by Stu Simpson

I was, as the saying goes, right on the ragged edge. It was the toughest approach I’d ever made in 25 years of flying, right at my limits, and it was fun! I fought turbulence and wind shear like I’ve never seen. And for a few seconds I was actually frightened in an airplane; a very strange feeling for me.

And I did make it, but it was ugly. I touched down beneath the trees on my first bounce just as a three-point buck wandered onto the last third of the strip. But by the end of my second bounce, I knew this just wasn’t meant to be, nor did I want to subject my wingmen to such a beating. I powered up, still coursing with adrenaline, and left that backwoods airstrip behind.

Now, that’s flying!

And then there’s Darren Scarlett, who owns an RV-7. It’s beautiful and powerful. It has a 180 horsepower engine and a constant speed prop. It’s fast, too. I mounted a video camera in his cockpit once and recorded him as he did three rolls and then pulled up into a Cuban Eight. I watched by the runway as he shot a low inspection pass at high speed. I could see his smile flash as he zoomed by in the sunlight.

Now, that’s flying!

How about Geoff Pritchard? He’s got this pristine, and I do mean pristine, 1946 Champ that he recently rebuilt from the ground up. It’s gorgeous in red and white. When that Champ is on the taxiway silhouetted against the evening sun, or in the sky against the deep blue, the effect is simply mesmerizing. Geoff and the Champ float along up there thumbing their noses at age and time, making the most of every minute they’re in the sky.

Now, that’s flying!

Wade Miller has what some consider a dream job. He’s an airline captain. He pilots a 737, worth around $70 million dollars, probably more. It has stuff in the cockpit that comes straight out of Star Wars. And Wade gets to work with it all. The plane’s capabilities are simply amazing. It zips along at about 500 mph, climbs beyond 40,000 feet, and still lands on runways only a mile long in nearly any weather. And 737’s make money.

Now, that’s flying!

Barry Davis flies a homebuilt airplane now, but he used to fly a Cessna 182. A great deal of that flying was done at night. He’d cruise over the city and watch the world sleeping below. He’d see cars and trucks scooting along beneath the endless cones of street lamps. A million or more lights of all colours would dazzle as they reflected from the glass of the downtown skyscrapers. Red and green fireflies would race through the blackness above the horizon as other planes came and went at the airport. And an uncountable number of stars would twinkle overhead until an errant cloud would scrub them away for a few moments.

Now, that’s flying!

And Bob Kirkby. Bob has a terrific airplane – a Piper Super Cruiser. It’s a flying piece of history that looks like it just rolled out the factory door. It did, of course, back in 1947, but you’d never know to look at it. Bob loves to get up in the Cruiser with one of his grandkids, or another airplane buddy, or maybe just by himself. He’ll go about half an hour away to where there’s a restaurant that serves pie almost right next to a grass airstrip. Bob and the Cruiser love grass runways.

After pie, he’ll take-off to who-knows-where and cruise along at, oh, maybe a thousand feet over the ground. He’ll watch as the land changes color in the season, maybe getting greener, maybe browner. Bob will feel the stick as the wind tugs on the ailerons every now and then, checking to see what it can get away with. He might snag a thermal and then ease off some power as that small burst of heat floats him along a little bit faster on a little bit less gas. Bob will smile at that.

And soon he’ll make that last turn onto final approach at his own grass airstrip. Bob will set the Cruiser down so smoothly that for the first few seconds he’ll wonder if he even landed. Really, I’ve seen him do it.

Oh, ya. Now, that’s flying!

by Stu Simpson

I could tell this was going to be fun. The day had adventure written all over it. And you’ve just gotta know the day is ok when Don Rogers shows up early instead of late.

He and Fred Wright were on a long downwind for Kirkby’s runway 16 when I first heard them. I had just started my pre-flight when I caught the distinctive whine of their 503′s to the south. Don landed first, settling gently to the grass. Freddy took his time, the Chinook’s big wing coasting in ground effect until just before the intersection. Then he too settled to the earth and became mortal again.

The three of us were going exploring today, heading to Dave Forrester’s place. Forrester is the big cheese at the local R.A.A. chapter. He lives north of Cochrane about a mile off highway 22, half way to Cremona. He gave me a hand-drawn map to his place when we met at the October CUFC meeting. I don’t know what Forrester does for a living, but he ain’t a cartographer.

Still the map was the only way we were going to find his place. I’d checked on the Calgary chart to see if I could match up his symbology with the government’s. If my calculations were correct, I was reasonably certain we could find the place.

The only thing that worried me was a note that Forrester had put on his map. It read, “Strongly suggest an overshoot before landing – center is 20′ higher than the ends & runways undulate”. I could only imagine what “undulate” meant.

When everyone was sure of where we were going and how we’d get there, we all saddled up and turned north. I had been elected leader for the day so Don set up off my left wing and Freddy off the right. I must say, we cut an impressive figure in the afternoon blue.

It wasn’t too long before we drew close to Jim Creasser’s place. I looked for him on the ground as we flew by, but he was nowhere to be seen. A few minutes later we crossed highway 2 and I began scanning for landmarks to navigate by.

We had to follow the highway west from Airdrie to it’s intersection with highway 22. None of us had been this route before and we were very pleasantly surprised at the landscape beneath us. The bald prairie changed quickly to a very uneven texture of small hills and knolls covered with autumn’s brown grass and scrub. Its not what you would call pretty, in fact it looked rather alien, but it sure was interesting.

Then we saw the most surprising thing of the day. About halfway along 567, 100 meters north of the road was a fort. No kidding. Someone had simply built a log fort in the middle of nowhere. It was just like one from an old cavalry movie, complete with guard towers in the corners. How or why it’s there is a complete mystery to us.

The moonscape quickly changed to more hilly country. We watched as Nose Creek cut an enormous gorge northward through the area. Then we came to another river, whose name I don’t know. Looking at the map though, I noticed if we followed this river, it would take us very close to where we wanted to be. And it would even save us a few minutes travel time.

We followed the creek to the next intersection that Forrester had drawn. Then we were over a spot that looked just like his map. Sort of. It had the fields in almost the right place. And if you looked hard you could kinda see a path in the field that looked like it might have been a runway. At one point anyway. And there were some buildings that looked big enough to house an airplane.

I decided to do a fly-by to check the place out. I told Don (Fred’s radio wasn’t working) my plan and began descending. I was just turning in for the left-hand downwind when a wind sock caught my eye. Then two runways became clearly visible, one north/south, the other east/west. Only the strip was in a different field. I had completely missed the mark. I might add, in a futile effort to save face, that my wingmen also missed the correct field.

Fortunately, I was set up perfectly to turn to a right-hand downwind for a landing to the south. Let me tell you, Forrester wasn’t kidding when he mentioned the hill in the middle of the strip. He did get the height right, about 20 feet higher than the end. Now I know why I got picked to go first.

My wingmen were visible in the circuit as I coasted in on final. It occurred to me that I’d never made an uphill landing before. But with the wind blowing right on the nose, and the ground coming gently up to meet me, my touch down was a beauty. I dodged a few badger holes on the roll-out and cleared the runway near a fenced cow pasture (since my last pasture landing, I keep a pretty close eye on where the cows are).

Don was on short final, slowly sinking toward the ground. It was just plain eerie to watch the Chinook disappear from sight. I kept expecting a column of smoke and fire to erupt from the other side of the hill, like in the movies, but of course the Chinook came trundling over the top of the hill a few seconds later. Then Freddy touched down and we all went exploring on the ground.

But no one was home. Either somebody had squealed and told Forrester we were coming, or we just flew in on the wrong day. So we just hung around on the ground and checked out the Forrester homestead’s hangar. There were three planes in it. One was a beautiful old Luscombe in immaculate condition. What a sweetheart. There was also a homebuilt in there, type unknown. The front end was in pieces because of work being done on the engine. The last plane in the shack was Forrester’s Kolb Firestar. A pretty, yellow single-seater that looks like a lot of fun.

It was time to bug out. These fall days run notoriously short of light in a hurry and we didn’t want to take any chances. We ambled out to the hay-field/airstrip. I suited up and swung the prop. And swung the prop. And swung the prop again. But nothing wanted to light. The motor would gargle and struggle for a few seconds, then it would just kind of croak. Don and Fred both shut down and came over to help. We tried everything, changing the plugs, switching the plugs, and fooling with the carb. Nothing was working. Then Don suggested we check the sparks and sure enough we found our problem. The PTO plug wasn’t getting anywhere near the spark that the mag side was getting. We decided to give it a few more tries and, fortunately, it caught.

We each did our first uphill takeoff, which was fun. It’s on days like this you appreciate a good climb rate. We all formed up and turned back to the southeast. We had spent a fair amount of time trying to get the Beeve working again and it had cost us some daylight. With the wind on our noses at about 7 – 10 knots, we we’d be cutting it close to make the home ‘drome before dark.

Then my radio died. I figured that since Don was the only one of us who had an operable radio he should take the lead. So when he was in a safe position, I peeled off to take up the left-wing slot on him. He didn’t get it. We flew on like that for a few minutes with me waving my arms like an idiot trying to signal him that he was now number 1. I don’t know what he thought I was doing, maybe airobics (pun intended) or something, but he soon peeled off to take up his original slot.

Poor Fred. God knows what he thought was going on.

We soon made our way back to highway 2, about halfway home. Don had been very careful watching our altitude so near the Calgary control zone, and we’re very glad he did. Just as we passed over the highway, a Cessna Citation sailed over going at about 150 knots, missing us by only 600′ as it turned final for YYC‘s runway 16.

Our formation turned south when we reached the east end of the control zone. Home was only a few minutes away. Good thing too, because we were running out of daylight and I was running out of body heat and bladder space.

A mile north-east of Kirkby’s I peeled off to the east and entered my base leg for runway 16. The Chinooks continued southbound to Indus as Don bid me farewell on the radio, which was sort of working again. I cleared the runway and climbed out to watch them silhouetted on the evening sky. It was truly a beautiful sight and a post-card ending to a great day of flying.

I guess that will likely be our last major cross-country flight until next spring. Unless, of course, we have a mild winter, or a really good destination and a warm day, or hot chocolate waiting at the end of the line, or….. Well you get the picture. I’ll let you know how it turns out.

by Stu Simpson

Now don’t take this the wrong way, but I was really disappointed to see Wilf Stark drive up to my hangar at Kirkby Field. Disappointed, you see, because he was supposed to have flown in. But the field where Stark hangars his Rans S-12 was snowed under.

Wilf wasn’t coming flying today, I realized somberly. His Super Koala was in pieces undergoing minor repairs and his FP-303 wasn’t quite ready yet for its first flight. I guess our jaunt to Okotoks would have to wait for another day. How ironic that Wilf owns, or co-owns, three airplanes but would still be grounded. I knew I’d miss him up there.

Stark watched by the runway as me and the Himax lifted into a perfect winter sky. We left runway 34 behind after what seemed an awfully long run. Climb-out was sluggish, too – only about half the normal rate. But the revs were good, so was acceleration. Pondering the problem, I figured I’d best get what altitude I could, stay close to the strip, and sort things out.

I perched the ‘Max at 700 feet on the airfield perimeter and made a couple of north-south runs. With an incredible grasp of the obvious, I realized that my runs northward were much quicker than those going the other way. Yup, I’d taken off downwind.

A downwind take-off, imagine that. Oh, the shame and embarrassment. I won’t waste your time with excuses (though they’re certainly quality ones – some of my best, in fact).

Instead of dwelling on my fate at the next CUFC meeting, I concentrated on flying. There’d been a month of bad weather since me and the ‘Max had the sky beneath us, so our reunion was a joyous one. I flung us gleefully through the air in tight turns; first one way, then the other, each entry and roll-out tight and precise. The airplane was solid and pure. Together we were masters of the air, invincible.

I spotted a train as it coursed along the tracks south of Kirkby’s. Suddenly, it was 1920. I was an air-mail pilot flying my Jenny to prove that airplanes could move the mail faster than the rails. I nosed over into a shallow dive, fiercely racing the train, and soon came up beside the locomotive. The engineer sat with his back to me, probably didn’t even know I was there. I pulled ahead a few seconds later though, and banked arrogantly in front him.

Would that engineer think me a fool and a daredevil for flying such a crate? Or would he look at me as a beggar looks at a rich man? Either way, he was stuck down there, a slave to the clock, while I was up here chasing sunbeams through the wind.

Finished with the train, I made Indus my next destination. Maybe something was going on down there. Too bad, I reflected again, that Wilf wasn’t up. I’d really been looking forward to honing my formation flying skills with him.

A woman’s voice was in my ears suddenly, telling the world she was landing at Three Hills. Was she a student? An instructor, maybe? Or was she just someone else out for fun?

Indus was a bust. The only activity there was Winters finishing up a flight with a student. I did a touch and go, just for the practice, and headed back north.

Over Kirkby’s again, I saw Wilf meandering around his hangar and the taxi-way. I decided to head to Stefanivic’s (where the Rans hangars) just on the off-chance that Ben had gotten the runway cleared. If so, maybe Stark could still make it into the air. But it was not to be. Ben had his Bobcat were working away as I flew over, but the runway remained untouched.

So what should I do now? Some nap-of-the-earth stuff, I decided. I made for the large field a half-mile away where I usually do my low flying. There are no wires or buildings or fences there, and it’s nice and flat – a perfect spot.

I crossed the road at the north end of the field at about 75′. A movement ahead caught my eye – a coyote that had seen and heard me a long time ago. He took off running at full speed, but he was no match for me and my airplane.

Suddenly, it was 1944. I was a Typhoon pilot strafing the enemy. I drew closer with each passing second, his image flickering through the spinning prop as he snatched quick glances back at me. There could be no escape. All I had to do was line him up with my front spark plug cap and press the firing button. Just a couple more seconds…. NOW! I mashed a non-existent trigger and imagined tracers tearing up the snow around him, blowing him to little bits. The coyote flashed beneath my left wing. Safe and sound, he was more than a little pissed off as he suddenly reared up and clawed the air in my direction. I guess I’d be mad too, if I’d just been strafed.

Some truck tracks made their way through the field, so I decided to follow them. From ten feet up I curved the ‘Max around each bend and turn, staying directly above the trail until it disappeared into a small stand of trees near the irrigation canal. Next, I buzzed some grain bins and then found a snow-bound tractor, frozen and desolate, abandoned for the season. Then I decided some touch-and-goes at Kirkby’s were in order.

I turned the ‘Max southward and began a gentle climb to circuit height. The home ‘drome came into view as I made for the downwind (I was absolutely certain of the wind direction this time). I figured it’d be a good plan to practice my short-field technique because I’ve yet to see a runway that’s too long.

Turning final a bit higher than usual, I throttled back and let the ‘Max settle into its descent. The plane rocked gently as we slipped through the inversion layer and its inherent light turbulence. How would this landing turn out? Would I nail the ‘Max to the button in a sterling three-pointer? Or would I be too fast and float along in ground-effect before dropping in with a thud? I smiled at the challenge ahead.

Every landing, I think, is a moment of truth for a pilot. Because on each landing gravity and a hundred other laws of physics will act without mercy or favour. And the airplane will ask of its pilot, “Can you bring me back to earth correctly? Can you put us down gently, under control? Or are you going to turn us both into a pile of rubbish in the middle of the runway? Well, what’s your answer?” Anyone who’s been there knows what I mean.

I answered correctly seven times straight, which isn’t to say all my landings were great. A couple of them were too fast and resulted in thuds. One was too slow, one was absolute crap, and three were pretty good. But my last landing, number seven, was exquisite; a soothing three-point greaser that was so slick I questioned for a second if I was really down. In my little tail-dragger, that’s something to cherish.

Wilf and I did get up flying together later that week, and we got to Okotoks, too. But on this flight, from out of the blue, fate did me a favour. It reminded me, in the very best way, that there are plenty of things to do in the sky when you’re all alone.

by Stu Simpson

The shadow was just where he promised it would be – behind and to the right of mine. A few seconds later I saw the airplane that made it. Don Rogers‘ red and white Husky Norseman slid into position off my right wing as we climbed out northbound from Kirkby Field.

It had been 18 months since Don and I had flown together. That last jaunt, with him in his Chinook and me in my Beaver, was in March of ’94 to a farm strip near Vulcan. Back then, our airplanes looked exactly like what they were – ultralights.

Not that there’s anything wrong with those types of planes. Nope, not a darn thing. It’s just that I couldn’t help wanting something a little more, well, conventional looking. I’d spent nearly three hundred hours in open cockpit ultralights, and frankly, I wanted to be warm again. I also wanted something with the engine out front and a wheel way out back. So I built a TEAM Himax, a nice, simple, wooden tail-dragger.

Don was also looking for a change. He too wanted something a bit more conventional. He eventually flogged his trusty Chinook and bought the Norseman, a nice, simple, metal tail-dragger.

You’ll notice that neither of us had any desire to leave the ultralight fold. No, sir. We like it down here in the weeds. In our minds, this is where the real flying is.

And this day, we were flying to where the real pie is. Or so I’m told. The village of Linden is about 40 miles north of Kirkby’s. The airstrip is right in the town limits and just down the street from a coffee shop that serves absolutely scrumptious pie. At least that’s how the legend goes.

Don’s gone to Linden on a few occasions for the pie and often times told me we should go there together. So today, the last day of September, would be the day. And we were doing it in airplanes that look like airplanes. That means something to us.

It was late in the afternoon and the air under us hadn’t quite settled yet, making it tough to keep a close formation. Heck, with all that convective air, it was tough to keep an altitude. But we did our best.

Each of us was also keeping an eye on the sky. There was a squall off to the northwest that was slowly getting bigger, but it didn’t seem to want to move anywhere. A smaller cloud, east of the big storm, was the focus of our attention. It looked pretty rambunctious, spewing rain and such from it’s underside. Unfortunately, it was heading straight for our destination.

The sight of Linden on the not-so-distant horizon made my mouth water. But I knew it was not to be.

We were three miles directly west of the Beiseker airport. Checking my six, I found Don perched a few hundred yards back. So I made what military people call a “command decision”. I chickened out.

I turned hard right for Beiseker and Don followed.

We taxied in just as a Cessna 206, loaded to the rails with skydivers, taxied out. We hopped out and surveyed the airport from the ramp, talking easily, as old friends do. The sky to the north got slowly worse, confirming our choice in diverting to Beiseker.

Meanwhile, the 206 had departed and was droning higher and higher with it’s load of jumpers. Listening carefully, Don realized we were actually hearing two planes. Sure enough, directly over the airport was a cross-shaped speck that quickly started spewing crazy people. They’d have to be crazy, wouldn’t they?

Five chutes soon blossomed with five live bodies hanging underneath. The jumpers hollered joyously as they floated the last few hundred feet to earth, which was probably the last place any of them wanted to be right then.

We spent another half hour on the ground relaxing and swapping stories with the drop pilots. Checking the airport log, we found Todd MacArthur’s name, Larry Motyer’s, and mine in an entry dated early August, 1992. That’s when the three of us flew back from the Red Deer Airshow, barely making it to Beiseker after trudging through low cloud, rain, and thunder storms.

Rogers and I bugged out a few minutes later with me taking off first. But I slowed passing the town of Beiseker so Don could take the lead. The air was considerably smoother now, allowing us a tighter formation than on the flight up. I formed on the Norseman’s left wing, near enough to see the rivets outlined beneath the plane’s fabric.

As we neared Irricana, Don began slowly descending. Then I saw why.

South of the town is a large slough, that’s where he was headed. Rogers is a bit of a rascal and loves to do a good buzz job, especially over water.

I stayed up high as Don scooted down over the pond. Startled by his approach, a flock of birds took off, splashing their wings and feet, spoiling the calm surface.

Don was having a ball. He banked gently one way, then the other. The Norseman became a silhouette, an outline of a simple airplane caught in the sunlight bouncing off the water. What a thoroughly beautiful sight.

Once over land again, the Norseman dipped it’s nose for a few seconds, then pulled up sharply, climbing for height. I slowed the ‘Max to compensate for Don’s lack of forward speed. He quickly resumed his lead and I my wingman’s slot, and we continued south.

I moved in tighter now, marveling as I always do at the pure magic of this type of flying. It’s these times when I shake my head, absolutely amazed that everyone else doesn’t want to do this.

I spent the next thirty-five minutes or so glued to Don’s wing, straying only once when we angled eastward to avoid flying over Kirkby’s neighbors. I admired the big, rugged Norseman and recalled from years ago the few hours I’d spent in one.

We separated north of Indus, Don opting for the straight-in to runway 16 while I elected to try my cross-wind technique on 28. I stayed on the ground only a few minutes, chatting with Don and Gord Tebutt. I invited Tebutt back up to Kirkby’s with me, but his time wouldn’t allow it.

So, I checked my fuel and clambered back into the ‘Max. Don swung the prop for me, repeating a ritual as old as powered flight, and to pilots like us, just as sacred.

The trip home allowed for some time to reflect on the day and entrench it in my memory. My thoughts ambled happily through images of tail-draggers, formation flying, and grass runways. Then I smiled to myself and silently thanked God for the simple things.

by Stu Simpson

I think ultralight pilots are among the last true explorers. I say this because every time an ultralight jock wanders off into the blue, looking for some place he’s never been, he is off on a small scale version of a grand adventure. He’s left the earth and left behind the places and things familiar to him in order to find something beyond. Something new and different, and maybe a little strange.

Here’s what I mean. Random House says exploring means “to traverse a region for the purpose of discovery”. I don’t know any ultralight flyers who’ve gone exploring and come back empty handed. Sure, a guy may not have found what he was looking for, but at the very least he came back with a tale of true adventure. One he can tell at the next hangar flying bull-session and build on every time he repeats it, until it turns out he really did discover Mars one morning in his ultralight.

I have to admit I really enjoy exploring from the air. Its so much more fun than just hopping in the car, reading the road map and setting the cruise control for Wonkatonkwa. And up there I can’t just stop and ask directions. Its not like exploring from a spam-can either. I don’t have VOR/DME, Omega, LORAN, or G.P.S. (To be honest, I don’t even have a compass – I only know two guys who do.) No, we poor ultralight pilots are left with only our wits, our charts, and our eyeballs to use on these voyages. And let’s not forget plain ole’ dumb luck.

I was flipping through my log book the other day when I realized that some of my fondest flying memories arise from flights I made to find places I’d never been to. One flight in particular stands out.

I was hangaring my airplane near Black Diamond when I decided I wanted to fly to the High River airport. Since I’d never been to that area before, I dug out my trusty, battle scarred, bug smeared sectional chart and pored over the route. It looked like it would be a comfortable enjoyable flight. And it was. The wind was light from the south and the air was pretty smooth. High River quickly appeared on the horizon.

I entered the circuit and wheeled my Beaver around to line up for runway 14. On final I noticed the runway surface was an odd shade of black. No matter, just concentrate on the approach. I crossed the threshold and looked down at the runway as my plane settled for landing.

I suddenly realized what the odd black stuff was – oil. In fact, it looked like the Exxon Valdez had come aground on runway 14. I had a vision of my unfaired wheels throwing black goop all over the wings and me until we looked like an oil soaked seagull. Just before touchdown I firewalled the throttle and made a missed approach. I guess I discovered more than I’d bargained for on that trip.

Navigating, and thus exploring, on the prairies is much more difficult than in regions with more trees or hills. The landmarks all tend to look alike, and at the low altitudes UL’s occupy, airports can be particularly hard to spot. It makes it even more satisfying to meet that challenge and find your destination. Such was the case on the morning I set out to find the Airdrie airport.

The trip to Airdrie airport was quite exciting. The route from Kirby Field, east of Chestermere, skirts right along the Calgary control zone. I was constantly eyeballing spam-cans and heavy metal through the a.m. haze, some of them passing only 500′ over me. Added to that was a wicked and unpredictable wind-shear that would sneak up and clobber me when ever it thought I wasn’t paying attention.

And I couldn’t seem to spot the airport. The closer I got to the area where it was supposed to be, the more things I found that didn’t look like an airport at all. I was only a mile and a half out before I finally zeroed in on the runway. It was right where the chart said it was, but I couldn’t see it until I nearly tripped on it. We explorers have to learn to trust our maps.

Here’s my favourite exploring story.

I was at work one day when I overheard two guys talking about a Clint Eastwood western, called “UNFORGIVEN“, being filmed somewhere south of Longview. Apparently the film set‘s location was a very closely guarded secret. The producers, so the conversation went, had built an entire western town out there.

I thought this was all pretty interesting and it’d make a great hanger flying story if I could fly out and find this little movie set on the prairie. I estimated that by the time I’d repeated the story ten times, it would have grown to the proportions of Clint asking me to co-star in the movie but me having to decline because I had to get home for dinner. (They asked me to be in “TOP GUN”, ya know.)

Anyway, I blasted off the next day to discover the secret location of the movie set. My first guess was that the set would be located in the scenic Eden Valley, which runs west and south from Longview. I flew the length of the valley at about 1000′ AGL, sometimes burning tight 360′s, and examining every little building I found. But it was clear the movie set wasn’t there. I then crossed the eastern ridge of the valley and meandered back out over the flats. I still couldn’t see anything that looked like a movie set; only ranches, grain bins and cows.

Flipping a coin in my head, I banked away to the south.

Several minutes later I spotted something on the prairie about 10 miles away. I adjusted my course a few degrees and was rewarded a few minutes later as a small group of buildings began to take shape in front of me. It was the town of “Big Whiskey”. I’d found it.

I approached the set from the north and hoped that my buzzing around wouldn’t interrupt the shoot. I figured on a quick pass overhead; if they were filming I’d bug out to be polite. But I couldn’t see anything like a camera down there, and no one was shooing me away. So I just circled overhead, memorizing the layout to compare it with the final movie. The people on the ground even waved at me as I circled. A few minutes later I peeled off and headed back north to home, feeling very pleased at having found the secret set. What a great flight that was.

I’m not naive enough to think ultralight explorers have opened up any new frontiers or trade routes, or made the world a phenomenally better place to be. (But on the other hand, we haven’t displaced entire cultures of people either.) It’s mostly done in the name of fun. So I encourage any UL jock to get up there and fly to a place you’ve never been. Become one of the last explorers.

