Inspired by our March 2016 cover story by James Fallows, “How America Is Putting Itself Back Together,” readers share their best aerial photos from across the U.S. Submit your own via firstname.lastname@example.org. (Please provide the location, the story behind the photo, and the largest file size you have. Horizontal photos with a bit of the plane visible—a wing, the edge of a window—are ideal. Terms and Conditions here.)
Matthew Amend of Seattle, with whom I have corresponded about piloting issues for years, sends this photo. Here’s his explanation:
I just found your series. It’s great! As an 18-year paraglider pilot, I may be biased, but I firmly maintain that the best, most unobstructed way to view America by air is by dangling beneath a big kite!
Here’s my submission (of me, not taken by me—taken by Matty Senior). I’m taking a friend for a ride in my two seat (“tandem”) paraglider above Tiger mountain in Issaquah, WA. January 2015. Perfectly backed by a rainbow and low cumulus clouds with lake Sammammish in the distance. No Photoshop; that’s straight from the camera.
Seattle looms large in all things aviation-related, due mainly to the presence of Boeing. It looms large in my own aviation-related life, since I got my instrument rating while living there in 1999, training with instructor Chris Baker of Wings Aloft at Boeing Field in downtown Seattle; and then in 2000 did seaplane training with instructor Chris Jacob of Kenmore Air, which flies floatplanes out of the local lakes, bays, and inlets.
It also looms large in recent photos in this series. Here is another one via Stu Smith, a colleague of Chris Jacob’s at Kenmore:
This photo was taken by a passenger (I don’t recall the name) in a Beaver [JF note: a very popular floatplane] looking to the southeast. If not for the clouds, Washington State’s iconic Mt. Rainier would be visible on the distant horizon.
When the wind dictates a south departure from Lake Union (as it did in this flight), the climbout takes us past the Space Needle. It’s a pretty spectacular departure, which I’ve yet to tire of after 12 seasons. When the wind shifts to the north, the arrival and landing direction is reversed, taking us past the Space Needle in a descent. I think that tourists looking out from the Space Needle enjoy watching our departures and arrivals as much as the passengers on the plane enjoy watching them watching us!
I got to fly this route sometimes when doing training. It’s reason enough to do pilot training, or at least to take a sightseeing flight.
We started “America by Air” as a month-long series of aerial photos from readers that accompanied Jim’s March cover story, “How America Is Putting Itself Back Together,” which he reported with his wife Deb over three years across the U.S. via their single-engine plane. Readers not only keep sending more and more submissions, but the quality of the photos and anecdotes are getting better and better. So we’ve now turned “America by Air” into a standard feature of Notes, posting one a day, more or less, for the indefinite future, joining the ranks of Orbital View and Track of the Day. So please keep ‘em coming. Submission guidelines here.
The latest aerial view is a real beauty, coming from reader John Zimmerman:
Every year I like to fly to the big Oshkosh air show low and slow, enjoying the view at 90 knots—after all, getting to the big fly-in really is half the fun. One of the highlights of the trip every year from my home base in Cincinnati to Wisconsin is the Chicago area. If the weather is good, there’s no better flight than the one that follows the lakefront. The route takes you past famous landmarks like Navy Pier, Wrigley Field, and Willis Tower (you can look up at some office workers and wave). The only downer is the flight over abandoned Meigs airport, which sits barren and undeveloped, a lasting reminder of political misconduct.
As is true so many places in the U.S., no special clearances or equipment is required—just keep your head on a swivel and enjoy the view. It’s one of those “only in America” moments that knocks off the cynicism just a bit.
I took this photo of Oahu flying from Honolulu to Washington Dulles just a couple of weeks ago. You can see downtown Honolulu, Waikiki beach, Diamond Head State Monument, as well as the Ko’olau Range in the background. A clearer day would have resulted in a better shot of the mountains, but I think the water was captured nicely. I had been scuba diving a little over 24 hours before I took this photo in the Maunalua Bay (which you can make out a tiny part of on the right side of the photo, just east of Diamond Head) and the water really is as clear and blue as it looks here.
Here’s our second view from a helicopter—and it’s much better than the one I submitted from Salt Lake City:
This was taken in October 2015. Chicago’s shoreline may be one of the best developed in the country, certainly better than my birthplace New York, NY. Recently a project to prevent flooding of Lake Shore Drive at Fullerton Parkway added 6.6 acres of parkland along the lakefront. This is just south of Montrose Beach.
