I am flying northwest along the Mississippi river. A few boats are cutting curly wakes in the river below but most are just sitting still. Perhaps the people on the boats are idly wondering what the airplane is doing 1,000 feet above their heads. The ferry just north of St. Charles has a single car carefully stationed amidships and, if it is moving at all, it is not obvious to me as I zip by.
St. Charles Municipal Airport had been surprisingly busy when I got there this morning. Three of four planes were making take-offs and landings, keeping the radio almost constantly busy with chatter:
Five three whiskey hotel is downwind, runway two seven.
Eight four uniform short final, two seven, full stop.
Niner niner one seven crosswind, two seven, staying in the pattern.
Five three whiskey hotel turning base, two seven.
Three three five six five is ten miles south for landing.
Eight four uniform clear of the active.
I had wandered outside the hangar, leaving my laptop to finish updating the database in the GPS without my supervision, and found that the plane next door had been pulled out for a flight. The owner had just retired (his mother told me) and they were headed to Illinois to spend the day with family (he told me) as soon as his sister got to the airport (his mother added). All three of us stood around, relishing the laziness of not needing to be anywhere at any particular time.
By the time I got to taxiing out for my own take-off, everyone else had landed or flown elsewhere. The airport, and the skies to the northwest all the way to Quincy, had been miraculously cleared, my own private playground.
Cruising along at 1,000 feet is surprising smooth, as long as I stay over the water. The plane bumps through thermals any time a stray over land, cutting a corner off the meanderings of the river. Mostly I follow all of the twists and turns, though, watching the tugs working barges through the locks or magically holding position for their turns. I circle over an observation tower above Clarksville, marveling at the forested mounds on the western shore while the eastern shore is flat as… Illinois. A few miles upriver, a train glides out of the cover of trees, heading south out of Louisiana.
At Hannibal, I turn inland on a heading of 020 degrees, direct to the Quincy airport. There, too, I am the only plane in the pattern or even moving on the ground. The lineman comes out, guides me to a parking spot, and seems quite satisfied to point me at the soda machine and leave me to my own devices. He may have to be at work on the Fourth of July but he does not feel any strong need to fuel my plane.
I feed the machine a dollar bill and, after a short conversation of three mashings on the giant button, it drops me an iced tea. I wander about the airport, poking into the terminal building. The Tailwinds Restaurant’s menu tempts me but sigh I won’t be trying their catfish today unless I want to break open the locked door and cook it myself. I am particularly amused by the sign warning me to KEEP OUT of the security checkpoint by the nearby passenger gate. As far as I can tell, I am the only one in the building. Will DHS hunt me down if I stick my big toe across the line?
Tea still in-hand, I settle into an Adirondack chair on the ramp, bask in the sun, and watch nothing in particular.
Twenty minutes later, the tea is gone and I am back in the air, winging home at 4,000 feet, flitting through the cumulus. We Americans take our independence for granted most of the time. This morning, I am very conscious of it. Hopefully, my grandchildren and great-great-grandchildren will have the same privileges.
Nice…