VAGABONDING
THAT initial flight of mine across the continent proved to be a pleasant interlude. I later found that it marked the first solo trip a woman had made from the Atlantic to the Pacific and back again.[1] But at the time it was to me primarily a vacation—a minor adventure in vagabonding by air and a relaxation from writer’s cramp.
The first stage of my hobo journey took me to Pittsburgh, Dayton, Terre Haute, St. Louis, Muskogee, and on into New Mexico. After straying from the course, I finally landed at Pecos, Texas.
Automobilists universally complain about the lack of parking space. For vehicles of the air the absence of landing fields may be even more inconvenient. When a plane’s motor fails—an occurrence becoming rarer every day—the pilot must make a landing. True, the machine can be controlled from the air and made to glide gently down without the engine running, but it must have a smooth open space for alighting.
As there is always the possibility of some failure in anything man-made, so even with the well behaved motors today, occasional descents are inevitable. And when they come, “parking space” is es-
- ↑ I can find no records to controvert this statement.
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