That’s how reader Ramakrishnan describes his breathtaking shot over Playa Flamenco, on the Puerto Rican island of Culebra:
Our reader isn’t alone in calling it one of the prettiest beaches in the world:
It is known for its beautiful shallow turquoise waters, soft white sand, excellent swimming, sport-fishing, and diving sites. Stretching for a mile around a sheltered, horseshoe-shaped bay, Playa Flamenco is considered both Culebra’s and Puerto Rico’s best beach and quite possibly of the whole Caribbean. Certain discerning travel writers have suggested that it is among the top 10 in the world, including been named at the 3rd spot by Travel Advisor in March 2014.
I took this photo with an iPhone 6 in June 2015 from a plane approaching Jackson airport in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. It is impossible to see these mountains from the air, or on the ground, and not be overwhelmed with their majesty and their beauty. It is tough to look at them and not constantly say “wow.”
I saw you got a blimp, but do you have one from a seaplane? [CB note: Yep—we’ve posted twophotos from seaplanes but we posted them after this email came in, so our reader couldn’t have seen them.] This view is coming in to “land” on Lake Chelan, Washington [the largest lake in the state], from the cockpit of a Dehavilland Beaver. We did an air tour of the Glaciers of the North Cascades two years ago.
A soda lake or alkaline lake is a lake on the strongly alkaline side of neutrality (in other words, a pH value above 7, typically between 9 - 12). They are characterized by high concentrations of carbonate salts, typically sodium carbonate (and related salt complexes), giving rise to their alkalinity. The resulting hypersaline and highly alkalic soda lakes are considered some of the most extreme aquatic environments on Earth.
Nick Knobil sends this photo taken over—or is it under?—Mt. Washington, New Hampshire:
I am the pilot. The photographer was the then 89-year-old Don “Mac” McKibben. I saw your America by Air series and noticed that [today, April 9] is the first anniversary of Mac’s death. I miss that guy.
Mac flew P-47s and P-51s with the 352nd Fighter Group over Europe during WW2. He worked for Eastman Kodak from before the war until he retired. He always had the latest digital camera gear … a thoroughly modern guy. And he never lost his “let’s go!” love of flying.
When I asked Nick what maneuver he was making in the photo, he replied:
I honestly don’t remember—barrel roll, aileron roll, or loop. Mac and I would whoop and holler …
I found a Facebook post that Nick wrote a year ago today—a tribute to his flying buddy:
Our pal Don “Mac” McKibben died this afternoon. His eldest son, Frank, was with him.
Don grew up a poor kid in upstate New York during the Depression, and like so many of us, grew up with a fascination of flight that lasted throughout his long life. He soloed a Piper J-3 Cub in the winter 1940 (the J-3 at that time, you remember, was a new design) in Hornell, New York through the Civilian Pilot Training program, and within two years (and with a little help from the USAAC) he was flying the most powerful, advanced fighter aircraft in the world. He was 21.
He was a part of the big fight; a founding member of the 21st Fighter Squadron, which became the 486th, one of the three squadrons that comprised the 352nd Fighter Group: the “Blue Nosed Bastards of Bodney.” Google it.
And then he came home, got married to his childhood sweetheart, raised three sons who’ve had sons and daughters of their own, and worked his whole career at Kodak.
If you knew him you knew he was well read, erudite, loved jazz music and a special martini he called the “Silver Bullet”. He had his last one yesterday.
This evening I had my first “Silver Bullet” knowing that I would never be able to solve the world’s problems over one with him again. The first “Bullet” was the worst one ever. The second one? Not so bad.
Keep ‘em flying.
(America by Air archive here. Submission guidelines here.)
Here is a view of the Missouri River, just north of Kansas City, that illustrates the runoff from a continental-sized glacier. The Missouri is “underfit,” meaning that the modern stream flows through a valley that was created by an ancestral river many times its present size.
The modern-day Missouri River, which has been channelized by a massive civil engineering project aimed at promoting navigation and flood control, is dwarfed by its valley, which cuts a massive scar across the middle of the country that in places is over 25 miles wide. Here it averages about 10 miles across.
