New Horizons, Open Skies

It would be a long, unsteady two weeks before I would return to Brampton to pick up the airplane and bring her home to Rockcliffe.

I watched the weather for 10 days, scheming, trying to read the weather patterns in the hopes of predicting which day would provide me with the best conditions to make the important trip. 

I even asked my colleague, our local weatherman, for advice.  He shrugged.

I eventually settled on Saturday, July 5th as my target date with the Sunday as the rain date.  I booked a Greyhound bus ticket to Toronto and arranged for my uncle to pick me up downtown.

My wife Melody dropped me off at the bus station on Friday afternoon after work.  I felt a great deal of anxiety as I left her in the parking lot.  We had recently found out that we were expecting a child in the new year.  We'd had our first ultrasound only the week before.  My first glimpse of our son or daugther was a tiny flicker of a heart beat.  For us, life was changing, and I was about to embark on an adventure that wasn't without its risks.

The bus was nearly empty.  I picked a seat near the back, rested my head against the window and let the low vibration of rubber on road lull me to sleep.  I woke up as we took Highway 7 out of Perth.  I had considered taking this route by air to bring the Smith to Rockcliffe and I wanted to see what it looked like from the ground.

The scenery that smeared itself across the big bus windows was the uniform murky green of forest and swamp.  The rolling mural repeated itself until Peterborough where I mercifully succumbed to sleep once more.

Saturday morning, I woke up early and unsettled. A thousand competing thoughts waged war in my mind and, inevitably, the body was paying the price. I was able to choke down a carrot muffin and a cup of good coffee. I'd decided anything more would be ill-advised.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky and perhaps just a breath of wind. So far, so good.

Smith C-GDSA about to leave Al's hangar for the flight home to Rockcliffe.  (Author's Collection)

My uncle drove me to the airport and promised to hang around until I took off. About an hour later, after a weather briefing that yielded only the concern of gusty winds out of the west, some parting wisdom from Al, the vague notion that he was sad to see his plane go, gassing up, and a fortunate encounter with a poorly-placed fuel cap, we were ready to go.

The taxi down to the button of runway 33 is a long, lonely one with plenty of opportunities to second-guess one-self and absolutely no chance at retreat.

By the time doubt prodded me to glance over my shoulder, the path at retreat had been cut off by a plodding Cessna 172.

Another 172 floated by, bounced once and then finally settled to earth with the sagging finality of an vessel tired of flight. I waited for it to clear before taxiing out to the runway. Uneasiness, fear, anxiety and doubt fluttered underneath a blanket of muffin and coffee.

A last check, my voice weak and thin as I announced my take-off on the radio, left hand forward, right foot down, shoulders hunched forward, every inch of my body determined to fly.

The take-off roll is surprisingly short. Tail up now, I watch the edges of the runways wiggling this way and that in direct relation to the movement of my feet. More speed, more authority, swings dampening, airspeed climbing through 60, the little bipe now charging down the narrow strip of asphalt.

Seventy. Pull.

We leap into the air, flying wires trembling, knees shaking, the wind ravaging the exposed corner of the map tucked under my left thigh.

We set course for Holland Landing, 26 miles to the north-east.

The land beneath me is utterly foreign. For two weeks, I've pored over the charts meant to represent this small parcel of Ontario but either I'm looking at an entirely different patch of land, or the artist charged with the production of my map had a very bad day devoid of any inspiration. I drone on to the north-east, entirely enthralled by the mosaic of fields, fences, developments and towns, ponds and rivers drifting by.

A glance at the compass comes as a slap in the teeth. For hundreds of years, sailors, and airmen after them set their course by this marvelous instrument. Mine is a fraud - a charlatan. It spins drunkenly, left and then right, indicating anything from north to east...sometimes beyond. I decide to average the oscillations and endeavour to fly my 050 course. A few minutes later, I pull the map from under my thigh, look down over the side and identify highway 9 which will lead me to Newmarket. The airport at Holland Landing lies midway between the town and the southern tip of Lake Simcoe to the north. The sky is a violent blue. Visibility is perfect. Right on cue, Newmarket and Lake Simcoe crawl over the horizon.

Ten minutes later, I am perplexed. Newmarket lies behind me over my right shoulder and Lake Simcoe over my left. Holland Landing has eluded me.

I'd learned to fly taildragger at that strip ten years ago. I'd arrived there and departed the same by both car and airplane. I'd even watched a movie, alone, in a nearby cinema. Holland Landing's insolent game of hide and seek is a sharp betrayal.

I bank steeply into a tight 360 degree turn and the airstrip reveals itself, exactly where it should be. I'd flown directly on top of it - its presence hidden by the long nose stretched out in front of me. As if in quiet insult, the finger tip of Lake Simcoe mockingly points directly to the airport.

Right, onward to Peterborough then. Steer 090.

The compass replies with wild swings between 120 and 010. They don't call it a "Whiskey Compass" for nothing.

Out with the tightly folded map, then. Highway 7A lies beneath me, stretching in segments to the horizon in the east. I'll follow it right to Peterborough.

Twenty some odd minutes later, the twin fingers of Lake Scucog drift by. I envy the people living on the island in the middle of the lake and then think twice about it. I'm entirely alone at 2500', wrapped tightly in the conversation between engine and slipstream, sandwiched neatly between emerald fields dotted with multi-colored roofs and pools and a sapphire sky unspoiled by neither cloud or flying machine save my own.  I am the one to be envied.

I let out a cheer. It is swept away instantly. Remarkable.

I pick out Peterborough as a pale patch cut out of a oval-shaped wood and the fingernail of a runway centered neatly therein. As if in reply, I find myself jostling the rudder pedals to mimic what I'm sure will be a very involved landing. The bipe eagerly wags her tail. Yes, I reply, we'll see.

As I cross overhead the field, I see the windsock is stiff out of the west-north-west, indicating some 20 knots with periodic gusts. The runway at Peterborough is oriented east-west, so, at the very least, we'll be landing into wind. I throttle back as the runway hits my left shoulder, and sweep into a base turn, wings level to make sure I won't cut anyone off, then another left turn onto the final approach.

