(no subject)
I wrote this elsewhere and want to keep it here as well. Comment in response to a friend's share about their father's death in a plane crash. Might edit later.
-----------------
My dad was an adventurer. My memories of him include sailing, flying in a 4-seater Cessna, and motorcycle racing in the desert. When I was 7, he flew some friends to Oregon for a fishing trip at the mouth of the Klamath. His plane went down just north of the airport and all four passengers died. For years I puzzled over what could have happened--the NTSB report shows no clear cause. I thought it was a steep mountain range, there was speculation about whether the engine had stopped before the plane went down, I imagined he had a long fall and time to think about the family he was leaving behind. But in my 50s, a friend who had grown up in the area told me she thought she could connect me with the family who owns the land where the crash happened. Suddenly the mystery became accessible. I contacted the current patriarch of the land, someone my friend knew in high school. He agreed to meet with me and tour the spot. From the moment I got in his truck, the story just spilled out of him in a torrent. He was 16 at the time. He didn't see the actual crash, but he knew of folks who did. He and his dad rushed up to the site; they were the second to arrive but there was nothing to be done. He described what he saw, something like you see in movies when a bomb hits a tank, burning bodies in a completely engulfed plane. I knew that much, because my mom had told me that officials had returned to her a belt buckle with burnt edges, his wedding ring, and not much else. (She didn't look at his bones in the casket.) Anyway, once this man had told me of his experience, he took me to the actual crash site which was now a field of short trees. The beautiful hilltop overlooks the mouth of the river and the little airport on the other side. There were wildflowers, birds singing, hawks cawing, gentle breeze blowing, and I could almost hear music in my head as I took in the view. Across the knoll was a stand of taller trees, a large rock between them with a plaque embossed in memory of the man's parents, whose ashes are also scattered there. So it's a lovely, peaceful memorial site for his family and also mine. I found comfort in that. Also I was glad to be able to finally picture what had happened. The man told me that most pilots take off from the tiny airport (which I also visited) and angle out to the west and over the ocean to begin a southward journey. For whatever reason, my dad angled east over the low mountains, and most likely a combination of heavy load and winds just... kept them from quite clearing the ridge. Just ever so slightly too low, too heavy, they must have seen it coming but there was no way to turn in time. And so it goes. Thank you for asking.
-----------------
My dad was an adventurer. My memories of him include sailing, flying in a 4-seater Cessna, and motorcycle racing in the desert. When I was 7, he flew some friends to Oregon for a fishing trip at the mouth of the Klamath. His plane went down just north of the airport and all four passengers died. For years I puzzled over what could have happened--the NTSB report shows no clear cause. I thought it was a steep mountain range, there was speculation about whether the engine had stopped before the plane went down, I imagined he had a long fall and time to think about the family he was leaving behind. But in my 50s, a friend who had grown up in the area told me she thought she could connect me with the family who owns the land where the crash happened. Suddenly the mystery became accessible. I contacted the current patriarch of the land, someone my friend knew in high school. He agreed to meet with me and tour the spot. From the moment I got in his truck, the story just spilled out of him in a torrent. He was 16 at the time. He didn't see the actual crash, but he knew of folks who did. He and his dad rushed up to the site; they were the second to arrive but there was nothing to be done. He described what he saw, something like you see in movies when a bomb hits a tank, burning bodies in a completely engulfed plane. I knew that much, because my mom had told me that officials had returned to her a belt buckle with burnt edges, his wedding ring, and not much else. (She didn't look at his bones in the casket.) Anyway, once this man had told me of his experience, he took me to the actual crash site which was now a field of short trees. The beautiful hilltop overlooks the mouth of the river and the little airport on the other side. There were wildflowers, birds singing, hawks cawing, gentle breeze blowing, and I could almost hear music in my head as I took in the view. Across the knoll was a stand of taller trees, a large rock between them with a plaque embossed in memory of the man's parents, whose ashes are also scattered there. So it's a lovely, peaceful memorial site for his family and also mine. I found comfort in that. Also I was glad to be able to finally picture what had happened. The man told me that most pilots take off from the tiny airport (which I also visited) and angle out to the west and over the ocean to begin a southward journey. For whatever reason, my dad angled east over the low mountains, and most likely a combination of heavy load and winds just... kept them from quite clearing the ridge. Just ever so slightly too low, too heavy, they must have seen it coming but there was no way to turn in time. And so it goes. Thank you for asking.
