Grandfather Conway Ulyate, U.S. Army Air Service, Fort Sill, Oklahoma.

Here I am, third generation pilot, with a Piper Tomahawk. (My Mom shot this pic.)

Dad with an earlier plane.

Three generations of pilots represented here :)) Enjoy the stories of flight, freedom and adventure! DawnSeeker

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Family of Flying

Oh the joy! I got to fly a helicopter for my Birthday :)) out of Camarillo Airport — not far from my native Malibu.

And a visit to the WWII Air Museum there prompted a memory I hadn’t thought of in years.

Is it possible? Could it be?

Outside the Museum hanger, parked on the tarmac, was a solitary white homebuilt aircraft. Perched there, awkward — looking sort of like a dolphin out of the sea.

Continue Reading . . .

My Horse: My Airplane

My horse is an airplane, my airplane, and my soul longs to take up his yoke and soar.

As I roll open the gate and lead him from his barn-hanger, I feel the thrill of knowing that we’ll be in the air, soon.

Like my fellow aviators, I administer my preflight routine: Brush off his hair coat—check. Pick out his hooves—check. Pad, saddle, girth, bridle—check, check, check.

Before I mount, I run my hand across his silky neck, and I remember my dad’s first airplane, when I was very young. After all, it was a horse – an airplane called a Piper Colt — a tiny economical two-seater with not metal, but a painted cloth exterior.

I remember Dad being extra careful in his preflight check to be sure there were no scrapes or tears in the thing. (Fortunately, there never were.)

Dad told my brother and me, “Don’t touch the skin – it’s thin as paper! You could poke your finger through it by mistake!”

Gee, Dad, I thought. How safe is that?

Fortunately my plane is made of proper flesh – no paint-coated cloth cut-outs for me.

Continue Reading . . .

Adventurer of the Night

Far from the city lights, high up in my California mountains, Paradise calls.

I am one of the very lucky ones – I, and the pilot who flies a lone plane overhead – hear the engine, see the strobe.

I wave and tip my mental hat, passing along a greeting to my fellow Adventurer of the Night.

Into the twilight, early July, my first high-mountain ride of the season, I ride my Mare past the portal of McGill Trail, up, up, into the wilderness.

Even though risks lie in steep drop-offs just inches beside me, here, I am always welcome. Always safe.

Up, up, we stride, into the comfort of the falling curtain of night.

Continue Reading . . .

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