Echoes and Whispers Part III

Almost a year would pass before I returned to the field at Pendleton — not in the Smith but at the controls of a Fairchild Cornell, a Second World War basic trainer. It is the 75^th anniversary of both No.10 and the Gatineau Gliding Club. To mark the occasion, Vintage Wings of Canada has sent the Cornell and Finch back to the airport that both types once called home.

Cornell 10712 (CF-YQR) departing Gatineau. (Photo Courtesy: Sean Costello)

The Cornell was developed as modern replacement to the air force’s biplane trainers. Students would go on to fly monoplanes, her designers reasoned, and so should begin their apprenticeship on a monoplane rather than be forced to later rid themselves of the skills built handling the draggy, inefficient biplane. The Cornell is larger and heavier than one would think necessary — with a thick wing of plywood wrapped in fabric, a generous tail and rudder along with an inline engine that produces more noise than power. To this collection, the Fairchild designers added a cockpit for two under a greenhouse canopy and a wide, forgiving landing gear. Student pilots loved the Cornell because she was easy to fly and land and had no bad habits. Instructors, however, grumbled at the mere mention of her.

A nice detail of the Cornell, this time at Rockcliffe. (Photo Courtesy: Jean-Yves Duplessis)

A wartime Cornell. This was shot was taken in July 1942 at Arnprior, west of Rockcliffe and Pendleton. (Photo Courtesy: Canada. Dept. of National Defence / Library and Archives Canada / PA-064305)

“Too easy to fly,” they would snarl. “We need a training airplane not a wet nurse.”

Dropped from the air force inventory at the end of the war, most Cornells found their way into civilian hands but, due to the plywood wing that was difficult to maintain, lost their footing there too. Today, fewer than 100 Cornells survive. The one I’m piloting, having only recently been completely rebuilt, is in better shape than it was when it left the factory in 1943.

Landing the Cornell. (Photo Courtesy: Sean Costello)

The Cornell is a sweet, old gal. She doesn’t like to be hurried, preferring to do nearly everything at a leisurely 80 miles per hour. The morning is bright and warm and so we fly with the canopies open to the elements, watching the yellow wings slide past the green countryside below and beyond.

After about twenty minutes of flight, we land on the northernmost grass strip at Pendleton. The Cornell settles onto the rough turf with her usual good-natured docility and we roll to a stop in front of the surviving wartime hangar. A few minutes later, the Finch rolls up alongside and shuts down with a sigh.

Giving Roberto Figueroa a cockpit checkout on the Cornell. (Photo courtesy: Roberto Figueroa)

These airplanes always draw a crowd and, before long, I am helping people strap into the Cornell’s pilot seat and giving them tours of the cockpit. For most, it’s their first time sitting in a wartime trainer and, for one man, the occasion is an emotional one.

He pulls out his phone and shows me a black and white photograph of a man, clad in flight gear, standing in front of an early model Cornell. The man in the photograph bears a striking resemblance to the man holding the phone — an uncle, father, or perhaps a grandfather?

He tells me that the image is of his late father who completed his national military service in the Chilean Air Force and trained, as chance would have it, on a Cornell much like the one his son had climbed down from only moments before.

A side-by-side shot of father and son - separated by decades. (Photo Courtesy: Roberto Figueroa)

On this warm September morning at the old field that is still home to so many ghosts, we recreate the photograph with our Cornell and the Chilean pilot’s son. We chat about our respective stories and about how we each found flight. I tell him a little about my dad, his biplane and my own. We talk longingly about flying with our fathers. An hour later, after discovering we work in the same building and go to the same gym, my new friend takes me aloft in a glider — my first such flight in more than a decade.

Just before launch by towplane in the glider, my first sailplane flight in more than 10 years. I learned to fly gliders at another old BCATP field - Picton, Ontario. (Photo Courtesy: Roberto Figueroa)

We leave Pendleton just before lunch. As we climb away from the field and point the nose towards Gatineau and home, I think of the chance encounter and consider it may not have been chance at all.

Today is my father’s birthday. He would have been 72.

Click on the video still frame above to ride along with us as we return the Cornell to Pendleton.

