The Sedan was still in the patched-up, pinto-pony state she had been in when I first saw her, but my mechanic friend assured me that she was safe for a long trip. The spring weather had been unusually unsettled, storm after storm marching across Washington and into Montana with blustery gusto. Jan and I packed our bags and waited for a departure time that would coincide with clearing weather. On June 1, we took off on the heels of an eastbound front, bouncing across the Continental Divide like a leaf in a gale.
The first landing for fuel was in Bozeman, Montana. I would have preferred not to deal with the 15-kt wind blowing at a 30 degree angle across the runway, but the Sedan needed a big drink of fuel. I wrestled her down, planted her wheels as firmly as I could on the pavement, and crossed my fingers. We taxied very carefully to the fuel pumps, where a young man waited with an amused look on his face. When he saw two women climb out of the antique in front of him, he almost laughed. I was indignant. After all, this was my first airplane, and I was proud in spite of her shabby exterior. We paid our bill, climbed back in, and headed east again.
Bozeman Pass is the windiest area in windy Montana. The high mountains that border the pass funnel the wind like water through a firenozzle. Even on the highway through the pass winds often reach 70 miles per hour. At an altitude 2,000 feet above the ground, we could feel the push from behind that spit us out on the east side of the pass. It was a relief to reach gentler terrain and slightly quieter winds. We could actually enjoy the view of snowcapped mountains north and south, and chalky cliffs along the Yellowstone River below us.
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