Excerpt from *Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike*

I'm pleased to share the Prologue from *Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike*, available from Goose Lane Editions starting February 19th.

Prologue

It seems as though I’ve waited all summer for a day like this: a warm August afternoon cooled by a brisk breeze bringing lines of neatly formed cumulus clouds marching across the royal blue heavens.

The clouds, each one both alike and unique, advance roughly southeastward. The vanguard of the formation, a loose gaggle of ragged patches, has only just drifted over the field at Rockcliffe as I roll my biplane out of the shade of the hangar. Ten minutes later, we are threading our way northwest through the tip of the main column and climbing quickly behind the eager tug of the Lycoming engine.

We stop the climb at our usual 1,700 feet and, from our new vantage point inside a cloudless trough, spy a long cloud front stretching across the horizon before us. It appears as though a massive, snow-covered mountain has been turned onto its peak so that its low, rolling foothills loom over us like a giant shelf at great altitude. It is as if a great hand wielding the sharpest and most precise of razors has cleaved the edge of the front to form the straightest of lines for many miles. From there, my goggled eyes trace the flanks of the colossus down to a point far in the distance where it vanishes behind the green mounds of the Gatineau Hills.

My mind is quiet when I fly. Normally, it’s a chaotic mess — even though my exterior rarely betrays it. I wasn’t always like this. Years ago that stillness and peace was easier to find, and I could hold onto it longer. It happens to all of us — that noise. It is the echo of all our triumphs and failures, our discoveries and losses. Here, aloft, those voices are silenced.

I used to be a day dreamer. I’m not anymore. Life moves too quickly with work and family and obligations to permit the mind to wander. In an airplane, it’s equally frowned upon. Flying, after all, is serious business. Still, we’re alone up here — the biplane and me. No co-pilot looks at me sideways; I’ve no passenger to fret over. It’s such a lovely afternoon that it would sinful to waste this opportunity for silence and peace.

Small groups of white cumulus, having detached themselves from the main body of the cloud front, begin to influence our path, forcing us to circumvent them to the east or west. As one presents itself just below the nose and a shade to our right, I pressure the control column slightly aft, and we bound over the top and into a slight right turn. And then, the strangest thing happens. Nature conspires to assemble the perfect set of circumstances — a cloud below, the sun high above and behind us — so that we see our shadow for the first time.

Initially, I wonder what it is, that dark smudge on the cloud’s crest ringed in concentric halos of orange, yellow, red, pink, green, and blue. As my eyes blink behind my goggles, I bring the vision into focus. There we are — albeit much larger — complete with twin wings, rounded tail, and the circular shade of the whirling propeller. My other senses dulled, I gaze upon our shadow with the same wonder as one who has seen their reflection for the first time. Instinctively, with the cloud sliding away, I bank the wings and roll into a turn to prolong the apparition but unwittingly upset the balance. The image fades.

We fly on. The solid wave of cloud remains distant ahead. The seaplane base at Chelsea drifts by. A trio of float planes, gaily colored in yellow, orange and eggshell blue, bob contently at the dock. A canoe is working its way south, leaving a feathery wake on the otherwise placid surface of the river. Up here, the wind seems stronger, hastening the journey of the clouds drifting our way while hampering our progress up the river.

The cloud bank creeps closer now. I raise the nose and inch the throttle forward, adding power to begin a climb. The advantage, after all, is in height. The plane eagerly soars up toward the promise of cooler air. A quick glance at her instruments: the speed stands at ninety miles per hour, the vertical speed announces itself at an optimistic two thousand feet per minute, engine gauges normal, fuel on and sufficient, and switches in their proper places. We are ready.

I push the throttle forward to the stop and pull the plane into a climbing left-hand turn. It bleeds energy quickly as we drift sideways over the top, wings banked vertically, and slide earthward again. With the sun at our back, our first target swims into view between the cabane struts. I feel tension rising in the plane as speed and energy return. I draw a deep breath and depress the trigger on the stick.

