Day 4 Aerial Book Tour: Whoopie!

-all things Red Dye & punkin...

Day 4 was, hands down, one of the most drop-dead gorgeous legs of the entire cross-country trek.

Though, as you’ve probably deduced by now, roughly ninety percent of this historic book tour has revolved around mechanical triage, questionable cockpit hygiene, and an unrelenting obsession with baked goods.

The morning kicked off in Kentucky, where the lovely and amazing Amanda showed up at the ramp bearing fresh, glorious pumpkin muffins—which, in my personal nutritional index, qualifies as close to a holy morning donut as humanly possible.

If you're trackin, you'll know most of the tour was guided by food...

Naturally, I made an unforgettable first impression. After nearly a year of being close internet friends, our very first real-life face-to-face meeting began with me emerging from the airport restroom soaked from the waist down, having catastrophically sacrificed my shorts to an Uber beverage spill on the way over. Nothing says “professional touring author and aviatrix” quite like greeting a beloved follower looking like you just waded out of the Ohio River.

We spent the morning playing high-altitude dodgeball with the peaks of Appalachia—or is it Appa-LAY-sha? Or Appa-LA-cha? I quickly discovered that mispronouncing those ancient green ridges out in these parts is practically fighting words, so I kept my head down, chewed a pumpkin muffin, and let the Lycoming do the talking.

We finally touched down in an incredible little enclave: Bradford, Pennsylvania.

Now, pause the flight plan. We must address a deeply shameful dietary confession.

Since at least high school, Doritos have been my absolute, undisputed kryptonite.

Say whatever you want about Red Dye 40 slowly infiltrating my cellular structure alongside decades of sourdough and farm-fresh greens—those neon triangles are, pound for pound, the bombest comfort food ever engineered, right up there with blue-box Kraft Mac & Cheese (not the cheap shit) for a gal raised in my era.

I charged into the Bradford FBO ready to raid their snack basket.

Starving and entirely unwilling to negotiate with my conscience, I committed aviation petty larceny, grabbed the chips, flipped open their official front-desk guest log, and penned an honest confession to the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania:

Federal authorities, take note: the 15 cents is coming.

You see, "all the change I had" to barter for those Doritos came directly from a worn little coin purse I’ve carried in my pocket since college. Back then, my grandma used to mail me care packages to keep me going. The very first one arrived packed with homemade snickerdoodles, this exact coin purse, three dollars in quarters, and a handwritten note that simply read:

"Kayla, for your laundry, Boze take good care of you, love Nanny."

I was ridiculously close with her and my Papa (grandpa). My parents had me when they were just 17 years old, which meant huge chapters of my childhood were spent tucked between my grandparents—eating rainbow sherbet, rocking gently on the davenport, climbing backyard maple trees, and learning the sacred arts of gardening, pickling cucumbers, and stewing tomatoes.

When Grandma passed away, I made a silent vow that I would never part with that coin purse. It became my personal good-luck talisman. A quiet, tactile reminder that even if I ever found myself without a single penny to my name, I was filthy rich in what actually mattered: roots, memories, and people who loved me fiercely.

Naturally, aviation superstition took things a step further.

A few years back, I was on a flight with some friends—including a first-time passenger who had never set foot in a general aviation aircraft—when my little red plane, Poptart, decided mid-air was the ideal time for her fuselage fabric to violently rip apart. After we safely wrestled the drama back onto the ground, I tucked a tiny, jagged shard of Poptart’s torn fuselage right inside that college coin purse. I'm pretty sure it was the good luck "coin" we needed a few months later to cinch 1st place in the Palms to Pines.

But alas, Commander and I have four boys who frequently rummage through my coin purse for cash to go get Boba or whatever last minute field trip they're off to, and a few months ago I noticed that the Poptart shard was gone...I panicked a brief moment, but remembered, I still have my dad's original aviator raybans in Poptart, from when he was getting his pilot's license...

That counts right?

The next few pics are Poptart and her snafu, Poptart all better, Me & Kristina "the Proptarts" on the Palms to Pines (with her healthy version of Doritos (puke), and of course, the legendary coin purse...

