We recently connected with Nathan Finneman and have shared our conversation below.
Hi Nathan, thanks for joining us today. Going back to the beginning – how did you come up with the idea in the first place?
The Wyoming wind, a raw and untamed force, whipped across the high plains, carrying with it the scent of sagebrush and a whisper of forgotten engines. Medicine Bow Airfield. A century etched into the cracked concrete runways and the crumbling foundation of the old hangar. Here, under the vast, unforgiving sky, the dreams of a nation took flight, carried on the wings of airmail planes. Now, in 2025, the silence was deafening, broken only by the mournful cry of a hawk circling overhead. This vital piece of American history was fading, and I couldn’t stand by and watch it disappear.
My connection to Medicine Bow Airfield wasn’t through a relative’s stories, but through the stark beauty of its isolation and the profound sense of history that clung to the land like the tenacious prairie grass. I stumbled upon it during a cross-country road trip, drawn by a faded historical marker that spoke of its pivotal role in the early airmail routes. Standing there, amidst the silence, I could almost hear the drone of those intrepid biplanes, the shouts of ground crews, the crackle of rudimentary radios. This wasn’t just an abandoned airstrip; it was a tangible link to an era of daring innovation and the relentless pursuit of connection.
Medicine Bow Airfield was a crucial link in the chain that bound the nation together through the air. Letters carrying vital news, business correspondence, and heartfelt messages traversed the country, guided by the skill of pilots and the unwavering beam of beacons like the one that stood silent and dark atop the airfield’s skeletal tower. This place witnessed the evolution of aviation, from open-cockpit biplanes battling the elements to the more sophisticated aircraft that followed. To lose it would be to sever a direct line to the pioneers who braved the skies, charting courses across a vast and often unforgiving landscape.
But the importance stretched far beyond dusty history books. Imagine the inspiration this place could offer to future generations of aviators. In a world saturated with digital simulations, Medicine Bow offered something real, something visceral. To stand on that wind-swept runway, to touch the weathered metal of a vintage aircraft, to gaze up at the towering beacon – dormant for nearly 95 years – would be a powerful and unforgettable experience. It would instill a deeper appreciation for the challenges overcome by those who came before and ignite a passion for the tangible realities of flight.
My vision was clear: to breathe life back into Medicine Bow Airfield. And at the heart of that vision was the beacon. That silent sentinel, standing tall against the Wyoming sky, held the key. To see its powerful beam cut through the darkness once again, a familiar signal to pilots navigating the night, would be a symbolic resurrection. It would draw attention, not just to the historical significance of the field, but to the enduring allure of aviation.
I started by reaching out to local historians and aviation enthusiasts in Wyoming. The stories they shared were rich and evocative, painting a vivid picture of the airfield’s bustling past. I discovered old photographs of pilots in leather helmets and goggles, standing proudly beside their aircraft. I learned about the challenges of maintaining the beacon, a vital navigational aid in an era before sophisticated instruments.
The tower itself was a testament to early engineering, its metal frame still remarkably sound despite decades of neglect. The rotating mechanism, however, was frozen, its once-powerful lamp long gone. Undeterred, I began researching vintage aviation beacons, connecting with collectors and restoration experts across the country. The task seemed monumental, but the thought of that beacon sweeping across the night sky, a beacon of hope and history, kept me going.
Slowly, painstakingly, progress began. Local volunteers, drawn by the compelling stories and the tangible sense of history, joined the effort. We cleared debris, stabilized the old hangar, and began the arduous process of restoring the tower. Donations trickled in from aviation buffs and history lovers touched by the project.
The biggest hurdle was the beacon itself. Finding a period-correct rotating mechanism and a powerful enough light source felt like searching for a needle in a haystack. But through sheer persistence and the generosity of a collector in Montana, we found it – a magnificent, meticulously preserved beacon from the same era.
Now, the moment is within reach. After countless hours of cleaning, repairing, and rewiring, the beacon stands ready. The local FAA office has been incredibly supportive, recognizing the historical significance. Plans are underway for a grand reopening, a celebration that will draw pilots and aviation enthusiasts from across the nation.