The quick burst is ineffectual. Too far away. We close rapidly, the target quivering behind the grey wisp of the racing propeller. The edges of my vision draw away. It is just us and this hapless, little cloud.

Another burst. Whitish-grey threads are pulled away and spin off into oblivion. Right stick, right rudder — just the deftest adjustment and the target flashes past our left shoulder. We claw for altitude again as I turn my head this way and that, searching for the next aggressor or opportunity.

We roll out of the turn with the nose pointed between twin clouds at a third just above and beyond. The plane roars approval as we descend in a shallow dive towards the first two. This pass must be executed with surgical precision as there will not be another chance.

A stab of left rudder, a brief pause . . . steady. The plane trembles as we unleash a short burst. Now, before the opportunity has passed, a boot of right rudder and a longer burst at his companion. The torn cloud rolls away.

I ease the plane’s nose up and target the leader. My gloved finger depresses the trigger.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

We’ve played at dogfighting with clouds too long. So long, in fact that either my imagination is entirely devoid of shells or my fantasy Vickers machine gun has jammed. I use the extra speed to rise gently above our would-be target and waggle the wings in salute.

The timbre of the Lycoming’s growl changes, tearing the reverie apart. The throttle is a little loose and tends to creep forward. As a result, the engine has picked up about a hundred RPM. It’s more an idiosyncrasy than an issue, and given I too have my quirks, I don’t see a real need for it to be “fixed.” To do so would steal a shred of personality from this little biplane.

The cloud bank we’ve been chasing now stretches from horizon to horizon. It is darker but not particularly menacing. Its colour is owed more to how tightly the clouds are ordered rather than any perils that lurk within. As it crawls towards us, I draw in a deep breath. The air up here, measured more or less precisely by our altimeter as 2,750 feet, is violently pure. It nearly burns as you bring it in, and if you hold it for any length of time, it rushes to your head and sets off an electric tingle that crackles and buzzes down your spine to your fingers, toes, the tips of your hair. Today, there is a weight to the atmosphere, which is odd, as density typically decreases with altitude.

The cloud bank has grown closer, darker and now more menacing. Somewhere near Wakefield, we turn east and follow its billowing edge for a few miles. Every so often, we dip a wing so as to tentatively peek behind the curtain, curious to see what lies beyond. What are we looking for? Something to pursue? A reason to enter a crevasse or fjord carved into this mighty face? Or do we search for inspiration to return home?

We turn west, placing the approaching cloud front on our opposite shoulder. The high flanks of the front have now choked out the sun and dropped the temperature a few degrees. While my biplane seems content to stay aloft and fuel is plentiful, I bank the wings and pick up the river that will lead us home. A feeling of familiarity washes over me. I’ve flown these skies for a long time. This is home. Soon, the field at Rockcliffe will greet me as an old friend.

I give the rudder pedals a playful kick. It’s an old custom of mine, something of a nervous tick. The nose wags eagerly in response. In jockeying the pedals, I’m reminding my feet of their true purpose in the impending landing. As graceful a flier and as cute an airplane as she may be, this biplane can make her displeasure known when returning to earth. I approach every landing expecting a kick in the ass.

Before long, the old air force base at Rockcliffe is beyond the plane’s long nose. I know that this was my dad’s vantage point for all his flights. This is where he once was, where I am now, and where, perhaps, at the intersection of the two, we may meet again. There must be such a place: a field just beyond the cobalt horizon where the skies are always blue and the wind is always gentle, where fuel tanks never run dry and hot coffee is never in short supply. At the end of this field, I’ll find the spirit of a westward-gone aviator and the spectre of his sprightly mount.

A squeak, a shimmy, and I’m prodded back to reality by the trundling of rubber on runway. Given that her short length predisposes her to swapping ends, my feet work furiously to keep the biplane rolling straight ahead. As we taxi off the runway at the end, we make two left turns and proceed down the taxiway towards the fuel pumps. We roll slowly past an empty tie down: the familiar plot of land where my dad’s plane resided almost thirty years ago.

