Aerial Strivings

Whole Earth, Fall, 1999

We dropped in over a canal like a raptor. The engine sang out as he opened the throttle again, and we slipped back into level flight. Now we were low, scooting along over wheat stubble and sauntering past huge rolls of straw that littered the field like game pieces. We had to lift up a bit when we came to one so we didn't dip it. The air was full of the smell of grain harvest, and I flashed decades back to the dusty seed bins in our barn where I had toiled hours on end to stay ahead of the auger as it churned out July's bounty. Even then, I was dreaming of flying like this.

As we approached the tree line, we made a steep bank to the left to slip through a gap in the stately cottonwoods. Leaves glittered above us as we passed. An arroyo suddenly slit open the ground below, and my tour guide yanked the plane around to stay on it. The arroyo meandered through the orderly grid of fields like a child's scribble on a chess board, our flying a playful reenactment of its wild origins. Then there was the wind sock, a quick circle above the runway, and we were down, earthlings once more.

I nearly bought that airplane. I glowed for several days afterward, trying to remember I was in no shape to make major decisions. The flight was such a breakthrough for me that it took a while before I was able to parse out the nouns from the verbs. The plane, the flying--two different things. As to the flying, I knew I had found the holy grail. But the plane was just a tool, interchangeable with others perhaps even better suited to the task.

What task? I was now ready to bring out my secret passion.

Dreams of the Earth by F-Stop

I had long cherished images and all the ways of creating them, but making photographs had emerged over the years as my favorite medium. Not only was photography beautiful to behold, it was quick and versatile, clean and compact, and faithful to its subjects--just what I needed in the air. On each of my thousands of flights I had stowed away my camera, and many times it was nothing more than dead weight. But every so often there was a moment of singular wonder; and I was always ready.

Especially after moving to the American Southwest, I increasingly felt I was witnessing the land as a work-in-progress, and that my aerial view was one of great privilege. Special places beckoned to me, often far out in the hinterland, and with the occasional luxury of an empty airplane I would go into slow orbit around them, letting my eyes and heart drink in their gift of beauty. From above I could see landforms in situ. This was not surgical removal for the sake of study. I could see all the delicate, living connections of one place to every other place in a single sweeping gaze. It was as if I was peering into the dreams of the earth, glimpsing the workings of a vast and rich unconscious that was chillingly oblivious to my presence. And yet, I felt a strong need to respond somehow, to make a small offering of my own awareness and appreciation in return. The camera allowed me to create an artifact of the experience, to prove to myself that it was real, and to make some small facsimile of it for others.