The First-Ever Aeronautical Book Tour

It’s not the firsts you should worry about—it’s the lasts. The last time you changed your child’s diaper. The last time you filled the dog’s water bowl. The last time you hugged your parents. Those moments slip by quietly, without fanfare. And when I think of the clients who’ve sat across from me with their stories—their ‘if only’s’—I realize how quickly the lasts come. But here’s the truth: you’ll never have a memory of the last, if you never reach for the firsts.

Image: Jessica Feely Photography

The truth is, there aren’t many “firsts” left in the world of aviation. A century ago, pilots were breaking records daily—first across the Atlantic, first around the world, first solo, first woman, first at night. Those days were the golden age of discovery and courage. Today, with air travel so routine, it can feel like all the frontiers have been crossed.

But this September, I found myself humbled and honored to step into a new chapter of aviation history—the first-ever aeronautical book tour. I held my breath until the tailwheel hit the ground back home, because I know the reality of doing something like this - anything can halt your forward momentum, a maintenance issue, a weather issue, a "me" issue.

In just 13 days, I flew more than 7,000 nautical miles, saw 33 states, and dropped 100 advance copies of my book into the hands of readers, met the media, and forged countless new friendships. Along the way, I parked Scarlett—a 1944 Stinson Reliant—beside Doc, the legendary B-29 in Wichita-aviation capitol of the world; received a behind-the-scenes tour of Teterboro’s bustling Air Traffic Control tower (thank you, Carlos!); got to meet the 99’s at the exact opposite coast from where I’m a member (shout out to the NorthEast 99s), and even sat down face-to-face with my book designer and project manager at Forbes.

It was an adventure full of turbulence, triumphs, vapor locks, storm cells, serendipity, laughter, and kindness—the kind of journey that reminds you life is best lived at the edge of your comfort zone, and there’s no better time than the now to tackle a first, because you never know when might be your last.

The Sound of “Automatic Rough”

Aviation has a term for the way your brain plays tricks on you over mountains or open water: automatic rough. It’s that hyper-alert state where every cough, sputter, or shift in engine tone convinces you the motor is about to quit. That’s how I spent the first six days of the tour—bouncing between panic and calm.

Life is like this too, sometimes things are running smoothly, and other times you’re not sure you’re going to make it through the challenge you're staring down.

A "Rocky" Start in the Sierras, Rockies & High Plains

Day one began like any good day one should, with every imaginable problem, and questioning whether you’re crazy to have tackled something this big…

With thunderstorms brewing over the Sierra Nevada, I battled an oil leak requiring a new hose just moments after taxi, and then a vapor lock over the mountainous terrain of Truckee. I made a cautionary landing at Reno Stead...definitely not the expected start, but also not surprising.

With the weather worsening I set down in Winnemucca and my phone buzzed with devastating news: Charlie Kirk had been shot and killed while speaking in Utah.

In that moment, I wanted to abandon the mission, go home, curl up with my boys, the dog, and the cat, and let the world’s heaviness wash past me. But sunlight peeked through the low pass, and I decided to do what aviators do best—go wheels up.

The flight to Idaho was bumpy, my nerves raw. I diverted early to Pocatello for rest and safety. Exhausted but grateful, I watched the last golden rays bathe Scarlett on the ramp. It was a reminder of why I do this: to chase beauty, challenge myself, and meet the divine in the details.

That night, an Instagram cheerleader named David picked us up, drove us to dinner, and shared the best meal of the trip at Palate Neighborhood Grill, in Pocatello Idaho of ALL places. He’d driven down from Idaho Falls just to welcome us. His generosity set the tone for the days to come.

The next morning, I toured a fire crew’s Blackhawk helicopter, spoke with students at Idaho University and handed out stickers and swag. I finally felt like the tour was officially underway. Crossing the Rockies was smoother than expected, but Rock Springs delivered a sporty crosswind landing and takeoff with gusts up to 35 knots. I'd flown this terrain and this airport just a few weeks earlier in the Air Race Classic, so it was not surprising, but still UNFUN. That's also whent the window crank decided to break, with the window open. Figures.

Leaving out of Rock Springs we stumbled upon a concrete arrow—a relic from the earliest Air Mail routes, when pilots followed giant arrows across the landscape to find their way. It was one of those serendipitous moments when you realize you’re standing in the very footprint of history...because I'd just "relaunched" my AirMail newsletter a few weeks before the tour. These little moments would continue to creep up, just when I felt like quitting, reminding me the mission was bigger than myself...it's truly to help others turn their wounds into wings, me quitting wouldn't benefit anyone.

But by the end of that night, after 9 hours straight of flying, exhaustion caught up with me. Hours of turbulence in the terrain and plains had shredded my back and neck. A car accident the week prior hadn’t helped, and by Sioux City I could barely walk. I let the hot water run down my spine until I collapsed into bed, the fatigue of flying, pain, and adrenaline finally pulling me under. I posted briefly on social media about my exhaustion, and woke up to a billion DM's and texts from friends and followers telling me they're watching, their cheering, and encouraging me to keep going.

Flightseeing

Day Three brought some peaceful flying and joy. The Midwest skies opened up, and I met Instagram friends I’d followed for years. In Louisville, we dined at a 1920s French restaurant that felt like stepping back in time. The next morning, Amanda and her husband brought me pumpkin muffins as we headed East toward the Appalachians.

But with every bump of turbulence came my old companion—Automatic Rough. I pulled carb heat again and again, convinced the vibrations meant something was failing. At a little airfield in Bradford, Pennsylvania, I was starving and needing comfort food, I found myself four cents short for a bag of Red Dye Doritos. I left all my change with a note: Bradford, I owe you four cents. Then I inhaled the tiny bag of chips and continued to the NorthEastern most point in the coast-to-coast trek, Maine.

