We live out in the country in Southern Wisconsin. I spend a lot of time outdoors in the summer working on our flowers and vegetable garden, so I’m aware of the sounds of the birds, of the cars and trucks that pass by, and of the airplanes that fly overhead.
Depending upon the wind direction and other weather conditions we are often in the flight pattern for inbound flights to O’Hare and Midway airports in Chicago, along with Milwaukee and Madison. They are generally still pretty high up as they pass our place, but we often hear the result of the tower assigning commercial jets to change to a lower speed as they approach. The jets make a wooshing sound as they slow down.
Sometimes we hear and even see the fighter jets headquartered at the Madison Air National Guard base. They have a distinctive, powerful sound as they cut through the air. Even at subsonic speeds we can feel their thrust.
If I’m awake at night, between 2am and 3am I might hear a jet heading east, very likely a red-eye flight destined to land somewhere on the East Coast before five in the morning so the plane can be cleaned up and start another day.
We are also about 90 miles from the Oshkosh airport where thousands of pilots come each year in July for the Experimental Aircraft Association Fly-In. On those days we see and hear bi-planes, World War II fighters and bombers, and plenty of civilian aircraft — some of them made by the pilots in their garages.
Growing up in Oshkosh my friends and I all attended the EAA convention every year. One friend had flight-line passes, which brought us right up to the airplanes themselves. Years later, several of those friends had become private pilots.
One, in particular, was returning to New York from the EAA Fly-In a few years ago when he hit some heavy weather, and his plane crashed, and he lost his life. I think of him when I hear private airplanes above us, especially in late July. I’m certain he was a good pilot because he was good at everything and was technically very rigorous. Some things just can’t be avoided.
The night after September 11th, 2001, I was sitting in our yard at a small bonfire. It was so quiet. There were no planes in the sky. None. A person doesn’t really notice the sounds of planes until they aren’t there. It was nice, in some ways, but it was a little spooky. Then, a day or so later when the flights started up again, every jet engine I heard reminded me of the planes that hit those buildings and that field. It became a dark and sinister sound to me. I think some of that feeling will always remain.
Every day we face many risk/reward scenarios, and flying is one of them. If we sit in a room and do nothing we miss out on the rewards as well as the risks. I’m not afraid of flying, but the memories of the rare incidents when things go very badly come to the fore when I hear those jet engines easing up as they get ready to return to earth, or when I hear a Cub Cadet or a Piper Cherokee fighting the wind on their ways home.