Rituals

In August, the Super Decathlon was grounded.  After having the right hand fuel tank replaced the season before due to cracks, the left hand tank developed the same issue - but with greater severity.  This effectively ended the aerobatic program for the 2016 season.
While I was still picking up some work on a privately owned Super D out of Cornwall, the loss of our ship did mean I now had some extra time for the biplane. 

Alone in the hangar.  (Author's Collection)

And so, on an early September morning, I rolled up the doors of the canvas hangar and wheeled the Smith into the sunshine for a look.  Aviation is heavy with rituals and the walk-around inspection carries perhaps the most weight of them all.  It can be as slow and thorough or as quick and cursory as the pilot's wishes and sense of self preservation dictate.  Still, one forgoes this rite at their own peril.  After all, $80 million airliners have been brought down by nothing more than a sliver of overlooked masking tape.

Getting ready to go.  (Author's Collection)

Now into my third season, I know the Smith well and yet, a walk around inspection takes me about ten minutes - more if I need to replenish oil, grease or lubricate a part or adjust a loose inspection plate. 
I've already participated in the ritual of checking the weather.  Today's flight will be a short one so a simple check of the written report sufficed.  The prognosticators have peered into their crystal ball and come up empty - no weather, light winds and clear skies save for the sparse scattering of cotton ball cumulus floating overhead.
A few minutes later, I'm climbing over the cockpit rim and lowering myself into the fibreglass seat.  I strap in, take my gloves off the narrow glare shield, slip them on and reach out to pick my helmet up off of the cowling, placing it in my lap. 
Now, scribbling in my note book, I begin the next ritual - start up - by memory and reflex. 


Throttle - set 1/2 to 1 inch open.
Carb heat - off.
Prime - three strokes.
Magnetos - both.
Stick - full aft.
Starter - engage.


I hear the battery relay click behind my head and the starter motor spin - but the propeller struggles to turn.  I've noticed the starter beginning to fail in recent weeks.  Another blip of the starter, the propeller swings around - once, twice - and the Lycoming coughs to life.
The engine settles into one thousand revolutions per minute.  The Lycoming engineers, far more intelligent than I, decree that the airman must wait until their engine has reached at least 200 degrees at the cylinder heads before advancing the throttle beyond 1200 RPM.  Not having the education and intelligence to question their calculations and based on the testimony of their product's continued performance over four decades, I'm quite happy to follow their instructions.
Next, the pilot is tasked with ensuring that the engine gives all indications that it will be able to sustain him for the duration of the flight.  This involves checks of the engine's ability to faithfully produce power under various settings manipulated by the pilot.  Of course, this "run-up" is no guarantee against engine failure - as many have painfully discovered.  Rather, it is a final opportunity to uncover any mechanical mischief before casting off into the wild blue yonder - where options are far less gracious and results largely cruel. 
The take-off can be a nail-biting affair in the Smith.  As we've established, the little biplane requires the pilot's complete care and attention.  Things happen quickly.  At a certain point, the pilot has a final opportunity to check his progress along the field and the airplane's systems before committing to take off.  Always in his mind is a grave calculation that, if called upon, he must make at lightning speed.  The potential consequences of aborting a take-off must be balanced against the possibility of alighting and bringing the ship around to a successful landing.  In other words, is the problem so severe to risk crashing through the perimeter fence when a take-off and modified circuit to return is all but assured?
Once the wheels break ground, the pilot immerses himself in the next ritual - expecting a loss of power at any time and deciding whether he's able to return to the field or put it down somewhere else.  Early in their flying careers, pilots are taught to not attempt the "impossible turn" - returning the field - unless they've attained at least one thousand feet of altitude.  Otherwise, they're taught to shove the nose down and aim for a plot of land able to accommodate their premature arrival.  Over time, the turn has become more improbable than impossible - some have made it, far more have not.
Soon, we've climbed above these earthbound concerns.  It's true that they still exist at greater heights but more air beneath us means more time and correspondingly more options should any inconveniences arise. 
And so, the threat of their bite is dulled.  The pilot rolls his shoulders back and allows his spine to fall against the seatback.  The right hand's grip on the stick relaxes as the left hand flexes around the throttle, shedding any residual tension.  The boots may give the rudder a playful kick as the pilot delights in the soft rocking of the biplane's nose.  A flick of the wrist produces an instant response from the wings.  Sounds fade, melting into a whisper of engine, wind, wires and heart.  The world, while terrifyingly vast, seems to close in on man and machine so that one doesn't feel quite so small anymore. 

