There's a call that echoes from beyond the horizon—a whisper of adventure that stirs the soul and beckons the spirit to explore. For those who dare to follow it, the journey is as profound as the destination.

For me, this journey began with a dream: to cross an entire continent in a straight-float seaplane, bound only to the waterways that have shaped America's history. Not for speed or convenience, but for the adventure of flying where roads do not lead, where runways are liquid and ever-changing. The aircraft that would carry me across the country was as much a character in this story as I was—a 1946 Taylorcraft BC-12D, perched on Edo 1320 floats, as eager for the journey as I was.

In an age of GPS navigation and carbon-fiber aircraft, choosing to fly a fabric-covered Taylorcraft across America via its rivers and lakes isn't merely a travel decision—it's a philosophy. It's choosing to experience the landscape at a pace and perspective largely forgotten, trading efficiency for intimacy with both aircraft and environment. The preparations for such a journey reflect this distinct approach: not just calculating fuel stops and runway lengths, but understanding water currents, studying the seasonal changes of river depths, and respecting the limitations of technology developed in the 1940s.

As I prepared for departure on the morning of Friday, October 13, 2023—a date whose superstitious connotations weren't lost on me—I took a final look at the Ohio River stretching toward the horizon. The stillness of the morning belied the challenges ahead. Every mile would be dictated by water, weather, and fate. The flight was no longer just a dream committed to paper and planning—it was about to become reality, with all the triumphs and tribulations that such a transition entails.

When I first conceived this journey, my expectations were primarily technical and logistical—fuel calculations, weather windows, equipment needs. I viewed the aircraft as a machine to master and the route as a puzzle of waypoints to solve. The waterways were merely pathways, not yet teachers, and the people I would meet along the way were abstractions, not yet guides and guardians.

What I couldn't have anticipated was how the Missouri River's sandbars would teach me patience, how the early winter storm at Lund's Landing would reveal both human kindness and my own resolve, or how the Rocky Mountains would test not just the aircraft's performance but my decision-making under pressure. These waters and landscapes would become not just the medium of travel but profound instructors on a journey that would transform both pilot and perspective.

As I taxied away from the ramp at Rising Sun that October morning, leaving familiar waters for the unknown, I couldn't have predicted how profoundly this journey would change me. What began as an ambitious flying adventure would evolve into something far richer—a conversation with a continent through its waterways and with myself through the challenges that lay ahead.