The Fall

The 2014 open-cockpit flying season slipped away gradually, silently and with little fanfare. Darkness began to advance on light.  The days became shorter with each sunset.
As we mourned the loss of those precious minutes, the warmth leaked from the air.  It grew chilly and then cold.  T-shirts and shorts turned into light sweaters and long pants, then an insulated jacket, long underwear and joggers.  Eventually, my sheepskin gloves came out.  Finally, a balaclava joined the ensemble. 

The winds stirred and strengthened.  The clouds, thicker and more robust in the weightier air, betrayed the wind's breath as exhaling largely out of the west.  The face of the Ottawa river deepened from blue to grey. The Gatineau Hills slowly aged from green to a breathtaking mosaic of every conceivable hue of brown, red, yellow and orange.  And then one day, there were no leaves at all - only naked trees standing sentry on the muddled brown face of the hills.  In some places, pines defiantly retained their verdant cloaks and, rustling in the late autumn wind, mocked their defrocked neighbours.

The face of the earth had changed.  This aging, this thinning of the surface, exposed elements I'd never seen before...or, if I had, I'd forgotten about them if I'd paid them any attention at all.  Here - a rocky outcropping springs from the side of a hill and plunges down its face like a silvery waterfall frozen in time.  And there - an old yellow school bus, tinged in rust, inexplicably sits in the middle of a stand of trees a good mile away from the nearest road or trail. 

In some ways, the progression of summer into fall into early winter reminded me of the passing of a loved one.
Strong and vibrant for so long and then with time - slower, older, withdrawn.
Sickness or old age sets in and visits are shorter, dominated by recollections of the earlier days when strength, time and possibilities were in abundance; sad smiles cross thinning lips, crease skin like leather.

And then one day, they're gone; just an impression on the couch, an empty seat at the table, a bed stripped of linens, a half-glass of water and smudged reading glasses on the bedside table.

It made me feel sad.

The Smith, however, took what I saw as a slow, bittersweet death and turned it into a rebirth.
Invigorated by the cooler, denser air, she leapt into the sky and climbed like a homesick angel.  The engine, while perfectly faithful over its 40 year life, sounded like it had rolled off the assembly line at Williamsport the week before.  The fat, stubby wings cleaved the thick air with renewed vigour and buoyed plane and pilot aloft on the rising tide of the autumn air.

The author's self-portrait of fall flying. (Author's collection)

While the Smith was content to keep climbing to her service ceiling and very likely beyond, I almost always pulled up on the reins around 2000 feet.  The main reason was the cold.  The loss of just a degree or two at altitude made a shockingly painful difference.  With shoulders hunched and elbows drawn tight against my body, I cowered behind my goggles and relished the heat from my breath pooling beneath the ski-mask drawn over my nose.  The Lycoming's roar eventually subsided into a dull, monotonous hum behind the tinny ringing in my ears.  While I was laid bare to the elements in my open cockpit, the blast of the propeller and the weight of the air rushing past created something of a capsule against the outside world.  Eerily silent, life rushed by at 100 miles per hour.

The secondary reason was our collective size.  At not quite 16 feet long and 18 feet wide, the Smith lived up to its moniker.  I'd taken the Miniplane up to almost 4000 feet a few times and it felt as though we were in orbit.  At that height, peering tentatively over the side had a dizzying effect.  And it was lonely, humbling and, at times, frightening.  The experience, more than any other in my life, swiftly brought to bear my insignificance.

The Smith remained aloof.  After all, she'd been to Oshkosh twice, crossed half the continent and even vaulted the Northumberland Strait at the same height that made me nervous. 

Despite her silent chiding, we had made huge progress during our first season together.  I was still scared of the airplane, yes, but the sentiment had dulled from wide-eyed terror to fearful respect.  There was still much handwringing prior to each flight.  I routinely spent twenty minutes (or more) standing outside the hangar, rocking gently from foot to foot, watching each of the three windsocks in the same way a surfer gauges the waves before paddling out beyond the break.  On some days, having rolled up the doors, pulled out the Decathlon, prepared the Smith and made ready for flight, I would sigh, nod resolutely and do everything again -  in reverse.

"A plane isn't a car," my dad had said to me once, a long time before I'd started flying.  "You can't just pull over if something goes wrong."

It was true.  Best case scenario, you had to find an airport or field to land in as soon as practical; worst case, you had to put it down in whatever clearing the outside world afforded you in your moment of need.

Once I started flying and frequenting airports as the owner of a crisp, new pilot's license, another quote was unapologetically drilled into my head.

"Aviation in itself is not inherently dangerous. But to an even greater degree than the sea, it is terribly unforgiving of any carelessness, incapacity or neglect."

The quote, attributed to a Captain A.G. Lamplugh and 1930s London, was widely reproduced on aviation posters and it was a virtual certainty that one of those publications hung somewhere in your local airport crew room, dispatch area or classroom.

In my case, it lived on a square foot of yellowing melamine board hanging above the toilet at the flying school where I did my night rating, commercial license and aerobatic training.  Every time I took a piss, I read that quote and took in the image of a burned out Curtiss JN-4 "Jenny" biplane hanging in a blackened oak tree.  Only the airplane's rear fuselage and tail remained.  The tree, standing out darkly against the misty expanse of what I assumed to be the airport property, appeared to be the only obstacle for miles. 

