As I mentioned yesterday, I was recently given the privilege of flying with a friend in my home state of Maine.
My first flying lessons were in Maine, but I finished my lessons in the swamps and orange groves of central Florida. And most of my flying since has been over the endless soybeans, corn, and urban sprawl of northern Illinois.
Don’t get me wrong: flying anywhere is a treat. And Florida and Illinois both have their scenic places. But flying in Maine is one endless scenic vista, eye candy as far as you can see: lush forests and dense vegetation, ancient mountains and hidden lakes, fjords and rivers. The experience of flying in the mountains of western Maine is something altogether different from the experience of flying the flatlands.
I like it.