Wingman III

Author's note: The following was written and posted to Facebook immediately following the flight on August 2nd, 2016.  My notes are as follows: Form w/ C. Ricci and M. Bedard in Champ C-FILL. NW to Wakefield & back. Beautiful sunset, flew as wing, returned in twilight, low pass. Gorgeous.
From those hastily scribbled notes, I penned the following.



The northwestern horizon is awash in fire as we climb. The sky above is nearly white, washed out by the sun’s brilliant fantail. Against this background, a 1946 Aeronca Champ emerges first as a shadow and, as I get closer, takes on her natural appearance. White with light blue trim and royal wingtips. I slot the Smith in on the right wing, perhaps 15 feet distant, and call that I’m on station. A nod from the pilot, a slight rock of the wings from the airplane.

Joining up on the Champ with the Gatineau River in the background. (Photo courtesy: Martin Bedard)

We follow the river upstream. The face of the Gatineau is wide, flat and, oddly, nearly black in color. The hills, through which it threads its way northwest, shield it from the rays of the setting sun. Below, the crickets have begun their song and the warmth is already leaking from the early evening air. Aloft, we plow onward, sliding along an invisible plain with nary a ripple.
Formation flying is hard work. My movements of stick, rudder and throttle are barely perceptible but constant. My eyes never leave the leader. And yet, while I’ve no idea of our precise physical location, I’m suddenly aware of the sheer beauty of this image and overcome with a desire to share it. I jabber on the radio, equal parts excitement and incredulity, about the spectacle unfolding before us.  

Champ India-Lima-Lima northwest bound into the sunset. (Author's Collection)

And then I fall silent. The Champ has drifted in front of the sun as the great star, a violent magenta now, begins to dip below the distant horizon. The light leaks through the Champ’s cabin, refracting into every conceivable colour at once and backlighting the pilot and backseat passenger. The air around the little ship’s exhaust pipes shimmers and roils. The white wings, fabric taut over 70-year-old spruce ribs, take on a rosy hue. Here, framed between the wings and wires of this little biplane, is an image that is for me and me alone. No photograph or painting would capture it just so – as I see it now.  
With a final crimson gasp, the sun sinks below the horizon. The sky, save for a silken thread of yellow and orange lying atop the horizon, is a uniform gray. The Champ dips her left wing and starts a turn to the southeast. The Smith and I follow.
As we roll out, the last light of this August evening spills over my shoulders and dances across my instrument panel. Below, the valley is still, quiet and dark. Beyond, on the distant horizon, the lights of the city wink on, seemingly one by one, to guide us home.

Wingman II

At some point in 2015, a pudgy little Aeronca Champ appeared on the field and settled into a tie-down in the north-west sector of the airport.  White with two-tone blue trim, fat tires and chrome hubcaps, she was a fine example of the '46 vintage and, like the Smith, the only one of her kind at Rockcliffe.
Pilots of a certain vintage have a great affection for the Champ.  It's easy to understand why.  Most pilots who learned to fly between the end of the second world war and the early 70s would have trained in a Champ - and typically out of small airfields that featured at least one grass runway.  The mere sight of the little taildragger evokes intense emotions associated with youth, the excitement of that first solo flight and the promise of learning.

Stunt pilot Sammy Mason flying a slalom course between pines near Santa Paula, California in the late 40s.  Note the aileron deflection.  Mason went to a storied aviation career as an instructor and test pilot - which included being Steve McQueen's flight instructor. (Photo Courtesy: allposters.com)

If you ask an old hand, they'll tell you the Champ is a charming airplane.  It's true that they are not particularly fast (snail-like, in fact) and don't do any one thing particularly well.  However, they're forgiving and docile - a real sweetheart of an airplane that is simply a lot of fun to fly. 
The Rockcliffe Flying Club began operations with a fleet of Aeronca Champs so the airfield has a deep and powerful connection to the type.  I'll admit that the first time I saw India-Lima-Lima climb away from runway 09, chugging away in a valiant effort to clear the trees at the end of the field, it truly did feel like I was gazing through a window in time.

Champ Juliet-Uniform-Quebec on the take-off roll down runway 09 at Rockcliffe in the mid 60s. (Photo Courtesy: Rockcliffe Flying Club)

Champ November-Mike-Yankee, one of the Club's first Champs - mid 60s.  (Photo Courtesy: Rockcliffe Flying Club)

When I became a flying member of the Rockcliffe Flying Club in late 2002, its fleet consisted of five Cessna 172s and two 150s and Simon Garrett was the Chief Flying Instructor.  Flight instruction is unique in that it is the key to the health and safety of air transportation and yet it's the permanent resident of the dank basement of flying jobs.  That, and its practitioners are usually poorly paid for long, grueling hours sitting next to students who are seemingly hell bent on killing them.  And while the risks are sometimes quite severe, the non-monetary rewards are astronomically soul-nourishing.  Simon is one of a rare breed of "career" instructors - individuals who managed to stay alive long enough to eke out something of a living and truly live to create, foster and champion pilots of all kinds, regardless of their aspirations.  I'm not sure I've met a more generous and dedicated teacher and mentor.
In mid 2015, Simon moved on to new challenges and, in August, the club hired a new CFI to succeed him.  Like Simon, Chris Ricci drew his energy from the inherent promise of the job.  Like me, while a relatively young man, he has much of the old school in him and a marked affinity for the beauty and simplicity offered by taildraggers, aerobatics, formation, ski-flying and the like.  It didn't take long for Chris to seek out the Champ's owners and work out an agreement - flight instruction in return for the use of the airplane, plus gas.
On Chris' list of goals was an aerobatic instructor rating.  As the club's only aerobatic instructor pilot, it fell to me to help get him there.  Whenever time and money allowed, we shoehorned ourselves into the Super D and began building on his existing experience in aerobatics.  Aviation, and in particular an aerobatic airplane, is a crucible wherein friendships are formed or rendered inert.  One needs little time to discover which it will be.  With Chris, it was clear that we would get along.

Charlie Miller's Champ CF-GRN while under Charlie's care.  (Photo Courtesy: Charlie Miller)

And so, the Smith had a nicely matched and historic dancing partner in the Champ.  After all, my dad had flown one at Collingwood in preparation to solo in Fox-Alpha-Mike and before that, Charlie Miller had purchased one, sight unseen, as a stable mate for the Smith.  My dad wasn't fortunate enough to have a formation partner but Charlie had Gord and now, I had Chris.
And so, on a shockingly cool July evening, Chris and I sit under the cover of the canvas hangar and brief a quick formation flying trip.  Above, a blanket of stratocumulus - an ugly, grey and swirling morass - slides by at a decent clip.  Just outside, we can hear the windsock straining against its metal bracket.
"Hey," Chris said, more or less reading my mind.  "At least it's straight down the pipe."
About fifteen minutes later, the Smith and I climb out of runway 09 at Rockcliffe and turn left to follow the Ottawa River west.  As soon as we level out at circuit height, I throttle back to allow the slower Champ, which climbs at a speed barely faster than we stall, to catch up.

It takes Chris and the Champ a few miles but, by the time we're rounding the southern end of the Gatineau Hills and entering the practice area, they slide into position off our right wings.  Afraid to tear my eyes away from the path ahead, I quickly glance over to make sure all is well.  As if reading my mind, Chris gives me a curt nod.  Eyes front again, busying myself with the duties of a flight leader.

Heading north-west towards Luskville with the Smith leading the Champ, July 2016.  (Photo Courtesy: Chris Ricci)

In short order, we discover that our 90 miles per hour translates into about 85 for them - and that this is a good formation flying speed.  We've climbed to two thousand feet in the hopes that the ride would be smoother higher up.  It isn't so and every so often the invisible wind slams against our brave little formation.  There's little to do than stick out our chins and clench our jaws in defiance.  On the wing, Chris and the Champ cling on grimly, bouncing up and down in the onrushing current. 

