The first time I saw Brackett Field it was late afternoon and the airport was draped in the warm, languid light of a Los Angeles sunset. Lengthening shadows creased the nearby San Gabriel Mountains, unusually verdant after the winter rains. The other peaks that ring the LA basin were hidden in smog — though when it’s so soft and pink in the still of dusk, you more charitably call it haze. The field had two parallel runways, east to west, flanked by neat rows of hangars. On the far end was a leafy park with a lake and a hillock crowned with big Spanish-style villas. Overlooking the north side was a whitewashed control tower, and to the south rose a large green hill with a driving range hidden among the cypresses. If I hadn’t just walked through an industrial park, it would be easy to imagine this airport as it existed when it was surrounded by orange groves. It was beautiful.
I had nearly missed my stop; only seeing the control tower from the Metrolink alerted me to get off the train. I wasn’t quite sure where to go from there, so I simply followed the airplane noise. This was a fairly half-baked plan, I had to admit. The flight school manager didn’t know I was coming. I had emailed him a few days prior inquiring about doing CFI-I and multiengine instructor training once my TWA internship was over, and whether I might then secure a flight instructing position for the summer. His reply was detailed regarding the training but evasive about the job. At 19 years old and possessing more enthusiasm than experience, I took the aggressive approach and flew out to LA for the weekend. Now, as I paused along the airport fence, a Piper whirred overhead and floated down to a soft touchdown, silhouetted in the setting sun. I watched it taxi to a large tan hangar with dozens of aircraft parked out front. This, I decided, must be Air Desert Pacific.