I gaze at the grass swaying ever so delicately in the early evening breeze. I swear I hear the engine of his absent plane humming, a decades-old, ghostly echo.

*Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike* is available in two weeks!

I've got some exciting news to share!

There's been a lack of content on the blog in recent months because I've been fully engrossed in writing and publishing my first book.

*Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike * is published by Goose Lane Editions and will be available starting February 19th. I've included some background and ordering information below BUT if you're in Ottawa, please hold off. We'll be having a launch party on March 6th from 7 to 9 at the Metropolitain Brasserie (700 Sussex Drive) where I'll have books on hand and would be happy to sign them.

I'll also be posting an excerpt from the book this Friday. Stay tuned for that!

The cover page of the forthcoming *Airborne*, beautifully realized  by Julie Scriver with images from Charlie Miller, Anna Gaudio and Ernie Szelepcsenyi.

Airborne: Finding Foxtrot Alpha Mike 
Jonathan Rotondo

Soon to be available at your local bookstore!

The RUSH of speed
the PULL of gravity
the MAGIC of flight

Jonathan Rotondo was 28 when his father, Anotonio, died. Numb with his grief, Rotondo decided to track down the object that had once given his father so much joy: a tiny single-seat biplane called Charlie Foxtrot Foxtrot Alpha Mike. Thus began Rotondo’s journey to trace his father’s life from Italy to Canada, via the plains of East Africa.

In the sanctum of a tiny single-seat biplane, a DSA-1 Smith Miniplane, Antonio Rotondo discovered the miracle of flight. A farmer's son from San Giacomo, Antonio took his first flight over Nairobi, Kenya, in 1970 at the age of 24. By 1976, he had become a commercial pilot. Then, in the early 1980s, he purchased a single-seat, open-cockpit, home-built Smith biplane, a throwback to leather flying caps, gauntlets, pencil-thin moustaches, and twinkling eyes behind oil-speckled goggles.

More than three decades later, Antonio's son, Jonathan, came across one of only three airworthy Smith biplanes and thus began a journey to retrace his father's airborne life. He finds Antonio's first flying instructor, an Australian ex-pat living in Kenya; the soft-spoken Swiss-Canadian who managed to get Antonio's biplane into the air; the free-spirit dreamer who bought it to dogfight with his mates; and the air traffic controller who, as a teenager, bought the plans to build the biplane that Jonathan would fly 35 years later.

For more information on this book, please click here.

Echoes and Whispers - Part I

"Contact!"

Chris, both hands folded around the trailing edge of the down-going blade, rocks back on his heels and drives the propeller downward - his momentum carrying him away.

The Lycoming coughs once and then catches. The propeller blades instantly disappear into a silver whirl reflecting the flat, early morning light sweeping across the field.

Chris gives me a grin and a thumbs up before walking over to the Champ, hand starting it and then climbing into the front seat.  My friend Bojan is in the back seat.  He's backlit and so appears only in silhouette - but I can tell he's smiling.

Hand-propping the Smith has been an increasingly regular occurrence.  The 50-year-old Remy-Delco starter has taken ill of late and can no longer reliably spin the prop with enough force to start the engine.  On this morning however, given the chill of the air and a period of relative inactivity, we've incorrectly diagnosed the issue as a low battery.  In the end, it's of no great consequence.  Fox-Alpha-Mike did not have a starter - so my Dad hand-propped it for every flight.  Al told me he put a starter in Delta-Sierra-Alpha because he was "lazy".  Given my lack of interest and education in the finer points of hand swinging a propeller, I'm thankful for Al's sloth.

I'm very excited about today's flight.  It's the Club's 3rd annual "Grass Roots Tour" - where a small group of airplanes visit three grass fields in the area.  I missed the tour last season and, despite flying an airplane best suited to grass fields, have never landed it on anything but pavement.

