Looking down the western slope of our home airstrip, one’s first impression is of a lot of very large trees, both bounding the runway and beyond. The second thing you notice is the striking, stirringly vertiginous wall of the Olympic Mountains, seemingly close enough to touch, but in fact a good ten miles distant, across the Hood Canal. The terrain carries no threat to the flight Dawn and I are about to take, but the trees are another matter, for they thoroughly blanket the four miles of rolling terrain from here to saltwater’s edge, with nary a scrap of pasture to put down the ship in case of trouble. I am conscious of this fact every time I take off, but especially so today, for it has been nearly eight weeks since our colorful 1946 Stinson 108 last took flight. But the 150 hp Franklin engine is warmed up, the run-up was smooth, and the gauges are in the green. I push the throttle to the firewall and, with all six cylinders doing their thing, we accelerate smartly down the grassy strip.
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