Echoes and Whispers - Part II

As I've indicated, the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan relied heavily on the civilian population.  No. 10 EFTS, run entirely by civilians, was no exception. It has its origins in August 1940, when the Minister of National Defence for Air invited the Hamilton Aero Club to sponsor and organize a school at nearby Mount Hope, Ontario (the present day site of the John C. Munro Hamilton International Airport).  In what must have been a spectacular effort, the school was ready to accept its first students on October 14th of that year.  To add to the challenge, the inaugural course had swelled in size to twice what was anticipated due to the Battle of Britain being at its height.  From that day, training continued seven days a week, 363 days a year.

In the spring of 1942, the Air Force required more navigators and it was decided that the RAF's navigation school, which shared the Mount Hope base, would need to expand extensively.  No. 10 was then offered a brand new station on the existing field at Pendleton.  In the last week of August 1942, the school's staff made the 400 mile trip in 40 moving vans.  The aircraft followed - flown in, without incident, by the instructors and the senior class of students.  As there was a war on, training recommenced without delay on September 1st - even though most of the base's buildings were still under construction and wouldn't be completed until January 1943.  This herculean task rested on the shoulders of Mr. Gerry Moes, a Dutch-born engineer, hobby pilot and one-time Olympic swimmer.

The RCAF held Moes and the school in the highest esteem.  In May 1944, when the necessities of war forced the transfer of the entire base and operations into the hands of the Air Force, Air Marshal Robert Leckie, then Chief of the Air Staff, wrote:

Since the inception of the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, (No. 10 EFTS) has been one of the governments earliest and most energetic civilians instructions schools.  A very high standard has always been set by Mr. Gerald Moes and the officers serving directly under him and the school has attained an enviable reputation in the quality and quantity of its output.  The RCAF, on its part, is grateful for the services so freely given when our need was so great and we trust that the friendships that have been formed during these years will remain.

An accompanying note from Squadron Leader A. R. Morrissette, commanding officer of the air force personnel on the base, relates the change to the breaking apart of a family and praises the efforts of the civilian staff writing "I hope that each one of you realize that we in the RCAF understand fully, and appreciate, the vital role that you have played these last few years in the training of pilots, who to-day are doing the job over there.  Without your efforts, and only could they be supreme efforts, that would have been impossible."  He then signs it, "your friend."

It's difficult to accept these words as mere pandering.  There is genuine feeling and affection that comes through and, when you consider the climate in which this work was undertaken, it's completely relatable.

A photograph of a crashed Fleet Finch Trainer (RCAF 4664) from neighbouring No. 13 EFTS at St. Eugene, 1 May 1941.  The pilot's parachute is next to the tail and part of the canopy rests by the left wing.  It's not known if the pilot, an LAC A. Thomson survived.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada PA-063938)

RCAF Station Pendleton was a thriving base where hard work was balanced with hard play.  After all, there was a war on and, naturally, spirits were to be kept high.  To that end, the base featured a swimming pool and a tennis court in the summer.  In the winter, staff and students could take advantage of the ski trail or "Little St. Moritz" - a skating rink.  There was also a pub christened "The Pig and Whistle" and a station library where, according to the station's 1944 yearbook, Esquire magazine was available on request. 

Leo Memorial Hall was the base's recreation centre where basketball enjoyed particular popularity as Pendleton sponsored both a men's and women's team.    The building was named for the beloved mascot of No. 10 - a goat who died on "active service with the Royal Canadian Air Force" during the station's move from Mount Hope.  A eulogy in the station's 1944 yearbook, equal parts feeling and humour, laments his passing with the following words:

The clatter of Leo's little hooves will not be heard on the parade square at Pendleton, no longer will he report to the Adjutant's office to masticate Training Command Instructions and cigarette butts.

Humour was and still is a way to make sense of the unique happenings on a home front base in time of war.  The follow snippets provide both a chuckle and insight into life on the station.

NOTICE - The regular official trip to Ottawa will leave at the usual time, some other day, but not today.

DRY CLEANING - On account of lack of water, dry cleaning is being practised by all personnel.

ENTERTAINMENT - The entertainment for the coming week-end looks exceptionally bright.  All personnel on the Station will provide their own.

CANTEEN HOURS - The canteen will be open for 15 minutes twice a day.  We don't know which 15 minutes, but the word will get around, so jump to it when you hear.


SPORTS - Same as yesterday, snow-ploughing and snow shovelling.


DRESS - It has been noticed that some of the personnel have got into the habit of going around unshaven and improperly dressed.  This practice should cease.  It is not likely that it will, however.


LOST - Flying suit complete with helmet and boots.  Last seen bobbing up and down among snow-drifts near the garage.

