By Steve Weaver

The early summer twilight was fading by the minute. Darkness was descending like a cloak on the rugged West Virginia landscape that was slipping by a thousand feet below the dangling wheels of the white Luscombe I was flying.

I felt the first stirrings of panic rising in my chest as the seriousness of my situation dawned on me and I stared frantically down at the lights of cars moving on the now invisible roads below. Inside them I knew were ordinary people, safely making their way home along familiar highways, following the bright beams of their headlights to the warmth of family and the comforts of hearth and supper. I wanted to be with them. I wanted out of this devil machine that was carrying me to my apparent doom. I wanted my mom.

It was June of 1962. The week before I had not only soloed the Piper Colt trainer at the old airpark where I was learning to fly, I’d bought a perky little Luscombe 8A the following day and checked out in it too. At that point I’d logged about nine total hours in the air, I’d soloed two machines and made one of them mine. My flying career was right on track.