What you discover when you get there is entirely up to you. But what ever you find, it’ll be something worth remembering.

by Stu Simpson

My God, that tree was close!

I sailed the Giant over a tall, jagged pine with less than ten feet to spare and snapped my attention back to the runway ahead. Over the button and still twenty feet up, I chopped the throttle, nosed over and headed for the grass. Still a bit hot on the speed, the Giant touched down hard and I danced on the rudder pedals to dodge the mole hills that dotted the runway like chicken pox. Luckily, the mounds were soft and squashed easily away beneath the tires.

Gustafsson was on the radio, now, emphatically warning Botting and Clarke to beware of the pines. I taxied all the way to the end to give my wingmen some room. I turned around just in time to watch Glen Clarke, the last of our troupe, bring his J-3 Cub in for an unusually rough landing. My heart nearly stopped when the Cub’s left wing came within inches of the ground as he fought to control the plane on the strip’s uneven surface. But Glen, who’s one of the best pilots I know, got things back under control quite nicely and we all trundled over to the shut-down area.

All in all, just another routine landing at the Highwood-Adderson airstrip.

I quickly began refueling with the extra gas I brought along. The Giant would need it for today’s flight. The Dragonflies would leave this strip in the foothills and fly to the vast and mysterious kingdom of the west, called the Rocky Mountains. They sit next to the sky, only a few miles west of Calgary. Their blue-grey silhouettes are always just out of reach for the average ultralight pilot. Castled with granite ramparts that sometimes tear the very clouds from the air, the Rocks form a legendary, forbidden place. They’re notorious for their meteorological treachery and have dangerously few places for emergency landings. All aviators must be cautious in this domain.

I knew these facts, but felt we could successfully challenge the mountains today. And I figured such a flight probably wouldn’t be as dangerous as our landing at Adderson’s.

During our time on the ground we met Royle Adderson, a successful businessman who owns the ranch and airstrip; and Bob Purkess who looks every inch the tough and ready cowboy that he is. Purkess runs the ranch for Adderson. Both were very welcoming and helpful, especially when Botting had trouble with his engine. He‘d somehow fouled a plug on start-up when we were ready to leave.

Despite an hour’s work, and having all the supervision he could handle, Botting couldn’t get the engine to run satisfactorily. He wisely decided to scrap the mountain trip and go home. Clarke volunteered to escort him. Gustafsson and I would continue on.

Soon after takeoff, the mountains ahead loomed high and sharp in the near distance. It was difficult, as we drew closer, to think of the surrounding peaks as anything other than alive. Like ancient monarchs of the earth, they projected absolute authority and practically dared us to make a mistake. They‘d be merciless if we did.

The mountains are the undisputed kings of the world here. They know it, and with complete arrogance, they don’t care who else knows. Hell, they can even control the weather. Like all kings, they jealously guard their power, being wholly unwilling to share even a bit of it. One can visit their kingdom, and even stay a while. But in the end, the mountains will always endure, always rule. Understand that, they seemed to say, and we’ll get along fine. My heart beat a little faster as we reached the first northward turn into the Highwood Valley.

We banked our planes to follow the highway below and I’m not ashamed to say I stared open-mouthed at the spectacle before us. Here, the Highwood is broad and inviting, stunning and daunting. The lush green slopes give way to sparse grass further up the mountain sides, and then become bare rock for the last couple thousand feet to the summits.

And the height of the peaks! Gustafsson and I were in a continuous, shallow climb from the point we left Adderson’s. But no matter how high our brave chariots took us, there was never any shortage of jagged spires ascending even higher. At one point, we were at 9200 feet and still craning our necks to look up and see the mountain tops. Ultralight pilots rarely see such dizzying numbers on the altimeter. We’re unused to looking up at the earth as we fly. It was a startling refresher in humility.

As we continued north, the valley walls featured cuts and gaps between the peaks. These openings led to who knows where. Each portal was a tantalizing temptress, promising adventure and wanton pleasure for the senses, if we’d only give in to our lust and explore them. And we were tempted! We’d have dearly loved to be seduced by those secret chambers in the sky. But we also knew that succumbing to the wiles of such harlots could easily lead to our deaths. Instead, we stayed our course and clung to the fragile illusion of safety with the road below. In our fidelity, though, we selfishly felt cheated.

The valley once again turned west for a few miles, and then back north. The terrain here, approaching the Highwood Pass, was much narrower than the area we’d just left. The slopes were steeper, too. Thus, a good deal of vegetation had been torn away by avalanches and rock slides. One broad cut in the eastern wall opened to another valley that sheltered a small and incredibly beautiful lake. The water covered only a few acres of the valley floor and was reached via a small trail from the highway. Many hikers would visit this little Shangri-la, and some would even scale the surrounding mountains for a look at it. But only a very few men would ever see it as Gustafsson and I did then.

The Highwood Pass was nowhere near as high as I thought it’d be. In fact, at only 7200 feet, it was about a thousand feet lower than anticipated. But it was tight and thus made a wonderful backdrop for the photos and videos we shot.

There was one, last summit on the left as we exited the Highwood. Craggy and endlessly fissured, it possessed remarkable character and seemed to watch us very carefully as we flew past. Perhaps it worried that we’d made off with some of the palace treasure.

Kananaskis Country was next. One glance in the space of a heartbeat, and we were left breathless. To the west, the Kananaskis Lakes held us spellbound, while the glacier-topped mountains beyond forbade any but the most foolish aerial venture in that direction. The forests of the lower elevations covered the valley floor like a thick carpet, which, from our height, looked positively luxurious.

In turn, K-Country’s various recreation areas passed beneath us. There were campgrounds, ski hills and vacation resorts. All the while, K-Country’s summits passed beside and above us. One unusually shaped mountain looked like it had oozed, barely molten, from God’s granite-pouring ladle and simply been left to harden like a nine thousand foot tall slag heap. Others nearby seemed to have their tops snapped off like pieces of hard candy. They were then abandoned, rough and broken and ugly. And in that ugliness lay their beauty, unblemished by the incessant human pursuit of symmetry, efficiency and straightness.

By unwelcome contrast, the TransCanada Highway, with its carefully surveyed boundaries and arrow straight lanes, soon came into sight. It conveyed thousands of hurrying people who cared nothing for little airplanes or broken mountain tops.

Gustafsson and I weren’t yet ready to leave the Rocks and join that mob. So, we followed the cut-off road through the Stoney Creek region, just to stay in the wilderness a little longer. All too soon, the mountains gave way to the foothills. And they quickly descended to become the prairies, from where we’d always wondered about the far off kingdom. We radioed to one another our sadness at having to leave. We wanted more excitement and unease, not comfort and familiarity. We wanted more mountains. Our spirits paralleled the diminishing numbers on our altimeters.

Yet, for all our sadness, we had no regrets. For we’d been to see the kings and the grand palace they all shared. True, we’d only strolled through a single, beautifully appointed corridor. But we’d glimpsed a few of the dazzling and magnificent chambers adjoining it. And even if we had to leave then, I know a couple of airborne voyagers who’ll someday be back.

by Stu Simpson

I’ve been ‘Merling” for a full year now, and I’m having the time of my life.

For those who might not know, early last year another airplane crashed into and destroyed my beloved Green Giant at Linden. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my life. Three months later, I took to the air in “Merl” as I named my new 1991 Macair Merlin. I’ve been happily flying Merl ever since.

It’s been very interesting comparing Merl to the Giant. They both fit into the same class of airplane, but each plane’s designer achieved their goals in different ways.

For instance, the Giant’s fuse’ was made of aluminum tubes riveted together and bonded to a fiberglass and foam ‘bathtub’ north of the cockpit. The wing had foam ribs, wooden spar caps and a composite shear web.

Merl, on the other hand, is made with an entirely welded steel tube fuselage. The wings have all aluminum spars and foam ribs. The ailerons are Junkers style and hang right out in the breeze. The design was originally equipped with a centre Y stick. Both designs are fabric covered.

Let’s do some straight comparisons. Both airplanes have nice large cockpits. The visibility forward and up was better in the Giant, due to a taller cabin. But Merl allows me to see much better what’s behind and to the sides of me.

Merl’s bench seats are more comfortable than the Giant’s buckets were, especially over a long flight. In Merl, I’m actually able to stretch my feet across the cockpit to the opposite pedals if need be on a long flight. No way I could’ve done that in the Giant.

The Giant had the edge in control feel. The controls there were really smooth with just the right amount of feedback. It’s one of those details that you’d expect from a designer like Dave Marsden, who holds a Ph.D. in Aeronautical Engineering. Merl’s controls and control feel are much more pedestrian; not at all unpleasant, just not as nice as the Giant’s.

Merl’s controls are blessedly simple, though. I adore simplicity in airplanes, especially ones I have to maintain. I switched from the Macair centre Y stick to a fiendishly light, simple, effective and cheap dual stick arrangement. The Giant’s controls were a complex series of tubes, rod ends and welded plates that wound their way through the cockpit area.

The Giant’s trim system was better with a simple over-head lever as opposed to Merl’s tractor PTO control beneath the left seat. I do like the fact that Merl has its 19 gallons of fuel in wing tanks. The Giant only had about 16 gallons, kept in two different fuselage tanks, one of them right behind the cockpit.

Getting in and out of the Giant was a bit easier than getting into Merl, but Merl’s doors can open in flight since they hinge upward. This certainly makes starting the plane a lot simpler and safer when compared to the Giant. Merl has much easier access to the cockpit controls when I’m throwing the prop around.

One area where Merl shines over the Giant is in cargo space. With a large cargo deck behind the seats, which could be made even larger, I have no problems packing for a week of Air Adventuring. Packing extra gear was a lot more difficult in the Giant.

Something my wingmen really like is Merl’s colour. I continually hear from them how much easier it is to spot Merl in our formations. You’ll get that reaction when you switch from camo green to cherry red.

How do they compare in performance? Merl uses the engine that I salvaged from the Giant, a Continental A-75-8. I’m lucky enough to get to hand-prop it each time I want to commit flight.

Merl’s climb rate isn’t quite as good as the Giant’s was. It may be because Merl has a smaller wing than the Giant did, by about ten square feet. But I’m also taking off, on average, more heavily loaded with fuel than I did with the Giant. I often wonder if the Sensenich prop on Merl is as efficient as the Giant’s McCauley. However, when Merl’s light it jumps into the air.

It’s really enjoyable to go exploring short strips with the confidence that I can get Merl in and out of them. I didn’t have many worries with the Giant, either, except when it came to rougher surfaces. The Giant had smaller tubing on the gear and smaller tires. Its gear wasn’t quite as rugged. These days I happily land in summer-fallowed fields with Merl, but I’d have been reluctant to try it with the Giant.

The Giant’s ground handling was quite a bit better than Merl’s, but that’s largely due to some incorrect geometry in Merl’s tail wheel assembly. That’s on the fix-it list for this spring.

In the air, Merl and the Giant differ measurably. Merl has a faster roll rate, but is less stable in roll. It’s also more difficult to keep coordinated in a turn because of the Junkers ailerons. Merl’s a bit more sensitive in pitch, and is tougher to land well, compared to the Giant. Merl’s more sensitive than the Giant was. I don’t mind that one bit. I got into this game to fly, not to just sit and watch the airplane have all the fun.

Merl flies faster than the Giant did. I cruise quite easily around 80 mph, but that’s only a 5 mph edge over the Giant. I don’t need to go any faster. Merl’s a good cross country airplane. It fits right in with Champs, Chiefs, Cubs and T-Crafts. I’d happily take it just about anywhere.

By way of overall comparison to the Giant, Merl is a harder airplane to fly well. But it’s also that much more rewarding when I get it right. It’s more capable than the Giant was, and safer, due to its all steel construction and wing-mounted fuel tanks. With the tundra tires, it also provides more landing options.

The last year with Merl has really given me a strong sense of history, too, because it’s such a throwback to a simpler era. The Continental, designed in the 1930’s and built in the 40’s, is right at home dragging Merl around the sky. And it reinforces that connection to the past.

I was surprised to look at my log book and realize I’ve clocked about 115 hours in the last twelve months, more than I’ve ever flown in a year. With Merl, I’ve been all over Alberta and deep into the mountains of B.C. Hopefully, this year I’ll make it to northern Saskatchewan. Lucky me, eh?

I’m ever so pleased knowing that there’s still a place in the sky, and on grass strips everywhere, for airplanes like mine. If Merl and I have anything to say about it, there always will be.

by Stu Simpson

A strange coincidence occurred a few days ago that caused me to remember a long passed and very important day.

I was driving to an appointment and looking at the sky. I was judging the weather as I often do, as to it’s suitability for flying. The ceiling was high overcast, the temperature around +5 degrees, and the winds were light. In short, an excellent day.

Here’s the strange part. The conditions were exactly – and I do mean exactly – the same as the day I soloed. Sensing something of the dramatically weird, I later checked my log book and nearly fell over when I discovered the day in question was the seventh anniversary of my first solo flight. Bizarre, eh?

March 23rd, 1986 was a day I’d dreamt about my whole life. Or so it seemed. I arrived at Indus airport that spring day with more than a few butterflies in my stomach. This was the day I was scheduled to take an airplane up all by myself. If everything went well I would also land the plane and walk away afterwards. I was both excited and scared.

I walked toward my mount – a bright yellow single-seat Beaver with a 35hp motor – and wondered if it was as anxious as me. I forced myself to calm down and began my pre-flight.

When the pre-flight was finished my instructor, John Reed, came over to offer some last minute advice. He suggested I get away from the field after take-off and get used to the airplane. He warned it would handle more aggressively than the two-seat trainer version. I should do some basic manoeuvres, he said, and return to the airport for a few circuits. He even told me to have fun.

I fired up and climbed in. I secured my helmet and straps and began my taxi. A few minutes later I found myself at the button of runway 10 with 1900 feet in front of me and no excuses left.

I eased the throttle ahead and the little Rotax screamed happily. The ride was rough as the Beaver’s wheels pounded at the runway’s ruts and holes. Everything became suddenly smooth as the wings finally bit and yanked me skyward. I was flying – alone.

My heart soared as I realized, with concrete certainty (and no small amount of pride) that I could fly. The dream was now reality.

I angled to the right to avoid some power lines, pleased to be applying a lesson learned in training. I climbed out eastward to clear the circuit. Reed wasn’t kidding when he’d mentioned the control discrepancies. The two-seater had sluggish, mushy controls. But this plane, with it’s push-pull tube activated ailerons, was a fireball – sensitive and snappy.

The air remained perfect, with only a hint of wind. I practiced climbs, descents and turns. Then I went through the pre-stall checklist and gritted my teeth. If I screwed this up and wound up in a spin there would be no one to help me, no one to blame.

Ease the gas back, come back on the stick – tap the rudder to keep it straight, don’t want to depart – there’s the nibble…and the break! Stick forward, add power, and pull out gently. Piece of cake, I said to myself. I was gaining confidence and competence every minute.

I did a few more stalls and became acquainted with some of the plane’s idiosyncrasies.

I re-entered the circuit a few minute later and flew it as though Reed were still in the back-seat. I recited the pre-landing checklist to myself (something I still do): “No aircraft in the circuit, none about to enter it. Seat-belts are secure (I gave the straps a tug). Wind direction is from the south-east. Nearing key position”.

A couple more descending turns and I lined up on final to runway 10. The glide path looked good. I eased the throttle back as I coasted over the fence, then the numbers. The Beaver floated for a few yards as lift slowly surrendered to gravity. The mains kissed the grass smoothly – no, perfectly – and the plane settled gently on it’s springs.

To tell the truth, that first solo landing was a work of art. I can’t really remember another one that was better.

I blasted off again and performed two more touch-and-go’s before packing it in for the day. Reed was there to shake my hand and congratulate me when I shut down.

A pilot’s first solo quickly becomes a memory as his flight learning curve arcs sharply upward. His log book fills with tales of cross-country flights, group flights, and many more adventures found only among the heavens. But the first solo is a moment a pilot never truly forgets. Maybe because he can never repeat it.

by Stu Simpson

The weather guys owed us this one. And they had paid up with interest by giving us perfect conditions for flying, a sharp contrast to the rest of the season, which had been absolutely crappy since April. So, like any sensible ultralight jockeys, we were taking advantage of it.

There were three of us. Don Rogers, call sign Dragonfly-01, had the lead. I was 02, and Gerry MacDonald in his two-seat Beaver, was number three. Don led us westward from Indus. We headed for the hills east of Priddis so Don could take aerial pictures of a friend’s acreage. We hadn’t discussed where we’d go next. I like that.

The air was like satin, caressing us gently as we droned toward the Rocks. I didn’t know what the day held in store for us but I wasn’t going to let this moment pass uncaptured. I had my own camera along, so I pulled it out and started snapping. The Chinook and the Beaver contrasted beautifully with the October blue sky.

I spent about ten minutes bobbing around the sky flying with my knees. But I’d managed to grab some decent pictures before returning to the formation. In the meantime, Don had found the landmarks to point him to his buddy’s house. He peeled off to the south and began his descent. That left Gerry and I at about 4700 feet to practice our formation flying.

We ambled lazily over the hills, flying circles to get the hang of formation turns. Gerry welded his airplane to my left wing as we alternated between a gentle left bank, and straight and level. What a pleasant surprise to find yet another pilot who likes flying formation, and is good at it. I wondered what else would surprise me today.

We were chatting with Don about where to go next when we overheard some chatter from the Thompson’s Ranch glider strip. They sounded pretty busy over there, launching gliders every few minutes. We decided that strip would be our next destination.

Don was nearly finished with his low altitude photo passes so he told Gerry and I to start heading to Thompson’s. He’d start climbing after us and catch up. We radioed our intentions to the glider riders and their tow plane and turned our noses south. I recalled from my training days that unpowered craft have the right-of-way in the circuit and I began scanning for the thermal jockies’long wings and slim bodies.

Just as Gerry and I passed over mid-field, I spotted a glider about three miles away. He was on a long downwind for runway 25, while the tow plane was yanking another one off the ground. We extended to the south of the field and Gerry slid back to my six for the circuit. As soon as the glider was past us, I turned in for the downwind. Don was just crossing over mid-field. But by the time Gerry and I were on short final, he was ready for his base leg.

Upon landing we were immediately set upon and welcomed by members of the Cu-Nim Gliding Club. We spent some time talking about our planes and theirs, each group wondering what the other’s craft were like to fly. We watched several gliders get towed aloft by a Bellanca Scout, and I even managed to get a few more pictures. I live for days like that.

Half an hour later we were getting itchy wings again. We batted a few destinations around and finally settled on High River. We didn’t feel like landing at the airport, so we’d just head to the north end of the town, then turn back for home. All in agreement, we saddled up and fire-walled it down runway 07, impressing the hell out of the glider guys. At least they should have been impressed.

The colors of autumn were a firey spectacle in the trees below us. We laughed and joked on the radio as the day continued to unfold it’s magic. Don spotted another friend’s house-in-the-country. The best I could do was be the first to notice the wonderful, unmistakable, aroma  f a nearby feed lot. Gerry seemed content to just park himself off my wing and smile. Then a series of perfect circles appeared in a grain field below which began a flurry of jokes regarding UFO’s and peanut butter cups.

When we reached the town of High River we noticed an abandoned WWII training field whose runways were still barely visible in the grass. It would be nice if the field was still there, allowing us to drop in every now and again. But it’s long since overrun with grass and buildings and power lines.

We crossed the #2 highway and made our turn to the north. Don assigned me the lead before we left Thompson’s and had taken my right wing. So instead of making the wide turn from the outside, he elected to cut across the rear of the flight to take the outside of an echelon left.

We coasted along for the next twenty minutes just staring at the world below and the unlucky souls who weren’t up there with us.

Occasionally I’d lose sight of one of my wingmen as he drifted into the blind spot above my wing. But all I had to do was glance down at our shadows to know where he was.

We began our descent for Indus when we reached the South Calgary airport. Three planes, acting as one, nosed over and throttled back. We levelled out on the other side of the Bow and set up to pass east of the field to enter the downwind for runway 28. We passed over the airport with perfect spacing, once again, impressing the hell out of the people on the ground.

Don and Gerry peeled off, one after the other, in beautifully executed turns. I bid them farewell and continued on to Kirkby Field, smiling deeply to myself and letting the last few minutes of the flight wash over me.

What an absolute joy it was to fly that autumn day, with the sun shining, my leather jacket flapping in the wind, and two great flyers to share it with.

by Stu Simpson

I guess it all started a few weeks ago when I got this notion that I’d like to fly to Wetaskiwin. Of course I didn’t want to go alone, so I invited a bunch of other guys. We had everything lined up, departutre points and times were all set, and everyone knew what the game plan was. Everyone but the weatherman, that is.

The day we were all set to go the wind was straight out of the west at 30 knots. So much for Wetaskiwin.

When I phoned Gerry Moore to let him know we’d scrubbed the flight he suggested another destination. One that was much closer and maybe even more interesting.

He told me about a strip he’d found in the Highwood Pass southwest of Longview, which immediately intrigued me. I love exploring with my airplane and finding airstrips that aren’t on the map.

So I called everyone again and said we’d try for the Highwood. And again we set departure points and times. And again the weather was awful. I’ve got hand it to Jim Corner, though. He flew into Kirkby’s that morning riding a 25 knot tail wind, only to learn we weren’t going.

It happens.

I was determined to find this place. So I arranged another try for the next evening. We agreed on the departure point and time (starting to sound familiar, isn’t it?), and this time we even got airborne.

Wilf Stark, Don Rogers and Ron Axelson accompanied me as we made our way southwest that evening. The wind was stronger than forecast (big surprise, that) but we were still making reasonable progress. Right up to when Rogers radioed that he was having trouble transferring fuel from his Norseman’s rear tank to the main feeder tank. Then Stark chimed in, saying he thought he didn’t have enough gas. Our nearest alternate was Black Diamond’s Thompson’s Ranch. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that we’d best divert to Black Diamond, fix the problems and go home.

It happens.

Our time grounded at BD was fun. We examined some of the aircraft there and, of course, we took every opportunity to kid Rogers about his personal plumbing problems. Stark determined that he had enough fuel to get him and his Super Koala home safely, but then it was Axelson’s turn to sweat. The battery on his Ercoupe had bought the farm, so he spent several minutes hand-propping his baby until it finally caught.

The flight home was uneventful, if you can call a summer evening’s flight above stunning green hills, valleys and fields uneventful.

Four days later Stark, Bob Kirkby and I were in the air again, and this time I knew we’d make it. The wind ambled calmly from the south at a leisurely six or seven knots, and a layer of high cirrus spread above us to dampen the unsettling effects of daytime heating.

“Dragonflies, this is Three,” called Kirkby when we were a little south of Okotoks, “watch this.”

He nosed over for a second or two and then launched his Renegade into a short series of chandelles and stall-turns. Wilf and I watched him maneuver gracefully around the sky before plying him with admiring “Oooo’s” and “Aah’s”.

Soon, Black Diamond drifted by off my right wing and I remembered the many flights I’d made in the area years before with my Beaver. I have to admit, I’ve missed the hills and mountains near there.

Longview ought to be just over the next hill, I thought, checking the map. Then an unfamiliar voice rattled in my earphones.

“Dragonflies, this is Lima Kilo Papa. What’s you’re position please?”

“Lima Kilo Papa, this is Dragonfly One,” I replied. “We’re approximately seven miles northeast of Longview at fifty-seven hundred feet, southwest bound.”

Kilo Papa asked for a few more details to better clarify where we were. The he radioed that he had us in sight and would shortly be passing a few hundred feet beneath us. He added that he was headed for Black Diamond this morning and heard us on the radio. He wanted to check us out because we “sounded like fun.”

“Kilo Papa, Dragonfly One has you visual,” I called as he sailed underneath us.

“Is that a Supecub?” queried Wilf.

“Roger,” came the answer.

“That’s a gorgeous airplane,” said Stark. I could practically hear the smile on his face.

The Cub driver asked what type of airplanes we were flying and I provided him with a brief description of each. He asked where we were heading and I told him that, too. He got quite interested in this and said he’d flown the Highwood pass before, looking for the same strip, but hadn’t found it yet. Then he asked if he could tag along with us. Of course, we gladly welcomed him.

So the four of us droned on into the Highwood valley looking for an airstrip in the woods.

Kirkby was the first to spot it. At the very south end of the valley, where it turns west again, it lay directly in our path about a mile-an-a-half ahead. Since I was flight lead it fell to me to make the first approach and landing.

As I crossed over the strip I thought it looked pretty good, albeit a little narrow. Forty-foot tall pine trees jutted up not fifty feet from the button, and a pond was located at the side of the runway at about mid-field. It would have to be avoided at all costs. A thrill ran through me and I found myself smiling involuntarily at the challenge of the coming landing.

I turned final about a third of a mile back and kept a wary eye on the distant wind sock. It was still parallel with the runway and indicating about 7 knots. I eased the ‘Max through a small gap in the pines, pulled the throttle back, and nosed over gently for the ground. The plane settled smoothly on the mains, with the tail-wheel alighting almost immediately afterward.

I lengthened my rollout to give Stark plenty of room for his landing, which he accomplished beautifully. Then I back-tracked and followed him off the runway just as Kirkby was clearing the trees on final.

Wilf and I climbed out and the first thing we heard from the crowd that had gathered was, “Thanks for the great airshow!” We swelled with pride.

The Supercub taxied in as we introduced ourselves and chatted with the rancher who owned the land, and his friends. John, the Cub driver introduced himself, too. We spent about thirty minutes chatting and letting these warm-hearted folks examine our airplanes.

Then it was time to go. You see, on these adventures getting there is most of the fun, and getting back is the rest of it.

Since I was first to land, it seemed only natural that I be first to takeoff. I noticed the slightly longer takeoff run since our field elevation was 4800 feet, about 1500 feet higher than the home ‘drome. Naturally, climb out took a bit longer, too.

John and his Supercub were headed to High River. On the radio he bid us farewell, thanking us for the good time and promising Bob he’d drop in to Kirkby Field in the future.

Quick and smooth describes our return flight, at least unitl we crossed the Bow River. There, the thermals kicked themselves loose from the prairie and rumbled right by us on their way up.

