Friday 12 April 2019

Now on tour!

I'll be out promoting the book over the next several weeks so scroll down for upcoming events, reviews and media!

Order at
or pick it up at your favourite bookstore!

Upcoming Events

September 7 and 8 - Book signing at Aero-Gatineau Ottawa Airshow, Vintage Wings Hangar, Gatineau Airport
September 19 - Book signing at the Rockcliffe Flying Club, 7-9pm

(click on the titles to watch/listen)

(click on the outlet to read the full review)

"Airborne was a pure delight to read." - James Fisher, The Miramichi Reader

"There are enough well-described dramatic moments that reminded this reader of a saying from a former RCAF pilot: 'There are old pilots, and there are bold pilots. But there are no old, bold pilots.'" - Ron Robinson, Winnipeg Free Press

Check back often as I'll be posting updates as we go.
And rest assured: I'll be getting back to writing and sharing more content as the open cockpit flying season gets underway.

Friday 8 February 2019

Excerpt from *Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike*

I'm pleased to share the Prologue from *Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike*, available from Goose Lane Editions starting February 19th.


It seems as though I’ve waited all summer for a day like this: a warm August afternoon cooled by a brisk breeze bringing lines of neatly formed cumulus clouds marching across the royal blue heavens.
The clouds, each one both alike and unique, advance roughly southeastward. The vanguard of the formation, a loose gaggle of ragged patches, has only just drifted over the field at Rockcliffe as I roll my biplane out of the shade of the hangar. Ten minutes later, we are threading our way northwest through the tip of the main column and climbing quickly behind the eager tug of the Lycoming engine.
We stop the climb at our usual 1,700 feet and, from our new vantage point inside a cloudless trough, spy a long cloud front stretching across the horizon before us. It appears as though a massive, snow-covered mountain has been turned onto its peak so that its low, rolling foothills loom over us like a giant shelf at great altitude. It is as if a great hand wielding the sharpest and most precise of razors has cleaved the edge of the front to form the straightest of lines for many miles. From there, my goggled eyes trace the flanks of the colossus down to a point far in the distance where it vanishes behind the green mounds of the Gatineau Hills.
My mind is quiet when I fly. Normally, it’s a chaotic mess — even though my exterior rarely betrays it. I wasn’t always like this. Years ago that stillness and peace was easier to find, and I could hold onto it longer. It happens to all of us — that noise. It is the echo of all our triumphs and failures, our discoveries and losses. Here, aloft, those voices are silenced.
I used to be a day dreamer. I’m not anymore. Life moves too quickly with work and family and obligations to permit the mind to wander. In an airplane, it’s equally frowned upon. Flying, after all, is serious business. Still, we’re alone up here — the biplane and me. No co-pilot looks at me sideways; I’ve no passenger to fret over. It’s such a lovely afternoon that it would sinful to waste this opportunity for silence and peace.
Small groups of white cumulus, having detached themselves from the main body of the cloud front, begin to influence our path, forcing us to circumvent them to the east or west. As one presents itself just below the nose and a shade to our right, I pressure the control column slightly aft, and we bound over the top and into a slight right turn. And then, the strangest thing happens. Nature conspires to assemble the perfect set of circumstances — a cloud below, the sun high above and behind us — so that we see our shadow for the first time.
Initially, I wonder what it is, that dark smudge on the cloud’s crest ringed in concentric halos of orange, yellow, red, pink, green, and blue. As my eyes blink behind my goggles, I bring the vision into focus. There we are — albeit much larger — complete with twin wings, rounded tail, and the circular shade of the whirling propeller. My other senses dulled, I gaze upon our shadow with the same wonder as one who has seen their reflection for the first time. Instinctively, with the cloud sliding away, I bank the wings and roll into a turn to prolong the apparition but unwittingly upset the balance. The image fades.
We fly on. The solid wave of cloud remains distant ahead. The seaplane base at Chelsea drifts by. A trio of float planes, gaily colored in yellow, orange and eggshell blue, bob contently at the dock. A canoe is working its way south, leaving a feathery wake on the otherwise placid surface of the river. Up here, the wind seems stronger, hastening the journey of the clouds drifting our way while hampering our progress up the river.
The cloud bank creeps closer now. I raise the nose and inch the throttle forward, adding power to begin a climb. The advantage, after all, is in height. The plane eagerly soars up toward the promise of cooler air. A quick glance at her instruments: the speed stands at ninety miles per hour, the vertical speed announces itself at an optimistic two thousand feet per minute, engine gauges normal, fuel on and sufficient, and switches in their proper places. We are ready.
I push the throttle forward to the stop and pull the plane into a climbing left-hand turn. It bleeds energy quickly as we drift sideways over the top, wings banked vertically, and slide earthward again. With the sun at our back, our first target swims into view between the cabane struts. I feel tension rising in the plane as speed and energy return. I draw a deep breath and depress the trigger on the stick.
The quick burst is ineffectual. Too far away. We close rapidly, the target quivering behind the grey wisp of the racing propeller. The edges of my vision draw away. It is just us and this hapless, little cloud.
Another burst. Whitish-grey threads are pulled away and spin off into oblivion. Right stick, right rudder — just the deftest adjustment and the target flashes past our left shoulder. We claw for altitude again as I turn my head this way and that, searching for the next aggressor or opportunity.
We roll out of the turn with the nose pointed between twin clouds at a third just above and beyond. The plane roars approval as we descend in a shallow dive towards the first two. This pass must be executed with surgical precision as there will not be another chance.
A stab of left rudder, a brief pause . . . steady. The plane trembles as we unleash a short burst. Now, before the opportunity has passed, a boot of right rudder and a longer burst at his companion. The torn cloud rolls away.
I ease the plane’s nose up and target the leader. My gloved finger depresses the trigger.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
We’ve played at dogfighting with clouds too long. So long, in fact that either my imagination is entirely devoid of shells or my fantasy Vickers machine gun has jammed. I use the extra speed to rise gently above our would-be target and waggle the wings in salute.
The timbre of the Lycoming’s growl changes, tearing the reverie apart. The throttle is a little loose and tends to creep forward. As a result, the engine has picked up about a hundred RPM. It’s more an idiosyncrasy than an issue, and given I too have my quirks, I don’t see a real need for it to be “fixed.” To do so would steal a shred of personality from this little biplane.
The cloud bank we’ve been chasing now stretches from horizon to horizon. It is darker but not particularly menacing. Its colour is owed more to how tightly the clouds are ordered rather than any perils that lurk within. As it crawls towards us, I draw in a deep breath. The air up here, measured more or less precisely by our altimeter as 2,750 feet, is violently pure. It nearly burns as you bring it in, and if you hold it for any length of time, it rushes to your head and sets off an electric tingle that crackles and buzzes down your spine to your fingers, toes, the tips of your hair. Today, there is a weight to the atmosphere, which is odd, as density typically decreases with altitude.
The cloud bank has grown closer, darker and now more menacing. Somewhere near Wakefield, we turn east and follow its billowing edge for a few miles. Every so often, we dip a wing so as to tentatively peek behind the curtain, curious to see what lies beyond. What are we looking for? Something to pursue? A reason to enter a crevasse or fjord carved into this mighty face? Or do we search for inspiration to return home?
We turn west, placing the approaching cloud front on our opposite shoulder. The high flanks of the front have now choked out the sun and dropped the temperature a few degrees. While my biplane seems content to stay aloft and fuel is plentiful, I bank the wings and pick up the river that will lead us home. A feeling of familiarity washes over me. I’ve flown these skies for a long time. This is home. Soon, the field at Rockcliffe will greet me as an old friend.
I give the rudder pedals a playful kick. It’s an old custom of mine, something of a nervous tick. The nose wags eagerly in response. In jockeying the pedals, I’m reminding my feet of their true purpose in the impending landing. As graceful a flier and as cute an airplane as she may be, this biplane can make her displeasure known when returning to earth. I approach every landing expecting a kick in the ass.
Before long, the old air force base at Rockcliffe is beyond the plane’s long nose. I know that this was my dad’s vantage point for all his flights. This is where he once was, where I am now, and where, perhaps, at the intersection of the two, we may meet again. There must be such a place: a field just beyond the cobalt horizon where the skies are always blue and the wind is always gentle, where fuel tanks never run dry and hot coffee is never in short supply. At the end of this field, I’ll find the spirit of a westward-gone aviator and the spectre of his sprightly mount.
A squeak, a shimmy, and I’m prodded back to reality by the trundling of rubber on runway. Given that her short length predisposes her to swapping ends, my feet work furiously to keep the biplane rolling straight ahead. As we taxi off the runway at the end, we make two left turns and proceed down the taxiway towards the fuel pumps. We roll slowly past an empty tie down: the familiar plot of land where my dad’s plane resided almost thirty years ago.
I gaze at the grass swaying ever so delicately in the early evening breeze. I swear I hear the engine of his absent plane humming, a decades-old, ghostly echo.