The sky is uniformly grey and the land below it is equally sallow.  The Ottawa River, now off to our left and meandering north towards a sharp turn at Pontiac, is of similar complexion save for a few shimmering bands that betray the light leaking through the overcast.  Despite it being the height of summer, it's damn cold up here.
I inhale sharply and do a quick scan of the instrumentation; speed 90, altitude 2050', engine gauges green.  A glance at the drunken compass provokes a chuckle before I focus again on the outside world for other traffic. 
"Lead, two," Chris' voice crackles in my ears.  The Champ doesn't have an alternator so the radio draws off the battery.  We limit voice communication for this reason.  "Going echelon left."
"Lead," I acknowledge. 
I glance over as the Champ seems to back away slowly and then sink out of sight below my tail.  It's unnerving, not having eyes on the Champ, but I rely on trust and focus on keeping my flying as precisely steady as my abilities allow.  Moments later, the Champ resurfaces on the left wings.  Another nod from Chris.

C-GDSA as lead in July 2016.  (Photo Courtesy: Chris Ricci)

Charlie Miller at the controls of C-FFAM in her original livery, formed up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, summer 1978.  This is a screen shot from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt. (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

We push on as far as Luskville before angling towards the escarpment to open up a wide turn to the left.  Chris masterfully keeps station on the inside wing as I guide the formation back towards Rockcliffe. 
Despite the gravity and seriousness of the flight, it truly is great fun.  I can't help but think of Charlie Miller and Gordon Skerratt who, in two Smith Miniplanes and armed only with caps, goggles and one chart between them, set off to discover Ontario.  Neither ship had a radio, so they communicated solely by hand signals and navigated using only a moistened thumb and a map.  As Charlie describes it:


 I find out where I am, touch my tounge with a gloved finger and then press my finger against the map.  It leaves a telltale spot.  On a hot day, by the time it evaporates, I know I am about five minutes from where I was...and therefore not too lost.


On one such memorable hop - a contour flying, nape-of-the-earth formation flight in the Muskokas - they crested a small hill hiding a lake where they came upon and surprised two lovers fornicating in a canoe.  In Charlie's words:


Flat out in ground effect, both of us locked on target, our canoe comes into focus. What also comes into focus is that there are two legs, kind of pointing up and out and a white something round in between. As we both pull up and looked over the cockpit edges we see a naked guy and a equally dressed well-endowed young woman trying to wave and scramble to keep the canoe right side up at the same time. Well, based on that sight I knew we were still in cottage country.

In all my communications with Charlie, there's an obvious undercurrent of nostalgia but also pride...in that his adventures in FAM are, in a large way, responsible for the flight Chris and I are enjoying today.  It's all the more meaningful when you consider that, had my dad not purchased FAM from Charlie nearly 30 years ago, this flight and everything it represents simply wouldn't be. 
It's an undeniable and powerful thread as real and tangible as the one keeping the Champ firmly anchored on the Smith's wings. 
It's about a quarter to 9 in the evening by the time our little two-ship formation arrives overhead Rockcliffe.  The last of the light is leaking through the gaps in the overcast, which, where thickest, has become almost black. 
"Low and over?" Chris asks.
"Good idea," I respond. 
We begin a wide and gradual, descending spiral to shed altitude.  The wind has died off somewhat so the abrupt jolts are fewer and further between.  Chris keeps station beautifully as we round out onto final approach and sweep across the field in formation.  My radio calls and the combined clatter of our engines has attracted a small group to the runway's edge to witnesses our "beat-up."  As the end of the field approaches, I go to full throttle and peel away to the north.  Chris maintains runway heading to allow me the space and time to rejoin the circuit, land and taxi clear. 
No canoes or coitus but great fun all the same.
A few minutes later, having cleared landed and cleared at taxiway Bravo, I'm using the light of the radio to jot down notes.  Over the swishing of the prop, I hear Chris call short final for runway 09 and glance up to see the Champ's silhouette glide in over the western fence.  Suddenly, it appears to stop in mid-air, seemingly hovering only inches above the runway - before dropping onto all three points.  The wings rock slightly as the little Champ slows to a brisk jog and then a walking pace.
Chris taxies off and, once again, sidles up next to the Smith.  I raise my hand in greeting.  He and his mount appear only as a silhouette, backlit by last light of a dying day, but I can tell he's smiling at the promise of a new tradition.

Transmissions

It's late on a Tuesday evening in May - likely around 8:00pm as I recall scribbling down "1954" as our time up.  We're gliding east along the south shore of the Ottawa River - our usual route with the sun at our back.  The Gatineau Airport is off the left wing, on the opposite shore, and entertaining only a pair of training flights practicing take-offs and landings.

Getting ready to depart Rockcliffe on a May evening.  (Author's Collection)

"Gatineau Radio, good evening.  Smith Miniplane Golf Delta Sierra Alpha with you, one-two-two decimal three - no transponder."
"Delta Sierra Whisky, Gatineau Radio.  Good evening."
It's likely a slip of the tongue as DSW was one of the old Aviation 550 172s based at Gatineau years ago.
"It's Delta Sierra Alpha.  Local flight - eastbound, south shore Ottawa river, one point seven."
"Roger," comes the reply.  "Report clear of the zone to the east."
It's a smooth evening - nary a ripple in the sea aloft - but hazy.  The horizon is undefined, bloated by humidity and tinged a smoky golden color by the low-slung sun.  Orleans crawls backwards underneath our wings.

Rockcliffe on May 24, 2016 - flight number 100 in the Smith. (Author's Collection)

This is my hundredth flight in the Smith.  It feels like that first heart-thumping flight and near disastrous landing at Brampton happened a lifetime ago when, in fact, it's been two years less two weeks.  Time is a funny thing.
I feel safe up here - despite the inherent dangers of flying.  In this cockpit, perhaps more than most, life is beautifully simple.  It's measured in miles per hour, feet per second, gallons per hour... The mechanics of flying are so ridiculously easy that one wonders why more won't take it up.   Then again, perhaps it is a blessing after all.  Having spent time aloft, one grows jealously protective and, while happy to admit guests to this inner sanctum, would prefer fewer permanent residents.              
For me, the sky has always been an escape.  I don't mean that in the sense that I'm running away from anything but rather, life is easier to manage when one has even but a momentary respite.
My father's death hit me harder than anything else I'd faced in my life - before or since.  I don't mean to say that my marriage or the birth of our son was of less impact but I was able to live it emotionally. That wasn't the case with Dad's passing.  Everything that followed happened so quickly and with such cold severity that I could do nothing but flip a switch and function purely on autopilot.   I grieved later and in my own way.  This blog and what I hope it becomes is an extension of that grief.
If someone asks, I'll honestly tell them that I don't like visiting my father's grave.  If pressed as to why, I'll confess that I don't think it holds anything of him, anything of worth at least. It's why I feel closer to him in the air, than I do on the ground.  It's why I insisted on having his Smith engraved on the crypt's plaque.  It's the reason for the airplane I'm sitting in, two thousand feet above the earth.

The engraving of Foxtrot-Alpha-Mike on my dad's plaque.  (Photo Courtesy: Author's Collection)

My dad worked long hours and often arrived home exhausted.  Naps were common after dinner.  As a little boy, I remember watching his chest rise and fall and, for some reason, worrying about what I would do if this breath was his last.  In the same vein, I would kneel on the couch that backed onto the large front window of my childhood home and wait for his car to pull into the driveway.  Sometimes, I would walk out to the end of the driveway and wait for headlights to appear at each end of the street then hurry back inside, hoping those two beams of light would illuminate the house rather than continue past.
I can't explain it and I don't think I've mentioned this to anyone...but I always felt as though my dad was living on borrowed time.
In a way, we all are.  It's an ugly proposition.
"Delta Sierra Alpha, Gatineau Radio," the voice of the flight service specialist crackles in my ears.  It's a welcome interruption.
"You're cleared en route.  Have a good flight."
So we are.  I glance over the canopy lip and see the ferries at Cumberland.
"So long," I reply.
I guide the little ship into a slight right turn to the south-east towards JP's farm.  A few orbits fail to solicit a response so we head further south into our favoured patch of farmer's fields.  Here, I throw the airplane around a bit, just for the fun of it.  After about ten minutes, we turn west again for home.
The sun is beginning to set.  The Ottawa River is a mirror - placid and flat and reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors filtered by the haze choking the horizon.  The suns rays bounce off the surface of the river and, like a skipping stone, set off a series of sparks - dots and dashes.
My dad did his national military service as an army Marconista - a wireless operator for a tank battalion - and he'd taught me some Morse code.  When I was perhaps 7 or 8 years old, he wrote the entire alphabet and numbers on a piece of lined paper and we went over a few letters every weekend after breakfast.

