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.