Pappy Boyington Field/Coeur d' Alene, ID

World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #08 – October 4, 2025
Edition Title: Wings Over West and Twain to Coeur d’Alene
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot

There’s a particular brand of midnight in Phoenix that confounds poets, meteorologists, and pilots alike—too bright in patches, too empty in the rest. Cropduster’s boots clattered towards the A-37 Dragonfly, that daring two-seater jet with room for two opinions and no dogs, unless one counts the stubbornness that rides along. I, Mark Twain, took my place in the right-hand seat, clutching a coffee brewed so strong it could get work in the Navy, its aroma swirling with promise and a hint of desert regret.

We leapt into the darkness, trusting instruments and nerves. As the city’s lights tumbled behind, dawn’s anticipation sharpened. At KLAX—not for glamour or stars, but for fuel and more coffee—we landed in the hush before sunrise. Cropduster and I exchanged nods and barbs, pondering the meaning of flight, the merits of bitter roast, and the dubious legality of Hollywood architecture. Hollyhock House rolled by below, proud as a peacock, oblivious to our winged regards.

Santa Barbara winked at us next—nostalgia on the breeze, childhood secrets hidden beneath clay rooftiles. Vandenburg passed beneath, silent and severe, followed by Santa Maria, and then Hearst Castle, garish even from this distance, a fever dream tucked on a hillside. At CN66, we refueled and snatched a souvenir coffee cup, emblem of wandering hearts and caffeine dependency.

We rode the coast over Monterey and Salinas before tilting inland for granite grandeur at Yosemite, El Capitan rising like the world’s proudest molar—a toothsome marvel even to aged eyes. Back west again, the Pacific seemed to extend a velvet welcome at KSFO, where ramen refueled our mortal frames and coffee gave us wings anew.

Northward, Redwoods loomed—solemn sentinels, ancient as Twain’s best punchlines. Medford, Oregon, glimmered; Dutch Brother’s reserve beans stowed in the cockpit, future cups thick with Oregon promise. Only then did the Olympic mountains offer their emerald greeting, stitched with mist and legend.

Seattle glowed at KSEA—coffee so robust, even the air traffic controllers run on a constant hum of espresso. Cropduster and I, having tasted nearly every regional roast west of the Rockies, raised cups to fate and further adventure.

At last, we dropped into KCOE, Coeur d’Alene. The C-130H Hercules crew waited in the early light, dogs leaping, support team waving. Here, where Cropduster first cut his teeth as an EMT, the day unfurled its final tale. Stories were swapped, cups compared, and no one minded that the only thing barking up front had been the jet’s engines—at least until the reunion on the ramp.

Thus ends today’s airborne odyssey: two seats, hundreds of miles, caffeinated spirit, and a coast traced in memory and sunrise. Twain out.

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