A dying sun.  (Author's collection)

The bursts of flight being thrown up at us by the surface of the river are not unlike those dots and dashes or di(t) and dah, as my dad put it.
I remember some but not nearly enough...
...di-di-di-dit - easy, an H.
...di-dah-dah-dah - J, or a misreading of Y.
...dah-dah - M, or was it dah-dit - N?
Is it gibberish - my trying to find meaning in chaos?  Or is the dying sun sending us a message?  It's fantasy, surely, but an intriguing idea.  At any rate, the flashes occur with the speed and breadth of a meteor shower and, while beautiful, it's impossible to decipher what, if anything, is being sent.

I've had a few dreams about my dad since he passed - but nothing like the waking reverie I'm having now.  I want to believe in an afterlife or, at least, that our loved ones still exist in one form or another. Perhaps this is a sign.  At the very least, it's something to hold on to.
As the sun falls below the horizon, the earth darkens and the sky changes.  The great telegraph key falls silent with a final burst and whatever light remains reflects golden off the underside of the top wings.

Heading home at dusk. (Author's collection)

It was a long winter and while I've made perhaps a dozen flights so far this season, tonight's was my dad's first "visit" of the year.  It was for me alone and it's difficult to describe.  What I saw this evening proves, at least to me, that he isn't in the mausoleum, behind that granite plaque.  He's up here with me, in a single-seat biplane.
Tonight, it's obvious - and I see it as plainly as I can count the ribs in the Smith's wings.  Tonight, I took a few minutes back.

...di-di-di-dah-di-dah...

Wingman

The sun has only just risen over the horizon on a cool May morning as I push through the door of a local coffee shop.  There's a jingle of a bell as I walk into the warmth and light.  As you would expect, the air smells of fresh coffee grounds and warm pastry - an invigorating scent given I've only just risen myself.

I order my usual morning brew with two milk and one cream - repeating it twice because it's apparently an odd request - and, cradling the cup in both hands, shuffle over to a table in the corner where my two compatriots are huddled around an aviation chart.  I sit down and take that first tentative sip.  They often mistakenly add sugar but no, this cup is as advertised.
I look down at the chart unfolded before us.  I love maps - all maps really - perhaps because of the promise of adventure they represent or the artistry lovingly invested in depicting three dimensions in only two.  I suppose I'm not unique among pilots as this is a sentiment often shared, albeit in whispers and somewhat in embarrassment.
The chart before us has seen heavy use.  Its corners are curled and its creases are prominent and deep.  It has helped chart many flights as evidenced by the faint remnant pencil marks of course and drift lines, checkpoints and alternates.  I know, without looking, that it is certainly out of date and therefore its use likely runs contrary to one regulation or another.  Today's flight, as most of mine are, is a local one and we know the airspace well.  Truth be told, open cockpit flying with a chart is comically nightmarish and I only use one if the territory is unfamiliar.  As such, our veteran chart's role is to help plan out the morning's activities rather than to guide us. 
We use our coffee cups as paperweights.  Mist rises from the face of each mug as our movements - poking a town with a finger or using a fingernail to trace a course - cause ripples in the liquid.  As the level of coffee in our mugs drops, we sink deeper into briefing this morning's formation flight - rendezvous point, frequencies, speeds, join procedure, break-off contingencies, safety considerations and so on. 
Once all parties are satisfied, the final dregs are drained and we trudge together into the brightening morning - unique among our peers by promising to meet again in the sky.
An hour later, the Smith and I are clattering east across Orleans - the buckles of my leather helmet slapping against my cheeks and the wind rough against my face.  My goggles are up and my eyes are narrow - searching for my friends.  Their mount is a Cessna 172, white with green and blue cheat lines, and it should be at my ten o'clock position by about a mile.
After some searching, I pick out the shape of the Cessna.  It's surprising as I've been staring straight at it for the last several moments.
"Tally-ho!" I joyously bellow into the current of the air rushing by - head thrown back, grinning like a fool.  I've always wanted to say that on an open channel.  One day I might work up the courage.


 Taken on July 14, 2010, this might be one of my favourite pictures.  Myself and Garrett Watkiss in Grob 115C C-GKPB as number 2 with Mark Psutka in Citabria C-FTSP as number 3.  The lead ship is a Cessna 172.  Within months of this picture being taken, all three of us had moved on to other flying jobs.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

I key my mic and ask for my leader to slow down and begin a slight turn to the right so that I may close the distance.  A few minutes later, I slide into echelon right position - to the right and slightly behind the Cessna.  From this point onward, we will be one.
This business is life and death and our currency in the exchange is trust.  The leader trusts his wingman to not chew his tail off and the wingman trusts his leader to not lead them into the ground.  My eyes do not leave the Cessna.  My hands and feet work the stick, rudder and throttle to keep the Smith balanced in position.  Turns to the inside are relatively easier - requiring the wingman to slow down - while outside turns are much harder, as the wingman must put his boots to the flanks of his mount to keep pace.

Another shot from the same series.  Note the Grob's canopy latch is open to allow greater airflow.  I remember it as a very warm day.  (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

My early experience with formation flying was with two highly experienced pilot chums of mine - and almost always as lead, which is arguably the easier role.  In recent years, I'd acquired training on flying the wing position.

It's no secret that I've been obsessed with airplanes and aviation in general since before I could say so but viewing another airplane in flight is nothing short of surreal.  On the ground, they're simply a machine but once in the air, even a old girl of homely countenance becomes quite the belle - a carrier of dreams.  From the ground, two ships in formation appear held together by a string - rigid and unmoving relative one another.  In the air, the opposite is in fact true.  They glide along the invisible current of air, bobbing up and down and rolling right to left like two small sailboats racing across the sea.




Closing in on the lead. Judging from the farm at lower left of frame, this was taken just south of Cumberland. (Photo courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

A still frame of FAM, flown by Charlie Miller and in her original livery, forming up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, 1978.  This is a still from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt.  (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

And, of course, there's a thin line between fascination and terror.  My first experience seeing another airplane in such close proximity to mine, and by blood chilling accident, happened nearly 15 years ago at an airport not far from here.  As a result of a series of unhappy coincidences and oversights by the flight service specialist, the other pilot and myself, a Diamond Katana ended up flying its circuit inside mine - so that we both turned final in formation and completely unaware of the other.  When I did finally spy the interloper, he was to my right and slightly below, in a gentle right bank.  It was beautiful to behold - white with blue trim, propeller as a translucent disc, exhaust pipes belching, rivets forming neat little lines, a smudge of oil. 

It felt as though an eternity had passed before the tide of terror began to rise.  I turned left, away from the danger, and executed two full circles.  I called the tower to let them know and sounded calm enough.  Out of the second orbit, I rejoined the approach and landed without incident.  The plan had been to taxi off, shut down and allow my backseat passenger to ride up front for the return leg to Rockcliffe.  I barely made it to the bathroom before retching until my insides ached.  It took a quarter of an hour for my hands to stop shaking.


One of my favourite pictures of the Smith in flight - this is near Wendover on the Ottawa River.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Hundreds of hours later and with now with well-coordinated purpose, flying this close to another airplane is both a wondrous and heavy business.  The concept itself is beautifully simple.  I've lined up the Cessna's nose wheel and right main and kept them in position by small adjustments in throttle and equally precise and constant movements of stick and rudder.  As long as these features remain motionless, I know that my position relative to the leader has not changed. 