Monday 4 February 2019

*Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike* is available in two weeks!

I've got some exciting news to share!

There's been a lack of content on the blog in recent months because I've been fully engrossed in writing and publishing my first book.

*Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike * is published by Goose Lane Editions and will be available starting February 19th. I've included some background and ordering information below BUT if you're in Ottawa, please hold off. We'll be having a launch party on March 6th from 7 to 9 at the Metropolitain Brasserie (700 Sussex Drive) where I'll have books on hand and would be happy to sign them.

I'll also be posting an excerpt from the book this Friday. Stay tuned for that!

The cover page of the forthcoming *Airborne*, beautifully realized  by Julie Scriver with images from Charlie Miller, Anna Gaudio and Ernie Szelepcsenyi.

Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike 
Jonathan Rotondo
Soon to be available at your local bookstore!

The RUSH of speed
the PULL of gravity
the MAGIC of flight

Jonathan Rotondo was 28 when his father, Anotonio, died. Numb with his grief, Rotondo decided to track down the object that had once given his father so much joy: a tiny single-seat biplane called Charlie Foxtrot Foxtrot Alpha Mike. Thus began Rotondo’s journey to trace his father’s life from Italy to Canada, via the plains of East Africa.

In the sanctum of a tiny single-seat biplane, a DSA-1 Smith Miniplane, Antonio Rotondo discovered the miracle of flight. A farmer's son from San Giacomo, Antonio took his first flight over Nairobi, Kenya, in 1970 at the age of 24. By 1976, he had become a commercial pilot. Then, in the early 1980s, he purchased a single-seat, open-cockpit, home-built Smith biplane, a throwback to leather flying caps, gauntlets, pencil-thin moustaches, and twinkling eyes behind oil-speckled goggles.
More than three decades later, Antonio's son, Jonathan, came across one of only three airworthy Smith biplanes and thus began a journey to retrace his father's airborne life. He finds Antonio's first flying instructor, an Australian ex-pat living in Kenya; the soft-spoken Swiss-Canadian who managed to get Antonio's biplane into the air; the free-spirit dreamer who bought it to dogfight with his mates; and the air traffic controller who, as a teenager, bought the plans to build the biplane that Jonathan would fly 35 years later.
For more information on this book, please click here.

