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.