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.
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| 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) |
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| 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."
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.
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) |
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.
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