Thursday 12 July 2018

Echoes and Whispers Part III

Almost a year would pass before I returned to the field at Pendleton — not in the Smith but at the controls of a Fairchild Cornell, a Second World War basic trainer. It is the 75th anniversary of both No.10 and the Gatineau Gliding Club. To mark the occasion, Vintage Wings of Canada has sent the Cornell and Finch back to the airport that both types once called home.
Cornell 10712 (CF-YQR) departing Gatineau. (Photo Courtesy: Sean Costello)
The Cornell was developed as modern replacement to the air force’s biplane trainers. Students would go on to fly monoplanes, her designers reasoned, and so should begin their apprenticeship on a monoplane rather than be forced to later rid themselves of the skills built handling the draggy, inefficient biplane. The Cornell is larger and heavier than one would think necessary — with a thick wing of plywood wrapped in fabric, a generous tail and rudder along with an inline engine that produces more noise than power. To this collection, the Fairchild designers added a cockpit for two under a greenhouse canopy and a wide, forgiving landing gear. Student pilots loved the Cornell because she was easy to fly and land and had no bad habits. Instructors, however, grumbled at the mere mention of her.
A nice detail of the Cornell, this time at Rockcliffe. (Photo Courtesy: Jean-Yves Duplessis)
A wartime Cornell. This was shot was taken in July 1942 at Arnprior, west of Rockcliffe and Pendleton. (Photo Courtesy: Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-064305)
“Too easy to fly,” they would snarl. “We need a training airplane not a wet nurse.”
Dropped from the air force inventory at the end of the war, most Cornells found their way into civilian hands but, due to the plywood wing that was difficult to maintain, lost their footing there too. Today, fewer than 100 Cornells survive. The one I’m piloting, having only recently been completely rebuilt, is in better shape than it was when it left the factory in 1943.
Landing the Cornell. (Photo Courtesy: Sean Costello)
The Cornell is a sweet, old gal. She doesn’t like to be hurried, preferring to do nearly everything at a leisurely 80 miles per hour. The morning is bright and warm and so we fly with the canopies open to the elements, watching the yellow wings slide past the green countryside below and beyond.
After about twenty minutes of flight, we land on the northernmost grass strip at Pendleton. The Cornell settles onto the rough turf with her usual good-natured docility and we roll to a stop in front of the surviving wartime hangar. A few minutes later, the Finch rolls up alongside and shuts down with a sigh.
Giving Roberto Figueroa a cockpit checkout on the Cornell. (Photo courtesy: Roberto Figueroa)
These airplanes always draw a crowd and, before long, I am helping people strap into the Cornell’s pilot seat and giving them tours of the cockpit. For most, it’s their first time sitting in a wartime trainer and, for one man, the occasion is an emotional one.
He pulls out his phone and shows me a black and white photograph of a man, clad in flight gear, standing in front of an early model Cornell. The man in the photograph bears a striking resemblance to the man holding the phone — an uncle, father, or perhaps a grandfather?
He tells me that the image is of his late father who completed his national military service in the Chilean Air Force and trained, as chance would have it, on a Cornell much like the one his son had climbed down from only moments before.
A side-by-side shot of father and son - separated by decades. (Photo Courtesy: Roberto Figueroa)
On this warm September morning at the old field that is still home to so many ghosts, we recreate the photograph with our Cornell and the Chilean pilot’s son. We chat about our respective stories and about how we each found flight. I tell him a little about my dad, his biplane and my own. We talk longingly about flying with our fathers. An hour later, after discovering we work in the same building and go to the same gym, my new friend takes me aloft in a glider — my first such flight in more than a decade.
Just before launch by towplane in the glider, my first sailplane flight in more than 10 years. I learned to fly gliders at another old BCATP field - Picton, Ontario. (Photo Courtesy: Roberto Figueroa)
We leave Pendleton just before lunch. As we climb away from the field and point the nose towards Gatineau and home, I think of the chance encounter and consider it may not have been chance at all.
Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 72.

Click on the video still frame above to ride along with us as we return the Cornell to Pendleton.

Monday 27 February 2017

Echoes and Whispers - Part II

As I've indicated, the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan relied heavily on the civilian population.  No. 10 EFTS, run entirely by civilians, was no exception. It has its origins in August 1940, when the Minister of National Defence for Air invited the Hamilton Aero Club to sponsor and organize a school at nearby Mount Hope, Ontario (the present day site of the John C. Munro Hamilton International Airport).  In what must have been a spectacular effort, the school was ready to accept its first students on October 14th of that year.  To add to the challenge, the inaugural course had swelled in size to twice what was anticipated due to the Battle of Britain being at its height.  From that day, training continued seven days a week, 363 days a year.
In the spring of 1942, the Air Force required more navigators and it was decided that the RAF's navigation school, which shared the Mount Hope base, would need to expand extensively.  No. 10 was then offered a brand new station on the existing field at Pendleton.  In the last week of August 1942, the school's staff made the 400 mile trip in 40 moving vans.  The aircraft followed - flown in, without incident, by the instructors and the senior class of students.  As there was a war on, training recommenced without delay on September 1st - even though most of the base's buildings were still under construction and wouldn't be completed until January 1943.  This herculean task rested on the shoulders of Mr. Gerry Moes, a Dutch-born engineer, hobby pilot and one-time Olympic swimmer.
The RCAF held Moes and the school in the highest esteem.  In May 1944, when the necessities of war forced the transfer of the entire base and operations into the hands of the Air Force, Air Marshal Robert Leckie, then Chief of the Air Staff, wrote:

Since the inception of the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, (No. 10 EFTS) has been one of the governments earliest and most energetic civilians instructions schools.  A very high standard has always been set by Mr. Gerald Moes and the officers serving directly under him and the school has attained an enviable reputation in the quality and quantity of its output.  The RCAF, on its part, is grateful for the services so freely given when our need was so great and we trust that the friendships that have been formed during these years will remain.

An accompanying note from Squadron Leader A. R. Morrissette, commanding officer of the air force personnel on the base, relates the change to the breaking apart of a family and praises the efforts of the civilian staff writing "I hope that each one of you realize that we in the RCAF understand fully, and appreciate, the vital role that you have played these last few years in the training of pilots, who to-day are doing the job over there.  Without your efforts, and only could they be supreme efforts, that would have been impossible."  He then signs it, "your friend."
It's difficult to accept these words as mere pandering.  There is genuine feeling and affection that comes through and, when you consider the climate in which this work was undertaken, it's completely relatable.
A photograph of a crashed Fleet Finch Trainer (RCAF 4664) from neighbouring No. 13 EFTS at St. Eugene, 1 May 1941.  The pilot's parachute is next to the tail and part of the canopy rests by the left wing.  It's not known if the pilot, an LAC A. Thomson survived.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada PA-063938)
RCAF Station Pendleton was a thriving base where hard work was balanced with hard play.  After all, there was a war on and, naturally, spirits were to be kept high.  To that end, the base featured a swimming pool and a tennis court in the summer.  In the winter, staff and students could take advantage of the ski trail or "Little St. Moritz" - a skating rink.  There was also a pub christened "The Pig and Whistle" and a station library where, according to the station's 1944 yearbook, Esquire magazine was available on request. 
Leo Memorial Hall was the base's recreation centre where basketball enjoyed particular popularity as Pendleton sponsored both a men's and women's team.    The building was named for the beloved mascot of No. 10 - a goat who died on "active service with the Royal Canadian Air Force" during the station's move from Mount Hope.  A eulogy in the station's 1944 yearbook, equal parts feeling and humour, laments his passing with the following words:

The clatter of Leo's little hooves will not be heard on the parade square at Pendleton, no longer will he report to the Adjutant's office to masticate Training Command Instructions and cigarette butts.

Humour was and still is a way to make sense of the unique happenings on a home front base in time of war.  The follow snippets provide both a chuckle and insight into life on the station.

NOTICE - The regular official trip to Ottawa will leave at the usual time, some other day, but not today.

DRY CLEANING - On account of lack of water, dry cleaning is being practised by all personnel.

ENTERTAINMENT - The entertainment for the coming week-end looks exceptionally bright.  All personnel on the Station will provide their own.

CANTEEN HOURS - The canteen will be open for 15 minutes twice a day.  We don't know which 15 minutes, but the word will get around, so jump to it when you hear.

SPORTS - Same as yesterday, snow-ploughing and snow shovelling.

DRESS - It has been noticed that some of the personnel have got into the habit of going around unshaven and improperly dressed.  This practice should cease.  It is not likely that it will, however.