The "Jenny" poster.  (Image courtesy check-six.com)

Every time I looked at that poster, I thought of those two guys and asked myself "why?"
In an effort to not end up like the two chaps in the tree, I approached each flight - not just in the Smith but any flight - as an evolving dialogue in self-awareness.

Am I ready?  Am I safe?  Am I prepared? Am I able to handle what may come?  Do I have a way out?

If the answer to any of those questions was "no", I went home, poured myself a drink and toasted Captain Lamplugh.

Taxiing in from the last flight of 2014.  (Author's collection)

And so, our first season unfolded tentatively and even then in the most conservative fashion.  By the time of our last flight on Tuesday November 11th, 2014, we had logged a little more than 22 hours and each minute that been an investment and a learning experience.

The last flight was brief and meant only to warm the oil enough so that it would be easier to drain from the engine.  I took the biplane out to the other side of Orleans, circled JP's farm twice and then returned to Rockcliffe.  My landing was perhaps our nicest of the season and, as I taxied back to the hangar, I marvelled at what I took to be the Smith's grace.  It made sense that the little ship, knowing her pilot had barely hung on all season, would help put that kind of exclamation mark on the year.

Plane and pilot at the close of the 2014 season.  (Author's collection)

When we arrived at the hangar, my best friend was waiting to give me a hand with the work.  We drained the Smith's oil and replaced it with 5 litres of preservation oil for her winter hibernation.  We carried out some minor corrosion prevention work and removed the battery.  We worked in silence; our labour - a solemn veneration to the passing of the season.

It was dusk by the time we had her back together and tucked into the corner of the hangar.  The Decathlon followed suit.  I let Seamus out by the side gate before rolling down the doors and tying them up.

Preparing the Smith for winter storage.  (Author's collection)

A peaceful silence covered the field like a blanket as I padded back to the clubhouse.  It only took me a few steps to realize that the only sounds I could hear were my breath and the soft scraping of my boots on the crumbling pavement.  Anyone who has spent any time at an airport will tell you that these are rare moments.  Airports, particularly small community fields like Rockcliffe, have a unique soundtrack: windsocks rustling, engines coughing to life before settling into a rhythmic purr, the clang of a wrench, a backfire, the rattle caused by a youngster hanging off the perimeter fence, muttered curses and happy greetings shouted across the ramp...

And yet, tonight...none of that, not a whisper, not a breath besides my own.

I would have stopped to experience this rarity fully but it was cold.  The blanket of darkness had been pulled tighter around the field so that only the last belt of daylight shone through along its edges.  On this night, this dying blast of sunlight was a shimmering ochre tinged in auburn and purple.  It lasted for some thirty seconds, with only the raked tail of a small Cessna (a 150 or 152) by the fuel pumps breaking its dominance of the horizon.  When it sank below the far horizon, only the lights of the clubhouse guided me.

The clubhouse was nearly empty.  The dispatcher was working behind the desk, updating aircraft journey logs chronicling a busy day of flying.  We chatted idly as I rummaged through the cash box looking for one of my instructing paycheques.  Two men, who I assumed to be the pilot and passenger of the Cessna sitting outside, were loitering by the rack of snacks the club offered for sale.

"Everything's a dollar?" one asked.  He had a pair of aviator sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead.

"Yep," I replied, scribbling down the particulars of today's flight and oil change in the Smith's journey log.

"I'll take a Snickers."

"Help yourself." 

I snapped the log shut, dug my car keys out of my mail box and, saying goodnight to the dispatcher and nodding to the Cessna crew, stepped out into the November night.

When I arrived at work very early the next morning, my email inbox was flooded with messages about a small plane crash in Algonquin Park.  The aircraft, a Cessna 150 on its way from Rockcliffe to Buttonville with two people on board, had made a mayday call around 8:30 Tuesday night.  They were lost in deteriorating weather, running low on fuel and needing a vector to the nearest airport.  An Air Canada flight, cruising overhead at well over 30,000 feet, picked up their call for help and relayed it to the Joint Rescue Coordination Centre (JRCC) at CFB Trenton.  It was determined that the lost airplane was somewhere north of Haliburton/Stanhope Municipal Airport and deep in the heart of the Algonquin Highlands. JRCC scrambled a Hercules and Griffon helicopter to respond while the Air Canada crew tried to keep the pilot calm.  Another aircraft activated the runway lights at Stanhope in the hopes that the lost crew could see them. 

They made their last radio call at 9:28pm, almost three and one-half hours after departing Rockcliffe - which lay only an hour and a half's flying to the east.

The accident site was eventually located in a heavily wooded and hilly area about 20 miles north-east of the airport at Stanhope.  A Canadian Forces search and rescue technician was lowered into the crash site at 4:30 the next morning - about an hour before I learned of the crash - and confirmed that both pilot and passenger were dead. 

By mid morning, I had connected the dots and realized that they were the two guys I had crossed paths with in the clubhouse the evening before.

I have been fortunate in that, thus far, I have been largely untouched by the cruel finality of aviation's ugliest side.  I had a few acquaintances die in plane crashes.  I think of one fairly often - although I'm not entirely sure why as we didn't know each other very well.  I suppose it's because he was very kind to me at a time when I was starting a job in a place that was very intimidating and where I knew few people.  While we hadn't spoken in some time, his death affected me deeply.  Every so often, I come across a picture or a social media post and I'm taken back to a beach on Lake Ontario.  He's standing in the warm light of a giant bonfire fed by pilfered avgas - offering a cold beer with an outstretched hand and a mischievous smile.