As the last glacier receded, its melt-water would have filled the valley from rim to rim during the summer months. During the winter, its flow slowed down and a braided stream like the one in New Zealand left the valley mostly sand. Tremendous spring winds, created in part by the temperature variation over the diminished glacier to the northeast, created epic sandstorms that deposited several hundred feet of fine grained silt on the eastern border of the river valley. Ten thousand years of erosion have created the Loess Hills, a relatively unique geologic feature of sharp sided mounds without a rock anywhere.
A virus has brought the world’s most powerful country to its knees.
How did it come to this? A virus a thousand times smaller than a dust mote has humbled and humiliated the planet’s most powerful nation. America has failed to protect its people, leaving them with illness and financial ruin. It has lost its status as a global leader. It has careened between inaction and ineptitude. The breadth and magnitude of its errors are difficult, in the moment, to truly fathom.
In the first half of 2020, SARS‑CoV‑2—the new coronavirus behind the disease COVID‑19—infected 10 million people around the world and killed about half a million.
It is time to stop pretending. Our children are staying home.
In March, we were all living in 15-day increments. Working from home and distance learning, for those who had the terrible luxury of such things, would be a weeks-long affair, surreal but temporary. Fifteen days to flatten the curve. Fifteen days to slow the spread.
Scientists warned us even then that a return to normalcy would take longer, but the telescoped timeline had obvious appeal. You can put up with almost anything for just 15 days.
Acting on the chance to get it right was essential, but we now know it was not temporary. We’ve seen the failures—in testing, in containment, in federal and state leadership—compound in catastrophic ways. And as our pandemic summer has stretched on, many of us have let go, one by one, of experiences from the world we used to inhabit. We bid goodbye to sleepaway camp, to live music, to distant travel, to boisterous weddings, and to spontaneity in general. Today, a new realization is dawning, and as the debate over schools reopening rages, we must acknowledge it plainly: We aren’t going back to how it was. And we shouldn’t.
How is it that six months into a respiratory pandemic, we are still doing so little to mitigate airborne transmission?
I recently took a drive-through COVID-19 test at the University of North Carolina. Everything was well organized and efficient: I was swabbed for 15 uncomfortable seconds and sent home with two pages of instructions on what to do if I were to test positive, and what precautions people living with or tending to COVID-19 patients should take. The instructions included many detailed sections devoted to preventing transmission via surfaces, and also went into great detail about laundry, disinfectants, and the exact proportions of bleach solutions I should use to wipe surfaces, and how.
My otherwise detailed instructions, however, included only a single sentence on “good ventilation”—a sentence with the potential to do some people more harm than good. I was advised to have “good air flow, such as from an air conditioner or an opened window, weather permitting.” But in certain cases, air-conditioning isn’t helpful. Jose-Luiz Jimenez, an air-quality professor at the University of Colorado, told me that some air conditioners can increase the chances of spreading infection in a household. Besides, “weather permitting” made it all seem insignificant, like an afterthought.
People are power scrubbing their way to a false sense of security.
As a COVID-19 summer surge sweeps the country, deep cleans are all the rage.
National restaurants such as Applebee’s are deputizing sanitation czars to oversee the constant scrubbing of window ledges, menus, and high chairs. The gym chain Planet Fitness is boasting in ads that “there’s no surface we won’t sanitize, no machine we won’t scrub.” New York City is shutting down its subway system every night, for the first time in its 116-year history, to blast the seats, walls, and poles with a variety of antiseptic weaponry, including electrostatic disinfectant sprays. And in Wauchula, Florida, the local government gave one resident permission to spray the town with hydrogen peroxide as he saw fit. “I think every city in the damn United States needs to be doing it," he said.
For the past 30 years, I’ve spent every summer abroad in Europe. Now I’ve realized that traveling isn’t just a pastime—it’s a mindset.
For many people, travel is a way of life. When not on the road, we dream of being on the road. As we fly home from one trip, we’re planning the next. That certainly describes me. And yet, several months into the pandemic, I’ve realized that the essence of traveling requires no passport and no plane ticket. A good traveler can take a trip and never leave her hometown.
For the past 30 years, I’ve spent four months in Europe each year, writing guidebooks, producing travel television, and leading bus tours. Since mid-March, I’ve slept in the same bed. I’ve eaten dinner at the same table with the same person. A weekly venture to the supermarket is my big excursion. There’s nothing in my pockets, nothing on my calendar, and the only things I’m wearing out are my favorite slippers. I’m home for my first Seattle summer since 1980.