The abandoned airpark at Pontiac on the north shore of the Ottawa River opposite Buckham's Bay.  It was intended as a fly-in community but never materialized.  (Author's Collection)

In this aerial refuge, we float across Gatineau and along the hills to Pontiac then across the river to Buckham's Bay.  The air is so still and the face of the river so calm that light from the sun appears to both reflect off the surface and go clear through to the silt bottom.  The result is a spectacular display of light and colour.  The radio is quiet and while I can't be sure, I like to think only the Smith and I have been blessed with this view and that we are very much alone. 

While taken on an earlier flight much later in the day, this shot nicely depicts the light phenomenon described above.  (Author's Collection)

We double back north away from Buckham's Bay, overfly Mohr Island and retrace our route in reverse.  Same route, new perspective - as I like to say.  I've spent the majority of my flying life above these hills, fields, lakes and rivers and I always manage to spy something new, interesting and inspiring.   


Overflying the Ontario side of the practice area near Fitzroy Harbour.  Mohr Island is at left of frame.  Note the stillness of the water and how the sky reflects. (Author's Collection)

Suddenly, the radio crackles to life.  The sound is almost shocking given I haven't heard another voice since leaving Rockcliffe - but at least it's a familiar one.  The Champ, with Chris at the controls, is rounding the southern tip of the escarpment and entering the practice area.
"Lima-Lima, Sierra-Alpha," I call out.
"Hey," comes the informal reply.  "Form?"
"Why not?"
We'd crossed paths on the ground at Rockcliffe and briefed for the possibility of meeting in the practice area.  Still, a quick discussion on the company frequency reviews the parameters.  We'll rendezvous over Breckenridge at 2000' and the Smith will fly lead.  I set up a wide orbit over the town so that Chris, climbing slowly towards us, may visually make contact and form up.
Aircraft move considerable mass at relatively high speeds and while it certainly is a big sky, a good look out must be maintained to mistakenly coming too close to another aircraft or worse.  Pilots are taught not to simply scan the skies but to divide it into segments to scrutinize.  This is because the human eye picks up movement.  Therefore, the view should be locked off to help spy an aircraft moving relative to a stationary background. 
The Champ does not fly quickly and climbs even slower.  Given my higher altitude, there's a greater likelihood that he'll see me first.  All the same, I push my goggles up and peer through narrowed eyes at the countryside below. 
After a short while, I pick out a tiny smudge of white emerging from the ground clutter to stand out against the green of the escarpment.  Before long, the smudge sprouts wings and a tail.
"I've got you," Chris reports over the radio.  "My ten o'clock by about two miles."
I rock my wings.  "Tally ho!"
The Champ is clawing skyward, hanging on the whirling disc of the prop.  It seems to be hardly moving, really just floating off the Smith's port broad.  I watch as Chris checks the climb and turns gently towards us before accelerating and sliding into echelon left. 
"Two on station," crackles his voice.
"Lead," I acknowledge. 

Chris and Champ C-FILL in formation echelon left near Luskville.  (Author's Collection)

For the next twenty minutes, our two-ship formation plies back and forth between Breckenridge and Luskville.  We practice turns as well as climbs and descents.  I concentrate on giving Chris the most stable of platforms to fly off and he does a nice job holding position. 
I lead us in a descent to the south-east and then around the tip of the escarpment to overfly Gatineau.  Abeam the Chelsea dam, we climb to 1700' and prepare for an overhead arrival at Rockcliffe.  Throughout, the Smith and the Champ fly as one. 

