From the very beginning, it had been a long day of hurry up and wait. Our flight was late leaving Seattle as my nephew and I trekked back to eastern Montana for Christmas.
A short flight landed us in Billings. We had a few hours to kill so a friend of Nephew picked us up and took us to 406 for dinner. (406 is the area code for Montana and the restaurant cleverly capitalized on the well-known numbers)
Then it was time check in for the last leg of our trip. The airline had taken away my carry-on in Seattle and I wanted it back. No such luck…they had checked it through to our destination. I sputtered and complained. Isn’t that the whole point of carry-on, to carry on?
I realized I was about to embark on no ordinary flight when the man at the check-in desk asked how much I weighed and then weighed my purse! Good grief, what if I fudged a pound or two on my weight? Will we sink like a rock?
Finally, it was time to board. Let’s get this trip over with. I pull out my boarding pass with it’s nifty little bar code and prepare for a quick scan, but no, there’s no scanner. We seven passengers pile into a stairwell for roll call, sweating in our heavy down coats.
“When I call your name raise your hand.” I am transported back to grade school. But wait, we’re missing one. The portly guy who stood idly around for the last hour is now AWOL in the men’s john. No problem, we’ll just wait.
My by-the-book, follow-the-rules, don’t-mess-with-the-airlines brain is sparking and pinging that this is not kosher; “leave no man behind ” is just not done in this army. But on the plains of eastern Montana it’s a different world than the fast-paced, congested world I’m used to. Little rural airports have a laid-back no worries attitude, a hospitable flexibility I left behind decades ago.
I sigh and loosen my sweaty coat as the straggler finally saunters in.
There are two young women in our group and the master of roll call asks, “Which one of you wants to sit in the co-pilot seat.” He’s joking,right? Just trying to lighten the mood, right?
We finally burst out onto the icy runway, snow crunching under our feet, sucking in the brisk fresh air. I’ve put on my gloves, wound my scarf around my neck a few times, and zipped up my long down coat as we trudge out to the tiny Cessna 402. It is pitch black and ours is the only plane still lingering on the parking pad.
Memories of movies I’ve seen of the final hours of Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, and Richie Valens flash in my mind.
The young victim/co-pilot climbs in first, then me and Nephew. We pack in like frosty sardines into chilly seats. Our pilot sits in short sleeves, warm as a winter eggnog, and fires up the little prop plane, the roar of the engines making conversation impossible. The dome lights don’t work so if the pilot needs our attention he uses his cell phone flashlight.
Easing up to the runway we have to wait as a huge commercial airliner lumbers by. I watch longingly, thinking of warmth, flight attendants, the drink cart and onboard bathroom. Tonight we are roughing it.
The flight that takes us out onto the prairie is a government subsidized program. Rural areas, not serviced by commercial airlines, receive a fleet of little Cessnas and two flights per day, all for $29. “Cape Air at your service, ma’am.”
Our turn comes and we bounce and skip down the runway, leaping into the air; ready or not, here we come.
We float along in the darkness for several minutes and nothing has happened to flip a switch in me, but a cold sheen begins to form on my forehead and top lip. My heart begins to race as I begin pealing off my gloves, unwinding my scarf and slipping out of my coat sleeves. I eyeball the little white barf bag in the seat pocket in front of me.
How can I be airsick? There is no turbulence, nothing but blackness and noise. At least if I do get sick no one will hear me over the roar. I brought Dramamine in my carry on bag. A lot of good that will do me now.
I remember my weigh-in and think to bargain, doing a mental inventory of my purse. Lipstick, breath mints and a few quarters are all I can spare. If I toss them out the window would that lighten our load, make amends for a few undisclosed pounds?
I’m not a fearful person but decide I’ve got to get a grip. Stepping away from my claustrophobic situation, my mind listens to reason. The pilot is calm and self-assured, the “co-pilot” seems at ease, we’re not bouncing around, there’s nothing to be alarmed about. Simmer down, sister. Take a deep breath and say a little prayer.
My pulse returns to normal, my body relaxes and I need to pull my coat up over my shoulders again against the chill.
Peering out the window through the darkness a sparkling necklace of diamonds lays along the horizon; our first siting of civilization on the inky Badlands. Impatiently, I wish it was my little town but it’s probably Miles City.
My watch tells me another ten minutes before another sprinkling of twinkling lights are the ones waiting for me.
At last, the little plane drifts down out of the sky and perches, greeted by a snowy runway and a tiny one-room airport.
It will be a Merry Christmas after all…for the bargain price of $29.
Belonging 