'Top Gun'? More like top fun

EAGLE - I'll let you in on a little secret.

Every year, journalists have certain seasonal stories they must cover - the first day of school, the opening day of skiing, the first new, pink baby of the year - because if they don't, normalcy ceases and the world comes to a fiery end. The "fall foliage" story is a particularly inert example: Sure, it's beautiful in person, but how many times can one describe the still hillsides as "ablaze" with color before the eyes "a-glaze" over? The incongruous and overused literary connection between fire and leaves is enough to make you retch - and I'm guilty, too, as I've set more than a few landscapes ablaze in print in my time.

In my quest to tackle a new angle, I took to the air. I thought, 'screw the hidden trails, I'm seeing it ALL from above!' But as I bank my Cessna Skyhawk four-seater left toward Carbondale, with multicolored ridges bunching up against the New York Range and Mt. Sopris filling my windshield like a Himalayan massif, I can't see the forest for the trees. My mission to get a view of the turning leaves has been completely swallowed by the hum of a turboprop and the swell of thermals nudging me higher above the valley floor. I'm overwhelmed. I'm flying.

I'm totally hooked.



<b>The sky's the limit</b>

For most people, learning to fly remains something a bit beyond the pale, an activity best left to experts. But here in the Vail Valley, where serious alpinists and Olympic skiers comingle with lawyers and homemakers (and are often one in the same), we're particularly well-adapted to seeking out and living new adventures.

"I started learning for work, but it just got really fun," says Jack Snow, an architect from Edwards who received his pilot's license in February. "My wife is in the process of getting her license, and we're planning to fly to Taos or Santa Fe soon."

"You should probably go to Santa Fe," says John Logan, the owner and chief instructor of Due West Aviation. "Lots more runways."

Logan has taken me under his wing (so to speak) for the day, and his quiet confidence and encouraging nature conceal a quick wit - later, he gently scolds me for not keeping the plane still enough for our photographer to take a decent shot.

Logan runs Due West Aviation out of the Vail Valley Jet Center in Eagle, and he's been a flight instructor for 10 years. He generally teaches between six and 10 customers a week; one former student became a captain with Frontier Airlines. When I ask him why he left his construction business behind for a career in the air, he replies with a cryptic, "you'll see why."

"This is the place to learn to fly," Logan says. "Around here, it's hard to say what's the best place to fly over. Monument Valley, the Gore Range, Moab - you name it. I like to fly over southern Wyoming to shadow wild horses."

We walk across the tarmac from the Jet Center lobby to reach our little plane, which looks like a hummingbird compared to the big, hawklike jets. Other pilots, both amateur and professional, walk past us with a very subtle, subconscious strut. It's the type of gait I imagine one gets when they've cut loose from gravity and commandeered a hunk of metal and wires into the sky, only to get it back down safely. I really, really want to know what that feels like.

We pile into the cabin, which is tiny, but not quite cramped; in fact, I feel safer tucked in tight with all the instruments in my face and the steel curve of the ceiling inches above my forehead. Before we take off, Logan inspects the plane and changes the oil, explaining that routine maintenance of our $250,000 Cessna can equal several mortgage payments.

"But safety is No.1," Logan says. "Otherwise, nobody's having any fun."



<b>Flying Junkie</b>

After a few cursory introductions to the instruments and panels in front of me (lots of acronyms - AHRS, or Attitude and Heading Reference System, is the only one I can remember), Logan eases me into taxiing to the runway. Steering with your feet, as you must when on the ground, might be the hardest part of the day. To my surprise, it's my responsibility to get off the ground, even on the first lesson. Logan covers my motions with his controls, but he directs me to pull back on the yoke, and almost unnoticeably, the plane floats upward.

"That's it, you're flying," Logan says.

I can't supress a whoop of laughter. My horizon fills with blue, and almost immediately Logan directs me to turn. The controls are hair-trigger sensitive, and I often find myself overcorrecting left and right, which shakes the plane.

"It's about finesse, not muscle," Logan says. "You only need one hand."