Line abreast right with the Gatineau Hills in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

Formation flying was born in the Great War when larger, slower and poorly armed reconnaissance planes were shepherded along by a more agile and better armed fighter.  In time, as tactics became more refined, fighter pilots came to learn that flying in coordinated groups offered them both better protection and greater offensive capability - in short, a formation cut down their losses and increased their victories.  Given these machines lacked radios, communication was carried out with pre-determined hand signals or movements of the airplane itself, such as a wag of the rudder or the rocking of wings.  Recognizing one another was not a difficult task either - the Allies tied streamers to the struts of aircraft flown by flight leaders while the Central Powers, led by Germany, allowed their pilots to paint their ships in loud, heraldic schemes.
In the Second World War, the British favoured the three-ship, v-shaped vic which looked great in parade fly-pasts but had little tactical advantages.  The Americans opted for the four-ship diamond formation, placing the least experienced pilot in the number 4 tail-end-Charlie position - which did little for their already limited life expectancy.  The German Condor Legion developed the finger-four - so called because, when viewed from above, it resembled the four fingertips of the right hand - during the Spanish Civil War and the Luftwaffe used it with continued success into the great conflict that followed.  By war's end, nearly all air forces were using the finger-four against them.

Following the war, formation flying was employed in aerobatics - perhaps the ultimate pinnacle of high-stakes precision flying.

Showing off her "clean" biplane lines.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna and the Smith are employing the basic two-ship element of leader and wingman.  We are not ideally suited dancing partners as the bigger Cessna, while seemingly ungainly, is the faster aircraft.  Her pilot has throttled back to slow cruise so that the draggy biplane clinging to her wing can do so without straining her own engine.  As my eyes are fixed solidly upon my leader, who remains relatively steady, I'm not immediately aware that we are hurtling across the countryside at appreciable speed.  This is why any changes must be predictably and smoothly executed by the lead pilot.  If, at any time, they are lulled by the flying into thinking they are quite alone, the results could be catastrophic. 
At times, I am vaguely aware of where we are by the glimpse of a familiar island in the river or a quilt-like patchwork of fields I know to be near a certain town or another.  I am, however, largely ignorant of our position until the leader calls to spread out the formation.  I slide away to the right, perhaps doubling my distance from the lead, and am finally in a position to have a look around.  We're south-east of Orleans, west of Navan, and heading east.
We've been flying for nearly an hour and I've settled into enjoying the close quarters work.  I feel similar to how I did when I first started learning aerobatics.  The promise of this new challenge and skill building is as invigorating as this morning's cup of coffee.

Waving goodbye with Orleans in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessna waggles her wings and breaks away to the south for home.  I raise my gloved had in farewell and make a slight course correction to the right for Rockcliffe.  We promise to meet later to debrief the flight, perhaps over lunch or a second cup of coffee.
I watch the Cessna fade away in the murk lying upon the horizon, silently wish them a happy return and turn my attention to my own.

Breaking off.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)



Chocks away!

The winter wasn't particularly long but it certainly was temperamental.  Temperatures could spike to just above freezing level before plummeting to well colder than -20 or 25C overnight or into the next day.  The Smith resides in a steel tube "temporary" hangar anchored into the old tarmac and covered with canvas.  The ground isn't terribly level and so any snow melt would run off into the back and far corners and then freeze solid when the temperature dropped.  By January, the Smith's wheels and two of the Decathlon's three points were stuck fast in about two inches of ice.
I had plugged the Smith's exhaust pipes and cowling openings as well as covered her with a tarp.  Still, I visited about once a week to ensure everything was in order and to wipe off any snow that had managed to invade the shelter of the hangar.
In late March, the weather began to improve and temperatures climbed high enough for us to pull the Smith out and get her ready for her third season under my care.

March 29, 2016. Warming up the Smith after her winter hibernation.  My friend Bojan Arambasic is in the cockpit.  While I trust him, note the chocks on each wheel. (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

My friends Ernie and Bojan joined me to help get the Smith ready.  We carefully removed the tarp and rags prohibiting access to the Smith's innards.  We returned the battery, which I'd kept at home and periodically charged over the winter, to its place behind the pilot's seat.  It's an awkward maneuver that, while it can be done singlehandedly, really should be carried out with two sets of hands.  Still, we managed to touch some sheet metal with a terminal - resulting in a shower of sparks and some exciting moments.  After replacing the pilot's seat and giving the airplane a thorough walk-around, we rolled her out into the sunshine for the first time in nearly 5 months.  Bojan climbed in and, with my help, fired her up.  The Lycoming caught on the third turn of the prop and settled into her familiar throaty rumble.




Hanging out in a luxurious hangar and ready to go for 2016. (Author's Collection)

The next week, Pat and I did an oil and oil filter change, swapped out brake cylinder gaskets and refilled the brake fluid.  It was brutally cold and we worked in the warmth and comfort of the club's maintenance hangar.  When I started up to taxi back to the hangar, a colleague passed me in the 150.

"Jon," the radio crackled.  "You going up?"

"Good lord, no," I replied, laughing as I brought one hand up to cup my breath against my face.  "I'd freeze solid halfway through the take-off roll."

The day finally came on Saturday, April 16th.  I had flown a pair of instructional trips in the Super D and had my last time slot open.  It was warm enough that I could get away with long underwear, a pair of track pants and my orange hooded sweatshirt.  After a few taxi runs to remind my feet of their duties, I lined up to depart on runway 27.
There wasn't much wind and yet the take off run seemed shorter than usual - as though the little biplane had had enough of her winter hiatus.  She leapt off the ground and I held her in ground effect to build speed.  Then, with brisk back pressure on the old jet fighter's stick, we clattered up and to the right and into the departure climb.
It was a severe clear day with very light winds.  I flew with my goggles to shield my eyes from the lashing of the slipstream and propeller blast.  We flew east along the south shore of the Ottawa River, called upon Gatineau to announce the start of our season, and continued across Orleans towards the ferry crossing at Cumberland.  Here, we turn south-east, made a few orbits or JP's farm and continued south towards a clear patch of fields with lovely grid lines characteristic of south-eastern Ontario.
Dutch rolls are a coordination exercise where the pilot endeavours to hold the propeller hub steady on a point while rolling the wings left and right.  In most airplanes, there's a natural and undesirable tendency to yaw opposite the roll and so a fair amount of pro-roll rudder is needed.  This is called adverse yaw.  In the Smith, however, there's very little - so Dutch rolls are a joy.  You can slam the stick one way or the other and the biplane will gleefully roll her stubby wings in the desired direction while keeping her nose faithfully on point.
We began with this exercise just to shake off the cobwebs before moving into steep turns and then lazy-eights.  Steep turns are easy in the biplane - roll in and then back pressure to keep the cowling at the desired angle against the horizon.  A glance down at the low wing reveals that the airplane is perfectly balanced on a wingtip, as the earth - deep browns, wet greens and steely greys, whirls below.
I lessen the bank angle, increase aft stick and the Smith leaves the steady plane of the turn and bounds upward in to a chandelle - a climbing, 180-degree turn so called because the airplane follows a trajectory akin to the flame of a candle.  Due to her high drag, the Smith bleeds energy like nothing else and, as we finish the maneuver, she flops into level flight again and dips her nose.
As the airspeed builds, a quiver passes through the airframe.  The wires buzz and whine - the sound building in intensity, hand in hand with our velocity along this downward slope.  The bellow of the slipstream now overpowers the Lycoming's low moan.  Brisk aft stick now - needing far more muscle than any aileron movement would.  The Smith lifts her nose, the horizon falls away and we roll left as we continue to claw skyward.  My left hand moves forward and the Lycoming roars in response.  The horizon slides into view again - our wings cleaving it neatly in two.
And then, life slows down, inching, crawling to a near stop.  It's quiet - although the engine is emphatically pushing out 2500 rpm.  The wires are still, glinting mischievously in the sun.  I can hear my heart thumping in my head. 
I've reached this apex many a time and each visit, it feels like I'm here a little longer.
The horizon slides up and we're accelerating earthward again.  Left hand back, lest we offend the provider of thrust.  I slowly roll out - aiming for a green-roofed farm house and silo with a red and white starburst dome.  I imagine I am Coppens, pressing home one of 35 successful attacks on First World War barrage balloons; or McCudden, moments before shooting up a trench; or Voss, doubling back in attack against a hapless foe. 
We vault upwards again and out of the reverie.  My breathing is laboured but my mind, hands and feet do not betray any rust from nearly 5 months away.
The landing will be the true test and, as we return to the field across the suburb of Orleans, I resolve to bail out of the approach at the first hint of dissatisfaction. 
It seems like mere moments before we're joining the circuit at Rockcliffe and setting up for the first landing of 2016.  Things happen fast - as they always do in the Smith - and I hear Andrew Boyd's voice again.
"Flying these things is easy," his voice clear in my headset as we're about to turn final at Smiths Falls.  "It's fitting into the circuit that's hard."