The Gatineau Gliding Club's "Boudreault" hangar and the only original building remaining on the former base.  The other was dismantled and moved to Prescott for use as a curling rink.  (Author's Collection)

The Grass Roots Squadron at Pendleton. (Author's Collection)

Today, as I climb out of the Smith's cockpit and stretch my legs, little of the wartime base remains.  The asphalt runways - save for a 30 foot section down the centre of the east-west strip - are crumbling, so most operations use the grass.  Only one of the massive RCAF hangars and the swimming pool remain - a far cry from the small village Pendleton was at the height of the BCATP.  The Gatineau Gliding Club, in continuous operation longer than any other club in Canada, now owns the airport.  The Club purchased it from the government in 1961 after permanently moving their operation from a farmer's field, now a golf course, tucked up against the Gatineau hills south of Camp Fortune.
Looking out across the airfield, one realizes the scenery hasn't really changed in more than 75 years.  I could have easily, just moments ago, unfolded myself from a Fleet Finch than the relatively modern Smith.
We walk across the old tarmac towards the Boudreault hangar.  The war time building is named for club member "Shorty" Boudreault who, in August 1948, flew a German-designed Grunau Baby glider for five and a half hours.  For this feat, balancing his open-air craft atop waves of turbulent air along the Eardley Escarpment, Boudreault became the first Canadian to be recognized by the Fédération Aéronautique Internationale (FAI) with the Silver C Soaring Badge.
We push through the southernmost door and into what would have served as the ready room - where pilots lounged before embarking on a flight.  I recognized it immediately as I'd spent a fair amount of time in its Mountain View counterpart.  Here, however, the drywall had been removed to expose the studs and the open space of the hangar floor beyond.

While this shot was not taken at Pendleton, it gives you an idea of the standard construction and interior of the world war two hangars in Canada.  This is Tiger Moth 8958 - which tells us this was most likely taken in a hangar at Arnprior.  This Moth was taken on strength on 26 June 1942 and then used by No. 3 Flying Instructors School at Arnprior beginning 1 August 1942.  It was sent to No. 9 Repair Depot for scrapping on 20 December 1943 following a crash and struck off strength 13 April 1944 for spare parts.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

This is a Fleet Finch I on skis in one of the hangars at Rockcliffe, 17 December 1942.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

Bojan inside the Boudreault hangar.  (Author's Collection)

The hangar is only half full as gliding is underway and most of the aircraft are on the flight line.  Still, the back end of the hangar protects a few gliders, ultralights and a handful of private planes - a cute little Champ, a classic Globe Swift, a rarely-seen Bellanca Cruisair and an aerobatic Rans S-9 in rebuild.  These monstrous old hangars were once omnipresent at airports across Canada but they're exceedingly rare now.  As we walk through the building, our footfalls echo softly throughout the cavernous interior.  It's difficult to believe this structure once housed a full-time maintenance facility where Moths and Finches subjected to the trials of flight training were serviced or patched up as needed and then sent out again.  On dark, quiet nights when everyone has gone home and the aircraft sit silently, I wonder if ghostly mechanics return to tighten a bolt or chase down a snag they overheard a pilot complain about.  I wonder if they gather in a corner, sitting on upturned buckets or an old pine bench and, in a cloud of cigarette smoke, have the same good-natured bitching sessions enjoyed by air maintenance engineers of today.

"Johnson hit '35 so hard this morning, he nearly puts the wheels through the wings," says one.

"Did you tear a strip of the silly bastard?" asks another.
"No," comes the drawn out sigh of a reply, cut short by a sharp drag on a half-finished cigarette.  "They sent the poor bugger out to fill in the holes the undercart left in the field.  That's bad enough, already."
A roar of laughter.
"Besides, there's no damage, nothing wrong with her," another drag and a wry smile.  "Johnson, on the other hand..."
Another roar of laughter.  A claxon sounds.
"Alright, lads," bellows another. "Back to work!"
Cigarettes fall to the ground and fizzle under the toes of scuffed leather boots.  The clatter of their steps fades as they return to their respective tasks.
We leave the hangar through the main door and amble back to the airplanes.  There's a tall, older gentleman standing by the Smith - blue jeans, ball cap, green windbreaker flapping in the breeze.
"A Smith?" he asks as I walk up and with a cheery hello, drop my knee board onto the seat.
"Yes, sir." 
"My dad built one years ago," he says.  "Early 60s."