The planned flight route for the September 25th Grass Roots Tour.  (Photo courtesy: Skyvector.com)

The planned flight route calls for stops in Pendleton, Lancaster Airpark and Embrun before returning to Rockcliffe.  Legs are between 20 and 40 miles forming an almost perfect quadrilateral or "kite" shape across the land between Ottawa and Montreal to the east.  Four aircraft carrying ten people will make the trip: myself in the Smith, two in the Champ, two in a privately owned Cessna 150 and three more in one of the Club's Cessna 172s.  The Smith and Champ will fly the trip in formation, alternating lead and wing positions. I will, however, forego the landing in Embrun - simply overflying the field and continuing on to Rockcliffe.  The runway at Embrun is but 50 feet wide, hemmed in by power lines and there is also stiff direct crosswind forecast for later in the day.  While I am quite comfortable with the Smith, in this case, I've taken to heart the old adage of "discretion is the better part of valour."

Smith C-GDSA warming up on the tarmac at Rockcliffe (top) and together with Champ C-FILL (bottom). The photograph at top gives you a clear idea of the lack of forward visibility in the three-point attitude.  (Photos Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

The Cessnas depart first - the 150 followed by the 172.  Chris and I had briefed a take-off in trail, followed by a formation fly-past before departing for Pendleton.  We taxi onto the runway together and Chris takes off first. 

The Lycoming waits patiently at 1000 RPM as the windsock is already beginning to swirl.  While the northwesterly wind will present only a slight crosswind from the Smith's right broad, the impatience of the ten feet of brightly dyed nylon foretells a strengthening wind. 

The corners of the chart tucked under my left thigh tremble in the wind.  Folded inside are photocopies of each airport and my notes.  In any case, I've committed runways, frequencies and procedures, at least for Pendleton, to memory.  Reading charts and notes in an single-seat, open-cockpit, high-maintenance biplane like the Smith is difficult bordering on dangerous.

Now, where is the Champ?  Surely, they must have taken off by now.  I scan the sky ahead just in case I've missed them - but no. Part of the Champ's charm is it is never in a hurry. Its plodding pace is an integral part of its constitution.

I occupy myself with simple tasks - a final scan of the instruments, a jockey of the rudder pedals, exploring the limits of control with the stick.  Finally, I see the Champ slide into view above the Smith's long cowling. 

We bound ahead, reaching 75 miles per hour relatively quickly.  In our first season, I discovered we could run at full power on the main wheels as long as the runway ahead permitted without edging much past 75.  A deft movement of the right wrist and the wheels free themselves from the bounds of the earth.  And so, our open defiance of gravity begins anew.

The Smith joining up on the Champ. Although it's dark, you can see the end of Rockcliffe's runway 27 at top left. (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

The wind has kicked up small waves on the surface of the Ottawa River - little mounds that now bounce off each shore and crash into one another.  This, coupled with the effect of a low-slung, early morning sun, has created something of a kaleidoscope of black, white, silver and grey.  It is against this shimmering canvas that, from the Champ's rear seat, Bojan watches me approach - a shadowy mass against a field of diamonds. 

By mid-downwind, abeam the field to the north, I am tucked in as number two on the Champ's right wing for our formation fly-past.  Two turns and not quite sixty second later, we sweep over the eastern perimeter fence and across the old field at Rockcliffe.
It is the last bastion of undeveloped land in Canada's capital city - and its once substantial footprint is, even now, dwindling.  Lost behind the roar of our engines and masked by my concentration on the lead ship, are the sights and sounds of change and repurposing.  Lorries and heavy construction equipment shuttle back and forth just outside the airport's boundary - digging a drainage system for the new development atop the stony bluffs from which the airfield takes its name.  Years ago, the airport was bordered to the south by homes for the men and women stationed there as well as a school, theatre, recreation centre, ball diamonds and a general store.  Now, only stone walkways and heritage oaks remain.  

