Sometimes at work I will sit smugly and admire how perfect things are. It doesn't matter whether the sky is clear and sunny or if it is choked with snow on a dark winter's night; when things are going well I can look along the instruments and note "straight up, 3 of a kind.". It shouldn't be a cause for celebration to note that everything is running smoothly, but flying is a continuous correction for small deviations. It is pleasant to see that everything is where it belongs, if only for the moment.

If the big hand of the altimeter is straight up the altitude is exact. If the two fuel gauge needles are parallel, the plane is trimmed perfectly and fuel is not sloshing from one tank to the other. Three of a kind means that the GPS says that my intended heading is the same as the required heading and my present heading; I have been on course, I am presently on course, and will remain on course.

It is really audacious to sit in the middle of a bumpy cloud and say that you know exactly where you are, and that you are going exactly where you have planned. In a thousand attempts though, there are a thousand successes, and it is surprisingly easy to get used to it.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that my little plane can't do any of the tricks that the big one can. There are no radios and no instruments installed. I bought my GPS in Wal-Mart's hunting and camping department, and it is certainly good enough to get me into trouble, but maybe not good enough to get me out of it.

I was feeling pretty free- and- easy on one of the rare days this spring when the weather was sunny and calm, and I made the best of it by going flying. I arrived at the airport with no destination in mind, and was told that there was a breakfast in Painted Post. I dawdled a little bit, perhaps giving the early morning sun a few more minutes to work on the fog that had filled the valleys to the south.

I took off and flew low over the hills of Hornby, arriving shortly over a great river of white fog that filled the three valleys that meet at Painted Post. I flew a wide circle, and could see the Gibson bridge through a thin spot west of Corning, and I could see the rail yards at Erwin. Coopers Plains was in the clear, but it would be a while before the fog around the airport dissipated.

An hour earlier I had arrived at my home airport with no particular destination in mind, and now as I circled over the foggy valley, I needed to pick a second choice. I was halfway down the lis of usual destinations when I remembered that I have always wanted to see what Cherry Springs airport looked like. It was mostly a matter of curiosity.

I turned the GPS on and pointed the plane southwest. With a bit of warm- up time, some button- pushing, and a few heading adjustments, the GPS told me that I was traveling about a hundred miles per hour, and that Cherry Springs was 50 miles distant, on a 220 degree compass heading. Without so much as a line on a map I started out over the Pennsylvania hills.

At one point I thought I identified Elkland in the distance, but I was never sure. All I knew was that 220 degrees for half an hour would take me to Cherry Springs. After 25 minutes I turned the GPS back on, and made a final course adjustment to find the airport. All the time I had been thinking how silly I would feel if the GPS went belly-up as I flew above the hilly forests that grow so thick in the middle of nowhere. If necessary, I could have turned just east of north by the compass and regained familiar territory, but it would have been a while before I would be able to identify any landmarks.

Just like it always has, complete reliance upon the GPS worked fine, but to appease the Ethereal Spirits which reach down to smite lazy navigators, I elected to return home "God's way". I followed valleys creeks, and roads. I started by flying down the west branch of Pine Creek past Galeton to Gaines, and then up Long Run, past Sabinsville to Westfield. From there I followed the Cowanesque River to Elkland and then a road over the hill to old Route 17 below Addison, back in familiar territory.

I enjoyed a somewhat belated breakfast at Painted Post, and reflected upon the flight, but found no new nuggets of wisdom or philosophy. I am still grateful for the chance to jump in the plane for a Sunday morning drive, it is still dumb to rely on gadgetry for navigation, and it is sooo satisfying to chug along the valleys and say hello to all the little towns that you had never met before.

Fog over the Chemung Valley. At the foot of the first ridge, you can just see the Gibson bridge which carries Route 17 over the river west of Corning.

Heading back home from Cherry Springs, following the west branch of Pine Creek in the long valley ahead.

Parked for breakfast at Costa's airport near Painted Post, NY.