"Where is it now?"

"Oh, no idea," he says with a chuckle, thrusting his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels.  "Lost track of it.  Where you from?"

"Rockcliffe," I reply.  "We're doing a little tour of grass fields."

"Come to think of it, that's the last place I saw a Miniplane," he says, the glint of memory in his eye. "Yeah, pretty little red and white thing.  Must have been, oh, more than 30 years ago now."

"It belonged to my Dad," I say.

I tell him a little bit of the story - about my Dad, about me and our Smiths.  We begin as two perfect strangers in a chance encounter on a little-used grass field near Nowhere, Ontario.  Our only tenuous link is aviation.  We part ways as friends - richer for the experience. This is one of those meaningful moments that makes this story and its continuing legacy worth telling. 

The Grass Roots Tour group with the Smith at Pendleton.  Cessna 172 C-GIGU is in the background.  (Author's Collection)

When we're ready to depart for Lancaster, we discover that it is, in fact, the Smith's starter that is the cause of our troubles.  Chris hand starts the biplane and I sadly tell him I won't be joining in on the rest of the trip but rather, returning to Rockcliffe.  The last thing I want is an issue en route or at Lancaster that forces me to leave the Smith away from her maintenance base.

The 150 departs first, followed by the Champ.  As I taxi along the pavement to the start of the grass runway, I hear someone call about a runway change.  I can see one glider just about to turn base for runway 26 but I can't be sure he won't try for 31 - the runway I'm waiting to take off from.  It's a lovely day, I've nothing but time and a warm engine is a happy engine.  And so, I'll yield until the glider is safely down.

Chris (top) and Bojan (bottom) with Champ C-FILL at Pendleton.  (Author's Collection)

I watch the glider, the Club's two seat Puchacz, approach.  Even minor movements and adjustments are exaggerated in a glider thanks to their requisite large wingspan.  I had seen all manner of curious flying in my relatively brief time in the air cadet gliding system - including a Schweizer flying backwards and a skidding turn to final that, were it not for the radio calls of an instructor, would have surely ended in a catastrophic stall and spin.
The Puchacz, however, flies as if on a string.  There are no wasted movements.  The turn from base to final is deliberate, calculated and paradoxically beautiful.  The right wing of the Puchacz sweeps soundlessly overhead - casting a momentary shadow as I look up to watch, squinting.   There is no noticeable flare.  Rather, the pilot flies his craft onto the grass and keeps it balanced there.  As it slows, he adds a boot of right rudder and the glider turns gracefully onto the asphalt. Stopped now, the pilot ground flies it for a moment, using the breeze to keep the wings level.  Then, he allows the left outrigger to fall gently into the grass - kindly leaving most of the runway clear for my departure. 
Moments later, we're galloping across the turf - a fantail of trembling grass and decapitated dandelions in our wake.  Pendleton is by no means a manicured golf green.  It's a bumpy ride and so I've taken care to keep the tail low throughout the roll.  We're still hopping along comically as we pass the glider.  Both the pilot and instructor are leaning against the nose of the Puchacz, arms crossed, smiling wistfully.  One casually flips his hand up to his brow in salute and best wishes for a safe trip home. 
We hit another furrow in the field and are catapulted into the soft cushion of ground effect.  We linger here for a few moments while the airspeed builds before climbing into the wind spilling over the pine trees at the end of the field. 
As we climb away and leave Pendleton behind, a sense of loneliness sweeps over me.  My squadron mates have flown away, melting into the blue sky to the south-east.  In a little more than half an hour, they'll touch down in the fly-in community near Lancaster, Ontario - a small town on the edge of the St. Lawrence between Cornwall and Les Cedres where I learned to fly fifteen years ago.  A cup of coffee and enthusiastic conversation surely await them there as Lancaster is famous for its hospitality.  Instead of sitting on a cedar deck overlooking the airfield, my feet up on the bannister, I'm heading home early.  The sense of missing out leaves me feeling empty.

As we ply westward for home, I think of how the landscape around me wouldn't have changed all that much since the war.  Orleans, the eastern sprawl of the capital, is but a smudge on the horizon and no threat to the reverie.  The Smith is faster than the Moth and the Finch but not by much so the pace would have been comparable.  Our higher wing loading means we'd handle turbulence with greater ease than either trainer...but the sights, sounds and feel would be eerily similar. 