LOST - Flying suit complete with helmet and boots.  Last seen bobbing up and down among snow-drifts near the garage.

The Gatineau Gliding Club's "Boudreault" hangar and the only original building remaining on the former base.  The other was dismantled and moved to Prescott for use as a curling rink.  (Author's Collection)
The Grass Roots Squadron at Pendleton. (Author's Collection)
Today, as I climb out of the Smith's cockpit and stretch my legs, little of the wartime base remains.  The asphalt runways - save for a 30 foot section down the centre of the east-west strip - are crumbling, so most operations use the grass.  Only one of the massive RCAF hangars and the swimming pool remain - a far cry from the small village Pendleton was at the height of the BCATP.  The Gatineau Gliding Club, in continuous operation longer than any other club in Canada, now owns the airport.  The Club purchased it from the government in 1961 after permanently moving their operation from a farmer's field, now a golf course, tucked up against the Gatineau hills south of Camp Fortune.
Looking out across the airfield, one realizes the scenery hasn't really changed in more than 75 years.  I could have easily, just moments ago, unfolded myself from a Fleet Finch than the relatively modern Smith.
We walk across the old tarmac towards the Boudreault hangar.  The war time building is named for club member "Shorty" Boudreault who, in August 1948, flew a German-designed Grunau Baby glider for five and a half hours.  For this feat, balancing his open-air craft atop waves of turbulent air along the Eardley Escarpment, Boudreault became the first Canadian to be recognized by the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale (FAI) with the Silver C Soaring Badge.
We push through the southernmost door and into what would have served as the ready room - where pilots lounged before embarking on a flight.  I recognized it immediately as I'd spent a fair amount of time in its Mountain View counterpart.  Here, however, the drywall had been removed to expose the studs and the open space of the hangar floor beyond.
While this shot was not taken at Pendleton, it gives you an idea of the standard construction and interior of the world war two hangars in Canada.  This is Tiger Moth 8958 - which tells us this was most likely taken in a hangar at Arnprior.  This Moth was taken on strength on 26 June 1942 and then used by No. 3 Flying Instructors School at Arnprior beginning 1 August 1942.  It was sent to No. 9 Repair Depot for scrapping on 20 December 1943 following a crash and struck off strength 13 April 1944 for spare parts.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

This is a Fleet Finch I on skis in one of the hangars at Rockcliffe, 17 December 1942.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)
Bojan inside the Boudreault hangar.  (Author's Collection)
The hangar is only half full as gliding is underway and most of the aircraft are on the flight line.  Still, the back end of the hangar protects a few gliders, ultralights and a handful of private planes - a cute little Champ, a classic Globe Swift, a rarely-seen Bellanca Cruisair and an aerobatic Rans S-9 in rebuild.  These monstrous old hangars were once omnipresent at airports across Canada but they're exceedingly rare now.  As we walk through the building, our footfalls echo softly throughout the cavernous interior.  It's difficult to believe this structure once housed a full-time maintenance facility where Moths and Finches subjected to the trials of flight training were serviced or patched up as needed and then sent out again.  On dark, quiet nights when everyone has gone home and the aircraft sit silently, I wonder if ghostly mechanics return to tighten a bolt or chase down a snag they overheard a pilot complain about.  I wonder if they gather in a corner, sitting on upturned buckets or an old pine bench and, in a cloud of cigarette smoke, have the same good-natured bitching sessions enjoyed by air maintenance engineers of today.
"Johnson hit '35 so hard this morning, he nearly puts the wheels through the wings," says one.
"Did you tear a strip of the silly bastard?" asks another.
"No," comes the drawn out sigh of a reply, cut short by a sharp drag on a half-finished cigarette.  "They sent the poor bugger out to fill in the holes the undercart left in the field.  That's bad enough, already."
A roar of laughter.
"Besides, there's no damage, nothing wrong with her," another drag and a wry smile.  "Johnson, on the other hand..."
Another roar of laughter.  A claxon sounds.
"Alright, lads," bellows another. "Back to work!"
Cigarettes fall to the ground and fizzle under the toes of scuffed leather boots.  The clatter of their steps fades as they return to their respective tasks.
We leave the hangar through the main door and amble back to the airplanes.  There's a tall, older gentleman standing by the Smith - blue jeans, ball cap, green windbreaker flapping in the breeze.
"A Smith?" he asks as I walk up and with a cheery hello, drop my knee board onto the seat.
"Yes, sir." 
"My dad built one years ago," he says.  "Early 60s."
"Where is it now?"
"Oh, no idea," he says with a chuckle, thrusting his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.  "Lost track of it.  Where you from?"
"Rockcliffe," I reply.  "We're doing a little tour of grass fields."
"Come to think of it, that's the last place I saw a Miniplane," he says, the glint of memory in his eye. "Yeah, pretty little red and white thing.  Must have been, oh, more than 30 years ago now."
"It belonged to my Dad," I say.
I tell him a little bit of the story - about my Dad, about me and our Smiths.  We begin as two perfect strangers in a chance encounter on a little-used grass field near Nowhere, Ontario.  Our only tenuous link is aviation.  We part ways as friends - richer for the experience. This is one of those meaningful moments that makes this story and its continuing legacy worth telling. 
The Grass Roots Tour group with the Smith at Pendleton.  Cessna 172 C-GIGU is in the background.  (Author's Collection)
When we're ready to depart for Lancaster, we discover that it is, in fact, the Smith's starter that is the cause of our troubles.  Chris hand starts the biplane and I sadly tell him I won't be joining in on the rest of the trip but rather, returning to Rockcliffe.  The last thing I want is an issue en route or at Lancaster that forces me to leave the Smith away from her maintenance base.
The 150 departs first, followed by the Champ.  As I taxi along the pavement to the start of the grass runway, I hear someone call about a runway change.  I can see one glider just about to turn base for runway 26 but I can't be sure he won't try for 31 - the runway I'm waiting to take off from.  It's a lovely day, I've nothing but time and a warm engine is a happy engine.  And so, I'll yield until the glider is safely down.