The deaths of these two strangers rattled me to my core.  Why would anyone embark on that kind of flight, I wondered, with incredulity bordering on fury.  A light, single-engine aircraft crossing the dark, featureless, unforgiving expanse of Algonquin Park, at night, in strong winds and deteriorating weather is at best, a bad idea and, at worst, the eventual tragic result.  Why didn't I ask where they were going?  If they'd told me, I would have suggested staying the night or, if they absolutely had to go, recommended heading south-west to Kingston and then following the illuminated ribbon of Highway 401 to home and safety.  Would they have listened?  Would it have mattered?  I'd flown over the relatively well-populated southern extremities of that area before, in daytime, and was struck by how brutally inhospitable it was. 

At any rate, nothing could change the fact that they ended up smashed against a non-descript hillside in the middle of nowhere for no good reason.

The Transportation Safety Board of Canada released some preliminary information about a month later.  The agency said the aircraft's propeller struck a 20 foot tall tree about 30 feet back from where the main wreckage came to rest.  Investigators found a little more than 6 gallons of fuel in the Cessna's tanks.  The photographs suggest the airplane struck the hillside with significant force.
I can't imagine what they went through in those final moments.  I hope they had no idea of what lurked in the darkness.  A significant part of me hopes they weren't aware of the final link in a chain of extraordinarily poor decisions.

An alternate view of the same Jenny in the same tree.  I'd never seen this one before this writing.

All I could think about was that old poster hanging above the toilet.  I couldn't rid my mind of the Jenny and the tree.

A week later, on a chilly morning under searing blue skies, I went for a walk with one of my best friends.  We had been colleagues at the station for nearly a decade, coming into the business within months of each other.  While our careers followed similar paths, I now found myself behind the camera while he still plied his trade in the public eye.  Our friendship grew out of the workplace to include starting a private riot when the Vancouver Canucks let their Stanley Cup slip away, downing a case of beer while doing a terrible job of painting a garage door and depraved bachelor party shenanigans that won't be outlined here.  I was godfather to his three sons and he would take that role when our child came into the world.

We walked in silence.  Every so often, I looked up at the sky, squinting against the light, and thought it could be worse.

"Well, it was great working with you, brother," John said.

We both knew that we were done.  Having come into the television news world together, it was fitting that we would leave it jointly - at least for the moment.

Half an hour later, each of us was read a script.  Our network had, through a major restructuring that had become à la mode in recent years, cut some 80 positions.  Ours were among them.

Two days before my 31st birthday, less than 3 months before the birth of our first child and for the first time in 15 years, I found myself without work.

Cloud Hunter

It seemed as though I had waited all summer for a day like this; a warm August afternoon cooled by a brisk breeze that brought lines of neatly formed cumulus cloud marching across the royal blue heavens.

The clouds, each one both alike and unique, made their advance roughly south-eastward.  The vanguard of the formation, a loose gaggle of ragged patches, had only just drifted over the field at Rockcliffe as I rolled the Smith out of the shade of the hangar.  Ten minutes later, we were threading our way north-west through the tip of the main column and climbing quickly behind the eager tug of the Lycoming engine.

We stopped the climb at our usual 1700' and, from our new vantage point inside a cloudless trough, could spy a long cloud front stretching across the horizon before us.  It appeared as though a massive, snow-covered mountain had been turned onto its peak so that its low, rolling foothills loomed over us like a giant shelf at great altitude.  It was as if a great hand wielding the sharpest and most precise of razors had cleaved the edge of the front to form the straightest of lines for many miles.  From there, my goggled eyes traced the flanks of the colossus down to a point far in the distance where it vanished behind the green mounds of the Gatineau Hills.  

The Smith and I plowed onward, following the river as it meandered north-west.  Now, small groups of white cumulus, having detached themselves from the main body, began to influence our path - forcing us to circumvent them to the east or west.  As one presented itself just below the nose and a shade to our right, I pressured the control column aft slightly and the Smith and I bounded over the top and into a slight right turn.  And then, the strangest thing happened.  Nature conspired to assemble the perfect set of circumstances - a cloud below, the sun high above and behind us - so that the Smith and I saw our shadow for the first time.

Initially, I wondered what it was - that dark smudge on the cloud's crest ringed in concentric halos of orange, yellow, red, pink, green and blue.  As my eyes blinked behind my goggles, I brought the vision into focus.  There we were - albeit much smaller - complete with twin wings, rounded tail and the circular shade of the whirling propeller.  My other senses dulled, I gazed 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 banked the wings and rolled into a turn to prolong the apparition but unwittingly upset the balance.

The image faded.

We flew on.  The solid wave of cloud remained distant ahead.  The seaplane base at Chelsea drifted by.  A trio of float planes, gaily colored in yellow, orange and eggshell blue, bobbed contently at the dock.  A canoe was working its way south, leaving a feathertail wake on the otherwise placid surface of the river.  Up here, the wind seemed stronger - hastening the journey of the clouds drifting our way while hampering our progress up the river.  