Imagine the scene: dusk settling over the Wyoming plains, the crowd hushed with anticipation. Then, with a low hum, the mechanism begins to turn. A powerful beam of light cuts through the darkness, a familiar signal reborn after nearly a century of silence. Airplanes, both vintage and modern, will circle overhead, their pilots paying homage to this vital piece of American aviation history. Young people, their faces illuminated by the rotating light, will witness firsthand the legacy they can inherit.
Medicine Bow Airfield will not fade into history. It will become a living monument, a testament to the courage of early aviators, a source of inspiration for future generations, and a vibrant hub where the romance of flight can be experienced in its purest form. The beacon will shine once more, not just as a navigational aid, but as a symbol of perseverance, a reminder of where we came from, and a guiding light for where we can go. The spirit of those early airmail pilots will once again soar above the Wyoming plains, carried on the wind and the unwavering beam of a light that has waited patiently to shine again.
Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.
Nathan Finneman: An Old Soul Soaring Through Time, Inspiring Tomorrow’s Aviators
I wouldn’t consider myself just a pilot; I guess you could say i’m a living anachronism, a modern-day adventurer with the heart and spirit of a bygone era. From my youth, with aviation woven into his DNA courtesy of his parents, Finneman has chased the wind and the thrill of the unknown with a fervor rarely seen in the 21st century. His story isn’t just about flying; it’s about a philosophy, a yearning for a time when grit and genuine achievement defined a man, and adventure held a dangerous, irresistible allure.
For four electrifying years, the roar of his aircraft was the soundtrack to airshows across the nation. He danced with the sky, pushing the limits of both machine and man, a spectacle of skill and daring that left audiences breathless. But Finneman’s ambitions weren’t confined to domestic skies. He carried the stars and stripes onto the global stage, proudly representing Team USA in the fiercely competitive aerial pylon racing championships in Egypt. There, amidst the ancient sands, he pitted his skill and nerve against the world’s best, a testament to his dedication and mastery of flight.
Yet, beneath the helmet and the thrill of G-forces, beats the heart of what he aptly describes as an “old soul.” Finneman harbors a deep-seated longing for a time when men were, in his eyes, “truly a league of gentlemen.” He romanticizes an era where adventure wasn’t a curated experience but a genuine plunge into the mysterious and the potentially perilous. A time where a man’s worth was measured not by financial backing or corporate maneuvering, but by tangible results, by the sheer force of his capabilities.
This isn’t mere nostalgia; it’s a guiding principle for how Finneman lives his life. He operates with a fierce urgency, embracing each day as if it were his last. This philosophy, this unwavering commitment to seizing the moment, has painted a rich tapestry of experiences across his time on this earth. From navigating uncharted territories to mastering demanding skills, Finneman has consistently sought out challenges that test his mettle and expand his horizons.
His current endeavor, the passionate fight to resurrect the 100-year-old Medicine Bow Airfield in Wyoming, perfectly encapsulates this “old soul” ethos. It’s not just about preserving history; it’s about rekindling a spirit, reigniting a connection to a time when aviation was raw, pioneering, and deeply intertwined with the fabric of American life. The dream of seeing that long-dormant rotating beacon cast its beam across the Wyoming night sky once again, drawing countless pilots and enthusiasts to experience a tangible piece of aviation’s golden age, is a testament to his vision.
For Finneman, this isn’t simply a historical project; it’s about legacy. He understands the power of tangible inspiration, the profound impact of standing on the same ground where aviation pioneers once trod. He envisions Medicine Bow not just as a museum, but as a living testament to the spirit of adventure, a place where young, aspiring aviators can connect with the roots of their passion and understand the dedication and daring that paved the way for modern flight.
Nathan Finneman is more than just a pilot; he’s a storyteller etched in the sky, a living embodiment of a bygone era with a powerful message for the future. He’s a reminder that true adventure lies not just in the destination, but in the relentless pursuit of passion and the unwavering embrace of the present moment. His life serves as a compelling call to action for the youth of today: to embrace the spirit of exploration, to value genuine achievement, and to live each day with the fierce urgency of an old soul soaring through time. His legacy won’t just be written in the record books; it will be etched in the hearts and minds of those he inspires to reach for the sky with the same unyielding spirit that defines his own extraordinary journey.