We landed at Limington Field, where Commander's dad met us, it's such a joy to see him, and he was so happy to see us. Commander took me flightseeing over the terrain of his childhood. For a few minutes I got to soak in being a flightseeing passenger. He's told me for years that Maine is Mini Alaska, I couldn't help but laugh... he was right, it's literally little Alaska, it was the first time on the trip I wished Scarlett had some floats on her, so I could go skirt some liquid runways.

The next day, I rested. I soaked in quiet family moments, ate whoopie pies, and watched turkeys bicker over the best apples in the yard. It was the kind of reset that only a day on the ground can provide.

Legendary Aviation

The remainder of the journey was more memorable with each day with, a tour of AOPA, the Teterboro Air Traffic Control Tower-At Teterboro, Carlos welcomed us into the control tower for a tour. I stood in awe, the Manhattan skyline stretched before me, 360 degrees of air traffic swirling.

I recorded a fantastic podcast episode with Silver Disobedience in Madison Square Garden and got fancied up and attended my friend Julie Clark’s induction into the National Aviation Hall of Fame at Doc’s (B29) Hangar. With each passing day it felt like I was stepping deeper into the heartbeat of aviation.

Humbled by the Heart of Perfect Strangers

This trip wasn’t just about the miles or the media—it was about the people. Everywhere we landed, strangers became friends. In the Shenandoah Valley, strangers gave hugs like old friends. In Arkansas, bats skimmed the river as we landed on a grass strip, the air thick with the humid musk of a Southern night.

A one-handed man in the Ozarks traced his nub in my adventure log and said, “You’ll never forget me.” He’s right.

The next day I had the rare thrill of seeing three other Stinson Reliants in person—a big deal considering only about 25 are still flying today. It felt like the perfect moment to ask if anyone else had battled vapor lock issues. As it turns out, Scarlett’s fuel vents had been facing the exact wrong direction, which explained the “boba lock” I’d been describing—like trying to sip a boba tea with the pearl jammed in the straw. With a simple adjustment, the problem was solved, and Scarlett didn’t vapor lock again for the rest of the trip.

Here's what I want you to know - People are craving connection, they want to be generous, loving and helpful. Everywhere I went, folks set down their phones and shared their stories. They wanted to know mine, and they wanted to offer theirs.

Up at 9,500 feet, you see the world differently. You see how controlled our screens make our lives, how manipulated the feed can feel. But face-to-face, people are honest, kind, generous, and full of grace.

That realization gave me hope, if you take one message from this post, it's this - say hello to someone, comment kindly on their attire, tell them a joke. Ask how their day is, and mean it. Each of us needs more of this.

Grace of God

After 13 years of sitting in a hangar, Scarlett was finally flying like her old self again—smooth, strong, reliable. By the time we reached Dallas’ crowded skies, my trust in her had deepened. I visited with two important people from my book team, which was beyond heart warming, and I'll have a whole blog post on them (and Forbes) coming soon. I also got to reconnect with a new friend, who I'll get to announce an exciting collab with soon as well.

I have wanted to explore and hike the Carlsbad Caverns for years, but every time that I've been there, they've been closed or flooded, I finally got to skirt the tops of them a few hundred feet AGL, they were positively stunning, and now I want to explore from the ground more than ever.

The entire trip I’d been dodging weather—convectives mostly—but the most terrified I felt was crossing the desert expanse of New Mexico and Arizona. Flying low through a valley to avoid the high terrain, I watched the sky darken until it felt suffocating. The storm just off my wing crackled with static, throwing lightning every few seconds. I was pressed against the edge of the Charlie Kirk TFR, torn between risking a storm penetration or requesting an airspace bust. And then, out of nowhere, a rainbow appeared on the ground. It wasn’t arcing in the sky—it was painting a path- I followed it. I’d never seen anything like it. Within 10 minutes I found a silver light dancing through the clouds, a light at the end of the tunnel. Better weather - a path painted by a divine Creator.

I ended up dropping books just outside the 30nm ring for fellow aviators to collect once the airspace reopened. That moment—and so many others on this trip—felt like a divine nudge. As if something far bigger than me was guiding the mission and reminding me I was exactly where I needed to be.

By the time I touched down at Bermuda Dunes and then at Flabob, I was overjoyed. The end was in sight. Flabob, a last-minute weather diversion, turned out to be a hidden gem—a relic of an airport that somehow pulsed with life and magic.

Later that day, I crested over home turf I could fly with my eyes closed. I knew every airport, every off-airport landing spot, and finally let myself breathe a small sigh of relief.

Reality Sets In

As the tail came to the ground ...reality hit: 100 books had now been dropped across the nation. No longer secret, they were out in the world—open to reviews, good, bad, or otherwise. My heart raced with the vulnerability of exposure. But that, too, was part of the mission.

The tour wasn’t about selling books—they aren’t even for sale yet. It was about creating movement. One hundred advance copies of 7 Primal Wounds: Break the Patterns Keeping You Stuck are now traveling hand-to-hand, state-to-state, like hot potatoes with wings. Each reader is invited to discover their wound, sign the flight log, and pass the book on. The goal? To see these copies reach at least seven countries before the official launch in March 2026.

Because healing, like aviation, is about movement. It’s about lift, trust, and taking off when everything inside you says to stay on the ground, that you can't navigate this turbulence or risk the storms.

This book tour may have been about planes and pages, but it was also about people. About choosing to soar when life tempts you to sit still. About finding that while lasts are inevitable, there are still firsts to experience—if only you’re willing to chase them. And for me, this first will never be forgotten.

Image Preston Monoc