The cloud bank had crept closer now.  I raised the nose and added power to begin a climb.  The advantage, after all, was in height.  The Smith ballooned upwards, eagerly clambering skywards with the promise of cooler air.  A quick glance inside - the speed stood at 90 mph while the vertical speed announced itself at an optimistic 2000' per minute; engine gauges normal, fuel on and sufficient and switches in their proper place.  The compass, swinging idly in circles, mocked me from its post in the upper wing.  

A sigh of content is instantly swept away by the blast of the slipstream.  All is as it should be.  We were ready.

I pushed the throttle forward to the stop and pulled the Smith into a climbing left hand turn.  The Smith bled energy quickly as we drifted sideways, wings banked vertically, over the top and slid earthward again.  With the sun at our back, our first target swam into view between the cabane struts. I drew my shoulders in and felt tension rising in the Smith as speed and energy returned.  A deep breath...and I 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 the 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. They seem unaware of our approach.  The Smith 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.  We Smith 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 Smith'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 our imagination is entirely devoid of shells...or our fantasy Vickers machine gun has jammed.  

I use the extra speed to rise gently above our would-be target.  I waggle the wings in salute to the collection of water vapor drawn up hours ago from an unknown lake or river.

I shake my head - bested by water in a gaseous state. 

The Smith purrs a response - somewhat more whimsical than usual. 

The cloud bank we've been chasing now stretches from horizon to horizon.  It is dark but not particularly menacing.  Its sinister 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 2750', is violently pure.  It nearly burns as you bring it in...nearly but not quite.  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.  Still, up here with the Smith and I, resides a certain grave spirit.

The cloud bank has grown closer, darker and perhaps 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?  Perhaps we desire a push to turn our tail and retreat south along the river to the familiarity of our home field and the comfort and security of our canvas hangar?

We ponder this question as 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 the Smith seems content to stay aloft and fuel is plentiful, I bank the wings and pick up the river that will take us home.

Three clouds, I should think, is an admirable tally for one day.

A religious experience

As the summer grew older our collective confidence increased.  While not yet relaxed, I was certainly more comfortable flying my new mount.  The Smith, while not yet completely trusting of her new jockey, allowed herself more, and longer moments of carefree aerial play.  I consider myself a grounded dreamer; completely aware of the gravity of my craft while allowing myself to believe that airplanes, while built as machines, possess a certain human aura.
I privately refer to it as a soul.  Like-minded aviators will understand my meaning.  The more secular reader may not.
When I was a young reporter, I was sent to cover the public opening of a local billionaire pilot's impressive stable of vintage airplanes.  One of my interviews was with the chief pilot and, when I asked him the absolutely asinine question of "what's it like to fly these things?" he said:
"At the risk of sounding cliche, Jonathan, it's a religious experience."
I loved the clip but did I really understand?  Was he being dramatic?
At the time, I had only just started dabbling in tailwheel flying and had less than an hour of aerobatics.  The bulk of my sparse time was in bovine Cessna products and slightly more refined Piper Cherokees.  I loved flying more than anything but, no, I don't think I understood.
I do now.
And so, as my ease grew, so too did the Smith's.  I swear that, as I slackened my grip on the stick, I could feel the tension melt out of her and fall away through the summer heat.  Her wings bit into the thin air with such a ferocity that I felt she was happy to be up here again, bobbing around in her natural element.  The propeller took greedy gulps of new air, driving us forward with each pass of its blades.  The flying wires hummed and whistled a tune in harmony with the Lycoming's bass track. The balance had been restored.  All was right with the world.
This continued as long as I kept things as they should be.
If I lingered too long while orbiting a small town and perhaps allowed the ball to wander as much as a millimeter...or if I touched down with too much speed and skipped back into the air, I could feel her bristle.  I had betrayed myself - given the Smith just enough to recall that it was no longer Al's hand guiding her but mine.
We began again, anew, each time.

The Smith and her home after a summer afternoon flight.  (Author's Collection)

This education, however, is nothing short of a love affair.
These summer days came in two variants.  The first, warm and clear under violent blue skies, prodded you into turning your face heavenward to be caressed by the outstretched hands of the golden sun.  You wore the second like a heavy, wet mantle.  These days cloaked all the world in sheets of silken mist and made the most familiar landmarks seem alien.  On such days, heavy with sweat and steam, one viewed the world as if passing through curtains hung one upon the next.
On these days, I stayed close to the field to practice take-offs and landings.  I very rarely stayed up for more than three or four circuits as the workload was high and, by virtue of the Smith's speed and gliding ability, wedged into unmercifully short periods of time.  Each one of these flights progressed in the same manner: my first landing was always tentative, the second was always a marked improvement of the first, the third was perhaps the best of them all and the fourth was so humbling it persuaded me to call it a day.  I always emerged from the Smith's cockpit soaked in sweat - as much from exertion as from the heat.