Landing Runway 27 in the Smith.  C170 C-GOAW and C172 C-GYWN are holding short. (Photo courtesy: Chuck Clark)

As is my habit, I lift the left wings to make sure I'm not going to cut off another airplane already established on the final approach, and then turn inbound - still in descent.  I add a bit of nose up trim for 85 mph and throttle back to 1700 rpm.  It won't be much longer now.  Everything is as it should be. 
The trees reach up from the copse short of the runway then the perimeter road slides by, followed by the airport fence.  The brownish-green carpet of grass suddenly turns to grey asphalt.  White stripes race by. I tilt my head back and start the first of many "mini-flares" - very small aft movements of the stick meant to maintain the landing attitude.  As the speed bleeds away, I slowly bring the throttle back.  The Smith begins to sink and the asphalt reaches up to meet us.
There is a moment, right about now, where I find myself wondering what kind of landing this will be.  I've done everything by the book and the result should be as placid and straightforward as the approach I've just painstakingly executed.  Alas, there are no guarantees and anything can happen.
On this particular approach, I've lined things up well and the Smith rolls out straight and true with only occasional rudder input from her pilot.  It's the first of what I hope to be many happy landings this season. 
I only know one thing with any degree of certainty - no two will be alike.

Reflections

As the 2015 season wound down and the mercury began to settle, my flying hours diminished in kind.  I had set a goal of 50 hours on the season and was closing in on that mark.  I was working full time again - first, for the Department of National Defense on a communications contract and later, a full-time role in media relations with the country's housing agency.  I was settling into the constantly changing role of being a father as our son was nearly 9 months old and becoming more active with every passing day.  I was still somewhat busy on the Super Decathlon - seeing a healthy mix of tailwheel and aerobatic students - but there was a marked slowdown there as well.
The Smith had lost the right hand tail wheel steering spring again - only in far less a dramatic fashion at a lower speed at the end of the landing roll.  At Charlie Miller's suggestion, we swapped the extant tension type springs for compression or drawbar springs.  These springs, while shorter, featured closed loops on both ends - thereby making it impossible for the spring to jump clear. 
On the one hand, the substitution caused a corresponding change in steering, particularly at slower taxi speeds where more rudder and occasional braking was needed.  On the other, it actually made the airplane easier to land in that small rudder inputs produced more predictable results.
Following the change, I tried to fly the Smith as much as possible in order to retrain my muscle memory.  Flights were shorter and focused more on take-offs and landings.  After a few weeks, I got the hang of it and, slowly, grew to prefer the new set-up over the old one.


With my friend and former OAS colleague Garrett Watkiss after swapping out the broken mixture control cable.  This is the smallest airplane Garrett has ever sat in - further underscored by the fact that his regular mount is a Q400 regional airliner.  (Photo Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

On nice evenings, I would help put the baby to bed then rush back to the airport to put in 30 or 45 minutes.  I called them "river patrols" as I would often set out east along the Ottawa River, call on a former colleague's place just south of Gatineau, then continue to JP's farm near Cumberland before dashing south to Sarsfield and then returning to Rockcliffe over the eastern suburb of Orleans.  These evenings were generally very smooth with little wind and absolutely no turbulence.  The little biplane seemed to slide along these invisible currents with little input from me.  It seemed as though the Smith was content to take care of the flying so that I could enjoy the sights.

Scenes from a "river patrol." (Author's Collection)

On a return from one such flight, after a lovely landing, we taxied to the hangar to shut down.  I went through the regular routine but when I drew the mixture out to starve the Lycoming of fuel, she kept running - and quite merrily at that.  Another gentle tug resulted in the control knob landing in my lap, holding on by the thread of the control wire.  Mockingly, the Lycoming chugged on.  I switched off the magnetos, the engine died and the propeller ticked to a stop.  I reflected on our good fortune that the wire ultimately failed on terra firma rather than in the skies above.
My second season with the Smith featured several nice moments - one of which I recall quite fondly.  Vintage Wings of Canada inaugurated its summer flying days by ferrying its Harvard, Finch and Chipmunk over to Rockcliffe.  It also brought in the Spitfire and Hurricane for fly-bys.  After the two fighters had left, I taxied over in the Smith, parked next to the Harvard and climbed out to chat with the pilot, whom I knew. 
A car meet was taking place on the other side of the barricade.  A little boy, he couldn't have been more than 5 or 6 but looked younger given his diminutive size, ducked under the fence and made a run for the airplanes.  The Harvard's handler rushed out to keep him from the big yellow trainer but, to his surprise, the lad ran past him - heading straight for the Smith.
He stopped by the right wing and stared - rooted to the ground.  I walked over as his father came rushing up and, in a mixture of French and broken English, apologized profusely for his son.  I shook my head and chuckled, then grabbed the boy under his arms and hoisted him into the Smith's cockpit.
The kid took the stick in one hand and ran his other hand over the instruments - not saying a word.  I almost mentioned that he ran past four second world war trainers (the Harvard, Finch and the two ride-hopping Wacos) to select the humble 1978 home-built...but thought better of it.  I understood exactly where he was coming from.  I'd been there, I mean exactly there, nearly 30 years before.

The Smith with Harvard MkIV CF-ROA at left, Rockcliffe.  (Author's Collection)

The Smith, Super Decathlon C-GKXD and Cessna 170 C-GOAW - the 3 tail draggers I fly at Rockcliffe. (Author's Collection)

Way back in the summer of 1984, my dad posed my mom and I in front on Foxtrot Alpha Mike - me, perched on the right wing root and my mom standing by the trailing edge, reaching out with one arm. As I've mentioned before, it is my only picture with my dad's Smith.  Truly, given everything that's happened since, it's a treasure.  31 years later, we recreated that same shot with my wife and son.

My mom, me and Foxtrot Alpha Mike at Rockcliffe in June 1984.  The hangar that houses my Smith now occupies the ramp in the background. (Author's Collection)

Mel, Elgin and Delta Sierra Alpha in September 2015 at Rockcliffe. (Author's Collection)

My last flight of the 2015 season was a late afternoon hop down the Ottawa River to Rockland, dodging grey clouds, light showers and the bitter spectre of hanging up our wings for the winter.  It was uncharacteristically warm for a November day but I left the balaclava up around my mouth and nose so that I could take advantage of the warmth my breath afforded.  The colors of the trees stood out against the landscape with a vibrancy unique to late fall afternoons in these parts, even under the gloomy stillness of the sky.  I crossed the Ottawa River between Rockland and Wendover to the east and then returned home along the north shore of the river.  The land below us was swampy, presenting itself as gentle, undulated waves of browns and blacks before climbing into the grey and green mounds of the Gatineau Hills to the north.  As we glided westbound for home, I could just pick out our reflection on the face of the beautifully still and peaceful river.
Our final landing of the season, like its counterpart the year before, was beautifully executed and a perfect punctuation mark on a season that had seen nearly 51 hours.

