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