Dean Reynolds had an ultralight that he used to fly from the airstrip next to his house just down the street from my place. He would fly over the country around Vernal. He loved to swoop down and right over friends house. He has been know to carry bags of candy that he would use to "bomb" people's house that had children. Others he would use a small bag of floor. Dean made many custom wooden props for aircraft. He has an airboat that he uses for fishing on the Green River. He and "Mad Max" Martin have spent many enjoyable days fishing for channel catfish. He keeps a diary and can tell you how many fish were caught on a given day. Dean wrote this story about flying.

The noise level rises sharply as I push the throttle froward breaking the early morning silence. Vibrations transmit through me with rhythic waves. The drone of the engine and the snarl of the prop as it bites into the early morning air is music to my ears.
Slowly thrust overcomes the inert weight of man and machine. Now, underway, a gentle cool wind begins to caress my face while a subtle whistling envelopes my ears.
Firmly I grip the control stick in my right hand. Gently I move the rudder pedels with my feet tracking an imaginary line down the middle of the runway. For we...man and machine...have become one in coordination.
Faster and lighter now, I'm skimming the ground with barely a track left. The runway, now blurry, appears soft, like a gray carpet stretching out under me.
With precision, I ease the stick back. The nose rises firmly planting me into my seat as I defy gravity to let us go. A smoothness ensues that is unknown to land machines. We have escaped the grasp of Mother Earth.
Up, I ascend into a windless and gorgeous summer morning. I take a deep breath. The aroma of new mown hay fills my nostrils. I am awed by the encompassing countryside, which looks like an enormous patchwork quilt stretching out to fill the entire Ashley Valley. With mountains crowding in on three sides it seemed like the valley was cradled in the palm of a giant hand.
Euphoria invades my soul; I hardly believe flight is possible for mankind, let alone me. Emulating a great hawk, I soar in perfect equlibrium above the hustle and bustle of the less fortunate work-a-day people. From my perch, I watch the toy like cars lining up for the daily migration, taking their owners to work.
Leveling off at 600 feet, I smoothly throttle back to the best cruise speed. The euphoria again engulfs me. Acute feeling...There's nothing better than this.
What is the thrill? Is it being in a three dimensional medium, defying the law of gravity, or is it being in absolute control of my own destiny? Whatever the reason, only a privileged few will ever experience this...the freedom of flight.
Maybe it's just as well; it could get very crowded up here.