Author's self portrait with the Champ on the wing.  (Author's Collection)

As we turn south to overfly the river, I hear my Cornwall-based student announce his impending arrival.  Given he is flying the much faster airplane, our formation will join the circuit as number two for a low and over. 
Given its proximity to the ground and to other aircraft in the circuit, the formation low and over requires even greater discipline and precision than a run-of-the-mill two-ship.  We've already briefed an altitude of two hundred feet above ground with the lead aircraft calling the wing's break on the overshoot. 
Despite the lovely weather, it's been a sleepy morning at Rockcliffe.  Our arrival and the combined roar of two hundred and five horsepower shatters the peace.  As we cross the eastern perimeter fence and ease into a climb, I wave Chris off to join the crosswind for the circuit to land.  The Smith and I continue climbing to the east and will join the circuit behind the Champ - mindful to give him a wider berth to allow for our faster approach speed.
With the Champ turning final and downwind checks complete, the Smith and I sweep left out of the downwind and throttle back to begin the final descent for landing.  In only 25 seconds, our wheels will touch the pavement.
The landing is more art than science.  There is no concrete formula and the pilot must use all their experience, judgement and skill to execute the appropriate actions for an ever-changing set of variables.  Inputs - airspeed, glide slope, wind - come in and outputs - movements of stick, rudder and throttle - come out.  The approach continues and the pilot's focus narrows on the patch of pavement that will host their return to earth.  And then, finally, that sublime moment just before touch down when time seems to slow.  The pilot can almost feel the runway below his feet - as though the ship's undercarriage is an extension of his own legs.  A chirp, a rumble - the biplane wants to pull left but - no, damn you, this way! A stab of opposite rudder, perhaps a measure of brake, horses the ship back into line. 
Once clear of the runway and stopped, the pilot folds back his glove, checks the time and adds to the scribbling in the notebook kept wedged under his thigh.
In the shade of the hangar, another ritual - brakes on, throttle idle, magnetos to off then on again, one by one.  Now, throttle up to 1700 RPM, sure to be on the brakes, and slowly draw the red mixture control out until the engine gives a final sigh and the propeller ticks slowly to a stop.  Switches off, helmet off, gloves off.
To the ticking sound of the cooling engine, I unfold myself from the cockpit and stretch out my back - running a hand along the biplane's long cowling.  I rub my fingers together and chuckle softly before retreating into the hangar and rummaging through the Smith's pine kit box.  I emerge again into the sunshine with a spray bottle and a blue shop cloth. Now, to perform my penance for flight and the last ritual of the morning - wiping the smashed bugs off of my little biplane.

The final ritual - cleaning the airplane.  (Author's Collection)

102'

Flying is a most unique activity - even more so when you consider that man has no earthly business gallivanting through the skies.  If he did, some argue, then man would have been granted wings - as birds were.  And yet, throughout history, man has obsessed with conquering frontier after frontier - driven by a desire to take what is not ours or otherwise establish dominion over all that the sun touches.  These early conquests, mythological or otherwise, were not without peril; Icarus flew too close to the sun, de Rozier and Romain misjudged their vaulting of the English Channel, Selfridge smashed his skull in Virginia, Bague vanished into thin air somewhere over the Mediterranean. Their ghosts were only the first.  Whether by wax wing, balloon, dirigible or airplane, history is littered with the bodies of pioneer aviators who launched into the unknown and paid the ultimate price. 

1st Lieutenant Thomas E. Selfridge, U.S. Signal Corps.  He was the first man to die in the crash of a powered airplane - a Wright Flyer piloted by Orville Wright.  He was 26.

