Three of My Favorite Memories
It’s a fairly long flight from Seattle to Nashville, though some go by faster than others.
I remember one particularly-wintery fall evening sitting on a packed plane feeling drained from a long week but excited about some downtime ahead. As I dreamt of what the future could look like, my mind drifted to the past. Sifting through memories, I began to wonder what were some of the best some of the best so far—and why? In between pockets of rough air, I decided to jot down a few of those moments—the ones that you feel most alive and connected to what matters—and see if they had anything in common.
The Channel Islands
The ferry dropped us off at an old, weathered dock in the mid-morning heat with the routine disclaimer that there was no water on the island and if we had an emergency, we would have to make the thirteen-mile hike to a naval outpost on the south shore. Other than that, the crew would back at the same time tomorrow to pick us up. Alex and I looked at each other with the same nervous excitement as we strapped on our packs and started the treeless climb out of the harbor.
We were only 22 miles off the coast of Southern California, but it felt as if our ferry ride had dropped us in another century. Apart from a brief period of ranching, the Channel Islands have largely remained untouched. Biologists and conservationists roamed intently in David Attenborough-esque outfits examining the flora and removing old barbed wire fences—occasionally waiving from the one jeep on the island. Because of its isolation, there were no snakes, no cougars, or any other large predators. In fact, the food chain was topped by one of the smallest foxes in the world unique to the islands, and because of that, they would saunter right into camp and stretch out like sunbathing house cats—with no regard towards us.
The trail maintained ocean views the entire time as we made the four-mile climb to our campsite where we encountered the only two other guys on this half of the island—who had roughly the same plans as us. Briefly acquainted, the four of us dropped our packs and set off down whichever trail looked most interesting.
We spent the afternoon wandering empty beaches, throwing rocks into the sea, and dreaming of the future: what kinds of differences we could make with our jobs, what kinds of women would we eventually marry, and what kind of men we wanted to become. Over the steady movement of the waves, I could faintly make out the 101 freeway leading into Santa Barbra. It was rush hour. The roadways would be under the weight of to-do lists, and errands, late meetings, or just the daily desire to get home.
But for now, it was all a world away. I could just be here in this moment with my best friend in the California that used to be—and still is.
Intro to Jetsetting
Climbing out of Nashville, I still wasn’t used to the quiet power of jet engines. The chaotic chatter of the departure corridor faded quickly, and I was relieved to be handed off to the more relaxed high sector.
As the old fuselage creaked and groaned attempting to pressurize on our ascent to the upper troposphere, suddenly, outer space didn’t feel quite as far away. Chris and I were far from astronauts, but we may as well have been explorers—planning fuel stops and watching the continent pass beneath us as we scoped out the next days’ adventures.
At this point in my life, Colorado had only been a place of dreams—something you see in magazines or hear stories about. My plans to solo roadtrip my only free week of the summer had fallen apart when I took a job flying different airplane. So, I was elated to get the call from Chris asking to help him crew a weekend trip to a remote corner of the state.
There’s nothing quite like landing in a place you know nothing about. A stop at a local outfitter turned into an hour drive to a town called Telluride for dinner which turned into deciding to climb the tallest mountain around the following day—no predispositions or expectations to hold us back. The sun hung low over the jagged peaks as a cool breeze descended with us through glacial valleys. Things were simpler here: a freedom only found with good friends, winding highways, and a curiosity for what’s around the next corner.
Winter Flying
22 miles from the runway: “Turn left heading 130, join the localizer, ± 15 knots of final, slow to final approach speed.” I glance at the captain out of the corner of my eye as I pull the throttle levers back: “Flaps 5”. I note the thin layer of ice persisting on the wing as the airspeed tape bounces around like a full cup of coffee on a worn-out California freeway. One of our annual winter storms is visiting from the Gulf of Alaska and has settled in for several days. If summer flying is like sailing, we’re whitewater rafting. The nose breaks through a shear layer. Flight Idle. We hover for a moment before the gust gives out. Full power for a moment and back again.
3 days later, I slump into the front seat of my car recalling the childlike, unfamiliar feeling of finding solid ground after spending the afternoon on a trampoline. “Why are there charges from Hawaiian Airlines???” is the first message on my phone.
10 hours later, I was back at the airport hiding in my plain clothes watching two other poor souls figure out the winter weather. Through a string of coffee breaks on the days prior, I had managed to find enough open seats to get us on, and hopefully, off the islands without too much risk of being stranded. There wasn’t a guidebook in my bag; I hadn’t given myself enough time to form too many expectations. I sat back, a row and an aisle from Tori, closed my eyes, and cruised across the Pacific to an island I knew little about.
It rains a lot on Maui. But, it doesn’t rain everywhere, and the island isn’t that big. We only had 36 hours, so we headed off in whatever direction it wasn’t raining and explored until it was. Early hours spent on meandering, one-lane highways clinging to the volcanic rock were punctuated by naps on roadside beaches and the occasional stop for a smoothie or coffee. The space gave way to long conversations about the future or just the quiet contentment of riding together. Before we boarded our midnight flight, we drove to the top of the local volcano. Sitting beneath some of the darkest skies in the world in a landscape that seemed to sit above the atmosphere and outside of time, I was thankful for the reminder of what is real, what is important, and what is lasting.