A small river sweeps by underneath, then a stand of tall trees with limbs waving frantically. Now, 7000 feet of asphalt stretches out in front, 85 mph on the airspeed, the Lycoming generating 1700 rpm.  The threshold flashes by underneath my twin wings, stick back, speed spilling away, the airplane slows, seems to billow out like a handkerchief thrown from the window of a speeding car.

A squeak, the beginnings of a swing right, a stab of the left foot to stop it and suddenly the world is still.

Power off.

We're down...and stopped...

I look over my shoulder. There is perhaps 300 feet of runway behind me. We may have rolled 50 feet. 50 feet would be generous.

I taxi clear of the runway, shut down on the ramp, gas up, chat with the fueler and half a dozen pilots wanting to take pictures and take a look inside. An old hand, ferrying a brand new, state of the art Cirrus, abandons his machine and her new owner to reveal he once owned a Pitts S-1. His eyes twinkle when he talks about it and asks about my approach speed and how squirrely she is on pavement. After a few moments, we exchange names and a handshake and he walks over to the shiny, composite, parachute equipped Cirrus in the next tie down. He does so without enthusiasm.

Next, a student pilot flying his first solo cross country from Toronto Island to Muskoka then Peterborough and return. He expresses some concern about being kicked out of the nest so soon, dealing with gusty winds, and the anxiety associated with it all. I confess that this is my second landing in an airplane I had to teach myself to fly. We are brothers - despite the fact that we will soon fly off in different directions and are very likely never to meet again.

My cousin Michael walks out of the terminal. He's an aviation student at Seneca College - now based at the airport. We visit for more than an hour and a half, looking over the charts and deciding it would be best to forego my stop in Smiths Falls and continue home to Rockcliffe.

We briefly discuss flying south east for Kingston, refueling there and then turning north east for home. The choice is not an easy one. Between Madoc to the east and Perth, there is nothing but 60 miles of forest, swamp and rocks with a sparse seasoning of lakes. Between Kingston and Perth, there are only lakes.

We decide following Highway 7 east for home is the lesser of two evils.

It's also exactly what my dad did 33 years before.

The path I took to bring the Smith home on July 5th, 2014.  (skyvector.com)

And so, at 2:15 in the afternoon, the Smith and I clatter into the sky above Peterborough, turn right and pick up the highway. In no time at all, shepherded east by that brisk tailwind, I see the old ultralight strip at Norwood, just before the town of the same name. It is still marked on aviation charts but I know it to be abandoned. Just the day before, I eyed it from the rearmost seat on the bus. The gravel runway running parallel to the highway is increasingly overrun by grass and brush as it runs east. The shade sheet metal hangars are empty, devoid of airplanes. Instead, trailers litter the ground. I know that the new owner prefers it this way but that he leaves the runway clear if plane and pilot ask for permission to use it in advance. The former owner kept it as an active airport but he died in a plane crash near the strip a few years ago.

In a moment, the strip is gone, replaced by the town and then Havelock with a cluster of three lakes to the north and, to the south, the Trent river looping north and then away again to the south. Far to the south, the Campbellford VORTAC is firing invisible beams out from its centre, like spokes on a wheel. Other airplanes latch onto these signals and follow them to far off places. I see no such companions. If they exist, they are far above me and we are blissfully ignorant of each other.

Next comes Marmora, then Deloro and finally Madoc with a lake my chart has named Moira to the south. Two small boats play on her surface, leaving playful, winding feather-tails behind. They twist and tangle, threaten to soundlessly bump into one another and, at the very last instant, separate in a spray of ice white speckles.

Now, far ahead over the nose, the concrete ribbon on highway 7 melts into the horizon. The same highway lies below my left main wheel. In between, it snakes in behind vast woods colored a deep, dark green and lighter patches of light emerald that I know to be bogs and swamps - not fields.

Up until this point, I've been making regular positions reports over each town - announcing my position, height and destination. I imagine a man (or a woman) sitting in a dark room, cigarette smoke clinging grimly to the ceiling as a bare lightbulb hangs down like a sun through the clouds to mingle with the glow from a radar screen. The slowly moving blip on his screen now has a name...and a voice.

Now, I won't bother with the position reports. For the next 60 miles, the endless morass of trees, rocks and swamps repeats itself. If the engine quits, I'll have precious few choices - each one poorer than the last. I pull the bipe's nose up and gain another thousand feet. If the unthinkable should happen, it will buy me an extra thirty seconds - perhaps a minute, but no more.

My eyes scan the engine instruments every 15 seconds - looking for any sign of trouble. Alas, the engine does not betray me. Oil pressure has sat, unmoving and resolute at 80 since we left Peterborough. Oil temperature - 60...and has remained so for my entire time in this airplane, and 575 hours before that...and roughly a thousand more before that when it pulled a PA-12 around the sky for nearly 10 years.

I confess ignorance when it comes to engines but watching one behave so well and with such unerring faithfulness is a rare pleasure. In sharp contrast, when they do misbehave, the results are swift and coldly cruel.

Puffy bands of cumulus clouds have now appeared on the horizon and inch towards us. Every so often, we are cast in shadow as one passes overhead. On the ground below, darker patches dot the landscape, matching the clouds' overhead march. One out of every four clouds is ringed in a translucent silver halo, backlit by a sun arcing to the west, behind us.

At regular intervals, I hear another pilot on the radio, reporting their position over another town or lake. They are never near me but I hear them with such clarity. Given I am very much alone, I am content to fly in silence.

And yet, I'm suddenly seized by a desire to know exactly where I am and, by a simple calculation, discover how far I've got to go and how fast or slow my progress has been. I pull the chart from under my thigh and discover that I've flown off the edge. This is easily remedied by unfolding the map and refolding it to reveal the next part of the trip. I'd been warned by Al that this is no easy feat in a single-seat, open cockpit. I thought he might have been exaggerating.

He was not. At once, the map, formerly tightly folded into a neat rectangle, is billowing like an angry cloud in the small cockpit. My gloved hands abandon the stick and throttle and try to jam the map back into a reasonable rectangle. The airplane drops her left wing and claws into a climbing turn. I peek over the edge of this wildly agitated map and am alarmed to see nothing but blue skies and a single cumulus cloud standing sentry. Right elbow down on the map, left arm tight against my body, I'm wearing the map like a towel as I grab the stick and return us to straight and level flight.