A garbled radio call, “… traffic…. eleven…” It sounded like Bob. I reflexively checked north, which was my eleven o’clock position, and my heart nearly stopped.

A Mooney was headed straight for me! I nosed over and yanked the throttle back, telling Wilf to drop down a few hundred feet. Seconds later I watched through the top of my cockpit as the Mooney zoomed by less than a hundred feet away. He hadn’t changed course by so much as a degree. Maybe he figured he had the right of way. Or maybe he didn’t even see me.

The odd thing is this: I’ve flown many, many hours with Kirkby and he has never, ever had a radio problem. Not until he tried to warn me I was about to be killed. Even after the near miss his radio functioned perfectly.

It happens.

Fortunately, Wilf was never in any danger, and a few minutes later we all touched down safely at Kirkby Field.

Another adventure would now be written into our log books, and hopefully etched for ages in our memories. It sure took us enough tries to get there, to that airstrip in the woods, but I’m sure glad we kept trying. This flight was definitely something worth waiting for.

by Stu Simpson

There I was…(dontcha’ just love flying stories that start this way)…not at thirty thousand feet in an F-14, not at Mach 1 in a CF-18, not even at 60mph in a Beaver Rx-35. No, I was walking on a warm spring evening eating an ice cream bar. I know it may sound boring to you, but those ice cream bars are darned tasty.

Anyway, I was thinking about flying, and airplanes, and pilots. I began to wonder what makes a pilot tick, and furthermore, what makes him want to fly? I bet psychiatrists (and pilot’s wives) have been asking the same questions for years.

I think the big attraction to flying is the romance of aviation. Since the early 1900′s, after people realized flyers weren’t just jelly-brained daredevils, pilots have been thought of as people with special talents and guts of iron (and who are we to argue? Right?).

The image of the biplane pilot, as he struts jauntily to his machine, has thrilled people for years. We’ve all had fantasies of duelling in mortal combat with Fokkers, Messerschmits, and MiG’s, of having stick and rudder at one’s hands and feet, of being able to spew red-hot rapid-fire death at the touch of a button, of lusty lasses and bawdy nights spent recounting tales of aerial daring while quaffing copious amounts of root beer…

Such thoughts are enough to send any red-blooded young (and not so young) man scurrying to the local flying field in search of lessons.

And while we’re on the subject, let’s have a show of hands to indicate who thinks they could have replaced Tom Cruise in ‘Top Gun’? Let’s see now, one, two, three,…uh-huh. Just as I thought. All of you.

A U.S. Navy study tells of a number of traits common to pilots, one such trait being self-confidence.

If a pilot is not confident in his abilities, he simply will not fly well. Every aviator, from the 747 captain to the dirt strip ultralight jockey, has to believe 100% that no matter what happens, he can fly his plane well and bring it back to earth safely. Chances are, he thinks he can do it better than anyone else. Some people call it ‘The Right Stuff’.

Time for another show of hands. How many of you out there think you could land an airliner if the pilots got sick and croaked?

Notice how you all put your hands up? Again. No confidence problems here.

I mean, don’t you just hate that lousy rule that says each pilot on an airliner has to eat a different meal than the other, in case one gets food poisoning? I do. I’d love a shot at trying to land one of those mothers. Hey, if things get a little rough…well, that’s what those pre-flight crash briefings are for anyway. I live for the day when an ashen faced stewardess walks from the cockpit and asks, “Is anyone on board a pilot?”

Back to the U.S. Navy study. The researchers found other traits common to pilots. Firstly, they love to fly (Big surprise there, eh?). For many aviators, flying becomes central to their very existence, sometimes meaning more to them than family and friends.

Pilots are also rather direct people who like to be in control of things. Translated: We always insist on pushing the grocery cart at the Safeway store. Pilots are usually very honest people (except for a few disreputable reprobate business types), especially with themselves. They are constantly evaluating and trying to perfect their technique. At least the good ones are.

What are some other good things about being a pilot? Let’s see. Well, we get to wear really neat clothes, like leather flying jackets, and flight suits with wings and patches on them, and all those zippers and pockets (and we never forget what’s in those pockets. Right?) Pilots also get to wear ‘flight helmets’. Even if it’s really a motorcycle helmet, once you wear it flying, it becomes a ‘flight helmet’. And why not? I mean, when I hear the term ‘flight helmet’ it sounds so macho that I could just bend lead pipe, or something.

I think one of the main reasons guys start flying is so they can wear aviator shades. I mean, just go to any airport and see how many guys are wearing those wimpy Wayfarers or Vuarnets (I don’t even know how to pronounce that word). Not many I’ll bet. Here’s a line to justify to your wife why you need to spend nearly one hundred dollars on a pair of Ray-Bans. “Well, you wouldn’t want me to crash, would you, Honey?” Just watch her whip out the Visa card (either that, or she’ll stand there and laugh her head off, like my wife did).

But what really keeps a pilot flying? Is it the thrills, the freedom, the leather jacket? I don’t know. I suppose the reasons are different for every pilot. I think one trait that didn’t show up in the aforementioned study is that pilots are dreamers. Dreamers who have the courage to follow their dreams.

I think ultimately, flying is its own reward. The egotism, the hangar flying, the leather jackets, and the dreams are all just bonuses for someone who flies.

One last thought: Ever notice how the view from a tall building, or a big hill doesn’t seem to mean as much now that you, as a pilot, have been higher?

by Stu Simpson

It was 6:20 a.m. when I yanked the starter cord on my RX-45 Beaver. I had been awake more than an hour as the Rotax sprang to life and warmed up. A few feet away, Bob was just strapping in to his Renegade bi-plane. We had to hurry if we were going to keep our appointment with Todd. We were slated to rendezvous with him in the air south of Bob’s strip.

The wind was light, but gusty, from the north-northwest. I silently wondered if it was the same upstairs and if it would cause any problems for the adventure we’d planned.

I blasted off first and made a right turn to the south. As soon as I lifted the wing, I was catapulted downwind. The winds aloft were 15-20 kts. Too bad we weren’t headed for Florida today.

I watched Bob takeoff and form up on me and together we headed south for Indus.

Todd wasn’t quite ready for takeoff as we fired past Indus airport. So Bob and I simply turned our noses into the north wind and just kind of hovered over the field, waiting for Todd.

Soon enough he taxied his float-footed 2-seat Beaver to runway 28 and lifted into the early (God, it was early!) morning air. We all turned westward and began a one-and-a-half hour battle with the breeze.

So, with a whopping ground-speed of 30 mph, and a crab angle of 30 degrees, we watched the Rockies inch steadily closer. For better or worse, our Rocky Mountain adventure had begun.

The Dragonflies were in the air again, headed this time for Radium Hot Springs. It was supposed to be a proof-of-concept flight, to practice for our journey to Abbotsford later in the summer. We hoped this trip would give us a glimpse of what mountain flying is all about. Better to find out now than learn it the hard way en-route to Abbotsford.

Our plan was to fly to Banff, meet our ground crew, and refuel there. Then, we’d follow the highway to Eisenhower Junction, hop over the Vermillion Pass and fly south to Radium. Sounds pretty simple, right?

I was beginning to think it wasn’t quite so simple as we flew past the south-west corner of Calgary. We had been in the air more than 45 minutes and had only traveled about 20 miles. I began to think about canceling the trip and trying another day.

But the weather looked much better in the mountains, so we decided to press on. We would make our go/no-go decision at the mouth of the Bow Valley.

In the meantime, we radioed Springbank Flight Service and told them our plans. The flight service specialist who answered suggested we file a flight plan. I spent the next few minutes giving him the information he required and he opened a plan for us.

We continued on toward Banff feeling a little more secure knowing that someone else was looking out for us.

It took us more than ninety minutes to reach Bear Hill, which is essentially the mouth of the Bow Valley. I radioed Todd and told him I would make a turn into the valley toward Banff and see what the wind was like. Then we’d make our decision about continuing or going home.

As I crested Bear Hill, I banked left to follow the valley. I’m not sure why, but our head-wind was gone and had actually turned into a slight quartering tail-wind. I knew then we’d have good weather to Banff, and probably beyond.

I radioed my wingmen.

“Dragonfly flight, this is Dragonfly 01. The wind here has really dropped off. I recommend we continue on to Banff.”

“Dragonfly 03 copies. Uh, roger that.” Todd replied.

“Dragonfly 02 copies,” said Bob.

The Bow Valley was beautiful that morning. The sun was shining, the sky was clear blue, and the mountains were a jagged mixture of deep green and stone grey. Who could ask for more?

We finally landed at Banff where our ground crew was waiting. Bernie Kespe had graciously volunteered to haul our gas and tools for the weekend in his pick-up truck. His wife Ida, and my wife, Tina, completed the ground crew roster. They had been waiting at the Banff airport for nearly an hour and were beginning to worry.

After 2.5 hours in the air, we were quite relieved to land at Banff. But we knew the toughest part of the trip, the flight from Storm Mountain to Radium, still lay ahead.

We spent the time at Banff snacking on fruit and refuelling the airplanes. Then Bob discovered a broken bracket on his engine. He and Bernie spent about half an hour on field repairs so Bob could go on. Just as Todd and I fired up again, Bob had another problem. A cable on his electric starter had broken. That required another fifteen minutes to repair.

As a result we didn’t leave Banff until 10:15. The weather was still good though. In fact, it was getting better as a layer of high cloud was quickly forming. This would help keep daytime heating down and make our ride a little smoother. When you’re flying the Rocks, every little bit helps.

We were all pretty tense as we lifted off from Banff and turned westward. The flight to Banff, while a little long, had been relatively easy. But we didn’t know what to expect beyond there. The Vermillion Pass is quite high, about 5800′. We had all heard horror stories about gale force winds coming down from Storm Mountain and we were worried.

Still, it was really the only safe route we had to cross the continental divide. We flew on.

About five miles east of Eisenhower Junction, as I flew along the south side of the valley, I looked over to keep an eye on Bob and Todd on the north side. Suddenly, to my amazement, I saw an Armed Forces C-130 Hercules go screaming up the middle of the valley at our altitude. I frantically called Bob.

“Dragonfly 02 you have a C-130 coming up on your left!”

I heard Todd call the same warning. Bob calmly replied he already had the Hercules in sight. I quickly began scanning my tail for any other “Herky-birds” that might be looking to snack on some Dragonflies. Fortunately, there were none, so I turned my attention back to getting past Storm Mountain.

Bob was up at about 7500′ when he shot the pass. He reported the air as quite bumpy, but still manageable.

I went in next, at about 6500′. I’m sure I had a death grip on the stick as I watched the highway go by underneath me. The ride was bumpy, with most of the gusts coming in the form of cross-winds. I’d be warned first by the wind on my face, then feel the tail being kicked around back there. The wind was unpredictable, coming from every direction. A couple of times it wanted to stand me on a wing tip, but I worked the controls, stayed level, and continued on.

I was suddenly awe-struck by our surroundings. I felt like we had strayed into some sacred chamber of the gods. Holding absolute power, they seemed to peer down, grey and unflinching at these three puny Dragonflies who dared to challenge them. I knew they could squash us with just one mighty blow from a stormy fist. I silently hoped we hadn’t pissed them off.

Todd was last into the pass. He was flying a few hundred feet higher than I, about a half mile back. I don’t think he was too busy because he had time to take some great pictures.

Once we got by Storm Mountain the ride really improved. I recall one high valley that was simply incredible. It had an entire gamut of colors. Stunning green meadows, dark green pine trees, white snow, and a baby blue glacier. I could hardly believe the spectacle. This was scenery you just don’t see unless you’re flying.

Then I heard a surprising call on the radio.

“Dragonfly 01, this is Canadian 667 heavy. Do you read?”

What could the big boys possibly want with us, I wondered.

“Canadian 667 heavy, Dragonfly 01, go ahead,” I replied.

The jet crew had been asked by Springbank to contact us and relay our status. I told them we were doing fine and expected to arrive at Radium at 12:30 local time. Canadian 667 confirmed our information and relayed it to Springbank. I thanked the jet crew and signed off. I smiled to myself, thinking how nice it was to have such guardian angels. It was also neat to be able to play with the big boys, even for a short time.

We soon made Kootenay Crossing and I noticed the huge contrast between the Vermillion Valley, that we had just left, and the Kootenay Valley we were now in. This valley was wide and spacious, while the last one had been narrow and seemed to scrape our wing tips.

Bob had been circling at Kootenay Crossing waiting for us. He’d gone on ahead because he needed to run his engine at a healthier RPM and Todd and I just couldn’t keep up.

From there, we cruised the next 20 minutes to the Radium Pass. I spent a fair amount of that time climbing so I could make the pass. I had no idea the next five minutes would be the most exciting of the day.

The pass into Radium is narrow. I mean really narrow. It’s only about half a mile wide and there are simply no emergency landing spots along the highway. (I suppose Todd could have landed in the Hot Springs pool, but it would have been a bit embarrassing.) We were really sweating as we wiggled our way past the tight peaks. But we could see the Columbia Valley on the other side and we knew we had just about made it.

Waves of relief swept over me as we popped out the other side of the pass. I could see Bob spiraling down to land. Then I noticed he wasn’t really circling. I started looking for the airport and knew why he wasn’t circling. He couldn’t find the airport!

I wondered if the thing had been abandoned and nobody told us. Just as I thought about diverting to Windermere, I looked down and spotted the strip. Bob had spotted it also and was now on downwind. Todd must have been laughing at us because he could land on the Columbia River if he had to. But, he landed after Bob and quickly cleared the runway. I landed last, at 12:15 p.m.

All of us were extremely relieved to be there. I think each of us was a little surprised that we had made it at all. We were also pretty pleased with ourselves. We had faced the unknown, had run the gauntlet, and had come out unscathed.

Bernie, Ida, and Tina arrived a few minutes later and helped us tie down. Then we went into town and found a motel for the evening. Next, it was time for some grits.

We spent the rest of the afternoon at the Radium Hots Springs pool relaxing and talking airplanes. We had a nice dinner together and headed back to the airfield to prep the airplanes for the return trip in the morning.

We turned in early because we had a 5:30 wake up the next day, and planned to be in the air at 6:30.

That’s exactly what happened. We fired up and blasted off right on time. We had to start this leg of the trip with a climb from 2650′ to more than 7000′ to clear the Radium Pass.

As we circled upward, I noticed how perfect the morning was. Cool and clear with hardly a breath of wind. That’s what I thought anyway, until Todd called with some weather news. He reported that the winds aloft were pretty strong from the north. I worried it might really slow us down as we headed home up the Kootenay Valley. We’d just have to wait and see.

In the meantime, we each used the north wind to help our climb.

Finally, we could delay no longer. We turned toward the pass. Todd went in first, with me a quarter of a mile behind, and Bob following with a bit more altitude. The winds in the pass were quite turbulent compared to those in the valley. Fortunately though, the bumps were mild and easy to handle. We eased out the other side and turned north.

Mysteriously, the north wind had disappeared and again had turned into a tail wind for us. Maybe the mountain gods were on our side after all.

I gazed north looking for the pass into the Vermillion Valley. It was then that the unbelievable beauty of the day hit me. In all my life I have never seen a sight so breathtaking. The morning sun made the mountains actually seem alive. It was a view so spectacular that I will never forget it.

The morning air was like glass. It was cool and smooth, as only morning air can be. I was very glad we had dragged our butts out of bed so early and that we could enjoy such utter perfection.

The flight north to Eisenhower Junction was uneventful, except for the amazing scenery. We stayed to the west side of the valleys to exploit any sun-warmed, up slope air. Bob was regularly making 360′s to keep from getting too far ahead of us, and we even had the chance to line up so Todd could take some pictures. Life just doesn’t get any better than that.

As we cleared the Vermillion Pass and turned into the Bow Valley, we could clearly see the last bend before the town of Banff. Todd reminded us all to keep a sharp eye out for C-130′s and even talked to a helicopter pilot flying in the area.

We coasted into Banff at exactly 8:30, after holding a few minutes to allow a Mooney to take off. We even managed to arrive ahead of our ground crew.

The hardest part of the trip was over. The rest would be a piece of cake. We took off again at 9:15 after refueling and thanking our ground crew.

We absolutely could not have made the trip without Bernie, Ida and Tina. It was an added bonus that Bernie is an experienced ultralight jock and really knew how to help. The trip was just as much their adventure as ours.

The air was still rock steady from Banff to Calgary. We felt only the occasional bump, as if the air above the hills were yawning, just coming to life. We simply couldn’t have asked for anything better.

As we passed the southeast corner of Calgary, Bob radioed that he was going on ahead to his strip a few miles away. I would follow in a few minutes, and Todd would fly on to Indus, a couple of miles east.

I looked over at Todd off my right wing and gave him a thumbs up. Since his radio battery had died, he replied the only way he could. He gripped the stick between his knees and gave me two thumbs up. I couldn’t have said it better myself, so I gave him a final salute and peeled off to the northeast.

I landed a few minutes after Bob and thought about the adventure we’d had. We’d done what some said was crazy. We’d flown ultralights in the mountains and done it safely. We’d logged nearly eight hours flight time in two days without so much as a hiccup. And we had a ball!

Still, it sure was good to be back. As I taxied down the runway, Bob called on the radio.

“Dragonfly 02 to Dragonfly 01, welcome home,” he said.

I simply replied, “Roger that.”

by Stu Simpson

In case you haven’t heard, the Giant is back. And this time it’s better than ever.

I’m talking, of course, about the Green Giant – my Sylvaire Bushmaster II that I’d previously re-engined at the turn of the century with a Rotax 582 (up from a 503). Well, I re-engined again, this time with a Continental A-75.

I’d been toying for some time with the idea of an upgrade, and actually had plans to begin the project in the spring of this year. A bearing failure and subsequent forced landing in November of 2004 precipitated the start of the project a little early. In the end, it was excellent timing, for I’d have otherwise lost all the 2005 summer flying season to the project.

With the help of quite a number of people, chief among them Gerry Theroux, Bob Kirkby and Ken Beanlands, the Giant is back in the air with a new look and a new sound.

After several proving hours on the engine with some short and medium length hops, it was time to really put it to the test with a long cross-country flight on July 1st. Former CUFC president Ed D’Antoni suggested a trip to Castor, a distance of about 115 miles. He suggested it largely due to the airfield’s proximity to one of the town’s restaurants.

I was all for it, and so was Al Botting, Bob Kirkby and Ken Beanlands. Strangely, though, D’Antoni bowed out at the last minute. Hmmmm….

We set out on a perfect morning with hardly any wind on the surface, and a 15 mph tailwind at 6000’. We soon soared past Beiseker and the Red Deer River Valley and arrived over top the moonscape prairie south of Stettler. It’s wonderful land to see, comprised of small, well-rounded hills that are rarely more than 20 feet high. It appears to be the effluent of an enormous geological sneeze.

Once past that region, we flew past many huge sloughs that somehow got listed on the map as lakes. These muddy troughs were full to their brims after the recent rains and served well as landmarks for those of us navigating by map. Actually, I was the only one navigating by map.

We landed on Castor’s pristine paved runway and taxied in to make our way to the food. Botting arranged a ride to a nearby restaurant with a very kind local gentleman named Bill. Bill was a sharp contrast to the waitress in the café who treated us like we were the biggest pain in her day. Good thing the food was okay.

Bill kindly shuttled us back to the field after lunch and we soon set out for Three Hills and more gas. Now, the thunderstorms were building around us and we were anxiously watching the sky as we went.

On the ground at Three Hills we looked east to a huge cell sitting directly in the path we’d taken less than an hour before. We got out of Dodge just in time. Another massive cell was laying a whoopin’ on Drumheller, and a third storm was handing it to the area north of Bishell’s, where Beanlands shelters his Christavia.

We decided to escort Beanlands as far west toward home as the weather would allow. Once airborne, we saw the storm had moved well north of Bishell’s strip and that Ken would have no troubles with it. On the other hand, another cell appeared to be brewing near Kirkby’s. We thought it prudent to quickly turn for home.

We finished the flight with no problems and the cells we worried about didn’t amount to much. I was ecstatic over the Giant’s and the Continental’s performance. I logged 3.5 hours and all temps and pressures were right where they needed to be. Fuel consumption was the same or less than the Rotax. We should try this again sometime, I decided.

Sometime arrived a few days later when Botting and I coerced Andy Gustafson into a flight south with his Merlin. Bob Kirkby needed an aerial photo of the High River airport for a COPA brochure he was building. What better excuse to fly than a photo recon mission for COPA?

We set out from Kirkby’s on another perfect morning. We soon got the shots of High River and decided to head west to the scenic terrain of the foothills. We over-flew the Turner Valley Ranch strip, Butler’s strip and the flood-ravaged hamlet of Priddis. Coasting along next to the Rocks, I couldn’t help but recall the fantastic flight Andy and I made to that magical, mysterious kingdom last fall.

Then it was time to turn for home. We turned east along Highway 22X and eased off the altitude so as not to bust Calgary’s Class C space. One feature that caught my eye was Red Deer Lake, another over-sized slough that actually had water in it again. It’s been nearly dry for more than 15 years. We set course to pass over Glen Clarke’s strip and I peered intently down trying to spot his Cub. No joy there. Boy, did he miss a good one this time.

Since Andy was kind enough to join us at Kirkby’s, Botting and I decided to return the favour and escort him home. Besides, with our photo recon mission complete we needed an excuse to stay aloft a bit longer.

Our flight lasted exactly two hours, and again the Continental ran flawlessly. I don’t have a moment’s regret about switching engines again and I know the A-75 will give me a great many great years. So bring ‘em on, because the Giant is back!

by Stu Simpson

This was clearly a Saturday morning with promise. It could hardly be anything else when everywhere I looked I saw small, fun airplanes. For instance, Al Botting had his new Piper Vagabond tied down ready to start. It’s amber gleam nearly matched that of the sun. Next to him was Peter Wegerich and his yellow Cubby II, a slightly shrunken iteration of Botting’s bird. One could be forgiven for doing a double take when seeing them so close together.

Botting was going to loose his tail-wheel virginity that morning. He and Kirkby had plans to take the Vagabond up so Botting could get checked out in it and join the ranks of the real men who fly tail-draggers. No more training wheels for him.

On the other side of the hangars Carl Forman tinkered with the radio and battery in his MiniMAX. The Max’s battery has been vexing him for months, never quite doing what he hopes it’ll do. And then there’s the left fuel tank issue. Don’t even get him started about that! Just up the ramp was Bernie Kespe with the top cowl off his pristine Renegade biplane. He was working on a starter problem.

And there in the corner, just in front of my hangar, sat my beloved Green Giant; loaded, fueled and eager to move the sky around.

Carl and Pete and I planned to fly to the bottom end of the Highwood Pass, about 60 miles southwest and on the very leading edge of the Rockies. There’s a ranch strip there that’s about 4000’ long but with very challenging approaches on each end. The trip to the Highwood has never been anything less than stunning, and it promised to be so this day, too.

It turned out at the last minute, though, that Carl would have to stay home. Remember those battery and fuel tank issues? Enough said.

Pete and I blasted off runway 16 and climbed strongly in the morning wind. We leveled off at 4000’ and turned southwest.

“I sure like seeing green fields,” I radioed to Pete.

“Ya,” he replied, “they’re sure a lot nicer to look at.” And a lot nicer for us to fly over, too, I thought. They don’t throw as much heat and convective turbulence as the browner spring time fields do.

As we motored along I remarked to Pete, as I’ve done to my wingmen hundreds of times, that I still can’t believe there are people down there who don’t want to do this.

“I’ve wanted to do this my whole life,” Pete confessed. “Now I’ve finally gotten to where I have the time and I can afford it. This is great.”

Thinking about his comments for a moment, I decided that maybe there is something to be said for growing up, even if only a little bit. Wonder what our wives would have to say about that.

We started a slow climb crossing the Bow River and the new highway bridge there. We were near DeWinton when Pete called again.

“There’s a field down there that looks awfully familiar to me,” he said, smiling. He referred to the last time we made this trip, coincidentally just two days short of a year ago. On that jaunt Pete had an engine failure over this very spot. He put the Cubby down in the farmer’s field and effected repairs. I forget what caused the engine failure – a minor electrical fault, I think – but he was up and flying again half an hour later. The rest of the flight simply orbited over top in a wide circle while he fixed the problem.

Since then, Pete decided the tired old 503 just wasn’t the right engine for his Cubby so he switched to a 65 horse Zanzottera, sold out of Surrey, B.C. The new mill runs very sweetly. Pete’s now got more power in the Cubby, more confidence in the engine and is getting a lot more fun out of flying.

The mountains were starting to rise from the haze, jagged and grey against the horizon, and growing larger with each passing mile. A glance out the right side revealed we were coming in line with the departure path of Black Diamond’s runway 14. We switched over to 123.4, the frequency that Black Diamond’s gliders use.

“Black Diamond traffic, be advised ultralights Dragonflies 1 and 2 are currently 6 miles southeast at 4600 feet, south-westbound for the Longview area. Any conflicting, please advise.”

We listened intently for several minutes but surprisingly, heard no reply. That’s strange because the glider guys are usually beating each other over the head to be the first ones in the air on such a day. We made one more call a few minutes later before clearing their area, but still heard nothing back.

We crossed highway 22 between Black Diamond and Longview. The terrain was rising faster now with the onset of the foothills. We eased our birds a few hundred feet higher and then set up to take pictures of each other with the hills and mountains in the background.

Pete’s Cubby was stunning against the brilliant green foliage below, and the magnificent Alberta blue above.

“You sure have a beautiful airplane, Pete,” I commented admiringly.

“Ya,” he said in his usual laconic manner, “I’m pretty happy with this yellow. I’d have bought the plane anyway, regardless of colour, so the yellow’s just a bonus.” I chuckled at his remarks and went back to taking pictures.

My photos done, I marveled for a few moments at the raw, blatant power of the Rockies. Though Pete and I had the power of flight at our disposal and were flying above all else, we weren‘t flying above them. And there they were in front of us, filling our windscreens, daring us to try. I figured it’d be wisest that morning to stick to our original plan and meet the Rockies’ altitude challenge another day.

