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I walked into the terminal building not knowing what to expect, just knowing it would be different. It's the usual feeling when renting a plane at an unfamiliar airport. But that unfamiliarity would lead me, I hoped, to a familiar place.

After moving thousands of miles from the San Carlos (SQL) airport where I earned my wings, I had an opportunity to return, albeit just for a moment. I had flown commercially into Sacramento, California for a family event, and made it a mission to fly the 60-mile trip during some free time. All I needed was good weather and a plane.

Mother Nature handled the first requirement beautifully. While driving to the airport, the sky fit the definition we long for: severe clear. I could see the snow-capped Sierra Nevada range to the east, Mt. Diablo to the west, and nothing but blue in between.

Now all I needed was a Cessna 172. Sacramento Executive (SAC) offered several planes at several flight schools. I walked into each of them. "Yes, we have a plane, but no instructors today - sorry," was the nearly identical response at all of them.

I tried one more. The last one in the terminal. The dispatcher welcomed me with those "I don't know you, but I hope I can help you" eyes. After I explained what I wanted to do, she looked at the schedule, played Tetris with it in her mind, turned around, and summoned the lone instructor still in the building.

20 minutes later we were launching into the cold, crisp late-fall sky. I banked the plane west and aimed for the place I once called home.

"Let's see if I can remember the frequencies at San Carlos," I broke the friendly silence in the cockpit. "I think ATIS is 125.9, and the tower... 119.0." The numbers were ingrained in my brain.

After crossing over the East Bay hills and tuning in the tower, it all came back to me. My proud voice beamed as I spoke, "San Carlos Tower, Cessna 64317, over Coyote Hills with Quebec." The controller's voice crackled back over the headset.

The same controller who had guided me safely though countless takeoffs and landings - and watched me grow from a young student, to a private pilot. I just wondered if he recognized my voice.

Cleared to land, it was all so familiar, but on the surface so different. A new layer of asphalt had covered up the rubbery remnants of my botched landings. A new coat of paint contrasted the blacktop surface, beckoning pilots onto final. A new set of high-speed taxiways veered left and right from the centerline, prepped for the new crop of jets.

As I kissed the runway for the first time in several months, I realized my airport had grown up. So had I. Our relationship had matured. But everything old, was new again.

Article by Chris Archer; Send him an email