The engine is racing. I stretch a finger from my left hand and hook the throttle back. I consider letting the map go, to hell with you, but in Al's story, it leaped from the cockpit and wrapped itself around the brace wires holding the tail together. The drag caused such an alarming rattle in the elevator controls that he landed at the first airport he saw, conveniently located under his wing. I don't need the map to tell me that the only airport within 50 miles of this desolation is Tomvale - somewhere to the north. And I know with certainty that I wouldn't be able to find it without the damned chart.

After two or three minutes of wrestling, at intervals with the airplane and the map, I manage to roll it into a tightly crumpled little cylinder, and jam it under my thigh for the rest of the flight.

Soon, the vast forest gives way to farmland, first in pairs and small groups, then in wide swatches as if cut by the hand of a master tailor. Here too, the vast pack of lakes that have been constant companions off my right wind, abruptly stop. This place is called Perth. Here, I'll turn north east, still following the highway, cross Mississippi Lake where boats and watercraft still play, and descend towards Carleton Place - careful to drop below 2500 feet lest I offend yet another man (or woman) in a different dimly lit room hundreds of miles away.

In another 20 miles, the airport at Carp plays the old trick of hiding under my nose, so I skirt around it to the west, cross Constance Lake, lined by angry white caps that march like an army across her dark grey face, and then traverse the Ottawa River. I emerge on the other side, perhaps a quarter mile north of the Ottawa VOR and cross the escarpment south of Camp Fortune. This is now familiar territory, airspace I regularly ply during trips in the Decathlon. The Chelsea Dam sits balanced on the propeller hub, with the Gatineau Airport beyond. To the south, Ottawa fades away from the bridges linking her to Gatineau. A little to the east, framed by the right-hand cabane struts, is Rockcliffe.

My first call to Unicom is an emotional one. My voice is cracking. It's been a long journey and one that is perhaps a decade in the making. This landing at Rockcliffe is both an exclamation mark and an ellipsis. It is both an end and a beginning. The dispatcher confirms that winds are strong and gusty out of the west. The runway, however, is wide and familiar. I sweep overhead, cut the power back and carve a descending 180 degree turn to return across the field at circuit height. The Miniplane has the gliding characteristics of a grand piano and gleefully bleeds altitude. Two turns later, I'm looking down the length of this historic airstrip. In a few moments still, another Miniplane, the first since C-FFAM almost 30 years ago, will call it home.

The speed sits at 85 with the Lycoming pushing out 1700 rpm. The runway swims up to meet me. I've flared slightly high and now we're dropping. A burst of power and the descent is arrested. We touch down on all three points and bounce into the air again. At the second time of asking, she stays earthbound and we roll to a stop abeam Bravo taxiway.

The happy pilot having just arrived at Rockcliffe after nearly 3 hours of flying.  (Author's Collection)

And now, we're home.

The Fledgling

"There are rain clouds hanging around.  I've been watching them for the last little while and they don't seem to be coming any closer to the airport," Al's voice sounds thin and distant over the cell phone.   "Are you busy? Do you want to come out and do some taxiing?"

It's a Wednesday afternoon.  I'm lying on the couch at my aunt and uncle's place in Woodbridge, perhaps a 45-minute drive from the Brampton Airport.  My day has consisted of a trip to the gym, watching several World Cup matches, eating and napping.

"Yeah, of course," I yawn.  "I'll be there in a hour."

Al going through things with me before my first taxi practice in DSA.  (Author's Collection)

I'd bought the airplane on Tuesday after which Al, my cousin Michael and I put her back together and readied her for taxi testing and eventual flight.

At the time, I had been flying for 12 years and had accumulated roughly 650 hours in some 20 different types.  This wasn't a tremendous amount of experience by any means but it was varied and I'd picked up many transferable skills.  For one, a decent part of my total time had been in taildraggers and most of that in the back seat of the Super Decathlon.  I was quite comfortable being blind out the front and using peripheral vision to land the airplane.  However, you won't find a more forgiving and benign tailwheel airplane than the Super Decathlon.  Even its little brother, the Citabria, is, in my opinion, a harder airplane to land.  The Super D, therefore, is a nice airplane for tailwheel neophytes to learn on but, when compared to the Smith, it's a pregnant sow. 

With that in mind, I set out to find some relevant dual instruction that would help me better prepare for the shifty, short-coupled Smith Miniplane.  More than 30 years ago, my dad went to see Gerry Younger at Kitchener-Waterloo and logged about two hours in a Pitts S-2A.  I found Pitts Special guru, aerobatic instructor, and air show pilot Andrew Boyd at nearby Smiths Falls Airport.

Andrew Boyd is standing outside his hangar chatting with a fellow aviator.  In the time it takes me to drive down the taxiway between the rows of hangars, two airplanes roll by.  Boyd acknowledges each one with a wave.  He's wearing a US Navy-style leather aviator's jacket, track pants and indoor soccer shoes.  His eyes are shrouded by a pair of rose-coloured sunglasses and topped off by inquisitive eyebrows that are more red than blonde. 

He waves me casually into a spot next to a yellow Volkswagon Beetle and I climb out of the car.

He remains silent, hands in pockets, rocking idly on his heels.  He's looking at my bumper with keen interest.  The bumper on my Toyota Matrix is splintered and hanging loosely in one spot, the result of an unfortunate meeting with a snowbank the winter before.

"You know," he says.  "I just might have something for that."  With that, he disappears inside.

A stiff crosswind is blowing across the field.  It will be a good day for my first flight in the immortal Pitts Special.  This is an odd start.

Andrew emerges from the hangar with a large hand drill and a bag of zip-ties.

"Do you mind?"  he asks, hefting the drill with one hand and waving the zip-ties at me with the other.

"By all means," I say, smirking.  "It can't get any worse," I add, somewhat unconvincingly.