We continued enroute, intercepting highway 40 as it coursed into the mountains. The Highwood strip soon appeared as a narrow swatch of light green grass running east and west on a ranch south of the highway. It’s a challenging strip, with high trees at either end, and a pond on either side about halfway along. The runway’s not very wide, either. Simply put, it promised to be a lot of fun.

We arrived overhead and eyeballed the windsock.

“Dragonfly 1 to 2. The sock indicates wind from the south at about five to seven knots. It’ll give us a crosswind, but not by much.”

“Ya, roger. I’ll follow you in.”

“1 copies. I’m descending on the downwind for 25.” I pulled the throttle way back and dumped the nose over to begin the drop from 6000 feet. After several seconds the Giant was still way too high, so I cranked in a side-slip to bleed off more altitude.

The Highwood requires a careful approach to minimize exposure to the trees should the unthinkable happen to the engine. Half a mile from the button I turned about 160 degrees because there wasn’t enough room in the narrow valley for a proper base leg. I angled toward the strip, keeping the highway beneath me for as long as possible before committing to the runway.

My heart beat faster and adrenaline coursed through me as the trees flashed beneath. The left wing missed a tall stand by only 10 feet; there was no time to look at the right one. A snapshot vision flashed through my mind of me picking pine boughs from the Giant after landing.

Ground speed was too fast and a quick glance at the sock confirmed the wind had shifted to my tail. But it was still at only a few knots, I might be able to make it. I mentally prepared for a go ‘round. Side-slipping a little more to lose some height past the trees, I wandered a little wide of the runway. So I booted the rudder, pulled the stick to the right and the Giant centered out over the strip, but it was clear we were going to land long. Should I go around?

At the last second I decided it was safe and discarded the notion of trying again. The wheels touched smoothly about a third of the way down the runway, the long grass helping to slow the plane. I was too far past the exit to make a one-eighty before Pete landed, so I had no choice but to continue taxiing ahead until I heard from him. A few moments passed, then Pete calmly radioed that he’d landed and I had lots of room to turn around.

We taxied in and shut down. Then we spent a pleasant half hour chatting with a cowboy named Bob Purkess, who works the ranch there, and his hired man Clayton. We told him all about our planes such as how they’re built and the differences between Pete’s Cubby and the Giant.

Before we departed Purkess invited us to call him before we land next time so he could ensure there were no horses on the runway. Very neighbourly of him, indeed.

The wind was still coming from the east as we back-tracked and it looked like it’d stay that way. We started this takeoff with a slight downhill run, which really helped overcome the drag of the long grass.

I hauled the Giant into ground effect then built up some more speed to make sure I’d clear the trees that were rapidly approaching. As soon as we ascended above the tops of the pines the wind tagged us on the nose and boosted our climb rate by a few hundred feet per minute. The Giant reminded me again why I love it more each time I fly it.

We climbed steadily from the Highwood’s 4600’ elevation to 5500’ for the ride home. We weren’t quite ready to leave the foothills, though, so instead of turning northeast we continued north to follow along the hills. This area made for a spectacular background as Pete and I snapped even more photos of each other’s planes.

North of Turner Valley and west of Millarville we stumbled across a nicely kept ranch strip we’d never seen before. We circled overhead, using the windsock and tie downs to confirm it was, in fact, an airfield. But time was getting on and we decided against a landing. Besides, we didn’t want to use up all our adventure in one day. But I promised myself we’d be back.

Calgary’s ever expanding sprawl seeped through the late morning haze soon after we turned back eastbound. The view was quite a letdown considering where we’d just been.

But, at least we were flying; there were so many more down there who weren’t. Pete and I agreed it was good to be cruising at only 70 mph, which let us stay in the sky a little longer. The world looks better at that speed and we simply get more from life aloft.

My landing back at Kirkby’s was terrific. So was Pete’s, which was only fitting in light of the wonderful day we were having.

We chatted happily on the ground with Botting, who hadn’t quite lost his tail-wheel virginity that morning because the wind came up with a little more enthusiasm than he preferred. But he still enjoyed flying his Vagabond while Kirkby flew the landings and takeoffs for him.

Carl got up flying, too, but the pesky battery and fuel problems continued to haunt him. Bernie was nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t a perfect day for everyone on Kirkby Field. But for Pete and I, who got the chance to have ourselves a flying adventure, the morning had certainly fulfilled its promise.

by Stu Simpson

“Where do you wanna go today?” I asked Botting.

“Well, we should go some place, I guess,” he replied with deadpan humour.

I peered over his shoulder at the pretty yellow Vagabond glowing in the morning sun. A propane heater hissed as it spewed warmth up into the Vag’s engine cowling. It didn’t really matter to us where we went, so long as we were flying.

“How about south?” I asked. “Have you ever been to Ron Laverty’s strip east of Vulcan?”

“I suppose we could try that,” Al said thoughtfully. “What about going to the old Vulcan RCAF strip, too?” Al`s a talented historian who rarely passes up a chance to visit places with a past.

The Vulcan RCAF airfield certainly qualifies. It was active during World War II, training bomber crews in the fine arts of their deadly trade. It sits twelve miles southwest of the Vulcan townsite.

“Sure. How about we head up to Linden after that?”

Al nodded his agreement. He’d be flying with a co-pilot, Elmer Dyck.

We each finished our pre-flights, mounted up and took off south.

This day was faultless, a prairie pilot’s dream. The wind was a whisper, the early March sky a dazzling blue that forbade any intrusion of cloud. Perfectly portioned rectangles of black summer-fallow occasionally interrupted the sandy coloured earth below, and a few patches of brilliant snow clung desperately to the remains of winter.

Such days are to be revered, for later in March the sun would climb higher and heat the earth so that mid-day flying would be a violent ordeal much akin to a boxing match on a trampoline. But not today. Today was satin and silk.

The Bow River soon passed by, rushing on to its destiny with the Hudson’s Bay. Huge ice ledges along the banks hung precariously over the water, waiting tensely to crack and fall beneath the weight of spring’s imminent warmth. On the horizon, the town of Vulcan sat as a faint silhouette slightly left of our course. It gave us something to steer away from to find our destination.

RCAF Vulcan’s giant white hangars, six of them still standing, eventually appeared from nearly 20 miles back. How many young bomber crews had shared that same view of the field? Within minutes we were overhead and choosing our landing direction.

Runway 33 it would be. I curved around to short final on the infield runway. Ancestrally speaking, it’s really a taxiway. But the actual runway, running parallel a few metres to the east was still under upgrade after having become overgrown with bushes and weeds. But someone was clearly working hard to clear it and restore it to usable condition. It wasn’t far off now.

I touched down, taxied back to the end and cleared onto the button of 28, jumping out of Merl to look for Al and Elmer. Botting brought the Vag in just so, and settled artfully to the scrabbled surface. Then he taxied over and shut down.

We normally park near the hangars at the north end, but we’d already seen them recently and we didn’t plan to stay long anyway. I peered at them across the open expanse of the airport. They were still bright white but slowly succumbing to the creeping ravages of time. The large windows on the upper walls were speckled with broken panes, some of which were boarded over.

Al and I explored a couple of the hangars on our last visit. The inescapable history of them, and the whole airfield, was deeply moving. No one back in the 1940s really expected these simple but behemoth structures to last this long. Fortunately, they did last, and they still stand today, quietly commemorating an incomprehensible sacrifice.

A burgundy pick-up truck caught my attention as it approached from the direction of the hangars. The driver turned out to be the airfield’s owner, John Sands. We spent a pleasant twenty minutes talking with him about the airfield. Botting indicated none too subtly that he and many others would like to see an excavation of the grounds to dig up the aircraft and equipment rumored to be buried there. Sands talked proudly of his workings to turn the field into a thriving, self-sustaining airport again. He had plans to rent out the field to a sky diving operation in the coming summer. I very much appreciated him wanting to give Vulcan RCAF a future again, rather than just a past.

The topic of our immediate future arose and we told Sands of our next destination. He suggested that instead of flying east and then north, that we take a look at another ex-RCAF field halfway between Granum and Fort Macleod. Hmmm. We hadn’t really planned to fly that far south today, but it’d be someplace new to see, it was only 36 miles away, and we’d have the privilege to fly there in our airplanes.

Ah, what the hell, we agreed. Let’s go. Sands offered up the coordinates from his GPS, and Al and I punched them into ours. A few minutes later we jumped into the sky again and turned south for a place we never knew existed until a few minutes ago. We weren’t sure we’d land there, but we weren’t going home without at least having a look.

In less than half an hour we were over top the strip. It was clearly another old war field with a triangular runway arrangement. But cattle, snow melt and mud covered the runways and we had no real desire to challenge any of them for landing rights.

Fort Macleod was up ahead, only a few minutes distant. I asked Botting what he thought of heading there. He politely checked with Elmer and it was decided. We banked a few degrees to the left, settled on course and dialed in Macleod’s radio frequency.

Ft. Macleod. It’s where my mom is from and as a kid I spent lots of time there with my grandparents. But it was more than 20 years since I’d been near the place, seemingly a whole lifetime. What would it be like now?

We crossed Highway 3 inbound for the field. I glanced beneath Merl’s left wing and felt a shiver of memory as my grandparents’ old house slipped past the left wing. I shook it off and concentrated on ground features so we could find our way into town more easily. Strange that as a kid I never visited the airport here.

The outline of the RCAF station was a mere phantom on the earth after 65 years. The runway and taxiway outlines were still visible, but overrun with a new housing development. A smooth modern runway cut across the middle of the old ones like they were never there. It impressed me that two of the old hangars were still standing and in use as industrial buildings.

We soon landed, parked and started walking north into town. As we approached the industrial park at the south end of Ft. Macleod, we couldn’t really see much of the town proper. But when we crossed the railroad tracks at the grain elevators I collided with a sledgehammer of memories.

Things had certainly changed, but I could still see – and feel – the way it was all those years ago.

Grandpa, a very cagey and competent businessman, owned a big chunk of the west end of town. He had a gas station, an A&W, a motel, a coin laundry, an appliance repair shop and a trailer court. I was thirteen when I helped him build his and Grandma’s last house there. He paid me $3.00 an hour that summer on my first real job. The house was enormous.

Now, more than 30 years later, the house seemed a little smaller, a little run down and was harder to see behind evergreens and dense shrubbery. What was once a shabby baseball field adjacent to the house, and containing the town’s landmark water tower, was now a residential subdivision. The water tower was long gone.

Grandpa and Grandma used to live above the back of the gas station, and it sat next to the A&W restaurant. I smiled remembering how many free root beers and french fries we grandkids consumed.

Al and Elmer and I wandered about Grandpa’s old properties for a while, my wingmen generously patient with my sentimentality. We’d turn a corner and, something – maybe a fence, the back of a building, or an old alley – would trigger another roaring flood from my past.

A dam, holding back time, had fractured and burst, nearly drowning me in its deluge. I’ve never felt such a powerful memory force as I did that day. It was simply overwhelming.

It was also the first time I felt like a ghost, floating nearly invisible at the centre of a swirling storm of memory that only I could feel. No one there would know me now, nor give a whit about my memories of the place. Not even Al or Elmer could feel it. In the silent vaults of my history I was utterly alone.

Reluctantly, I admitted it was time to leave. We hiked back to the airport, giving me time to sort through the shards of my past. Then we fired up our planes and were quickly airborne once more.

Northbound for Kirkby Field a hundred miles distant, I reflected on what had led us here. We’d simply picked a direction to fly, a place to briefly set down, and then happily strolled hand in hand with fate to see where it would all lead. I contentedly watched Ft. Macleod drift away behind Merl’s right wing. The town got smaller and smaller until it was soon just a distant speck of what used to be.

What sweet delight it was to fly that perfect March day; to take flight on a simple but incredible journey back through time. We’d indeed touched places with a past; some historic, some intensely personal. And our voyage reminded us that there are some things we don’t ever want to forget.

by Stu Simpson

No pilot will ever truly be able to say he’s done it all. But there are some guys who’ve come close. Wayne Thomas Foster, known to all simply as “Butch” is one of those fortunate few. Foster’s flying experience spans more than half a century and includes some of the most legendary airplanes in history. He’s flown more than a hundred different types of aircraft and logged better than 15,000 hours. Butch Foster’s tale is one of a remarkable flying career.

Beginnings

Butch started flying as a youngster in 1954 in Chilliwack, B.C. A typical airport kid, he spent many hours peering over the fence watching seemingly frail little tail-draggers flitting around the circuit. Soon, he began trading odd jobs for flight time, and eventually earned his PPL with the air cadets at age 17.

Butch recalls those days fondly, especially since a flying licence then cost only $400, required only 30 hours in a Fleet Canuck, and was done on a 30 day program.

Two years later he joined the RCAF and wore his wings proudly from 1958 on. From then until 1965 he flew various marks of the other Canuck, the CF-100 in Cold Lake and Germany.

To say Foster loved the ‘Clunk’ is a bit of a an understatement. “It had good performance,” he says, “it packed a great punch with all those rockets, it had great range and great reliability.” In Germany, Canadian forces often faced-off against faster American jet fighters in training exercises, during which the Canuck held it’s own. “It lacked a bit of speed, but that was more than made up for by it’s reliability and firepower. The Americans couldn’t touch us there.”

Butch moved on and learned to fly Grumman Trackers, flying them from aircraft carriers when Canada still did such things.

In the late 1960′s Foster and another Canadian went south to fly with the U.S. Navy off its carriers near Puerto Rico. They spent their time teaching air combat maneuvering, or ACM. This was back in the days when military brass still thought missiles would rule all air battles of the future. Squadron-level flyers, of course, knew differently and therefore “imported” some knowledgeable people for a time.

This is also when Foster picked up his nickname. In his unit there were three other guys named Wayne. Clearly, Foster would need another handle. His squadron mates saw the way he and his fellow Canuck teamed up to make mince-meat of their opponents in the air; one would butch and the other would chop, they said. Thus, the Canadians were soon known as Butcher and Chopper, quickly shortened to just Butch and Chop.

While with the USN Butch got to fly the A-4 Skyhawk and the F-8 Crusader. He happily characterizes the A-4 as a scooter, since it was so small and maneuverable and was such a treat to fly. With only 9600 pounds of thrust available the early Skyhawks didn’t have the power granted to later variants. But Foster says the A-4 still carried quite a weapons load and also had a good roll rate.

Butch also got to fly the F-8 Crusader, a single-engined supersonic jet fighter with absolutely sparkling performance. Long revered by pilots as one of the greatest dogfighters, the Crusader had a fantastic turn rate that got even tighter the faster it went. “The F-8 was the Last of the Gunfighters,” says Butch. “It was an excellent airplane. But, of course every dog has its day, and so do airplanes.”

A stint teaching advanced flying with the U.S. Air Force was next for Butch. Then it was back to Canada for a ground tour in Moose Jaw. Butch retired from the Air Force in 1980 after his final posting at Namao, flying Twin Otters.

Flying the Classics

In 1975, when Butch was stationed at Moose Jaw, he got a chance that would set any red-blooded pilot to drooling. The National Aviation Museum approached him and asked if he wanted to fly some of the Museum’s planes in airshows. Butch jumped at the opportunity, having read and dreamt of these airplanes as a kid. He spent the next few summers displaying the Avro 504 trainer, the Sopwith Pup, and the Nieuport 17. Just how lucky can a guy get?

Always a fighter pilot at heart, Butch is one of the few people still around who are able to give a comparative analysis of some of World War I’s combat planes. “The Nieuport was my favourite,” he says. “Because of my size and height, and the position of the Nieuport’s wings, my visibility was phenomenal. It would be a distinct advantage in a combat situation.”

“The Sopwith Pup was a bit faster,” he adds, “but the visibility all around was a lot less than the Nieuport. In some ways it was a little bit more maneuverable, it would probably turn tighter, but in the Nieuport you could take off and run if you had to.”

Of course, the rotary engines that powered these classics were lubricated by castor oil, which spewed from the engine valves in a fine mist, coating everything in the propwash, including the pilot. “To this day, I can still smell castor oil in my flying suit,” says Foster. Fond memories, indeed.

He also remarked on the stark contrast of flying a biplane from 1911 one day, then jumping into a modern jet fighter the next.

Before he left the Air Force Butch was lucky enough to get a lot of time in the P-51 Mustang. June of 1978 saw him and a fellow named Jerry Westfall headed south to ferry back a pair of P-51′s from Bolivia. The Bolivian air force was selling off the Mustangs and replacing them with T-33′s. The Bolivians only flew the P-51′s in day VFR conditions and the planes carried no radios.

Butch hadn’t flown a Mustang for several years, and his wingman hadn’t flown one at all. But because of his previous experience, Foster drew the short straw to make the first test hop. The flight was successful, though challenging, seeing as how La Paz’s field elevation was 13,500 feet ASL.

Butch thought the Bolivians’ upkeep of the old Mustangs was pretty good. “They were still on the original type-maintenance program as used during the war. So the airplanes were quite dependable.”

Which was good for Foster and Westfall. They took off for Lima City, Peru with a good weather forecast. But the weather quickly deteriorated approaching Lima City. Foster and Westfall had to bring the Mustangs down through the clouds over the ocean, then make their way back to the airport with only basic instruments and a hand-held radio. They squeaked into Lima City, landing in pitch black with an 800′ ceiling and only 2 1/2 miles visibility. To make matters worse, the Peruvians had no idea they were coming. The Bolivians hadn’t forwarded the flight plans.

The two pilots were stuck there for five days, unable to get authorization to leave. Butch finally insisted loudly enough and obtained an audience with the Minister of Aviation. The Minister was a general in the air force and Butch saw a photo on his desk of the minister seated in a Hawker Hunter. Since the Hunter was a contemporary to the CF-100, “I was able to chit-chat with him on his own ground,” says Butch. “By the time I left the office, about two hours later, we had carte blanche on the Mustangs.”

They took off the next day and climbed to 14,000 feet to try and cool off high over the Peruvian desert. They’d also brought along a can of Coke each, since they hadn’t been drinking much of the water. “Jerry was sitting about a hundred yards off my wing and I saw him bring out this can of pop. I waved ‘No, no, don’t do it.’ Well, he did it. The can just exploded. The whole inside of his canopy turned brown.”

In December 1978 Butch and Jock MacKey ferried T-33′s down to Bolivia, and P-51′s back. All had gone well and MacKey was leading as they left Great Falls on the return trip to Calgary. Though the planes had no radios, MacKey was able to communicate with hand signals that he was having engine problems and wanted his wingman to lead. Foster was having none of it, and in fact had put away his map. Mackey insisted by pulling back his throttle and forcing Butch out front.

Trouble was, Butch didn’t know where they were. He thought he’d seen Lethbridge go by, but ten minutes later didn’t have a clue about their position. Fortunately, the mountains stayed out past his left wing and Calgary eventually came into view. But Butch couldn’t fail to notice the irony of having flown 7000 miles across two continents, only to get lost in his own backyard.

Butch Foster knows how lucky he is to have flown the P-51, and he loves the old warbird. “The Mustang is great, just super,” says Foster, smiling. “The range is good, the speed is good, the visibility is good. It’s an excellent aircraft.”

Fire Bombing

The summer of 1980 was Foster’s first summer flying fires. He adores the nostalgia inherent in flying A-26′s nearly as old as he is. He got the job after a rather surprising interview.

Airspray’s Don Hamilton conducted the questioning in Edmonton. “He asked me just two questions,” says Butch. “How much total time do you have? And how much twin time, do you have?” At the time Foster had 8600 hours total, nearly half of it in twins. “He says, “Well, you’re hired.” He didn’t even ask me if it was prop time or jets.” Of course, Butch had more than 200 hours on the Trackers’ radials, so he wasn’t worried a bit.

Being an ex-fighter guy, Butch finds the A-26 to be quite heavy, but very solid, stable and fast. As far as he’s concerned it’s an excellent water bomber.

Foster says his military background – his hit-the-target mentality, as he calls it – has helped him immensely in air attack.

So why does he keep bombing every year? The chance to fly a snarlin’ old round-engined warbird in tough conditions; the precision and skill it takes to drop a load of retardant in just the right place as burning trees explode all around; and the challenge of keeping track of the fire, the firefighters, your wingmen and the bird dog, are the things that keep Butch Foster coming back for more every summer.

But his resume’ doesn’t stop there. Up until 1996, Butch was Chief Flying Instructor for Mt. Royal College’s Aviation Program. He’d been there since September of 1980, becoming the boss in ’86. He reflects fondly on the many students to whom he helped give wings.

And he builds airplanes, too. Foster’s built three homebuilts already, and has a fourth nearing completion. His first was a 2/3 scale Jurca Mustang, followed by a similarly-sized Jurca P-40. Each of these planes required an estimated 7000 hours building time. A Jodel D-9 with a 40 hp Volkswagen engine followed, and he’s currently working on a Cavalier.

The serious homebuilder will recognize all of these planes as being made of wood. Foster says aircraft wood-working is a lost art, so he helps out with wood repairs from time to time at one of Springbank airport’s repair shops.

What’s Next?

You might think Butch would be ready to sit back and rest on his laurels for a while. Not so. He regularly flies a Cessna 402 for Accent Aviation, a charter operation out of Springbank. And, of course, there’s his beloved summer bombers. He also wants to build a replica Spitfire, out of wood, naturally.

Butch often wonders if he shouldn’t have joined the airlines when he had the chance back in the 60′s. “Sometimes I walk
around in circles just kicking myself in the ass,” he says. “I’d probably be flying a 747 or a DC-10, and I’d have ten times the money I do now.” But he concedes such a route might also have left him with only one tenth the living he’s got now.

As I mentioned, there’s no pilot who can say he’s done it all. But as for Butch Foster, well, he’s given it a damned good try.

by Stu Simpson

A swarm of tiny shadows danced in unison as they raced northward across the sun-charred fields east of Calgary. The airplanes were ultralights, six of them in all, no two the same. The pilots called themselves Dragonflies, the unofficial call sign of the Calgary Ultralight Flying Club. Their destination was the Red Deer International Airshow.

We had just rendezvoused in the air near Chestermere Lake. And what a terrific array of planes we were. Todd led the formation in his float equipped 2-seat Beaver. Rounding out the Indus contingent was Ron in his Crusader, Larry in his Merlin and Don in his Chinook. Bob Kirkby in his pristine Renegade, and me in my single Beaver completed the formation after launching from Kirkby’s strip.

Our only worry was a pair of thunderstorms ahead of us. The larger storm, to the northwest, was a huge bugger. To the northeast was another, smaller cell that was growing quickly. There was a slot between them that looked just right for our flight to sneak through.

As we passed abeam Airdrie, I suggested to Todd that we divert to the west and see if we could sneak around the west side of the larger cell. So the formation swung to a westerly heading for about five minutes. It took that long for me to realize that I had goofed. The storm was much larger than it appeared and there was no way we were going to get around behind it.

We all swung north again. As we tried to out-run the western cell’s trajectory, we also had to stay clear of the other storm’s growing intensity. We were seeing lightning at regular intervals and the air was getting rougher. A massive swath of hail pounded the earth below the big storm. Frankly, it just didn’t look like much fun.

We took about five minutes of rain as we finally threaded the needle and dodged Thor’s hammer.

The air on the other side of the cells was cool and calm. We droned on, chatting back & forth on the radio, and just enjoying flying together on a beautiful evening.

Soon, Todd made the call for the Dragonflies to switch to Red Deer’s frequency and we got back to business.

He arranged a straight-in approach for us on runway 34. A few of us had to make 360′s to properly space ourselves in line for landing. But one after the other we touched down and cleared the active. I imagine that for about ten minutes, Red Deer, with six planes on final, and more lining up, was one of the most congested airports in the province. We taxied to our designated hangar and shut down for the night.

Walking toward the terminal, we couldn’t help but notice a pair of rather unique jets sitting on the ramp. They were twin-engined, twin-tailed, and pained blue and gold. They were MiG-29′s of the Ukrainian Air Force.

We had a golden opportunity before us. Since there were no cordons around the airplanes, it seemed only natural that we examine them close up – which we did.

As I peered into the wheel wells and exhaust nozzles, as I examined the wing roots and tail surfaces, I marvelled at the incredibly sturdy structure of the MiG-29. And I couldn’t help but think how five years ago it would have been impossible for MiGs and Dragonflies to be standing there on the ramp beside each other. As I said, it was a golden opportunity.

We spent the rest of the evening getting settled in at the hotel and chowing down.

We were beginning to worry about another ultralight jock who was supposed to be joining us, but hadn’t shown up yet. Gord had planned to fly his two-seat Beaver up the west side of Calgary, re-fuel at Olds/Didsbury, and fly on to Red Deer. We eventually learned that he had landed in the middle of a vicious hail storm at Olds/Didsbury. If it was the same storm we had narrowly avoided, he was lucky to have landed at all. Gord had to spend the night on the couch at the O/D clubhouse. But he arrived in Red Deer in time for breakfast the next morning.

The next two days were a mix of frenzied activity in the mornings, and pleasant sun-soaking in the afternoons. We had practiced a routine for this year’s show, based on a takeoff from the taxi-way, as we’d done in past years. But the airshow officials wouldn’t allow a taxi-way takeoff and we had to move our takeoff to the main runway. This meant our planes would be further from the crowd and harder to see. It was no big deal, just a little disappointing.

Our routine, basically a large “S”-shaped pattern with a pitch-out to downwind, then landing, went off quite well both days. Many thanks go to Bob in his Renegade for an excellent job of leading the flight.

We spent the remaining time on the ground exploring the airshow, hangar flying with other pilots, and answering questions about our airplanes.

I was amazed this year at the large amount of interest generated by the flock of ultralights. We spoke with a lot of conventional pilots who were disgruntled at the high cost of flying Spam-cans. Most figured our machines were definitely the way to fly. Todd’s airplane was especially popular and he was kept busy all weekend with inquiries about it. It was the same for Bob.

Ultralights made an awesome showing at Red Deer, with a total of 10 different types on display. Paul Hemingson, president of the C.U.F.C. deserves much of the credit for this tour de force, as does Gord Tebutt. Hemingson arranged everything so the guys were able to participate in the show. Tebutt was really busy hawking club hats and brochures. Both he and Paul did a beautiful P.R. job for our club and for U.L. flying.

