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.