Remembering 9/11
Twenty-five years ago this morning, I climbed into my favorite Piper Cub -- built in 1946 but kitted out as a WW2 artillery spotter with extra-large windows -- and few northwest on a GPS line toward the little airport where I planned to top off the gas tank for my annual flight around the White Mountains. It was one of those golden days that reward us for having the fortitude to live in New Hampshire.
I was considering a touch-and-go at Wolfeboro, where I'd graduated from high school in 1950, when the little radio in my breast pocket chirped to life: a pilot across the state line in Maine was ready for takeoff. Somebody told him to abort. "I'm already off the ground," he said. "Well, turn back," said the other voice. "There's a national emergency and the airspace is closed."
There being no fuel pump at Wolfeboro, I decided to keep quiet and fly on to Moultonboro. (The Piper Cub was designed before electrics were standard, so my portable radio and plump green earphones were entirely optional.) I landed, gassed up, and secured the Cub to a fence, whereupon a golf cart drove up and I learned that "a 707" had crashed into a skyscraper in New York City, and American airspace was indeed closed until further notice.
Well, the Cub and I did in time get home, and on every 9/11 thereafter until I grounded myself at 80, I flew around the mountains, surfing over the height-of-land on the Kancamagus Highway while raising my middle finger to Osama bin Laden. To the best of my recollection, every one of those days was golden too, as indeed seems to be the case today.











