I yawned. The clock said 5:30, its incessant beeping taking me from the warm arms of the woman with just that smile. I tried to hold on to the image, that sense, but it drifted away like mist off a high peak.

As reality set itself into frame and sleep drowsed away, I stretched, shook my head and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. An early flight. I had an early flight, that’s why I’d had to set the alarm. Outside the window, the night was dark as only the savannah can be. I got up, fumbled around my hut for my shorts, wandered into the bathroom.

Brush teeth. Shave. Take shower. Get dressed.

Each step took me closer to humanity, to personality, to vitality. I opened my door. On the step sat a tray with some eggs, bacon, and most important: a pot of coffee. Checked my watch. I had ten minutes before the land rover came to take me to the airstrip. Dug into the food, scalded myself on the coffee. Finished and stepped outside, glancing to the East. Dark.

The headlights bounced slowly towards me. Johnathan the driver sat stoically behind the wheel. Guess he didn’t like getting up this early either. We didn’t say much to each other. “Morning, Bwana. Pole, pole… Slow on the way, hey? Too early to go fast.” He looks at me, nods. Economical with words. Good driver, though.

We bounce along the dirt track and I stifle a last yawn. I don’t mind this early start. One pick up at Serena Lodge, then off to the lake, then back in time for a late lunch. An easy day, all things considered.

The plane gleams in the headlights as we pull onto the ramp. A glorified term for a large flat piece of pounded-flat dirt next to the runway. I look on my mount with joy and some degree of pride. Okay, she’s not actually mine, but still, I am her pilot. I hop out, ask Johnathan to roll down the runway looking for lions or such who might find the strip more comfortable for a snooze than the long grass. He looks at me. Some hyenas have been seen nearby recently, and they’re as bad as the big cats. Worse, maybe. The lions do most of their hunting either in daylight or earlier in the evening, so I’m not worried about them, but hyenas… Who knows? They’re the weirdos of the animal kingdom. I hop up on the wing, open the door, get in the cabin of the plane quickish. Wave to him from inside. “See, I’ll wait here if any show up. Now go check the runway.” He’s satisfied, waves and trundles off.

I go through the preflight quickly but carefully, flashlight bobbing as I check the oil, sample the gas, after carefully sweeping the area for any bright yellow eyes in the brush, the gear, the ailerons, the empennage. She’s just like she was yesterday, but I’m determined to become an old pilot, not a bold pilot, and I look carefully. I give her a tap for luck on the fuselage before climbing aboard and setting up the office. Headsets here, kneeboard strapped on, flashlight stowed, everything ready. Wait for the headlights of the Land Rover. There he is. He trundles past, I give a quick wave as he disappears to park on the road until I take off. I start the engines, the big sixes catch and settle into a deep throaty rumble. Avionics on. Try the radio. No real chance of reaching anyone, but… procedures. Make a call in the dark to my destination. No answer, of course.

I’ve timed it well, though. The first thin sliver of sun is poking over the horizon to the East. I give the engines five minutes to warm up. By then the sun has already begun to spread light like a thin blanket across the surroundings. I can see the grass, dark outlines against darker ground. I look around. No crazy Ivans coming in early and unannounced from Nairobi, no lights in the sky except the stars growing dimmer by the second. Taxi to the departure end of the runway, making a call into the blind on the radio to any other traffic that might pass through the same airspace. I learned to fly in Southern California. Old habits die hard. No reply, of course.

Check the gauges one last time. All in the green. Savor the moment. The second before freedom. Throttle up and she starts rolling, bouncing gently on the dirt as we gather speed. 60, 70… there… rotate. The wheels leave the ground and there’s that ineluctable joy of clawing into the air.

Wheels up, and climb out at 90. No need to rush, Serena’s only fifteen minutes away. I level off low, a thousand feet over the ground or so, waggling my wings in the turn at the Land Rover below as I skim off to the South-East. The sun’s almost completely off the horizon, climbing like me, as I speed up. I try the radio again. By now I’m high enough they should get the signal. Nothing.

I pass over the land waking to the light. The acacias passing by beneath, one remote sentinel after another on the endless grasslands. The Mara river gently meanders off to my right, barely discernable from this angle and height. I pass the short flight in a sort of reverie. The world is simply beautiful.

Ahead of me the land disappears. I frown slightly. Strange, I’ve never seen this before. I pass over a gentle ridge and where the Serena Lodge should be, ensconced in a snug thicket of trees around the waterhole is… nothing. Just a low white barrier. I’ve never seen mist right here, but then I’ve never flown here this early before. I maintain my altitude instead of setting up for a descent. Pass over the mist, white like a snowbank, flat and undisturbed as a zen garden. I circle overhead. Down there, in the slight depression of ground, is the camp and the airstrip beside. For now, they’re both hidden to me. I circle and try to raise the lodge once again on the radio. Nothing. Of course.

I circle slowly down, throttling back to keep from speeding up. The sun will burn this off, I know, but how long will it take? I keep descending until I’m skimming the surface of the mist. Here and there I can just barely see the very tips of trees poking through the top. I dip my wing to turn again and stay overhead, and see an inch or two of the wingtip descend into the white. It leaves a trail like calligraphy. I turn the other way, to the right, dipping the very last few inches of the right wingtip into the mist and carving a dark swirl in its surface. I forget the radio. They can call if they like, I’m through trying over and over. As I begin to reach the end of the cotton wool lake beneath me, I turn sharply, banking one wing in a smooth, drawn-out curve on its surface. Then the other way. The sun is rising. The very top of the mist is dissipating, and the treetops become not shrouded, but visible. I slalom above them, lost in the magic of this interaction between atmosphere and land, flight and wisps. I don’t know how long I carouse there, but after some … Seconds? Minutes? Lifetimes? … The mist is gone, except for a stubborn layer right over the airstrip itself. I check my watch. Thirty minutes since I took off.

Still nothing on the radio. I make one last pass over where the camp is, tent tops visible only as I pass directly above them, and wing my way back to base. After a few minutes, halfway home, the radio crackles. Serena calling. I explain the mist. They laugh. Yes, they thought that might be me, they couldn’t get the generator going to power the radio. The clients have cancelled the trip. Decided to take a safari instead of going to the lake. So sorry.

I look back over my shoulder, the trees now bright against the golden grassland, and disappearing rapidly behind. Think for a moment. “It’s okay,” I reply, “Maybe next time.”