Moonrise

Anoka lies 160 miles ahead of me. Less than an hour left then as we lope along covering three miles every minute.

Myself, my airplane, fuel and cargo weighed 5,430 pounds on takeoff, a few hundred pounds under our maximum gross weight.

It was still daylight when we left Rapid City but as we hustled eastward night fell quickly.

As is my custom, I've turned all the interior lights down as far as they will go while still providing a sliver of illumination. It's an indulgence, to rocket through a smooth, clear night without the rude interference of artificial lighting.

I am annoyed by the constant chatter on the frequency, but other airplanes are in the sky so it is a necessary evil.

Temperatures and pressures are in the green, the engines - drinking down nearly 100 pounds of fuel each every hour - haven't skipped a beat since leaving Rapid City 90 minutes ago.

As I idle away the time I catch a glimpse of something ahead and slightly to my left. In the darkness there is a dull, red glow. The air is clear enough that it is difficult to determine the distance to the mystery.

Then it hits me, I have flown into the moonrise.

The red deepens and becomes less dull with every passing mile. The moon, which was overhead as I flew westward in the early morning darkness has risen again and we are destined to share the sky for the second time today.

It is spectacular. Starting from a mere glow it rises and reveals its full form, still red, still low on the horizon and appearing misshapen from the atmosphere's distortion. From my humble altitude, a mere 9,000 feet, it is below me and I sit transfixed, ignoring the radio chatter and no longer fretting over the engine gauges which thankfully never seem to change.

The fatigue of the day fades away. Given enough fuel, I think, I could watch it all night.

I fumble for my camera in the darkness and hope for a miracle. The end result does little to capture the actual moment.

This goes on for nearly 80 miles and I can't take my eyes off of it.

It is above me and pale yellow when I hear my flight number on the radio. There is work to be done.

I do the math in my head: Four miles covered every minute - give or take - as the speed increases in a descent. Two minutes to lose every 1,000 feet of altitude so eight miles per 1,000 feet of altitude to lose. I have 4,000 feet to lose and 36 miles in which to do so. Time to stop daydreaming and get back to the business of flying.

I slip beneath an overcast that finally, appropriately, obscures my view of the moon and make my crossing restriction with 5 miles - close enough as makes no difference, 90 seconds - to spare.

I turn the cockpit lights up, slide my seat forward, set the power and mixtures and flip on my landing lights. I'm no longer thinking about the moonrise, just looking for the airport and eager to be on the ground. It has been a long day and I am tired again.