The Smith being prepared for winter storage. (Author's Collection)

A week later, in the blackness of night with only a shop light driven by a generator to illuminate the inside of the hangar, I swapped the flying oil out for preservation oil and prepared the Smith for her winter hibernation.  Together, over two seasons, we had embarked on 91 total flights covering a little more than 73 hours...all in the pursuit of a little boy's dream and the cementing of a father's legacy.


Father and FAM on the right, 1981; Son and DSA on the left, 2015. (Author's Collection)

The Silk Road

The asphalt is nearly black from the overnight rains as I roll the Smith out of the hangar.  The weather report tells me that the ceiling is unlimited but the skies are an endless and dull grey with the sun appearing as a pulsating, ecru glob.  Just down the ramp, the Decathlon is firing up for a morning of circuits at the nearby Gatineau airport.  Across the field, one after the other, engines clatter to life and join the chorus.
It's barely 8 in the morning and the field is already alive.  The weather prognosticator has foretold of poor weather on the way, high moisture and searing heat as harbingers of screaming winds and cruel thunderstorms.  The forecast contains the ominous line VRB30G50 - variable winds at 30 knots with gusts to 50 - for early afternoon.  At present, all three windsocks hang motionless on their brackets - not a breath of wind. 
The air is still cool but tinged with a buzz of electricity - and it will warm up quickly to what will be perhaps the last truly searing day of the summer. 
The takeoff roll is completed as if the little bipe is on rails.  We glide along the runway with only occasional taps of my right foot to keep her button nose straight.  She needs a fair amount of forward stick to get the tail to fly but responds immediately when asked.  With the whole of the field now unfurled before us, I relax just a shade of forward stick and the Smith flies herself off the ground.  The wings shed their heaviness as the Lycoming drives us ahead and upwards.  We settle into the climb.
A bank away from the shoreline, across the Ottawa, then over the hatching of Gatineau and then a slight right turn to following her river northwest.
It's muggy but warm and getting warmer.  The sun's rays are fighting through the curtains of haze and moisture blanketing the hills.  The earth, now roused by the building heat, stirs - exhaling great mountains of mist that pleadingly reach skywards.  They rise like ghostly castles - here, from a small lake nestled between a pair of rolling Gatineau foothills; there, from a small bay carved out of the flank of the river. Around these battlements, the Smith and I weave - slowly plowing northwestwards, the Lycoming labouring as it takes greedy mouthfuls of the moisture laden air.  We circumvent one to port, the next to starboard - calling on each of the feather-like fortifications as they billow and swell.  Passing through these columns of cloud, we could very well be at ten times our current paltry height of 1700 feet.
I ease the stick back and the murky horizon sinks below the cowling.  We trade about 5 miles per hour for a slow, enroute climb of about 200 feet per minute.  My left hand rests lightly on the throttle because it has a tendency to creep forward.  As we're carried aloft by invisible hands, we start a slight right turn to follow the river. 
I know precisely where we are.  We've just passed the village at Wakefield and just ahead to the right is the famed covered bridge.  We're some 15 miles north of where the mouth of the Gatineau spills into the Ottawa.  And yet, a glance over my right shoulder suggests we've travelled much further than that while flagrantly violating the laws of time.
The capital has vanished - hiding behind curtains of shimmering mist.  The hills are still and frozen - wearing silken shrouds that evoke images of the heat and humidity of the Java Coast or the forbidden wildness of the Amazon valley.  Truly, in some twenty minutes of flying, we've managed to vault halfway across the globe and back to a time when a machine such as this was a marvelous incongruity. 
I know of few vehicles that wield this sort of power - the ability to bend time and space so as to place the occupant into the goggles and gauntlets of Bishop, Lindbergh, Blériot, Johnson, Kingsford Smith or Saint-Exupéry.
Sainte-Cécile-de-Marsham now creeps up to reveal herself just beyond the left cheek of the Smith's cowling.  She could very well be the Patagonian outpost of San Julian - Fabien's safe harbour in Exupéry's Night Flight - rather than the touristic jewel of Quebec's La Pêche region. 
We turn left to follow a set a power lines that climb a lower saddle in the Gatineaus.  The spindly towers march up the hills in fractions, dragging their high-tension charges with them.  I imagine the cutline to be not unlike China's Great Wall in profile if not in distance. 
The altimeter announces our arrival at 3000 feet.  The air here is cooler but still heavy - almost wet.  Visibility, predictably, has worsened.  The hills that were clearly visible only minutes before have bashfully sunk into the murk.  Light from the sun struggles to leak through to us - rather, it bounces and refracts between endless cataracts - giving the sky a rough, crystalline appearance.
We crest the hill and, abandoning the path given us by the power lines, negotiate a descent into the flatlands beyond.  There lies a different elbow of the same river we crossed at the start of this odyssey and, on the other shore, a few bays, a small lake and more fields framed by a scattering of woods.
Given the Smith's vertical fin is not offset, I always fly with a measure of right rudder so as to avoid skidding, undignified, through the air.  The air is so still that, other than slight pressure against the right pedal, I've hardly touched the controls. 
I give the Smith a boot of each rudder pedal and we fishtail playfully.  The flying wires moan their disapproval as the slipstream batters the Smith's fabric flanks.  We roll to the left.  The ailerons are blissfully light - making any turning maneuver delightfully easy.  Now, a gentle climb.  The feedback in the elevators is heavier, though, and gives the impression of flying a much larger airplane.  As the energy bleeds away, a deft addition of left aileron with the gentlest application of pro-roll rudder and we fall off the summit and earthward again.
It's hard to believe that my cap and goggles forebears, though stoically all business, didn't screw around like this every so often. 
We fly southwest towards home and through the curtains laid one upon the other.  As each one is thrown aside, more is revealed in the exact reverse order as it disappeared.  The air remains still.  Nothing has changed.
A short time later, the chirp and rumble of the wheels kissing the runway signals the end of yet another flight of fancy characterised by the following precisions roughly scribbled in my notebook:


Start: 0810
Up: 0816
Down: 0918
Stop: 0922
Flight time: 1.2 hours
Air Time: 1.0 hours
Fuel burn: 6.25 gallons
Distance travelled: ?
Remarks: 5 gallons added prior.  Oil Temp: 80, Oil PSI: 80, CHT: 300. Local, NW along Gat Riv to...


And here, I stop.  Is it enough to say "...Wakefield, Ste-Cécile-de-Marsham, W over Gat Hills, then SW Luskville, Breckenridge, escarpment to return"?  While that's certainly an accurate portrayal of the flight, it hardly does it justice.  Should it not say "NW to Java Coast, on to Amazon, W to Patagonia, over Russian steppes to China, turned left and came home"? And, if so, would, years later, a son or daughter look upon my notes and think "the old man's always been batty...how could he have visited the Orient, Java and the entire South American continent in that little crate in only an hour?"


My hope is that, one day, they might understand.


As I push the Smith back into her corner of the hangar, the Decathlon taxies up and shuts down just outside.  As the pilots climb out, I ask how their flight went.


"Good," replies the instructor.  "Wheel landings.  Gatineau was busy.  Where did you go?"


I jerk my thumb over my right shoulder.  "That way," I reply with a shrug.

Aloft, alow

Buckham's Bay is a long, finger-like slash in the Ontario shoulder of the Ottawa River opposite Quyon and Pontiac - about where the waterway widens and makes a sharp turn south towards the capital.  A good friend of mine has a cottage property - two small cabins with a dock - on the western shore of the bay, abeam its mouth.  It's a favourite summertime destination for the Smith and I.  Both father and son are aviation-obsessed and enjoy the occasional "beat-up" pass.  We're always happy to oblige.

