Mission Valley Flight

A friend was scheduled to attend a meeting that was 3 1/2 hours away by car, and she was short of time. She asked if I might be able to fly her there and back, a 2-hour round trip. That sounded like a good excuse to dust off the airplane. The weather was fine: just a few clouds and no wind. We met at the airport right after lunch and climbed into my old 1948 Aeronca Sedan for the flight.

We headed north, through the gap in Evaro Hill, past the Salish/Kootenai Indian reservation towns of Arlee, St. Ignatius, Pablo, and Ronan. Off to our left we could see the hump of mountain that anchors the Moise National Bison Range, green with fresh spring grass. Bison dotted the slopes, grazing with their calves. We passed over the Ninepipes National Wildlife Refuge, where flocks of geese and ducks paddled on the shallow water, trailing silvery wakes behind them. To our right, the breathtaking Mission Mountains rose into the blue sky, snow still capping the 10,000 foot granite peaks. Every canyon presented us with a view of high mountain lakes and waterfalls.

My friend was a little nervous about flying for 30 miles above Flathead Lake, one of the largest and deepest freshwater lakes in the western United States. I promised to stay close enough to shore to reach it in a glide in case the Sedan's purring engine decided to sputter. The water was so clear that we could see rocks on the bottom of the lake in the shallow bays. The colors ranged from pale green to deep aquamarine to darkest blue where the lake is over 800 feet deep. Pale pink squares of blooming orchards necklaced the shoreline, and white-sailed boats puttered along the unruffled surface with small motors, searching in vain for a breeze.

All too soon, we arrived for the meeting. I visited with folks at the airport while my friend took care of business. She came back, ready to go, as the late afternoon sun was sinking toward the horizon. We were treated to a spectacular ride home. The sun glinted off the now gunmetal gray lake, smooth as a polished table. The clouds had turned to narrow silver-edged blades, reflected in the water's surface. I glanced out the window behind us, and turned the Sedan around so my friend could see the "angel" that was following us home. The airplane's shadow had developed the halo that is called the "glory" - a slightly rainbow-hued luminescence that glows around the cross-shaped shadow on the ground, water, or clouds below a flying aircraft. We both watched it in silence until I turned back on course and flew toward deepening shadows and home. It was definitely a trip to remember.

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