Leaving Bradford with literally not a single copper penny left to my name, clutching a pouch stuffed only with torn airplane metal and grandma's love, I felt invincible.

Re-energized on stolen nacho tortilla chips and pure delinquency, the next leg was nothing short of breathtaking.

I’d visited Commander’s hometown in Maine before, but exclusively by road. Now, New England is a land of sharp culinary contrasts. It harbors some truly horrifying culinary offenses—like neon-red hot dogs. Look, I may happily let Red Dye 40 slowly infiltrate my cellular structure via Doritos, but radioactive pork is where I draw a hard ethical line.

On the flip side, New England is also the birthplace of absolute perfection: Whoopie Pies.

Whoopie Pies are kinda like a Poptart, but different...My full-blown obsession with whoopie pies actually ignited a few years ago. We can all blame the King Arthur Baking Company catalog for that one, which convinced me I desperately needed specialized, single-purpose baking equipment that no sane human requires—specifically, official whoopie pie pans, so I could churn out pillowy chocolate discs of cream-filled joy in my own kitchen.

So far I've made Pumpkin Whoopies, Oreo Whoopies, Strawberry Whoopies, Dark Choco Whoopies...

I don't dare comment on my thoughts about Moxie...because if you are in Maine and refuse Moxie, they might actually revoke your tailwheel endorsement on the spot.

For months, Commander had been swearing up and down that northern New England from the air looks identical to Southeast Alaska. I had my doubts. Having spent years hiking the wild backcountry of Alaska, I figured he was just being romantically biased about his home turf.

It’s probably a good time to mention that I’m also a rated seaplane pilot, which means my brain is hopelessly hardwired to scan the planet below and think, “Look at that 2,000-foot puddle—what a glorious runway.”

Let me set the record straight: New England from the cockpit is an absolute, unadulterated seaplane pilot’s paradise.

Does it fully duplicate Alaska? No, nothing does. But holy cow, it rivals it. A sprawling, sparkling maze of dark timber and endless glassy lakes reflecting the clouds. Someday I plan to write a youth series Mark Twain style involving aviation... I might set it in the heart of New England.

When Scarlett finally rumbled onto the ramp in Maine, the absolute crown jewel of the day, though, was having Commander’s dad standing on the tarmac waiting for us. I should insert here, that Commander's dad absolutely 100% reminds me of my grandpa - so it's precious for me to spend time with him, it takes me back to my childhood in some sort of way.

He met us at the exact airport where Commander had earned his very first set of wings decades ago. With Scarlett’s red paint ticking softly as she cooled in the Maine air, three generations of flying history stood together on that ramp, and it felt like the vintage, time-traveling heart of this entire journey had finally come full circle.

We stayed a few nights with Commander's family, and what's most hilarious is how Commander's accent immediately returns, car keys is KAH KEYS, and Andy is AAAHHHndy...

A welcoming committee of East Coast Ninety-Nines was there waiting the day we went to disembark. That hit me right in the chest. Having taken off from the company of our West Coast Ninety-Nines sisterhood and flown this old radial bird clear across the continent to meet our sisters on the eastern edge of the Atlantic felt monumental.

True to my own chaotic brand, I committed a mild fashion faux pas: instead of sporting the official Ninety-Nines baby blue, my outfit completely matched the fiery, changing autumn foliage of the Northeast. But hey—the photos are still downright adorable.

Commander took a few of the Ninety-Nines up for a spin to let Scarlett show off, while I happily planted myself in the grass and let my bones stop vibrating.

While we were there, Commander dug up one of his original flight journals. Sitting on the hangar bench, I got to turn the worn pages of his very first big cross-country trek—flying a North American T-6 Texan all the way from Fairbanks, Alaska, home to Maine.

Reading those scribbled, grease-stained notes of a younger pilot chasing horizons over wilderness was the exact spark that lit the fire for this tour.

In fact, reading his journal was the catalyst that inspired me to document every single mile, oil leak, and moment of whoopie that you’re reading right now.

Want to get the book that started all this fun? Click here...