I lower my goggles to shut out the wind and quiet some but not quite all of the noise.  I roll my shoulders back and relax into the seat.  In light of the starter issue, I have a strong feeling this will be our last flight of the season and I'm determined to relish it. 
I imagine I'm leading a three-ship formation.  There's a Moth bobbing about off my left wing and a Finch plowing along on my right - Kinner radial engine pop-pop-popping away merrily, gleefully belching grease at her pilot.  He tries to wipe his goggles with the back of a gloved hand and only succeeds in making it worse.  Pushing his goggles up, he flashes me a jovial grin topped by a handlebar moustache ensnaring several globs of grease.  The Moth pilot is more reserved, very business like.  His eyes, cold and hard even behind the shelter of his goggles, don't leave my ship.  He offers only a curt nod. 

Tiger Moth 4388 in flight over Canadian countryside likely near Windsor Mills, Quebec in 1942.  This Moth was taken in strength in February 1941 and assigned to No.1 EFTS at Malton (present day Toronto Pearson) before being damaged outside Toronto in November.  After repairs, it was sent to No. 4 EFTS at Windsor Mills then sold into civilian life in February 1945. (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

Their bright yellow paint jobs stand out vividly against the blue sky and green patchwork below.  That's by design.  It screams "I'm learning.  Give me a wide berth!"  Still, I'm the only one that can see these two.  I know it's a dream and that they're not really there.  I'm watching an imprint - an echo cast aloft seven decades ago that continues to careen across the heavens, revealing itself only to those who look for it.
We crawl westward at 1500'.  I make only minor heading changes which my ethereal escorts match with fluid precision.  We make quite the group, flying only feet apart but separated by 75 years.  I wonder about their names and hometowns, whether they have sweethearts and what spurred them to take up the fight.

Soon, I sense my wingmen grow restless.  We're flirting with the eastern boundary of Orleans and they're wondering where these buildings have come from and why they don't appear on their charts. A glance to my left reveals that the Moth has already peeled off and is now a tiny yellow cross diving away to the southeast.  The Finch remains on station, chugging along merrily - but not for much longer.  The pilot has lowered his goggles again, still smeared with grease.  He rocks his wings.

I'm sure I hear a voice in the rush of the wind.  I can't be...and yet, it is.

"That's as far as we can take you, Skipper," says the voice, barely more than a whisper - faint and thin but unmistakably Aussie. "The field's at your 12 o'clock by 6 miles.  See you at the pub."

And, with another grin and a wave, he guides his craft into a graceful climbing turn to the north.  I watch him go, afraid to blink lest I shatter the illusion.  Soon, my aching eyes can barely pick him out against blue of the sky and I lose him forever.

"So long, boys," I whisper to myself.  "Godspeed."

Rockcliffe today looks nothing like it did when the Finch and Moth would have landed there.  Only one runway, 09/27, still exists.  15/33 has been erased from the face of the earth and most of 04/22 is now taxiway Delta and home to the pieces of the national collection too big to fit into either of the museum's buildings.  

The Evolution of the Rockcliffe Airport - seen here in an aerial photograph from 1928.  There are two grass runways (including 09/27) and a collection of buildings at the north end - including a hangar and what looks like a construction site.  (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa)

An amazing shot from Air Force Day at Rockcliffe on 14 July 1934.  The picture is taken from the control tower of the smaller prewar hangar seen in the next photo just east of the larger 1939 hangar.  The road at left is present day Airport/Marina Road.  The aircraft in the foreground are Hawker Furies of No. 1 Squadron, RCAF.  (Photo Courtesy: Canada, Dept. of National Defence/Library and Archives Canada)

An aerial view of RCAF Station Rockcliffe from 1943.  The surviving runway 09/27 is nearest the river, seemingly recent resurfaced.  The three large hangars to the south of the field (middle left of the frame) were built in 1940 and housed the country's national aviation collection until the late 1980s.  The small hangar at bottom right remains in existence today as part of the RCMP facilities. (Photo Courtesy: Canada, Dept. of National Defence, Library and Archives Canada, PA-064459)

The Rockcliffe site in 1965.  15/33 has been closed.  (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa)

The Rockcliffe site in 1976.  04/22 has now also been closed.  The three buildings in the infield (middle of frame) are the hangars and terminal for the short-lived Air Transit Ottawa to Montreal Short Take-off and Landing (STOL) commuter operation.  You can also see that runway 09/27 has had a section marked out for the aircraft flying the route.  By the late 80s, both north hangars would be demolished with the smaller hangar's footprint now serving as boat storage for the marina. (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa) 

