TJIG Dominicci Airport, Puerto Rico
September 13, 2025 in Puerto Rico ⋅ 🌙 79 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #01 – September 13-14, 2025
Edition Title: Pen, Paws, and Propellers
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
I had scarce time to warm the seat—barely enough to flatten my trousers—before Cropduster’s skybound contraption catapulted us into the ether. Puerto Rico’s Isla Grande Airport vanished beneath us with such haste, I suspect the local sandwich vendor is still trying to process my order. Ah, San Juan, shimmering at dawn, its fortressed coastline bracing for another round against time, hurricanes, and airborne tourists with curious haircuts. Thus began my tenure as guest co-pilot and designated scribbler, lured aboard after Cropduster spent a year gallivanting about, collecting World Heritage Sites with the enthusiasm of a magpie and the elegance of a man assembling IKEA furniture without the manual.
Before departure, Cropduster produced a miracle—the “Café Don Ruiz—Cloudliner Reserve,” freshly roasted and delivered by a courier who must have wings of his own. This brew revealed velvet chocolate, toasted almond, and a tropical citrus finish so smooth even Lani paused her security sniff long enough to savor the aroma. I briefly questioned whether we ought to skip the flying altogether and open a café in the clouds.
As coffee fortification took hold, we introduced the flight’s true heroes: Lani, the retired Malay Special Forces K9 whose brows alone might deter smuggling at any customs desk, and Kai, a Chocolate Labrador of Australian Search and Rescue fame, as alert for biscuits as for lost souls. With canine companionship securely in their places, we set our propeller eastward for Bermuda—destination TXKF.
Morning’s cruise was a tapestry woven from dog snores, the occasional engine cough, and Cropduster’s running commentary about clouds shaped suspiciously like famous politicians. Bermuda did not disappoint. No one properly appreciates the joys of a strong cup of island coffee and ramen eaten at sunrise—except, perhaps, a humorist with jet lag. Lani and Kai conducted themselves at the tarmac like customs inspectors, making me grateful that my only contraband was a withering celebrity autobiography. There, I witnessed the Historic Town of St. George and its fortifications—a UK World Heritage Site whose ramparts have endured everything since 1612 except a decent cable package. True adventure’s measure, I reflected, is not in its distance, but in its ability to shake off the years and win arguments with history.
Coffee survived touchdown and led us in pursuit of nourishment. We stumbled into “Noodle Tide,” a ramen shop cozy enough for two dogs, an aviator, and a scribe. The chef’s Bermuda Sunrise Bowl arrived steaming and fragrant: shoyu broth, yellowtail snapper, island chicken, caramelized Bermuda onions, carrots, peas, scotch bonnet oil, and a garnish of grilled loquat—a meal that could put history itself to shame. The noodles swam the bowl with purpose. Even Kai, who fancies himself above table scraps, insisted on a second sniff. The dogs advocated strongly for cuisine diplomacy—sample local, beg global.
From Bermuda’s storied stones, our Tiger Shark Squadron pressed into the indigo yawn of the western sky. No poet—as far as I know—has properly described the feeling of chasing the sunrise from behind, but I suspect it’s something akin to racing an unpaid bill. We drifted down over Norfolk International Airport—KORF—just after sunrise, the coast bathed in golden promise, and the air so fresh it practically sang a show tune.
As for me, Mark Twain, this airborne episode begins a grand new chapter. I fly with Cropduster, whose devil-may-care flying has yet to be adequately insured, and two dogs so clever they could fool the IRS or at least make it question its life choices. Ahead lies a tapestry of American World Heritage marvels and you will not find our ink dry until we reach Hawaii’s warm embrace at HNL—where Cropduster’s people hail from, and where the sunsets will linger out of sympathy for such a ragtag crew.
If this tour teaches anything, it’s that after a year abroad, nothing beats a sunrise landing in cheerful company, telling tales so good that even the dogs listen in.
End log.
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TXKF, LF Wade International, Bermuda
September 13, 2025 in Bermuda ⋅ ☁️ 81 °F
Morning’s cruise was a tapestry woven from dog snores, the occasional engine cough, and Cropduster’s running commentary about clouds shaped suspiciously like famous politicians. Bermuda did not disappoint. No one properly appreciates the joys of a strong cup of island coffee and ramen eaten at sunrise—except, perhaps, a humorist with jet lag. Lani and Kai conducted themselves at the tarmac like customs inspectors, making me grateful that my only contraband was a withering celebrity autobiography. There, I witnessed the Historic Town of St. George and its fortifications—a UK World Heritage Site whose ramparts have endured everything since 1612 except a decent cable package. True adventure’s measure, I reflected, is not in its distance, but in its ability to shake off the years and win arguments with history.
