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.