Chris (top) and Bojan (bottom) with Champ C-FILL at Pendleton.  (Author's Collection)
I watch the glider, the Club's two seat Puchacz, approach.  Even minor movements and adjustments are exaggerated in a glider thanks to their requisite large wingspan.  I had seen all manner of curious flying in my relatively brief time in the air cadet gliding system - including a Schweizer flying backwards and a skidding turn to final that, were it not for the radio calls of an instructor, would have surely ended in a catastrophic stall and spin.
The Puchacz, however, flies as if on a string.  There are no wasted movements.  The turn from base to final is deliberate, calculated and paradoxically beautiful.  The right wing of the Puchacz sweeps soundlessly overhead - casting a momentary shadow as I look up to watch, squinting.   There is no noticeable flare.  Rather, the pilot flies his craft onto the grass and keeps it balanced there.  As it slows, he adds a boot of right rudder and the glider turns gracefully onto the asphalt. Stopped now, the pilot ground flies it for a moment, using the breeze to keep the wings level.  Then, he allows the left outrigger to fall gently into the grass - kindly leaving most of the runway clear for my departure. 
Moments later, we're galloping across the turf - a fantail of trembling grass and decapitated dandelions in our wake.  Pendleton is by no means a manicured golf green.  It's a bumpy ride and so I've taken care to keep the tail low throughout the roll.  We're still hopping along comically as we pass the glider.  Both the pilot and instructor are leaning against the nose of the Puchacz, arms crossed, smiling wistfully.  One casually flips his hand up to his brow in salute and best wishes for a safe trip home. 
We hit another furrow in the field and are catapulted into the soft cushion of ground effect.  We linger here for a few moments while the airspeed builds before climbing into the wind spilling over the pine trees at the end of the field. 
As we climb away and leave Pendleton behind, a sense of loneliness sweeps over me.  My squadron mates have flown away, melting into the blue sky to the south-east.  In a little more than half an hour, they'll touch down in the fly-in community near Lancaster, Ontario - a small town on the edge of the St. Lawrence between Cornwall and Les Cedres where I learned to fly fifteen years ago.  A cup of coffee and enthusiastic conversation surely await them there as Lancaster is famous for its hospitality.  Instead of sitting on a cedar deck overlooking the airfield, my feet up on the bannister, I'm heading home early.  The sense of missing out leaves me feeling empty.
As we ply westward for home, I think of how the landscape around me wouldn't have changed all that much since the war.  Orleans, the eastern sprawl of the capital, is but a smudge on the horizon and no threat to the reverie.  The Smith is faster than the Moth and the Finch but not by much so the pace would have been comparable.  Our higher wing loading means we'd handle turbulence with greater ease than either trainer...but the sights, sounds and feel would be eerily similar. 
I lower my goggles to shut out the wind and quiet some but not quite all of the noise.  I roll my shoulders back and relax into the seat.  In light of the starter issue, I have a strong feeling this will be our last flight of the season and I'm determined to relish it. 
I imagine I'm leading a three-ship formation.  There's a Moth bobbing about off my left wing and a Finch plowing along on my right - Kinner radial engine pop-pop-popping away merrily, gleefully belching grease at her pilot.  He tries to wipe his goggles with the back of a gloved hand and only succeeds in making it worse.  Pushing his goggles up, he flashes me a jovial grin topped by a handlebar moustache ensnaring several globs of grease.  The Moth pilot is more reserved, very business like.  His eyes, cold and hard even behind the shelter of his goggles, don't leave my ship.  He offers only a curt nod. 
Tiger Moth 4388 in flight over Canadian countryside likely near Windsor Mills, Quebec in 1942.  This Moth was taken in strength in February 1941 and assigned to No.1 EFTS at Malton (present day Toronto Pearson) before being damaged outside Toronto in November.  After repairs, it was sent to No. 4 EFTS at Windsor Mills then sold into civilian life in February 1945. (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)
Their bright yellow paint jobs stand out vividly against the blue sky and green patchwork below.  That's by design.  It screams "I'm learning.  Give me a wide berth!"  Still, I'm the only one that can see these two.  I know it's a dream and that they're not really there.  I'm watching an imprint - an echo cast aloft seven decades ago that continues to careen across the heavens, revealing itself only to those who look for it.
We crawl westward at 1500'.  I make only minor heading changes which my ethereal escorts match with fluid precision.  We make quite the group, flying only feet apart but separated by 75 years.  I wonder about their names and hometowns, whether they have sweethearts and what spurred them to take up the fight.
Soon, I sense my wingmen grow restless.  We're flirting with the eastern boundary of Orleans and they're wondering where these buildings have come from and why they don't appear on their charts. A glance to my left reveals that the Moth has already peeled off and is now a tiny yellow cross diving away to the southeast.  The Finch remains on station, chugging along merrily - but not for much longer.  The pilot has lowered his goggles again, still smeared with grease.  He rocks his wings.
I'm sure I hear a voice in the rush of the wind.  I can't be...and yet, it is.
"That's as far as we can take you, Skipper," says the voice, barely more than a whisper - faint and thin but unmistakably Aussie. "The field's at your 12 o'clock by 6 miles.  See you at the pub."
And, with another grin and a wave, he guides his craft into a graceful climbing turn to the north.  I watch him go, afraid to blink lest I shatter the illusion.  Soon, my aching eyes can barely pick him out against blue of the sky and I lose him forever.
"So long, boys," I whisper to myself.  "Godspeed."
Rockcliffe today looks nothing like it did when the Finch and Moth would have landed there.  Only one runway, 09/27, still exists.  15/33 has been erased from the face of the earth and most of 04/22 is now taxiway Delta and home to the pieces of the national collection too big to fit into either of the museum's buildings.  

The Evolution of the Rockcliffe Airport - seen here in an aerial photograph from 1928.  There are two grass runways (including 09/27) and a collection of buildings at the north end - including a hangar and what looks like a construction site.  (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa)

An amazing shot from Air Force Day at Rockcliffe on 14 July 1934.  The picture is taken from the control tower of the smaller prewar hangar seen in the next photo just east of the larger 1939 hangar.  The road at left is present day Airport/Marina Road.  The aircraft in the foreground are Hawker Furies of No. 1 Squadron, RCAF.  (Photo Courtesy: Canada, Dept. of National Defence/Library and Archives Canada)

An aerial view of RCAF Station Rockcliffe from 1943.  The surviving runway 09/27 is nearest the river, seemingly recent resurfaced.  The three large hangars to the south of the field (middle left of the frame) were built in 1940 and housed the country's national aviation collection until the late 1980s.  The small hangar at bottom right remains in existence today as part of the RCMP facilities. (Photo Courtesy: Canada, Dept. of National Defence, Library and Archives Canada, PA-064459)

The Rockcliffe site in 1965.  15/33 has been closed.  (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa)

The Rockcliffe site in 1976.  04/22 has now also been closed.  The three buildings in the infield (middle of frame) are the hangars and terminal for the short-lived Air Transit Ottawa to Montreal Short Take-off and Landing (STOL) commuter operation.  You can also see that runway 09/27 has had a section marked out for the aircraft flying the route.  By the late 80s, both north hangars would be demolished with the smaller hangar's footprint now serving as boat storage for the marina. (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa) 