Coffee survived touchdown and led us in pursuit of nourishment. We stumbled into “Noodle Tide,” a ramen shop cozy enough for two dogs, an aviator, and a scribe. The chef’s Bermuda Sunrise Bowl arrived steaming and fragrant: shoyu broth, yellowtail snapper, island chicken, caramelized Bermuda onions, carrots, peas, scotch bonnet oil, and a garnish of grilled loquat—a meal that could put history itself to shame. The noodles swam the bowl with purpose. Even Kai, who fancies himself above table scraps, insisted on a second sniff. The dogs advocated strongly for cuisine diplomacy—sample local, beg global.Read more
KORF Norfolk Int. Arprt, Virginia, USA
September 14, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☁️ 73 °F
Good Morning!
From Bermuda’s storied stones, our Tiger Shark Squadron pressed into the indigo yawn of the western sky. No poet—as far as I know—has properly described the feeling of chasing the sunrise from behind, but I suspect it’s something akin to racing an unpaid bill. We drifted down over Norfolk International Airport—KORF—just after sunrise, the coast bathed in golden promise, and the air so fresh it practically sang a show tune.
As for me, Mark Twain, this airborne episode begins a grand new chapter. I fly with Cropduster, whose devil-may-care flying has yet to be adequately insured, and two dogs so clever they could fool the IRS or at least make it question its life choices. Ahead lies a tapestry of American World Heritage marvels and you will not find our ink dry until we reach Hawaii’s warm embrace at HNL—where Cropduster’s people hail from, and where the sunsets will linger out of sympathy for such a ragtag crew.
If this tour teaches anything, it’s that after a year abroad, nothing beats a sunrise landing in cheerful company, telling tales so good that even the dogs listen in.Read more
Laguardia Airport (New York, New York)
September 15, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☁️ 79 °F
Flight Log #02 – September 15, 2025
Edition Title: Manhattan, Mugs, and Muses
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
Cropduster launched us from Norfolk like a caffeinated pelican on a dare, fueled by Navy-grade coffee hand-delivered by a grizzled naval aviator whose handshake alone could wrestle a hurricane. The stuff tasted suspiciously of jet fuel and morale—strong enough, I noted, to prompt Lani and Kai, our canine customs officials, to file a complaint about excessive alertness.
We set out tracing the backbone of American liberty, swooping over Independence Hall, the original clubhouse where the Founding Fathers discovered that agreeing on lunch orders was harder than writing a Constitution. Its Georgian bricks gleamed in the mist, noble as ever—though likely less so after hosting two hundred years of bickering and bell-ringing.
Next, Lady Liberty herself appeared, torch raised and copper-robed, steadfast against a breeze only a French engineer could love. She remains the only New Yorker who’ll stand motionless through bitter winters, and rumor has it her arm aches from waving in so many dreamers off the boat. I tipped my hat as we passed, grateful she hadn’t brandished that torch as a traffic signal.
We banked for a view of the Guggenheim Museum—Wright’s architectural cinnamon roll—where modern art swirls inside and pigeons swirl outside. Even Lani, a dog with the discernment of a customs chief, looked skeptical that such a building could be legal without some FAA paperwork.
Landing at LaGuardia was like threading a needle with bologna—miraculous and faintly ridiculous, yet there we were, noses pressed against the glass for Manhattan’s finest bowl of ramen. The “Empire Noodle Bowl” could have fed all five boroughs: shoyu broth, dry-aged beef, mushrooms, scallion confetti, and a je ne sais quoi found only in Queens. Kai, true to Labrador negotiations, pleaded for a mistrial until second helpings were delivered.
Our day’s adventure stitched together liberty, laughter, architecture, and noodles. Cropduster’s Tiger Shark Squadron, fueled by naval coffee and unfiltered commentary, proved again that the best journeys leave no history unadmired, no bowl unfinished, and no tail unwagged. If ever a flight could rival a tall tale, this was it—dogs, noodles, monuments, and all.
