Once upon a time, I was afraid to fly.  I made occasional trips to New York and even to Europe, but weeks of fierce anxiety always preceded these flights.  While other tourists gazed at the Mona Lisa, sipped cappuccino on the Via Veneto, or bought souvenirs at the Tower of London, I spent my vacations obsessing about the return flight home.  All that changed the summer I moved to Aspen.

At that time, the only way to get to Aspen’s pristine wilderness was to drive, or take an Aspen Airways flight in a world War II era Convair.  I remember one spectacular roller coaster flight (think of air tumbling over the Continental Divide the same way water rushes over Niagra Falls) where I spent the entire trip holding one bag in front of my son’s face and another in front of my daughter’s, all while maintaining the necessary death-grip on the armrest which was my part in helping to keep the plane in the air.  After that, I concluded that a six-hour drive with two small children and a dog, over a winding mountain highway at altitudes reaching 12,000 feet, in a ten-degree-below-zero snow storm was not really that big a deal.

My husband balked at the long drive.  “I’m flying,” he said. “Drive by yourself.”

I thought about airplanes the way scientists think about the bumblebee – based upon its weight and design, it is aerodynamically impossible for a bumblebee to fly.  That’s how I viewed airplanes.  How in the world does all that metal, and glass and motors, and seats, and little bottles of vodka stay in the air?  I had to find out.

Before the international jet set discovered Aspen, Sardy Field—the local airport--was pretty quiet.  It was home to a few dozen single-engine Cessnas, a Stearman bi-plane, and an old Piper Cub whose cruising speed was not much better than a Volkswagen.  Occasionally, a private jet flew in, taxied up to the old wooden shack that served as the private passenger terminal and dropped off its load of passengers for a week of skiing.  From my home overlooking the valley, I enjoyed watching these airplanes land and take off.

There was always a bit of extra excitement at the airport when the Lear Jet, Windstar One, came to town to pick up or drop off its owners, my neighbors, the singer John Denver and his wife Annie.  Unlike any plane I had ever seen, Windstar One was a flying piece of art with bold strips of dark blue, maroon, orange, and turquoise running the length of the fuselage and ending in an intricate American Indian design on the tail.  Despite my qualms, I secretly began to think that nothing would be more fun than to go for a ride on that plane.  Who could have imagined that before long, I would.

With a great deal of agonizing, I convinced myself the only way to overcome my fear would be to actually learn how to fly.  So, one sunny afternoon I paid a visit to the local flight school and made an appointment for an introductory flight lesson for the following morning.  I knew if I waited too long, I would lose my nerve.  Feeling there was a fifty-fifty chance of living or dying the next day, I picked up my children from school, made a special dinner of everyone’s favorite dishes, tucked the children into their beds after two Dr. Seuss stories, and sat down at my desk to do what I had avoided until then – write my will.

The next day at the airport, I met Dean, my flight instructor. His wispy mustache did little to conceal the fact he was only nineteen years old.  Dean led me to a blue and white Cessna 172, and told me he was going to do a “preflight.”  I was so nervous, I misunderstood him and thought he said “pray for flight.”  So...following his instructions, I closed my eyes and asked for a safe return to terra firma.
“Everything looks fine,” Dean said. “You can get in the left side.”

I couldn’t believe I was actually climbing into a tiny two-seat airplane, when the only other occupant was going to be a gawky teenager who wasn’t even old enough to order a beer.
Dean showed me where to turn on the fuel pump and how to move the throttle to crank up the engine.  A quick check of the oil pressure gauge, and we were taxiing toward Runway 33.  While we taxied, he checked the magnetos and the alternator.  During this entire time he spoke periodically with the control tower in a language of numbers and phraseologies that I understood about as well as I understood Einstein’s Theory of Relativity.
There was, however, a subtle change occurring inside me. My long-embedded fear was giving way to something else–a feeling of excitement, of exhilaration, of something important about to take place.  We were stationed at the edge of the runway.
“Cessna 86 Juliet Bravo, position and hold,” the tower said.