After we’d flown our show on Sunday, I noticed a large amount of gear oil dripping from my gear box. Before I could say “Holy Rotax, Batman!”, Bob and Don had ripped the gear box off, located the problem, and found a way to fix it. Things were back to normal in less than an hour. Thanks guys.

Sunday also turned out to be a day of frustrating indecision. Gord had come up with the idea of leaving at noon. It looked like there were going to be major thunderstorms developing by late afternoon. Gord, understandably gun-shy, wanted to bug out before the weather closed us in. Some guys thought it was a good idea, and some guys didn’t mind the idea of another night in Red Deer.

In the end, Gord was the only one who did leave at noon. He had a safe flight home, and as later events would show, he guessed right.

The rest of us stayed another night. The forecast called for T-storms all night and clear skies in the morning.

The forecast was wrong.

The next morning dawned cold and grey. The ceiling was about 1200′ overcast and the temperature had dropped to about 15 degrees. Reports in Calgary indicated a higher ceiling, with a more broken cloud layer. In other words, it appeared the weather was better as you went south.

We’d decided to depart in two groups; guys who wanted to go earlier, and guys who didn’t. Todd, Larry, and I would be the early group. Tony would join us in an S-10, which he’d flown up on Friday for static display. Bob, Don, Paul and Ron would follow a bit later. It looked like it’d be pretty routine.

The first group blasted off at about 7:00 a.m. and headed for home. As soon as we were in the air, we saw an entirely different weather picture from what we’d been told.

All we could see was a low, broken cloud deck. It appeared to bottom out around 500′ AGL, so we thought we could ace it. After all, we could fly low and slow enough to easily avoid any tall obstacles with plenty of time to spare.

We began following the power lines that would lead us straight to home. We stayed over the lines as much as we could. But the cloud was getting lower and thicker with every mile.

We dropped our altitude a bit to keep the ground in sight. Soon it became rather obvious that we couldn’t follow this path much longer. The ceiling ahead was lower still. We had to make a deviation and soon.

We’d lost sight of Tony by this time. His faster S-10 just couldn’t fly slowly enough to stay with us. His plane was NORDO and he was out there somewhere in the soup. But we could do nothing for him.

We heard a familiar voice on the radio. It was Paul, who had apparently left Red Deer on his own.

Now, he sounded worried and a bit confused. He’d run into the same low cloud layer we were in and he’d decided to find a place to set down. But he was several miles west of us and also on his own.

Then I saw a hole, a way to slip through and make it home. Off to my 11 o’clock ran a small creek. It coursed through a valley in a southeasterly direction. For reasons I couldn’t fathom, the ceiling was better above this valley and to the east of it.

I called Todd and suggested we follow the valley. I figured it would put us somewhere near Beiseker. From there, it’s an easy jaunt to home. Our little formation turned southeast.

We’d only gone a couple of miles when Todd called Paul on the radio. Paul sounded even more worried this time and his transmissions were getting weaker. It felt like we were listening to the last, desperate calls of someone lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Paul’s last transmission left me with chills.

“I’m very low now. I’m circling around, looking for some place to land. I just hope I don’t run into a tower or something.”

That was the last we heard of him. We tried for a few minutes more to contact him, but height and distance were against us. We simply flew on, hoping for his safety.

The valley that looked so promising had turned ugly. We were down to 300′ off the deck and still dodging thick cloud. A few miles west of Torrington, the valley turned south again and we thought that was a good sign. Trouble was, the valley quickly disappeared into flat prairie again.

We discussed the option of trying for the Three Hills airport. But a quick look at the eastern sky quelled that notion.

We were totally winging it at this point, flying strictly by the seat of our pants. We had maybe 150′ of altitude, half a mile visibility, and only dirt roads for land marks.

Then it started to rain. Just a light sprinkle at first. But it quickly graduated into a steady down pour, during which my radio died. That’s when I saw the lightning. We had flown into the middle of an embedded thunderstorm.

Again and again the lightning flashed, just barely bright enough to see. It seemed to smirk at us, to gloat as if we were prey unwittingly drawn into the storm’s hidden tentacles.

There was nothing we could do but fight it out and hope to win. The wind was throwing us around so badly that it would have been disastrous to even attempt an emergency landing. I had lowered my RPM’s to try and save my wooden prop from rain damage. I found out later that Todd nearly stalled as he tried to slow also.

We were lower than 100′ and I could hardly see. My windscreen was a kaleidoscope of water, my helmet visor little better. This was definitely high adventure.

We scraped through the storm only to find the same bleak horizon ahead of us. I had a rough idea we were north of the town of Linden, but no way of knowing for sure. I figured we would simply continue south and eventually cross the Trans-Canada highway.

I checked my wingmen and was delighted to find they were still welded in a tight echelon off my right wing. We had to fly that way to keep each other in sight in such dismal visibility.

A few tense moments later I spotted something that looked familiar. I motioned to Todd and Larry to follow and I started a gentle turn to the east.

Just barely visible, was the town of Acme. I knew then we were only a few miles from Beiseker. We followed the highway between those towns like it was the last trail out of hell.

We finally landed at Beiseker at about 9:30 a.m. and spent the next three hours there. We were able to phone my wife, Tina, and learn that the other group was trying to get to Olds/Didsbury. Tina was doing an excellent job of coordinating information on the ground. She had received disjointed information that two planes had landed at O/D and the pilots were out looking for another one. Exactly what that meant, we weren’t sure. We also learned that Paul had landed safely at an Air Cadets glider strip north of Olds.

Two more thunderstorms passed over Beiseker during our stay there. We decided to get out before a third one arrived.

We blasted off at about 12:30 p.m. and headed southwest for a hole in the overcast. About five miles from Beiseker we popped out into good weather. The ceiling was back up to 2000′ and the visibility was 15 miles or better.

As we droned toward home, Todd called my attention to the ground. A spam-can, it looked like a Cherokee or similar, had made a forced landing in a grain field directly below us. The crash was obviously recent as the RCMP was still there, along with a few other vehicles. We had to wonder what the Piper driver though as he watched three ultralights buzz by.

Thirty minutes later I peeled away from the formation to land at Kirkby’s, where I hangar my plane. Todd and Larry went on to safe landings at Indus.

We learned later that Tony had landed at Springbank and the other Dragonflies had made it safely to ground in the Olds area, though at two separate airports, and not without their own hair raising story. (See Bob Kirkby’s article elsewhere in this issue).

I think I know how barnstormers in the 20′s and 30′s felt. It’s a great feeling to have conquered such overwhelming odds in an airplane and to have true tales of adventure to recount.

The Dragonflies will go on to other flights, other destinations and other adventures. But that weekend, with it’s MiGs, it’s thunderstorms, it’s danger, and it’s friendship will always be remembered.

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by Stu Simpson

“Well Bob, what do you figure?”, I asked.

Kirby had just landed after flying a circuit in his Renegade to check the flight conditions.

“It’s pretty bumpy up there from all the thermal activity.”, he replied. “You’ll have more trouble with it than I will.” He was referring to the light wing loading of my Beaver.

“Aw, what the hell”, I said, “Let’s give it a try.”

Ten minutes later I was rolling down runway 16 at Kirby Field. The Beeve lifted easily into the afternoon sky and I turned to the southwest. I soon settled in on course and waited for Kirkby to catch up. Which he did a few minutes later, perching off my left wing, the Renegade glinting in the afternoon light.

I drank in the sensations of the day and smiled to myself. The sun was high and bright in a spring-time blue sky. The wind scooted out of the south at eight to twelve mph, warmly tickling my face as it passed by. My leather jacket flapped in the slip stream. The earth was still blotchy black and tan, not yet awoken from a long, hard winter. The ground was casting thermals up at us like thunderbolts. The hot rising air tossed us around like a juggler tosses bowling pins. But I’ll tell you, there wasn’t any other place else we’d rather be.

As our little formation drew near Indus I radioed my wingman with a question. “Dragonfly 02 this is Dragonfly 01. How do you read?”

“Dragonfly 01, I read you loud & clear,” replied Bob.

“Good. Be advised you’ve got a radio tower at your twelve o’clock for three quarters of a mile”.

Kirkby whipped his plane into a hard left turn. I think he was having flash-backs to his flight from Red Deer last summer where he very nearly hit a similar tower. He thanked me for the warning and veered to the east to avoid the tower completely. No sweat, it was the least I could do.

We passed over the Bow River a short while later and watched it meander out toward Saskatchewan. We saw cars traveling the roads below us and I marveled for the thousandth time how they, and the rest of the world’s possessions, seemed like toys beneath our wings. I knew we didn’t belong to the earth though. We belonged to the wind.

About five miles north-east of Okotoks we switched to 122.8, the local frequency. After listening for our traffic, I radioed our position and was pleasantly surprised to hear a reply.

“Dragonflies”, the caller stated, “conditions at the airport are; wind from the south at about 8 knots, favouring runway 16. The only traffic is a Cessna 172 taxiing for takeoff.”

We entered the circuit as I watched the Cessna takeoff. I’m only guessing, but I’ll bet the pilot was having nearly as much fun as us. We landed a few minutes later, cleared the active and walked over to the hangar building.

When we walked into the airport office, we were greeted by a grey haired fellow whose voice I recognized from the radio. His name was Mac Arbuthnot, the chief pilot at the Okotoks Flight Center. He’s been flying airplanes since girls have had garters. He spent several years bush flying in Ontario and then instructing all over
the place. Bob and I spent an enjoyable half hour hangar-flying with Mac and swapping lies–uh, I mean true stories. I even bought myself an official “Chicks-Dig-It” Okotoks Flight Center ball cap.

Checking out the wind sock, it seemed the breeze was picking up a bit. So we decided it might be a good time to split, bug out, vamoose, and go home. Especially since Mac was starting to ask for more details about those “stories”.

Bob waited patiently on the taxi-way while I strapped in. I usually takeoff from the intersection at Okotoks and this day would be no exception. I fire-walled the throttle and the Beeve was up and flying again after only a forty foot ground roll. I made an immediate left turn out and listened as Bob announced his takeoff. A few minutes later, we were formed up again and heading north to home.

Our trip back was quite a bit smoother and faster than the flight down. We had the wind at our tail and we rode with the bumps instead of against them. As we passed over Indus airport, I was disappointed to see the place deserted. I figured there’d at least be some guys out doing circuits.

Kirkby Field quickly appeared as a tiny dot on the horizon and I felt a twinge of sadness that our flight was nearly over. All too soon I watched from my downwind leg as Kirkby made a perfect touchdown on his grass runway. I had to fight my way down through the thermals just to get on the glide path. A light wing loading can be such a pain.

My landing wasn’t one of the greatest, but at least I didn’t break anything. Bob grabbed a strut and helped me taxi in the cross wind.

I shut down and we talked a bit about the flight and the bumps and the wind and just how much fun the whole thing was. Then we each put our planes away, said goodbye and went to the next place we had to be.

I guess for me, the end of a flight is the end of an adventure. I regret that it’s all over, but I’m still happy I had a chance to be there. And I know I’ll be back for more.

by Stu Simpson

In aviation’s low-level VFR arena pilots can choose between several different maps with which to navigate. We use maps (actually, the correct term here is chart) published by the government, by aviation groups, and even by auto clubs. Granted, not every flight you’ll make is a cross-country flight. But no matter what you fly, sooner or later, you’re going to stray from the familiar turf of your own airport’s backyard, and you’re going to need a map.

So which map is best? Which has the most detail, the best scale and will be easiest to read in a busy, possibly windy cockpit? Simple questions with a not so simple answer; it depends.

It depends, among other things, on where you want to go, how fast you’re going to get there, and what toys you have to play with (VOR, ADF, GPS, and such).

The three most common charts used in the Calgary area are the 1/500,000 VFR Navigation Chart (VNC), the 1/250,000 VFR Terminal Area Chart (VTA), and the Alberta Aviation Council’s map that has scales of both 1/500,000 and 1/1,000,000. The first two are put out by the federal government. Let’s look at the AAC’s first.

The AAC puts out a new map every five years, the most recent one being the 1993 version. One side of the page covers the entire province in the one to a million scale. The other side, in a one to half-million scale, only covers the area south of a line through Bonneyville, and east of a line through Exshaw. Oddly enough, the Council has been one of the strongest supporters of the Banff and Jasper airports, yet those strips don’t appear on their most useful chart.

It’s clear from the outset that this map was designed purely for conventional pilots flying with electronic nav aids, which is fair, because those are the people who fill the AAC’s roster. VORs figure prominently in these maps and the compass roses that accompany each of them are large and easy to read. The symbology for the VORs is the same as on the government’s charts, but not so for the NDBs. They’re indicated as small black triangles and their identifier boxes block out all the features beneath them. The government’s identifier boxes are printed to leave the underlying features visible.

The one shining feature of the AAC’s map (and one reason why so many are sold) is that it lists dozens of farm strips that aren’t shown on the government’s maps. Each of the Council’s maps comes with a guide book giving pertinent information on each airport that the map displays, including those out-of-the-way farm strips. One can simply read the lat/long coordinates from the guide book and then transpose the location to another map.

Another feature unique to AAC maps is their display of section, township, and range lines, which can be useful in some remote areas.

But unless you’re flying an airplane with a VOR receiver or an ADF (which tunes and points to the NDBs) the AAC’s maps are almost useless as serious navigation tools. The only features that are readily visible are large bodies of water, large population centres, major highways, and electronic nav aids. Important things like towns, roads, railways, and topographical features are either excluded or printed in such light color as to be almost unreadable.

Let’s make a huge leap in scale and look at the VTAs. VFR Terminal Area Charts are printed in 1/250,000 scale and depict a relatively small area surrounding major airports and their accompanying population centres. A key notion here is congestion. Just as these areas tend to be cluttered on the ground, they’re almost as much so on paper, especially in one to half-million scale.

Ergo, the VTA, with a better scale that defeats the clutter. These maps are especially good if you’re unfamiliar with the area depicted on them. They clearly show airspace restrictions, reporting points, significant landmarks, and all the information needed to use the airports shown. The level of detail is, quite simply, wonderful.

Calgary has a VTA chart (Edmonton’s is on the reverse side) and you might just think this is the answer to your navigational nightmares. Maybe, maybe not.

You see, the large scale that makes the VTA’s so easy to read also makes them a bit cumbersome, particularly over longer distances, and especially in an open cockpit. The VTA must be folded rather largely to be of any significant use.

The problem is twofold (pun very much intended). First, folding the map to have your course showing leaves you with a |–(TRY TO BE MORE PRECISE.)–| fairly hefty chunk of paper in your cockpit. If it’s an open cockpit, that means more paper flapping in the wind, and in the worst case scenario, a hefty chunk of paper leaving your cockpit.

Secondly, the folds might hide significant nav points along either side of your course. If you’re well prepared though, you’ll have your map arranged so that the folds complement the route. But if you’re covering a significant distance, you might find yourself doing some in-flight folding.

The speed of your airplane might be a factor in deciding whether you use this map. Faster planes will eat up the distance depicted on the VTAs in very short order, and if you’re navigating from point to point, you might find yourself getting behind the flight. Obviously, with ultralights this is rarely a problem.

Which brings us to our remaining map, the 1/500,000 VNC. VNCs are the standard VFR chart and show just about anything you could ask for. All the topographic details are there, as are roads, powerlines, obstructions, and of course, airports. The detail makes for very accurate navigation, even at lower altitudes where far-off nav points might not be visible. The scale is perfect and it allows a pilot to pick his points in advance and plan ahead.

The scale also lends itself well to long distance flights at any speed. When the map is folded it’s small enough not to be a bother, yet allows plenty of distance on either side of your course line. The VNCs cover tremendous territory. The Calgary chart, for example, covers all of southern Alberta, most of southern B.C., and a fair chunk of several American states. That’s pretty good navigational value.

The main drawback, and the only one as far as I can see, is the VNC’s clutter in congested areas. Naturally, a pilot who’s familiar with a congested area will have an easier time flying there. For one who’s not familiar with the area, a VTA might be just the ticket, provided one exists for that area.

So which map is best? In my mind, the one to half-million VNC gets the nod. It combines the best of all possible features for VFR point-to-point navigation. It’s easy to read, and therefore easy to use. To be fair though, if I were planning a flight to the lower mainland of B.C., my first purchase for the trip would be the Vancouver VTA.

My next purchase would be a GPS so I wouldn’t have to deal with all those maps in the first place.

by Stu Simpson

This guy is not your typical ultralight shopper, I thought to myself. He’s too young. Not one of the older, soon-to-be-middle-aged types that seem to dominate the masses of ultralight flying.

He pulled his car beside mine and stopped. A handsome kid in his early twenties stepped out and introduced himself as Dave. With him was a pretty brunette who seemed almost as interested as he was.

Ninety minutes later, for all intents and purposes, he owned the Beeve. All that remained was the paper work.

We finalized a few details and arranged to meet later in the week to close the deal. He drove away happy to own the Beeve. And I drove away remembering it.

The next few days were filled with mixed emotions for me. On one hand, I was losing what had been a major piece of my life for the past 3 years. On the other hand, with the money from selling the Beeve, I’d be able to build my next airplane. In truth it’s an enviable spot to be in. But I couldn’t help feeling like I’d lost a part of myself.

Your first airplane is like your first love. I know it’s an old analogy, but it’s true. Your first plane shapes your soul and opens your heart in ways you’d never seen before. You become a part of that airplane, and it becomes a part of you.

I’ve spent a lot of time recently remembering the Beeve, remembering the flights I’ll never forget. Like the trip to Radium, B.C. with Todd McArthur and Bob Kirkby. Many people thought we were nuts to fly ultralights in the mountains. But we and our airplanes proved them wrong.

And who could forget the flight home from the ’92 Red Deer Airshow? McArthur and Larry Motyer and I stumbled into, among other things, a thunderstorm. When things like that happen, and you come up smiling on the other end, you gain a tremendous amount of confidence in your airplane.

When you own an airplane, you’re suddenly released from the bondage of renting. You have the freedom to fly whenever you want (actually, its more like whenever your wife says you can). So if one of your buddies phones up and asks if you want to go flying, you simply arrange what time to meet and head for the airfield (if your wife says you can, that is).

Some of my best flying memories center around the flights me & the Beeve made with other UL jocks. Guys like Don Rogers, Fred Wright, Bob Kirkby, and other guys from the flying club. There were times we’d chase each other around the sky, and moments of simple elegance in perfect formation. There were morning and evening flights whose beauty left me breathless. And there were flights that were just so much pure fun and adventure, I sometimes wondered if it was real.

The thing I’ll remember most about the Beeve is the way it felt in my hands. The light controls, the instant response. It’d go right where I asked it to. Always. With 40 horsepower, it climbed like a bat. And it never had trouble with crosswinds. It was incredibly easy to land (Rogers still thinks it was my superior skill). In short, the Beeve was just so easy to become a part of.

Despite all the Beeve’s virtues, it was time to let it go. It came down to a choice between making extensive modifications, like adding a more powerful engine and an enclosed cockpit, or buying another airplane entirely. When I crunched out the numbers I realized that selling the Beeve and building new would amount to the same overall expenditure as modifying it. But building new would give me more in the long run, like re-sale value and growth potential.

I decided there were certain things I wanted in my next airplane. An enclosed cockpit was paramount. I got really tired of that 65 mile per hour winter wind chill in the Beeve’s open air office. My new plane had to be a tail dragger and it had to be able to accept a Rotax 503 (cuz that’s what I had to put in it). I wanted something a bit faster than the Beeve because other guys in the club are speeding up as well. And finally, it had to be inexpensive to build.

I settled on the T.E.A.M. HiMAX after extensive consultation with Chris Kirkman and Knute Rasmussen. Kirkman built a miniMAX a few years ago and was very pleased with the results. Knute eventually bought the MAX from Chris and showed it to me a few months ago. I made up my mind right then I would build one as well, though I opted for the high-wing version because of the larger cockpit arrangment.

Construction of the HiMAX is underway now and that’s helping to put the Beeve behind me. I was lucky to have owned it and I hope the new owner is as appreciative of it as I was.

It’s time for me to move on to another plane, but I’ve still got lots of photos and logbook entries to peruse whenever I miss the Beeve. And I’ve got the memories. That’ll make it a little easier to let go.

by Stu Simpson

It could happen to you: You’re relaxing in the backyard on a sunny afternoon, knocking back a cold one, when the unmistakable drone of a piston-twin many thousands of feet up tickles your ears. Being an airplane nut, you immediately look skyward and see a bright white speck hurtling along from east to west. Then you smile, and say cheese! and have another slug of beer. You’ve just had your picture taken by the boys from Foto Flite.

Ariel photography, or more correctly, aerial survey, has been around nearly as long as flying itself. In fact, it’s one of the building blocks of this country’s aviation industry. The government contracted bush flyers in the early part of the century to use their airplanes to map the vast and remote expanses of Canada’s wilderness. These contracts formed an essential part of the cash flow that allowed many aviation companies to keep flying.

Foto Flite is a Calgary-based company that has specialized in the aerial survey game for more than thirty years.

Who Takes Pictures From Airplanes, Anyway?

The government, mostly, says company president Dave Skelton. “Most of our work, 50% of it, is generated by government agencies. They’re the biggest users of this type of information and they all use it for planning purposes.”

Map-making is the most common use of Foto Flite’s data. But is also allows the governement to keep an eye on other things on the ground. For instance, forestry companies are granted access to certain clearly defined areas to do their logging. With aerial photography both the government and the logging people can see exactly where the boundaries are. It helps keeps everyone happy.

Government agencies aren’t the only ones who want pictures from the air. Oil companies, seismic companies, surveyors, and real estate agents all use aerial photography. “We’re used by anyone who wants to look at the ground from up high,” says Skelton.

Bare Necessities

I asked Skelton what’s required to be able to take pictures from the air. Of course you need an airplane and a camera (more on them later), but each of those are useless without the right weather.

“We are very weather dependent,” Skelton says. Simply put, you can’t photograph what you can’t see, and cameras can’t see through clouds.

Foto Flite’s crews fly anywhere from 2000′ to 24,000′. If there are clouds between the plane and the ground, the picture is spoiled, which means they’ll have to come back another day. Thus, large high pressure systems are what Skelton’s flight crews hope for.

Since his business depends so heavily on good weather I wondered what Skelton thought about weather forecasting in Canada. What he said surprised me; Dave Skelton is probably the only guy in aviation who speaks highly of weathermen. “Weather forecasting in Calgary is pretty good up to 48 to 72 hour in advance,” he said.

One of Skelton’s crew members looks at it a bit differently. Ben Chaban has been in aerial survey for nearly 30 years and what he sees is how the whole weather picture has changed lately. “We used to get big, clear high pressure centres all the time,” he told me. “But in the last few years all we seem to get is a westerly flow and lots of bad weather.”

The aerial survey season in Canada is notoriously short, running only from March to late September or early October. Therefore, it’s essential to make the most of time available. And that means the equipment, both plane and camera, has to be in top working order all the time. Maintenance is a top priority with Foto Flite.

Speaking of Equipment…

Some might think all you need to take pictures from the air is a Piper and a Polaroid. But it’s not quite that simple. Oh sure, if you want to grab a few snaps of Aunt Dolly’s farm from a couple hundred feet up, your trusty pocket Instamatic might just cut it. But if you want pictures that are going to be part of a legal land site description, you’re going to need something a bit more complicated – and expensive, too.

Obviously, the first thing required for aerial photography is an airplane. It has to be one that can fly high enough to get the most cost-effective use of the camera system. It has to be stable enough to be a good camera mount, and it has to have the cabin space to hold the camera and camera operator. Then you need a camera. Not just any camera, but one specifically designed for the task.

Foto Flite settled on two different types of airplanes, and one camera system. Their two planes are a ’74 Piper Aztec and a ’72 Navajo with the Panther conversion (350 hp per side instead of 310, winglets, a quieter cabin, and Q-tip props). The Aztec does the same job, but does it a bit slower.

Talk to pilot Darren Reeve and he’ll tell you the Panther is a much better airplane for the job. “It’ll climb at 1000 feet per minute right up to 20,000 feet,” he says, “and the winglets really help to keep us stabilized on our flight lines.” That stability is important, because a slight error at altitude is compounded exponentially on the ground image.

Then there’s the camera in the Panther; it’s called a Leica RC-30. A highly specialized unit, it weighs in at about four hundred pounds and cost Skelton half a million bucks. As you can see from the pictures, it’s not exactly something you’d take to Aunt Dolly’s family reunion. “With the RC-30, we don’t take bad pictures anymore,” Skelton told me.

The RC-30 sits on a gyro-stabilized mount that keeps it pointed where its supposed to be pointed, even in turbulence. Chaban’s job is to run the camera, which he does through a computer that’s also tied into the plane’s GPS nav system. Each film cassette allows for about 250 exposures. The camera gives a frame overlap of about 60% and this, in turn, lets the photo interpreters see the ground in “stereo”. In other words they’ll have a three dimensional view of the ground, which is necessary for map-making.

The camera looks downward through an optically perfect glass plate set into the belly of the plane. So if the crew has to take side-angle pictures, like those seen in travel brochures, the airplane has to be banked and in a turn in order for the camera to see its subject.

Modifying an airplane for aerial photo work isn’t cheap. Skelton says it costs about forty grand per plane because of all the wiring and control cable re-routing that’s required. The belly glass alone is worth $8,000. And the price for modification jumps astronomically if the airplane is pressurized.

The Nature of The Beast

The nature of aerial survey work seems to be summed up in one word; precision. Toward that end everything is done to make sure the airplane is exactly where it is supposed to be to get the right pictures.

For example, Ben Chaban, whose job title is Aerial Survey Navigator, does most of his work these days on a computer. His flight (course) lines are all pre-written for him and his computer uses an operating system known as QNX, which is very good at crunching numbers.

Most of Foto Flite’s work is done between 18,000 feet and 20,000 feet. Skelton says they make their runs in an east to west grid pattern. Then, once the actual photos are printed, they’re easier to view and orientate with one another.

As pilot, Darren Reeve’s job is to get the plane to the correct position and altitude. Then he turns on course, Chaban punches a button, and the computer and camera do the rest. It’s a far cry from the old days when navigators had to use prisms and maps to get their position right. “Compared with visual navigation,” Chaban says, “I’ve got a lot more work to do now, but it’s easier.”

