Can Miles Truly Separate You From Friends... If You Want To Be With Someone You Love, Aren't You Already There?  (Richard Bach) 

"Santa Paula Traffic, Cirrus 377 Sierra Romeo is departing the pattern, Eastbound, out of 1000 feet, climbing to Seventeen point five... Goodbye Vic."

...And off I flew -- as  a pivotal chapter of my life ended. 
 
Ahead me lay the way home -- across nearly 2000 nm of America that needed to be traversed before I could again brush my mains through the cool green grass of Haller Airpark, my home-drome, and play on the lawn with my German Shepherd, Anjin... Along the way, there was much to think about... both about that part of my life which had ended and all of that which remained. There was so much to ponder... and despite that part of myself I left behind, I was ever grateful for all the wonders that had been gifted to me -- some of which were but days old.

Before the horrors of August 22nd, I'd been somewhat absorbed and in a bit of a funk. This preceded Oshkosh by a few weeks, and revolved around a pretty critical self-examination of the role I had played in the aero-world I so loved and valued... and whether I was being true to the commitment I had made to myself and the hundreds of thousands of people I had been working for, for so many years, to bring something of true and lasting value to it all. For years, my work was aggressive and relentless and unfearful of the 'tough' (sometimes dangerous) stories and topics that I chose to cover... but these last few years... not so much. For many weeks, this has become an underlying theme of much of my thoughts as I worked through the tasks each day presented me.

The trip west actually occurred over a number of days as I did my best to keep busy with a few Aero-TV shoots, and other events, starting with a pretty nifty 800 nm leg to Ottumwa, IA, just outside of Blakesburg, IA -- the home of the annual Antique Fly-In... and my first true clue in discovering that no matter what ails aviation, there is plenty that is good and right with it, regardless, and ALWAYS hope for its future. It was a good trip... light headwinds, the kind of weather I could deviate around, or get over, and the chance to zoom swiftly by spires of towering marshmallow white cumies amidst the bluest of blue skies -- it was a sunny start to a journey that I feared could only grow darker with each mile closer to California and my appointment with sorrow.

But Blakesburg wouldn't let me mourn, at least not yet... indeed, my first morning amongst the rolling green field that comprised the Antique Airfield dawned brightly blue and was emblazoned with myriad colors and shapes and sounds... the lively rainbow cacophony known as classic and antique aviation.

Airplanes filled row after row, each well-loved, and with amazing stories to tell that spanned generation after generation. People roamed from plane to plane, calmly, quietly, cheerfully... with no rhyme or reason... just the comradery that passes instantly from one flyer to another, without query or hesitation. For the next few days, I would immerse myself in a society of memorable people, poignant planes, and the indelible histories that bound them all so-very-tightly together. There were few rules... certainly none were spoken of, just a tacit consent between one and all to be respectful, kind and outgoing -- and certainly to keep from "doing anything dumb."

Flying occurred from dawn to dusk... nothing wild, mind you, just aviators airing out aged wings that once built this nation's aerial foundation, and were now allowed to venture aloft in rapturous demonstrations that could not help but remind one and all of simpler times and places.

Children ran and whooped and played amongst these reminders of our treasured heritage, families strolled (often hand in hand) up and down and along the many rows of not-to-be-forgotten wings, often with their puppy dogs in tow, pausing to stop by and visit every few minutes to trade greetings and learn something about each unique monument to aeronautical ingenuity. It was the anti-fly-in Fly-In. It was as laid-back as a summer day can be, as lightly sweet as an old-time church social, and it carried an aura of inclusive brother/sisterhood that I had not seen or felt in years... at least to this extent (though the Lee Bottom Fly-In comes awfully close). It was as pure and simple an aviation gathering as I have ever seen, accompanied by hundreds upon hundreds of antique wings and the thousands of tales they had carried aloft for much of the first tumultuous century of aviation. One could not help but walk in awe of the beauty and serenity of the days... with little in the way of a planned agenda, one had little to do but saunter here and there to soak it all in, slowly, rapturously, absorbing both the history as well as the vibe, and to enjoy each exceptional airframe as it rumbled, burped, roared, whirred, buzzed, stuttered, and otherwise voiced their individual intents and motivational rhythms to fly free, even defiantly, over an America that had all but forgotten the role each nearly legendary flying machine had played in driving us inexorably towards the 21st century and beyond.

In and amongst all this wonder, people chatted with each other as if this kind of miraculous gathering, an intimate conclave of times gone by, happened every day. I met all manner of flyer... the veterans of over half a century of turbulent aero-history, as well as the simple flyers who wanted nothing more than to see how it "all once was," to a lovely young lass who ventured to Blakesburg as her long-cross country in an Aeronca Champ... and who would be returning, solo, in order to fulfill her solo cross country requirement... all under the watchful eye of a generous elder flyer who knew the secret to building a new generation of aviators -- that you had to ID those with the passion and shepherd them along the way as much as you could until they were ready to take it all on by themselves.

Stories spilled over from encampment to encampment... tales of rebuilding elder wings and engines, searches for parts, plans, drawings,  and other treasures, recitations of flights that made the sacrifices and expense of owning and maintaining an antique airplane worth it all, and of course, a generous assortment of hangar flying yarns that ALL seemed to start with "There I wuz..."

By the third day, I was feeling something of a sense of renewal and my soul had been lifted from the doldrums that had accompanied me from my home nearly a thousand miles away, to this isolated Iowa pasture. Better than that, I was reacquainting a heavy heart with the true reason why flying has become such an innate part of my essence... as it is simply a wonderfully magical construct, inhabited by gifted souls who have come to understand why the birds sing and who can appreciate the pure magic of simply flying for no other reason than they 'want to.' I ran into quite a number of old friends, some of whom I hadn't seen in many years, and thoroughly gave myself over to the comfort of renewing old friendships that seemed like they had never been interrupted at all... despite the years we'd been out of contact. One afternoon, I chanced upon a gathering of folks all milling about with mild excitement and a bright 'buzz' about them... until I realized that it was not an impromptu public gathering... as all nearby were invited to witness the wedding of two flyers who had met in Blakesburg some time before, and were now joining their lives together amongst the people and planes they loved as they pledged to love one another forever. I took quite a few pictures of this lovely couple as they recited vows they had written for each other.... glad to have the camera so that I could record the moment for them both... and to hide the silly smile that wouldn't be stopped, no matter how hard I tried.

Still, it was a truly happy thing... the happiness they felt for and in each other was infectious and unselfish and as unlimited as the skies that oversaw this infinitely sweet demonstration of the simple joy that two people can bring to each other. And, Yes... it brought many memories back to me... but they were memories of similar joys, hopes and promises for the future -- and were buoyant, delightful and enriching.

It was an interlude of pure, sweet, perfect joy... both for the present happiness that surrounded me, and for my fondest of memories. For someone who has secretly felt that each time I headed aloft was a rebirth of sorts, this particular moment was the real deal... the chance to let barriers slide away and simply remember why I loved flying, and flyers, and all things connected to the two.

This I know to be true: One of the greatest expressions of joy is found through flight and the people who keep flight alive... God Bless You All.

Blue Skies....

Jim Campbell, ANN Editor-In-Chief, In Search Of The Soul Of Aviation...
and Finding It In Amazingly Good Shape

Coming Soon: Wichita was next on the itinerary... an endearing and amazing repository of the past -- and the future -- of aviation. Down on its luck, I expected KICT to be a pretty depressing venue, but came away surprised, enriched, empowered, and enthused about the spirit that still pervades the "Can-Do-And-WILL" attitude that still typifies the "Aviation Capital" of America... but more about that later.