I didn't travel very far for the Sky Writing story today. But I did take a little sky lark that I imagine many of you have mentally traveled. Did you ever look upward at this time of year and see those dark blue masses of cloud drifting by? The kind that look like snow clouds, but aren't.

Now Sunday was just such a day as that, all day long. A high, thin veil of alto-stratus screened the sun most of the time, giving a slightly gloomy look to the out-of-doors. Only interesting thing I could see were those rapidly moving blue clouds, scudding swiftly along at a much lower level than the alto-stratus. All day long, as a nasty cross-wind swept across the runways of Municipal airport, I watched Winter come to our county and at the same time become more and more intrigued with those two levels of clouds. I just had to get up between them and look.

The ship we used is a powerful sky buggy and will eat its way upward a mile high in no time at all. Jake Menzie owns the craft, but usually flies a Cessna. The BT drinks 24 gallons of gasoline an hour. It's too heavy for me to handle except in the air, so Joe Carlin's smooth and competent hand was on the controls as we lifted off the runway.

 

The sun was being swallowed in the west by an ever-increasing ring of purple, like a curtain drawn across a huge stage. As we crossed Leesburg, still climbing, I looked around carefully, trying to note mentally all the things I wanted to remember to tell you. A mile above the earth, at that mysterious and murky time of evening, as the sun goes down, a human feels so small ...so inadequate to even describe, that which some superior being has fashioned. I don't know that I can do it.

The lakes of Kosciusko county were all spread below us. Wawasee was big, an outstanding spot below, but like all the others, appeared dead grey and lifeless without sunlight or moonlight. Tippecanoe, Webster and Dewart --all were reflecting the sullen winterish sky.

Only one lake stood out Sunday evening. One of those freaks of nature, a tiny hole in the thickening curtain above, permitted one lonely shaft of sunlight to strike directly in the center of Palestine lake over or rather under my shoulder. From the BT, a mile above and probably 15 miles away, the reflection was gloriously red, sparklingly so, like a single ruby resting on a velvet cushion.

Just as we reached the clouds, a few hundred feet above the mile mark, I suddenly realized that Jack Frost had tripped across the Hoosier state leaving colorful footmarks in our Summer green carpet. In fact, the lovely shades of green were gone. Disappeared between last Sunday and this.

Instead, all was red. Some bright, some dull, some in between pastels--but never-the-less red. Either the gay twinkle of multi-colored leaves, denoted woods, or the softly shaded hues of earth and open fields. The familiar quilt-work pattern was there, but the miracle of Summer passing to Autumn and all beginning to give way to Winter was evident in the coloring.

Then the fun began. North and a few miles west of Milford, Joe suddenly wheeled the big BT in the sky and clawed higher rapidly. I could feel the lift of the powerful engine as he urged it and it awakened me from the dreamy enjoyment of things below. Then I saw the first wisp of cloud trail by. Just swish and it was gone.

Peering ahead, I could see the big boy that Joe was trying to reach and as gently as a kitten tip-toeing on cotton we were in it. The dark, blue mass swept down and toward us, swirled and whirled over the wings around and under us. I looked at the picture below and it was gone.

Only the throb of the engine, Joe's head in front and two silvery wings made up our little world. Thicker patches of cloud looked like balls of smoke as they careened by our wing tips at 160 miles per hour.

As we broke out on the other side of the cloud, even the waning light of dusk seemed brighter. Now we were above the first broken layer of cumulus cloud and several thousand feet below the lid of alto-stratus above.

All the turbulence was gone. The air was smooth and we wheeled and rolled in slow, pleasant curves, catching glimpses of the darkening earth, as regiments of clouds rocketed by our vision. Now the big plane was droning southwest, crossing Atwood.

Automobiles had long since begun to use headlights. They formed an almost neon light effect, marking well the highway system. The little patch of sunlight which a few minutes ago was glistening on Palestine lake, was gone, and it, too, reflected nothing but the darkening sky.

Now the lights of towns and villages began to pierce the gathering gloom, little patches of civilization that looked friendly, like yellow light pouring from a steamy kitchen window on a Winter night.

Blink, blink, blink, they came on. Mentone just popped into view ahead of us, the neat pattern of streetlights causing the town to appear more geometric than usual.

Main street was bright with street and auto lights, the cross streets making spider webs away to either side.

The world tilts and down we swoop. the rush of air makes a noise in the sky as we drop for a closer look at the disappearing countryside. The big ship wheels again, this time south and east, and Beaver Dam lake with its cluster of fire-fly lights around the rim of the mirror, identify it. Yellow Creek lake we see just beyond.

Now we are fairly skimming the farmlands at one-tenth our former altitude. Fields and trees, homes, towns and highways roll by-an ever changing, moving picture. I've just noticed a prominent country road, striking diagonally southwest from Burket that I never realized ran that direction before. It is gone now, and Silver Lake, the water and the town are off our right wing tip. Claypool winks at us, hiding the curve of the overhead railroad bridge. Auto lights swerve and become brighter as they climb the grade to the top of the bridge.

I'm startled momentarily as the plane heels way over on one side, the motor dies to a hum, then springs to life again. Quickly I glance down the wing and see a familiar farm scene below. Then I know. My pilot Joe is saluting his father and mother, who live below. Standing on one wing, we seem to be still in the sky, not moving, while the fields, barn, house and woods revolve below us. We are too high to tell whether anyone came out. And anyway it's too dark.

Yes, but that time it was really dark on our Sunday trip. But how I had enjoyed it!

We leveled off over Sidney and it was strange how easily the town could be identified by its lights. We rocketed for home, coming rapidly upon the lights of Winona, which pointed like a narrow in our direction.

There was a slight hiss as the wheels touched the blacktop runway at Municipal airport, and the familiar rumble of metal fuselage said we were back on the ground.

Warsaw Daily Times Tuesday, October 19, 1948

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