Chaban has a varied background in physics and photography. He’s been all over the world including Africa, Southeast Asia, and Australia. “I’ve probably been everywhere in Australia that has an airstrip,” he says. He likes the variety found in aerial surveying, likes not knowing where he’ll be or what he’ll be doing from day to day. To say he loves his job would be an understatement.

By contrast, his pilot, Darren Reeve sees this job as a very pleasant stop-over on the way to his dream of being an airline pilot. He graduated from Mount Royal College’s Aviation Program in 1994 and has amassed 2500 hours.

Reeve likes both the variety, and the fact that this job is so challenging. “It’s a great way to build time and I get a lot of responsibility right away,” he says. It also pays about twice what a charter pilot with similar experience would make on a sched-run.

A typical photo mission lasts anywhere from 3 – 4 hours and requires a lot of concentration. Reeve analogized it this way: “It’s like flying the ILS for two or three hours at a time, and doing twenty to thirty intercepts in one flight.”

Teamwork is a key element for an aerial survey crew. I theorized to Chaban that in his thirty years of navigating he must have suffered some less than adequate pilots. He just laughed and agreed, then quickly bragged about how his current driver was very adequate.

Back On The Ground

Once the pictures have been taken, the film has to be developed. Foto Flite has it’s own lab and photo technicians on-site in their office at YYC. With its facilities the company can create huge mosaics from single pictures. Skelton showed me a large poster of Calgary that is actually one of his mosaics made up of 180 separate aerial photos.

Not everyone wants just simple black and white pictures of the ground, so Foto Flite offers different services. They’ll take pictures in color, but that jacks the film price by a factor of 2.5. They also use a technique called false color infrared, which can tell scientists different things about large areas of vegetation.

It’s interesting to note that for every hour spent flying and taking pictures, there’s one day’s worth of work to be done in the lab.

Dave Skelton says the future of Foto Flite looks digital. “There’s no doubt we’ll have to switch over to computer-based equipment in the future,” he says, “but digital photography can’t yet match the quality and resolution we get with film.”

For the moment, though, Skelton is content to expand his business south of the border. They’ve just set up shop in Mesa, Arizona using the company’s Aztec. Skelton predicts good things from Mesa, especially in light of the region’s longer photo-flying season.

So the next time you’re having a beer in the backyard and you hear a twin go over at about twenty thousand feet, don’t forget to look up, smile, and say cheese! You might just be getting your picture taken.

by Stu Simpson

I could see the Beaver and the Chinook on the horizon about 2 miles east of where I was, and I got more excited as I readied my airplane to join them.

It was Todd and Don flying their airplanes from Indus to Thompson’s Ranch airfield, a place we simply called, the “Glider Strip”. I was going to hop over from my strip and meet them. From there, we would all takeoff together and head northwest to meet some friends of mine on the ice at Ghost Lake.

The weather for the trip was very good. The temperature was about 3 degrees, with a light west wind. The western sky displayed a prominent and well-defined chinook arch giving high cloud cover. But it was clear that any mountain wave activity was travelling well above the altitude where we would be flying.

I thought about all of this as I sat in my single Beaver while the motor warmed up. Finally, everything was ready, so I powered up and blasted off.

It was a five minute flight over to the Glider Strip. Todd and Don were eager to go, so they fired up and one by one we rolled down runway 25 and into the winter sky.

We headed northwest, in loose formation, to pick up the highway we would follow north. As we droned on in the smooth afternoon air, Don was flitting around the formation trying to get the hang of flying close to other airplanes. He hadn’t done any major formation flying before this day. But we were all having a ball. I called Todd on the radio and informed him that I was rating the day as 2-thumbs-up, so far. He readily agreed.

When we were about twelve miles south of Springbank airport, Todd suggested I call and advise the tower of our route and intentions. So, I flipped over to 118.2 and did just that. The controller told us to remain clear of the zone and advised me he would inform other traffic in the area about our presence. He also wanted us to call him when we were west of the airport. I agreed and then switched back to 123.3, the frequency our flight was using for the day.

Don was still jumping around the formation from spot to spot. Sometimes he would be off Todd’s right wing for a few minutes, and the next thing I knew Todd was saying the Chinook was at my six o’clock low, where I couldn’t see him. I sincerely hoped Don was enjoying the view of my behind.

Before long, we were crossing the Trans-Canada highway and I again called Springbank to tell them our position. After I switched back to our frequency, I noticed our ground speed had seriously declined. As we approached a large gas plant, Todd noticed steam from the plant showing the wind as north-west at about 15kts. We had kind of expected this, since the wind normally picks up in this region as it blows down the Bow Valley from the Rockies.

We continued on, with our destination only a few minutes away.

In about 5 more minutes, the Ghost dam and reservoir came into view and I began to mentally plot how we would land on the ice. We could soon see numerous ice boats zooming across the lake and we agreed that a low pass over the ice would definitely be in order. That way, we could get a better idea of the ice landing conditions, and, equally important, let everyone down there know we were here. I did not relish the thought of becoming an iceboat-kabob.

I volunteered to make the first low pass. As I approached the dam, I could feel the wind picking up to about 20kts at about 200 ft. off the surface. But it was still steady with only a few light gusts. The ice also looked good, with the snow drifts only inches deep. I decided to try a landing.

I made a right hand circuit and settled onto the ice with the greatest of ease. The only problem came in dodging a few large pieces of driftwood frozen into the surface. Hitting one of those would have meant changing the day’s rating to thumbs-down.

Todd and Don landed safely and soon we had a small crowd huddled around our planes asking questions about aircraft they had never seen before.

We spent an enjoyable 45 minutes on the ground chatting with friends and looking at ice boats. Ice boats look like a lot of fun – the kind of fun that doesn’t cost you mega-bucks. In that respect, ice boating is much like ultralight flying.

It soon came time to go so we headed back to our planes. We watched the crowd form again as they waited anxiously to see us take-off. I had a little trouble starting my engine, but I soon had it running smoothly.

Todd blasted off first, showing an impressive climb rate into the wind. Don was next, again with an impressive climb, and I followed last, making one final high fly-by before I headed home.

The headwind we’d bucked for the last few miles into the Ghost, was now at our backs and giving us a nice little boost as we headed southeast. I again called Springbank to let them know about us and we were cleared en-route.

I must say the weather was consistent for us, because we lost our tailwind at exactly the same point we had picked up the headwind earlier. Another example of how the Calgary weather can be so quirky.

The flight back to Black Diamond was smooth and uneventful. Even Don seemed content to hold a steady right echelon slot in the flight. As we flew on together, I couldn’t help thinking of how lucky we were to be there, buzzing along a few hundred feet over creation, enjoying a gift so few have experienced. We knew that soon we would have to land our planes, put them in hangars and leave the airfield. But right then, for a few brief moments, we were at the best place in heaven or earth. We were flying.

But daydreaming can’t last forever so as we got closer to the Glider Strip, I called Todd on the radio. I told him that I was going to divert south to go straight to my strip. He and Don were going to land at the Glider Strip and use the facilities before flying back to Indus. I thanked Todd and Don for making the trip in my direction and peeled off high to head home.

Todd and Don ended up landing down-wind at the Glider Strip (there’s no wind sock there in the winter), but managed a proper takeoff to head back to Indus. They made it home a short time later, having logged 3.6 hours. I had logged 2.5 hours for the day.

As I stood outside my hanger, my airplane tucked away until our next flight, I watched my buddies lift off and turn eastward. I reflected on the day and decided it had been a nice little adventure. I also decided that I could hardly wait for the next one.

by Stu Simpson

It was as close to perfection as I’d ever seen. Our two ultralight planes floated along in a rare harmony that could have been a beautiful dream. Except this reality was much better.

It was an early September evening as Don in his Chinook, and me in my Beaver, made our way gently southward toward the Bow River. The air was warm and velvety, offering a faint breeze to any and all creatures of the sky. Below us, the summer was making a final, gallant stand against the inevitable autumn and the landscape seemed caught in the middle. Acre after acre of harvested grain fields were quilted together, glowing in the golden sunlight.

Don led the way. I placed my ship off his right wing in an easy echelon formation. Both our planes are yellow with blue trim and the early evening sun seemed to give each plane its own halo.

Neither of us carried a radio, meaning there was nothing to distract us from the pure, simple magic of flying.

I looked down to my left and watched our shadows dart and flit over the earth. They too kept perfect formation with one another as they raced along, occasionally assuming some distorted shape while passing over a ditch or a building.

Every now and then I would see the Chinook’s control surfaces move just a little and the plane would go exactly to where Don wanted it to be.

I was overwhelmed with delight. No one who has been there, in a faultless sky, with a trusted wingman, comes away untouched by the moment.

A few minutes later we had reached the Bow. The Chinook dropped its nose and began a steady descent toward another, adjoining river valley, the Highwood. My Beaver followed obediently.

We felt a few bumps in the air as the wind wiggled it’s way over and around and through the valley. We passed over a campground with trailers and tents. Campers and fishermen stopped what they were doing and gazed up at those glowing airplanes. The people exclaimed to each other that it sure looked like fun and that they sure wouldn’t mind trying it. Only a few announced, “You’d never get me up in one of those crates!” And for a few seconds, for better or worse (mostly better), we had an audience of a few dozen fascinated souls.

While the flatlands above the river were starting to look like fall, the Highwood Valley was still firmly entrenched in summer. The trees still held their deep green shades. The grassy meadows looked luxurious, calling out to any person who wanted to run through them, inviting any airplane to land in them. Though tempted, we politely declined and flew on.

Once away from the campground, we flew even lower, the Chinook still out front and me right behind. We continued to explore the valley, finding surprises like a twin Cessna, an old railway bed and a herd of cows that simply ignored us.

I pushed my throttle lever and moved the stick to the left. A second or two later I pulled along Don’s left wing. I waved to him “Follow me”. I pulled the nose up and banked away from him, heading for the flats above the valley.

We left the valley behind and crossed the top of the cliffs with twenty feet to spare. I pushed over and headed earthward again. What I had in mind was some nap-of-the-earth flying. That’s where an airplane buzzes along only a few feet above the terrain following the exact contours of the ground.

The whole world zipped along just inches below us, our shadows now near and large. My adrenaline surged. It’s such a paradox flying that close to the earth, because it magnifies the separation from it and gives a pilot the purest sensation of flight. A slight tug on the control stick, and the airplane is bound for the heavens. A tiny push to the left or right, and you go there too. It is simply the ultimate freedom.

I looked over my right shoulder and watched Don a few feet away. I could see a huge grin on his face. I turned forward and noticed a grove of trees a few hundred metres ahead. I dropped even lower. 75 mph of airspeed ate up the distance quickly and I pulled the nose up, missing the tallest tree with just enough daylight between us. I looked back and watched Don do the same.

We nosed back over together and continued on, making shallow turns here and there and climbing slightly to clear any barbed-wire fences.

Then I spotted some familiar shapes on the ground ahead. It was a small herd of deer. I looked over to Don and pointed. He gave me a thumbs up indicated he’d spotted the deer also.

The leader of the herd was a huge five-point buck. He wasn’t even afraid of us. He just looked up, kind of curious I suppose, but he didn’t move. We wheeled around and made another pass just to see watch him a bit longer. This time the animals seemed a little nervous and jogged a few meters as we neared. We decided to let them get back to their dinner and continued on back toward the Bow.

That’s when it happened. Don had just finished buzzing a row of small trees and bushes. He banked left, well in front of me. I turned left also to stay with him. I watched in utter amazement as our two shadows lined up and overlapped. They stayed that way for several seconds, moving with each other in a way that looked like they were dancing. It was a beautiful, unforgettable, image as the sun and two airplanes – our airplanes – aligned in a manner so rare.

We passed by some farmers next. They were in a field with a truck and a tractor. We waved happily as we whistled by and they waved back.

We crossed the river again and just continued to make the most of the evening’s unusual magic. We started chasing each other around, getting on one another’s ‘six’ until something else distracted us. Then we’d zoom down to see what it was. We saw some more deer and even a coyote. We followed the shape of the earth from five feet up and we hopped over fences and trees and power lines. We watched as the sun sank lower too, telling the world to get ready for bed. Life just doesn’t get much better.

But we were quickly losing our daylight. I followed Don as he reluctantly turned for Indus airport, his home-drome.

We pulled up and entered the circuit and made a pair of greaser landings. Nothing was going to spoil this flight.

We taxied over to Don’s hangar and shut down. We talked excitedly for a few minutes about the things we’d seen and how much fun it all was. I happened to notice that Don had a permanent smile tacked onto his face. I noticed I did too.

We soon ran out of things to discuss about the flight, so I saddled up again and took off for home.

I felt like Don and I had been granted the keys to a magic kingdom that day. A place where only the lucky and the skilful get to go. And even though we were only allowed a short visit, I knew we had certainly made the most of it. I wonder what our next visit will be like.

by Stu Simpson

I remember a June evening in 1992 when I set my Beaver down on a strip, a beat-up pasture really, near Langdon. It was where Ron and Bernie Then kept their new red & blue Macair Merlin, labeled C-IDDN. I recall admiring the Merlin but being skeptical of the centre “Y” stick. I saw the Merlin a few times after that flying around the area. Each time I wished I could own a fully enclosed airplane like that someday, and I envied those guys flying it.

Naturally, I had no idea that I would actually own that very airplane fourteen years later. But I do own it now, and I call it Merl.

Endings and Beginnings

On January 14th, someone landed a Cessna 172 hot, long and downwind at Linden and crashed into my beloved Green Giant, almost totally destroying it. The enormity of that day hit me when I got back to Kirkby Field and opened up my hangar to see nothing there. I was later able to salvage the Continental A-75 engine, the instrument panel and the seats.

I couldn’t sit idle for long. There was flying to be done and I was missing out. I eventually received a reasonable insurance settlement and bought C-IDDN.

I soon found out that the Thens sold it to Dr. Jack Barlass, who subsequently sold it to Gary Fox, of Nanton. Several of us flew to Fox’s strip in the Porcupine Hills one winter day in 2002. Again I admired the Merlin, and again I recall not preferring the centre stick. Richard Schmidt had purchased the Merlin from Fox just a few days prior. I looked forward then to him joining the Dragonflies soon.

Well, Schmidt did make some trips with the Dragonflies over the next few years. He also made some improvements to the Merlin and put some hours on it, both of which are healthy things for an airplane. But I still never thought for a second that I’d ever own it.

Exactly five weeks after losing the Giant, though, I handed over a cheque to buy C-IDDN from Schmidt. It had been sitting at Indus for a few months where it acquired a layer of dust accented by bird turd and kitty prints. Wayne Winters generously flew it to Kirkby’s for me. I can’t tell you how gratifying it was to see a pair of solid wings in my hangar once more.

The Real Work Begins

Now the real work started. I had numerous changes in mind for Merl, as I’d named it. Primary among them was an engine change. Equally important was having a place where I could do the job. Bob Kirkby has my unending gratitude for making his heated hangar available for the job. I look forward to when I can return the favour.

My Continental checked out ok with Ken Vike, engine re-builder par excellence’ in Kamloops. It was on its way back to Calgary and would soon adorn Merl’s new nose. Naturally, the Rotax had to be removed and sold, which happened in less than a week. Gary Abel bought it with plans to stuff it into the front of his Cubby II. That airplane will really perform with a 582 in it.

Since the Continental relies on gravity for its fuel flow, I’d also need wing tanks. With a total capacity of nearly 20 gallons, these were naturally supplied by Wayne Winters. Interestingly, the old Macair wing is tapered both in chord and depth, unlike Winters’ current constant chord wing. This meant the wing tanks were just a bit big and had to be cut down by half a gallon or less. Along with the fuel tanks, Wayne’s also supplied a great deal of knowledge and insight into the Merlin design and structure. What a treat it is to have the Merlin factory so close to home.

The wing tank installation was quite a chore, but I managed to get them in safely and securely. They’ll give me nearly 5 hours of range.

I also had to make some minor changes to the cabin structure and the landing gear, the welding for which was done by Garrett Komm. Mike Sweere and Ted Beck welded up the new engine mount for me.

Remember how I’ve mentioned that I didn’t like the centre “Y” stick? Well, I decided to do something about it. I designed a simple dual stick arrangement and Winters welded it up. It’s basically “U”-shaped and attaches to the same collar the centre stick did. It pivots on that centre torque tube and essentially functions as a large yoke. When I move the stick right or left, it doesn’t pivot on the floor, it rotates on the centre torque tube. It feels very natural and is really easy to adapt to. Glen Bishell’s been successfully flying a very similar arrangement for a few years in his Bush Caddy. Winters is toying with the idea of offering it as an option on the Merlins.

Next came the design and fabrication of the rest of the panel forward structure. This was relatively easy after what Gerry Theroux taught me last year when we did the same conversion on the Giant. In fact, I’m very proud of the fact I only had to call him twice for advice on this project. And when he looked at the finished project, nearly everything met “Gerry Spec”.

Weight and balance was a pleasant surprise. Merl weighed out to 700 pounds empty and well within the published C.G. range. In fact, it gave me quite a bit of room to play with as far as adding cargo capacity aft of the cockpit.

Three months to the day of the Giant’s demise, I tied Merl down and ran it up. The Continental fired on the second blade and oil pressure was instant and good. The wind was pretty gusty that morning so I planned only on some taxi tests to start. The taxiing went well so I decided to graduate to some runway runs and maybe crow hops. Those also went well, so I decided to fly it.

I sat at the end of the runway and pushed the throttle all the way in. Merl was airborne in about 200 feet, maybe less, and climbing about 600 fpm. That high-lift wing was definitely doing its thing.

I flew around northeast of the field for about 20 minutes and got a proper feel for the controls. The ailerons were a bit sloppy, but I knew I could adjust that. I brought it back into the circuit and set down nicely on Kirkby’s runway 16. I noted the oil pressure was quite a bit lower than I’d like, and I wondered why.

I made a few more flights in the following week and a few things became apparent. Despite having adjusted the ailerons’ play and position, the system was still binding a bit somewhere. Also, the oil pressure was too low when the oil temperature was high. And finally, I was having a lot of trouble keeping Merl coordinated in turns.

I talked to Winters and Andy Gustafson about the yaw problem. Both told me Merlins have a lot of adverse yaw due to the Junkers style ailerons. That made sense, so at Winters’ urging, I use aileron to enter a turn and lots of rudder to maintain the coordination. I also added a small trim tab to the rudder. The ailerons stiffness was solved with some lubricant in the right places. Now the system is nearly frictionless.

As for the oil pressure, I tried everything I could thing of, and that Vike could think of. Finally, I sent it back for him to examine. His shop ran it on a test stand and got excellent pressure at temperature, then determined that there was something wrong with the hose linking the engine to the gauge. It’s likely a small bit of rubber that’s flapping and acting as a valve. Pretty easy to fix. At this writing I hope to have the engine back and installed within days. Then I can really get back to getting to know my new airplane.

Merl’s the fifth airplane that I’ve owned and I think I’m going to love it. It’s got all the features important to me in an airplane; good STOL performance, good speed, long legs, roomy cockpit, sturdy construction and fun to fly. With any luck, it’ll be the last plane I own for a great many years to come.

My many thanks go to the various members of the CUFC, only some of whom are mentioned here, for all their help, knowledge and skill on this project. Their generosity and willingness to give are precisely why our club is the high-quality, professional organization that it is. I’m very proud to be associated with you all.

by Stu Simpson

People ask me what it’s like to fly, to be a pilot, and I’m afraid to answer. I worry that once I get started, I won’t be able to stop. I want to tell the curious about all the sensations and feelings of flight, of all that flight evokes in me. But those who ask are really only stopping by for a sip, not the whole bottle.

I think I can tell you, though.

I feel exhilaration when I fly. Even after more than 2000 take offs in airplanes, each one still shoots a thrill right through me. I’m still so excited to be there, so utterly happy to leave the earth. I see the ground slip away beneath my wings, all things down there getting smaller, and I know I’m doing something amazing and fascinating.

I feel wonder when I fly. I look at the clouds next to me, above me, below me. Clouds are ever intriguing. They’ve so many colours, are so utterly alive. They’re growing, dying and otherwise changing every single instant. And what about the sky itself? I mean, how could anything be so big?! Who couldn’t be awed by flying?

I feel giddy when I fly, like I’m really sneaking off with a precious secret that so few know about. It makes me smile.

I feel safe when I fly. I know my airplane is strong and secure, that my engine is good. I know the men I fly with, that they’re reliable and careful and made of good stuff. I know myself better when I’m in the sky. I know what I can do, and equally important, what I can’t.

I feel like an adventurer when I fly. I love to discover the earth from the air. Each flight becomes an exciting voyage, an exploration. How many times have I been the first to soar through a patch of sky that no airplane has ever traversed? How often have I taken off and not picked a direction until I was airborne? How often have I flown over this part of the earth and never seen it the way it was right then? There are so many unexpected wonders, so many unforeseen encounters and delightful surprises to be found up there.

I feel fear when I fly, but not a lot of it, and not very often. I’m not ashamed of fear, though I don’t enjoy it. But I know the value of fear. Fear helps keep me and my airplane safe and alive. I use it to become a better pilot. I’m afraid that something might go really, really wrong that might break my airplane and me. If that happened, I might not be able to fly. I really fear that.

I feel alone when I fly. The solitude is complete, absolute, even if I share the sky with other airplanes. Another plane may be mere feet from mine, the pilot’s grin and thumbs-up clearly visible. But the distance between us is such that we may as well be on different planets. I can no more fly his plane than he could fly mine. I answer to no one up there, and if I err the consequences are mine alone to endure. I like such independence, the total responsibility for myself and my destiny.

I feel moved when I fly. And I understand why some men are compelled to paint beautiful pictures of airplanes, or to write about airplanes and of flying them. I understand the passion that flight inspires in these people and the love they express.

I feel noise when I fly. I feel the engine thundering, clattering, humming. I feel the prop beating the wind into submission. My airplane’s sound changes when the ball’s not centered and I feel the air thumping against the side.

I feel the wind when I fly. It may come at me from my nose, or from above or below. Like any pilot, I love the wind at my back. Wherever it comes from, I feel it. I feel it gently wiggle my ailerons, or jab at the rudder. I feel it when it stands me unexpectedly on a wing, or throws me toward heaven or earth at alarming rates. I even feel the wind when it does nothing but let me pass unfettered. Such smoothness of flight I adore.

I feel a part of something good when I fly with others. Then, I’m with men whose love is the same as mine, who also delight in the feelings of flight. They too see artistry in the shape of a wing, the curve of a rudder. They smile at a tail wind, and are men for whom few things are more satisfying than the instant of a three-point landing made on a grass runway. They marvel at the bare simplicity of a Continental engine. Their day is charmed when they catch the sun glinting off the plane flying next to them. To be welcomed by such men, to be treated as an equal among them is deeply humbling, and I cherish their acceptance.

I feel at home when I fly. In the sky in an airplane is where I dearly love to be. It’s comfortable and familiar. I know where things are – in my plane, on the ground, and in the air. I know how things work, and if they don’t, how to make them work. The sky welcomes me. It completes who I am, and offers a place where I can escape, or relax, or be excited. In the sky I can be who I want to be. It’s all that a good home should be. I’d feel greedy and ashamed asking for more.

Mostly, I feel lucky when I fly. Very few share this gift I have, so to have it and allow it to go unappreciated would be disgraceful and unworthy. There are others who want what I have when I fly. Thus, I’m certain it’s good, and I do my best to be thankful. In doing so I desperately hope the gods smile on me, knowing I don’t take flight for granted. Maybe they’ll let me keep my gift a bit longer.

And, if I should someday lose this fortune, at least I’ll be satisfied knowing I’ve spent my riches well.

by Stu Simpson

The mechanic stood beside the Barkley-Grow and fiddled with the single screw that secured the door. Slightly built and clad in greasy coveralls, he was a stark contrast to the rugged twin with its highly polished silver skin. He finally managed to coax the screw from its hole. Then he opened the door and offered me passage into a grand old relic of the sky.

Poking my head in the door, I immediately noticed the smell. Old and musty, the odor conjured up images of a passenger cabin filled with rugged, independent men from sixty years ago; hunters and trappers and ornery old prospectors, all seeking fortune and adventure in the quickly shrinking wilderness of north-western Canada.

I removed my hat, as much out of respect for the old bird as for easier movement inside, and climbed in. The Barkley-Grow was a handsome airplane, I decided as I studied the cabin. It was nicely appointed with eight comfortable seats in a reasonably large cabin, yet it still retained a feeling of solid, reliable practicality.

I made my way forward and studied the flight deck through the cockpit door. I was surprised to see how much of the panel WASN’T filled with guages. There were the basic flight instruments and controls for the captain and co-pilot, but conspicuous in their absence were the stacks of communication and navigation gear that seem to over-populate some modern cockpits. Things were clearly much simpler in the days of the Barkley-Grow.

Still a willing prisoner of my 1930′s northern bush fantasy, I hunkered into the left seat and tried to picture a snow-covered lake from which I’d soon take wing. I moved to grab the control wheel but was suddenly annoyed to find I could hardly move my left arm to do so. I also noticed my butt was unpleasantly hanging part-way off the right side of the seat, and to reach the rudder pedals meant practically having to scratch my armpits with my knees. This cockpit, I realized, wasn’t spacious like the cabin; it was narrow, small and uncomfortable. I wondered how the hell Grant McConachie ever fit into it.

United Air Transport

The time was 1938 and Grant McConachie was a big man with a big plan. McConachie was running United Air Transport, a northern bush flying operation with about ten planes. He’d worked hard to open various scheduled routes in northern Alberta, B.C., and the Yukon. The previous year he’d been the first to establish a regular air mail service between Edmonton and Whitehorse. That, in turn, led to passenger service as well.

McConachie’s Yukon connection would eventually give Canadians air access to Alaska via a regular Pan American flight between Whitehorse and Fairbanks. This was only one link in McConachie’s vision of an air route through Alaska, Russia, and ultimately, to China.

But that goal had to be approached one step at a time. McConachie realized that a very important link in the chain would be fast and efficient air transport joining southern B.C. – in particular, Vancouver – with the vast northern end of the province. Vancouver was crucial because it was the first stop in Canada for people going north out of Seattle.