He gleefully begins poking holes in my bumper.  Every so often, he strings a zip-tie through an opening and yanks it tight, then clips off the end with a pair of wire cutters.

In a few minutes, he steps back and admires his work.  I give the bumper a good shake.  The Frankenstein-like stitch job holds rather nicely - nearly as good as new.

"If it were a black car, you'd hardly notice," he says, grinning as he offers an outstretched hand.

"I'm Andrew."

"Jonathan."

"Hi!  Let's get started."

There are three S-2Bs and a Maule M-4, a family heirloom, sitting in the hangar.  The floor is immaculate and so are the airplanes.  A trio of motorcycles are lined up in a far corner.  The back of the hangar contains a workshop and a small apartment.  Andrew has set up a makeshift classroom in a free corner, complete with two lawn chairs, a small whiteboard and a model of an S-2. 

Andrew's brain moves at an incredible pace and, at first, mine struggles to keep up.  He's a patient and generous teacher when he realises that I am there to learn and am likely to pass on my experience to my students.  The ground briefing is a positive experience for me and I pick up several things that I immediately add to my instructor's tool kit.  As the ground-based preamble to flight concludes, I find myself catching my breath before becoming acutely aware that the flying part of this adventure is going to be a thousand times more enjoyable, educational and taxing.

Our mount for today is Pitts S-2B N666VB - serial number 5313.  Even sitting on the ground, the red and white airplane has a devilish appearance.  The triple 6 American registration only adds to the mischievous aura. 

Airframe number 5313 began its life in 1994 as N917JD.  On the afternoon of April 6th, 1996, it crashed into a field in Freehold Township, New Jersey, killing the front seat occupant.  The commercial pilot-in-command, seated in the rear seat, survived the crash.

N917JD after the fatal crash in 1996. (Photo Courtesy: pelicanparts.com)

The National Transportation Safety Board's investigation concluded that the engine stopped due to fuel starvation and that the aircraft stalled just prior to hitting the ground.  The Pitts had departed its home field with a little more than 20 minutes of fuel.  It was the second fuel starvation incident for this particular crew.

5313 was rebuilt by Aviat and registered as N666VB.  If you ask him, Andrew will tell you that "it found him" and compelled him to buy it.  The first time he flew "Victor-Bravo", however, it tried to kill him.  The stick jammed during a vertical downline which, in Andrew's words, made for a "very interesting landing."

I gathered that was the reason behind the words "Pale Horse" quietly displayed under the canopy rim.

It's a subtle if not dramatic nod to the four horsemen of the Apocalypse as in "Death rides a Pale Horse."

Pitts S-2B N666VB on the ramp at Smiths Falls.  (Author's Collection)

About 20 minutes later, my left hand is moving forward as the Pitts engine builds from a low, Harley Davidson-like rumble to a full-throated roar.  The 260 pale horses push me back in my seat and, completely blind out the front, I'm paying particular attention to the pavement I can see out either side.  I push the stick forward to raise the tail.  The airplane responds sweetly and without delay.  The tail comes up and I can now see down the length of the runway.  The airplane is quivering around me, longing for flight and buoyed by the increasing speed of the air rushing over the wings and the insistent battle cry of the big Lycoming.

A gentle tug and we're off and climbing at a ridiculous rate.  Andrew directs me to the south of the field where we'll spend some time doing aerobatics.  The goal is to feel more comfortable and familiar with the new airplane before bringing it back to the airport to practice take-offs and landings.

"Now," Andrew begins.  "As an aerobatic instructor, you should be able to do an aileron roll."

"Yep," I reply.  I'm still catching my breath and lowering my heart rate after the take-off roll.

"Show me."

I comply, pulling the nose up to 20 degrees above the horizon, checking to unload the wings and then applying left aileron and enough rudder to coordinate.  The airplane rolls eagerly and as we crest inverted, I start floating away from the controls.

"Ohhhhhhh," Andrew groans from the back.  "Weeee."

"Damn it," I breathe as I finish the roll and recover a few hundred feet higher than where I began. 

It's a rookie mistake - an error someone with my experience should not commit.  The cause is simple enough.  I've grown lazy in my aerobatic flying in the Super Decathlon.  During an aileron roll, the Super D's nose will naturally drop as the roll progresses.  This leads to a nice, ballistic roll where only positive G is felt.  The Pitts keeps climbing as it rolls and, in order to keep the maneuver positive, some elevator is required.

Despite my best efforts, it takes a few rolls to get this bad habit out of my system.  Again, it took a real world event to underscore a valuable lesson: every airplane is different and many need to be flown in a way that is specific or tailored to that particular airplane.  The Smith, like the Pitts, will be a largely new experience.

After some acceptable loops, Cuban 8s, spins and inverted flying, Andrew and I return to the circuit at Smiths Falls. 

There are several ways to approach and land in an S-2 and Andrew has wisely chosen what he calls the "least heroic" option.  It involves a curved, U-shaped descent at 110 miles per hour from downwind to an angled final approach of 10 or 15 degrees.  This allows you to see the runway until very short final, at which point you turn to line up and flare for a 3 point landing - again, entirely blind out the front.

My first approach and landing in the Pitts went well.  I concentrated on keeping my movements small and deliberate as well as knowing exactly where I was throughout the entire approach, flare, landing and roll out.  I kept light on my feet, particularly during the roll out and I only went to full power for the go once I was sure I had her under control.  I could immediately see how it was easy to get behind an airplane like this but I had prepared as well as I could and was working hard to stay on top of things. 

After a half dozen circuits, we called it a day.  Everything happens fast in the Pitts and I was starting to get tired.  Andrew was generous in his critique and offered me several tips and techniques.  We agreed to do a few more sessions.

I left the airport in a bit of a haze.  The Pitts left me tingling and light-headed - sort of like a cross between having your bell rung in the boxing ring and spending a day at the spa.  Things happened faster than I was used to and it took most of my awareness and acquired skill to keep up.   Still, I felt good about the flying and confident about how it would help me prepare for the Smith.  As I drove home, I kept thinking about how lucky we are, as pilots, to be able to not only fly but to take to the skies in such interesting, capable and challenging machines.

