Merrimac or Bust


Taking off was sure easier than landing Kat thought. As she sailed by Devil's gate

for what she hoped would be her last tentative circle around the lake – the Cessna's fuel still at well over half on the indicator – she looked down and could see the patch of open space extending from the ridge line through the woods where folks back in the 40's used to toboggan on weekends

as a past time.  Her grandfather had told her that this was in fact the very place that he and Kat's grandmother first met, both of them one particular sunny but freezing day stepped away from their separate groups and took a dare to run

what they could easily see was a wickedly slick track, not knowing either what the landing might be like.  Runners could move upwards of 40-50 miles per hour it was estimated, and some spills at the bottom were notorious for leaving sleds in splinters.  Kat channeled grandma and grandpa and quickly entered into her memorized sequence, checking brakes, mixture, flaps, applied carb

and tilted to her advised 45 degree angle towards the road strip.  Tree tops passed in a blur and the lake that had looked like an abstract mass of blue now became quite smaller, more immediate.  She pulled back the rpms to 1500 and pitched for 75 knots.  The critical part, she remembered, was not to use too much inside rudder.  Stories of skidding, stalling and spinning were far more frequent than she cared to realize just now.  What felt like mere inches off of the ground, yoke pulled back, a snap of crosswind jerked. She skipped initially off the cement too hard and jumped, but luckily with nose well upwards, several feet in the air.  She had a quick choice.  Pull back again and flatten out for a more hopeful landing at a lower speed or ramp up.  The road ahead turned slightly right and out of sight. She pulled at the yoke, increased speed and rose slowly up into the carved out space of the forest above the road, off to Merrimac or bust!