The Smith's cockpit.  (Author's Collection)

On those warm, clear days, I would pick a direction and endeavor to discover what lay on the far side of the nearest horizon.  Given our lack of a transponder, a southerly heading was ill-advised, illegal and surely upsetting to the man (or woman) moving glowing green blips around a screen deep inside the bowels of a basement bunker.  Still, that left us with the three remaining cardinal directions of North, East and West.
One one such foray east, somewhere past Orleans but not quite yet upon Rockland, a brief conversation with a good friend and aerobatic student, crept into my mind.  He'd mentioned he owned a farm house across from a large field where, years ago, he'd landed an Aeronca Champ.  I hadn't seen much of him this season owing to the fact that he'd spent the bulk of his time installing solar panels on the roof of his barn.  A thought seized me: didn't he say his place was around here somewhere?
I looked over the side and, much to my amazement, there was a large barn just under my left main wheel.  The barn's roof was covered in solar panels.  I swung my head out the other side and, with the bipe bobbing beneath me, spied a large field that was certainly suitable to land a little taildragger.
Could it be?
Had I stumbled upon this very place by accident?  And why did my memory of the conversation choose to reintroduce itself at this very moment where, high above these patchwork fields and surrounded by such beauty, I had plenty of cause of think of anything else?
As if to answer my query, my friend's red van came crawling down the long, winding, gravel lane towards the barn and farmhouse.  I swung the airplane around into a tight orbit.  Yes, it must be him - there's no denying it!  What luck!
I roll the Smith out of the turn, draw the throttle back and shed a few hundred feet as I swing around again for another pass.  The van is still now but half masked in shadow from the barn.  I am sure I can see a tiny figure far below, standing just to the side of the red van.  I imagine he's shading his eyes against the August sun, gazing up at this little airplane and its movements that seem far too precise to be chance alone.
I waggle my wings, claw into a wingover and return for another pass - again waggling my wings in greeting.  There can be no mistaking my intent.  I only hope it truly is my friend standing next to that van in the shade of the barn.
When I return to Rockcliffe and dig my phone out of my jacket, my hunch is validated by a series of enthusiastic text messages, each more flattering than the last.

The Smith, at altitude, against a beautiful blue sky.  (Picture courtesy: Charles Clark)

"You should come out and see our place!"  I'm finishing up at work, gathering my things to sneak off to the airport and steal away for a half hour in the Smith.  My colleague recently bought a lovely home in Chelsea on the shores of the Gatineau River.
"Sure," I answer, pulling out a chart.  "Show me where you are."
An hour later, the Smith and I are launching into the early evening sky above the old air force base at Rockcliffe.  We make a slight turn to the north and settle in for the climb to 1700 feet.
The Gatineau, at least today, is a Prussian blue - a wide slash through the southern extremities of the great Canadian Shield.  On either side, verdant flanks of the Gatineau Hills plunge sharply into the river's shores.  The Smith and I drone up this valley, careful to always stay within gliding distance of a field should the engine commit treason.  These fields, of which there are few in this valley, act as islands of salvation and the Smith and I alter our heading so as to hop from one to the next.
The float plane base at Chelsea crawls by.  My eyes search for my target: a dock jutting out into the river and adorned with two bright red kayaks.  I make a few passes over the dock and the house but fail to rouse any response from below.  Intent on making the most of this flight, I continue up the valley to the north - first to Chelsea and then Wakefield.
Wakefield holds a special place in my heart.  There's a fresh water spring, just outside of town, where my parents took my sister and I, nearly every weekend, to fetch water.  I remember the clang the metal trap door made when my dad threw it open and how the sound echoed down the cavernous mouth of the spring.  I remember the ferocity with which the water sprang forth and how cold it felt when my dad, with one arm wrapped around my waist, allowed me to lean forward into the void to collect some water.  I recall the drives, long and winding before the highway was built, and how we passed a number of gas stations with those old fashioned pumps.
More than two decades later, my wife and I honeymooned at the Wakefield Mill - where we ate our fill of steak frites, cheered on our football team in front of a crackling fire and spent an unforgivable sum on red wine and single malt scotch.  In the morning, with the sound of the river gasping through stands of old pines, we walked down to the village and along the old railway tracks, jumping from rotting tie to tie.  Every once in a while, my ears picked up the familiar, throaty hum of an aero engine and I would turn my face skyward and squint, searching.
Looking down now, eyes soft behind my goggles, I wonder if anyone down there is searching for me, drawn by the sound of my engine.
My eyes catch the iconic covered bridge at Wakefield.  Built in 1915 and destroyed by fire in 1984 before being rebuilt more than a decade later, it is one of the region's most photographed landmarks. From my vantage point, it appears as little more than a collection of crimson matchsticks dissecting the midnight blue slab that is the Gatineau River.
I elect to return southbound along the river and call again at my colleague's home.  After a few orbits, a figure walks down the dock towards the kayaks and stops by the river's edge.  I waggle my wings and I'm certain he's waving his arms in reply.  Another pass, another friendly dip of the wings and I rattle off for home.
The westerly flights are long, lazy tours.  They involve shooting a narrow alley between the Ottawa VOR and the communications tower crowning the ski hill at Camp Fortune before turning north west and skirting the Gatineau Hills escarpment.  These flights often include calling on the drag strip at Luskville and the now abandoned fly-in community at Pontiac before climbing and crossing the river into Ontario.  Here, eyes sharpened by the increase in general traffic, the Smith and I would ply the skies over Dunrobin Road from Constance Bay to Constance Lake before turning east for home.
For me, this is familiar territory as I've spent more than ten years flying in these parts.  However, in the Smith, I feel as though I'm viewing this landscape for the first time.  I'm always impressed by the beauty and simplicity in how the quilt of fields are stitched together. When the sun is high in the sky, the greens, browns and golds shimmer with intensity.  As the sun dips and the angle grows steeper, the field's deepen in color and seem to melt into an emerald sea with golden crests and cold, gray troughs.  The Ottawa river, snaking away to the west beyond Arnprior, reflects the sun as silver flashes off slashes of wet concrete.  The sky, hitherto such an emphatic blue, fades into a thin, endless slate.
There is a chill in the air.  A glance at the fuel gauge by my left knee convinces me to turn tail and flee for home.  Ten minutes later, back-lit by the setting sun, my wheels kiss pavement and the reverie ends for now.

