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)