Its very being is somewhat secured by the presence of the Canada Aviation and Space Museum as the facility requires the airstrip to accept new additions to the national collection.  Still, despite having no military function for decades, its fight is far from over.  The airport was threatened by talk of another interprovincial bridge in the 2000s.  It will inevitably find itself in the public's crosshairs once its new neighbours to the south realize an airport's actual purpose.

Holding the Number Two position on the Champ as we're about to cross the perimeter fence.  Note the construction activity in the background.  (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

As I've related many times before, this old airport has a soul.  As our little two-ship races across the old lady's aging face, I can't help but wonder if she finds our display amusing.  After all, her window panes were once rattled by the Merlins of the Lancaster and the Wright Cyclones of the Flying Fortress.  In those days, fly-pasts would stop conversations cold - if only because the participants could not hear each other well enough to continue.  Now, only a few would stop to watch - and most out of annoyance.  Even at an airport, I'm sure there are a handful of poor souls who remain unmoved by our passing.

Two shots of the formation fly past with the Champ leading and the Smith as No.2.  (Photos Courtesy: Ernie Szelepcsenyi)

We leave home behind and I assume the lead position for the flight to Pendleton. My notes call for a course of 100 degrees for 23 miles but the chart remains stowed under my thigh.  I don't bother looking at the compass.  Its presence is but a regulatory requirement.  In practice, it provides little more than added weight and comic relief.  Upon climbing to our agreed upon altitude of 1700', I point our nose to where I know Pendleton, as of yet still unseen, must be.


Leading the formation towards Pendleton.  We're almost past Orleans and the Gatineau Airport is just out of frame to the left.  Note the almost three point attitude of the Smith .  In normal cruise, the airplane sits in more of a tail up stance.  However, I've slowed down here in order to not over tax the Champ which flies at a slower speed.  (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

The Champ is holding close formation on my right wing - even Chris' small movements are barely perceptible from my danger close vantage point.  Bojan is still grinning.  He gives me a wave.  Even across the chasm between our machines, his enthusiasm is infectious.

It's a pleasant day with clear skies and terrific visibility.  To the south, the patchwork of fields and forest stretch to the horizon.  To the north, the river meanders east while the land rises gently in an endless green sea of undulating hills.  We are floating in an immense, empty sky and our emotions are chiefly tranquility and peace.

One of my favourite photographs from the BCATP era.  Here, an RCAF airman in tropical dress checks himself in the Rockcliffe exit gate mirror.  As an air cadet almost 60 years later, I would be drilled in the very same points of uniform wear and maintenance. (Photo Courtesy: RCAF)

The last time the world was locked in large-scale bloody conflict, these same skies were home to the same tranquility and peace we enjoy now - which made them ideally suited for flight training.  In Canada, far from the dangers of wartime skies, the military machine could churn out thousands of aircrew for service.  Between 1940 and 1945, more than 130,000 pilots, navigators, observers and wireless operator/gunners were trained in Canada alone through the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (BCATP).  The governments of the United States, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Southern Rhodesia ran similar training schemes in tandem. 

The land around us was once dotted with BCATP fields and you'd be hard pressed to find a pilot (or any Canadian for that matter) who hasn't flown into a former Plan airport.  In fact, Rockcliffe itself was home to No. 7 Manning Deport where RCAF personnel, mainly Women's Division recruits, were drilled in military basics.  RCAF Station Uplands, now the Macdonald-Cartier Ottawa International Airport, was once home to No. 2 Service Flying Training School (SFTS) operating the Harvard and Yale.  In the midst of a war, they even found time to shoot a movie: Captain of the Clouds starring James Cagney with a cameo by Billy Bishop.  Service Flying Training Schools were typically served by two nearby relief fields.  These smaller airports came in a wide variety as some were paved, others simply turf and some also featured hangars, maintenance facilities and barracks.  The role of these airports was to provide alternate landing areas in case of maintenance, weather, overflow or emergency.  In the case of No. 2 SFTS, famous for turning out High Flight poet John Gillespie McGee, these airports were Carp to the north (which still exists) and Edwards to the south (which is now a solar farm).