We must also acknowledge that man, while having attained great heights is, in the grand scheme, a relative neophyte.  This is shockingly obvious when we consider that we went from Kitty Hawk to the moon in 66 years.
66 years.
In the history of the world, it's but a spark.  And yet, this spark lit a raging inferno of ingenuity and discovery fuelled throughout history by courage bordering on foolhardiness.
I've had this thought as a passenger riding in the pressurized aluminum tube of an airliner at 33,000 feet.  I'm scraping the stratosphere, riding through the sky in a chair and taking mere hours to cover distances that frankly, not that long ago, took weeks if not months.  What would the world look like if, in the early days of flight, pioneers and dreamers gave in to the howls of protest incited by daily (and fatal) airplane crashes?  And what if those carrying the torch through the jet age, when faced with Comets falling from the sky in pieces, threw their hands up in surrender and walked away?  And when Apollo 1 burned on the launch pad at Cape Kennedy? And Challenger?
A lesser kind would have quit - accepting our fate as an earthbound one.
It's the same thought I'm having now as the Smith and I cruise eastward over the Ottawa River on another calm and smooth evening.
Flying is magical. 
Yes, I know it's far more technical that that. I can explain how a curved surface passing through the air generates lift and how you can simulate the same by sticking your hand out of a moving car's window; Bernoulli, fluid dynamics, differences in pressure and all that.  In the end, it's just words - words that fall hopelessly short of describing what people living barely 200 years ago would have described as sorcery.

The 1903 Wright Flyer at the Kill Devil Hills near Kitty Hawk, North Carolina during the first manned and powered flight on December 17, 1903.  Orville is at the controls as Wilbur runs alongside.

All this started with a flight of just 102 feet above some sand dunes in North Carolina - Orville keeping the Wright Flyer barely airborne for 12 seconds.  Almost 66 years later, Neil Armstrong set foot on the surface of the moon and laboriously uttered the famous line "one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind".  The significance of Kitty Hawk wasn't lost on Armstrong either.  He carried a piece of wood from the Flyer's left propeller and a swatch of fabric from its wing.
In the year 2016 - a little more than a century after that first flight - the Smith and I exist somewhere in between.  Cloth helmet and goggles...in the Space Age.  The evidence is all around us.  Over my left shoulder, about a dozen hot air balloons follow the wind - forming a brightly coloured line stretching south-west towards the city.  They brighten and dim as they are either flushed by the sun or lit by the burner flame that helps keep them aloft.  Far above, a pair of razor thin white lines carve the troposphere - contrails from a passenger jet carrying its charge to far off places.   As soon as the airliner lays them out, they begin to billow and widen to give the appearance of long feather tails.  The sun paints them deep purple and pink.  Still beyond and still unseen, are hundreds if not thousands of satellites racing around the earth, tiny blinking lights streaking across an indigo field at speeds we still struggle to comprehend.
I know my true insignificance in this breathtaking immensity when a seagull coasts by overhead.  Treason.  Upstaged by my namesake. 
There is one yet below my lowly station.  Alow, perhaps some five or six hundred feet distant, is a powered parachute.  It's a lawn chair mated to a two-stroke engine suspended beneath a purple canopy.  He's cruising leisurely above the smooth surface of the river - also eastbound but at a much slower speed. 
Now, my craft, while designed in the 50s, is closely related to the open-cockpit flying of the Great War.  My compatriot's, while of a much newer vintage, is far more reminiscent of the Wright's first forays into aviation - with the pilot laid bare to the onrushing winds and whatever elements they may bring. 
As the balloons fade away in the southwest, the jet continues its journey to an unknown and far flung place and the satellites criss-cross madly far above, I feel the Smith's comforting hum of life coursing through the stick and throttle, up my arms and into my chest.  I keep my eyes on the powered parachute below and circle lazily overhead.  I measure my turns to shadow him as he drifts eastward above the river and have cause to wonder what would this world be like if not for the 102 feet at Kitty Hawk on a windy December day?

Landing runway 09 at Rockcliffe - 103 years after Kitty Hawk.  (Photo Courtesy: Chuck Clark)