Dean positioned the plane on the center line of the runway and lowered the flaps to ten degrees.  Then he said, “Put your right hand on the throttle and hold the control wheel steady and straight with your left hand.  When I tell you to, slowly push the throttle all the way forward.  When we reach 58 knots, you will gently pull the control wheel toward you.”
Too scared to answer, I just nodded my head and thought to myself, “What did he say?”
A voice came over the radio, “86 Juliet Bravo cleared for takeoff.”

Dean said, “Throttle.”
I held onto the black plastic knob attached to the steel rod and slowly pushed it forward as far as it would go.  I felt myself being pushed back against the seat as we accelerated down the runway.  I felt energized, as if I had been hit by lightning.  When the needle on the airspeed indicator reached 58 knots, Dean said, “Start pulling back now.”

Up we went, ever so slowly and gently, like a feather in a breeze. And that same energy that turned the engine flowed up through the control wheel and into my body, and I felt it coursing through me, and I knew I was in love– in love at first flight.

I was in love with the airplane, and the gawky teenager sitting next to me, and the people in the tower, and the way the meadows and the trees and the river looked from up so high.  I remembered a poem about flight that I had read years before that ended with the line, “I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and touched the face of God.” Suddenly I understood what the author meant.  I was an addict.  I knew I would need more and more of this ecstacy and that my life would be forever changed by what I was experiencing.

Dean showed me how to turn the plane to whatever direction I wanted to go. I flew over Starwood – my home– and Maroon Lake, and Woody Creek.  I flew over the ski lifts and runs, and old log cabins in faraway meadows.  I flew over endless forests of aspen and spruce.  And when we finally landed and taxied back to the flight school office, I knew this was where I would be spending my free time from now on.

Four weeks later, Annie Denver invited me to go with her aboard Windstar One for a trip to New York.  I scheduled a flight lesson for early in the morning of the day of our departure.  After our customary hour of flight training, it was time to return to the airport.  Though far from an expert, by this time I could fly the small plane without assistance from Dean.  After we touched down and had taxied off the runway, Dean said, “Stop here.”  He opened his door and climbed out.

“It’s all yours,” he said, smiling.  “Go ahead.”

By this time, I knew everyone who worked at the airport and I knew they would all be watching.  I was excited.  I was ready.  I was not afraid.  I taxied into position, got take-off clearance, and soared above as my earthbound friends waved.  I did three “touch-and-goes” (landings and take-offs) before the tower radioed that my instructor wanted me to come back in.  After I taxied back to the parking area and tied down the plane, I strode into the office for what I knew was the final ritual of a pilot’s first solo flight.  When I entered, everyone cheered and then laughed when I told them, “ Flying solo is better that sex.” (I was only joking!)  Dean took a large pair of scissors and cut off the tail of my white shirt with the little read hearts on it that I had chosen to wear that morning.  He wrote my name and the date on the shirttail, and tacked it to the wall next to those from other student pilots who had made their first solo at Sardy Field..

That afternoon, I boarded Windstar One with Annie for our trip to New York.  She introduced me to “Dutch,” John’s father.  He was a friendly man, a retired military pilot who was now Captain of Windstar One.  He congratulated me on my solo flight earlier that day and said he had a surprise for me.  I wondered what it was as I settled back into the Lear’s plush leather seat.  About an hour later, Craig the co-pilot came back and said to me, “Dutch wants to see you up front.”

I made my way to the cockpit where Dutch motioned for me to sit down.  He spent the next hour showing me how to fly the Lear.  He taught me how to turn the plane and how to adjust the altitude with the autopilot.  He explained how all the instruments worked and gave me a demonstration of the radar.  It was the thrill of my life.  Not only was I riding in Windstar One, I was sitting in the Captain’s seat.

Judy Whitmore went on to earn an instrument rating and a commercial pilot’s license.  In addition to single and multi-engine planes, she is type-rated to fly a Lear and a Citation.  She also earned a license to fly sea planes and hot-air balloons.  Twenty-five years later, the white shirt with the little red hearts, minus it’s shirttail, still hangs in her closet as a reminder of that special day.