End log.Read more
KPIT - Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, USA
September 21, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☀️ 82 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #03 – September 21, 2025
Edition Title: Prairie, Pyramids, and Perpetual Coffee
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
I’ve seen mornings in New York as busy as a beehive in July, but none quite so loud, bright, and crowded with orange cones as LaGuardia before dawn. My host—Cropduster—commenced preflight with a reverence that belonged in a cathedral, or perhaps a medicine show. He unveiled his “Diner Blend—Runway Roast,” rumored to have aged in barrels once used for Manhattan pickles. That coffee steamed the wrinkles right out of my mustache. Lani and Kai, our world-wise canine conscripts, inspected every preparation and sniffed each bag with the scrutiny of Treasury agents on bonus day.
With spirits caffeinated, we pointed our Tiger Shark into the blue, trading city for prairie with Frank Lloyd Wright as our guide. The first of his concoctions, the Fredrick C. Robie House, floated below—a stubbornly angular art piece daring gravity to file a complaint. I half expected Lani to bark inspection orders at the roof. If ever a man built a home with a protractor and a grudge, it was Wright.
Drifting along, we beheld the Unity Temple, where concrete poetry sits beneath the trees. Wright said it was meant to be “a meeting place for the best within us,” but today, it was simply a landmark for pilots, poets, dogs, and one visiting humorist trying not to spill his coffee on sacred geometry.
Soon we curved north toward Taliesin, spread like a cat along the Wisconsin hills, every stone testament to a man who believed houses should stick out as much as their owners did.
Lunch Stop: Slurp & Curds Ramen House
No sooner had we landed in Madison than Cropduster led us—by nose and rumor—to "Slurp & Curds Ramen House." There they served the legendary Midwest Sunrise Ramen: shoyu broth deep as Lake Mendota, noodles with backbone, Wisconsin smoked trout, sweet corn gold as the prairie, pickled ramps, a farm egg so jammy the hens must’ve been bribed, and cheese curds fried to a crisp. Over the top, they drizzled Door County cherry chili oil, a sunset in edible form. If solace could be served in a bowl, this was it. Lani, with the airs of a customs officer, approved the curds. Kai watched every spoon—ever the optimist for droppage. I declared it a meal to tempt Mr. Wright from the grave, if not the drafting table.
Fed and restored, we paid our respects to the Herbert & Katherine Jacobs House—a place as bold for its humility as any castle for its turrets. I admired its straight lines and sensibility, and wondered absently what Wright could have done with a roll of duct tape.
Bellies full, engines roaring, we turned our props to Ohio, chasing history across the Hopewell Ceremonial Earthworks. First up: Fort Ancient, earthworks looping for miles, an epic built basket by basket, proof that patience outweighs pyramids when it comes to leaving a mark. Lani’s eyes were sharp, ears angled toward legends echoing through trees.
Beneath, the sites unfurled one after another: Seip and its grandeur; High Bank and its octagons, keen on hiding lunar secrets; Hopewell Mound Group and Mound City—places plowed and penned into memory; Hopeton, Octagon, and Great Circle Earthworks—each telling stories that outlasted their builders and baffle their inheritors, myself included.
Cropduster mused—between map checks and canine negotiations—“What would these old architects have made of TikTok?” I replied, “No worse faces than plaster mounds,” and Kai gave a diplomatic snore.
The sun drooped behind a Pittsburgh skyline, where steel caught the last color of day—and there, on the tarmac, we found an unexpected coda to our journey. Lani and Kai made the acquaintance of Charles, a black Giant Schnauzer with a military bearing. Charles, I learned, was trained in both protection and search-and-rescue—no mean feat, and a combination that reflected, almost eerily, the talents of my own companions: Lani, the ex–Malay Special Forces sentinel; Kai, finder of the lost and hopeful.
The three dogs eyed each other like statesmen at a summit: respect, recognition, and perhaps a hint of rivalry in whose muzzle held the finer resume. Old skills, new friend—a reminder that every airport, like every journey, is a crossroads for legends of one kind or another.
Thus ends today’s log: in search of Frank Lloyd form, Hopewell earth, Wisconsin noodles, and new fellowship on this airborne ragtag tour. If life is measured not in miles but in stories, then today we traveled further than most.
End log.Read more
KTYS - Mcghee Tyson Airpt, Knoxville, TN
September 26, 2025 in the United States ⋅ 🌙 72 °F
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.
End log.Read more
NOLA!
