It has been a long time since I went anywhere in my plane. Weedsport, Middlesex, Avoca, and the others are great places for a quick jaunt and a meal with friends, but sometimes you just have to stretch out and find some new scenery. Local flying is my meat- and- potatoes reason for owning an airplane, but the occasional trip is the slice of warm apple pie.

Easter Sunday was an excellent day for one of those longer trips. The winds were light and the sun was subdued as Saturday's high pressure area moved off in favor of Monday's low pressure weathermaker. Visibility was excellent, the air was smooth, and as it turned out the change of the weather gave me a tailwind in both directions.

I went on a trip that I have contemplated for that last two summers, back to the airport where I bought my plane. It is about a two hour flight each way, but I knew that it would take most all day to do it right. You have to stop and talk, and you have to leave room for the inevitable side trips. Most of all, you have to have time to wander around and check out sights that pique your curiosity.

I left Dundee and followed the valleys, through Odessa and down Cayuta Creek all the way to Sayre, where I joined up with the Susquehanna River. I followed the river's gentle bends around the hills to the broad Wyoming Valley, an interesting piece of geology that is more commonly known as Scranton and Wilkes-Barre. I landed for breakfast at the Wyoming Valley Airport.

This is the Valley's "old" airport, laying right along the river just north of Wilkes- Barre. The broad wings of the first- generation airliners once cast their shadows here, but air commerce shifted to the present- day airport when it opened in the mid- forties. The old hangar and terminal building is well- kept and a pleasure to view. It made a great background for a picture of my mid- forties airplane.

From Wilkes- Barre I flew south, paralleling I- 476 until I picked up the Lehigh River where I-80 crosses over it. I don't know that I had ever heard of the Lehigh before, but I was impressed with the twisting course that it had carved through the ridges. As a work of nature it is more impressive than Pine Creek's "Pennsylvania Grand Canyon" but I also had to admire the determination it took to build and maintain two railroads through such a chasm. Few sights can offer stronger testimony to the importance of rail transportation at the turn of the last century.

The Lehigh fights its final battle with the hills where it passes through a dramatic cut in the long ridge that is Blue Mountain, north of Allentown. Passing over the gap and out of the mountains, I soon located the Flying M Airport amidst the fertile flatlands. I circled the field and landed amidst the quiet countryside, parking in the exact spot where I had first laid eyes upon my plane.

A few local pilots were there, and they recognized the plane right away. We talked of the same nothingness that non- pilots recognize as "airplane talk", but they also told me that my plane had spent a lot of time at the Beltzville airport. It hadn't been my plan, but I decided to stop there on my way home.

Beltzville Airport, just south of Beltzville Lake is Dave Beltz's airport. Dave is one of General Aviation's unsung saints, a long- time pilot and mechanic who's sons and grandsons are also pilots and mechanics. Beltzville is one of aviation's secret airports, tucked away in the hills with an unimpressive collection of buildings near the end of a short and sloping runway, but lots of people go there and have fun.

I found Dave working with a group of glider pilots as they were setting up for their first flights of the season. He had a big smile and a handshake for me, and he said that he recognized my airplane just from its unusual sound as it passed overhead. Before he even looked up, he knew that one of his birds had come home.

I stayed for a little bit, admiring the sight of a busy little airport, but I had to start for home. I had seen new things and been to new places, and I couldn't help but think of still more places to go. Flying is like poison ivy; the more you scratch it, the more it itches. Since I couldn't make any more detours on my way back to Dundee, I succumbed to the temptation of a "canoe ride" up the Susquehanna.

The river meanders back and forth between Towanda and Tunkhannock. Instead of flying in a straight line half a mile above it, I dropped down to a few hundred feet and followed every one of its bends. I thought of the early settlers polling upriver in rafts 200 years ago, and of steam locomotives pulling trains alongside the river 100 years ago. One by one I admired the farms and little villages, each bend in the river providing my eyes with a pleasant surprise.

By any measure of productivity, I had wasted the day. I had left home early and returned late in the afternoon with a spent roll of film and no regrets. The long days of summer will soon be here, and we all know how old dogs seem to have more itches to scratch when the weather warms.

The Susquehanna River as it meanders from Towanda to Tunkhannock.

The Commonwealth parked in front of the main hangar at Wyoming Valley Airport.

Flying low over the Susquehanna. Note the low farmland on the inside of the bend and the steep rocky wall on the outside of the turn. Note also how the sky has turned milky from the crisp blue of the morning photo above; the result of the approaching weather.

Not to nag, but remember that high- tension transmission wires will often span rivers such as this at great heights.