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versations were about cross-country trips around the great Northwest including visits with my sisters and other relatives. As his confidence grew so did the distance he flew. It wasn't long before he took off heading south for a landing in California.
During one of his visits Dad introduced me to soaring. He paid for my first glider ride and told the pilot to "keep him up for an hour, maybe the bug will bite him." That first flight lasted over an hour-I was severely bitten, so much so that I continued lessons long after Dad returned to Washington State.
During the time that followed, I soloed, passed my test and within a year of that purchased my first aircraft, a beautiful German Glasflugel Kestrel. With a glide ratio of 40 to 1, she was built for cross-country flight. In three years of ownership I flew the glider over 3,500 miles including a 320-mile round trip flight from Tehachapi to Bishop, California and return earning me the coveted Diamond Distance award. But the flight that gave me the biggest thrill was only 30 minutes in length and covered less then eight miles of territory.
By this time Dad had obtained his instrument rating, sold the Tri-Pacer and purchased a 1956 red and silver Cessna 182. A wonderful cross-country machine, it didn't take him long to arrange for a flight to California.
Dad and I planned the trip together over the phone, each measuring distance on our sectionals. By the looks of things, Dad and Nellie, my stepmother, would arrive on a Friday, at 3 p.m. Our plan would require that Dad arrive within a few minutes of his estimated time.
On the day of his arrival, I climbed into the Kestrel and took a high tow above the mountains south of the field. At 4,000 feet AGL, I released the towline, banked left, and pulled back on the stick. Slowing down I turned up the radio and listened. Within minutes I got the call.
"Glider KLC, Cessna 2631 Golf, are you there Kevin?"
Even though I was expecting his call, I was still surprised. My excitement growing, I picked up the microphone for a reply. "Hey Pop, what's your location?"
"Well, hello there! We're just coming through the pass west of the field right now, crossing over the freeway. Where are you?"
"I'm south of the field Dad, heading your way. Just dropping below 7,400 feet now. I should have you in sight shortly."
"OK son, we're looking."
Heading south across the valley I scanned the horizon for his little 182. Within a few seconds I spotted him, a red and silver Cessna heading northwest.
"Ok, Dad I have you in sight. I am above your position on your right side descending below 6,500 feet. Maybe you can pull up beside me as I head toward the airport."
"Ok Kev, we see you. That's sure a pretty glider. We got the camera out so pull up next to our right wing."
Fantastic, I thought, he could see me. All I wanted to do was shout, "Hey Dad, Look at me, I'm flying, just like you." Then, suddenly I remembered a time, nearly 30 years prior, when I had finally mastered the bicycle -- without training wheels. I had yelled nearly those same words.
For the next few minutes we flew side by side, both taking pictures of each other's airplane. With only a few hundred feet remaining before pattern altitude I pulled up into a slight wing-over and called Dad on the radio.
"OK pop, that's about it for me. I need to get into the pattern now. Call Fantasy Haven on 122.7 and they'll give you an advisory. It's a left-hand pattern for runway 27 for you."
"Well Kevin, Nellie thinks she got a good picture. That sure is one heck of a flying machine, real slick. We'll see you on the ground."
As I lined up the Kestrel for the right hand runway, I could see my father also on final, lining up for the left-hand runway, parallel to me. We both flared and touched down at nearly the same time.
My father still talks about his early airplane flights, only now I understand. We share many things in common, including a passion for flying and a desire to tell the stories that flights generate.
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