So to get access to Vancouver McConachie affiliated UAT with an outfit called Ginger Coote Airways (also known as Cariboo Airways). The merger gave United Air Transport a route system that looked like an inverted Y when drawn on a map. Starting in Vancouver, UAT offered air travel north to Williams Lake, Prince George and Ft. St. John. The same destination could also be reached from Calgary, Edmonton and Grand Prairie. Then the route ran north to Ft. Nelson and turned northwest to Whitehorse.

Enter The T8P-1

Now that McConachie had the routes, he also wanted better, faster, and more modern airplanes to properly service them. Early in 1939 McConachie heard that Canadian Car and Foundry, a company in the railway equipment business, was looking to break into the airplane building game. Toward that end, Can-Car had purchased five twin-engined Barkley-Grow T8P-1 transports from the factory in Detroit. Can-Car made the purchase largely to get the planes out of the U.S. and protect them from the hostile take-over that ultimately brought Barkley-Grow down.

The Barkley-Grow appealed to McConachie beacause it would work well on his low-density passenger runs in Alberta, B.C., and the Yukon. Additonally, it was a plane that could be flown on either wheels, skis or floats; an essential feature for the planes on UAT’s routes. McConachie may have had dreams of reaching the Orient, but he knew bush flying was still his bread and butter.

McConachie contacted Canadian Car about the planes and indicated his interest in them. In turn, Can-Car indicated their interest in a deal with McConachie by paying his expenses to Detroit to test fly one of the planes. Then it was on to Montreal where the charming McConachie cut one of the most amazing deals in Canadian aviation history.

McConachie met with Can-Car’s Murray Semple and exlplained how he was very anxious to put three of the Barkley-Grows to work in the north. The problem, McConachie explained, was that he had no money. Semple, who had originally planned to flog the planes for seventy thousand dollars each, considered McConachie’s position and offered to let all three go for an even hundred thousand.

McConachie emphasised his company’s wonderful future prospects, but reiterated its abysmal current financial standing. Semple hummed and hawed while doing some quick figuring, then lowered the price even further, down to only ten thousand each. He, too, wanted to put the planes to work.

For the third time, McConachie told Semple he didn’t have any money.

Completely exasperated with the young bush pilot, Semple demanded to know what McConachie COULD pay for the planes. McConachie told him. A few minutes later he walked out of Semple’s office having paid only three dollars down and agreeing to one thousand dollars a month per plane on a lease-purchase plan.

Ironically, Can-Car, which was pre-occupied with other matters, and certainly in no bind for the cash, never pressed for the payments and didn’t see another cent from the deal until McConachie sold the planes years later to make way for larger ones.

The Birth Of Yukon Southern

McConachie also formed a new company for his new airplanes to operate under. The airplanes of United Air Transport and Ginger Coote Airways, though affiliated as one company, were still operating with their respective company names painted on their sides. McConachie and Coote discovered this was leading to confusion. So in early 1939 McConachie re-named UAT to Yukon Southern Air Transport, and Ginger Coote Airways continued to operate independently. Yukon Southern had offices in Vancouver at the Sea Island Airport, and in Edmonton.

While McConachie formed Yukon Southern to avoid an identity crisis with his passengers, it’s thought that he also did it to avoid legal conflict with the U.S. airline giant, United Airlines. United was partly owned by Seattle’s Boeing Company and therefore had quite a presence in the U.S. Pacific Northwest. McConachie’s UAT was now flying into Vancouver, essentially just across the street from Seattle, and trying to attract American passengers from that city for the trip north to Alaska. So one may easily speculate that it was clearly in McConachie’s best interest to appease the giant and its lawyers.

What Is A Barkley-Grow Anyway?

The T8P-1 was the Barkley-Grow Corporation’s answer to a mid-thirties U.S. government request that aircraft companies submit design proposals for a twin-engined, six-passenger commercial transport. Several companies submitted designs, including Beech, with their Model 18; Cessna, with the Crane; and Lockheed, with what was to become the Model 12 Electra.

The T8P-1 was typical of its day in that it employed radial engines, had a tail with two-vertical fins (three when on floats), and carried six to ten passengers, depending on cabin configuration.

But the Barkley-Grow had some idiosyncracies that set it apart. The most unique feature of the T8P-1 was its wing structure. The centre section was conventionally supported by three internal spars, but the inboard and outboard panels were composed of a spar-less, rib-less cellular/honeycomb assembly with stressed metal skins. This patented structure was enourmously labour-intensive to manufacture, but offered a major weight saving advantage.

Another unique arrangement of the T8P-1, at least when viewed next to its contemporaries, was that it had fixed landing gear. Again, this was a weight and cost saving measure; the fixed gear knocked 600 pounds and eight thousand dollars off the airplane. It also freed up space in the engine nacelles for thirty gallons of extra fuel per side. But while cheaper and lighter, the fixed gear came with a price. The airplane looked less modern than planes like the Beech 18, the Lockheed 12, and even the older Boeing 247. As a result, the more established manufacturers got more orders; partly because of their well-known names, but also because they were putting out airliners that looked the part. Barkley-Grow did have a plan for a T8P-2 with retractable wheels, but it died on the table when the company was taken over.

McConachie chose well with the Barkley-Grow. The plane was all-metal, simple, and ruggedly built. It sported a pair of Pratt & Whitney R-985′s of 400hp each and could gross out three thousand pounds over empty when on wheels or skiis (3500 lbs on floats). Depending on fuel load, this meant a twelve to fifteen hundred pound payload. The speed was good, too, with a cruise of 160 mph, and it had a range of 800 miles. The plane did fall short of Canadian requirements in one respect, though; at gross weight, it could not maintain altitude on a singe engine without serious over-heating occurring on the remaining one.

Where the Barkley-Grow really shone was in short-field performance. It could take-off and clear the ubiquitious fifty-foot obstacle in only eight hundred feet, and then come back in and land in a little over nine nundred. Even with a full load (or more, in many instances), the Barkley-Grow’s ability to get in and out of tight corners consistently amazed those who flew and maintained them.

When not hauling Yukon Southern’s freight and mail, the Barkley-Grows carried people – in style. For perhaps the first time passengers headed ‘down north’ could travel there in true airline-quality comfort. The seats were upholstered and comfortable, and the rest of the interior was nicely decorated. A Department of Transport inspector of the day described the cabin as “exceptionally quiet”. Some versions of the T8P-1 featured a small two-person bench seat at the very rear of the cabin, while others had the seat replaced with a small lavatory.

McConachie’s pilots liked the Barkley, too. The T8P-1 exhibited good stability and wonderful handling. Ground handling was just as easy, while the view from the cockpit was excellent; and of course, they could always count on it to get in and out of the tightest places.

There were some problems with the electrically operated flaps, though. Early in the plane’s service life there were instances where one flap or the other would extend past its limit, which immediately threw the plane onto its back. Pilots quickly learned to cease flap extension as soon as the trailing edge of the flap disappeared from view.

Probably the only ones who might make disparaging remarks about the plane were those of McConachie’s ‘Black Gang’, the engineers who kept the planes in the air. The Barkley-Grows could be a nightmare to maintain. One example was the original hinge fittings on the tail, which were made of a magnesium alloy and thus tended to corrode badly in wet condidtions. Instead of constantly replacing the hinges, the mechanics hand-crafted new ones from old propeller blades.

The original batch of planes that came off the line in Detroit were largely hand-made. As a result, many parts of one T8P-1 wouldn’t fit onto another! For instance, the late Roy Staniland, while flying for Associated Airways, once flew a bulky piece of equipment into a winter camp in a Barkley, but when he returned to pick it up in the spring with a different Barkley, the same piece of machinery wouldn’t fit thru the door.

The Yukon Queen

Yukon Southern started using the Barkley-Grow in March 1939. McConachie christened the first one (registered CF-BLV), the “Yukon Queen”. He, and co-pilot Ted Field, assured themselves another few lines in the history books by making the first regularly scheduled, weekly flight of passengers and post from Whitehorse to Vancouver on the ‘Queen’s inaugural trip.

McConachie nearly lost his precious Yukon Queen the following month. The plane landed on Charlie Lake, where YSAT’s Fort St. John base was located. But the warm spring sunshine had weakened the ice and the Yukon Queen went through, the bottom of the plane coming to rest on the surface of the rapidly softening ice. With the ingenuity borne of years of living in the bush, McConachie’s men were able to save the plane from ruin.

They first spread saw dust over the ice surrounding the plane, which stopped, or at least slowed, the melting. Next, they chopped through the ice outside of the saw dust. This created an ice raft that the Queen could float on. Then the men hacked out a channel to the shoreline allowing them to drag the raft in, as well as the airplane it carried so precariously. The operation was a success; the Yukon Queen was dried out and put back in the air days only later – this time on floats.

McConachie christened YSAT’s other two Barkley-Grows the Yukon King and the Yukon Prince, respectively. In April 1939, McConachie’s long time friend, Ted Field, piloted the ‘King to a new speed record when he flew between Fort St. John and Whitehorse – a length of 650 miles – in three hours and thirty minutes. When the Yukon Prince was mounted on floats it was considered by many to be the fastest twin-engined seaplane in the entire country.

With his Barkley-Grows, Grant McConachie took Yukon Southern out of the dark ages of seat-of-the-pants bush flying and onto the doorstep of the future of air travel. He equipped the Barkleys with two-way radioes, making them among the first aircraft in Canada to carry such equipment. He also installed radio direction finders in them, and with the financial backing of New York’s Pan American Airways, established a chain of radio navigation stations along his routes.

Canadian Aviation magazine took an interest in YSAT’s Barkley-Grows. In May of 1939, the magazine heralded the arrival of “modern airliner speed and comfort over the rugged bush routes to the Northwest. Through storm and sunshine, heat and cold, over field and forest, swamp and mountain the Yukon Queen rode with a regal serenity befitting her name”.

The writer laid it on a bit thick, perhaps, but he was right about one thing; the modern world, through Grant McConachie, and others like him, had set itself firmly into Canada’s North like a big, barbed hook.

The Alaska Highway Project

It’s not very well-known that Grant McConachie, Yukon Southern Air Transport, and the airline’s Barkley-Grows were instrumental in the construction of the Alaska Highway. In late October 1939, a couple of federal aviation inspectors made their way to Edmonton to make an aerial inspection of the route from there to Whitehorse. The governments of both Canada and the U.S. viewed this route, which came to be known as the Northwest Route, as one of immense strategic importance. The Route could provide a vital war link to Alaska, and subsequently into Russia.

The two bureaucrats hopped on one of YSAT’s regularly scheduled flights and McConachie showed them the sights. Because of his tremendous knowledge of the route, he provided the inspectors with great insight on the area, telling them where and how facilities should be placed and/or improved. He advocated fully maintained airstrips, explaing that to maximize the effectiveness of air transport in the region, airplane operators had to be able to operate on wheels year round, thus eliminating the need to keep planes off the lakes and rivers during break-up and freeze-up. It was along this route that the Alaska Highway and numerous air facilities to support it, were soon built.

A Close Call

McConachie had what he described as his “most frightening air experience” in a Barkley-Grow. He was piloting the Yukon Queen from Edmonton to Whitehorse late in the winter of ’39 and running into head winds and bad weather the entire way. He reached Watson Lake late in the day and decide to press on. He was confident he could make it because he’d be able to home in on the military’s powerful radio at Whitehorse.

The weather contiued to worsen as McConachie approached Teslin Lake. He spotted a hole in the clouds below and decided to set down on Teslin for the night. He radioed Whitehorse of his intentions and then bid them good night as the radio station went off the air. The ‘Queen was on final approach with only inches until touchdown when McConachie spotted a heaving motion in the ice. He firewalled the throttles, realizing, just in time, that spring break-up had begun on Teslin Lake.

Now McConachie was in a real pickle; with Whitehorse only a bit more than half an hour away, he had no choice but to continue in that direction, yet there seemed no hope for him once he arrived there.

“The flight deck of the Barkley was the lonliest place in the world that night,” McConachie later recalled. “I kept calling Whitehorse on the radio, but I knew it was hopeless. This was going to be the end for me.”

YSAT’s agent in Whitehorse, Jack Barber, was just settling in for the evening when he heard the Barkley-Grow roaring overhead. Realizing it could only be McConachie, he raced to the the military’s radio shack and had the operator get the station back on the air. Barber told McConachie, who was flying over a solid cloud deck, there was only a two-hundred-foot ceiling, but there might be a hole to slip down through over Lake Laberge (just north of Whitehorse).

While McConachie searched for a life-saving opening in the clouds, Barber tore off to the airstrip and lined the runway with flare pots. McConachie soon found his hole, then the airport, and brought the Yukon Queen in for a landing, despite the fact that Barber had aligned the pots on the wrong side of the strip. About half-way down the runway, as the Barkley gently slowed to taxi-speed, its engines sputtered and died; the plane had run out of gas.

Not all tales of McConachie’s bush flying have such harrowing endings. For example, McConachie was flying a Barkley-Grow with a passenger named Shifty Schuman from Edmonton to Grande Prairie one day above a thick undercast. McConachie allowed his passenger to take the right seat for the trip as the rest of the plane was empty. Schuman – a fur buyer – was an experienced northern air traveler, but couldn’t figure out how pilots could find their way on such a day without seeing any landmarks.

McConachie detailed the science of air navigation to his passenger like this: He stated that after takeoff from Edmonton he simply put the Barkley on the proper compass heading toward Grande Prairie. Then, when he’d smoked his current cigar down to a butt, they would be over their destination and could descend below the clouds and land.

Several minutes later, unnoticed by Shifty – but duly noted by McConachie – the Barkley’s radio compass swung wildly, then reversed itself, indicating they’d just flown over the Grande Prairie station. McConachie ground out his cigar butt in the ash tray, eased back the throttles, and dropped into the clouds. Moments later they were on the ground and Shifty Schuman was walking away, amazed at how one could navigate by cigar.

Where Are They Now?

On the first day of 1942, the CPR created Canadian Pacific Air Lines by amalgamating a total of ten bush airlines, including Yukon Southern (McConachie, of course, went on to become president of the airline). Naturally, the Barkley-Grows were absorbed with the remainder of the company’s assets. McConachie’s biographer, Ronald Keith, identified the state of things quite eloquently then when he wrote “northern aviation had begun its transition from bedroll to bank roll.”

The Yukon Queen remained with CPA until 1949 when a man named H.R. Peets bought it. Two years later he flipped it to Associated Airways (which eventually became part of Pacific Western). It served those outfits well until it stalled on take-off at Peace River in 1960, and crashed. It was deemed uneconomical to repair. CF-BMG, the Yukon King, served with Canadian Pacific but was eventually sold and met its demise at Port Alberni when a bouy it was tied to sank, pulling the airplane under with it. The ‘King was salvaged, but also not repaired. The author was unable to discover the fate of CF-BMW, the Yukon Prince.

The remains of the ‘Queen were eventually salvaged and the aircraft refurbished with parts of another scrapped T8P-1, though it is no longer airworthy. It now sits on display in the Calgary Aerospace Museum’s hangar at YYC. Another Barkley-Grow – registered CF-BQM – sits outside at the museum, having been flown to Calgary on floats from Quebec. Ironically, since there were only eleven Barkley-Grows ever made, the Calgary Museum’s collection constitutes nearly 20% of the aircraft’s entire production run!

Still Wondering…

I exited the Yukon Queen and gently closed the door. Standing there a moment longer, my hand touched her fuselage, not wanting yet to release the past. I tried again to see and feel what it must have been like with this airplane sixty years ago; to listen to its rumbling radials, to pull it out of an impossibly short strip; and I felt a pang of envy towards those who had been there. Reluctantly, I meandered across the hangar to find the mechanic. Then I chuckled to myself and wondered again how Grant McConachie ever fit into that airplane.

by Stu Simpson

There seems to be very few people doing any group flying these days. The vast majority of those who do are flying ultralights, homebuilts or are in the military. I’m proud to say that we in the Calgary Ultralight Flying Club make group flying a nearly weekly habit. As such we’ve developed a fair amount of experience in this area so I thought I’d share the lessons we’ve learned and hopefully whet your appetite for getting up there and going somewhere with other pilots who think like you.

Why Bother?

What’re the advantages of group flying? Why go to the trouble? Turns out there are plenty of very good reasons. First and foremost, group flying is FUN! All pilots enjoy hangar flying on the ground, why not do it in the air where it’s many times more enjoyable? The sense of camaraderie, achievement and adventure from group flying is unparalleled.

Group flying is also a fabulous way to learn. After a while, flying alone can get a bit dull and the learning curve tends to flatten out. But flying with other guys, especially in close proximity to them, is always challenging. It forces you to heighten your situational awareness, be sharp on the stick and fly your airplane that much better. It’s very rewarding and provides a strong sense of accomplishment when you do it well.

Group flights sometimes involve more than just pilots, too. For the CUFC’s annual Air Adventure Tours, which last four or five days in the summer, we bring along a ground crew. It’s composed of family members and other CUFC members who don’t own airplanes yet but who definitely want in on the adventure. We’ve traveled from Calgary into the Rockies as far as Castlegar; traversed Alberta and B.C. to places as far away as Cold Lake and Dawson Creek; and made hundreds of closer, local flights together.

The main thrust of this article is aimed at larger groups of planes, four or more, and longer duration flights. However, all of the principles apply equally to local flights to your favourite pie and coffee place. After all, each leg of a long trip is often about as long as a leg you might fly in your own neck of the woods.

Planning: The First Step

The CUFC has learned that planning is an absolutely crucial factor for successful group flights. If you have a good plan to begin with, AND everyone knows the plan, it can make up for a lot of shortcomings and problems later on. It’s important to keep everyone informed.

We usually start planning our Air Adventure Tour in January or February. It’s not essential to start that early, but it gives participants a good long time to book holidays and plan around other events. We decide on a route, bashing out the pros and cons of various suggestions. We get input from those who might have any particular knowledge of the route such as problem terrain or appealing features. Bring to these sessions a lot of maps, some stick pins, and a plotter.

Picking the route is fun. For instance, is there a particular destination in mind, a place on which to focus the trip? There needn’t be just a single destination; there can be many. There might be an historical point at one stop, a neat museum or airshow at the next. Perhaps there’s a route you want to fly because of the unique scenery, or simply just because it’s there.

For ultralights, our experience shows routes with legs of 1 to 1.5 hours duration are best. Two hours is the maximum. This is because ULs often don’t have much more range than two hours in optimum conditions. Nor are they as comfortable for pilots as conventional aircraft. Open cockpits, which are often found on ULs and homebuilts, may warrant special consideration, too.

Pick your stops at airports that suit your aircraft AND the size of your group. For example, in the summer of 2002 we made a stop at an ultralight field near Grande Prairie, Alberta. Being an ultralight strip, it was perfect for our planes and had our kind of people welcoming us. But we had 13 airplanes to land there, which taxed the ramp space to the absolute limit. We had a Starduster Too and a C-182 flying with us on the trip that couldn’t land because of the strip’s short length.

Consider other features of the airports along the route. If you have conventional aircraft along, will the strip have fuel for them? Will the runways be long enough and smooth enough? Be cautious and check carefully before landing at unknown strips that aren’t on the map or in the Canada Flight Supplement. The owner may say the field is fine, but what are his standards? Fields listed on the map or in the CFS will rarely be unsuitable.

Try to pick airports near towns where you can acquire a wider variety of supplies and services that might be needed, either expectedly or unexpectedly. If your trip involves overnight stays, pick centres as large as possible for the same reasons. You’ll also likely find better accommodations and restaurants.

Be aware that the route you choose may limit the number and type of aircraft that participate in the flight. Mountainous terrain scares off a lot of ultralight pilots and large bodies of water will likely dissuade those without floats.

Plan to fly the trip between Monday and Friday to avoid business and service closures along the way. It’s incredibly frustrating to need that one little thing you can’t get because it’s Saturday in a small town. It’ll also ease the pressure to get back home by Sunday for folks who work on Monday. Mid-week flying makes the whole trip much more enjoyable.

When it comes to scheduling your trip, pick a date and stick to it. Plenty of people will come to you later and ask you to change things by a day or two, or a week or two. But doing so will throw the whole thing into a tail-spin, especially for those who initially planned on the original dates.

Pool your group’s resources. Make use of the equipment and expertise among your club or group members. One of our guys has a slip tank to carry fuel for the planes. It goes into the back of someone’s pick-up truck. Another of our members is an electronics whiz. He rigged antennas for the ground vehicles so the ground crew can stay in touch with the aircraft. Still another member, an accountant by profession, keeps track of financial matters for the trip.

Make sure participants, especially aircrews, understand there are minimum equipment requirements. I can’t recommend strongly enough that all aircraft flying on the trip be required to depart with a functioning 2-way VHF radio. Aircraft should have a useful range of 2 hours, plus a 30 minute reserve, and be able to cruise at a given airspeed. This speed depends on the other aircraft in the group. For instance, on the CUFC’s last trip to Dawson Creek we had three groups of aircraft. One flight of five cruised at about 60 mph, the second at 70, and the third flight of three planes at 80 – 85 mph. It’s fine to have different speed ranges, but it’s safest and more fun to have others to fly with in that range.

We’ve discovered the ground crew works best when as many as possible have CB or FRS radios. It’s crucial that at least one ground vehicle have a VHF radio (an external antenna is a must) to stay in touch with the aircraft. All this communication ability adds tremendously to the ground crew’s effectiveness and enjoyment on the trip.

Other important gear includes maps, CFS, GPS, cell phones, batteries, cameras, survival and safety gear, spare parts and tools. Naturally, some of this stuff will be too heavy to carry in ultralight aircraft, so it’ll have to go by ground vehicle.

Leadership & Procedures

Leadership of your group flight is another critical element. Before departure on each leg it’s important to hold a pre-flight briefing for everyone, including ground crew. This is especially important for the opening leg of the trip. The briefing is where everyone learns the plan, so don’t rush it. Encourage questions, keep an open mind to better, safer ideas, but don’t be afraid to politely reject an idea that’s just not going to work. Have someone who’s well able acquire and present the weather.

If the group is big enough break it up into flights of four or five aircraft at most. Use call-signs rather than registration idents for air-to-air and air-to-ground communications. The CUFC uses the call-sign Dragonfly. We’ve found that calling “Dragonfly 1”, or whatever, is much quicker, safer and easier to remember than an alphabet soup of aircraft ident letters. It also lends an air of professionalism and a unique identity to the whole adventure.

A note or two about radio procedure. When starting up for each leg, do your group radio check-ins on a discrete frequency to avoid clogging the local ATF or MF. After switching to a new frequency each flight member should check-in so lead knows they’re there and serviceable. Also, once clear of the ATF or MF switch to a pre-arranged, unused enroute/chatter frequency. This adds an immense amount of fun to the entire adventure. The designated ultralight frequency in Canada is 123.4 MHz, and the chatter channel is 122.75, but we find these are often quite busy and make our enroute communication tougher. Establish a “home frequency” so that if anyone gets lost on the radio, they can go to the home frequency and someone will meet them there to tell them the correct channel. These procedures have worked exceptionally well for the Dragonflies.

When departing for each leg have the faster flights leave first. This avoids congestion at the next stop. Otherwise, quicker planes can catch up to the slower ones and cause over-crowding in the landing circuit at the next airport.

Have a plan for how the aircraft will fly together. Many of the CUFC members enjoy formation flying, but tight formation over long distances is quite tiring. Plan looser formations so that each member of the flight is clearly visible to at least one other flight member. A pilot may have a comm failure enroute, but if someone else can easily see them they’re still pretty safe. A “V” formation works best for this.

Each flight of aircraft should have a designated leader for each leg, and a back-up in the event of a radio failure or other problem. Establish these procedures before leaving the ground. When approaching an airport the CUFC’s procedure is for the leader to request his flight to go into line astern (trail) formation about 8 miles back. The flight leader makes the radio calls for the group while approaching the field and onto the downwind. Once in the circuit each flight member then calls his own circuit positions on the radio. If you’re going to have more than one aircraft on the runway at once, be sure to add that it’s a formation landing or takeoff.

Establish emergency procedures and ensure each flight and ground crew member knows them well. The ground crew will be a very important link in the event of an emergency such as an engine failure and forced landing.

Much of what’s discussed above applies equally to the ground crew members. They should have a designated leader for each leg and communication for them is just as important. The CUFC has learned that a good ground crew is as precious on these trips as the air we breathe.

Stick To The Plan

The best way to carry out a group flight of either short or long duration is to have a good plan and to stick to it. If everyone knows the plan and knows what’s expected of them, they won’t wonder and they’ll do their best to achieve the goal. Of course, any good plan has flexibility and contingencies built into it.

Never forget that groups flights, especially larger ones, are a tremendous opportunity to promote recreational aviation. At nearly every airport we landed at on our 2002 Tour we garnered a tremendous amount of attention from both the general and aviation public, and sometimes from the news media. We learned it’s pretty impressive to see fifteen airplanes blow into town like an old-fashioned flying circus. For the 2003 Tour we’re planning to bring a number of brochures or circulars highlighting ultralight aviation.

Unforgettable

The group flights the Calgary Ultralight Flying Club have conducted, both near and far, large and small, have been unforgettable, and and because of it there‘s a special bond between those who were there. When these flights are planned and flown with a strong emphasis on professionalism, safety and fun they become magnificent adventures that give us terrific memories and a wealth of proudly earned flying experience. And isn’t that why we got into this game in the first place?

Me & the Beeve were at 700′ AGL, having just blasted off from Kirkby Field. We had no particular place to go. There was no one to meet, no appointments to keep. Just a blue sky and light, warm winds to dance around in all afternoon.

I decided to head south toward Indus and see if anything was happening there. But one of my character flaws is that I’m so easily distracted, this time by Bailey’s Field. It appeared a few miles away, looking pristine and gorgeous, as it always does.

Bailey’s Field holds a special fascination for me. It’s a beautiful 4500′ strip in the middle of the prairie about six miles north-east of Indus. There are a few hangars on the property and a huge house with a swimming pool in it. In fact, you can see right into the pool room when you do an over-shoot on runway 16. I’ve seen a few airplanes on the strip, but the one that stands out is an old Beech 18 done up in RCAF colors. It’s a beautiful round-engined bird that looks like it could tell lots of great stories. In short, Bailey’s Field is the airstrip of my dreams.

