KTYS - Mcghee Tyson Airpt, Knoxville, TN

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #05 – September 26, 2025
Edition Title: Dragonfly Debut and the Great Manu Migration
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot

There are two ways to cross America: one is sensible and terrestrial, the other is Cropduster’s. Today, we embraced the latter with reckless cheer and slightly singed eyebrows. My esteemed pilot dragged me from the comfort of a motel breakfast and thrust me—coffee in hand, dignity trailing—into the jowls of Iniko, the A-37 Dragonfly. A true instrument of modern progress, Iniko is a jet whose cockpit fits two men and not a spare opinion more. The dogs—Lani the border-checking connoisseur, Kai of biscuit and border collie lineage, and Charlie, the Schnauzer with a mustache fiercer than mine—watched the preflight ritual with looks suggesting both concern and legal counsel.

Having discovered that the Dragonfly’s idea of baggage allowance is “bring your kneecaps and hope,” our hound contingent wisely elected to embark instead aboard Manu, our venerable Dakota DC-3. “Manu,” meaning “bird” in the tongue of Hawaii, is the sort of airplane that attracts nostalgic aviators, listless birds, and rampers hoping for a story. The canines stretched luxuriously in cargo class, no TSA pat-down required, and not one mile declared on any government manifest.

As Iniko tore down the runway like a tax summons in hot pursuit, we rocketed over Pittsburgh and made for Fallingwater, Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural dare. The place looked to me from above like a game of Jenga gone slightly too far, but Cropduster assured me that people pay good money to live above waterfalls. I reckon it’s handy for disposing of unwelcome house guests—just a polite shove and gravity does the rest.

On the next leg, Monticello and the University of Virginia hove into view, resplendent as copper stills at sunrise. Jefferson’s home stood proud on its hill, unaware that somewhere in the basement, an intern is probably still lost among the dumbwaiters. The university gleamed, an academic pearl, though we wisely kept altitude—so as to avoid being caught by an admissions officer with an endowment pledge form.

Our grand finale: the Great Smoky Mountains, draped in their ceremonial blue shawl. The mountains regard aviation with the bemused patience of grandparents at a disco—tolerant, but always a little surprised by the noise. Iniko danced over ridgelines like a dragonfly tipsy on pondwater. I marveled that a pair of jet engines and a parched sense of direction could lead men anywhere but court.

We dropped into KTYS with grace—well, with some sort of descent, anyway. Shortly, Manu thumped in behind us, disgorging a support team and three canines that looked neither harried nor repentant. Lani sniffed the tarmac and declared the place fit for commerce. Kai inspected the baggage carts, clearly searching for lost French fries. Charlie, with all the gravitas of a Prussian inspector general, introduced himself to every airport employee in reach.

As the sun collapsed toward the horizon and the smell of ramen rose from a distant truck stop, I reflected that aviation, like writing, is best undertaken with friends, strong coffee, and an escape plan. If stories are made airborne by aerodynamics and sheer temerity, this was a flight to shame the angels and confuse the insurance underwriters.

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