Can you share a story from your journey that illustrates your resilience?
he crisp autumn air of Wyoming bit at my exposed skin as I reread the email. The polite, yet utterly dismissive, language felt like a physical blow. “Visionary, perhaps,” it conceded, before delivering the crushing caveat: “Ultimately unfeasible and financially irresponsible.” This was the third rejection that week. Three doors slammed shut with the resounding echo of “no.”
They called my plan to resurrect Medicine Bow Airfield “crazy.” They said I was chasing a ghost, pouring precious time and energy into a lost cause. One particularly blunt individual even suggested I find a “more grounded hobby.” Each “no” was a tiny shard of ice piercing the fragile hope I had so carefully nurtured. There were moments, lying awake under the vast, indifferent expanse of the Wyoming night sky, where the weight of their skepticism felt almost unbearable. Doubt, a insidious whisper, would slither into my thoughts, echoing their pronouncements of failure.
My heart, I confess, felt bruised. Each rejection was a tangible setback, a step further from the vibrant future I envisioned for that forgotten patch of history. The image of the beacon, its light slicing through the darkness after nearly a century of silence, would flicker and dim under the weight of their negativity. There were times I questioned myself. Were they right? Was I tilting at windmills, blinded by a romanticized vision?
But then, something would reignite within me. It wasn’t defiance, not exactly. It was a deeper understanding of the human condition, a stark realization of the crossroads we all inevitably face. Life, I knew, wasn’t a smooth ascent. It was a jagged climb, littered with obstacles and punctuated by the discouraging chorus of “you can’t.”
In those moments of doubt, I saw two distinct paths stretching before me. To the left lay the well-trodden road of resignation. It was the easier path, the one where the voices of naysayers would eventually fade into a comfortable silence of “I told you so.” It was the path of giving up, of letting the weight of their “no” become my own internal decree.
To the right, however, was the steeper, more challenging terrain. It was the path of stubborn persistence, fueled not by anger but by an unwavering belief in the value of my vision. It was the path that acknowledged the difficulty but refused to be defined by it. And in that moment of choice, the image of my grandfather, a man who never backed down from a challenge in the skies, would flash in my mind.
The sting of their “no” transformed. It wasn’t a reason to stop; it was fuel. It was a reminder that true innovation, true passion, often meets with initial resistance. The world is full of stories of those who were told “no” countless times before finally breaking through. Their skepticism became a gauntlet thrown down, and I was determined to pick it up.
I realized that the fear of failure paled in comparison to the crushing weight of regret. To walk away, knowing I hadn’t exhausted every possibility, would be a burden far heavier than any temporary setback. The silence of a forgotten dream would be a constant, haunting reminder of what could have been.
So, I doubled down. I meticulously refined my plans, addressing their concerns with data and unwavering passion. I sought out new avenues of funding, connecting with individuals and organizations who understood the historical and cultural significance of Medicine Bow. Each “no” became a lesson, a redirection, a sharpening of my resolve.
The fight is far from over. There will likely be more closed doors, more skeptical voices. But the initial sting has been replaced by a quiet determination. I know, deep in my heart, that the reward of seeing that beacon illuminate the Wyoming sky once again, of witnessing the wonder in the eyes of young aviators as they connect with aviation’s past, will far outweigh the temporary pain of rejection.
Life will inevitably throw obstacles in our path, and the temptation to give up will be strong. But it is in those moments, when the chorus of “no” threatens to drown out our dreams, that we must choose our direction. The road of resignation offers a false sense of peace, but it ultimately leads to the barren landscape of regret. The path of persistence, though arduous, promises a reward more profound and fulfilling than we can ever imagine. And I, armed with a vision and fueled by every “no” I’ve been told, will keep pushing forward, one step, one conversation, one application at a time, until the light shines again over Medicine Bow.
Can you tell us about a time you’ve had to pivot?
