There’s something romantic about bush pilots.

They fly into places without landing strips or runway lights. Into the wilderness. Into the wild.

Bush pilots – maybe all pilots – carry themselves with confidence. They are precise, professional, charismatic and cool.

Kathy Hodgkins fit that bill.

Hodgkins, who was 47, ran KT Aviation with her husband, Tim.

On Thursday morning, Aug. 12, she was killed when the plane she was piloting crashed near the peak of Big Houston Mountain in Piscataquis County. She was on her way to Lobster Lake to pick up a group of sports.

I flew with Hodgkins once and the trip left an impression on me that I haven’t been able to shake, and feels spooky now.

It was a utilitarian trip back to Bangor to catch another plane. No big deal. But it was a big deal. The trip was quick. We took off on West Grand Lake early in the morning and landed in Glenburn, a 10-minute car ride from Bangor International Airport and the rest of my trip.

This month when she crashed, Hodgkins was flying a Cessna 172. For all I know, it was the same plane I flew in.

We flew low that morning, at least compared to commercial jets. At that time, I had never seen a live moose and was beginning to doubt that I ever would. I told Hodgkins that, and she scouted for possible moose as we flew over the backcountry. The moose remained elusive, but I can’t forget the effort.

In the small plane, I sat next to Hodgkins, wearing headphones and microphone, which allowed us to talk above the roar of the engine. Flying in a small charter plane, taking off from one lake and landing on another, is far removed from the keep-your-seat-belt-fastened-and-trays-locked experience most of us have on airplanes.

Riding on a commercial jet is akin to taking a bus. The romance and adventure have been suffocated for efficiency, profits and predictability.

Flying with Hodgkins in a small plane was exhilarating.

Many years ago, I loved a short-lived TV show called “Tales of the Golden Monkey.” It was about a seaplane pilot living a life of adventure in the South Pacific in the years before World War II. The show only lasted a couple of years, but I’d found myself thinking about it on the Monday before Hodgkins’ accident.

To pass the time on a long I-95 drive that day, I was entertaining myself with an elaborate daydream about turning my eventual Powerball winnings into a successful bush pilot business.

I decided I would attend Hodgkins’ flight school, then buy a refurbished Grumman G-21A, the “Goose,” which had been featured in 1982’s “Tales of the Golden Monkey.” Free from worries about profit, I imagined ferrying fishermen and families around Maine, maybe adding stops at some of the islands that dot New England’s coast.

Understand, I am not a pilot. This was pure fiction, like an in-flight movie for the mind. Even if I did win the lottery, which I won’t, it’s unlikely I would ever fly float planes into the backcountry.

Later in the week, when I heard that Hodgkins was missing, I felt like I had pickpocketed her life.

Hodgkins was a skilled pilot who’d been flying for three decades and had flown large jets to Europe for Continental.

I had sat next to her in a plane, trusting her with my life without a second thought – without really considering it.

Hodgkins was well-known in the fishing villages and sporting lodges up north and Down East, even a bit of a celebrity.

I didn’t know Hodgkins well enough to write a eulogy. I had met her only once. And I can’t say if I’ll daydream about being a bush pilot again. That seems very trivial now.

I’m just glad I had the chance to fly with Kathy Hodgkins. I wish I could again.