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Amelia Earhart glances down from the cockpit of her yellow biplane as it takes off into the air.

She banks to the right, circling over dozens of spectators who have gathered in the dusty airfield below.

She gives them a friendly wave. Amelia knows that they're expecting her to do something amazing today.

So she gets to work.

She adjusts her throttle, levels her wings with the horizon, and starts climbing.

It's spring 1923 in Glendale, California. Amelia Earhart took her first flying lesson just over two

years ago, and already she's looking to break records. Today, she wants to take her plane at 14,000

feet above ground. Something no woman aviator has ever done with a motor as small as hers.

Her face feels raw in the slipstream of hot air that flies over the engine from the propeller.

She's wearing a thick leather coat and goggles to protect her eyes against the wind.

Under her feet, she can feel the wooden fuselage of the plane vibrating along with the engine.

Amelia knows that a single tear in one of her canvas wings or a hiccup in her engine could send

her spinning to the ground. She pushes away those thoughts.

She checks her altimeter, the instrument that tells her how far she is from the ground.

10,000 feet up. She flies up into some wispy clouds and sees the horizon flash in and out of sight.

This could be a problem. It's important that she keeps her wings level,

and she does that by lining them up with the horizon. If she can't see the horizon,

the plane could start to tip and slide out of control. She's got to break through these clouds

for a clearer view, so she climbs higher. She feels a sharp sting on her cheeks as if she's flying

into a shower of pebbles. There's a deafening rattle as sleet ricochets off the wooden fuselage.

Amelia grips the controls and weighs her options. She knows the safe thing to do is to descend.

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