(How, you may ask, does my post title so confidently assert this cloud-havered town is Missoula? Easy enough: what other Montana metropolis features random insets of crazy angle-street blocks?)
I rather like flying (aside from seat 31F being four rows from the back of the plane AKA too close to the restroom - ew!). I still get a bit giddy at the acceleration into take off, and I sometimes (quietly) say 'wheee!' at the uplift moment of wheels off the ground.
As kids, our dad took us up in his small plane, a two-seater Aercoupe during my early, impressionable years. I was mesmerized by the view below of tiny cars and tiny farmhouses and tiny horses in the tiny field that I knew took me a really long time to trudge across.
Apparently, my brother also felt this Lilliputian pull. Per family lore, Mum noticed his wee self heading across the front pasture at a good clip, and barely intercept ed him with a hollered, "Where are you going?"
He confidently flung over his shoulder, "To Tiny Town!", and kept moving toward his goal. I think he had a couple Hot Wheels cars in his pocket for cruising with the Tiny Town folk. To his credit, he was at least headed in the right direction.