Private flying is a scarce privilege, almost uniquely American. Pick a place and fly there. On your own. Talk about freedom!

Problem is, flyers lead an episodic life. Brief adventures in the sky interspersed with long periods of...what? Merely everything else. No wonder then, we suffer memory seizures. I feel one coming on right now.

In the summer of '68, my family and I crossed the Rockies in our Cessna Skylane. We landed at a small airport for fuel. The flight was memorable enough, I suppose. In this case, though, there was something else. On the ground.

"Do you have a restaurant here?" I asked.

"Nope," answered the FBO from atop his step-ladder. A man of maybe fifty wearing work pants and tee shirt, he peered down into the left wing tank and squeezed the lever on the fuel nozzle. The man's forearms were tattooed with snakes and roses. He did not look my way as the gallons began clicking.

"Cars?"

"Nope."

"For rent, I mean."

The man shook his head.

My wife and children had made for the back of the Quonset hut across the tarmac as soon as the engine stopped. I stood by the plane for a moment and thought about our flight.

The route that morning was from Denver to the Four Corners area. We flew "off-airways" and close to the ground, descending steadily along the western slopes of the Rockies, over some of the roughest badlands in the West. For safety, I had given position reports every few minutes. The Denver Flight Service Station came to know us well.

"Denver Radio, Two-Four Fox again. Standing by Gunnison Omni Station. Position report, over."

"Two-Four Fox, go ahead. Where are you now?"

"Abeam Saguache at :14 past the hour. Descending through 8,500. Smooth as glass. Estimating Mineral at :29. Landing Cortez :02."

"Roger, your position report. Talk to you later."

Rocky cliffs passed below us in rank after rank. Gigantic fjords, dry and dead, angled across our path. The wonders of the West assailed us with mounting visual sensations, which at airplane speeds accumulate faster than the mind can comprehend. Our rest-stop at Montezuma County Airport brought to an end yet another perfect flight.

It seemed now about to be marred by the first unfriendly airport operator we had ever met. I reached in the plane for the navigating chart. Looks like we'll back-track to Durango for lunch. Drat that!

The man dragged the step-ladder and fuel-hose away from the plane. "Other side of that hangar," he grumbled, tilting his head toward a corrugated building. "Truck stop."

Out here in the quintessential wilderness, where New Mexico meets Arizona, Colorado, and Utah, you might expect to meet people who don't like to talk much. This fellow gives "taciturn" a new meaning. I gathered up my family and led them past the hangar onto a gravel road. We stopped for a moment to let the silence fill our ears. Desolate buttes stood out against the sky.

"Where's your truck stop, Dad?" asked my son, then age 12.

The four of us looked up and down the road. Suddenly my wife raised her arm and pointed toward the horizon. "Good thing I'm wearing walking shoes," she said.

From a great distance, I could barely hear a Diesel engine, growling and downshifting. My eyes came to focus on a silver glint, the source of the sound. By extrapolating the rig's motion, I saw a low building. The truck stop could have been in Utah or Arizona.

Other side of the hangar, my foot! Taciturn, hell! That old guy at the gas pit is just plain antisocial.

"Back to the plane," I ordered. "Durango's closer."

"Our flying trips are supposed to be adventures," said my daughter, a precocious 11-year-old. "Let's pretend we're on a safari." She led the way down the road holding her mother's hand.

So much for my being "pilot-in-command."

"Should get there by nightfall," commented my son.

Before we finished the first chorus of "Row Your Boat," a Valiant, possibly tan in color, rumbled up from behind us. The driver was a lady wearing a faded house dress. She stopped beside us in a cloud of dust.

"Care for a ride?"

"One moment please," I said solemnly. "We have to take a vote."

The lady's hair was rolled up on pink plastic. There was a box of facial tissues on the front seat. "Where did you fly in from?" she asked as we climbed in.

My daughter recited our itinerary most cordially from the back seat. The Valiant loped over the road toward what turned out to be a small settlement along the highway. A neon sign stood above a row of eighteen wheelers. It said "Eat." I thanked the lady for the lift.

The four members of our safari strode single-file into a diner, past laboring swamp coolers. Truckers, caps that read "Caterpillar" or "Pennzoil" sipped from mugs and nodded to us.

"Maybe one of the trucks will be going our way," my daughter whispered over lunch. I looked around the room and shook my head.

My family and I stepped out, squinting into the bright sun. Soon we were striding along, kicking stones in the heat. The airport was a minor blemish in the distance. Then came the sound of a car behind us.

"Care for a ride?"

The pink hair rollers and the tissue box assured me it was the same Valiant.

"This is our lucky day," said my daughter.

The lady in the faded house dress let us out beside the hangar. I thanked her again. She wished us happy landings and drove away. The kids paid a final visit to the back of the Quonset hut before our next westward leg.

At the counter, I handed my credit card to the sullen old crank with the tattooed forearms. Without ever looking at me, he operated the imprinter and handed me a ballpoint pen.

"My wife find you all right?" he asked.