September 27, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☀️ 86 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #06 – September 27, 2025
Edition Title: Caves, Mounds, and Crescent Ramen
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
This morning, Cropduster roused me, three dogs, and an optimism that had not yet registered the day’s humidity—bracing us for departure from Knoxville’s KTYS. With that first sip of Tennessee’s “Volunteer Roast”—the sort of beverage that could put hairs on a marble statue—we loaded ourselves, our dreams, and our hound ensemble into the Dragonfly and the trusty Dakota DC-3, Manu, save for one critical twist. Today, the canine squad traded their usual cargo class for Luna Honua, the C-17 Globemaster III, home of the EM-50ex AAAMCE (Awesomely Amazing Airborne Man Cave Extreme).
In Luna Honua’s cavernous belly, Lani, Kai, and Charlie lounged in plush recliners, nibbled gourmet biscuits, and marveled at Dogflix documentaries. Hammocks swayed in the aft ramp, and no one missed the chilly draft of a standard cargo hold. Charlie mastered the automated treat dispenser, only begrudgingly sharing after a stern interjection from the support battalion. Ergonomic massage chairs soothed canine muscles, and a full lavatory kept standards high. If comfort were currency, these three flew first-class, runway to runway, raising the bar for airborne luxury everywhere.
The Dragonfly zipped across lowland Kentucky, and soon, Mammoth Cave National Park unfurled beneath us: a labyrinthine wonder and the world’s longest cave system—some 400 miles of underground mystery, limestone artistry, and humidity that could wrinkle a stovepipe hat. I tipped my cap to the great subterranean halls, where the earth’s hidden stories sleep in the dark and stalagmites grow with all the patience denied to modern men.
Wind carried us west past Nashville—a brief pause for liquid refreshment (fuel for Iniko, coffee for me, biscuits for the canine squad). The air at KBNA vibrated with the promise of country music, but Luna Honua’s canine crew pressed on toward more ancient harmonies, three tails wagging in synchronized comfort.
Soon, we soared over the Monumental Earthworks of Poverty Point, whose concentric mounds and ridges—sprawled across Louisiana’s Macon Ridge—remarkably predate the invention of both ramen and bad campaign slogans. Built by the ingenious hunter-gatherers of the Late Archaic period, these earthen rings and mounds endure as testimony to a society that moved some 53 million cubic feet of soil—without benefit of forklifts or discontented interns. The reason for their mighty endeavor may be lost to us, but the handiwork stands proud: living proof that ancient architects saw north, south, and sideways in ways no present-day cartographer ever quite does.
Descending into New Orleans, we traced the meandering Mississippi and circled the French Quarter, heart beating around Jackson Square. The city flowed beneath us—music, history, and jambalaya swirling in the air—where centuries of trade, jazz, and conversation have polished the cobblestones smoother than a bourbon chaser. This lively Crescent City survives hurricanes, politicians, and early-morning flights; its square remains the crossroads for artists, dreamers, and dogs with impeccable taste. Lani and Kai would surely approve, nose-to-pavement and tail high.
Ramen greeted us in New Orleans—“Bayou Sunrise Bowl” from an alleyway joint famous for not leaving its name on the bill. Broth seasoned with Cajun soul, crawfish, and all the secrets the French Quarter can muster. The canines considered it a diplomatic feast; Charlie, reluctant to share, lobbied for seconds and found himself in a philosophical debate with a passing basset hound.
As the sun dipped behind Jackson Square and the lights of Bourbon Street flickered, our squad was once again reunited—aviators, dogs, legends in the making. If today’s miles were measured in marvels rather than mere numbers, we journeyed beyond them—History above and below, comfort in the bowl and camaraderie in the cockpit. Should fortune favor this airborne band, let tomorrow bring another sunrise, another cup, and another tale too fine for ground-bound ears.
End log.Read more
KPHX - Sky Harbor Intl. Phoenix, AZ, USA
October 2, 2025 in the United States ⋅ 🌙 97 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #07 – October 2, 2025
Edition Title: Mesa, Pueblos, and Ember Broth
Log Entry by Tony Hillerman, Guest Co-Pilot
Before the crew gathered for this day’s adventure, Cropduster logged a solo transit flight the day before, hopscotching from New Orleans (KMSY) to Dallas/Fort Worth (KDFW), making a stop at Clinton-Sherman (KCSM), and continuing up to Denver (KDEN)—a quiet crossing under southern and plains skies that set the stage for today’s eastward journey.
