, as lift is significantly lessened. The mountains can also interrupt air currents, much like rocks in a stream, causing aberrant wind flow.

Within twenty seconds of takeoff we entered this mountain air and began sliding like a car in an ice rink. Then we dropped, falling what felt like thirty feet, but was probably less than three. I grabbed the bottom of my seat and shut my eyes.

Anyone who has dieted before knows how difficult it is to out talk your primal mind. Rationally, I knew that this was normal biplane behavior (having done extensive research the night before) and that, above all, planes are inherently designed to fly. But my lizard brain simply saw the height to the ground, and felt the turbulence, and determined that between fight and flight, flight wasn’t working. I immediately wanted to land. I considered begging to turn around, but my I bit my tongue. I tried to look calm, even eager, excited (not terrified) for the adventure ahead. Jewel was unaffected, holding my hand and smiling at me. Her mom looked back, eager to see my reactions. I managed a smile, more of a grimace.

I looked around and tried to focus on the scenery. Almost the whole top half of the body was windows, so I had a nearly 360-degree view of the ground and the mountains. We crested a mountain and came upon a sea of other, smaller mountains. This was the bumpy part of the ride, and to be honest, I don’t remember much. The elevated levels of stress hormones present were probably not very conducive to memory consolidation. Suddenly, everything was smooth. I looked down, and saw we were over the valley, which had much gentler currents. A sprawling plain of small farms and outcroppings punctuated the otherwise empty snow fields. Dirt roads, partly covered in snow, gently curved like arteries from farm to farm.

I had never seen such beauty. The ground was so vast, and the mountains were like castle walls around the plains. There were a lot of farms, some large, some small, and we were close enough to see the animals and equipment in good detail. I traced the outlines of the mountains on either side of the valley, the trees covered in snow. Gary turned the radio on, and it seemed so foreign to me. The Beatles’ “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” was playing, and I tried to concentrate on the lyrics as the plane began to jostle again. I gripped Jewel’s hand tighter.

We were approaching Gunnison, and I began to feel better as we descended. The wheels dropped down and my heart rate went with them. We taxied to a clear spot on the runway. The doors opened, and I stepped down, trying to find my land legs again. I finally began to breathe again, the air feeling light and filling me with energy.

We drove about 5 minutes to a small diner. By this point I was pretty hungry, and I ordered a large plate of bacon, eggs, the to-die-for hash browns, and a pancake. After brunch we walked the small main road strip. The town felt like one of those old Western style Hollywood sets. We stopped in the only guitar shop in the town. Inside was a surprising variety of instruments, from electric and acoustic guitars to ukuleles, banjos, mandolins, dobroes, and even a slide guitar. We walked around some more but soon it was time to go. Entering the car, my sense of dread returned. I already conquered the flight here, so the one back should be a piece of cake, right? The car ride back became a little blurry. My attention was drawn inwards and more novel stimuli were needed to draw me out of my own little world. Jewel and her mom were trying to instill confidence in me, since I had made the flight out here I could easily make it back. Of course, I’d been telling myself the same for the last hour, but as we parked at the airport I knew it was going to be another mental battle for the half hour ride back.

Back at the plane, as the propeller turned, I started to feel like I was turning to jelly. I slid into the old padded seat cushion. This ride is going to be worse than the first. We turn and pick up speed. I hate that I’m not ok with this like everyone else is. So many different thoughts race through my head.

Will I be ok?

What if something happens this ride back? It’s not like the universe says “oh, well you made it the first time, so you’re guaranteed a safe ride back” or anything.

It would suck to crash on the freaking ride back as opposed to the ride there. That would be the worst way to go.

I tried to enjoy the scenery again, having an idea of the flight path back.

Nope, I grab the seat cushion as the plane lurches.

I’m assured everything is all right, everything is normal.

I refuse to believe it, my brain running on adrenaline. I felt like a monkey being screwed with by a bunch of sadistic engineers. A small plane filled with 600 pounds of people should not be able to fly at all above the monstrous mountains.

My stomach punched my throat as we lost lift. I closed my eyes. We banked sharply right turning completely upside down as our pilot frantically tried to regain control, pushing buttons, turning knobs, fighting with the stick. I could see the ground every half second, as the tailspin intensified. I gripped my seat, held my girlfriend’s hand, and tried to pray it would be quick. I opened my eyes, glad to see the Rocky Mountains beneath me, and the plane still level. Jewel was looking at me quizzically, but I forced a grimace. I looked out the window nonchalantly and tried to keep my hands from white-knuckling the vinyl seating. Everything was going to be ok.

As we began to crest the mountains, Aspen came into view. I looked down and saw the runway that we were flying towards. Land again rose up to meet us, and the adrenaline finally stopped coursing through my veins. As we taxied to the hanger and came to a halt, the mountain air felt just a little crisper, my step just a little lighter that day.

I slept sound on the way back home.

Day 6 of the #100DaysToOffload challenge! Another longer piece, a narrative from a creative writing class I took in college.