Cheyenne

February 1980


Barnstorming. As far as I could tell this plane was going to fly through a barn. As I looked down from the window seat I was crammed into I saw barns of all sizes randomly appearing on the Colorado landscape below. They seem to beckon us on a double dog dare to try. The antiqued brown mural of Charles Lindbergh painted on the cabin wall next to the cockpit haunted me as a challenge to the pilot who was already arguing with physics just to keep the plane up in the air. When I first boarded the windup toy that was taking me to my final destination, I noticed the two dimensional pilot with his leather helmet, goggles and scarf wrapped over the collar of his leather Aviator jacket, flapping in the breeze behind him. I tried to sound like the season traveler when I inquired of the Flight Attendant (known as Stewardess) "This isn't a picture of OUR pilot, is it?" She laughed and replied "No, our pilot doesn't wear a helmet". I didn't find that too comforting.



The snow covered Norman Rockwell landscape reflected the shadow of the plane as we grazed above power lines, homes, cattle and crop circles. There were about a dozen of us seated on the small twin-prop airplane. We flew in quiet chatter as the plane buffered headwinds, cross winds, up and down drafts, and with the dreaded feeling that we just were not high enough to recover should anything go wrong. If we were flying any lower, I'm sure we could have just taxied up I-25 into Wyoming. I was seated on the left side of the airplane, giving me a nice view of the Rocky Mountains lining our route all the way to Cheyenne. Their purple and bluish hue, along with the snow capped tops provided the complete picture of a disaster movie, where the survivors struggle to survive while fighting nature's harsh elements.



Frontier was the name of the Airline that owned the plane. I know this because it was painted on the fuselage of the craft like some NASCAR sponsorship; next to what I can only imagine a display of stickers endorsing STP motor oil and High Jacker shock absorbers. Walking from the warm terminal of Stapleton Airport in Denver across the macadam to the stairs that led up to and in the plane, I had to admit, I was concerned. This was the smallest plane I have ever flown on. I believe I had a model plane at home this size hanging in my room. I was flying to Cheyenne, reporting to my assigned Base for the first time. The small crowd of passengers appeared to be confident as they boarded the plane. I must have looked nervous because after takeoff, the attractive woman sitting across the aisle from me told me that she flies this all of the time. She was coming back from a skiing trip, and this was common to her. I didn't ski and just thought that she was very brave.



As we approached Cheyenne Airport, the pilot aimed the craft at the oncoming runway. The plane tilted forward as we tipped to the right and to the left. Sometimes the plane gained altitude and it felt at times we quickly loss the precious space between us and the ground. I wondered to myself as I usually did during a landing, at what point does mechanics stop and gravity takes over. The tires touched the runway and we slowed to a stop. I took a deep breath, and stood up. Letting the woman across from me into the aisle first, she thanked me and told me that I should try skiing. She gave me her number (which I lost) and told me to call her, she would teach me. As I passed the Flight Attendant, I thanked her for the bag of nuts and can of coke she gave me during the flight. I thought that she should get hazard pay for doing this. I stepped off the Airplane into the cold crisp winter air of Cheyenne Wyoming. At 19 years old, it was the beginning of a new life for me. I was far from home, starting an adventure that had taught me many things about myself. Life is always an adventure.