I did two more flights in the S-2 with Andrew.  Each trip was an eye-opening education - the equivalent of cramming a master's degree into one sleep-starved week.  I was no stranger to steep learning curves and an accelerated syllabus but each session left me reeling and longing for more.  It was true...it was like a drug.  Through it all, Boyd guided me patiently - brutally honest in his critique but incredibly generous when praise was earned. 

After a little more than three hours with Boyd and the Pitts, I felt good enough to set my eyes on the Smith.

So, that's how I ended up sitting in a Smith Miniplane at the Brampton Airport on June 21st, 2014.  I'm pulled off to the side of a deserted taxiway so as to not block the continuous stream of Cessna 172s emerging from the ramp to pull onto the runway and take flight.  My mind is clear.  My hands are still.  I feel the propeller blast dancing across my closed eyelids and the sun warming my upturned face.  Despite this, my heart is racing.  I'm about to take to the skies in a new airplane with only my single seat.  I know that the successful execution of this flight will depend solely on me and my actions.  I am starkly aware that I am very much alone.  Right on cue, there is a uncomfortably deep surging in my stomach.  We commonly refer to this as fear but it's a tangled mess of that emotion and a thousand more.  I push it down.  I try to retreat into the comforting rumble of the engine and the whisper of the wind being pushed back by the propeller.

You are not alone.

As Al helped me strap into my new airplane that morning, I had countless others strapping in with me.

There was Nigel Barber - my first ever instructor and, today, one of my dearest friends.

There was Paul "Pitch" Molnar - a former CF-18 fighter jock who took me on my first aerobatic flight in a Super D.

There was Andrew Campbell - who taught me, among many other things, that it wasn't enough to know what happens but why it happens.

There was Andy Gibson - who, on our one and only flight together, pulled the power during a circuit check in a Piper 180 and then demanded I make the field.  We did, barely...only after I pulled the flaps in and skimmed the top of a hangar.  I never willingly flew out of gliding range of the field again.

There was Tyson Morelli - who teased me about looping a Cessna 152 and then taught me lazy-8s anyway.

There was Tony Hunt - who in a kindly, fatherly way taught me the finer points of tail wheel flying as we wrestled a Cessna 170 through a vindictive crosswind at Gatineau - not once, but several times.

There was Marc Ouellet - a former Snowbird pilot and Air Force Colonel who sat there stone-faced and serene while I tried to kill him...twice.  He flew with me for another 10 hours after that and signed me off for solo aerobatics.

There was Jean-Pierre Seguin - an old hand at tailwheel and my first aerobatic student in the Super Decathlon who, when I had barely 2 hours of rear-seat time, let me do every landing and take-off from the back because he knew it would help me grow as a pilot.

There was Andrew Boyd, Charlie Miller, a dozen or more guys I'd only every exchanged emails with but were, nonetheless, generous with their time and experience.  There was my mom, my sister and my wife - who all supported me unconditionally, understood the burning urgency of my dream and encouraged me in the face of the concerns they must have had.

And then there was my Dad.

I'd been thinking about my dad a lot today. 

There's a drainage ditch that runs along a group of hangars at the north-west corner of the Brampton Airport.  There's a log and chainlink fence that separates the ditch from the gravel roadway.  Yesterday, I'd walked along it in the morning to get to Al's hangar for taxi practice.  I retraced my steps to return to the club house for lunch and again to return to the hangar for afternoon taxi runs.  In the early evening, still trembling after a slow speed ground loop, I'd followed the same route to my uncle's waiting pick-up truck.  Each time, a little bird, black with red and yellow flashes on its wings, left its perch on the fence and followed me to my destination.  At first, I thought I'd inadvertently come too close to its nest but its behaviour wasn't aggressive.   It merely held position about a meter above my right shoulder, singing pleasantly.

It was there again on my most recent walk from the gate to Al's hangar this morning.  It balanced itself delicately on a very light breeze, adjusting its midnight wings to keep tight formation. 

I knew my father was around - somehow.  The bird, and its song, seemed fitting.

I open my eyes.  The sky is a cloudless, powder blue.  The Lycoming is growling up ahead, driving the propeller around into a whirling, silver-laced disc.   I release the brakes and the Smith and I roll forward together.

Taxi testing the Smith.  (Author's Collection)


"Delta-Sierra-Alpha to position runway 1-5 Brampton", my voice sounds thin in my ears. 

I roll out onto the button, straighten the tail wheel and sit there for thirty seconds going over everything again. There isn't much to look at in the Miniplane's cockpit but I check everything three times. I feel like a student pilot on his first solo.

"Delta-Sierra-Alpha, rolling 1-5 Brampton..."

My voice.

A deep breath.  Left hand forward...slowly. The engine's low moan grows to a dull roar. Stick forward to the stop. I feel the airplane start to come to life around me. Feet dancing on the rudder pedals, dampening out the swings to no more than a degree or two left and right.

I feel the tail lighten, then lift. I can see straight ahead now.  DSA's long nose is pointing at the end of the runway 3000 feet beyond. A glance down at the airspeed - 60. Engine sounds good, gauges confirm that.  Now, back outside to see the runway framed nicely by the cabane struts.  The flying wires tremble.

65...

Now 70...

That's ten miles per hour faster than stall speed.  I pull the stick back slightly and we're off, accelerating to 90 and climbing like a shot. I climb to 1700 feet before turning left then left again to follow Highway 10 to the north.  I glance over my shoulder to see Brampton's twin runways and orange roofed hangars rolling by.

"Holy shit, I'm flying, holy shit, I'm flying, holy shit, holy shit..."

It isn't panic or fear or even awe.  It's the realisation that only seconds ago you were on the ground, looking up at the sky and now, thanks to the hardship of hundreds of thousands that went before you, and the support of those closest to you, and the teachings of those who strapped in next to you, you're up there looking down.

Now, it was time to get to know each other.

First, some gentle turns - she flies like a dream, very responsive, good roll rate, lots of rudder, even visibility over the nose in cruise isn't too bad.

We tried some steep turns at 60 degrees of bank and she went right around like a pinwheel - just lovely.