And finally in 2014.  15/33 has been torn up to make way for the parkway and 04/22 is now taxiway Delta.  The 1939 and World War Two hangars have been demolished and Canada Aviation and Space Museum now occupies the two new buildings at centre.  (Photo Courtesy: GeoOttawa)

When I arrive overhead Rockcliffe, I see there is a strong wind blowing across the field from the north - precisely as forecasted.  While not a howl, it can be characterized as a robust shout.  75 years ago, I would have approached from the south and taken runway 33 almost directly into the wind.  Today, however, I am forced to weather the wind's broadside if I'm to bring this flight to a safe conclusion.The Smith's small cross-section and high wing-loading make handling a crosswind a little easier.  The control feedback and roll authority is terrific and so the approach is steady and beautifully controlled.  With a fair amount of into wind aileron, we sweep over the fence and into the flare - rounding out to balance ourselves mere inches above the asphalt.  I ease the right main down and it touches almost exactly at the same time as the tailwheel.  For a moment, we ride along on only two wheels.  The little biplane leaning heavily into the wind but rolling faithfully straight ahead.  I let the left main drop onto the runway and, as we slow, progressively add more right aileron.  The Smith slows to a brisk jog and then a walking pace.  My feet are aching and I realize they've been working the rudder automatically - small movements but at a furious pace.  My legs are trembling.  Adrenaline.  I've 900 hours aloft and now more than 100 in this slick little ship but it still gets my blood pumping.

Building the north side land plane hangar on 12 December 1939.  This hangar can be seen nearest the river in the previous aerial photographs of Rockcliffe before 1976.  The present day Club's parking lot now occupies its former footprint.  You can plainly see the scale of the work.  The BCATP hangars, built later, were more than twice as large.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

FAM in 1985 at Rockcliffe.  The 1939 hangar is in the background, marked for demolition.  (Family Collection)

My squadron mates return two hours later as I'm elbow deep in the Smith's engine compartment - trying to clear a gummed-up starter bendix.  It's of little use as I'm sure we'll need a new one and less confident that it'll arrive and be installed before the end of the season.
I can hear the excitement in their voices as they spill out of their airplanes and walk across the tarmac.  It was a good trip but they're glad to be home.  Bojan walks over, full of concern for me, the Smith and the maintenance issue that forced us back early and (not quite) alone.  He tells me about the trip.  I tell him about the Moth and the Finch and sheepishly admit that I know I'm silly for having imagined it.
There's no ridicule, however - just a smile.  Somehow, in him too, this trip has stirred whispers and echoes of a time long ago.

The Smith waiting for a new starter.  (Author's Collection)

Epilogue:
The insights from early in the piece come from a special edition of the "Pendletonic" - a No. 10 yearbook of sorts produced for the occasion of the base's complete handover to the air force.  It includes amazing scenes of life on the base, including photographs of Pendleton before and after the station's construction.  I highly recommend having a look.  It has been posted by the BCATP Air Museum in Brandon, MB and can be viewed at the following link:

http://www.airmuseum.ca/reprints/pend/pendletonic.pdf

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)

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.

Wingman II

At some point in 2015, a pudgy little Aeronca Champ appeared on the field and settled into a tie-down in the north-west sector of the airport.  White with two-tone blue trim, fat tires and chrome hubcaps, she was a fine example of the '46 vintage and, like the Smith, the only one of her kind at Rockcliffe.
Pilots of a certain vintage have a great affection for the Champ.  It's easy to understand why.  Most pilots who learned to fly between the end of the second world war and the early 70s would have trained in a Champ - and typically out of small airfields that featured at least one grass runway.  The mere sight of the little taildragger evokes intense emotions associated with youth, the excitement of that first solo flight and the promise of learning.

Stunt pilot Sammy Mason flying a slalom course between pines near Santa Paula, California in the late 40s.  Note the aileron deflection.  Mason went to a storied aviation career as an instructor and test pilot - which included being Steve McQueen's flight instructor. (Photo Courtesy: allposters.com)

If you ask an old hand, they'll tell you the Champ is a charming airplane.  It's true that they are not particularly fast (snail-like, in fact) and don't do any one thing particularly well.  However, they're forgiving and docile - a real sweetheart of an airplane that is simply a lot of fun to fly. 
The Rockcliffe Flying Club began operations with a fleet of Aeronca Champs so the airfield has a deep and powerful connection to the type.  I'll admit that the first time I saw India-Lima-Lima climb away from runway 09, chugging away in a valiant effort to clear the trees at the end of the field, it truly did feel like I was gazing through a window in time.