And finally in 2014.  15/33 has been torn up to make way for the parkway and 04/22 is now taxiway Delta.  The 1939 and World War Two hangars have been demolished and Canada Aviation and Space Museum now occupies the two new buildings at centre.  (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa)
When I arrive overhead Rockcliffe, I see there is a strong wind blowing across the field from the north - precisely as forecasted.  While not a howl, it can be characterized as a robust shout.  75 years ago, I would have approached from the south and taken runway 33 almost directly into the wind.  Today, however, I am forced to weather the wind's broadside if I'm to bring this flight to a safe conclusion.The Smith's small cross-section and high wing-loading make handling a crosswind a little easier.  The control feedback and roll authority is terrific and so the approach is steady and beautifully controlled.  With a fair amount of into wind aileron, we sweep over the fence and into the flare - rounding out to balance ourselves mere inches above the asphalt.  I ease the right main down and it touches almost exactly at the same time as the tailwheel.  For a moment, we ride along on only two wheels.  The little biplane leaning heavily into the wind but rolling faithfully straight ahead.  I let the left main drop onto the runway and, as we slow, progressively add more right aileron.  The Smith slows to a brisk jog and then a walking pace.  My feet are aching and I realize they've been working the rudder automatically - small movements but at a furious pace.  My legs are trembling.  Adrenaline.  I've 900 hours aloft and now more than 100 in this slick little ship but it still gets my blood pumping.

Building the north side land plane hangar on 12 December 1939.  This hangar can be seen nearest the river in the previous aerial photographs of Rockcliffe before 1976.  The present day Club's parking lot now occupies its former footprint.  You can plainly see the scale of the work.  The BCATP hangars, built later, were more than twice as large.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)
FAM in 1985 at Rockcliffe.  The 1939 hangar is in the background, marked for demolition.  (Family Collection)

My squadron mates return two hours later as I'm elbow deep in the Smith's engine compartment - trying to clear a gummed-up starter bendix.  It's of little use as I'm sure we'll need a new one and less confident that it'll arrive and be installed before the end of the season.
I can hear the excitement in their voices as they spill out of their airplanes and walk across the tarmac.  It was a good trip but they're glad to be home.  Bojan walks over, full of concern for me, the Smith and the maintenance issue that forced us back early and (not quite) alone.  He tells me about the trip.  I tell him about the Moth and the Finch and sheepishly admit that I know I'm silly for having imagined it.
There's no ridicule, however - just a smile.  Somehow, in him too, this trip has stirred whispers and echoes of a time long ago.

The Smith waiting for a new starter.  (Author's Collection)
The insights from early in the piece come from a special edition of the "Pendletonic" - a No. 10 yearbook of sorts produced for the occasion of the base's complete handover to the air force.  It includes amazing scenes of life on the base, including photographs of Pendleton before and after the station's construction.  I highly recommend having a look.  It has been posted by the BCATP Air Museum in Brandon, MB and can be viewed at the following link:

Sunday 19 February 2017

Echoes and Whispers - Part I

Chris, both hands folded around the trailing edge of the down-going blade, rocks back on his heels and drives the propeller downward - his momentum carrying him away.
The Lycoming coughs once and then catches. The propeller blades instantly disappear into a silver whirl reflecting the flat, early morning light sweeping across the field.
Chris gives me a grin and a thumbs up before walking over to the Champ, hand starting it and then climbing into the front seat.  My friend Bojan is in the back seat.  He's backlit and so appears only in silhouette - but I can tell he's smiling.
Hand-propping the Smith has been an increasingly regular occurrence.  The 50-year-old Remy-Delco starter has taken ill of late and can no longer reliably spin the prop with enough force to start the engine.  On this morning however, given the chill of the air and a period of relative inactivity, we've incorrectly diagnosed the issue as a low battery.  In the end, it's of no great consequence.  Fox-Alpha-Mike did not have a starter - so my Dad hand-propped it for every flight.  Al told me he put a starter in Delta-Sierra-Alpha because he was "lazy".  Given my lack of interest and education in the finer points of hand swinging a propeller, I'm thankful for Al's sloth.
I'm very excited about today's flight.  It's the Club's 3rd annual "Grass Roots Tour" - where a small group of airplanes visit three grass fields in the area.  I missed the tour last season and, despite flying an airplane best suited to grass fields, have never landed it on anything but pavement.
The planned flight route for the September 25th Grass Roots Tour.  (Photo courtesy:
The planned flight route calls for stops in Pendleton, Lancaster Airpark and Embrun before returning to Rockcliffe.  Legs are between 20 and 40 miles forming an almost perfect quadrilateral or "kite" shape across the land between Ottawa and Montreal to the east.  Four aircraft carrying ten people will make the trip: myself in the Smith, two in the Champ, two in a privately owned Cessna 150 and three more in one of the Club's Cessna 172s.  The Smith and Champ will fly the trip in formation, alternating lead and wing positions. I will, however, forego the landing in Embrun - simply overflying the field and continuing on to Rockcliffe.  The runway at Embrun is but 50 feet wide, hemmed in by power lines and there is also stiff direct crosswind forecast for later in the day.  While I am quite comfortable with the Smith, in this case, I've taken to heart the old adage of "discretion is the better part of valour."

Smith C-GDSA warming up on the tarmac at Rockcliffe (top) and together with Champ C-FILL (bottom). The photograph at top gives you a clear idea of the lack of forward visibility in the three-point attitude.  (Photos Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)
The Cessnas depart first - the 150 followed by the 172.  Chris and I had briefed a take-off in trail, followed by a formation fly-past before departing for Pendleton.  We taxi onto the runway together and Chris takes off first. 
The Lycoming waits patiently at 1000 RPM as the windsock is already beginning to swirl.  While the northwesterly wind will present only a slight crosswind from the Smith's right broad, the impatience of the ten feet of brightly dyed nylon foretells a strengthening wind. 
The corners of the chart tucked under my left thigh tremble in the wind.  Folded inside are photocopies of each airport and my notes.  In any case, I've committed runways, frequencies and procedures, at least for Pendleton, to memory.  Reading charts and notes in an single-seat, open-cockpit, high-maintenance biplane like the Smith is difficult bordering on dangerous.
Now, where is the Champ?  Surely, they must have taken off by now.  I scan the sky ahead just in case I've missed them - but no. Part of the Champ's charm is it is never in a hurry. Its plodding pace is an integral part of its constitution.
I occupy myself with simple tasks - a final scan of the instruments, a jockey of the rudder pedals, exploring the limits of control with the stick.  Finally, I see the Champ slide into view above the Smith's long cowling. 
We bound ahead, reaching 75 miles per hour relatively quickly.  In our first season, I discovered we could run at full power on the main wheels as long as the runway ahead permitted without edging much past 75.  A deft movement of the right wrist and the wheels free themselves from the bounds of the earth.  And so, our open defiance of gravity begins anew.
The Smith joining up on the Champ. Although it's dark, you can see the end of Rockcliffe's runway 27 at top left. (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

