3 nights a week, over the summer; a friend and I would take a walk after dark. Eventually our route took us past the airport. By then it would be 11 pm. We'd climb a steep grassy embankment from the street, and sit up high against the airport perimeter fence. The runway threshold (touchdown zone) was just inside.
Perched on a stump for a stool, sharing what soon became the ritual snack of choice : sour skittles. Nothing else would do.
There was a wide cutting through the pine forest in the valley below. At midnight, a brilliant orb illuminated this channel. Growing bigger, and brighter, like the headlight of a steam locomotive thundering down tracks towards us.
Its lamp, turning night into day, we watched as a steel behemoth bore down on our tiny silhouettes below. Covering our ears as a giant airliner emerged, careening over the fence, and touched down behind us.
Sitting up there, above it all; we were king of the world and all we surveyed. Joking, snacking, and talking. It became a cherished, and fondly rememberd tradition.
