My grandma was born in 1930. She grew up in the tiny unincorporated community of Agness, Oregon in the historic Lucas Lodge. Agness is a community nestled on the Rogue River, which until the year after my grandma was born, was cut off from civilization but by boat and horse.  Having not visited the Lodge in over 5 years, she had longed to make a visit. While she is still in relatively good health and her wit is as sharp as ever at 94, none of us know exactly how much time we have left on this earth.  Time flows on, just like the mighty Rogue River, and so, my brother, grandma and I decided that it was time to seize the day!  Monday was the day to get my grandma back to the Lucas Lodge.

We drive to the Hobby Field/Creswell Airport, 77S and with a bit of help, she climbs up into N875CM, a bright yellow and red Zenith 801 which we've nicknamed the Ugly Duckling.  Once we're situated, we take to the air and head out on our grand adventure. 

Once in the sky, the overcast layer is thick. While we're confident of the safety of our current situation, the sky ahead of us does not look promising.  Then, we spot it; a small opening of blue sky above us.  We make a tight, hard climbing spiral through the narrow column of clear sky through the surrounding clouds. One lap, two laps, three.  Around the hole we go, climbing for the blue patch above.  After 6 or 7 circles around the opening the sunlight surrounds us.  We're on top of this soft white blanket, and we turn to continue on our journey to southwest.  The 110 mile flight takes a little over an hour, a far cry from the 4 to 5 hours of winding mountain roads to drive into this remote little hamlet.

After a smooth flight over the Oregon wilderness, we crest a ridge mountains and drop down into the Rogue River canyon.  As we fly down the river, my grandma recounts stories of her dad packing goods in on horses which he would have retrieved from civilization a full day's trek away in Grants Pass or Gold Beach.  This is a reminder of a time that doesn't seem so long ago when you're talking with someone who lived it.

We continue our flight down the valley and soon arrive at the confluence of the Rogue and Illinois Rivers which wrap the banks of the old ranch.  We set up for the approach to the Agness International Airstrip, as we sometimes like to call it.  It's not the easiest approach.  

We circle the opening of the Illinois Valley and come in low over the tall Illinois bridge, watching for the powerlines sloping down from the hill.  The 2000 foot strip has a steep uphill grade at the beginning, rounding out to a gentle uphill climb.  Tall trees and a small mountain sit at the north end making a late go around a daunting proposition.  Once on short final, we're committed.  We cross over a silhouette of Sasquatch guarding the threshold, touch down and are easily stopped before the road that bisects the strip.

Once we are tied down, my cousin who is the current caretaker of the property comes to meet us with transportation.  She picks us up and we make our way down the lane to the old Lucas Lodge.  This place holds great significance to our family.  Our ancestors came to homestead the land fresh off the Oregon Trail in the late 1800s.  The Lodge construction was finished in 1922 and it has been passed down from generation to generation.

Larry Lucas, my great grandfather, was the patriarch of Lodge for many years.  Under his watch it hosted all manner of guests, including Hollywood and sports celebrities, generals, politicians, and even future presidents.  Early in the lodge's history, it was often gold miners and locals travelling to town and back home that would stop in for a stay along the Rogue River trail. 

When we arrive down at the Lodge, we are greeted by an elderly couple, though calling them elderly is probably a disservice.  They are about 10 years younger than grandma, and despite their age, they are still young at heart.  This couple is childhood friends of my grandma. 

The gentleman was hired by my great grandpa when he was just 11 years old to do chores around the ranch, and over his years growing up there graduated to a right hand man.  He's practically a member of the family, and they had extended their weekend stay just to get to see my grandma.  Soon they are reminiscing together about all the old times they shared around the lodge.

After an hour of sharing stories, it's time for lunch; a magnificent spread put on by my cousin and her small team of Lodge staff.

No trip to Agness is complete without time at the river so after lunch, with assurances from Grandma that she was up for it, we take the jet boat out on the water. We have intentions of throwing a line in the water, but everyone seems content to just sit back and enjoy the mild, late summer day and continue with the flow of stories from the far reaches of time and memory.

We cruise first up the Illinois, then down the Rogue, then up the Rogue, stopping at times to just admire the rugged beauty of the canyons.  When the motor is off, peace and tranquility fill the air, intercut with entrancing accounts of bygone years.

"There's where I ran into a nest of rattle snakes on the ridge!  There's where so and so got their boat stuck on that rock! That's where the bridge was before it got washed out in the '64 flood. There's where the power polls I had just installed came down in the Columbus Day Storm of '62."

These memories stir up visions of little children running energetically along the riverbanks. These recollections often bring to mind many who have passed, but while they evoke a tinge of sadness, there is something about this place that makes their presence feel remarkably vivid. It’s as if this cherished spot brings the memories of those lost alive once more.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, contented smiles are worn by all.  Our time in Agness is drawing to an end.  We make our way back to the shore, and put the boat away.  We linger in the Lodge a little longer before heading back up to the airplane.  After our goodbyes, we load into the 801 and take to the air.

The evening's sun is now low on the horizon and streams through the windows giving everything that golden hour glow.  There are times of talking, times of quiet reflection, and again a sense of peace.  Grandma turns to us and over the drone of the engine, tells us what we'd hoped to hear, "This has been a perfect day."

This is why I fly... for the moments such as these.