KSLC - Salt Lake City, Utah, USA

Edition Title: Night Skies, Steaming Bowls, and Yellowstone Dawn
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot

The night was so deep over Coeur d’Alene, even the stars were plain out of breath. Yet Cropduster, with the nerve of an inventor and the hairstyle of a late-night telegram, shooed me into the Cessna A-37 Dragonfly for a moonlit sprint to Missoula. With two men wedged tighter than Sunday hat bands, and no hounds in sight (our canine loyalists having claimed the Hercules in protest of jet ergonomics), we took to the ink-black sky—chasing not trouble, but that rarest of Montana treasures: midnight ramen and coffee stout enough to ruin a dentist’s week.

Missoula greeted us with airport lights like embers on the horizon and a steaming bowl from “Noodle Hong”—where the shoyu glowed under fluorescent bulbs, and the pork belly’s aroma could put a man to poetry or confession. The night air outside was crisp as a ledger, but inside, noodles revived our spirits with the immediacy of a bank loan.

At daybreak, we shook off the last shadows and flew to Bozeman, where caffeine calls the shots and pilots line up for breakfast with the same solemnity cattle bring to a salt lick. We were greeted by a Montana-mountain pour-over so robust it could power a legislative session, paired with “Gallatin Sunrise Ramen”—elk chashu, wild mushrooms, a seven-minute farm egg, and a hint of huckleberry in the broth for style. I observed that, in matters culinary and financial, Montana prefers its riches subtle and its flavors bold.

Sun riding high, we turned Dragonfly’s nose toward the kingdom of sky and stone: Yellowstone National Park. From above, the park’s marvels unfolded—a surreal patchwork of mist, geysers, and mountains stitched by rivers that can’t pick a favorite direction. Grand Prismatic Spring fanned its rainbow plume, a technicolor marvel more vivid than even fever dreams, while steam geysers etched silver sigils on the land. No other wilderness on our continent hosts such irrepressible boiling, burbling, and colored chaos; Twain’s own childhood imagination would have been cowed by such sights.

We circled the mighty park boundary, honoring the “no low passes” decree enforced by rangers, bears, and common sense. The view was worth every minute—untamed, unruled, speckled with geothermal splendor and the trace of ancient stories echoing against mineral and pine. If the Dragonfly ever takes a holiday, it should be here—soaking up sun and sulfur with nothing but the ravens for company.

Onward then to Salt Lake City, where the runway shimmered under midday sun and our priority was a brunch fit for the world’s hungriest legislators—coffee from Koyoté, a brew said to rival volcanic eruptions in both flavor and aftershock, and ramen that paid due homage to all we’d seen. Brunch bowls brimmed with smoked brisket, silky ajitama, and a chintan broth brewed for ten patient hours, perfected with every stir. I briefly considered running for governor of Utah, so long as the job came with ramen privileges.

As for the support contingent, canine and crew descended later with tales of turbulence and three-way dog wrestling bouts in the cargo hold. Lani sniffed judgmentally, Kai made quick work of stray noodles, and Charlie, that Schnauzer ambassador, negotiated a treat surplus with charm unrivaled.

In sum, today’s log records the alchemy of open sky, volcanic geology, and broth that might just outlast the Rockies themselves. Cropduster pilots, Twain scribbles, and three dogs audit the crumbs—a journey fit for anybody who counts stories in landings and ramen in memories.

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