Approaching the Dutch Harbor airport, about 15 minutes out from the aircraft-carrier-sized landing strip blasted out of mountain during World War II, the cabin full of rowdy fisherman often got silent as the plane dropped, shuddered, slid and battled wind shear. Profanity changed to prayer. I’ve done more “touch and gos” in 737s and smaller planes there than I hope to do in the rest of my life.

I was once flying down in “America” and a couple of off-duty pilots in the seats in front of me were talking about the approach to “Dutch.” I had to intervene. I told them I had lived there and asked them if they hated that route. They responded “No, we love it…” in near unison, and one of them explained “We get to fly the airplane.” 

Lately I’ve been admiring Cedar’s sheer joy in using her body—usually in the snow—and have been thinking she’s out there flying the airplane—doing what she’s designed for, whether it’s running alongside me skiing for a couple of hours straight, wrestle-playing with other dogs, sniffing stories out of the woods, or swimming in the ocean or snow drifts. Using her dog body the way it was designed makes her visibly happy. Tail and body wagging, tongue out, nose down, and whole body somehow smiling. 

A few happy dog moments musically enhanced by Mason Jennings…

I’ve been skate skiing almost daily and I have to say that getting in the groove, letting my body take over, shutting off my noisy brain, feels a bit like flying the airplane, too. 

But like that famous ground crew guy who stole the plane, neither of us has really considered how to land it.