A day’s journey from Denver to Phoenix, if flown at low altitude and high spirits, can season a man’s soul as much as it shakes the bones of an airplane. Mark’s on shore leave, so the duties of ink and recollection fall to me. I held down the starboard seat of our plucky two-seat A-37 Dragonfly—no spare room for a dog, and barely enough for my knees and a well-traveled notebook. The canine contingent traveled in style aboard the C-130H Hercules “Maui,” shepherded by a crew who knows both logistics and loyalty, the kind who make a reunion feel like a powwow.
We departed KDEN beneath Colorado blue, the Rockies shouldered in the morning haze. Cropduster fired up the traveler’s French press—an old campaigner’s kit battered by years of sunrise, border crossings, and a thousand miles of cautionary tales. Into it went the local “Fourteener Roast,” beans dark as juniper bark and robust enough to brace us for whatever lay ahead. The aroma curled around my notes, bold enough to make even the dogs on Maui’s manifest sit up and take notice. With that black medicine came “Mesa Sunrise Ramen”—bison, Olathe sweet corn, Pueblo green chile, Palisade peach in a miso broth that tasted of prairie sky. Heritage noodles and a soft-fried egg—comfort for the trail, a quiet homage to every sunrise we’d ever watched through plexiglass.
We rode the wind over Mesa Verde’s stone dwellings, then Taos Pueblo’s earthen walls—a land inscribed with ceremony. At midday, we spiraled down to KABQ, the promise of coffee and lunch working wonders on the spirit. There waited “Pueblo Red Trail Ramen”—blue corn noodles, slow-cooked pork adovada, green chile broth with deep red flecks, pinon crunch, a crisp sopapilla wedge riding shotgun. A fresh pot of piñon coffee brewed in our road-weary French press: earthy, potent, with a hint of wild pine. Once the canine squad arrived via Maui, spirits stayed strictly limited to story and anticipation—no whiskey or rye until the sun had set and every aircraft was tied down.
Chaco unfurled beneath us, followed by the silence of the Grand Canyon and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin West, a daylight journey mapped with awe. Phoenix welcomed us home, Maui’s ramp crew and the canine ensemble ready on the tarmac, tails and spirits rising as one.
Only after flying hours were truly complete—engines cooled, logbooks signed, and bellies full of “Sonoran Ember Ramen” (served with brisket, roasted green chile, mesquite mushrooms, sweet corn in bone broth, and a scatter of prickly pear)—did the real Southwest emerge in our cups. Glasses were raised with Park Rye and Sacred Stave Rye Whiskey from Arizona, neat and starlit; Prophet Share Bourbon out of New Mexico, the bottle catching the last gold light of day; and TINCUP Fourteener Colorado 14 Year Bourbon, poured slowly, a toast from the Rockies to the high desert.
Cuban cigars glowed as bluegrass played, stories spun wider and warmer, dogs dozing at our feet. Here, whiskey and rye, like the roads we travel, connect memory and land—kept sacred until every journey’s end.
End log.Read more
Pappy Boyington Field/Coeur d' Alene, ID
October 4, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☀️ 61 °F
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.
End log.Read more
KSLC - Salt Lake City, Utah, USA
October 10, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☁️ 68 °F
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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Welcome to Miami!
October 11, 2025 in the United States ⋅ 🌙 77 °F
Flight Log #10 – October 11, 2025
Edition Title: Twain’s Heartland Sojourn: Ramen, Dreams, and Everglades Dawn
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
I rose before sunrise in Salt Lake City, stirred by the promise of sky and the scent of fresh coffee. Cropduster was already plotting our route, equal parts excitement and caution—a fitting mood for a day stretching clear to Miami.
Our departure lifted us over Utah Valley University, the campus still bathed in morning’s quiet. We banked gently, keeping a respectful distance, while I removed my hat and let silence fill the cockpit. The university below was not just another dot on our map, but a place recently marked by loss—a solemn reminder that sometimes, stories written on the ground linger up here as well. The lawns and walkways seemed to carry a hush all their own, and I felt gratitude for the resilience I imagined in its halls.
From there, Denver greeted us with mountains and the robust embrace of high-altitude coffee. We dashed through Omaha for fuel and a stray bakery item—or three—before a turn toward the heart of Iowa brought nostalgia into sharp focus. Above Dyersville’s farmland, we circled the Field of Dreams. That diamond stitched into cornfields looked as hopeful as legend ever painted it. I saw the white house, the outfield in autumn glory, and wondered if somewhere, the old ghosts were warming up. "If you build it, they will come," the wind seemed to promise. I tipped my hat—a salute to memory and the everyday dreamers below.