Landing runway 09 at Rockcliffe after a late afternoon flight.  (Photo Courtesy Peter Szperling)

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, the great aviator and author, once wrote: "and now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye."
These are lofty words, yes, but so very simple.
From atop my perch, balanced on the wind, I have seen and understood the magnificence of our world.  If one, regardless of their leanings or persuasions, cannot see God in so much beauty then they are truly blind.

Signposts

I got my first bicycle - a gift from my godfather - for my 7th birthday.  He drove it down from Toronto in the middle of a snowstorm.  It was a Raleigh mountain bike in cherry red.  I still remember how the foam handlebar grips shrunk under my grip and then slowly returned to their original form when I let go.  It looked so new, sleek and fast.
However, there was 6 inches of snow on the ground and the mercury was moving in the wrong direction.
It was also far too big for me.
And I didn't know how to ride a bike.
So, my parents put it in the basement for the winter.  You would think that would deter me and, normally, you would be right.  I was not an adventurous child.  I was more comfortable in a library than on a sports field.  For a little boy, I put a tremendous amount of stock in not breaking things.  I was, simply put, abnormally well-behaved.
Still, something about that bike called out to me, goaded me, challenged me.  It looked fast even standing still.  Propped menacingly - almost mockingly - on its kickstand, it begged to be ridden.
One afternoon, I popped the kickstand back into its holder, wincing at the sharp sound it made, hoping no one would hear, and rolled it into the basement family room.  The spokes clicked softly, urging me onward.  I leaned the Raleigh up against the couch.  Taking a deep breath, I climbed onto the couch, then onto the bike.  Then, with a firm push off with my left foot, I took off across the basement, peddling furiously and wobbling drunkenly as I dodged the coffee table.
My first journey on two wheels ended a few seconds after it began with a crash into the love seat mercifully placed against the far wall.
I undertook a few more such journeys before the snow melted and my parents found a bike for ten bucks at a nearby garage sale.
My new ride was more my size.  It was a navy blue Canadian Tire brand relic from the 60s with stainless steel mud guards dented by falls and pockmarked by rust.  When the wheels turned, they sounded like a corroded cheese grater.  My dad had at least pumped the tires and greased the gear chains.  He added a pair of training wheels too.
At first, I took it up and down the driveway.  I didn't even try turns.  I just hammered the brakes, skittered to a stop, dismounted, dragged the bike around onto a reciprocal heading, hopped on again and aimed for the garage door.
This continued for days.  When I finally mustered the courage to try a turn, I settled on taking a right out of the driveway and down the street towards the stop sign three houses down.  I made that first turn by easing the huge, curved handlebars to the right and leaning my body into the turn so that the rust bucket was balanced precariously on one training wheel.  I'll never forget the sound - like kicking a jar full of nuts and bolts down a curved staircase.
Ah, but now the world was open to me.  I was cruising down a wide strip of asphalt that stretched to the horizon.  It was an unlimited view with unlimited possibilities.
The stop sign was now upon me and, in a rare show of bravery, I swung the handlebars to the left, leaned the bike onto the left hand training wheel and, with the sound of screaming spokes and clanging gears, swept into the turn for home.
In a few weeks, I ventured past the stop sign to the small creek a quarter mile beyond.  Then, up the hill to the main street.  After that, I attempted the same journey to the left out of the driveway.  Each ride was an adventure from which I returned older, wiser, emboldened.
One fine summer day, the right hand training wheel decided it had had enough and abandoned its post.  Whether its treachery was the result of too many right hand turns or my father's ineptitude with a spanner wrench didn't matter.  I limped back to my driveway - either balanced awkwardly on the main wheels or listing heavily to port.  Two days later, on a ride to the westernmost stop sign and back, the left hand training wheel followed its counterpart's example.  It had the decency to cling grimly to the axle, clattering along in my wavering wake.
Now, I was faced with the biggest obstacle in my young life and cycling career.  I was at least a quarter mile from the safety of my driveway.  I could either coast onto a neighbour's lawn and leap clear of my wounded mount...or press on.
I don't recall making a conscious choice but I do remember feeling things out.  I found that the faster I peddled, the easier it was to stay balanced and run straight.  More to the point, the bike was easier to control at higher speeds - needing only the slightest of touches on those ridiculously large handle bars.
And so, I set my eyes on my destination and, with the sun in my eyes and the wind in my hair, enjoyed the journey.

