Not So Fun Flight 2024

 Last year, JoDee and I decided to fly to Colorado for Christmas with our siblings. Sounds simple, right?
A sweet little holiday getaway? No. No, it was not. It was an episode of Survivor: Holiday Travel Edition, and we were the unwilling contestants.

I didn’t realize Tulsa wasn’t an international airport until we boarded what was basically a flying shoebox — maybe 50 passengers total, two seats on each side, and the kind of plane where you can feel everyone breathe. But hey, we made it to Denver just fine.

Then the real fun began.

We waited. And waited. And waited some more for our connecting flight — the one that “barely made it in” because of mechanical problems. Comforting. Truly. And then, as if the universe wanted to test our commitment to Christmas spirit, they boarded us onto a 15‑seater. Fifteen. I’ve seen minivans with more structural integrity.

We’re buckled in when the announcement comes:

They need a mechanic to sign off on the problem.

Sign off? SIGN OFF?

How about… fix it? Maybe? A little?

So we sit there for three hours, held hostage on a plane that limped into Denver like it needed a walker and a prayer shawl.

Finally, they tell us we’re good to go. But wait — plot twist — now we have too much fuel. So we sit there with the engines roaring like a jet preparing for space travel, burning off the excess. At this point, one poor guy stands up because he has to pee, and the flight attendant practically tackles him with a “SIR, SIT DOWN, WE ARE TAKING OFF.” I felt so bad for him. We were all prisoners together.

  We finally leave the ground, and the plane starts creaking and groaning like the wing is about to file for divorce. And I wasn’t even sitting by the wing. I was nearly kneeling in the aisle praying!

We barely cleared the mountain. 

Finally I was seeing familiar landmarks, Grand Mesa to the left, we are nearly there, when suddenly...

We hit a duck.

I kid you not.

BOOOOOOM.

The whole plane shuddered like it was reconsidering its life choices. But we stayed in the air, kept going, passed the mall, and then… kept going. And going. And going.

Why?

We STILL had too much fuel.

So we flew into Utah.

We kissed the ground when we landed and marched straight to the rental counter to reserve a car home. Plot twist: so did every single other traumatized passenger. Not a car in sight. Not even a sad little compact with a donut tire.

So after all that drama, all that fuel burning, all that duck‑dodging… we had to fly home anyway.

And wouldn’t you know it?

The trip home was smooth as butter. No creaking, no groaning, no ducks with a death wish. We were in a big plane like flies you across the Atlantic Ocean.