Henrietta Hay's Column

We live in the age of the jet airplane. Right? They fly everywhere. Right? Well, not necessarily; it all depends on where you live. My first flight, over twenty years ago, was in a small prop plane and so was my most recent one in June, but not because I planned it that way. We are not exactly the jet hub of the world.

That first flight I remember well. When one of my sons moved to New York to live, I wanted to visit him. There were several ways to get there. I could fly, or go by train, or drive or walk. The only practical one, of course, was to fly, but I had never been in a plane.

Being curious, I wanted to know what it felt like to defy gravity before I trusted my life to a complete stranger in a captain's uniform. Icarus, in Greek mythology, found out the hard way when he flew too close to the sun and, "with melting wax and loosened strings -- Sunk hapless Icarus on unfaithful wings." I was much more conservative and went out to the local airport and took a ride in a little Cessna. I figured we would not fly high enough to melt and we didn't. I loved it and even took lessons for a while. If I could hear well enough, I might be zipping around up there now. At that point I decided that I would have to trust a jet pilot, and got to New York and back quite pleasantly.

Since then, while I am quite happy to ignore airplanes and airports most of the time. This year, however, two kids meant two trips, one to Houston and one to Phoenix. Each time I planned carefully to avoid the small plane ride from Denver to Grand Junction. There is a new Murphy's Law, however, which says that whatever plans I may make, I am destined to fly in the little ones and I might as well relax.

In January the scheduled through jet from Houston to Grand Junction was late getting to Stapleton. When we landed there at 10 p.m., the pilot announced that the G. J. leg had been canceled. In the airport we were told that there was room for us on the little 19-passenger number that was leaving in 15 minutes.

In a nearly empty airport at ten o'clock at night you don't have a lot of choices. I chose to get home that night any way I could, popped a Valium and ran. Now the little planes are interesting. I am told that they are among the safest planes in the world and that they are built to fly over mountains. You do not need to worry about your seat mate, because you don't have one; your nearest neighbor is across the aisle. You don't need to worry about peanuts, because you don't get any. You don't need to worry about stretching your legs, because you are chewing on your knees. The closest thing to a flight attendant is the pilot and he is busy. And you get to watch him fly the plane, because you are all in one cozy space together. The good news is that it was a lovely flight, with a full moon turning the mountaintops into a fairyland.

On my June trip to Phoenix I planned to give up the last part of my ticket, which was on the prop plane, rent a car in Denver, spend the night at Copper Mountain and have a leisurely drive home the next day.

I had the room and the car reserved and on arriving at Stapleton, ambled down to the rental area. A very pleasant young woman filled in all the paper work, and I signed on the dotted line. But then Murphy's Law kicked in. She asked to see my driver's license. Oh No! She pointed out with real sympathy in her voice that it had expired the week before. I have been mad at myself before, but never this mad. There was simply nobody else to blame.

Once again there weren't many choices. In Denver with no wheels? Uh uh. I checked that remaining ticket and it said that the little plane was due to leave in 20 minutes. From the rental area of Stapleton to the middle of Concourse C is quite a jaunt, but when I got there I discovered that the plane would leave from Concourse B. This was not one of my better days. Also, that was the moment when the zipper on my aging carry-on bag decided to give up. I did the last lap from Concourse C all the way around to B at top speed, holding my bag like a baby in my arms. I made it, with very little breath left. I think I'll enter the Senior Olympics--if I don't have to fly.

It was a very pleasant flight, right over the top of my room at Copper Mountain. This time I got a bag of peanuts. Maybe I'm not cut out to be one of the jet set.