There's been a lot of gloomy talk in China about the deteriorating state of relations with the United States.

Personally, I'm not so gloomy. I find hope in my training as a private pilot.

I earned my pilot's certificate for single-engine aircraft 25 years ago in Idaho, whose rugged mountains amplify the challenges (and dangers) for beginners. The old saying is quite true: Anything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Fortunately, my first flight instructor, a retired schoolteacher named George, was a seasoned bush pilot from Alaska. George knew all the tricks of the trade and dished out lots of common-sense advice. For example, if you have snow on the wings on a winter morning after parking your airplane overnight and you're not sure it's going to fly, brush off the wings with a broom and then attempt to take off. If the airplane doesn't fly by the time you're halfway down the runway, you have your answer. Shut it down.

I've stored away dozens of gems like this from George. He was always right. Among many things, he taught me the old adage that reflects a salty truth: Flying an airplane consists of long stretches of boredom interspersed with moments of sheer terror.

To qualify for a pilot's certificate, a student must complete two solo cross-country trips. My first one was easy－a route over desert to a Nevada casino, which conveniently had its own airstrip. I figured I could win some money to pay for my fuel, but that didn't work out.

When I proposed my second trip, George raised an eyebrow. I planned to fly directly over the Sawtooth Mountains in a little airplane, a Cessna 150 with only 100 horsepower.

I saw him clench his jaw, but he signed off.

The trip was a great adventure for me, with a couple of near-death experiences and moments of sheer terror. But George's main advice has stayed with me as an allegory for life: Feel the wind.

On a chart showing the height of the mountains, he traced my route with his finger－up a valley with peaks on both sides, to a high-altitude dead end. This meant I'd have to climb over the dead-end, which was no small feat in a low-powered training aircraft whose service ceiling wasn't much higher than those mountains.

"The engine won't do it alone,"George said."You're going to have to use updrafts to get high enough."

He explained how updrafts and downdrafts can be found on opposite sides of a valley. You can't see them; you have to find them by feel.

"Try one side," he said."If you don't find an updraft, try the other side."

So that's what I did. I started flying up the left side of the valley, and found the airplane performing poorly. It wouldn't climb in the downdraft. Remembering George's advice, I steered to the valley's right side.

Suddenly－wham!－I was hit by a violent updraft, which shook the aircraft and pushed it up 500 meters in 15 seconds. And thenwham!－another 500 meters.

Then the engine sputtered. I started to panic about mechanical failure until I remembered George's instruction about leaning out the fuel-air mixture at higher altitudes. Soon everything was running smoothly again, and I made it over the mountains easily.

So here's my hope for China and the US in the weeks and months ahead:

While we've been in a downdraft for a long time in the valley of gloom, the coming US election just might put a little wind under the wings of China-US relations and bring positive results. I'm looking for an updraft.