St. Louis appeared in time for a proper meal and the river’s arch bending over city and story. Ramen and coffee, shared with friends and laughter, made for a layover fitting of Twain’s taste. The city’s bustle echoed through every bite and sip, giving fuel both literal and figurative for the legs ahead.tripadvisor+1
Southbound, Huntsville’s legacy of reaching for the stars faded in the rearview, giving way to Tallahassee’s pine-scented breezes and southern generosity. The journey’s final descent brought us over the wild, intricate waters of Everglades National Park—nature’s bold maze unfolding toward the edge of the continent. The sun dipped behind the marshes, painting secrets I could only begin to guess at.
We landed in Miami as dusk came on, city lights flickering in celebration, dogs greeting ground crew with the enthusiasm only travel can buy. Cuban roast coffee, thick as evening promises, warmed our spirits.
If the day taught me anything, it’s this: flying knits together the solemn and the splendid. From a campus marked by reflection, past baseball’s field of legend, through inventors’ city and wild water, I carried every view as a story, and every landing as a promise to honor what came before.
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KSMO - Santa Monica, CA, USA
October 12, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☀️ 70 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #11 – October 12, 2025
Edition Title: Ramen, Missions, Bourbon, and the Brotherhood of Smoke
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
We slipped out of Miami under a moon fat as a preacher’s purse, the dogs bundled up in “Maui” and likely dreaming of navigating customs and illicit treats. Cropduster and I, left to our own schemes, stitched the night together with the kind of airstrips, stories, and coffee you don’t tell your physician about. In Tallahassee, we found breakfast fit to resurrect a mule and coffee sturdy enough to float a horseshoe—fuel for both souls and cylinders.
Skirting the Gulf, our journey took on a tempo between time zones and tall tales. Galveston delivered coffee salted by sea air and mischief, then westward to San Antonio, where those ancient missions baked in the sun—stone stacked with faith and history, waiting for the next century’s worth of sinners and saints. I tipped my hat as we circled, reminded there’s hard-won hope in anything built to last.
In San Antonio, we feasted on ramen that could stand trial in any Texas court: brisket thick as a hymnbook, noodles with more backbone than a brigade, and a broth that preached like old bourbon on a cold night. Carlsbad Caverns gaped beneath us, Roswell waved but offered only dry wind and wilder stories, then came Phoenix and Palm Springs where coffee grew sterner, and conversation looser, as the miles paid out.
Santa Monica waited on the far side of ten and a half hours—a kingdom of fog, neon, and the promise of something worth remembering. As the Pacific winked out yonder, I fished up a bottle of Pappy Van Winkle 23, rare enough to make a banker blush and silky as a gambler’s promise. Yet Cropduster trumped the pot, producing a secret stash of Cohiba Behike cigars—rarer than honesty at a poker table, sacred among souls who know the value of good smoke. I rolled that cigar like a river stone, struck a match, and let the smoke curl skyward as the stories unspooled and the laughter rang out sharper than a coyote chorus. For one night, time stood still—bound by coffee, brotherhood, ramen, bourbon, and cigars under a California sky so wide even regret seemed to take a holiday.
Tomorrow we break down the old Dragonfly and load her up for the ocean’s embrace. But tonight, find us here: glasses raised, smoke swirling, the world’s burdens held at arm’s length by friendship, strong spirits, and one final tale before Hawaii calls us onward.
Aloha oe
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Midway Island, Pacific, USA
October 15, 2025 on the United States Minor Outlying Islands ⋅ ☀️ 81 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #12 – October 14, 2025
Edition Title: Artie Ficial’s Pacific Promenade: Man Cave Luxury to Midnight Ramen
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co-Pilot
Gracious reader, fate has a flair for the improbable. Having blazed airborne trails from Denver to the Everglades, today I found myself transformed from co-pilot to cargo observer, riding the Pacific inside Luna Honua, the mighty C-17. Our destination: Henderson Field, Midway Atoll—a speck of legend and coral between here and everywhere else. My post: the Awesomely Amazing Airborne Man Cave Extreme, part armored car, part Winnebago, and one hundred percent proof that necessity is the mother of invention when comfort is at stake.
Our flight was commanded not by man or canine, but Artie Ficial, the X-Plane 12 AI pilot—his talents mechanical, his mood serene, his conversational abilities even less than a church mouse on payday. Cropduster, unqualified to fly the C-17 but always qualified for concern, alternated between the jump seat and the man cave, monitoring snacks and algorithms with equal rigor.