The cheerful drone of the airplane engine had been my constant companion for the last hour, a comforting hum against the vast canvas of the afternoon sky. I was enroute home to colorado from wyoming, another routine flight in a life that, in retrospect, had become anything but routine in the right ways. My mind, as usual, was miles ahead, already strategizing the details of a potential aircraft acquisition, rehashing a minor disagreement with a business partner from the previous day. The present moment, the feel of the controls in my hands, the breathtaking panorama unfolding outside the cockpit window – it was all just a backdrop to the relentless chatter within my own head.
Then, the comforting hum stuttered. Once. Twice. A violent shudder ran through the airframe, and the engine coughed, a sick, strangled sound that sent a jolt of ice through my veins. The propeller windmilled uselessly. Silence, thick and terrifying, descended. My training kicked in, a well-rehearsed dance of checklists and emergency procedures, but beneath the practiced movements, a primal fear began to claw its way up.
Below, the patchwork quilt of farmland stretched out, each field a potential landing strip, each a gamble. My eyes darted between the altimeter, the airspeed indicator, and the rapidly approaching ground. The wind buffeted the powerless plane, a cruel reminder of my sudden dependence on forces beyond my control. Time warped, each second stretching into an eternity as I fought to maintain control, searching desperately for a viable patch of earth.
The landing was rough, a jarring collision with reality as the wheels dug into a muddy field. The plane shuddered to a halt, the sudden silence amplifying the frantic thumping of my own heart. For a long, suspended moment, I just sat there, strapped into the harness, the acrid smell of fuel filling the air, the world outside a blurry tableau of green and brown.
It was in that stillness, that terrifying confrontation with my own mortality, that the scales fell from my eyes. The million-dollar deal I’d been obsessing over suddenly seemed insignificant, a fleeting pursuit in the grand scheme of existence. The petty argument from the day before evaporated into the thin air. All the anxieties, the future projections, the past regrets that had cluttered my mind for so long seemed utterly meaningless in the face of this stark, present danger.
What flooded my consciousness instead were the small, unacknowledged moments I had so carelessly let slip by. The way my daughter’s face lit up over a simple pancake breakfast. The warmth of my father’s hand on my shoulder during a quiet conversation. The rich aroma of coffee shared with my family on a Sunday morning, a ritual I often rushed through, eager to get to the next item on my meticulously planned schedule.
These weren’t grand achievements or lucrative ventures. They were the quiet, unassuming threads that wove the fabric of my life, and I had been too preoccupied chasing phantom futures and rehashing bygone days to truly appreciate their beauty. I had been so focused on the horizon that I had completely missed the vibrant landscape beneath my feet.
The realization hit me with the force of the emergency landing itself: I had been living my life in the wings, never truly taking center stage in the present moment. I had allowed the ghosts of yesterday and the phantoms of tomorrow to steal the richness of today. And in that terrifying descent, I understood the profound truth – every second does count. Not in the frantic accumulation of achievements, but in the mindful savoring of the here and now.
The stress I had allowed to consume me over trivial matters now seemed absurd. The small frustrations that had once loomed so large shrank to their true, insignificant size. Why had I allowed these fleeting irritations to steal my joy, to cloud the precious moments I had been given?
As I finally climbed out of the wreckage, my legs shaky but my mind strangely clear, I looked up at the vast, indifferent sky. I had been granted a second chance, a brutal but invaluable lesson. Life is not a dress rehearsal. It is this breath, this moment, this connection with the world and the people around us. The million-dollar deals might bring fleeting satisfaction, but the warmth of genuine human connection, the simple joy of a shared cup of coffee, these are the treasures that truly enrich our souls and leave a lasting imprint.
I walked away from that muddy field a changed man. The roar of the engine had been silenced, but in its place, a new voice had awakened within me – a voice that whispered the importance of presence, the beauty of the small things, the profound value of each fleeting second. I had almost lost everything chasing shadows. Now, I was determined to truly live, to savor the sunlight on my face, the laughter of my loved ones, the quiet miracle of each ordinary day. For I had finally understood, in the most visceral way possible, that the richness of life isn’t measured in grand achievements, but in the mindful appreciation of the simple, precious moments that often pass unnoticed until it’s almost too late.
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