Gotta Get This Bird Home
The summer sun was now a memory as I sat on the lonely tarmac of the small Nevada, Missouri airport (I currently live in the state pronounced “Nev-aaaaa-da,” but in Missouri they pronounce this town “Nev-ay-da”). I was a student pilot on just my third solo cross-country flight, only 23 flight hours in my logbook. The plane, a white and blue-trimmed Cessna 150, had refused to start for nearly thirty minutes as darkness was rapidly approaching from the east. The…