A Life Guided and Preserved by Les Hill

I grew up on a dairy farm in Massachusetts. What I remember most is space—wide-open fields, old barns, and a house built in the early 1700s. Life on the farm was steady and demanding. We had chores twice a day, every day, with no breaks. In the spring, we planted corn. In the summer, we made hay. In the fall, we harvested for feed. Life was simple, but it required discipline and endurance.

As a child, I was surrounded by work, but also by moments of wonder. Early in the mornings, especially in April, I would hear the sound of a small plane spraying for mosquitoes over the nearby swamp. I would run outside and stand under it as it passed overhead. I did not know it at the time, but that sound and that sight planted something deep in me. That may have been the beginning of my desire to fly.

I enjoyed farming, but I did not want to spend my whole life milking cows twice a day, seven days a week. There was always a sense inside me that I was meant for something more. In high school, I played football and ran track. I remember pushing myself farther each day while running. One evening, it felt like I was no longer even touching the ground, like I could run forever without effort. It was a powerful moment—hard to explain—but it stayed with me. It made me wonder about strength beyond myself.

After high school, I went to college in Massachusetts and entered an aviation program. There, I earned my licenses and prepared for a career in flying. My first job brought me to Maine, where I flew a floatplane to help with forest fire control. I was young and just starting out, but I felt a strong sense of purpose. I was doing something that mattered—protecting land, people, and communities.

Not long after, I faced one of the most critical moments of my life. I was flying in poor weather, trying to get back to base. The ceiling dropped, and visibility became worse. I could have landed earlier, but I chose to keep going. Then suddenly, I lost all visual reference. I could not see up, down, or forward. It was like being surrounded by white with no direction.

In that moment, everything slowed down. I had to make a decision. I realized I could not keep going. I had to turn back, even though I could not see. I trusted what I knew and made the turn. As I descended, I finally broke out of the clouds just above the treetops. I found a small field and landed safely.

I sat there with the engine idling, cows looking at me, realizing what had just happened. I should not have survived that. But I did. That moment stayed with me for the rest of my life. It was more than just skill. It felt like I had been spared.

Over the years, I continued flying, and the risks never went away. I experienced multiple engine failures. In some cases, the plane flipped on landing. Yet each time, I walked away. I began to feel that there was something beyond my control at work—something protecting me.

At the same time, I also experienced loss. A close friend and fellow pilot died in an accident while working in the mountains. It was a difficult and painful moment. It reminded me that not everyone walks away. That loss stayed with me and deepened my understanding of life’s fragility.

As my career progressed, I moved into agricultural aviation, spraying crops across many states. The work was demanding and dangerous. Flying low over fields at high speed required complete focus. There was no room for distraction. Every second required attention and quick decisions.

Through 47 years and over 25,000 hours of flying, I learned to respect each moment. I learned to read situations carefully and to make decisions based on what was real, not what I wished was true. I learned hard lessons, especially about what pilots call “get-home-itis”—the dangerous urge to push forward when it would be safer to stop.

One of the most meaningful parts of my journey came when I was able to pass this lesson on to a younger pilot. I shared a story and warned him about the danger of pushing too far. Years later, he told me that he remembered that lesson and chose to stop instead of risking a dangerous flight. In that moment, I realized that what I had learned had not been wasted. It had helped someone else.

Looking back, I see more than just a career. I see a life shaped by lessons, risks, and grace. Again and again, I found myself in situations where I should not have made it through, but I did.

Through all of this, my understanding of God began to grow. I came to believe that God is not far away. God is not distant or removed from our daily lives. God is near. God is present in every moment. God reigns and governs, not only in the big events, but also in the small, unseen details.

In the cockpit, I had to be fully aware—watching, listening, and responding. Similarly, I began to recognize that God was always there—guiding, warning, and sustaining me. Even when I was not thinking about God directly, God was still active in my life.

I may not have always been in church, but I experienced something real. I experienced a presence that protected me, corrected me, and led me forward. God was not just an idea. God was near. God was involved.

My life has taught me that we must pay attention to our surroundings, to our decisions, and to the quiet warnings we receive. We must learn from our mistakes and not repeat them. We must be willing to stop when it is not safe to go forward.

Tomorrow will come, but we may not. So we must live wisely today.

If there is one lesson I can share, it is this: do not ignore the signs. Do not rush when it is dangerous. Make careful decisions, and trust God with what you cannot control.

Through all the years, all the risks, and all the moments of uncertainty, I can say this with deep gratitude: God was near, God was guiding, and I was never alone.