A Democratic super PAC is running ads to help Kris Kobach win the GOP Senate nomination in Kansas, unnerving the party’s staunchest immigrant advocates.
There are few Republican politicians aside from Donald Trump who Democrats abhor more than Kris Kobach, the Kansas conservative who has gained national fame as an architect of laws to force immigrants to show their papers to police and voters to prove their citizenship at the polls.
Yet for the past few weeks, Democrats have come to Kobach’s rescue, spending at least $4 million to help the unapologetic Trump ally win the Republican nomination for an open U.S. Senate seat in Kansas. The primary is August 4, and a Democratic-aligned super PAC formed in recent weeks has poured millions into TV ads that bash Kobach’s opponent, Representative Roger Marshall, the Republican backed by Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell and other state and national GOP power brokers. The ads attack Marshall from the right, lumping him in with “Mitt Romney Republicans and Never Trumpers” who think Kobach is “too conservative.” The committee, called the Sunflower State PAC, is using an advertising firm that created commercials for Bernie Sanders’s 2016 presidential campaign and for a super PAC backing Joe Biden this year.
The pursuit of achievement distracts from the deeply ordinary activities and relationships that make life meaningful.
“How to Build a Life” is a biweekly column by Arthur Brooks, tackling questions of meaning and happiness.
Imagine reading a story titled “The Relentless Pursuit of Booze.” You would likely expect a depressing story about a person in a downward alcoholic spiral. Now imagine instead reading a story titled “The Relentless Pursuit of Success.” That would be an inspiring story, wouldn’t it?
Maybe—but maybe not. It might well be the story of someone whose never-ending quest for more and more success leaves them perpetually unsatisfied and incapable of happiness.
Physical dependency keeps alcoholics committed to their vice, even as it wrecks their happiness. But arguably more powerful than the physical addiction is the sense that drinking is a relationship, not an activity. As the author Caroline Knapp described alcoholism in her memoir Drinking: A Love Story, “It happened this way: I fell in love and then, because the love was ruining everything I cared about, I had to fall out.” Many alcoholics know that they would be happier if they quit, but that isn’t the point. The decision to keep drinking is to choose that intense love—twisted and lonely as it is—over the banality of mere happiness.
Perceived as a moderate, he has embraced strikingly progressive goals without facing any political backlash.
Almost halfway through Chris Wallace’s July 19 interview with Donald Trump, an exchange occurred that encapsulates the current state of the presidential race. The president claimed that his Democratic rival, Joe Biden, “wants to defund the police.” Wallace contradicted him, which led a furious Trump to instruct his press secretary, Kayleigh McEnany, to “get me the charter” of the unity task force that the Biden campaign had created with Bernie Sanders supporters. After riffling unsuccessfully through the document, Trump muttered, “We’ll find it.” But, as Wallace told viewers, “The White House never sent us evidence the Bernie-Biden platform calls for defunding or abolishing police—because there is none.” On Fox News, Trump’s home turf, the president looked like a fool.
I’m so tired of people seeing only her bad traits.
My husband and I have three terrific kids, ages 6, 4, and 2. Our oldest is cautious, helpful, and precocious. Our youngest is easygoing, affectionate, and goofy. Our middle child is persistent, bold, imaginative, and tenderhearted. Her personality is not as easy as her siblings’, but she’s a great kid. If she makes me want to pull my hair out five times a day, then she makes me laugh, surprises me, or melts my heart 10 times a day.
The problem comes from others. Our elderly next-door neighbor dotes on the oldest and youngest and all but ignores the middle one. More than once, she has asked whether our doctors have diagnosed her with any disorders. I just look at her as if I don’t understand her question. I’ve had others “praise” me for being so patient with our middle child. These kinds of comments make me so angry and sad.
Trump’s words are dangerous, and society must find ways big and small to push back.
This president doesn’t speak like other presidents, that much is clear. Since taking office in January 2017, President Donald Trump has used the bully pulpit in ways that break, often dramatically, from the rhetorical norms that preceded him. The president seemed to cross a new red line this week, as he took to Twitter to suggest—without legal foundation—postponing the November election. This latest rhetorical escalation has increased the urgency of a long-simmering question: Can anything be done to rein in the speech of a president unmoored from reality and unmoved by decency?
The answer is yes, and it hinges on understanding both the nature of presidential speech, and that speech’s dependence on a variety of mechanisms for actually reaching the public.