Logan knew about our search for the best patches of fall foliage, and it hadn't been the first time.

"Some people fly just so they can look at the leaves," he says, with a touch of puzzlement.

Logan directed me due south, pointing out swaths of orange, yellow and red, but I couldn't focus on the foliage alone. The sparkling snow of the Sawatch directly ahead and the Gore Range to the left kept luring away my sight; sometimes, I'd turn with my sightlines and then bobble the plane when I looked back ahead to keep it level.

Logan went through a few advanced maneuvers, asking me to dive the plane and let go - demonstrating that as long is it had momentum, the plane would level itself out. He explained the physics of thermals and guided me into "surfing" the drafts to higher altitudes. At one point, he even cut the engine midair, letting the plane coast on its own inertia.

"You see, planes just don't fall out of the sky," he says.

Throughout, he kept boosting me up, reassuring me that I was in control and asking me if I was hooked yet.

"Some people call me a junkie," he says, laughing.

Seeing the earth laid out before you in sharp relief is a jawdropping sight, but the adrenaline surge of guiding a plane might be just as powerful. Logan likened banking hard to setting a ski edge and riding out a turn, and though I exerted no physical effort, the endorphin rush felt similar. The foliage we were looking for whirled past below us, and even though it seemed fast, I'm told the Cessna we flew was a bit pokey compared to most similar-sized planes. Still, it made driving a Maserati feel like watching Polyanna.



<b>Ground control to Major Ted</b>

When I ask Logan what it takes to become a pilot, he says, "all you need is reasonably good health, the desire and a solid checkbook." Earning a private pilot's license requires a minimum of 40 hours in the air, though the average is closer to 65 hours. Commercial pilots need a minimum of 250 hours of flight time. But the daunting cost of going all the way to a pilot's license - as much as $15,000 - might keep most of us from earning our wings.

But the experience of flying a small plane, even alongside an instructor, is a thrill in its own right and within relative financial reach. An introductory flight lesson through the Aircraft Owners and Pilots Association (AOPA) can cost as little as $49, though Logan typically recommends the "Discovery Flight," which costs $99 and mirrors my experience up in the clouds.

"Word of mouth is generally our biggest advertiser," Logan says.

We take one last turn over the crags of Glenwood Canyon and Logan directs me to aim for a reddish dirt patch, where we will drop altitude and turn to land. He takes over the controls and rounds over to line up with runway, but just before landing, he hands them back and explains that I, the first-time amateur, will bring us home.

When I hear this, I think back to one of my first questions for Logan.

"What's the hardest part about flying?"

"Probably landing," he says.

A quote from Indiana Jones ricochets back and forth in my head ("fly, yes; land - no!"), and as we drop airspeed, the nose seesaws up and down and the ribbon of landing strip oscillates left and right. I realize that even though I haven't crashed yet, there's still time. Also, I'm probably a pretty crappy pilot.

A few more bumps, and Logan directs me to lift the nose. I can't see it, but as imperceptibly as we took off, the rear wheels hug the asphalt; it's much smoother than any commercial landing I've ever had. Again, I can't suppress another whoop of triumph: We were in the air, for more than a few brief moments I flew a damn plane, and nobody died.

I <i>rule</i>.

After we roll across the tarmac and park the plane next to a refueling truck, I'm hesitant to disembark. I was up in the air for almost an hour, but I wasn't nearly ready to come down. Gravity feels extra heavy on my shoulders now, and my feet feel nailed to the ground. Frankly, it's a bit of a bummer.

I thank Logan for his time and patience with my erratic flying, and he logs my hours into his flight book and encourages me to sign up for another lesson. As we part ways, I think about where I was, 10,000 feet above where we now stand, the bummer fades, and I feel a little extra bounce in my step. It's almost a strut.

When I get back to my car, I open up my notebook to scribble a few notes.

"With hillsides in the Vail Valley ablaze with color..."



Ted Alvarez can be reached at 748-2939, or talvarez@vaildaily.com.

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