It was a gorgeous morning on the Florida Panhandle: The cold-front storms of the previous night had scoured out the scud and haze, and the Gulf of Mexico sparkled brilliantly under my left wing. I banked a little to the right, easing inland from the hotel-lined beach, as I eyed the Pensacola airport a few miles to the northwest. The radio crackled, “Pacer 23A, traffic to follow is a Delta MD-80 on right base. Caution wake turbulence; cleared to land Runway 35.” I repeated the clearance and spotted the gleaming airliner wing-up to final; my wife, Dawn, was on board, standby from Minneapolis. I landed and taxied to the FBO, where a few minutes later she pulled up in a taxi. Together, we walked out to our little yellow tube-and-fabric taildragger, its nose pointed expectantly skyward. Over the next three days, we were crossing America by air together, and my heart beat gladly in anticipation. I’m always happiest on the move; I guess I have a restless soul.
Taking Wing: Big Sky Country
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