A stall then...power off slowly, stick progressively back, the slipstream whispering as it rushes through the flying wires...and at the pilot's urging, a nose drop, wings level.  No bad habits.

I did a few practice glides, a few practice approaches and picked up the reporting point for Brampton to head back in. Brampton is likely the busiest uncontrolled airport in the country. And now, all at once, everyone is flying. The threat of a mid-air collision is an axe that hangs over every pilot's head and some are governed by it to the point of obsession. I decided to remain clear until things settled down and picked a mansion with a pool, tennis court and what I can only assume was a servant's quarters as a pivot point for some more steep turns.

At this point, I started to settle down a bit and began to actually enjoy the flight.  I was living my dream.  I was flying the airplane I pretended to fly as a toddler, the same airplane I heard all those stories about.  It wasn't a dream any longer.  It wasn't a fantasy.  It was as real as the collection of sheet metal, wood, and doped fabric I was galloping through the skies in.

The landscape I was flying over was undiscovered territory and the chart I'd reviewed prior to taking off gave a poor depiction of the living painted canvas unfolding beneath me at 100 miles per hour.   I kept the Brampton Airport within sight so as to not get lost.  The city of Toronto floated on the horizon well to the south - seemingly rising out of the blue of Lake Ontario.  Between Brampton and the Ontario Capital, I could clearly see Toronto-Pearson and the aluminum cloud of airliners that swarmed around it.  To the west and north-west, the land climbed away from me in a series of gently rolling emerald waves.  These are the Caledon Hills that saw Charlie and his mates wheel and swoop in mock dogfights decades ago.  To the east and north-east, the landscape was a carpet of multicoloured farmer's fields stitched together here and there by fence lines and roads.  Above all this, the Smith floated happily, guided gently by my gloved hand. 

I sank easily into a reverie.  The hot anxiety of the take-off roll and climb out had faded to a dull, warm glow.  I rolled my shoulders back, wiggled my toes and flexed my hands around the stick and throttle. 

Captain Albert Ball, RFC

I was Captain Albert Ball of the Royal Flying Corps in his Nieuport 17, brooding eyes scanning the torn-up Western Front for marauding German Albatros fighters in the spring of 1917. 

French pioneer aviator Jean Mermoz

I was Jean Mermoz at the controls of a Potez 25, flying the air mail from Buenos Aires to Santiago in the summer of 1929, valiantly threading deep mountain passes carved through the Andes.

Even just a handful of miles north of Canada's biggest city, it was easy to imagine what life must have been like for my ancestral aviators nearly a century ago.  Their flights were made in the infancy of aviation, often over hostile lands and challenging conditions.   They starred into the face of building thunderstorms and ground their teeth as they flew into unknown chasms carved into the face of granite hills that had stood for hundreds of thousand of years and would for thousands more. Their only shelter: a leather trenchcoat, gauntlets, a pair of goggles and a fragile craft of wood and fabric, not unlike my own. 

As the air spilled off the top wing and swirled about me in the cockpit, tugging at my shoulders and my cloth helmet, I smiled and thought of these men, their adventures and trials set against my own fortunes.  I thought of the young Royal Flying Corps pilot, drawn from the cold, wet misery of the trenches with promises of glory as a knight of the air.  Instead, he shivered in the cold loneliness of an S.E.5a, bobbing drunkenly in the thin air at 15 thousand feet, fighting to stay awake in the oxygen deprived aerial wasteland.  I thought of the air mail pilot that would have followed him, chased not by an enemy fighter but rather by violent thunderstorms, dwindling daylight and a shrinking fuel supply.  I tasted the desperation as he lowered his craft slowly, unsteadily into the inky black darkness of unfamiliar territory, straining his eyes for the orange smudges of flare pots outlining the landing strip.  My mind then turned to the swashbuckling barnstormers that followed them - aerial gypsies carried like tumbleweeds by whatever chance wind they encountered.  This new breed of aviator called a corn field or old horse racing track home for a day, hopped rides for a dollar or two, then moved on. 

Truly, this day was no different than theirs.  A few years had passed, yes, that was true.  Had they flown on my wing and followed me to earth, they would have looked on this world as I would upon the face of Mars but, up here, we would be equals.

The Smith flew on.  1917, 1929, 1978 or 2014...they were only numbers.  They didn't matter.

I glance down at the fuel gauge by left left knee and tap it gently with a gloved finger.  It reads a quarter tank.  I have roughly 45 minutes of fuel left.  I elected to return to the field to shoot some practice approaches, getting lower each time before overshooting.

I did five of these, fitting myself in between the four or five airplanes that were constantly in the circuit.  As Al had counselled me,  the approach was best made at 85 mph indicated with 1700 rpm on until the flare, when one should slowly bring the throttle back and settle into the three point attitude.

Everything looked great. On the sixth approach, I resolved to land. 

We slid down the final approach as if on rails, into the flare, rounding out at the right height with power on, the 40-foot wide ribbon of runway rising to meet us, the wheels touch with a squeak.

Then the bottom drops out of everything. 

I feel the little ship heel sharply to the left and I react with right rudder but I am too slow, far too slow.  We run out of real estate in one frantic heartbeat.  I briefly consider slamming the throttle forward and trying to power my way out of this but it's too late, far too late.  We're already bounding off the runway and into the grass beyond.

"Jesus Christ," I breathe, barely hearing the words over the furious pounding my my heart.  It feels like a great bass drum bashing away at the insides of my skull.

The Lycoming replies with a gentle, almost admonishing purr.  I move the controls and watch as they respond properly.  I glance over my shoulder and follow the tire tracks through the grass back to the runway.  They run neatly between two runway lights. 

I tilt my head back and collect myself before taxiing back onto the runway and into a clear taxiway.

We pass an old fella, elbow deep in the engine of his TriPacer.  He smiles and thumps his chest with a closed fist to simulate a beating heart.  He laughs when I cross myself. Another quick look around, nothing bent or broken...except the ego.

I taxi back to the hangar. Al is working on his motorcycle. Al is smiling. Al saw the whole thing.

I shut down.

"Man, you got lucky," he says.  "You looked great right until she went for a walk. You needed a bit of right brake and she would've straightened right up."