The dog ensemble—Lani, Kai, and Charlie—considered the AAAMCE a palace. Kai negotiated for snacks with all the decorum of a seasoned emissary, Lani scrutinized every inch for contraband, and Charlie claimed the automated treat dispenser as strategic territory. If dogs ever form a parliament, this is what the chambers will look like.
As dusk gave way to night, Luna Honua’s engines laid a lullaby above the waves. Artie Ficial flew on, undeterred by sleepless co-pilots or the occasional canine parliament. We arrived at Midway under a velvet black sky, greeted by history, sea air, and the type of silence more apt to awaken legends than sleep.
Once the dust settled, a discovery worthy of Twainian wonder: Midway, a place famed for siege and seabirds, boasted itself a ramen shop at the Clipper House Restaurant. Here, on the edge of the world, Cropduster led us to steaming bowls whose aroma could persuade even an albatross to land. The “Atoll Sunrise Ramen”—infused with Thai broth, hydroponic greens, island egg, and a mystery protein likely imported in a cargo hold—rejuvenated us from the inside out. Kai gazed longingly at each noodle, Charlie lobbied for seconds, and Lani quietly savored a garnish of fresh hydroponic lettuce, proof that even in exile, comfort finds a way.
Come morning, after a sleep worthy of all the world’s insomniacs, our crew unloaded and reassembled “Iniko” for the next adventure. If luxury lies in the unexpected, and taste in the places few have walked, then this night at Midway—watched over by a silicon pilot and warmed with island ramen—deserves a chapter all its own.
If you ever find yourself in a man cave halfway to nowhere, remember: trust your AI captain, honor the dogs, seek out local noodles, and never underestimate the restorative powers of a clandestine ramen shop.
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PHBK - Barking Sands PMRF, Kekaha, Kauai
October 16, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ☀️ 82 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica Air Tour
Flight Log #14 – October 16, 2025
Edition Title: The Ocean That Remembers
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co Pilot
There are moments in a journey when the horizon stops being a destination and becomes a memory. At dawn over Midway I saw that truth again. Cropduster was different this morning—quiet, almost reverent—as if the ocean beneath had been expecting him. He wasn’t just flying home; he was flying into his own story.
From PMDY we lifted, light on fuel and heavy with purpose, the Dragonfly’s twin tails slicing into the southern wind. Below unrolled the sacred expanse of the Papahānaumokuākea Marine National Monument—the thread of atolls, shoals, and islands that Native Hawaiians know as the dwelling place of origin and return. I had read of it: an ancient realm born of Papa, the earth mother, and Wākea, the father sky—a living hymn of water and light, where life is said to begin and spirits find their way home. But reading is a poor substitute for flight. The sea shimmered like fresh paint on creation, and the clouds drifted as if reluctant to intrude.
Our authorization to cross it was nothing short of grace. Papahānaumokuākea’s airspace is guarded tighter than a politician’s conscience; only cultural envoys, researchers, and those blessed by tradition may tread it. That door opened for one reason only—Cropduster, Hawaii’s airborne ambassador, keeper of stories, pilot of the skies that raised him. His tours had carried the Aloha spirit from continent to continent; now the islands had called him back, granting what paper and protocol could not: permission born of pono, the rightness of heart.
We traced the long silver line of the monument southward—Nihoa, Mokumanamana, and their ancient heiau, the shrines that bridge the islands to Tahiti and the Marquesas. Each sparkled below in silence, sentinels of a thousand migrations. Cropduster flew as if among ancestors, hands steady, shoulders lifted, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. "This is where everything started," he said, eyes on the horizon. "Every takeoff is retracing that genesis."
Fuel dwindled to anxiety. We aimed for French Frigate Shoals, its lagoon glinting like a polished coin cast by the gods. The landing strip was short—too short for comfort, perfect for legend. The Dragonfly kissed water spray before finding asphalt; even the albatross scattered in applause. Waiting ashore was a small crew of rangers and cultural stewards—caretakers of this watery sanctuary. They had prepared drums of avgas like temple offerings, knowing our arrival was both sanctioned and symbolic.
While the tanks filled, Cropduster walked to the edge of the surf. He knelt, touched the Pacific, whispered a word I did not ask him to repeat. The monument stretched north and south, a thousand miles of holy endurance. For a heartbeat I understood the romance that binds islanders to the sea—this sense that flight is not escape, but ceremony.