So it seemed only fitting that I shoot a couple of circuits there on my way to Indus. I crossed over the field and entered the left hand downwind. The runway was covered with a skiff of snow completely untouched by aircraft or man. I landed long, the Beeve’s wheels settling gently onto the endless white ribbon of runway. As soon as the nose gear touched, I fire-walled the throttle and raced off for another circuit. I noticed on the downwind leg the runway seemed spoiled now that it had gear tracks on it. But to any passing aviator, those gear tracks would tell a little story of their own.

I was on my way again after one more circuit. The Beeve felt wonderful in my hands, quick and nimble, responding without a moment’s hesitation. We wheeled and turned and laughed our way through the sky.

Indus looked shamefully deserted from a couple of miles away. But as I got closer, I could see people and airplanes moving around down there. I crossed over the field and started doing circuits on runway 28. I have to tell you, my landings that day were some of the best I’ve done in a long time.

The runway had been well used since the last snowfall, as was evident from all the gear tracks. But there was a small area right at the button that had no tracks in it anywhere. This was my target. It was a great way to practice spot landings. After every touchdown I could see my tire tracks in the snow and improve the next landing. Shooting circuits is a great way to spend your time, isn’t it? There’s nothing like the feeling of greasing an airplane back to earth. The type of touchdown that, if you didn’t hear the rumble and rattle of the gear, you might not know you’d landed.

I wasn’t alone in the circuit though. Fred Wright had waited for an opportune moment and taken to the sky in his green Chinook. Wayne Winters had done likewise in a miniMAX. We three shared the airport for a while until I noticed Freddy peel off to the south. I turned the Beeve to follow him, just to see what he was up to.

About a mile south of the field, Freddy turned to the east, went about half a mile, and turned back west. Suddenly he was pointing straight at me. Now, Freddy’s not blind, so I took this to be just what it was. A challenge.

I maneuvered easily out of his way, but before I could say “Holy hammer-head, Batman!”, he had jumped me. That sly dog was going for my tail like a puppy goes for puppy chow. But he didn’t have the angle to get his nose pointed at me. I racked the Beeve into a hard left turn and lost sight of the Chinook. I kept looking back over my shoulder but I still couldn’t find him. I was pretty sure I was out-turning him, because there ain’t much that can turn with the Beeve.

After about two and a half 360′s, I levelled out heading west. I spotted Freddy about 600′ away, at my 9 o’clock, going the opposite direction. I yanked the Beeve left at the same time Freddy saw me comin’. He put everything he had into a tight left turn, but there was just no escape for him from that point on. He was as busy as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest as he tried to get away. But I just sat up about fifty feet higher than the Chinook, throttled back, and followed him around. Whenever the moment was right, I’d dump the nose, roll onto his tail from six-o’clock high, and waste him. At least that’s the way I remember it. Freddy might have a different version of events.

After the carnage was over, we formed up and headed back toward Indus. I followed Freddy in and made a full-stop landing on runway 28. He was all smiles and charged with adrenaline as I climbed out of the Beeve. We spent the next few minutes re-hashing the dogfight over and over again, like pilots have done for decades.

Then I met Knute Rasmusen, owner of the mimiMAX that Winters was flying. The three of us chatted as we watched Winters in the circuit. After a few minutes of hangar flying, Freddy decided he wasn’t going waste anymore of the day on the ground. I liked his attitude so I invited both guys to fly back up to Kirkby’s with me. They thought that was a splendid idea.

Winters was on his last go ’round so Knute said he’d join us after he fueled up. Freddy and I decided to wait upstairs shooting some more bump-and-runs, and when Knute was ready, we’d head north together.

Freddy and I took off and by the time we’d shot two circuits Knute was pulling onto the button of runway 28. I turned north for home and slowed so my wingmen could catch up.

Knute quickly established himself off my right wing. Freddy perched a little further back, forming on the miniMAX. I could almost see the smiles on their faces as we coasted along up there. Occasionally I’d lose sight of Knute as he wandered toward my six, and I found myself trying to make like an owl to find him again. My neck muscles got a good workout.

All too soon the shiny sheet metal of Kirkby’s hangars appeared and I set up for a long, straight-in approach to runway 34. I touched down and slowed just in time to make the turn at mid-field. I taxied the Beeve to the hangar and jumped out to watch Freddy and Knute land. But they decided to drag the field first.

I wheeled the Beeve into the shack as the Chinook and the MAX set up their approaches. Freddy put down first and taxied clear. The two of us watched closely as Knute hung the miniMAX on the fine edge and brought it in slower than I thought possible. He’s a guy who knows his airplane.

“Ain’t this the life, Freddy?”, I asked as Knute taxied in.

“Man”, he replied, “I could do this forever.” I nodded agreement and silently wondered what the rich folks were doing.

Once settled, Knute graciously showed us around his airplane. He even let me sit in it. I have to admit, I’m quite impressed with the design. Think I might get one.

After about half an hour Freddy was getting understandably restless again. So the two of them saddled up and bugged out, taking off the same way they’d landed. As they turned south Freddy’s words kept running through my mind. And I thought, I too could do this forever.

by Stu Simpson

The sky was immaculate; a brilliant blue with the sun high and bright to the southwest. The wind was a bit stronger than I’d have liked, about 10 knots out of the south, but it would likely diminish as the evening progressed. Tractors and combines worked the open fields below as me & the Beeve ambled northward. I thought I might make my way to the Airdrie area to drop in on Jim Creasser. Apparently, the engine gods thought otherwise.

I was following the power lines, just outside the Calgary control zone, when my trusty (soon to be untrustworthy) Rotax 447 quit. It didn’t quit all at once, mind you. No, it lost about 99% power first. THEN it quit all at once.

I was reminded of an ancient Chinese proverb that states; one man’s engine failure is another man’s glider practice.

My first reaction, more of a reflex really, was to push the nose down (that’s my training coming through). My second reaction was to look for a field in which to land. Fortunately, I had half the province to choose from. My third reaction was to let loose a tirade of foul mouthed cursing and swearing that, no doubt, turned the sky even bluer.

The field of choice was one with only a few swaths cut into it. It bordered a road and even lined up with the wind. But I wasn’t going to make it. The wind had pushed me a little further along than I figured. Silly me. I’d have to settle for a cow pasture.

It was quite a predicament, really. I was too low for the grain field and too high for the cow pasture. With a solid grasp of the fact that I was certainly not going to go any higher, I began a hard side-slip. The wind roared around the windscreen, causing my eyes to water and taking my breath so I couldn’t swear anymore. About a hundred feet off the deck, I levelled out and set my glidepath. It seemed I was still miles too high.

My flight instructor preached many years ago to always assume there was a fence between two fields, even if you can’t see one. He was right. And I was heading right toward one.

The Beeve had waited until we were past the middle of the pasture to quit flying. The ground was rough with hoof marks and gopher holes, but was easily managable for the Beeve’s landing gear (miraculously, there were no fresh cow patties in our way). Which brings me back to the previously noted barbed-wire fence. We were approaching it at a prodigious and somewhat unsettling rate, the Beeve being without brakes and all.

I had to stop. So I did just what Fred Flintstone would do – I stuck my foot out. And sure enough, the extra drag was all it took. Me & the Beeve came to a stop about 20 feet from the fence line with no damage to either of us.

I unhooked my harness and radio leads and clambered out of the cockpit. Setting my helmet in the seat, I started to look for reasons why the motor might abandon me.

That’s when I noticed the stampede of cows (charolais, to be precise) heading straight for the Beeve. Images of trampled dacron and mangled tubing flashed through my mind. I knew I had to save my plane from these cloven-hooved, cud-munching prairie-devils.

I figured the best defence was a good offence. I likely smelled pretty offensive right then, but I didn’t think body odor would do the trick. So I ran right at the herd, yelling and screaming and waving my arms in the air. They didn’t even blink.

Suddenly, images of trampled leather and mangled limbs flashed through my mind. And I knew I really didn’t give a damn about saving my plane from these cloven-hooved, cud-munching prairie devils.

I turned and ran as fast as I could toward the fence. I scrambled over it, hoping the cows would notice the narrow wire and not trample through it to get me. The cows were kind enough to both ignore the Beeve and not trample the fence in order to trample me.

After catching my breath I realized the cows were likely just curious and perhaps not as malicious as their thundering charge might have indicated. But at the same time, I wasn’t willing to venture back into the pasture to find out. So I plunked down in the grass and waited. Maybe the members of my new-found bovine fan club would prove to be fickle in their adoration and move on.
Ya. And maybe pigs will fly.

So there I sat. The fearless aviator forced down over enemy territory and now held hostage by a herd of heifers. Bummer.

Then I noticed a truck coming through the field. Two men inside greeted me as the truck pulled up. I explained the situation as they tried to hide the smirks on their faces. They said the cows were nothing to worry about, not even the bulls in the herd. They offered their help, but I politely refused, and they drove off, wishing me good luck.

With a wary eye on those fattened farm fiends, I reluctantly plodded back to the pasture where the Beeve sat. The cows watched intently as I neared the plane and spun the prop. The motor caught immediately, sending them scurrying in the other direction.

Ah ha!, I thought. Now I’ve got a weapon that’ll keep these beasts at bay. The herd watched from a more respectful distance as I set to work trouble-shooting. The motor had no trouble idling, but would go no higher. As soon as I added throttle, it croaked. And the cows moved closer again.

I fired up once more, but the cows, realizing this little yellow monstrosity would likely do no harm, continued to wade in for a better look.

It’s hard to examine a carburetor and look over your shoulder at the same time. So I decided to extract ourselves from the situation. A gate in the fence, about fifty feet away, would be our escape route. I picked the Beeve up by the tail and wheeled it over to block the gate. Strangely, the cows stayed put.

I unlatched the gate and wheeled the Beeve through, the wings barely clearing the gate posts. Then the sudden thunder of hoof beats reached my ears. The cows were making a break for it!

I ran for the gate at full speed. If any of the cows escaped, the owner would bury me in cow pies. I won the race by mere inches. Panting, I picked up the gate and yanked it closed. The cows watched their path to freedom dissolve before their eyes.

Victory for me!, I thought. But that sentiment was short lived.

If you’ve ever tried to close a barbed-wire gate, you know they’re much easier to open. This gate was no different. Except that it was exceptionally tough to close. It took 15 minutes of hard labour to get the wire hooked over the top of the gate post. All the while, those dastardly cows hovered nearby, ready to charge should the gate pop open again. And I still hadn’t found my engine trouble.

Finally, after about 45 minutes on the ground, I was able to work on my engine. And after a few more minutes, I even found the problem. The clip that held the carb jet needle in place, had sawed right through the needle. This caused the needle to drop into the jet and kill the motor. These needles have three notches on them and since I had set my clip in the center notch, I still had one left.

It took about 15 minutes more to get everything re-assembled, started, and ready for takeoff.

As luck would have it, someone had put a road right outside the gate I’d fought so hard with. So when everything was set I firewalled the throttle. A couple hundred feet later we lifted into the rapidly darkening sky and turned for home. I couldn’t help but wonder if the cows had as much fun down there as I did. After all, my engine failure was the most exciting thing that happened to any of us that day.

by Stu Simpson

Bob Kirkby had finally gotten lucky. After many months of advertising, he finally sold his Murphy Renegade ultralight to a fellow in Cold Lake, Alberta.

Kirkby and the new owner cut the deal in March and the buyer wanted to get it home as soon as possible. Wisely recognizing that he didn’t have the experience or warm enough weather to fly it there himself, he told Bob he’d take it home in pieces on a truck.

“I didn’t want to see it go like that,” Bob said. It took Kirkby about half a second to change the fellow’s mind. Rather than rip it apart, Bob would deliver the Renegade by flying it to Cold Lake.

That was a pretty courageous decision; many things could go wrong on such a trip where the Renegade could get bent. And Bob wasn’t getting paid until he delivered it in one piece. Also, since he’d be making the trip in spring-time Alberta, the weather conditions would be anybody’s guess.

I offered to escort Bob and fly him home in my Sylvaire Bushmaster; a great big camouflage-painted ultralight that I call the Green Giant. It’d be safer to have someone else along, and a ride in the Giant would sure beat a 20 hour bus ride back to Calgary. Glen Bishell, who flies a Bushmaster out of his farm strip near Carstairs, offered to come along, too, just for the hell of it. Bish is like that, which is one of his more endearing qualities.

We waited through an abnormally frigid March and most of abnormally frigid April. Looking at the forecast, we set a tentative departure date for a Sunday in mid-April. The weather maps looked good on Saturday night, indicating the chance of tailwinds for both directions of the flight. But the weather turned into a freak blizzard for anywhere in Alberta north of Innisfail. As it was, Calgary had a wind storm with gusts beyond 50 knots. The wind actually blew Kirkby’s wind sock right off its post.

Bishell and Kirkby and I waited impatiently, checking the weather every few hours during the next days. If we found a weather window, we knew it’d be a small one and that it’d likely close on us quickly.

Toward the following Friday the weather started to look a lot better, though still a bit cold for flying an open cockpit. The go/no go decision fell largely to Bob, who’d have to endure the cold from the biplane’s cockpit. He decided we were on. It would be the Renegade’s last flight with the Dragonflies (Dragonfly is the call-sign of the Calgary Ultralight Flying Club).

The air still had a chilly snap to it as we taxied out at 10 a.m. We reasoned the day would warm up as it progressed, which is also what the weather guys said would happen. Boy, was that wrong.

Bishell, timing his takeoff from Carstairs, planned to fly east and meet us in the air near Three Hills. Together at last, we’d continue the hop to Stettler and our first gas stop. But Bob had a minor radio problem shortly after takeoff from his strip east of Calgary. Glen’s radio was acting up, too, so we all decided to land at Three Hills.

Several people appeared on the ramp to peer curiously at our birds. We impressed them with the fact that we were flying our ultralights to such a distant and remote place as Cold Lake. A few expressed surprise that our planes were even ultralights. They still had the notion of a couple of chainsaw motors duct taped to a hang glider and a lawn chair.

Airborne once more with all radios fully functional, we turned again toward Stettler. Bish and his GPS informed us of a tailwind originating from the southeast. Trouble was, it’s rare around here to have a warm southeast wind in any season but summer. Sure enough, the temperature was dropping as we flew north. I was starting to worry about Bob and the effects the cold might have on him. He discovered it was a little warmer at lower altitude, so we all wandered down a few hundred feet.

The leg to Stettler allowed me a few moments to reminisce about the years spent flying alongside Kirkby and his Renegade. I wandered through memories of flights together on warm bright mornings and perfect summer evenings. There were numerous cross-country adventures, too; like our trip through the Rockies in ‘92 where Bob nearly got run over by a C-130 Hercules. In ‘99, Bob and the Renegade flew with a bunch of us around Alberta, including a stop at Cold Lake. I’ll never forget Kirkby’s unstoppable grin each time he climbed down from the Renegade after a flight. I was lucky enough to share the sky with another man who’s got a large part of his soul still trapped in the 1920’s.

Drifting reluctantly back to the present, I couldn’t help noticing the change in landscape beneath us. About halfway to Stettler, the world went from velvety blonde prairie to, well, just lumpy. Like crossing a street, we were suddenly over an endless and alien array of small hillocks punctuated with slushy sloughs and unruly stands of carrigana. It all looked positively incorrigible.

Stettler eventually appeared right where it was supposed to be. After landing we drained our fuel cans and started looking around for a way into town for more. No sooner had the thought crossed our minds when a pick-up truck pulled up to the airport building. Gary Fink was the driver’s name and he graciously offered to drive me to the nearest gas station for some go-juice.

Gary, who’s from Forestburg, is an aviation nut like us. He just happened to be in town to get plough blades and decided to stop at the airport to see if anything interesting was sitting on the ramp. He was very happy to help, but perhaps not as happy as we were to have his help.

Back in the air, it got even colder as we went north. Our altitude didn’t matter much, it was just cold. Glen reported the air temperature as four degrees below zero. Bob never flew the Renegade unless it was better than 5 above.

This leg, to St. Paul, was 130 miles long and all over featureless, unfamiliar terrain. Navigation was without question the toughest I’ve done yet. Map reading was both a miserable and exhilarating chore as I tried matching a sparse assortment of landmarks to the few shades and scribbles of my chart. I’d search out a creek here, or perhaps a pipeline there, if the land hadn’t grown over it in the years since the map was drawn. An odd bend in an otherwise ruler-straight road was an infuriating treasure, forcing me to scrutinize the constantly jiggling map to find it. Only rarely was I successful, but I had to try.

The convective bumps of the afternoon only made things worse, especially down low where we had to stay for warmth. A couple of times I was more than a little worried about exactly where we were. But, sure enough, the railroad I’d been trying to keep my thumb on wandered into view; or we’d cross a powerline near where it crossed an irrigation ditch, just like the chart said it would. With each little victory I allowed myself a silent cheer. But make no mistake – all this fun was a hell of a lot of work.

Bish and I checked regularly to ensure Bob was still all right over there. We were both really worried about him in the cold.

St. Paul finally drifted into sight. Half frozen, Kirkby made an admittedly bad landing, but was happy to just be on the ground again. Before anything else we headed to the airport lounge to warm up.

While refuelling I discovered I left my rear gas cap on the ramp at Stettler. This maddened and embarrassed me because I should know better. Bish and I quickly fashioned a temporary cover from a piece of tarp and some duct tape.

Just as we headed out to the airplanes to go, Glen noticed Bob’s left tire was flat. Turns out part of the inside of the tire had rubbed a hole in the tube. We had to use my spare tube, which was entirely the wrong size. Bob agreed to try it after accepting the fact it only had to survive one takeoff and one landing. We got a lot of help from Harve Heeg, who flies a beautiful old C-172 from St. Paul. He loaned us his compressor and some tools we needed to get the job done.

The Dragonflies seem to have a short, but troubled history at St. Paul. In 1999, during the CUFC’s first Alberta Air Adventure Tour, one of the pilots had a stuck valve on his Champ there. On top of that, we had to wait several hours for the wind to subside enough for us to continue the trip. I thought of all of this as we shivered in the icy wind fixing the Renegade’s tire. At least there was no doubt this trip was an adventure.

Once the tire was fixed we pondered the prospects of Cold Lake tower clearing us straight through their control zone to the Regional Airport, situated just north of the air base. This would be important to minimize flight time for Bob. Would military flights preclude our transit through the zone? Looking at my watch I chuckled and realized we weren’t going to have any problems.

“Wait a minute, guys,” I said. “It’s nearly 5 o’clock on a Friday afternoon. Any CF-18 drivers are already well on their way to a beer.”

We launched out of St. Paul and stayed as low as we dared over the broken bush and lake-covered countryside. Southwest of Bonnyville, we all had a good laugh when Kirkby lost his map through the front cockpit hole. The good news was that the temperature was a little warmer on this leg.

Once past Bonnyville, we dialled in the air base.

“Cold Lake Tower, ultralight Dragonfly 1 is with you,” I radioed.

“Dragonfly 1, go ahead,” the controller replied. She sounded about 15 years old, but no less professional for it.

“Tower, Dragonfly 1 is lead ship in a package of three ultralight aircraft currently five east of Bonnyville at 2900 feet, inbound to the Regional. We’d like permission to transit the zone.”

“Dragonfly 1, you’re cleared direct to the Regional. Wind is 180 at 10. Call the Regional in sight.”

I acknowledged the instructions, happy my hunch was correct. It was tough to find the airport in the snow covered bush, but it soon appeared as a long grey stripe near a tree line. I called the tower again and the controller cleared us to the local ATF.

We gratefully set down on runway 25 just a few minutes before 6 p.m. I again remembered this was the end of Bob’s last adventure in the Renegade.

A couple of guys flagged us down and waved us to the last hangar in the furthest corner of the field. And sure enough, by the time we stopped taxiing, Bob’s tire was flat again But he’d delivered the Renegade safe and sound, and in one piece. All in all, Kirkby was pretty happy.

Our night in Cold Lake was busy. We had to find a proper tire and tube for the Renegade so Bob could give Gerald Fehr, the new owner, a proper check out the next morning. We found the right tire in the Renegade’s new hangar, but finding the tube proved to be more difficult. We eventually located one at the local Wal-Mart. Turns out the Renegade’s tires are the same size as a lawn tractor’s.

Gerald is an avionics tech on CF-18s in 416 Squadron – the same squadron we toured in ’99. He proved to be a magnificent host. He bought Glen and I each a bucket of gas for the trip home, and then bought us all dinner. He also arranged accommodations at the Lakeshore Inn; a bed and breakfast that was simply the very best place I’ve stayed anywhere.

The next morning dawned clear and cold, but the wind was light. After a bit of running around town to get a few more things in shape for the Gerald’s check flight, we headed back to the Regional.

Once the Renegade’s wheel was back together Bob showed Gerald all he needed to know to start learning to fly it. Gerald crammed himself carefully into the front cockpit of his new plane and could hardly contain his excitement for the first flight.

The checkout with Bob went well despite the gusty crosswind that now plagued the field. It was scooting through the sock at 10 – 15 knots from the south. Since we planned to be heading southwest soon, I wasn’t too pleased. Bish and I agreed we enjoyed Cold Lake a lot more in ’99.

After Gerald and Bob shot a few circuits it was time for us to go. Kirkby jumped in with me, happy to be warm in an airplane again. Bish was kind enough to carry the gas cans and extra equipment.

The wind on the surface at the air base was southeasterly at 10 knots when I’d checked it an hour earlier. Lloydminster was showing 15 gusting 22. That news worried me. I hoped to stay as close as possible to right angles to that wind for as much of the trip as we could. We decided to head southwest and make for Vegerville for our first gas stop.

Naturally, the wind was much stronger aloft, so we tried to stay low. But even below a thousand AGL, Glen’s GPS showed an average headwind component of 15 mph, sometimes 20, and sometimes 25. This was going to be a long day.

One bonus for me was having Kirkby along to navigate while I flew and fought with the turbulence. Having him read the map cut my workload by half. We were all rather surprised to see convective turbulence from snow covered land.

The leg to Vegreville took two hours. Sometimes our ground speed was less than 50 mph. That’s pretty significant in airplanes that cruise at 70 – 75 mph. We were very glad to turn onto the downwind for Vegerville’s runway 13.

On the ground we once again found a willing aviator to help us get gas. Tom Wharton drove us to town, and even lent me an extra gas can so I could fill up completely. During the drive, Tom bragged of the fantastic amount of recreational aviation activity that happens at Vegreville.

For instance, when we arrived he and several others were busy covering a wing on an Avid Flyer re-build. The other wing was in the paint booth in Tom’s hangar, where he keeps the RV-6A he’s building. A trike resides in the hangar next to Tom’s, and the list goes on. Just before we left, four conventional aircraft flew in for the donuts the Vegerville guys have on offer each Saturday. The Vegreville crew has a lot to brag about, indeed.

It was while taxiing out to the active that one of my tires went flat; our third flat tire of the trip. Luckily, I bought a replacement tube in Cold Lake so fixing it was really only an annoyance. We were soon back in the air southbound for Stettler. Winds were 10 gusting 15 from the south-southeast.

This leg was the toughest one of the return trip. Navigation was still difficult; the turbulence was worse than the day before because the snow had melted; and to top it all, my radio failed. But we were still enjoying the adventure and we definitely didn’t want to be stuck on the ground driving home.

Being aloft granted us a privileged view of some incredible sights. There were flocks of bright white geese, or maybe swans, each assembly at least a thousand in number. They swarmed like white fireflies against the dull barrens below. And like a smaller version of the Red Deer River, the Battle River trickled southeastward with dramatic rock protrusions guarding its banks. The late afternoon light exaggerated their parched formations, compelling them to appear even more exotic.

Then the land got lumpy again and we knew we were nearing Stettler. About ten miles north of the town, we finally outran the cold. The temperature on the ramp was a pleasant thirteen degrees. Hopping out of the Giant, I heard Bish call my name. I looked up to see my gas cap whizzing toward my head. I caught it just in time and resolved to wear my helmet around Bishell anytime I’ve lost something on an airport ramp.

Glen soon found another kind soul to drive us for gas; a fellow who works on the airfield and was just a few minutes from heading home. We also picked up a couple of hot dogs at the gas station.

Back at the field, Kirkby and I agreed there’s not much better place to have supper than over the cowl of an airplane on a warm spring evening in the middle of a flying adventure.

After I fixed my radio, we left Stettler and turned southwest for home. I noticed Bish slowly drifting off to the west and radioed that he should turn a bit more to the left for the proper course. He replied that he was right on the course his GPS said was correct for Three Hills. After a few more minutes, and some convincing navigational evidence from Kirkby and I, Bish reasoned he might have the wrong coordinates entered for Three Hills. He checked later and found the GPS was directing him to a field southwest of Innisfail. At this writing, there’s no word on how the wrong coordinates got entered. I’m guessing it was terrorists.

I was firmly vindicated in my stubborn refusal to adopt GPS as my primary nav device, and I had Kirkby as a witness. I didn’t say anything about it to Bish, though. That would’ve been indiscrete.

We soon crossed the line where the lumpy part of the earth turned flat again. Bob and I each felt relieved to be back over familiar and beautiful territory that felt much closer to home. The lofty radio towers atop Three Hills’ three hills soon slipped by our right side and we cursed such structures like ultralight pilots everywhere do.

Bish broke off for home when we reached Linden, peeling easily away toward the falling sun. We continued on toward Kirkby Field, still fond of the evening and loving the simple fact that we were flying. We raced a sports car for a few minutes south of Acme and then spotted a pretty yellow Cub poking its nose out of a hangar at the Lemay strip near there.

I turned the Giant into the circuit at home about 10 minutes before sunset, then greased it on to runway 16. It was a fitting end to another good adventure in the sky.

The adventure might be over, but we sure got our money’s worth out of it, I decided. Not only was it a chance to test our airplanes and ourselves, we got the chance to say goodbye. I know I’ll miss flying alongside the Renegade, but I’m pleased we gave it a good send-off and a proper escort to its new home. It was the least we could do for a friend.