Chapter 4 - Winged Freedom
I soon spotted my intended destination and landed. It wasn’t the best landing. My flight instructor asked me to have someone sign my logbook to show I had been there. As soon as I walked in the door, they said, “Ah, student pilot!” Yes, the landing was that bad.
Sometimes you can find yourself by getting lost, by looking out and down on the world and reinterpreting it as a consequence. Rather than being shaken by my error, I merely laughed in surprising coincidence, as a goose dived from the sky in salutation.
There is a feeling of god-like power in that, viewing your domain beneath, a sense that is almost empowering in its perspective. Do all the birds of the sky feel that power; that freedom, not just the mighty hawk, but the fledgling bird testing his wings for the first time, hungry mouth tasting the autonomy of the sky?
Birds now fill my horizon and surround my home. There's a large forest preserve backing up to where I live, the hills sloping up to trees through which flows a large stream.
Most of the birds I can recognize, being familiar with most of the species common to my area. Birds vary in more ways than species and color. Watch them carefully and you'll see the different foods they prefer and the different ways they may perch to eat it. Look at where they sleep. Is it high up in a tree or snuggled down in low covering, within small tender shrubs, pulled in around them like a blanket? So many ways they protect themselves from the elements, varying the shape, and size of the nest, if there is one, from species to species. They may have a connection to the nearest body of water or a broad patch of the open sky. To some, the nearness is more critical than we realize. Yet in all their differences they all fly on the same winds that fuel their flights.
I am a hunter, and as such, I have taken a life, not for sport but to put food on our table in the lean times of my youth. But I respect life. I think of my first hunt for a large whitetail buck. It's an event that stands out in my mind, like my first solo flight. Two acts so wholly different, yet in my heart, the same, moments of testing myself and what I could do. It was knowing when to go forth, and when to pull back.
I waited there, in that blind, flanked by two experienced hunters. I was hardly more than a girl, yet I already knew the curse of blood and the wildness of spirit which would only grow stronger as I got older. I tried to act as if it were no big deal, we're going to get a deer— that's it, but it took some effort not to let the trembling show.
When the buck came into view, I hesitated, because he was so beautiful, so free, but the hunter lived in me—and this deer would feed us for many months. Times were tough in that mill town, and many tables were bare. I'm not sure if I closed one eye, it seemed I closed both, but I drew and fired, one shot through the heart, and watched him leap one last time, his form casting a final shadow on the earth that he was leaving, but did not know it yet.
But it was not to be a “take your shot, pose with your trophy” moment. No, there was work to be done, and I was not going to sit aside and watch the others prep the deer simply because I was a girl. I was handed the knife, to field dress the deer and gather the meat for the table, guided by those wiser than I.
When I first was taking my flight lessons, including some short solo cross-country flights, I remember sitting there; hand on the throttle, looking at my instructor, standing along the edge of the taxiway, being hesitant to move my hand. He just gave me a little nod, a sign I was ready. That day, in the forest, it was much the same. The oldest of the group, drew a bloody fingertip across my brow, to brush the hair from my eyes, consecrating that moment in which the hunter's skills would be passed on. I drew the knife and spilled the blood, the hot smoking stream in deep gray woods. Yes, blood was spilled, not with shame, but with pride, for I had been deemed ready to do so with the judgment that such acts require. Gone were the days of pursuing rabbits and squirrels. I had taken my first buck, to be discussed before a winter fire someday.
For hunters gather—as pilots gather. Sometimes in a dark room, long after the day is done, with a cold beer and a roaring fire. Other times in odd moments and at various times, with no prior planning, simply showing up to sit and trade stories, waiting for the sun to come up. There is a yearning in us that loves the wild, be it forest or sky, blooming as you discover longing already within you. Like any other passion, it is often accompanied by a partiality for that which surrounds its form, which even in its absence still speaks fondly of it, in reverent tones and lively stories.
That day in which I took my first deer stands out, not so much for the action but for what was passed on. What they taught me that day was more than the taking of game. They taught me when to shoot and when not to. What game was worthy, and what should be left alone. They taught me when the woods were a haven, and with a rumble of thunder, when the woods were a place to leave. Just as I learned to fly in the pitch dark of a hangar as I listened to my instructor as we put our plane to rest, I learned the rules of the hunt in the dark, heavy dew of early morning, while we squatted, knees crying, underneath a tree. I learned without speaking. I learned just by watching. I learned not only when to act, but when to walk away and let it go. I learned that with freedom, comes responsibility, with wrong decisions, comes death, if not in the flesh, then of the spirit.
Tonight, I'm going up for just a short flight, hunting season is a long way off, and the thrill of TV holds no luster for me. The last time I went, I took a friend with me; this time I will go alone. There are a few cumuli to the north but other than some light turbulence; the short flight should be uneventful. But the clouds continued to build and as I circled a large cornfield, the wind picked up, and off to my right, I saw a hawk dive down for the safety of the trees. He was ignoring the small birds that were his prey moments ago, as the sky briefly grew dark and the wind picked up further. The birds had better sense than some, taking no chances when dealing with a shortage of stable air. As the birds of the air knew, death can wait in a gust of fate, in the unexpected whimsy of a cold front. In the sky, everything is mortal.
Yet, it is worth the risk, and the prices we pay for just a moment to hold that freedom of winged creatures in our hands. The throttle is at full power as the little engine chugs against the decrease in air density on this warm summer day. Still pushing on upwards where the air is clearer, and purer still, out of the haze of summer, the smog, the noise; clouds at every turn, their dark reflections playing across my wings like shadow puppets. I have no schedule, no phone, no chatter, and no demands other than the demanding gods of pitch, power, altitude, and airspeed. Like the birds I am free, a carefree vagabond, endowed with the grace of the wing, knowing no bounds in this open spot of sky far away from the city and any regular air traffic routes.
I pivot and turn to gain a little room as the clouds disperse and the wind calms. It's hard to resist the urge to continue higher, upwards in search of some absolute perfection, some crystal moment of divine knowledge, far away and remote from human memory, worry, and obligations. Up towards the sun, now shining brightly, like a diamond in the sand, pure and priceless, a rare bright gem of light that would provide both wealth and freedom. But like Icarus's flight into the sun, continuing upwards can have dire consequences. The decrease in performance speaks as loudly as any caution light. My airplane is at the limit of what it can do, as am I right now. And so, as his father Daedalus did after Icarus's plummet to earth, I'll leave my feathered friends, and hang up my wings for the day, knowing that soon I too can return.
I check for traffic and slide on back down, performing some turns and rolls on the way, laughing as the earth comes up in greeting. The familiar landscape is in my window, and my thoughts are simple. It is simply the push of the wind, and the fuel remaining; things done from training and habit, requiring little thought. Leaving room for those obvious thoughts, there suspended above the green of hard-edged cornfields, lost in the improbability of being up here at all. The sky is clouding up, and I remain silent, reading the signs of the sky, a poem composed of cursive contrails and feather-like exclamation points of white and amber light. It's time to head home, as the visibility is dropping and the clouds seemed to be starting their own little rumble.
I hate for this evening to end, but it's time to go home to roost.
