Birds in Cages

Airplane hangars have an interesting effect. They seem to diminish the achievement of flight. An airplane in a hangar seems out of place when you consider that its function is to travel thousands of feet above earth at speeds faster than any creature in nature. From time to time I look at a familiar plane in a hangar and think of all of the adventures it has carried me through; early morning sunrises at 11,000 feet, moonlit flights low over silvery breakers just off the beach, wheeling down over canyon rims in redrock country, soaring over snow-capped peaks that would take days to climb, darting around cumulus canyons, spectacular evening air-to-air photo flights. All of these glorious moments were happening at over 100 miles per hour suspended in the sky by nothing but air pressure differential, often bathed triumphantly in sunlight. Any object in such a position should surely meet its end in a mass of twisted metal, yet here it sits, pristine, with a roof overhead underneath the same fluorescent lights that most people labor under grudgingly. Airplanes in a hangar give the impression of machines of potential, but aside from a few bugs on the wings and worn tires, they show virtually no sign of their past journeys through previously unattainable dimensions. An airplane wreck gives the undeniable impression that the machine was at one point careening through space. Airplanes resting quietly indoors show no such evidence. The most brilliant minds of men designed these masterpieces. Some of man's keenest reflexes are needed to fly them precisely. Buildings constructed by the modest labors of men house them anonymously.