The wind has kicked up small waves on the surface of the Ottawa River - little mounds that now bounce off each shore and crash into one another.  This, coupled with the effect of a low-slung, early morning sun, has created something of a kaleidoscope of black, white, silver and grey.  It is against this shimmering canvas that, from the Champ's rear seat, Bojan watches me approach - a shadowy mass against a field of diamonds. 
By mid-downwind, abeam the field to the north, I am tucked in as number two on the Champ's right wing for our formation fly-past.  Two turns and not quite sixty second later, we sweep over the eastern perimeter fence and across the old field at Rockcliffe.
It is the last bastion of undeveloped land in Canada's capital city - and its once substantial footprint is, even now, dwindling.  Lost behind the roar of our engines and masked by my concentration on the lead ship, are the sights and sounds of change and repurposing.  Lorries and heavy construction equipment shuttle back and forth just outside the airport's boundary - digging a drainage system for the new development atop the stony bluffs from which the airfield takes its name.  Years ago, the airport was bordered to the south by homes for the men and women stationed there as well as a school, theatre, recreation centre, ball diamonds and a general store.  Now, only stone walkways and heritage oaks remain.  
Its very being is somewhat secured by the presence of the Canada Aviation and Space Museum as the facility requires the airstrip to accept new additions to the national collection.  Still, despite having no military function for decades, its fight is far from over.  The airport was threatened by talk of another interprovincial bridge in the 2000s.  It will inevitably find itself in the public's crosshairs once its new neighbours to the south realize an airport's actual purpose.
Holding the Number Two position on the Champ as we're about to cross the perimeter fence.  Note the construction activity in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)
As I've related many times before, this old airport has a soul.  As our little two-ship races across the old lady's aging face, I can't help but wonder if she finds our display amusing.  After all, her window panes were once rattled by the Merlins of the Lancaster and the Wright Cyclones of the Flying Fortress.  In those days, fly-pasts would stop conversations cold - if only because the participants could not hear each other well enough to continue.  Now, only a few would stop to watch - and most out of annoyance.  Even at an airport, I'm sure there are a handful of poor souls who remain unmoved by our passing.

Two shots of the formation fly past with the Champ leading and the Smith as No.2.  (Photos Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)
We leave home behind and I assume the lead position for the flight to Pendleton. My notes call for a course of 100 degrees for 23 miles but the chart remains stowed under my thigh.  I don't bother looking at the compass.  Its presence is but a regulatory requirement.  In practice, it provides little more than added weight and comic relief.  Upon climbing to our agreed upon altitude of 1700', I point our nose to where I know Pendleton, as of yet still unseen, must be.

Leading the formation towards Pendleton.  We're almost past Orleans and the Gatineau Airport is just out of frame to the left.  Note the almost three point attitude of the Smith .  In normal cruise, the airplane sits in more of a tail up stance.  However, I've slowed down here in order to not over tax the Champ which flies at a slower speed.  (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)
The Champ is holding close formation on my right wing - even Chris' small movements are barely perceptible from my danger close vantage point.  Bojan is still grinning.  He gives me a wave.  Even across the chasm between our machines, his enthusiasm is infectious.
It's a pleasant day with clear skies and terrific visibility.  To the south, the patchwork of fields and forest stretch to the horizon.  To the north, the river meanders east while the land rises gently in an endless green sea of undulating hills.  We are floating in an immense, empty sky and our emotions are chiefly tranquility and peace.
One of my favourite photographs from the BCATP era.  Here, an RCAF airman in tropical dress checks himself in the Rockcliffe exit gate mirror.  As an air cadet almost 60 years later, I would be drilled in the very same points of uniform wear and maintenance. (Photo Courtesy: RCAF)
The last time the world was locked in large-scale bloody conflict, these same skies were home to the same tranquility and peace we enjoy now - which made them ideally suited for flight training.  In Canada, far from the dangers of wartime skies, the military machine could churn out thousands of aircrew for service.  Between 1940 and 1945, more than 130,000 pilots, navigators, observers and wireless operator/gunners were trained in Canada alone through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (BCATP).  The governments of the United States, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Southern Rhodesia ran similar training schemes in tandem. 
The land around us was once dotted with BCATP fields and you'd be hard pressed to find a pilot (or any Canadian for that matter) who hasn't flown into a former Plan airport.  In fact, Rockcliffe itself was home to No. 7 Manning Deport where RCAF personnel, mainly Women's Division recruits, were drilled in military basics.  RCAF Station Uplands, now the Macdonald-Cartier Ottawa International Airport, was once home to No. 2 Service Flying Training School (SFTS) operating the Harvard and Yale.  In the midst of a war, they even found time to shoot a movie: Captain of the Clouds starring James Cagney with a cameo by Billy Bishop.  Service Flying Training Schools were typically served by two nearby relief fields.  These smaller airports came in a wide variety as some were paved, others simply turf and some also featured hangars, maintenance facilities and barracks.  The role of these airports was to provide alternate landing areas in case of maintenance, weather, overflow or emergency.  In the case of No. 2 SFTS, famous for turning out High Flight poet John Gillespie McGee, these airports were Carp to the north (which still exists) and Edwards to the south (which is now a solar farm).
Carp in 1944.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

