You said you weren’t even sure it was real, and yet it was the most real thing you’d ever experienced. You said you thought you’d had a religious experience. Or maybe you said “mystical,” but it was something along those lines. At first I thought you were afraid people might think you were simply crazy.
Eventually I understood it as something else. I know Mother always regarded the event as a confirmed miracle, and she never said a thing about another airplane, glowing or not. But isn’t that the trouble, being brought up simply to believe? You never can tell what it is you’re seeing, even with your own two eyes. That right there is plenty enough to haunt a person for life.
In a way, though, it was a miracle for other reasons. Mother of course moved with us into the house in town after that, of her own choosing, which was plainly a relief to both her and Pop by then. Not so long after that I flew the ship to Bozeman myself, to enroll in the engineering college, but you already know that part of the story. Just for the record, the sky was clear and the conditions perfect. I thought of you the whole dern way.
To answer your other question, your memory is sound. We did indeed find a crate of gold, right where you remember. I know myself how the long-ago past can braid in and out of dreams, until you can’t really tell what actually happened from an imaginary figment, way back behind you, down the long hall of memory.
Truth be told, I’ve thought about retracing our steps to that old forgotten time capsule and walking down those stairs to that cool, steady dark once again, just to see. Every time I’ve traveled home and laid my eyes on our tattered, dust-collecting Cloudmaker, in fact. Just to see.
But I never have. Never did tell a soul about that secret, either. Of course neither Yak nor Raleigh survived the war, and with Pop long gone, too, and now Mother as well, I guess it makes sense that we would caution a look back after all this time. You and me.
Times do change, fast as the blink of an eye. I fly a Piper Seminole these days, a far cry from our little low-and-slow homemade Piet. I would like nothing more than for you to come back here to the East and take a hop with me. Or I could fly it out to you anytime. Steal you away from those horses you’ve done so well with, get you out of your stable and back to the cockpit again, all these years later. You and me. Let me know, while we still have a little time left ourselves.
I love you, very much. I will write more soon.
Your cousin,
Houston Finn
Acknowledgments
Many people had a hand in bringing this book off the ground.
Clay Scott, Danielle Lattuga, Nick Davis, Bryce Andrews, Ken Egan, Jameson Parker, Allison Tierney, Sally Weaver, and Alex White provided insight and encouragement, as did Rick and Marli Davis and my sister-in-law, Lindsay Davis.
Dan Bronson has been not only a tireless champion but a true mentor, and I am eternally grateful. His brother, Ralph Bronson, is a lifelong aviator, and the importance of Ralph’s technical critique of my efforts to capture the art of flying cannot be overstated. Michael D. Fox, Curator of History at The Museum of the Rockies in Bozeman, Montana, assembled a remarkable archive documenting the Pietenpol airplane in the museum’s collection, and guided me through it.
Shirley and Doug Parrott opened up the Musselshell Valley Historical Museum in the dead of winter, so I could examine David Comstock’s Piet from 1932. This was the first Air-Camper constructed from plans in the 1932 Flying and Glider Manual, taken on its maiden flight by its remarkable builder when he was just seventeen years old. Patrick Kenney of Billings, Montana, spearheaded the plane’s restoration in 2006 with a team of junior high students, and provided crucial insight into both airplane construction, and the capabilities of dedicated young people.
Betty Wetzel not only went to high school with David Comstock, but actually flew with him in his airplane. When I met her in 2016, Betty was almost certainly the last surviving witness to those days and times. It was an honor and a pleasure to hear her vivid memories, which very much informed this book.
Bette Lowrey, native of Roundup, spent much time with me road-tripping and reminiscing about the region in which she grew up. I’m forever indebted, both to Bette, and to her hometown.
Julia Whelan, actor and audio performer, novelist and screenwriter, has been incredibly supportive of me and my work despite her own overwhelming array of commitments. I can’t thank her enough.
The lives and legends of Amelia Earhart, Beryl Markham, and Bessie Coleman continue to inspire.
Many thanks to the Ucross Foundation, for time and space and support.
Thanks as well to Chris Dombrowski, Robin Troy, and Beargrass Writer’s Workshop. My agent, Kirby Kim, has been a tireless advocate and a fine friend. Couldn’t do this without you, Pard.
Likewise, my lovely editor and de facto sister, Amy Hundley—once again, this is as much yours as mine. To Liz Van Hoose as well, who stepped in to pinch-hit and smacked a homer.
Everyone at Grove Atlantic—Morgan, Judy, Elisabeth, Deb, John Mark, Savannah, Kait—thanks to you all.
My old friend Dennis Dusek, as capable a soul as ever existed, gave me a model for Huck.
Bernard Pietenpol. Master innovator, grand wit, and champion of the do-it-yourself ethic. Without him, there would be no this.
Finally, to my wife, Miss Manda Davis, who I’m lucky enough to spend this charmed life with. Scorpio perfectionist, Scorpio perfection.
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