I'm not nervous or frightened anymore.  I'm not even relieved. I mangled the landing, yes...but we flew. We flew!

"You can't let her get away from you, Jon," Al continues.  "Someone was looking after you, for sure."

I think of the bird...and my Dad.

Plane and pilot together after our first flight on June 21st, 2014 (Author's Collection)

Here comes another old fella, riding a golf cart...he drives right up to the airplane.

"Hey there, young fella," he says. "Bit of an interesting landing that."

"Yessir."

"Don't worry yourself too much about that...you can still use her...what a nice airplane, be real sad to see her go, Al, always thought she was a pretty bird, real nice looking machine..." he yammers on, circling the airplane on his golf cart, looking under the tail and wings, poking a blade of grass from one wheel with his cane.

"Yeah, she looks good, what a pretty airplane, the name's Doug."

"Hi Doug," I reply. 'Was that you giving me the thumping heart sign on my way by?"

"No, that was Mikey, another one of Al's friends, nice guy, what a nice airplane, well you take care now, be seeing you, Al."

He finishes his circuit of the bipe and rolls away, golf cart whining.

And now a lady and her husband come by. I met them yesterday.

"So you flew it?"

"Sure did."

"How was it?"

"Better than I could ever dream...the flying, I mean...the landing...well..."

"It gets easier."

One can only hope.

I walked back to my uncle's truck alone that day.  The bird, his job done, was gone...and even though my ears were ringing in the aftermath of open cockpit flight, I could still hear his song.

Out of the Mist

"So, that's the story," I mumbled, kicking a golf ball sized, loose piece of concrete across the ramp.
It's a brisk, early November morning at Rockcliffe.  A thick blanket of fog is lying close to the ground, blotting out the sunshine and sheltering the old field from the clear skies I drove under to get here. 
Overhead and unseen, we can hear the clattering roar of a 1940s Waco open cockpit biplane circling the field.  He's waiting for the fog to burn away so that he can begin his day of hopping tours of the capital and the Gatineaus - where the last remnants of fall's spectacular mosaic of colours still cling on grimly.
The wind sock hangs limply from its bracket over the fuel pumps.  I briefly contemplate the Waco pilot's sense of faith. 
"So, you're looking for a Miniplane?"  asked Ed Soye, an old friend from my air cadet and Cadet Instructor Cadre days.
"Yep," another kick and the rock skitters across the ramp. The apron is old and, in parts, chipping away and coming up. 
"Well, why didn't you say so?"
I look up, raising an eyebrow.  The bracket creaks and the windsock stirs.  A breath of wind drifts across the field from the south-west.  Soon, the breeze will start pulling at the fog and it will begin to unravel, then tear away in small, ragged tendrils followed soon after by large swaths.  Not long after, the Waco will thread its way down through the mist and lower itself soundlessly onto Rockcliffe's single runway.
By that time, Ed and I are inside the clubhouse, talking excitedly in hushed tones - as if plotting a coup.
Outside, the winds slowly swing out of the west, promising change and opportunity.

Four months after my chance discussion with Ed, I am slowly wedging myself into the tight confines of a Smith Miniplane's cockpit.  It is largely white with red trim, a red cowling and a black pinstripe along each side.  The airplane has been carefully placed in the corner of a heated hangar at the Brampton Airport in Caledon, Ontario - just north west of Toronto.  The top of the top wing is dusty and the paint has worn off in a few places around the tail but the little biplane is in great shape - at least visually. 

Al Girdvainis, her builder and only owner, stands next to me.  His left foot is on the wing walk, his left hand draped casually over the top wing.  As he speaks, he drums his fingers casually on the taught ceconite fabric. 

The three original Miniplanes together in California.  The prototype N90P is on the left, N65P is in the middle and the 2nd Smith, N99D at right.  (Photo courtesy: Al Girdvainis)

An EAA Fly-In with 7 biplanes, of which 5 are Smiths - including the 3 originals at centre. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis)

As he tells me about his airplane, I can't help but shake the notion that I hear my dad talking too.

When Al decided upon building an airplane, he had his heart set on a Midget Mustang - until he was warned about how dangerous that particular homebuilt could be.  Then, he saw the Smith Miniplane and caught the biplane bug in the worst possible way.  The desire was only reinforced after he came across George Jones' Smith Miniplane C-FYSG and, in his own words, "my jaw dropped."  There was just something about it and with several Miniplanes flying locally, and a wealth of knowledge and experience nearby, it seems the obvious choice.  He was just a kid, still in high school, when he ordered the plans from Frank Smith's wife Dorothy. 

Al building the lower left wing in his parent's basement. (Photo courtesy: Al Girdvainis)

He spent years building the wings in his parent's basement.  Since his dad didn't own a metal bandsaw, he cut the metal fittings for the wings and fuselage using a hacksaw and a file.  George Jones introduced Al to a DeHavilland welder who welded up the Smith's fuselage.  It resided in the garage.  Since he's a taller guy, he elected to stretch his Miniplane by 6 inches in the fuselage.  He added another 6 inches of wingspan either side of centreline, he told me jokingly, to improve glide performance.  This Smith had a 115 horsepower Lycoming O-235-C1 hung on the front end - plenty of power for the small bipe.

C-GDSA's fuselage in Al's driveway. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis)

Al tells me the airplane is a joy to fly, a real pussy cat in the air.  On the ground, however, and especially on pavement, the airplane can be nasty.

"I've landed this thing without even touching the rudder pedals," he says, eyes hidden by dark glasses.  "And I've landed it by dancing a polka, double-time."

"I'm not trying to scare you," he tells me.  "I just want you to know what you might be getting yourself into."

I visit with Al for about an hour.  This is his first airplane, since eclipsed by an immaculate RV-7A and an unfinished Nieuport 28, but it's clear it holds a special place in his heart.  He strikes me as a kind man, generous with both his time and experience.  I tell him, honestly, that I won't be a position to make an offer for at least another year.  As I climb out of his biplane, I ask that he give me a call if anyone comes around asking about it.  He agrees.