RCAF Station Arnprior which, during the war, hosted one of the BCATP's three flying instructor schools. (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum)
To Carp's north was Arnprior, still in service today as a major general aviation field, which hosted No. 3 Flight Instructor School.
No. 10 EFTS at Pendleton, Ontario during the war.  (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum) 
Pendleton, our immediate destination, was first built in the late 1930s as part of a network of emergency landing fields for Trans-Canada Air Lines (TCA), Air Canada's predecessor.  It was little more than a leveled field with a lit beacon flashing a Morse code identifier to mark its location at night.  When war erupted, the site was selected and developed for use as a BCATP field - welcoming its first trainees in September of 1942.  RCAF Station Pendleton was home to No. 10 Elementary Flying Training School (EFTS) where recruits selected for pilot training cut their teeth on the de Havilland Tiger Moth and Fleet Finch.  Its relief field at Limoges is now a private grass strip where I had, at one point, considered basing the Smith.  Roughly 30 miles east of Pendleton was the airfield at St-Eugene, home to No. 13 EFTS operating the Fleet Finch.  That airport is gone now with only the faint outline of its overgrown runways and an old road still visible from the air. 
No. 13 EFTS during the war.  (Photo Courtesy: Flight Ontario)
The former site of No. 13 EFTS - about two miles south of the town of St. Eugene.  The school operated the Fleet Finch from October 1940 to June 1945.  You can plainly see the triangular runway arrangement characteristic of BCATP fields. (Photo Courtesy: Google Maps)
My own connection to the BCATP runs deep.  Over three days in September 2005, I learned to fly gliders at Mountain View (No. 6 Bombing and Gunnery School) and Picton (No. 31 Bombing and Gunnery School).  The old Royal Air Force base at Picton, in particular, has changed very little since its BCATP days with most of the H-hut barracks, hangars and support buildings remaining in use as storage space.  At Mountain View, you can still see the pockmarks of bullet strikes on the huge concrete walls that once served as targets to sight aerial weaponry. 

At top, Picton (No. 31 B&G) and at bottom, Mountain View (No. 6 B&G) during the war.  Picton has remained largely unchanged while Mountain View is hardly recognizable.  (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum)

In the many summers spent working with my Dad, we flew out of the former BCATP fields at Dunnville  (No. 6 SFTS - Harvard and Yale), Welland (Dunnville's relief field) St. Catharines (No. 9 EFTS - Moth) and Oshawa (No. 20 EFTS - Moth).  Just before the Club acquired our Super Decathlon in 2009, I flew out to Boundary Bay, British Columbia to get reacquainted with the type.  Boundary Bay was home to two BCATP schools, No. 18 EFTS on the Tiger Moth and No. 3 Operational Training Unit - the last stop before overseas assignment for B-24 Liberator and B-25 Mitchell crews.

BCATP fields at St. Catharines (top), Oshawa (middle) and Boundary Bay (bottom).  (Photos courtesy: BCATP Museum & RCAF)

The Plan drew heavily upon the civilian population - employing thousands in support jobs.  In the post Depression years, the construction and operation of 80 new airfields meant an instant economic shot in the arm for small towns neighbouring these facilities.  It was a monumental effort - a tremendous mobilization of man and machine, ingenuity and innovation that raged for nearly five years.  It cannot be denied that the Plan played a significant role in the Allied victory.  And yet, many Canadians don't know of its existence let alone its importance.  If a BCATP field survived the post-war dismantling, any sign of its former role would be forgotten or slowly erased altogether in line with present and projected needs.  At Uplands, for example, thousands of passengers a day pass a plaque detailing its wartime function and importance.  Few stop to read it. 

August 23, 2005, Picton, Ontario.  At top, my 21-year-old 2nd Lieutenant self about to close the canopy of Schweizer SGS-233A C-FCIV for my first glider solo.  At bottom, landing on the grass next to runway 35 after an 11 minute flight on a 2500' tow. (Author's Collection)
Today and in these parts, we can navigate in the purest form - watching the landscape below unfold and knowing where we are with wonderful precision, even without the aid of a chart.  We've only just said goodbye to Gatineau over the radio.  The riverside village of Cumberland lies over our left shoulder.  Ahead and stretching to the south-east are two rather large forests flanking a swath of farmers' fields.  Without looking at my chart, I know that the larger town on the south shore of the Ottawa River is Rockland and the smaller towns at the northern and southern extremities of the near forest are Clarence Creek and Bourget.  The field at Pendleton is on a heading roughly between the two towns on the westernmost border of the far wood - two miles north of its namesake town (really more of a crossroads).  On a clear day such as this, it first appears as a triangular patch of green much lighter than that of the surrounding forest. 
I glance over at the Champ and wave my hand.
"See it?" I call over the radio, pointing forward with my gloved hand. 
"Yep," comes the reply. 
"Okay, we'll stay as a two ship until two miles out, then break off and join the circuit separately," I say.  "Switch to Pendleton Traffic on one-two-three-point-three."
"Two," comes the acknowledgement from Chris.

Another look at Pendleton in 1942 (top) and today (bottom).  We landed on the grass parallel to the northernmost runway, nearest the hangars. (Photos Courtesy: BCATP Museum and Gatineau Gliding Club)
"Glider Ground" at Pendleton comes in faintly and I strain, cupping one hand to my ear and cowering behind the windshield, in an effort to hear and understand.  After a few attempts, it's clear that they're using the east-west runway.  In order to not conflict, I offer to take Runway 31 which points directly into the north-west wind.
The Citabria tow plane pulls a glider up away from Pendleton. (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

I fly my downwind leg tight to the runway.  Under my right main, a Citabria tow plane has just broken ground.  At the end of a long line is the elegant form of a glider - long, slender wings turned gently upwards at the tips, canopy glinting in the sun.  The tow plane will labour for the next ten minutes or so, dragging its charge to altitude where they will part ways at the top of a graceful curve. And while the Citabria pilot will aggressively return his ship to earth and another waiting glider, the sailplane pilot will linger aloft, searching for invisible columns of air to carry him higher and higher still with only the whisper of the wind as company.
A long, deep sigh - almost mournful.  Nearly ten long years have passed since the last time I piloted a glider.  And yet, I can still hear the wind as if it were yesterday.  I've not forgotten the intoxicating feeling of buoyancy as unseen hands carry you aloft.
An admonishing growl from the Lycoming - a call for mental discipline, a warning to not allow the mind to wander.  I sweep into a left hand turn, still tight to the field and rapidly shedding altitude in the biplane's classic circling approach.  I roll out as we cross the perimeter road and, vaguely aware of the gaggle of bystanders watching, set up for my first grass landing in the Smith.
We hover over the grass, dry in spots, tinged with dandelions and buttercups in others.  Corn stalks, stark yellow against so much green, whip by on our left as crumbling pavement provides vivid contrast on our right.  The little ship drops the last few inches onto the turf.  The wheels respond with a soft rumbling sound as I feel the biplane fishtail gently, sliding ever so softly from side to side. She rolls out straight ahead and with hardly any brake, slows to a walking pace.
We've just passed 100 hours, the Smith and I, and marked the milestone with another first - appropriately, on the same ground where hundreds of aviators had their first taste of flight's magic and freedom.
The Smith and I at Pendleton after breaking 100 hours and our first landing on grass.  (Author's Collection)