Jan. 21, 2000. 5:30 a.m. I huddle over the wheel of the tug, savoring the warmth of the dashboard heatei though it adds to my early-morning stupor. I'm not sure when I fell asleep last night, but it had to be mere hours before the alarm jolted my head from its resting place on my calculus textbook. I fight the urge to nod off as I idle in front of a World War II-era Quonset hangar with "University of North Dakota" emblazoned above its massive doors, which are now slowly parting, revealing a dozen Piper Arrows and Seminoles in the fluorescent gloom. As the doors lurch to a halt, I put the tug in gear and gingerly maneuver the tow bar up to the firsi airplane. I take a deep breath and exit the cab, jumping to the frozen tarmac. The sudden shock of minus 30 degrees F wind chill nearly knocks the wind out of me and my eyes instantly tear up, leaving icy trails down my cheeks. I throw the capture strap around the Arrow's nose strut and winch the nosewheel onto the tow bar, and then hastily retreat to the shelter of the cab. I'm wide awake now. I put the tug into reverse and carefully extricate the plane from the hangar, and then accelerate across the dark ramp.
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