AS we walked across the tarmac of Page Airport, Arizona, I pretended to everybody that I wasn't a bit afraid. There were seven of us - five Australians and ourselves - and we were the gung ho group that had left the main coach party to take what the brochure described as "a spectacular light aircraft flight to Monument Valley and onto the Grand Canyon".
"Or into the Grand Canyon," I had laughed months before, in the safety of Greystones, with no challenge to my lifelong fear of flying. I wasn't laughing now.
Ahead of us were two delicate looking aircraft - a tiny one (with one engine) and a bigger one (with two engines). Beside each stood the pilots and now one of them, Mario, shouted: "The Farrells are flying with me; the rest go with Charlie."
This was good news because, although Mario had the tiny plane, at least he was older and had grey hair. He seemed like the kind of pilot who might want to live, if only for the sake of his grandchildren. Charlie - gum chewing and faceless behind the shades - looked like he'd rather be sitting in a chopper with his legs dangling out over the Mekong Delta.
The Australians, however, were delighted. But then, ever since we had left San Francisco (on this aptly named Western Highlights Tour), they had been delighted with everything. They had gambled all night in Las Vegas, they alone had seen the sun rise over Bryce Canyon and, two days ago, had danced in the 120 heat of Death Valley. Now they were dancing with Charlie and pitying us for getting dull old Mario.
We took off before them - racing down the runway for what seemed like 10 minutes before being suddenly scooped up into the sky like a piece of paper.
But then all was forgotten as the familiar landscape of Monument Valley appeared ahead. Now was the time for mile high spoofing as we named the movies made here - Stagecoach, The Searchers, Back To The Future, Thelma And Louise...
Mario interrupted to tell us that Charlie (at three o'clock and closing) could soon pass us - and, typically, he did and landed first.
We followed him in across the red dusted praione to touch down on a strip of grassland, with Indian ponies grazing nonchalantly within yards of our wing tips.
Again, we took off first, and almost immediately Mario said: "Charlie's got problems," and we looked down to where Charlie's plane was still standing - facing a runway where all the Indian ponies had now decided to graze.
My first reaction was "serves him right", but already Mario had other ideas as he turned the plane in a great, lazy arc. "Hold tight, folks," he said then, "I'm going to buzz them," and suddenly this dull, grey haired grandfather turned into a mad dog, flying ace as we swooped down and roared over the backs of the ponies and then swept back into the sky again.
I was petrified but the ponies took not the slightest notice. They may even have privately made rude signs at us. Mario said, "Gotta go closer," and as my wife positioned the camcorder and I resigned myself to dying among dead horses, we roared down again, this time to within 50 yards of the animals and up again.
"There they go," called Mario and we looked down to see the ponies galloping merrily away (laughing their manes off) and then Charlie speeding down the runway and coming up after us.
From our altitude, the Grand Canyon was soon visible - a great jagged line that stretched across the prairie from horizon to horizon and which now began to reveal its familiar deep and treacherous gorge. It looked spectacular - and I turned to see where Charlie was. He was nowhere - not behind us or in front of us or above or, God help us, below.
I WAS about to tell Mario when, suddenly, our plane jerked madly, started falling, stopped falling, banked and steadied itself. "Sorry folks," said Mario, "a lot of warm air coming up this evening."
And so began another hell.
First we flew along the Canyon and then we were above it - and then into it. All around us now were jagged rocks and craggy spires and I knew that if our one engine stopped now, we'd have nowhere to land and who would ever find the wreckage down there?
As Mario flew innocently on - "The Colorado River on your right, folks" - I began to remember, with total clarity, the names of everyone who had died in light aircraft crashes. Buddy Holly, Patsy Cline, Glenn Miller, Jim Reeves ...
Then I wondered what would happen if the engine kept going but Mario had a heart attack. So I began to watch all his movements: what he did to make the plane go up and what he did to stop it going down. And I worked out the quickest route from my seat into his.
But then we were climbing high out of the gorge and turning away towards Grand Canyon Airport. Just when I was ready to take over, Mario was flying us to safety.
At the airport desk, he signed a certificate confirming that we had completed the flight (the option being?) and then I asked about Charlie and the Australians.
"Oh, Charlie went back to Page - he developed altimeter trouble and didn't want to risk the Canyon. They'll be here in about two hours, in a different plane," he said and, seeing my look of horror, added, "We don't take chances, you know."
In the days that followed, I settled back to enjoy Sedona, Scottsdale, Malibu and Monterey. Even there, I knew that nothing could happen. I had seen (and survived) the Grand Canyon - and they say that those who do develop an inner peace.
Well, some do. I didn't notice much change in the Australians.