No rush. No GPS. No comfort.
Just the drone of the engine, endless taiga below, and a sky that couldn’t care less.
Between Beloyarsky and Igrim – two places hardly anyone knows, connected by air, not by road.
I fly because there’s no other way.
I fly there because no one else does.
The An-2 doesn’t fly – it strolls through the sky.
You feel every shake, every creak, but also: the dignity of an old workhorse.
This is also a reminder to us that flying was never just a moment in time, but something that has endured despite all progress.