Buckham's Bay "beat-up". (Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

And so, Ernie's place was my target on a pleasant and warm evening in mid-August.  We climbed away from Rockcliffe a little before 8 with the sun still fairly high in the sky.  We approached the Bay from the south-east on a direct course out of Rockcliffe and set up to fly our first pass from south to north.  The extremely popular Constance Bay beaches are less than a mile to the east and the bays are both well-frequented by float planes (and the occasional wheeled daredevil) conducting aerial survey of the more attractive beachgoers under the guise of training.  As always, it's necessary to keep a sharp a lookout but the potential for increased traffic sandwiched into such tight confines make it doubly important.
As we pass Ernie's place, I peer over the side.  One fool is thrashing about in the water, wildly waving his arms.  There's another on the dock.  Both are shirtless and both are likely well into their cups.  I rock our stubby wings in response and roll into a right turn away from the shore and into the open bay.  Head on a swivel, I reverse the turn to bring us back around for a north to south pass - again keeping an eye out for any interlopers.
I know about the Cessna 150 orbiting the beaches to my left - white with a rainbow flash from nose to tail.  The loud paint scheme identifies him as an Ottawa Flying Club machine.  He's flying east now, away from us - either heading to the VOR and then home or simply finishing a pass.  In a few moments, I'll know for sure.
Another rock of the wings and more splashing and waving in response from below.  As we sweep overhead, I guide the biplane into a slight right turn to open up another south to north pass.  As I roll right, the top wing reveals something of a surprise.  There, framed neatly in the backwards "C" formed by both left wings and the interplane struts, are two powered para-gliders - one orange and the other blue.  They're a bold collection of a paraglider wing, shrouds, a lawn chair and an oversized fan being driven by the aviation equivalent of a lawn-mower engine.  Ironically, one of the more popular models also bears the name "Miniplane". 
They appear to be almost stationary - hovering in formation over the southern tip of the bay with the blue wing leading the orange in echelon right.  Their lack of reaction indicates they haven't seen us.  I continue my turn to the east and climb for extra altitude.  It'll be easier to keep tabs on them against the forests and fields below - rather than squinting into the sinking sun.
I pick the paragliders up again as they turn east towards the beaches at Constance Bay - still crawling along in formation.  The 150 has vanished - having likely headed home.  A larger Cessna taildragger, either a 180 or 185 on floats is traversing the bay from the south-west.  It's likely headed into one of the small lakes that speckle the Gatineau River watershed to the north.  As the float plane continues across the river, I fly a few more passes up and down the bay - rocking my wings in greeting each time. 
I've planned my last pass to finish on an approximate return heading for Rockcliffe.  I take the Smith up to 2500 feet so as to cross the river with plenty of altitude.  The only other aircraft I spot is a yellow and blue high wing Zenith job - likely a 750 - scurrying west for Arnprior.  I waggle my wings in salute.  No response.  She slides by our wings and disappears into the blaze of the western sun.
Night is encroaching on day.  A few bonfires flicker and dance in the deepening gloom settling below. The sun now resembles a golden pebble balanced precariously on the precipice of the horizon.  An orange band languishes across the length of the western divide - throwing golden light across the darkening landscape.  The Ottawa River and a few scattered lakes on the Quebec side shimmer in response, their placid faces glowing orange, now pink and now blue.  The colors live as though they were notes played as part of a great concerto, brightening and fading with a rhythm not unlike music as it peaks and then falls away. If it wasn't for the faithful growl of the Lycoming, I swear I could hear each note. 
The sky, however, remains a flat, dispassionate gray - stoic against the exuberant concert of color crashing across the land below.
And then, the pebble rolls off the edge of the earth and the great maestro's firm hand closes on his opus.  Soon, the dying sun pulls the colour and sound into the depths with it to begin its next journey - rolling across the other half of the world.

The pebble.  (Author's collection)

Alow, in the small town of Breckenridge, a boy about to return home after an afternoon playing in the yard looks skyward, prompted by the rhythmic roar of my engine.  Soon, the biplane's dark shape, silhouetted against the shadowy heavens, sweeps into view.  His eyes follow me south-east until just before I disappear behind a stand of trees.  He reaches for the door and pulls it open, sending warm lamplight, the chatter of supper time family life and the smell of dinner spilling into the night.  When he glances up again, I've vanished into the gloom with only the fading sound of the biplane's engine to betray my presence.
Aloft, the boy's throwing open of his front door was but a brief spark in a sea of grey twilight sliding by under my wings.  I don't notice it.  As the light and warmth seep out of the August air, I grow anxious - like a boy caught out after curfew.  Aloft, it is not yet "legal night" - a term used to describe one half hour after sunset - and there is still a fair amount of light.  Alow, on the earth upon which I will soon resume my citizenship, night has already fallen.
I inch the throttle forward and the Lycoming's song increases in pitch and urgency.  The luminescent dials of the instruments are only just starting to glow - providing some comfort in the form of airspeed (105 mph) and altitude (1,400 feet).  I hasten my approach south-east towards the city, her few high-rises huddled together in the downtown core, blackened monoliths, rising up above charcoal horizon; her streets - golden veins lined in Morse code pinpricks of light - sprawling south and stitching together the fabric of the city.  Car headlights weave, probing in the murk.  Taillights blink on and off, sparking crimson chain reactions not unlike dominos falling.  I count - until losing count.  Here, the multi-colored cyclone of a police cruiser's lights soundlessly announce a minor infraction or a more severe tragedy.  There, a searchlight, likely from a theatre, reach skyward - swinging wildly.
I would be more impressed, awestruck even, by the beauty of the scene if it wasn't for night giving spirited chase from the west.
As I turn left around the plunging granite walls of the Gatineaus, Ottawa's northern sister hoves into view.  I have given up valuable ground, turning to give my quarry a broadside look at her prey.  I pull the nose up, the blackened earth falls away and I climb three hundred feet into the indigo sky.  As I lower the nose again, the Gatineau airport reveals herself just off the left side of the Smith's cowl as a series of lights blinking on.  A frequency switch allows me to briefly listen to a Piper Cherokee make its approach and takes me back more than a decade - to driving an aging Beech Sundowner around that same airport on nights blacker than this...and with a temperamental landing light which insisted on overloading and popping off in the flare.
A slight course correction to the south will take me overhead Rockcliffe.  Night continues her advance.  The moon is delinquent, missing.  The only light in the cockpit comes from the glow of the instruments and the radio. 
I reach down to a panel by my right thigh and flick a switch.  My anti-collision lights fade on like the tubes in an old radio - with about half the intensity.  It is an entirely futile act but it gives me some comfort.  I tune the radio back to Rockcliffe and call the Unicom.  No answer.  The dispatcher must be vacuuming the hall or scrubbing down the bathrooms, preparing to close up the clubhouse once the last training flight returns. 
I cross the river and abruptly think about the almost 40-year-old wiring snaking through the wings and fuselage to the lights - green on the right wing, red on the left and white in the tail.  All it would take was one crimp in a wire, one spark and the fabric would burn like a torch.  It would only be for a few spectacular seconds but it would be long enough.
I reach down again and switch them off.  My thumb starts working the transmit button - periodically opening a channel to trigger the runway lights. 
Was it 5 or 7 in an 8 second period?  Or was it 8 in a 5 second period? 
The runway lights wink on.  Either the dispatcher has returned from his chores or my clumsiness with the transmit button has yielded a result.
The Smith and I arrive overhead just before 9 o'clock.  I chop the throttle, the Lycoming whispers her reply and the wires sing in the slipstream rushing past me.   I stand her on the port wings and let her fall to earth in a graceful spiraling dive to the left - aiming to come out on a short final for runway 09.  Twenty seconds later, we roll out abeam the RCMP horse paddock and press our approach home as night finally washes over the field. 
We touch down with a little skip before rolling out straight ahead as the night sky returns us to the bonds of the earth.
A few minutes later, we roll to a stop outside the canvas hangar and I switch off.  It's barely perceptible but my hands are trembling.  I feel calm and content but it seems the nearly-night landing has taxed my nervous system more than usual. 
I extract myself from the Smith's cockpit and sit down next to the left main, leaning my head against the warm aluminum of the lower cowls.  I can hear the engine ticking as its metal innards cool.  The gyros are winding down with soft whine.  Underneath these sounds of flight realized, the crickets are chirping.  The field is dark now - save for the lights of the clubhouse and the outline of the runway.
A deep, steadying breath.  A few thoughts of thanks. 
The runways lights wink out - all at once - and, suddenly, the night's conquest is complete.