Fourteen months later, newly married and having saved, borrowed and stolen enough money to make this dream a reality, I'm back at Al's hangar in Brampton waiting for my friend and aviation mechanic Pat Giunta to arrive to give 1978 Smith Miniplane C-GDSA a complete pre-buy inspection.

C-GDSA with panels removed so that we can take a good look inside.  (Author's Collection)

Al and I have spent most of the day going through the airplane.  He's taken the cowling, side and belly panels, turtledeck and the many inspection plates off of the airplane.  Coffees in hand, we talk Miniplanes as we go through his, piece by piece.  I've never been a technically-inclined person.  Until I became a homeowner, I shied away from anything involving tools.  As a pilot, this is an education.  I'd always considered myself to be merely a "driver" in that, while I had a good understanding of the aircraft I flew and its systems, I left the wrenching to those who knew what they were doing.  Although the Smith is a homebuilt and therefore qualifies as owner-maintained, I'd already decided to seek the help of an aviation maintenance engineer.  If there's anything I can do, it will be done under their guidance.  Still, I value the opportunity to learn the inner workings of the airplane I hope to buy and fly.

Al with his airplane.  (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis)

Al works slowly and meticulously.  The talk inevitably turns to the more than 30 years and nearly 600 hours he's spent flying this airplane.  An easy but shy smile crosses his face as he tells me about two trips to Oshkosh, Wisconsin - the Mecca of experimental and homebuilt aviation and a pair of voyages out east.  He laughs nervously as he recounts crossing the Northumberland Strait from New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island by flying along the nearly 13 kilometre Confederation Bridge.

DSA being used as a campground and clothesline at Stanley, Nova Scotia. (Photo Courtesy: Al Girdvainis)

"There was a solid overcast layer at four thousand feet," he says, chuckling.  "I flew the whole way with my tail in the clouds."

It took guts to chug along less than a mile above the Atlantic Ocean in a tiny, single-engined biplane with the gliding characteristics of a polished rock.  It's clear to me that Al enjoyed every moment.

On another trip, Al and a friend flew their airplanes from Brampton to Rockcliffe by following a set of power lines carving through 200 miles of wilderness.  The only break, a fuel stop at Tomvale airport.  He tells that story through the same wistful smile.

I ask him if he ever wheel landed the Miniplane.  He pauses uncertainly and shrugs.  I assure him that nearly every Smith driver I've spoken to urged me to always do three point landings and that I have no intention of wheeling the Smith.

"Once," he said.  "By accident.  A friend and I were flying formation into Oshawa and I was on the wing."

Formation flying only works if two basic rules are met.  First, the leader leads.  They determine altitude, heading, airspeed and they navigate.  Second, the wingmen keep their eyes on the leader and adjust their flying to hold their position on the wing.  The whole arrangement is based on absolute trust.  The leader trusts his wingmen not to collide with him.  The wingmen trust their leader to not fly them into the side of a mountain.  It's a simple exchange where the currency is life and death.

So, with that in mind, it's easy to see how Al flew the entire trip without knowing precisely where he was or how fast he was flying.

"At one point, I saw my friend touch down and a split second later, I felt a little bump," he continues.  "I said to myself, 'I must be down' and when I took a second to glance at the airspeed, I saw that we were doing 100 miles per hour."

In the interest of context, the Smith cruises at 100 miles per hour.  That's 160 kilometres per hour - twice what you're likely to do on a city parkway.  Don't try it.  That's fast.

" 'Holy shit', I said to myself," Al says.  "Holy shit..."

Pat arrives and starts looking the airplane over, sticking his head inside the fuselage, peering into the wings with a flashlight.  He too works slowly and, at first, doesn't say much.  I've been waiting for this day for months and, I'll admit, with a great deal of trepidation.  The pre-buy inspection will give me a good idea of the airplane's current condition and what, if any, potential problems await me in the near future.  There are certain items, namely corrosion in either the engine or airframe and rot in the wings, that are immediate show stoppers.  I've told myself that I will walk away from the airplane if Pat finds anything that may indicate a looming problem.  It would break my heart but I'd do it just the same.

I watch Pat closely as the inspection progresses.  At first his gaze is hard and focused, betraying little information and absolutely no emotion.  He is a man consumed by the task, only occasionally taking a step back to snap a picture.  After what seems like an eternity, only as he begins inspecting the inner workings of the left wing, he appears to relax a little bit.

"Good," he murmurs, hunched under the upper wing, craning his neck and he tries to maneuver the beam from a flashlight into the darkest corners of structure.  "Very nice."

"This is nice work, man," he says to Al.  Al nods modestly, barely dipping his head in acknowledgement. 

"Okay, that'll do it," Pat says, stepping back and wiping his hands on his trousers.  "Let's push her out and fire her up."

Al pulls the RV-7A out of the hangar and we follow with the Smith.  We maneuver the little bipe, innards exposed, onto a patch of grass and Al hops in.  As he goes through his pre-start checks, Pat and I stand in the shade of the hangar, arms crossed, watching.  I can hear my heart thumping in my head.  The airplane hasn't been flown in more than 2 years - nor has the engine been run.

"This will tell us alot," Pat whispers, inclining his head ever so slightly in my direction.

The prop swings, cracking over once, twice, three times, before the Lycoming bursts to life and settles into a nice, even purr.  Al, silver hair blowing in the wind, grins widely - but not at us.  He's peering around the Stearman-inspired windshield letting the propeller blast play across his face.  While he's firmly anchored on the ground, he's lost in the youthful exuberance of flight - reliving snapshots of the 570-some hours over the last 3 decades.

Pat and Al running up the Smith's engine at Brampton in June 2014.  (Author's Collection)

"Awesome!"  Pat exclaims over the sound of the engine, slaps me on the back and walks out to join Al.  He slides up next to Al and peers over the side of the canopy at the instruments.  Both men point, nod and smile.  My anxiety begins to melt away.  It's starting to look like this might happen after all.

A little more than an hour later, after checking the engine post run-up, Pat and I are poring over the airplane's logs as we wait for lunch in the airport restaurant.  Pat nods approvingly as he thumbs through the pages of DSA's weathered logbooks. 

"Looks like you're buying this airplane," he says, just as our burgers arrive.