Champ Juliet-Uniform-Quebec on the take-off roll down runway 09 at Rockcliffe in the mid 60s. (Photo Courtesy: Rockcliffe Flying Club)

Champ November-Mike-Yankee, one of the Club's first Champs - mid 60s.  (Photo Courtesy: Rockcliffe Flying Club)

When I became a flying member of the Rockcliffe Flying Club in late 2002, its fleet consisted of five Cessna 172s and two 150s and Simon Garrett was the Chief Flying Instructor.  Flight instruction is unique in that it is the key to the health and safety of air transportation and yet it's the permanent resident of the dank basement of flying jobs.  That, and its practitioners are usually poorly paid for long, grueling hours sitting next to students who are seemingly hell bent on killing them.  And while the risks are sometimes quite severe, the non-monetary rewards are astronomically soul-nourishing.  Simon is one of a rare breed of "career" instructors - individuals who managed to stay alive long enough to eke out something of a living and truly live to create, foster and champion pilots of all kinds, regardless of their aspirations.  I'm not sure I've met a more generous and dedicated teacher and mentor.
In mid 2015, Simon moved on to new challenges and, in August, the club hired a new CFI to succeed him.  Like Simon, Chris Ricci drew his energy from the inherent promise of the job.  Like me, while a relatively young man, he has much of the old school in him and a marked affinity for the beauty and simplicity offered by taildraggers, aerobatics, formation, ski-flying and the like.  It didn't take long for Chris to seek out the Champ's owners and work out an agreement - flight instruction in return for the use of the airplane, plus gas.
On Chris' list of goals was an aerobatic instructor rating.  As the club's only aerobatic instructor pilot, it fell to me to help get him there.  Whenever time and money allowed, we shoehorned ourselves into the Super D and began building on his existing experience in aerobatics.  Aviation, and in particular an aerobatic airplane, is a crucible wherein friendships are formed or rendered inert.  One needs little time to discover which it will be.  With Chris, it was clear that we would get along.

Charlie Miller's Champ CF-GRN while under Charlie's care.  (Photo Courtesy: Charlie Miller)

And so, the Smith had a nicely matched and historic dancing partner in the Champ.  After all, my dad had flown one at Collingwood in preparation to solo in Fox-Alpha-Mike and before that, Charlie Miller had purchased one, sight unseen, as a stable mate for the Smith.  My dad wasn't fortunate enough to have a formation partner but Charlie had Gord and now, I had Chris.
And so, on a shockingly cool July evening, Chris and I sit under the cover of the canvas hangar and brief a quick formation flying trip.  Above, a blanket of stratocumulus - an ugly, grey and swirling morass - slides by at a decent clip.  Just outside, we can hear the windsock straining against its metal bracket.
"Hey," Chris said, more or less reading my mind.  "At least it's straight down the pipe."
About fifteen minutes later, the Smith and I climb out of runway 09 at Rockcliffe and turn left to follow the Ottawa River west.  As soon as we level out at circuit height, I throttle back to allow the slower Champ, which climbs at a speed barely faster than we stall, to catch up.

It takes Chris and the Champ a few miles but, by the time we're rounding the southern end of the Gatineau Hills and entering the practice area, they slide into position off our right wings.  Afraid to tear my eyes away from the path ahead, I quickly glance over to make sure all is well.  As if reading my mind, Chris gives me a curt nod.  Eyes front again, busying myself with the duties of a flight leader.

Heading north-west towards Luskville with the Smith leading the Champ, July 2016.  (Photo Courtesy: Chris Ricci)

In short order, we discover that our 90 miles per hour translates into about 85 for them - and that this is a good formation flying speed.  We've climbed to two thousand feet in the hopes that the ride would be smoother higher up.  It isn't so and every so often the invisible wind slams against our brave little formation.  There's little to do than stick out our chins and clench our jaws in defiance.  On the wing, Chris and the Champ cling on grimly, bouncing up and down in the onrushing current. 