Vultures

On a warm day in July, the airport was inexplicably besieged by more than a hundred seagulls.  More or less equally divided, they held post over each threshold of Rockcliffe's single runway - circling lazily in the calm air over the field.  Every so often, a rampie would drive out into the infield with a flare gun to try and disperse them. 
The more dramatic method of animal control involved arriving or departing aircraft.  The gulls would scatter in every possible direction with such reckless abandon that one plainly wondered how an unfortunate encounter between airplane and avian was averted.  In each case, the seagulls would quietly and casually reform in such a manner to suggest the interruption had never occurred.




A seagull off the coast of Vancouver Island in the summer of 2010. (Author's collection)

In the 70s and 80s, Richard Bach's Jonathan Livingston Seagull was not only required reading for pilots but enjoyed enormous popularity outside of aviation circles.  The novella, essentially a homily for self-improvement and barely 10 thousand words in length, tells the story of a young seagull who, unfulfilled with the life of squabbling over food scraps, embarks on learning everything about flying.  For his efforts, he is labelled a non-conformist and is cast out of his flock.  Over the many years that follow, he becomes increasingly skilled at flight, reaches another plane of existence, learns to travel great distances in little time and eventually returns to teach other outcasts.

 

Jonathan Livingston Seagull by Richard Bach.

The book's success far eclipsed that of Bach's previous works Stranger to the Ground, Biplane and Nothing by Chance.  It also sparked a turn from hayfields, leather goggles, wings and wires to aviation as background to new age thinking, time travel, multiple dimensions and barnstorming messiahs.  To this day, I opine that Bach's first three literary offerings are far superior stories.  However, I suppose the new age stuff sells better.  That said, at the time I was born, the book would have been just as present in a pilot's flight bag as their logbook and the pilot operating handbook of the particular aircraft they flew.

It also served as the inspiration for my given name.
I'll admit that seagulls do not have a sterling reputation.  They're readily referred to as "rats with wings" and "shithawks."  They're annoying, dirty and barely one step up the evolutionary ladder from pigeons.  When I was 9, I watched one, in flight, snatch a slice of pizza from my sister's hands. 
All that said, it's not difficult to see what Bach saw in a seagull in flight. Truly, pulling off that pizza extrication maneuver was no small feat. If you pause and watch them long enough to get past their reputation, they really are beautiful, graceful fliers - perhaps more than any other bird.  

A seagull playing off the bows of the British Columbia Ferry MV Spirit of Vancouver Island, summer 2010. (Author's collection)

Yes, the Canada Goose is certainly majestic and their large formations, as well as the teamwork they depend on, are breathtaking to behold.  However, they're nature's long-haul airliner.  They lift off, fly great distances in straight lines, land again and repeat. 
What about the Heron?  A fine bird, to be sure...and her sheer size and wingspan are awesome to behold - particularly when taking off from a stream or creek.  And yet, she appears awkward and incongruous - equally out of place in the sky as she is on land.
The Hawk or Eagle then - any bird of prey?  Yes, the beauty of their free-wheeling flight and the pointedness of their decisive descents make for impressive visuals and inspiring national symbols.  And yet, the simmering violence behind their movements somewhat besmirches whatever beauty they exude.
The seagull, perhaps, has the greatest obstacle to surmount.  On the earth, or near to it, they pick fights over mouldy bread and rancid meat passed over by racoons and rats.  They revel in garbage.  And yet, away from that environment, they fly with an ease that is equal parts effortless and beautiful.  The sight is enough to forget that her preferred haunt is a municipal dump. 

A pair of seagulls holding post on the masts of fishing trawlers in Steveston, British Columbia, summer 2010. (Author's collection)

I've always liked my name and while the book is perhaps a little too new age for my taste, I've always enjoyed telling the story.
When I arrived at the airport that day and prepared the Smith for flight, I caught myself watching the gulls circle, wheel, dive and zoom climb over the field.  Part of me wondered why they were hanging about at all - loitering like vultures over carrion.  It would prove to be an unfortunate omen.
The day's plan called for circuits - a short flight of 5 or 6 touch and goes to keep my skills sharp and the airplane happy.  The overhead patrol of seagulls would be a factor to consider - along with the usual training traffic. 
The circuits progressed as normal.  My first wasn't great.  The second was better and the third would prove to be my best.  By the time I'd gone around the patch four times, I was getting tired and resolved to make the fifth circuit my last for the day.
Everything was normal.  It was a calm day and so the approach was smooth and right on target in terms of airspeed, attitude and glide slope.  We crossed the perimeter fence and I pushed my head all the way back to take advantage of my peripheral vision as we began the flare.  With the little biplane gliding along atop that invisible blanket of thick air nearest the ground, I slowly brought the power off and held her off as long as I could.
She sank onto the pavement and her wheels met with a chirp - all three at once as we had planned.  My feet worked automatically to keep her running straight as the airport's landscape slowly solidified from a blur to the green of the infield, rows of multicolored planes and the clubhouse and hangar beyond.
Slowing through 45, I bring the stick all the way back to ground the tail.
A rattle passes through the airframe.  I feel it in my right wrist and in my seat.  Tailwheel shimmy - a trembling likely caused, in this case, by too much weight on the tailwheel.  It's an easy fix.  All I need to do is release a bit of the back pressure.
In the time it takes for me to process the shimmy - barely a second - it has ceased. 
A second, shorter bout of shimmy.  As I'm about to move my right hand forward to relieve the pressure on the tailwheel, everything goes sideways and all at once.
Where there was once blue sky, is now the grey siding and black windows of the museum building bordering the south side of the runway. 
I can hear the wheels screaming.  And I do mean screaming - a bloodcurdling cry of rubber laboring against asphalt.
I've already moved the stick left, into whatever is happening.  Likewise, my right boot is on the brake - desperately trying to horse the biplane into line. 
I am going to ground loop. I am sure of it.
The airplane responds immediately - although it seems like a lifetime before she lurches right again.  I relax the right brake and, at once, she heels sharply left once more.  More screaming, more pressure on the right brake.  Once again, drunkenly, she staggers into line.
We taxi off.  My mind is racing.  My mouth tastes like copper.  Fear?  Yes, obviously, but it's more than that.  I tear off a glove and bring my hand to my mouth.  It comes away red with blood.  In the excitement, I've bitten my tongue. 
I can hear my heart smashing away.  My eyes are throbbing.
Brake failure?  No, I surmise.  Otherwise, we would have gone through the fence or overturned the moment we hit the opposite brake.
Rudder cable break?  Astronomically terrifying but even less likely, I reason.  The right rudder is spongy, slow to react, and I need brake and a little power to turn...but the airplane does respond to inputs.
The tailwheel steering springs!  God damn it, of course.  The shimmy must have either broken the right hand spring or knocked it off the steering arm or rudder hook-up - jamming the rudder to the left and giving us little authority to neutralize it.

The offending spring, reattached.  (Author's collection)

Our only saving grace was 25 cents worth of safety wire.  At some point in the Smith's past, Al had lockwired the rudder hook up to the steering arm on the tailwheel as an added safety measure should one of the springs break or be kicked loose.  This would keep the rudder from deflecting fully left as well as allowing some measure of control.
We taxied to the pumps and shut down.  I spent a few minutes staring at the panel and listening to the engine ticking over behind the ringing in my ears.  I tried to go over the incident in my mind but could only dredge up snapshots even though it had happened mere minutes before.  I know I took corrective action otherwise we'd have gone through the fence...but I couldn't quite remember what I'd done.
I must have been as white as a ghost because another instructor pilot walked up and asked if I was okay.  I asked if he could see my tailwheel steering springs.  He ducked out of view and came back holding one in his hand. 
"It was hanging off the steering arm," he said, handing it to me. 
The grease on the spring mingled with the blood in my hand as I turned it over thoughtfully.
"Thanks," I replied...only I wasn't speaking to my colleague.
Overhead, the seagulls continued their aerial ballet - undisturbed by the would-be carnage below.