After two weeks on the prairie and all-you-can-eat beef it was time to return to Billings and head for the coast. Armed with Dramamine I boldly approached the ticket agent for the big weigh-in.
This time, for good measure, I tacked on an additional five pounds to my weight; turned out my purse now weighed five pounds, too. If they were going to take my carry-on bag, then my purse was going to be equipped for any contingency.
Five passengers tramped across the runway as a frigid headwind blew in our faces. Entering the mighty little Cessna, I discovered we were the beneficiaries of an upgrade. For this trip we were awarded a pilot AND a copilot. In a nod to their humanity, they had the humility to wear sweaters and flight jackets.
On each seat lay a bottle of water, what a treat, and we all received a cellophane pack containing ear plugs, true luxury. The only thing missing was a bland little bag of pretzels.
The woman behind me cheerfully remarked, “I got a window seat!” I rolled my eyes and replied, “They’re ALL window seats.”
I sat directly behind the pilot and, as he revved up the engines, I had full view of the gauges. The numbers rose and fell as he alternately revved, then let off the gas, like a teenager about to drag race some invisible adversary. I prayed he knew why, since I did not.
Shortly thereafter, satisfied with the warmup, the pilot pushed the throttle forward and we hopped into the air. The rpm’s and altitude gauges rose along with us.
It didn’t take long to reach our cruising speed. Since my trip there had been in the dark, I was determined to watch it all, focusing all my attention out the window, hugging my life-saving purse.
The temperature was in the teens and a low frosty layer hugged the horizon as the earth exhaled its chilled breath. The view went on for miles and miles, still and motionless, supporting the enormous Big Sky above. Thin wispy clouds filtered weak sunlight.
Below, the ground rippled in undulating waves, like the tide rolling in, but these waves were petrified, frozen in time, never to reach the prehistoric shore that had formed them. The Yellowstone River snaked along, frozen into a metallic ribbon of steel. Small ponds and reservoirs were also set in stone of gunmetal gray.
The land we flew over showed no signs of life or civilization, no roads, no farms or houses. If there were towns, they lay far into the distance, unbeknownst to us.
We hummed along like this for over an hour, the gauges resting in place. Finally, crop circles began to appear, wilderness wrested from the Badlands by determined, stubborn farmers, unwilling to surrender their fight with the prairie. With these circles, isolated farms, narrow roads, and small settlements materialized.
At last, the landscape softened, the Badlands retreated and the Rimrocks of Billings rose up to meet us as we bumped our way to the ground.
Climbing out onto the runway, I exhaled deeply and realized I had been holding my breath. The upgrade held one last gift as my carry-on bag awaited me so we could continue our journey together.
I felt positively decadent this time as I boarded a full-sized jet equipped with flight attendants, drink cart, heat and onboard restroom, and stashed my carry-on in the overhead bin.
Belonging 