The sky is uniformly grey and the land below it is equally sallow.  The Ottawa River, now off to our left and meandering north towards a sharp turn at Pontiac, is of similar complexion save for a few shimmering bands that betray the light leaking through the overcast.  Despite it being the height of summer, it's damn cold up here.
I inhale sharply and do a quick scan of the instrumentation; speed 90, altitude 2050', engine gauges green.  A glance at the drunken compass provokes a chuckle before I focus again on the outside world for other traffic. 
"Lead, two," Chris' voice crackles in my ears.  The Champ doesn't have an alternator so the radio draws off the battery.  We limit voice communication for this reason.  "Going echelon left."
"Lead," I acknowledge. 
I glance over as the Champ seems to back away slowly and then sink out of sight below my tail.  It's unnerving, not having eyes on the Champ, but I rely on trust and focus on keeping my flying as precisely steady as my abilities allow.  Moments later, the Champ resurfaces on the left wings.  Another nod from Chris.

C-GDSA as lead in July 2016.  (Photo Courtesy: Chris Ricci)

Charlie Miller at the controls of C-FFAM in her original livery, formed up on a Piper Cub in southwestern Ontario, summer 1978.  This is a screen shot from an old 8mm film found by Gordon Skerratt. (Photo Courtesy: Gordon Skerratt)

We push on as far as Luskville before angling towards the escarpment to open up a wide turn to the left.  Chris masterfully keeps station on the inside wing as I guide the formation back towards Rockcliffe. 
Despite the gravity and seriousness of the flight, it truly is great fun.  I can't help but think of Charlie Miller and Gordon Skerratt who, in two Smith Miniplanes and armed only with caps, goggles and one chart between them, set off to discover Ontario.  Neither ship had a radio, so they communicated solely by hand signals and navigated using only a moistened thumb and a map.  As Charlie describes it:


 I find out where I am, touch my tounge with a gloved finger and then press my finger against the map.  It leaves a telltale spot.  On a hot day, by the time it evaporates, I know I am about five minutes from where I was...and therefore not too lost.


On one such memorable hop - a contour flying, nape-of-the-earth formation flight in the Muskokas - they crested a small hill hiding a lake where they came upon and surprised two lovers fornicating in a canoe.  In Charlie's words:


Flat out in ground effect, both of us locked on target, our canoe comes into focus. What also comes into focus is that there are two legs, kind of pointing up and out and a white something round in between. As we both pull up and looked over the cockpit edges we see a naked guy and a equally dressed well-endowed young woman trying to wave and scramble to keep the canoe right side up at the same time. Well, based on that sight I knew we were still in cottage country.

In all my communications with Charlie, there's an obvious undercurrent of nostalgia but also pride...in that his adventures in FAM are, in a large way, responsible for the flight Chris and I are enjoying today.  It's all the more meaningful when you consider that, had my dad not purchased FAM from Charlie nearly 30 years ago, this flight and everything it represents simply wouldn't be. 
It's an undeniable and powerful thread as real and tangible as the one keeping the Champ firmly anchored on the Smith's wings. 
It's about a quarter to 9 in the evening by the time our little two-ship formation arrives overhead Rockcliffe.  The last of the light is leaking through the gaps in the overcast, which, where thickest, has become almost black. 
"Low and over?" Chris asks.
"Good idea," I respond. 
We begin a wide and gradual, descending spiral to shed altitude.  The wind has died off somewhat so the abrupt jolts are fewer and further between.  Chris keeps station beautifully as we round out onto final approach and sweep across the field in formation.  My radio calls and the combined clatter of our engines has attracted a small group to the runway's edge to witnesses our "beat-up."  As the end of the field approaches, I go to full throttle and peel away to the north.  Chris maintains runway heading to allow me the space and time to rejoin the circuit, land and taxi clear. 
No canoes or coitus but great fun all the same.
A few minutes later, having cleared landed and cleared at taxiway Bravo, I'm using the light of the radio to jot down notes.  Over the swishing of the prop, I hear Chris call short final for runway 09 and glance up to see the Champ's silhouette glide in over the western fence.  Suddenly, it appears to stop in mid-air, seemingly hovering only inches above the runway - before dropping onto all three points.  The wings rock slightly as the little Champ slows to a brisk jog and then a walking pace.
Chris taxies off and, once again, sidles up next to the Smith.  I raise my hand in greeting.  He and his mount appear only as a silhouette, backlit by last light of a dying day, but I can tell he's smiling at the promise of a new tradition.