An Early Morning Flight

The headlights pierce the darkness as I guide the car up that mountain just west of Laughlin on Wednesday evening. The white and yellow reflection tape brightly illuminates, guiding my way around the twists and bends. For a moment, I'm taken back to the 80s and playing the Night Driver arcade game, only now I'm not doing 120 mph. Instead, the car moves forward at a comfortable 55 mph.

I'm in no hurry. Mi hijas surprised me with airline tickets for Thanksgiving. I fly out to St. Louis on Thanksgiving morning and fly back on Friday night.

It's been almost two years since I've been to St. Louis...and much longer since I celebrated a holiday with family.

This trip means a lot to me.

I have to be at the airport at 4 a.m. There's no use getting a hotel room for a few hours, so I pull into the Railroad Pass casino and truck stop. Just like a cat, I circle the parking lot a few times, looking for a level surface, away from light but safe. In the end, I settle for a level space right beside the glaring sign and put a Mexican blanket on the window to block the light. I've forgotten most of my clips, so I pin one blanket along the driver's side and hunker down in my sleeping bag.

Around midnight, a rattle shakes the car. It sounds like thunder, but it doesn't fade.

Wind.

The wind advisory I'd read earlier in the day said Lakes Mead, Mojave, and Havasu would have choppy waves and wind gusts up to 40 mph through Thanksgiving day.

I hate flying. Flying in turbulence is worse.

I pray and put the flight into Jesus' hands. The Lord calmed the waves in the Sea of Galilee. He can calm the wind in the flight path to St. Louis.

I wake just before 3 a.m. It's like my body is on a perpetual schedule. Even in sleep I know the alarm is about to go off. I need to get off of man's clock and back into a circadian rhythm. Maybe soon. Changes will have to be made. And changes mean decisions. I hate making decisions. There are so many options.

The alarm tweedles, and I hit snooze for 10 more minutes.

At the next tweedle, I jump out from under the sleeping bag and into the front seat, I do the clutch-gas-neutral thing all in one fluid motion. I check the parking brake--engaged--flip the heat to on, and hop to the back beneath the sleeping bag until the air warms.

At the next alarm, the air is already warm. I have to go.

I arrive at the airport, miss the turn off for parking and start to loop back when I see the sign for the oversized lot. I park there amid other regular-sized vehicles.

I do the TSA thing, find my gate, and board the plane.

I pray.

Thank the good Lord there is no real turbulence to speak of while taking off from Vegas. There's no turbulence over the Grand Canyon...

...or in northern New Mexico...

...or in Kansas where I manage to sleep for a bit. As we approach St. Louis and begin cutting through a heavy layer of clouds, the girl next to me suddenly pipes up. "I have a friend who studied aerodynamics. She says the cloud layers are just like flying through jello. The plane is never really in danger." Then she hunches over, hugs her knees, and is silent. Later, she tells me she has flying anxiety, but it sure helped to picture those clouds as jello. I make a note to ask my pilot friend about this.

The descent into St. Louis awakens all kinds of old feelings and thoughts. I'm looking forward to seeing mi hijas, friends, and family, but something else rises in the grey misty morning. The industrial zones of the city suddenly remind me of Cleveland, Ohio, and flying home into that city in my early 20s. There's something about the grey industry of the Midwest. I can't quite put a finger on it, but I feel it. St. Louis is a river town; Cleveland is a city on the Great Lakes. Both are grey, industrial. I feel like I'm 20 and coming home again.