The Author with DSA after one of his early flights. (Author's Collection)

My early flights in the Smith were just like riding that old bike.  The signposts were much further away and the distance was measured not in mere feet but rather, in long miles...and yet, little else had changed.
At first, I wandered off to the east -  following the Ottawa River out of Rockcliffe, past Gatineau on the left wing and Orleans on the right, to that narrow strip of forest and farmer's fields just before coming upon Rockland.  Here, I would practice steep turns by tilting the airplane onto one wing and whipping it around, balancing a wingtip delicately on a farmhouse or intersection far below.  Then, as I caught my starting point creeping into the corner of my eye, I would reverse my roll, help the nose down and sweep elegantly through another orbit.
I followed the turns with lazy 8s - carving long, graceful, climbing lines into the endless skies.  Man and machine clawing heavenward, pulse quickening and the slipstream fading, to that lonely apex where wings part the horizon as a ship's prow cleaves the sea.  Then down, down, down that long, soft slope.  The earth rushes up to meet us.  The engine calls, the slipstream answers, the flying wires hum their own tune. The aviator cranes his neck around the windshield and thrusts his face into the oncoming onslaught of wind and speed and sound.  His is a stoic face, a mask of determination.  The chin is thrust forward defiantly - an immovable rock against the mighty force of God's breath.  And yet, now and suddenly, there appears a crack.  His eyes wince, a reflex, behind the safety of his goggles. The air is shockingly cool here.  The fissure deepens, the jaw softens. A deep breath is both painful and pleasant.  Now, the fissure is a fracture.  The mask of stone is chipped and broken away and the once secret smile bubbles to the surface.

The Lazy 8.  (Author's Collection)

A smooth movement of the right hand and a deft adjustment of the right boot and the earth falls away again.  Up, up and up into the crystalline blue - that intoxicating, hanging pause - and then down again.  Two thousand feet below, the solitary farmhouse acts as the unseeing fulcrum of this beautiful balancing act.
A tiny voice calls out.  It has many names but we shall call it Doubt.
"Enough fun for today," it chides.
I protest.  The sky is clear and fuel is plentiful.
An admonishing silence is my reply.
Doubt has a point.  One must not revel too long in the fancy of flight lest it make one soft, careless or neglectful.  My nerves are no longer raw from the excitement of the take off but not yet dulled to the point of ignorance. This is, after all, a new courtship and there is some merit in taking it slow.  We've had a dance or two and, thus far, no toes have been stepped on.
"Fine," I mumble.  Best to quit while I'm ahead.

Author's self portrait.  (Author's Collection)

We turn westward and ease into a dive, racing home.  In a few minutes, Rockcliffe presents itself exactly where we left it. The winds are as they were when we departed, a gentle sigh out of the west. A trio of tin can trainers ply the circuit, dutifully announcing their positions in the impossibly wide carousel.  I fit myself in as best I can, mindful of staying tight to the field but slow enough to not upset the rhythm of the pattern.
This is my fourth approach in this airplane.  The last three, upon reflection, were a random collection of single-sense snapshots. This one will prove to be very much the same.
The sound of the engine making 1700 RPM.
80 MPH on the airspeed indicator.
The comforting aroma of doped fabric.
Rockcliffe's single runway unfurled over the nose.
The clockwork ticking of my heart.
The runway falling away.
Whistling wires.
A jolt, boots jockeying rudder pedals, gloved hands moving on their own, an impressed mind behind unbelieving eyes.
Stillness.
I glance at my watch. Twenty-six minutes have passed since we switched on the engine. Truly incredible.
I never tire of the wonder I feel when I consider that we can assign such a specific number to an experience that feels like both a few ecstatic heartbeats and a wistful eternity.
The Smith, somehow, understands.  Wrapped in the rhythmic, mechanical sound of the engine ticking over is our secret.  We are beginning to understand one another.  She still has a lot to teach me and I have so much to learn but, like that old navy blue bicycle so many years ago, we have passed our first lesson.
Tomorrow, we'll add another step to this aerial dance.

Allure

Legend has it that Frank Smith designed his namesake biplane by chalking its outline on a hangar floor.  Another version has Smith sketching it out on the back of a napkin over eggs, bacon and black coffee.  It's easy to believe these stories because the airplane really does look like it was born as a chalk outline or a rough sketch.  The fuselage and tail group are welded steel tubing with wooden stringers lending shape.  The short, stubby wings are straight and flat and look like they could be built on a kitchen table.  The skin is doped fabric.  The airplane is exactly as Frank Smith intended it to be when he dreamed it up in 1956; cheap, fun and dead simple.

Author's self portrait.  (Author's Collection)

The Smith Miniplane emerged from a class of small, single-seat biplanes that included the Pitts Special and the Mong.  The Mong was built for speed and the Pitts for hard aerobatics.  The Smith falls somewhere in between the two as a fun, fuel-efficient giggle machine.  Hundreds were built in living rooms, basements and garages.  Now, there are six survivors on the Canadian Registry and only three that are flying.

You don't strap into the Smith - you wear it like an old sweater.  I often need to remind myself that C-GDSA was stretched by 6 inches from the original length of 15 feet, 3 inches.  An extra 6 inches of wingspan either side of centreline was added, builder Al Girdvainis told me jokingly, to improve the biplane's glide.

Ready to go. (Author's Collection)

Once you settle into the sanctuary of the single seat, the first thing you notice is the smell.  Old biplanes have a distinct odour - a comforting aroma of fuel, oil, varnish and dope.   It reminds me of my late grandfather's shoe store in Argentina. 

