[See By the Numbers, Part 1 for the beginning]

Just to be safe, I make up an alternate flight plan that lets me complete the cross-country while hugging the ground at a paltry three thousand feet. Sure, it's down the valley instead of across mountain vistas, but hours are hours, and I've not been flying long enough to get jaded about it.

My instructor rings up around 2pm, voicing concerns that the wind is too high at The Dalles for a safe landing. I'm way ahead of her, and announce that I've already made up an alternate plan to Corvallis just in case. In a couple of hours, we meet at the airport to review my plans. By now, it's apparent that there will be no eastward flight for this student. It's down the valley, baby, so I'll just have to learn to like it.

I crunch my way through the math word problems that comprise a dead reckoning VFR flight plan, coming up with waypoints along the route, headings, wind corrections, magnetic variations and the like. I was a math washout in school, and this is yet another time when I wish I'd paid more attention.

Finally the numbers check out, and I feel more or less certain that I'm ready to fly. I check with a weather briefer and discover that I will indeed have to stay low to pull this one off. With a good-luck pat on the back, my instructor sends me out onto the ramp for the preflight inspection.

Within a few minutes, I'm ready to go and tell the control tower so. I'm cleared for a south departure, and lift off like an old pro. The plane always seems more nimble when I'm the only passenger. Some of this has to be psychological, though, since my slip of an instructor has the bulk of a bulimic poodle.

I take a deep breath. The jetliners making their approach to PDX are gliding above me, their slowest approach speed still faster than my little Skyhawk can dream of flying. My mind races back to the section in my studies on wake turbulence, those invisible spirals of air that spin off the wingtips of large, slow aircraft, wreaking havoc on small planes like mine. Intellectually, I know they're far enough above me for it not to be a factor, but sometimes the intellect takes a back seat to my gut. I steer my kite to a heading of 187 degrees, aiming for my first waypoint over Portland Mulino airport.

I am determined to do fly by the numbers today. I've got my flight plan laid out on a half-sheet, clipped to my kneeboard. The sectional chart is held before me by a yoke-mounted clamp I bought recently, and folded to show my route for the day in blue Sharpie. I reach beside myself and slide my Palm Pilot out from beneath the seatbelt, which is clicked tight across the copilot's seat. I fumble with the miniscule buttons on its face, trying to turn it on and start the timer in the electronic E6B flight computer software that seemed like such a good idea when I was on the ground. I finally have to resort to grabbing the pencil that's stuck in the ashtray to my left so I can punch the thing to life.

Scan for traffic, I keep reminding myself, watch out for the other guy. I sweep the sky ahead of me for moving dots, but see nothing but the distant gray line of mountains and the farm field beneath me. It's choppy, and I have to cling to the yoke, making corrections while trying not to over-command the plane. It wants to fly, I say to myself, just let it do its job.

I glance at the E6B, which has gone to sleep again. I punch the little green button to wake it up, and see that about ten minutes have elapsed. Off my nose in the distance is a patch of light green that I think might be Mulino. As I approach, it resolves into a proper airfield, and I see the name spelled out in white on the taxiway below. Right on, man. I've just navigated to my first waypoint with no errors, and arrived directly over it only a minute or so before I had planned. I probably calculated too much extra time for climbing; time I didn't need today. Fumbling with the Palm Pilot, I stop the timer, noting its readout on my flight navigation log before resetting it for the next leg.

Along the way, I've tuned in to Portland Approach Control. Ostensibly, this is so I can keep an ear out for parachute jumping activity. Hearing the glib monotones of the airline pilots doing their job makes me feel like a real pilot. There are several jump fields in the region, so I have to keep my ears open. However, the clouds are low and thick today, and I'm sure nobody will be diving through them. As I steer to my new heading I catch the last part of a controller talking to a jump plane. I think I hear something about releasing jumpers at ten thousand feet. Surely not! I try to sort out if any action is required from me. Another transmission crackles, and I catch part of it. Yes, they are actually jumping today, but I'm still not sure over which field. A quick glance at my sectional reveals an innocuous little parachute icon directly on my blue course line and only a couple of miles ahead.