Carp in 1944.  (Photo Courtesy: Library and Archives Canada)

RCAF Station Arnprior which, during the war, hosted one of the BCATP's three flying instructor schools. (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum)

To Carp's north was Arnprior, still in service today as a major general aviation field, which hosted No. 3 Flight Instructor School.

No. 10 EFTS at Pendleton, Ontario during the war.  (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum) 

Pendleton, our immediate destination, was first built in the late 1930s as part of a network of emergency landing fields for Trans-Canada Air Lines (TCA), Air Canada's predecessor.  It was little more than a leveled field with a lit beacon flashing a Morse code identifier to mark its location at night.  When war erupted, the site was selected and developed for use as a BCATP field - welcoming its first trainees in September of 1942.  RCAF Station Pendleton was home to No. 10 Elementary Flying Training School (EFTS) where recruits selected for pilot training cut their teeth on the de Havilland Tiger Moth and Fleet Finch.  Its relief field at Limoges is now a private grass strip where I had, at one point, considered basing the Smith.  Roughly 30 miles east of Pendleton was the airfield at St-Eugene, home to No. 13 EFTS operating the Fleet Finch.  That airport is gone now with only the faint outline of its overgrown runways and an old road still visible from the air. 

No. 13 EFTS during the war.  (Photo Courtesy: Flight Ontario)

 

The former site of No. 13 EFTS - about two miles south of the town of St. Eugene.  The school operated the Fleet Finch from October 1940 to June 1945.  You can plainly see the triangular runway arrangement characteristic of BCATP fields. (Photo Courtesy: Google Maps)

My own connection to the BCATP runs deep.  Over three days in September 2005, I learned to fly gliders at Mountain View (No. 6 Bombing and Gunnery School) and Picton (No. 31 Bombing and Gunnery School).  The old Royal Air Force base at Picton, in particular, has changed very little since its BCATP days with most of the H-hut barracks, hangars and support buildings remaining in use as storage space.  At Mountain View, you can still see the pockmarks of bullet strikes on the huge concrete walls that once served as targets to sight aerial weaponry. 

At top, Picton (No. 31 B&G) and at bottom, Mountain View (No. 6 B&G) during the war.  Picton has remained largely unchanged while Mountain View is hardly recognizable.  (Photo Courtesy: BCATP Museum)

In the many summers spent working with my Dad, we flew out of the former BCATP fields at Dunnville  (No. 6 SFTS - Harvard and Yale), Welland (Dunnville's relief field) St. Catharines (No. 9 EFTS - Moth) and Oshawa (No. 20 EFTS - Moth).  Just before the Club acquired our Super Decathlon in 2009, I flew out to Boundary Bay, British Columbia to get reacquainted with the type.  Boundary Bay was home to two BCATP schools, No. 18 EFTS on the Tiger Moth and No. 3 Operational Training Unit - the last stop before overseas assignment for B-24 Liberator and B-25 Mitchell crews.



BCATP fields at St. Catharines (top), Oshawa (middle) and Boundary Bay (bottom).  (Photos courtesy: BCATP Museum & RCAF)

The Plan drew heavily upon the civilian population - employing thousands in support jobs.  In the post Depression years, the construction and operation of 80 new airfields meant an instant economic shot in the arm for small towns neighbouring these facilities.  It was a monumental effort - a tremendous mobilization of man and machine, ingenuity and innovation that raged for nearly five years.  It cannot be denied that the Plan played a significant role in the Allied victory.  And yet, many Canadians don't know of its existence let alone its importance.  If a BCATP field survived the post-war dismantling, any sign of its former role would be forgotten or slowly erased altogether in line with present and projected needs.  At Uplands, for example, thousands of passengers a day pass a plaque detailing its wartime function and importance.  Few stop to read it. 