The panel is as bare bones as it gets.  Everything is within easy reach.  The stick came from a surplus CF-104 Starfighter.  The buttons once used to launch missiles or bombs now fire the starter and open a radio channel.  There's plenty of power for the 770 pound airplane with a Lycoming 0-235 pulling 115 horse power up front.  Full span ailerons give the airplane fantastic roll authority.  The bipe is a little heavy in pitch but that's easily forgiven.

The take-off roll is like trying to grab a tiger by the tail.   The relatively short distance between the tail the the wings make the airplane extraordinarily shifty in the longitudinal axis.  If you need rudder in the Smith (and you will), you'd better feed it in before you need it...otherwise, it's too late.  The end result is fit of frantic peddling from the pilot.  The cockpit floor is entirely yellow except for two small patches of shiny silver where 35 years of boots, first Al's, then mine, have worn the paint away like the relentless river smoothes a stone.

Once the wheels leave the ground, the Smith is light and lively.  The white-knuckled anxiety of the take-off run is washed away by the rush of the slipstream swirling through the cockpit, tugging at your shoulders and cloth helmet.  As the ground drops away under the twin white wings trimmed in red, it's easy to settle down.  You can fly the airplane with just two fingers.  She does exactly as asked. 

Frank Smith's specification sheet on the airplane says it climbs at 2,000 feet per minute.  I've never timed it.  The VSI, which I'm fairly certain served in World War Two, gives only three indications: level, 2,000 feet per minute up and 2,000 feet per minute down.  The compass is equally as delinquent - spinning drowsily in circles, daring the pilot to take an average and roll the dice on a heading.  I discovered very early on that I was better off following a road or shoreline than a compass heading.  There's another charming complication too - map reading is next to impossible in an open cockpit airplane.

So, one occupies oneself with getting lost at 100 miles per hour.  There's a great liberty in picking a river and following it to a little town with an old church at its centre and a collection of wilting farmhouses standing faithful guard around its perimeter.  There's a certain magic in pulling out your chart that evening, still tingling in the afterglow of flight, using a cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich as paper weights, and tracing an oil stained finger along that nameless river to that nameless town.  You might discover that you'd been there before, either by car or by airplane, and you might be shocked to realize how different it looked from that open cockpit wedged between twin wings.  You've never seen greens, golds, cobalts and rusts until you've seen them from a thousand feet, slowly wheeling around fabric wings that quiver in the early evening rush of air.  That feeling of wonder and admiration never fades, never grows old.  It stays with you until it's replaced by another.  Only then is it stitched into an ever-growing quilt of memory and experience.

At a certain point, an unseen hand guides you home; one last orbit of that town shimmering in the summer heat, a gentle turn to follow the river that carried you here, a dip of the wing or an s-turn every so often to see ahead.  You might be Bishop or Barker, Richtofen or Voss patrolling the western front in 1917. An enormous airliner slides overhead, ruining the reverie.  It must be thousands of feet above, although it's still so big it threatens to blot out the sun.  All 250 souls are completely unaware of your existence and that suits you just fine.

The little river bleeds into a bigger river and you roll into a sweeping right turn for home.  The flying wires sing a different tune with a slight discord.  A little less right rudder and the orchestra of wind and wires resumes its happy hum.  A quick glance reveals them to be trembling in harmony. 

As your home field crawls out of the glare of the low sun, there's a nervous shuffle of the feet.  The nose waggles from side to side in response.  This is necessary because the final approach in the Smith is akin to riding a baby grand piano down a water slide at 85 miles an hour - blindfolded. 

In fact, there's a guy in the States selling his Smith right now.  His advertisement reads:

"I'm 70 years old and I want to land slower."

Turning a long final for Rockcliffe.  (Author's Collection)

I keep circuits as tight to the field as possible and fly a carving approach from base to final at 100 miles per hour.  The Smith bleeds off energy easily so that I'm able to slow to 85 with 1700 rpm on as I drop over the trees towards the runway.  The airplane swoops into the flare, sunlight crashing through the propeller's disk and I push my head all the way aft against the headrest.  Blind out the front, I use peripheral vision to keep the airplane straight and centred on the runway.  As I slowly pull the power back, the speed spills from the wings and the little bipe settles onto the asphalt with a skip and a hop.  My feet resume their familiar dance.

It's a joy to fly the Smith but the possibility of sharing it is just as rewarding.  It is, after all, the same airplane that sparked my love of flight as a toddler and so I won't miss a chance to get a youngster into the cockpit.  For even the most seasoned pilot, however, the airplane has a magnetic draw.  Three or four new friends come by to introduce themselves and have a look each time I roll it out of the hangar.  Only one in four correctly identifies it as a Smith yet every one of them smiles as they poke their head inside the cockpit, or run a hand across the button nose or pluck at a flying wire.

When they walk away, there's a lightness in their gait.  I like to think the little bipe awakened something in them, a primal love of flight or a sense of wonder not unlike the one that convinced Wilbur and Orville to quit building bicycles and try their hand at airplanes.

Flying a "beat-up" of the field at Rockcliffe. (Photo Courtesy: Peter Szperling)

For me, there's nothing quite like flying a single seat biplane.  When the goggles come down and the left hand goes forward, it's just you and the airplane. 

There is no greater freedom. 

There is no greater escape.