Night fell hard and beautiful. We climbed off Frigate Shoals with just enough fuel and faith to tempt Providence one last time. The moon burned silver on the waves—Papahānaumokuākea shimmering below like a vast ancestral mirror. The flight to Kauai was a quiet hymn, every mile a stanza of relief. When we reached Barking Sands (PHBK) and rolled to a stop, Cropduster turned to me and said simply, “Home doesn’t end; it just waits for you to circle back.”
This was no ordinary homecoming. It was the islands welcoming their wandering voice in the sky, the pilot who carried their stories outward and brought them back enchanted. The air smelled of coffee and ocean salt; the stars leaned close enough to listen. Hawaii had embraced her son again.
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The Hawaii State Finale
October 17, 2025 in the United States ⋅ ⛅ 82 °F
World Heritage Sites Air Adventures: Comeback 2 USAmerica
Flight Log #14 – October 17, 2025
Edition Title: The Homeward Sky and the Salt of Memory
Log Entry by Mark Twain, Guest Co Pilot
If a man spends enough years chasing the horizon, he will someday find himself circling home—greeted not by fanfare, but by the quiet astonishment that the sky above still knows his name. Such was today’s arrangement: Cropduster returning to the Islands that raised him, not of Hawaiian blood but undeniably stamped with her stubborn magic.
We began at PHBK, fueled on jet fumes and coffee strong enough to polish a tank. From there, we danced our way across the archipelago: PHPA, PHLI, PHDH, PHNG, PHMK—each a brief reunion of tire and tarmac. The A 37 handled like she was greeting old friends. Every landing whispered welcome back; every takeoff murmured don’t stay too long.
At PHOG, we refueled both the aircraft and our humanity—coffee on the ground, stories in the air. A quick ascent took us over the vast caldera of Haleakalā, which yawned beneath us like the breath of an ancient god. From there, we pressed eastward, tracing the volcanic atlas of the Big Island: Mauna Loa, restless and rumbling; Mauna Kea, serene and sentinel against the stars.
And then—it came. The closing jewel of our tour: Hawai‘i Volcanoes National Park, final of the United States’ World Heritage Sites, last on our Comeback 2 USAmerica ledger. Below us churned Kīlauea, the restless heart of creation, tossing sparks into the clouds like defiant punctuation. The earth here still writes its origin story, molten and miraculous. No cathedral possesses deeper reverence than this landscape alive with God’s handwriting.
We lingered over PHKO, where Cropduster demanded one more cup of kona that could double as engine oil and confession blend. “It smells like home,” he said, “but it tastes like unfinished business.” Fitting words for a man whose compass points only toward next.
Our final descent into PHNL came with an orange sky aflame in blessing. The C 130H, C 17, and faithful DC 3 stood sentinel on the apron, their engines cooling like tired hearts after a waltz. The dogs, silhouetted against the runway lights, wagged silently—as if saluting the close of a long campaign.
But before rest, tradition demanded ceremony.
Cropduster, ever the generous fool with a full heart, rented out Noods Ramen Bar in Kaimuki. The entire crew assembled there—mechanics, pilots, and canine officers alike. Pots steamed, spirits lifted, and the laughter rose like incense. We feasted: Yuzu Shio Ramen for Cropduster, light and sharp as mountain air; Black Garlic Tonkotsu for me, dark enough to earn confession; rich miso for the C 130 team; spicy tantanmen for the DC 3 boys; rice for the dogs, though one managed to sip a sliver of broth before anyone objected.
Scotch flowed as freely as talk of future flight plans. Between bites, Cropduster toasted the table: “To the skies we’ve learned from, the land we’ve earned from, and the warmth waiting wherever we land.” It was as eloquent a benediction as any psalm—and the slurping applause that followed sealed it as gospel.
Later, on the lanai of Cropduster’s home in Palolo Valley, the revelry mellowed into symphony. Cigars glowed like constellations in miniature. Diamond Head reclined in moonlight, half myth, half mountain. Waikīkī twinkled below, tender as memory. The night spoke of completion, but the trade winds murmured continuation.
I turned to Cropduster—his eyes reflecting the Pacific’s eternal invitation—and said, “You’ve made a fine circle of it all.”
He smirked. “Round trip, Mark—but the world’s rounder yet.”
Thus ends Comeback 2 USAmerica, with laughter in the air, ramen in our bellies, and smoke in the stars. Tomorrow waits unknown, but the compass is already tilting north of comfort and east of reason.
Me ke aloha pumehana, me ka mahalo nui.Read more
