Over the years, I have found time and time again that when one is feeling pretty confident aloft, aviation has a way of exposing one’s weaknesses, destroying hubris and enforcing respect. My introduction to this principle was a dramatic one. My instructor, Jerry Graham, and I were flying to Rush City, Minnesota, a short 20-minute jaunt from my home airport in Cambridge. I was in a hurry to get airborne and had rushed the flight planning, turning down Jerry’s offer of a kneeboard on my way out the door. Confident in my dead-reckoning calculations, I left the sectional chart folded on my lap. Right on cue, a small town appeared ahead, though, to my consternation, the airport was not where it should be. In fact, the name on the water tower was not even Rush City. I belatedly attempted to unfold the chart and divine my position as my formerly smooth aircraft control went to hell. By the time I found Rush City, I was flustered and seething — not at myself but at my instructor for not telling me I was going the wrong way. Of course, Jerry knew exactly what he was doing.