August 23, 2005, Picton, Ontario.  At top, my 21-year-old 2nd Lieutenant self about to close the canopy of Schweizer SGS-233A C-FCIV for my first glider solo.  At bottom, landing on the grass next to runway 35 after an 11 minute flight on a 2500' tow. (Author's Collection)

Today and in these parts, we can navigate in the purest form - watching the landscape below unfold and knowing where we are with wonderful precision, even without the aid of a chart.  We've only just said goodbye to Gatineau over the radio.  The riverside village of Cumberland lies over our left shoulder.  Ahead and stretching to the south-east are two rather large forests flanking a swath of farmers' fields.  Without looking at my chart, I know that the larger town on the south shore of the Ottawa River is Rockland and the smaller towns at the northern and southern extremities of the near forest are Clarence Creek and Bourget.  The field at Pendleton is on a heading roughly between the two towns on the westernmost border of the far wood - two miles north of its namesake town (really more of a crossroads).  On a clear day such as this, it first appears as a triangular patch of green much lighter than that of the surrounding forest. 

I glance over at the Champ and wave my hand.

"See it?" I call over the radio, pointing forward with my gloved hand. 

"Yep," comes the reply. 

"Okay, we'll stay as a two ship until two miles out, then break off and join the circuit separately," I say.  "Switch to Pendleton Traffic on one-two-three-point-three."

"Two," comes the acknowledgement from Chris.



Another look at Pendleton in 1942 (top) and today (bottom).  We landed on the grass parallel to the northernmost runway, nearest the hangars. (Photos Courtesy: BCATP Museum and Gatineau Gliding Club)

"Glider Ground" at Pendleton comes in faintly and I strain, cupping one hand to my ear and cowering behind the windshield, in an effort to hear and understand.  After a few attempts, it's clear that they're using the east-west runway.  In order to not conflict, I offer to take Runway 31 which points directly into the north-west wind.

The Citabria tow plane pulls a glider up away from Pendleton. (Photo Courtesy: Bojan Arambasic)

I fly my downwind leg tight to the runway.  Under my right main, a Citabria tow plane has just broken ground.  At the end of a long line is the elegant form of a glider - long, slender wings turned gently upwards at the tips, canopy glinting in the sun.  The tow plane will labour for the next ten minutes or so, dragging its charge to altitude where they will part ways at the top of a graceful curve. And while the Citabria pilot will aggressively return his ship to earth and another waiting glider, the sailplane pilot will linger aloft, searching for invisible columns of air to carry him higher and higher still with only the whisper of the wind as company.

A long, deep sigh - almost mournful.  Nearly ten long years have passed since the last time I piloted a glider.  And yet, I can still hear the wind as if it were yesterday.  I've not forgotten the intoxicating feeling of buoyancy as unseen hands carry you aloft.

An admonishing growl from the Lycoming - a call for mental discipline, a warning to not allow the mind to wander.  I sweep into a left hand turn, still tight to the field and rapidly shedding altitude in the biplane's classic circling approach.  I roll out as we cross the perimeter road and, vaguely aware of the gaggle of bystanders watching, set up for my first grass landing in the Smith.

We hover over the grass, dry in spots, tinged with dandelions and buttercups in others.  Corn stalks, stark yellow against so much green, whip by on our left as crumbling pavement provides vivid contrast on our right.  The little ship drops the last few inches onto the turf.  The wheels respond with a soft rumbling sound as I feel the biplane fishtail gently, sliding ever so softly from side to side. She rolls out straight ahead and with hardly any brake, slows to a walking pace.

We've just passed 100 hours, the Smith and I, and marked the milestone with another first - appropriately, on the same ground where hundreds of aviators had their first taste of flight's magic and freedom.

The Smith and I at Pendleton after breaking 100 hours and our first landing on grass.  (Author's Collection)

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.